FAR UPON THE TIDE

"Truly, it is in darkness that one finds the light, so when we are in sorrow, then this light is nearest of all to us."

- Meister Eckhart

Chronological Note: This story begins shortly after the events described in The Superior Force Part II by FL/LCM Ricaud and leads directly up to A Conflict of Loyalties by CMDR/COL Kessler.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ...

It is a time of chaos, three years after the fateful Battle of Endor. The remnants of the GALACTIC EMPIRE lie shattered across a thousand worlds throughout the Rim and Deep Core. What little remains of the NEW ORDER is squabbled over by petty warlords and moffs. Isolated and weak, the Imperial factions fall one after another, only the strongest surviving to fight another day.

Meanwhile, the self-proclaimed NEW REPUBLIC has restored peace and freedom to many parts of the galaxy, at the equal cost of lawlessness in even more star systems. Smuggling, piracy, and murder are rife, and the criminal underworld booms with the influx of ex-Imperials unwilling to serve a government they still call a Rebellion.

Most recently, the Republic has captured the Imperial capital: the city-girdling world of CORUSCANT. A band of elite agents and pilots from one Imperial faction, the EMPEROR'S HAMMER STRIKE FLEET, was sent to investigate the planet in the wake of the invasion. Instead, they faced betrayal and scheming by their arch-rivals, the forces led by YSANNE ISARD. Using the same conspiracy to facilitate their narrow escape, the group return home to AURORA PRIME to face the consequences of their actions ...

Endor is a melee. There are fighters exploding everywhere, lighting up the carpet of space as their conflagrations flicker past. Cruisers and battleships hulk and groan narrowly past each other. The stars are filled with them. All you can see of the Sanctuary Moon is brief gaps of green magnificence between the intermingled fleets of Star Destroyers and frigates, slowly reaching together like interlaced fingers closing their grasp.

Far down below, the knife-like Executor plunges toward the heart of the Death Star, shedding hull plates and components on the dive. It pierces the surface momentarily before a sheet of flame leaps up to engulf it. Starfighters flee like swarms of angry bees, only to hit the solid wall of Rebel starships and squadrons waiting for them. It is a massacre.

After all these years, I am still helpless. Sentenced to watch while my friends are slaughtered. Lieutenant Commander Basasta's fighter detonates as a double-burst of fire from two A-wings catch him off-guard. Talden and I had been inseparable ever since our posting together on the Illustrious during the Bilaren Campaign. That had been four months before Hoth, where I had first met Lieutenant Lorka-ayd, a young Alderaanian like myself. His fighter was gone now, disappeared from the spot where the crossfire from a Rebel frigate and Imperial Star Destroyer had happened to merge.

I am here, but I wish I were not. But I am no longer. I am in the throne room on the Death Star. He is sitting there. I can hear his voice. His laughter. "How does it feel?" Emperor Palpatine croaks. "To watch all those you love slip through your fingers? This is my curse -- survive you shall, and live to the ripest of old age -- to watch everybody and everything dear to you suffer and die so that those precious days may be paid for in full!"

I scream, not out of anger but of pain.

I am falling.

Burning.

Plummeting to the Death Star's reactor core.

Trailing fire to my doom.

* * *

Small beads of perspiration were running across Lieutenant Commander Val Ricaud's forehead when he awoke. The reasonable room in the Emperor's Hammer Personnel Centre on Aurora Prime was still darkened. There was a window on the other side of the quarters of course, but it faced a large tower directly opposite which blocked out all moonlight. The EHPC had little reason to deck out their rooms like hotel suites. The Centre, one of the tallest spires on the main city continent of Aurora Prime, was intended merely as a stopping-off point where personnel could stay while visiting the planet without having to go to the trouble of renting a private apartment elsewhere.

Slowly, Val ran a hand over his face and wiped away the sweat. It was that dream again. He had not experienced it for a long time. Not since he had joined the Emperor's Hammer Strike Fleet. Now it had returned.

He looked down at himself, remembering that he was still in his TIE Corps uniform. He had simply sat down on the bed and unwittingly fallen asleep several hours earlier. It had been a tiring past couple of days, in more ways than one. Still, with all the anxieties bubbling inside him about tomorrow, it was a wonder he was able to sleep at all.

Unfortunately, it seemed that tonight he was being given only the one chance to rest, which he had now passed up. No matter how much he tried, he simply could not go back to sleep. He could barely even close his eyes. It was no use.

Swinging his legs carefully over the side of the bed, he stood to his feet as quietly as possible before looking back. The figure wrapped up in the sheets on the other side of the bed stirred, but did not awaken. Smiling, he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead, then turned and left the room.

Outside in the corridor, the lights were on at full power, and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. As he began down the corridor to the turbolift, he noticed that his uniform was flapping open at the neck, and quickly addressed the situation by buttoning it back into place. Despite all that had happened, he was still an Imperial officer.

The turbolift took him directly up thirty-two stories to the highest levels of the tower, where the spacious lounge resided. He had gone up there to seek a moment of solitude, and fortunately the place was entirely deserted and darkened save for a cleaning droid behind the bar who looked up when he came in.

"May I get you something, sir?"

"No," Val replied, "I'm just going out onto the balcony to see the view."

The droid cocked its head at him, thought about it for a moment, and then decided to concentrate on other things and returned to cleaning the glasses behind the bar. Val continued on through the lounge to the open balcony, which stretched beyond the confines of the room for a dozen feet before reaching a series of railings. Val stopped at the edge and placed his hands firmly on the uppermost cold steel bar and peered down. It was impossible to see the base of the buildings. Just an abyss of darkness. He looked up again, gazing ahead at the night-time panorama of New Imperial City.

Just as the architects had intended, Aurora Prime was more and more becoming a replica of Coruscant. Layer after layer of city blocks were stacked atop one another, pierced only by the tallest of skyscrapers, towers, and spires, rising up from the din of the city like archaic formations of stalagmites. The lights of all the buildings glittered endlessly, so that it was impossible to tell where the starry sky ended and the city began, except for the silhouette of buildings on the horizon, and the infinite streams of air traffic that criss-crossed the sky and weaved amongst the skyscrapers below. Occasionally, a ship would pass barely a hundred metres away from the balcony, or directly overhead, with a dull whine, and quickly disappear off into the city beyond and below.

"Stunning, isn't it?"

Val snapped around at the sound of another voice. Coming out of the lounge onto the balcony was Colonel Kyle Cantor Kessler, his Wing Commander. "Yes," he replied with relief. "I only wish I were here on Aurora under better circumstances to enjoy it."

"I assume," Kyle said with a small smile as he passed by Val and stood next to him against the railings, "that you aren't up here just for the view."

Falling quickly into the pattern of conversation, Ricaud turned back to face the city again. "The view helps me think," he said. "And right now, I have a lot of thinking to do. After all, tomorrow I am going to be sentenced by the High Court of Inquisitors for Treason, and this will be, in all likelihood, the last night I sleep in a room given to me by the Emperor's Hammer without bars on the windows."

A little bemused, Kessler replied, "You don't have much faith in the EH legal system, do you?"

"Kess, how can I have much faith in a legal system where no advocate is provided for the defence? The entire process revolves around the credo, "guilty until proven guilty.""

"You've never told us exactly what you did on Coruscant to get us out of there."

Val shrugged. "When I knew our mission had been compromised, I also knew we had to return to the EH quickly. That was difficult, because every intelligence agency knew about us, and was just waiting for us to make a move, and with Coruscant's shield generator, we were trapped. So we ... well, actually, I think I should take credit for this little bit of ingenuity, seeing as I'm taking the rap over the knuckles for it, too ... so I paid a visit to Ysanne Isard. She was still hidden on the Lusankya at the time, and desperate for some way to get off-planet, but lacking the resources. So I tricked her into believing that the Emperor's Hammer was sending three battlegroups to cover her withdrawal from Coruscant. Luckily, she fell for it. With the escape of one of her prisoners, the timing was perfect, and she blasted off from underneath the city, in the process destroying a large process of the shield generator and keeping the Republic's defenders busy while we all sneaked out under both side's noses."

"A pretty nice plan. You seem to be as good a conspirator as a pilot."

Val chuckled. "Yeah ... that's what the High Court of Inquisitors think, too. With all the resources that had been pumped into training a team and inserting it that deep into Republic territory, simply for it to come home with absolutely no findings or information to show, they need a scape-goat. It won't be too difficult to make my trickery of Isard look as though I had been trying to play both sides against middle. I suppose, in retrospect, they wouldn't be too wrong. It did have the effect of making Isard think that the Emperor's Hammer as a whole had fooled her, and if she were still around, she'd probably be exacting a war of revenge upon them. So it did have the side effect of sparking hostilities, but not intentionally. Then again, I suppose it was irresponsible of me to follow through with a plan that would obviously have those results simply to ensure our survival. Actually, you know, the more I look at it, the more the treason charge they're pinning on me seems fairer."

Howling overhead, a bulk freighter dived down into the depths of the city, disappearing into the dark abyss below. "Val, at least I, and everybody else who went on that mission knows, that the only reason this is happening is because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Actually, we all were, but you more than anybody else."

While he seemed a little relieved at that assurance, Ricaud was still solemn in his words. "I'm afraid that no matter how much that helps my conscience, it doesn't help my case. Kess ..." his tone suddenly changed. There was fear there now. Genuine fear, and pleading. "... everything I know. Everything I treasure. Everything I've worked and built for ... is all crashing down around my ears. And I'm scared."

"To an extent, I am too," Kessler reassured him. "This fleet is changing, Val. For better or worse I do not yet know ... but it is changing. And perhaps there will soon be no place left for people like you and me. If worst comes to worst tomorrow, it will only help reinforce my decision."

"Your decision?"

The old Wing Commander sighed, but there was relief in there, too, as if a weight were taken from his shoulders. "I only decided a week ago ... when Risua came to visit on leave," he began, a tingle of memory coming back to Val. Risua had pleaded with Ricaud until he had given her a device to enable access to Kessler's personal quarters so that she could talk with him. "... we discussed a few things, and there and then, I knew that whatever happened -- with this trial; with the fleet downsizing; with the possibility of the Challenge being decommissioned -- I would retire from the TIE Corps."

Trying his best to hold back and failing, Val let out a snort of disbelief, rather than humour: "Colonel Kyle Kessler? Retiring? Kess, you're a TIE Corps man through and through. Where would you go? What would you do?"

Kessler shrugged, "I don't quite yet know. A Wing Commander's pension is reasonable enough, and I've got some money saved away. I was thinking about taking a trip to Corellia before anything else. With Risua, perhaps ... "

"Now there," Val said with a grin, "is something to which there is more than meets the eye."

"What?" Kessler said a little too defensively.

Val's grin broadened, "You and Risua."

"Oh, come on. She's my niece."

Laughing, Val poked Kessler in the shoulder, "Sure, but only in name. You're not blood relations. Anyway, everybody on the Challenge has seen the way you two act around each other. It's an accident just waiting to happen."

"She's a lot like her aunt, I guess," Kessler admitted, inadvertently giving ground.

"I mean, Kess ... you can't be alone forever, you know. Hell, I don't think there's been a significant other in your life since that Thyferran you met on Port Gedezi. What was her name, now ... ?"

"Shiryi."

"Ah yes, the beautiful Shiryi. Now there is one shore leave to remember. I'll bet the poor inhabitants of Port Gedezi still bear the scars of Wing X's little invasion."

Kessler smiled fondly. "This is all very well, but since when do you manage my love life, considering your own will probably end the second you go into that court room?" he said, trying to bite off his words as he realised their impact. " ... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said-"

"No, it's okay," Val cut him off with a hand. "You're probably right anyway. If there's one thing all this has taught me, it's that you have to cherish what you've got. Enjoy the moment. Don't let a single second go to waste. You might want to factor that into a few things yourself ... before it's too late."

The Colonel's face became more grave as he looked around at the passing ships, "Any regrets?"

"No. I don't really see the point in them. Nothing more than bitter afterthoughts."

"Amen to that," Kessler concurred, rubbing his arms. "Come on, we'd better get inside. The Auroran nights can get colder than you think."

"Yeah," murmured Val as he followed Kessler off the balcony and back into the lounge, "and they're about to get a whole lot colder."

* * *

"Are you Lieutenant Vahwal Kader; Flight Member ... "

It was somewhat unsettling that the partitioning wall between the court room and the lobby outside allowed the sounds within to pass through. Likely it was no accident of design; the Inquisitors of the Emperor's Hammer fought a steely war of nerves with their opponents, and every psychological tool had to be played to its utmost advantage to gain the upper hand.

Now shouting reached Lieutenant Commander Val Ricaud through the wall. He tried to shut his eyes. The man in there had obviously cherished his career. Val did too. So just how he had ended up in this mess was beyond him.

There was a shuffle of movement next to him as the security guard re-settled himself in his seat holding a steaming cup of coffeine. The man smiled obliviously at Val, "Want some?"

It certainly wasn't a sardonic gesture: although the guard knew what Ricaud was charged with, he didn't know Ricaud the man, so had little or no reason to make judgements on him yet and treat him differently because of it. Val admired that in people. He smiled back and raised his shackled hands in a polite refusal. "No thanks, friend. I've already had some."

"Ah."

There was a moment of awkward silence between the two. The guard bit down on a small dough ring. "You gotta family?"

Val shook his head no.

"Significant other?"

"Not any more," he replied after a brief hesitation.

The guard nodded in understanding. "Must be tough, huh?"

Teetering between his lips, the traditional Ricaud quip simply failed to come out. There was no will for it do so. He had little will for anything any more. Instead he looked down, his head almost hanging in shame; he fiddled about with his handcuffs mournfully.

"Nothing's ever that bad," the guard reassured him. "You gotta look on the bright side of things."

"If I find it I'll let you know."

The guard finished off the last of his dough and licked his fingers eagerly. "Sure, it may seem hard now," he consoled Val through meaty sucking sounds, "but things'll get better. They always do. Never know, they may let you off."

Val stared at the guard and snorted.

"Alright, so they may not let you off. But you'll work out fine."

"Lieutenant Commander Ricaud?" a deep voice boomed. Val looked up. The clerk of the court was standing in the doorway. "We're ready for you now."

Val stood, and casually handed over his handcuffs -- now coiled in his palms -- to the guard. "A little souvenir," he winked.

"Son of a ..." the guard looked at the departing form first in amazement, then bemusement. "Yep ... just fine."

* * *

"Are you Lieutenant Commander Val Ricaud; Flight Leader, Thunder Squadron Flight Group Three; Wing X; Imperial-class Star Destroyer Challenge; Emperor's Hammer Strike Fleet TIE Corps?"

"I am, your honour."

Val looked around. The High Court of Inquisitors on Aurora Prime was a grand construct, with several ascending layers of small stands set out for large gatherings on the occasion of important cases or ceremonies. In this instance, Val had managed to fill out only the very lowest levels. The Challenge crew were predominant on the closest stand to the defendant. Their eyes were all set anxiously upon him, and he didn't like that feeling one bit. Standing on trial in front of the High Court failed to phase him; it was standing on trial in front of his friends, colleagues, and peers that chipped away at his nerves.

"Lieutenant Commander Ricaud, you have been charged with Treason under the Emperor's Hammer Articles of War. Do you understand this charge?"
"Totally, your honour."

He looked across at the audience hall. Colonel Kessler bit his lower lip, and Commander Jared, his Squadron Commander and friend, glanced away. Was it shame? At himself for testifying? Or at Val?

"Very well, Lieutenant Commander. This Court has reviewed the testimony given by Colonel Kessler, Commander Jared, Lieutenants DragonXX, Shadow XX, and Valkyrie, and Rear Admiral Stretch. The evidence is undeniable that, during a covert operation to Coruscant by the members of Thunder Squadron, led by your Wing Commander, Colonel Kessler, you followed a personal agenda that involved attempting to trigger a war between Madame-Director Isard of Imperial Intelligence and the Emperor's Hammer. For whose gain this is still uncertain: but the facts are still there. Thus, there is only one verdict that I can reach: this Court finds you guilty on the charge of Treason. Do you have anything to say before sentencing?"

With the right evidence, Inquisitors can prove anything, Val thought wryly with as much admiration at the skill to do this as resentment. I took initiative. I bluffed Isard into revealing her own hand and giving us the opportunity to escape in the confusion, but only by concocting a lie that would make her think the Emperor's Hammer had tricked her, and not one Lieutenant Commander. The thing was, I did it without Kessler's permission. And that's enough. More than enough ...

"No, your honour."

"Your honour!" Kessler was on his feet, Stretch already rising to try and bring him back down. The Wing Commander shrugged off the attempt, glaring angrily towards the Inquisitor's box; "your honour, this man is not guilty of anything but acting the only way he could to save the lives of his crew-mates and friends; this man should be given a medal, not a seat in a vaporisation chamber-"

"Kess-" Stretch was more worried than angry.

"No! Your honour, our testimony has been entirely misconstrued! I demand-"

"Colonel Kessler!" the Inquisitor replied with a menacing gusto that held as much emotion as Kessler's plea, and with equal force to respond amply. "If you do not sit down immediately I will be forced to find you in contempt of court!"

Kessler looked to Val. The Lieutenant Commander shook his head resignedly.

"Thank you, Colonel Kessler. Now if we may resume? Lieutenant Commander Ricaud, your crimes would be punishable in most circumstances only by execution. However, in light of your other, meritorious services on the same mission, and in other missions before that, your sentence will be accordingly reduced.

"Lieutenant Commander Val Ricaud, you will be taken from this place to the Emperor's Hammer Prison Colony in the Setii system. There you will remain for thirty years from this date without parole."

The Inquisitor brought his gavel down in finality. "This Court is adjourned."

There was a silent murmur of movement as the occupants of the Court rose from their seats and made their various ways out to continue with their lives; their careers. To go back to their families and loved ones; to forget everything. To simply live ... to be. It was a position Val longed desperately to be in, but life had always dealt him the worst hand, as if he'd done something in a past existence to deserve a rough time here. It was a shame, really, because otherwise it would have been an enjoyable experience.

"You see, kid?" the guard came up to Val, accompanied by one of his colleagues. "It ain't so bad. Hell, I'd put these cuffs on you again, but ... "

Val ignored him. Kessler remained standing, saluting. The Lieutenant Commander in him smiled, and returned a sharp and pristine salute honed by years of military service. Raise arm ... one ... two ... three ... drop arm ... parallel to body ... hand flat.

"Come on kid, time to go."

Coming out of the defendant's box, Val's right leg dropped quicker than his left on the first sharp step. It was impossible for anybody to notice, of course. But the timid weight of a stolen hold-out blaster still had some effect. The guard, fortunately, failed to notice that the weight was missing from his own stride, having been transferred to Ricaud's unwittingly, outside the court.

The smile on Val's face widened.

Thirty years indeed ...

* * *

One year later ...

Hyperspace.

There was, simply put, no other place like it. At least it seemed that way to Val Ricaud. The mottled storm of colours melding and exploding as one in a tumultuous yet anticlimactic cacophony; the silence, save for the roar of the engine; the twisting, seemingly never-ending tunnel, leading him on a path where he knew the ends, but not the means. There was probably a metaphor hidden somewhere in there, Val mused, but it was beyond his interest to search for it.

He leaned back further into the plush pilot's seat, resting his head on interlaced fingers and closing his eyes, smiling quietly to himself. The battered old YT-1300 Transport which now carried him through the impossibly violent chaos of hyperspace had served Val well in the past. Ever since that mission to Coruscant ...

Wincing, he pushed the thought away. In the past few days his mind had turned increasingly towards the past, towards things long gone, but not forgotten. He could still hear the voices echoing around the cockpit and other parts of the ship.

"I'm glad we didn't lose you, Ricaud. There've been enough deaths on this mission."

Vaguely, Val wondered what had happened to Kessler.

Retired, didn't he? Maybe he's kicking around freighters, like me. Maybe he stayed and got promoted to Grand Admiral?

Cursing his lack of mental control, Val marshalled his thoughts once again. The last thing he wanted to do was dredge up memories of the Emperor's Hammer and start getting bitter ...

"What the -- ?"

With a sudden jolt, the infinite tunnel of hyperspace unravelled, and the ship was out into realspace. He looked around at the stars to confirm his fears. Nearby was a small, red-orange globe circled with a thick band ...

And there it was, even closer: an Interdictor-class cruiser, flanked by two old Victory-class Star Destroyers.

Damn that swine Tokura! His course had lain him right in the path of an Imperial checkpoint!

"Freighter Profit's Prophecy," the authoritarian voice burst in over the radio, "you will haul to immediately and prepare to receive an Imperial inspection team."

It was useless to reply, and dangerous to resist. Val swung his feet off the control board and rose from his chair, keeping a wary eye on the approaching transport. After a moment of delay, the combat senses drilled into him from his days in the Emperor's Hammer began to kick in: he leaned over the controls and keyed in a target solution on the transport for the upper turret; then he punched in the relevant information for the computer to calculate a course to the nearby planet, adjusting for the speed of any TIE fighter squadrons that may be launched. From a distance, the world appeared to be a gas giant. The huge gravity well could null out the Interdictor, and he could escape to hyperspace on the other side of the planet. Finally, on that thought, he began the computations for a jump to the third nearest uninhabited star system.

He prayed it didn't come down to such actions -- but just in case, he wanted to be prepared.

By the time he was finished the transport was beginning to pull up alongside the freighter. Val barely had time to rush through the ship to the docking ring as it slid open and two Imperial officers stepped through, followed by an entourage of stormtroopers. Catching sight of them, Val felt the urge to salute, but thought better of it when he remembered that he was no longer an Imperial officer himself.

The lead officer studied Val with a disapproving eye, then glanced down at the datapad in his hand. "Lieutenant Commander Aranya," he briskly introduced himself, "and this is my aide, Lieutenant Tenwal. You are Hawadi Kuvog, captain of this vessel?"

Val nodded, "Yes, I am. May I ask what the problem is?"

"That's what we're here to find out," he replied with a menacing hint in his tone. "Your ship's ID code is ... problematic."

"You're suggesting it has been sliced?"

"Did I say that?" Aranya asked sardonically, "Or did you?"

Val remained stony-faced. "I only bought this ship recently, from a dealer on Nar Shaddaa. I'm not responsible for the condition it is in."

The Lieutenant behind Aranya sniggered, looking around at the grime on the ceiling and walls, "I certainly wouldn't want to be held responsible for the state of this ship, either."

Aranya grinned at Tenwal, then turned back to Val, reassuming his authority. "Let's see some identification."

Val fished around in his pocket and brought out a permit datapad, handing it to Aranya, who looked over it rapidly before transmitting it back to his mothership to be thoroughly cross-checked. "If you don't mind, I'd like to see your cargo hold."

"Be my guest -- nothing in there but a layer of dust. Shipping's been bad lately, you know?"

Aranya frowned and turned back to the stormtroopers, motioning to a pair of them, "You two, search the ship for weapons."

Val led the way, stepping lightly over the plates in the deck where the hidden smuggling compartments were placed, and within them the guns he was carrying on-board. They were strong enough to support weight, but he did not want to take any chances. "Is this some sort of checkpoint?" he casually asked back.

After a moment's silence, Aranya answered, "Temporarily, yes. Supreme Moff Babune has just taken the system, and wants to stem the tide of illegal cargo flowing from the Minos Cluster as part of an alliance with another faction."

Babune? The Minos Cluster? Val hadn't realised how close his route had taken him to both equally dangerous galactic powers.

They reached the cargo hold and entered in silence. The stormtroopers spread out at a gesture from Tenwal and began inspecting the empty, dimly-lit room. Aranya looked around for himself and hummed. "May I ask where you were headed so quickly with such a light load? You were pushing naught-point-eight past lightspeed."

He considered informing the Lieutenant Commander that he was heading straight for Oneve, carrying high explosives destined for Supreme Moff Babune's black heart itself -- just to see what the officer's reaction would be. But he would be lying, of course. And he doubted the man appreciated humour.

"I'm travelling to Ord Mantell. I have a large food shipment to pick up there, and I'm already behind schedule."

The lead stormtrooper came up to Aranya and shook his head. Aranya harrumphed, displeased that he had found nothing to satisfy his foul mood. The pair of troopers that the Lieutenant Commander had sent off to search for weapons also returned, empty-handed.

"Well, Captain Kuvog, it appears that you're free to-"

His datapad pinged, and he looked down at it in confusion. When he looked up, it was with a wolfish grin that spoke more than was necessary. "How interesting. Hawadi Kuvog died two weeks ago in a bar fight on Nar Shaddaa ... "

Val smiled openly. "Next time, I'll have Tokura get me some better ID."

Suddenly the cargo hold erupted into blaster fire. Four of the stormtroopers were on the ground in an instant with a clatter of armour. Val dived to the floor and came up firing, nailing the other two easily, smouldering black holes erupting in their white chest armour. As he stood he trained his blaster pistol on Lieutenant Tenwal and squeezed off a shot through the officer's neck.

Aranya looked around in dismay at the carnage, then brought his hands up in the air.

Val levelled his blaster at the man, smiling. "Sorry, no room for prisoners."

* * *

It was all quite unexpected. One second there was silence; tranquillity. The next, the diminutive YT-1300 transport detached from the transport and snapped off a burst of turbolaser fire as its engines kicked in. On the scopes of the Imperial ships, the static from the exploding transport scrambled their finely-tuned sensors for a vital instant, and when the expanding cloud of debris had cleared the freighter was already well away, speeding for the planet.

In terms of reaction time, the crew of the Victory Star Destroyer Forsaken were apt. Inside of a minute the first squadron of TIE fighters had been launched, and were rocketing after the fleeing transport. The second squadron came moments later, chasing in the wake of their counterparts.

The cockpit of the Profit's Prophecy was awash with curses as the first shots from the TIE fighters landed home. The display light for the lateral sensor dish flickered out following a particularly meaty blow which caught the freighter full on the rear. Val twisted the ship into a barrel role and span out with the intent of angling the dorsal laser turret at the attackers. The deck plates themselves shuddered as the automated guns let loose, and one of the TIE fighters inadvertently wandered into the stream of fire, exploding instantly.

Two more shots puckered the hull, battering down on the YT-1300 with unsettling intensity. That red-orange globe grew ever-larger in the viewport, enticingly close.

"Come on, you heap of shit!" Val urged the freighter as another TIE fighter exploded, "Do this for me!"

At the same instant something snatched at the side of the ship and a hammer-like blow smashed across his face; the freighter slipped off on to the wing and spun. Val righted it by sheer instinct.

Half-dazed he wiped the blood from his eyes and looked around. The cockpit was filling with smoke, and one of the ceiling panels had wrenched itself loose, assaulting his head almost intentionally. Val looked to the status display, mouth agape at the loss of shields. He was in trouble of the worst sort.

The rattling of deck plates came again, and a double-explosion resounded through the ship. Either two TIE fighters had just been destroyed, or the turrets had overloaded. Both were as likely as the other.

Trying to put the Prophecy into a high yo-yo he found it sluggishly unresponsive: some of the flight control relays must have burned out. The term "flying on a wing and a prayer" came to mind.

Another light on the board flared into life, and Val sighed resignedly. Then he realised it was the hyperspace indicator. He shot forwards in his seat and looked around: they were well past the gas giant now, and the gravity well of the Interdictor was being countered out.

The Prophecy shook again.

"To hell with you!" he spat back to the pursuing TIE fighters, "I'm leaving!"

Val flung the motivator control levers forwards, and the YT-1300 Profit's Prophecy leapt away into hyperspace.

* * *

"My lord."

Supreme Moff Lardo Babune of the Imperial Orthodoxy did little to acknowledge the kneeling officer. He simply tilted his head at an acute angle for a second, and then turned back to face the vaulting window and the stars ahead.

Continuing unheeded, the officer allowed his head to hang weightily, "Ricaud has evaded our grasp, my lord."

"Was it a problem on Tokura's end?" Babune asked evenly, shifting on his feet with amazing grace for such a low-set and bulky frame of a man. He had not always been that way. A long time ago, during his prime, he had been tall, strong, and powerful in many ways. But a near-fatal injury sustained during a fight forty years ago had put an end to all that.

"No, my lord. Tokura's co-ordinates led Ricaud straight to our Interdictor. But ..."

"Your men were unable to capture him nonetheless," Babune finished off for him.

"Yes, my lord."

"I expect better, Major Gharro. We cannot afford such costly mistakes at a time like this."

"Will the plan be affected?"

Babune considered the matter for a moment, aiming the vast expanse of his intelligence at the matter -- for as much of a physical excess as he was, his mental agility was unmatched.

"No," he replied, "I very much doubt it. This simply means that our standing in the eyes of the Emperor's Hammer will not be as high as it would have been if we had been able to capture Ricaud and hand him over to them. Still, we have done enough with our patrols of the Minos Cluster. And what about those who are central to the plan? Are they on Argimiliar II yet?"
"They landed not long ago, my lord."

"Good ... good. You may leave, Major."

Even though Gharro had backed out of the room, Babune continued to talk out to the silent air. "Everything is proceeding exactly as I have planned ... soon, the Emperor's Hammer will lie shattered at the feet of the Imperial Orthodoxy."

In the corridor outside, officers and crewmen continued on by obliviously.

* * *

Underestimation was an understatement. Val had misevaluated the damage that the Prophecy had sustained by a margin wide enough to drive a Death Star through. At the exit of the second of three jumps to relative safety, there was a loud pop that shook the vessel in small tremors. One of the loose control panels finally gave up the ghost and bounced away on the jolt, clattering to the floor in a smouldering heap.
Sighing, Val removed his safety buckles and stood slightly giddily to his feet -- for he had been sitting in the cockpit for several hours now. Raising a hand to steady his head, he moved into the rear of the ship, following the scent of burning to its source.

A light haze filled the forward cargo hold, and through it could be seen a blackened gape in the top starboard corner. The cooling duct leading right up to the hyperdrive motivator.

After a few moments of cursing, Val pulled loose the access plate in the middle of the hold and peered inside. Most of the circuitry was pretty badly fried, and some of the major pipes and vents had completely blown. The ship was potentially a flying bomb.

The lights began to dim.

Another curse, and he was now in the cockpit corridor, yanking away a portion of the aft wall and placing it gently down to the deck. Reaching inside, his fingers slowly found their way around a small handle, which he turned until clicked into place, and pulled out as far as it would go.

With a low hum, the lights came back up again to full strength. But the emergency generator would only last for so long, and the work needed on the hyperdrive motivator was beyond even his mechanical capabilities. New equipment would need to be fitted: the overhaul work would take days, even weeks, in dry-dock.

In afterthought he headed deeper into the ship again, hauling himself up to the gunport turret access and -- using his feet and back as leverage -- jammed himself in place and removed another section of wall. Behind it, the four fuel slug tanks were thankfully undamaged. At least the ship wouldn't explode mid-flight, then.

Satisfied, he went back into the cockpit and tried in vein to bring up a map of the area. While the navigation circuits themselves must have been functional -- for otherwise he would not have been able to make the jumps here -- the display was cracked. Off to the corner of the viewport hung a small blue-green world, but he couldn't identify it; after all, there were so many similar planets. But the fact that it looked habitable probably meant that there was life about. Mentally crossing his fingers, he punched up the radio system.

"This is the YT-1300 Profit's Prophecy, I am in need of repairs. Can anybody hear me?"

A crackle, and a voice returned, "Profit's Prophecy, this is Spaceport Authority. Are you able to land?"

Thank the Force, a colony!

"Yes, I think so."

"Very well, if you can make it to the planet on sublights, we'll clear docking bay eight for you. A TIE fighter patrol will make a casual inspection of your cargo as you approach."

TIE fighters? An Imperial colony? He only prayed it wasn't one of Babune's.

"Uhh ... roger that. Thanks for your help."

"No problem, Prophecy. We'll have a mechanic meet you when you land. Welcome to Argimiliar II."

* * *

Captain Uken Tarumm stood before the hologram of Supreme Moff Babune, a robed figure who had spoken to the man only once before, and briefly at that. A message from Babune foreboded one of two distinct fates: extremely good, or extremely bad. The Captain was understandably nervous, not at all annoyed that that the communication had drawn him away from negotiations for repairs with his Emperor's Hammer counterpart on-board the Frigate Tribune, which orbited on the other side of Argimiliar II from Tarumm's own Carrack Cruiser.

" ... have you detected any small freighters approaching the planet in the last few hours, Captain?"

"Yes, my lord!" Tarumm eagerly responded in the hopes that any attempt to please his master might help him move up the command ladder to a larger and more respectable starship. "A YT-1300 class transport came out of hyperspace and landed only three standard hours ago!"

"Did you gain positive identification?" Babune's eyes seemed to light up.

"Ah ... well," Uken began slowly, but realised that any attempt at delay would be clearly seen through by a man of such judgement and character as Babune. "No, not exactly. Our IFF relays were undergoing maintenance at the time."

"There are a lot of YT-1300s around, Captain. We must be sure. It might be Ricaud. If it is our misfortune to have him on Argimiliar II, there is the possibility he may inadvertently interfere with the plan. Make sure he doesn't."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Tokura's men will soon have the Jedi for you. Then we continue as discussed."

"Yes, my lord."

The hologram dissolved. Tarumm swung around neatly on a heel and faced the bridge viewport, looking down at the slowly spinning globe of Argimiliar II. If Ricaud was on the planet, this would be his chance for glory in the service of the Imperial Orthodoxy.

"Lieutenant Riaswin?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do we have any press gangs down on the planet?"

"In the main spaceport, yes sir."

"Good. When you send them the details of the plan, attach an image of Ricaud alongside the others. I want all of them alive. Try to avoid troubling the Emperor's Hammer authorities, though."

"Yes, sir."

Tarumm smiled as he looked at the planet again, and the small, silhouetted -- and in time, if the plan went well, doomed -- frigate now coming up over the terminator. Perhaps he'd even get a Star Destroyer for this ...

* * *

"Woman trouble?"
The old barkeeper grinned toothily, giving a knowing, if grimy, wink.

Val looked up from his drink warily, glancing from the barkeep to the other patrons of the small cantina. A large Togorian was sat in the far corner, conversing with a chittering Sullustan. A Rodian eyed the both of them beadily as he sipped at his drink through a straw. The other occupants were mostly human colonists.

"Nothing so bad as that," Val eventually replied. "I just seriously pissed off some of Babune's thugs. Had to make two jumps to get here to safety"

The barkeeper laughed heartily at some great amusement, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Val. The tender clutched at his chest as he wiped away tears of mirth from his eyes with a cloth that had hitherto been utilised in the cleaning of glasses.

"Something funny?"

The tender laughed a little more, until his raucous explosion bubbled down to a small chuckle. "You ain't a lucky sorta guy, are ya?"

Val shrugged indifferently. "I don't know -- I like to consider myself as leading something of a charmed life."

A small giggle ensued, sounding somewhat girlish being emitted from such a figure of a bartender. "Well your luck just ran out, pal. Tell you what, seeing as you're in a situation an' all, I'll treat you to another free drink."

"Are you planning to tell me just what in the galaxy you're talking about?"

"You don't know?" his eyes bulged as he veered on to the edge of laughing again.

"Would I be wasting my time talking to you if I did?"

The bartender shook his head with a smile as he brought down the cloth on the bar and began to polish the fine veneer. "Well, my friend, you just jumped into the only Emperor's Hammer colony in the sector where one of Babune's ships is in dock for supplies."

Val dropped his glass on the verge of taking a sip of the Corellian brandy. "This is an Emperor's Hammer colony?"

The bartender chopped his lips together silently and cocked his head in sympathy, "Yup."

"An Emperor's Hammer colony friendly to Babune?"

"Yeah. Him and the Hammer are gettin' real cosy. He's takin' out all the smugglers shippin' from the Minos Cluster for 'em -- the EH are too busy tied up with the Rebel's attackin' 'em, see? And they let 'im use their facilities."

"I am unbelievably screwed," Val declared.

"Sure looks that way," agreed the bartender as he picked one of his glasses and applied the cloth to it. When he looked back up and saw Val's face, he added in afterthought, "Hey, it ain't over like that. You got a fast ship? Hell, it's only one Carrack Babune's got up there. Just go right on by and hit the Big L."

Val sighed. "That doesn't take into account the fact that the Emperor's Hammer wants my behind vaped, as well."

"Owww. You piss them off too?"

Val nodded. "It seems to be a habit of mine."

"Well pal, what can I say? You're screwed."
"Really? You think?"

The bartender moved on to the next glass, glancing at him impatiently. "Come on, I ain't got no room in my bar for dead men. I'm not wanting any trouble."

"The correct sentence is: you don't want any trouble."

"What?"
"You don't want any trouble."

"You're damned right I don't."

Val sighed and fingered his drink from side to side. If the port authorities had done any serious checking on his ship by now, they would have found the connection with the name "Ricaud". Then they would have checked his name against the wanted list -- that is, assuming his notoriety had not reached them already -- and then all hell would have broken loose. But things seemed pretty quiet, and the cantina was only a short distance away from the spaceport. It was a small colony, and any trouble would have spread already, like ripples in a calm pond. Maybe that luck was still going to hold out-

"Das treebo ma futt pa!"

Thinking that he was being spoken to, from the intensity of the high-pitched voice, Val turned to face the source. With equal relief and consternation he found that not to be the case: the Rodian was standing over the Togorian's table, who was now joined by a human female dressed in a simple, utilitarian tunic and cloak with high, dust-bitten boots. She was looking anxiously from the Rodian to the Togorian, while the Sullustan which made up the trio just fidgeted skittishly.

"Con too ta, de nomo par maskalia," the Rodian continued, jabbing an accusative finger at the human female while his gaze remained fixed on the big cat-like alien, "dula yabo jana oko lap palin-gah."

"Hey!" the bartender shouted across, pointing at the Rodian. "Keep it down green-fingers, or keep it out!"

The Rodian twisted his head around, his snout twitching casually. "Saa; du grobo mas ka."

Letting out a snort, the bartender returned to his glasses. The Rodian tilted his head up slightly in defiance and brought his attention back upon the trio.

"We don't want any trouble," the female informed the Rodian. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"Ahh," the Rodian chuckled, "tutu ronti jibini do Tokura."

Upon hearing the Rodian's last word, Val stood and began to approach the group. The Rodian shot around, his hand dropping to his blaster. "You know that double-crossing, worm-infested, drooling pile of scum Tokura? Tokura the Hutt?"

"Calila! Calila!" the Rodian responded aggressively, "as mado da lupcha!"

Val raised his hands defensively. "I just want you to pass on a message to him. Is that okay?"

"Nipcha! Tra kuda!"

The Rodian turned back. Within seconds Val yanked him around with an arm. "Hey, laser-brain! I told you to pass on a message to Tokura!"

The Rodian laughed. "Kin kano. Toriya na poocha."

Gripping the small alien's shirt tightly, Val turned his head slowly to look around the bar. Three of the human colonists had slowly risen, draped in menace and adorned in firepower.

"Sa pata," the Rodian went on, "too choodga."

Trying to ignore the hired muscle, Val pushed the Rodian up against the near wall. There was a clattering of stools and equipment behind him. "Now listen here, mynock-lover, I don't care about these three. I'm working for Tokura and I have to contact him about a drop I'm making. But you have been most ... unco-operative. I'm very angry."

"Dis-soono," the Rodian sneered. "Camina Tokura bas Nar Shaddaa duju pal biblio."

"If anyone is going to apologise, it's going to be Tokura for screwing up my route. And then you're going to apologise for being such a little shit. And then I'm going to vape you."

The Rodian hissed at him angrily, and Val allowed himself to smile a little. "Ba-ba! Pas ba-ba!" the Rodian shouted to his comrades in the bar, "ko didya ba!"

Swearing beneath his breath, Val punched the Rodian and let him slide unconsciously down the wall. He turned slowly to face the hired muscle, who already had their blasters drawn.

