Star Wars 1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I do not own the Star Wars universe, nor the canon characters of the films and books, but all other characters and worlds depicted in this work are mine.

The events in this story take place a few months after the events of _Champions of the Force_, putting them roughly seven years after the Battle of Endor.

* * *

Chapter One

She recognized them the moment they walked into the bar. It wasn't too difficult; their images had cropped up frequently in the reports and communiqués that passed across her desk. Still, she wondered at the capriciousness of a universe that would bring them here, of all places, in a galaxy as wide as it was.

The taller and older of the two men retrieved several mugs from the barkeep, then settled the two of them at a table only several meters away from where she sat. Strange the holos didn't do justice to the cocky insouciance of the one, or the aura of subtle power that surrounded the younger man as surely as his dark cloak. But their features were as familiar to her as her own, and she could feel her fingers tighten on the slender stem of her own glass at the sight of them.

Between the ever-present rumble of both human and alien voices, and the sounds of the string band which pounded out the latest Doranni equivalent of a popular song, it was quite impossible for her to hear what they were saying. Damn it she wasn't trained for this sort of thing, and was certainly not expecting it. This had been a simple pleasure trip, a few precious stolen days away from the duties of a command which weighed more and more on her shoulders with each passing day. She had no backup, no reinforcements Doranne was a neutral world, although the New Republic had been lobbying hard of late to swallow up the Doranni system, just as it had so many others.

Just then, the older of the two men, the one with the lop-sided grin, looked up, catching her intent gaze. She could feel the color rise to her cheeks, and was thankful the lighting in here was dim enough that her blush surely couldn't be visible. Then she smiled back, ever so slightly, and waited to see what would happen.

It didn't take very long. There was a brief exchange between the two men, ending with the younger of the two shaking his head in a resigned manner, and they rose, coming to stand by her table.

"Would you mind a little company?" asked the older man, and she smiled again.

"Not at all," she replied, and spread one graceful hand to indicate that they take the empty chairs facing her.

They both sat. She noticed the younger man drank only Doranni crystal water, although the other one's wide mug obviously held some sort of beer or ale. Well, that would be typical of what she had heard of them.

"Marne Ledishian," said the older one, extending one hand to her.

She took it, and felt a shiver pass through her as she touched flesh to the man she had made herself hate for so long. Well, he had handed her a false name, and she had one equally as false to give back to him. "Shelinda Orr," she said.

"Brenn Mirsholme," said the younger man, and she shook hands with him as well.

Bringing her glass of rare Gindene liqueur to her lips, the goblet as delicate as the liquid it contained, she drank, and then asked, "So what brings you so far off the beaten path as Doranne?"

The one who had identified himself as Marne Ledishian said, "A little spice trading. And you?"

Only in neutral space could someone still admit to spice trading and get away with it. She wondered a little at his audacity, but realized he could have no idea to whom he was really speaking. "Trade as well. I'm here on business for the Castopol silk guild."

The younger man, the one who had called himself Brenn Mirsholme, raised an eyebrow. The wealth of Castopol silk traders was legendary, but she had thought the cover a fitting one, as it allowed her entry to the finest restaurants and hostels during her stay here, gave her leave to dress in elegant clothing and jewels, and gave her protection as well, as the Castopol guild's wealth was surpassed only by its paranoia, and reprisals against those who threatened or were even suspected of threatening guild members was swift and deadly.

But he said only, "Good trading this trip?"

She shrugged, noting how he watched the movement of her shoulders beneath the glinting fabric. "Good enough. And yourself?"

He shot a quick look at the man who accompanied him and said, "We can't complain."

"I'm glad to hear it." She sipped at her liqueur again, feeling the delicate aromatic fumes tickle and then massage the back of her throat. This was her second glass this evening, and perhaps it was not altogether wise to be facing these two with her wits dulled by the alcohol, so she set the glass back down on the table and smiled, letting the dimple show at the side of her mouth. "So tell me all about yourself."

Again that brief glance passed between the two men. "So what did you want to know?" the younger one asked, blue eyes ever so slightly amused, as if he guessed just what her game was.

"Everything," she replied, clasping her hands under her chin so the ruby nail tips sparkled briefly in the dim light of the luma at the center of the table. Perhaps her last evening here on Doranne wouldn't be so dull after all.

* * *

Han waited until the _Millenium Falcon_ had broken orbit to turn a look of pure disgust on Luke. "You know," he commented, as he waited for the hyperdrive to finish its calculations for the jump, "it's not to often that I'd call a Jedi stupid, but that's sure what I want to call you now."

Luke shifted in the co-pilot's seat, looking like a young boy caught sitting in his father's chair. The seat had been modified to fit Chewbacca's not-inconsiderable bulk, and Luke had had to pull the belts to their tightest adjustment to keep himself even somewhat in place. "What do you mean?" he asked, his gaze never lifting from the blue-green crescent of Doranne, far beneath them.

"I mean, kid, that that woman Shelinda was interested. Damn interested. And when I try to gracefully leave, and say I need to get back to check on the ship so that the two of you can be alone, what do you do? You say goodbye and come with me!"

"Well, maybe I wasn't interested."

"And why not?"

Ahead of them, the starfield shifted into white streaks that flashed past faster than the human eye could follow. With the barest of shudders, the Falcon leaped into hyperspace, and Luke waited a moment longer before answering.

"I don't know. Something about her just didn't seem right."

"Uh-huh." Han flicked the clasps on his safety belt and rose out of his seat to lean against the console, arms crossed, as he stared down at his brother-in-law. Sometimes Luke's obtuseness regarding the fairer sex could be downright annoying. He'd thought there might have been something between the younger man and that girl on Bakura all that time back, but it had come to nothing. Happy in his marriage and family himself, he wished Luke could somehow share in that same sort of contentment. Sure, he was a Jedi, but that didn't mean he had to be a monk. At least, Han was pretty sure that wasn't necessary. "What wasn't right? You prefer blondes, maybe?"

Even Luke grinned then. "No, it certainly wasn't her looks."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. She smiled, but I never saw that smile reach her eyes. And when we left, and she shook my hand good-bye, I felt something when I touched her."

"I'll bet," Han muttered, and thought briefly what he might have done, if he weren't a married man. _Married, but not dead_, he reminded himself, as he recalled the woman's delicate but well-curved shape, and her small, full-lipped mouth.

"Not like that," Luke protested, but he was smiling now. Then the smile faded. "No, it was more like she hated the very sight of me of both of us and would have happily seen us dead."

"You're imagining things, kid."

"Maybe," Luke said, but he didn't sound very convinced. "Listen, Han, maybe I don't I read minds, necessarily, but I can feel things about people, and all I felt from her was hostility, no matter how charming she might have seemed. I'd no sooner have been left alone with her than with the Sarlacc."

Luke was serious, Han saw. He himself wouldn't have minded being left alone with her if he were single of course—always that _if_—but Luke saw and knew things that Han couldn't, so Han supposed he'd have to trust Luke on this one. Too bad, because Han had liked her, found her witty and charming, with a sly sense of humor, someone who could have been a good foil for Luke, whom Han thought took himself all too seriously much of the time.

"If you say so, kid," he said at last, then grinned at himself. He wondered if he would ever stop calling Luke "kid." Probably not. They'd be watching their grandchildren playing together, and Han would still be calling Luke "kid."

If, of course, Luke ever had any grandchildren.

"Well, at least we've got some positive reports to take back to Leia about the Doranni system," Han went on, trying to cover up Luke's brooding silence. The hyperspace-ravaged heavens left strange ribbons of light across the younger man's features, like tears of celestial blood.

"Right," Luke commented, still staring out the viewport.

"Nothing like mixing a little business and pleasure, is there?" Han ventured.

The Doranni casinos were famed throughout the sector, and Han had done quite well at the sabacc tables well enough that he'd picked up a few trinkets for Leia, and exotic toys for the twins and Anakin. The excitement of the sabacc tables had almost compensated for the dreary diplomatic duties he'd had to perform. Almost. They'd come here on the quiet, to speak to those members of the Doranni planetary council they knew to be sympathetic to the New Republic cause, and the results had been promising. It would be some time yet before the Doranni tradition of autonomy and isolation could be overcome, but Han never doubted the Doranni system would come in on their side especially, he thought with a mental grin, if the New Republic sicced Leia on them.

The Doranni, he thought, wouldn't know what hit them.

Luke remained silent as Han checked the nav-computer readout, and thumped a switch that appeared to be malfunctioning. Good old _Falcon_. Somehow, it just wouldn't be the same if he let Leia have her way, and got the professional technicians in here to give the ship a complete overhaul. He liked the old girl's quirks, her strange blend of unpredictability and reliability—the _Falcon_'s, not Leia's—and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"So who do you think she was?" Han asked at last, after assuring himself that all was well.

"Shelinda Orr?"

"Who else?"

"I don't know," Luke replied, and then frowned. His blue eyes had that strange inward gaze that Han sometimes referred to as his Jedi look. "But I do know one thing."

"What's that?"

"Whoever she might be, Shelinda Orr was no more a silk merchant than we are spice traders."

* * *

"Welcome back, Admiral." Commander Venn, her adjutant, snapped to attention, and then held out a datapad. "Your messages."

"Thank you, Commander." Admiral Viraess took the proffered datapad, and then frowned. "When did Grand Moff Kezler come on board?"

"This morning, at 0900. He seemed—annoyed—that you weren't here, Admiral." Venn's voice was expressionless, but Viraess thought she could see the tension in the tight lines around his mouth. Being the object of a Grand Moff's annoyance could end a career.

"I'm sorry about that, Venn," she replied, and flicked the datapad off. The heavy wool of her uniform felt stiff and strange after days of lounging in Castopol silk. "I got held up in customs. The curse of traveling as a civilian."

"As you say, ma'am." Once again, she caught the familiar flicker of surprise in Venn's dark eyes. It seemed she startled him at least once a day, but she supposed a subordinate wasn't used to be being apologized to by a superior officer—especially a member of the Imperial Forces High Command.

"Is he occupying his usual suite?" Her bootsteps echoed hollowly off the dark metal of the corridor's floor as she hastened her pace. Venn kept up with her easily; he was a head taller than she.

"Yes, Admiral."

They reached the repulsorlift, and she said, "Deck seven, please."

Beside her, Venn shifted, as if he could not understand why someone would bother to say "please" to a computer. Just another one of her peculiarities they would all have to get used to. There would be many, she thought. She still wasn't used to being called Admiral, still couldn't believe that this great Super Star Destroyer, its kilometers of shining metal corridors and chambers, its banks of lasers, its deadly complement of troops and TIE fighters, was under her command. The face of the Empire was changing radically; it had to, or face annihilation.

The repulsorlift slid to a stop, and she stepped out, Venn at her heels, moving briskly down the corridor to the set of double doors at the far end, the entry to the Imperial suite.

When this Super Star Destroyer was constructed, chambers had been built within to accommodate a visit from the Emperor, should he ever care to visit. But the ship was only just finished when he perished above Endor, and so the ship had orbited in lonely splendor in its secret shipyards, far away from the conflict between Empire and New Republic, until the man who waited for her behind those doors discovered it, and pressed it into the Empire's service. Now it served as a sort of roving command headquarters for Grand Moff Kezler and his High Command, for his far-ranging plans to restore the Empire to its former glory.

If the stories were true, then Kezler was not trespassing on the Imperial suite, for he had presented himself as a son of the late Emperor, born when Palpatine was still only a Senator in the Old Republic, still plotting his rise to power. Genetic testing had, indeed, shown Kezler to be Palpatine's son, although the Grand Moff still went by his maternal family name. He didn't need to call himself Palpatine. People knew.

Four white-armored stormtroopers waited outside the double doors to the suite as Admiral Viraess approached. She stopped, then turned to Commander Venn and said, "I'll see him alone. Please go to the duty officer and inform him that the Admiral will be on the bridge within the next hour."

"Yes, Admiral." Venn bowed, then took the datapad she handed to him. Around him again was that faint air of surprised disapproval, and she smiled to herself.

_Someday I'll remember I don't have to say "please," _she thought, as one of the stormtroopers palmed open the door and she stepped inside. Four more stormtroopers and two red-robed Imperial guards waited there, but moved aside as she entered.

The suite was spacious, occupying a large space on the forward bulkhead, with the farthest wall composed entirely of transparisteel viewing screens. Silhouetted against the flashing stars was Grand Moff Kezler, slender and hard as a knife blade against the blackness of space. He turned upon hearing her enter, the gray-white light from the overhead lamps harsh on his clean, sharply etched features.

"Ah, Admiral Viraess," he said, and she stood at attention, and bowed neatly from the waist.

"Good day, sir," she replied, and then straightened. "You wished to see me?"

"Yes, Admiral." He moved away from the viewing port, and indicated that she follow him into the smaller of the two conference rooms with which the Imperial suite was equipped. Once there, a server droid bustled to draw away a chair for him, and place a hot cup of caf at his elbow. "You may sit, Viraess," he said.

She pulled out her own chair and sat, wondering what he wanted from her this time. Normally Kezler stayed out of her affairs, and left her to lead her fleet as she saw best, but she could not forget that he was, for all intents and purposes, the head of the Empire, Emperor in all but name.

"A cup of caf?" he inquired, and she nodded.

"Yes, thank you."

The droid poured for her as well, and then left, the door closing with a soft snick behind it. Admiral Viraess lifted her cup and drank, holding back a wince at the bitter-chocolate taste, and wondering if she would ever get used to it. From another world, she remembered the taste of Gindene liqueur, and the feel of silk soft against her skin.

Kezler sat watching her as she drank, blue eyes expressionless. His face was composed in pleasant lines, giving no hint of what he might be thinking. But that was the way with him; those who displeased or were found wanting never knew directly—they just found a squad of Compforce troops waiting for them, or worse, simply disappeared.

He was young, barely over thirty standard, only a year older than she. Babies, both of them, she thought, comparing them to the forces of the Empire of the past, where a man might serve for twenty years before he made captain. But here he was, a Grand Moff, head of COMPNOR, and thus, indirectly, the entire Empire, and she an Admiral of the fleet—Admiral, she added to herself, indirectly because of him. Whatever else one might say of him, Kezler rewarded those who showed promise or who could be useful to him.

She did not think she had done anything to displease him. Her leave had been approved by his offices, and her record since achieving Admiral's rank exemplary. No, there was nothing she could think of—which, as she knew, after twelve years of experience, first at the Academy and then in the fleet— meant absolutely nothing at all.

The silence stretched between them, as she waited to hear what he had to say. That was another of his ways to put those who attended him on edge, keeping them off-balance. In one way, she admired his tactics, his ruthless skill at handling his subordinates—a skill she thought she could use more of—but she also disliked being on the receiving end of it. Not for the first time, she wondered where he'd accumulated these tricks, if there were some secret Imperial facility for training high-ranking officers and bureaucrats. Of course, being Palpatine's son, the talent could just be in his blood.

Finally she said, with a light movement of her shoulders conceding her loss in this small skirmish of wills, "And to what do I owe the honor of this visit, sir?"

The smooth, handsome face betrayed no satisfaction, save the quickest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but she knew he was pleased. Briskly, he said, "Our sources have come across some disturbing information."

_Our sources_. He could be speaking of COMPNOR's not-inconsequential intelligence-gathering operations, or those of Imperial Intelligence itself. The rivalry between the two bureaus was intense, but since Kezler had moved up to his current position from within COMPNOR itself, he had no compunction about having his own people sweep the files of Imperial Intelligence and pass off the results as their own. Moff Naren himself, head of Intelligence, was here on the _Overlord_ presently; the great Super Star Destroyer served as a roving headquarters for the High Command. It was safer that way—it was far more difficult for the forces of the New Republic to track down a moving target, a command that had no set location.

Admiral Viraess somehow doubted that Kezler had bothered to visit Naren so soon upon his arrival.

"Information?" she asked at length, crossing her slender black-gloved hands on the table before her.

Kezler's glance did not waver. "You know that after the debacle involving Admiral Daala, I encountered some opposition to naming you on the High Command. They felt that a woman was perhaps too emotional, for the position."

She could feel her insides slowly congeal into ice. This was how it began—the soft, veiled accusations, the aspersions on her record—all heading toward dishonorable discharge and a life of obscurity.

If she were lucky, of course.

Somehow, she found her voice. "I have always endeavored to serve the Empire to the utmost of my ability, sir."

To her surprise, he laughed, and laid a hand on hers. "My dear Admiral, you jump to conclusions. Your service has been exemplary. Would that all soldiers of the Empire were as dedicated as you." He withdrew his hand, still smiling, a smile that faded as he went on. "I was going to say that Admiral Daala managed to salvage the science records of the Maw Installation, and was supposed to return to the Core and deliver them into safe hands."

He paused, fixing her with that icy blue gaze she found so unnerving. "She never got there. Any multitude of reasons have been given—the ship was already damaged, and could have been destroyed, the hyperdrive could have malfunctioned, stranding her in some backwater—whatever the reason, valuable scientific data has been lost."

"A great blow to the Empire," Viraess managed to say, shaky with the ebb of the fear-induced adrenaline rush his first words had produced.

"Yes." Lifting his cup, Kezler drank slowly, and then set the cup back down on the black gleaming surface of the conference table. His eyes never left her. "But now we have the opportunity to strengthen the Empire's chances against the upstart New Republic."

She wondered how he managed to instill such venom into those two simple words. Heavens knew, she hated the New Republic, hated what it had done to her, to those dear to her—and its greatest sin was that it preached freedom and liberty, where it left only chaos and death in its wake. How many dead Imperial citizens were now blood on its hands? Yet its leaders kept bleating on about the Empire's atrocities. What could be more terrible than the fiery death that had consumed her brother and all those with him when the _Executor_ plunged into the half-finished Death Star above Endor? But Kezler's hatred seemed somehow even more personal than hers.

Of course, he had lost a father, even if that father had never acknowledged him. Perhaps that was what drove him, gave him that will to prove himself, as if the shade of the Emperor still lingered, exacting a heavy toll from his son. This, of course, was all speculation. Kezler never spoke of his father, never spoke of his life before COMPNOR. No one else did, either. There were some things that were better not discussed.

"Our sources have intercepted a set of transmissions from an independent research station on the outskirts of the Klandos sector. A wild area, populated by only a scattering of primitive outposts." Kezler pressed a button, and the viewscreen on the wall opposite them flared into life, showing a view of some unfamiliar system taken several degrees above the ecliptic. "Five days ago, the spectrum of the system's star abruptly shifted, putting out a particularly deadly form of neutron radiation. Any life in the system would have been immediately eradicated." He paused, watching as the picture on the viewscreen moved in closer to a small moon of the fourth planet, showing a complex of some sort, shielded and domed against the vacuum of space. "Luckily, the only life in the system was in this research outpost, and the scientists there managed to escape before their shielding failed."

"And what caused this spectrum shift?" Admiral Viraess glanced over at him, saw again that hint of a smile which touched only the corners of his mouth.

"Apparently the purpose of the station was to conduct research on altering the star's electromagnetic makeup. The scientists were trying to discover a way to make more systems viable, thus producing more planets that could sustain life. But something in their test went very wrong, as you can see."

She was silent for a moment, watching the yellow dwarf star and the barren planets that circled it, all so harmless in appearance, yet drenched in deadly radiation. "How long does the effect last?"

"That's one of the most exciting aspects of this event. Long-range scans show that the star is even now reverting to its former state. Our scientists estimate that it should return to normal within the next three months." He touched a button at the side of the table, and the viewscreen faded, even as the lights came back up in the room, their harsh glare causing her to blink at the sudden change.

"So the experiment was a total failure?" she asked, wondering what all this had to do with her.

"Not for our purposes." With an abrupt movement, he pushed his chair away from the table and stood, with the closest thing to a nervous gesture she had yet seen from him. "Think of it, Viraess—a device that causes a sun to emit deadly radiation, yet leaves all of a system's infrastructure intact, and returns to its normal state within a short period of time. Think of what we could do with such a weapon. Nothing so wasteful of resources as the Death Star or the Sun Crusher—our problem is the citizens of the New Republic. This device can eliminate them and deliver into our hands the mining facilities, the heavy industry, we so desperately need. We only have to wait a few months, and then repopulate the worlds with loyal Imperial citizens."

For a moment, Viraess could only look at him in silence, as the implications of what he had described came home to her. It was a weapon of silent death, even elegant in its own way, but she could barely repress a shudder at the thought of it. It was one thing to face an enemy in clean combat, but quite another to murder millions by stealth. But it needn't come to that, she told herself. The mere threat of such a weapon would be enough to pull obstreperous systems into line. That was the Tarkin Doctrine—and an effective one, until the Rebellion had destroyed the Death Star. Still, that was fault of its designers and engineers, and not so much of the philosophy that had led to its construction.

Finally she cleared her throat and said, "It would certainly shift the balance of power in our favor."

"Exactly."

As she looked up at him, blond and handsome, the very epitome of idealized manhood as pictured on recruitment posters throughout Imperial space, she wondered why he was telling her all this. Surely now it would lie in the hands of Intelligence and Complink to ferret out where the departed scientists had disappeared to, and retrieve the data regarding the device from them. Of course, she knew she would have been informed at some point; this was a matter of supreme importance to the entire High Command. But she could not understand why Kezler had asked her to come to him first, and had her see him alone.

"And so—" she prompted delicately, not wanting to offend with too much curiosity.

"You're wondering what this has to do with you."

"Yes, sir." She kept her tone deliberately neutral.

"I hadn't mentioned to you the scientists involved in this project. They were a small group, funded by a conglomerate of neutral worlds out in the Lower Rim." Again the room darkened, as the viewscreen flashed into life, showing an official holo of a man only a few years older than herself, dark-haired, with a neat square beard. "This is Markus Klem, the head researcher."

Viraess held herself very still in her seat, not allowing a single betraying tremor to reach Kezler's all-knowing eyes. In her mind, eleven years were wrenched away, and she stood on a low hill on Lanarsk Prime, her homeworld, as the planet tilted toward autumn and the leaves fell like melting copper around her. She remembered his arms around her, his mouth on hers, that last passionate farewell before their lives were irrevocably torn apart, before they had left on their very different paths. That face was still familiar, although then he hadn't had the beard, and a few lines had begun to etch themselves around his eyes and mouth. But she remembered the heavy dark hair, the wide friendly mouth, as if she had just seen him yesterday. _Markus_.

"I believe you were once acquainted with him?" Kezler's voice was mild, but held a note of subtle satisfaction, as if her frozen shock were exactly the reaction he had been hoping for.

"Yes," she said at last, her voice flat and cold as the icy surface of the conference table which stretched before her. "I knew him." _I knew him_ she thought, realizing why Kezler had brought this news to her. _And heaven help him. Heaven help us all_.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own the Star Wars universe and the planets and people other writers have invented, but I'm having fun playing with them!

* * *

Chapter Two

Like the spaceport itself, the droid facing him had seen better days. The feeble overhead lights glinted dully off its pitted metal skin; the hand which rested on the scratched computer console was dented in a dozen places and even showing signs of rust. When it spoke, its voice was a monotone buzz. "Destination?"

Markus Klem hesitated, fingering the flat plates of hard currency in his belt pouch. There was little enough of it, but that was better than nothing. He knew he didn't dare use the credit voucher he carried with him—that would only leave a plastic trail the Imperials could sniff out halfway across the galaxy. Back at the science station on Xy'rie IV, some of his fellow researchers had wondered at his little hoard, but then had passed it off as just another of his eccentricities. And, indeed, sometimes he wondered why he kept the money, save that the shining bits of metal were tangible reminders of the places he had been—the delicately etched octagons of Lanarsk Prime, his homeworld; the heavy blunt rectangular pieces from Trel'las, where he'd done his post-graduate research; even the shining gold-crested New Republic marks he'd won off Linden Arelle in one of their endless sabacc games played to take the edge off too many hours of research. Thinking of her led his thoughts back to the abandoned station, and his mouth thinned into an uncharacteristically grim line.

He wondered where Linden was now. Halfway across the galaxy, if she were lucky—lost somewhere among the trillions of beings who lived and fought and died out there. She said she was going to head to New Republic space, to warn the government there of the disastrous results of the research on Xy'rie IV, and what those results might mean. She had only what was in her own mind, and in her own notes to give them—the station had been abandoned so precipitously there had not been time to make duplicate copies of the information he now carried.

Looking down, he caught sight of the duffel which lay at his feet, a piece of luggage as unobtrusive as they came, lumpy and light tan in color. He thought then of the data it carried, and wondered how something which hid the potential for such destruction could look so innocuous.

"Destination?" the droid repeated, its voice too flat to carry any sort of impatience, but then Markus became aware of the people who waited behind him.

Once again, he touched the currency in his pocket, then looked around. The line of beings behind him displayed nothing more than boredom and, perhaps, mild irritation at this man who lingered so long with the ticket droid. The spaceport here on Thanos was far from Imperial space, far from the conflict which still raged on, but the Empire had its agents everywhere—or so popular belief went.

Markus laid several of the Lanarsk Prime coins on the counter—coins from a world still solidly in Imperial space—and said, "Anywhere. Anywhere but here."

The droid did not comment, but eyed the currency, calculating what destinations could be bought with the amount. A thin piece of plastic was extruded from a slot in the counter as it gathered up the coins, and Markus took the ticket and stepped aside.

"Next," the droid said, as Markus hurried away, the ticket clutched tightly in his free hand.

He threw a glance over his shoulder as he headed for the boarding platform the ticket indicated, but none of those in line so much as looked in his direction, and he could feel himself relax slightly. _So far so good_, he thought, and moved on with a lightened step. After all, he told himself, how could he have been followed? And who would think to look for him here, in this third-rate spaceport on a second-rate world? With a little luck, he, too, could lose himself out in the galaxy, move into New Republic space, forge a new life for himself. Perhaps he should get out of research entirely, and take up a teaching position.

_But you can never go home_, he thought then, and that did slow his steps somewhat. He had not been back to Lanarsk Prime for more than five years, yet the thought that he could never go there again, never see the stately architecture and wide boulevards of Ariston, the capital city, or see the gemmik trees turn with their wild flowering of brilliant orange and red in the autumn, saddened him deeply. But Lanarsk Prime was a staunch Imperial world, situated in the Core sectors, fighting for the continuance of the Empire with every collective breath. No, he certainly could not go there, not he, a fugitive from Imperial agents.

He had found it hard enough to return there the last time, knowing that she was long gone, left to pursue a career and a destiny he could not understand. _Shelarne_, he thought, knowing he would always suffer her loss, no many how many years might have passed. For mixed with the sorrow of what might have been was the bitterness that she had chosen the Empire over him, had blinded herself to its iniquities, following instead in her family's traditions like the dutiful daughter she had always been. Harsh words had passed between them that last time they'd met before they parted, words as harsh as the last kiss she'd given him had been sweet. No, he would never forget her, even though theirs had been a love born of youth, of innocence. _Sometimes those loves_, he thought, with the bitterness that always overtook him when he thought of her, _are the most enduring of all_. And he had lost her to the Empire.

So lost was he in these melancholy remembrances, as he moved through the ill-lit corridor that led to his designated docking platform, that he did not notice the plainly-dressed man who moved silently out behind him, mixing in with the gaggle of assorted beings who mingled throughout the spaceport. Neither did he notice that same man follow him into the ship and settle in several rows behind him. His thoughts were elsewhere, on a planet he would never see again, and on the face of a dark-haired girl he had left behind, so many years ago.

* * *

"Amazing," Leia commented, schooling herself to keep from showing any of the trepidation she felt. Above her, the viewscreen showed a small, obscure system, its planets now bathed in deadly radiation from a mutant yellow sun. "And you're sure the effect was artificially induced?"

"Positive." Beside her, Qwi Xux leaned forward, her shining indigo eyes ablaze with scientific enthusiasm. Ever since the New Republic's long-range scans had picked up the sun's odd spectrum shift, the alien scientist had been studying the scant information they had, sure almost from the beginning that this was no natural phenomenon.

Leia drummed her fingers on the tabletop, considering. The long nails she'd once so carefully cultivated—just another part of being a princess—were a casualty of motherhood, but she found she didn't mind so much. They were one more thing she didn't have time to worry about. "But why would anyone want to create such a deadly effect?"

Such destruction didn't seem logical. Then again, neither the Death Star nor the Sun Crusher had seemed logical to her. Long ago, she'd given up trying to understand the warped minds behind such monstrosities.

Qwi Xux knotted her slender fingers and frowned. "I'm not sure this effect is what was intended."

"How do you mean?"

The other woman rose, stepping away from the conference table. They were the only two occupants of the room, for Qwi Xux had come to Leia directly and requested a private meeting. Leia had not seen much of her since they had returned to Coruscant, since Qwi had occupied herself with scientific observations, trying to replace the portions of her mind that Kyp Durron had shattered, and of course Leia had been swallowed up by the endless diplomatic duties that claimed more and more of her time. It wasn't easy, she reflected, being the head of a young government.

"In the Rim, where star systems are scattered more and more widely, there is a definite need for more cultivable systems." Qwi moved closer to the viewscreen, its reflected light glittering in the feathery blue softness of her hair. "It is my belief that this was an experiment gone terribly wrong. I think someone was trying to alter a star's spectrum in order to make it more amenable to creating life in a system. Once the star was stabilized, terraforming equipment could have been brought in to the worlds in the life-sustaining zone, creating habitable planets within a lifetime."

"That's quite a grandiose plan."

Qwi shrugged. After all, she'd been instrumental in creating two of the greatest weapons the galaxy had ever seen. To her, a spectrum-shifting star would require no great leap of the imagination.

When she spoke, though, her silver-toned voice was solemn. "I believe this effect was an accident. But—" And here she hesitated, and Leia could see the tension in the alien scientist's slender frame.

"But?" Leia prompted, thinking that perhaps she could get out of this unscheduled conference a few minutes early, and steal a few precious moments with her children.

"But I very much fear what could be done with it." Qwi Xux faced Leia squarely, her mouth tight. "I was a scientist for the Empire. I did things I'm not proud of. But I know how they see things, how their minds work. And if they receive this information, find some way to duplicate the effect—"

It would have taken an imagination less fertile than Leia's not to see the possible consequences. She thought of Alderaan then, of how it had been blown to nothing, and wondered if it would have been worse if all that lived and breathed on its surface were simply gone, while the buildings and other facilities remained, a silent monument to their dead builders. She shuddered.

"The Empire must never gain access to this information," Leia said, her voice flat. There had been too many deaths already, too much destruction. "I'll have my people get to work on finding out what this research was, and who funded it. And who was running this thing when it went up."

"I'll keep monitoring the system, and see if anything changes," Qwi volunteered. "The sun is now quite unstable."

"Thank you, Qwi," Leia replied, but absently, for her thoughts were already running ahead, thinking of whom to set on this project, whom to inform. Suddenly, she ached for Han, wished he were here to simply take her in his arms and let her feel safe in their encircling strength, if only for a few moments. He would be back soon enough, she told herself, and now—

And now, she had work to do. She was already picking up her personal comlink and issuing a series of orders into it as she hurried from the room.

* * *

"Sit down, Viraess," Moff Naren, head of Intelligence, instructed, and she did so, facing him across another conference table, smaller in size but otherwise identical to the one where she had first heard Kezler speak of the rogue star, and of Markus Klem.

She noted that Naren did not say please. Idly, she wondered if he had ever said that word to anyone.

They sat in the small conference room which occupied part of the Moff's suite; it was less grand than Kezler's, of course, but more than adequate. Unlike her own chambers, which she had decorated with a few precious artifacts and personal items, Naren's suite was as empty and impersonal as a chamber in a hostel, oddly soulless. Some might have said it was simply a reflection of the man who occupied it.

Less than twenty-four hours had passed since her conference with Kezler, and she was still at war with herself, dreading to hear what it was he had planned for her. The Grand Moff had said little about what those plans were, instead informing her of this scheduled meeting with Naren, but she knew well enough what was coming. This scientist they wanted so desperately was a man who had once had an association with her, and she knew she was a fool if she didn't think they'd come up with some way to exploit that relationship.

"The Grand Moff has explained the situation to me," Naren said, his tone neutral, but somehow managing to convey his distaste for the person who had arranged their meeting. As a man who had risen in the ranks, with more than thirty years of Intelligence work behind him, Naren had very little patience for upstarts out of COMPNOR, Palpatine blood or no. But Kezler found him useful, and ignored his opinions—for now. Viraess knew that some day there would be a reckoning, and devoutly hoped she would not be around when it happened.

She wondered if he felt the same way about her as he did about Kezler. After all, she was relatively inexperienced, brought to her present position solely by the Grand Moff's favor. But at least she had seen battle, had known the heart-pounding dread of losing one's ship to the vacuum of space, and the glorious rush that followed victory, the joy of seeing one's enemies blasted out of the sky. No, at least she did not come before Naren unbloodied.

Sometimes those deaths weighed on her, with soulless whispers sounding in the dark of night, when sleep refused to come, but she had learned to push them away. Restoring the Empire was the right and true course, the only way to bring order back to a galaxy torn apart by this useless conflict for far too long. Sometimes she thought she would sell her soul to know that not a single one of her fellow soldiers would ever have to perish again.

Whatever Naren's feelings toward her might be, she knew she would never learn them from watching his bleak, harsh face. He was a man too used to keeping secrets; he certainly wouldn't let any slip to an amateur such as she.

"Markus Klem," Naren said then, scanning the data pad he held. "Doctor Klem, to be exact. He holds two doctorates, one in theoretical physics, the other in quantum mathematics. Not to mention being the recipient of numerous post-graduate awards and grants. Quite remarkable for a man his age." He set the data pad down, and fixed Viraess with an unwavering dark stare. "Explain your association with this man to me."

Why did she suddenly have the feeling that twenty years had melted away, and she was back in the headmaster's office, being called on the carpet for some long-forgotten offense? Well, she wasn't, and though the man facing her was her senior by twenty years or more, he was her equal, as far as rank on the High Command went, and she refused to be intimidated. She sat up a little straighter, and lifted her chin. The last thing she wanted was to discuss her personal history with Moff Naren—a man she wasn't even sure _had_ a personal history—but she knew she had no choice. He probably had most of the pertinent information already, but if he wanted to hear it directly from her, then so be it.

"His parents moved in the same circles mine did," she said at length, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her lap. Naren's gaze did not flicker. "We'd grown up together, really. And he was a genius. He left the prep and moved on to graduate studies when he was just fifteen. I didn't see him much for the next six years. He was home on holidays, term breaks, but that was all."

Viraess paused, wondering how to proceed. How could she explain to this stony-faced man what had happened—how Markus had come home for a brief holiday, graduate studies finished, before going on to a research facility on Trel'las. She had finished her own prep work, her application to Carida Academy accepted—not that there had been much doubt of that—and was enjoying a brief season of unaccustomed idleness before going on with the rest of her life. And then—Markus. Why passion had flamed suddenly out of an old childhood friendship, she really couldn't say. Perhaps it was because he had seemed so handsome and worldly suddenly, a man, not a boy any longer. Perhaps it was because he had returned to find her a young woman, and desirable. Whatever the reason, it had been real—that much she knew.

"When I was eighteen, we had a brief—relationship," she said finally, realizing how lame the words sounded. "It was quite intense, the way things often are at that age, and he urged me to come away with him to Trel'las, to attend the university there. He did not approve of my going to the Academy."

"Why?"

"He said the Empire was an instrument of oppression, and that I was too good to waste myself on it."

"I see." Naren made a brief notation on his data pad, then looked back up at her. She wondered it if was just a trick of the cold lighting in the room that made his eyes so opaque, so hard. "But of course you did not share his views."

"I most certainly did not," she replied, voice sharp. She took a breath, and brought her anger at Naren's insinuation to heel. "I don't know where he got his views, for his family is beyond reproach in its loyalty, and of course Lanarsk Prime is still a strong Imperial world. He must have met Rebel sympathizers while away at school." Inwardly, she knew that it would not have required meeting people with Rebel sympathies to influence him. Markus had always had a mind of his own.

She went on, "We quarrelled, when it came time for me to leave. I told him it was my duty to go to Carida, a duty both to my family and to the Empire. He did not agree with me. But I left anyway, and that was the end of it."

_The end of it_, she thought, knowing that was not precisely the truth. For several months afterward Markus had sent her pleading, impassioned letters, delivered in hard-copy format, at considerable expense on his part. She had answered them, because she felt she owed him that. But her mind had been made up, and she refused to be made to feel guilty for her feelings on the matter. Also, since she knew that her replies would be filtered through the Academy's offices, and therefore were not private at all, she did not say everything that had been in her heart—that she still loved him, that her desire to serve the Empire was not a betrayal of him, that perhaps they might still make a future together, some day.

The letters had stopped abruptly, and although Viraess had not dared to investigate the matter, she saw that their cessation coincided with the time Commodore Matteson had begun to take an interest in her. It did not take any great leap of logic to see the connection. She wondered then if Moff Naren knew of that relationship as well. She wouldn't be surprised if he did. It had not been common knowledge, of course, but there had been rumors, and of course Intelligence made it their business to know things that weren't common knowledge.

"And you've had no contact since then?" Naren asked.

"None whatsoever."

He looked down and tapped the side of the data pad with one finger, considering. He'd removed his gloves to make his entries on the small computer, and the naked skin of his hand looked pale against the black Intelligence uniform, oddly vulnerable—quite unlike the rest of him. The straight brows pulled together, and then he gazed back up at her, with just the slightest softening of the hard lines around his mouth.

"Admiral Viraess," he said, "we in Intelligence do not like to go outside our ranks to involve others in our operations. It is my belief that one untrained operative can do just as much damage as a New Republic spy. However—" and here he folded his hands, one fingertip against his chin, as he looked at her thoughtfully— "in your case we may have to make an exception."

"I'm not sure what you mean." On the contrary, she knew what he was driving at, had known, really, from the first time she had heard Markus' name connected with this situation, but she wanted to hear it from Naren himself.

"I mean, Admiral, that Markus Klem will have to be handled carefully. One of my operatives has informed me that he is definitely headed to New Republic space. He must be intercepted." His mouth hardened again. "Our investigation of the abandoned research station has yielded nothing. All computer files were dumped, and all hard copy destroyed. It is my belief that Klem is carrying the only remaining data on the experiment. It is vital that we retrieve that information from him."

"And so you want me to do the job."

"Precisely."

For a moment she was silent, calmly watching him. She knew that he had no real authority to order her to do anything—as head of the Imperial Fleet, she answered solely to Kezler, but she also knew that Naren was only carrying out the Grand Moff's edicts, and that a refusal would definitely put her career, and possibly even her life, on the line. However much she might have cared for Markus at one point, she told herself, it was not worth that. She just wished she felt more convinced of that fact. "So what must I do?"

Was it just her imagination, or did he relax almost imperceptibly, that broad figure leaning ever so slightly back against his chair? Perhaps he had not been so confident of her reply as he had seemed.

When he spoke, though, his voice was as smooth as ever. "We want you to intercept Klem and retrieve the data on the experiment from him."

"And Klem himself?" she inquired, keeping her voice steady. It would not do for Naren to know that she was still actively concerned about Markus' welfare.

"Of course, we would like to convince him to join one of our research teams," Naren replied. "But if he is not amenable to that, I suppose he will have to be liquidated."

"I see."

Those cold eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, instead tapping a few keys on his data pad to scroll up some new information. "He must know nothing of your present rank or situation. He knows that you went to Carida Academy, and he knows you graduated and were assigned to the _Retaliator_. And he knows you made captain, and served on the _Vengeance_ under Rear Admiral Dahros."

Viraess did not ask how Naren knew this. She herself had had no contact with Markus for more than ten years, so how he could have known anything of her career, she wasn't sure.

Naren continued, "Markus returned to Lanarsk Prime some five years ago, and visited briefly with your parents. It was then that he was informed of your status at the time. But he has had no contact with them or anyone else on your home world since, so we feel we are safe in assuming that he is currently unaware of the rank and position you hold in the Empire."

He leaned forward slightly, and Viraess could have sworn she saw a flicker of amusement far back in those cold gray eyes. "Our plan is to build on the incident which occurred on the _Vengeance_, and have it end instead with your being court-martialed and discharged from military service. You will present yourself to Dr. Klem as an independent trader and pilot. Once you have regained his trust, you will retrieve the data he is carrying and turn it over to Intelligence."

Clever of them to use the _Vengeance_ as part of the lie she would hand to Markus. Mixing in a little of the truth would only make it more plausible, for the military records were there to prove part of it, and Viraess had no doubt that the rest of the files would be faked so cleverly no one would spot the difference.

That had been first the nadir, and then, unexpectedly, the high point of her career. For she had been serving as captain of the _Vengeance_ under Admiral Dahros, and had deliberately disobeyed orders which she knew endangered both the ship and its mission. Instead, she had employed her own tactics, executing a daring short-range hyperspace jump maneuver which took the New Republic base on Mahrat completely by surprise, and ultimately led to the capture of several key New Republic leaders in that sector. She had still been hauled in for court-martial, sure that she would be dismissed in disgrace, but instead the military tribunal cleared her of all charges, and reprimanded Admiral Dahros instead. Best of all, she was recommended for her admiralcy soon after, because of Kezler's intervention, and given over command of the _Overlord_, that last, precious Super Star Destroyer. Her appointment to the High Command followed soon after.

But it had been touch-and-go there for a time, and she shivered even now, remembering the days of fear, when she had been certain that all she had worked for would be torn away from her, and she would be left with only her disgrace, and the shattered pieces of a life she would somehow have to put together again. But these fragments of the truth would be woven into the lies she knew she would have to tell Markus, for she also knew he would never believe she had left the Navy voluntarily.

"We've already prepared all the necessary documents and files to back up your story," Naren went on, after a brief pause. Perhaps he had been waiting for her to say something, but she remained silent, wanting only to hear how he would finish this out. "You will be officially on leave, but I must respectfully request that you tell no one of where you are going, or why."

"Won't it seem odd that I'm taking another leave so soon after the other?" Viraess asked, for she had not even had a chance to unpack her luggage after her trip to Doranne.

He lifted his shoulders slightly. "Perhaps. But they can wonder all they want. It is no concern of the rank and file where you might be, or with what you may be occupying yourself."

"Of course."

"So then," he said, "that is all. You are scheduled to depart at 24:00 hours. The Grand Moff will wish to speak with you before you go."

She nodded, then stood. There was much to do in the intervening hours—make the necessary arrangements for her absence with Venn, her adjutant, and Captain Maldin, her second-in-command. Gathering up her own data pad, she made to leave, but a gesture from Naren stopped her.

He held out his hand, and she took it, confused.

"Good luck, Admiral," he said, face betraying nothing, as usual, but even this small civility moved her unexpectedly.

"Thank you, Moff Naren," she replied.

As she left, just before she doors glided shut behind her, she thought she heard him sigh, "You're going to need it," but dismissed the idea. It was only her whimsical imagination playing tricks on her ears. Then again, she was all too afraid that Moff Naren just might be right.

* * *

Cradling her half-finished drink between her fingers, Linden Arelle stared down into the contents of the tiny glass at the iridescent liquor that shimmered within. Alderaanian _uisgee_, now incredibly rare and even more potent. A few sips were all that was necessary to induce a feeling of euphoria—the whole glass, and very likely she wouldn't even remember her name. Well, she figured, if she were going to blow her last few credits on a drunk, she might as well make it a good one.

_What a place to end up_, she reflected dismally, watching the crowds of people eddy around her. Stuck in a bar on Umgul, too broke to even bet on mobile slime. When she'd left the research station on Xy'rie IV, she been full of high hopes and energy, certain that she could reach New Republic space with no problem, safely deliver her report on what had happened, then beg passage back to her home world and settle down in comfortable obscurity. That might have happened—if the passenger ship she'd boarded in the Pîr system hadn't been torn from hyperspace by an enterprising group of free-booters with a stolen Interdictor cruiser, and its occupants abandoned in a backwater system with few outgoing ships, ships that were able to demand their own prices for passage. In fact, she wouldn't be at all surprised if the pirates had been working had in glove with the shipping lines in that miserable system, stranding travelers there so that they could be charged exorbitant fees to get out. She'd thought she had enough to get comfortably all the way to Coruscant, if necessary, but there was no chance of that now.

Umgul had been the closest reasonably civilized planet, so that's where she'd ended up, but what she was supposed to do now, she hadn't a clue. Umgul was one of those planets which hovered in an uneasy neutrality between the New Republic and the Empire; for all she knew, this place was crawling with agents from both sides, but she didn't know how to tell one from the other, and was all too uncomfortably aware of what would happen if she approached the wrong people.

_Damn_, she thought, and took another cautious tiny sip from her glass. The exquisite non-taste exploded through her mouth, shimmering down her throat and doing interesting things to her stomach. The room wavered out of focus for a second, then righted itself. Well, if nothing else, this was going to be one spectacular drunk.

_I shouldn't be here_, she thought then. _I'm just a tech, why should I be mixed up in this mess? All I wanted was a chance to work with the great Markus Klem, and instead I'm a fugitive from the Empire, stuck on some lousy planet whose main entertainment is betting on ambulatory slime!_ In Linden's present condition, self-pity was an easier state to fall into than any other, and she found it rather comfortable.

Another sip followed the last, and this time the room didn't regain its focus quite so easily. "I should've stayed at home and gotten married," she said out loud, not caring if her words were overheard or not. Most likely the racket from the sound system would drown her out, anyway.

"Excuse me."

The voice was polite, and came from somewhere above her. She blinked and looked up, seeing a handsome black man standing there, gazing down at her with interest and some concern.

She tried to sit up a little straighter, wondering how much of a mess she looked by now. He seemed interested, and she could tell from the cut of the tailored jacket and pants he wore that he must be fairly prosperous. Maybe she wouldn't have to spring for another drink after all.

"Yes?" she asked, trying to keep the word from slurring.

"Excuse me for interrupting you," he said, and his voice was smooth, the voice of a man who had some experience approaching strange women in public places, "but I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be in a bit of a jam."

"You can say that again," she remarked bitterly. Then she recalled to whom she was speaking, and tried to smile. "Care to sit down?"

"Thank you." He pulled the chair away from the table and sat. "Here seeing the sights?"

"I would, if there were anything to see."

His eyebrows went up in mock surprise. "Tired of Umgul already?"

"I was tired of it the second I stepped out into the spaceport. Unfortunately, this is where my fare ran out."

A sympathetic nod. "And you're looking to get out of here?"

The words penetrated her alcohol-fogged brain, and she glanced up at him sharply. "Are you offering?"

"Perhaps. Where were you thinking of heading?"

She hesitated for a second, and then decided the hell with it. Even if he were an Imperial agent, she didn't possess enough information to really hurt Markus, and at least if she were in Imperial custody she could be sure of a place to sleep tonight. "Coruscant," she said defiantly.

For a moment he just looked at here, and then a slow smile spread across his face. "My dear, I believe this is your lucky day." He extended a hand to her, and she took it.

"Linden Arelle," she said, thinking he should know the name of the stranger he was offering to transport halfway across the galaxy.

"Lando," he offered, "Lando Calrissian."

He released her hand, still smiling, and she relaxed slightly. Maybe things would work out, just as Markus had reassured her they would. At least now she had an ally—an ally, she noticed, as he signaled the serving droid to bring her another drink, who wasn't afraid to spend money on her.

Maybe her luck hadn't run out after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you, Piece of My Heart, for my one and only review. Sigh...well, I like this story even if you and I are the only ones paying attention to it. I guess it's out of vogue to be writing about the Empire—everybody seems to be preoccupied with Jedi stuff. Still, I will continue to bravely post away!

* * *

Chapter Three

Her ship was waiting for her in the belly of the _Overlord_. Sleek and elegant, with a gleaming gunmetal finish, it stood in stark contrast to the Lambda-class shuttles and other transport ships which surrounded it. Viraess caught the lettering along the hull and turned to Grand Moff Kezler.

"The _Morning Star_?" she asked.

"Apt, I thought," he replied, striding along beside her. Under the dim gray lighting of the hangar bay, his fair hair was bleached almost to silver, his blue eyes washed away to that same glinting non-color. "You are embarking on a mission which could mean a new beginning for the re-formed Empire. My research also found that 'morning star' is a quaint term for an antique weapon." He smiled slightly, but his eyes remained cold as ever.

She did not answer, but paused at the bottom of the ship's boarding ramp and watched as the handling droids carried her baggage into the _Morning Star_. There wasn't much—some clothing and personal necessities, her data pad, her precious keyboard—long unused, but an item Markus would expect to see—a few more odds and ends.

Grand Moff Kezler handed her a slim wallet containing her new I.D., pilot's license, ship's registration, a sheaf of sector travel passports, everything she needed to set out as the newly free Shelarne Viraess, independent pilot. The sleek, fast ship was the type often chartered by those who needed to move quickly from one system to another—businesspeople, media personalities, travelers who had the means for private charter instead of using the slower, if more luxurious, passenger liners. The _Morning Star_ had already been outfitted with as many amenities as needed to keep up the illusion that this was, indeed, the purpose for which it was designed, and her computer carried fictional logs and transport manifests, so if Markus did engage in a little investigative work, he would find nothing out of the ordinary. There was nothing on the little ship which could give away its origins. The ship had been procured through a contact on Doranne, a neutral planet, and registered to Viraess there; she was sure that the trail which eventually brought it here to the _Overlord_ was so convoluted it would take even the most dedicated slicer weeks to follow it through.

"Does it meet your approval?" Kezler asked.

"It's beautiful," Viraess replied truthfully. It was an elegant ship, one that she would have chosen for herself if given the opportunity. Damn it, sometimes Kezler knew her too well.

"I'm glad you think so." This time the smile almost reached his eyes, but it faded as quickly as it had come. "Naren's latest report to me on the status of Markus Klem showed him stopping in a hostel on Alsinde. It looks as if he intends to remain there for some time. The coordinates are already logged into your nav computer. Prepare to send a report once you reach Alsinde—tight-beam transmission, the usual protocols."

"And then?" she asked, pausing at the bottom of the ship's walkway.

"And then it's time to go on stage, Admiral." He, too, stopped, and stood facing her.

This late in the ship's standard rotation the hangar bay would have been almost empty anyway, but Kezler had given orders that it be entirely cleared of personnel, except for the two handler droids that even now were trundling back down the walkway toward them. Viraess stepped aside briefly to let them pass.

Save for Moff Naren and Kezler, no one on board the _Overlord_ knew of her mission. It was probably just the Grand Moff's legendary paranoia at work, for she did not see how Markus could ever discover what she actually was, but Kezler's continual looking over his shoulder had gotten him this far, so she did not argue his insistence on the utmost secrecy. She had left instructions with Commander Venn, her adjutant, and Captain Maldin, her second-in-command, but gave them no details, and they had not asked for any. In the Imperial Navy, one learned quickly not to ask questions.

Now she waited while Kezler stood regarding her with that bland, unsmiling gaze of his, and she wondered what he was thinking. For herself, she could only wonder what she would say to Markus when she saw him, and hope that she could gain his trust enough that he would divulge to her the location of the missing files so that Naren's agents could seize them. It was a messy situation, for she knew Kezler wanted Markus alive, if possible, and he was looking to her to keep him that way.

She glanced up at the elegant little ship that had been provided for her use, considering. It would be her home for the next few days, possibly weeks; she knew Kezler would not countenance her return until Markus' files were in Imperial hands, and who knew what it would take to achieve that end? _And what then?_ that little voice inside, the one she tried to ignore, whispered. _What will you do, when you've betrayed the man you once loved and delivered him over into the gentle hands of Intelligence? And what will you see in the mirror each morning?_

"Nothing," she muttered under her breath.

"Admiral?" asked Kezler, and she looked up, startled.

"Did you say something, Viraess?"

"No, sir."

His brows drew together slightly, but then he gave the smallest shrug, the embroidered silver Imperial starbursts on his shoulder-boards glinting under the gray-white overhead light. "Then I wish you a safe journey, Admiral, and a speedy resolution to our problem."

"You can count on me, sir," she managed, hoping that her voice sounded firmer than her resolve felt at that moment. Suddenly, she only wanted to be out of here, tucked safely into the cockpit of the waiting ship, alone out with the dark and the stars, where she could think. Kezler's pale eyes suddenly seemed too sharp, too knowing, as if he could look inside her soul, see the doubt which was growing there.

But he only laid a hand on her shoulder, saying, "I will, Viraess." Then he pulled away, mouth tightening. "We've got a lot riding on this, Admiral. Don't let me down."

There it was—the threat she had been expecting all along. Kezler usually wasn't so forthright, but perhaps he was anxious enough about this mission that he wanted her to be very clear on how he felt. On the other hand, perhaps his obviousness was a mask for something else, some agenda she couldn't even guess at presently. With the Grand Moff, one could never be really sure.

"I won't." Then she did lift her chin and meet his gaze squarely. It would not do for him to think she was overly intimidated. That she held the rank she now did was due in great part to his intervention, but she was still commander of the Imperial Fleet, still wielded more power than any other woman in the Empire's history, and she vowed she would not forget it. "I'd best be going," she said at length, after she had assured herself that she saw nothing in his face but the desire that she should succeed. "Markus won't exactly be waiting around for me to arrive."

"Of course," Kezler replied, and stepped off the walkway. "I'll be waiting for your report."

"Three standard days to Alsinde," she said, after a quick look at the manifest he had handed her along with her other paperwork. Three long days in hyperspace, days in which to plan, and plan again, and plot contingencies to those plans.

"I'll hear from you then, Viraess." He inclined his head ever so slightly, and she took the gesture of dismissal for what it was.

She saluted, then turned and strode up the walkway, the heels of her boots loud on the plasteel, and let the pressure-hatch close behind her, shutting out Kezler as he moved toward the exit, slim and elegant in his black COMPNOR uniform against the harshly lit hangar bay. Then she made her way forward to the cockpit, paused for the briefest moment to let herself admire the clean, graceful sweep of the instrument panel and the almost decadent softness of the _marrit_-hide pilot's chair, then sat down, her hands running with calm efficiency over the controls.

Repulsorlifts activated, sublight engines warming up. It had been some time since she'd had to pilot her own ship, but the hours of training at the Academy behind a TIE fighter's controls were still ingrained; she brought the little ship to hover above the deck and then move slowly out through the opening hangar bay doors as easily as if she'd performed this same task only yesterday. The atmospheric shield opened just long enough for the _Morning Star_ to slip through, and then she was out, speeding through the starry blackness, following the coordinates already plotted in.

The old exhilaration was still the same, too—Viraess could feel her spirits lift even as she arced away from the _Overlord_, leaving the burden of command behind. Too soon she would have to assume that burden, put on a dissembling face and hope that Markus could not see behind her lies, but for now she could just be what she pretended to—an independent pilot, free to find her own future.

She toggled the switch for the hyperdrive, and the starfield exploded into lines around her.

* * *

Grand Moff Kezler paused at a viewport just outside the hangar bay to watch the _Morning Star_ move gracefully away from the Super Star Destroyer, then hang for a moment against the glowing, star-shot splendor of the Veil Nebula, where Kezler's fleet lay hidden. Then the little ship moved forward, gathering speed, before it winked from sight as it slipped into hyperspace. 

She was gone, then, and the hopes of the re-formed Empire went with her. It had taken him so much to get just to this point, to a growing fleet gathered by stealth through those still loyal to the ideals of the New Order, those who were disgusted by the internecine squabbling which had broken out after the destruction of Grand Admiral Thrawn's forces. Some of those who had fought under Thrawn had found their way here, or were even now working among the Core Worlds that clung to the remnants of an Empire which had almost disappeared.

Almost, but not quite. Kezler turned from the viewport and walked slowly along the corridor, reassured by the quiet hum of the atmospheric recyclers, the almost imperceptible vibration of the ship's sublight engines beneath his feet. It was at times like this when he liked best to walk the corridors of the _Overlord_, to feel it almost a living entity all around him, this enormous masterwork of Imperial engineering. And he had found it, brought the ship here as the centerpiece of his plans to bring the Empire to its former strength, and to crush the Rebellion and its nascent government from existence before its pernicious ideas took root in every sector of the galaxy.

Failure did not enter his thoughts. In his mind, he could trace back every failure of the Imperial forces to reliance on that prop of the weak-minded, the credulous—reliance on the darker workings of what was called the Force. Even Grand Admiral Thrawn, whose military genius could not be disputed, had let himself be ruined by the machinations of the cloned Jedi Joruus C'baoth. And Furgan, that idiot—what he'd thought could be accomplished by kidnapping a Jedi child Kezler didn't know and cared even less. This was what mattered—these endless steel corridors, the banks of lasers, the other Star Destroyers and Dreadnaughts and Interdictor cruisers which made up his fleet. And if he could get his hands on Markus Klem's invention, let Imperial scientists duplicate the effect—he sighed, a slow smile touching his lips. He could see the sun above Coruscant flaring out with deadly radiation, striking down the members of the new Senate, destroying once and for all that troublemaker Leia Organa Solo and her brother Luke Skywalker. He envisioned Coruscant repopulated with loyal Imperial citizens, and the starburst flag flying once more above the Emperor's palace. And none of this would be accomplished by use of that ridiculous hocus-pocus, that long-dead religion known as the Force.

His smile faded then, as his mind took him unwillingly back to the one and only time he had ever met his father. There were those even now who whispered doubts as to his paternity, but the genetic tests were there for all to see—the late Emperor Palpatine truly had been his father. _Father in blood only_, he thought, and he fought to quell the bitterness which rose in him whenever he thought of the Emperor.

Palpatine had been in power some five years when Kezler's mother brought him to Coruscant. He had been eight or so at the time; why she had waited so long to bring him to his father's notice she had never said, not to this day. But she had told him from the very beginning who his father was, and why he should be proud of his heritage, even though his parents had never been married, even though some of the other children teased him about his situation. He'd ignored them, mouth tight with holding back the knowledge he and his mother alone held, for she'd also told him never to say to anyone else who his father actually was.

And then she had taken him to Coruscant, and requested an audience with the Emperor. He'd kept them waiting for several days, but that was all right; Kezler's mother had shown him the splendors of Coruscant: the holographic zoo, the amazing parks and amusement areas and concert halls, let him walk in Monument Square and touch the last peak of the Manarai Mountains. But on the third day she dressed him in his best clothes, ignoring the services of the nanny droid which traveled with them everywhere, and they had gone to the Imperial palace.

A man in one of the green-gray uniforms that were now appearing more and more led them through the crowded hallways of the palace to a small chamber completely constructed of transparisteel, or perhaps it truly was glass. Kezler hadn't known, but he did know the palace was old enough to have real glass in its windows and skylights. They waited there for some moments, while the white sun of Coruscant beat down through the windows all around them, and his mother's hair caught the light and gleamed like purest gold.

Then the door had opened, and a man dressed in simple dark clothing had entered. Kezler's mother dipped gracefully in an automatic gesture of humility, but even then Kezler had noticed how she kept her head up, her chin firm and unyielding.

The Emperor—or that was who Kezler guessed the man to be, even though he didn't look anything like the way he had imagined him—barely acknowledged her with a nod, instead looking down at the boy who stood before him, fastening him with a cold flat stare out of his strange amber-hued eyes.

"His name?" he asked, never lifting his gaze from Kezler.

"Arik, your Majesty," she had replied.

"A likely-looking boy," he'd said then, measuring the child slowly with that same expressionless stare, and that was true enough, for Kezler favored his mother, fair and blue-eyed and tall for his age. For the first time, the Emperor looked from the boy who was his son to the woman who stood beside him. "And what do you want from me because of him?"

"Nothing, your Majesty." And her chin was still high as she said it. Looking back, Kezler thought suddenly that she'd looked much more like a queen in that moment than his father had looked like an Emperor.

The Emperor had seemed almost amused. Then he stepped forward, and clasped Kezler's shoulder, looking into his son's eyes with a sudden fierceness. Kezler felt a sharp probing, a pain in his head, and then, without really knowing how, he blanked away the pain, even as he cried out, pulling away from the Emperor's grasp and retreating to the relative safety of his mother's arms. She hugged her son to herself, and then looked up at the Emperor, her mouth tight with anger.

"What did you do to him?" she had demanded, and Kezler, safe inside the encircling fortress of her arms, thought he'd never been as proud of her as he was now, as she faced the Emperor squarely, thinking only of protecting her son.

Seemingly unconcerned, the Emperor had replied, "Only a slight mind-probe." Then he frowned. "He seems to have some resistance to use of the Force, but appears to have no innate ability himself. Unfortunately, the boy seems to have inherited your complete lack of Force talent along with your blue eyes."

"And what of it?" she'd snapped.

"He may be my son," the Emperor had said, then shrugged. "But I have no use for a child head-blind as he is. I will arrange for an annuity to support him, but that is all the acknowledgement he will receive from me." He bowed slightly, a small mocking gesture which might as well have been a slap in the face, and went out the way he had come in, leaving them alone in a chamber filled with sunlight.

For a long moment Kezler's mother had stood there in silence, holding him to her, and then she released him, saying only, "Let us go, Arik."

So he had followed after her, departing from Coruscant that very same day. And he had never returned since, vowing that he would never set foot on that world until he could return as its ruler, as the man who should have inherited all when Palpatine died. It had become a place hateful to him, for his clearest memory of it was not of all the wonders he had seen while there, but of his mother's face, still and stricken as that of a statue, while tears glinted on her cheeks like diamonds in the hard, glaring light of Coruscant's sun.

Even now the memory could stir him to anger, but he buried it away, along with all the other bitterness he had had to swallow over the years. Soon, very soon, his goal would be within reach—and without the use of the Force, that ancient religion which had brought down Darth Vader, and ultimately the Emperor as well. The anger that his father had refused to acknowledge him over such a ridiculous lack had not lessened over the years, but he would soon be vindicated.

He thought once more of Admiral Viraess, and the journey which lay ahead of her. He knew she was only a year younger than he, but he felt immeasurably older, older because of the long years of pain and doubt and hiding, the secret struggle to return the Empire to what it once had been. She was a favored daughter, brilliant and strong and beautiful, and utterly loyal to the Empire. That last was what caught his interest the most, and caused him to raise her up so high so quickly. He knew there was very little—if anything—she would not do to further the interests of the Empire. And that was what he was counting on.

As much as anything, this mission was a test—a test of her loyalties, and of her strength. For Kezler had great plans for her, plans and ideas he had just begun to formulate, and all depended on how she would fare in what lay before her.

"Don't fail me," he said then, echoing his earlier words to her. But whether he meant the Empire as a whole, or himself personally, he would have been hard put to say. He knew only that nothing was more important—to all of them—that she should succeed. Otherwise—

Otherwise, he thought, with the stealthy patience which had stood him in good stead during his rise in COMPNOR, we wait and watch, and try again.

He stopped then, pausing in front of one of the transparisteel viewing ports to gaze out on the drift of stars before him. Each one seemed a promise—a promise of another world returned to Imperial control, another system added to the glory of the restored Empire.

"For we will win," he whispered, as the stars blinked back at him.

He said then, his voice firmer, although there was no one to hear it, "We must."

* * *

Although, strictly speaking, it was not exactly good protocol to scoop up the head of the New Republic in a crowded hallway and twirl her about, Han did it anyway. It was worth the offended glares of the bureaucrats to see the surprise and delight which crowded some of the worry out of Leia's face. 

"Han!" she exclaimed, after she had recovered enough of her breath and he set her down. "Back so soon?"

"Couldn't stay away any longer, sweetheart," he replied, grinning at her, even as he noted the strain in her face, how the fine bones seemed sharper than when he had left. But her beautiful dark eyes were as luminous as ever, even if they were more shadowed than they should be.

She looked past Han as Luke came forward to give her a more restrained hug. "I thought you were supposed to keep my husband out of trouble," she said, "and you're only back a few minutes before he causes a scene in a public corridor."

Luke lifted his shoulders. "What can I say, Leia—there are some things even a Jedi can't manage."

"Hey, now," Han broke in, attempting to put just the right amount of injured pride into his voice, "isn't there supposed to be a moratorium on all personal abuse for the first hour or so after I come home?"

Luke and Leia exchanged a brief, wry glance, and then Leia appeared to relent. "All right, Han," she said. "So how did things work out on Doranne?"

Han lifted his shoulders. "Well, you'd think no one could resist the charm of a guy like me, but those Dorannis are proving to be a tough _liki_ nut to crack."

Leia paused, planting her hands on her hips, and that little line appeared between her brows, the one Han couldn't remember being there a year ago. "Meaning?"

"They won't say yes, they didn't say no." The line deepened further, and he added, "Look, we've just got to keep working on them. I could tell they were impressed you'd sent Luke along. Hero of the galaxy, and all that." He threw a wink at Luke, who made a small sound of disgust. Han knew that Luke hated that stuff—which was, of course, why Han made it a point to bring it up at any opportunity.

Leia didn't say anything for a moment. The silence was worse than any caustic comment she might have made, but Han knew better than to try and soften it with any more cracks at Luke's expense. Then she sighed, some of the tension seeming to leave her shoulders. "All right—you gave it your best shot. We'll just have to keep trying."

"Good idea," Han agreed.

"Perhaps I'll go there myself."

"Well, I don't know about that—" Han began, then stopped, seeing the wicked twinkle in his wife's eyes. You'd think by this time he'd be able to figure out when Leia was pulling his leg, but the truth was she was able to get away with it more often than not.

But then her expression grew sober, and she went on, "I don't feel I can leave Coruscant at this time."

Han and Luke exchanged a wary glance. They had learned the hard way that when Leia took that tone, something was up. Something big.

"Let's not talk here," she said, and turned, leading them away from the public sections of the palace, back to the wing where hers and Han's private suite was located.

Later—much later, after the twins' new toys had been presented and played with, a hasty dinner prepared and eaten, and the children and their accompanying noise and tumult had finally been quieted down for the night, Han and Luke and Leia settled themselves down in the suite's sitting room, a comfortable chamber furnished with low upholstered furniture and rare prints of Alderaanian scenes which Han had managed to procure for Leia. The lights had been brought down to a warmer, more intimate level, and Han and Leia both sipped at glasses full with a mellow wine from Doranne which Han had brought home with him. Luke, of course, was drinking only water.

There was nothing in the room that spoke of anything but comfort or safety, but Han could see the tension in Leia's jaw even from where he sat, and the too-tight clasp of her fingers on the thin-stemmed glass she held.

"All right, Leia," he said at length, after taking a fortifying sip of his own wine, "so spill it. What's up?"

"It may be nothing," she replied.

Neither Han nor Luke said anything, although Luke did lift an eyebrow. They both knew very well that Leia was not the sort of person to be jumping at shadows.

She sighed. "Well, I don't think it's nothing. But I have no concrete evidence to the contrary. A few days ago, our scans detected a star in the Klandos sector which, for no apparent reason, began spewing out a particularly deadly form of neutron radiation. Qwi Xux approached me with this information." Leia lifted her glass and drank, but it did not appear that she even tasted its contents. "It seems it was an experiment that backfired, an experiment that was supposed to shift the star's spectrum to make its system capable of supporting life. Unfortunately, the experiment didn't work—or at least, it didn't work the way it was supposed to."

She set down her glass on the little side table next to the chair where she sat, and Han could see the worry in her eyes. Neither he nor Luke spoke, not wanting to interrupt her, waiting to hear the rest of what she had to say.

"Qwi and I feel very strongly that this information could be put to deadly use, were it to fall into the wrong hands. It's a technology that could eradicate the life in an entire system without destroying that system's infrastructure. We all know how appealing such a solution would be to the Empire."

"Why?" Luke asked. "What good are spaceports or refineries if their people can't exist there without heavy radiation armor?"

"That's the worst of it," she replied, and knotted her fingers in her lap. "The effect is only temporary. Within six standard months or so, the system would be habitable again—and could be resupplied with loyal Imperial citizens."

"Now, just a minute, Leia," Han protested. What she had described was frightening, no question, but he didn't really see why she regarded the defeated Imperial remnants as such a threat. "What Empire? Last I heard, about all that was left was a bunch of bickering warlords fighting over the scraps from the table, and the Core worlds just hunkering down and trying to stay out of the way."

"I've had some disturbing intelligence from our operatives at the Core," Leia said. "At first it was just one or two isolated reports, and so they were disregarded. But more and more are now saying the same thing—that a strong leader has emerged, that most of the Core worlds now accept his rule, and the rule of his High Command. And that he has managed to put together a sizable fleet."

Luke frowned, leaning forward over the slender glass he held in his cupped hands. "Any idea who it is?"

Leia lifted her shoulders. "A man named Kezler. Unfortunately, we don't have much more than that at the present time. Apparently he worked his way up through COMPNOR, with all that implies."

They were all silent, considering; they knew of the frightening dedication to the Emperor's New Order possessed by all members of COMPNOR, of its secret police and subtle intelligence-gathering operations.

"So now we have to start worrying about the Empire again?" Han asked, and drained the last of his wine. Just when it looked like things were beginning to calm down—

"It looks that way," Leia replied.

"Great," Han muttered.

"So what's next?" Luke inquired. He did not look particularly disturbed by the news Leia had just related, but then he had developed an infuriating—at least to Han—Jedi calmness that did not often reveal the thoughts or emotions beneath the surface.

"A race," Leia replied.

Both Han and Luke looked questioningly at her.

"A race to see who gets to the researchers from the experimental facility and their data first." She looked first at Luke, and then at Han, her eyes dark and wide with worry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her look so disturbed. She continued,

"And the Force help us all if we lose that race."


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you again, A Piece of My Heart, for your lovely and insightful review. I'm glad that you're enjoying this, and I'm glad that at least one person out there was looking out for something different. (I have to admit that the Jedi stuff bores me...don't know why, but that was part of the reason why I decided to write this!) Oh, and if you're not sure which of the apparently hundreds of Star Wars novels to read, I highly recommend the trilogy by Timothy Zahn that starts with Heir to the Empire. I think those books are vastly superior to most of the other Star Wars stuff out there. They're what inspired me, anyway!

* * *

Chapter Four

Eight hours out from Alsinde. Viraess looked away from the chronometer and stared through the viewport at the stars which bled past, distorted by her hyperspace passage. She was headed far beyond the Core, out into the Expansion region, where most planetary governments were in constant flux, and the Empire which had once been knitted into the infrastructure of those worlds had been torn away by civil war and endless political maneuvering. It was an area where the New Republic had been attempting for some time to extend its control, with little success; most worlds in the region seemed to be turning in on themselves, no longer interested in being part of a great, galaxy-wide whole.

Alsinde itself was now under the control of a provisional government headed by a planetary council. The briefing data Kezler had provided for her stated that Alsinde had been controlled by no less than six such provisional governments in the past ten years, and that the planetary economy was now in total collapse. Alsinde's Imperial governor had been assassinated some nine standard months after the Empire began to shatter apart following the Battle of Endor; it was only after he was gone that the citizens of Alsinde began to realize that perhaps he had been the lesser evil.

Viraess wondered why Markus had chosen such a place to hole up in. True, with the planetary government in such turmoil, strangers passing through were less likely to be subjected to any intense scrutiny, and, with Alsinde's economy in the bad shape that it was, the owner of the hostel where Markus was staying was probably happy enough to be getting any kind of hard currency to refrain from asking questions. Also, Alsinde was an approximate midpoint between Markus' abandoned research station on Xy'rie IV and the New Republic capital on Coruscant. Perhaps he was just biding his time, waiting to see what fallout there was from his failed experiment before he made his next move.

Well, she would know soon enough. In less than eight hours she would be down on Alsinde, going to see a man with whom she had not spoken for more than ten years, a man who had no reason to think anything but ill of her. She'd rehearsed the story over in her mind so many times the past few days she almost believed it herself—she'd ended up on Alsinde after chartering in an independent study panel to make recommendations on the planet's economy; she'd heard through some of her sources about Markus' situation, but no one knew where he'd gone to. No, obviously she wasn't in the Imperial fleet any longer, but that was a long story, so how about sitting down and having a drink and talking things over?

She sighed, then leaned back in her comfortable pilot's chair, feeling the pliant softness of it beneath her tense limbs. There was no guarantee he wouldn't tell her to go to hell the minute he first saw her. He certainly had reason to—not that his neglect had been her fault. She'd faithfully answered every letter he ever sent her, but then she no longer heard from him, and had not attempted to contact him herself. She had known better than to try that.

Shutting her eyes, she saw again the bleak, coldly lit corridors of Carida Academy, and remembered the chill she had felt from the first moment she set foot in the facility. The training staff believed an ambient temperature lower than that which most humans found comfortable indoors sharpened the mind and kept the cadets alert, and so she had always been cold there, brain and body chilled from the moment she stepped into the freezing showers in the morning to the time she slid between her icy sheets at night. Injections kept her from becoming physically ill, but she had never felt completely healthy there, either. And the physical discomfort had been the least of her problems.

One of only forty or so female cadets in a class of more than a thousand, Viraess had known from the very beginning that she would have a tougher time of it, simply because she was a woman. What she hadn't expected was the blatant discrimination practiced against her by the instructors because of her sex, or the hostility of most of the other male cadets when confronted by a young woman who was clearly their superior in both talent and intelligence.

She had stood it for as long as she could—more than halfway through her first year. But then her midterm grades had been released, and she was shocked to find that she ranked in the bottom third of her class—along with all of the other female cadets. Even now, more than ten years later, that remembered outrage was enough to bring a knotted feeling of impotent anger to her body once again. She knew she couldn't have done as poorly as that—hadn't she scored in the top half percent of all those who took the Academy admission tests? Wasn't she the daughter of Captain Viraess, hero of the Mandalore campaign? It was intolerable.

And it was even more intolerable when, after a week of very careful slicing into two of her instructors' data banks, she found that they had misreported her grades to the central computer—that her test scores showed she was at the top of one class, and second in the other—not near the bottom, as her half-term report had shown. She made hard-copy printouts of her findings, and hid them among the few personal items she'd been allowed to keep at the Academy. Then she thought, and brooded, for several days, trying to decide what action to take next.

Going to the instructors themselves and showing that she had discovered their fraud was out of the question. They'd only deny everything, and, most likely, have her expelled for tapping into their supposedly inviolable computer files. She considered doing nothing at all. They weren't failing her, and the main thing was to graduate, after all. But class standing determined assignments after graduation, and she was damned if she was going to be assigned to astrogation on some third-rate barge or system patrol craft when she had the brains and talent to be on the fast track to a captaincy on board a Star Destroyer.

So one night, lying in her narrow, chilly bunk, while she listened to her roommate trying to stifle her sobs of frustration and loneliness into her pillow, Viraess came to a decision. That would not be she. For Mila, her roommate, who was here more because her family expected it than because she wanted to be, she felt pity but little sympathy. No one had ever said this was going to be easy, and she, Shelarne Viraess, had never expected that. What she had expected, however, was at least a modicum of fairness, and that she wasn't getting. There seemed to be little choice but for her to take her complaint directly to the top, and to request an interview with Commodore Matteson, the director of Carida Academy. If he ignored her concerns and the hard evidence she had to back them up, well, she'd just request reassignment to another academy, or withdraw from training altogether. The hell with them. Her parents hadn't raised her to be walked all over. Her brother hadn't died on the _Executor_ at Endor just so she could be snubbed at Carida by a bunch of sexist, narrow-minded men who couldn't the stomach the thought that a woman just might be smarter than they were. She was a Viraess, and back in the Core that had counted for something.

By the time she had logged the request to speak to Commodore Matteson she had worked herself into a fine fury, which, as she reflected later, was probably for the best, because otherwise she might not have had the nerve to do it. Although, technically, cadets had a right to seek guidance from their commanding officer, in practice it virtually never happened. They were invisible, beneath his notice.

Therefore, she was more surprised than anything else when she returned to her room after classes the following day to find the message light blinking on her computer screen, and to read the brief notation from Commodore Matteson's adjutant that the Commodore would see her in his office at 18:00 hours. That gave her little more than half an hour to ready herself for the meeting, but in a way she was glad. This way, she had less time to worry about the coming interview.

After checking briefly in the small mirror which she kept hidden in her desk drawer to make sure her hair was still neat, she gathered up her portfolio, which contained the damning printouts, and left. At this time, most of the cadets on her floor were down in the mess for their evening meal, and so she went to the turbolifts unnoticed and unremarked, and left the building without speaking to anyone.

Commodore Matteson's offices were located in the main administrative building, a brisk five-minute walk from the sprawling dormitory where Viraess' room was situated. It was summer at that latitude, and the air was dense and sultry, heavy with the approach of one of the wild summer storms which were endemic to the plain-lands where the Academy lay. The stinging insects that made life miserable for the trainees in the field were out in force, but Viraess walked steadily on, able to ignore them because of the bug-repelling ointment her mother had managed to smuggle in to her during her parents' last visit. She was oblivious to the heat, which normally felt good after the ever-present chill of the student quarters. She was oblivous to everything, save the coming interview.

A bored-looking senior cadet signed her in at the front desk, and gave her an identification card which would allow her access to the turbolifts and the upper levels of the building. She thanked him, ignoring the mildly hostile look he shot at her—probably more out of habit than anything else—and went to the turbolift, placed her card in the i.d. slot, then said, "Level forty-three."

The lift shot upward immediately, as she tried to calm the growing uneasiness in the pit of her stomach and watched the flashing red numbers count off the levels as she ascended. Finally it stopped, and she moved out into a long, dimly lit corridor which terminated in a single door. She spoke her name and operating number into the comm speaker located next to the door, and then stepped inside as the door opened.

A single desk faced her, and at that desk sat a man in his middle thirties, fair-haired and sour-faced. She noted the commander's rank bars on his chest, and saluted smartly, then said, "Cadet Viraess here to see Commodore Matteson as instructed, sir."

His expression became even more sour, if possible. "Sign in, cadet," he instructed, handing her a stylus and clipboard. She took them, signing her name with her usually illegible flourish, and then handed them back.

"This had better be important, Viraess," the commander said, his pale eyes narrowing. "The Commodore has better things to do with his time than waste it on first-year cadets."

"Then I suppose you'd better let me in to see him now," she said sweetly, giving him a small, tight-lipped smile, the smile she only used on people she found truly annoying. "Then I can get this over with quickly and be on my way, sir."

He scowled, but only punched a button on his desktop comm unit and spoke into it. "Cadet Viraess here to see you, sir."

A voice came out of the speaker. "Send her in, commander."

"Yes, sir." He flicked the comm unit off and hit another button. Behind him, a door Viraess had not noticed before slid open with a faint whisper of repulsors. "Go on in. It's the door at the end of the hall."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, and moved past him, too anxious to waste any more energy on baiting him. As she entered the corridor the door closed behind her, and she jumped slightly. Taking a deep breath, she muttered, "Onward and upward," and, clutching her portfolio of evidence to give her courage, she approached the final door, where she touched the chime button. There was no reply, only the soft hiss of the door as it opened before her, and she stepped into Commodore Matteson's private office.

Her first thought was that it was a room filled with thunder. Against the far wall were set enormous transparisteel windows which stretched from floor to ceiling. They offered a vertigo-inspiring view of the plains beyond, sere and golden beneath the bruised mass of clouds that even now bled toward the tower in which she stood. The room was furnished in the usual Imperial military style—dark desk of polished plasteel, hard chairs molded from black plastic. In the half-light of the approaching storm, the chamber seemed one with the clouds beyond its windows, gray and brooding. Then Viraess focused on the man who sat behind the desk, and she snapped to attention.

"Cadet Viraess, sir!"

"Ah, Viraess." The voice was smooth, with the cultured accents of one of the Core worlds. "Please sit down."

She took the chair he'd indicated and sat, back rigid as she perched on the edge of its seat. The portfolio she still held clutched against her breast.

"So what seems to be the problem, cadet?" Commodore Matteson asked, and for the first time she raised her eyes to meet his.

At that time she still had a tendency to lump most adults into two categories—either younger than or older than her own parents. Commodore Matteson appeared to fall into the former group, and was probably some twenty years younger than her father, who had been almost fifty when she was born. His dark hair was already streaked with gray, and he held himself with the almost-unconscious erectness of the career military man.

He waited, watching her, no expression in his gray-green eyes, almost the color of the uniform he wore, or in the firm, thin-lipped mouth bracketed by deep lines.

She cleared her throat. "I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, sir," she began, hoping her voice didn't sound as thin and young to him as it did to her, "but I felt that I had no recourse but to request a meeting with you."

"Go on," he said, settling back slightly in his chair, his eyes never leaving her.

This was it, then. Viraess unclenched her hands from around the portfolio she held and pressed on the latch to open it, pulling out the hard-copy evidence against her instructors with fingers that shook only a little. "Sir, I realize that some elements in the Imperial military may be biased against women serving as soldiers, but I honestly had not expected to meet that prejudice here." She placed the paperwork on the desk before her, finding it easier to look at the pale yellow sheets with their damning information than to meet the Commodore's eyes.

She went on, "I have here evidence to prove that two of my instructors deliberately fed false scores for my exams and papers into the main computers. These scores show that I should be at the top of one of the classes, and second in the other, not in the bottom third, as their false percentile scores show."

Face still expressionless as ever, Commodore Matteson picked up one of the sheets and scanned its contents briefly. "And how did you get this information?"

She swallowed. "Sir, I—"

"A little illegal slicing into your instructor's files? Do you know what the penalty is for such an action?"

"I felt I had no choice."

"Is that an admission of guilt, Viraess?" His voice was still even, almost expressionless.

Somehow, she found the strength to raise her eyes to meet his. She saw nothing there—no anger, but no compassion, either. "Call it what you want, sir," she replied. "But I believe my first duty is to serve the Empire, and I did not see how it benefited the Imperial Navy for a promising young officer to be denied her rightful place in it."

"And are you so promising, Viraess?"

"If you had bothered to look at my files, sir," she snapped, "you would know the answer to that question."

The Commodore was silent then, and she held her breath, knowing that her last remark had veered dangerously close to insubordination.

"I have looked at your files, Viraess," he said mildly, "and so I know that you do happen to be right."

The air somehow found its way back into her lungs as she finally let herself breathe again. Knotting her fingers together, she paused for a moment, gathered her courage, then asked, "And what can we do about this situation?"

"Do?" Commodore Matteson echoed. There was the briefest flicker of some emotion far back in his eyes, a flicker that came and went too quickly for Viraess to discern what it was. Then he looked at her carefully, and something in that calm, cold regard made a finger's brush of chill run down her spine.

"I only mean, sir, that you should—"

"I should what?" His tone never varied, but she knew he would not have cut her off so rudely if he were not in some way irritated by her presumption. "Are you now telling me what I should or should not do, cadet?"

"N-no, sir," she stammered, hating herself for the break in her voice, the sudden trembling of her fingers. Hoping he had not noticed, she clenched her hands into fists and buried them in her lap.

"Good." He stood then, and moved out from behind his desk. He was taller than Viraess had thought he would be, and she, slight of stature anyway, felt even smaller as he towered over her as she huddled into her hard plastic chair.

With slow, deliberate steps the Commodore went to the window and stared out at the approaching clouds, even as the first lightning flared, followed by a crash of thunder loud as a laser burst. She jumped, but he appeared not to notice, and she held herself still, dreading his next words, although she could not exactly say why. Although this interview at least was not going as badly as she thought it might—he hadn't dismissed her complaints out of hand, or had her expelled (yet) for tapping into her instructors' files—there was something about it that didn't seem right, some underlying formless unease that caused the knot in her stomach to work itself even tighter, to increase the trembling in her fingers and the constriction in her throat.

She had been staring down at her hands, as if she could will them to be still, and then he was behind her suddenly, and she felt his hands drop to her shoulders, heavy and cold even through the padding of her cadet uniform. Jaw clenched, she forced herself not to react, to wait in desperate silence, until he spoke again.

"Well, Viraess," he said, "it appears we shall have to work out some sort of arrangement."

"Arrangement, sir?"

Was it only her imagination, or did his fingers tighten on her shoulders, as if seeking to feel the flesh beneath the stiff wool of her uniform, to discover the shape of her body under the concealing tunic?

His voice came at her ear. "I mean, cadet, that I am willing to help you out with your problem, if—" and here he hesitated, as if finding some perverse satisfaction in lengthening her discomfort— "you will do something for me in return."

She did not bother to ask what he meant. His touch on her shoulders, the closeness of his body to hers, was answer enough.

What he thought of her silence she could not tell. But she did feel him lift his hands from her and move away to face her from behind his desk. The lightning splashed its gaudy brightness over the dim room once more, silhouetting him briefly, only a slim dark shape against the glare. She could not see the Commodore's face as he continued, "Please give yourself some time to think about it, cadet. A day, perhaps?"

"A day," she repeated stupidly, as if her brain had suddenly gone as numb as her cold fingers.

"To make your decision," he replied. "But consider carefully, for I shall make this offer only once."

If only she could read some expression in his face, find some key that would allow her to see what he was really thinking. But he was making these outrageous statements with all the coolness of a man reading off a duty roster, or explaining a particular point of tactical doctrine. Did he even see her for who she was, or was she merely a female body he might find useful for a while? It was good, though, that she felt so numb; it kept her from crying out her dismay, her shock that he would even make such a proposition to her.

Then the slightest frown creased his brow, as if it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she was less than receptive to his proposal. His gray-green eyes were as clear and cold as carved Coruscanti jade. "Your way here would be smoothed," he said. "No more misrepresented marks. No more instructors disregarding you merely because of your sex. No more harassment from your fellow students. Is it so large a price to pay for the security of graduating well, and starting off your career in the manner you wish?"

He made it sound so plausible, so easy. Slowly, feeling as if she were dragging the words out from some cold, empty space light-years away, Viraess replied, "I may come to you with my decision tomorrow?"

Commodore Matteson's eyes narrowed slightly. "If the answer is no, then don't bother to come here. Submit your resignation from the Academy to the main records office, and arrange for your transport home. If the answer is yes, then I shall expect you here at 21:00 hours tomorrow."

That, then, was it. Mechanically she stood and replaced the flimsiplast sheets of data in her portfolio, then tucked it under her arm. Somehow she managed to say, voice empty and pleasant as if she had not just been issued an ultimatum of the very worst sort, "Thank you for taking the time to see me, sir."

For the first time the slightest of smiles touched his thin lips. "The pleasure, I hope, will be all mine."

Viraess could find no reply to that, but merely nodded a fraction, then, still feeling as if her limbs were not entirely her own, as if her body had become some sort of cyborg mechanism untouched by pain or doubt, she left the Commodore's office. The long, dark hallway outside passed by in a blur; so did the trip down the turbolifts and the large reception area outside. Dimly, she remembered to return the borrowed access card to the cadet at the front desk, and then she was out, free of the icy recycled air of the administrative building, as the thundery heat of the Caridan plains enveloped her.

She was thankful that dusk was approaching; head down, she had fled for her dormitory, hoping that no one could see the tears on her cheeks through the failing light…

Viraess shifted in her seat, startled by the beep from her nav computer that signaled the drop out of hyperspace into the Alsindan system. The stars settled into their normal positions around her, and she set the computer to calculating approach vectors for low orbit around the planet. Then she sat back, brooding.

She had not slept that night so long ago, of course. It was still as clear as yesterday—how she had sat wakeful in her bunk, trying to look at the situation coldly, trying to find some justification for what she had been asked to do. But there was none. There was no way she could justify such an abuse of power as that which Commodore Matteson had brought to bear on her, but, likewise, there was no way she could leave the Aademy in such disgrace. She had tried to imagine how she would explain her failure to her parents, and could not. Her entire life had been shaped around this—the Academy, and a glorious career in the Navy.

And what she had come down to, in the darkest reaches of the night, while she sat wakeful in the icy, narrow confines of her bunk, was that she would sacrifice even her personal honor to succeed in her career. This was a crime that would hurt no one but herself. If her reputation was to be in tatters, then so be it. At least she would not fail. She could live with anything else but that.

So the next evening she had gone to him. She had made sure her uniform was as pressed and neat as if she were going to inspection, her boots polished, her long unruly hair neatly coiled beneath her cap. This time there was no sour-faced commander watching over the Commodore's reception area; she had merely walked past his desk and down that long corridor, her boot steps echoing off the polished plasteel floor, each one sounding a death-knell in her heart. She could remember thinking, _Forgive me, Markus_, even as she touched the door chime.

And then the door had opened, and he was standing there. For the briefest second she could read the triumph in his eyes, and then he smiled and said, "I thought you would come."

And the door had closed behind her.

_Four years_, she thought, as she watched the gibbous blue-green shape of Alsinde slowly grow in the viewport. _Four years, every week_. It was something she forced herself not to think about. And, to give him credit, the Commodore had kept his side of the bargain. The rest of her tenure at the Academy went smoothly enough, although the inevitable whispering began soon after she and Commodore Matteson consummated their pact. The whispers grew even louder when she was transferred into one of the few, highly prized private rooms on the campus; Viraess knew that it had been done so that it would be less easy to trace her comings and goings, but it still made her even more different. But she had managed to struggle through, graduating second in her class, knowing in her heart she should have been first, save for the fact that even Commodore Matteson would not allow a woman to graduate at the head of her class.

She sighed, and then touched the switch to open the tight sub-space beam which would send her message back to the _Overlord_ and Grand Moff Kezler's waiting ears. "This is _Morning Star_," she said, slightly heartened that at least her voice was still smooth and neutral, revealing nothing of the troubling memories she had just dredged up. "Preparing to enter orbit; I should be landing in the spaceport at Orlende within the next hour. Viraess out." She closed off the beam, then watched the planet fill the viewport, the soft blue-green light washing through the cabin. Her heart began a sudden irrational pounding in her chest, and Viraess swallowed. What a fool she was. If she could not control herself now, how much worse would she fare when she was actually in Markus' presence, actually faced with the man she had shut out so long ago?

For some reason she could see Commodore Matteson's face clearly in her mind, even though she had forced herself over the years to push aside what had happened. She did not know if she even hated him; whatever else could be said of the man, he had never reneged on his promise, never used her and then cast her aside, as many other men would have. For some time she had wondered if he'd cared for her just a little, but of course he'd never said as much. It did not matter now; she'd not seen him since she'd left the Academy, freshly commissioned as a junior lieutenant, and she had not known how to react when she'd heard of the destruction of Carida. It had been a tremendous loss, both of personnel and equipment, and a terrible blow to the Empire, but she'd forced herself to admit she had always hated the place. Whether she hated the Commodore, or wished to see him dead, was a more complex matter.

What she did know was that, perversely, he had given her the strength to deal with the more unpleasant aspects of serving the Empire, of carrying out orders with which she might otherwise have personally disagreed. For there was always that thought in the back of her mind: _If I gave myself to him to earn my career, then certainly I can do this_. It was a belief that had seen her through more than one difficult situation.

And it was something that floated at the edge of her mind as she contacted the spaceport and transmitted her ship's registration information to the control tower, then piloted the _Morning Star_ down through the green-blue, cloud-streaked skies. _If I had the courage to do that, then I can face Markus. I can lie to him. I can take his data away and deliver it to Kezler_. I will do what I must, because it is for the Empire. The Empire, which had, paradoxically, taken everything from her, and yet had given her any position she might now have.

And when she stepped out of the _Morning Star_, and breathed the air of a planet once more, her first thought was an echo of that same one from so long ago.

_Forgive me, Markus_.

* * *

He'd been followed for several days now, Markus was sure. Oh, the man was good, no question of that. He'd stayed far enough away from Markus, kept enough in the background, that it had taken some time for Markus to realize that that same sandy-haired man was always lingering nearby, whether he was looking over the wares in a store just across the way from where Markus stood, or seemingly buried in a flimsiplast newsheet in a booth across a crowded restaurant. And even on the few occasions where Markus could not see him, he was certain he had to be somewhere nearby, perhaps holed up in another of the shabby little hostels that lined this back street in Orlende, close enough to the spaceport to be halfway convenient, but not close enough that they were overly expensive. 

But once Markus had divined that he was, in fact, being followed, the inevitable questions soon arose. If the man was an Imperial agent, why hadn't he moved against Markus? Imperial Intelligence was not usually noted for its restraint in such matters. And if he wasn't Intelligence, then who was he?

Unanswered questions did not sit well with Markus. He had spent his whole life in search of answers, answers to ever larger and more complex problems. Quite possibly the thing that irritated him the most about being on the run was that he did not have access to a nice, comfortable laboratory where he could analyze the results of his failed experiment and begin to decipher how it could have gone so horribly wrong. Not knowing who this man was, or why he was tailing a runaway scientist, did not help the situation much.

And that was why, as dusk began to fall over Orlende, and the streets became slightly less choked than they were during the day, Markus deliberately wandered into the alleyway behind the hostel where he was staying, wondering whether the strange man would follow him there.