"You'd better have a good bounty on you," one of them broached, "because I hate killing for nothing."

Waiting for the cry of, "No blasters! No blasters!" Val looked to the bar. But the tender had disappeared, half of his glasses cleaned.

"Damn."

His hand was about to drop for his blaster when the doors burst open, and in marched -- of all people -- a squad of stormtroopers, their pristine-white armour glaring in the sunlight from outside. They found themselves confronted by three muscled, imposing goons wielding illegal blaster carbines. Then they looked across to Val, and saw the Rodian hunched over at his feet.

"Oh, for pity's sake."

The rear-most of the thugs opened fire on the stormtroopers first, and the second followed suit. The leader bounded forwards towards Val, releasing a quick volley of shots in succession. Val flung himself to the floor to avoid them, and a particularly nasty step rose up to meet his chin. Two more blaster shots kicked up the floor in his wake, and he bounced up with his gun unholstered, snapping off a shot into the man's sternum.

The trio had now risen from their seats and were heading for the back door of the cantina, the Sullustan leading the way not out of authority but of speed. They rushed past him, and the big Togorian almost toppled him from his feet.

"Come on!" the woman urged him, but he did not need any encouragement. Snapping off a parting shot to the stormtroopers, Val leapt off after the three, disappearing through a small warren of corridors before emerging into the bright day of a back alleyway.

"There they are! Stop them!"

A barrage of shots burst out from the end of the alleyway, and Val dropped responsively to a knee, firing back at the stormtroopers. Two of them fell quickly; the Togorian and Sullustan cut down three more.

Why weren't the group being hit by return fire?

Val glanced up at the woman. She stood, feet planted firmly apart, clasping a blue-white lightsaber.

A Jedi?

No time to think, he tumbled back as more stormtroopers joined the group, and the obvious difference in firepower was enough to force the foursome to gradually back-pedal before sprinting away down the alley. The woman trailed them, deflecting the incoming shots with her saber.

They found themselves in a large, dusty cargo storage park. Containers were stacked up against the high walls in random configurations.

"This way to the spaceport!" the Togorian rumbled, heading off to the far wall. He leapt up on to one container after another until he reached the top, then dropped down over the wall. As Val reached the top after him, he looked out to get his bearings. This was definitely the spaceport; but where was his docking pad?

The ping of a shot nicking the wall close to him shook his thoughts. "Go on! I'll cover you!" he shouted as the Sullustan and the woman dropped down across the wall.

The stormtroopers filed hurriedly out of the alleyway under fire from Val. None of the shots found home, but it forced them to keep their heads down. Two were approaching rapidly, and finding himself unable to properly target them, Val decided to follow the trio over the wall.

As he hit the ground in another cramped alleyway, he asked, "Where now?"

But there was no reply. They were gone. "Sithspawn!"

He could hear the stormtroopers clambering over the containers above him, and decided to make a sharp exit nonetheless, racing randomly down a series of tight turns in the alleyway system until he found himself at a footbridge over a stream of human traffic on the main street in the spaceport, which branched off to individual docking pads. He remembered this place from flying over it on the way in -- not far to go now.

A charmed life, Val.

Starting across the footbridge, he cast a glance back. No stormtroopers. No need to run. He faced forwards again. Eight men. Large men. With weapons ... not all as pleasant as blasters. They were in uniform, Imperial uniform. But not one he instantly recognised until he thought back to being yanked out of hyperspace by one of Babune's interdictors.

No need to turn and run; the other end would be blocked by them too.

So he stood still. They approached him slowly, but not in any way cautiously, hefting and waving their assortment of weapons around in an entirely unnecessary show of strength.

They stopped bare feet away from him, and their leader stepped forward, grinning. He spoke in a rancid, crude accent: "Have you ever considered joining the Navy, laddy?"

A sharp blow struck Val across the back of the head.

* * *

Trailing fire to my doom ...

Val shot upright, too quickly. With little chance to survey his surroundings, he was forced to quickly learn the error of his ways, and his head rocketed into something very solid and very painful.

"Owww!"

Hunching back down, rubbing a hand over the top of his head, he began to look around as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was hardly the Imperial Palace on Coruscant. The small cell had an area of only a few sparse feet, and most of that was taken up by the bunk bed he was sitting on and the toilet unit in the corner.

"You okay down there?" a deep voice rumbled at him. At first Val thought it to be a figment of his imagination, but when he rose to his feet he saw the Togorian, casually spread out -- albeit with great difficulty -- on the top bunk. "Pleasure to meet you. My name is Daarogh. You're aboard an Imperial Carrack Cruiser, if you were wondering."

"Val Ricaud," he grunted back, "likewise."

"I suppose I should thank you for helping us out back there."

"No need to," Val replied, rubbing his head again, "it wasn't intentional."

"Looks like Tokura set you up, too."

"Yeah, I didn't know everybody was so damned friendly with Babune. Just what did Tokura want with you?"

The Togorian shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, it's a long and boring story."

"It appears we have some free time."

"I don't particularly want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," Val said. He walked over to the toilet unit in inspection mode, hands clasped at the small of his back. The spartan nature of the cell left little to be used in any possible escape attempt. This was going to be tricky. "So what's with that little Jedi friend of yours that the Rodian was so interested in?"

"She's one in a million," Daarogh replied quite matter-of-factly, "and Jedi are an expensive commodity in Imperial space."

Val hummed. "I'm sure Babune could do with a few. And if Tokura's so friendly with him, that's probably why he was after your friend there."

"You don't think the Emperor's Hammer are after us, as well?"

"I hardly think so. They've got Dark Jedi coming out of their ears. Aurora Sector is just crawling with all the little Sith Lords. That's probably why Babune so desperately wants Jedi of his own."

"But I thought Babune was an ally of the Emperor's Ham-"

"Babune can't be trusted. He's after more power for himself and that's all he's after. And it doesn't matter who's put in the way of it."

Daarogh chuckled. "You seem to know your Imperial politics."

"Yeah, been there, done that. Like riding a bike."

"You were in the Empire?"

"Yep," Val replied happily, sitting back down on his bunk with a heavy sigh. "Me and the Empire are ... inexplicably linked. Always seem to end up with each other no matter where we go."

"Strange bedfellows, eh?"

"You could say that," Val smiled. He looked up at the big alien temptingly, "I've killed lots of Togorians, you know."

Daarogh laughed. "Really? I've killed lots of Togorians as well. I've killed even more Imps."

"Same here."

Trying a different tack, Daarogh asked, "With all your experience of the Empire, do you think you can get us out of here?"

After a moment of consideration, Val replied, "No, not really. I'm just going to sit here."

"You're going to sit there?"

"That's what I said, isn't it? I'm just going to sit here and see what comes at me. Then I'll let my luck carry my all the way out of here."

"Would that be the same luck that got you all the way in here?"

Val scowled up through the top bunk at the Togorian. He had been quite truthful, though; there really was little else he could do but sit and wait. Then he'd see what opportunities were thrown up after that.

"My friends and I will be fine," Daarogh assured him, "but you'll probably be executed."

"How nice."

"Nothing really unsettles you, does it?"

"That's not true," Val shot back, feeling almost wounded. "Lots of things unsettle me. Just that sitting in an Imperial prison cell awaiting execution gets a bit repetitive after two or three times."

"Then what does unsettle you?"
"Insects," was Val's sharp reply. "Insects. Crawling, black, icky, little insects. I hate the things. Scared shitless of them, that's me."

"You're a complex man, Val Ricaud."

"Nobody's ever said that to me. You really think so?"
"Does it make any difference? You'll be dead soon."

"Thanks. You're a real poet, Daarogh."

There was a loud rap of metal over metal, and Val looked up to the security forcefield. An officer was stood in the corridor outside, tapping the butt of his blaster pistol against the wall of the cell. "Come on, the Cap wants to see you."

Val rose from the bunk as Daarogh landed gingerly next to him.

"Not you -- him," the officer chided the Togorian, pointing his blaster at Val.

The two glanced anxiously each other before he stepped through the de-activated forcefield.

* * *

"Ricaud, Valtane Gavryn. Lieutenant Commander, Imperial Navy. Smuggler, Tokura the Hutt," Captain Tarumm of the Carrack Cruiser Repulse was a thin, scrawny figure with deep, hallowed eyes that would send a man to sleep rather than bring him to his knees. Non-menacing though he appeared, non-menacing he definitely was not. He paced about Val, who was held steady by two Navy Troopers, like he was stalking prey. And he seemed to be enjoying it immensely. "A pleasure to meet you, Captain Ricaud."

"Imperial operating procedure demands you still refer to me as Lieutenant Commander, Captain Tarumm, despite the fact that rank was removed a year ago," Val replied evenly.

"We're not the Empire, Captain Ricaud," Tarumm informed him, widening his arms in a sweeping gesture of the small bridge. "We're the Imperial Orthodoxy, under the Wise and Noble Leadership of His Majesty Supreme Moff Lardo Babune."

"I'd kinda noticed. The fact that your people can't run a hundred metres -- in some cases quite literally," he glanced at a particularly large-boned sergeant, "let alone run a starship, gave me the feeling I was in the presence of the Orthodoxy."

Tarumm smiled. "I don't admire wit, Captain Ricaud. Apparently, neither did many of your previous superiors. Your mouth has gotten you into a lot of trouble in the past ... I'd hate to see it do the same again."

"I'd say the situation is beyond that, wouldn't you?"

Tarumm shrugged. "It depends what your ... perspective is."

"Well mine looks pretty cruddy from here. How's yours?"

If Tarumm had ever been able to inject a hint of caring into his voice, he had lost the ability to do so convincingly long ago. "Oh, Captain Ricaud. There's no need to be so nihilistic."

"Are you planning to try and convince me otherwise?"

"I assure you that no harm will be inflicted upon your person from the Imperial Orthodoxy. That is a promise from Supreme Moff Babune personally," Tarumm smiled.

Babune? Why is he interested in me?

"No," continued the Captain, "you will instead be handed over to Emperor's Hammer authorities on Aurora Prime. Where you will be incarcerated once again ... maybe even worse? I heard that you made quite a mess when you escaped from that holding prison on Aurora."

"I'll die before the Emperor's Hammer get their fangs into me again!"

"Not if we can help it."

Val wrestled in his restraints, a motion of defiance that seemed to further intrigue Tarumm. The Captain took a step closer, his smile deepening, "Look at it this way ... your sacrifice will not be in vein. You will be doing a great service to relations between the Orthodoxy and the Emperor's Hammer."

Gritting his teeth, Val held back from giving Tarumm the pleasure of more confrontation. The Captain frowned at the reluctance, and clicked over a young officer. "Lieutenant Riaswin -- take this prisoner to the hangar bay and put him in one of the shuttles. He must leave immediately. We don't have much time left."

"Yes, sir."

Val glared laser bolts at Tarumm as he was dragged away out of the bridge; the turbolift doors which closed around Ricaud and his captors -- two Navy Troopers and the noted Lieutenant Riaswin -- did nothing to offer resistance to the stare. Riaswin saw it, and put in, "I hope you don't take this personally."

Smiling affably, Val replied, "My good man, the distinction disappeared for me a long time ago."

"It won't make much difference, " Riaswin snorted, "nothing does in an Emperor's Hammer vaporisation chamber."

With the journey having been barely perceptible, the turbolift doors swished open again on to a different deck and the group stepped out. "Why? You think that's where I'm going?"

"Why? Do you think differently?"

The smile faded from Val's face. "As a matter of fact ... "

He brought his handcuffed fists up through the chin of the Navy Trooper at his side, and the soldier staggered back, cupping his injury in their right hand. Val spun away quickly and lashed out with a foot at the second Trooper, who had now drawn his pistol. The kick caught the Trooper across the hand, his blaster spinning across the floor. He now turned to Riaswin-

The Lieutenant already had a dangerous-looking heavy blaster levelled at Val's head. He refrained, fortunately, from using it though. "Don't think differently. We don't have time for this ... " Riaswin cautioned him as the two troopers staggered to their feet, bearing down upon Val with evident untoward intent. An intense stare from the officer, however, changed their minds. Instead they took hold of the prisoner's shoulders rather harshly and carried him off through one of the side doors.

After passing through several smaller corridors they came through into a high-ceilinged, expansive chamber which opened up on to a vast starfield. Cutting across the rim of the stars was the shining globe of a planet that was recognisable as Argimiliar II. Three shuttles were settled upon the hangar deck floor. Two had their landing ramps down anticipatively. Riaswin pointed towards the left-hand one and the troopers guided Val in the appropriate direction.

Totally out of the blue, the ship shook violently as they reached the base of the shuttle landing ramp, and all four were tossed to the deck. Riaswin was the first back up, mumbling "Damn, they're early!"

The two troopers joined him quickly. "Get him in the shuttle," the Lieutenant ordered them. "We need to leave now!"

But the unknown factor that had so unsettled Riaswin had different ideas. There was another violent lurch, and they were on the ground again. As they toppled about, Val bashed against one of the troopers, and disengaged shortly afterwards, rolling back towards the shuttle. The three Orthodoxy Imperials began to recover their wits, and found themselves assaulted by a barrage of fire. Val was stood at the lip of the shuttle ramp, firing the guard's stolen blaster shuttle. The first two shots were dead on target, cracking through the beetle-like helmets of the Navy Troopers. The third went wide as a double-impact rocked the Carrack Cruiser again.

An old R-41 Starchaser flashed by the hangar bay.

Falling from the landing ramp, Val looked up to see his blaster clattering across the bay towards the Lieutenant, now picking himself up. Sensing the situation, Riaswin dashed to reach the weapon first. He succeeded, making his target just as Val picked himself up from the floor. There was a deep rumbling emanating from somewhere within the ship. By all accounts, if it were the engines, it was a bad omen.

Riaswin raised the blaster at Val and shouted across the noise, "Looks like you were right, Captain Ricaud. Looks like you're not going to Aurora Prime after all."

There was an ear-splintering whine, a flash of light, and suddenly Riaswin had dropped to the deck again; motionless. Tracing the source of the blaster fire, Val looked to the far end of the hangar bay, to the door where he had entered. Daarogh was leading out the Sullustan and the Jedi, a blaster carbine gripped tightly in his claws. The trio dashed over to Val with the sounds of explosions and laser cannons loud in the background. Daarogh patted him on the back, an action which very nearly threatened to send Ricaud crashing to the floor once again.

"Nice to see you alive, Val."

"I'm glad to see you, too, Daarogh! What happened?"
The Jedi stepped in. She was trying to remain cool, but the presence of her hand close to her own weapon belied her anxieties. "Somebody must be attacking the ship," she informed him. "The security systems -- including the forcefields -- have been disabled."

"Could we get out of here, please?" the Sullustan chittered to his partners.

There was a brief pause of silence. "Well," Val began, "thank you for your help. I owe you. The shuttle over there appears to be empty; I suggest you take it."

"What about you?" asked Daarogh.

"I have some ... business to attend to with Tokura the Hutt. I'll take this shuttle."

Daarogh nodded. "Agreed. Slenbu; Musur -- go on to the Republic as planned. They will shelter you. They need Jedi. Val -- I owe you a debt of honour. I will come with you and help you in your mission."

"You really don't need to-"

"No. I must."

The Togorian ushered off his two friends to their awaiting shuttle as Val looked at him unfathomably. The ship rocked again, signalling quite blatantly that it was time to leave. "Shall we?"

Together, the pair sprinted off up the landing ramp into the shuttle; Val slamming a switch on the side of the passageway.

The ramp tilted upwards after them.

With the rumbling from the Carrack now lowering to a deep growl, the shuttle lifted off from the deck on repulsorlifts and lined up with the starfield ahead. When they were ready, the repulsorlifts cut out; the sublight engines cut in, and they roared away from the Repulse with ample eagerness. The second shuttle was only seconds behind.
Once the two were out, their paths split, and they both careened away in opposing directions, dodging the onslaught of Starchasers who seemed none too particularly interested in them as, with a flicker of pseudomotion, they jumped into hyperspace.

* * *

As always, the good was intertwined with the bad. Especially when it came to news. There was good news; and tagging along behind, next to, or even astride it was bad news. It was not a pleasant fact of life; but it was an inevitable one nonetheless.

So it was that once Supreme Moff Lardo Babune had arrived back at the Imperial Orthodoxy homeworld of Oneve in his personal Star Destroyer, and was merrily parading through the streets of the capital in an armoured speeder; weaving amidst intoxicatingly large crowds of admirers, the bad arrived bang on schedule with the good.

"The strike was successful, my lord. The pirates that we hired attacked the Repulse on time, and the appropriate systems were disabled by the crew, and personnel diverted to allow the Jedi to escape. Even now she is on her way in the planted shuttle to the Republic."

As was his habit, Babune did not look at Major Gharro as the two spoke. His concentration at this moment in time was upon the crowds which bounded either side of the path his speeder trod on the journey to the palace. "Were the appropriate files relating to the defence schedule of the TIE Corps placed in the shuttle's computers?"

"Yes, my lord. The fact that we have allowed a Jedi to reach the Republic will be unimportant: she will take the shuttle to them, and along with it the information they so dearly want. When they search the computer core as per standard procedure, they will never suspect we are supplying them with the information purposefully."

Babune grinned. "And when they find the schedule for all of the Emperor's Hammer starships on patrol along the Minos Cluster, kindly given to us in the spirit of our strategic alliance with Ronin ... "

After all his years of service, Gharro had learnt when his master intended for him to continue a sentence, to acknowledge his understanding of the plan: "... they will see the glaring gap at Argimiliar II in the absence of the Star Destroyer Challenge."

"Yes, yes. Very good. And the Repulse. What about the Repulse?"

"It was destroyed, my lord, as you ordered."

"Very good indeed. I could not stand that snivelling Tarumm. I take it that the pirates we hired will also be dealt with?"

"Yes, my lord. We have already dispatched a Star Destroyer to their asteroid base."

Nodding his head slowly and contentedly, Babune congratulated Gharro. "Well done, Major. You have pleased me greatly. Once this operation is over, I may see fit to promote you to Colonel! Can I rely on you to deal with the negotiations with Ronin once the Rebels have taken Argimiliar II? To offer our own ships to patrol his space in the wake of this catastrophe?"

The two grinned together. The alliance between the Hammer and the Orthodoxy had grown rapidly. The trust between the two was no stronger than ever before. The fools ...

"Of course, my lord. It will be my pleasure. There is, however, one other thing ..."

"Yes?" Babune asked, aware of the ominous tone to Gharro's voice.

"Ricaud was also able to escape from the Repulse before it was destroyed. He stole a shuttle and ..."

"Where is he now?"

"We do not know, my lord. He must have made several decoy hyperspace jumps. His ship, however, is still on Argimiliar II. He will return for it, and we will be ready for him."

"That man is becoming most annoying, Major. You realise that your men on Argimiliar II will have to be withdrawn before the Rebels invade?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then you do not have long. He may have gleamed by now what we are doing. And if he has not done so already, he will be intent upon finding out soon."

"You no longer want him alive, my lord?"

Babune shook his head, and his jowls shuddered in rhythm. "No. I want him dead. I want him dead, and out of the way. And soon, Major."

* * *

Nar Shaddaa. The Smugglers' Moon.

There was an atmosphere about the place from the moment you entered the system. An air of activity. Of seediness. Of liveliness. The unmistakable tinge of all things imaginable coming and going, yet likewise somehow unexplainable. To Val Ricaud, it had always been a good atmosphere to experience. It was like ... like a bustling market in a rustic village, with people thronging up and down the streets, going their own way, doing their own thing. You become immersed in the atmosphere. You become part of the atmosphere. That was the special thing about Nar Shaddaa. Generally regarded by many to be one of the biggest hives of scum and villainy, but to Val it was one of the most beautiful places in the galaxy.

But on this particular occasion, the grimy streets of the Vertical City would have to wait just a while longer for their admirer to grace them. The Lambda-class shuttle MP413 charged past the small moon towards Nal Hutta. Unlike its satellite, Nal Hutta didn't have anything special about it. Just a cold grey stench that clung to the surface, and sent shivers up and down your spine. It probably spoke volumes about the Hutt mindset that they had chosen it as their homeworld. Probably.

In the cockpit of the shuttle, Val sat with his thumb pressed firmly down on the communications pad, his face twisted in frustration. "Listen, I don't need an appointment. I'm an acquintance of Khalber's."

"Khalber no want to see anybody today," a brusque Huttese voice replied.

"I don't care," Val enunciated his words slowly, angrily. "I know Khalber, and he knows me. I must see him immediately."

"Khalber no know you."

"Have you actually asked him?"

There was a brief respite, and Val thought he could hear the Hutt on the other end of the transmission humming in thought. "Khalber give orders: no visitors today."

"Alright then. You tell Khalber this: I still remember Ammaus IV, and I still have the recordings. You tell him that, and then you ask him if he still doesn't want visitors."

A few more minutes of silence, throughout which the globe of Nal Hutta grew alarmingly close in the viewport, and several alarms went off in the cockpit as sensor tracking arrays -- no doubt some of them linked to automated defence systems -- latched onto the small shuttle's approach. Daarogh tried to make himself more comfortable in his distinctly un-comfortable co-pilot seat. "Do you want to tell me why we're going to Nal Hutta first?"

"Insurance," Val replied.

"Insurance?"

"Yes, insurance. For when we go and pay Tokura a visit on Nar Shaddaa. I want to be certain that we can get good answers out of him; or at the very least, simply get out alive."

"I just hope you know what you're doing."

A burst of static signalled the return of the Huttese controller. "Khalber say he pleased to see you. Landing site will be transmitted ..."

Val smiled and tried to reassure Daarogh's nervous glare, "Trust me, okay?"

* * *

Stepping out onto the surface of Nal Hutta, Val found himself instantly several inches down into the saturated, grey bog around the small landing field of Khalber the Hutt's modest estate. Daarogh followed him shortly, clearly unnerved by an environment he did not feel at all comfortable with. There was a cold breeze drifting through the brown haze of industrial pollution that limited sight to only a hundred or so feet, and a slight drizzle of greasy rain pattered down lightly upon the ground.

"It's more of a shithole than I remember," Val commented wryly.

Daarogh remained silent while he shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. "Let's be quick. I don't want to stay here for long."

"You think I like this place any more than you do? Come on."

Val flicked his head towards the dipping mount of Khalber's small subterranean compound, located on one of the more remote regions of Nal Hutta's primary continent. Quite how any building could be planted upon foundations staked out in such a terrain was beyond comprehension. As was quite why anybody would want to waste their time on such a feat. Perhaps it was for show. An example of determination upon Khalber's part in an effort to prove that he was not just the petty merchant everybody believed him to be.

They reached a large steel bulkhead -- the only visible entrance to the dull plascrete compound which looked more like a military bunker than a Hutt's home. Upon their approach a small, round slot opened in the centre of the hole and an electronic eye burst out inquisitively.

"Dos Groob'Ka nas Gromo?" it snooped at them in a tinny voice.

"We have an appointment. With Khalber the Hutt."

The eye cocked at them in bemusement. "Ton-to duBos," it replied primly before disappearing back into its hole, leaving Daarogh giving Val another one of those what's-going-on stares.

His answer came when the doors whined opened with a creak of metal and revealed a narrow, cramped, and thoroughly damp corridor which lead deeper through the compound. "After you," proffered Daarogh. "You seem to know your way around better than me."

"You're so kind."

Dripping was the predominant sound within the corridor as they passed down it, the large Togorian with particular difficulty. There were a variety of strange and exotic algae growing on the walls in small patches and clumps that usually located themselves in the most outgoing cracks. Khalber obviously didn't have many visitors.

Once out of the tunnel, the pair suddenly found themselves in a grim, pristine chamber, spotlessly white when compared with the manner of their arrival. No luxurious curves or aesthetic extras here; just stark design necessity ... something that certainly wasn't at all the style on Nal Hutta, nor many other wealthy trading worlds throughout the galaxy. Val's opinion that the entire mansion was, infact, a pre-fabricated military command bunker that Khalber had somehow gotten his hands on -- probably in the wake of the Empire's widespread downfall -- was firmly reinforced.

In the centre of the chamber sat Khalber, a somewhat underachieving example of his race who would, if well-travelled, have given the Hutts a bad reputation. Fortunately, his peers and superiors prevented him from doing so. Thus his scrawny, undernourished slug-like shape was trapped here, in a grey chamber, within a grey compound, on a grey planet. It was no surprise when confronted with these facts that Khalber himself was grey. Who said that the galaxy didn't have a sense of humour?

"It is nice to see you again, Ricaud," Khalber said in his watered-down Huttese boom.

"You too, Khalber. And that's not sarcasm. You're one of the few people who've never put a knife to my back the minute they get a chance. I take that into account."

"So why do you do the same to me? I don't appreciate blackmail. Ammaus IV was a long time ago ..."

"Time is irrelevant in this business, Khalber. You know that. Ammaus IV was regrettable for you, yes. And in some ways, for me too. But at least I get something out of it now. So do you, in some ways."

The thick-set ridges above Khalber's eyes which would have passed for eyebrows raised in intrigue. "Really? What is it that you have to offer?"

"A very good business opportunity."

"Good enough, I suppose, for you to barge your way in here."

"Oh, too good. I was just feeling polite today."

"Then hurry up. I don't have a lot of time."

Val sniggered. Daarogh, picking small flakes of algae out of his damp tufts of fur, looked up for the first time. "Come on, Khalber. We both know you have all the time in the galaxy; you're one of the worst merchants on Nal Hutta. The only reason you're not broke is because Tokura the Hutt is your cousin. Which is, coincidentally, the subject I came to talk to you about."

"Tokura? My obese, filthy, worm-ridden, maggot-sodden cousin Tokura?"

"Stop being nice about him, Khalber. You know you resent his success, and the fact that he pays for your sham of a trading operation is just to intentionally add insult to injury. Tell me I'm wrong."

Khalber was quiet.

"Good. Because I'm here to help you out. I can discredit Tokura in the eyes of Hutts in one fell swoop. And you'll be free to move in and take over his business."

Khalber laughed. "Hoo-hoo. You're a funny man, Ricaud."

Val sighed, considering briefly that it was probably his fault that so many people confused his good humour with deadly seriousness. "Khalber, I'm not joking. I have evidence which links Tokura as working for the Imperial Orthodoxy. And your people have had a price on Supreme Moff Babune's head ever since he pulled off that fraud on Ammedha, head of the Huttese Chamber of Commerce, two years ago, to finance his Star Destroyer construction scheme."

The under-weight Hutt stroked his chin in thought. When his hand came away it came with several strands of drool which had reached Khalber's chin from his abnormally wide mouth. Khalber was a Huttese runt in every sense of the word, and it was exactly that which made him so vulnerable to Val's plan. Although he was being utterly truthfully, he doubted that once toppled Khalber would have the ability to replace the power vacuum that Tokura would leave in the world of organised crime. But the enticement that was there was more than enough.

"What do you want, Ricaud?"

"Simple. I need to ask Tokura some questions. As you'll know, reaching him is notoriously difficult. So I'll need a ship; a well-armed freighter. Some decent weaponry. Some of those Assassin Droids I know you keep around. Ten-thousand credits. And some faked IDs for me and my friend here."

Khalber nodded slowly, still in deep thought. "It won't be easy."

"Very little is. But once I've gotten the answers I need off Tokura, I'll leave the Nal Hutta system, beam you all the evidence, and you'll never hear from me again. But the rewards for you are untold."

A smile spread across Khalber's face. "Okay, Ricaud. It's a deal."

He reached out a slimy, child-like hand covered in ooze. Overcoming a jar of repulsion, Val reached forward and shook it firmly. "Nice doing business with you, Khalber. I'm sure none of that ghastly incident on Ammaus IV will ever come to light."

The smile on Khalber's face died, as Val's widened. Daarogh stood up straight as he finished picking the last of the algae out of his fur. He looked from the Hutt to the human. "Can we go out a different way this time?"

* * *

Tokura the Hutt was uppermost amongst the prominent crime lords of the galactic underworld. He ran a vast illegal business empire -- or at least he had run it in the early days, and had now handed it over to a cadre of lesser administrators and bureaucrats -- which brought him innumerable wealth. He lived in luxury; nothing was beyond his will. Everything was at his whim.

But on this particular day his thoughts hurried him. That intuitive sense deep within his being which had allowed him to make uncannily right decisions at uncannily right times, and reach the social apex he now occupied, was ringing like an alarm bell. Every now and then he would shift uncomfortably on his golden pedestal and look up from the never-ending flow of datapads concerning his business which were handed to him by the multitude of assistants and lieutenants that formed his court on Nar Shaddaa. There something wrong. Definitely wrong. Very wrong.

He looked around the self-styled court slowly, glancing from man to alien to man. Some of the newer arrivals on Nar Shaddaa were clearly unsettled by the gaze. The more seasoned veterans who had served him faithfully for countless years remained stolidly patient and endured his impromptu inspection.

Riir Ontam, Tokura's closest aide and -- most surprisingly -- a member of the Mon Calamari species, leaned closer to his master and whispered, "Is something wrong, Lord Tokura?"

Tokura sighed, an action for a Hutt that involved the ejection of a great amount of fluid from the throat and mouth. One of the newer courtiers, who had arrived only three days ago, was unable to escape the onslaught, and found himself drenched in the sticky substance. Repulsion stabbed at the man's heart, but he obviously thought better of it and decided to remain still as the ooze ran down his face and shoulders. Tokura smiled in detached amusement.

"I am not sure, Riir. I feel ... "

Before he could finish, the captain of Tokura's palace guards burst into the chamber and bowed, clearly quite flustered. "My apologies, Lord Tokura. But we have only just detected a sensor-cloaked ship latched onto an external cargo transfer port. It appears to be a heavily modified YT-2000 class freighter."

If Tokura had had legs, and weren't so monstrously obese, he would have risen to his feet in dismay. Instead he rumbled around on his pedestal and looked to Ontam. "What could this be? Who dares enter my palace!"

"We will find out soon, Lord Tokura," Captain Kuaran interjected. "I have dispatched a squad of guards to inspect the transfer port."

* * *

Blaster carbines raised in defence, six human soldiers of Tokura's Palace Guard fanned out around the ring-like bulge in the side of the corridor that marked the port to which cargo pods could be attached and equipment transferred through. On this occasion, though, some courageous individual had decided to use it to dock with Tokura's palace. It was a devious attempt at entry into the palace; if the intruders' intents were not malicious, they would have gone about gaining proper and authorised landing in the palace's hangar bay ... not this. They would have to be considered hostile.

"Open it up," the squad leader gestured with his blaster, and the nearest guardsman stepped forward and tapped in the key combination on the wall. There was a hiss of escaping air as the two pressures on either side equalised, and the soldier took the window of opportunity to step cautiously back and bring up his blaster once again.

Slipping his finger gingerly around the trigger, the squad leader gripped his weapon more firmly to compensate the recoil that would take place from firing. Finally, he tilted his head slightly for a perfect line of sight down the barrel of the gun.

He was ready.

Perfectly in time, the port sliced open with a small scrape of metal upon metal.

Beyond that, nothing happened. Visibility was poor, because of the dense veil of smoke that hung within the port.

All of the soldiers dropped their rifles slightly in surprise. The squad leader stepped forward and checked the docking port with quick ducking motions of his head.

Still nothing. Maybe there had been a fire on-board the ship or in the docking ring itself? There was certainly a lot of smoke in there ...

The squad leader wasn't the most intelligent of people. He was a good fighter, though, and his ability to survive was the main attribute which had gotten him his post in Tokura's palace guards.

But that very toughness lead to -- for him, anyway -- an unfortunately thick skull.

In all credit to him, though, at least he had twigged on to what was happening. Eventually.

The smoke was hiding something.

All of a sudden, a dozen blaster bolts flashed out of the smoke and cut down five of the guardsman. The squad leader -- the man who had a knack of surviving -- fell back against the wall in horror, nearly tumbling over the bodies of his fallen comrades.

A loud shot rang out and lanced through his skull.

* * *

Tokura watched the screen closely with Riir Ontam and Captain Kuaran at his side. The rest of the court stood still respectfully and looked on for themselves.

The image was unstable, darting shakily from place to place. Only proper, considering that it was being beamed directly from the helmet-mounted camera of the squad leader. The image, though, was crystal clear. That was something that Tokura's technicians could boast about. They had managed to miniaturise the highest quality image enhancers so that the headsets could be doing exactly what they were doing right now. Several million credits had been burned up, sucked down into the financial void that the research had created. But it was worth it. Probably.

"Open it up," the squad leader's voice came, very clearly audible through the helmet's microphone, which was piggybacking audio data with the visual broadcast. Another million or so credits.

One of the guardsmen entered the view, now still for once, and tapped in the key combination to open the docking ring port.

"I'll tell you this," Tokura offered in an aside to Riir, "I always enjoy seeing my guards kill. It is very satisfying. A sense of achievement. Of accomplishment."

Riir nodded quietly and glanced at Kuaran, who was trying to hide his smile at the compliment. The Calamarian had never appreciated the Captain. He was messy, both strategically and administratively. But his brother had shipped a lot for Tokura, and Kuaran had gotten the job as a favour. The Captain's determination to please the Huttese crime lord had forced him to neglect any actual upkeep of the palace guard.

Looking back to the viewscreen, Riir saw the cargo port door swish open. It was very hazy inside the port, and almost instantly a thick smog began to drift out into the corridor. The audio pick-up relayed a murmur of surprise from the squad leader.

Then the image erupted into a blinding flash of ruby-red fire and the image dropped so that the point-of-view was looking upwards from the floor. Several slumped bodies were visible on the periphery of the picture.

"What?!" Tokura boomed.

Several forms then emerged from the smoke inside the cargo port. One came right up to the camera, bending down to shunt his face to it and smile gleefully. "Put the kettle on, Tokura. We're coming around for a quick chat. There's a lot of gossip we've got to get caught up on."

Waving cheerfully, the man straightened himself and reached forward with something towards the camera.

The last image broadcast was that of a blaster barrel.

As the viewscreen faded to black, Tokura was already trembling. His whole body shook with rage, like a volcano about to explode. It only took a few seconds to reach critical mass, and the chain reaction detonated violently. The entire court reverberated with his roar.

"Ricaud!!"

* * *

Blaring to life, the alarms caught Private Rakthe totally offguard. He spun around and looked up at the bright-red security lights that flared intermittently.

Must be an intruder.

No problem, he was safe here.

Safe by the turbolift.

Private Rakthe let a small sigh of relief out. Maybe it was even just a drill.

There was a small noise behind him.

He turned.

The turbolift doors were open.

He gasped.

The blaster bolt struck him in the chest.

* * *

Captain Kuaran observed the datapad with dismay. It depicted a three-dimensional wireframe model of Tokura's luxurious tower-palace on Nar Shaddaa. Red dots scattered almost randomly around showed where palace guards were positioned.

But the red dots were blinking out, one-by-one.

They were clearing a path towards the throne room.

Kuaran edged a glance back at Tokura, who was whispering across to that advisor of his, Riir. This wasn't going to be pretty. If whoever was invading the palace reached Tokura -- and both the crime lord and Captain Kuaran survived -- the latter was going to be in a lot of trouble.

Best to make contingency plans. He had seen people face the wrath of Tokura before.

Another dot disappeared.

"Hangar bay, this is Captain Kuaran. Have my ship readied for launch immediately."

* * *

A scratching sound echoed. It bounced up and down the walls of the narrow maintenance stairwell until it reached the top.

Corporal Bimmtat stopped his constant pacing of the even floor at the uppermost door on the stairs.

Once again, the sound of scratching reached him from below.

Letting the safety on his blaster rifle off, he leaned over the railings and peered down the spiral staircase.

There was nobody there.

He brought his blaster over the side and swayed it to and fro as he scanned for the source of the noise. It was probably one of those damned morrts that Lord Tokura kept around the place. But there was no need to be lethargic about it. Just in case.

Now fully half of his body was leaning on the railings, doubled-over as he tried to get a look at the floor directly underneath him.

The claws came out of nowhere.

His headless body hit the bottom of the stairs moments later.

* * *

That was it.

Taking another cautious glance, Captain Kuaran found Tokura still to be in hurried conversation with Riir Ontam. Now was the time.

With light, inaudible steps he made for the hidden turbolift door built into the throne room walls. The attendants, viziers, aides, and assistants that filled the chamber helped to cover his passage to an extent.

When he reached the doors, he looked at Tokura again.

For once, that ignoble Riir had done Kuaran some good, still holding Tokura in whispers.

Nothing to spare, Kuaran went all out and opened the secret doors. He quickly stepped in, closed them, and prayed.

* * *

Outside Tokura's throne room, the guardsmen were beginning to build up en-masse. Collective worry and fear had told them that it was time to group together for safety and make a last stand. In the high-ceilinged corridor, bounded by holographs of Tokura's ancestors -- dating back to Demsin the Hutt, that entrepeneur of the Great Hyperspace War five thousand years ago -- the palace guard staked their ground.

An air of anxiety built as they waited. And waited. The killing of their fellows had been non-stop ever since the unknown ship had docked with the palace. One guard after another had fell continuously. And now not a thing.

Silence ruled. A pin could have been dropped and sounded like the roar of a herd of wild banthas.

How ironic, then, that when a pin was dropped -- from an open ventilation duct in the ceiling -- not a person noticed. It was a metal pin that consisted of a ring attached to a small key-like protrusion. It landed by Sergeant Marma's left foot.

He looked down at the object and picked it up in curiosity.

Sergeant Marma was a veteran of the Galactic Civil War -- he had served for eighteen years as an Imperial stormtrooper. When the Empire largely collapsed after Endor, he had found his way through a multitude of private ventures, eventually washing up in Tokura's palace guard. His knowledge of weaponry was unsurpassed.

Marma smiled as he recognised the pin. Yes, it was from a Welura War Works Mark Four Standard Fragmentation Grenade. The company had gone bankrupt after their main customers, the Atamani Pirates, were wiped out by the Empire, and the grenade had gone out of production seven years ago. Unfortunate, for it was a very effective weapon with a capability for widespread destruction in open areas ...

Not even a second later, the main device followed its smaller counterpart out of the ventilation duct. The clatter of metal as it rolled out and into the corridor was distinctively heard by all.

Marma looked up at the grenade, falling through the air towards him. He had been mistaken -- a Mark Five, not a Mark Four. Much nastier. Very rare. How had they been able to get their hands on ... ?

It detonated several feet above the heads of the guardsmen, scattering its destructive force with optimum efficiency.

When the smoke cleared, the others rounded the corridor and began attacking.

* * *

Each blaster shot that could be heard through the thick bronze doors of the throne room made Tokura wince. How could this happen? How could somebody do this to him so easily? Ricaud didn't have the resources to plan it on his own. He must have been hired by somebody else. It must have been that worthless Muryn, his arch-rival for nearly forty years, ever since they had met -- and argued, and sworn to kill each other -- when Jabba had invited them both to see the Boonta Classic race on Tatooine.

Several screams from outside punctuated the silence in the chamber. The staccato of a dozen or more shots ... and then it ended.

Tokura looked to loyal Riir Ontam, standing quietly at his side. "Kuaran!" he called his Captain to him.

But there was no reply. Kuaran was no longer in the room. Tokura yelled in anger and frustration.

The mighty bronze doors clicked as their locks were picked from the other side.

The clicking stopped, too.

All eyes focused upon the two slabs of metal as they swung open gracefully.

Marching in was vee-shape formation of half a dozen BDG-7 Assasin Droids, led by a human and a Togorian brandishing advanced blaster rifles. The occupants of the room parted to allow the group to pass, and they approached Tokura with all the diligence and pomposity of a visiting diplomatic party.

The entourage of armour stopped at the foot of Tokura's pedestal. The human stared up defiantly at the Hutt: "Ricaud," the crime lord murmured menacingly.

"Hello Tokura," the human replied pleasantly, "How are you?"

"How dare you--!"
Ricaud cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Please ... don't. There's no need for us to be aggressive towards each other."

"Aggressive? Aggressive!? You're the one who has killed my palace guard, you--!"
"Don't flatter me. These droids did most of the work. I'm really not that good ... although it's nice that you think so. But I apologise. It was necessary. I know how hard it is to get an appointment around here, and I just had to see you."

"You have made a big mistake Ricaud. You'll pay dearly for this."

Val shrugged. "Perhaps I will. But in the meantime, I intend to conduct the business I came here for."

Tokura bit his lower lip. "What business is that, Ricaud?"

"Don't worry, Tokura. I'm not here to take anything, or bribe you. Just to ask some questions. I expect answers."

The Hutt laughed. "And what makes you think I'll give you them?"

Val turned to the Assassin Droids and smiled. The Togorian at his side grinned wolfishly. Getting the point, Tokura changed tack, "Alright then, Ricaud. What are your questions?"

"Babune. I want to know about Babune. Why did you give me a smuggling run with co-ordinates that led right to one of his checkpoints?"

"It was an accident, I assure you ... "

With no hesitation, Val brought his blaster up closer to his chest. "Alright, alright," Tokura assured him, holding up his hands defensively. "Babune wanted you captured. He wanted to turn you over to the Emperor's Hammer. Ever since you escaped from them a year ago, they've been very eager to meet you again."

"Why did Babune want to hand me over to them?"
"He wants to get very friendly with the Emperor's Hammer. His diplomats shuttle constantly between Oneve and Aurora Prime. When the Republic started attacking the Hammer's borders, Babune used his growing friendship to offer that Orthodoxy ships be used to take up EH positions around the Minos Cluster, to resume the campaign that Ronin had begun against smuggling. So that EH ships could concentrate on the defence of their territories."

"But why is he so eager to rub up against the Emperor's Hammer?"

Tokura shrugged. "I don't know-"

Val clenched his blaster again.

"Really! I don't know! Babune got in contact with me six months ago. Hired me and my organisation to carry out jobs for him whenever he wanted. Four months ago, I got an order that he wanted you captured by now."

"Four months ago," Val bit harshly. "That's when you recruited me to work for you as a smuggler."

Another shrug from the great Hutt. "It was a good plan. Until you escaped the checkpoint. That was bad. But everything would have been okay ... if you hadn't gone to Argimiliar II."

"What's so important about Argimiliar II?"

The Togorian took a small step forwards, "Why were your goons so interested in Musur?"

"Your Jedi friend?" Tokura replied, as if he were recalling the thought from distant memory. "Ah, yes. It was all Babune's plan, you see. His ultimate aim is to take over the space occupied by the Emperor's Hammer. But it is difficult because of their defences. He needed to find a way to get close to them. To get inside them. It was quite ingenious, quite complex."

"And you're going to explain it to us," Val urged him.

Tokura sighed. "Babune has already offered his ships to the Emperor's Hammer to maintain checkpoints around the Minos Cluster. To take over the EH, he needed to get ships inside of their territories, in strategic locations. The EH would need a crippling event for this to take place, to resort to allowing the Orthodoxy to help patrol their space.

"This crippling event would have to be an invasion of the Emperor's Hammer by the Republic. They were already attacking the EH. They just had to be given a chance. If the Republic could take a planet from the Hammer ... with the right spin from Babune's agents in the EH media, it would be devastating. Recently, many of the forces defending Argimiliar II were transferred to other areas of the Emperor's Hammer. But if the Republic discovered this, they would launch an immediate strike. So the EH Intelligence Division used every resource to feed Republic spies false information. The Rebels believed that Argimiliar II was still heavily defended, as always.

"What Babune needed to do, to get the Republic to invade, was to give them the knowledge that Argimiliar II was infact now sparsely defended. But if he handed this over himself, they would have been suspicious. He needed somebody or something to piggy-back the information upon.

"Then we found out about Musur. Your Togorian's friend. When she developed her Jedi abilities, she realised she could no longer stay in EH space, for the Dark Brotherhood would find her eventually and kill her ... or even worse, convert her to their cause. So she planned to flee from Argimiliar II, where she had been living under cover, and make a run to the Republic, who would offer her safety and protection. It was the perfect opportunity. Babune could use her to get the information to the Republic.

"My men were to capture her and deliver her to the Orthodoxy ship in orbit. Unfortunately, you interfered. But we were lucky. In the spaceport, one of Babune's roving press gangs managed to do the job themselves. But she would only be held for a short time. One of the pirate groups contracted to me were hired by Babune to attack the ship and disable it, so that the Jedi could escape. It was all very carefully orchestrated: even down to which shuttle she would have to steal from the hangar bay. And in that shuttle's computers were the timetables of Emperor's Hammer ships, supplied to the Orthodoxy as part of the alliance. They showed that the defences on Argimiliar II were wide open ... "
Val's eyes opened in realisation. "Yes, yes. I see now. She would steal the shuttle, and go on to New Republic space. Once she was with them, they would examine the shuttle and its computers -- it's standard procedure with captured enemy vehicles. When they looked at the computers, they would see the opening in Argimiliar II, and attack. And they would never suspected they were purposefully being given the information. It's a superb plan."

Tokura smiled. "I'm glad you admire it. Babune and I spent many hours thinking it up."

"I'm just suspicious why you're so eager to talk."

Tokura laughed. "I'm eager to live. As it happens, I don't think Babune stands a chance against the Emperor's Hammer. But he is paying me well, and when he is defeated, I will find other sources. It is a nice distraction. But I would like to ask, why are you so concerned about the Emperor's Hammer?"

"Having a bounty on your head can be troublesome. If I can help them, they can help me. A simple and fair exchange."

"I see."

There was a deep murmur from Daarogh, that sounded like a half-growl of anger. "But, Val ... Musur did take the shuttle," he interjected, "and she is heading for New Republic space."

Laughing deeply, Tokura seemed pleasantly surprised. "It seems that despite your interference, everything has worked out fine, after all! Perhaps I should reward you!"

"Shut up, Tokura," Val bit back, silencing the Hutt with the threat of an aimed blaster. "Damn. We have to destroy the shuttle before it can reach the Republic."

"No!" roared Daarogh. "I will not kill my friends!"

"It's too late," Tokura assured him. "My Sullustan will ensure she reaches the Republic at all costs. You cannot stop them."

"Slenbu!" Daarogh looked as though he would take out the Hutt nonetheless. "Slenbu is a spy?"

Tokura smiled, but did not reply.

"Come on, Daarogh," Val said, taking the Togorians arm. "He's not worth it ... he'll be dealt with, remember? He's none of our concern."

"Then what can we do?"

"We must warn the Emperor's Hammer. We have to go back to Argimiliar II, and quickly."

"As I said Ricaud, it's too late."

"Tokura," Val warned him resignedly, "I am sick and tired of you. I'd like to kill you, but you've a much worse fate coming. Instead, I'll simply do this."

He raised his blaster and snapped off a confident shot that took away Tokura's right arm. The Hutt squealed in agony, nursing the stump with his good limb.

"You'll die for this, Ricaud! You'll die!"

But Ricaud and his entourage were already leaving, their departing forms disappearing out of the throne room, closing the bronze doors behind them.

* * *

"Sir," the Aqualish servant Aladuga stopped by Khalber's side as the small Hutt ate heartily on a plate of worms.

"Yes, what is it?" Khalber replied. He was very annoyed. He hated it when people disturbed him during his eating. Especially when he was eating and he was happy. Which was a very rare occasion, indeed.

"A message, sir. From Tokura the Hutt. He requests you speak to him immediately."

"Ah."

Khalber picked up the remote for the holoprojector and tapped the on button with one of his pudgy fingers. The device buzzed into life and blue-tinted one-third image of Tokura, sitting on that golden pedestal as always, flashed infront of Khalber.

Soon, he would be the one sitting on that golden pedestal. If only Tokura knew ...

His cousin seemed be missing an arm. There was a small, recently attended-to stump where his right limb had once been. Ricaud had said he had wanted to ask Tokura some questions ...

"Yes, cousin. What can I do for you?"

Tokura sounded deeply annoyed and infuriated. Khalber liked that. He was getting to like Ricaud very much ... but the man would have to be dealt with sooner or later. When Khalber had replaced Tokura, he would ensure that Ricaud could not let anybody know just how the rise of the small Hutt had transpired.

But that was in the future. Not long now ...

"Ricaud! Ricaud came to me, and he did this!"

"Ricaud?" Khalber pondered the name. "Ah, yes. Isn't he one of your smugglers?"

"He was. Until he interfered with one of my clients -- someone you do not know about -- and did this!"

Khalber did his best to sound shocked and outraged. "I cannot believe it! I would hate to be in his place. What will you do to him?"

"Don't act surprised, Khalber!" Tokura belted at him. "He came with Assassin Droids. BDG-7 types. I know you have some. You gave them to him!"

Khalber bowed his head. How could this happen ... he was in danger ... he needed to get off Nal Hutta quickly. How could it go so horribly wrong so quickly? Wait, maybe he didn't know of Ricaud's deal. Maybe ... "He threatened me, cousin! He blackmailed me! What could I do? He forced his way here and demanded equipment from me! I did not know what he wanted it for, though ... "

Tokura nodded. Somewhat satiated by the explanation, but still outraged. His anger was obviously directed at Ricaud, rather than his cousin. "You should not have allowed it to happen! Be more careful with your business in the future. You may, however, begin to repay me by doing something ... "

"How, my cousin? Please, tell me ..."

"I want you to kill Ricaud. Simply that. Let him know that I allowed such a lowly, skinny Hutt such as you remove his pitiful existence. That will be what angers him the most. That will make his death more painful than any torture device."

Khalber smiled, "Yes, cousin."

"He is heading for Argimiliar II in a YT-2000 transport, I know that. And he will be taking the quickest route. I have plotted it already. It will be necessary for him to exit hyperspace in the Salassi Asteroid Belt and make a course change before engaging on the final leap to Argimiliar."

"That is most fortunate, cousin! I have a man working for me. He refuses to smuggle or run weapons, but he has a reasonable ship, and military experience. He is carrying electronic components to Argimiliar II as we speak. I will have him deal with Ricaud."

"Good. Let this be a lesson to you, Khalber. You must be more wary in business. We will speak again once Ricaud is dead."

"Yes, cousin."

The holoprojector faded. Khalber smiled. Most fortunate. Tokura still had no idea that Khalber was planning an elegant coup d'etat.

Most fortunate.

* * *

Hyperspace.

There was, simply put, no other place like it. At least it seemed that way to Kyle Kessler. The mottled storm of colours melding and exploding as one in a tumultuous yet anticlimactic cacophony; the silence, save for the roar of the engine; the twisting, seemingly never-ending tunnel, leading him on a path where he knew the ends, but not the means. There was probably a metaphor hidden somewhere in there, Kessler mused, but it was beyond his interest to search for it.

Kyle Kessler led a happy life. Well ... happy enough. The cockpit was his life, and when he had retired from the Emperor's Hammer TIE Corps, it had been impossible for him to give up the cockpit. Shortly after leaving the Challenge, and returning from his holiday to Corellia, he had worked as security advisor on one of the multitude of civilian platforms orbiting Aurora Prime. The paperwork he was perfectly used to from his days as a Wing Commander. But paperwork was not his leisure. It had been a necessary evil in the TIE Corps, and one which he had willingly endured just for the opportunity every now and then to climb into a TIE cockpit. To hit the ignition button. To hear -- to feel -- the roar of those engines. To grip the control stick in his hands and cut through the ether. And once in a while, to fire those laser cannons, and vaporise a Rebel fighter.

It was all very cliched, a myth perpetuated by old pilots in bars telling stories to the younger spacers and passers-by. But the thing about clichés was that they had a tendency to be universal truths. It was exciting to be in a cockpit. It was engrossing. It was addictive. Kessler was addicted to the cockpit, he would be the first to admit that. But he wouldn't have been in a cockpit long enough to become addicted to it if he wasn't good.

And Kyle Kessler just hated to see good things go to waste.

It had taken him thirty seconds behind a desk on that platform to realise all this. It had taken him an hour to discuss his resignation with the platform chief. And when he had left, and returned to his small apartment in New Imperial City, he had gotten into the shower instantly and remained there for two hours. He had felt as though he was dirtied by working as a civilian. He had needed to wash away all the civilian-ness that he had accumulated in that short time. To reveal the layer beneath that was the true Kyle Kessler: the hard-bitten veteran pilot.

After that, he had scraped together a few credits -- for a TIE Corps Colonel's pension was not as considerable as might have been expected; after all, these were times of economic trouble for the fleet -- and he bought himself a bog-standard YT-1300 transport. Actually, he hadn't ever flown a YT-1300 before that mission to Coruscant in the TIE Corps, where he had taken the freighter Profit's Prophecy in on a deep infiltration of the world which the Rebels had recently captured. He had enjoyed it immensely, and decided that if the situation ever confronted itself, he would get himself a YT-1300. When the situation had arisen, he had tried to procure the Prophecy itself for sentimental reasons. But it had simply disappeared off all registry lists whatsoever. Gone.
Just like all those good times on the Challenge. The memories and experiences were still there, sure, and he treasured them. But the fact that he could not have any more caused Kessler great upset. He had hung around in tapcafes and cantinas with other like-minded spacers, of course, and mingled with them. But the camaraderie of the military was unsurpassed. For a while now he had been advertising for a crew member for his freighter, the Corel's Dream. Not really for help with cargo or piloting or negotiating or any other task a trader must carry out -- he had no trouble with those at all -- but simply for the company. Kessler wasn't a solitary person by nature, and so he desperately hated being alone on the ship. He just wanted somebody to talk to at the very least.

As fate had it, he was being offered the opportunity to talk this very moment. In his thinking, Kessler had ignored the red light on the comm panel that signalled an incoming message. He pressed the receive button, and the small viewscreen that he had had incorporated into the cockpit for holonet messages -- it was the only modification he had made to the ship actually -- now showed a picture of Khalber the Hutt. The small-time merchant ran a mostly-legal business that occasionally dipped into the deeper and darker world of crime. Because of this, he lacked wealth and influence. Because of this, he was one of the few people who agreed to take Kessler on. Infact, it was Khalber who was providing him with this very run -- taking electronic components to a factory on Argimiliar II, a newly-established colony in Emperor's Hammer space.

"Hello, Khalber. Something I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I have a small ... diversion for you. A simple detour from your current mission to Argimiliar II that should not take long, with your abilities."

Kessler was always wary of such "detours". They were common in trading, and even more common in the TIE Corps. Occasionally, a "simple" mission would come along that pretended to be a "milk run". Some fool would volunteer for it, and never come home. "Really, Khalber? What would this detour involve, exactly?"

"No need to be so cynical, Captain Kessler. For a man of your skill, it really would be easy. All you have to do is stop off in the Salassi Asteroid Belt, and destroy a YT-2000 that is there making a course change. We know the exact time that they will be arriving. You can catch them as they leave hyperspace, and destroy them within seconds."

"I don't kill without good reason," Kessler chided Khalber, knowing that to some degree he was lying. All the thousands of Rebel fighters and starships he had destroyed. Had they ever done anything personally to him? But he could not go into such a matter as that now. The moral discussion was taught at the academy, and it was generally regarded that you follow your orders. Kessler had already prostrated himself in thought over the theory in the wake of the cold-blooded murders he had carried out as part of that mission to Coruscant. He wasn't about to delve into all the unwanted memories now.

"Believe me, there is good reason. For you ... and for me. This person has angered myself and many others recently. He must be dealt with."

"Yeah, that's for you. What's in it for me?"

"The obvious. A little extra in the paycheque for the Argimiliar II mission."

"How much?"

"Fifteen-thousand credits."

"Twenty-thousand."

"Fourteen-thousand. I'm not in a mood to bargain."

Khalber? Being forceful? Something must be up. This guy must have really pissed him off.

"Fourteen-thousand, Captain Kessler. Do with it whatever you want ... perhaps you could use it to take some time off from your work. You seem to be making drops almost non-stop, just to have enough money to keep yourself alive. With this ... you could take a rest. Maybe go and see your family."

Risua ...

"Okay. Send me the time you expect this guy to drop into the Salassi Belt. I'll deal with him for you."

"Thankyou, Captain Kessler. This is most appreciated. I will deposit the bonus into your account once you reach Argimiliar II."

The viewscreen returned to black.

Fourteen-thousand just for vaping a defenceless freighter as it came out of hyperspace. Not bad. In the TIE Corps, Kessler wouldn't have made as much in a year, even if he vaped all the defenceless freighters in the galaxy.

Not bad at all.

Loading up his navigation charts, he altered his course from Argimiliar II to the Salassi system. To hell with the moral argument. Now he was a trader, and he had to be even more cold-hearted than an Imperial pilot.

The galaxy was like that.

* * *

"My lord."

"Yes, Major?"

"My lord, the Jedi reached New Republic space several hours ago. Our spynet drones have now detected a signal from Coruscant to the Rebel Fleet on the Emperor's Hammer borders. We have not yet been able to decode it."

"Do we really need to, Major? We know what the signal contains. It has begun."

"Yes, my lord."

"Excellent. Despite some mistakes, we have gotten there eventually, don't you agree, Major?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Hmm. I am very pleased. Within months we will be holding our little conversations on Aurora Prime. In Grand Admiral Ronin's throne room."

"Yes, my lord."

"Yes, excellent. Excellent. For your dutiful service I am promoting you to Colonel."

"Thankyou, my lord."

"Have our consulate on Aurora Prime prepare our diplomatic channels. I want our ships patrolling alongside theirs within the fortnight."

"Yes, my lord."

"You are dismissed, Colonel Gharro."

Supreme Moff Lardo Babune sat there for several hours, observing the starry night sky of Oneve. It was so beautiful, so stunning -- for make no mistake, despite the horrors and atrocities that he could commit, and the cold-hearted nature he could display, Lardo Babune still appreciated beauty in such an essentially ugly galaxy.

When beauty came, it was like an oasis in a vast desert.

And Lardo Babune was determined to put his lips to the water and take a sip to quench his parched throat.

That was all he wanted.

* * *

"We're ready."

Daarogh nodded when he noticed the flashing light on the control board signalling the approach to the hyperspace exit point. The route directly from Nal Hutta to Argimiliar was fraught with many dangers, including four notable black holes and several other gravitic anomalies that made the journey untenable for any traveller. Because of this it was necessary to make a dog-leg course around these dangerous galactic features, which required a navigational stop-off in the remote and uninhabited Salassi system to make a virtual ninety-degree turn for the final jump to Argimiliar.

With both pilots in assent, Val reached out and pulled back the hyperspace levers. The glowing ethereal tunnel that surrounded them unravelled into a million points of lights, dropping them out amidst a melee of spinning rocks and more lethargic planetesimals.
"Welcome to the Salassi Asteroid Belt," Val murmured. "Better check the sensors -- there are a lot of unfriendly people out here, and no planetary police to keep them in check. The Salassi Belt Pirates don't take prisoners; just equipment."

"I think I get the point," Daarogh acknowledged, moving to look at the sensor board. "Seems pretty clear. Maybe they're having a day off."

"In that case, I'm not complaining. Let's just get the new course logged in pronto and jump the hell outta here."

"That sounds good enough to me."

"Okay ... the navicomp is processing the co-ordinates to the Argimiliar system. It should take just a couple of minutes ... "
A sledgehammer blow struck the ship from behind, tossing Daarogh and Val from their seats to an unceremonial heap on the floor. "Pirates!" Daarogh cursed.

"Come on -- get up!" Val encouraged the Togorian as he dragged himself back into the pilot's seat. With all the skill and grace that came with years of Imperial training, and an intuitive sense of piloting, Val manipulated the controls with startling speed. His hands flashed across the board, almost a blur, as he brought the engines up to full power, diverting every drip of power he could to them. "If we can just hold them off until the nav computer plots our course!"

Daarogh understood what he was implying, and nodded with a small grin on his face. There was certainly a blood-lust deep within that Togorian body that he had managed to quite admirably hide for the time that they had been together. But now the opportunity to release some of it gave him pleasure, that was obvious. As the big alien went out of the cockpit to make for the upper gun turret, Val knew that in their situation, that was a definite asset.

The engines were now toppling over themselves in acceleration towards the densest part of the asteroid field. "You'd better strap yourself in," Val informed Daarogh over the intercomm. "This may be a bit of a rollercoaster ride."

"I am sure you will make it an enjoyable one nevertheless, Ricaud."

Smiling, Val looked over the sensors himself to see just what they were up against. He had been expecting at least a squadron of outdated Z-95s or similar, or perhaps even a small frigate or cruiser. This expectation dealt him surprise, then, when he discovered that their attacker was a lone YT-1300 Corellian Transport. The pilot must have been suicidal, for the YT-2000 that Khalber had given the pair outclassed the older YT-1300 in almost every respect. And the sensors showed no serious modifications to the other freighter, not even an added gun turret, which was popular amongst many owners.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all.

A charmed life.

The fact that Val was now heading for the largest concentration of asteroids in the vicinity did not seem to dissuade the aggressor. It was pursuing at top speed, taking pot shots at the YT-2000 -- slowly gaining distance because of its faster engines -- with little effect. Maybe he could talk to the pilot; make him see sense.

But there was little chance of that. One of the random shots that the other ship was firing caught the antennae of the YT-2000, blowing the entire comm system and several other major circuits alongside it.

That was the diplomacy option out of the window then.

They were now entering the large cluster of asteroids. At such speeds, flight was too dangerous to be worthwhile, so Val was forced to reduce his thrust considerably to heighten their chances of coming out of the other end. Sixty-eight percent should do it.

But the other pilot appeared to think differently. He did not reduce his speed upon entering the cluster -- but rather increased it upon seeing that the YT-2000 had slowed down to allow for some reaction time.

Maybe they could simply rely on stupidity to finish off the YT-1300. Of course, there was the slim chance that it was rather skill that motivated the enemy pilot. But that sort of skill was few and far between ...

A shot lanced overhead and struck an asteroid, pockering out a small crater in the rock. Val shifted his course, and hugged the edge of the asteroid as he came over it, then dipped so that it would block the line-of-sight with the YT-1300.

Daarogh picked up on the strategy, and opened fire on the enemy ship as it came over the lip of the asteroid itself. The pilot saw the fire in time and jinked away from the danger, returning with his own volley which went wide.

No time to think up tactics now, though. A menacingly large asteroid spun out infront of the YT-2000, and Val was forced to yank violently on the controls to bring the ship out of the way. He swore that he could hear the thing go past as the surface skimmed metres underneath them.

The pursuer had no such difficulty, and -- not having been forced to make the same wasteful course correction -- closed a massive distance with the newer vessel. Daarogh tried to make him think better of it with several well-placed shots which severely depleted the YT-1300's shields.

"He's right up our behind!" Val yelled.

"I'd noticed!"

"Do something!"
"I'm trying!"
Biting his lower lip, Val put the ship into a steep dive followed by an even tighter barrel-roll, coming out of it across the face of a large planetesimal. As if that weren't enough, he dived deeper, to the point where he could almost make out the individual grains of dust on the surface.

"I'm cutting off power to the guns! I'm putting everything into the engines! Get back down here!"

The YT-2000 shot out into a vast plain that marked the centre of a giant impact crater. There was a drop of several hundred feet, and Val let the ship go with it, disappearing out of sight from their pursuer as they fell to the crater floor.

There -- that's where they'd shake him off. At the opposite end of the crater was a thin line that was almost indistinguishable from any of the other features. But as they flew closer to it, it grew to become a gaping canyon in the crater wall.

Perfect.

Kicking up the engines as far as they would push, Val flung himself with full fury into the canyon, the YT-1300 racing after him. As they flew, they found that the canyon become narrower and narrower towards the centre, and the motion of the ships consisted more and more of violent twists and turns. Val jinked away from a small jutting crag, leaving the YT-1300 no time to see it. Credit given to the pilot, his reactions were good enough to realise what was happening in that split second, and he did make some movement. But it was not enough. The older ship clipped the outcrop of rock and shot to the other side of the canyon, veering away from the wall only at the very last moment.

Val smiled.

Now they were approaching the very middle of the canyon. Everything was quite literally coming to a bottlehead -- the canyon had now reduced in size to a thin space as the walls closed in at a sharp angle.

"Here we go," Val said back to the attacking pilot. "Hope you're as good as you think you are."

There were still a couple of drops of power elsewhere in the ship, and Val squeezed them all into the engines for this one final push. He charged at the thin gap like a madman, and spun the ship ninety degrees in time to make it through. But at the last moment, he made a full spin of the ship and shot upwards, tearing away from the canyon and the asteroid.
The YT-1300 was left on course for the gap, thinking that both ships were to go through it.

Val looked back, ready to see the freighter slam into the rock. He was disappointed, however. The pilot put his ship into a like-minded ninety-degrees, and snapped narrowly through the gap with what looked like little more than a few centimetres of clearance.

"He's good," Daarogh noted.

"Yeah, but he's also too late," Val replied, nodding to the flashing light on the navigation board. Smiling gleefully, he tipped an imaginary hat in respect to the other pilot, now launching away from the asteroid in pointless pursuit again.

"Hope to meet you again, my friend."

Finally clearing the asteroid belt, the YT-2000 flickered away to into hyperspace.

* * *

Kessler watched the ship disappear with a mix of humour, anger, and melancholy. That pilot had been good. Very good. But then again, he did have a better ship. It had been an equal fight of sorts. He could trace the other ship's hyperspace course if he wanted to -- it was a specialist skill taught only voluntarily at the Imperial Academy -- but he felt that an air of respect had grown between the two pilots during the chase, and he would refuse to make an enemy of the other man -- or woman -- even for the amount that Khalber was paying.

He would just have to work a little harder before he could afford to take some time off.

Risua would just have to wait a little longer before her dear Uncle could harass her once again.

And he was sure that he had seen that distinctive brand of flying before: the risk-taking, the desperation, the occasional slip-up, the surefire confidence ... it struck him as resembling the piloting of somebody he had once known. Just who, he could not put his finger on.

Anyway, that short detour was over now. It was time to deliver these electronics components to Argimiliar II. Laying in the course on the navigation computer, Kessler made the leap into hyperspace without hesitation.

Sitting there, in his pilot's seat, observing hyperspace flow around him, it struck the worn old pilot that the most unusual thing of all was that for the first time since leaving the TIE Corps, Kessler once again felt that camaraderie between two fighter jocks, even though he had no idea whatsoever who the other participant in the chase had been. Maybe they had met before in some dingy bar on a colony world at the edge of the galaxy, or maybe their paths would cross again in the future.

The galaxy was like that.

* * *

Rear Admiral Torres stood quietly on the bridge of the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Challenge, sipping every now and then at his cup of strong black coffeine. It had been a long night on-board the ship, going through the lists of equipment being delivered to the engineers on Argimiliar II. The sheer amount of resources that they were bringing back with them had forced Torres to remove all other heavy equipment and extra vessels, such as landing barges, and drop them off at Pirath before heading on to Argimiliar II. Returning for them at a later date might be dangerous because of the rampant Rebel attacks along the border, so they would have to be brought to the Challenge at Argimiliar II by other vessels.

He made a note to put the message through to Fleet Command. He didn't want to go long without such important equipment on-board.

"Sir," the navigation officer called up from the crew pit, "we're ready to exit hyperspace."

"Very good, lieutenant. Proceed."

Torres stared ahead out of the banks of viewports that lined the Challenge's bridge. The journey from Aurora Prime had seemed to take longer than usual, and it would be nice to be out in realspace again.

Perhaps he could get a little R&R, as well, if he were lucky. The administrative work necessary to get all the equipment transferred down to the construction workers on Argimiliar II would occupy the space of several days, and it could easily be handed off to some junior officers. The rest of the crew -- particularly the TIE pilots -- hadn't had shore leave in a long time. It would do them good, particularly on a pleasant agricultural world like Argimiliar II.

They had now reverted to realspace, and there ahead of them was the blue-green globe of Argimiliar II, filling the entire viewport.

"Signal the planet. Inform them we have arrived and will begin co-ordinating with the engineering authorities immediately."

"Yessir."

"Uhh ... sir," another officer broke in.

"Yes, ensign?"

"Sir ... we're picking up some incoming contacts. Lots of contacts, actually ... exiting hyperspace ... "

"What ... ?"

* * *

General Rueban Donner was a kindly man at heart. Tall, broad-shouldered, and well-proportioned, he was as handsome in his sixties as he had been in his twenties. He still considered himself to be in his prime -- both physically and mentally. Although his craggy, imposing visage could be intimidating at most times -- which was probably a necessity for an army commander -- those who knew him well knew him as a good person. He was admired by every man in the 3rd Battalion, 1st Auroran Shock Legion, recently assigned to Argimiliar II for garrison duty.

General Rueban Donner was also a capable fighter, and he enjoyed combat. To a degree, he probably also missed being a part of it, what with this accursed garrison tour. But likewise, he was not particularly eager to go back into combat straight away. Many of his men were newly-assigned; they had taken heavy losses during their recent participation in the Minos Cluster campaigns, and had been replenished with fresh-faced youths straight from the academy. This would be a perfect opportunity to train them and bring them up to par with the other veterans before they moved on to a new, more combat-active, tour of duty.

General Rueban Donner was therefore not too eagerly pleased when he was awakened from his quarters in the middle of the night by the buzz of a comm message calling him to the control tower of the garrison, which sat adjacent to the Argimiliar II spaceport, only to find to his dismay that the tactical screens were displaying a hostile fleet in orbit of the planet.

"What in the name of ... ?"

"It's a New Republic assault force, sir," Sergeant Droolaa informed him as he entered the buzz of activity in the control room, still trying to don the upper half of his General's uniform. "They came out of hyperspace a few minutes ago, just seconds after the Challenge arrived back."

Donner went up to one of the tactical computers and looked at it over the shoulder of a young officer. "They're settling in to a planetary orbit," he observed. "They're digging in for a battle. Any dropships?"

"Not yet, sir," the officer returned

"Well there will be, trust me. We have to be prepared. Get all the men ready."

"But sir, they're tired, they need sleep-"

"I don't care! Wake them!"

"Yessir!"
"Sir ... incoming message from the Challenge. It's pretty hazy. I think the Rebels are trying to block communications."

"Put it on, private."

Donner found himself confronted by a full-size holograph of Rear Admiral Torres, the Commodore of the Challenge. They had spoken to each other only on brief occasions before the ship had left to pick up supplies for the engineers to build their factories.

"Rear Admiral."

"General. I assume you've seen our visitors?"

"Yes, sir."

"They jumped us just as we came out of hyperspace. Looks like an entire sector defence fleet to me. The situation is grim, General."

"Yes, sir, it is. But that's not justification to give up."

"I didn't say I was going to give up ... yet. We will put up a fight, and hopefully convince them that it would not be advantageous to pursue an invasion. But you and I are both veterans. We know the likely outcome."

"I know what is likely, Admiral. But anything is possible."

"Yes, well ... quite. I trust you'll have your men ready for when they try to put down troops. I need you to launch your garrison squadrons as well, to support my starfighter wing."

"I'll give the order immediately, sir."

"Thankyou, General. And ... good luck."

The image faded, and Donner spoke to the air, "You too."

"Sir," the tactical officer picked up his thoughts again. "Sir, we're tracking troop transports, breaking off from the Rebel fleet."

Donner nodded silently. He walked over to the viewport at the side of the control room and peered up into the night sky. There they were, the Rebel scum; a band of white dots across the sky, blocking out the stars. He jutted his chin out defiantly at them.

"Come on, you bastards. Come and get some."

* * *

There was a term that was quite appropriate to apply to this situation: for the shit had well and truly hit the fan.

"Looks like everyone's come to greet us, eh Daarogh? Half the New Republic must be here."

"We're too late!" the Togorian yelped.

"Yeah, it seems that way," Val agreed as he looked out of the cockpit at the Rebel fleet that was stretched out before him. There was every type, class, and variation of starship amongst them -- and some even he didn't know -- all strung out in space around Argimiliar II like a pearl necklace. Small flashes of light that marked the detonation of turbolaser blasts and the explosion of fighters appeared sporadically, concentrated around one small area, where it was possible to make out an Imperial-class Star Destroyer. There were three other ships putting up resistance; frigates, by the looks of it. They didn't stand a chance, yet they fought fiercely; almost arrogantly.

TIE Corps, definitely.

"What do we do now, Val?"
"Well, I have to put down on Argimiliar II and get my ship from the spaceport. Then you can use this to get to Republic space."

"It might be easier to stay. I think that this will be New Republic space pretty soon."

"Yeah, you're probably right. But I'm not letting them get their greasy hands on the Prophecy."

"In that case, I'll stay with you. I have nowhere else to go, and perhaps you could use an extra crew member."

"But Daarogh, what about your friends?"

"They can look after themselves. Well, Musur can anyway. She is a Jedi. And as for Slenbu ... I pray that he will die in some disgusting fashion."

"How very articulate of you."

"You said it yourself -- I'm a real poet."

"Yeah, I did say that, didn't I?"

They looked at each other. They had both been through some situations together that could probably be considered as life-threatening quite easily. But this -- trying to break through a Rebel blockade, and then back out again -- ranked uppermost among them all.

"Shall we dance?" asked Val.

"You lead."

He kicked up the engines, and the YT-2000 lurched toward the New Republic fleet.

* * *

Around the Challenge, there was a melee of the highest order.

Almost instantly after launching TIE Corps Wing X, carried within the bowels of the Star Destroyer, Rebel starfighters had pounced upon them, and some of the most ferocious combat that had ever been fought within Emperor's Hammer space ensued.

The Challenge was the elite ship of the TIE Corps -- everybody acknowledged that, even though it was not officially recognised -- and that status showed. The pilots of Wing X fought like animals. Animals of the worst sort. Animals trapped in the corner with their backs up against the wall; fighting with the knowledge that they would die anyway, so why not take as many of the goddamned bastards out as possible?
The TIEs of Wing X zipped about, twisting with forces that threatened to overload the compensators and crush the bodies of the pilots within. They flew with such vigour and eagerness that their Rebel counterparts comparatively lolled about in a state of slothfulness, their X-wings, Y-wings, A-wings and B-wings rolling gently through the void, just begging out for an Imperial fighter to sweep past them, open fire, and move on to the next victim.

Not being ones to pass up an open invitation, the Wing X pilots did exactly this. They killed effortlessly and efficiently with zeal and fervour that struck fear and trepidation into the hearts of their opponents. The Rebel starfighters which ploughed into Wing X knew they were going to die; they were just anxious about when it was exactly that their time would come.

Like a wistful promise carried upon the breeze, the Imperials dutifully moved through the onslaught; the successive wings of fighters pounced upon them, only to be torn to shreds and cast to the winds like a gentle zephyr. Wing X would emerge from each wave victorious, bloodied, and just that little bit more tired.

* * *

It was good to be back.

True, the situation was not exactly one which he would prefer to be in under such circumstances -- he had come away from that dogfight with that YT-2000 in the Salassi Asteroid Belt with some amount of damage -- but all the same it was what he knew. What he had been trained to do.

Colonel Kyle Kessler was back in combat.

He dodged an oncoming barrage of Z-95s, driving the Corel's Dream through the centre of their formation and looping back up with his forward guns blaring. Two of the Headhunters exploded instantly; the others snapped away in different directions reflexively. They had been the first to attack him, just after the Rebel fleet had come out of hyperspace around Argimiliar II. Just after Kessler himself had arrived.
Kessler's unparalleled sense of tactics and situational awareness kicked in almost as immediately as the old adrenaline. Now his opponents had separated. He could pick them off one-by-one. As they lost more of their wingmen, others would lose confidence and flee rather than be destroyed. It would be a simple affair. It would just rely on his ability to kill effectively.

And kill effectively he did. The outdated Z-95s were faster and more manoeuvrable than the YT-1300, but still Kessler managed to find a way to make the ship do things that would have made its designers faint with horror. He coaxed more power out of the engines; teased the components of the vessel to do the best that they possibly could ... and beyond. The Headhunters exploded almost in rhythm. Kessler would drop onto their tails, open fire with his forward laser cannons, and veer away again from the flaming wreck as he moved to the next target. They jinked; they dodged; they dived; they ducked. But they could never escape.

After all these years, all these killings, they never became monotonous. Each time he vaped a fighter it was as exciting and as exhilarating as the first time. Each kill did nothing to satiate him in combat; the more lives that he brought to an end, the more that his appetite grew. The more that his pleasure grew when that thirst was quenched.

It sounded barbaric, yes. But what was so wrong with such an integral aspect of human nature as bloodlust? The inalienable right to kill another man and like it. And to kill again. And like it even more. What was so wrong with being so human?

Another Z-95 exploded. He flew through the debris, immersing himself in it. When he came out of the other end, and cycled through his targeting computer, he found that there were no other Z-95s in the vicinity. He had killed all of them. He would like to say that they had put up a good fight, but they had not. It had been too easy. Too uninteresting.

Instead, he looked for another target. Who was attacking Wing X? He punched up the nearest TIE Corps fighter, and then successively the enemy that was targeting it. An X-wing. Far more of a challenge than a Z-95.

Diverting some power back to engines from lasers, he put in full throttle for the X-wing.

* * *

"Watch out!"
"I see them," Val growled, trying to alleviate Daarogh's fears. He barrel-rolled away from the A-wings, releasing a concussion missiles as he did so. The respective courses of the two parted company as the YT-2000 pulled away. Seconds later the missile detonated in the centre of the approaching A-wings. There was a loud thunderclap, and looking back Val found that two of them had been vaporised in the explosion. The others continued on through, relatively unscathed.

"We got him!"

You're pleased at that? Val wondered incredulously. Two A-wings was absolutely nothing in terms of kills -- at least for him, anyway -- a squadron might raise an eyebrow. A whole wing would be pleasing. An entire starfighter group might attain impressive.

In the midst of his thoughts, however, the patented Kessler Rules of Space Combat that had been drilled into all pilots on the Challenge kicked in. Namely, the 41st rule: "one fighter is never enough, but two are far too many."

A series of laser blasts lanced past him, and he dodged away. "What was that?" Daarogh voiced the question that had hung in Val's mind. Val brought the freighter around to face the source, and just as quickly veered away again. A Corellian Gunship was bearing down upon them, turbolaser turrets blaring.

"We're in trouble."

One of the attacking A-wings swept across on their wing. Val nudged the freighter up and triggered the forward lasers, the small fighter detonating instantly. The second A-wing flight came in, and the freighter barrel-rolled to starboard and came over the top. The YT-2000 pointed itself straight at a pair of A-wings that broke to follow the climb, but Val ducked under their arc. One of them tried to pull a loop to bear down on him while the other made a wide course to try and form a pincer movement.

Linking the upper and lower turrets together, Val triggered three quad bursts of fire at the diving A-wing. Four bolts missed. Seven found home, converging upon the A-wing and vaporising it instantly. Val rolled away to escape the blast, then hit the rudder to bring the YT-2000 around. The looping A-wing came out of its manoeuvre and speared itself on his cross-hairs. It went red, and Val fired. Two blasts seared across the lower surface of the fighter, and gas burst out as it was expelled into the vacuum of space. The third struck the port side of the fighter, slicing it off completely. The fourth shattered through the axis of the fighter, ripping free the entire frame and blowing through the cockpit.

The remaining pair of A-wings came down hard from above, their twin laser cannons rearing into life. A rapid staccato of lasers struck the freighter at ninety degrees, gouging out a sizeable percentage of the shield energy. Val yanked the YT-2000 back on its tail and dove upwards, hitting the trigger and holding it as his targeting reticle dropped onto the pair. One exploded as a quad blast ripped through the tiny fighter. The second split away instantly. Val quickly fell behind in pursuit, loosing a pair of concussion missiles. They were slow in starting, but as they found their target they accelerated quickly, probing out to touch the A-wing's engines. The Rebel fighter blossomed out in a trail of fire as the explosion consumed it from the aft forwards.