The alley was strewn with garbage bins, discarded furniture, stacks of newsheets—the refuse collectors had been on strike for some time now, due to a wage dispute with Alsinde's latest provisional government—and Markus found it easy enough to take cover behind a looming mass of plastic packing crates and stacked flimsiplast. There he waited, until he heard the sound of footsteps, the crackle of a trodden-on newsheet. Then there was silence, as if his shadow was annoyed at the betraying noises he had made, and was waiting to see if his quarry would move after all.

Not for the first time, Markus thought, _How the hell do I get myself into these things?_ just before he launched himself in a low roll right at the feet of his pursuer. The man stumbled, and Markus took advantage of his greater height and weight—and the man's temporary loss of balance—to bring him to his knees.

A searing blast flashed mere millimeters away from his cheekbone, and Markus looked down to see a slender, deadly-looking blaster pointed directly at his head.

Almost without thinking, he brought his right knee up in a reflexive movement, catching the man's wrist and knocking the blaster free. It flew up in the air and then bounced off a refuse bin with a loud metallic clatter. The Intelligence agent—if that was who he really was—grunted, and aimed a vicious jab at Markus' solar plexus with the back of his elbow. Markus shifted enough that it caught him in the ribs, but even so he could hear a slight crunch, followed by a sudden, sickening pain, and he knew the bone must have cracked.

His only hope was the dropped blaster. He might have spent a good bit of time in the research station's gym, and he may have been blessed with the strength and balance of a natural athlete, but none of that was going to do him much good against the trained hand-to-hand combat techniques of an Intelligence agent. He'd heard the blaster fall somewhere to his left, and he lunged toward it in the half-dark, trying to ignore the sharp, jabbing sensation in his chest.

Unfortunately, the other man appeared to have the same idea. Markus felt him grab his wrist, while at the same time burying his knee in his side. This time it was Markus' turn to curse, but he knew he couldn't let the pain distract him from reaching for the blaster. He felt his fingers slide over the cold plasteel grip, and then the Intelligence man squeezed his wrist so hard Markus was sure he heard the bones grind together.

Markus pressed the fire button, letting off a wild shot that ricocheted against a garbage container and then hit the wall of the building opposite them. The pressure on his wrist increased; he knew it was only a matter of seconds before the bone snapped. Who would have thought that such a nondescript, dusty-looking little man could possess such strength? But that, of course, was probably part of the reason the man had been assigned to Surveillance in the first place.

Knowing he had very little time left, Markus purposely relaxed his grip on the blaster. The agent reached forward to seize it, and Markus swiftly brought his knee up into the other man's groin. Incredibly, the agent made no sound, but his grip on Markus' wrist loosened enough that Markus could tighten his grip on the blaster, turn it around, and fire it into the man's chest.

He died as he had fought, in silence. Markus lay on the filthy alley floor for a moment, panting, trying to breathe past the tightening band of pain around his chest, and then slowly stood, wincing as he did so. The commotion in the alley was sure to bring the attention of the local authorities; he could not stay here long, but neither did he want to leave the dead man where he was. Although the pain was getting harder and harder to ignore, he managed to grab the man by his ankle and pull him behind one of the refuse bins, then scatter some of the discarded newsheets over him. The makeshift subterfuge would not fool anyone for long, but that didn't matter. Markus planned to be long gone before whatever passed for the local security force arrived.

Limping, he made his way to the front of his hostel and slipped inside. The front desk clerk was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he had gone off to find the source of the noises outside, or perhaps he was already alerting the authorities. At any rate, Markus was able to slip into the creaking elevator—the hostel was too poor to afford a turbolift—and go to his room, where he hurriedly stuffed his few belongings into his duffel. Then he made his escape back out into the streets, hoping that the dark would conceal the worst of the bruises forming on his face, the rips and gashes in his clothing.

Once away, he found a credit station, where he slipped his voucher in the slot and punched in the code that would release the remainder of his funds to him. He'd avoided using it all this time, knowing that the second he did so the Empire would discover exactly where he was, but that no longer mattered. The Imperials had already known he was here, and now he had enough cash in hand to disappear halfway across the galaxy.

But first, he needed a trip to a medical facility, and then a change of clothing. In his wanderings through the streets of Orlende these past few weeks, he had grown to know the city well, and he knew exactly where to go—there was a small clinic only a few streets away, a place that would ask few questions once he had shown his hard currency, where he could have the worst of his hurts healed, and the mud and blood washed from his face. After that—

After that, he would disappear. And this time he knew exactly where to go—a world untouched by the Empire or New Republic, where he could hide forever, if need be.

He scanned the streets around him quickly, but saw no one. The rising unrest on Alsinde had led to a temporary curfew after dusk, and he took to the shadows himself, stealing the tactics of the man who had tailed him, fading at last into the darkness, leaving the dead agent and his knowledge far behind.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"What do you mean, there's a curfew on?" Viraess planted her hands on her hips and glared at the spaceport official who had met her at the base of the _Morning Star_'s loading ramp.

The man shifted his weight, then tugged at the hem of his too-tight jacket. It bore the words "Alsinde Port Authority" bravely embroidered across the left breast, and perhaps had once been more reputable-looking, but it, like the spaceport itself, was now threadbare and a little ragged. "I mean, Mistress and Captain," he replied, "that following the food riots, the provisional government has instituted a dusk-to-dawn curfew within the city limits of Orlende proper."

"So what do you propose I do?" she demanded, feeling vaguely ridiculous. To have come all this way, with the authority of the Empire behind her, only to be stopped by this shabby little man and his preposterous local edicts!

"We recommend that all pilots landing after dusk remain with their ships until morning." He seemed unable to meet her outraged stare, his pale blue gaze shifting toward the ground at her feet. "In the morning you will be free to go about your business."

"My business, I regret, cannot wait until morning," she snapped, then clenched her teeth slightly, forcing herself to remain calm. "Surely there is some sort of arrangement that can be worked out?" And she let her hand rest ever so briefly on the pouch at her waist, letting him hear the faint jingle of hard currency within.

"Well —" he began, the lines of his face brightening slightly. "In certain circumstances, persons with important business to conduct may go about at night, in the company of a member of the Security Police."

"Oh," Viraess said, then frowned. What good would it do her to go meet Markus with a member of the local police force tagging along? But she had to go to see him, and since he had been here for some time, perhaps he would find it stranger if she didn't appear with a member of the security force in tow. She didn't like the idea, but the important thing, after all, was to get there.

So she manufactured a smile and handed a fifty-credit piece to the man who waited before her. He took it from her quickly, as if he were not quite sure she wouldn't change her mind, and then he led her to the main spaceport office, where she was handed off to a slightly better-uniformed, tough-looking woman who asked where Viraess was heading.

"The Orenian," she replied, naming the hostel where Markus was staying.

The police officer looked unimpressed. "This way."

Viraess followed her out of the building to a half-empty parking lot, where the female officer indicated that she get into the passenger seat of a waiting hovercar with the security shield logo of the local police force barely visible on its faded paint. The vehicle started with a coughing whine, then hiccuped its way out of the parking area and into the empty streets. The security officer piloted it in silence, her hostility toward Viraess as thick and palpable as the stink of piled garbage in the warm air.

Apparently there was some sort of strike on; through the glare of the harsh street lighting Viraess could see the heaps of refuse which lurked in alleyways and street corners and gutters. She would not allow herself to wrinkle her nose—she was sure the police officer would take any outward sign of disgust toward the conditions as a personal insult—but Viraess did admit to herself that this was not the sort of planetfall she had expected. Usually she welcomed the opportunity to feel real ground, real gravity beneath her feet, to smell air that had not been endlessly recycled and purified. But now she looked at the shabby buildings passing by and permitted herself a small sigh. These people had been so quick to embrace a new government, to throw off the shackles of the Empire, and all it had gotten them was a quick downward spiral into planet-wide poverty and decay. Alsinde had not been worth fighting for—it was not a mineral-rich world, and possessed only light manufacturing industries and minimal agricultural development—and the remnants of the Empire had to concern themselves with maintaining control over mining and industrial concerns, or planets with the heavy agrarian-based cultures which could supply food to billions. So Alsinde would settle down into dusty anonymity, its leaders constantly bickering, until the population decided to revolt, or went whining to the New Republic for assistance.

The hovercar jerked to a stop outside a narrow little three-story building jammed in between what appeared to be several shabby apartment complexes. A tired holo-sign that flickered in and out of existence spelled out the hostel's name in Basic.

"This is it?" Viraess asked, wondering at what could have brought Markus to such a place. The image came to her suddenly of Markus' parents' residence in Ariston on Lanarsk Prime, of that home's graciously appointed rooms and the priceless art and antiques that had been in his family for generations. That he could have come to this—

"You were expecting a palace?" The police officer's mouth thinned while she looked on Viraess with bitter dark eyes. "I'd watch it in here if I were you. We had a squad out here earlier this evening. A murder in the alleyway —someone dumped the body out behind the trash bins."

"A murder?" Viraess repeated, her voice constricted with a sudden fear. Not Markus, she prayed. Not here. Not like this.

"That's right."

"Wait here." Viraess opened the hovercar door and let herself out, then hurried into the hostel's shabby lobby. At this hour, it was empty save for a lone Twi'lek who sat behind the front desk with his head bent over a small handheld holo-game. He looked up as she entered, and his reddish eyes glinted with sudden interest.

She could feel herself stiffen. While Viraess tried to tell herself that she did not hold the same anti-alien prejudices of many of her fellow Imperial officers, deep down she knew that was not entirely true. Part of it was simply that she had never had much exposure to alien races—Lanarsk Prime was a world populated entirely by humans, and of course there had been no alien cadets at Carida or alien officers in the Navy. It was only during her infrequent leaves that she had any contact at all with nonhumans, and even then her exposure to them was minimal. And that one of them should be staring at her in such a way—

She shot him her best steely-eyed Admiral's glare, and was gratified to see his gaze falter. "I'm looking for a Markus Klem," she said crisply. "I was informed that he was a guest here."

"Cleared out," the Twi'lek replied, "gone."

"Gone where?"

The alien lifted his bony shoulders, one of his fleshy head tails moving slightly. "Don't know."

Viraess pulled a shining fifty-credit piece from her belt purse. "Does this jog your memory at all?"

With more alacrity than she would have thought possible, given the alien's earlier indolent appearance, the Twi'lek rose from his sitting place and came to take the coin from her hand. His long, skeletal fingers brushed against hers as he retrieved the bribe, and she barely restrained a shudder.

"Klem was gone when the police came by," the alien said. "They found a body in the alley. Klem could've done it. Or not." Again a shrug. "But he took his things and went. Been gone about six, seven hours."

"Damn," she murmured. In that space of time he could be off-planet and light-years away. But even as she said the word, she could feel relief sweep through her body, leaving her almost weak with the strength of it. At least he was not dead.

"They took the body to the city morgue," the Twi'lek offered, giving a significant glance toward her belt pouch.

She gave him another fifty, more out of relief than anything else. Probably the unidentified dead man was nothing to do with her, or her search for Markus, but it wouldn't hurt to have the police officer take her to the morgue, just so she could see for herself, for her imagination had already begun torturing her. What if the Twi'lek couldn't really tell one human from another, and the dead man really were Markus, the victim of a murdering thief who had absconded with all of Markus' belongings….

She did not bother to say thank you to the Twi'lek for the information. It was with quick purposeful steps that she returned to the waiting hovercar and instructed the security officer to drive her to the city morgue.

"Do I look like a taxi service?" the other woman snapped.

Almost without thinking Viraess reached toward her belt purse, but the woman cut her off with a sound of disgust.

"Keep your damned off-world money," the officer snapped. "Not everything on Alsinde is up for sale."

The hovercar leaped forward with a burst of speed Viraess hadn't thought it capable of, and they hurtled through the streets of Orlende at a velocity that was barely safe now and would never have been possible during daylight hours. Viraess sat grimly in her seat, trying to ignore the growing dread that the unknown dead man was, in fact, Markus, trying to pretend she didn't mind the increasingly careless manner in which the female officer navigated the route to the morgue. She was sure the other woman was just trying to scare her, to prove that in some way she was better than this off-worlder who appeared out of nowhere in her expensive clothing with her belt pouch full of cash.

Viraess permitted herself a small, tight smile. To someone who had piloted a TIE fighter in combat this ride was nothing, but of course the police woman had no way of knowing that.

They ground to a halt outside a tall white building set off from the street by a low wall and a hedge of dark, close-cropped bushes. "The morgue," the officer offered unnecessarily, for Viraess could see the sign glowing on the wall in the glare of a street lamp. "Have fun." And with that she gunned the engine and sped away, leaving Viraess standing there alone.

It didn't take much to be let in. She wished she could call these people pathetic in their easy willingness to accept bribes, but it was not that simple. Most of them probably had families to support, and, considering Alsinde's toppling economy, they had to take their money where they could get it.

Still, she was surprised to see that she was not alone when she was allowed into the holding room where the unidentified man's body lay. He was covered up to the neck in a thin plastene sheet, but she could see his face clearly, and it was definitely not Markus. But she had no time to feel relieved, for then another man stepped forward—a man in ordinary street clothes, and not the coveralls of a doctor or surgery tech and demanded, "What are you doing in here?"

"I would say that was my business," she retorted. He looked ordinary enough, just another Alsindan in the shabby clothing which seemed to be the norm here.

"Friend or relative?" he asked.

"Neither," Viraess replied, then glanced down at the man under the sheet. There was no reason she should recognize him, and she didn't, but somehow she pitied him as he lay here alone and unmourned, just another victim of a back-alley mugging. The Twi'lek had said that Markus could have been the murderer, but she didn't see why. No, it was most likely just a terrible coincidence. "I thought he might be someone else. A friend I was supposed to meet."

"A Dr. Markus Klem?"

Shocked, she turned to look back up at the stranger. A moment ago she might have called him ordinary, but now there was no mistaking the cool speculation in his dark eyes, the sudden grimness of his mouth.

"Why do you ask?"

He flipped open an ident badge. "Lieutenant Fortson, Imperial Intelligence. We believe Markus Klem murdered our agent here and fled the planet." He stepped closer, then reached out and grasped her by the arm before she could pull away. "I'm afraid we're going to have to take you in for questioning."

* * *

Linden Arelle watched as the red-brown desert world of Kessel slowly grew in the viewport. She sat in silence while Lando expertly manipulated the nav computer to bring them in on low orbit and waited until his calculations were complete. 

"This isn't exactly on the beaten path to Coruscant," she remarked finally. The past few days she'd spent in a semi-stupor, asleep in one of the _Lady Luck_'s small cabins as she worked off the last effects of those three Alderaanian _uisgees_ she'd consumed. The hangover had been enough to convince her that she never wanted to touch the stuff again. She'd emerged at last only to discover that they were far from Coruscant, in one of the last places she'd ever wanted to visit—the Kessel system. That place had been a stink in the galaxy's collective nostrils for far too long.

"I've got a business concern here I need to check up on," he replied, then looked up at her with a quick grin. "I thought for sure you'd sleep at least another three days."

"No such luck," she said, and grimaced. At least the little luxury yacht was equipped with small but more than adequate sanitary facilities; she'd had a shower and stolen a clean shirt of Lando's to replace her travel-rumpled tunic. "So what's your business here?"

"Spice—what else?" Outside the viewport the atmosphere thickened, as they dropped from low orbit into a smooth trajectory aimed at a landing pad outside one of the remaining buildings on the planet's surface. "See, after the Empire got thrown out of here, there was this slimeball Moruth Doole running things for a while, but he was eliminated a few months back. So there was no one here to run things, with all that spice just waiting to be mined. I'm working on getting a management crew of Sullustans in here, along with some heavy automated mining equipment."

"Sounds like quite an operation."

"You don't sound all that convinced."

Linden shrugged. "I guess I find it hard to believe that you could get anyone to work this place voluntarily."

"You'd be surprised what people are willing to put up with when there's a lot of cash involved." Lando flicked a switch on the _Lady Luck_'s comm unit and spoke. "Kessel Control, this is Lando Calrissian requesting permission to land." There came only the soft hiss of static over the receiver, and he tapped the switch again. "I repeat, this is Lando Calrissian. Requesting permission to land."

"Friends not home?" Linden inquired.

He frowned. "Maybe there's been an equipment malfunction. Sometimes the relays can get little strange out here, what with the energy fluxes so close to the Maw." He studied the visual carefully, then checked the navigational readouts. "Doesn't look like there's any traffic down there. I'm going to go ahead and take us down."

Linden settled back in the co-pilot's seat without reply, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Something about this place just didn't feel right, and somehow she didn't think her feeling of foreboding was entirely due to Kessel's reputation. She didn't know Lando well enough to tell if he were as relaxed as he seemed, or whether he were secretly worrying about the silence from the planet's surface.

Still, it was exhilarating to feel the _Lady Luck_ sweep through the thermals which swirled above Kessel's surface, and to watch as Lando's smooth brown hands ran with careless grace over the controls. Linden's pleasure evaporated rapidly, however, as the ship bucked suddenly, as if with an unexpected impact.

"What the hell—" Lando exclaimed.

This time there was no mistaking the pale-green laser bolt that cracked past the forward viewport. Again the little pleasure yacht shuddered, and Lando cursed. "Who'd've thought I'd have to come in here with my shields up?" he demanded, then threw a set of switches.

"Is it bad?" Linden asked, grimly checking the clasps on her safety restraints. It looked like it was going to be one bumpy ride. She peered through the blowing dust that all but obscured her view of Kessel's surface, but could see nothing of their attackers.

He replied without lifting his worried dark gaze from the scene before them. "It could be worse. Whatever they're hitting me with, it's not that powerful. Small laser cannon—less powerful than mine." As if to prove his point, he hit the switch to power up his own weapon. "You ever use one of these?"

Linden blinked at him. "Are you joking?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" And he winced as another laser shot winged the ship.

"Sorry, shooting off laser cannons really wasn't covered at the University of Commenor." But even as she made her reply she inched closer to the console, her fingers hovering over the trigger grips he'd indicated. "But I'd love to give it a try."

He gave her a dubious look, then grinned. "Well, I got my shields up in time to prevent much damage, and those cannons they're firing at us aren't that hot, so what the heck." The grin faded, even as he frowned through the gritty wind that blurred the viewport. "But I'd sure like to know who's out there shooting at us."

Linden didn't have time to reply, as another laser bolt came flying out of the murk and exploded off the aft deflector shield. She'd been watching carefully to see where the bolt had come from, and aimed the laser cannon and fired.

Her bolt disappeared into the swirling sand cloud, with no apparent evidence that it had found its destination. Lando leaned over his tracking display, and Linden peered over his shoulder to see three small blips coalesce out of nowhere, heading straight for them. For a second she wondered where they could have been hiding, but the computer's surface schematics revealed the most plausible answer—their attackers had been hiding behind one of the atmospheric generators while a surface cannon had fired off the first shots.

"We've got company," he announced.

"And that means?" Linden let her hands rest on the curved grips of the laser cannon controls, but refrained from firing. She couldn't see what she was shooting at, anyway. She was about to ask him if it might be a good idea to switch on the targeting computer, but his next words silenced her.

"That means we're getting the hell out of here." As he spoke he banked the _Lady Luck_ hard left, and brought her up in a quick climb out of Kessel's roiling atmosphere.

This last action brought another salvo of laser bolts bursting around them, and again the pleasure yacht shuddered and bucked as the energy beams bounced off her shields. As the ship lifted out of atmosphere, the shapes of their pursuers became immediately visible: three sleek, sharp-edged fighters some twenty-five meters long.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Lando swore again, this time more colorfully, and kicked more power to the sublight engines, sending the _Lady Luck_ forward in a burst of speed that pushed Linden back against her cushioned seat with a gasp.

Linden squinted at the menacing little shapes on the tactical display. "What are they?"

Lando looked as if he wanted to make a comment on her ignorance, but instead replied, "Skipray blastboats. They outgun us, and can probably outrun us. I don't know who's down there, but they're well supplied, whoever they are."

"Can you get us out of here?" Linden asked, trying to sound calm. A quiet life waitressing in a hotel on Umgul was beginning to look better and better

"They may outgun us, but we can outmaneuver them. And our course will be set in just a few minutes."

Another laser blast hit the rear deflectors, and a small red light began blinking on the console.

Linden pointed an accusing finger. "What does that mean?"

"It means we're going to lose the rear deflector before we can hit hyperspace."

"Um, that's bad, right?"

He flashed her another of those lightning grins. "It would be, if I weren't the one piloting this baby. Hold on."

And Linden's stomach seemed to drop out of her as the ship abruptly fell several hundred meters, then spun through a series of sharp, helixed turns which made Linden pray that the clasps on her restraints wouldn't give way. The shots of their pursuers went wild, and although she could see the shapes on the tactical display moving to intercept them, it was clear that Lando had gained them some breathing space. The _Lady Luck_ shot forward, leaving the three blastboats further and further behind, and then normal space exploded around them, as the starfield melted past the viewport.

They were away. Linden did not even realize that she still gripped the laser cannon controls with numb fingers until Lando reached over to gently untense her hands from around the grips.

"You all right?"

She nodded, feeling the ebb of adrenaline leave her drained and shaky, her shoulders tight and knees aching. "I'm fine." From somewhere she dug up a tight-lipped smile and put it on. "You just need to remember that I'm kind of new to this sort of thing."

His dark eyes were suddenly understanding, and kind. "Well, we're on a straight course to Coruscant now, so I hope we won't have a repeat of this little adventure." His expression turned grim. "I just wish I knew who they were. And what happened to the people I left on Kessel."

Linden looked away, not sure if he really wanted her to see his pain. They were, after all, strangers to one another; she knew nothing of him, save that he was obviously an expert pilot, and he knew nothing of her.

"I don't like mysteries," Lando stated flatly, as he stared out the viewport at the blurred starfield which streaked by. "And I intend to get to the bottom of this one."

And then he lapsed into silence, brooding over his ship's controls. After a few awkward moments, Linden rose and moved quietly out to her own small cabin. She knew he needed to be alone, and so did she. The universe, despite the war, despite the losses in her own life, had always seemed fairly safe and secure, wrapped as she had been in her comfortable life, her studies, her work. But ever since Markus had activated the Corona Project, her life had been a series of random disasters, until she was unsure of herself, of the galaxy, and her own place in it. The only thing she was sure of, she reflected miserably, as she wrapped herself the blankets on her narrow little bed, was that her run of disasters was probably far from over.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Grand Moff Kezler stared at the blank viewscreen in silence for a few moments, long after Viraess' image had disappeared. The faint hum of the air cycling unit seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness, but it was not loud enough to drown out the angry beating of his own heart. He paused a moment longer, then pushed the button for his comm unit.

"Notify Moff Naren that I would like a word with him."

His adjutant replied immediately. "Right away, sir!"

Kezler flicked the comm unit off and settled back in his chair. The fine leather creaked softly with the movement, but this time he did not notice the sound. His thoughts were already ranging ahead to what he planned to say to the head of Intelligence when Naren arrived.

_Intelligence_, he thought sourly, and took a sip from the still-steaming mug of caf his adjutant had brought in a quarter-hour earlier. Kezler had barely taken his first taste of the stimulant drink before the call came in from Viraess. He had been somewhat surprised to hear from her, for he had not expected a report so quickly after receiving her transmission that she was approaching Alsinde, but what she had to tell him was immediately disturbing—that Klem had somehow managed to kill the Intelligence agent who had been tailing him and then disappear off-planet, and that she had been dragged in for questioning by the murdered agent's partner.

Her appearance was all he needed to know that that questioning had not been particularly gentle. Although there had been no physical marks on her, Viraess had been white and shaken, her carefully coiffed hair somehow loosened from its pins and falling in heavy curls over her shoulders. Yet her voice had revealed nothing of the ordeal she had endured as she stated what had happened, and how she had finally managed to convince the Intelligence agent responsible, Lieutenant Fortson, to run her retinal ident through the Imperial database to confirm she actually was who she claimed to be. She'd even asked if he wanted to speak with Lt. Fortson personally, but Kezler had replied curtly that he would let Moff Naren deal with his own agent.

As if noticing for the first time her disheveled appearance, Viraess had then pushed her loosened hair off her shoulders and asked, "What should I do next, sir? Markus has been missing for at least ten standard hours. Preliminary investigation has found no trace of where he might have gone. Unfortunately, the Alsindan Port Authority has a tendency to look the other way—far away—if enough money changes hands. Whoever Markus bribed to get out of here, he bribed them big enough that they're not talking. And if either I or Lt. Fortson start flashing a lot of credits around, we're going to draw more attention to ourselves than we already have."

Her tone was still matter-of-fact, level, but Kezler knew better. He had not made his way to the top in COMPNOR without developing some skill in reading people, and he could see the weariness in the set of her slender shoulders and the shadows under her clear gray eyes. It was fairly obvious to him that she hoped he would say she had done all she could, and that it was time for her to return to the _Overlord_.

Defeat this soon, however, was not in Kezler's plans.

"Return to _Morning Star_," he replied at length, and had continued, almost reluctant to crush the faint hope which had appeared in her eyes, "and then _think_, Viraess. You were close to this man once. Where is it he might have gone? We will continue to probe the records on Alsinde, but in the meantime you are our best hope for locating Klem, and quickly." He'd allowed the slightest edge of steel to enter his tone. "I'm counting on you, Viraess."

"Yes, Grand Moff Kezler," she said, with only the barest trace of hesitation.

"Then that will be all, Admiral," he'd said, and cut the transmission. Viraess' image had wavered into darkness, and Kezler had been left to brood over the dark visiscreen, and to wait for Moff Naren to appear.

Said appearance took longer than Kezler would have liked, but whether the Moff's arrival in Kezler's office almost thirty minutes later was part of a calculated attempt to flout his authority, or Naren truly had some legitimate reason for the delay, Kezler did not know and at the moment didn't care. It took most of his effort to keep himself from stiffening in dislike as the older man was ushered into the room by Kezler's adjutant. However, Kezler managed to fix on his features the aspect of bland neutrality he most favored in his dealings with Naren, and said,

"Moff Naren. I am honored by the alacrity with which you have obeyed my summons."

Naren, who had paused several paces away from Kezler's desk, did not so much stiffen as merely hold himself even more erect. The older man was too hardened a veteran of the serpentine workings of Imperial power to let any betraying anger reveal itself in his face, but Kezler knew the dart had found its target.

Satisfied, he shifted slightly backward in his seat. "Sit, Moff Naren," he went on, indicating the empty chair which faced his desk.

Naren took the seat offered him, but the plasteel straightness of his spine never changed as he held himself rigid against the soft, expensive leather.

Kezler allowed a small, uncomfortable silence to develop before saying, "I just received a very interesting transmission from our Admiral on Alsinde."

The head of Intelligence merely watched him out of those glinting black eyes of his, eyes which had always reminded Kezler of a Devaronian sand-snake poised to strike. Naren, it seemed, could play the game of silence as well as anyone.

"It appears she was apprehended by one of your operatives and systematically tortured—"

"We prefer to say 'questioned,'" Naren interposed, his tone too gentle to be construed as insulting.

"—tortured for several hours," Kezler continued, barely missing a beat, "before she finally convinced said operative to run her retinal scans through the database to ascertain her true identity."

"Unfortunate," Naren allowed. "I trust she was not permanently damaged?"

"The questioning, luckily, had not advanced that far." Kezler folded his hands on his desktop and leaned forward slightly. "However, I do question the competence of an agent who would subject someone to such an interrogation without first determining her identity."

Naren raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, Grand Moff Kezler—if you apprehended a woman inquiring after a known fugitive, and then had this same woman tell you she was a member of the High Command, would you believe her?"

"What I would or would not believe is not the question here, Naren. The most expedient course would have been for him to check her ident first. That would have saved him valuable time better spent searching for Markus Klem." Kezler paused, then smiled slightly. "Such a breakdown at the level of one of your field agents leads me to believe that Intelligence may be more fundamentally flawed than I had thought."

The faintest tensing along Naren's jaw was the only discernable reaction to Kezler's last statement. When he spoke, however, Kezler could hear the anger buried under the cold, clipped words.

"And some might say that sending an untrained woman—however capable she might be in other areas—after data as important as that of the Corona Project was as ill-advised as it was improbable." Naren's mouth thinned, although the expression was too subtle to be called a sneer. "Perhaps you are being a bit over-protective of your pet Admiral."

Kezler could feel an angry retort rising to his lips, but refused to voice it. Any loss of control here, and Naren would then have the upper hand. "Just what are you insinuating, Moff Naren?"

"Forgive my boldness, Grand Moff Kezler," Naren replied, the over-emphasis on Kezler's title veering dangerously close to sarcasm, "but it is common knowledge that you've had the Admiral in your pocket ever since she was named to the High Command. There's no doubt of her competence in her field—and she's quite decorative as well—but there were at least five other officers who would have been better choices for her position. She knows that as well as anyone else, so of course she jumps through any hoops you care to place before her."

"Does this 'common knowledge' which you, as head of Intelligence, are so privy to also include the fact that she has a better head for tactics than men with twice her experience? Or that she is one of the most decorated officers in the Fleet?" Kezler became abruptly aware that his hands were clenched into fists; uncurling them slowly, he continued, the words more controlled this time, "Perhaps none of that is of any concern to you, Naren. But I had my reasons for naming Viraess to the High Command, and your spiteful mouthings will do nothing to change that. As for your comment about her being 'decorative' —you belittle her, and the rest of the High Command, for speaking of a fellow officer in such a fashion."

Naren regarded him coldly for a moment. "However noble those words might be, they do nothing to change the fact that she is ill-prepared—and ill-suited—for the task which you have set before her. One of my own agents should have been sent after Klem—"

"Two of your agents were tailing Klem," Kezler cut in. "One of them managed to get himself killed by a mere scientist, and the other one took in an officer of the High Command for questioning. Not a very successful operation, even by the standards of Intelligence."

Naren's eyes at that moment were blacker than Kezler's neglected cup of caf, and far more bitter. "They were following impossible orders—orders imposed by your offices, I might add."

"Excuses are the refuge of the weak," Kezler replied. Although he would never let his face betray the satisfaction he now felt at humbling Naren, Kezler could not entirely ignore the pleasurable sensation it gave him. "If any more such bungled operations are perpetrated by your division, I shall have to seriously reconsider your role in Intelligence."

Naren opened his mouth to speak, but Kezler continued, knowing that he had the upper hand, "That will be all, Naren. From now on, I hope the reports from your office will be more to my liking. You may go."

The older man rose stiffly, gave the merest incline of his head, and stalked toward the door. Just as he was about to leave the office, Kezler stopped him with one final command.

"I expect a full report on the disciplining of Lt. Fortson, the agent who tortured the Admiral, in my office by 08:00 tomorrow."

Kezler could have sworn he heard the other man's teeth grinding from where he sat, but Naren said only, "Yes, Grand Moff Kezler," without turning, and stalked out the door.

It slid shut behind him, and Kezler sat for a long moment, watching the closed door and musing on the departed head of Intelligence. Yes, someday there would be a reckoning—and that day might come sooner than anyone had expected.

Smiling, Kezler lifted his now stone-cold cup of caf and drank, thinking that however it bitter it might taste, it was nothing to how Naren must be feeling at the moment. That thought made him smile even more broadly, as he turned to his message screen to see what had come through during Naren's audience. As he scanned the messages, the smile slowly faded. _And Viraess_, he thought, do not make my confidence in you misplaced. _Do not let Naren be right._

* * *

The little ship drifted in the dark between the stars. Viraess sat in the dimly lit cockpit of the _Morning Star_, staring out the viewport without really seeing. The Alsindan system lay below her, its tiny jeweled planets a delicate necklace against the velvet of night, its sun a small glittering diamond seen from this distance, but Viraess was all but oblivious to its beauties. 

_Think_, Grand Moff Kezler had instructed her, but at this point Viraess was ready to admit her brain hurt from thinking too much. For the past three hours she had been sitting here, engines at full stop, as she brooded on where Markus could have gone. She'd lost count of the times her hand had hovered over the ship's comm unit, as she had prepared to contact Kezler and tell him to let his own agents work it out, but pride had stopped her. She had never let herself be defeated before—not at the Academy, not as she had walked calmly into her own court-martial—and she was not about to start now.

The problem was, Viraess thought wearily, she didn't know where to start. With a sigh, she stood and stretched her cramped muscles, then went off to the galley. Perhaps she would think better on a full stomach.

The simple actions of choosing her meal from the well-stocked refrigeration unit, heating the food, and sitting down and eating did help to clear her mind somewhat. Idly twirling the last of her noodles around her fork, she thought back on the time she had spent with Markus, and of his attempts to get her to return to the university on Trel'las with him.

At first she'd thought that might have been where he'd gone, but immediately rejected the idea as far too obvious. Trel'las had stayed neutral so far, and she was sure Markus would have chosen someplace less likely to be infiltrated by Intelligence agents. True, he probably still had friends and college associates there—Markus seemed to have friends just about everywhere he went—but he would not have been willing to put them at risk. At least, the Markus she had known would not have done so, and she was not inclined to think that he had changed materially over the years.

Her glance strayed to the keyboard she had brought along, still strapped down in one of the luggage carriers. Of course she had not opened it—her fingers hadn't touched the keys in more years than she cared to remember—but it brought to mind an argument she'd had with Markus, not long before she had left for the Academy. They'd had far too many arguments by then, and all along the same lines.

"Talent like yours shouldn't be wasted!" he'd argued. She could still remember the earnestness of his face, the unruly lock of hair that was forever falling in his eyes. "Do you think they're going to encourage concerts at Carida?"

She hadn't bothered to reply to that. There'd been no reason. But the music she had always loved was only a hobby to her, a comfort and refuge after too many hours of cudgeling her brain with physics and astrogation and history. It had never been the driving force Markus had always thought it should be for her. Still, there had been a few times when he'd almost persuaded her, almost convinced her that marching in and announcing to her parents that she was giving up Carida Academy to study music at the university on Trel'las was the most natural thing in the world. Luckily, she'd recovered her senses in time, but that was Markus all over again—he'd always had an extraordinary knack for making the ridiculous seem plausible. Around Markus, the possibilities were always endless.

She placed her used dishes in the sterilizer, then went in search of a drink. In keeping with her role as a charter captain for the wealthy, the ship had been stocked with a small but excellent bar. Although Viraess normally would not have gone near any of the alcohol when she knew she would be flying, for now she thought it might help to blur the edges somewhat, help relieve some of the pressure caused by Kezler's unreasonable requests.

"'Think, Viraess,'" she muttered, then poured herself a very small glass of Gindene liqueur. "Easy for you to say, Kezler." She took a sip, trying to ignore the sensation that the Grand Moff somehow was spying on her even now, that some of COMPNOR's notorious snoop devices were planted on the _Morning Star_ to keep him apprised of her activities. Lifting her glass in a mock salute, she announced to the air, "Well, Kezler, here's your grand opportunity to watch the Admiral truly tie one on." The second sip sent questing tendrils of warmth down her throat and through her limbs and she sighed, closing her eyes for a moment.

_How does one find a man who's vanished into the far reaches of the galaxy?_ she wondered. _And how can Kezler expect me to second-guess someone I haven't seen for over ten years?_ Not for the first time since being named to the High Command, she thought fondly on her days as captain of the _Vengeance_, the days before she'd become embroiled in Kezler's maneuverings and the workings of power at the highest level. Back then, all she'd had to worry about was the location of the next New Republic attack, and the safety of her crew. A captaincy had always been her highest ambition; somehow it seemed almost wrong to her that she should be an admiral so soon, when her father had served in the Imperial Navy for thirty years and had achieved only a captain's rank.

Still, wanted or not, she was now an admiral on the High Command, and her first duty was to carry out Kezler's orders—even if Markus had disappeared to where no one could find him.

_No one could find him_…. The words echoed oddly in her mind, recalling something—but what? Some other argument, some other time when Markus had pressured her to come away with him. Upon recollection, his constant pleas for her to abandon all thought of the Academy seemed to take on an almost missionary fervor.

Viraess took her glass with her and sat back down in the pilot's chair, considering. What had it been? A name, a long-forgotten scheme danced at the edge of her thoughts. She shut her eyes, pressing one hand to her temple as if that would aid in her thought processes. Markus had always been full of so many schemes, so many plans, that she had forgotten most of them by now. And this had been some chance comment, some other alternative hurled at her in a desperate attempt to save her from the clutches of the Imperial Navy.

_Then we'll go where no one can find us_. The words were suddenly as clear as if Markus had appeared in the cabin and spoken them to her. Desperately, Viraess struggled to recall the scene to her mind, find the missing fragments of the conversation that would provide the clue she needed. With astonishing clarity, the image of Markus standing on the balcony of his father's study, his form outlined by the clear white sunlight of Lanarsk Prime's summer, sprang into sharp relief.

"If not Trel'las, then anywhere," Markus had said. "If you don't feel comfortable with the university there, then we'll go where no one can find us—a place where we can stop to think, away from the pressures of your family."

Viraess could remember thinking wearily that he had been the one doing most of the pressuring, but she had not bothered to point that out to him. Markus could be notoriously single-minded when he wanted to—and most of his formidable persuasive powers were currently directed at her.

"And where are we supposed to go?" she remembered asking, not bothering to point out that she had no means of supporting herself, no independent income. Her parents were wealthy, but she lived on their support. Funds left to her in trust by a grandparent would be there, theoretically—when she turned twenty-one. And at eighteen, three years had seemed like a very long time.

"A world so far away that the Empire has left it alone. A world that doesn't care about the Rebellion, or the war."

She had thought that didn't sound particularly appealing—most frontier worlds had rough living to offer at best, and a lifetime spent enjoying the luxuries of Lanarsk Prime had ill-prepared her for such a change in lifestyle. But she'd only inquired, "And what world is that?"

"Albri'ar," he'd replied.

Of course she'd never heard of it, but Markus hadn't expected her to. A friend on Trel'las had given him a report, recommending that Markus journey there, if he could find the transport. It lay in a lonely, uninhabited sector in the Outer Rim, where such planets were catalogued by the Empire and then ignored. It had no mineral wealth, no great arable land masses—the planet was mostly water, broken up by vast archipelagos of astonishing—so the friend had claimed—beauty. The sentient race which inhabited Albri'ar was apparently uninterested in the galaxy-wide civilization that had largely passed it by. Visitors to the planet were not shunned, but they were often ignored by the native Albri'ans.

Markus had thought it the perfect place to flee with her, but Viraess had not been convinced, and the scene had once again flared into argument. But the name of the planet had buried itself in her subconscious, and even now sounded in her mind like the clear, faint tolling of a faraway bell. _Albri'ar_.

There was no guarantee Markus would be there, of course. The galaxy was wide, and he had thousands of planets in which to lose himself. But somehow, Viraess thought, as she sat up to feed the name into the nav computer to see if the planet's coordinates were even listed, it felt right. It would be like Markus to flee there, to go to the planet he had once dreamed of visiting with her. And its very remoteness made it all the more appealing.

The nav computer took longer to bring up the coordinates than she had thought, but at least they were there. It would be a long trip—nearly six standard days in hyperspace, the longest solo flight she had ever undertaken. Her hand paused over the comm unit as she prepared to make a report to Kezler, and then she slowly withdrew it. No, she would not inform him of her whereabouts for now. This could be a foolish chase, a hunch born of a half-remembered conversation and nothing more. It would be better to remain silent until she had more to report.

Or that was what she told herself, as the nav computer finished the calculations for the jump into hyperspace and she strapped herself into the pilot's chair. Still, a strange feeling of rightness seemed to accompany her decision, and she felt—she knew—that this time she was right.

This time, Markus would be waiting for her.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

They approached Imperial City's main spaceport just as the sun was setting over the sprawling urban center, and Linden Arelle watched in wonder as the glass towers and white walls caught its bloody rays and shone them back a thousandfold. It was only at second glance that she noticed the shattered buildings and walls, the black marks on a landscape that still bore the scars of the risen Emperor's World Devastators. But she could see the signs of rebuilding even as they flew in closer to the spaceport, see the kilometer-high scavenger droids as they carefully tore down those buildings too damaged to be repaired, and the gleaming cranes which raised new ones in their place.

"First time on Coruscant?" Lando remarked as he followed the spaceport official's instructions to land in docking bay one-twelve.

Linden nodded. "I've seen the holovids, of course, but they don't come close." Aware that she must have been gawking like the worst Outer Rim tourist, she gave him a quick glance up through her lashes. "It must be old news to you, though."

"I don't think Imperial City can ever become 'old news,'" he replied. He flicked a series of switches, and the sublight engines shut off just as the repulsors hummed into life. The _Lady Luck_ settled into the designated docking bay gently as a tranni chick nestling under its parent's wing. "Welcome to Coruscant," he added, and undid the buckles on his flight harness.

Linden unfastened hers as well, then stood. Coruscant's gravity was just slightly less than that of her adopted homeworld of Commenor, and the difference, coupled with her anticipation at seeing the fabled Imperial City, was enough to bring on a feeling of buoyancy, of exhilaration. Through everything, she had made it. The Empire had not gotten its hands on her, and she was safe in the heart of the New Republic. Impulsively, she grasped one of Lando's hands in hers. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for getting me here. I never could have done it without you."

"You're most certainly welcome." His hand tightened on hers for a moment, and then he released his hold. "But let's get somewhere a little more comfortable, shall we? My lodgings are only a few minutes away. Then we'll see about getting you an interview with someone who can give you some assistance."

She nodded, then followed Lando as he led her out of the cockpit and to the hatch, which was already open to admit the last fading sunlight and a cool breeze, slightly touched by the scent of millions of exotic blooms from the rooftop gardens of Imperial City. The wind caught her loose hair as she trailed after Lando to the nearest transport station, and she could not repress a sudden grin. What a beautiful place this was. Surely—surely—there would be someone here who could help her, who could help find Markus and bring him to safety.

* * *

"Well, whaddaya know," Han commented, as he scrolled through the messages that had appeared on the comm system while they'd been out, he to accompany the children and an ever-complaining Threepio to the nearest municipal park, Leia to one of her never-ending meetings. 

"Mm?" Leia inquired absently, not lifting her gaze from her data pad. These endless diplomatic negotiations were beginning to wear just a little too much. Was it really necessary that she make a decision on the disposition of derelict Imperial ships and other equipment currently being fought over by two separate salvage operations? Apparently the representatives involved thought so.

She rubbed her eyes and looked up at Han. "Sorry," she said, apologizing for her abstraction. "What was it?"

"Lando's back. He's logged an urgent request to see the two of us as soon as possible. Privately." He ran one finger over the scar on his chin and frowned. "Wonder what he wants?"

"Knowing Lando, it's some other crack-brained scheme to mine salt on Mon Calamari, or get an inside hedge on the slime races on Umgul." She cast a disgusted look at the data pad she held and added, "Or maybe he's in with one of these salvage operators who are slowly driving me crazy."

Han grinned. "Don't let 'em get you down, hon." Then he looked back at the message screen. "So should I contact him or what?"

"If you don't, he'll just keep calling." She returned her attention to the proposal in front of her, marked a few points she wanted to discuss with the Sub-Minister of Commerce for the Pír Sector, then looked back up at her husband.

He appeared to consider the wisdom of her statement, then nodded. "You could be right," he said, then tapped out Lando's code on the comm unit. "Lando, old buddy—"

Leia purposely tuned out the rest of the conversation. Whatever Lando wanted to discuss, she'd hear it first-hand soon enough. She just hoped it wasn't something that was going to lead them into yet another round of trouble. She'd just gotten the twins and Anakin settled into something like a normal routine, her life returned to its regular chaos, and she certainly didn't need Lando throwing any wild cards in her path. It didn't help that she kept receiving disturbing intelligence from the Imperial-held Core, or that Qwi Xux' investigation into the Corona Project was slowly going nowhere.

They had discovered the project's name, the funding behind it—from a loose consortium of worlds in the Lower Rim—and the name of the chief researcher, Markus Klem. After that, the trail seemed to go dead. Qwi Xux was lobbying for a New Republic research team to go to Xy'rie IV to monitor the failed experiment first-hand, but Leia wasn't terribly enthusiastic about that idea. There were too many things that could go wrong—and she feared that the agents of the Empire would soon be sniffing over the ruins, seeking whatever shred of evidence was left that could lead them on to their next superweapon.

After a private conference with Mon Mothma, Leia had decided to appeal to Talon Karrde and see if he would loan her once again the services of his slicer, Ghent. She had no doubt that sooner or later her own people could track down Markus Klem, but the extra time was a luxury she feared she could not afford. Just this morning she had, in fact, received confirmation that Ghent was en route to Coruscant. The fee Karrde proposed for the slicer's services came dangerously close to outrigh extortion, but she knew she could not refuse. The only problem was that Talon Karrde knew that as well, and had named his price accordingly. Leia sometimes wondered whether Ghent ever saw any of the fees Karrde charged. The boy was obviously perfectly happy with just a computer terminal at his disposal and not much else—although he had shown an alarming predilection for Coruscanti fizzi drinks on his last assignment here. She had been surprised that he'd been able to sleep at all, considering the amount of sucrose-based sweeteners he'd had circulating in his system.

The door chime sounded, and Threepio emerged from Anakin's bedroom to answer it.

"General Calrissian!" Threepio exclaimed. "An unexpected honor!"

"According to whom?" Leia muttered under her breath, but she laid her data pad down on the divan and stood.

Han had already met him at the door. "Hi, Lando, and—" he paused, uncertain, and only then did Leia see the woman standing a pace or so behind Lando, almost hidden by the swirl of his dark cloak.

"Linden Arelle," the strange woman offered, stepping forward.

"Han Solo," Han replied, and offered her his hand. She took it with a small, awkward smile, and then looked past his shoulder to meet Leia's curious gaze. "And my wife, Leia Organa Solo."

Leia smiled at the newcomer, but something was nagging at her. Arelle— that was surely an Alderaanian surname, and she had the vague feeling that she'd seen this woman somewhere before. The other woman was probably several years younger than herself, pretty in the delicate, white-blonde style Leia remembered herself envying so when she'd been younger and foolish enough to worry about such things. She could not remember seeing her at court—but if she really were several years younger than Leia she would not yet have been presented. Perhaps it had been at one of Leia's aunts' homes—

"You're trying to place me," Linden Arelle said then, as if she'd been following Leia's thoughts.

Leia smiled and came forward to stand next to Han. "Yes. Pardon me, but you are Alderaanian, aren't you? The name sounds familiar somehow— "

"Well, let's sit down and discuss this," Han offered. "Threepio, drinks for our guests."

They made their way into the main living area, where Han and Leia took their places on the divan she'd recently occupied—she'd had to scoop her data pad out of the way before Han sat on it—and Lando and Linden sat facing them. For the first time Leia noticed that the other woman wore a gaudy purple shirt—far too large for her—which had to have been borrowed from Lando, and dark trousers and boots that were obviously the worse for wear. Leia wondered for a moment at the odd ensemble. It looked as if they'd come straight from the spaceport without taking time to change or do anything else.

Which, she discovered, was much the case, after Lando briefly explained how he'd met Linden and offered his assistance in bringing her here to Coruscant.

After Lando had finished his little preamble, Leia and Han both looked at the young woman expectantly. She cleared her throat, and opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of Threepio with a tray of refreshments.

He set wine glasses in front of Leia and Lando, a wide-mouthed glass of ale before Han, and a small shot glass filled with shimmering liquid in front of Linden. "I took the liberty, madam," he informed her, "of pouring you some Alderaanian _uisgee,_ after hearing that you share the same homeworld as Mistress Leia."

Linden gulped slightly and went pale, no easy feat considering the marble pallor of her skin to begin with. She shot a helpless look at Lando, who laughed and said,

"Thanks for the thought, Goldenrod, but I think the lady would prefer a glass of wine."

Flustered, the gleaming droid looked from Lando to Linden, who nodded slightly. Threepio then scooped up the shot glass and stalked back into the kitchen, complaints trailing in his wake. "Why I should continue to stick my neck out for them is quite beyond my capacity—"

Mercifully, the door to the kitchen whooshed gently shut, screening them from the rest of Threepio's tirade.

"My apologies," Leia said. "He actually is quite a help, but he can take some getting used to."

Linden managed a small, uncomfortable smile as a reply.

"I take it you don't care for _uisgee_?" Han asked.

"I used to," the young woman replied, her tone cryptic.

"That's what she was drinking when I found her in the bar on Umgul," Lando supplied, and Han nodded knowingly.

"Say no more."

Linden remained silent as Threepio returned with a glass of wine and set it before her in sulky silence before retreating from the room. It was only after he'd gone that she ventured, "He reminds me a little of a majordomo my grandfather used to employ."

"That was it!" Leia said then, as the girl's identity finally slipped into place. "Your grandfather must have been Councillor Arelle."

"That's right," Linden said, but she did not appear particularly pleased that Leia had guessed correctly at her lineage.

Too late, Leia remembered some scandal connected with the Arelle family—something about the youngest daughter coming home from the Galactic Tour with a load of bad debts and a child whose father she wouldn't name. This had been when Leia had been very young herself, but the scandal hadn't died down quickly. And the actions of Marinna Arelle had always been held over Leia's head as an object lesson in where overly headstrong behavior could lead her. This young woman who now sat before her must be none other than that unfortunate child. No wonder Leia had never formally met her—she'd heard that old Councillor Arelle had done his very best to keep the girl hidden, and had made sure she went to off-world schools, only allowing her to return for isolated visits. Well, it appeared the old man's selfishness and desire to avoid any more scandal had been Linden Arelle's salvation. Otherwise, she most certainly would have been on Alderaan when it was destroyed. Leia felt obscurely saddened by the thought. It was somehow painful to think that this abandoned child of her homeworld was one of its few survivors.

Han somehow seemed to sense they were on delicate ground without knowing exactly why. "And so you're here because—"

Leia could not miss the grateful look Linden flashed in his direction. "I was a member of a scientific team on a venture called the Corona Project," the young woman said, tucking a piece of silver-gilt hair behind her ear.

"'The Corona Project?'" both Leia and Han echoed, and Linden looked at them in surprise.

"You've heard of it?"

"A little," Leia replied, after Han had nodded at her to explain. "Our scans detected its detonation, and we've been able to discover a little about its funding and so forth, but we've been unable to do much more than that."

"Good," Linden said, knotting her hands in her lap. Her slender fingers seemed shockingly pale against the royal purple silk shirt she wore.

"Why is that good?" Lando asked, speaking for the first time as he set his wine glass back down on the table.

"Because if the New Republic is having a hard time finding out anything, it means the Empire will be having difficulty as well." Linden swallowed, then looked directly at Leia. Whatever embarrassment she might have exhibited at Leia's divining her origins was now gone—the delicate face was tense but stern, her lips firm under their light coating of cosmetics. "That's what Markus was most afraid of."

"Markus Klem, the head researcher?" Leia asked.

"Yes. It was only eight hours after we'd detonated the test device when he told us to destroy all the data and run. We knew we'd have to evacuate within the next twelve hours, for our shielding was slowly going, but we couldn't understand why he'd want the data destroyed." Linden finally took a sip from the wine which had sat before her all this time and then placed the glass back on the table top very carefully, as if she were afraid she'd set it down in the wrong place. "But we did as he said. There were twelve of us there. We had three transports. I stayed with Markus and left with him in the last one after everyone else had gone. When we were finally away I worked up the nerve to ask him why he'd ordered everything destroyed."

The young woman's silver-blue eyes were faraway, unfocused. Then she blinked, her attention brought suddenly back to the people around her. "He told me he'd already seen signs that the star was slowly reverting back to its natural state, and that the levels of killing radiation would not last much more than another thirty-six standard hours or so. And then he told me that he knew the Empire would seek out the cause of this radiation, and try to take our results so that they could use them on populated systems."

"He knew?" Lando asked. "He didn't say he was just afraid that was what would happen?"

"No," Linden said flatly. "He said he knew. And he said we had to get out of there and leave them nothing."

"But how could he know that?" Han argued. "The Empire's hardly a force to be reckoned with anymore—why would he know that its pieces would come after him?"

"Markus—knew things," Linden said at length, with obvious reluctance. Then she looked straight at Han with some defiance, as if she knew she were facing the skeptic in the group. "Don't ask me how, because I don't know, but I know I was the only one on our research team too stupid to play sabacc with him after one or two times. He almost always won. And he wasn't cheating, either," she added, with a fierce stare at Lando, who had been unlucky enough to clear his throat at that moment. "Sometimes he knew when the supply ship would come in, long before they'd contact us. He told Nharene, one of the other techs, that her sister had had a baby girl, the day before Nharene received a communique to that effect herself."

Han and Leia exchanged a telling glance. If what Linden said were true—and Leia couldn't see any reason why she should be lying—then this Markus Klem sounded like someone with strong Force ability. Luke would have to know. This new information made it more imperative than ever that they find Dr. Klem—and quickly.

"We believe you," Leia said, after a pause. "And we want to bring Dr. Klem to safety here on Coruscant as soon as possible. But that's where we need your help. Do you know where he could have gone?"

"No." For the first time Linden's tone altered from its brusque, business-like aspect. Her voice shook a little, and Leia thought her eyes looked suspiciously bright. She suddenly wondered exactly what the relationship between Markus Klem and this young woman might have been.

"He wouldn't tell me where he was going," Linden went on, and her voice hardened again, as if she were suddenly aware of what she might have betrayed earlier. "We took the transport to the spaceport on Pirov, the closest settled world. Markus sold it to someone—there's always a black market for used ships in the Rim—and bought us passage on two separate freighters that were leaving that day. Mine left first, so I have no idea where he might have been headed. He told me just before I boarded that he would try to contact me as soon as it was safe. I was supposed to go home to Commenor."

"Commenor?" Han asked. "But I thought—"

Leia nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, but the damage was already done.

"My father is from Commenor," Linden replied stiffly. "I went to university there. And yes, it is still in Imperial-held space, but it is my home. Or it was, until I left to be on Markus' research team."

There were a seeming hundred questions which sprang to Leia's lips, but she kept silent. She did not know Linden well enough to ask things that might be construed as somewhat intrusive, if not in fact downright insulting. It was obvious she knew no more about Markus Klem's whereabouts than Leia did herself, and it would be useless to indulge in pointless questioning just to satisfy her own curiosity. Perhaps if they got to know one another better, but until then—

Leia placed an expression of reassuring cheerfulness on her features. "I'm sure we'll locate him, given time." Linden's wary, tight-lipped look did not change, so Leia went on, "My chief researcher, Qwi Xux, will be anxious to speak with you regarding the Corona Project. But first we need to get you settled here in the city, and make you comfortable. You will honor us by staying to dinner?"

"Of course," Lando replied, giving Linden no time to object. "Besides, there's something else you two should know."

Han raised an eyebrow. "What now?"

"'What now?' is exactly it." Lando frowned, then leaned forward. "We made a side trip to Kessel to see how my people placed there were doing, and barely got out of there with our skins intact. Someone sent a squad of blastboats after us."

"Pirates?" Han asked.

Lando shook his head. "I don't think so. The attack was well planned. If it hadn't been for all the modifications I've made on the _Lady Luck_, we never would have made it."

Forcing herself to take another sip from her wine glass kept Leia from groaning in frustration. Just when another trouble spot seemed to have been smoothed over, along came yet one more problem. It really didn't matter whether it was pirates, smugglers, or the Empire itself—it was one more fire the New Republic would have to put out—somehow.

"Leia, can we—" Han began, and she cut him off before he could go any further.

"There is no way I am letting you go back into that particular cesspit," she said, unable to keep the sharp edge of worry from her voice. "I'll see if we can get some NRI operatives on it."

Han gave her a wounded look as Lando said, "I'm not asking for Han to go back to Kessel with me. But I'd like to go with the NRI team. Those are my friends who are missing."

Leia nodded, trying not to let her relief show. It was a problem that needed to be dealt with, and although she would rather Lando didn't walk back into the rancor's mouth, she knew she didn't have much chance of dissuading him.

With care, she guided the conversation into safer channels, leaving tomorrow's worries for tomorrow. And so she went on, watching as Linden visibly relaxed under her practiced hospitality. Han was studying her with that look of bemused curiosity that seemed to appear whenever he saw her diplomatic skills in action, but he knew better than to interrupt her. They could talk later. And they would have to contact Luke. Thank goodness he hadn't yet left Coruscant to return to the Jedi Academy on Yavin Four.

She only hoped that Ghent would arrive quickly, and that he could come up with some way of getting to Markus Klem in time. Otherwise, whatever dark future Klem might have foreseen would almost certainly come to pass.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

This could take some time, Ghent had warned Leia when he finally appeared at the Imperial Palace, three days after Linden Arelle's arrival on Coruscant. Still, she hadn't expected it to take _so_ much time. He'd been here almost one standard week, and nothing. Well, almost nothing. Only half an hour after Ghent had taken his place in the burrow which housed the computer link-ups and relays he'd sent her a report informing her that Markus Klem had emptied his credit voucher while on Alsinde and subsequently disappeared. Unfortunately, that had been almost five standard days ago, and there was no telling where Klem had gone to after that.

"Even I can't trace cash transactions," Ghent had explained with a shrug, but Leia had been in no mood for excuses. Logically she knew there wasn't much Ghent could do until Markus did something else that could be recorded electronically, and it seemed he was being warier than a Jawa trapped in a box canyon.

Annoyed, she'd set Ghent to sifting through transmissions tapped from the Core Worlds, seeking to go at this from a different angle. Perhaps Markus wouldn't betray himself—but possibly his Imperial pursuers could. She'd specifically asked Ghent for any information he could find on this new Grand Moff who'd risen in the Core, and by extension anything to be had on his High Command.

Then, late this afternoon, Leia had received word during a meeting with the Doranni ambassador that Ghent had something she might possibly want to look at. She'd made her excuses as gracefully as she could and removed herself to the dim, cramped office where Ghent had been working.

To her surprise, she found both Han and Luke already there, Luke calmly leaning against a pillar and watching the displays before him, Han fishing through a bag of sugar-rock candy for the flavor he preferred. For a moment Leia wondered where he could have gotten it, but the answer was readily apparent. Similar bags lay discarded all around Ghent's workstation, along with empty tubes of fizzi-drinks. She looked at Ghent's lean form with some awe and wondered how he did it.

"You had something to show me?" she asked crisply, for the displays before them showed only the stalled midpoint of what appeared to be an elaborate computer game.

"Um, right," Ghent said, and typed something on his keyboard. Most computer experts she'd seen preferred voice commands, but Ghent seemed to get immense enjoyment out of banging away on the keys.

The game disappeared, and a blur of flat video images scrolled past. "I did as you asked, and started sifting through information coming out of the Core. Most of it's scrambled, but the codes were nothing. Seems like it's Imperial business as usual down there. To hear them talk, you'd never think they'd lost the war."

"And you found?" Leia prompted. Behind her, Luke grinned.

"Well, you said to check out Kezler and his High Command." The young man shook a lock of light brown hair out of his eyes and frowned. "They don't like to publicize who they are, that's for sure. They're running things, but they don't seem to show themselves much. But I did a little digging, and I got their names, to start. Kezler—you already know about him. Moff Naren, head of Intelligence. Grand General Nivri—runs the Army. Grand General Linzer, head of Stormtrooper Command. And Admiral Viraess, commander of the Imperial Navy—or what's left of it." He grinned. "But, as they say, a holo's worth a thousand words." Ghent typed a command, and an official holo of a handsome, unsmiling young man suddenly appeared. "That's Kezler," Ghent offered.

Uneasy, Leia studied the holo carefully. She heard Han set down the bag of candy, but she paid him no mind. This, then, was the face of the enemy.

In a way, it was worse than looking at Darth Vader, worse than seeing the Emperor's shriveled image for the first time. The evil in their natures had manifested itself just as clearly in their outward aspects, but this man's face was clear and handsome, unthreatening at first. It was only on second glance that she could see the blue-steel coldness of his eyes, the humorless set of his mouth. Just the expression she would have expected of a COMPNOR fanatic, she decided. Glancing away from the holo, she caught Han's worried gaze upon her. Behind them both, Luke was calm and silent as a watchful shadow.

"All right," Leia said finally, when the silence became too awful. "Anything else?"

"Of course. I managed to round up the whole crew." Another set of commands was hastily typed in, and a new holo replaced that of Kezler. This time it was a man somewhere in his fifties with harshly marked features and black eyes colder than Hoth's frozen wastes. "Moff Naren," Ghent said, and then brought up another one, this time of a man some ten or so years younger, strongly built, a slight twinkle in his blue eyes belying the no-nonsense set of his mouth. "Grand General Nivri," Ghent offered as an accompaniment. He hit a few more buttons, and another holo appeared, showing an attractive man in his mid-fifties, slender and straight as a laser rifle, his dark hair sprinkled with gray. "Grand General Linzer," Ghent explained. Then the holo went dark.

Han spoke up. "What about Admiral Vir—what was it?"

"Viraess," Ghent supplied. "That one was the trickiest. I couldn't find an official portrait, so I started scanning the local NewsNets for any mentions of the surname Viraess connected with the Imperial Navy. Well, I found one about a Captain Viraess receiving some sort of commendation, but nothing on an Admiral. Then I thought, maybe it was written up before he was promoted to Admiral. So I did some more scanning, but it turns out the Viraess on the High Command is _S._ Viraess, and this Captain was _C._ Viraess. Then I went back and found another NewsNet item, this one originating from Lanarsk Prime, this Viraess captain's homeworld, and looked a little more closely." Ghent brought up on screen a scene of some sort of outdoor ceremony where a tall gray-haired man was receiving a medal from the hand of a slight, dark-haired woman, also in the gray-green uniform of the Imperial Navy. Ghent grinned. "Get this."

The screen display blurred into sudden life as the announcer's voice came clearly over the speaker, obviously midway through his report. "…most poignant of all, Captain Viraess is receiving his latest commendation from the hand of his own daughter, Admiral Shelarne Viraess, lately named to the Imperial Forces High Command by order of his Excellency, Grand Moff Kezler. More than ten thousand citizens gathered today to honor Captain Viraess, veteran of the Mandalore campaigns—"

"Wait a minute!" Han exclaimed. He squinted up at the display. "Can you zoom in on her face?"

"Can I?" Ghent echoed, with some contempt at such a simple request. The image abruptly zeroed in on the young woman's face, and Ghent paused it for good measure. Han stared at it in apparent shock for one more moment, then swore.

"Well, I'll be a son of a gundark—"

To Leia's surprise, Luke began to laugh. "You—" he began, then stopped, apparently too overcome to do much more than point an accusing finger at Han.

Leia looked from the frozen image on the screen to Han's incredulous face. She didn't see anything particularly funny there. True, it was more than surprising that the last member of the High Command should prove to be a woman, considering the Imperial military's record where women were concerned, but she didn't see why it was cause for such amusement. It was also surprising that she should be so young and—Leia hated to admit it, but the truth was staring her in the face—lovely, but Kezler was also young and handsome, so perhaps this Viraess woman's beauty shouldn't be cause for comment.

"Would you mind letting me in on the joke?" she snapped at last, because neither Han nor Luke seemed to be volunteering the information.

Luke took a breath. "You'd better ask Han."

Leia planted her hands on her hips, shot Han her best wifely don't-hand-me-any-bantha-droppings stare, and waited.

Her husband's hazel eyes seemed unable to meet hers. "Well, we were on Doranne, and there was this bar—"

Ignoring a most unJedi-like snicker from Luke, Leia prompted, "And?"

"Well, I thought it might be nice for Luke to meet a nice girl, and I—I mean, we, noticed this woman there—"

"What Han is trying to say, Leia," Luke put in, seemingly having recovered some of his composure, "is that the woman Han tried to set me up with is apparently none other than Admiral Viraess, commander of the Imperial Navy."

Ghent chose that moment to open another fizzi-drink, remark, "Cool," and lean back in his seat, grinning.

Leia shot him an evil stare and said ominously, "Han—"

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" Han protested in wounded tones. "It's not like she was in uniform. She said she was a member of the Castopol silk guild, and she had on this red sort of clingy thing—"

Leia could feel her own nostrils flare but was powerless to prevent it.

"You're digging yourself deeper every time you open your mouth, Han," Luke said affably. "Don't worry, Leia. Nothing happened. We just had a few drinks with her, that's all."

"A few drinks?" Leia demanded. Here she'd been stuck on Coruscant, riding herd on three children and a droid with a persecution complex—not to mention running a government—and he'd been dragging her brother into bars to drink with strange women! And not just any strange women—strange Imperial women!

Abruptly Luke began to chuckle again. "You know, Han, once again my Jedi intuition was right."

Han looked over at him, apparently relieved to have his attention claimed by someone other than Leia. "How do you mean?"

"Well, I did tell you that I thought she'd just as soon kill us as look at us. And now I know I had to have been right."

Han looked at him blankly for a moment, then started to laugh. "You know, that's true." He glanced up at the viewscreen's frozen picture, and shook his head. "She sure pulled one over on us, huh?'

"I'm glad you find so much in her to admire," Leia said, her tone frosty enough to drop the temperature in the room by at least ten degrees. Unfortunately, neither Han nor Luke seemed to notice, and Ghent was looking on with all the outward evidence of someone who was enjoying himself hugely. "I, however, have work to do." With that she turned on her heel and left. They were still laughing when the door slid shut behind her.

_Men_, she thought viciously, as she stomped into the repulsorlift and snapped, "Main galleria level!"

She'd never understand them—and right now she wasn't sure she wanted to. Did they have no sense of proportion? Even Luke. Sometimes he was as bad as Han. She was sure that they wouldn't have been nearly so amused if the roles had been reversed. Thank the Force she was the one running things here. Men were always the ones who seemed to cause the most trouble, and leave it to a woman to pick up the pieces.

By the time she'd regained her own offices, some of her temper had worn off, but she was still annoyed. The image of Shelarne Viraess wouldn't leave her mind, and she pictured the woman leaning toward Han in a dimly lit bar, her full mouth pursing coyly.

_Oh, stop it_, Leia finally told herself. _You're just as bad as they are_. Odds were that they had approached her. No doubt the Admiral had just been trying to enjoy some shore leave. For a second she felt an odd sort of sisterly sympathy toward the unknown woman, and then she shook her head. She's still an Imperial, woman or no, Leia reminded herself. And if she could get to where she is now, despite being a woman, then she's obviously someone to be reckoned with.

Still, Leia thought, as she returned to her neglected desktop, naming a woman to the High Command was quite possibly the smartest thing the Empire had done in a long while.

A _very_ long while.

* * *

The wind blew in, cool with ocean salt and the tang of alien kelp. Above, the green-white light of Albri'ar's sun was filtered through a lacy band of clouds. Waves crested delicately and feathered their way across the glinting ivory-pale sands of Tril'lor, the largest of the archipelagoes scattered across the planet's surface. Every once in a while a wave would barely wash over one of Markus Klem's bare feet as he sat on the beach, his eyes shielded with dark glasses, a barely touched glass of some local fruit drink propped up in the sand next to his elbow. He would, he supposed, have looked like the stereotypical tourist, if it hadn't been for the data pad he'd been laboring over for the past several hours—or the holdout blaster tucked away under his loose-fitting shirt. 

Such precautions, he reflected, as he took off the photo-sensitive eyewear just long enough to rub the bridge of his nose, were probably unnecessary here on Albri'ar. While there was a small but prosperous tourist trade in place on the planet, Albri'ar was far enough off the beaten track that the unsavory elements one might normally encounter on a resort world were nowhere to be found. One came to Albri'ar to relax, to swim in its mild oceans, to ride the hover-sails an enterprising group of Mon Cal businesspeople had brought to the planet, not to gamble or drink or visit nightclubs.

The native Albri'ans were indifferent to the visitors to their planet. A humanoid race that lived in almost perfect symbiosis with their water-based ecosystem, they gave over the management of the off-world tourist trade mainly to alien species—Mon Cal and Twi'leks, for the most part. Markus had seen a few Albri'ans in the small town where he had first landed. They were a handsome people with delicately formed faces, and were taller than human standard, with skin and hair that ranged from palest seafoam green to a dark kelp color. But they were nowhere to be found in the tourist center where his rented bungalow lay. The Twi'lek who ran the hostel had informed Markus that one rarely saw the Albri'ans near any of the tourist areas. They were, it seemed, a people who kept to themselves.

Markus shook his head and scowled down at the data pad he held. He'd hoped that the serenity around him would clear his mind enough so that he could concentrate on working out why the Corona Project had failed, but so far all he'd been able to discover was that he couldn't get any further with it here on Albri'ar than he had on Alsinde. His worries for his team, and especially Linden, kept crowding out any attempts at research. What if the remnants of the Empire had somehow tracked them down, dragged them in for interrogation? Did any one of them know enough to give information that could cause irreparable harm? Or was the Empire still on his trail, still sniffing out the one lead that could lead him to his haven here on Albri'ar?

He wondered, as he picked up his drink and sipped at the now-warm liquid, how long he could stay here. The contents of his credit voucher would not last forever. He had built up a fairly impressive balance—there hadn't been much to spend the credits on at the station on Xy'rie IV—but those hoarded funds were dwindling fast. Life on a resort world, he was discovering, did not come cheap.

And when his credits had shrunk to barely enough to cover passage off-world, what then? Home was an impossibility. The logical thing, of course, would be to go to Coruscant. Once there, he was all but assured a spot on a research team or even on the faculty of the university, if he preferred. But there seemed something stifling about that option. He did not really want to be caught up in the center of New Republic politics. He'd always preferred to work independently. That was what had brought him to the station on Xy'rie IV in the first place—the chance to work far away from the conflicts of the rest of the galaxy, to do something that might actually be of use. And that was what had always bothered him about Shelarne—her blindness about the uses to which the Imperial military would put his scientific talents, her refusal to believe that he would not immediately be put to designing the Empire's latest superweapon.

_And now I might have done that very thing_, he thought with a grimace, and set his drink down. He looked down at the satchel he carried with him always and wondered—not for the first time— whether he shouldn't just hurl the thing into the ocean and be done with it. Let the Empire try to ferret out his secrets from the bottom of the sea.

The ocean far off to his left suddenly glinted with color as a group of hover-sail enthusiasts took to the waves. Markus watched them for a moment, thinking of what it would be like to be mounted on the slender silver board, feeling the repulsors move over the ever-shifting pattern of the waves and the wind pulling at the thin, sensitive micro-fiber sail. Several times he'd been on the brink of trying one out, but he'd put it off, telling himself his work had to come first. He didn't want to think of the real reason—that hover-sailing was one of the things he and Shelarne had wanted to try first when they came here to Alsinde. Somehow it wouldn't feel right going alone, even though he knew logically that he had more chance of getting himself elected President of the New Republic than he did of riding a hover-sail with Shelarne Viraess.

Shaking his head at his own folly, Markus shifted in his seat to retrieve his neglected data pad—and then froze. For striding over the dunes toward him was the last person he had expected to see, the one he had never thought to see again—Shelarne.

She was out of uniform, clad in close-fitting dark pants and a collarless shirt of some silky fabric that shimmered in the sunlight. Her boots looked Imperial-issue—although they were presently caked with sand—and she had her jacket slung casually over one shoulder. Her heavy dark hair was pulled back loosely on her neck, although the breeze had already loosened the curls around her face. It was the same face he remembered, only more refined now, more chiseled. The very pretty girl she had been had become, over the past ten years, a strikingly lovely woman.

As he stared, immobilized by shock, certain that he must be hallucinating, that his constant brooding over what might have been had finally sent him over the edge, she came to a stop only a few feet away, and then smiled.

"Well, Markus Klem," she said, and her voice was the same, those soft tones roughened only slightly by the smallest husky edge, "you certainly are a difficult man to find."

* * *

The tiny room's dimness was only barely relieved by the flickering lights of the banks of computer screens that covered three of the chamber's four walls. Although there were six chairs stationed in various positions around the room, only one of those seats was now occupied. Its occupant shifted, tapped a series of codes, and then glanced up nervously at the dark figure who stood behind him, looking on silently. 

"The coordinates have been confirmed, Moff Naren," Lt. Fortson said. Whatever disciplinary action he'd imagined after the debacle with Admiral Viraess on Alsinde—and his imagination was probably more vivid than an Intelligence agent's had any right to be—he'd never thought he'd be secreted away in the bowels of the Moff's flagship, _Inquisitor_, doing Naren's dirty work for him. Fortson and his fellow partner in misery, Commander Hoskil, took turns monitoring the snoop devices Naren didn't want anyone finding out about. They were both supposedly in disgrace—Fortson for mistakenly interrogating a member of the High Command, Hoskil for some indiscretion involving a security leak in his system cell—and instead of demotion or discharge they'd been brought here. Their mysterious disappearances had only reinforced the belief that if an officer transgressed he would be disposed of, and Naren had the best of both worlds by simultaneously availing himself of their talents while convincing everyone else involved that they had been liquidated.

Death wasn't necessarily preferable to being trapped in this miserable room, but some days it ran a close second.

Lt. Fortson had been waiting for some sort of response from Moff Naren, got none, and continued. "The monitor indicates that Admiral Viraess' ship has been tracked to Albri'ar, a remote world in the Outer Rim. Commander Hoskil informed me when we changed watch that at no time did the Admiral report to Grand Moff Kezler as to her intended destination."

"And the Grand Moff's reaction to her continued silence?"

Not for the first time, Fortson thought for a moment about the possible consequences of being caught interfering with Grand Moff Kezler's plans, then wished he hadn't. "Per your request, sir, Commander Hoskil's transmitter is simultaneously jamming the tracking device Grand Moff Kezler had planted on _Morning Star_ and transmitting its own coordinates here. The Grand Moff has questioned his own people at length about the disruption of the tracking beacon's signal, but they are, of course, unable to pinpoint the cause of the problem. Grand Moff Kezler is understandably annoyed."

"Annoyed" was a considerable understatement but would, Lt Fortson felt, be sufficient description to satisfy the head of Intelligence.

"Good," said Moff Naren. "I trust you followed up with the proper implementation once the Admiral's coordinates were confirmed."

"Affirmative, sir," Fortson replied. "Squad Delta has been reassigned from its previous position on Cirraen and is en route. ETA is one standard day."

"Good work, Fortson," Moff Naren commented. "You may yet redeem yourself."

And with that he departed, leaving Lt. Fortson alone in the dark with his computer displays and blinking lights. The lieutenant sighed and turned his gaze to the readout in front of him, but he wasn't paying much attention to the numbers displayed there. Instead he wondered what Admiral Viraess was doing now, on that planet so far away, and what would happen to her when Delta Squad arrived on Albri'ar. Although he had at first found her an easy scapegoat for his current situation, he'd come to realize that it really hadn't been her fault. She'd tried to tell him who she was—he'd just been too foolish and over-eager to listen.

All he knew was that Naren bore some sort of grudge against Grand Moff Kezler, and was setting his own plans in motion to counter those of the Grand Moff. And if Kezler's pet Admiral was in the way, well, too bad for her.

Fortson looked at the chronometer counting down on display before him. Nineteen hours, some odd minutes before Delta Squad arrived at its intended destination. A lot could happen in that space of time.

He shook his head. _Get out, Admiral_, he thought. _Get out while you still can_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The man sitting at the head of the table watched as his fellow delegates filed into the conference room. Most were human, but not all. Two of the sharp-faced Bothans gave him a narrow beady-eyed stare, but he made sure his own level gaze did not flicker. Bothans were like that—suspicious of anyone in charge who wasn't Bothan. Well, let them be suspicious. He hadn't gotten this far in life by worrying about the concerns of a couple of fur-faces.

He waited until most of the hubbub had died down before clearing his throat. "Gentlebeings. Thank you for convening here on such short notice. We have before us, however, a most grave situation." He made sure that his tone remained neutral. He prided himself on the Coruscanti accent he'd carefully cultivated; eight years in prep school and university there had done the trick, and he'd made sure the accent he'd picked up on Coruscant had not disappeared even after more than twenty years out on the Rim. Likewise, he made sure his suits were of the latest Coruscant styles. It was an additional expense, having his tailor-droid reprogrammed every season, but one he felt was well worth the impression it made on others.

"Gentleman Director?" That was the representative from Cirraen, a statuesque blonde who somehow managed to make even Outer Rim styles look good.

"Yes, Madame Representative?"

"Am I to understand that we are here to pass a resolution on the Corona Project situation?"

"Succinctly stated as always, Madame Representative." He stood then, and pressed a button on the console which was mounted flush on the tabletop. Behind him a viewscreen glowed into life, showing a series of images in quick succession: a small, glowing yellow sun; a pre-fab station on a rocky planetoid; an abandoned laboratory, its computers dark, every surface wiped clean of whatever it might have previously held.

"This is all that is left of our Corona Project," he said at length, as the consortium's representatives whispered and muttered amongst themselves. "Whatever might have been left when the original group of scientists evacuated following the detonation of Dr. Klem's device, there is nothing now. My staff informs me that the site was swept clean—most likely by Imperial operatives."

That produced consternation, as he had planned it would. He let the hubbub work its way through the group, and then cleared his throat. "Why Dr. Klem fled the site so precipitously is not known at this time. Perhaps he feared Imperial intervention. Perhaps he simply did not want to be held accountable for the failed results of his research."

"I find that second postulate rather difficult to believe," the representative from Cho'kat Nul, an Ithorian, objected in his deep, mild voice. "Dr. Klem's credentials are impeccable. He would not disappear like this if it were a simple matter of one experiment not working correctly."

"We can argue the whys and wherefores until we suck the oxygen right out of this room," Ry'elis, one of the Bothans, snapped, the fur around his snout bristling ever so slightly. "What we want to know is what is going to be done about it!"

"As it so happens, I do have a solution," the Director of the Consortium said then. As he'd intended, all eyes— stalked or otherwise—were on him. He let himself straighten slightly, made a mental note to thank his valet for persuading him to wear the new dark-green suit, and said, "The easiest way to locate the elusive Dr. Klem and the missing data—_our_ missing data, I should say, since we're the ones who funded it—is to hire a professional to do it for us."

The Ithorian blinked his two large eyes at the Director. "Surely you're not suggesting—"

The second of the two Bothans, the one whose name the Director could never remember, sniffed. "How much?"

"I have been advised that a bounty of fifty thousand credits will be quite sufficient to attract the attention of the best in the business," the Director replied. "And before any of you argue the additional expense, please take the time to recall how much has already been invested in this project. This minor addendum will at least guarantee that Dr. Klem is returned to us, along with the missing data."

"I don't like it," the Ithorian muttered, but since the words were not directly aimed at him, the Director chose to ignore them.

"An informal vote, then?" he said. "Hands—ahem, appendages—in favor?"

An overwhelming majority of hands, paws, tentacles, and what-have-you shot into the air.

Looking at the assembled delegates, the Director allowed himself a small smile. _Hell hath no fury_, he thought, _like an investor scorned_. Then he said, "Consider it done. My people will handle the necessary details. Are there any further questions?"

An uneasy silence fell. The Ithorian gave him a slow, disapproving stare out of his sad eyes, but said nothing.

"Very well, then," the Director said briskly. "You will all be informed once Dr. Klem has been found. Until then, thank you for your support in this matter."

His tone was one of dismissal, and they took it as such. The various delegates made their way out of the room, some talking quietly, some not. He managed to catch the eye of the blonde delegate from Cirraen, and she smiled slightly. They would meet later he knew, first in the hotel's lounge, then later on in her suite.

_After all_, he thought, as he logged his request to have the formal bounty set on Dr. Klem,_ a man has to do something to keep himself amused during these tedious business trips._

* * *

They faced one another across the small inlaid table of native wood while a band of motley-looking Twi'leks played some halfway decent synth-jazh. The small luma at the center of their table did little to illuminate the overall dimness of the room, but it was bright enough to reveal the continuing suspicion in Markus Klem's dark eyes. 

Viraess picked up her drink and took one small sip, then replaced it on the tabletop. She'd purposely chosen a mild fruit drink only lightly laced with Gindenian rum; it would never do to lose her edge right now.

_Truth with lies_, she thought, and took a breath. "Look, Markus, how often do we have to go over this? Next you'll be asking for a blood sample and my pay stubs for the past five years."

"It couldn't hurt," he replied.

"So I got a lucky break. I've been chartering through the Expansion Region and the Rim for the past three years. Believe me, yours was the last face I expected to see on a wanted holo in the Alsinde spaceport."

"You still haven't satisfactorily explained how you could've found me here." He lifted his mug of elba beer and drank, eyes narrow and suspicious as he gazed at her over its rim.

"Scientists haven't been able to explain women's intuition even after all these years, Markus." Exasperated, she leaned forward over the table, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Come on—the last I heard of you, you were happily pursuing research on Trel'las. Then you're on a wanted poster. Forgive me for being a little concerned."

He frowned. "So where'd you get the money for your ship? You can't tell me the Imperial Navy sent you off with a nice pension and a gold watch in your pocket."

Viraess made a scornful noise. "Hardly. It was the trust from my grandmother, remember? It just sat there, gathering interest, all the time I was in the Navy. So when I was thrown out on my rear, I had a tidy little sum waiting for me. And a charter business sounded like the best deal for me. I could still fly, and I certainly didn't want to stay on Lanarsk Prime."

The suspicion in his eyes wavered into a sort of reluctant sympathy. "Was it that hard? With your parents, I mean."

She glanced away from him, mouth tightening. His unwilling concern was making this all that much harder. Lying had never been something she'd regularly indulged in, and even the knowledge that her duty was forcing these falsehoods did nothing to ease the uncomfortable tension in her stomach.

Forcing herself to look back at him, she said, "They didn't mean for it to be. My father told me he knew I had done my best. But I could see how disappointed he was. After all, I was the only hope he had left, after Darrin was killed at Endor." A sudden incongruous memory of her father's proud face when she had contacted him to tell him of her appointment to the High Command flashed into her mind, and she blinked.

"And your mother?"

"Oh, hell, you know she lived and breathed the Empire even more than my father did." Viraess pushed a stray curl away from her face and gave a short laugh. "She was full of plans for me. Wanted me to join COMPNOR, work in SAGroup like she did. Barring that, it seemed as if a brilliant marriage to a planetary governor or regional Moff was my next best bet."

"Fate worse than death?" For the first time Markus smiled, and relaxed back in his chair.

"You said it." She smiled back at him. "So escape seemed my best choice. And since I've been far more successful at it than even I had hoped in the beginning, I suppose I can't really complain about how things have turned out."

The smile faded from Markus' lips. "That makes one of us, I suppose."

"So are you going to tell me about it?"

"Look, Shel, I'm not sure if I should even be dragging you into this mess."

The casual use of his old nickname for her was oddly reassuring. "Looks like I volunteered for this mission. I'm here, aren't I?"

"You do have a point." He rubbed his jaw. Her first glimpse of him, there on the beach, had been jarring— somewhere between here and Alsinde he'd shaved off the beard, and the man she now confronted was too eerily like the one she'd left behind all those years ago. "But since I'm trying to avoid the people you used to work for, I'm not sure this is such a great idea."

"But I don't work for them anymore," she pointed out. Which, she figured, wasn't a complete lie—one might say that the Imperial Navy worked for her.

"So you say." He drained the last of his beer and sat still for a moment, gazing down into his empty mug.

"Want another one?"

"You still buying?"

"Of course." She gestured for the little server droid to come over. "Another elba beer, please."

The droid beeped at her and trundled off to the bar. Markus waited in silence until it had returned with his drink, then said, "I'm still not sure what a good idea this is, but I'm rapidly running out of options. The results of my last project weren't at all what I wanted, but unfortunately the Imperials definitely want to get their hands on them. So about the only thing I can do now is head for Coruscant." His dark eyes glinted at her. "It's a long way."

_Longer than you think_, Viraess thought. She managed a smile, however, and said, "Tell you what. I'll give you a special discount, just for old time's sake."

He laughed. "It's going to have to be one helluva discount. I'm a little short on funds right now."

"No problem. But I doubt I can get you all the way there."

Instantly he was back on his guard. "Why not?"

"Because I don't have clearance for Coruscant, Markus. My ship is registered under my own name—I've never tried to conceal who I was or what I did. Because of that, I very much doubt that I'll be too welcome in Coruscanti space." Before his frown could deepen any further, she added, "But I can get you close enough that you can catch a regular transport to Coruscant. And I'll loan you the passage, if you need it."

"I've probably got enough to cover that much."

"Well, there you have it." Impulsively, she leaned forward and covered his hand with hers. "There were reasons, Markus, why I couldn't contact you."

To her relief, he did not try to remove his hand from hers. "I was afraid of something like that."

Unable to meet his eyes, she asked, "You knew?"

"I sensed something was up. And since you'd made your choice abundantly clear, I felt it was time to back off."

There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she knew would have to remain unsaid. However obscurely comforting it might be to feel the warm strength of his hand beneath hers, however she might wish circumstances were different, she knew she had a duty to fulfill. It would have been so much easier if she could have faced him after the passage of all those years and felt nothing, but she'd known, even as he'd lifted astonished eyes to hers this afternoon on the beach, that she would be lying to herself if she tried to believe that.

She picked up her drink with a hand that shook only a little. It was time, she knew, to urge him to leave with her, to get him where he could be alone with her and vulnerable. "Is it too late to ask if we can start over?" she asked.

He gazed back at her solemnly, his mouth set and unsmiling. "I don't know, Shel. I—" and then he broke off, his hand pulling away from hers suddenly. Casting one wild glance over his shoulder, he stood up, pushing his chair back with an abrupt movement.

"Markus?" Puzzled, Viraess looked around. "What's wrong?"

"We've got to get out of here. Now."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

She'd had too much experience with Markus' "hunches" to argue. Shrugging, Viraess gathered up her jacket and pulled it on. She'd barely gotten her other arm all the way into its sleeve before Markus grabbed her hand and hauled her, not toward the front entrance, but through the kitchen, and out the back door. Not bothering to argue, she trotted along after him. Once they'd emerged into the cool, salt-smelling night air, Markus flattened himself against the tavern's wall, and Viraess followed suit.

"That's why," he whispered, and she followed his gaze.

A dark, unmarked speeder had pulled up into the tavern's parking area. Three men got out, all of them dressed in the sort of somber civilian clothes she knew were favored by members of Intelligence while out in the field. Two of them moved purposefully toward the front entrance, while the third began striding directly toward her and Markus.

"This way," he murmured, and she followed him into the trees which edged the parking area, thankful that she'd pulled her dark jacket on over her light-colored shirt before they'd emerged from the tavern.

"Do you know where you're going?" she asked, careful to keep her voice barely above a whisper.

"Your ship's at the spaceport, right?"

Viraess nodded. _If you can call it that_, she thought, since it consisted of little more than twenty or so rough permacrete docking bays open to the wind and weather. Large-scale space travel was definitely not a priority on Albri'ar.

"I've got to go by my hostel," he whispered, as he moved purposefully through the trees. Luckily, one of the planet's moons was almost full that night, and the smaller blue-green one still almost at half-phase. "I have to get my things."

"Markus, don't you think they've already thought of that?"

He nodded grimly, pointing out a series of holes—probably the entrances for some burrowing creatures' nests—as he did so. She stepped carefully around them, still waiting for an answer.

"Are you armed?" he asked.

She patted the inside breast pocket of her jacket. "You know how cautious I am, Markus."

He threw her a tight smile, then paused. "My hostel's on the other side of that clearing. If we follow the trees around the perimeter, we can get almost to the back door of my bungalow without anyone noticing."

"And what if they've set up snoop sensors to wait for you?"

"Then I hope you still remember your Academy training."

In answer, she pulled her holdout blaster from its hiding place in her jacket and clicked off the safety. He followed suit, then gestured for her to follow him around the edge of the clearing. Trailing along behind him in silence, Viraess took a deep breath, glad it was dark enough that Markus probably wouldn't notice the growing indecision in her eyes.

_Just what the hell is Naren up to? _she thought. _He never mentioned sending in backup forces on this one. And how the hell did they find us, anyway?_

She knew then, however, that she was being hopelessly naive if she thought Naren wouldn't have put his own snoop-tracers on her ship. Whatever game he was up to—and suddenly she got the feeling that Kezler was not involved in this—she realized her first duty was to get Markus off the planet with both his data and his person intact. The thought of shooting at fellow Imperial personnel was particularly unappetizing, but if Naren thought she was such an easy mark he was about to get a very unpleasant surprise.

She caught Markus by the elbow. "Wait a minute," she whispered.

"What?"

"If they've got a standard surveillance detail out there, it means we're facing a minimum of four more men, as well as their sensor equipment. We know they're trying not to attract notice, so I doubt there'll be many more than that, and they shouldn't have more than personal sidearms with them." She scowled, trying to remember what sort of sensor equipment they were likely to have. Ground tactics had only been lightly touched on at Carida Academy, since they were of little concern to Naval officers, but every officer was supposed to have some idea of the operating procedures of the other branches of the Imperial service, so she'd had some briefing on standard Intelligence procedures.

"Most likely they've got only standard hand-held sensors. Maximum range is 100 meters." Markus lifted an eyebrow, and she nodded. "That's right. We go just a few more steps further, and they've got us."

"Damn it, Shel, I've got to get into that bungalow!"

"Markus, I'm sure they've already been in that bungalow. What we need to do is find out what they've done with your things. I just hope they're not in that speeder we left behind at the tavern." She squinted through the moonlight at the complex beyond the trees. It looked to be composed of a dozen or so small one-storied buildings grouped around a central grassy area. A circular driveway touched on each bungalow's front entrance, and several had speeders parked in front of them. Most were dark, but lights showed here and there in a few windows.

"How many of those bungalows are occupied?" she asked.

He shrugged. "A little more than half. Why?"

"Because it just occurred to me if all those tourists suddenly ended up in the streets those Intelligence men would have a harder time finding us."

She could see his teeth flash white in the moonlight as he suddenly grinned at her. "A diversion, perhaps?"

"You read my mind."

He pointed at the speeder parked in front of the bungalow nearest them. "What do you say? They teach you how to hot-wire those things at the Academy?"

It would have to be done quickly, she knew. Although the targeted speeder was a good distance from Markus' bungalow, it was still within the 100-meter range of the Intelligence agents' suspected sensors, and although they might think her just one of the bungalow's residents and not come to investigate, she couldn't count on that.

"Wait here," she instructed, and he nodded.

Thankful he hadn't tried to argue his way into coming with her, Viraess darted out of the trees and sprinted the twenty or so meters to the speeder. Luckily it was an older, open model, without any specialized anti-theft equipment. She pulled her utility tool from her belt and knocked the cheap plastic guard off the ignition system column. It was a simple chip-matching system; the driver carried a chip whose code matched that mounted in the ignition, and the theory was the speeder wouldn't start without the matching chip in place. Unfortunately for the speeder's manufacturers—and its owner—that chip-safety could usually be overridden by the careful application of a low-level jolt of energy, such as the stun setting of a hand blaster.

Viraess flicked her blaster setting to stun, adjusted the focus to a narrow, tight beam, and aimed at the chip. The starter made a short hiccuping noise, and the engine sputtered into life. She disengaged the braking mechanism, pointed the speeder at one of the apparently unoccupied bungalows, and then pushed the acceleration lever forward. Then, before the speeder could gain too much forward motion, she jumped out of the driver's seat and crouched in the shadows near the bungalow's front entrance, waiting to see the results of her handiwork.

Unfortunately, she was not afforded the opportunity to do so. The barrel of a blaster jammed its way into her ribs, and a voice at her ear said, "Get up. Slowly."

Raising her hands in the air, Viraess complied. She'd hastily tucked her own small blaster into her waistband before abandoning the speeder; perhaps the Intelligence agent hadn't seen the weapon.

But then the speeder crashed into the bungalow across the complex, and several things happened almost simultaneously.

First off, the speeder exploded. She hadn't really expected it to, but since she'd destabilized its ignition system and it had been an old vehicle to begin with, that wasn't completely surprising. The explosion set off some sort of alarm, and the residents of the bungalows around them began running out of the buildings to see what was happening.

A wild laser bolt crashed into the side of the building just above Viraess' head, and she took advantage of the Intelligence agent's momentary distraction to drop her arms and punch backward with one elbow to catch the man right in his solar plexus and then follow through on her sweep to knock his blaster away from her midsection. Whirling, she brought one knee up into his groin, then drew out her blaster and caught him neatly in the chest. She hadn't had a chance to reset the stun beam, but even the narrow setting really couldn't miss at such close range.

He dropped like a stone, and she grinned suddenly.

"Take that, Naren," she muttered, and paused to change her blaster's settings. She stooped to pick up the fallen agent's blaster for good measure, and then stiffened as she saw someone come running toward her from out of the trees. When she saw who it was, however, she relaxed slightly, and then said, "Next time, Markus, don't shoot quite so closely at my head."