"Not bad."

* * *

Kessler tucked the Dream behind and to the port of the X-wing. It tried to break off, but a double-burst from the laser cannons fitted into the freighter's forward mandibles caught it in time. He curved away from the explosion to face the fury of combat. The Challenge was now looming in the viewport as two frigates bore down upon it from the Rebel fleet. The capital ships exchanged ineffectual fire with each other, knowing that it would be necessary to rely on their heavy assault fighters to deliver the fatal blow. The space between was filled with the TIEs, gunboats, and missile boats of Wing X, and the Rebel fighters they mixed with. And standing out like a sore thumb amongst them all was Kessler in his freighter.

Hooting loudly, the sensors notified him of an attacking starfighter. He caught a visual confirmation early; a flight of X-wings, diverting from the main dogfight to take care of the YT-1300. Kessler rolled his ship up on the port stabilisers, presenting the incoming fighters with a very narrow profile to shoot at. He triggered a short anticipatory burst of quad fire that hit an X-wing in the cockpit and blew the engines out the back of it. A little rudder shifted his aim to port, then a second burst disintegrated another X-wing's hull. He rolled out to port, then dove below the remaining fighters. Kessler inverted the Dream and pulled back on the stick to come up in a grand loop, giving the X-wings plenty of time to latch on his tail. When they did so, they were surprised to see the freighter tighten its arc with impossible agility, nose suddenly occupying the space which had been taken up with the tail. He came back down on the X-wings with his lips curled in a smile, hitting the lead fighter head-on with his first volley, and melting the wing of the other X-wing with his second. The Rebel starfighter corkscrewed, and then began a slow spiral down toward Argimiliar II.

Kessler shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. The fury of combat was consuming him. What was wrong? He had never been like this before.

An R-41 wandered foolishly in his way.

He slammed the trigger, gasping as the fighter exploded before him. Wetness gathered at the corner of his eyes. A laser blast shook the freighter, and the motion spilled one of the tears loose. After that it was a torrent. He put the Dream around and opened up on the approaching A-wings with every ounce of power the ship had.

"Come on, you bastards!" he found himself screaming, "Kill me! Kill me!"

After all, hadn't they killed the rest of his family?

The lead A-wing detonated in a double-explosion. Marius Kessler.

He rolled the Dream to starboard, triggering another barrage of fire.

One of the fighters tried to roll away from the onslaught, but found itself suddenly impaled on a strobing quad blast. Alicia Kessler.

The distance between the freighter and the A-wings closed to a space of several hundred metres, yet he still flew insanely, his lasers ripping up space as he flew on a dead-straight course. Two more of the Rebels exploded.

Gaius Kessler.

Devin Kessler.

Only one left now. It dodged away quickly, the Rebel pilot's instincts bringing him to a safety manoeuvre that kept the freighter off to his port wing while he looped around for a clear shot. Kessler was not about to let him get away. This kill was the one that he treasured most. The one that he owed them. The one that he owed himself. He roared as he physically grappled with the controls to bring the bulky YT-1300 to bear. Space became a blur. The battle raging around him became nothing but a kaleidoscope of clashing colours that darted about incomprehensibly.

Kayta ...

Finally, there it was, resting at the middle of his vision, and it was all that he saw. His entire concentration was centred upon the A-wing as he fired. The Rebel pilot jinked from side to side, and the attack swept past clean, illuminating the hull of the fighter as it flashed by.

Kessler realised that his vision was not blurred because of speed, but because of the tears that filled his eyes and soaked his cheeks, holding a tinge of salt upon his lips as they fell to the cockpit floor. He sobbed uncontrollably, his entire body wracked with rage and sorrow.

Kayta ...

He fired, not really knowing why or how.

Kayta ...

The rear of the fleeing fighter was seared away instantly, and the blast penetrated deep to the reactor within. Space was suddenly filled with a glowing yellow-white explosion, eerily silent through the vacuum.

Kayta ...

Kessler now found himself relieved of his hatred and his fear. It was like the freighter's gravity compensators had, for a time, been doubled, and had now resettled to default levels. A lightness of being filled him, and he slumped back in his seat, gazing out of the viewport. As the explosion of the A-wing dissipated away, so too did his emotions, until there was nothing left in him. He was empty, save for a warm feeling that flooded out with his tears but yet persisted to throb inside him.

Kayta, I'm so sorry. I should have married you. I should have been there with you ...

No longer was Kessler inside the cockpit of a heavily damaged YT-1300 transport, spinning and dashing about a melee in orbit of a small agri-world on the Outer Rim. He was standing in the ballroom of the Imperial Academy on Coruscant. Where they had first met. Around him, hundreds of freshman students moved endlessly with their partners, adorned in spotlessly white uniforms, newly-pressed that very morning with the utmost care and attentiveness. They did not seem to pay much attention to Kessler, motionless in the centre of the ball-room, in a tattered jump-suit. His face was streaked with a mixture of tears, grime, sweat, and blood; his hair ruffled messily; his eyes hollowed and weary.

Cadet Juwuk, one of his closest friends in the class, twirled by, a tall blonde draped over his shoulders. He flashed a smile at Kessler and winked. Kessler stared back vacantly. Then as Juwuk passed by, an opening formed in the dancing couples, as if a path were cleared just for Kessler, all the way to the bar at the other end of the hall. Sitting there, perched on a stool, was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his entire life, sipping at a pale orange drink and glancing nervously around at every drunken cadet who passed too close to her. His heart filled with happiness, and almost jumped out of his body as he made for her through the crowd. She saw him coming in advance, and rolled her eyes resignedly.

As he reached her, he suddenly broke down in tears again, and collapsed to his knees infront of her. The ballroom was empty now, its impressive expanse and volume filled only with the glittering gold murals on the walls and the sparkling chandeliers that adorned the ceiling. Kessler was doubled over on the floor, burying his face into clenched fists.

A slim, lithe hand reached out to him. He looked up into those eyes. They held such intelligence, such beauty, such compassion. Already his weeping had stopped. Kayta smiled at him with gentle assurance, like some angelic vision. "I love you, Kyle Kessler."

He could not help smiling as he closed his eyes and pressed her warm hand to his cheek. "Don't leave me."

She stroked his cheek gingerly with her soft fingertips.

"Don't leave me," he repeated in a murmur.

Pressing a finger to his lips to silence him, she smiled again. "You're a Cantor, Kyle. You'll never be alone."

Kessler forced his words out underneath fresh tears. "I -- I love you."

When he forced himself to look up to her face again, he saw that she was crying too. Small, precious tears that arched down her cheek. They were tears of happiness. "Would you like this dance, Cadet?"

He laughed, rising to his feet as she slipped both of her hands into his, standing from her seat at the bar. Kayta pressed her forehead to his cheek, and her aroma filled Kessler's nostrils. A wave of feelings hit his brain, all at the same time, as he glimpsed everything before him. He did not know what it was that he saw, but all the same it filled him with an overflowing happiness.

"Everything will be fine," Kayta reassured him.

"Yeah," Kessler replied fondly, "I think it will be."

They held each other tightly, longingly, not wanting to let go. The gold murals and chandeliers sparkled more brightly, until they filled his vision with a pure light that swept over the pair. That washed away the ballroom, and the floor, until it was just Kessler and Kayta, suspended in the light.

"Clear skies, Kyle Cantor Kessler ... clear skies ..."

The light became a glare, which quickly died away to black. Black punctuated by tiny white dots. He was in space. The scent that filled his senses was now one of smoke and burning. The Corel's Dream had taken a severe beating from something -- he checked his sensors in an almost dream-like state -- there were his attackers, another flight of A-wings. But he was rapidly escaping from them, heading for the planet, even though he did not recall making any such manoeuvre. If he just kept on this course, he would be safe.

Below, the angelic clouds of Argimiliar II beckoned.

Kayta, oh Kayta ...

* * *

It became, inevitably, a war of attrition and a war of nerves. And so it was one that the TIE Corps could never win from the start. Despite vaporising their enemies at a ratio that was shockingly impressive, the constant strain of battle took its toll on the Imperial pilots. Their training had fine-tuned them to kill Rebels with clean efficiency; but nothing could extend their endurance beyond the natural limit of their bodies.

Then the tides turned. They became messy. The Rebels began poking in the odd kill for themselves. It was like a snowball. One Wing X pilot would fall, and then another two after, and then another four, and so on in a destructive loop of death.

They knew this. They realised it before it had happened. But still they fought on even harder; even more viciously. They fought on when the Frigates Tribune and Hammer's Vengeance fell first, almost one after the other. And then the Emperor's Fury was surrounded by three Calamari Cruisers and eight smaller Assault Frigates. And they stood their ground and fought. And when the Emperor's Fury blossomed into a fiery conflagration, the remaining Wing X pilots became the Emperor's Fury in a quite literal sense.

They made the Rebels fight and die for every square millimetre of space.

When the order came through from Rear Admiral Torres, they retreated back to the Challenge as slowly as they possibly could. They edged backwards in small, short steps, tackling all the fighters that the New Republic threw at them, and coming out eager for more.

It had become necessary for Torres to scream into the radio system to order the pilots back into the hangar bay.

It was all over; in space, at least. It was all over from the moment that the last fighter of Tornado Squadron slipped silently into the hangar, and the Challenge turned for a new course, lumbering around in space like some great wounded beast. Perhaps it had even all been over before the Challenge had arrived.

The Rebels stayed clear of it; they did not launch a torpedo or fire a laser blast against the Star Destroyer as it made for its hyperspace point. Out of respect and fear, the Rebel starships which blocked the path edged away slightly as the Challenge slid past them, its engines sounding uncannily like a deep growl.

* * *

The YT-2000 raced in on the Corellian Gunship just as the light capital ship began to roll to bring its heaviest fire arc to bear. "Uhh ... is this a good idea?"

"Probably not, but there's a hell of a lot of TIE wreckages around here, and I want to make them pay for what they've done!"

Val rolled the freighter and pulled back on the controls, finally nudging it to port. He then threw the YT-2000 into a tight spiral down at the Gunship, in an irregular course that did enough to throw off the aim of the gunners.

The Gunship's turbolasers filled the space around the ship with innumerable bolts of energy. The shots spiralled out as the gunning crew tried to track the course of the incoming freighter.

Despite the freighter's erratic dive, getting a target lock on the gunship was not a great feat of difficulty. Val shifted the weapons controls over to warheads and linked a pair of concussion missiles together. The targeting reticle went red almost instantly. Val hit the trigger and watched the dual missiles streak away at their target. A nova flared up in the side of the vessel, shattering armour and triggering several secondary explosions.

Val was already arching away, preparing for another attack run. Making sure he was clear of attackers, firstly he cruised in on the tail of a nearby Y-wing and hit the trigger. Two bursts of quad-fire lasers shot out, stabbing deep into the starboard engine assembly. He rolled quickly to port and dove, clearing the exploding Y-wing's blast radius.

He put the ship into a second weave that brought him straight to the target once again. Coming in at the gunship from the front, he dropped his aiming reticle on the blackened portion of the ship's midsection, littered with guttering flames. Val picked a particularly bright spot and sent two more concussion missiles streaking away on jets of orange flame at the gunship.

The two warheads flashed deep through the hull, detonating inside. The entire midsection vaporised, the ship reeling away in two separate portions that dropped slowly down towards the planet.

"Don't you think we should be following them down there?"
A quick glance at the sensors, and Val agreed, "Sure. Except in one piece."

"I can't argue with that."

* * *

Throned in a small observation room perched atop one of the inconspicuous turrets of his palace, Supreme Moff Lardo Babune had a spectacular view of Oneve: the regular, ordered grids of buildings; wide streets all at right angles to each other; the short, stocky apartment blocks; the larger, more important buildings bulging out with pride in their premium on space. There were no thin, tall, spindly towers or skyscrapers on Oneve. The above-average gravity and high earthquake frequency of the dying planet pressured architects into low-set designs. There was no colour in buildings; they were all cindered a charcoal black under the merciless eye of the system's blue giant star; black like the earth upon which they stood.

Two hours, Tokura's request for a meeting had been delayed. On purpose, of course. Babune wanted the overgrown slug to squirm as he waited to discover his fate. He had also wanted to meditate privately on his thoughts before he spoke to the Hutt. Many things were hanging in the balance. Every word, every action, would have to be carefully considered.

He placed his finger on one of the buttons inlaid upon the right arm of his throne. The holoprojector infront of him displayed a three-quarters representation of the wounded Tokura, cradling the stump of his arm. Beyond him, the dark world of Oneve was lightened by the blue tinge of the holograph where it intersected Babune's view. "Tokura," Babune growled.

The Hutt bowed his head, but kept his eyes on the Imperial officer, "Supreme Moff Babune ... I have had a visit from Ricaud. He came to me, and then escaped to Argimiliar II. I thought you dealt with him."

Babune raised an eyebrow. "Unfortunately, it seems that my men are just as incompetent as yours. What did he want?"

"He came with a Togorian. They threatened me. Look what happened to my ar-"

"I am not interested in excuses," Babune growled at him, his eyes glowering at the Hutt. "What happened?"

"He found out. He discovered the plan ... "

"Correction," snapped the Moff in his usual, even tones. "He did not find out; you told him."

"What else could I do?!" cried Tokura in desperation.

"You could have allowed him to kill you. It would have been a better fate than what awaits you now."

"What -- what do you mean?"

Babune sat back in his throne and smiled grimly, like the visage of a skull. "The Huttese Chamber of Commerce will discover your dealings with me. Ricaud will see to that one way or another. Your crime syndicate will collapse ... or a new leader will emerge. Either way, you are no longer of use to me. Our business together is concluded."

He reached for the button controlling the holoprojector. "No, wait!" Tokura raised out his good arm. "You can't do this to me ... without your support ... "

"It no longer matters," Babune replied calmly. "This is Ricaud's doing, and not mine. You have fallen along the wayside, Tokura. Of course, there might be one thing ... "

"Yes? What is it?"

Lardo smiled again. "Send your most trustworthy man ... or alien ... after Ricaud. Kill him, and I will see what I can do to use my influence in the underworld to help you."

"But he is on Argimiliar II ... my spies tell me that the Rebels have invaded ..."

"Do not worry about the Rebels," Babune assured him. "The New Republic orbits Argimiliar II purely at my whim. I will ensure that your assassin will be able to slip by the blockade. Is that clear?"

"Yes. Thank you, Supreme Moff Babune."

"Don't be pre-emptory in your thanking of me, Tokura. Ricaud has already proven himself more slippery than we expected. Do not underestimate him."

Tokura nodded as Babune keyed off the holoprojector. Matters were worse now. If Ricaud knew of the plan to invade the Emperor's Hammer, he might think to sell the information to their High Command. He would have to be stopped at all costs: the danger he posed to Babune was too high. Contingencies would have to made. He quickly tapped the key for his assistant.

"Colonel Gharro, which is our nearest Star Destroyer to Emperor's Hammer space?"

"The Berserker, sir," Gharro's voice replied almost immediately.

"Have the Interdictor Skyshroud join them immediately and step up their combat readiness."

"Yes, sir."

The frequency clicked off. So far, fortitude had kept Ricaud one step ahead of the Orthodoxy. But it would not last forever. Nothing ever did.

* * *

Val and Daarogh stumbled off the boarding ramp of the YT-2000 into a spaceport filled with chaotic abundance. The sprinting and jogging of hurried workers and pilots kicked up a head-height layer of dust that clung tightly to the ground. The air of the Argimilian night was thick and damp, as much to do with personal anxieties of those who breathed it as atmospheric and environmental conditions.
While their docking port would usually house only one ship, on this occasion it was a safe haven for three vessels. Along with the "appropriated" YT-2000 that had just put down there were two YT-1300s. One Val instantly recognised as the Profit's Prophecy from the addition of an extra quad laser turret, an electronic counter-measures package, extra external ducting, increased thermal venting ports, and the various carbon scorches which bore the ship's uniform. The other freighter could easily have been mistaken for a new model straight off the production line, as there were no visible modifications to the external hull. The blast marks across the surface were contradictory to this assumption, though, and so Val was forced to correct himself to believe that the pilot was either naive or brave to have held back from altering his YT-1300, a ship notoriously underpowered and undergunned in the factory model state.

"Does this place usually get this busy in the evenings?" Daarogh asked rhetorically as a human half his size ducked quickly under the Togorian's arms carrying a hand-sized cargo pod. Infact, the large alien would have been completely unrecognisable in the melee of personnel darting about the bay if it were not for his height, which quite literally made him stand out above the rest.

A cackle of gunfire could be heard in the distance, presumably as stormtroopers from the local garrison fought on the city outskirts with the Rebel invasion force. "We have to get off-planet soon."

"You think they're going to leave?" Daarogh nudged a finger up at the ring of Rebel ships girdling the dark sky above.

"No," Val replied as he started off through the crowd to the docking bay entrance with the Togorian hurrying after him, "I'm sure they'll stay until their troops have taken the city."

As if to help make his point, there was another ring of gunfire exchange.

"You're going to fly through them?"

"We're going to fly through them. Unless you'd rather stay, that is. Anyway, we won't be going it alone."

"What do you mean?"

"If the local garrison commander has any sense, he'll have as many of his forces as possible shipped out by smugglers before the Rebels break the Imperial defences. And we, my furry friend, will be more than happy to offer our services. Safety in numbers and all that."

"And how long will that take?"

Val shrugged. "It depends upon how skilled the garrison is. A good unit may be able to keep the New Republic at bay for several days before giving the evacuation order. At the other end of the scale, the call for pilots may be put out by morning."

They were passing the unknown YT-1300, docked by the entrance to the bay, when a voice called out, "Somebody help!"

There was a crumpled figure lying at the base of the open ramp into the ship, and a large port worker -- the man who had made the plea -- was kneeling over him, cradling his head. On the instant, several people detached from the crowd and rushed to the pair to offer their assistance. A Togorian was amongst them.

"Daarogh -- wait!" Val cried belatedly before rolling his eyes and sprinting off up the ramp after him. He arrived quickly at the group which now ringed the injured pilot, and his speed carried him into the shoulders of two men. He broke through them inadvertently, managing to stop in his tracks before he nearly stepped on the man. About to apologise out of instinct, he looked down. His mouth was instantly agape. "Kess?"

"Val?" the voice came back weak and hoarse.

Ricaud's old Wing Commander lay beneath him, his jumpsuit -- clearly TIE Corps issue now sans insignia -- torn and weathered as much as his face; covered in a thick layer of oil, blood, and sweat. There was a deep cut that stretched from his hairline across the right side of his face to his chin, and the skin on either side was almost entirely folded back.

"Kess ... you look like shit."

He couldn't think of anything else to say.

* * *

The activity in Argimiliar Imperial Hospital was no less impressive than that at the spaceport. Except replacing the port workers and spacers were doctors and medical staff. The smell of oil and burnt hull swapped for the smell of blood and burnt flesh. Stormtroopers fresh from the front line outside of the city made up the largest proportion of the hospital's occupants. They were lying, sitting, and standing anywhere there was enough space for them to do so. The dead were not deemed important enough to warrant beds of their own to lie upon until some orderly wheeled them away, so they were dumped unceremoniously in the corridor and left to pile up, and the next potential corpse given their bed. Where the wounded and the dead lay together side-by-side, it was difficult to tell the difference, so that the new bodies would be placed on top of the living, almost comically. Almost.

Val stood on a corner by the reception desk -- for he had given up his seat long ago to a wounded stormtrooper -- in a rather uncomfortable fashion. At his feet there was an arm, detached from its owner. How it had gotten there was a mystery. It hadn't been there when he had taken up his position against the wall, but in the intervening time, it had suddenly appeared, magically, from nowhere. Perhaps a passing soldier had simply dropped it by accident. Perhaps a rushed amputation had put it there. There was still plating from white stormtrooper armour around the forearm and biceps, but the stump where it had been cut -- or blown, or shot, or whatever -- away from the owner and the hand were revealed to the air. Sickened, and a little disturbed that he was sure the index finger would twitch every now and then, Val tried to nudge the severed limb away with the tip of his foot, but he had misunderestimated the weight, and it simple rocked a little from side to side. A second effort, with a little more strength but still underpowered enough to be discrete, had no more effect. A third, with yet more energy, still yielded nothing. Annoyed and frustrated, not just with the arrogant arm but with the events of the night and the past few days, Val brought his foot back fully until it touched the wall, and then swept it forwards in a clean kick that caught the arm full-on. It spun across the reception floor, leaving a slimy trail of blood where it went, until it slapped meatily against the nearby desk.

A middle-aged nurse, whose feet the arm had missed by a matter of centimetres as she made her way past the reception desk, looked up at Val and asked impatiently, "Can I help you with anything, sir?"

Having not intended to gain any attention at first, Val was somewhat taken aback, and it was several seconds before he could answer properly. "Well ... yes ... as a matter of fact. I'm waiting for somebody. Kyle Kessler."

She looked down at the datapad she held. "Kyle Cantor Kessler?"

"Yes, that's him."

"I'm sorry sir, but he left about ten minutes ago, by the back entrance," she informed him, and seeing his disconsolation, added, "maybe he didn't know you were waiting for him."

Turning, Val stormed past Daarogh moodily. The Togorian, probably half-asleep -- and Val could not blame him one little bit -- took a moment to realise that it was time to leave, but quickly caught up with him at an accelerated pace. "Your friend not coming?"
Where would Kyle Kessler go at a time like this?

Only one place. Well, one likely place.

"Val?" Daarogh pursued his question when no reply came.

They were outside the hospital now; through the large automated doors. There was a stream of injured passing on either side of them, heading both into and out of the building. The night air had lost the moisture that it had held an hour ago. Instead, there was now a cold chill, silent upon the little breeze that drifted through. "Daarogh, I want you to go back to the ship, and stay there. I'll join you soon."

"Okay, Val. I just hope you know what you're doing."

"Me too."

* * *

The bartender had changed little in the past couple of days, despite all that had happened recently. He still had that cheery and friendly exterior, immaculately maintained, and he was still cleaning out his glasses with that cloth. He spotted Val as he walked in immediately, and laughed, his voice loud in the near-empty cantina. "You're still alive, I see, eh?"

"Pretty much. I guess you were wrong."

"Hey, I didn't say I would be right!" he cackled. "What can I getchya?"

"Alderaanian brandy," Val said nonchalantly as he approached the bar and its lone occupant, an individual in a cliched spacer's outfit wearing a notable TIE Corps officer's cap.

The bartender stared at him disbelievingly. "That stuff don't come cheap, you know. Hard to get something from a place that's been vaped for the better half of a decade."

"My friend, I have all the wealth in the galaxy."

"You'd better," the bartender warned him as he flung the cloth across his shoulder and knelt down to search a locked drinks cabinet. As he did so, Val took up the seat on the left-hand side of the man propping up the bar by himself, starting colloquially into his drink.

"Trying to avoid me, Kess?"

Kessler was silent, and Val looked up at him, half-worried, though trying not to show it. The old Colonel's features were gaunt and haggard; although the cut that had crossed his face was now but a pink rash following bacta therapy, deep lines were still etched across his features from a long and hard labour over the years, both mental and physical. His eyes moved slowly and wearily, yet with a glint of fire that seemed out of place in a face weathered by the strains of war and the sight of cold death. "You know, Val, I value our friendship," his words came out like those spoken upon a man's deathbed, his last message to the world he was about to leave behind.

"Bullshit, Kess. We hardly know each other. Fate just keeps throwing us together; that's all. We served on the same ship, we cracked a few dirty jokes in pilot country, and that was it. And that's the goddamn strangest thing of all, because I feel like we've been friends forever. You have that effect on people, Kess. It's how everybody who knows you feels about you."

"Stop trying to cheer me up, Ricaud."

"What else am I supposed to say to a man who looks like he's about to make the last jump?"

"I'm not suicidal, Val."

"You're an unconvincing liar, Kess. Did I say you were suicidal? What's wrong with you? You were never the same since that mission to Coruscant ... "

Kessler sipped at some of his drink, grimacing as the liquid coursed a route down his throat. "People change, Val ... things change ... "

"Some people are afraid of change."

"I'm not. I couldn't give a damn ... I don't give a damn ... "

"Kyle Kessler used to give a damn. The Kessler that I knew. The Kessler that took it upon himself to befriend a young Lieutenant Commander who was on his own, for no other reason than that you were a good man. The Kessler that did that for everybody. The Kessler that didn't have any enemies, and couldn't make any if he tried. Now your only enemy is yourself. Listen Kess, I don't know what screwed you up so badly, but I don't like this one little bit. It scares me shitless."

A smile drifted across Kessler's lips, "I always thought the only thing that scared you was insects."

"Yeah, well," Val grimaced awkwardly, "I'm not so tough, you know. A lot of things scare me. Every time I climbed into a starfighter cockpit I'd be crapping myself, even after years of experience. And every time those sights land on a enemy, and I'm about to pull that trigger, I'm scared. Scared to the bone. And I don't know why."

"Wouldn't you have liked to be a stormtrooper?" Kessler asked, his tone suddenly lighter, "I mean, it's so simple: wear nice, shiny white armour, point your blaster at people, march up and down ... so easy. And you don't have your head messed up with all this psychological shit. I would have loved to be a stormtrooper."

"So why did you join the navy?"

"Because of my brother, Gaius. I idolised him, and when he went against family tradition and joined the navy, I instinctively followed him. I killed him, you know, years later."

Val tried not to be taken aback at the rather blunt statement, but it was difficult to be confronted by a thing like that and not be shocked even in the slightest. "No, I didn't know that Kess."

"I don't have anybody left, Val."

Kessler displayed little emotion; he was certainly not crying. It seemed as if he had been emptied of all the tears in his body already, and had nothing left to give but a sullen look of grimness. Val, on the other hand, found tears welling up in his own eyes. Never before had he felt such pity for another man, let alone a man of strength and integrity such as Kessler who he had always looked up to and admired. But there was little else he could do; back on the Challenge, in the short time he had stayed there after the Coruscant mission, Risua -- the Cantor that had always seemed closest to Kyle -- had happened to tell Val about some of Kessler's past, in an attempt to get the Lieutenant Commander to hold back from bothering the Wing Commander about some fighter parts in what had unwittingly been a sensitive time for the man. Kessler's wife had been killed on Coruscant during the Rebel invasion, at a time when a period of separation between the two seemed to be coming to an end. He had not been able to reach her in time. She had been killed during the bombardment. The rest of Kessler's family were dead at the hands of the Rebellion. To put it one way, the guy hadn't had it easy.

"Kess, are you stupid?" Val almost shouted with incredulation. "You have an entire family who have adopted you as one of their own. Who care about you, who worry about you. And you think you're alone? Don't be so bloody arrogant! You don't have a right to wallow in self-pity!"

"You don't know anything, Val ... "

Ricaud was already rising from his chair, sweeping away the glass of Alderaanian brandy just as the bartender placed it down. But his shouts went unheeded. "Kess ... I've never said this, but I envy you. Do you understand? You are so lucky to have all these people who care about you, and you want to sit here and drink away every damned problem in the galaxy, feeling sorry for yourself!"

But Kessler was ignoring the emotional diatribe, staring down intently into his drink, almost in a trance-like state. Val, angered and frustrated at his feelings going unheard, reached across and grabbed Kessler's collar, dragging him from his stool. "I used to admire you! But not any more!"

"Then piss off!"

Despite his firm grip on the material of his collar, Kessler was suddenly away from Val, totally sober, that fire in his eyes now a burning inferno. His face was filled with fury and rage as he swung his fist forward, and it caught Val full in the face in a climactic tumult of emotions. Ricaud staggered back under the immense force of the blow, until he toppled over a chair leg and found himself on the cold floor. Kessler was stalking after him, a determination in his eyes that was almost disturbing, but Val managed to bring out a leg in time and sweep the older man's feet out from under him, so that he came down to the ground face-first with a heavy thud.

There was a moment of silence in the bar as the dust was allowed time to settle on the two perfectly still figures and the amazed tender who looked on. Then, finally, a moan of agony from Kessler, muffled by the floor. Val mimicked the groan, and the two burst out in uncontrolled laughter.

"Feel better now?" Val asked through his sniggers.

Kessler sighed again, this time with the strain of laughing, "Yep."

"Good, because you're not getting another bloody shot."

* * *

There was something about dawn on Argimiliar II that was ominous and full of approaching menace, like distant thunderclouds in the horizon marking a coming storm. It might be the same every morning on this empty planet of farmers and colonists; it might just be this particular sunrise, as if the planet was looking up at the Rebel fleet in orbit and glancing back down at the inhabitants with a resigned tut-tut.

No matter what the dawn said, Val Ricaud was not about to go down without a fight; nor was he about to give up hope to a hopeless situation. Infact, he was quite optimistic about the near future as he entered the spaceport once again with Kessler at his side. They must have been drinking for hours; talking about the latest events across the galaxy; laughing at new jokes picked up in their travels; remembering old friends long gone; exhuming memories of the TIE Corps both bitter and happy. It was like being back in pilot country, fresh from the adrenaline-soaked excitement of a mission against the Rebellion, and drinking with your closest friends and colleagues. For those few hours, Val had once again reassumed the old face of Lieutenant Commander Ricaud, and Kessler had seemed to ignore his passing references to the spacer as "Colonel" and "Wing Commander". He even seemed to enjoy in the indulgence. They walked, for all of their alcoholic consumption, out of the bar totally sober, for they knew what awaited them. Fear and excitement combined were the best antidotes for drunkenness.

Inside the spaceport, the activity seemed to have calmed down once again, almost to the level of a ghost town. Following the hectic night, everybody seemed to be getting as much rest as they could on both sides. Stormtroopers on crowd control duty, and fresh from the line outside the city, lay in the streets and on the pavements, totally asleep, hunched side-by-weary-side with civilians and spacers. In the docking port, crew members were sprawled on their lowered boarding ramps or in the shade underneath, for it was shaping up to be a hot day. In the twilight silence, the pair stepped aboard the Profit's Prophecy once again.

"Ah, it is sooo good to be back," Val sighed, adding in an aside to the walls, "missed me, honey?"

Kessler was looking around the ship in amazement, craning his neck up and down as he inspected every inch of the corridors and deck plating. "So you're the one who got hold of the Prophecy. How did you do it? It was the property of Intel, and furthermore being kept on the Challenge flight deck."

"I still have some friends, you know. I got a couple of the crew who owed me some favours to smuggle this beauty to a meeting point shortly after I escaped from the authorities on Aurora Prime. You must have left by then."

"I can't say your trial didn't have something to do with it. To be honest, it was probably the final nail in the coffin for my TIE Corps career by that point."

"I'm sure the Corps is a worse place without you, Kess."

Kyle turned from his summary inspection to see if the line was meant with sarcasm or flippance; though it had been delivered with such utter conviction. Ricaud's face, however, was perfectly straight. "You don't believe me?"

"It's just hard to tell when you're joking."

"You know me, Kess. I laugh through life. After all, if you can't smile, what can you do? But I can be serious."

"Yeah," Kessler hummed, "you can actually be quite worrying when you're serious."

"Worrying?" Val asked in indignation.

"Okay ... grave. Authoritative. Stark. Frightening. You'd have made a great Squadron Commander."

"You really think so?"

"Sure I do!"

"You could've bloody told me back when we were in the TIE Corps! Then I would've gone for Commander and perhaps I wouldn't be here now."

"Perhaps ... but then I'd still be messed up, without somebody to punch."

"Hey, hey. Don't get into a habit. That was a one-off. Special offer. Bargain. You try that again and don't think I'll be so laissez-faire about it."

"For what it's worth ... it did help."

"It helped your conscience, sure, but not my looks."

"Pah. Don't worry, they can't get much worse."

"And what is that supposed to mean? I have psychological problems too, you know. I don't suppose you'd be willing to return a favour ... ?"

"You must be joking."

They came through the main corridor of the ship into the cockpit, where Daarogh lay in the co-pilot's chair, as spread out as he could be in fitful slumber. Kessler went over to the controls with relish, running his hands over them in nostalgic melancholy. "I really don't know why I'm so fond of this ship. There's just something about it ..."

"You were her captain before me, Kess, you have more right here than I do. The first time I came aboard was only when you and Jared managed to rescue me from the Lusankya as it left Coruscant. But even I fell in love with her instantly. There's something quite cosy about this little tin can held together by rust ... "

With a snatch of movement, Kessler was suddenly pinned against the cockpit wall by Daarogh's powerful claws, almost a full foot off the floor.

"Hey hey hey!" Val barked, "put him down, he's a friend! Remember? The guy we took to the hospital?""

Still suspicious of the intruder, Daarogh slowly eased Kessler back down from the wall, allowing him to clutch at his throat as he gasped loudly, trying to force the air into his burning lungs once again. "What the -- the -- hell is that?"

"It," replied the alien, "is a Togorian. And it is called Daarogh."

"And it," Val cut in as he came to the fore of the cockpit, "needs to cut down on the coffeine."

"I'm a light sleeper," Daarogh replied as he took one of the rear seats, offering up the co-pilot position to Kessler. "Or would you rather I were less cautious? There are a lot of shifty people around this place."

"Yeah, I know, I'm usually one of them," Val said as he plumped down in the pilot's chair, glancing to Kessler. "You alright?"

"Fine ... just fine. If I wasn't sober before, I am now. Thanks Daarogh."

Daarogh nodded in his people's traditional sign of honour, misunderstanding the sarcasm directed at him, "I am glad to have helped. If you don't mind, I will go and sleep out on the ramp, to maintain my defence of the ship."

"Sure thing, Daarogh."

The Togorian nodded and made his departure, leaving Kessler and Ricaud alone in the cockpit, gazing out at the stars, growing rapidly fainter under the ceaseless march of the progressing dawn sky. "Strange, isn't it?" Kessler ventured to break the comfortable silence. "A year ago, I could never have possibly imagined in my wildest dreams that I would be here, now, in this situation."

"You said it yourself, Kess ... things change."

"And some people are afraid of change."

"Not all people ... and not all kinds of change. Just those that don't suit their opinions, or have an undesired effect upon them."

"You make fear sound almost selfish."

"But isn't it?"

Kessler shrugged.

"There isn't anything wrong with being selfish, Kess," Val went on, "it's part of human nature to be selfish. Selfishness should be embraced as an aspect of humanity as much as love or hate."

"Is that an excuse or a philosophy?"
Val laughed, "That's the trick, isn't it? The million credit question. Selfishness is what drives everybody, Kess, whether they want to admit it or not. Sometimes the motivation is obvious, sometimes not so obvious. A man will accumulate wealth out of greed, clearly. But likewise, a man will give away wealth for the good feeling that the act gives him. And the want for that feeling is equally greed."

"And you're not driven by greed?" Kessler asked cynically.

"The simple fact that I understand it does not by necessity place me above it. Still, I know that I would like to think otherwise, because it would give me a feeling of superiority."

"Which is selfish," Kessler finished for him.

"Ah, so you understand?"

"I think everyone understands it, deep down. I think everybody in the galaxy has the answer to every question they ask, deep down. They just have to have the will to search for it."

Smiling, Val wondered aloud, "And what questions does Kyle Kessler ask?"

Kessler pursed his lips together in thought, "Why is life such a bitch?"

"You could at least have made it something original."

"The thing about clichés is that they're usually universal truths."

"You also get damned sick of them."

"Don't tell me you've never thought life's a bitch,."

"Of course I have, but only at certain moments in time. There is happiness in life, too. It just depends on our personality which moments we concentrate upon. I don't believe anybody can be intended to have a truly and entirely unhappy life; everybody is entitled to some happiness. If it's a single laugh, or a life of hedonism."

"The latter, if you please," Kessler ordered.

Val laughed, "Whatever makes you happy."

* * *

Plummeting to the Death Star's reactor core ...

Val Ricaud awoke in a hazy slumber over a period of minutes. Try as he might to go back to sleep, he just could not, and was trapped in the semi-limbo of consciousness. It was useless to resist. Head still thrust firmly into the pillow, he fumbled for the small rail at the side of the bunk in the rearward crew quarters, and upon finding it levered himself to an upright position. The medical bunk was empty, as was the other, normal bunk, whose sheets were crumpled from having been flung back. Had somebody been sleeping there? He was the only one on the ship, after all, travelling through hyperspace to Ord Mantell on that mission for Tokura the Hutt ...

Oh wait, he paused as the memories of the past few days flooded back to him. Oh shit. He was on Argimiliar II, trapped under the thumb of a Rebel sector fleet in orbit and an army surrounding him on the ground. And Colonel Kyle Cantor Kessler, formerly his Wing Commander in the TIE Corps, had been resting in the bunk opposite him for the few meagre hours of sleep that they had been able to catch.

Kessler ... his hand rose instinctively to his chin, and was greeted by a jarring pin of pain that spread throughout his entire face. He clenched his jaw up and down rhythmically, in an attempt to become more familiar with the aching pain, and hopefully dampen its effect on him.

Val leaped gingerly down from the bunk and came out of the crew quarters into the main corridor ringing the interior of the ship. It was a short trip across the port side of the Prophecy to the adjoining galley. A faint smell drifting to his nostrils, Val looked down at himself as if in sudden realisation. He had slept in his clothes over night, as he had done for the past few days, and likewise he had not washed or shaved. He lifted an arm and sniffed cautiously to confirm his fears.

Heaving off the top half of his jumpsuit, Val popped his head through the opaque shower door. There were small and large clumps of hair alike resting on the floor in soaked enclaves ... Togorians, by their nature, did not shower ... and Kessler was a man at the age where male hair seems disturbingly eager to part ways and leave home to pursue its own destiny ...

With a sigh he turned the shower on, bringing the jet setting to its highest to wash away the hairs as quickly as possible. At the same time he brought the rest of his jumpsuit off and cast a glance out into the corridor ... after all, there was no door to conceal the galley ... before stepping into the shower and closing the door behind him. Instantly he was confronted with two inconveniences: his efforts had failed, and his feet had landed firmly in two of the largest clumps of hair. Secondly, the shower was freezing cold.

Val tried to sigh again, but instead it came out as a hefty shiver.

He came out of the shower five minutes later demoralised by the conditions inside, but physically revitalised. Remarkably, he felt more relaxed here on Argimiliar II, in the middle of a Rebel siege, than he had in days, even months. He briefly considered getting himself into these situations more often before going over to the galley itself where he began to brew up a pot of black coffeine.

While the water was boiling, he went back into the crew quarters to dry himself off and rummage around the storage locker for a change of clothes. The thing about being a spacer was that money was never in constant nor luxuriant supply, and what little did make its way to you usually ended up being spent on maintenance of the ship, so that there was virtually no room left for other supplies except foods and amenities. No, a life on the fringe was certainly not a good career for a fashion slave, unless you were fabulously good at the job or fabulously well-supported by your family or some other sponsor to start with.

Plumping for a somewhat drab trouser-and-shirt combination of white-and-grey with a more colourful blue jacket over the top, Val finally went back through into the galley to pour out his black coffeine before going on through to the forward cargo hold. There he found Daarogh doubled over an open access plate, small sparks flying out of the opening onto the floor above. There were a number of blackened, unidentifiable parts stacked neatly on the holographic game board table in the corner, and an array of tools laid out at the side of the access plate. Sensing the new arrival, Daarogh reared up from inside the plate and took off a pair of goggles. "Good morning, Val."

"Morning. Everybody up already?"

"I wanted to make an early start on some of the damaged parts, if we're going to get through that Rebel fleet. And your friend said he had some business he wanted to take care of."

"What time is it?"

"About eleven, local time. I wouldn't need the jacket, if I were you. It's pretty hot outside. I've managed to get the air conditioning working, that's all."