"I was aiming for him."

"Then don't shoot at all." She looked over at the bungalow Markus had pointed out as his. What with all the hubbub, it appeared the agents grouped there hadn't heard the blaster shots, and even as she watched a Mon Cal wrapped in what looked like a dressing robe strode up to one of them and began gesticulating wildly with one flippered appendage.

"The bungalow manager," Markus whispered in her ear.

"Good. That should keep them occupied for a few minutes. Come on." She motioned for Markus to follow her, and they jogged around the perimeter of the complex to approach Markus' bungalow from the rear. The light by the back door was on, and they could both see what she'd feared the door open, and the small bedroom beyond completely torn apart.

Behind her, Markus uttered an oath under his breath, and began to move forward. She grabbed his arm. "Don't be an idiot. Whatever was in there is gone. We've got to get out of here."

"Shel, you don't understand—"

They were interrupted by the sudden sound of a blaster shot. Wide-eyed, Markus met her own puzzled glance. They moved cautiously around the corner of the building, only to see one of the Intelligence agents reholstering his blaster, the form of the unfortunate Mon Cal at his feet.

Most of the tourists appeared to have taken one look at what was happening and decided it was prudent to remain indoors. The alarm kept shrilling its unheeded warning, but otherwise the central driveway area was calm, save for the still-burning wreckage of the landspeeder Viraess had booby-trapped.

"So what do they have for a local police force around here?" she asked, as they backed away. The agents appeared to be conferring amongst themselves. She counted four, which was worse than three, but not as bad as she had feared.

"Not a lot," Markus replied grimly. "There's just a private security force that subcontracts from the main tourist bureau, but I doubt they're up to wrestling with Intelligence agents. About the most they're called on for is breaking up fights in bars."

"I guess that means I shouldn't hold my breath for the cavalry to show up."

He gave a wry shrug.

Viraess considered for a moment, surveying the scene before her. If the agents did have any bio-sensors in place, they weren't taking any readings just now. They stood in a small knot just beyond the front door to Markus' bungalow, talking quietly. It probably would have been impossible even under normal circumstances for her to hear what they were saying, but under the incessant howl of the alarm it was completely hopeless.

"Get down," she whispered suddenly as she heard the whine of an approaching vehicle in the pause between alarm bursts. She grabbed Markus by the shoulder and shoved him down into the damp shrubbery, then followed suit just as a speeder she recognized as the one from the tavern parking area drove up.

It stopped near the group of Intelligence agents, and both men inside got out.

"So what happened to the third guy?" Markus asked.

She lifted her shoulders.

One of the newcomers pointed at the bungalow with the burning speeder plowed into its front wall, the one with the alarm that kept sounding over and over. One of the other men shrugged, and the first man pulled something out of his pocket and hurled it into the damaged bungalow.

"Cover your ears," Viraess said calmly, and reached up to cover her own.

"What the—"

The sudden explosion cut off whatever question Markus was in the middle of asking. The Intelligence agents seemed to pay it little mind, except to step closer to the front door of Markus' bungalow and continue their conversation. The annoying alarm, however, was finally silent.

"Well, that's one way to do it," Viraess commented.

"Aren't these guys being a little extreme?"

"Markus, they couldn't care less. They know there are no real authorities on this planet, and they know they're going to be out of here in a few hours. And at least the alarm has stopped."

"That bungalow wasn't empty, Shelarne."

"What?" Shocked, she turned to meet his grim stare. "You said half the bungalows were empty. There wasn't a speeder in front of that one, and the lights were off. Everything was shuttered up tight."

"The occupant was some old Rodian. Brendel, I think his name was. Anyway, he was a painter, but he liked to keep everything completely dark inside when he wasn't working. He said—" and Markus paused "—he said it helped his concentration."

Knowing there wasn't much she could say, Viraess looked away from him and back at the group of Intelligence agents. Two of them suddenly parted from the group, heading toward the furthest bungalow, the one where Viraess had felled the first Intelligence agent. Apparently his absence was finally being noted. That still left six men against their two, and she could hardly count Markus. Great scientist he might be, but it was obvious he couldn't hit the broad side of a space cruiser.

Still, they were a good two kilometers or more from the spaceport and her ship, and she knew they couldn't go off-planet without recovering Markus' belongings.

He suddenly jabbed her in the ribs. "Look!" he whispered.

She watched in grim satisfaction as one of the agents stepped just inside the front door of the bungalow, then re-emerged holding a limp tan duffel bag, which he threw in the back seat of the speeder.

"Is that it?" she asked.

He nodded.

"OK, no problem. We've just got to take out those six men, commandeer the speeder, and then get out of here before the other two come back with their stunned companion."

Raising an eyebrow, Markus looked at her and waited in silence.

"What we need here, Markus, is a team of Storm Commandos. One forcibly retired Naval captain and a theoretical physicist aren't exactly the optimum required for this situation. And you saw how well my diversion worked last time." Annoyed, she settled back on her heels in the damp sweet-smelling grass and thought.

"Then don't worry about a diversion. Let's just go for the full frontal assault."

"I'm hoping that's a joke."

"Not at all. Look, they haven't come looking for us, which leads me to believe they're not scanning the area at all because they think we've turned tail and run probably for the spaceport, which is probably where our missing agent has been posted. Now, I don't pretend to be a good shot, but if I move around the back side of the bungalow here and run straight for the speeder while you take out a few, I can get it started up and come to retrieve you."

"While the other three or four are still shooting at your head? And neither of us is wearing any blaster armor."

"They won't be shooting to kill, Shel. Obviously my brain's worth a lot more when it's still actually functioning."

"You have a point." She didn't like the situation, but there wasn't much else to do. And she was a good shot—she made sure to spend at least an hour every day at the range on _Overlord_, and her eye had always been naturally keen. Women usually made better shots, anyway—better hand-eye coordination and fine motor skills, but they sure hadn't advertised _that_ particular bit of trivia at the Academy. "I hope you have your running shoes on."

"It's sure felt that way for that past few weeks."

Despite herself, she smiled. "All right, then—you head off, and I'll count to ten and start shooting."

And he was off, running smoothly through the outer edge of the trees before he disappeared around the other side of the bungalow. She counted off the seconds to herself, then charged out of the trees, both blasters firing, for all the world like some actor on the latest holo-epic. Her first stun-bolt caught one agent squarely in the chest, and then a red beam caught the second in the neck. He fell down in a splash of blood, and Viraess swore. Why hadn't she thought to check the setting on her stolen blaster? Still, there was no time to fix it now, and no time to worry about anything except hitting everything she aimed at and hoping they wouldn't hit her.

Two down, anyway, and the others were running toward her, blasters coming out even as she tore across the grass. Another went down under her stun beam. Their blasters flared, and she dived into a low roll, coming up firing even as their stun bolts landed harmlessly on the grass behind her. So Markus had been right. Only two left, but her next two shots went wild as they swerved to avoid them. But beneath the sound of lasers going off she could hear the welcome sound of a speeder powering up, and she knew that Markus had at least made it to his destination.

Then the speeder came toward all of them. One agent turned to see who was coming up behind him, and that was all it took. Viraess felled him with another stun beam, and even as the last remaining man pulled a bead on her Markus rammed him from behind with the speeder. He was knocked sprawling, the blaster flying from his hand, and Viraess sprinted out of the way and then ran up alongside the speeder. Markus grasped her arm with bruising force and pulled her bodily onto the seat next to him, then yanked the acceleration lever almost all the way backward.

The speeder leaped forward like a frightened bantha. A laser bolt jolted off the rear end of the vehicle, and Viraess looked back to see that the one remaining agent had recovered his blaster and was firing at them. She shot back, but they were almost out of range, and the bolt went just over his head.

"Damn," she said, and then they were gone, speeding down the road toward the spaceship, the delicate night air of Albri'ar filling her tired lungs and streaming through her unbound hair.

In the driver's seat beside her Markus flashed her a triumphant grin. "I take back everything I ever said about the Academy if that's where you learned to shoot like that."

Suddenly weary, yet at the same time filled with an exhilaration she had not felt since her last space battle, Viraess laughed. "I'm going to hold you to that one, Markus."

His only answer was another grin, and then they were at the boundary of the spaceport.

The remaining Intelligence agent was waiting for them at her docking bay, just as she had feared, but Markus barely slowed down as they approached, and she took him out with another well-placed stun bolt before he had a chance to even fire at them. They hopped out of the speeder, and Markus grabbed his precious duffel bag out of the back seat.

"Don't want to forget that," she joked.

"Hardly."

Then they went in to the _Morning Star_, and the hatch closed behind them.


	10. Chapter 10

Just a brief comment on the timeline: I started writing this sooooo long ago I won't even admit how man years it's been, and back then I tried to construct the scenario as best I could based on the information available at the time. If I do a rewrite I'll go back and fix a couple of those things (and I've thought of several more that could use some tweaking as well, now that I've seen Episode III), but in the meantime, just try to bear with me and enjoy the ride!

* * *

Chapter Ten

Sarka Kray swung her long legs off the cluttered desktop and positioned herself upright in the chair. She'd been half-dozing, but the computer's subtle _ching-beep_—the one she'd programmed to sound like coins clinking together—had just popped her into full consciousness. That was the sound of money, an alarm to let her know that someone, somewhere, had just posted a bounty of more than twenty-five thousand credits.

Bounties like that didn't come along every day. And the Kray Family Guild had been going through a spell that was drier than a Tatooine summer.

Sarka pulled herself in closer to the computer screen to study the information displayed there. This was the big time, all right—fifty thousand on some scientist by the name of Markus Klem. A scientist? That wasn't exactly the sort of scum she was used to chasing down, but on the other hand he probably wasn't going to pose much of a problem. _Klem is most probably unarmed, and not to be considered dangerous_, she read. _Subject is a high escape risk, however, and is wanted alive. Bounty subject to forfeiture if target is liquidated._

It sounded like pretty easy money—even better. She studied the flat video portrait of the wanted scientist and grinned. Definitely eye candy. Her last acquisition had been a slug-like Phrodak—distant relations to Hutts, but without the social graces—who'd left a slime trail and a stench in her hold that the galaxy's best disinfectants couldn't conquer.

She ordered a hard-copy printout of the pertinent facts and stood, waiting in some impatience for the information to wheeze its way out of the antiquated printer. Her late, unlamented father, Sal Kray, hadn't exactly believed in maintaining state-of-the-art technology for his business.

The door to her crash space-cum-office opened, and her brother Thran stood there, scowling.

Sarka didn't pay the scowl much mind. That was Thran's habitual expression. He had Sarka's same dark-gray eyes, eyes so dark that most people thought they were brown until they were close enough to see the difference. But he was much lighter-skinned, and his hair was almost sandy in color. Sal Kray had definitely believed in spreading his seed around.

"Fifteen hundred credits," Thran said.

"Fifteen for what?" It sounded like a pretty paltry bounty to her.

He lifted the sheet of flimsiplast he had squashed in his left hand. "New hyperdrive motivator, nav computer overhaul, complete replacement of shield generators...do I need to go on?"

"I get the idea," Sarka said, trying to look concerned, but inwardly she was grinning. As the oldest member of the Kray Family Guild, Thran ostensibly had first dibs on any high bounties, but with his ship out of commission he wouldn't be going after any acquisitions any time soon, that was for sure.

Whereas her own ship, the _Wasp_, was newly tuned up and ready to go. Things couldn't have worked out better if she'd planned them this way.

"That's too bad, Thran," she went on. "I just got a lead on a hefty new bounty. Want to see?"

She extended the hard-copy data on Klem to her brother, who took it and scanned the information quickly, his frown deepening.

"Looks like an easy score," he said after a moment, the grudging envy in his voice plain to hear.

"Just what we needed."

He nodded, noncommittal. Although Sarka knew Thran had hated old Sal as much as she or their other two siblings did, for some reason he tried to project a false aura of family pride. Maybe he thought it was good for business. A cohesive family unit working together, and all that. It was really a load of bantha dung, and both she and Thran knew it. The people who paid off their bounties couldn't have cared less how well-run the organization was, as long as targets were acquired with a minimum of fuss. Their brothers, Wils and Brak, were essentially useless. Wils spent most of his time in a sodden drunken mess, when he wasn't trying to embezzle Kray Family funds, and Brak would have been better off as a librarian. Half the time Sarka had to stop and consciously remember Brak's given name, because in her head he was always labeled by a long stream of epithets, the latest being "Pinhead."

At any rate, it was Thran and Sarka who ran the Kray Family Guild. And they both knew that Sal had left it in rotten shape, and that it was up to the two of them to get things back together. If the family guild folded, they'd either have to strike out as independents, or try to sign on to some other established guilds. Neither option was particularly attractive at the moment.

"OK, then," Sarka said at length. "I'm outta here."

"Happy hunting," Thran replied, then turned and left.

Sarka was surprised he'd even said that much. Thran was a taciturn sort, and half the time she had no idea what he was really thinking. Not that she cared. The Kray family wasn't exactly noted for its people skills.

But right now, at least, she had a target to acquire, which meant she'd get out of this hellhole for at least a few days, possibly even a week or more if she were really lucky. She found herself halfway hoping that Markus Klem would give her a good chase. Hunting a hapless target was really no fun at all. But it was even less fun to have an empty bank account, so she wouldn't scruple at a stun beam in the scientist's back if it meant those fifty thousand credits would be deposited into her account that much quicker.

_Markus Klem_, she thought, as she dumped the rest of her weapons and gear in her satchel and headed out the door, _isn't going to know what hit him._

* * *

She had waited until Markus was soundly asleep—a sleep helped by the mild tranquilizing agent she'd slipped into his dinner. Viraess had made sure it was a light enough dose that he would never know what she'd done, and heaven knows Markus was tired enough that he probably would have slept like the dead even without a little help from her. Still, she couldn't risk his waking up now. 

Carefully, she slid his duffel out from its resting place beneath the bed; Markus stirred slightly, turning over, and she froze, barely daring to breathe. But he made no further movement, and so she gathered the bag up into her arms and went out, still as a shadow, the door sliding closed behind her.

Once out in the hallway, she made her way to the small dining area and placed the duffel on the tabletop. Then she undid the pressure tabs and opened it up.

First, of course, was the standard traveler's paraphernalia: a small bag containing his shaving kit and other personal necessities, some folded shirts and underclothing, a slim wallet with his i.d. and credit vouchers. Viraess lifted all these carefully out, making note of their positions so that she could replace everything exactly as she'd found it.

At the bottom was his data pad, which she was sure contained vital information, but she laid it aside anyhow. She didn't have his passwords; finding those out would be the task of the Cryptoanalysis people once she'd handed the data pad over to them. Besides, she knew his data pad would not have sufficient memory to contain all the information pertaining to the Corona Project. It had to have been stored separately on microdisk, but where? There was nothing left in the duffel save a small leather bag with an old-fashioned zipper. It clanked slightly when she lifted it out.

Puzzled, she undid the zipper and poured the contents into her left hand. Several tens of shining coins piled up in her palm, some that she recognized, others that she did not. Viraess lifted one up, looking at it more closely. It was a newly made New Republic mark; she wondered where Markus could have gotten it. Still, discovering its origin would do nothing to explain why neither this pouch nor anything else in the duffel contained the data disks she'd traveled halfway across the galaxy to find.

Forcing herself to remain calm, Viraess went through the entire contents of the duffel bag once more, just in case she had missed anything the first time around. Again she found nothing. Frowning, she replaced the items in the bag in their proper order and pushed the pressure tabs to close it once more. She stared at the duffel through narrowed eyes, wondering. If Markus had truly stashed the data somewhere else, then why all the trouble to retrieve the bag from the Intelligence agents on Albri'ar? And if the items were somehow concealed in the bag, where could they be? The duffel seemed too small to contain any secret pockets or false bottoms, but just to make sure she removed everything once more and tested the weight of it, then ran her hands over its entire surface, inside and out. Still she found nothing, and her frown deepened.

Mentally cursing herself for not finding the items she was seeking and Grand Moff Kezler as well for sending her on this mission in the first place, Viraess repacked the bag and stowed it safely under Markus' bed. This time he did not stir at all, and she paused beside the bed, looking down at his sleeping form. His lashes made darker crescents against the sun-browned skin of his cheeks, the fine architecture of brow and nose and cheekbone outlined in the dark by the light spilling through his open cabin door.

_Stop torturing yourself_, she thought, and forced herself to turn away and press the button to shut the door behind her. _You're here to do a job. So do it._

Suddenly she was aware of how tired she was, how the inevitable adrenaline crash that had followed the firefight with the Intelligence agents weighed down her joints and made her head ache. Still, one thing remained before she could go to her own well-deserved rest. Somewhere on board the _Morning Star_ Moff Naren's people had secreted a homing beacon, and she vowed to find it and disable it, even if that meant going without sleep altogether. She would not let the head of Intelligence win that particular battle.

* * *

Lieutenant Fortson, Imperial Intelligence, sat staring at the screen in front of him in blank dismay. At length he roused himself and, taking a breath, pushed the code to ring the comm in Moff Naren's private quarters. It was late in the ship's standard rotation; the Moff should have retired for the night. Fortson couldn't help wishing, however, that his assumption might be wrong. 

Unfortunately, his first instincts proved correct. The Moff's voice came over the comm unit almost before the first buzz had ended. "Yes?"

The lieutenant cleared his throat. "Um, sir, we have just received an encoded transmission from Team Delta. They have debarked from Albri'ar and are currently en route to their home base on Cirraen."

Fortson could have sworn he heard Moff Naren's brow wrinkling from where he sat. "My orders were for them to rendezvous with the _Asp_ on Commenor once acquisition of Dr. Klem was complete."

Fortson coughed. "Yes, sir. Well." He cleared his throat again, wishing he didn't sound quite so much like a bantha about to hack up its cud. "Apparently Team Delta was unable to successfully intercept Dr. Klem and Admiral Viraess."

The ensuing silence was far more intimidating than any spoken oath or command could have been. Unable to endure it for more than a few seconds, Fortson felt compelled to enter into explanations.

"The team leader reported that Dr. Klem evaded them first at the tavern where they intended to pick him up. When he reappeared at his hostel, somehow he and Admiral Viraess managed to recapture Klem's belongings and steal the agents' landspeeder."

Again came that awful silence. Fortson waited, knowing that none of this was his fault, and knowing that that would not matter one lick if the Moff were even half as upset as Fortson thought he was.

But this time Naren was the first one to break the stillness. "Any casualties?" His voice sounded strangely absent, as if he were thinking about something entirely different.

"One, sir. The others were just stunned."

"Very well. Do we still have coordinates for Viraess' ship?"

"Yes, sir. They entered hyper three standard hours ago. Trajectory plotting shows them headed toward the Core."

"Keep me informed, Lieutenant," came the Moff's reply. And then the link was broken.

Fortson took a deep breath, then turned toward the screen that showed the stream of coordinates indicating the _Morning Star_'s present position. Then, before he could even register what was happening, the screen flickered once, shivered into a brief burst of nonsense numbers, and went dark.

Fortson blinked once, then swore. Even as he pounded out the commands and codes to check the uplinks and data routing, he knew his actions were futile. The beam was gone. It was not merely being jammed. It had been destroyed at the source. And that meant only one thing.

With a shaking hand, he re-dialed the Moff's personal comm code. "Sir? I'm sorry to disturb you again, but I think you'd better come down here..."

* * *

"You'd think with all the money we're paying you that you would have found something else by now," Leia said. 

Ghent sighed. Even his youthful exuberance seemed squelched, his hazel eyes bloodshot and heavy with lack of sleep and too much staring at computer screens.

"What else do you want?" he asked, gesturing toward the pile of flimsiplast printouts on the messy table next to his computer workstation. "I've got both his graduate dissertations, the results of every test the guy ever took, his grades back to when he was practically in diapers. Records of every trip off-world he ever made. Credit reports—even his favorite color. Did I miss something?"

"None of which has given us any clue as to where he might be right now," Leia replied. She reached up to rub her temple, repressing the impulse to start screaming at Ghent. That certainly wouldn't help, except perhaps as a temporary relief from the mounting frustrations of the past few days. "Qwi is going over copies of the dissertations, but she says it's fairly obvious, even from preliminary readings of the papers, that Dr. Klem had made serious advances in his research after those papers were written. The papers may get us headed in the right direction, but without Dr. Klem's input we may never be able to further the research of the Corona Project."

Ghent lifted his thin shoulders. "I don't know what else you want me to do. I've sliced into every single piece of documentation I could find regarding Markus Klem, but none of your NRI agents have been able to find anything in all that data that could show you where he is now."

She let out a slow breath. "Keep up your research on Kezler and the High Command for now. Maybe we'll find a lead that can help us."

The slicer tapped a few keys, then tilted back in his chair. "Hey, at last count twelve separate bounty hunters had logged their intent to go after Markus Klem."

"Great." Leia gave Ghent a tight smile with very little of real humor in it. "If you help us find him first the bounty will at least cover half your fee." And with that parting shot she made her way out of Ghent's computer-filled lair, up into the crowded halls of the Imperial Palace.

Outside the meters-high windows that made up one entire wall of the corridor through which Leia now passed, Coruscant's sun was sliding into twilight. Despite the approach of the traditional dinner hour for many of the city's inhabitants, the halls of the palace still bustled with activity. Like Coruscant itself, the palace never really slept.

She'd made a date for dinner in her apartments with Han and Luke, and she lifted a comlink to her lips to call an aircar to meet her at the landing pad outside her offices. The unscheduled meeting with Ghent had made her several minutes late already, but when she'd had another session cut unexpectedly short she had taken advantage of the precious extra moments to visit the slicer—not that she'd gotten much accomplished beyond venting her frustrations on the nearest available target.

Leia emerged from her offices onto the landing pad to see the aircar waiting for her. By now the sun had almost set, and the wind blowing between the kilometers-high buildings was sharp and cold, pulling at the loose strands of hair around her face and bringing a flush to her cheeks. As she climbed into the 'car, she wondered not for the first time how they would ever manage to track down Markus Klem. One would think that the entire resources of New Republic Intelligence would be a little more effective at finding just one man.

_And if the Empire finds him first_— she thought, then shook her head. Outside the 'car's windows the millions of lights of Imperial City slid past, unheeded. She had seen its wonders before.

At her apartments on the other side of the city, Luke and Han were already waiting for her. Or rather, they were engaged in a noisy game of rough-and-tumble with the twins in what remained of the main entertainment area. One chair was overturned, and cushions were scattered everywhere.

Han looked up from the fray as she entered and said, "You're late."

"And this is my punishment?" Leia replied, but she was smiling. At least the room's disarray was refreshingly normal, far from the struggle of Empire and New Republic.

Luke stood, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. "You're worried," he said.

There were times when having a Jedi for a brother could be rather disconcerting. On the other hand, with the way she was feeling right now Leia supposed he could have read her emotions just by looking at her.

"It'll pass," she said, with a brief, quelling look. She certainly didn't want to be discussing such heavy matters with Jaina and Jacen present.

He nodded, understanding at once, and they went on into the cheeful banalities of dinner, with the twins regaling Leia with every detail of the day they could remember, including Jacen's unfortunate encounter with a service droid at the museum of galactic history. Threepio had apparently decided that a firsthand account of some of the incidents they had been studying at home was necessary, and had taken them off to the museum that very afternoon. What he hadn't counted on was Jacen's very real attraction to anything furry and four-legged, or the fact that the new Ewok exhibit had just opened up.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Mistress Leia," Threepio said, as he brought dessert around for all of them. "But the new exhibit is so terribly lifelike…."

"And Jacen jumped right in!" Jaina crowed, obviously delighting in her twin's discomfort. "They were good holos, but they weren't _that_ good!"

Jacen slumped in his seat and scowled at his sister. "How would you know?"

"'Cause I'm learning how to program them and—"

"Jaina," Leia said. Then she looked up at Threepio. "What happened?"

"I'm afraid that the service droid on duty in that exhibit room wasn't very well equipped to deal with such an incident, your Highness. It decided that Jacen must be some sort of saboteur, so it, well—"

"It zapped him in the butt!" Jaina finished, clapping her hands together.

Jacen looked as if he wanted to slide right under the table, and Han hastily camougflaged a grin by scooping up a large spoonful of Dithnerian fruit-ice and placing it in his mouth.

Even Luke cleared his throat and looked away.

"Did it hurt?" Leia asked, gently.

Her son shrugged. "Oh, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't like it was a stun beam or anything. But then Threepio got all bent and started hollering that you and Dad were going to sue the museum, and then he—"

"Caf?" Threepio broke in.

"Let's just clear the table and call it a day, shall we?" Leia pushed away her empty plate and stood. "It sounds as if the two of you have had a pretty busy time of it. How about you get ready for bed?"

And she ignored the chorus of "but Mom!"s that ensued, hustling the children to their room with the bribe of being able to stay in their rooms and spend exactly one half-hour on the Coruscant InfoNet. That way, she knew, they'd each be occupied and less likely to try and listen in on any conversation that passed among her and Luke and Han.

Once she'd settled herself back in the main living room thoughtfully, Han and Luke had righted the chair and replaced the sofa cushions Han said, "You know, Leia, I've been thinking—"

She didn't like the sound of that. Usually when Han began with that sort of preamble, he was about to launch into an enthusiastic description of an enterprise that was sure to meet with her disapproval.

As usual, she was right.

"Ghent's not getting anywhere tracking down Markus Klem," Han went on. "Even NRI's not doing such a great job, from what I hear. Don't you think it's about time we went to the source?"

"The source?" she said.

"His homeworld. Lanarsk Prime."

He was serious. Leia glanced from Han to her brother and back again. Both wore the same expression of earnest determination.

"And exactly who do you propose to undertake this mission to the heart of the Imperial Core?"

She'd known he would give her that grin. That cocky, white-toothed, Han-can-pull-off-anything grin. "Well, us, of course. Luke and me."

"Of course," she echoed.

"It's not as crazy as it sounds, Leia," Luke said. He leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped against the dark fabric that covered his knee. "If I can talk to Markus' family face to face, there's a very good chance that I can get an idea of what kind of Force ability he might have. And I might also be able to get a clue as to where he might have gone."

Leia realized her fingers were digging into the soft material of the cushion next to her. She slowly unclenched her hand and said, "No, it's not as crazy as it sounds. It's crazier!"

"Leia—" Han began, but she put out a warning hand.

"Don't try to argue with me the logic of the two best-known faces in the New Republic marching into the staunchest Imperial planet left. It won't work."

"I realize there's some risk involved, Leia," Luke said, his voice as calm, as reasonable, as only he could make it.

"A slight understatement, wouldn't you say?" she snapped.

Her brother only stared back at her, watching her with those calm blue eyes. "How much do you want Dr. Klem?"

"Not enough to lose the two of you," she replied, hating the break she could hear in her own voice.

"It won't come to that, Leia," Luke said. "I promise."

She looked from her brother to Han. Her husband's expression was pleading and only slightly wounded. Her fear obviously appeared to him as some sort of doubt in his and Luke's ability to successfully complete this mission. Anything else she said now would only hurt him more. _Sometimes_, she thought, _you have to let go and trust. Trust that the luck that's carried him through so much will return him to me once again._

"Make sure it doesn't," she said at length, and left it at that. And as the evening wore on, she tried to tell herself that the mounting anxiety she felt was only a normal wife and sister's worry for the ones she loved, and not some sort of latent Jedi ability making itself felt at last. Even if it were a sort of precognition, there was nothing she could do now. She'd given them her tacit permission, and all she could do now was wait and see what happened.

And hope that whatever happened, they would come home safely.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Markus Klem pushed back the thin blanket that covered him and sat up, a moment of disorientation overcoming him before he glanced around the dark room and remembered where he was. A narrow bar of yellow light showed against the far wall where the door to the corridor stood partway open, and let enough light into the room so that he could lean over the side of the bed and see his duffel lying there where he had stowed it before falling asleep. He glanced at the chronometer that glowed blue in the darkness on the utility shelf next to the bed. Nearly thirteen hours, then, since he had fallen into exhausted slumber. His head and limbs still felt heavy, mouth sour and sticky from too many hours of sleep.

With a groan he stood and stretched, pulled his one change of clothes out of the duffel, and then made his way to the little refresher unit located next door to his cabin. Like everything else in the ship, it was small but beautifully appointed, and scrupulously tidy. Shelarne obviously was doing well for herself.

When he stepped out of the 'fresher he felt more human than he had for quite some time. All around him was the faint hum of the _Morning Star_'s hyperdrive generators, but it was almost muted by the little ship's excellent sound dampers. All else, though, was silent as he made his forward to the cockpit. Not that Shelarne would necessarily be there; once a ship was in hyperspace, it wasn't necessary for the pilot to be on duty at all times.

But that was where he found her, as she lay back in the dark-cushioned pilot's chair. He opened his mouth to speak, then paused, realizing that her eyes were shut, the heavy dark lashes fluttering with dreams against her pale cheeks. The odd, twisted glow of their hyperspace passage painted glimmers of dark and light across her face, first outlining the curve of her cheeks, then brushing shadows over her lips.

Markus took one step forward, then held himself, watching her. Something taut and complicated in her face left her as she slept, and he could almost imagine himself back on the other side of the years that separated them, almost back home before life intervened. Somehow past everything he'd used to fill his life after he'd lost her he'd continued to care, continued to hope that one day she would return to him.

And now—

He shook his head. Somehow he couldn't find the will to take that final step forward, to brush the loosened hair from her face, trace the curve of her lips with his fingers. Instead, he merely turned and walked away, throat tight with everything he'd desired all those years, all the words he knew he hadn't the strength to say. He turned, and left her sleeping in the dark.

* * *

They watched in silence as the blue-green crescent of Lanarsk Prime seemed to fill the entire viewport of their stolen Imperial cargo freighter. 

"Looks pretty harmless," Han commented at length.

Luke shrugged. "That doesn't necessarily make any difference."

Han gave Luke a sour look, but his brother-in-law just lifted an eyebrow. Well, Luke could be right, but it was still subtly reassuring to see that Lanarsk Prime presented no more threatening an aspect from space than had, say, Alderaan.

Of course, that hadn't helped Alderaan any.

The incoming message chime sounded. Han toggled the comm switch, bracing himself for the worst. Their transponder codes were supposed to have been thoroughly checked out, but you never could tell.

A pleasant female voice came over the speaker. "Freighter _Precipitous_, this is Ariston Ground Control. You have been cleared for landing in West Port, docking bay 1135. Transmitting coordinates now."

"Message received, Ariston Ground Control. Thank you." Han flicked off the comm and shot a knowing look at Luke. "See? Harmless."

"We're not down there yet."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Han changed their course slightly based on the coordinates he'd been given and piloted the ship in silence for the next several minutes. They dropped through the cloud layer, and Ariston, Lanarsk Prime's capital city, lay beneath them.

It would only have been a speck compared to the massive, world-spanning city complex of Coruscant, but where the first sight of the former Imperial Center overwhelmed the viewer, could crush a newcomer beneath its weight of buildings and close-packed sentient life, this city elicited wonder instead. It had obviously been carefully planned; open parkways and gracious boulevards were evenly interspersed between industrial complexes and other densely built areas. The main building materials of choice seemed to have been either white permacrete or some pale native marble that glittered with its own light; seen as they were viewing it now, with the dawnlight coming up over the planet's terminus, the effect was almost dazzling.

"It sure doesn't look like the home of the big, bad Empire," Han said at length.

"No," Luke said. "No, it doesn't."

Han gave his friend a quick glance, but Luke was wearing that shuttered Jedi expression again, and Han knew he wouldn't get any more out of him. For himself, he'd racketed around the galaxy a good bit, but the fringes were where he'd spent most of his time, and he had to admit to himself that he was impressed. This world may be at the heart of the re-formed Empire, but it had been one of the centers of the Old Republic for countless generations before that. Next to Coruscant, Lanarsk Prime was fabled to be one of the longest-settled planets in the Core, and it showed.

He found nothing to change that impression even after they'd landed the freighter and gone through customs. Their slicers had apparently been up to snuff on this one; they encountered no delays in processing their paperwork and were on their way before they almost had a chance to realize that, so far, their plan was working.

An automated speeder took Han and Luke to the hotel where their NRI contacts had already made reservations for them. Again, their check-in was accomplished without incident, and only a short while later they were facing each other in a comfortable little chamber.

"So," Han said, "breakfast first, or do you want to go to the Klem home directly?"

"Might as well do this on a full stomach." Luke touched the lock on his bag and opened it, then stood for a moment, staring down at the uniform it contained.

"I don't like it either, Luke," Han said. "But we both know the drill. It's not like we haven't 'borrowed' Imperial uniforms before." He grinned, thinking back to their crack-brained raid on the first Death Star. It seemed so long ago, almost as if from another life.

"I know," Luke said.

Han pulled his own uniform out of his luggage. It was the standard Imperial high-necked tunic and flared breeches, but instead of the olive-gray favored by the Navy and Army, this one was all black, save for a dark-gray band around the left cuff. He touched it briefly, then glanced up at Luke. "Our NRI sources say Kezler introduced this insignia for the ISB. I have a feeling this isn't the only change he's introduced."

"Don't forget about naming a woman as head of the Imperial Navy," Luke remarked, and some of the worry seemed to lift from his brow.

Han grinned. "As if Leia would ever let me forget that."

He was gratified to see Luke return the grin and shake his head. Han wasn't sure if it was Luke's Jedi senses telling him something, or whether the kid was just nervous being surrounded by so many Imperials, but he'd been in a sober mood ever since they'd landed. True, it could be a touchy situation, but they'd encountered a lot worse. From the brief glimpses he'd seen of the city through the autospeeder's windows, life seemed to go on pretty much as usual here. Probably the last thing the people of Lanarsk Prime were expecting was a visit by two of the Empire's most wanted men.

Lifting up his own uniform, Han made a decision. "Breakfast first," he said. "Then we'll see just what we can find out about this Dr. Markus Klem."

* * *

Grand Moff Kezler sat in his private observation chamber, watching the silent drift of the Veil Nebula outside the enormous transparisteel viewing panels. The message light on his desk-mounted comm winked redly at the outer edge of his peripheral vision, but he chose to ignore it. 

Admiral Viraess' continuing silence bothered him more than he had cared to admit. His own experts' analysis was that their beacon was being jammed at the source, but how or by what they were uncertain. Privately he suspected Naren's interference, but he had made no move so far to follow up on his suspicions. Let Naren think that he had the Grand Moff properly gulled. It would make the retribution that much more satisfactory when it did come.

But as to why Viraess herself had not reported in—well, that was more troubling than Naren's expected treachery. The Moff had spent far too many years following his own agenda for Kezler to expect anything less of him. But Viraess?

Perhaps he had been too sure of her. Kezler straightened in his chair and tapped his steepled fingers against his chin. He had seen nothing in any of her records or psych profiles to show she was anything but completely committed to the Empire and its cause. It was hard to believe she would throw so much away simply for the sake of a man she hadn't seen for more than ten years. No, more likely she was following some hunch of her own, and waiting to see the fruits of her plan before she contacted Kezler once more.

It was quite possible he had erred in thinking her easily led. It never did to underestimate an opponent—much less an ally. Perhaps he had been surrounded by COMPNOR sycophants for too long. Viraess was a Carida-trained naval officer; she had commanded thousands of men and women even before she had been named to her admiralcy or the High Command. And the incident on the Star Destroyer _Vengeance_ had proved that she was not above disobeying orders if she felt those orders were wrong.

Not that any of this bothered him unnecessarily. Viraess might act on her own impulses without waiting for orders from him, but she would never do anything to compromise the Empire or his plans. He knew, from certain files his COMPNOR operatives had brought to his attention, exactly what lengths she had gone to in order to maintain her class standings at Carida. And hadn't she taken a Rebel's blaster bolt in the shoulder in order to save Admiral Dahros' life when she'd still been just a commander? Those were not the actions of a woman who did not support the Empire body and soul.

And that was good, because he had great plans for her. He did not intend for this new Empire to go the way of the old—it would last a thousand generations, always with a Palpatine at its head. That was his vision, his dream —once Coruscant was liberated and returned to Imperial control, he would claim both the throne and the name his father had denied him. A Palpatine emperor would once again rule the galaxy...and his descendants would continue that tradition. His father had been a fool to rely on the Force and the chancy tool of cloning to ensure that he continued to rule. Kezler's plans lay along a much different route. Viraess had first caught his attention because of her initiative and exemplary military record, but there was much more to her than that. She had the qualifications necessary to be the mother of his heir—intelligence, strength, unquestioned loyalty, physical beauty. And he had no doubt she would hand the Navy over to him and allow him to sweep such troublemakers as Moff Naren out of the way, once she realized she was to be an Empress.

It was not exactly desire he felt for her, save, perhaps, for the cold appraising want a man might have when he sees a particularly fine piece of art he would like to add to his collection. Rather, she suited his needs, and that was all he required. If she could give herself over to Commodore Matteson at the Academy, Kezler saw no reason why she shouldn't do the same with him. But this business with Markus Klem was one last test, her final proving ground. He could have had his own operatives go after the missing scientist, but he wanted to see what she would do. And if she showed the slightest signs of reluctance, if there were even the least chance she would not carry out her mission objectives, then she would have to be liquidated. Klem would be found one way or the other—a report had just surfaced that the consortium which had employed him had placed a hefty bounty on his head—and the missing data put to good use in eliminating the New Republic and its traitor government once and for all.

It would be a pity, though. Shelarne Viraess had great potential, and it would be a shame to waste it. Still, the galaxy was wide, and sooner or later he would be able to find a suitable replacement. It was a foolish man who left himself no options—and whatever else he might be, Kezler was no fool.

* * *

"The Grand Moff is in conference and cannot be disturbed," came the infuriating reply once more. 

Admiral Corvallis bit back an oath with some difficulty. "Perhaps you do not understand the gravity of this situation!" Taking a breath, he backed his tone down a bit, realizing that ripping the head off a Grand Moff's adjutant was not perhaps a particularly wise course of action. "This is the third time in the past ten days—and I'm not talking a few blastboats or an escort carrier here. This is an Interdictor cruiser that someone's absconded with, and I want a straight answer on where Admiral Viraess is!"

The COMPNOR adjutant—a deceptively bland-faced man with some of the coldest eyes Corvallis had ever seen —merely said, "The Grand Moff will be informed of the situation."

"And what about Admiral Viraess?"

"Admiral Viraess is not available at this time."

Corvallis ground his teeth. "Not available? What's she doing—getting a suntan on Tatooine?"

The COMPNOR officer only replied, unperturbed, "Admiral Viraess is not available. The Grand Moff will see you at his earliest convenience."

"And when will that be?"

The man did not even blink. "You will be contacted."

"Understood." Corvallis turned on his heel and left the adjutant's office, muttering under his breath, "I just hope we still have a fleet by then."

Of course, that was an exaggeration. There was no way anyone could come along and steal one Star Destroyer, let alone the hundred and some-odd Kezler and Viraess had managed to scrape together. Then again, a week ago he would have laid easy money there was no way anyone could steal an Interdictor cruiser, either. These puzzling thefts—first of a dozen blastboats nearly a standard month ago, then two newly commissioned Loronar strike cruisers from the shipyards at Ord Trasi—had at first all the appearances of an inside job. Whoever was masterminding the thefts obviously was intimately acquainted with Imperial Navy procedures and command codes; the stolen ships had been boarded and taken by agents impersonating naval personnel so well it was not until the ships failed to appear at the given transfer points that anyone realized something underhanded was afoot.

Navy Intelligence had failed so far to find any naval personnel guilty of the ship hijackings. Everyone who possibly could have had access to the ships or their deployment orders had been thoroughly questioned, but to no avail. Every "i" had been dotted, every "t" crossed, and still no one could say who was responsible. If the culprit weren't found, and soon, then heads were going to roll—and Admiral Corvallis wanted to make sure his wasn't one of them. He was the fleet commander in charge at Ord Trasi, and it was under his nose that the ships had been stolen.

Admiral Viraess had been informed of the first theft when it had occurred, and she had contacted Corvallis directly to get his input on the situation. He had been rather surprised to hear from her personally; he hadn't thought a missing dozen blastboats would have rated a direct call from Navy High Command. Still, Viraess did have a reputation for being a hands-on commander. That was what made her absence of comment now so suspicious. He couldn't imagine her ignoring the theft of two strike cruisers, much less an Interdictor. So he had come here straight away, only to be fended off by Kezler's COMPNOR lackeys.

He took the repulsorlift to the aft hangar bay, where his shuttle awaited him. Once there, he gave orders to return to his flagship, _Ravager_, which waited for him on the far side of the Veil Nebula. There he would stay until he heard from Grand Moff Kezler, or possibly Admiral Viraess.

_Unless Kezler had her taken out and hid the body somewhere_, Corvallis thought gloomily, as he watched the stars move outside the shuttle's small viewport. Which, considering Kezler's reputation, wasn't entirely unlikely. He just hoped he'd be safely back at Ord Trasi before anyone woke up sufficiently to lay the blame on him.

* * *

The _Lady Luck_ and her escort of A-wings winked back into realspace just within the fringes of the Kessel system. Lando Calrissian toggled the comm. "_Lady Luck_ here. The coast looks clear." 

"Confirmed, _Lady Luck_," came the reply from the A-wings' lead pilot, Lieutenant Shu-an.

In the co-pilot's seat next to Lando, Chewbacca whuffed softly. Lando nodded.

"Lieutenant, recommend approach vector seven-eight Alpha."

"Confirmed."

_Dark side of the moon_, Lando thought, then brought the sublight engines up to full power. The _Lady Luck_ arced cleanly away through the darkness, approaching Kessel from the sheltering shadow of its large hollowed-out moon. Once, a base had flourished there, but Admiral Daala had seen to it that only the skeletal remains of the base's prefab structures still remained.

They came around the edge of darkness and into the full light of Kessel's sun. Chewie let out a shocked howl, and Lando dived for the shield controls.

"Pull up!" he yelled. "Pull up!"

Directly ahead lay, not the five or so blastboats they had all been expecting, but a long, deadly-looking strike cruiser. A quick glance at his instrument panels confirmed what Lando had feared.

"They're powering up their forward turbolaser batteries!" His shields were at maximum, but they weren't going to do much good against a strike cruiser's turbolasers. "Chewie, get us out of here—and I mean fast!"

Chewbacca's massive paws were already moving with lightning speed. The _Lady Luck_ peeled away even as several A-wings arced overhead.

Lieutenant Shu-an's voice crackled over the comm. "General Calrissian, permission to get the hell out of here!"

"Granted," Lando muttered. Their flight had pointed them directly at the Maw Cluster, and he shook his head. _No way am I going in there again_, he thought. Luckily, his ship and her accompanying A-wings had already had their hyperspace return route plotted and locked in, just in case they met with heavier attack than expected, but it still took a few moments for all the subroutines and fail-safes to double-check it before engaging. He shifted his course 30 degrees, lining up for the projected hyperspace jump.

A quick glance at the instrument panel showed the strike cruiser gaining on them, and he cast a worried glance at the navcomputer. It was gonna be close...

Then a bright splash of light flared outside the viewport, as the strike cruiser fired. Fired, and connected.

The A-wing exploded in a mini-nova, molten shrapnel flying outward like a hundred dying suns. Over the open comm, Lando could hear Lieutenant Shu-an curse.

Lando echoed that curse, his hands flying over the shield controls, trying to increase the rear deflector shields to their maximum capability. With the shields at maximum, the little pleasure yacht might be able to withstand one hit from the strike cruiser's turbolasers—if they were lucky.

The Imperials—or whoever they were—took another shot at one of the A-wings, obviously targeting them because of their superior armament. Of course, they didn't know anything about the _Lady Luck_'s modifications. Lando hit a small button next to the laser cannon control, and two proton torpedoes were on their way to a direct hit on the strike cruiser.

He never saw whether they connected or not. The starfield slipped into long streaks, and the _Lady Luck_ tore into hyperspace, the remaining A-wings disappearing after her.

Lando settled back in his chair, then shook his head. Chewbacca looked over at him questioningly, then whined softly.

"Damn it, that's the second time," Lando said. He gripped the arms of his pilot's chair and scowled. "I don't like running away. And I don't like being chased out of my system twice."

He unfastened his safety harness and stood. Chewie whuffed a soft interrogative, and Lando frowned.

"I don't know who they were. I wouldn't think what's left of the Empire would extend its forces this far into the Outer Rim. Probably just pirates—but that's the first time I've ever seen pirates with ships that look like they just left the 'yards." He looked down at Chewie and spread his hands wide, a gesture of frustrated impotence.

Another whine from the Wookiee, this one slightly louder.

Lando shook his head. "Whoever it is, they didn't play this one exactly smart. You shoot down New Republic ships, and the New Republic tends to take notice of you." He smiled then, not altogether pleasantly. "I'll just have to make sure I'm around when the New Republic comes back here for payment."

In the co-pilot's seat, Chewie nodded his agreement.

_Next time_, Lando thought, staring out the viewport without really seeing the hyperspace-distorted heavens, _you're mine_.


	12. Chapter 12

Thank you to my reviewers -- I know sometimes this is slow updating, but I'm writing two other fics at the same time and am trying to keep them all in rotation without driving myself (and everyone else!) crazy. :-)

* * *

Chapter Twelve

"Well, that was completely useless," Han remarked grumpily, tapping another spoonful of sweet-spice into his cup of caf.

"What did you expect?" Luke inquired.

Han shrugged. They were seated outdoors in the patio area of a small cafe; the traffic of one of Ariston's main streets swirled past, just beyond the low stone wall that separated the eating area from the sidewalk. All around them the tables were filled with people catching an early midday meal. No one seemed to pay them much attention, despite their ISB uniforms; Han had noticed that Imperial uniforms, both black and olive-gray, were commonplace here.

"I don't know," he said at length. He picked up his cup of caf and drank, then grimaced and set it down. Now it was too sweet. "But the few things she did let drop seemed to indicate that Markus does have some sort of Force ability."

Luke nodded slightly, then casually let his gaze sweep over the crowded tables around them before answering. "It does sound that way — which makes it even more important that we find him before anyone else does."

"Right." Han drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. Lizhbeta Klem, Markus' mother, had been coolly polite, but no more, giving only as much information as they had pressed for. Only once had she offered the small protest that she had already gone over all this before with a different set of agents, but Han and Luke had brushed that comment aside, as no doubt any real ISB agent would have done. Clearly she was distressed by the entire situation, and Han couldn't really blame her. He had had a hard time reminding himself that she was an Imperial; she had seemed so normal, somehow frail and abandoned in that big empty house.

Han looked up from his contemplation of the tabletop to see a young woman at the table behind Luke suddenly rise to her feet, reaching out her hands to a young naval officer who had just entered the outdoor eating area. They embraced, and Han glanced away, catching Luke's calm blue gaze.

"I suppose it's hard to see that they're just people, too," Luke commented quietly.

Looking away, Han took in the crowded tables around them, the unfamiliar flowers that bloomed in tubs at each corner of the patio, the elegant facades of the buildings across the street. If it weren't for the Imperial uniforms that could be seen among the crowds of people, he could have imagined himself on almost any long-civilized world. If he had been expecting to see the Empire wearing its dark aspect here, he was certainly destined for disappointment. The pleasant, complacent faces of the people around him showed no shadow of war or deprivation or want, none of the hard, hunted urgency he'd seen on so many fringe planets and even on many of those who were the driving forces of the New Republic.

Their NRI operatives had provided large chunks of background information on Lanarsk Prime, and Han had glanced over most of it cursorily at best. Still, he'd read enough to know that at no time had the world slipped from Imperial control or even suffered any sort of planetary attack. The few petty warlords foolish enough to attempt to add Lanarsk Prime to their territories had been summarily repulsed by the system defense fleet, which was large, well-equipped, and commanded by seasoned Imperial officers. It was now certainly the jewel in Kezler's crown — and naming one if its citizens as head of the Imperial Navy probably hadn't been a bad PR move, either, Han thought wryly.

Still, peaceful aspect or no, the sooner they were out of here the better. Lanarsk Prime might enjoy the benefits of Imperial rule, but there were too many others who had suffered and died so that these people could sit here in their clean white city and drink their caf and not trouble themselves about the galaxy and its struggles. He doubted that planets such as this one would ever join the New Republic — the Empire was working well enough for them, especially now that the High Command had wrested some sort of order out of chaos in the Core systems. Finding that thought more than a little depressing, Han forced himself to consider the problems nearer at hand.

"So what now?" he asked quietly, although he was fairly certain that no one was listening in on their conversation. "Pack it in?"

"Not quite yet. I want to pay a visit to the the Viraess household."

Han found it difficult to keep his voice down. "Are you nuts?"

Luke smiled. "No more so than usual. Look — the backgrounds provided to us show some sort of link between the Klem family and Admiral Viraess. Apparently they've known each other for a long time. They could drop a clue that Lizhbeta Klem wouldn't. At any rate, aren't you the least bit curious as to what her family is like?"

"I hate it when you're right."

Luke grinned and dropped a few shining credits on the tabletop. "Let's go."

* * *

The house was impressive, Han had to admit. It stood in a district of other equally large homes, each surrounded by a neatly landscaped plot of land. Most of them were guarded by high walls and droid-equipped gates, and the Viraess home was no exception. All it took, however, was a simple flick of their ISB ident badges under the droid's watchful eyes, and the gate immediately opened. 

"This way," the droid, some sort of modified protocol unit, instructed.

They followed it up to the main doors of the house, where a human servant, probably the major-domo, stood waiting for them. Han supposed that the droid must have sent some sort of signal to warn the household of its visitors, but he still found the seamlessness of it slightly unnerving.

"Your business, sirs?" asked the major-domo.

Luke showed him an ident badge. "We would like to speak with Captain and Madame Viraess."

He hesitated only slightly. "In here, if you please."

They trailed along after him through the foyer and down a long corridor. Han pursed his lips and almost whistled, but a quick warning look from Luke was enough to stop that. After the Imperial Palace, Han hadn't expected to be impressed by much in the way of buildings, but this place definitely shouted money — old money. The floor beneath their feet was a mosaic of marble probably quarried on ten different worlds; tasteful sculptures and exotic orchids decorated small pedestals placed at even intervals down the corridor; the vaulted ceiling high overhead was overlaid with a subtle hologram depicting a blue-green sky and lacy clouds. Not bad, not bad at all — and Han found himself wondering just how much an Imperial starship captain actually earned. Not enough to support this sort of rig, he would have imagined; there had to be family money involved here.

They were led into what appeared to be a study; a discreet computer console and holo-viewer were mounted on the desk in the far corner, and there were even some old hard-copy books placed on shelves around the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the gardens to the rear of the house and were open to the patio outside and the scent of exotic blooms and fresh morning air. A vase of fresh-cut flowers stood on a table just inside the door.

"Please wait here," the major-domo said, then shut the doors behind them.

Han finally let out the whistle he'd been holding in all this time. "These Imps sure know how to live, don't they?"

Luke gave him a quelling glance. "Careful. Someone could be listening."

Han raised a disbelieving eyebrow, and wandered off toward the desk. A holo-portrait of what looked like a teenaged Admiral Viraess in civilian clothes standing next to a tall, dark-haired young man in the uniform of a junior naval officer occupied a prominent place there. Han guessed the unknown young man must be her brother. There was also a later portrait of Viraess alone, this one in uniform, a captain's rank bars bright against the drab gray-green of her jacket. The delicate face looked somehow incongruous against the severe uniform, and Han turned away, frowning. Imperial or not, he'd liked her better in that red dress she had worn on Doranne.

The door opened, and Han started guiltily, already moving away from the desk. Then he forced himself to stand still. An ISB agent, he reminded himself, probably didn't feel guilty about too much.

Somehow he'd expected Captain Viraess to be in uniform, but he wore only a plain dark civilian suit, although he held himself as straight as if he still stood on the deck of a Star Destroyer. It wasn't until he advanced further into the room that Han noted he walked with a definite limp. Standing next to him was a woman a few years younger, her dark hair only beginning to be streaked by gray. The resemblance to Admiral Viraess was strong, although this woman's eyes were dark, and she was quite a bit taller.

"Good day, gentlemen," Captain Viraess said then, pleasantly enough, as if finding two ISB agents in his study was of no great import. "How may we help you?"

Early on Han and Luke had agreed that Luke should do most of the talking on this mission, and so it was Luke who replied.

"Sorry to disturb you, Captain, but we have a few questions regarding a certain Markus Klem."

Madame Viraess made an impatient gesture. "We've been over this before — "

"We're aware of that, ma'am," Luke said. His voice was as warm, as persuasive as only he could make it. "But sometimes important information only comes to the surface after repeated investigations."

Luke's Jedi persuasion didn't seem to have much effect on her. Ignoring the warning look her husband gave her, she stepped away from him and fixed Luke with a chilly dark stare. "We have nothing more to add. I would think you'd realize that Admiral Viraess has had nothing to do with Dr. Klem for quite some time, and if she'd had any information as to his current whereabouts she would have communicated that information directly to your superiors."

Han raised an eyebrow at Luke, who gave him the briefest frown before continuing.

"We are well aware of that, ma'am. We're more interested in your own opinion of Dr. Klem."

It was Captain Viraess who replied. "He was very talented, very gifted." Then he frowned, his gray eyes — his daughter's eyes — distant and somewhat sad. "But he let himself be led astray by Rebel propaganda, and unfortunately tried to force that same propaganda on Shelarne. However, she'd been raised better than that, and refused to listen to him. I'm quite certain she's had no communications with him for well over ten years."

His wife plucked at the sleeve of her pale-gray gown, a gown whose very simplicity and elegance of cut spoke volumes about its probable cost. "Markus was prone to sudden enthusiasms. He could also be quite persuasive when he wanted to. He convinced Lizhbeta that he should go offworld for his studies, even though the universities here are certainly more than adequate. That was the beginning of the end. He was exposed to all sorts of dissidents at university."

"Unfortunate," Luke nodded, and Han barely kept a straight face. It was too much to see his brother-in-law, a Jedi Knight, the man who had destroyed the first Death Star and brought down the Emperor, agreeing grave-faced about the misfortune of falling in with Rebel sympathizers.

Captain Viraess gave Han a slow, measuring look, which he met as squarely as he could. The other man was silent for a moment, then, just as slowly, withdrew his gaze. Han devoutly hoped the Viraess clan didn't harbor any hidden mind-readers. But then the Captain returned his attention to Luke, and Han relaxed slightly.

Luke clasped his black-gloved hands behind his back and rocked slightly back on his heels, looking relaxed, as if he did this sort of thing every day. "Was there anything else unusual about Dr. Klem? We are well aware of his academic record, his awards and such. But something seems to be missing."

The Captain and his wife exchanged a quick, uneasy glance, and he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. But she set her mouth and turned slightly to face Luke square on. The bright sunlight caught in the Durindfires — worth a fortune, Han knew — that sparkled in her ears.

"Lizhbeta used to joke that she didn't dare take Markus with her to Race Day, because he'd usually guess the winners, and someone was sure to accuse her of cheating. And I myself witnessed him several times stating who would be calling before the comm even sounded."

"Are you saying he had some sort of psychic ability?"

Han wondered how much effort it had cost Luke to put exactly the correct amount of disdain in his voice while asking that question.

Madame Viraess' finely arched eyebrows drew down. "I am not 'saying' anything, officer. I'm merely stating what was well known among our circle of friends at the time."

Captain Viraess pulled out the desk chair and sat, wincing slightly. "Forgive me, officers, but the leg can only take so much."

"Our pardon for inconveniencing you," Luke said. "But you both have been quite helpful, and we won't be taking up any more of your time. If your major-domo could show us the way out — "

The message chime on the desk comm sounded once. "Excuse me, gentlemen," said the Captain, and pressed the button.

"They're here, sir," came the major-domo's voice, and the Captain nodded.

"Thank you, Evvin," Captain Viraess replied, and flicked the unit off. Then he looked up at Luke and Han, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm afraid," he went on, "that you won't be leaving quite as soon as you thought."

"Sir?" Luke asked.

Madame Viraess moved away from the window to stand by her husband. "You see, we'd just spoken with several ISB officers last week, and I thought it highly unusual that they would be returning again so soon, so I contacted Major Devinnen, the head of the local ISB agency. He informed me that he hadn't authorized any additional questioning, and that in fact he had no officers answering to either of your descriptions in his department. He was also kind enough to send some of his men over to investigate further."

Han looked over at Luke, who somehow had managed to remain expressionless. This was not good.

"And there they are," said Captain Viraess, and Han followed his gaze out the window to the gardens, where several black-clad ISB officers and ten Compforce troops were approaching the house.

This was not good at all. Han's fingers itched to grab his hold-out blaster, but he really didn't want to start shooting away indiscriminately. They were, after all, intruding in someone's home, and he couldn't say he wouldn't have done the same had the roles in this situation been reversed.

Luke, however, was still trying to bluff his way out of this. "There must have been some mix-up in the orders, Captain Viraess. We're not in Major Devinnen's detail — we've come straight from the Grand Moff himself."

"Then I'm sure you can work that out with Lieutenant Trask when he gets here," said Madame Viraess, who was staring out the window, squinting a little at the bright midday sun. "I thought I recognized him — he was in my SAGroup division a while back. He's quite a reasonable young man, actually."

Raising an eyebrow, Han managed to smile weakly at her remark, then give Luke a quick glance. Luke nodded slightly, then smiled himself, as if to say, _No problem._

_Yeah, right_ Han thought. Then the Compforce troops were moving quickly across the patio toward them, and he grimaced. _OK, Jedi Knight -— get us out of this one!_

* * *

ISD _Inquisitor_, Moff Naren's flagship, hung in the absolute black of deep space, some ten parsecs out from Cirraen, where he'd just finished a most unsatisfactory interrogation of Team Delta regarding their abortive mission to capture Markus Klem. Now he waited in his conference room for the two other men to arrive — as he was sure they would. 

Nor was he disappointed. The door to the conference room whooshed open on its repulsors, and Grand General Nivri entered. Naren permitted himself a slight smile. He had known that Nivri would be here first.

Naren rose. "General."

"Moff Naren." The younger man took a seat several feet away from where Naren had been sitting, then frowned. "And where is — "

"Grand General Linzer's ship arrived several minutes ago. He will join us shortly."

Nivri nodded, but still looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Caf? or water?" asked Naren, but the other man shook his head.

"Nothing for me, Moff Naren."

Again the door opened, and this time Grand General Linzer stepped in. He looked far more relaxed than Nivri, but Naren could not always read Linzer. His lack of expression probably came from all those years of having his face hidden behind a stormtrooper's mask. He nodded in greeting to both Naren and Nivri, then sat down at the table, directly opposite Grand General Nivri.

Naren took his own place at the head of the table. "Gentlemen, I believe our current surroundings are as secure as I can make them. So let us speak frankly."

The two Generals facing him exchanged a quick glance, and then Nivri spoke.

"We will listen to what you have to say — if you understand that our presence here does not necessarily indicate that we support whatever you have to present to us."

He would like to have scowled, but Naren remained expressionless. Neither one of the men seated before him had achieved his current rank and position by being reckless, and so he could have expected no less. "Understood, General. Thank you for your frankness."

Settling back in his chair, Naren regarded Nivri and Linzer calmly. "It was my understanding, gentlemen, as I believe it was yours as well, that when the High Command was established it would be a governing body of equals. While we all support the continuance of the Empire, history has taught us that having an actual Emperor is not an efficient means to govern such a body. Certain checks and balances were lacking. Corruption was a natural result of such a system." Naren knew that both of the men who faced him had achieved their ranks fairly, for the most part. They were honest — a quality that had been sadly lacking in much of the old Empire's forces. This was not to say that they were soft. Naren had private reports of some of Grand General Linzer's past exploits in the stormtrooper ranks that would certainly make a Rebel's blood run cold. But appealing to their sense of duty and outraged honor was certainly the quickest way to sway them to his side.

Naren continued, "We were promised a new system, one in which all members of the High Command would have an equal say, and yet Grand Moff Kezler has repeatedly ignored his own promises. The instances where he has taken his own action without consulting the High Command are numerous. We all have autonomy, up to a point, yet Kezler acts as if he were Emperor in all but name. His appointment of Admiral Viraess to the High Command is but the latest example of his high-handedness."

Grand General Nivri leaned forward, a frown shadowing his hazel eyes. "While I may agree with you on some points, I can't say that Admiral Viraess was a poor choice. As captain of the _Vengeance_ she did some serious damage against New Republic forces, and, as far as I can tell, she has continued that success as commander of the Navy as a whole."

"There is no need to argue the Admiral's relative merits," Naren replied. He would have to go gently here. If he attacked Viraess personally, it was all too likely that Nivri would come to believe that Naren could just as easily turn against him. "Although I think that none of us can state that Kezler was wrong in removing Admiral Chast from the High Command, I will argue that he should have consulted its remaining members before bringing forward a replacement."

"But he did," Linzer commented. "And since none of us argued the point at the time, I don't believe it is pertinent for us to be discussing that appointment now. While I'll admit that I had my doubts, I chose to wait and evaluate Admiral Viraess' performance until after she had held the post for some time. So far, that performance has certainly been more than adequate."

Naren would have liked to have ground his teeth, but refrained. "Agreed, General," he said, after a barely perceptible pause. "Still, you cannot deny that Grand Moff Kezler has not consulted the High Command on several key issues."

"Conceded," Nivri said.

The head of Intelligence permitted himself a slight sense of satisfaction. "The issue remains, then, exactly what are we going to do about it?"

Linzer's green eyes narrowed. "I think you're fully prepared to tell us what we should do."

Naren was silent for a moment. Sometimes Linzer's canniness was unnerving; it was not what one would expect of a man who came from the ranks of the stormtrooper division. Then Naren arranged an expression of feigned frankness on his features. "I would not presume to tell either of you what your next step should be. That's Kezler's style, not mine."

"Then let's not bother to dance around this anymore," Nivri said. Leaning forward over the conference table, he went on, "It's safe to say that none of us are happy with Kezler's dominance of the High Command. I also think it's safe to say that we are in a position to do something about it — _if_ we choose to do so, of course."

Keeping any betraying note of triumph from his voice, Naren said, "This may very well be true. But we must think carefully before committing ourselves. Once we've embarked upon this course of action, there will be no turning back."

Linzer was very quiet. Naren turned probing eyes upon him, and the other man stirred uneasily.

"This seems — somewhat radical," the head of Stormtrooper Command said slowly. He frowned, the lines around his eyes deepening momentarily.

Surprisingly, Nivri replied before Naren could even start on his own carefully prepared arguments. "This is a case of all or nothing, I'm afraid. We all know what happens to those who take their grievances openly to Kezler." His pleasant face was uncharacteristically grim. Crossing the Grand Moff was not usually considered a particularly wise thing to do; there had been too many who had disappeared, too many who had suffered the iniquities of Kezler's ISB and Compforce troops.

Linzer was silent. Naren could almost see him turning alternatives over in his mind, first rejecting one possibility, then another. Finally he sighed, then said, "Can we do it?"

At last Naren permitted himself a small smile. "Gentlemen, I believe this enterprise may be less difficult than you may think."

He knew that the vast majority of the worlds still loyal to the Empire did not seem to particularly care who ran things at the very top, just that the Imperial Navy still protected them from the forces of the New Republic, that stormtroopers still guarded the vital centers of production or those unruly planets which needed a heavy hand. Naren had been thinking on this for a long while, plotting and planning, waiting for exactly the right time to approach Linzer and Nivri. With Viraess vanished into the far reaches of the galaxy, and no explanation for her disappearance, there were already rumblings in the Navy — especially with ships being stolen right out of the 'yards. That made Kezler's position more precarious, since Viraess was his direct appointee, and now was the time to exploit that weakness.

In fact, Naren had already suborned several key figures in Kezler's staff. The Grand Moff's second-in-command in COMPNOR, one General Alvar, was all too ready to take the reins of power from Kezler's lifeless hands, once Naren's plan was in place. The man would be little more than a puppet, but Nivri and Linzer didn't need to know that.

Naren began to explain some of the less damaging aspects of his plan, but hadn't gotten much further than a brief description of General Alvar's willingness to join with the conspirators before Linzer interrupted.

"What about Admiral Viraess?"

Naren's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"

"Do you intend to do away with her as you do with Kezler?"

Pausing, Naren surveyed the other man. Linzer's expression was merely one of polite interest, but Naren thought he knew better. He'd long suspected that Linzer was a bit soft on the lovely young Admiral, although he had no evidence to back that up — only the instincts earned from serving Imperial Intelligence for more than thirty years.

"I feel the Admiral could be convinced to relinquish her post," Naren answered carefully, "once she realized that it was in the best interests of the Empire."

"I'm afraid I don't entirely agree with you there, Naren," Nivri put in unexpectedly. "However irregular her appointment may have been, it seems that her staff and, in fact, the entire Navy are quite loyal to her. Getting rid of her just because she's Kezler's protegée may not necessarily be the wisest course of action."

Naren allowed himself to nod. "If that's how you gentlemen feel — "

"It is," Linzer said, his tone mild enough, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it.

"Very well, then,"Naren went on, "This is what must be done "

And he went on, delineating the plan he'd spent so many months and hours brooding over, as Nivri and Linzer listened closely. Their faces betrayed nothing, but Naren knew from their careful, watching silence that they were more behind him with every word. Soon there would be no turning back.

Admiral Viraess he refused to worry about. She was not yet a problem and possibly never would be. After all, a woman who would so blindly follow one man would mostly likely blindly follow another -- and Naren would make sure that he was the one whose orders she followed...or else.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

For once Leia found herself wishing that the message light on her personal comm was flashing. It remained stubbornly dark, however, and finally she sighed and turned her attention to the computer screen in front of her, a screen that currently displayed the outlines of a new trade treaty between the Ithorians and the Mon Calamari. Since both races were peace-loving and gentle as a rule, Leia did not anticipate much discussion of the treaty before it was ratified. At least for one Council session, the bickering that seemed to have dominated the Senate lately would most likely be stilled.

It had now been almost forty-eight standard hours since her last communication with Han and Luke. Of course she hadn't really expected to hear from them once they were in the Lanarsk Prime system, but the continuing silence had begun to weigh on her. How long could it take, after all, for them to land, poke around a bit, and then fly their borrowed freighter out of there?

_Too long_, she thought, and tried to push the dark worry that had begun to crowd her thoughts to the back of her mind. What in all the galaxy had they been thinking, after all? Their disguises had been far too scanty, in her opinion. Han had trimmed his hair more closely and combed it differently, following the more severe styles favored by the Imperial military; Luke had followed suit and deepened the disguise by running some sort of darkening rinse through his dirty blond hair. Once they were in uniform at least they would look the part. And very likely it was only the uniform that anyone would pay any real attention to; Leia knew from experience that people had a tendency to focus on the uniform and not the person wearing it, and she could only hope that would be the case here as well.

Her personal comm beeped, and Leia looked down immediately, heart racing, but it was only Qwi Xux.

The Omwati scientist's delicate features looked troubled, and Leia could only imagine what the expression on her own face must have been, for Qwi said immediately, "Is something wrong?"

Leia waved a hand. "Not that I know of. I had hoped to hear from Han and Luke by now, but – "

"I understand." Qwi's indigo eyes looked sympathetic. "I wish I had better news to give you, then."

"What is it?" Unconsciously, Leia's spine stiffened, and she sat up straighter in her chair.

"The team has just returned from investigating the abandoned base on Xy'rie IV. As we had feared, it appears that Imperial agents got there before us – and they didn't appear to be too concerned about us knowing that fact, either. It's impossible to tell now whether or not they found anything of use, but certainly every trace of data has been erased from the computer systems at the research station."

Bad news, yes, but news that Leia had been halfway expecting. She wondered for a moment why it was Qwi who was contacting her, and not Linden Arelle, who had gone to assist Qwi Xux with the investigation into the Corona Project. However, Linden still seemed skittish and wary around Leia for some reason, and probably Qwi had taken on the task to save the erstwhile Alderaanian woman from any discomfort. "Any sign of the Imperials?"

Qwi shook her head, feathery blue hair wisping around her cheekbones as she did so. "No, they're long gone. From the latest readings our own team took on-site, it appears the radiation is fading at even a more rapid rate than I had first estimated. The system will probably be back within safe radiation levels in about five standard months." She paused, as if weighing her words, and then went on, "Since there was no life in that system to begin with, it is difficult for me to surmise what lingering effects there might be on soils and so forth, but our exobotanists tell me that even if the radiation killed off the original plant life, most probably it would be simple enough to re-seed and start over."

Of course. Bring in your genetically modified grains and other helpful plants, scrub the air a bit with some light-duty terraforming equipment, add some sturdy settlers with loyal Imperial sympathies, and you've got yourself a whole new system. How neat and tidy. Logically Leia knew this had not been Markus Klem's original intent, but really, the whole thing seemed as made to order for Kezler and his cronies as the terrors Qwi Xux had cooked up herself under Tarkin's tutelage.

Only the habits learned from years of diplomacy prevented Leia from muttering a curse. If Qwi had come to these conclusions, it was only logical to surmise that the Imperial scientists had as well. Even now they were probably intensifying their search for Markus Klem. The only thing saving the New Republic, Leia thought with some bitterness, was that the Imperials didn't seem to be having any more luck catching up with the elusive scientist than her own agents were. She hadn't heard anything from Ghent in the last twenty-four hours or so; possibly it was time to check back in with the slicer to see if anything new had been discovered. Of course, considering her last interview with him, that was probably just a recipe for even more frustration.

"Thanks, Qwi," she said at last, realizing that the other woman was waiting for some sort of reply. "That doesn't help us much, but at least now we have a better idea of where we stand."

"I'm sorry it couldn't be better news," Qwi replied. Worry still clouded her features.

_It's usually the sort of news I get these days_, Leia thought, but did not say aloud. The thought seemed a little too self-pitying. "Better to know the worst than not know anything at all," she said.

"I suppose so." Qwi was silent for a moment, then said, "I'm sure everything is fine with Han and Luke."

Leia felt a sudden twinge. Was her worry that apparent? But all she said was, "I'm sure you're right," even though, at the moment, she had a sudden flash that everything was actually far from fine.

* * *

Luke's coolness in these situations never failed to surprise Han. Even now, with a group of Compforce troops entering the gracious room that seemed far too small to hold all of them, he exhibited no trace of fear or tension, his face revealing only a mild interest in the men who now faced the two of them, weapons drawn.

Their leader was a thin-faced young man probably not much older than Luke had been when he faced Darth Vader on the second Death Star. But young as he was, he seemed firmly in control of the situation as he paused in front of Luke and Han, dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Who's in command here?" he asked.

Well, at least they hadn't shot first and asked questions later. Han watched as Luke stepped forward a pace and replied, "I am, lieutenant. I'm Major Trane. If I may -- " and he gestured toward the rank cylinder he wore on the right side of his chest. It contained, Han knew, Luke's falsified ISB credentials.

The young lieutenant gestured toward one of the Compforce goons, who stepped forward, took the rank cylinder from Luke, and dropped it into a datapad that appeared to have been specially modified to read the cylinders. After a few seconds he handed the datapad to his commander, who took it and read its contents, his straight dark brows pulling inward slightly as he did so.

Han held himself still, trying to copy the look of slightly irritated boredom on Luke's own features. All he could hope for now was that the false credentials would stand up to close scrutiny. He knew the NR slicers were some of the best in the galaxy, and of course they had taken extra care once they knew the safety of two of its most famous citizens lay in their hands, but he could not help feeling an icy finger of dread trail its way down his back.

The face of the young ISB lieutenant – _Trask_, that was what Madame Viraess had called him – was unreadable. Whatever training he'd received, it had obviously included maintaining a control over his features that wouldn't be out of place at a sabacc table.

Luke's expression never changed. Han had no real Force sensitivity, but even he could feel the waves of reassurance that flowed from his brother-in-law, the calming sensation that everything here was perfectly in order and that this was just a simple misunderstanding….

So focused had he been on the interplay between Luke and Lieutenant Trask that Han had almost forgotten about the presence of Captain Viraess and his wife. Now, however, Madame Viraess took a step toward Lieutenant Trask, inquiring, "Well, lieutenant?"

The young man looked up from the datapad. The blankness of his features slowly transformed into an abstracted but not unpleasant smile. Han recalled Madame Viraess saying something about Lieutenant Trask being in her local SAGroup, which no doubt would account for the look of mingled fondness and respect he gave her. "This would all seem to be in order, madam," he said at length.

Although Han knew he could not let out a sigh of relief without instantly alerting the lieutenant and his forces that he'd actually had something to worry about, he could feel the loosening of tension in his body. Suddenly it seemed as if there were far more oxygen to breathe than there had been a moment earlier.

"Indeed?" she asked. Her tone was coolly polite, but Han had the sudden impression that she was disappointed.

"My apologies to you, sir," Lieutenant Trask said, nodding toward Luke and then, a second later, giving a fractionally less courteous nod toward Han. "And you as well, Captain," he added, with a quick flicker of his gaze toward the rank bars on Han's chest. No doubt he was wondering privately why the elder of the two men should have the lesser rank.

Han had wondered at first as well, until Luke had explained that it was better for him to do most of the talking. There had been no point arguing with that, and so Han had gone along with the plan. At least he could be somewhat amused instead of irritated by the slightly condescending look Trask now gave him.

"Members of the Grand Moff's personal staff," Lieutenant Trask went on, still directing his words toward Madame Viraess, and by extension to her husband, who had stood by, quietly watching their exchange. "Still following up on the Klem affair?" he then asked, looking over at Luke and handing the rank cylinder back to him.

"Yes, lieutenant," Luke replied, accepting the cylinder and sliding it back into place as if he'd performed that same action thousands of times before. "You know that the matter has been given top priority."

"Of course, sir." Lieutenant Trask stood up a little straighter, and Han didn't find it too difficult to guess at his thoughts. Here was a chance to make a good impression on a man the young lieutenant thought was important in Kezler's inner circle, and Trask was not about to let it slide by. "Perhaps you had a chance to read over the briefing I submitted to Major Devinnen?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." By some effort of will, Luke managed to keep an expression of sober interest fixed on his face. He wasn't even lying, actually – Lieutenant Trask's brief had been part and parcel of the documentation their NRI agents had submitted in preparation for his and Luke's mission to Lanarsk Prime. "Very impressive."

Han would not have thought it possible for an ISB agent to glow, but Trask did just that, his thin but not unpleasant features lighting up at the praise. "Thank you, sir."

"But we do have orders to report back immediately to his Excellency," Luke went on, looking past the lieutenant to Madame Viraess. "As we were about to take our leave when Lieutenant Trask appeared – "

"Of course," Captain Viraess said. His wife still looked somewhat balky, as if she knew there were something wrong here, even though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. But Viraess' father did not appear to harbor any of his wife's misgivings. "You may forgive us our concern, even if it turned out to be rather misplaced?"

"No trouble there, Captain Viraess," Luke replied. "The Empire needs its citizens to be vigilant. At least we were able to clear up the matter without any undue unpleasantness." For a split-second his gaze moved past the retired naval officer to the unmoving group of helmeted Compforce troops. "Perhaps it would be better if none of us spoke of this matter." His tone was still mild, but no one there could have missed the underlying threat of his words. No doubt the Grand Moff would be displeased to hear of the reception his own officers had met….

"Yes, sir," Trask said immediately, and Han could see the muscles move in his throat as he swallowed. "Discretion is our first priority."

"Very good." For a moment Luke stood silently, watching Trask with narrowed eyes; if Han hadn't known that Luke was no more an ISB officer than he was president of the New Republic, he would have felt intimidated as well. "If you will excuse us, we have a transport waiting for us."

At that Lieutenant Trask snapped a smart salute, one which Luke echoed, with Han following suit a few seconds later, all the while hoping that some of the old training still survived in his motor memory. Then Luke bowed slightly to Captain and Madame Viraess and said, "We know the way out," in tones that invited no argument. He gave Han a peremptory nod, then turned with military precision and moved toward the door that opened into the main hallway of the house.

Feeling as if he had just escaped from the lair of a krayt dragon, Han followed Luke down the hallway and out the front door. As they waited for the protocol droid at the gate to let them out, Han risked a sideways glance at Luke, who said immediately, "Don't say anything. Not a word."

Accordingly, Han looked away. Trust Luke to know what he was about to say before he even said it. Maybe it was too early to be commenting on their fortuitous escape. Probably it would be better to keep his mouth shut until they were safely back on board the _Precipitous_ and at least a few light-years out from Lanarsk Prime. And once they were back home on Coruscant, he knew the first thing he would do – well, after giving Leia some long-overdue kisses – would be to look up the NRI slicers who prepped his and Luke's counterfeit officer's IDs and buy them the drinks of their choice. Several rounds, preferably.

After all, it wasn't every day you walked into the Rancor's mouth and actually came back out with a count of its teeth….

* * *

She slept, but uneasily, troubled by specters from the waking world that teased at the edge of her dreams. In one seemingly unending sequence she wandered the corridors of the _Overlord_, looking for something she could not name. Finally the endless gleaming hallways culminated in a bank of repulsorlifts; the door slid open, and she stepped inside. Immediately she shot upward, but somehow the uneasy feeling in her stomach had less to do with the lift's precipitous movement than the thought of what awaited her at its destination. She stood there in the cool, dim light of the lift, then felt it whoosh to a stop and the door open. She suddenly realized the short hallway was familiar, had in fact haunted her for more than ten years. It was the corridor that had led to Commodore Matteson's private offices at Carida Academy.

Perhaps there were those who had mastered the art of lucid dreaming; Viraess knew she was not one of them. Even though every instinct in her cried out for her to turn around, to take the lift back down to the ground floor, far away from here, her feet continued to carry her inexorably toward the doorway that waited at the far end of the hall. This time the door opened silently before her, and she entered the chamber that was as familiar to her as her own quarters on the _Overlord_. All was the same – the black plastic and steel furniture, the bank of windows that looked out over the plains, the cold gray lighting that seemed to hide more than it revealed.

A man stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling transparisteel windows, slim and tall. At last she stopped, waiting, even as her breath seemed to choke in her throat.

Then he turned, and his face was not Commodore Matteson's. Instead, Grand Moff Kezler looked down at her with cold eyes, then smiled and extended his hand….

Gasping, she sat upright in her pilot's chair, grasping the soft _marrit_-hide with anxious fingers as if to reassure herself of its reality. For a few seconds she could not think where she was. Then the familiar details of the _Morning Star_'s cockpit fell into place around her, and she allowed herself a deep breath, as if the rush of carefully calibrated oxygen and nitrogen could cleanse the nightmarish images from her mind.

But something was wrong. Instead of the familiar light/dark stream of hyperspace rushing past the forward viewport, a few widely placed stars winked at her against a backdrop of deepest black. Somehow they had dropped back into realspace.

Frowning, Viraess scanned the instrument panel before her. No red warning lights; at least whatever had happened had not been caused by a failure of the nav-computer or the hyperspace circuits. But where the hell were they?

She tapped in a command and waited for the computer to calculate their current position. Certainly there was no way of telling from the sparse starfield in front of her where in the galaxy they had ended up. No planets, either; at least in her present field of view.

"Problem?" came Markus' voice at her ear, and she angled slightly in the pilot's seat to see him entering the cockpit. His hair looked mussed, as if he had just climbed out of bed. But at least he was dressed.

"I don't know yet," she replied with a frown. Taking the controls, she began to move the _Morning Star_ in a slow arc so she could get a better visual.

"I felt a bump. That's what woke me up, I suppose. Something didn't feel right, so I though I'd come up here and see if you were OK."

At least he had felt them drop out of hyperspace, whereas she had been too consumed by her nightmares to even realize what had happened at first. The nav computer beeped, and she glanced down briefly to check the coordinates. What she read there didn't make any sense.

"Kessel?" she demanded of the computer and the universe in general. Feeling her frown deepen into a scowl, she looked back up to see Markus' own expression shift from slightly bemused curiosity to outright fear.

"I have a very bad feeling about this…" he murmured, his gaze apparently frozen on the viewscreen.

Viraess swiveled in her seat to follow his glassy-eyed stare. As the _Morning Star_ continued its gentle arc, an oddly shaped planetoid came into view, almost swallowed up by the blaze of light emanating from the system's orange-red sun. That must be Kessel itself – but what set her pulse racing was the unmistakable outline of an Imperial Interdictor cruiser about a thousand kilometers off to starboard, and the insect-like shapes of a group of Skipray blastboats, the smaller ships closing quickly as the cruiser followed at a slower, more majestic pace.

Something about this felt very, very wrong. What in all the galaxy would one of her precious Interdictors be doing out here, in a system that, according to the latest reports, was nominally under New Republic control? At last count the Navy had had only eight Interdictors left; one more had been almost complete when Kezler sent her on this mission and should have been commissioned in her absence.

That Kezler could have "borrowed" it and sent it here without her permission was entirely plausible – but how would he have known of their course in the first place? Why interfere now, when she had been so close to delivering Markus to him herself?

"What are you going to do?" Markus asked, and she tore her gaze away from the viewport to meet his dark, frightened eyes.

A pang of guilt went through her. For a second Viraess wavered, seized by a sudden impulse to tell him everything, now, before other agents of the Empire did it for her. Surely she owed him that much --

Then her eyes narrowed, as a sudden thought took hold of her, a fleeting memory of a report filed by Admiral Corvallis, a report that outlined the theft of more than a dozen Skipray blastboats from the 'yards at Ord Trasi. She stared out the viewport at the rapidly advancing ships, noting the cleanness of the hulls, the way the light from Kessel's sun gleamed off them. These ships had never seen combat, had not even been commissioned long enough to acquire the inevitable scarring and pitting that any ship accumulated after some time in space. She had a sudden feeling that these ships were the very ones which had been stolen.

_It's not him_, she thought. _I don't know who it is, but that's not the Empire we're facing._ Paradoxically, she felt a wave of relief flood through her. At least perhaps Markus had been granted a brief reprieve.

"Do?" Viraess asked, realizing she hadn't yet answered Markus' question. "There's not a lot I can do, Markus." Even as she spoke she began typing a series of rapid-fire commands into the nav-computer. Better to at least give the semblance of action, although she knew there was no way the computer could calculate the corrected coordinates before the blastboats were upon them. Without looking up, she continued, "This is just a fast transport ship. I don't have any weapons, and even my shields are minimal. I'm trying to recalculate a jump to get us out of here, but even with as good as this computer is I don't know whether we can get away in time."

Markus continued to stare out the viewport with a dread she found somehow disproportionate to the situation. His eyes seemed somehow darker and blurred, as if he were focusing on something far beyond the approaching ships. He had, somehow, the look of a man who had just walked over his own grave.

"Probably just pirates, or maybe smugglers," Viraess said matter-of-factly, hoping that her no-nonsense tone would shake that otherworldly look from his eyes.

"With an Interdictor cruiser?" he asked, but at least he had turned to look down at her, and she was relieved to see the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes that signaled his amusement with her.

"Oh, you'd be surprised by what outlaws can get their hands on these days," she replied, keeping her tone light. Then the incoming message light blinked on the comm, and she flipped the switch, taking care to keep it to audio only – just in case.

The invaders had no such scruples, however. The small screen on the instrument panel revealed a hard-faced man of indeterminate age who wore a high-collared dark jacket that looked vaguely Imperial without directly copying the lines of the real uniform. He wore no insignia, no identifying badges.

"Transport ship, power down and prepare to be boarded," he said, scowling into the comm. No doubt he was irritated by the lack of a visual on his end.

"Unidentified blastboat, this is _Morning Star_," Viraess replied smoothly. "Under whose authority are we being detained? This is an independent charter, authorized for flights in both the Mid and Outer Rim. You are in violation of a number of New Republic statutes."

"The Kessel Planetary Commission does not recognize New Republic statutes," he snapped. "Power down, or we will shoot you out of the sky."

"Friendly," Markus commented in an undertone.

Despite her growing worry as to who these marauders might actually be, Viraess had to suppress a grin. At least whatever dark mood that had momentarily overtaken Markus seemed to have vanished as quickly as it came.

"Well, I guess superior firepower grants you the right to be uncivil," she said, then turned and directed her next words to the stranger on the comm. "Understood. Powering down now. We await your boarding party." Then she killed the transmission, and began the process of shutting down the sublight engines and disengaging the nav computer.

"So what now?" Markus asked.

She lifted her shoulders. "We wait. And hope they decide we're harmless and let us go."

"And if not?"

Despite herself, Viraess felt a shiver pass over her body. A number of equally dark fates seemed to present themselves. But she managed to give Markus a lopsided smile, and say, with more bravado than she felt, "Then we just have to hope that all they want us for is cheap labor in the spice mines…."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Bounty hunters, Sarka Kray thought, were not supposed to sit in holding cells. Bounty hunters were supposed to put _other_ people in holding cells.

She unfolded herself from the hard bench that was supposed to double as a bed and approached the small half-meter square of transparisteel cut into the corridor wall of the cell. The hallway outside her cell was barely illuminated by the uncertain glow of a fading luma, but still she thought she could see the dark outline of the guard who stood a few meters away. Maybe it was the same sithspawn who had shoved her in here a few hours earlier; maybe it was someone else. It hardly mattered. Sarka had the feeling she wouldn't be going anywhere soon.

With a faint sigh of disgust she pushed herself away from the wall and resumed her seat on the bench. It was cold in here, and the cell had a faint ammonia smell. Whether that was from the disinfectant they'd used to clean up the place after its last inhabitant had vacated the premises, or whether the smell had actually come from the previous occupant, she had no way of knowing.

And things had been going so well, too. Only a half-day out from her home base on Ord Mantell, her brother Brak had forwarded her a particularly tasty bit of intelligence regarding some sort of ruckus on a backwater planet called Albri'ar. Although Brak was singularly lacking in anything remotely resembling strength, courage, or cunning, Sarka had to admit that sometimes he could be useful. Her brother could spend up to eighteen standard hours at one sitting as he sifted through the chatter on the holonet and other sub-space communications relays, looking for the pieces that didn't fit the pattern.

These particular pieces had indicated that a human male matching Markus Klem's description had been involved in some sort of firefight at the hostel where he had been staying and then fled the scene with some unidentified dark-haired human female in tow. Sarka had puzzled over that one for a few seconds, then shrugged. She knew eye candy like Klem wouldn't have any trouble picking up a random female companion along the way, although she hoped the woman wouldn't be a problem once Sarka caught up with the scientist. If anyone had asked her a few hours earlier, Klem would have seemed like the last guy in the galaxy to have gotten himself tangled up in a shootout of all things, but there it was. If Sarka had learned anything during the last eight years she'd spent bounty hunting, it was that people frequently did the last thing you expected them to.

Albri'ar was the strongest lead she had, and although she had her doubts that Markus would still be anywhere in the vicinity, Sarka figured that dropping in and asking a few pointed questions couldn't hurt. Patience often turned out to be the winning factor in the bounty-hunting game; it wasn't all about wild shoot-'em-ups and noisy confrontations in underworld dives, no matter what the popular holos might say. Of course you had to get the drop on your targets once you caught up with them, but you had to find them first. That was where Brak came in handy. He'd be of less use than a Mon Cal on Tatooine in a firefight, but it was often his intelligence that led her to the acquisition.

So she'd pointed the _Wasp_ toward Albri'ar, had settled in for an extended hyperspace flight, and then had unceremoniously dropped into real space here. Kessel. The ass-end of nowhere.

Sarka hadn't been able to guess at the identity of her captors. Some sort of quasi-military group, as far as she could tell -- the men who had boarded her ship moved like trained soldiers, and their dark clothing looked like uniforms, although lacking any sort of identifying insignia. Besides, she didn't see how pirates -- no matter how well-organized -- could have gotten their hands on the shiny Interdictor that had yanked her from hyperspace.

A group of them in Skipray blastboats had surrounded the _Wasp_ as she'd frantically tried to recalculate the hyperspace jump from her current vector, and Sarka had soon discovered she wouldn't be going anywhere soon -- except straight into this holding cell.

They'd fed her at least, some sort of synth-protein and dried fruit that wasn't half bad. But otherwise she'd been pointedly ignored, as if, like fishermen who hadn't quite decided whether their catch was big enough, they were deciding whether or not to throw her back. All she did know was that, with each passing hour, her chances of catching up with Markus Klem grew steadily fainter. The anger over the thought of losing that fat bounty was enough to keep the fear at bay -- almost. She tried to convince herself that surely they'd have to let her go at some point. After all, she was on a legal hunt. She hadn't stepped on anyone's toes with this one, as far as she could tell. But such rationalizations could only get her so far. Better than most, she knew that often the easiest way to deal with unwanted or unnecessary intruders was just to dispose of them. Permanently.

With that glum thought occupying her mind, she slid back on the bench, drew her long legs up against her chest, and settled in to wait. Sooner or later someone would have to come and look in on her. And then -- what?

Well, if nothing else they'd discover that Sarka Kray wasn't quite the pushover she seemed. Of course they'd taken her blaster and the holdout knives tucked into her boots -- she hadn't carried any more weapons than that while on shipboard -- but she still wasn't completely unarmed.

Smiling grimly, she unclasped the set of durasteel tags from around her throat. At first glance, of course, they looked just like the identifiers worn by soldiers the galaxy over, if a little larger than most. But appearances, she knew, were deceiving. All it took was the careful insertion of her thumbnail between the two layers of durasteel, and a tiny vibro-shiv no longer than her pinky dropped out into her lap. She scooped it up and secreted it in her left sleeve, the smile never leaving her lips.

This time, she'd be ready for them.

* * *

Linden Arelle watched with some diffidence as Lando entered his apartment in the Sunward Towers. He'd told her it was fine for her to continue to stay here in his absence, and so she had waited here for his return, knowing that she should have made arrangements for her own quarters but somehow lacking the volition to do so. It was a very nice apartment, after all, and, as he had pointed out just before he left, _someone_ might as well enjoy it.

He looked worried and tired, but he managed a more muted version of his usual flashing smile when Linden met him at the door. "You are a sight for sore eyes," he said, dropping the compact black case he carried and brushing her cheek with a quick kiss.

"Thanks," she replied, hoping her blush wasn't too apparent.

At least she hadn't been idle while Lando was off to Kessel to check on his mining interests there. Councilor Leia Organa Solo had taken very good care of her; somehow funds had been approved to reimburse Linden for her part in adding to the intelligence on the Corona Project, and she now had quite a tidy balance in her new bank account. The time she hadn't spent working with the lovely alien scientist Qwi Xux she'd filled with exploring this small corner of Coruscant, its theaters and restaurants, shops and museums.

She'd greeted Lando in an elegantly draped gown of soft violet-blue, a color she knew went well with her pale hair and silvery blue eyes. The borrowed purple shirt she'd had cleaned and restored to Lando's wardrobe. No more castoffs for her -- at least for the time being.

Lando's gaze moved past her to the rest of the apartment. "It looks -- different," he said at length.

Meaning, she supposed, that it looked clean. Although Lando certainly was fastidious about his own person, his apartments had the unmistakable layer of clutter and dust that betrayed their bachelor origins. After just twenty-four standard hours in the barely controlled chaos she'd given up and called in a cleaning service. She'd been very careful to move things as little as possible, but even so a fairly alarming pile had accumulated in the unused second bedroom -- unused except as a storage area, that was.

"I know where everything is," she said quickly. "I just thought -- I mean, I hoped -- " Flustered, she took a breath and went on, "I figured it was hard for you to keep it up, what with you traveling all over the galaxy, so I…organized."

"That you did." Apparently he noticed her worried look and added, "It's fine. I probably didn't need half that junk anyway."

Privately she was inclined to agree, but instead she only replied, "How was your trip?"

"Short and useless." Shaking his head, he moved away from her and went to the bar on the other side of the living room, where he poured himself a rather extravagant shot of Corellian brandy.

"What happened?"

"Chased out again." Lando tossed back the brandy with a practiced movement and poured himself some more, albeit a slightly more modest amount this time.

"By whom?" Frowning, Linden moved toward Lando, and shook her head as he lifted the bottle of brandy in her direction with a questioning look.

"I don't know, and that's the worst part of it. I already left word for Han and Luke to contact me as soon as they get back from wherever it is they went haring off to. Leia didn't tell me much, but she said they should be back in the day or so."

Linden began to wonder whether she should have taken the offered drink. For some reason she felt uncomfortable around the Jedi Master; it was as if those calm blue eyes of his could pierce through to her very soul, and she wasn't sure she wanted him to see that much. For so many years she hadn't cared what people might think of her, or of her personal choices. She'd heard the whispers, knew what people -- even those in her own family -- had called her mother. They'd tried so hard to hide Linden away, to make sure she wouldn't follow her mother's path, and in retaliation she'd made sure to discard her virtue as something beneath contempt. She liked men -- so what? Was that a crime?