"Hmm. Better make sure the power and control conduits don't suffer the heat; they've taken a bit of a beating recently. The same goes for the fuel slug tanks in the starboard side; you can check them from the gunport turret access."

"I'll be sure to keep an eye on them."

"Right. I'm off to get some fresh air, then."

"Okay, Val."

"Right."

"Okay," Daarogh said and went back to work in the access plate. A somewhat disconsolated Val, unnerved by the fact that there was no maintenance work for him to do on his beloved ship, went out into the main corridor and to the landing ramp. He should have been thankful at the lack of work that it meant for him personally, but somehow tinkering around with the systems and getting his hands dirty -- often quite literally -- was all part of the enjoyment he got out of being a spacer.

Stepping down from the ramp into daylight was something of a shock, as there were no windows or viewports in the ship other than in the cockpit, and so his eyes had thusofar only adjusted to the level of lighting inside the Prophecy. Outside, of course, the Argimilian sun was far brighter, and he was temporarily blinded until he could bring his hand up to shield his squinting eyes. The sky was almost a pure white, so that the thin, whispy clouds high in the air were barely distinguishable, although as his eyes adjusted the sky began to darken until it was just a light blue.

It was impossible to think that up there, in the paradise-like heavens of Argimiliar II, was a Rebel fleet. Waiting.

The docking port was once again up to a respectable level of activity; not as busy as when they had put down, but way above average. As much as everybody tried to enjoy the weather, there was still an edge of anxiety and speed to the goings-on.

Not far from the lip of the ramp -- perhaps twenty or so feet -- stood two figures like a paragon of calm amidst the bustling activity of the port, one of them easily recognisable as Kessler, the other unknown to him. Val approached them, taking a sip of his coffeine before grasping it in both hands. Kessler turned to face him, noticing as the other man looked beyond Kyle's shoulder at the arrival.

"Ah, hello Val, see you're up at last."

"Hmm. You could've woken me, you know."

"I know, but you looked so peaceful sleeping," Kessler laughed. "Although quite how you slept through the Rebel bombardment of the front-line since sun-up is beyond me. Anyhow, I wanted to get to the shower before you."

"Yeah, I'd noticed."

Blushing, Kessler turned briefly to his counterpart, "Val, this is Dev Kerrigan, Captain of the Far Trader and leader of a small consortium of traders who've gotten stuck down here on Argimiliar II. We already know each other from running the same trade routes and cantinas. Kerry, this is Val Ricaud, Captain of the Profit's Prophecy and an old friend from the TIE Corps."

"Ah, the infamous Ricaud," Kerrigan laughed, reaching out a hand which Val shook calmly, "Kess talked about you back at the bar. I hear you're a good pilot."

"Competent yes," Val returned honestly, "perhaps even good. But not particularly skilled. Still, better than Kess here."

Kessler narrowed his eyes at him, but seemed a little recalcitrant to resume the on-going, although friendly, rivalry between the two and their respective abilities as pilots.

"I happened to meet Kerry here in a bar on the way back to the ship. I had no idea he was here on Argimiliar II as well. Seems he and the other spacers in his consortium have their ships hidden in the jungle to the east, and are preparing to try and break through the Reb fleet in a couple of days en force. He's in town to get a few supplies, and has invited us to join his boys in the jungle."

Instantly, Val dredged up a memory of the on-going piloting education he received on the Challenge. Kessler's 8th Rule of Space Combat: if you want to survive, work as a team. It gives the enemy something else to shoot at.

Eyeing up the trader, Val was not instantly won over. The man wasn't exactly grizzled, but he did look like had had some experience on the fringe. Infact, like Val and Kessler, he had that look about of him of an ex-military man who still retained an air of discipline about his person. And it was perhaps that which made Ricaud suspicious. "You really think you can make a run through the Rebs?"

"I think so, yes," Kerrigan nodded, "we've been able to tap into their fleet communications, and one of their frigates should be withdrawing from their formation around the planet in a couple of days due to battle damage. In the space it takes for them to alter their formation to cover the removal, there should be a window of opportunity to get ships through a gap. They're using a standard enclosure formation, you see."

Standard enclosure formation. Val knew what it was, of course -- an Imperial tactic used to surround planets, or at the least their main shipping routes, so that an effective barricade was established. Imperial resources had allowed them to pull off such a feat effectively, and with the growing strength of the New Republic Defence Fleet, the Rebels too had begun to adopt the tactic in recent years. It had been taught out of routine at the Imperial Academy on advanced officer courses, but rarely elsewhere ...

"They're gutsy, I'll give them that."

"That's why they'll make a mistake, eventually," Kessler interjected. "And we'll be there to exploit it."

"So are you in?" Kerrigan asked, looking to Kessler and Ricaud questioningly.

"If your people can help patch up my ship," Kessler said, "then yes. Val?"

Ricaud used the moment of thought to examine Kerrigan closer. He seemed relatively normal for a fringer, but there was something about him that was worrying. Still, Kessler seemed to trust him, and Val had never known Kessler's judgement to err. "Okay, I'm in."

"Great. We need all the firepower we can muster if we're to break the blockade. Kessler has the co-ordinates of our location. We'll be waiting for you whenever you want to come over. Preferably at nightfall; the Rebels have anti-aircraft defences set up along the frontline. We lost two ships getting past them already."

"I think I can deal with those," Kessler assured him.

"Then I'll leave it up to you. Good luck, and clear skies."

"You too."

Val remained silent, but gave a nod of respect to the man as he turned and scurried off. "Little unsure, Val?"

"No ... no ... I'm fine."

Unconvinced, Kessler followed Val's line of sight to the departing form of Captain Dev Kerrigan. "Hey, Kerry's alright. As I said, I know him. He's always been honest and reliable."

"Yeah, people change, Kess."

"Listen, if this is some kind of double-cross ... I'm sure you'll be able to find some way out of it, as usual. We have nothing left to lose, anyway. So it's all or nothing. Ah," Kessler suddenly altered course as he spotted the coffeine that Val was taking another sip of, "sustenance. I couldn't get the kettle working, myself, but I can cook us up a mean Corellian omelette."

"Kess, there may be a Rebel fleet hovering over my head, but I am still not hopelessly depressed and suicidal enough to eat your food."

"You've never actually eaten my meals before. You've only heard the rumours, and you shouldn't listen to rumours."

"The rumours were enough, Kess, believe me. More than enough."

"Oh, come on, don't be such a bloody bore. Where's your sense of adventure, man?"

"Wedged right slap-bang between my sense of taste and my sense of self-preservation."

Kessler threw up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

"Anyway, new subject: what was this business you apparently had to attend to? Kerrigan?"

"Oh, Kerrigan? No, as I said, I just met him on the way back. No, I visited the garrison commander here, General Rueban Donner. You may remember hearing of him back in the TIE Corps, during the worst period of fighting in the Minos Cluster last year."

"Yes, I remember. Hammer's Fist, right? Yeah, led his stormies right into the heart of the bitterest fighting there, and came out the other side worse for wear but victorious."

"That's the one. Well, I visited him, and made him an offer."

"An offer?" Val raised an eyebrow as he took another gulp of the coffeine.

"Yes, an offer. We are going to evacuate his most badly-wounded civilians and soldiers off-planet, and in return he'll give us escort from his remaining starfighters. Teamed up with Kerrigan's bunch, it's the best chance of escape we'll have."

"Except that we'll have to take the wounded back into Emperor's Hammer space."

"Don't worry, I didn't volunteer your name, Val."

"You didn't need to, did you?"

"Come on, Val, these are people we're talking about here. You may not love the Emperor's Hammer, and they may not love you, but these are lives, and the fact that they bear allegiance to the EH should make no difference to you."

"It's not that I'm worried about, Kess. You know I'd help them under any other circumstances ... it's just the going-back-into-EH-space part that I'm worried about."

"Don't worry, Donner promised that you'd get full protection from arrest while you're there."

"So you did volunteer me!"

"No, I only mentioned your name."

"And that I'd be willing to help?"

"That you might be, yes."

Val sighed, "Well this is a fine mess you've gotten me into."

"Everything will be just fine, Val. We'll take those wounded off Argimiliar II, break through the blockade with the combined firepower of Kerrigan's consortium, our own ships, and the TIE Corps escort; then ship out to Aurora Prime, collect our rewards -- and Donner did promise us rewards -- and be on our way out within the week."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. Positively. Utterly."

"Alright, alright," Val raised his hands in weak defence and rolled his eyes. "Alright, I'll do it."

"Great!" Kessler burst out, his face beaming. "I knew you'd do it!"

"So you did volunteer me!"

But Kessler was already on his way up the landing ramp to into the Prophecy. "Come on, Ricaud," his voice called back, "I'll put the omelettes on for you now."

* * *

Sitting in the cockpit of the Prophecy, in the dead of night, with Daarogh at his side, Val tried to remain nonplussed about what he was about to embark upon. Along with Kessler's badly-damaged Dream, they were going to attempt to fly through a veritably fortress-like arsenal of anti-aircraft equipment, all dedicated to the sole purpose of bringing them down to the ground. And then, after that, they would team up with an unknown group of fringers, and then try to break through a Rebel fleet, before travelling to the heart of Emperor's Hammer space, where he was a wanted criminal.

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes, Val," Kessler repeated over the radio for what was intended to be the final time, "General Donner promised me that his troops would make a strike at the section of the Rebel line we are passing over. While they're busy, we simply slip by and rendezvous with Kerrigan's people. Donner will use his ground strike simultaneously to make a breakthrough and get his most badly wounded out behind Rebel lines, before linking up with us and leaving Argimiliar."

"I'm not so sure ... "

"Listen to me, Val. I can understand why you might not trust Kerrigan, but Donner is an honest man. And his men are highly skilled. If you know anything about him, you'll know that."

"Alright, Kess, alright," he gave up, but glared across the pitch-black docking port at the freighter on the other side. "Let's do this, before I change my mind."

"Roger that."

Unhesitantly -- or at least trying to be -- Val punched up the engine controls and slapped the repulsorlifts into gear. His full concentration was now upon piloting the craft. Not upon the fears of the future, memories of the past few days, or any other matter that might be haunting his mind, but upon the here and now. This cockpit, this freighter. His hands sped over the controls with blinding swiftness and agility. Rather than bring the repulsorlifts up slowly, he put them into full power immediately and the Prophecy reared off the ground. Any casual observer would have thought that the ship was being flown by a newcomer to piloting.

After only a few seconds of activity, Val cut out the repulsorlifts mid-air, and the ship began dropping to the ground again. It had made the distance of a few feet when he kicked in the main engines with a flare of blue ignition, and the Prophecy leapt away from the docking port.

"Very flashy, Ricaud. Nice to see you never did anything like that on my flight deck a year ago."

"Didn't want to make you feel inadequate, that's all."

"Whatever you say," Kessler laughed back sarcastically. "Pay attention, children."

The Dream had now taken the lead as they sped across the plains being transformed into fertile farmland on the outskirts of the colony. It kept on a steady and level course for several seconds into the lead before spiralling seemingly out of control up into the air. Val craned his neck to look up out of the cockpit, but the other freighter was already well out of sight. Just as he gave up hope, it came screaming back down from the night sky -- still in a suicidal barrel-roll -- and nearly clipped the port side of the Prophecy. It then proceeded to spin around them in a neat circle, come out of the roll, loop up around them in another circle, and come out on their tail.

"Very pretty, Kess. I thought your ship was damaged."

"Oh, it is. My hydraulic system is on the verge of total failure and the drive system matrix is shot to pieces."

"Don't rub it in, hot-shot," Val said, quite sure he could hear Kessler's smug grin on the other side of the radio. "It'll just make it hurt more every time I show you up."

For the first time during the trip, Daarogh's grim voice boomed in the cockpit, "We're coming up to the front line."

Indeed they were. The boundary of the inner plains flickered past and they were out over thick, dense foliage, a strange hybrid of jungle and woodland dotted with small clearings here and there. Every once in a while, while flying over those clearings, it was possible to spot small groups and lines of soldiers marching stolidly in the direction of the small mountain range in the distance, which was, of course, Kessler and Ricaud's destination too. Except the journey of those stormtroopers was cut short mid-way there where a blackened line carved through the forest, cauterising it completely. On closer inspection, the line was infact several miles wide, and consisted of charred ground dotted by the stumps of dead trees. Either side was carved with small trenches, branching in apparently random patterns to form a remarkably stable network. Between the two trenches at the fore of each network, a constant stream of fire was being exchanged. So many blaster shots were being fired from each side to the other that it looked like it they were simply bouncing to and fro off each side and rebounding back.

A few seconds was all it took for the two freighters to cross the two miles between the trenches. This was where it got tricky. While both sides of the front line did look symmetrical at first, it was the mountainous features on the Rebel side that it made them stand out. The tall peaks of heavily artillery and turbolaser batteries -- equipment that was lacking by the garrison of the 1st Auroran Shock Legion -- speared out from the canopy of the forest, as if taking pride in their menacing visage. But a visage was not the only purpose they served. They were quite able and ready to serve their intended purpose.

It began even before they had reached the Rebel line itself; bursts of ruby-red turbolaser fire skittering off from the ground in their direction. The first attempts were easy to avoid, but as they grew closer to the vertical from the batteries, so more units had an opportunity to fix the two craft in their line of fire. The tracks of turbolasers began criss-crossing very quickly, to unintentionally form a web in the sky that seemed quite ready to catch them. To boot, it was not beyond the Rebel troops on the ground to put in a few shots for themselves, and as petty as small arms fire may have seemed, a stray shot could do a world of good for downing a ship.

"Time for some of that fancy flying, Kess."

"I hear ya'."

Kessler broke the Dream off from their wing and dipped lower to the ground to help provide the gunners with two separate and widely differing targets, which helped separate some gaps in the web as batteries shifted their aim to choose a lock to concentrate upon.

"Usual anti-aircraft tactics," Kessler said evenly over the radio. "Shoot 'em down, sort 'em out on the ground."

Three different guns conspired to bring Kessler down, and their trio of streams merged towards the Dream. Kyle saw it coming in time, and scissored away in and out of their grasp. He failed, however, to notice the fourth plucky gunner, who volleyed off a hopeful burst which happened to find home, and Kessler's port forward mandible disintegrated into a fire which was quickly extinguished by the rushing wind and the cold night air. Fortunate that it was a section of the ship that did not contain any vital systems, and Kessler easily brought the Dream back into a controllable flight adjusting for the slipstream difference that the change in hull configuration meant

"Where are those men Donner promised?!" Val shouted as he jinked away from two bursts of fire that feathered the fore of the Prophecy. No answer came, and he did not really expect one. It would be unfair considering the duress that Kessler was under.

"On their way, it appears," Daarogh, who was looking behind the ship from the side of the cockpit, murmured. Although now at some distance, it was possible to see small dots moving slowly across the no-man's land of the front line from the Imperial trench. Most relieving of all, however, were the seven TIE interceptors screaming out of the sky in perfect formation, a sight which stirred the Imperial still idling inside Ricaud. Get 'em, boys!

Like they were spurred on by his encouragement, the TIEs erupted into green fire. At first Val thought that they had been hit, but then he saw that in the darkness of night the flaring of their laser cannons into life was overexagerrating the pyrotechnic display. Their attack lanced out to meet the source of the red fire arching skywards, and immediately several of the streams of anti-aircraft fire were cut out, followed by an equal number of explosions blossoming out above the forest canopy.

Something rustled at the Prophecy, shuddering the controls and forcing Val to compensate in order to be able to keep his craft dodging away from the attacks that still chased after him. "We've lost the ventral turret," Daarogh informed him, checking over the displays.

Val should have been disconcerted at the news, as the ventral turbolaser turret was integral to the self-defence of the Prophecy. In this situation, though, there was little good it achieved, and his relief at still being alive was too immense to allow any other thought into his head. Plus, there was still that all-consuming concentration which instantly filed the information to the back of his mind for later study.

More explosions detonated behind him as Kessler pulled up again onto his wing. But two of the detonations were high from the ground, and they did not fade, but glowed brightly as they dropped to the ground on a trail of fire. The Imperial squadron was taking losses. While their formation flying may have been impressive, these TIE Corps pilots were obviously still newbies -- why else would they be assigned to a backwater posting like Argimiliar? -- and their bravado dive at the anti-aircraft batteries, guns blazing, was a suicide manoeuvre. They were lucky to have gotten away with two casualties. Still, they were sensible enough to see that what their moment had passed, and the remaining five pulled away and reformed in pursuit of Kessler and Ricaud. They seemed safe enough when a last burst of fire probed out and struck through the rearward interceptor in the formation. The fighter's port wing sheared away, and the pilot overcompensated, at the same time underestimating gravity and wind resistance. The starboard wing quickly came off under the pressures that were exerted upon it, and the ball cockpit corkscrewed to the ground.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Horn, Acting Squadron Commander of Arbiter Squadron, Argimiliar Garrison. We've been ordered to escort you to the landing site and stay with you there for the duration of your time on-planet."

Knowing it would be inappropriate for himself to do so, Val allowed Kessler to answer as the four TIE interceptors mingled into formation between and around the two YT-1300s. "Colonel Kyle Kessler, Emperor's Hammer Reserve Corps here. Thanks for your help, boys. Look forward to speaking to you on the ground."

"You too, sir."

The comm frequency died out, as it would remain so until they reached the rendezvous point in the now imposing mountain range ahead, thickly covered in fully-fledged jungle. Val allowed himself a puff of relieved tension, and leaned back in his seat, his control of the ship now casual, as was all that was necessary. He looked across at his Togorian counterpart, who was in a similar position, with his claws hanging limply over the side of the chair, like he were trying to drain the tension from his body.

"Hey," Val reassured him, "we're still alive."

"Yes ... well done Val."

"Say it with some meaning, why don't you? Don't worry yourself ... as long as you stick with me, you'll stay alive, because I'll stay alive."

"And why are you so sure of that?"

"Because my life right now is pretty shit, and I'm only going to die when I'm happy in life, because that's what my luck is like. So just relax ... I promise you that until we're away from Argimiliar II, I'll avoid all forms of happiness whatsoever."

"That makes me feel better, Val. A lot better."

* * *

Val came down the landing ramp rubbing a hand wearily over his face. The journey to the rendezvous point and subsequent set-down had not been particularly exciting, and the adrenaline of the run past the Rebel front line had long since worn off, giving way to fatigue.

As his foot crunched down onto the undergrowth carpeting the jungle floor, Kessler had already made his way over from the Dream -- landed on the other side of the small clearing -- to meet him. There were a patch of more clearings within a radius of a hundred or so metres from the two ships, and within them were visible other freighters and figures moving around between them.

Kessler smiled broadly, "Looks like we made it."

"In a roundabout way," Val replied, ducking underneath the hull of the Prophecy as he inspected the burnt-out husk of the lower turbolaser turret. "We both took damage."

Looking back to his own ship, and the wrecked forward mandible, Kessler agreed, "Yeah, I lost a laser cannon, and some pretty non-essential systems parts. But I'm still glad to be standing here."

"That's all very well, but we've both had our ships' respective firepower halved, and we need every laser cannon and concussion missile we can scrape together if we're to make it through the Rebel blockade."

"I'm sure Kerrigan's people can fit us up with something," Kessler reassured him.

"You really think so?" Val snorted disbelievingly, flicking his head in the direction of the clearings where the other ships were berthed. Some of them looked in as bad a state -- and in places even worse -- as the Prophecy and the Dream. "Kess, it's not exactly the Imperial Navy ... more like the Katana fleet."

"It's not those spacers, is it, Val? It's Kerrigan. That's what's eating you. You still don't trust him."

"Honestly? No, I don't."

Kessler sighed, "What is so wrong with the man? Can't you even give him a chance?"

"There's something about him, Kess. I can feel it. Like situational awareness."

"What? You think he's New Republic?"

Val shook his head in confusion, "I don't know. I don't know who he bears allegiance to. But I do feel that he has an ulterior motive to all this. Especially where it comes to you. That may involve luring us to our destruction in the Rebel fleet, or it may not. I can't tell you."

"Who's luring us into the Rebel fleet?" a third voice cut in, and the pair turned to face the source. It was difficult to recognise, for when they had first heard it, the tones had been metallic and tinny over the distortion of a radio channel. "Oh, sorry for breaking in like that," the man, a tall, fresh-faced uniformed figure, apologised for his rudeness, "I'm Lieutenant Commander Horn-"

"Acting Squadron Commander, Arbiter Squadron," Kessler finished for him as he broke away from their conversation to greet Horn, "a pleasure to meet you. I'm Colonel Kyle Cantor Kessler, EH Reserve Corps, and this is ... "

"Lieutenant Commander Val Ricaud," Horn took his turn to finish a sentence for Kessler this time. His eyes bore more than a hint of disdain, and there was little subtlety in the fact that he refused to give Val a handshake, and Ricaud did not deign to proffer one.

"Just Val Ricaud these days," Val replied, smiling politely, "or Captain Ricaud if you want."

"I think Mr. Ricaud will do for me."

"Whatever makes you happy."

Sensing the tension between the two -- it would be blind of him not to -- Kessler spoke up, "Lieutenant Commander, I must thank you for the sacrifice that Arbiter Squadron made for us today. We are indebted to you."

"Thankyou, sir. Some might consider it ... demeaning ... to escort," he forced the word out with distaste, and more than an obvious glance towards Ricaud, "fringers. But the opportunity to fly with a famous officer and pilot like yourself, Colonel, is a great honour."

"Don't worry son," Val sniggered, knowing all-too-well that it would simply worsen the atmosphere between him and the Acting Squadron Commander, "flying on Kessler's wing ain't too special, believe me."

Kessler, trying to act the diplomat in the situation, glared laser bolts at Val, and Ricaud seemed to revel in the moment. But it was too late. Horn was already back with a snide reply, "I see, Mr. Ricaud, that you fully live up to your reputation. Infact, I don't think it does you justice. You surpass it."

"Would this happen to be the reputation that I'm a loud-mouthed, disrespectful, arrogant, flippant, petulant braggart?"

Horn nodded, "That would be the kinder version of what I've heard, yes."

Resisting the urge to simply walk away, knowing that the situation was far beyond rescue or intervention now, Kessler prayed that Ricaud would not hurt Horn too much -- or vice versa; the Lieutenant Commander seemed a stronger and taller man than Val -- as they would both be needed sorely if they were to break the Rebel blockade.

Slowly and defiantly, Val drew himself up to his full height, which still left him several inches short of the Imperial officer. He bore into Horn's eyes for what seemed like an eternity before speaking, "Lieutenant Commander ... what can I say? I'm a modest man."

Trying to saturate his words with as much underlying menace as Val, Horn asked, "Tell me, Mr. Ricaud, have you ever killed a man with your bare hands?"

Kessler rolled his eyes.

"No," Val replied, with a small hint of a smile on his lips, "nobody has ever been able to get close enough to me for that to be necessary."

Horn weighed up the situation, and thought better of it, disengaging from the confrontation by taking a step back and looking off to Kessler for aid. "I think," Kyle said, "that we should meet up with our hosts."

The two began to move off through the undergrowth in the direction of the other clearings, but Val remained, staring off after them. It was probably for the best he did not accompany them right now, and Kessler did not urge him to join them. He would head into the camp tomorrow. Now was the time for repairs, and -- as an urgent yawn reminded him -- some well-needed and well-deserved rest. He started up the ramp, and caught sight of Daarogh standing at the top, leaning in the doorway, his arms folded. "Are you sure you've never killed with your bare hands?"

Val stopped, "Why? Do I look to you like I have?"

The Togorian shrugged, "I am not sure. You try to be a happy man, Val Ricaud, but when I look into your eyes I see they are dulled and empty. That is what the Lieutenant Commander saw too, I think."

Snorting, Val tried to pass the matter off as he continued up the ramp, "Is this something that Togorians look at in people?"

"We are warriors, and warriors have a cold heart."

"And do you think I have a cold heart?"

"Talking to you, I would not think so. But when I look into your eyes ... I am no longer sure ..."

"You should be worried, Daarogh," Val laughed, waving a finger at him as he passed by the alien's shoulder on the way into the ship, "you've got a real eye fetish thing going on there."

Daarogh turned as Val passed, "What I think does not matter. Do you have a cold heart, Val Ricaud? What do you think?"

Val paused, and pursed his lips, but chose not to answer. At least, not to answer the question. "I really don't have time for this. I've got to catch up on some sleep, then I've got to see what I can do about the turbolaser turret."

He quickly turned and walked off down the main corridor to the crew quarters, before the conversation could continue. Nonetheless, Daarogh murmured after him, "Hmm ... a complex man, indeed. He would make a good Togorian."

Daarogh turned to look out at the cold midnight jungle of Argimiliar II, and shivered.

* * *

In the fashion of all major events on Argimiliar II over the past few days taking place at night, the next evening marked the arrival of the tattered and worn troops of the 1st Auroran Shock Legion who had made their breakthrough of the Rebel line to distract from Kessler and Ricaud's escape to the jungle. The majority of them were wounded, and had apparently made the journey either on a stretcher or supported by the arms of their comrades. Escorting the group was a cadre of uninjured troops, whose numbers had no doubt been substantially reduced during the breakout on the line.

Strangely enough, nobody in the camp knew of their approach until the moment of their arrival, when the line of white-clad soldiers began trickling into the clearings. The camp residents -- spacers and wounded civilians who had been able to get passage from the colony days earlier -- had all been gathered in the "main area," between the Far Trader, Corvan Misfit, and Fortune's Hand in a conglomerate of mass socialisation around fires fuelled by bottles of whiskey as much as those who sat around them. Everybody had been completely taken by surprise by the sudden appearance of stormtroopers. Several had rose, their blasters already drawn, and would have fired if it were not for the appearance of perfect serenity on the face of their leader, who had removed his helmet.

"General Donner!?" Kessler exclaimed, standing to his feet with Val following the motion, looking from one face to another around the camp fire.

The group's leader nodded and smiled, "Thought I'd get a few kills in personally, Colonel. Couldn't miss out on the action, could I?"

"I'm certainly glad to see you're alive, General ..."

Sensing the commotion outside, Horn ducked his head out from under the tent he had been sitting in, and stared disbelievingly at the arrivals, "General Donner!?"
Donner laughed, "Lieutenant Commander Horn. I hope Colonel Kessler has been taking good care of you and your boys."

"Yes, sir. He has."

"Good," Donner said and turned to Kessler as he walked deeper into the camp, "I'm sorry, but Arbiter Squadron was all I could spare. Infact, it was all that I had. The TIE Corps never did take much of an interest in Argimiliar II."

"General, I'm sure the TIE Corps takes interest in all fleet assets."

"Yes, well, we all know the official line, don't we? All had it drilled into us, eh Colonel?"

"I was up there, General, in the battle, and I can assure you that those boys did not leave willingly. I'm sure that given half a chance they would have stayed and fought and died."

"But Star Destroyers are precious things, yes, I know. More precious than a planet and its inhabitants. That is why I will shortly be forced to surrender the colony."

Kessler nodded. The decision was not unexpected, "I understand, General. We will try to get as many of your men off-planet as possible."

"I know you will. I would like to speak to all of your captains in private, if you will," Donner raised his voice slightly to include the entire camp. Five other individuals stood and made their way over, a hint of anxiety in their wary glances at Donner and the reluctance with which they moved, stepping slowly over extinguished camp fires and drunken spacers. Donner grumbled something as they arrived, and turned back to one of his aides. "Lieutenant Kastaara?"

One of the lead stormtroopers in the convoy saluted and removed their helmet, "Yes, sir?"

"I'd appreciate it if you'd come with me, Lieutenant."

"Yes sir," she replied briskly, strolling forwards as Kessler and Kerrigan led the group off to one of the larger tents. Val, realising that he had been standing somewhat slack-jawed, suddenly snapped into realisation that he was going to be left behind. "What's wrong? Never seen a female stormtrooper before?" Kastaara asked him as she passed by, stopping briefly.

Val thought about it for a moment, and replied truthfully, "As it happens, no, I haven't."

She smiled coldly, "Then I'll forgive you. But next time I see you staring at me, I'll put a blaster bolt through your head."

Smiling back, Val replied, "And what if I catch you staring at me?"

"Don't flatter yourself, laser-brain," she quipped in return, and paced off in pursuit of the group. Val looked to Daarogh, sitting by the campfire beneath him, but the Togorian only laughed back.

"Now I have seen Val Ricaud suffer a devastating put-down, my life really is complete."

"If you ever mention this," Val pointed a finger at him, "I will make your life complete."

In an unusual voice that did not execute a particularly pleasant nor efficient impersonation, yet carried out the task well enough, Togorian raised his pitch as high as possible, and said, "Don't flatter yourself, laser-brain."

Shaking his head, Val turned and marched off into the main tent, trying his best to ignore Daarogh's mocking laughter as it haunted after him. He threw back the flaps at the front of the tent and plunged inside into complete silence. All eyes were upon him. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Ricaud," Horn noted with glee.

"I just couldn't bear to miss out on the action," Val sneered back and took up a place in a semi-circle of seven spacers and one Imperial starfighter pilot around a central table manned by General Donner and Lieutenant Kastaara. The General produced a thick, palm-sized disk and placed it firmly on the table.

"Gentlemen, Captain Kerrigan has been kind enough to supply us with intelligence about the Rebel fleet from tapped communications within the last couple of days ... "

With perfect timing he pressed a button on the disk and stepped back as a three-dimensional holographic representation of Argimiliar II appeared in the space above the table. The band of ships which had ringed the planet's equator during the invasion had now dispersed so that the cruisers of the Rebel fleet were of roughly uniform distance from each other. It was a web of ships that could efficiently intercept anything attempting to get in or out. A standard enclosure formation, as Kerrigan had originally maintained.

"... with the Rebel sector fleet blanketing Argimiliar II, all routes, starlanes, and communications have been cut off. We are isolated and alone. But there is a weakness in their formation: while it may span across the planet, the concentration of their firepower in any one place has been diluted considerably. In places, the formation consists of only one layer of ships. On the primary trade routes, there are at least five or six layers. It this, the topography of their formation, which we will exploit. Lieutenant Kastaara ... ?"

His aide-de-camp took the position of precedence as Donner stepped back to allow her rule over the briefing. She began as the holoprojector zoomed in on the representation of a medium cruiser, apparently a Nebulon-B, positioned mid-way from the equator on the southern hemisphere, "This is the Medical Frigate Redemption. It is virtually indistinguishable from any other type EF76 in the galaxy. It is manned by a crew of 773 enlisted personnel and 77 officers of the New Republic Defence Fleet. It is also our only chance at escape."

With his arms firmly folded, Val tipped his head over to Kessler ear and whispered, "Really knows how to punch up the melodrama, doesn't she?"

"Something to add, Captain Ricaud?" Kastaara asked impatiently.

"No, nothing. All I want for you to do is just tell me what to shoot at and I'm there."

Kastaara seemed bemused, "Don't worry captain, you'll get your chance to die in combat soon enough, just like everyone else in this tent. Now, if I may continue ... ?"

Val opened his palms in an empty gesture.

"Good ... now ... the Redemption is damaged. Heavily damaged. During the space battle they tried to engage the Challenge in combat and barely managed to come away in one piece. The fact that the Rebels have been forced to still use the Redemption in their blockade of the planet shows how desperate they must be at this point. Their strike at Argimiliar II was gutsy, and took up a lot of resources. Their lines of supply are overstretched, and the strain has taken its toll. In two days' time, the Redemption will move out of its position in the blockade, and enter hyperspace bound for the nearest Rebel port at Bersallis."

To punctuate her point, the holoprojector illustrated the frigate drawing out of the standard enclosure formation and shooting off into hyperspace. Quickly, the entire formation around Argimiliar II began to shift and alter to accommodate the change.

"It will take the Rebel fleet approximately eight minutes to move their ships back into a formation which can effectively blockade the planet. Those eight minutes are all we have to get as many ships as possible past the fleet."

Seven freighter-like representations rose from the planet alongside four TIEs. The civilian vessels slipped effortlessly through the gap where the frigate had departed from before the TIEs swerved and returned to Argimiliar II.

Yeah right.

"All seven ships will lift off, and all seven ships will hopefully escape with the help of Lieutenant Commander Horn's Arbiter Squadron. We know, however, that this will not be the case. There will be inevitable losses. All we can ask is that you face this task with bravery and try find whatever motivation you can that will see you through; whether it be money, loyalty, or revenge. Or all three."

Kastaara nodded to Donner, who stepped past her and mouthed a silent thank-you. "Each freighter will carry as many wounded as on-board capacity will reasonably allow. Furthermore, one able-bodied officer and two able-bodied NCOs will be assigned to each ship to supervise transportation throughout the journey. Duty assignments will be by me alone, and posted tomorrow morning. Until then, I suggest we all get some rest."

"Agreed," Kerrigan added, "my people will do their best to make your troops comfortable here."

"That would be very much appreciated, captain."

That was it. The meeting was over, and the occupants of the tent began to file out, usually falling into conversational pairs as they left. Val found himself treading parallel to Kessler on the outward bound journey, "Feels like the TIE Corps all over again, eh?"

"Yeah," Val murmured back.

"What's wrong? You seem a little preoccupied."

"It's nothing, really."

"I'm disappointed. Where's that sparkling repartee gotten to?"

They stopped outside the tent at Val's behest. He sighed and looked into Kessler's eyes, more than a little exhausted, "I have a bad feeling about this."

Not really knowing what to say, Kessler shrugged his shoulders, "We've both flown missions as dangerous as this before. And we're here now, aren't we?"

"Luck can't hold out forever, you know."

"Val, if you don't walk away from this one alive, Nar Shaddaa is going to have a serious traffic problem with flying Hutts," Kessler said, assuring him with a fatherly hand. "You'll be fine."

Holding his breath on the tip of his tongue, Val waited until Kessler had left before he allowed himself to sigh. The man was too optimistic for his own good. The chances in this situation were weighed far too heavily against them. Strikes on Rebel cruisers in missile boats faded into comparison in terms of risk. With such a meticulously planned invasion and blockade, the New Republic could not overlook the danger of a brief opening in their formation. There would be an unexpected element, as there was in every mission, that would pounce at the last moment.

"How did the meeting go?" Daarogh's gravelly voice asked as he caught up with Val on the edge of the clearing, heading back through a band of dense jungle to the Prophecy.

"We ship out in two days. The damned fools still think we can punch through a hole in the Rebel formation."

"You don't think we can do it?"

Val shrugged awkwardly, "It's hard to say, but I think the chances of survival are about the same as a monsoon on Tatooine."

"But it is our only hope, correct?"
"That exactly it. But my options are slimmer than anybody else's. If I stay here, I'm sure the Republic would be eager to hear about my exploits vaping their pilots. If I go to Aurora, I have a thirty-year prison sentence with interest waiting."

"Then you're not going to Aurora Prime, either? You're going to use those wounded soldiers as your ticket out of here and dump them out of the airlock the second you're past the blockade?"

Urgently shushing him, Val looked quickly to the camp, to make sure that nobody had overheard. At least, nobody Imperial. On the ladder of spacer villainy, such an act would not rank very highly. "No, no! I can drop them off at Corvan 9, a neutral planet on the edge of Emperor's Hammer space. They'll be fine there until a transport can be sent to pick them up again. And by the time it arrives, I'm far away on Ord Mantell with eighty-two blaster carbines that are already four days behind schedule."

Daarogh immediately began to storm off ahead through the jungle, "How nice of you to think of yourself for once!"

"Wait. Daarogh, wait, will you?" Val shouted as he sprinted after him. "I'm a spacer. If I try to think about anybody else, I'm leaving myself wide open to attack."

"Val Ricaud," Daarogh pronounced, his voice booming loudly, "you are a man of hypocrisy. You pretend to be cheerful, but you are not; you pretend to be strong, but you are not; you pretend to be a spacer, but you are not."

"What am I then?"

In that level and even tone of his, Daarogh replied calmly, "That is something you must discover on you own."

Leaving Val there, stunned, the Togorian simply turned and continued on through the jungle. It would be so simple to insult the alien, or snap back with a retort. But would it be appropriate? What if he was right? Pah, what does he know about me?

Looking down, within himself, he could see there the answer that Daarogh was pointing out to him. It was so obvious, so plainly obvious, and so easy to ignore. And he did not want the Togorian to leave for now without knowing what Val had realised. "Wait ... " he called and sprinted again to the alien, ducking under a low branch as he caught up with him.

Daarogh turned impatiently, and Val found himself jumping back without reason. What was happening? Pain jarred him as he landed on the ground, and a sharp root nicked the side of his head, gouging out a chunk of flesh. He looked up, vainly trying to find out what was going on.

When he did, he found out that he did not want to find out what was going on. A ruby-red blaster bolt speared from nowhere and shattered through the Togorian's skull.

"Daarogh!! Nooo!!"

Instinctively, Val rolled away over a small ditch behind the relative safety of a thick tree stump. A second bolt rang out and kicked up dirt from the spot where he had just been.

Daarogh's headless corpse fell to the ground.

Distantly, voices began shouting and cursing amidst a clatter of activity in the main camp. Val reached up and rubbed at a stinging in his eyes, thinking that it was from the small cloud of dust. When his fingertips came away with wetness, he realised that tears were forming in his eyes. He took a deep breath and shut them tightly. He didn't want to be here.

But he was. He could hear the rustle of the undergrowth as figures raced over to the scene. The snap of blaster fire had been loud, and still rung in his ears. The camp must have heard it, and if they were unfortunate, perhaps the Rebels too.

With the ringing in his ears, the tears welling in his eyes, and the turmoil of emotions racing through his mind, he leaped up from the embankment and waved his arms up at the spot where had had traced the blaster fire to. "You bastard!" he screamed, "I'm here you useless bastard! Try to shoot straight this time, you useless sithspawn!"

"No!" another cry joined his, that of Kessler, who was leading the group bounding across the undergrowth, "get down!"

Val looked at him in a confusion that cleared as he saw the red bolt lance from the forest directly at him. It was just a small dot in the distance that rapidly grew bigger and bigger until it filled his vision, and -- in an ultimate anticlimax -- faded. He realised that his perspective had changed, and he was on the ground now, his face buried into the soil. Had he been hit?
Somewhat regretfully, the answer was no. As the numbing effect of the adrenaline began to wear off, he could feel Kessler's weight on top of his own. The idiot had flung himself into Val at the last minute.

"Kess? Kess?" he called out, his voice becoming more urgent when no reply came. "Kyle?"

Finally, a moan broke out from the crumpled figure, squirming over on to his side to allow Val to sit up. He saw the charred fabric -- and flesh -- around Kessler's shoulder and murmured, "You're hit."

"Oh really? I would never have known," Kessler bit back between clenched teeth as he nursed his wounded shoulder. The din of other voices began to pick up again. The others were approaching from the camp. Donner, Kerrigan, and Kastaara were first on the scene, the General confidently shouting back for a medic.

"You look like shit," Kerrigan told Kessler.

"Your mother didn't think so," Kyle smiled back weakly before slipping into welcomed unconsciousness. Kerrigan put a concerned hand to Kessler's neck, nodding with relief after several tense seconds. He stood and turned to Donner, whatever he was about to say cut short as his gaze drifted beyond the General's shoulder to the mixed group of stormtroopers and spacers dragging a reluctant Calamari prisoner towards them.

"Here's your shooter," announced Shud-Qat Kuronda, one of most experienced smugglers in the consortium, as he casually tossed a light sporting rifle over to Kerrigan. Dev turned the weapon over in his hands, fiddling with the controls, but once again, before he could say anything, he was interrupted.

"Riir Ontam," Val smouldered, picking himself up off the ground and limping up to the Calamari. "Tokura must be low on henchmen if he has to send you to exact his revenge. "

Ontam was like a restless hound with the scent of blood in his nostrils, "Tokura has been forced to flee Nar Shaddaa, now that Khalber has taken over control of the Farinni Syndicate because of you!"