Even now she couldn't recall all their names, from the first she'd had at the prep school on Commenor, then on at the university and the post-graduate center. With some she had lingered, from a few months to as long as a year, but she'd known even with them that sooner or later it would come to an end.

She'd wanted to think that with Markus it might have been different. They had the work to share, after all, and her past was of no concern at the research station. He'd had his own past, however; he'd tried to keep it secret, but she'd caught a glimpse of the holo portrait he still kept in his room but locked away whenever Linden was there. She hadn't dared to ask the young woman's name, but her face -- the full mouth curved as with some private amusement, the lovely tip-tilted eyes -- would be forever seared into Linden's memory. Whoever she'd been, whatever she had meant to Markus, it was far more than Linden had known she herself could ever be.

So she'd come here with Lando, her current savior. He was charming and fun and certainly knew how to please a woman, which was usually all Linden could ask for in one of her companions. But the Jedi Luke Skywalker made her uneasy, as if he could see the myriad tawdry affairs that littered her past, and she was not sure she wanted to spend any more time in his company than she had to.

"What are you going to do?" she asked finally.

"Get together whatever force I can to go back to Kessel and push back on those bastards, whoever they are." His dark eyes were shrewd and seemed to miss very little, for he said next, "And I suppose you're wondering where that leaves you."

Linden shrugged. "A girl might start to think you don't enjoy her company very much."

"Now, you know that isn't true." He set down the drink and reached out a hand to her.

She went to him willingly; if nothing else, she'd missed his company the past few days, the feel of his mouth on hers, the warmth of his body next to her in the night. But Linden also knew that if he went back to Kessel and somehow never returned, she would mourn him as a gallant man and move on. There was nothing to keep her here, not really. And she realized suddenly he knew that as well.

"I think I'll take that drink now," she said, trying to ignore the knowing, amused glance Lando gave her as he poured the brandy into a new glass. Maybe between the brandy and Lando she would be able to forget, if only for a little while, Markus Klem and the fear she carried with her always, like the bastard child of the only love she'd ever known.

_

* * *

_

_They're no pirates_, Viraess thought. Pirates would have checked the manifests, asked about cargo -- not that the _Morning Star_ could have carried much, but it was not unheard-of for those sorts of small, fast ships to be used as couriers for portable, highly valuable goods such as precious jewels or smuggled artifacts. But after a cursory look at the ship's logs and its four small cabins, they directed Markus and her to climb into the cramped space aboard one of the blastboats.

The unidentified men didn't act like pirates or smugglers, either. She watched them narrowly, even as Markus stood mute and angry beside her. Markus wanted to fight back, but he seemed willing to take his cue from her, and she had remained calm and quiet throughout the boarding and subsequent removal to the blastboat. Bluster and posturing worked better in holofilms than it did in real life; Viraess knew their only real chance lay in remaining calm and adopting a wait-and-see attitude.

One of the intruders gave the commands, all of which were carried out quickly and efficiently. No one voiced an opinion or questioned any of his instructions, and Viraess knew that if these were true pirates or smugglers the scene would have been much more chaotic. But within five standard minutes the _Morning Star_ had been swept over, and she and Markus buckled into their seats in the blastboat, heading for Kessel's surface.

Fear was only natural in such a situation, and Viraess did not try to fight it. Instead, she let it sweep through her and move on, leaving her in the cold, still mental space she always inhabited in the quiet moments before a battle. The eyes of the watching strangers were curiously neutral; she could see neither hostility nor friendship in them, only a faint speculative interest. Since Markus sat next to her, it was difficult for her to read his expression, but she could feel the tension radiating outward from his stiff frame. He had acquitted himself remarkably well on Albri'ar, but he was not a warrior; back there he'd had her to rely on, and now Viraess was as helpless as he.

She tried to recall everything she knew about Kessel, which wasn't much. The galaxy's only source of glitterstim spice, it had been under Imperial control -- at least nominally -- until the prison administrator, Moruth Doole, had come to a nasty end and New Republic forces took over the place. It had no real atmosphere of its own and had to rely on the output from atmospheric generators for even a minimum of breathable air, and its location near the Maw Cluster virtually guaranteed its isolation.

Even now Viraess fancied she could feel the gravitational pull of the cluster of black holes as the small craft shifted this way and that in its descent toward Kessel's surface. From where she sat she could see nothing of the planet; it was only the unmistakable sensation of the ship coming to rest that told her they had finally landed.

One of the men seated across from them indicated that she and Markus should undo their safety harnesses and stand, which they did. The planet felt light beneath her. Obviously Kessel possessed slightly less than standard gravity.

"This way," the same man directed, and Viraess and Markus had no choice but to follow, even as the rest of the blastboat's crew fell into place around them, marching in orderly fashion through a large hangar and on into a narrow, poorly lit corridor.

Viraess had only a scant few seconds to take in the contents of the hangar, but even that brief glimpse was enough to make her eyes narrow. Besides a score of other blastboats, all gleaming with new paint and burnished metal, she had caught sight of the sleek, deadly shape of a Loronar strike cruiser -- yet another one of the ships that had gone missing from the 'yards at Ord Trasi. Its hull shone as well in the harsh light of the hangar bay, but she thought she saw the black scoring across its hull that indicated it had been in some sort of combat -- and recently.

Nor was that the only sign of combat Viraess noticed. Around her the corridors revealed more blackened scorch marks, evidence of blaster fire. Half the overhead lamps were out. At one point they changed direction abruptly when they came to a hallway still filled with rubble from some sort of explosion.

But the lifts, once they got to them, seemed to work well enough. Built to accommodate large groups of miners, the elevator held their group of six with room to spare as it descended and Viraess uneasily watched the numbers flicker by on the level indicator.

_Are they taking us directly to the mines?_ she wondered, as they dropped to the twenty-fifth level. But then the lift stopped, and the doors opened on yet another dimly lit corridor.

Viraess made a move to step forward, but one of the guards reached out and grasped her by the shoulder. "No. Not you."

And with that two of their captors grasped Markus by either arm and hauled him out of the lift, leaving Viraess with the remaining pair of guards.

"No!" she protested, pulling against the restraining hand of the man who held her. Why would their captors be separating them now?

His grip tightened, and he pulled her back toward the rear door of the lift. "Don't worry," the man remarked. "He's just going to a nice, safe cell."

"And I'm not?" She gave up the struggle, knowing that it would do her no good. The man was armed and outweighed her by a good fifty kilos.

"Other plans for you," he said briefly, and pushed a few buttons on the lift's control panel.

The fear returned, this time colder and fiercer than before, and Viraess swallowed. She might be an admiral, someone who commanded more firepower than any other woman in the history of the Empire, but for all that she was also just one woman, and alone. There were other histories that told of the likely fate of a woman held in the power of other men. But she knew better than to let them see her fear. Holding her face impassive, she glanced away from the guard's slightly amused gaze and stared straight forward, looking at the scarred metal of the lift's door without really seeing it.

It might have been an eternity later, or only a few moments, when the doors opened again, this time on a corridor in slightly better shape than the ones Viraess had seen previously. At least here all the lights worked, and if this hallway had seen combat, then a layer of fresh paint and newly polished floors hid whatever traces of battle might have remained. She wondered whether the scarring she had seen in the lower levels had been the result of the battles between Moruth Doole's forces and those of the New Republic, or whether its current inhabitants had wrought some of the destruction themselves when they took the installation from its New Republic tenants.

A few men wearing the same dark, unadorned uniforms passed Viraess and her two guards as they marched down the corridor to the double doors at the end -- no doubt the entryway to the administrator's offices. She received a few mildly curious looks, but everyone here seemed intent on their own business. Indeed, the atmosphere of cool efficiency reminded her of her own deck crew on board the _Overlord_ -- puzzling behavior in an outlaw way station such as this.

The same guard who had spoken to Viraess lifted a comm to his lips and said, "We have her, sir."

She could not hear the response, but the guard paused and said, "Right away, sir."

The doors to the office slid open, and Viraess was led inside. This room smelled of fresh paint as well, but the furniture itself was scarred and old and in definite need of replacement. Then she focused on the man who sat behind the battered gray metal desk, and it was if everything in her mind ground to a halt. For a few seconds the universe seemed to whirl around her, and then she said, "It's not possible -- "

He stood, tall and slender still in the plain dark uniform. Cold green eyes watched her for a moment.

"Welcome to Kessel, Shelarne," said Commodore Matteson.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"What seems to be troubling you, gentlemen?" Moff Naren once again faced the two Grand Generals in the conference room aboard the _Inquisitor_; he was surprised and not very pleased to see them again so soon, but of course he knew better than to let them see his irritation.

"Troubling us?" Nivri frowned. "Call it more a matter of clarification."

"That being?"

The commander of the Imperial Army glanced briefly at Linzer, then turned his attention back toward Moff Naren. "You stated that the new Imperial High Command would be a body of equals. What then of Admiral Viraess?"

_Viraess_, Naren thought. _If I never hear that name again, it will still be too soon_. "What of her?"

"Alone among us on the High Command, she does not hold an equal rank. Perhaps Grand Moff Kezler wished to withhold from her the title of Grand Admiral until such a time when he deemed her worthy of it." Nivri made a dismissive gesture that seemed to brush Kezler and his maneuvers aside. "But when she returns and finds Kezler removed, Grand General Linzer and I feel strongly that she should be made a Grand Admiral."

Naren had to stifle a sudden impulse to laugh in the General's face. What in the galaxy could have prompted them to worry over such a trifling matter, when they had a coup to plan? A few seconds passed before he felt trusted himself sufficiently to reply. "That will be taken into consideration."

"More than that," said Linzer, speaking for the first time. "Nivri and I feel we should be resolved on this matter now."

Did they actually presume to dictate to him? One glance at their sober, watchful faces, however, was enough to convince him of their earnestness. Damn that woman; somehow she managed to cause trouble even when she had disappeared beyond the reach of his agents. But he supposed it would do no harm to give them this promise; they'd learn soon enough his promises were like 'Qualish seagrass -- just as transparent and twice as slippery.

"As you say, gentlemen," he replied, after the barest of pauses. "You are correct -- Viraess should most definitely be a Grand Admiral, if -- "

"If?" prompted Nivri.

"If I am to be given the title of Grand Moff at the same time."

They had not been expecting that. Linzer's gray-flecked brows pulled down in a sudden frown even as Nivri's eyes widened slightly. But, to do them credit, they both recovered themselves quickly. If Naren hadn't spent the better part of his life gauging men's reactions he might not have even noticed their surprise and unease.

"And are we to suppose that General Alvar -- " Grand General Nivri named Kezler's second-in-command, the man who had sworn to betray the Grand Moff -- "will be given the same title as well?"

"A body of equals, isn't that what you said?" countered Naren. "As a member of the High Command, and as head of COMPNOR, General Alvar would of course be made a Grand Moff as well."

The two Grand Generals exchanged a brief glance. Naren suddenly wondered how many private conversations the two had had before they screwed up the courage to come face him. Both competent men, of course, in their own ways, but neither of them really possessed the resources necessary to outflank him, and he knew that in the future they would continue to defer to him -- even for all their talk of a governing body of equals. He'd never before realized they had such a strong egalitarian streak; then again, perhaps it was only natural for them to believe that by strengthening the positions of each of the members of the High Command they would also strengthen their own. They could believe whatever they chose -- until he chose it for them.

_There's a reason it's called_ Intelligence_, gentlemen_, he thought, but said nothing.

"Very well, then," Nivri said. "As long as we're all agreed."

"Of course, gentlemen," Naren replied, his tone so pleasant that anyone who knew him well would have been immediately suspicious. Then again, he had always prided himself on making sure that no one knew him at all. "And now that we've reached an accord, is there anything else you would like to discuss?"

"No, Moff Naren," Linzer said immediately. "Everything seems to be going according to schedule."

"Very good." Naren knew that Linzer spoke the truth; Intelligence operatives had been spread through both the ranks of stormtrooper command and the army, and if anything had been amiss Naren would have heard of it soon enough. No whisper of the plot had yet come to COMPNOR's attention, which was just as Naren had intended. Right now one of his greatest concerns was that Viraess might not stay away until the last few phases of his plan had been set in motion. If all went well, she would return to find a vastly changed High Command -- if she returned at all. And good riddance, if that turned out to be the case. But even if she somehow managed to complete her mission and make her way back to her Super Star Destroyer, he doubted she would have the resources to openly confront him and the rest of the High Command.

He continued, "Then the next time we speak together in person, it will be from the deck of the _Overlord_. In service to the Empire!" And he saluted.

Of course they both followed suit, as he had known they would. Things had come to a sorry pass when the leaders of two branches of the Imperial government had actually begun to believe its own propaganda. Still, they made useful tools. And for Naren, the galaxy was divided into two groups: those who could be used and those who couldn't.

As they took their leave, he found himself wondering into which of those two groups Viraess would fall...

* * *

Markus prayed for sleep. Perhaps the sweet oblivion of a few hours of stolen slumber would help him to forget the sudden fear that had flared in Shelarne's eyes and the hideous helplessness he himself had felt as the guards led him away from her. But even that escape was denied him. He sat on the hard bench, the only resting place his cell provided, and stared down at the duffel bag by his feet with burning, open eyes.

At least they hadn't taken the bag. After a cursory glance at its contents, which at first look of course would seem beyond innocuous -- just an ordinary traveler's kit -- the guards had thrown it back at him and allowed him to keep it. Its continued presence was the only comfort his current situation seemed to offer.

It didn't help that ever since they had entered the Kessel system he had felt a steadily increasing sensation of foreboding that seemed to far outweigh the actual events which had so far occurred. Of course they were in a tight place, no denying that, but he'd been in circumstances almost as bad on Alsinde and Albri'ar and had managed to escape relatively unscathed. But now the shape of some formless impending doom seemed to weigh itself ever more heavily on his mind -- and he knew, from past experience, that these feelings of his were rarely wrong.

Perhaps it was a scrap of the foresight the Jedi were rumored to possess. If that were the case, then he wished he had paid more attention to it in the past than merely as a toy to amuse his family or friends -- to announce the winners on Race Day hours before they had even crossed the finish line, or to somehow know without physically seeing them the sabacc hands his friends had held. Occasionally he had seen specific images that came to him in sudden, burning flashes...the birth of a coworker's niece, his mother weeping alone in her now-empty house...even a brief, agonizing glimpse of Shelarne while she was still at the Academy, her face pale but resolute as she walked down a long, chilly corridor. But he could not control these visions, if that's what they really were, any more than he could shake off the unease that had surrounded him ever since the Corona Project went so horribly awry and which now threatened to envelop him in an overwhelming cloud of despair.

Then he heard a woman's voice call out softly to him. For a second he hoped it might be Shelarne, but almost immediately he realized this voice was quite unlike hers -- lower, with a trace of a rough accent he couldn't place. Besides, he couldn't imagine Shel ever saying what this woman had just said.

"Hey -- eye candy."

Frowning, he stood and went to the transparisteel opening in the cell wall and peered out. Directly across from him was another cell, and through that one's opening he could dimly see the dark shape of a woman's face -- a girl almost. She didn't look as if she could be much more than twenty-five standard. Her voice had come to him clearly, so there must have been a hidden voice-pickup unit buried in the 'steel. Made sense, he supposed -- that way the guards could communicate with the prisoners without having to open the doors.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

A flash of white teeth as the girl grinned at him. "Thought I recognized you." She leaned closer to the opening and then looked down the corridor, but as far as Markus could tell the guard had moved off around the corner. It wasn't as if he had to worry too much about his captives freeing themselves somehow. "Markus Klem, right?" the girl continued.

_What the hell?_ he thought, then responded, "Who's asking?"

"Getting cautious in your old age, aren't you?" she retorted, but another wide white grin showed that apparently she hadn't taken any offense. "Don't you know how famous you are, Dr. Klem?"

He stared back at her, wondering what in the galaxy she was talking about.

"Fifty thousand credits, cold, hard, shiny New Republic currency," the girl went on. "All for that sweet head of yours. Don't worry -- they wanted it still attached to your body. 'Bounty subject to forfeiture if target is liquidated' was the exact wording, I think."

Suddenly feeling as if the planet had tilted beneath him, Markus asked, "You mean to say you're a _bounty hunter_?"

"Brilliant deductive reasoning there, Dr. Klem. I bet you went to college and everything."

"Do bounty hunters usually go around announcing their presence to their intended targets?" he shot back, and was rewarded with another toothy grin.

"Not always," she admitted. "Then again, bounty hunters usually don't end up in a jail cell in the same prison that's holding the target, smart-ass. I was thinking maybe we could work out an arrangement that would be mutually agreeable."

"How so?" he asked.

"Well, right now we've got one thing in common. We both don't want to be in here. If we help each other out, maybe I'll think about letting the bounty slide. It's not as if I'm doing myself any good in here." And she scowled at Markus through the transparisteel opening.

"What's the catch?"

Her scowl deepened. "No catch. But if you somehow manage to make it back to friendly space, a little thank-you gratuity might be nice."

"No problem," he said immediately. If by some miracle she actually helped him and Shelarne get out of here, he'd scrounge up the cash somehow, even if he had to beg it from the New Republic in exchange for the data on the Corona Project. "So what's your plan?"

"No plan," she replied, her tone cheery. "I'm kind of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl. I'll wait for the situation to present itself."

_Great_, Markus thought. _I bet it was that kind of thinking that got you in here in the first place._ Then he felt vaguely ashamed of himself. After all, Shelarne hadn't managed to evade their captors either, but he'd certainly never thought of blaming her. There wasn't much of a defense against an Interdictor cruiser.

Her name in his thoughts was a trigger for the heavy weight of worry to drop once more upon him, and his shoulders sagged. Where was she now, anyway? To what purpose had she been taken away from him? Would he ever see her again?

"Everything OK over there?" the bounty hunter asked, and Markus looked up to see her watching him with speculative dark eyes.

"Sure -- " he paused, then asked, "What's your name?"

"Sarka."

"Well, Sarka, it's not just the two of us we need to break out of here. I came here with a friend, but they took her away someplace else inside this facility. I have to find her before I can leave."

"_Her_, huh?" Sarka's expression was sour. "Ain't it always just my luck?"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind." The bounty hunter leaned in a little more closely toward the transparisteel that looked out onto the walkway between the cells. "Tell you what. You figure out a way to get us out of these cells, and I'll happily find your friend for you. OK?"

"No problem," Markus muttered, but he knew it was a actually a very big problem. He was unarmed, and although he considered himself a top-notch theoretical physicist he knew he was woefully lacking in the skill of lock hot-wiring or anything else that might have been of use in his current situation. "I'll get right on that," he added.

His comment elicited a laugh, and Sarka said, "You do that, Doctor," before moving away from the 'steel opening in her cell wall and disappearing somewhere into the dimness beyond.

There being little else he could do, Markus returned to the bench in his own cell and sat down. He lifted the duffel and set it down on the bench next to him, then pulled out his datapad. Why they hadn't taken it, he couldn't hazard a guess, save that it was an older model and not worth especially much. Perhaps they had thought it, like him, to be essentially harmless.

_We'll have to see about that_, he thought, then entered a few calculations, frowned, and began scribbling away with the stylus, trying to ignore the minutes that ticked by and the mystery of Shelarne's absence.

* * *

"You're _dead_," Viraess said, her voice flat. "I saw the reports."

"Sometimes it's useful to be dead," Matteson replied. He took a few steps away from her, moving toward the desk. "Caf?"

She wasn't sure her brain needed any more stimulation, but she said, "Of course."

He handed the cup to her and she took it gratefully, letting the hot, rich-smelling steam wash over her. That, at least, was reassuringly familiar, even if everything else in the universe felt suddenly out of kilter.

More than eight years had passed since she had last seen him, and they had not been particularly kind. The dark hair she remembered was now almost entirely gray, and lines had cut themselves more deeply into the skin around his eyes and mouth. But the half-amused, half-mocking regard was the same, as was the lean build and precise, clipped accent.

"So you weren't on Carida when it was destroyed?" she asked at length, before the silence could become too terrible.

"You mean when that little sithspawn Durron blew it up with the Sun Crusher?" He gave a small, bitter smile, then said, "No, as it happened, I was out of the system, returning from a trip to the shipyards at Ord Trasi. But in the chaos that followed, it was easy enough to conceal my whereabouts."

"But why? With the Empire as short on experienced commanders as it is, why -- this?" Viraess gestured toward the shabby office in which they stood. She still could not understand how Matteson, who had been a respected officer no matter what she might have thought of him, would abandon the Empire and take to a path of lawlessness.

"You don't know, Admiral?" Even as he gave her the title she could hear the scorn in his voice. "How many years have you served in the Navy, Shelarne?"

She wondered why he had bothered to ask -- certainly he knew the answer as well as she. "Twelve standard, if you count my time at the Academy."

"Precisely." He lifted a cup from the desktop and drank slowly, then set it back down. "And do you know how long I have served?"

Wordlessly, she shook her head...but at the same time she thought she began to understand.

"Thirty-five years, Shelarne. Twenty years before I was even granted the rank of Commodore. And after that the Empire seemed content to abandon me to babysitting you cadets at the Academy." The lines of his face seemed suddenly deeper as he gave her a long, cold look. "Yet somehow you managed to make it all the way to the High Command in a third that time. I often wondered how you managed it."

The implication was there, unspoken but obvious. How could she possibly have achieved her current status without resorting to the same means she had used at the Academy to survive and graduate with honors? Never mind that it was Matteson who had forced her into that position in the first place, who had made her trade her body for the top rank her true test scores had already earned her. A wave of hatred washed over her suddenly, and she knew that if she had been armed she could have burned him down then and there.

Oh, he had done his job well enough. Ever since she left the Academy Viraess had held herself wary and aloof, always questioning motives, always wondering at subtexts. She had never allowed herself to become close to anyone, had maintained the most rigid of standards, so that there could never be even the slightest whisper of a scandal. She had never known what it was to be held in tenderness or love...at least not since that one last despairing kiss she had given Markus the day before she left for Carida.

Coldly, she said, "I've achieved my position the way true rank is always earned, Commodore Matteson. Through hard work, and dedication. Through adherence to the ideals of the New Order, and knowing my duties and carrying them out."

He gave her a mocking smile. "Well said. Too bad you were never asked to give the commencement address at Carida. I'm sure it would have been truly inspiring."

Refusing to let him bait her, she merely lifted an eyebrow, took another sip of caf, and waited.

A brief pause, during which he watched her with narrowed eyes, obviously wondering whether she was going to reply. Matching her raised eyebrow with one of his, he went on, "Let us just say that an opportunity to strike out on my own presented itself, and I took it. You should really keep a closer eye on some of those stylus-pushers you have working at the shipyards -- their security is quite lax."

Of course. Who else but an erstwhile top-ranking naval officer would know how to circumvent the safeguards and protocols at Ord Trasi? The thefts had actually been quite resourceful of him, but Viraess wondered how long he thought he could have gotten away with them. Sooner or later the codes used to steal the ships would have been tracked.

"And all that, for what?" she asked. "To play pirate?"

"Spare me your contempt, Shelarne -- I have no use for it." He crossed his arms across his chest and gave her a malicious smile. "All I've done is taken back some of what I earned over the years."

"So what is it you want? Ships? Money? You know I can get all of that for you -- but first you need to release me and my friend."

At that he laughed outright. "The infamous Markus Klem? He's got a hefty price on his head, you know."

No, Viraess didn't, but she wasn't all that surprised. Too often bounty hunters were called in to track down those who didn't want to be found; she should know, as she'd been forced to use their services several times in the past, distasteful as the process had seemed at the time. But it disturbed her that Matteson would have heard of Markus' status. The revelation made her wonder uneasily how much else he knew.

"Whatever the bounty is, the Empire will double it as recompense for your trouble," she said, her voice cool.

"How generous of you. And if I do let the two of you go, what then?"

"You'll get paid promptly."

Again that thin, mocking smile. "And what do you get out of it, Shelarne -- besides rescuing your old lover?"

Viraess wondered how he could have known about that as well, but she suddenly recalled how Markus' communications to her had stopped short, all those years ago, almost as if they had been intercepted. No doubt Commodore Matteson had been making sure she would have no personal entanglements that might prevent her from keeping up her side of the bargain with him.

The hatred flared once more, even though she knew she could not give in to it. Perhaps one day she might be able to enact some form of revenge against Matteson, but that time was not now.

"What I get out of it is no concern of yours," Viraess replied. "Your only concern should be how much you might profit from our presence here. And, as I said, the Empire will reward you handsomely for putting us both on my ship and allowing us to fly out of here."

He was silent for the space of a few heartbeats. Then he said, "And how do I know that I can trust you to keep up your side of the bargain?"

"You of all people should know that I always keep my word."

That comment elicited a smirk. "Yes, I should know that, shouldn't I?" Matteson stepped closer to her, so close that Viraess held her breath, wondering whether he would attempt to touch her -- and what she would do if he did.

But he only stood there, watching her carefully for a moment. One hand made a brief, abortive gesture, as if he had meant to reach out to her but then stopped himself. Viraess saw a flicker of something in his eyes -- could it possibly have been regret? Then the familiar hooded expression closed down over his face, and he turned away.

"You don't mind if I think over your offer for a while?" he asked, and moved away from her, going to the comm on his desk. He toggled the switch and said, "Officer Trenth, come in here."

Viraess knew she could not let him see her relief at his withdrawal. She replied, taking care to keep her tone casual, "Of course not."

A stockily built man in the ubiquitous black uniform entered the room and paused just inside the door, looking at Matteson expectantly.

The Commodore nodded at the newcomer and gestured toward Viraess. "Officer Trenth, if you'll escort our guest to her quarters?"

The man saluted, then indicated the door. "This way."

Viraess knew she had no choice but to follow him out of Matteson's office and back down the corridor to the bank of lifts that comprised its terminus. Once again the lift descended, and she watched the numbers count back down to the twenty-fifth level. By "quarters" Matteson had obviously meant yet another prison cell, and her mouth tightened. It was just another one of his petty games, another one of the ploys he used to assert his dominance over her, and Viraess found she had no more taste for it now than she did back at the Academy.

_One day_, Matteson, she thought. _One day you'll get what's been coming to you all these years_. She could only hope that she might have some small role to play in that retribution, whenever it did come.

The lifted jerked to a stop, and the guard prompted her out into the corridor with some encouragement from the butt of his blaster. Viraess found that completely uncalled-for; she hadn't offered the man any resistance during the entire ride down here. But she made no protest, knowing it would be useless. Better to save her energies for whatever scheme Matteson hatched up next.

The guard marched her down the corridor and stopped outside one of the cells. Viraess noticed damage down here as well; part of the cellblock had been hastily patched up, but it appeared that a good number of the cells were still out of commission, their doors not shutting properly or blown completely away.

"In here," the guard said. "Hope you don't mind sharing." And with that he keyed in the code for the cell and pushed her inside.

His words had roused a faint hope in her that perhaps she might be put in the same cell with Markus, but that hope was soon dashed. As she blinked to adjust her eyes to the dim light in the chamber, she focused on the young woman who stood there, hands on her hips, as she looked on Viraess with an unbelieving stare.

"Well, Admiral," said Sarka Kray, "you certainly have come down in the world."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Leia had said her good-byes earlier; now she stood quiet and dry-eyed on the landing platform as the _Lady Luck_ lifted gracefully into the air and rose into the misty gray sky. The rest of the small strike fleet she had assisted Lando in gathering together already waited for the little pleasure yacht in orbit.

Han and Luke were on board that ship as well, along with Chewie and Artoo. The little astromech droid might come in useful once they had regained control of Lando's facility on Kessel, and Chewie would sooner have his arms ripped off than be separated from Han during such a risky undertaking.

The cold here on the platform seemed to quickly penetrate her robes, and Leia shivered. It felt like rain.

"Why did you let them all go?" Linden Arelle asked, and Leia turned from her solemn contemplation of the skies to regard the younger woman. Linden looked pale and worried; the deep crimson tunic she wore seemed to bleed away what little color her cheeks and hair normally possessed.

"I'm not sure Han or Luke would appreciate your thinking that I 'let' them do anything."

A faint wash of pink tinged Linden's cheekbones. "That's not exactly what I meant. I know they're grown men and all that. But you seem so calm about it."

Lifting her shoulders, Leia replied, "Maybe because I've seen them go into so many dangerous situations over the years that by now I know, one way or another, they'll make it through this one." There was more to it than that, but she wasn't sure exactly how to articulate her thoughts and feelings to this somehow brittle yet fragile child of her own homeworld. Loyalty of course -- Lando was an old friend, and neither Han nor Luke would ever leave a friend in the lurch. Lando had asked for help, and they had given it. To ask them to do any less was to deny who they were.

Although both Han and Luke looked on this as a personal mission of honor, the government viewed the situation somewhat differently. The New Republic did not hold so many systems that the loss of one could be viewed with indifference, least of all when its pilots had been shot down trying to discover what had gone wrong on Kessel. Perhaps there were other areas of greater strategic importance, but this matter was serious enough that the Council had pledged one Nebulon-B frigate and three X-wing to provide whatever backup the _Lady Luck_ and her crew might need. Leia had hoped Rogue Squadron might be available, but Wedge and the rest of his fighters had been deployed to cover guard duty for a touchy diplomatic mission to Grandell, a system in the Expansion Region that the New Republic was courting.

Leia could feel the uncertainty radiating outward from the other woman, but she also got the sudden impression that Linden's doubt had very little to do with the outcome of the mission to Kessel. She wondered what Lando had said to Linden before he left.

"I won't be here when he gets back," Linden commented, her tone sounding almost indifferent.

Somehow Leia knew that any response would be unwanted, so she only waited silently, feeling the increasing chill of the air and wondering how long it would be until rain began to fall on the platform.

"You probably think I'm a terrible person," said Linden, and a frown creased her delicate brows. "Maybe I am. I just went with Lando because I needed a way off Umgul, and he seemed charming and friendly and safe enough."

Inwardly Leia smiled at the thought of Lando being called "safe," but she knew better than to allow any betraying amusement to show on her face.

"Markus," Linden began, then paused. "Markus was different from the rest of them. But I don't think I was enough for him. He'd never forgotten about _her_."

"'Her'?" Leia asked quietly. But she thought she knew the answer.

"Markus never told me her name. I saw her holo-portrait once. She was beautiful. Someone he knew from Lanarsk Prime." Shivering slightly, Linden crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her elbows, but she made no move to leave the windy, exposed platform. "I can't tell you how much I hated her."

"I suppose that's natural enough."

A look of surprise crossed Linden's features. Perhaps she had expected Leia, a senator and Jedi in training, to be more judgmental. "And now he could be dead, and he'll never know just how much he meant to me."

_He could be at that_, Leia thought. The trail had gone irretrievably cold, it seemed. Ghent had unearthed a random piece of data that indicated someone of Markus' description had been seen on the remote world of Albri'ar, but no one there knew what had happened to him, and that was the last bit of information Ghent had managed to find. Leia had begun to wonder whether the scientist truly were dead or captured by Imperial operatives. She wasn't sure which was worse.

She said, choosing her words with care, "Love is never wasted. Even if perhaps he didn't feel for you the same way you felt for him, still you had a connection. You made his life better for a time."

Silently Linden stood for a long moment, as the strengthening wind caught the edges of her pale blonde hair, causing it to flutter around her face. At first Leia thought she might have offended the younger woman, but she could not sense any anger coming from her. If anything, her presence in the Force seemed to radiate a sort of tired resignation.

"Maybe I can make myself believe that," Linden said at last. "But not here. Not with Lando. He's not any more interested in me than I am in him, anyway -- I'm sure he'll be relieved when he returns to find me gone."

Any protestations to the contrary would be of little use, Leia could tell. Linden had made up her mind -- and perhaps it would all be for the best.

"What will you do?" Leia asked.

"Go home to Commenor," the other woman replied immediately. "My father owns an energy company there. He's been trying to get me into the business forever anyway."

Suddenly Leia thought that Linden's unknown father -- the man who had "disgraced" old Councilor Arelle's daughter -- had obviously done a much better job of taking care of his daughter once she was an adult than her mother's family ever had during Linden's childhood. At least it sounded as if he wanted to give his daughter a place to call her own.

Perhaps Lando would be disappointed, perhaps not -- at least one person would have safely found her way out of this mess. Leia had the feeling he probably wouldn't take an overly long time to recover.

"I just wish I knew had happened to him," Linden went on, and Leia knew she was not referring to Lando. She turned to Leia finally, her silvery-gray eyes looking as misty and distant as the cloud-heavy sky above them. "Do you think I ever will?"

Leia knew Linden did not want false reassurances. Instead she paused, feeling the first drops of rain finally touch her face. Did the sky weep for loves lost and never found?

Shaking her head, Leia said slowly, "I don't know, Linden."

In response, Linden only nodded. Then she turned from Leia and moved away without another word, her head held high against the strong breeze and scattered drops of rain. She entered the terminal that was connected to the landing platform, her tunic a bright bloody splash against the dark-clothed forms who moved in its interior, and then was gone.

Leia never saw her again.

* * *

"Keep your voice down," Viraess snapped at Sarka Kray. Time for questions later; right now she had to engage in some quick damage control. Luckily the voice pickup units on the cell windows only functioned adequately if you were close enough; all she could do was hope that Sarka, who stood toward the rear of the cell, was far enough away that her words hadn't been transmitted.

"Still giving orders, huh?" Sarka asked, then her gaze slid past Viraess to the transparisteel opening in the cell wall. "Like you're in any position -- "

"Sarka, please -- "

Perhaps it was the "please" that stopped the bounty hunter mid-sentence. Viraess couldn't know for sure, but it was with considerable relief that she watched Sarka close her mouth and then shoot a sulky, suspicious look in Viraess' direction.

"Let me guess," Viraess said, keeping her back to the window and deliberately pitching her voice low to prevent the hidden pickup unit from catching any of it. "An Interdictor cruiser?"

Sarka nodded. "I was hunting sweet cheeks there -- " and she indicated Markus' cell with an incline of her head -- "then boom, dropped into realspace and this hellhole. They haven't said word one to me since. You got any idea of what's going on?"

"Some, but not much." Certainly there would be no point in revealing to Sarka Matteson's identity or the connection Viraess and he had once had, but Viraess didn't see the harm in giving her some information. "They look like former Navy personnel gone freebooter. I don't think they were after us specifically."

"'Us?'" echoed Sarka. "So you're the missing friend Klem was talking about?" The bounty hunter's dark eyes narrowed, and then she gave Viraess a grin. "And let me guess -- he doesn't know who you really are?"

"Something like that."

"Well," said the other woman, and then she sat herself down on the bench, still grinning. "So I suppose it's worth a lot to you if I keep my mouth shut?"

There was no point in arguing. Viraess wanted to sigh, knew that doing so would probably be construed as a sign of weakness, and instead asked, "How much?"

"I don't know...how much you got?"

At that Viraess merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

"Yeah, OK, I know you're good for it. Quarter-mil?"

Spaceway robbery, and they both knew it, but Viraess also knew that the Imperial treasury certainly could afford to hand over such a paltry sum if it meant Markus were delivered safely to Kezler. At the thought Viraess felt a sudden wave of nausea hit her, and she clenched her jaw. _Just reaction_, she told herself. _Just too much to take, after not enough sleep and hardly anything to eat_.

But she knew better. After dealing with Matteson's cold-eyed malice, after spending days brooding over Kezler's seemingly endless ambitions, she had finally begun to wonder what the hell she was doing here, anyway. Perhaps the Commodore would free them both after taking her bribes -- and maybe he would cast them down into the mines, to die alone in the dark and the cold. Viraess was not afraid of death; she had faced it too many times before this, and she knew that wasn't the cause of her unease. Suddenly, she realized the only thing she really feared was Markus' reaction should he ever discover the game she had been playing all along...

Sarka she could handle. The bounty hunter's sole motivation was cash, and Viraess would make sure the woman was well compensated for her silence. Rotten luck that their paths should have crossed here, of all places; Viraess had only hired Sarka some eighteen standard months back because of her then-superior, Admiral Chast's, direct order. Although it certainly wasn't the first time the Empire had called in outside resources to track down a fugitive, privately Viraess had thought they hadn't given their own investigators enough time to find the fugitives. She had considered Chast to be sorely lacking in good judgment regarding the matter, and apparently she hadn't been the only one to think so. Kezler had secured the Admiral's removal from the High Command only a few months later.

"Quarter-mil," Viraess agreed, after a short pause. "And nothing said to Markus, or the deal's off."

"Hey, your private life is your private life." The bounty hunter gave Viraess another one of those narrow-eyed looks, then added, "Of course, none of it's going to matter if we can't get off this rock."

"I'm working on it." And with that she went to the transparisteel window and called out, "Markus!"

"Shelarne?"

The relief in his voice was almost painful to hear. Viraess found her hands were trembling as she reached up to touch the transparisteel. _What the hell is the matter with me?_ she thought. _I'll never be able to get us out of here if I can't hold it together_. Perhaps her encounter with Matteson had unbalanced her more than she had thought.

"I'm all right," Viraess said quickly, although she knew the statement was far from the truth. "They're just pirates, Markus -- they were trying to figure out how much we were worth."

"So how much _are_ we worth?"

_More than you know_, she thought, but replied, "A decent amount. I think I've got them convinced we're worth more alive than dead, but right now we're sort of in a holding pattern. Are you all right?"

"Fine," he answered immediately. "And they didn't take anything from me, either."

So Markus still had the precious Corona Project data with him. No wonder he sounded in such good spirits. But she had no way of knowing how long that would last -- and she couldn't count on their current good luck (if one could even call it that) to hold for very long. Sooner or later Matteson would make his decision, one way or another, and they would all have to deal with the consequences. If he let them go, then she would only have another difficult decision to make. So far she was fairly certain that neither Kezler nor Naren had any idea of her present whereabouts; otherwise, they almost certainly would have sent in a team to recover her and Markus. But once -- if -- they left Kessel, then Viraess knew she could not keep stalling forever. She would have to make a choice between Markus and the Empire. Up until this moment, she had not even realized she had a choice.

_Could I do it?_ she wondered. _Could I abandon everything I've fought for, everything I've believed in, just to save the life of one man?_

_Not just one man_, she thought suddenly. _Markus_.

And with that sudden realization, she knew her decision had been made.

* * *

Naren gazed out the viewport of the shuttle, watching as the elongated arrowhead shape of the SSD _Overlord_ slowly revealed itself from behind a drifting cloud of violet gas. While spectacular in appearance, the Veil Nebula and its emissions were harmless -- but they did provide the perfect hiding place for Kezler's headquarters.

He had not expected to be here so soon, and the summons that had come in the dark watches of the night on board his own ship were as unwelcome as they were unexpected. _The Grand Moff wishes to speak with you regarding an urgent and sensitive matter_, the message had read. _Report to_ Overlord _immediately_.

Panic had flared in him upon reading those words, but he had controlled it. If Kezler suspected anything, he wouldn't be politely requesting Naren's presence on the Imperial High Command's flagship. He would have had Navy ships well-stocked with Compforce personnel surround the _Inquisitor_ and take Naren by force. No, it most likely had something to do with the Klem investigation; perhaps Viraess had finally reported to Kezler and told him she had detected the tracking device placed on board her ship. If that were the case, the coming interview might be awkward but not necessarily fatal. Naren could always make the case -- disingenuous though it might be -- that he had simply placed the tracking device there to ensure the safety of a member of the High Command.

Kezler wouldn't believe it for a second, of course, but Naren cared little for what Kezler believed. Whether it was plausible enough to stave off reprisals was all that mattered. He and Kezler had done the same complicated dance over and over again; he had no reason to think this time would be any different.

The shuttle glided smoothly into the aft hangar bay. Naren undid his safety restraints and stood; Lieutenant Lantrin, his adjutant, followed suit. The junior officer was trying his best to mimic Naren's bland, impassive stare, but Naren could see the muscles move in the younger man's throat as he swallowed in a quick, convulsive movement.

But Naren had no time for his adjutant's nerves; with a quick, almost careless salute he acknowledged the deck officer who stood waiting for them in the hangar bay.

The junior officer's salute was far more crisp. "The Grand Moff awaits you in his conference room, sir."

Naren didn't know the other officer's name and didn't care to learn. He merely inclined his head and replied, "On my way."

Without bothering to wait for the deck officer's answer, he turned and strode quickly up the ramp that led to a bank of repulsorlifts. Lieutenant Lantrin trailed along after him, the heels of his polished boots sounding loudly against the gleaming metal floor.

The Grand Moff held all Imperial ships to one time standard, and so the hour was late here as well. Naren passed personnel who had had the bad luck to pull the overnight shift, but the corridors were not as populated as they would have been during the ship's daytime rotation. Out here, hidden in the Veil Nebula, far away from the New Republic, the _Overlord_ had little to fear.

Lights blazed in the antechamber that fronted the Grand Moff's suite, and his adjutant, the steely-eyed Major Dirikov, waited there, apparently in anticipation of Naren's arrival. A pair of stormtroopers stood to either side of Dirikov, but Naren barely noticed them; the Grand Moff always kept such a guard at the entrance to his suite.

"Major," said Naren.

The other man saluted. "Sir. If you will -- " and Dirikov gestured to the double doors behind him, which slid open as if by his command.

By now Naren was used to the gloomy splendor that lay beyond those double doors. He had never had the privilege to visit the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, had in fact risen to power working on various Core worlds such as Danuta. But he knew the Imperial Suite on board the _Overlord_ had been designed to mimic the Emperor's own chambers in the palace, and certainly the dark, rich colors and heavy curved lines of the furnishings of the main suite looked oddly out of place on a Super Star Destroyer. The small conference chamber, however, was pure Imperial military in design: black circular table surrounded by black metal chairs upholstered in some smooth dark leather, the room's lighting dim and somehow ominous.

Kezler sat midway down the table, his back to the doorway that connected this conference room to the larger one, rarely used, with which the suite was also equipped. As usual his expression was blandly pleasant, unreadable.

"Moff Naren," he said, and indicated the seat opposite him. "If you would be so kind?"

Naren sat, at the same time gesturing for Lieutenant Lantrin to remain standing behind him. Kezler's adjutant, Major Dirikov, took up a similar position at the Grand Moff's left elbow.

Now as they faced one another across the conference table, Naren began to feel the first prickle of unease work its way along his spine. Kezler seemed almost too relaxed, too calm -- if he had summoned Naren here to question him about the snoop devices on Viraess' ship, the head of Intelligence would have expected to see some signs of irritation, no matter how good the Grand Moff might be at masking his feelings. Naren had seen these telltales before and could detect no trace of them now.

The silence between them stretched until Naren finally asked, "You have heard from Admiral Viraess?" Better to dive into the confrontation head-on and perhaps catch the Grand Moff off-guard.

A flicker of some indefinable emotion came and went in Kezler's eyes before Naren could decipher it. "Regrettably, no. But perhaps you would have more information on that subject than I."

"I?"

Kezler gave him a small, cold smile. "No need for protestations of innocence, Moff Naren. Indeed, I would have almost been disappointed if I had learned you hadn't managed to track the Admiral yourself."

A few seconds of silence passed, during which Naren could hear nothing save the faint creak of Lantrin's boots as he shifted his weight, and the faint rustle of air through the circulators. "Resourceful woman, I must admit," Naren said, allowing just the slightest hint of rueful amusement to creep into this voice. "She managed to disengage my agents' tracking devices yesterday."

"Very resourceful," Kezler agreed. "Considering that she managed to elude one of your field teams on Albri'ar and escape with Dr. Klem in tow."

_Damn Kezler and his ISB sneaks_, Naren thought suddenly. How the hell had he managed to acquire that piece of damning information so quickly? He remained silent, however, taking care to prevent any betraying surprise or anger from crossing his features.

"Perhaps I wasn't clear, Moff Naren," Kezler went on. "But I believe my orders specified that I wanted the Admiral to handle this alone, without interference from any other Imperial personnel -- including your agents."

"Perhaps," admitted Naren. "But my agents only engaged when they saw that the Admiral was assisting Klem in escaping Albri'ar. And even then, why did she not surrender Klem to fellow Imperial personnel? Are you so certain of her loyalties?"

The Grand Moff lifted an eyebrow and smiled again. But there was something in that smile which made Naren suddenly feel as if his insides had turned to stone.

"Far more certain than I am of yours, Naren," Kezler said, and the dropping of the honorific was not lost on the head of Intelligence. "Tell me," the Grand Moff went on, "how long did you think you could plot against me without being discovered?"

"You see plots in everything," Naren countered. Although he could feel the sweat begin to drip down his back underneath the confining uniform jacket, he held himself steady.

"Do I?" With those words, Kezler leaned forward and pushed the comm controls embedded in the conference table surface before him. "Come in, General Alvar."

And with those words Naren knew he was doomed.

The door behind Kezler slid open, and in stepped General Alvar, Kezler's second-in-command -- the man Naren thought had agreed to betray his master.

Alvar could have been Kezler's brother; he was equally tall, fair, and blue-eyed, though his features were not as regular. He stared down at Naren, face almost expressionless, but Naren thought he could see the faintest twitch at the corner of the other man's mouth -- no doubt Alvar was mightily amused by his betrayal of Naren.

"Quite clever of you, Naren," said Kezler. "Were I served by lesser men, perhaps you might even have succeeded. But you forgot that not every man's ambition is to rule. General Alvar cares for nothing save the continuance of the Empire, and I am the Empire."

"His word against mine," Naren sneered, but he knew he was lost. Anything he said now would only forestall the inevitable.

"But his word I trust, and yours I do not." Kezler looked across the conference table to where Lieutenant Lantrin stood at Naren's side. "Lieutenant, do your duty."

Then Naren felt the business end of a blaster press against his ribcage. "You, too, Lantrin?" he asked. At least his voice betrayed only a sort of weary amusement. In truth, he felt numb, as if this sudden turn of events were happening to someone else.

"Sorry, sir, but my duty is to the Empire," Lantrin replied.

At that, Naren wanted to laugh. When had the Empire become populated by such a group of self-righteous prigs? He was almost glad that he would soon be done with the whole business. If Kezler wanted sole rule, then he didn't want to be around to see it.

"Very good, Kezler," he said at length. "The Empire is yours. I assume you've already taken care of Linzer and Nivri?"

"You will soon share their fate."