Val raised an eyebrow. How he was keeping his cool like this was beyond even him. And he, like everyone else, knew it would snap. "I see," he said in understanding. "So Tokura is after me personally now."

"He won't be bothered. Your Togorian friend will do just fine," Ontam sneered.

Sniggering, Val wiped his eyes before any more tears could gather, "Come on Riir, stop making excuses for the fact that you're a useless piece of shit."

"You wouldn't say that to me if I still had my gun."

"Oh really?" Val said, intrigued by the challenge. After a moment of thought he took his blaster pistol from its holster and nodded to Kerrigan, "Captain, please give the Calamarian shrimp his rifle back."

"Ricaud-"

Under the intensity of Val's glare, Kerrigan's resistance quickly faded, and he threw the sporting rifle into the arms of Riir Ontam as the stormtroopers restraining him took a step back. The Calamarian looked around cautiously, "What is this?"

"It's a blaster, Riir. And I'm going to give you one shot at me. And then I get one shot at you. Isn't that fair?"

Ontam slowly brought his rifle up in one hand to aim at Val's head, and in turn Ricaud levelled his pistol at Riir's skull. In a gesture of further defiance, the human took two confident steps forward, so that Ontam's rifle was pressing into his forehead, and vice versa. "Now, I'll say it again," Val informed him, biting off each word with brooding menace, "you are a useless piece of shit, and killing Daarogh was the last mistake you'll ever make."

"No, Ricaud," Ontam grinned, "saying that was the last mistake you'll ever make."

With a click, the trigger of the sporting rifle was depressed. The only sound was Val's quiet chuckling. Another empty click. And another.

"I believe it's my turn now," Val said, and pulled his own trigger, though the click was drowned out by the roar of laser fire as the Calamarian's head exploded into a grisly shower of gore. There were a few gasps and whispers of shock from the onlookers, and a few other laughs and chuckles of satisfaction and admiration, mostly from the stormtroopers. Val quietly put the blaster back into its holster and nodded again to Kerrigan, "Thank you for turning his safety on, Captain."

"Actually, I hit it by accident."

Val shrugged, but the motion came off more as a pathetic heave of motion, and he collapsed weakly to the ground in shock. A rush of arms leap forward to catch him, but only Lieutenant Kastaara's barely made it in time.

"Are you okay?" she asked as she placed her arm around his back to help him from the forest floor.

Putting in double-effort to rise to his feet quickly, Val brushed himself off and replied primly, "Of course I'm okay. Just a little light-headed, that's all."

Unbelievingly, Kastaara planted her fists firmly on her hips and stared at him, for what little good it did. She did manage to catch his gaze. His eyes, dark beacons in a ghostly-white face, were locked firmly on to Daarogh's body, lying slumped on the ground only half a dozen feet away, and the small splinters of bone left around on the soil and leaves.

"Come on," she whispered to him, "I'll help you back to your ship."

Child-like in his daze, Val found himself being guided back in the direction of the Prophecy by Kastaara's arm, but all the while he looked back to the corpse. To Palpatine's curse.

* * *

"You know, you really are an arrogant son-of-a-bitch."

Val winced as Lieutenant Kastaara eased him down onto the medical bunk in the Prophecy's crew quarters and reached to turn on the small overhead light. It flickered in and out of life until Val intervened and punched the panel with a fist, forcing the light to appropriately boost to full intensity. "Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, Lieutenant."

Huffing, Kastaara took a step back and eyed up Ricaud like a painter or sculptor would eye up the canvass or block of clay that would become their next creation. "Your right ankle is sprain," she observed.

"How do you know?"

She shrugged nonchalantly, "For a start, you've limped all the way in here with the weight on your left foot, and secondly from observing your fall with Colonel Kessler it is plain that you twisted your right ankle."

Pursing his lips, Val tried not to appear too impressed. "There's nothing that I can do about that. We -- I mean, I -- have no bacta on-board."

""We" being you and that dead Togorian?"

"Yes ... I suppose so."

She raised her eyebrows and knelt down infront of the bunk, trying to get a better look at the gash in the right side of his forehead. Seeing that he obviously was not keen to talk about the Togorian, she tried a different tact, "Haven't you ever heard of a little planet called Thyferra? They produce this marvellous stuff called bacta."

"Sure," Val shrugged, "I'm wanted by the authorities there for smuggling contraband."

"Ah. That would explain it. Not a lot of people like you, do they, Captain Ricaud?"

Watching her cautiously as she rummaged through the medical kit to find something to attend to his head wound with, he smiled at the back of her head. "True," he replied. "And I'm quite sure you're not ashamed to be on that list."

"What makes you think that?" she called back to him, intrigued.

"It could be something to do with the fact that you've despised me from the moment you met me."

"And what reason could I have to despise you?" she asked, pulling free a small vial of clear blue liquid, and inspecting the label. "I hardly even know you."

"For some people," Val said solemnly, "that is enough. When you look at me, you don't see me. You see my reputation."

"Once again, you flatter yourself, Captain Ricaud. What I know of your history I know only from talking to Lieutenant Commander Horn five minutes ago."

"Okay," Val acceded, looking for other avenues of explanation. "Instead of Imperial traitor, you must see some other reputation or image instead, that makes you resent me so much."

Turning a little impatiently, possibly flustered by Ricaud's incessant pushing of his point, she popped open the vial and wet a small fabric pad with some of the liquid. "Would you like me to be honest, then?"

Positively beaming, Val spread his palms wide open. "I await enlightenment."

"I look at you and I see a starfighter pilot."

"Ah. That might explain a few things."

Kastaara impatiently tilted his head over and began dabbing the cut in his head with the pad. At first, each dapple resulted in a sharp sting, but very quickly the pain became unnoticeable. "The way I see it, Captain Ricaud, you absolutely epitomise the starfighter pilot: cocky, arrogant, brash, confident ... and probably more than a little insecure."

"That's something all starfighter pilots learn in time, Lieutenant; it helps keep us sane. You see, the TIE Corps and the people in it aren't as soft as you ground pounders might think. Obviously, we aren't as physically capable as you, but our work all takes place up here," he made a tapping motion on the unwounded side of his head, "and so that's what takes the most toll."

"Okay, maybe you're right," Kastaara reluctantly gave him a point, "but the fact that the TIE Corps put us in this situation isn't going to help their reputation in our eyes. Or mine, for that matter."

Resisting the impulse to shake his head, Val answered back, "You weren't up there, Lieutenant. You didn't see what those boys did. I'll tell you that I would be damned proud to have put up the fight that they did. And anyway, the TIE Corps were as much a victim of this invasion as anybody else. The Rebels are too, for that matter."

"What are you talking about?" Kastaara asked, a little rhetorically, and a little patronisingly. Val replied in kind.

"Oh, just a small intergalactic conspiracy: Imperial moffs, Huttese crime lords, Rebels, Jedi ... all that sort of thing. You really wouldn't be interested. At any rate, it's too late now for anything to be helped. If you're unlucky, by the time you get back to Aurora Prime, a little man called Lardo Babune will already be rolling in the ashes of the Emperor's Hammer."

"Lardo Babune? The Supreme Moff of the Imperial Orthodoxy?"

"Yes. All this," Val rolled his eyes around the crew quarters, but his sweeping gaze was intended to take in a larger gait than just the walls around him, "everything ... is all part of a plan by Babune to take over the Emperor's Hammer. I've already failed to stop him in time once. Now all I can do is warn the EH what he plans to do next, and that would result in my arrest, and probable execution. I doubt they'd still listen to me, anyway."

"So your self-preservation takes precedence over the lives of millions of people?"

"No!"

"Really? Because that's what it sounds like."

Pain flashed across the side of his head one final time before Kastaara finished applying the substance from the medical kit and returned the vial to its home, disposing of the pad in a small bin built into the wall of the crew quarters. "There. The wound should heal up within a couple of days."

"Thankyou. You really didn't need to."

Kastaara shrugged off the remark. "We need you if we're to survive."

"We?" Val asked with a subtle smile.

"Don't get any ideas, Captain. I'm really not your type."

"I know, but you have to humour me."

For the first time, she laughed at him. Quickly realising her mistake, Kastaara put a hand to cover up her mouth. Before there could be a moment of awkwardness between the two, Val said, "You'd better go and help Colonel Kessler. He could do with the attentions of a beautiful young woman more than me."

Kastaara smiled, "Are you offloading me, Captain?"

"If it means I can get some rest, then yes," Val grinned back. Kastaara closed the medical kit, stood, and turned for the corridor. Before she reached the exit, she paused and turned.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?"

Knocked slightly aback by the question, Val looked quickly down at the floor and then back up before answering. "Lieutenant, ever since I can remember I've seen everybody close to me slip through my fingers. I've learnt to deal with loss on my own, so don't worry about me."

Seemingly about to say something, the Lieutenant apparently decided better of it, and instead accepted his reply. She left the Prophecy and headed back to the camp feeling decidedly different in her attitude towards Captain Val Ricaud. A matter of minutes ago, it had been distaste. Now it was simply pity.

* * *

Sunset was thusofar the only sight on this quaint little agri-world that Val Ricaud had not yet experienced throughout his journey -- privately he liked to think of it as an ordeal -- and it was for this reason that on his last opportunity to do so, he took it upon himself to ascend one and a half thousand feet up a small jungle-covered hill near to the camp to watch the Argimiliar system's distended red giant swelter slowly below the western horizon.

Witnessing the setting of the Argimilian sun was not, however, the only last opportunity that Ricaud was taking advantage of. For all intents and purposes, it was possibly the final time he would be able to speak properly with one of the few true friends he had left in the galaxy, and the only person on Argimiliar II who he implicitly trusted.

"Val, you've dragged me all the way up here up here for a sight I've already seen on a hundred planets before ... and what about my arm? It's hardly had a chance to heal yet," Kessler moaned.

Frowning, Ricaud spotted out a jutting rock on the grassy summit, and promptly seated himself, being sure to leave ample room for Kessler. When they were both comfortable, he said, "I know that, but it may be your last sunset. Mine too."

Letting his guard down, Kyle acted as though some great secret had been compromised at his own relief. "Tell me about it," he sighed, and reached out, palm flat and held steady with great difficulty. "Look at that, would you? Haven't had anything to smoke for four days straight. If that doesn't get me killed up there tomorrow, I swear that the second I touch down on Aurora Prime I'm spending forty-eight solid hours chewing on a nice, big, fat Rahm-Seronian cigarra rolled on the naked thighs of sixteen-year old virgins."

Closing his eyes, Val smiled deeply, "I'll be right there with you in spirit if not in body."

Kessler looked across gravely at his friend as the last dregs of the sun began westering away through the sky. "What's wrong with you, Val? You haven't cracked a joke all day. At least, not one you've meant. You keep talking with pessimism about the breakthrough of the Rebel blockade, but I don't think you're worried about getting killed."

Grunting neutrally, Val was both impressed and unnerved at the same time by Kessler's ability to see straight through him. It was a difficult art to master, to be sure. Honesty, he decided, was the easier and quicker option. "You're right, of course. By all rights it should be a milk run. I've studied the tactical maps over and over again all day; it's simply a matter of catching them unawares and punching straight through at full speed before they can get any ships within range."

"So what is it that's troubling you?"

Almost in reply, Val's gaze became more inward and colloquial. "For me, what I'm being asked to do -- take these soldiers to Aurora Prime -- is a very difficult thing, for reasons we both know. But the more my doubts increase, the more disgusted I become with myself, and the more I realise that a year ago I would have done the heroic and right thing without hesitation. Have I really changed that much?"

"Not at all," Kessler responded immediately, the speed of his answer reinforcing his assuredness. "It's just that your situation has changed. Your concerns and influences are different."

"But Kess, I want that confident -- and no doubt arrogant -- bravado. It should still be there. That's what Daarogh was trying to tell me, I think."

"And I believe he was right. It's still there. You're still Val Ricaud. You've simply tried to bury it deep down."

Realisation lit like carnivorous fire in Val's eyes. "I guess ... when I stopped being an Imperial officer, I tried to stop being everything else I was at the time."

Kessler smiled. "As I think you're discovering, it's a guise that doesn't suit you."

Relentlessly marching onwards, the progressing night begin to envelop them as the final visible rim of the sun began to fizz below the horizon out of existence. Val rose, and Kessler tiredly followed. "Is that it? All this just for your welfare?"

"If it helps your vanity any, you've just saved the Emperor's Hammer law enforcement services a lot of effort in tracking me down, capturing me, and bringing me to justice, because within two days I'm going to be in the only place I belong any more; and that happens to be right on their doorstep."

Kessler placed a hand on Val's shoulder as the pair began making their way down the hill again. "The future is always uncertain, Val. But the ability to face it is bravery enough."

For one of those rare times, Val laughed without knowing what he found so funny. Perhaps it was not a joke he was laughing at. Perhaps it was his mood. All he knew was that he was heading off into the darkness, away from the setting sun, towards the spot where in roughly nine hours it would rise again.

Trapped in an endless cycle escapable only by death.

* * *

Like the Argimilian spaceport, the camp was now awash with activity. Equipment and tents were being packed away and stowed into cargo containers which were subsequently hauled into the holds of whichever ships would and could take them. With the hot sun glaring directly overhead, the physical work required was not pleasant.

Almost like human -- and alien -- cargo, the wounded civilians and soldiers were being marshalled into queues and groups as they were herded aboard the rag-tag group of freighters. Those that could walk, or even crawl, did so. The worst cases were carried up the ramps by their comrades and friends. Standing by the entrance to the Prophecy, Val had long ago lost count of the number of living traffic boarding his vessel. Instead, he just stood there, trying to hide his bewilderment under a veneer of authority. He looked up at Kastaara as she came down the ramp past the opposing flow of wounded, and shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun.

"Val," she called down to him, having apparently dropped the formal use of his captaincy since the morning, "we've just about run out of space in the cargo holds."

"Port and starboard?"
"Forward, too."

"What about crew quarters?"

"Filled up half an hour ago."

He turned his gaze out across the line of wounded stretching from the Prophecy's boarding ramp all the way back to the main camp. "Alright, it looks like we're going to have start putting them in the corridors. Start by moving everybody you can from the forward hold into the corridor adjoining the portside hold. That should give us some more room in the cargo spaces. After that, start putting people in the main corridor from the portside hold, past the crew quarters and starboard hold, all the way back to the forward hold. If we start getting desperate, use the cockpit corridor, too. That should be enough. If not, they'll have to share with a bunch of blasters in the smuggling compartments."

Kastaara nodded and went back inside the ship, shouting orders at the people inside which were vaguely audible outside over the noise of conversation between the passengers. They pretty much administrated themselves in boarding the ship, and Kastaara was handling their distribution quite capably, so with nothing else to do, Val jogged over to the other side of the clearing to the Corel's Dream, where Kessler was talking with Donner and Kerrigan.

"We may be able to fit on maybe a couple dozen more at best," Val told them as he approached, "but after that they're going to be piling up in the corridors."

Looking to the two others, Donner nodded his head gravely, "Every single person you can fit aboard must be aboard. I can't expect you to do any more than that, Captain."

Not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not, Val continued, "The thing is, it's going to be a pretty bumpy ride up there. No matter how fast we are, and no matter how much we catch the Rebels off-guard, we're still going to be flying in a combat situation."

"I appreciate your concerns, Captain, but I think your passengers know what they're in for."

"At worst," Kessler put in, "we may have to be prepared for more causalities before we reach Aurora Prime."

"That's why there will be at least one person with medical training of some sort on-board each ship," Kerrigan noted.

Kessler was still a little unbelieving. "What is it exactly that you think we can do, General?"

"Get my men out of here, Colonel Kessler," Donner replied with simplicity. "Or die trying."

Val was more sceptical. "Still, there are no two ways about it: we are either sentencing these people to death, or giving them their only shot at life."

"Captain, for my men, even death will be preferable to capture by Rebels."

"And what about you, General?" Kessler asked. "Which ship will you be going on?"

The General gave out a small, throaty chuckle. "Colonel Kessler, I'm afraid I won't be joining you. I'm taking every other troop I have back to the fight against the Rebels."

"General!" exclaimed Ricaud, "that's suicide! Your men don't stand a chance."

"Maybe," Donner agreed with him, "but that's not the point. We were assigned to defend Argimiliar II, and by the Dark Lords of the Sith, we will stay here and defend it until every last man and woman of the 3rd Battalion, 1st Auroran Shock Legion is dead."

It was plain to see that arguing with the man was pointless. His sense of duty and honour was too deeply ingrained into his character and thoughts for him to change his mind. The "Aurorans" would stay on an Outer Rim agri-world that they cared nothing for, and probably resented being posted to, and die for it. While Val felt frustration at the General's arrogance, he likewise could not help but have a great respect for the man. It was natural for him to shake his hand. "In that case, General Donner, I wish you the best of luck."

"Likewise, Captain Ricaud. Likewise."

Val flashed a quick smile and turned to leave when Lieutenant Kastaara's form blurred past him in a sprint, halting only feet away from a surprised Donner. She saluted sharply. "General Donner sir, I've finished loading most of the wounded aboard the Profit's Prophecy, save for a few stragglers. I'm ready to re-join the rest of the battalion now before we set out for the line again."

Donner smiled with a hint of sadness. "Lieutenant, you won't be coming with us to continue fighting. I've assigned you, Sergeant Fewall and Corporal Darkja to Captain Ricaud's crew."

Eyes wide with pleading, Kastaara groaned, "But sir, I'm your aide-de-camp."

"Yes, you are," Donner smiled. "And you're my aide-de-camp because you're a promising officer who already excels at her duties. It would be a great loss for the Hammer's Fist if you were to die with the rest of us grunts for no good reason. If you want to serve the legion, you would do better to go on to greater things by surviving another day."

Remaining absolutely emotionless, Kastaara simply saluted again, turned, and left for the Prophecy. Val watched after her and whistled below his breath before turning to Donner. "That was a bit harsh, wasn't it?"

"Do you think I made the wrong decision, Captain?"

"No, I think it was a wise thing to do. I'm just worried her eagerness to die rather than serve on my crew might hinder her abilities."

"Do not worry, Captain. I know Kastaara, and she will put one-hundred and ten percent effort into everything she does. And don't take it so personally; her loyalty to duty has always had the effect of handicapping her social side. I'm hoping that this should change that."

Val raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah," he said sarcastically, "I'll be sure to take her to a few nightclubs on Aurora Prime."

Donner clapped Val on the shoulder and smiled. "Clear skies, Captain Ricaud."

"You too," he replied, nodding in turn to the two others, "Kess; Kerry."

They nodded back, and Val turned and marched off back to the Prophecy, where he found Kastaara hunched against a boarding ramp arm, her arms folded. "Don't worry," Val assured her as he went past. "General Donner knows what he's doing. Do you think he would be a General if he didn't?"

She did not reply.

"Oh, come on, Imperial officers don't sulk."

"I'm not sulking," she bit back.

Val smiled at his provocation of a reaction. "Well good," he said wolfishly. "In that case, you'll have no qualms about running the pre-launch checks on the navigational deflector systems."

Kastaara glared at him, but he only continued to grin back. Instead of pressing on, she sighed, pushed herself off the ramp arm, and went up into the ship. Val stepped away from under the hull and the cool shade that it offered and surveyed the jungle to the main camp, marked only be the presence of three freighters and several burnt-out fires. There were a half-dozen stragglers making their way over. No need to rush them; they still had plenty of time.

But something was wrong. The silent twitter of the jungle and the rustling of leaves had gone. It was dampened out by another sound. A strange howling, and the faint sound of a rush of birds' wings. Val looked across in confusion at Kessler, Kerrigan, and Donner. From their faces, they must have noticed the change too. Kessler caught Val's gaze and shrugged.

With a crashing roar, the answer came quickly. Without warning, a large portion of the jungle exploded into flame, and a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke rose up in the air, dissipating as it expanded. The stragglers had flung themselves flat into the undergrowth.

What was happening?

A second explosion ripped away trees and shrubs farther afield. Then a third. Finally, Val caught the echo of a distant crackling snap; it was the distinctive sound of artillery fire. The Rebels had found them.

"Come on!" he shouted across to the injured still in the jungle. "Hurry up!"

They slowly peaked their heads up above the undergrowth, ducking back down again as another blast rocked the ground and threw Val to his knees. Quickly regaining his balance, he stood again and waved them over with a shrill whistle. When all seemed silent, they stood, and sprinted or hopped as fast as they could.

There was another distant roar. Val tracked it to the third clearing where two other freighters were hidden. Through the dense foliage and trees, he was able to see one of the ships, a YT-1800 model, shatter like a broken model as an artillery shell found home. The entire vessel erupted into a smoking heap of metal which collapsed onto the ground. A vessel which had been packed with wounded civilians and soldiers.

"Val!" Kastaara shouted at him from the top of the ramp. He realised that she had been shouting for some time now, infact. He was only able to hear her as the ringing in his eyes slowly died away. "Val! We have to lift off now!"

"Start the engines up!" he shouted. "There are still some people!"

Kastaara shook her head in frustration and ducked back inside. A new sound had joined the roar of the cannons; it was a dull, deeply-pitched whine. The source of it flashed overhead as Val looked up. An A-wing starfighter.

They were in trouble.

Throwing caution to the winds, Val sprinted away from the Prophecy to meet the last passengers as they cleared the jungle and entered the clearing. "In there!" Val shouted above the roar of another explosion and jabbed a finger at the Prophecy. "Get inside and find something to hold on to!"

He stood in place and counted the last-minute arrivals while they rushed past him and carried on to the YT-1300. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. There had been six stragglers, hadn't there? He looked back into the jungle. A civilian limping along on two crutches, her head wreathed up in bandages, was still only half way to the clearing. Without hesitation, Val began off into the undergrowth to help her, but before he had even taken a step forward there was an almighty scream of air and he was flung backwards by a tremendous force and a wall of heat. The jungle directly ahead flared in a blinding light. When it cleared, the sixth straggler was nowhere to be seen.

No time for curses. He had done all he could. Val picked himself up off the ground and sprinted -- quite literally for his life -- back to the Prophecy, barely remembering to duck underneath the low hull protrusion in time. Reaching the top of the ramp, he slapped the close switch and continued on inside, apologising to the wounded lying hunched in the corridor as he stepped through them to get to the cockpit. The entire ship was filled with them; standing; kneeling; lying. The stench of blood was overpowering. He was surprised that they had not yet taken over the cockpit, which was occupied by Kastaara, sitting in the co-pilot chair, and two other soldiers wearing stormtrooper armour that lacked a helmet and gloves.

"Do you know how to fly one of these things?" Val asked as he leaped into the pilot's chair and threw himself into a storm of switch-flipping.

"Of course," Kastaara replied primly. "My father runs a shipping company."

"That's real sweet, but daddy's little girl ain't flying the Shapani Bypass anymore. This is the Kessel Run. You," Val pointed to the corporal, "man the upper gun turret. You, do what you can with the wounded."

They both looked for confirmation to Kastaara, and she seemed more than impatient at their refusal to follow Val's orders. "You heard him, snap to it!"
"Yes ma'am," they both replied sheepishly and left the cockpit.

"Ready?"

She nodded.

"Hit it," he said, and Kastaara slapped the engine into full power at the same time as she turned on the repulsorlifts. The roar of the sublights filled the ship as it edged slowly off the ground, and when he could feel them hitting their peak through the vibration of the deck plates, Val cut out the repulsorlifts altogether and allowed the main engines to carry the ship up away from the forest.

This was it. Argimiliar II was now behind him. Whatever lay ahead, he would have to face, and determinedly accept. "Kess," Val said as he switched on the radio, "you there?"

"Right with you," the Colonel answered back as the Dream speared up onto the Prophecy's wing. "Got a little scorched on the take-off, though. I think I've burned some fuel slugs. Nothing vital, though. I just pray that if anything is gonna blow, it blows later."

Kastaara snorted back over the radio, "I don't think the Gods will do us much good."

"True," Kessler's retort came, "but darling, there's no such thing as an atheist in a cockpit."

At the same time, the other freighters and TIEs began to haul up into a high-vic formation with them, all of which was visible from the cockpit of the Prophecy, lying in the rear centre of the group. Not bad, for a rushed take-off by an un-coordinated group of pilots with payloads that were highly sensitive. Val looked back down at the Argimilian jungle, now nothing more than a green carpet stretching to the horizon. At the same time, he saw something else. A string of ruby-red diamonds.

Anti-aircraft batteries.

All he could do was snatch the Prophecy away as the shots snapped past and caught the Corvan Misfit through its central axis. They lanced deep through the engines and into the reactor core, detonating it in a fiery explosion fuelled by the oxygen in the atmosphere, and the Misfit slowly fell away to the ground in a bright blaze.

But the Rebel assault did not relent at that. There was another threat to be considered, that made its presence blatantly clear as the freighters burst away from the cloud cover high above the jungle, still keeping formation. The minerals in the jungle had scrambled their sensors, but now they were clear of the interfering effect, they could trace all eight green dots on radar.

"Incoming Rebel starfighters," Kessler warned the group, replied to a second later by the flash of a concussion missile tearing through the port-side of the Fortune's Hand. At the helm, Shud-Qat Kuronda tried to stabilise the ship, but it was no use. With half of his hull gone, and his controls totally destroyed, he could only sit and wait as the freighter spiralled away from the formation. Worst of all, it was possible to see the fleeting figures of the wounded as they fell from the gaping hole in the ship.

"Break formation!" Val shouted, knowing it was suicidal to try and keep together in a parade-ground high-vic. At the behest of his order, the other three remaining freighters moved away randomly just as the A-wings burst through the gaps between. A strange, subdued howl reached Val's ears, and he remembered that the gun turret was manned. A string of blasts lanced away from above him and brought down one of the A-wings straight away.

Having the assurance of an accurate and skilled gunner supporting him injected a boost of confidence, and with it the instinct of flying rushed back to him, filling his nostrils and mouth like a blast of fresh air. He following what he felt, and trailed after an A-wing through a barrel-roll onto his port wing. It clicked into his sights, and he triggered a double-burst that knifed through the fighter and sent it spinning down to earth.

"Watch out, Ricaud," Kerrigan's voice burst calmly over the radio, "you've got a trailer."

The laser fire that lanced past the cockpit confirmed that. Val jinked the ship away from side to side as more shots went past. He could hear the sound of the turret firing, but it did not appear to be making contact. Likely, the angle was too difficult to get a clear shot. He considered diving to alleviate that problem, but he needed to get to space as quickly as possible.

Luckily, his problem was solved as the sensor dot on the rear radar disappeared in the cacophony of an explosion and a TIE interceptor screamed overhead. "Kastaara, can we get any more power to the engines?"

"I'm trying," she replied, her concentration upon the controls above her, "but not at the expense of shields or lasers."

Val switched on the internal comm frequency, "Corporal, do you think you can hold off any attackers?"
"I'll see what I can do."

Nodding reluctantly, Val turned back to Kastaara, "Alright, siphon some shield power to the engines. I guess we'll just have to see if all that cocky arrogance I've got hides a real pilot, eh?"

Something filled the viewport at a startling speed -- an A-wing, likely -- and just as quickly disappeared, as a fading explosion. Val did not even remember hitting the trigger, but his finger was there in place on the depressed button. He checked the sensors while rolling away from an oncoming fighter that the turret dispatched with a quick burst. Two A-wings left.

The Dream opened fire on something ahead. One of the green dots disappeared.

One fighter left.

It came down across the Prophecy's starboard wing, and Val ducked beneath its path. The corporal made a good attempt, but the fighter dodged away and dived. Wary not to go all the way with it, Ricaud instead dropped his sights ahead of the A-wing, snapped off a volley, and shot back up again before he could see the result.

"That's all of them," Kerrigan's voice returned. "Good work, people. Stay close. This is where it gets difficult."

Now they were clearing the last wispy remnants of atmosphere; rolling away to the majesty of the stars and the dark infinity of space. The sight that greeted them was not what they expected. While the sheet of Rebel battleships were indeed spread out almost completely evenly ahead, the Redemption was still in place directly ahead. That this was simply due to the fact that their launch had been forced on early because of the Rebel strike did not help quell the rising sense of dread in Val's chest.

"The frigate hasn't left yet!" exclaimed Van Basten in the Lady Alyssa, stating the glaringly obvious. "What do we do?"

"You think we go back?" Val snorted. "There's only one thing we can do."

"That's impossible!"

"No, it's not," Val assured him. "The Redemption's already badly damaged. Some of the turbolasers might be out of action. We can clear out through the empty fire arcs."

Kastaara put her hand over the microphone and leaned over, pointing out towards two of the ships on the terminator line. "There are already two Calamari cruisers moving to support the Redemption," she said in hushed tones. "We might just reach the blockade as they hit firing range."

"I've seen worse. Back at the Battle of Alawanir, Kess and I ran through an entire task force of frigates that had encircled us as we attacked their platform."

"I just hope you're right," Kastaara said as she slid her hand off the microphone pickup.

"Okay," Ricaud began again, "just stay focused, and if you want a little inspiration, think of the burning wrecks of the Corvan Misfit, Border Riever and Fortune's Hand which are now lying on the surface of Argimiliar II."

Quietly, the three other freighters tightened up the formation. "More fighters," Kessler warned them again, "vector two-three-eight mark oh-two."

Lieutenant Commander Horn's chuckle haunted over the radio. "Time to do our job, boys. We'll try to hold them as long as we can. Good luck."

Many a time before Ricaud had heard the shaky voice of a man consigned to his death, but rarely had he heard one speak with such dignity as the young acting Squadron Commander. "You too, Horn," he found himself saying. "May the Force be with you."

"Thanks, Ricaud," the reply came, and the radio frequency cut off with the last words that Val would ever hear from the Lieutenant Commander as the four TIE interceptors immaculately broke into a second formation and reared ahead to meet the oncoming swarm of Rebel fighters.

"This is it," Kastaara intoned, "we're coming up on the Redemption."

The first turbolaser bolts had already begun to rain out from the frigate, but they were not yet in range. The blasts detonated harmlessly around the freighters. One exploded a little too close to the Prophecy, and the ship rocked to port before Val could tame the controls. There was a cry from somewhere in the corridor outside.

With each passing second, the number of harmless explosions increased in volume, until gradually they become dangerous hard red diamonds that filled the space around the freighters. Inevitably, the YT-1300 shuddered as one of the attacks riveted through their shields. "Whoops," Val murmured beneath his breath with a little laugh as he jinked the freighter away. "I forgot that incoming fire has right of way."

"Let's see if we can take out some of those turrets," Val said and slipped the Prophecy off to port so that he came down on the starboard side of the Redemption, his guns blazing. Small scraps of hull were kicked up in rhythm from the ship as they shot past, until finally the trail hit upon a turret and it exploded a deep scarlet.

"We're too close," Kastaara warned.

Ignoring her, Val weaved the Prophecy off the Redemption's hull and through across the engine compartment. Something shook the YT-1300 firmly from behind as they roared away from the frigate, and Val grappled with the controls in dismay.

"What?" Kastaara asked anxiously, looking up to the Calamari cruiser bearing down on them from above. "What's wrong?"

Deigning to reply, Val fought with the controls again, but there was no response. "They must've hit a control conduit," he finally answered, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. "I can't manoeuvre."

"I told you-"

"Alright, alright," Val waved her off with a hand as he begin manipulating one of the control panels off to his side. "I think I can divert the drive system matrix to the secondary route nexus."

"Is that going to save us?"

"That depends. If we keep flying in a straight line, we'll end up as fodder for that cruiser. I'm going to have to cut out the engines until I can make the conduit transfer ... "

"Do what? Bring us to a halt?"

"Would you rather we throw ourselves into the arms of that cruiser?" he asked as he took the sublight engines off-line. "I guess I'll just have to see if Kessler's 37th Rule of Space Combat really works."

"Kessler's 37th Rule of Space Combat?"

"Yeah: anything you do can get you killed, including nothing."

"That's a dangerous experiment ... but seeing as there's no other option ... "

Annoyed at being disturbed, Val shot back, "Exactly. So you make sure you keep your eye on the sensors because right now we're a sitting duck."

Wide-eyed at the pilot rising from his seat, Kastaara asked, "Where are you going?"

"To fix this scrap heap!" he bit and marched off through the cockpit door.

* * *

Kessler swore as he came out over the bow of the Redemption, narrowly avoiding a volley from the wounded frigate. They were lucky that this particular EF76 had been converted for medical use, at the cost of reduced firepower. A standard Nebulon-B would have had them for lunch already. To back this up, Val's assumption had been vindicated, and the ship had lost two laser cannons and one turbolaser. Add to this the extra turret that the Prophecy had taken out on its pass, and fate had truly been on their side.

Despite all this accumulation of fortuity, Kessler still swore again. While they had been pre-occupied in their successful run past the Redemption the two approaching Calamari cruisers had altered their intercept courses in anticipation of the escaping freighters. No matter how much power Kessler, Ricaud, Kerrigan, or Van Basten put into their respective engines, they would never make it to the hyperjump point in time before the cruisers reached firing range. It looked like they would have to take some punches after all if they were to escape.

Eyes still on the sensors, Kessler saw another red dot blink out of life a dozen kilometres away in the pitched battle between Arbiter Squadron and the New Republic. Another dot. Another TIE interceptor. Another life. Only two of the small, unshielded starfighters remained now under the crushing weight of a squadron of Y-wings. They had already taken out the first squadron with clean efficiency, but they were rapidly losing ground.

Another surprise was still lying in wait up the sleeve of the all-knowing sensors, however. Just as the second Arbiter TIE was destroyed in the furball, the Calamari cruiser on Kessler's port side began to veer away from the intercept point half a dozen kilometres ahead. It had changed course, so that it was now heading to a point behind the formation. What was behind them?
A quick check of the sensors told him the horrifying answer: the Prophecy was behind the group. The Prophecy, silent and still as it sat innocently out of range from the Redemption, and directly in the path of the cruiser which had now altered course to capture this new, unexpected bounty.

"More fighters!" Van Basten exclaimed wearily, "Coming from the closest cruiser!"

Having had his attention called to the fact, Kessler distractedly checked his sensors again, his mind still on Val's YT-1300. Van Basten was correct; not only was there a B-wing squadron closing from the cruiser still trying to head off the group, but the same ship had dispatched an X-wing squadron in the direction of the furball between the TIE interceptors and Y-wings.

"What about Ricaud?" Kessler asked, his heart sinking with every beat, "He's been disabled."

"There's nothing we can do for them," Kerrigan replied grimly. "It's too late."

Deep inside, Kyle's instinct told him to cry out in refusal. To turn around and do something for his friend, rather than let fate come to him. Do anything other than watch incompetently. Helplessly. But what could he do? And what would be the price of action? Undoubtedly, much higher than the price of inaction.

So his instincts slowly subsided and gave way to intelligence. But the bitter fire still burned there in his heart. Another friend lost to the Galactic Civil War that raged around him. It had not been Ricaud's time. It had not been Kuronda's time either. Nor any of the civilians and soldiers that had died, or any of the other spacers. Nobody deserved this. And Kessler, most of all, did not deserve to suffer and watch on in agony as it happened. As he had watched on as Kayta died.
No! he shook his head. She did not die because of you!

Before he could continue his line of thought, or a thought more akin to confusion, the B-wings broke into the trio of remaining freighters. The distinctive blue glow of ion cannons was etched out before them, and Kessler levelled his targeting reticle at the nearest fighter. Switching to concussion missiles, he hit the trigger before there was even time to lock on properly. The warhead speared forwards, relying only upon what little target data the initial sensor scans were able to provide it. Closing distance and course provided the kill. Before the B-wing could swerve away, the missile stabbed into the cockpit and tore the pod away, leaving the decapitated fighter spinning wildly out of control.

Two B-wings went overhead, hitting the Dream hard with their ion cannons. Kessler quickly diverted auxiliary power to the shields and evened the deflectors out, at the same time putting the YT-1300 into a steep Immelmann that would bring him out on the tail of the pair while simultaneously giving the gunner provided to him by General Donner a clear shot.

The army officer read the moment, and took advantage of it as best he could, reeling off a series of shots that took away a wing on one of the B-wings, but failed to do little else. Kessler came down from the Immelmann loop at an awkward angle, one that was nearly vertical to the B-wings. He had made the mistake of overestimating their speed.

His instincts were still quick, and the one and a half seconds that he had before overshooting were adequate to finish off the damaged B-wing with a linked shot from the forward laser cannons that vaporised a good proportion of the heavy assault fighter.

The other flashed past before he could even attempt a lucky shot. He tried to pull the freighter up for another pass, but it was too sluggish, and instead he ended up coming out infront of the B-wing, presenting it with a scenic view of his tail.

Shuddering under the impact of ion cannons, the Dream took a second to respond to Kessler's touch and half-roll into a scissors manoeuvre that cut back and forth across the aim of the pursuing B-wing, placed unwillingly into the offensive scissors position, who now had the sole objective of matching speeds with the YT-1300 while retaining enough manoeuvrability to bring his guns to bear. Kessler did not give him the chance, and broke into a high-speed reversal to exit the scissors. The B-wing followed dutifully, but the freighter had already rolled out into a split-s half-loop. The Dream roared around at full power, and the B-wing was only in Kessler's sights for a quarter-second.

But it was enough.

He screamed through the debris of the exploding B-wing in a flashy victory roll. His pleasure at the demonstration of his piloting prowess quickly faded though, when Ricaud's disabled Prophecy returned to the fore of his mind. The situation was desperate. The three freighters had now disengaged from their melee, pursued by the five remaining B-wings, and were under fire from the Calamari cruiser.

Kessler checked the co-ordinates on the hyperjump. It edged down to one kilometre.

"We're almost there," Kerrigan notified them.

The Dream rocked twice under the force of a turbolaser blast and a warhead launched by the pursuing B-wings. Fortunately, the soldier in the gun turret had been able to shoot down the latter before it had impacted. Nothing for it now, Kyle diverted all the shield and laser power to the engines, and watched the freighter's speed soar unendingly.

Half a kilometre.

Kyle Cantor Kessler looked back at what he was leaving behind: the disabled Prophecy, cowering under the approach of a Calamari cruiser; one of his friends about to be killed, or even worse, captured and interrogated; the two remaining TIE interceptors of Arbiter Squadron, assigned to a backwater colony world for bland garrison duty, emerging valiantly blood-toothed from the Y-wings as an entire squadron of X-wings closed around them in a veil of concussion missiles of laser cannons; the glowing green globe of Argimiliar II constricted by the malignant web of a New Republic invasion fleet.

Like few other times in his life, save for Kayta's death, Kyle Cantor Kessler's hope in life was completely crushed. The montage of ruin behind him stabbed at his heart until he could look at it no longer, and as the navicomp pinged, he flung forward the hyperspace levers and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was all gone.

* * *

"Give me the hydrospanner!" Val called back the sergeant, and reached out a hand behind his back, his head still jammed in the open access port of the forward cargo hold's ceiling. A second later, the touch of cold metal filled his hand, and he brought his arm up to the power/control conduits. "No!" he howled a second later. "The hydrospanner! The other one!"

The metal was replaced by another distinctively different shape as the laser cutter was removed from his hand and the proper tool inserted. "Alright," Val sighed, his voice muffled by the port, "now we're making progress."

For a horrifying moment as he worked away, his balance on top of the monitoring console teetered, but the sergeant demonstrated enough initiative to move in and steady the console before Val could topple. He would have thanked the man, but there was not enough time.

After a few tugs, the bearing finally came loose, and he threw the blackened lumps of metal carelessly down to the ground. One of the passengers cursed back. "Now give me the laser cutter."

Like a surgeon at work on a critical operation, Val brought the cutter effortlessly up, and a fine spray of sparks almost instantly began falling gently down to the ground. A sizeable number singed Val's face -- he knew he should have maintained that protection mask better just in case -- but once again, he did not have time to pay attention to the inconsequential pain.

With the control conduits now completely disconnected so that he could route the systems through the bus-b nexus, he flicked a switch in the side of the hatch and the lighting inside died out as the flow of power to the dead conduits was halted.

There were a few seconds of rattling, and he finally emerged holding an unspectacular piece of piping. Kastaara's voice was murmuring over the speakers, set at low-volume. "We're in trouble," he groaned, eyeing the piping and then throwing it over his shoulder and leaping down from the console to turn on the speakers. "What is it?"

"Val, the last TIE interceptor has just been destroyed, and the other freighters have all made the jump to hyperspace."

Now they were in trouble, if they had not been so before. They were the only remaining target for an entire Rebel fleet. Kessler's 56th Rule of Space Combat: never be the first, and never be the last. And it all relied upon him to fix the control conduits and save them. He looked around at the empty, tired faces of the wounded lying sprawled around the hold, and for the first time in a long while a bitter taste grew in his mouth and emptiness sucked at his belly. It was fear. Real fear.

Trying his best to ignore it -- convincing himself that he did not have time for fear -- Val snatched his eyes from the faces around him and mopped his brow with his sleeve. "Okay, you people, you all need to move," he gestured to a large group of wounded in the centre of the hold. "Come on, move!"

Mentally scolding himself for barking at them, he knew that it was still not the time nor the place for a caring bedside manner. The wounded quickly cleared from the floor access plate that they had been covering, and he knelt down, removing it in one swift gesture and throwing it aside to the rapidly growing pile of metal in the corner. Grasping the laser cutter between his teeth and snatching the hydrospanner from the sergeant, he placed his body flat on the floor and doubled over into the hole. Once again taking the initiative, the trooper bent down and held Val's legs firmly in place to help provide leverage. Thankfully, Daarogh's repair of the systems in the same access port three days earlier meant that it wasn't the mess he had feared. That would save him some work.

Straight away he dove into a battle with the physical elements of the Profit's Prophecy, grappling with the layers of metal and wires that were nothing but a confusing puzzle to the untrained observer. The bolts fixing the panel over the bus-b nexus came off within seconds, and he eagerly tore away the metal, flinging it out onto the deck above. Within was a spaghetti junction of wires and more steel power lines. He reached in with the butt of the hydrospanner and held back the excess that blocked his view of the system that he wanted. He found it quickly, removed the laser cutter from his mouth, and sliced away a small square in the back of the panel which he then punched away with the other end of the cutter. Yet more electronics. He reached inside the second box beyond and pulled through a clump of multi-coloured wires.

Green. He needed the green.

Flicking rapidly through them, he soon found the necessary wire, and brought the laser cutter to it in a deft movement of co-ordination. One end fell away. He brought the other through the hole further, cut away a green wire in the first bus-b nexus panel, and held the two between finger and thumb. At the same time he allowed hydrospanner to fall away so that he could call, "Laser welder!"

It was in his outstretched hand in a second. Just as the two wires were beginning to slip from his grasp, he jabbed the welder at them, held it in place for half a second, and let them go. They stayed in place. One connection done. Quickly resting the welder on the edge of the panelling, he once again delved into the second bus-b box and brought out another wire. Lucky first time -- it was red. He yanked it out without fear of disconnecting it altogether from the secondary router systems and brought it to the other end of the green wire he had cut previously. A short incision with the cutter and half of the red counterpart fell away. He threw away the cutter. He would not need it any more. Just the welder as he made the final join, and they would have flight control again.

He reached for the welder-

Something shook the entire ship with a ferocious thud. Val's fingers brushed against the welder just as it was knocked off its perch, and clattered away to the bottom of the access port. He swore under his breath.

"Val!" Kastaara's voice shouted, tinny over the radio, "we have incoming fighters firing at us!"

Just one more connection -- Val reached for the dislodged laser welder, resting only a couple of feet below him. He could feel the blood rushing to his head as his fingers stretched and stretched, but still did not make the distance; feel the blood thudding through the arteries in his neck.; his lips felt dry and salty. Fear.

"Val!"
"Let go of me!" he roared decisively, and the pressure on his calves disappeared, allowing him to fall into the hole. From above, the sight must have been almost comical as Val's legs disappeared into the access port. It seemed like he was falling metre after metre. It did not end. His hand reached out -- the welder was getting closer. He was still falling. Plummeting.

Plummeting to the Death Star's reactor core.

Trailing fire to my doom ....

"No!" he roared. Not after all this. Not after all the friends he had lost. Not after all the deaths and the suffering. It would not be for nothing. It would mean something! He wouldn't let himself fall victim to destiny! He would take charge of his own fate, and live, and save the lives that depended upon him.

He hit the bottom of the access port head-first. He thought that he might pass out as darkness began to whither the edges of his vision, but somehow he strained and his hand found the laser welder. He groaned to his knees in agony, dazed, and groped for the wire. His hand was seemingly guided to it. It was the only thing he saw -- the red wire, and the green wire ... he fired up the welder, its low hum the only sound he could hear. It came down across the two ends of the wires as he held them together with finger and thumb.

"Val!"

His hand came away, and the two wires stayed.

"Val!"

The darkness was filling more and more of his vision. He must have banged his head pretty badly.
"Val!"

Slumping against the side of the port, his entire body was going numb. He could not faint. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the switch that would divert power to the new connections. That would act as a surrogate for the wrecked control conduits. That would give them life.

Something clicked.
It was the switch.

Suddenly he was slumping in a different direction. G-forces were pushing him against the other side of the access port. They were moving again.

They were moving!

"Are you okay pal?" a voice grunted, and Val looked up at the craggy face of the sergeant above him. A hand grabbed the collar of his jumpsuit and dragged him up from the hole in the deck, then dumped him unceremoniously on the floor beside.

"I'll be fine," Val said, rubbing his head as he stood shakily. His skull ached awfully.

But they were alive. The thought just kept running through his head over and over as he wandered into the cockpit and slumped wearily into the chair beside Kastaara. His eyes, tired to the core, struggled to move about and study the view beyond. Stars that moved. That somehow seemed a luxury. Bright arrows of red laser light skittered overhead harmlessly, and occasionally the Prophecy would give a vigorous shake, although Val hardly noticed. He could still not stop thinking: they were alive. They were alive!

For the first time since Endor, he had evaded the grasp of Palpatine's curse. And he knew that from now on, he would never fear it again. He was not subservient to the fate that the Emperor's dead hand offered him. He could and would take charge of his own destiny.

Kastaara reached forwards for something that Val did not recognise in his daze; a row of small cylinders poking out from the control panel infront of him. They moved as Kastaara's hand touched them. Almost of their own accord, they fell forwards. The hyperdrive controls.

The stars around the Prophecy held still for one awful, terrifying moment. Was the hyperdrive motivator damaged, too? Had Palpatine's curse caught him out?

Answering in joyous reply, the stars instantly leapt forward and stretched into eternity, and the Prophecy was flung at superluminal speeds into the safety of their arms.

Beaming, Kastaara yelped with joy. "We did it!"she laughed and threw her arms around Val. He could not help but smile back as she almost asphyxiated him with her embrace.

At the same time, he knew, Val Ricaud was smiling across fate at Emperor Palpatine.

They had indeed done it.

* * *

Supreme Moff Lardo Babune could sense Gharro approaching him on the bridge of the uncompleted Super-class Star Destroyer Retribution, in the orbital shipyards of Oneve. With him, he could also sense the dread and fear of bad news like hung like a stench.

"Ricaud has escaped from Argimiliar II," Babune found himself saying before Gharro had even opened his mouth. "Am I correct, Colonel?"

"Yes sir. Our spy drones recorded his freighter leaping to hyperspace bound for Aurora Prime. Assuming, that is, he does not make any course corrections mid-way."

"He will not," promised Babune, looking around at the tugs and cargo ferries buzzing like a halo of activity around the Retribution. Once finished, it would be the pride of the Orthodoxy's fleet. The pinnacle of his inspired leadership. Combined with the strength of his Star Destroyer squadrons, Babune would be unstoppable. Not even Ronin's vaunted Sovereign would be able to provide ample resistance. The fool had placed so much effort into constructing the Emperor's Hammer flagship that the lifeblood of any Imperial fleet -- the Star Destroyers -- had become neglected. The pitiful TIE Corps fleet numbered only seven of them, compared to Babune's twenty. If that did not doom the Emperor's Hammer to defeat, the fact that Ronin's lack of tactical insight had inspired him to place nearly half of his entire fleet starfighter strength on the Sovereign would prove to be their ultimate downfall. To snatch a colloquialism, the Grand Admiral had placed all his eggs into one basket.

Babune turned to face Gharro, moving with all the assureity of a man backed by the strength of those twenty Star Destroyers. "It seems our preparation has paid off, Colonel; order the Berserker and Skyshroud to move quickly across the border into Emperor's Hammer space to an intercept point between Argimiliar II and Aurora Prime. Once they have pulled Ricaud's freighter from hyperspace, they are to capture it, preferably. If they can not, simply destroy it."

Gharro paused in confusion. "Sir, I thought we no longer wanted Ricaud alive ... ?"

"We do not," Babune acceded. "But I do. I would greatly enjoy the opportunity to speak with him. Over the past days he has proven himself to be much like his father."

Interest piqued, Gharro asked, in a voice that tried not to be intrusively inquisitive, "You knew Ricaud's father?"

Babune looked down at his chest, and there was a sudden aching of the old injury. The injury which had made him the man that he was today; before he had been reluctantly forced to take the name of Lardo Babune. "For a while, yes. Ricaud comes from fine Imperial stock; his father was a supporter of Palpatine before even the Clone Wars. Such a shame to have ruined such a promising career. But there is no need to worry," Babune said, putting Gharro's fears to rest, "there is nothing personal in the recurrence of Val Ricaud's name over recent days. He has simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time again and again."

"I see."

"Now, enough of nostalgia," Babune began up again, his tone less inflective than it had been before. "Give the Berserker and Skyshroud their orders. It is vital that Ricaud does not reach Aurora Prime. Otherwise, all of our carefully-weaved plans may be for nought. And that would displease me greatly, Colonel."

"I understand, sir."

Gharro snapped a salute and marched away, but Babune's mind was still latched on to events long passed. Memories faded to dust. He had not thought about Gavryn Ricaud in a long time. Indeed, it had been simply a quirk of destiny that Valtane Ricaud had happened to be the criminal who could have provided the Supreme Moff with greater diplomatic leverage on Aurora Prime. And now, he persisted in remaining. Indeed, each time that Babune heard Val's name he seemed to become more and more entangled in the web that the Orthodoxy had carefully spun. Each movement bringing him closer to the centre, and no matter how hard Lardo Babune tried, he was unable to fight the inevitability of it all. Fate was intent upon him confronting his past, and coming face to face with the Ricauds for a second time.

The first time he had barely escaped with his life.

This time, he reflected, he might not be so lucky.

* * *

Moaning filled the corridors of the YT-1300 Profit's Prophecy. A horrible, deep, cacophony of moaning that permeated every square inch of deck plating and wall padding. After the escape from Argimiliar II, there was a lot of work to be done surveying and -- wherever possible -- repairing the aftermath; damage done both to the ship and the passengers. Val was once again in the forward cargo hold, stood in the open access port scratching his head. The ship was suffering from a severe hangover. The quick patch-up of the controls that he had performed at Argimiliar II had focused entirely upon the short-term. In the wake of it all, the more he looked at the situation, the worse it became. The surrogate control conduits he had rigged through the bus-b nexus would not be able to stand in much longer for their professional counterparts. If they were lucky, the system might last long enough for them to put down on Aurora Prime. Any longer and it would overload completely, causing yet more damage. Necessity appeared to be dictating a lengthy stop-over on the Emperor's Hammer capital; all of the ruined control conduits would need to be disposed of and replaced entirely. Tertiary systems supporting them would need to re-fitted throughout the ship. It would be a week at the least.

A day would be bad enough: in a perfect world, he could land in New Imperial City, offload the wounded, wave goodbye, and lift off within an hour or two, adjusting for refuelling. The risk to him increased proportionally to the time he stayed in the heart of the Emperor's Hammer. Donner was in no position to make any promises of amnesty: after that mission to Eos for Ven-Dikk Ralla four months earlier which Val and his accomplices had been lucky to walk away from, the authorities had been more eager than ever to catch up with Ricaud.

Climbing wearily out of the hole, Val placed back the deck plate and stood, quickly allaying the stiffness that had formed up his spine. The smell of blood and dead flesh that filled the ship was now stronger than ever. The corporal and sergeant roved from person to person as quickly as they could to help stabilise the overall situation as much as possible, but it was clear that some of the passengers were in a worse state than others. There had been two deaths on-board already; their bodies dumped with little dignity into one of the escape pods. It was simply the only place on the ship where they could rot without causing distress to others.

No matter how much he tried, Val could not tear his eyes away from the faces that surrounded him. Tired, resigned, and gaunt eyes stared blankly back. He had fought for six years in the Galactic Civil War as a starfighter pilot, and yet he could not feel self-pity nor prepare himself for what he now saw. The more he tried to console himself as being a hardened war veteran, the more guilty he felt about being so presumptuous and arrogant in such a thought. This was war; real war. This was what it was all about: suffering, pain, and death. For so long he had been a party to this. And most depressingly, he still felt that urge deep down to fly a starfighter and kill others. It was so disconnected. So simple. Seeing all this, he could entirely understand why foot soldiers felt such resentment towards pilots and naval officers. And perhaps most contradictory of all, he felt that same resentment too. Against his own kind, and in an act of mutual inclusiveness, against himself.

Eventually -- after perhaps a minute of staring -- he snapped out of his mesmerisation and returned to the cockpit. Kastaara was running checks on all the systems readouts to ensure that what they saw on the countless dials and counters was actually happening. There was nothing like engaging a flight of A-wings with full shields only to discover that you were, infact, stripped naked, so to speak. "How'd they look?" the Lieutenant asked as she noticed his entry.

"Terrible," Val replied, pale-faced, as he sat down. "There's blood everywhere ... and the stench ... "

"I meant the control conduits," she corrected the misunderstanding as he began to trail off. It took him a second to realise what she was actually referring to, and the colour gradually began to return to his face.

"Oh, the conduits ... they're fine ... sort of. They shouldn't overload before we can reach Aurora Prime. That is, unless too much power strain is placed on them. As long as we fly in a straight line we'll last."

Kastaara nodded acknowledgement. "What about you? You look pretty shaken."

"I'll be okay. I just banged my head pretty badly. And to be honest, we were pretty much on a knife edge back there. I don't think I've made an escape that close since ... since Coruscant, probably," Val looked as though he would trail off again, only this time in nostalgia, rather than shock. Then he laughed. "And that was a close escape that I sincerely regret in hindsight. I just hope that this won't be a similar case. It wasn't half as spectacular, either. Nothing like blasting off from a spaceport, cutting through a furball of Rebel starfighters, piggybacking on a Super Star Destroyer through planetary shield generators, then leaping out to hyperspace ... "

When he looked up, he could see that the Lieutenant was severely confused.

Val smiled apologetically for rambling. "I'm sorry, but you have to let an old man boast about former glories every now and then."

"Old?" she raised an eyebrow. "You can't be two or three years older me, at the most."

"I know that," Val retorted sarcastically. "But I feel like an old man after all I've been through. I feel like Colonel Kessler's granddaddy. And that's not too far from the truth, considering that I had to teach him how to fly, and he also has a thing for sitting on my lap ... "

Casting a horrified look of bemusement back at him, Kastaara stated firmly, "Val Ricaud, you have a diseased mind."

"I do, I really do. But you've got to appreciate the moments of grevity and emotion to get the worthwhile experience of my essentially complex and colourful character. The humour, while often surreal, perverted, or sick by some standards, is simply used to punctuate the action and moments of solitude to prevent boredom. Of course, in a more subtle way, it could be taken as an effort on my part to subconsciously cover up the emotional scars of my past."

"And what about the moments where I don't have a clue what you're talking about?"

"Just hum and nod your head as if you do. It keeps me happy and contented," Val smiled, and looked out to hyperspace. Hyperspace. He had been in this situation barely a matter of days ago; sitting in the cockpit of the Prophecy, gazing out at the bright, transcendinal tunnel of subspace. Back then, he had been carrying a cargo of illegal blasters and explosives for Tokura the Hutt to a dealer on Ord Mantell, who would then act as a middle-man, selling on the arsenal at a higher price wherever he could. Now his mission was one of mercy, rather than mercilessness, transporting the wounded from a besieged farming colony to Aurora Prime.

Confusion flooded him, then, when his thoughts snapped away alongside the receding starlines. They were reverting to realspace, but there was still a day's worth of travel to Aurora Prime. What was happening? He leaned forward and studied the control board out of instinct, but it was obvious. Recent history was intent upon repeating itself further than a mere moment of deja vu. The freighter was being dragged from hyperspace by the icy fingers of an Interdictor.

It was straight ahead: the distinctive, knife-like form silhouetted against a nearby nebula. But it was flanked by an escort. The same triangular shape, but fatter, and much larger. The Interdictor Cruiser's bigger brother: an Imperial-class Star Destroyer.

At first, his obvious thought was that it was one of the many Emperor's Hammer patrols on the main routes in to Aurora. Momentarily, the rising dread in his chest was quelled. But the cold voice that broke over the radio told him otherwise: "This is the Imperial Star Destroyer Berserker. In the name of Supreme Moff Babune, you will surrender immediately ... "

Val cut the radio off before the statement could continue. The postponed dread, with nothing to hold it back, now ballooned up and filled him with despair. Kastaara, without his experience, was still confused, rather than pessimistic. "What's an Imperial Orthodoxy ship doing this deep into Emperor's Hammer space?" she asked, quite reasonably.

"Looking for us," Val responded, then adding guiltily, "looking for me. Everybody on-board is in danger."

"What do you mean?"
"They want to capture me. Or kill me. Either way, if they allow these people to continue on to Aurora Prime, with testimony of one of Babune's ship violating EH borders, the Orthodoxy's relations with the Emperor's Hammer will be ruined, and his plan will be worthless. They'll kill everyone aboard, or keep them prisoners until the entire conspiracy is played through."

Kastaara's jaw fell slightly agape in horror, and she looked again at the two battleships with a distinctive amount more fear in her eyes. "Don't worry," Val promised her, an inexplicable wave of bravado sweeping over him. "I won't let them take anybody else. There's always hope, and I have a knack of getting out of tricky situations whether I like it or not. Anyway, there's an entire TIE Corps training programme up here in my grey matter, along with several tours of duty on the finest ship in the fleet."

"Val, you can't fight two cruisers!"

"Two cruisers and their starfighter compliment," he reminded her with a confident grin, allowing himself to slip more and more into the guise of Val Ricaud the starfighter pilot. "Anyway, there's always Kessler's 12th Rule of Space Combat: the higher the odds are stacked against you, the easier they are to knock over."

"I've been wondering ... where did these Rules of Space Combat come from, exactly?"

"Colonel Kessler taught them to a group of us in the Challenge lounge one evening, after plying him with drinks."

"Colonel Kessler isn't entirely stable, is he?"

"Genius and insanity are very closely linked, Kastaara. But then again, who can claim to be totally sane?"

Before she could answer, he reached out and boosted up the sublight engines to full power. "Now, plot the quickest course out of that Interdictor's gravity well."

She responded immediately, and went to work on the navicomp. Val keyed on the intercomm with a thumb. "Sergeant?" he inquired, and received a grunt from the other end. "We have entered a combat situation. I'd like you to prepare the escape pods for launch, and begin loading those with the best chance of survival on-board. Just in case. You should be able to fit three people in each. Leave one empty for now. Tell the corporal that he might also consider manning the gun turret once again."

"Aye, Cap'n."

He brought his thumb away from the button for the intercomm and brought it back down on the targeting controls. "TIE fighters," he intoned as the sensors tagged a squadron of incoming contacts. "Looks like they've realised that we're not going to be co-operative."

"I've got the course," Kastaara informed him, pointing to the navigation screen. It showed a grey, semi-transparent cone projecting from the Interdictor, and a red line curving up away between the two cruisers, to the safety of blackness. "It appears they're only using their lower gravity well projectors. They must be in a hurry, otherwise they would all be operational."

Val was still staring in disbelief at the display. "That's suicidal! You actually want me to fly up between them?"

"It's the quickest route, like you asked. Why? Doesn't one of your vaunted Rules of Combat cover this?"

Flicking through the mental list, Val found an almost instantaneous answer: "Yes, the 28th Rule: if it's stupid but it works, it's not stupid. But we don't know if that can be applied to this situation."

"Do we have any option other than to find out?"

"Nope," Val replied simply, and brought up a targeting solution on the nearest TIE fighter. It was closer. Closer than he had thought. "But seeing as I'm piloting, and you're left with nothing to do, I suggest you pray. Heavily."

The inter-mixed swarm of TIE fighters and interceptors turned frighteningly quickly from a haze of drive trails in the distance to a screaming cascade of passing ion engines and laser blasts. Val jinked the Prophecy as much as he could, and simply smiled with relief when they emerged from the other side with the gift of survival and the ability to begin fighting back. He looped the YT-1300 up and over.

"We're not going to run for the hyperpoint?"

"Not with these guys on our tail, no. At least, not until I've thinned out their numbers a little."

Putting words into actions, he quickly vaporised one of the swarm, which had now fanned out and broken up as they came back around to make their individual attacks. Both Val and the upper gun turret were ceaseless in their firing. With such a high concentration of targets, it was extremely difficult to shoot and not hit something. TIEs exploded without end in the sky around, often spiralling out of control and hitting one or more of their wingmen. For a while it seemed as though the underdogs had the upper hand ...

Until their opponents finally came through the initial confusion and began striking back. On the first run, the Prophecy was battered by a withering hail of three or four laser blasts every second, for a period of roughly half a dozen seconds. When it ceased, Val murmured, ever-grinning, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking: we are experiencing some slight turbulence ..."

One of the TIE interceptors roared overhead. Val edged upwards, fired, and the ball-cockpit disintegrated. Continuing his vertical motion, he Immelmanned up before spinning off any pursuers and levelling out again, at the same time triggering the forward lasers through a TIE fighter passing above. As the small explosion faded, a warning light blared on the control board. Val checked his rear sensors and swore, finding two interceptors on his tail. He instinctively dived, spun out, looped up, and dived again in an aggressive escape manoeuvre. No luck: the warnings lights flashed on again, indicating a missile lock.

Val saw the near gloom of the Star Destroyer and the brief outline of a plan began to form in his mind, leaving his heart to fill in the gaps through improvisation: the Prophecy shot towards the Berserker at full speed, and pulled away from the hull only at the last minute, weaving narrowly through the turbolaser fire. When the turn was complete, they were once again headed directly back in the direction they had travelled from. The TIE interceptors, coming straight towards him, opened fire. He put the freighter on its side to give the lowest targeting profile. It worked, and the shots went wide, howling by to splash against the Star Destroyer's hull.

As he had guessed, because of the Imperial Orthodoxy's hyperactive Star Destroyer construction scheme, their recruitment programme had been unable to keep up with the demand, and undermanning had forced the Berserker to use automated turbolaser turrets controlled by individual targeting computers. As the misses hit the shields, the optical sensors relayed to the computers the information that the Star Destroyer was under attack. The computers tracked the shots to the source of the fire, and tagged that source as the nearest threat, altering the firing pattern of the turret suitably.

Val put the ship into another dive, but only to allow the Berserker's automated guns a clear shot back at the TIE interceptors. They were caught off-guard, and the starboard member of the pair was split in half by the heavy fire arc. Its wingman banked away, managing to escape the remaining inaccurate fire with ease, and came back around after Val, taking the action of a low yo-yo manoeuvre that avoided the defending shots from the Prophecy's upper quad laser turret, while at the same time allowing a return attack.

Two warning lights were now vying for Val's attention. Kastaara took up their leads, and exclaimed, "The rear deflectors are gone!"

"I see it!" Val shouted and began moving the Prophecy with vicious agility; his hands endlessly racing across the control board to divert and re-divert power to achieve his particular short-term objectives, whether it be manoeuvring, firing, or both. In this case, it was the former. The Prophecy flipped on a side and went into a high-angle, high-power criss-cross turn in front of the TIE interceptor. The Orthodoxy pilot was forced into an equal scissors pursuit to try and keep his aim on the freighter. When he was sure that both ships had fallen into the monotonous pilot of starboard to port to starboard, Val brought his next bank out wider than usual. At the horizontal apex, he halved the power to the sublights, and turned back in at an angle twice as sharp as earlier before punching the throttle to full again. The Prophecy came back in to the scissors behind the TIE interceptor. Unfortunately for the Orthodoxy pilot, unlike Val he had not been taught the tricky manoeuvre personally by Kessler. When he tried to copy it, Val was ready, and opened up ahead of the interceptor's bank. The lasers seared off the fighter's port wing, but a second burst homed in on the cockpit to finish the job and allow the Prophecy to move away from the engagement.

The Prophecy shook as a pair of TIE fighters vectored in from above. Val began to make preparations to deal with them, but found his planning made pre-emptory as the upper laser turret dispatched the two with ease.

"The Star Destroyer is launching more TIEs," Kastaara said urgently as the cockpit view swung around to face the Berserker once again. "We can't fight forever!"

Promptly deciding to agree with her, Val kicked up the sublights with power from the auxiliary systems and made straight for the Star Destroyer. On the way, he shifted his aim over slightly to point at the drive trails emerging from the ship, and carelessly opened fire, relying upon pure luck for any results. Most of the shots whistled through the formations, but a handful ripped into a flight of unlucky TIE fighters, sending them cascading into their tightly-packed squadron-mates. Val kept his finger on the trigger until the laser bank was depleted, and switched all incoming recharge power over to the engines.

The Berserker held its fire until they had passed above the horizontal axis, the computer-controlled gunners being intelligent enough not to shoot through their own launching fighters. Val viscously barrel-rolled the freighter over the port beam of the Star Destroyer, cutting through the turbolaser fire with ease. After that point, every centimetre gained in distance was a centimetre further away from the Berserker, and the Interdictor was not much farther beyond. Once they had passed it, they would be out of the gravity well, and free to enter hyperspace once again.

It was not that simple. Once again, it seemed, fate had conspired against them. The Prophecy began shuddering with a vengeance. Val grappled with the controls, but could get little in the way of a response from them. Something was wrong-

A bang echoed through the ship. At first, Val thought that they had been hit by enemy fire, but it was not the same kind of explosion. It was a high-pitched, jittery bang, from within the ship itself.

The bang repeated itself several times, cycling down in volume with each replay, until it could not be heard. Then it came back, climaxing with an almighty crash of metal, and the Prophecy's engines spluttered out.

"Oh no! Not again!" Val cried and raised his hands up.

"What? What is it?"

He sighed, and checked over the gauges for the power systems and sublights. "It could be a lot of things with this rustbucket, but I'd say all that flying was too much of a strain for the temporary control conduits, and they overloaded, taking the drive system matrix out along with them."

"Can't you fix them again?"

"I'm afraid that I've had to jury-rig so much over the past year to keep this damned ship flying that there's simply nothing left to cannibalise. And if the bus-b nexus has blown, the secondary route links will be wrecked."

"Meaning?"
"No backup systems."

"So we're out of options then?"

"Sweetheart, we're never out of options. We're just extremely low on good ones," Val rubbed at his eyes wearily before unbuckling from his seat and standing. The fire from the Berserker had stopped now. The Star Destroyer was manoeuvring; slipping quietly overhead, trying to position the Prophecy directly beneath the docking bay. "Come on," he said, ushering Kastaara out of the cockpit.

"What are you doing?"

He remained silent as they went down the cockpit corridor to the forward cargo hold. "Sergeant!" he barked at the soldier, leaning over a body in the corner of the hold. He looked up and allowed the limp wrist to drop. "Yes, Cap'n?"

"Have you been able to fill the escape pods?"

"Pretty easily, yeah. Had to take those bodies out first, though, but I managed to get about five people in each. It's a tight squeeze, but ..."

Val nodded gravely, mulling the situation over. Before he had a chance to speak up, Corporal Darkja stepped out of the gunport turret access and approached the three. "What's going on?" he asked.

"You three are getting into the last escape pod," Val informed him.

"What?" Kastaara burst out.

"The Imperial Orthodoxy want me so badly ... perhaps I should put them out of their mercy," he tried his best to smile bravely. "Anyway, for the past year I've been a scoundrel, a coward, and a villain. I'd like to make at least one selfless act in my life."

Obviously struggling to find some argument to throw back at him, Kastaara eventually sighed, and simply -- to his surprise -- hugged him tightly. He stood motionless for a second. Then their first meeting on Argimiliar II returned to him, and he returned the embrace. "What's wrong?" he whispered. "Never seen a chivalrous smuggler before?"

She laughed gently underneath the onset of tears. "As it happens, no."

"Then I'll forgive you," he smiled and let go of Kastaara. They looked at each for a second longer, and before anything else could be said, she motioned for the two other soldiers, and they disappeared in to the far corridor, making their way to the remaining escape pod. Val stood still and looked around at the half-empty cargo hold. He felt as weary and gaunt as the faces that surrounded him; even more so as the sound of rocket booster reached him, and the five escape pods were launched away from the Prophecy. But, at the same time, there was something in him that felt good. Something warm and appeasing. After one year of a world centred around himself, he had acted without selfishness. He had acted as an Imperial officer.

With that thought in mind, he returned to the cockpit. The Berserker filled the cockpit as it began to settle down upon the freighter. The cavernous docking bay was overhead; a large claw-like crane capable of holding corvettes in place, opened wide in anticipation. A familiar sound shifted past him, and the object quickly came into view: a TIE fighter. His eyes lazily followed its course as it tracked along the hull of the Star Destroyer until it reached the hangar bay. It then dived down away from the ship, heading for a bright cluster of stars far below. When the fighter itself was only a tiny drive trail, it emitted a bright lance of green that probed out into space.

One the stars flared, then disappeared.

Horror filled Val as he realised that they were not stars: those were the fleeing escape pods.

"No!" he screamed, and shot up from his seat. The TIE fighter ignored him, and fired again. And again. And again.

Three more stars went dead.

Overshooting his target, the pilot was forced to fly out to a distance to come around again for another pass. He lined up a straight shot, and fired a final linked combination.

The last of the stars faded into the blackness. The TIE fighter began heading back to the Berserker, his mission complete. Val dropped back to the pilot's seat, his entire body numb. A flurry of mental images flashed before his eyes; Kastaara in the confined space of the escape pod, watching helplessly as the TIE fighter dove in at her, lasers blaring; an Imperial pilot, grinning with glee as he pressed his triggers; Supreme Moff Babune, laughing with the pilot.

I'll kill Babune for this! Val vowed. But it was a promise made with pathetic energy. He did not have the strength. There was nothing left inside him. He folded his arms on the control board, put his head down on them, and began sobbing uncontrollably.

Through his tears, he did not notice the new shape lancing from hyperspace ahead. It was identical to the Berserker: large, triangular, and indefinably menacing. The new ship had not even come to a rest less than five kilometres off the bow of the Orthodoxy vessel before a voice came over the radio, strong and reassuring: "This is Rear Admiral Sindar Naranek of the Imperial Star Destroyer Colossus," the voice said with a growl that was quiet, but clear enough. "You are in violation of Emperor's Hammer space. Withdraw immediately, or you will be fired upon."

Val looked up. It all seemed like a dream through the haze of his tears. The TIE Corps Admiral sounded extremely confident facing an equal with the backup of an Interdictor Cruiser.

"Colossus, this is Captain Siloa aboard the Imperial Star Destroyer Berserker. We apologise for our breach of your borders, but we are recovering a dangerous criminal who has killed Orthodoxy personal."

"I don't care," Sindar bit in slow, measured tones. "You don't even have a right to call yourself Imperial. Now get off my turf or you'll be floating home."

It was an extremely direct challenge. Here was a man who obviously had no like for wasting time, or the Orthodoxy. The other captain spent a protracted amount of time summing up the situation. He must have been considering the value of capturing Ricaud weighed against sparking a war with the Emperor's Hammer. And from the time that he spent thinking about it, Val was obviously of some importance.

"Very well," Siloa finally replied in a cold voice. "In the interests of peace, we will withdraw."

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" Sindar asked. "Give me an excuse to vape you and I'll be right there."

"No need to excite yourself, Rear Admiral. We're already leaving ..."

Indeed they were. The Berserker began pulling away from the Prophecy, the hull groaning past as the Star Destroyer picked up speed for its hyperspace point, which seemed to be as far away from the Emperor's Hammer ship as possible.

As the roar of the massive sublight engines began to die away, the Imperial Orthodoxy made one last attempt to deal with Val Ricaud, and a cascade of turbolaser batteries opened up on the freighter. Val braced himself again the control board, but the force of the attack was still powerful enough to throw him to the ground, far enough across the cockpit to be safe when the entire board exploded into flames and filled the room with smoke.

More green turbolaser shots flashed infront of the ship, but they were coming from the opposite direction, heading towards the Berserker. Sindar's laugh came across the radio, albeit heavily distorted by the damaged receiver. The Commodore tut-tutted his Orthodoxy counterpart. "Bad boy," he scolded him. "You should know better."

They were the last words that Val Ricaud heard before passing out.

* * *

"My lord, an incoming message from the Berserker."

Babune turned to face Gharro, summed him up for a moment, and then nodded, preparing himself infront of the holoprojector on the Retribution's bridge. A small blue-green figure appeared standing at one-eighth representation. He knew that on the other side of the transmission, his own form would be triple-size.

"Yes, Captain Siloa?"

"Sir ... we were able to intercept the freighter and disable it, but ..."

Yet more failure. Babune narrowed his eyes. "Yes, Captain Siloa?"

"Be-before we could capture it ... an Emperor's Hammer pa-patrol found us and ... and ... forced us to withdraw."

"Then Ricaud escaped?"
"Ye-yes ... I think so. Probably."

That was it, then. If Ricaud was able to reach Aurora Prime and warn the Emperor's Hammer of Babune's plan in advance, the tables would be severely turned. There was no telling what Grand Admiral Ronin might do under the circumstances. A pre-emptory strike, however, was unlikely. They did not have the resources or the will to engage upon a full-scale war with both the Orthodoxy and the Republic at the same time.

Siloa was distinctly uncomfortable with the silence of Babune's thoughts. "I'm ... I'm sorry, sir. I did my best."

"Apparently your best was not good enough, Captain. What size was this Emperor's Hammer patrol?"

"It was a lone Star Destroyer, sir."

Gharro cringed. To say that such an admission might be a mistake was an understatement. "Captain, did your force not consist of your own Star Destroyer and an Interdictor Cruiser?"

Evidently not entirely stupid, Siloa saw the point that the Supreme Moff was making. "Yes sir, but Interdictors are not built for close-range engagement. And everybody knows how skilled the Emperor's Hammer starfighter pilots are."

No matter what argument he made, Siloa's tactical mind was eclipsed by Babune's comparative genius. True, the Supreme Moff was nowhere near Grand Admiral Thrawn's level, but he had guided the Orthodoxy from a single Star Destroyer fleeing from Endor to a sector-spanning political force. "Are you aware of the current situation between the Emperor's Hammer and the New Republic?" he asked.

"Yes sir," Siloa replied.

"Good. Then you will know that Grand Admiral Ronin's forces are diluted and depleted. Their training programme has had countless corners cut so that they can churn out enough fresh recruits to replace combat losses. Furthermore, their Star Destroyers are incredibly precious to them. Did it not occur to you that for one of those Star Destroyers to be assigned to a mere patrol assignment of a relatively safe area of space was odd? Did it not occur to you that perhaps it was there because it was too undermanned and underskilled to serve on the front-line, and would therefore pose little threat to you?"

"Well, sir ..." Siloa fumbled for an excuse, but not even Gharro had been able to come to such a deduction in the short space of time that Babune had been given. "No, not exactly. The ship's commander seemed very confident of his strength. I suppose he could have been bluffing ..."

"Then he is obviously a more intelligent commander than you," Babune retorted. "Captain, you are to return to Oneve immediately for an inquest to be made into your failure."

Siloa gulped. "Yes, sir."

The holoprojector died out. Babune turned again to Gharro. "Have the inquest find Captain Siloa guilty of cowardice and execute him."

"Yes, my lord."

Babune paused. "It appears that victory has eluded us. What do you think, Colonel?"

"I think next time we should try to leave Ricaud out of our plans altogether."

A smile creased Babune's face, which was an unusual sight in itself. "Yes, quite right. But let us assume that he manages to reach Aurora Prime and warns the Emperor's Hammer, and they believe him. What then?"

Was Babune actually asking him for advice, testing his intelligence, or merely confirming his own thoughts? "They won't attack us," Gharro answered, deciding to go with what he genuinely felt. "They don't have the strength, and they know it. Perhaps a first strike from our own side might be appropriate?"

"Perhaps," Babune agreed, rotating to look out of the nearby viewport at Oneve. "But now is not the time. We may have twice as many Star Destroyers as they, but that is still not enough to face the Sovereign, and they have many more smaller support vessels than we do. There is no guarantee of a victory if we attack now. Not until the Retribution is complete."

"Sir, that may still be many months away ..."

"That is correct, Colonel. But Ronin will not strike, and neither will we. It will be a silent war for the time being. Both sides will bide their time. Patience, Colonel Gharro. I waited forty years to build the Orthodoxy, and only two years so far to bring down the Emperor's Hammer. You must learn patience."

"Yes, my lord. What then, do we do for the time being?"

"Put our intelligence forces on alert, and increase our Star Destroyer building programmes proportionally to the training of new recruits."

"And Ricaud?"
Babune smiled gingerly. "I think he has earned the right to live for the time being. That is, if the Emperor's Hammer feels the same way."

"Don't you think from past experience that he'll be trouble again in the future?"

"Indeed, Colonel, indeed. I'm quite looking forward to our next encounter ... I shall be sure to be prepared next time."

There was an unmistakable menace with which the Supreme Moff had pulled off that line. Gharro could not help but feel sorry for any man who attracted the wrath of Lardo Babune.

"Colonel, have my shuttle prepared. We will return to the surface. We have a great deal to plan ..."

* * *

"You're extremely lucky, you know that, son?"

Val's eyes inched upon, and he instantly felt the splitting pain inside his head, like a bad hangover. He was in a small but comfortable room. There was a bed in the corner, upon which he was currently lying in his jumpsuit, and across on the other side, an open door leading into a smaller room containing a shower and toilet. On his left there were over half a dozen metres to a reasonably-sized food storage unit next to a galley and elongated table. A large viewport dominated the wall that the head of his bed rested against. The rim of a planet cut across the corner of the starry vista.

Standing at the foot of the bed was a genial, grinning figure in an Emperor's Hammer uniform. Val instantly identified the rank insignia as that of a Rear Admiral. He had to fight down the urge to salute. He wasn't an Imperial officer any more. "Lucky?" Val said, finding to his surprise that his voice was hoarse and crackly.

"Sure," smiled the man. "With the Colossus so low on man-power, they -- that is, Fleet Command -- didn't think they could risk sending out a precious Star Destroyer on the front-line until it was up to scratch. So we got assigned patrol duty. We were responding to a call for an escort in Pirath when that Interdictor inadvertently yanked us out of hyperspace."

"You didn't sound all that surprised when you confronted them."

"Surprised! Ha!" the Rear Admiral laughed. "We were caught with our proverbial pants down. Hell, if it had come down to a fight, we would have been done for. What few pilots we had were half-drunk in the lounge at the time. Thankfully I ain't a Rear Admiral for nothing, and my bluff just happened to work."

"Remind me never to play Sabacc with you."

He sat down on the corner of the bed. "Actually, I'm a little disappointed we didn't get a fight. Some of our pilots could do with getting their teeth cut. Oh, I'm Rear Admiral Sindar Naranek, the boss of this tub, by the way. But you can just call me The Guy Who Saved Your Life."

"Well thank you, The Guy Who Saved Your Life," Val said with the flourish of a smile. "I think I like you already."

"Most people do," Sindar shrugged. "It's a personality trait. I only hope I won't regret being The Guy Who Saved Your Life."

Val raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Why is that?"

"We ran an identicheck when we brought you aboard," Sindar began, his smile beginning to fade. "When we sent Fleet Command a message saying we'd picked you up from those Orthodoxy vultures, and happened to drop your name in ... well, to coin a term, they went apeshit."

"I'll bet a few of them had heart attacks, too," Val said with satisfaction.

"Yeah," Sindar agreed. "They'll probably have me up before the Inquisitors for manslaughter. At any rate, Intelligence Division soon found out about it all, and ordered us to return to Aurora Prime. They're sending a man to meet us right now. He should arrive within a few minutes."

Aurora Prime? "What about the freighter? I mean, the people on-board?" Val remembered urgently.

"They're fine," Sindar reassured him. "They filled up our medical ward ... but they're fine. Ship's Doctor is working overtime, but he could do with some work, anyway. The distinct lack of combat around here has given him something of a free ride. I assume that quite how a fugitive-turned-smuggler ends up carrying a shipload of wounded Hammer's Fist troopers in a disabled freighter about to be boarded by an Imperial Orthodoxy Star Destroyer is an extremely long story."

"Absolutely."

Sindar grunted. "Thought so. Hopefully you might bore the Green Slime to death with it," he said wistfully, using the common TIE Corps slang for the Intelligence Division.

"You don't like Intel or the Imperial Orthodoxy. You're a man after my own heart," Val smiled.

Seeming offended at the use of both terms, Sindar grimaced. "I have my reasons for both dislikes: Intel because they're just Intel. And the Orthodoxy because I've been in this fleet long enough to remember that there was a time when they weren't so friendly to the Emperor's Hammer ... I owe Lardo Babune for a good few friends who are now free atoms."

Val looked through the viewport out to the stars, "Me too."

Kastaara ...

Something bleeped. Sindar looked down, and took a small communicator from his pocket. "Yes?"

"Pel here, sir," a small voice said. "A shuttle from the surface just landed. There's a Major Indrihar of Intel requesting to see Captain Ricaud immediately."

"Very well," Sindar sighed. "Show him up."

"I'd love to, sir," Pel replied sarcastically, and the comm frequency cut out. The Commodore pointed at the device and grinned.

"My Wing Commander," he informed Val. "He has very similar dislikes to you and I. You'd like him, too."

"Can I ask you something, Admiral?"

"Shoot."

"Have you purposefully gathered a like-minded crew around you, or is it just pure coincidence?"

Choosing his words with care, Sindar said with a devilish smile, "I find that it keeps arguments and disputes to an absolute minimum. Now, can I ask you something? Your ship's log says that you were heading from Argimiliar II. You were on-planet during the siege?"

With no argument against replying honestly, Val said, "Yes, I was. Why do you ask?"

"General Donner is an old friend. The last time I spoke with him, his unit was posted on Argimiliar II ..."

"Donner's men are still fighting. Infact, he was the one who was able to get us off-planet with as many wounded as we could carry. I'll say one thing for him ... he's determined to get himself killed."

Sindar smiled. "That's the General Donner I know, for sure. I only wish I could have done something for him. The fleet is under strength, though. We're having enough trouble defending the Republic's renewed attacks in the Minos Cluster, let alone liberating a planet from an entire sector force. I've even been told that Command is going to recall the Fleet Reserves into active duty."

"The reserves? Ouch ... "

"Hmm. But what was the situation like on the planet?"

"To tell the truth ... pretty bad. There have been no food supplies since the invasion, and with the equipment of self-sufficient farming not yet fully in place, they can feed only half the population at best. The Rebels bombard the front-line every night. They don't attack the main colony, of course; even the New Republic isn't stupid enough to shoot up the people who they're going to want supporting them when they take over. And they will take over. It's only a matter of how long Donner's men can hold out for."

"You're absolutely right. You won't have heard, of course, because you've been out cold for the whole day it's taken us to get back to Aurora Prime, and the news only just broke."

"Heard what?"

"The New Republic overran the colony only half an hour ago. Argimiliar II is theirs now. The newsnets are keeping quiet about our causalities, of course. But knowing Donner, he probably fought to the last man," a glaze began to cover Sindar's eyes. "That's another friend lost to the Rebellion. Not the last, no doubt."

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and two uniformed officers stepped inside. Sindar rose from the bed and saluted, "Major Indrihar, I presume."

Indrihar took a further step forward. He was tall -- taller than Ricaud by a good inch or two -- but certainly not in an imposing sense. His frame was thin, and could be considered lanky. Definitely Intel, thought Val.

"It's nice to meet you, Rear Admiral Naranek. How is the prisoner?" Indrihar tried to peek at Val over the Commodore's shoulder.

"Captain Ricaud is not a prisoner, Major. He is a guest aboard the Colossus, and while he's on my ship, you will treat him as such. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Admiral. I assure you that there is no need to worry for Captain Ricaud's welfare. While some of my colleagues may prefer the more ... aggressive ... styles of questioning, I like to consider myself much more progressive. Might I be able to talk to him in private?"

Sindar looked to Pel, who simply frowned. "I'll be on the bridge if you need me, Major," Sindar said as he stepped past. He paused at the door and turned to Val. "It was a pleasure talking with you, Captain Ricaud. I hope to have the opportunity to do it again sometime."

"I'm not sure," Val said, looking up at Indrihar. "You'll have to ask the Major here if they have visiting rights on Setii."

The Commodore smiled, and shut the door after him as he left with his Wing Commander. The room fell silent. Indrihar walked over to the galley and pulled out a low stool from underneath the table, dragging it over to the bed and seating himself. "You're far too pessimistic, Lieutenant Commander Ricaud."

"If you knew anything about me, you'd know that's not my title any more."

Indrihar smiled coldly. "That's where you're wrong. I know everything about you. That's why I know that you still long to be called Lieutenant Commander."

Now that sent a shudder down Ricaud's spine. As much as he was unsure about this gawky intelligence operative, he knew that what he said was true. And it was something he himself had only come to realise within the past days, during his time with Kessler on Argimiliar II.

"Feel a little naked, don't you, Ricaud? Mentally, I mean. Having me see right through you."

"It is a little disturbing, yes."

Indrihar laughed. "You wouldn't know how relieved I am. I spent months building up your psychological profile."

The laugh had sounded hearty enough, and did serve to endear the Major a little more to Ricaud. But he could not be sure if that was not just a psychological ploy as part of the interrogation. He had worked with intelligence agents before ... for a brief time, he had even been one of them. He knew how they operated.

"So, what shall we talk about?" asked Indrihar. "I mean, I don't exactly need to get a confession off you for anything."

"We might talk about why you're here, if that is the case."

"That's a good question. It deserves a good answer: no matter what our reputation may be, the EH Intelligence Division is very effective and very good. And who says that we don't spin a little of that reputation ourselves, to mislead our enemies? But that is a different matter. We aren't blind. Ever since Supreme Moff Lardo Babune began getting so friendly with the Emperor's Hammer, we've been concerned. Those veterans amongst us aren't likely to forget the small skirmishes with the Orthodoxy a couple of years ago. Small, but bitter. If we can build a psychological profile of you, don't you think we can also build one of somebody we know so much about, like Babune?"

"I should say that with the amount of publicity he gives himself, you know what he's going to have for breakfast."

"Yes ... he's going to have us for breakfast, Lieutenant Commander ... if he could have his way, that is. We know from his profile, and from past experience, that Babune is not to be trusted. Whatever he appears to be doing is inevitably quite far from what he intends to actually do. The Grand Admiral, of course, won't listen to our concerns. He's quite convinced that with Babune's support, he can crush the New Republic's forces in this area and finally take the Minos Cluster. When Babune began his overtime construction of Star Destroyers six months ago, we were doubly worried. The Supreme Director stepped up insertions into the Orthodoxy by three fold. But at the same time, Babune's own intelligence clamped down. All we were able to get in the way of intel that we knew wasn't false was some vague links with the Farinni Syndicate."

Val smiled. "I'll bet you didn't like Babune's people keeping you in the dark."

"Quite honestly, you're right. We didn't take kindly to being beaten. The more we failed to get results, the more we probed, and the more we probed, the tighter Babune's counter-intelligence got. Of course, then you came up trumps."

"I came up trumps?" Val repeated, confused.

"Perhaps I should say, one of the few people we still have out there looking for you came up trumps. They had been able to track you to Nar Shaddaa, but you were long gone. When their underworld links informed them you were on a smuggling mission to Ord Mantell, they headed out after you."

"But I wasn't there," Val continued for him.

"Exactly," Indrihar smirked. "They backtracked the route when Ord Mantell came up empty, and found the debris of some Orthodoxy TIEs in a system too remote to house a base. It was plain you must have been intercepted, but gotten away. Considering there were some remnants of your own ship's hull, we also knew you must have been damaged. There were only a few nearby systems you could escape to for repairs, and it was an easy job to check through starport logs to find you'd put down on Argimiliar II. Then we were lucky enough to have an agent in the port itself, who was involved in an anti-smuggling operation, and happened to see one of the Orthodoxy's press-gangs blackjack you. Then the ship you were taken to was attacked and destroyed a few hours later, and two shuttles were seen departing. We put a lead on both, of course. And you went straight to the Farinni Syndicate, in the Nal Hutta system. Then you return to Argimiliar II, at which point we lose all track of you due to the siege. Three days later, you resurface, half-way to Aurora Prime and about to be boarded by an Orthodoxy Star Destroyer."

"I'm still confused. This seems to be a pretty lengthy explanation as to why you're here."

"Yes, it is rather. But I'm explaining everything now so that you won't be confused later on. But don't worry, I'm getting to the point, or rather more a summary: we know that Babune is up to something. We can't find out what that something is exactly. But we do know that he wants you badly. Preferably alive, but if not, then dead. We also know that you paid a visit to his suspected suppliers, the Farinni Syndicate. A couple of days after you leave Nal Hutta, Tokura the Hutt is deposed as head of the Syndicate by his cousin, Khalber the Hutt. Then you go back to Argimiliar II, which is under siege by the New Republic. I somehow don't think all this happening at the same time is a coincidence. You're involved. And if you can shed any light on what Babune is doing ..." the words seemed to stop dead in his throat.

"Go on, Major," Val urged him with a wolfish smile. "You can say it if you try."

Indrihar frowned. "If you can help us figure out Babune's plans, the High Inquisitor has agreed to give you a full pardon. Of course, nobody else will know that. The official line will be that you are pardoned because of what you did for those wounded on Argimiliar II."

Cocking his head in a perfect display of utter nonchalance, Val saw how lucky this window of opportunity was. He had intended to warn the Emperor's Hammer of Babune's plan at any rate. Not only was he fortunate enough to have them willing to listen, but they would reward him as well. "You've certainly got everything worked out, Major."

"I have to. It's my job."

"You know, I hear that the fleet is having a lot of trouble. The ships are under-manned, and so many corners have been cut on the training programme to get new recruits out quick enough that the talent that used to make up for numbers simply isn't there any more. Even the reserves are getting called in."

"Your point being?"

"With all their problems, I'm sure the TIE Corps would love to have a free addition to its numbers; a pilot with experience as an officer, and some skill in the cockpit."

Indrihar was aghast. Val liked that. For the first time during the conversation, he had the upper hand. "You want your commission back?"

"You're pretty smart for Green Slime, Major. That's right, I want my commission back. You know me, and you know that I want to be an Imperial pilot again. I'm sure that your reference will be enough to convince the Flight Office to have me back," Val spoke quite innocently, trying not to assume any air of confidence. He did not want Indrihar's sense of superiority threatened. "If it helps in any way, I don't expect much. I can start over as a Sub-Lieutenant or Cadet. You can even put me on probation. I just want to fly a TIE again."

"Do you realise what you're asking me to do?"

"Yes, I do. And I'm terribly sorry for any inconvenience it might cause you. But that's all I ask for."

"And you know what Babune's up to?"
"Every little detail. Real cloak-and-dagger stuff. You'd love it. Except, I'm not all that sure that Intel Division would put it to the best of use. You see, my information must be acted upon immediately, and based upon past experience, Intel have trouble comprehending the word urgency. Everything they do is slow and painstaking. They think in months and years, not seconds and minutes like a starfighter pilot. So there is one more request I'd like to make ... "

* * *

"He wants what?"

Major Indrihar rolled his eyes and repeated, "An audience with the Imperial Senate. He wants to speak to the entire Senate."

Chancellor Nighthawk stared back at the intelligence officer from the other side of his desk on Aurora Prime, and looked to the other man standing infront of him, wearing a bland tunic. "The entire Senate?" he said, directing the question at the civilian, who had yet to speak.

"Yes, sir."

Gradually, the Chancellor of the Senate seemed to begin to recover from the blow. "Gentlemen, I hope you realise how irregular this is. The Fleet Commander only recently formed the Senate. He thought that with the majority of personnel being non-native to Epsilon Sector, it might be a good idea to select one person to represent each group -- Coruscant, Corellian, Churban, Auroran, and what have you -- in a body which could discuss problems confronting the fleet, act as a think-tank, and be a body dedicated to intellectual and cultural development. It is not intended to be a tool with which to scare-monger."

"I realise that, sir. But as you stated, the Senate represents each ethnic group that makes up the fleet. They can easily spread the word to those that they represent. The entire Emperor's Hammer needs to be made aware of the threat that Babune poses quickly."

The Chancellor gave a worn and haggard sigh. Val was beginning to discover the pitfalls of debating with a man whose job it was to do so constantly. "Alright, I'll accept that as a germane argument. But there are other problems. As I also stated, the Senate is a relatively new body. We are still undergoing organisation into a viable form with which to achieve the objectives that Grand Admiral Ronin has set us. And not every group has a Senator yet. For instance, there are plenty of Alderaanians in the service, but we are still debating whether or not to allow a representative for a planet that is nothing more than an asteroid field now."

Val barely stopped himself from cringing at the description of his beloved home planet.

"The Senate is only this minute engaging in its first proper full session. A session that I have been called out of with great annoyance to be talking with you now," Nighthawk continued. "It is certainly not ready for the kind of responsibilities that you would be placing upon it by giving it the decision on this matter. There are already enough problems, and it might be the case of the feather that broke the bantha's back. I have to ask myself if I'm willing to take that risk."

"Likewise, Chancellor, that is a valid argument," Val gave him the point, not wanting to seem presumptuous. "And I agree that it is a risk. But you must weigh that up against another risk: that if we do not act soon, the Imperial Orthodoxy will invade the Emperor's Hammer and there will be nothing we can do to defend ourselves. You must ask yourself which is the lesser of two evils."

Harrumphing in something akin to surrender, Nighthawk turned back to the intelligence officer. "And what do you think, Major Indrihar?"

The Major shrugged defensively, obviously not expecting to be dragged into the discussion at this point. "I think that the man standing next to me right now has information that could very well save the Emperor's Hammer. He has decided that the only manner in which he wishes to give this information is to the Imperial Senate. If that is what we must do to discover the Orthodoxy's plans, then I for one would urge you to accede to his demands."

Demands? Indrihar made it sound like he, the Chancellor, the Senate, and the entire Emperor's Hammer were being held to ransom by Ricaud. In effect, perhaps that was the case from a certain point of view, but it was certainly nothing intended to be malicious.

Once again back to Ricaud: "What do you intend to do, exactly, if you get inside that Hall?"

"Simply point out the threat, and explain what it is that Babune intends to do. And then leave it to the Senators to decide if action should be taken, and if so, of what sort."

"I see," Nighthawk nodded thoughtfully. "And what if they decide to do nothing? What if they decide to ignore you?"

"Then the Emperor's Hammer will be dead within a year, but I will know that I did my best to save it. At any rate, I would have even less chance of success if my message reached the ears of High Command or the Fleet Commander himself. The Senators are ready and willing to listen. They represent the people who actually make up this fleet, and they will make the choice that they feel is best for those people, not for budgets or resources or diplomacy."

Nighthawk rapped his fingers across the table. He was evidently torn between the two courses of action. "You make a very convincing argument, Ricaud. You should be a Senator yourself."

Val smiled pleasantly. "If you decide that the "asteroid belt" I call home can be legally represented, I might just keep you to that."

"One last question: am I going to regret this?"

"Sir, the only way you will regret this is if the Senate decides not to stop Babune. And if that happens, every citizen and soldier of the Emperor's Hammer will be regretting it with you."

The Chancellor sighed and rose from his desk. "Alright Ricaud, you'll get your audience with the Senate. Come on, we had better catch them before the session is over. I only hope that Kryder has been able to keep order in my absence. I suppose you had better come too, Major."

Indrihar's permanent frown deepened as Nighthawk made his way past the pair and through the door. Val quickly followed, and the intelligence agent had no other choice but to tag along. From the small consultation room -- one of several provided for the many deals and discussions held privately by Senators outside of the main chamber -- they went out into the huge baroque hall filled with the throng of lesser bureaucrats and aides making their way about on whatever business was at hand. The opposite side of the hallway, parallel to the consultation rooms and smaller corridors leading off deeper into the Senate building, was a pronounced curve, cut through with skylights and windows that allowed thick slants of sunlight in. Outside in the Auroran day, the tall spires of New Imperial City centre arched above into the clouds. The building was set amongst them as a low-slung mushroom-like construct that had somehow staked out a place for itself and kept the towers at a reasonable distance with the expansive plaza on which milled thousands of people, dotted between with water features, gardens, benches, and vendors.

Catching them a little surprised after walking for what seemed like an eternity down the large hallway, Nighthawk made a tight split for an inconspicuous corridor cut into the inward-facing wall. Indrihar and Ricaud altered their course -- the Major keeping a beady eye on the smuggler -- and followed him down his chosen direction. At the end of the corridor were stood two guards in decorative blue robes and elongated helmets topped by a plume of feathers. The pikes that they held were unfamiliar to Val, although he guessed they probably contained a high-capacity charge in the tip. They remained motionless as Nighthawk reached the end of the corridor, tapped in a number sequence on a keypad off to one side, and a hidden door opened up. Val and Indrihar followed him in, to find themselves in a bland repulsorlift. The doors closed, and it was possible to feel the brief kick of upward acceleration before the inertial dampners came into effect and cut out internal g-forces. The journey lasted for all of eight seconds before the doors once again opened and the three stepped out.

They found themselves in the seating area atop the central speaker's box in the main rotunda. While Nighthawk was nonplussed, Val and Indrihar took a few seconds to adapt to the sight around them. The Senate chambers were huge, with countless Senators and their aides sitting in the circular assembly area. For all intents and purposes it was a smaller copy of the Imperial Senate on Coruscant, but it was no less spectacular for it. The noise was terrific; the murmur and hubbub of hundreds of voices, focused and echoed by the chamber walls. Small camera droids floated around the elevated podium in the centre where the three stood. There were two short steps down from the repulsorlift to a group of seats, occupied only by a robed senior senator. He turned from the current discussion as the three approached.

"Kryder, how is the session going?"

"Well enough," he replied, looking at the two others. "It seems that the senators are already getting the feel for the political landscape. No major disputes yet."

"That's a good omen," Nighthawk smiled, and introduced his company. "This is Val Ricaud, an independent trader, and Major Subhash Indrihar, of Intelligence Division. Gentlemen, may I introduce my vice chairman, Deputy Chancellor Kryder."

"Ricaud ..." Kryder mulled the name over. "I've heard of you before ... you're the guy who went down for that Coruscant botch-up, aren't you?"

Val nodded with a grin. "I got the treason charge. I just didn't stick around long enough for the formalities."

"Captain Ricaud is here to make an address to the Senate," Nighthawk intervened as he moved for his central seat. "He believes that they should be made aware of the Imperial Orthodoxy's plans for the invasion of the Emperor's Hammer."

"Sounds more than a little bit melodramatic to me," Kryder snorted.

"Perhaps. But Major Indrihar here is quite convinced that we should allow Ricaud to speak."

"Sir ... are you sure this is wise?"

"Not entirely, no," Nighthawk responded and turned to the microphone pickup at the front of his box. The matter being discussed seemed to have died down, and the two floating platforms of the opposing Senators had returned to their stations. "My apologies for my brief absence," Nighthawk said, his voice booming out across the chamber, "but a pressing matter has arisen to confront the Senate. Therefore, I am lending my speaking rights as Senator for Aurora Prime to a guest speaker ... Valtane Ricaud."

The Chancellor motioned for Ricaud to step forwards to his place at the microphone. There were a few titters of polite applause, a great deal of confused murmuring, and some very clear boos and jeers. Some of them obviously knew of him already. He was not exactly sure what to say. He had not come with a speech prepared. Infact, he had not even been sure his plan would work.

"Delegates of the Imperial Senate, I sincerely wish I could come to you under better circumstances. And I also wish that an individual with more respect and creditability could be carrying to you the message that I bring. Nevertheless, I am afraid that I will simply have to suffice.

"I am sure that anybody aware of the situation in this portion of the Outer Rim will realise that there are three main political players: the Emperor's Hammer, the New Republic, and the Imperial Orthodoxy. The latter of those three has been more than a little subdued in the recent past. Two years ago, the Orthodoxy made a grab for power, and tried to invade our space. Their forces were weak, however, and the TIE Corps fended them off in a series of bitter skirmishes on the border. But the ambition of their leader, Supreme Moff Lardo Babune, was not dampened by this defeat. Ever since then, he has been plotting and scheming for another way in which to take over the Emperor's Hammer ..."

"I object!" a new voice cut in as one of the platforms floated into the centre. "The Imperial Orthodoxy have been strong allies of the Emperor's Hammer. If it were not for their support, we would be unable to fend off the New Republic from the Minos Cluster!"

Chancellor Nighthawk leaned over to the microphone from his seat next to Ricaud. "The chair does not recognise the Senator for Thyferra at this time. Please return to your station."

The Senator reluctantly moved back from the centre "Thank you for leading me on to my explanation," Val continued. "Some of you must have wondered why, two years after their first attempted invasion, the Imperial Orthodoxy were suddenly so friendly towards the Emperor's Hammer. They came at the fleet's greatest hour of need, as the New Republic renewed its offensive in the Minos Cluster, and they offered aid and support. But Supreme Moff Babune is not to be trusted. There was an ulterior motive. He still wishes to invade the Emperor's Hammer, but this time he has decided to do it less directly than before. He plans to use his friendship with the fleet to reach the stage where Orthodoxy ships are patrolling EH space itself. At this point, with an entire strike force in place inside Aurora Sector, the web he has so carefully weaved would be pulled in. Orthodoxy vessels already help with the policing of anti-smuggling laws on our borders. Babune needed something to inspire High Command's desperation even further. A crushing defeat that would make his offer of internal patrols even more attractive. So he conspired to have the New Republic invade one of the Emperor's Hammer's planets ... Argimiliar II."

"That's preposterous!" a voice exclaimed, another platform moving to the centre. "How could the Orthodoxy make the Republic do that?"

"As I understand it from the Deputy Chancellor," Nighthawk said impatiently into the microphone. "The Senator for Kessel has already used his speaking rights for this session. Would you like to request additional time?"

"No, Chancellor," the Senator stood down and his platform moved away. Nighthawk nodded for Val to carry on.

"Actually, I will answer the Senator's question. It is at first difficult to comprehend how the Orthodoxy could manipulate the Republic to such a feat, but Babune's intelligence is not to be misunderestimated. As the Senate may know, the Republic's invasion of Argimiliar II took place at the moment when the planet's defences were at their weakest. As Major Indrihar tells me, counter-espionage measures ensured that the Republic did not discover this weakness in Argimiliar's defence schedule as the Star Destroyer Challenge briefly departed to collect supplies. Yet somehow, they did find out. Although they do not know it, they found out from the Imperial Orthodoxy; several days ago, a stolen Orthodoxy shuttle acquired by a defecting citizen arrived in Republic space. Babune's spies told him of the defection in advance, and he engineered an elaborate set-up to force the unwitting victim to escape the Emperor's Hammer in one of his shuttles. On-board this shuttle's computer was the complete defence schedule for the TIE Corps, supplied to the Orthodoxy as part of their alliance so that their assistance with Corps border patrols would be made easier and more efficient. As you might expect, when the shuttle arrived in the Republic, they checked the computer for useful intel as per standard procedure. And they came across the defence schedule, and the glaring gap left at Argimiliar II by the Challenge's absence. What else could they be expected to do but muster a fleet and invade?

"So with Argimiliar II's capture, we enter Babune's endgame. All that is left for him to do is open diplomatic channels with the Lord Ambassador, offer his ships to patrol Emperor's Hammer space to alleviate depleted TIE Corps resources, and then position his pieces. Then ... pure sabacc. He takes the pot."

Another platform rose to the centre, but the Senator's voice was not as aggressive our outraged as the previous interruptions. "May I ask how you came across this information?"

Nighthawk was about to put down the interjection but Val stopped him with a hand. "That's a perfectly reasonable question. To be honest, it was all by a great amount of luck. Bad luck, in my view. In my work as a trader over the past year, I have stumbled inadvertently across various strands of Babune's web. Through piecing together the recent events, I have come to find the truth. Everything I know, including a recorded conversation with Tokura the Hutt, a major player in Babune's plan, is contained on a datachip I will turn over to the authorities."

"And what do you expect us to do about this?"

"The Senate holds great power. True, not administratively speaking, but it holds sway with the common man of the fleet. And that is perhaps the stronger power. The Senate can make a decision. It can choose action, if it wants to stop Babune. I feel it my responsibility to give it that choice."

Contented, the Senator's platform returned voluntarily to its station. Val looked to Nighthawk. He had done all that he could. Like so much that had happened to him recently, the rest lay in the hands of fate. He took an empty seat, and the Chancellor moved back to the microphone. "You have all heard the grave charges that Captain Ricaud has made of the Imperial Orthodoxy. And with evidence to back up his claims, I have little choice but to believe him. It is therefore the responsibility of this Senate to decide action."

A platform that Val recognised as the Senator for Thyferra returned once again to the centre of the chamber. "I do not believe that Babune could do this ... we must appoint a commission to investigate this matter."

"If Ricaud is to be believed," another Senator entered, "by the time a commission presents its findings, the Emperor's Hammer and this Senate Hall will both be rubble. I doubt they would discover anything different from what we have just been told, at any rate. I suggest an immediate declaration of war upon the Imperial Orthodoxy."

Three platforms now orbited the main rotunda. "While that may seem appropriate, the fleet does not have the resources to embark upon a full-scale war on two fronts. A wiser course might be to cut off diplomatic links with the Imperial Orthodoxy, impose an embargo upon their space, and begin to make preparations for the eventuality of armed confrontation, should it come to that."

"Corsin seconds the motion."

"The motion has been seconded," Chancellor Nighthawk confirmed. "There will be a recess for further discussion outside of the chamber. We will reconvene again in one hour and vote upon the matter."

He brought a gavel down, and Ricaud's audience with the Imperial Senate was over. He only hoped that what he had been able to do had been enough. Whatever happened now, there was some reassurance in the knowledge that his fate lay once again with the Emperor's Hammer. He was home.

"I want to see that datachip when this is over," Indrihar leaned over as Nighthawk and Kryder rose to leave. "I can't allow Senators to see vital information like this before Intelligence Division do."

"Major, I'm afraid that you can't contain this matter to the level of your own private domain where it can be easily controlled. It's too big for you, and it's too big for me. I for one am glad that my shoulders don't carry the weight any more. Who knows, I may even come out of this a hero."

"You're lucky Ricaud. Very lucky."

"I wouldn't have it any other way. Shall we grab lunch during the recess? I'm famished."

* * *

Feathering the throttle, Kessler slowly brought the repulsorlifts on-line and set the Corel's Dream down with a thud on the plascrete landing apron. Outside, it was getting ready to be a beautiful day on Aurora Prime. As the sun began its ascent from the horizon, the sky was beginning to glow a bright, ethereal blue, marked only by the low, fluffy pockets of cloud created by the vents on skyscrapers and towers that had a tendency to form their own micro-weather cells.

Kyle blew out an almighty sigh, letting out all the anxieties of the two-day journey from Argimiliar II, and cut the power. The hum of systems and electronics that formed a subtle background to the cockpit faded. All that was audible was the dull roar of the sky traffic outside, like the crashing of waves upon the ocean. He could see a team of medics sprinting out from the main building of the Palpatine Memorial Starport with the flotsam and jetsam of newsnet journalists and holovid operators in their wake.

Captain Jardain, the officer that General Donner had assigned to the Dream, quickly ducked his head in the cockpit and grinned. "Nice one boss. Looks like we made it."

"Yeah, you too Dodan," Kessler smiled wearily back. "Pleasure flying with you."

"Ditto. Well, I'd better start getting these slackers offloaded," the officer disappeared, leaving Kyle on his own in the cockpit. It had been an eventful few days. For the past year, he had flown his little ship from one end of the galaxy to the other with relatively little incident. In some ways he had enjoyed the peace and quiet -- after all, that was the point of retirement, was it not? -- but at the same time, he missed the action and adventure of the TIE Corps. Perhaps it was for that same reason that he was flying a freighter, desperately scouring the stars for another way to have his "hormones placated," as Risua had once put it so very eloquently. Sitting on an Auroran landing apron with a shipful of wounded, it felt very similar to the countless times he had returned from a combat mission and put his fighter down on the Challenge flight deck. He had often sat in the cockpit for several minutes afterwards, contemplating whatever had happened. This mission, he had a lot more than usual to contemplate.

He had lost another good friend. The entire journey through hyperspace he had been unable to get rid of the mental image of the stricken Profit's Prophecy, helplessly watching as the Rebel fleet closed in around it. But he had not been helpless. He could have turned around and fought off the New Republic.

All of them?
To protect a friend and the wounded in his charge, yes. TIE Corps never leave one of their own. My duty, my responsibility, as an officer.

But you're not an officer any more, Kyle Kessler. You're a bitter old wash-out flying a rust-ridden junk tug who has lost too many friends and too many loves to know any better any more.

Best not to blame himself. Why not blame Val? What had happened to his knack of getting out of every situation, no matter the odds? Why hadn't his luck pulled through this time?

Don't shirk responsibility, Kess. Face up to the consequences of your decisions.

As a commander, he had made decisions before which had killed people. Some of them, but not all, close friends like Val Ricaud. Back then, he had had the comforting pillow of loyalty to the Empire to lie back on as an excuse not to feel anguish at the deaths he brought about. They knew what they were getting into when they joined up. They died for the good of the Empire. But he was no longer in the Empire. He could no longer use it as an excuse.

What did Val Ricaud die for? A cause which had abandoned him? And who forced him to do it? Who forced him to fight and die? I did.

He did not have time for this. Like every other good pilot lost to the Rebellion, he would drink to the memory of Val Ricaud in some two-bit bar on Aurora Prime with Kerrigan and Van Basten. With bitterness though, he knew that he would be in actuality drinking away the memory. As he had done with all the other men and women had had killed.

Like he had killed Kayta.

I don't have time for this. Not now. I have to help these people.

When will you have time? You can't put off your conscience forever. You may have saved a handful of people, but how many more died on Argimiliar II?

Choosing to ignore his thoughts, Kessler stood and left the cockpit. "Ah, boss!" Jardain shouted as he caught sight of him. "Could you give us a hand with this one?"

Kessler went sheepishly over to Jardain, who had hauled up one of the wounded by their armpits. It was one of the civilians, a small girl fast asleep despite the ruckus of moving bodies as the contents of the ship were offloaded to the waiting medics. Kyle smiled, "Sure, but can we be a little more gentle? Don't want to wake the little angel up ..."

Jardain stared at the Colonel as if he had said something shocking. "Boss ... she's dead."

"Oh ... I ..." he looked in disbelief at the body. He could have sworn that he saw her chest rise and fall in the pattern of breathing. "Are you sure?"

"I know a corpse when I smell it," Jardain grinned. "We in the Hammer's Fist have a saying: no beat, cold meat. It's kinda universal. Could you get the legs?"

Kyle bent down and picked up the other end of the girl by her feet. He could not take his eyes off her face; it was a vision of perfect tranquillity, unbecoming of the hellish blood-soaked corridors of the Dream. Jardain guided him down the boarding ramp and down on to the landing apron. One of the doctors immediately rushed to meet them, checked the girl for a pulse, and stuck his thumb dispassionately in the direction of a waiting body bag. They dumped the child next to it, and allowed the medical droids to deal with the rest.

Jardain stepped away, dusted himself off, and went back up into the ship. Kessler stood dumb-founded, his eyes stuck on the girl to the last moment as the zip on the bag went up in the ultimate act of finality. Snapping out of his trance, he then rubbed his hands over his face to try and bring himself back around to reality.

As he raised his hands up, however, he discovered that they were covered in blood. He stared in shock and disgust, the substance running down his fingers and arms to the rolled-up sleeves around his elbows. He looked from the blood to the faceless body bag. Upon it, he could impose the identity of any of the people whose blood soaked his hands as much as that little girl's. Friends, lovers, family, strangers ...

Rising up in his stomach, the palpable wave of disgust consumed his body. He stumbled over to the ship, and leaned on the boarding ramp as he doubled over and vomited. Somehow it felt better.

Ever cheery, Jardain came down the ramp supporting a wounded stormtrooper. "You okay, boss?" he asked.

"Yeah ... I'll be fine," Kessler said weakly. "I just need to sit down for a moment."

He rested on the edge of the boarding ramp and put his head in his hands, enough out of the way to allow the stream of medics and wounded to rush up and down in to and out of the ship. One of the sergeants who had been assigned to the Dream -- Jadku was his name, wasn't it? -- carried a stormtrooper in bloodied armour down and laid him obliviously at Kessler's feet. The sergeant leaned over, closed the young soldier's eyes, and whispered something incomprehensible. A minute after he left, one of the FX-7 medical droids noticed the body and draped a tarpaulin sheet over it which quickly began to soak up the blood. The material was not large enough, however, and the white-booted feet protruded defiantly from underneath.

"Excuse me?" a feminine voice asked. It took a moment for Kessler to respond when he realised that it was directed at him. "Are you this ship's captain?"

He looked up. A neatly dressed reporter, her suit spotlessly clean, stood clenching a microphone. Next to her was a cameraman, preoccupied with getting shots of the bodies on the apron.

"Yes, that's right. Colonel Kyle Kessler, ex-TIE Corps, now captain of the Corel's Dream."

She beamed and poked her cameraman in the shoulder. When she had his attention she pointed excitedly at the spacer. He frowned and brought the camera around to face Kyle.

"Colonel Kessler," the reporter began in one of those typical serious newsnet tones. "How did you become involved in the evacuation of the wounded from Argimiliar II?"

Kessler looked slowly at the camera and shrugged. “I was delivering electronic components for the factory they were building to supply themselves with homegrown machine tools. I dropped out of hyperspace just ahead of the Reb assault fleet. Had to ditch my cargo in a hurry and tear my engines up getting planetside before the A-Wings caught up with me ...” he shook his head, dazed. “We were all stuck down there through the bombardment ... went on for days. Once the Fleet retreated, we knew there was no way we were getting relieved early enough for it to make a difference. A bunch of us had hidden our ships under cover of the jungle to the east of the colony, so we offered General Donner the chance of getting his most badly wounded offworld before the Reb Commandos had us encircled. He gave us his four remaining TIE Interceptors for cover, but it didn't make much difference, out of the seven cargo ships that launched, three didn’t even make it into orbit. Another was disabled and boarded before we could all jump out, but the TIE boys stopped the Y-Wings long enough to let the rest of us get the wounded out. Last I saw there were around a dozen X-Wings closing on those boys, but they couldn’t come with us - no hyperdrive, see. I don’t know if they made it back planetside in one piece ..."

"Do you have any idea how many people died, Colonel?"

Kessler shook his head and dismay and snorted. "Does it matter? Would a higher body count make it any more spectacular?"

"No, I just wanted-"

"You wanted impact. Gravitas. Get the lead story in the newsnets," Kessler bit. "Well look in that body bag over there. There's the body of a dead girl. And right here's a stormtrooper. He looks young, he probably faked his age to sign up. Does it make any difference? They're both the same in death!"
She turned to her cameraman anxiously. "Can we cut that, Gesh?"

Gesh nodded.

"Great, come on, let's go speak to someone from the TIE Corps."

They left without even thanking him. Kessler sighed. Civilians.

"I think that's most everyone, boss," Jardain said as he came down the ramp. "You want to go get a drink? I know a great bar, The Weary Trooper. Sure, it's mostly for grunts, but after what you did ..."

"Thanks Dodan, but I want to watch the sun come up. You go on. I'll catch up with you later."

The Captain shrugged and walked off down the landing apron into the spaceport. As he left, another figure began to form, approaching from the glare of the Auroran sun. Customs, he guessed. They had a habit of catching people at the most inopportune moments. But there was something familiar about the hazy form: the confident, cocky walk, with the hint of a rigid march instilled by years of military discipline ...

Kessler rose slowly from the boarding ramp. "Val?" he whispered, and as the figure blocked out the sun, he shouted, "Val!"

"Kess. Fancy meeting you here?" Val smiled and shook Kyle's hand firmly. "Good to see you again, you old pirate. I heard that some ships had just come in from Argimiliar II. Thought I might pop around and pay a visit."

"I thought you were ... well, dead!"
"For a moment, I thought so too. I'm still here though, aren't I?"

Taking a step back, Kyle looked up and down as he appraised Ricaud. "What's with the TIE Corps uniform?"

"You've helped me realize a few things, Kess ... so I've put them to right. Sure, it ain't much -- Cadet Val Ricaud -- but it's a start. A new start."

"I'm happy for you, Val."

"Who knows? We may even see each other again. From what I hear, it's a pretty sure thing that the Fleet Reserves are going to be recalled in the next couple of days. The Senate has decided to cut off all links with the Orthodoxy. Babune is still a threat ... but once again, it's a start."

"Who'd have thought a year ago, all this?"

"Yeah, that's the thing with destiny. One minute you think you've got it pinned down ... the next it pops up between your legs and kicks you in the rear. Yesterday, I would have told you that life is a crock of shit. But today, I've realised the thing about shit is ... it keeps you warm."

"How did you get out from Argimiliar II?" Kessler wondered aloud.

"Through sheer luck. And some advanced repairs and quick thinking. I don't think the Prophecy will ever be the same again ... she took a real beating. But Rear Admiral Naranek has promised to keep her aboard the Colossus for me as long as I need. And in one hour, my transport leaves for the Daedalus. A happy ending, eh?"

"Yeah. I guess everything's worked out, then."

"Mostly," Val agreed, his tone gravening. "I only wish that Kastaara and Daarogh were here to enjoy it. Too many people have died, Kess. Somehow it doesn't seem worthwhile. Friendship with me is a sentence to death. It makes me wonder why you're still alive."

Kessler shrugged and smiled sadly. "I guess we're in the same boat, Val. We're both cursed to watch everybody we care for fall around us. We must cancel each other out."

Val nodded, accepting the explanation, and turned to face the approaching dawn. The sun was nearly completely over the horizon, casting a warm muddy red dash out across the sky. "So it's a bittersweet victory, then?"

"No, Val. A victory marks the end of something," he smiled knowingly. "This ... well, this is just the beginning ..."

Around them, all of the aircars and transports and people -- all of Aurora Prime, and all of the galaxy -- continued on in to the new day. The two friends were just content to quietly stand side-by-side, and watch the dawn come up together.

THE END

Written by CMDR/CM Val Ricaud/Mu/Wing VIII/ISD Colossus

Special thanks to BGCOM/VA Kessler/ISD Colossus/TIE Corps Battlegroups