And what exactly had that been? Naren wondered. A blaster squad at dawn? Or the ignominious expedient of forcible ejection through the nearest airlock? Not that it mattered. Dead was dead, and he didn't foster any silly beliefs of moving on in the Force, or whatever other nonsense the Jedi and their followers might have spouted.

"Well, it was a good run," Naren commented. "Let's hope you have more luck maintaining the Empire than your father did."

Kezler smiled again. "Oh, I will." Then the cool blue gaze slid back over to Lantrin. "Lieutenant?"

Naren didn't never heard the blaster go off. A supernova of pain flared in his side, and then the universe bled into darkness.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The New Republic forces dropped out of hyperspace half a parsec away from the borders of the Kessel system. If they came in too close, whatever planetary defenses the interlopers had might detect their presence. Paradoxical as it might seem, they stood a better chance of moving in slowly and through stealth than by suddenly springing full-blown into the space at the edge of Kessel's gravity well.

Han watched the dirty-orange sun grow slowly larger in the viewscreen, his eyes narrowing. _So much for vowing never to come back here_, he thought, but he'd known from the second Lando had informed him and Luke of his predicament that he would help Lando any way he knew how.

Chewie sat in the co-pilot's chair, and Han could hear Artoo beeping quietly to himself as he communicated with the _Lady Luck_'s nav-computer. Luke sat in the other passenger seat, his face calm, eyes half-closed. Han had no idea whether he was meditating or ranging his Jedi-trained senses toward the planet ahead of them, seeking to probe the mystery that was Kessel.

_Gang's all here_, Han thought. _Now we just have to find out what really is going on down on there_. Long-range sensors sweeps had proved inconclusive; they found some activity in the system, smaller craft coming and going from the planet's surface, that sort of thing, but the intruders had scrambled their communications so efficiently that the NRI agents watching the system had been unable to decipher them. And then, several times, sensors had detected gravitational anomalies that seemed indicative of the distortions caused by the gravity-well generator of an Interdictor cruiser. Those findings had disturbed Leia to the point that she had argued with Han once again about the wisdom of this operation, but she had subsided once Luke pointed out that Commander Martell, who was coordinating the New Republic forces, planned to drop far enough out from the Kessel system that the Interdictor should have no effect.

What an Interdictor was doing out there in the first place, no one had been able to satisfactorily explain. So far the New Republic had accounted for eight of the starships; apparently the Empire was stepping up its shipbuilding capacity, but why had they decided to assign that kind of precious resource to such a backwater? True, Kessel's spice mines could provide the sort of financial backing the cash-strapped Empire needed, but Kessel was a long way from the Imperial-held sectors of the galaxy. It seemed foolish for them to extend their reach out so far to a system they couldn't possibly hope to hold in the long run.

"Getting anything, Luke?" Han asked.

Luke shook his head. "Not really. There's life, of course, but at this range I'm not sensing much more than that."

"But you'd let us know if you were overwhelmed by any feelings of impending doom, right?" Lando inquired, his eyes not leaving the viewscreen ahead of them. He sounded only half-joking.

A quick grin pulled at the corner's of Luke's mouth. "No -- not yet, anyway."

"That's not entirely reassuring."

Han smiled himself at Lando's plaintive tone, and Chewie let out the low whuffling noise that was the Wookie equivalent of a chuckle.

Trust Luke not to give an entirely straight answer. Sometimes Han thought his brother-in-law had the whole inscrutable Jedi Master act down a little too pat, but if nothing else it certainly enhanced his mystique.

They moved on in silence for a while longer. Then Luke stiffened, and his blue gaze sharpened and narrowed as he seemed to be looking far past the images the forward viewscreens revealed.

"They've spotted us," he said.

Well, Han had known it was only a matter of time before the planetary sensors picked them up. The place was a former Imperial prison colony, after all -- they had to have fairly decent equipment down there.

A few seconds later Commander Martell's voice sounded over the comm. "We've got incoming hostiles. Bearing 3.75. _Lady Luck_, adjust course to bearing 5.25."

Which would have them banking away as the New Republic forces moved ahead to engage the enemy forces. It made sense, of course; the _Lady Luck_ was a pleasure yacht that might have a few special modifications, both offensive and defensive -- but it had never been designed to go into direct combat with Imperial-built military ships.

Lando seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he sighed and did as he was told, angling the ship so that it moved smoothly back the way they had come, even as a squadron of X-wings passed by overhead, accelerating to engage. Out of the blackness came a dozen pinpoints of light, with two longer, sleek shapes moving behind them.

"Alpha squad, looks like we have twelve blastboats and a couple of strike cruisers," came Commander Martell's voice, sounding as if he were reading off a grocery list.

"Acknowledged, Alpha leader. Moving to engage."

The X-wings continued to accelerate, even as the tiny dots of their quarry suddenly expanded into the distinctive flared-edge shapes of Skipray blastboats. The blastboats had firepower equal to or even greater that of the X-wings, but they lacked maneuverability -- and neither Han nor the rest of the New Republic pilots had any way of knowing whether they were piloted by trained Imperial crew, pirates, or the Force knew who else. The strike cruisers also presented a threat, but the Nebulon-B frigate and additional two squads of X-wings that just hove into view overhead and continued along the path of the first squadron to its target would make short work of the cruisers unless something went catastrophically wrong.

_Which is what usually happens_, Han thought, but he remained silent as the _Lady Luck_'s crew watched the New Republic forces to do their work.

The first wave of fighters engaged the blastboats, quad lasers firing. The blastboats returned fire, spiraling out of the way in a manner that suggested they were definitely not crewed by pirates.

_Better and better_, Han reflected sourly, then gave a quick sideways glance at Luke to see his brother-in-law's reaction. The Jedi looked calm as ever, gazing out at the firefight with the sort of detachment usually reserved for watching a holovid one has seen ten times before.

An explosion caught the edge of Han's vision, and he turned back to look out the forward viewscreen once again. Luckily the exploding ship had been one of the blastboats, and even as he watched another enemy ship took a direct hit from one of the wheeling, diving X-wings. The remaining blastboats broke away and began curving back toward the strike cruisers, but the faster, more agile New Republic starfighters gave them no rest, harrying them, quad lasers firing in rapid succession. One blastboat took a direct hit, then another.

But then they were in range of the strike cruiser, which quickly seized the opportunity to fire one of its formidable forward laser cannons into the center of the X-wings. The edge of the blast caught one at the edge of its S-foil, and it began to spiral out of control, whirling into one of its compatriots. The two ships combined to make a spectacular dual nova of exploding matter.

"Target forward batteries on the strike cruiser," came Commander Martell's voice. He sounded as calm as ever, despite the fact that he had just lost two of his fighters. "Tighten formation."

The barrage of fire seemed to intensify, if that were possible. The enemy blastboats fought with a dogged determination that would have almost been admirable if it hadn't been so alarming -- they were grossly outnumbered, so why did they continue to hammer away at the X-wings as if they expected to somehow emerge the victors?

Two more blastboats were themselves blasted into nothingness -- and one of the strike cruisers suffered the same fate -- before Han saw exactly why the enemy forces had seemed so confident. Gliding effortlessly into view around the periphery of the viewscreen, and bearing down upon the dogfight even as Commander Martell coolly ordered the X-wings to regroup and return to the relative safety of the Nebulon-B frigate, was an Interdictor cruiser.

Chewie let out a roar.

"I know," Han snapped. "We'd just better hope that's an Immobiliser, and not a Destroyer-class."

"Doesn't look big enough to be a Destroyer," said Lando. "But even an Immobilizer can do plenty of damage -- they still outgun the frigate."

Han muttered a choice few words he'd learned in the back alleys of Ord Mantell -- couldn't they catch a break just once?

But obviously Commander Martell was taking even this latest setback in stride. Before the Interdictor could begin to fire, the frigate opened up its forward laser cannons. The blasts took out the remaining strike cruiser, leaving only eight blastboats -- and the Interdictor, which began to fire as well. Han seemed to feel each turbolaser blast hitting the frigate's shields as if he were on board the ship himself instead of in the relative safety of the _Lady Luck_. But the New Republic ship bravely pounded back, managing to knock out one bank of the Interdictor's turbolasers.

"Not enough crew," Luke murmured, and Han turned to look at his brother-in-law.

"What?"

"They're running a skeleton crew on that thing. Can't tell exactly -- but no more than two hundred at the most."

Two hundred, on a ship that was designed to carry more than ten times that number. It could be done -- the Empire was notorious for overstaffing its ships, since they had always considered manpower to be cheap, so a full complement was usually overkill -- but it still wasn't easy to run a capital ship with a tenth of the usual crew. With that few people on board, they would be hard-pressed to even man the guns, staff the bridge, and maintain the life-support systems.

"It shows, too," Lando said, with grim satisfaction. "Look."

Two squadrons of X-wings peeled away from the shadow of the Nebulon-B frigate, diving in to take out as many of the gun batteries on the Interdictor as they could. One bank of turbolasers went dark, and then another.

The blastboats harried the attacking X-wings as best they could, but they were both outnumbered and outmaneuvered, and one by one they fell, until the Interdictor remained in solitary glory. Its few surviving laser canons and turbolasers fired with all the ferocity of the ancient _Monda Kai_ warriors, who swore never to surrender and who would intentionally fly their ships into enemy targets rather than be taken alive.

"Enemy vessel, this is New Republic Frigate _Dauntless_." Commander Martell sounded as crisp and cool as if they'd just been flying training maneuvers above Coruscant. "Stand down -- you are outnumbered and outgunned. Cease fire, and prepare to be boarded."

In response, the Interdictor fired once more, this time clipping an X-wing that hadn't managed to angle out of the way in time. The ship did not explode, but it spun out of control -- harmlessly this time, as its compatriots wheeled away to avoid a collision. In response, the frigate fired two laser cannon bursts, both of which connected and knocked out even more turbolasers. Now it appeared that the enemy was down to just one functional bank.

"I repeat, stand down, enemy ship." A long pause, and then Commander Martell added, "Or we will be forced to destroy you."

A long silence ensued. The Interdictor floated motionless in space, its lasers dark. Han raised an eyebrow at Luke, who frowned slightly, then cocked his head to one side.

"Lando," he said, "let me talk to Commander Martell."

Looking mystified, Lando handed the comm unit to Luke.

"Commander Martell, this is Jedi Master Skywalker."

"Master Skywalker. I'm honored."

Luke appeared to brush off the comment. "Commander, I'm beginning to sense a strange energy signature coming from the Interdictor. I suggest we all move to a safe distance."

Martell didn't miss a beat. "Auto-destruct?"

"Very likely."

"Thank you, Master Skywalker. All ships, move to minimum safe distance from the Interdictor."

Commander Martell hadn't even finished speaking before Lando began feverishly working the controls on the _Lady Luck._ X-wings sailed past them, moving quickly; the little pleasure yacht's sublight engines weren't quite as fast, but Han sincerely hoped they were fast enough.

Spitefully, the Interdictor managed a few more potshots at the departing New Republic fighters, even though they were already out of range. Then the ship fell quiet once again.

"It's growing stronger," Luke said quietly. "Now."

And the space behind them flared into sudden brilliance, white light filling the _Lady Luck_'s cabin even though the doomed Interdictor lay directly astern. The yacht rocked slightly as the shockwave passed them, but otherwise the explosion had no direct effect on them.

"Crazy," said Lando, shaking his head.

"Not really," said Luke. "At least, not as they saw it. Better to die than let such a valuable ship fall into enemy hands."

"Like I said, crazy."

At that Luke lifted his shoulders. He gave Han a small, rueful smile, but said nothing else.

"You all right, _Lady Luck_?" came Commander Martell's voice over the comm.

"We're fine," Lando replied.

"Good. Our scans don't detect any more opposition -- we'll move on to Kessel now."

"Very good, Commander." Lando turned the yacht so that it fell in behind the Nebulon-B frigate, which appeared to be directly pointed at Kessel. The remaining X-wings took up standard escort positions, surrounding the two larger vessels as they all streamed toward the sun on a direct trajectory to the desolate planet.

"So what other surprises do you think they have in store for us?" Han asked, watching as Luke stared into the forward viewscreen.

"I don't know," the Jedi replied. His eyes seemed unfocused, caught in some far-off vision. "But somehow I have a bad feeling about this."

_Damn it, I knew that's what you were going to say_, Han thought, but he did not bother to reply. In moody silence he watched the steadily approaching planetoid, and wondered whether what they had just gone through had actually been the easy part.

* * *

Grand Moff Kezler watched as Lieutenant -- _Captain_ -- Lantrin, since of course the man had been promoted upon his carrying out of Naren's execution, exited the ready room. The younger man had practically overflowed with gratitude once he'd discovered that he was to become the Grand Moff's adjutant, now that Major Dirikov had been promoted to General and taken over as second-in-command for Kezler. General Alvar, who had previously held that position, had earned the just reward for his loyalty by being granted Naren's former rank of head of Intelligence -- although Kezler had withheld the title of Moff. _No more Moffs until an Emperor leads them once more_, he had thought, and of course Alvar had not protested.

Similar advancements had occurred in both the Army and Stormtrooper Command as well. Now Kezler held four branches of the Imperial military in his hands, and he had to admit that, overall, he was pleased with the situation.

_If only you knew how you played into my hands, Naren_, he thought, and smiled slightly. _You, and your pathetic allies_. What match were they for a Palpatine, after all?

The smile faded, however, as he glanced down at the datacards Lantrin had brought him. Once Naren was out of the way, Kezler had of course wanted to see every piece of intelligence the man had gathered regarding Admiral Viraess. As much as Kezler had detested the former head of Intelligence, he had to admit that Naren's people were very good -- oftentimes better than Kezler's own ISB agents. And what he had seen troubled him, despite the taunting words he had given Naren during their last meeting.

The 'speeder the agents had used on Albri'ar was equipped with a dashboard cam, and the picture, though jumpy at times, clearly showed how Viraess had shot at fellow Imperial officers and used every skill at her considerable command to elude the Intelligence agents and flee the scene with Markus Klem. Kezler scowled as he recalled seeing the scientist in action, the way he had looked on Viraess as he hauled her up into the 'speeder before they took off in their stolen vehicle. Perhaps Viraess felt nothing for _him_, as she had claimed -- but Kezler knew that Markus must still have feelings for her. The truth was written on his face for anyone with the wit to see it.

Kezler's claim that Viraess had acted as she did merely to ensure that Markus Klem was turned over to the Grand Moff and no one else now seemed oddly hollow. It could still be the truth. But if that were truly the case, why did Viraess continue to maintain her silence? Why hadn't she found some way to contact him?

There had to be some rational explanation. The problem was that most rational explanations involved Viraess and her captive either dead or incapacitated -- neither of which would suit Kezler's plans at all.

If nothing else, she was the last piece of the puzzle that needed to fall into place. He controlled the Army, Intelligence, COMPNOR, and the stormtrooper legions. But the jewel in the Empire's crown had always been the Navy, and Kezler knew that its unwavering loyalty depended on Viraess handing it over to him without incident. Only then would he have uncontested sovereignty. Only then would the Empire be completely his.

Would she give up so much, just for one man? Kezler considered the frozen still image of Markus Klem and frowned. Some indefinable emotion flared in him, and it took him a few seconds to recognize what it might be. Could this feeling be jealousy? Did he actually resent Klem, not just as the person who held the key to the Corona Project, but also as the man who possibly held the key to Viraess' heart?

A lesser man might have dismissed such a thought as ridiculous, but Kezler had learned to coolly examine his emotions, implausible as they might seem. They were not necessarily right or wrong, and he was not a droid, after all, nor some shriveled Sith lord. Even his father had once looked on a woman with desire...

He had told himself before that if Viraess failed him, then he would find a replacement for her. Now he realized how distasteful that possibility seemed. He had chosen her, and he wanted no one else. Now only time would tell whether the choice he had made was a foolish one. For if she had -- for some inexplicable reason -- chosen Markus over the Empire, had somehow decided that her rank and position were not as valuable as some foolish childhood love she had once felt, then she must be eliminated. Betrayal at that level had only one possible consequence.

The comm sounded, and Kezler pushed the button for the incoming message, inexplicably relieved to be distracted by something other than his dark thoughts.

Captain Lantrin's face filled the screen. "Your Excellency, we have just received a rather -- disturbing report from Navy High Command."

"What is it, Lantrin?"

"Sir, a communiqué was forwarded from one Admiral Corvallis at the Ord Trasi shipyards to NHC. It involves our missing Interdictor."

"Our _what_?"

Lantrin cleared his throat. "Your pardon, Excellency -- I had to do some backtracking myself to discover exactly what was going on. Admiral Corvallis actually came here to speak with you in person, but apparently General Dirikov felt that you didn't need to be troubled with the matter and handled it himself."

_Oh, he did, did he?_ Kezler thought. Perhaps it was time to have a discussion with the newly made General and inform him that it wasn't wise to make assumptions where the Grand Moff was concerned. After all, a promotion given could be just as easily taken away...or worse.

At first, when he heard this new communication had come from the Navy, Kezler thought that perhaps it had something to do with Viraess. Now he frowned slightly, casting back in his mind for what he recalled of a situation regarding some missing ships. Of course Viraess had reported the trouble to him as soon as she had learned of it, but he had pushed it to the back of his mind; Viraess had seemed to be handling the situation, and he had had more pressing matters to deal with then. And at the time the only ships that were missing -- or stolen -- consisted of a dozen or so blastboats and two strike cruisers, and he had not been unduly concerned.

"What did Admiral Viraess have to say about the missing Interdictor?" he asked at length.

"Sir, I don't believe she knew anything about it. The ship was reported missing after she -- " Lantrin hesitated, as if searching for the correct word. Of course the adjutant knew very little about Viraess' current extended absence. "After she left, sir," he finished lamely.

"And Admiral Corvallis?" Kezler prompted.

"Yes, sir. He came to see you, spoke instead with Maj -- uh, General Dirikov, and then returned to Ord Trasi. And then he contacted NHC once more approximately one standard hour ago."

"And the message this time? Has the Interdictor been found?"

"Um, no, sir." The younger man looked uneasily down at something out of Kezler's field of vision -- a report, perhaps. "Long-range scans just picked up what appeared to be the transmission of an auto-destruct sequence. NHC is fairly certain the ship has been destroyed."

If this were true, then it would be a significant blow. The Empire did not possess so many capital ships that it could afford to lose one, much less a precious Interdictor. The fact that this ship was newly commissioned and had not yet even seen active duty was even more upsetting.

But Kezler knew better than to let any of his dismay show. Yes, it was a problem, but they still had eight other Interdictors, and ten times that number in both Victory- and Imperial-class Star Destroyers, so they could recover from this, given time.

"Does NHC have a trace on the source of the transmission?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Lantrin replied promptly. "It came from the Kessel system."

_Kessel?_ Kezler thought. _Why there?_ As far as he knew, the system was still nominally held by those sympathetic to the Rebels -- at least, he hadn't received any intelligence reports to contradict that fact. Anyhow, if Rebel operatives had managed to take the ship, they wouldn't have destroyed it but pressed it into service. And they would have taken it directly to Coruscant or one of the other Rebel strongholds.

No matter. Whoever had stolen it had taken it to Kessel for some reason, and if there were even the slightest chance of finding the culprits and bringing them to Imperial justice, then he needed to act quickly.

"Inform NHC that they are to send out a search party to Kessel immediately. I want at least three capital ships -- we don't know what they might find out there."

"Right away, sir!" Lantrin saluted, and Kezler gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment before turning off the comm.

His frown deepened as he regarded the silent comm before him. Kezler knew he had no Force ability -- hadn't his father thrown that lack in his face and dismissed him as worse than useless? -- but over the years he had wondered occasionally whether he had inherited some sort of strange intuition from the former Emperor. Too many times hunches he had acted upon proved to be correct -- and too often he had read men's thoughts and intentions as if they had been clearly imprinted on their faces. Perhaps he simply had a more strongly developed talent for observation than most. Or perhaps he had just been lucky.

Whatever the case, he had a strong feeling that somehow Kessel was more important than merely as the final resting place of their lost Interdictor. He couldn't shake the impression that, when the search party did arrive in the Kessel system, it would find much more than the wreckage of one ship...


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Kessel seemed to fill the entire viewscreen, a wasteland of ruddy ochre mixed with odd trailing patches of gray, its atmosphere appearing thinner than ever. Lando looked down it, frowning; obviously the atmospheric generators were not functioning as they should. He'd set a crew specifically on that problem when he last left Kessel, and the fact that they apparently had not made any progress since then seemed somehow ominous.

"Plotting our descent now," came Commander Martell's voice over the com. "Scans show no sign of a defense."

Lando entered the new coordinates and shifted the _Lady Luck_'s trajectory so that the ship would follow a shallow flight path that ended in the landing pads outside the erstwhile prison facility. The Nebulon-B, not designed for atmospheric flight, would remain in orbit over the planet and then send down two troop transports with their complements of NRI commandos.

He looked away from the viewport briefly to watch Luke. The Jedi stared at the approaching planet with an odd, blurry look in his eyes that Lando somehow found unsettling, as if part of the other man's consciousness were far away from his body.

"Anyone down there?" Lando asked.

"Yes," Luke replied slowly. "I can't sense exactly how many, but I can feel the presence of sentient minds. And there's something else..." He trailed off, eyes half-closing as he apparently sharpened his concentration. "Another presence in the Force, different from the others. Stronger...brighter." Luke's eyes shut all the way, and Lando raised a quizzical eyebrow at Han, who lifted his shoulders as if to say, _How the hell am I supposed to know what he's doing?_

An uneasy silence filled the cabin. Lando transferred his attention once more to the forward viewscreen. At least the skies above Kessel still looked clear.

"It's Klem." Luke spoke quietly, but the words seemed to reverberate in the small space.

"Markus Klem?" Han demanded. "Here?"

Eyes still shut, the Jedi Master nodded. "Yes. I'm sure of it. His presence in the Force is very strong."

"Is he all right?" Lando asked. _What the hell would Markus Klem be doing here, of all places?_ he wondered. Of course he'd known how important it was to the New Republic that the scientist be located, but on more than one occasion he'd found himself hoping that the other man had disappeared forever. Lando knew women too well not to realize exactly how Linden Arelle felt about Markus, and although Lando wasn't really sure where he wanted his relationship with the girl to go, he did know that locating Klem and bringing him back to Coruscant would effectively dash any chances he might have had.

"He's alive," Luke said. "Other than that, I can't say much. I don't get any negative sensations from him, so he's probably all right, but..."

"But now we really need to get down there," Han finished.

Luke nodded. "Exactly." Then his head lifted, and he gave a sudden sharp glance out the forward viewscreen. "They're launching fighters."

Barely a second later, Commander Martell spoke over the comm. "_Lady Luck_, we have detected a wave of Z-95 Headhunters taking off from the surface."

Han made a disgusted sound. "We must have already taken out the best of them if that's all they've got to send at us."

Never lifting his eyes from the viewscreen, Lando replied, "Yeah, but if they've got enough of those things, it could still get dicey."

"Not that many," Luke said. "I'm sensing only about a dozen."

And that was what appeared in the upper levels of Kessel's thin atmosphere as they continued their descent, flanked by Alpha Squadron's X-wings. Only ten Z-95s came into view, with several ragged-looking freighters trailing behind them. It was obvious that they had sent their best ships out to face the intruders, leaving only these outmoded fighters to defend the planet. Lando supposed that if the planetary shields were functional the New Republic forces would have had a more difficult time of it, but Admiral Daala's attacks on Kessel had destroyed the shields as effectively as she'd obliterated half of Kessel's moon. Parts had been on order to repair the shields, but Lando had given priority to the atmospheric generators so that the miners could work more effectively. He silently thanked whatever powers might be for making _that_ particular command decision.

The X-wings accelerated to meet the Headhunters. What followed was quick and nasty -- outgunned and outmaneuvered, the smaller starfighters and the freighters that backed them up were soon reduced to expanding blobs of plasma and debris. None of the planet's defenders survived that particular sortie.

But that wasn't the last trick the interlopers had up their sleeve. No sooner had the last Z-95 begun to rain its component parts over Kessel's sandy wastes than a gout of green fire exploded from the planet's surface, aiming directly toward the _Lady Luck_ and the Nebulon-B frigate that sailed majestically in the smaller ship's wake.

"Bloody -- " Lando burst out, whipping the little yacht violently to port to avoid the blast. Luckily he'd gone in with shields up, and although the ship shuddered a bit as it caught the trailing edge of the cannon fire along one edge, it seemed to handle the blow just fine.

Immediately, Commander Martell spoke over the comm. "You all right, _Lady Luck_?"

"A little singed on one edge, but other than that we're fine."

"Looks like the ion cannon emplacements at the prison facility are still functional," Martell went on. "Alpha Squadron, target those cannons."

The X-wings wheeled away, moving deeper into the atmosphere, which seemed to thicken the closer they got to the prison facility. It made sense, Lando thought; a group of atmospheric generators was clustered around the large installation. He watched with some concern as the X-wings began return fire.

"Let's hope they don't blow the whole place up," he said gloomily. "That's my facility, and it's no good if they reduce it to a pile of rubble. And I might still have some of my mining staff in there someplace."

"Looks like they're being careful." Han leaned in closer to the viewscreen, and Chewie whined softly.

Lando knew the Wookiee was concerned for a reason -- although most of the Wookiee prisoners they'd liberated the last time they were on Kessel had returned to their homes on Kashyyk, there had still been a few who had decided to try their luck in the mines now that they had a chance to make some good money at the work. Add to that a large group of Sullustans, and a random assortment of humans, Rodians, and Bith who wanted to see if they could make their fortune in the spice mines, and he had roughly a hundred beings down on the planet who were all there because he, Lando, had promised them that things would be different once he was in charge. He just hoped he wasn't too late to save them.

True, the X-wings were dancing through the airspace over the installation like a bunch of Nubian glowbugs on happy dust, concentrating their fire on the two ion cannons that flanked the front entrance to the prison facility. But even the best fighter pilots missed occasionally, and Lando winced as a few shots went wild and struck the administrative offices that were directly located behind the cannon emplacements. He had a sudden vindictive hope that a whole lot of whoever had invaded the complex had perished in the explosion that followed.

One of the ion cannons went dark as it was reduced to a pile of smoldering slag. The other continued to fire gamely, but it was no match for the X-wings that circled above it. After a few more seconds, it too had been obliterated, and the X-wings wheeled away to regroup around the _Lady Luck_ as Lando continued to the landing pad behind the prison.

Sullen and dark, the huge building sat there like some ugly toad on the mottled landscape. Lando shook his head at himself, wondering if he thought of it so simply because of its previous administrator, Moruth Doole, an unattractive specimen of the amphibian Rybet race. Still, the place had been designed to present an aspect of foreboding, its duracrete walls a particularly unattractive shade of dark gray that clashed with the mottled orange-ochre landscape, its window openings mere slits. Smoke of almost the same granite shade now drifted from the bottom four or five levels of the offices located toward the front of the building.

"Looks clear," Han commented, watching from behind Lando's shoulder as he brought the yacht around to land on the pad to the rear of the prison facility. The landing pad abutted a large hangar, now empty except for a few small ships that looked like someone's personal transport. One in particular caught Lando's eye, a sleek dart-shaped bit of hematite-colored durasteel that looked as if it were moving even while sitting still.

"Clear so far," Lando replied, firing the repulsor landing jets until the yacht settled delicately on the planet's surface. "Somehow these guys keep coming up with new and exciting ways to shoot at us."

Chewie gave one of his barking laughs, and even Artoo let out an amused little beep.

"Yeah, very funny," said Lando. "It's easy to laugh when it's not your ship that's getting scorch marks all over it. And after I just got that new paint job -- "

"How's the atmosphere?" Luke interposed. "Do we need breathing masks?"

Momentarily distracted from the damage to his ship, Lando gave a quick glance at the instrument panel. "It's thin, but we should be fine as long as no one tries to run a marathon. Luckily we're close to two of the generators here."

Outside the viewport Lando could see one of the troop transports drop onto the landing pad. Almost immediately the rear hatch opened, and a group of NRI commandos moved quickly down the landing ramp. They fanned out in either direction, no doubt looking to secure the area before moving on to the main prison building.

"Got a bead on Klem?" Han asked of Luke, even as glanced down to double-check the charge on his blaster.

The Jedi Master tilted his head, looking as if he were listening to some far-off music only he could hear. "He's close. Somewhere in that building."

"That's a big building," Lando commented, after pulling out his own blaster and taking a read on the charge. Locked and loaded. He had no idea what kind of resistance they would to meet once they were inside the building, and it never hurt to be safe.

"Lower down," said Luke, in that same dreamy tone. "Probably in the actual prison levels."

"Got it." Han looked over at Lando. "We came here to help out, buddy, but with Klem suddenly in the picture -- "

Lando had known this was coming. Hell, he couldn't even blame his old friend -- securing the Kessel facility was important, but of course the recovery of Markus Klem had to take top priority. "I think I can manage it with just one squad of commandos," he replied, flashing a grin that he hoped didn't look completely false.

"Knew you'd understand, Lando."

Luke shot Lando a quick glance, his eyes seemingly as penetrating as the lightsaber he carried. Luckily, all he said was, "Why don't you take the upper levels, and we'll go ahead with our team to the prison sections underground?"

Nodding, Lando said, "Sounds like a plan. Which comm channel?"

Han and Luke exchanged a quick glance, and then Han grinned and asked, "Twenty-three?"

Somewhat mystified, Lando said, "Sure." He adjusted the setting on his comm, shaking his head. Must have been a private joke.

But there wasn't time to worry about that. Lando waved as Han, Luke, and Chewie exited the yacht and were quickly surrounded by one group of commandos. They all moved off toward a side entrance that still was flanked by a pair of imposing guard towers, but all looked dead and deserted. Whether or not the entire facility would turn out to be as empty was questionable.

Lando would have liked Chewie to come with him but had known better than to ask. Artoo did trundle along after him, even as Lando's own group of NRI troops fell into place, forming a protective perimeter around him and the little droid. Artoo wouldn't be much use in the lower prison levels, but he would be a great help in dealing with locked-out computer systems in the administrative sections of the facility.

As he looked around him and tasted the thin, acrid air of Kessel once more, Lando shook his head. _Splitting up is almost always a bad idea_, he thought. Still, there was no help for it now. And the facility was so huge that at least they could cover more ground this way.

They had arrived at the front entrance. The already harsh air of Kessel was overlaid with the sharp scent of smoke; it still drifted out from the main doors, which stood wide, revealing only darkness within. The entrance looked, Lando thought uneasily, like some huge mouth just waiting to swallow them up. He shook his head at himself. This was no time to be entertaining wild fancies like that.

"Let's do it," he said, hoping he sounded grim enough to the hard-faced men who surrounded him. Most of them looked as if they hadn't laughed in years.

Then they moved into the building's waiting darkness.

_

* * *

_

_The only thing that irritates me more than beautiful women who _know_ they're beautiful are beautiful women who _don't, Sarka thought, giving Viraess a sour glance from beneath one lowered eyelid. No doubt the Admiral thought the bounty hunter was dozing, but actually Sarka was just doing her best to occupy as much of the bench as possible, forcing the other woman to an uncomfortable perch at the very end of the hard seat. Viraess didn't complain; she looked as if she were a million miles away.

It irritated Sarka that anyone should look that good after being shoved in a bleeding prison, for crying out loud. Hair messily pulled back into a plain metal clip, dark sooty stain all along one sleeve of her expensive shirt, not a trace of makeup, and Viraess still looked like she should be kept under glass. It just wasn't fair.

And Sarka didn't know exactly what was going on here, but she smelled something funny. She could tell Viraess was hiding something -- exactly what, Sarka wasn't sure, but somehow she got the impression that the Admiral knew a bit more about their captors than she was letting on. _And here I thought we were being all friendly and everything_, Sarka thought, with a mental scowl. Still, she knew better than to try and get any more information out of Viraess. That woman was used to telling other people what to do, not taking questions from underlings, and all Sarka would probably get for her efforts would be a quelling look and a polite request in that oh-so-snooty Core accent to keep her inquiries to herself.

She tried to comfort herself with the thought that at least she did have that little bit of blackmail material on Viraess, although Sarka knew that she'd promised not to blab in exchange for that fat chunk of currency. And she wouldn't -- nothing could keep her in line better than the thought of losing money. But perversely it felt good to know that Madame Perfect had been worried enough about Markus Klem knowing the truth that she'd been willing to throw around far larger amounts of cash than were strictly necessary. Not that Sarka would have ever admitted she'd have kept her mouth shut for half the price.

With each passing minute, though, it seemed as if making a quick getaway from this dump and collecting her hush money became a more and more distant possibility. Sarka wasn't really sure what she and Viraess would even discuss if they attempted to have a civilized conversation, but it was obvious the Admiral did not want to talk about anything. She continued to stare at the door to their cell, a slight frown pulling at her slender brows. From her expression Sarka could only guess that Viraess' thoughts were not pleasant ones.

_Can't say as I blame her_, Sarka thought, and a scowl of her own creased her forehead. The cell was chilly, and her leather jacket provided little protection from the cold. She'd been in tight spots before, but there was something about this place that made her feel dull and hopeless, as if the very walls of the prison had somehow inhaled the despair of the prisoners who had been held there before her and were now expelling it like some foul, overwhelming vapor.

Sure, Viraess had told Markus with some confidence that their captors knew they were worth more alive than dead, but she could have just been blowing the proverbial starshine up Klem's ass. Imperials were born liars, or, at the very least, if they hadn't been born speaking with forked tongues they obviously got thorough training in deceit at whatever lock-step academy they attended. The Admiral seemed more of a straight shooter than most, but maybe that was just because she had more skill in covering up her lies. Besides, if everything were as rosy as she'd tried to convince Markus it was, Sarka kind of doubted that Viraess would be looking quite so troubled now.

The bounty hunter shifted on the bench, the tip of her boot "accidentally" nudging Viraess in the hip, but the other woman seemed not to notice. Either she really hadn't felt it or had simply decided that Sarka wasn't worth the attention.

The cell shook suddenly, and Viraess immediately lifted her head, looking like a dire hound that had suddenly caught the scent of a nice juicy nerf.

"What the hell was that?" Sarka exclaimed.

"Explosion," Viraess replied tersely. Her eyes were focused upward, as if somehow she thought she could see through the layers of duracrete that lay between them and the surface of the planet to spy what was happening hundreds of feet above.

_Great_, Sarka thought. _And here I figured things couldn't get any worse..._

The cell shook again, more violently this time, and Sarka could hear exclamations coming from farther down the corridor, where presumably some other captives she had not yet seen were being held. A few bits of loosened duracrete fell from the ceiling of the cell she and Viraess shared.

"Shelarne?" That was Klem, calling out to the Admiral. "Are you all right?"

Viraess paused for a second. Sarka saw the woman's eyes narrow slightly as apparently something just occurred to her. The Admiral directed her next words to Sarka, and not to Markus -- and Sarka noticed that Viraess kept her voice pitched low so that the comm pickup couldn't catch any of it.

"Are you armed?" she asked.

Sarka eyed the Admiral with some suspicion. "They searched me before they put me in this cell."

"That's not what I asked."

With a sigh Sarka reached up and pulled out the vibro-shiv she'd hidden in her left sleeve some hours earlier. "Does that work for you?"

Viraess nodded, and a ghost of a grim smile pulled at her mouth. "Get ready."

_For what?_ Sarka thought, but she had her suspicions.

Another explosion shook the building, and more bits of duracrete rained down on Sarka's head. She brushed them off, barely stifling a curse, but obviously the explosion was the cue Viraess had been waiting for.

The Admiral rushed to the window opening of the cell and called out, sounding panicky, nervous, and completely unlike herself, "Help! Please, someone, help!"

Even as she did so, Sarka guessed the other woman's plan and maneuvered herself into the corner on the left side of the door, then waited.

"What's all the noise?" The guard lumbered into view in front of the transparisteel opening, annoyance mixed with a good dollop of worry wrinkling his heavy brow.

"The back part of the roof fell in -- she's crushed!" Viraess pushed her face closer to the transparisteel, somehow transformed into a helpless-looking female, all huge eyes and trembling lips.

Sarka made a mental note to ask Viraess for a few tips on acting if they ever got out of here. That sort of thing could come in useful.

The guard squinted toward the back of the cell, but thankfully the lighting was dim enough that Sarka guessed he couldn't see anything clearly. He gave Viraess another quick look, apparently decided she seemed harmless enough, and raised his key card to the slot by the door. It whooshed open, and he took a step into the cell.

It was his last. As soon as he was in range, Sarka sprang out of the shadowy corner, vibro-shiv slicing neatly across his exposed throat. Dark blood spilled out from the thin cut, and he fell to the ground in a messy heap. Immediately Viraess squatted down, pulled the man's blaster out of its holster, and scooped up the key card that had fallen from his lifeless hand.

"What about me?" Sarka asked, irritated that Madame High-and-Mighty would help herself to all the choice booty first when she hadn't even gotten her hands dirty with the kill.

In response Viraess pulled a smaller blaster from the man's backup holster and tossed it to Sarka. "Does that suit you?"

Sarka gave a sour look at the DH-17 she held, comparing it to the heavier DL-44 Viraess had appropriated for herself. Of course, Viraess' blaster would run out of charges more quickly, but that was small consolation when Sarka knew her own gun would probably have to hit the same target twice as often to have the same effect. Still, one look at the Admiral's stern face told Sarka there was no point in arguing.

"Guess it'll have to," she said grudgingly, then returned the now-sheathed vibro-shiv to its hiding place in her sleeve.

"Shelarne!" Markus again. "What's going on over there? Are you all right?"

"We're fine, Markus," Viraess replied. "Just taking care of some business." She looked over at Sarka and said, "Time to get out of here." And she stepped over the body of the dead guard without giving it a second look.

Apparently the rest of the personnel in the building were occupied with whoever or whatever was attacking the prison complex. The floor shook once more under Sarka's feet as they crossed the corridor to Markus' cell, but since Viraess ignored the tremor Sarka decided she'd better do the same. It could be anybody out there -- all she could do was hope they'd get out of here before anyone discovered their presence.

The Admiral swiped the key card through the lock. The light above the lock flashed green, and the door to Markus' cell opened. He rushed out, looking as if he wanted to sweep Viraess into a thankful embrace, and instead paused awkwardly at the last second after he caught sight of her grim expression.

"You're all right?" he asked, then finally glanced past Viraess to Sarka. "Both of you?"

"Just fabulous, Klem, thanks for asking," said Sarka. "But we're in a little bit of a hurry, so -- "

"Someone's attacking this facility," Viraess went on, her tone brisk and businesslike. "We can only hope that the attackers and the defenders will be occupied with one another long enough that we can get away undetected."

"Got it," Klem said, then hefted the duffel bag he held dangling from his right hand. "Ready when you are."

Viraess turned toward the elevators, frowning.

"I wouldn't go that way if I were you," Sarka commented.

"And is there another way out of here?" the Admiral inquired, sounding irritated.

_Proves you don't know everything after all_, Sarka thought, but she only replied, "Yeah, there is. When they brought me in here we came through a smaller turbolift located at the opposite end of this cell block."

"Show me," Viraess said.

Sarka wanted to make a comment about how she wasn't one of the Admiral's grunts to be ordered around, then remembered she stood to lose a large chunk of change if she flapped her jaw indiscriminately. Instead, she ground her teeth slightly before answering, "Down this way."

The pair followed Sarka as she led them down the corridor. They passed a cell, and a plaintive voice from within stopped them. "Let us out -- please!" And then there came an echo of probably the same words in an alien tongue -- Sarka thought it sounded like Sullustan.

"What about the other prisoners?" she asked.

Viraess hesitated.

"We have to let them out," Markus said.

Sarka guessed that the Admiral hated the idea of having to slow themselves down to let out a bunch of prisoners -- and aliens at that, from the sound of it -- but of course she didn't dare let herself appear that cold-hearted in front of Klem.

"I'll let them out, but after that they're on their own," Viraess said at length. "We can't have them slowing us down."

Markus frowned for a second, but then he nodded slowly. "All right."

Stepping up to the door, Viraess said, "I'm unlocking the cell. Give me a minute." And she swiped the key card through the lock, then moved back to let the prisoners out.

There were three of them, a shabby-looking human male of indeterminate age and a pair of mousy-jowled Sullustans. The two aliens began babbling in their own language, and Viraess shook her head, looking annoyed.

"Sorry, I can't understand what you're saying."

The human spoke. "There are more prisoners in the other levels. We need to go free them, too."

"We don't have time for that," Viraess replied. "I need to get my companions out of here now."

"But -- "

The Admiral held up her hand. Sarka wondered how Markus couldn't have guessed who she really was -- Viraess looked as if she should be standing on the deck of a Star Destroyer, travel-stained civilian clothes or not. "I can't help you personally. But you can take this and free them yourselves." She tossed the key card to the man, who barely caught it in time.

The Sullustans began chattering at him again, and he said, "Thank you -- we all thank you."

"No problem. Just forget you ever saw us, in case anyone asks."

The man nodded, and the three of them fled in the direction of the main turbolifts. Obviously they didn't know of the existence of Sarka's secondary 'lifts.

Sarka could see why no one would think to come this way -- the corridor was choked with large pieces of rubble that had been loosened by this latest barrage. But the prison had already been damaged, probably when the goons running the place had taken out the miners who had been here previously. It didn't take much at this point to loosen the already shaky infrastructure, and Sarka would be glad when they got out of these fragile lower levels.

"Here," she announced, as they turned the corner.

The lift was a small single one, probably intended as a failsafe in case the main bank of turbolifts should be compromised for some reason. Sarka pressed the button to call it to their level and couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief when the numbers began to count down from the tenth level, where it had been stopped previously. At least so far no one seemed to have noticed that the prisoners on level twenty-five were now roaming free in the building.

After a few agonizing seconds the door opened, and Sarka looked inside cautiously. It seemed to be intact.

"Where does it come out?" Viraess asked, after following Markus inside. Sarka noticed that the other woman's hand hovered near the butt of her blaster pistol, as if she were expecting opposition at any moment.

"Near the rear of the building, not too far from the landing pad." Sarka pushed the button to take them to the top level. The lift shot upward, and she went on, "This is better, because we can make a break for our ships right away without having to dodge guards on the upper floors of the facility."

"Good," was Viraess' only response, but Sarka could see a slight relaxing of the tension along the other woman's jaw. "Now I just have to hope that my ship is still there."

"Yours, mine, the guard I just sliced back there. At this point I don't really care whose ship is accessible as long as someone's is."

The Admiral lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. No doubt she had some sort of fancy-schmancy ship waiting for her, and Sarka would of course prefer her own _Wasp_, but the important thing was to get the hell out of there and worry about the niceties later.

Suddenly the lift jerked to a stop. Sarka immediately looked to the level indicator, hoping they had just reached the top more quickly than she had estimated they would. No such luck; apparently they had ground to a halt at the fourth sub-level.

"End of the line," Sarka said, then pushed the button to open the doors.

"What the hell are you doing?" Viraess demanded.

"Doesn't look like we're going any farther, does it?" Sarka asked. "Do you want to stay in there and wait around for someone to find you?"

"She does have a point, Shel," Markus offered. He peered past the two women into the seemingly empty corridor beyond the lift. "Looks OK for now."

Viraess gave the stalled lift an irritated glance, then nodded almost infinitesimally. "All right." She shifted her gaze to Sarka. "Can you get us out of here from this level?"

"Of course," Sarka said, but inwardly she knew wasn't so sure. After all, she'd gone straight from the lift to her cell when they captured her, but she'd tried to pay attention to the general layout of the facility. At least she'd always had a pretty good sense of direction. "These sorts of places always have stairs in case the lifts malfunction. Usually they're located in the center of each floor."

"Lead on," Markus said. He sounded almost cheerful, but Sarka thought she could see a glimmer of worry cross his dark eyes.

With more confidence than she felt, Sarka pointed down the corridor. "That way." She took off at a trot, and the other two had no choice but to follow her.

It was a twisty place, she had to admit. The first corridor branched abruptly about thirty meters in; she stopped to think about it for a moment, then decided that the right-hand corridor should lead them away from the perimeter of the building and into its center. But then that corridor snaked away off to the right again, and Sarka knew that couldn't be good, since they'd be doubling back on themselves. She continued on doggedly, however, with a silent Markus and a frowning Viraess at her heels, as she moved from long dimly lit hallway to long dimly lit hallway, until the realization finally hit her.

They were lost. Irrevocably, irretrievably lost.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

_Never trust a bounty hunter_, Viraess thought grimly. She and Markus had been following Sarka for at least ten minutes now, jogging up one corridor and down another, until finally Viraess stopped at an intersection that looked vaguely familiar -- or perhaps that was simply because all these gray hallways were identical. The prison facility on Kessel had been built to house thousands of prisoners, though it was mostly empty now. This level seemed to be completely deserted, and its unending ranks of cells and criss-crossing corridors did not lend themselves to easy navigation.

Sarka and Markus went on for another few steps before they realized that Viraess was no longer with them. The bounty hunter turned on her heel and glared at Viraess. "What's with you? We need to keep going!"

"Going where?" Viraess inquired in icy tones. Really, she should have known better -- they should have just taken the main 'lifts and hoped that the distraction of whoever was attacking the facility would be enough to keep Matteson and his forces occupied. "It looks as if we've already crossed this intersection -- I know I've seen that scorch mark on the wall before."

Markus looked over at the blackened smudge, no doubt left by a wayward blaster bolt. "I think Shel's right," he said. "You'd think we would have found the stairs by now -- if they even exist."

"I think I know more about the inside of prisons than you do," Sarka retorted. "There are always stairs someplace in case the 'lifts malfunction."

"Well, they're obviously not down this hallway," Viraess said, trying to keep her tone as level as she could. While it would no doubt be satisfying to start screaming at Sarka, Viraess was sure the only result would be to antagonize the bounty hunter to the point where she would be even less helpful than she was now.

Sarka put her hands on her hips, her dark face creased with a formidable scowl. "Oh, yeah? Well, I'd like to see _you_ do any better, Admiral!"

A heavy silence fell, as Markus looked from Sarka to Viraess and then back again. A frown of his own weighted his brows, even as Viraess thought, _Oh, gods -- she did not say that. Please tell me she did not just say that --_

"What's she talking about, Shel?" he asked at last, and his dark eyes seemed bore into her, as if he thought he could pierce through to her soul and see the truth there.

"Nothing," Viraess and Sarka both said at the same time, and the bounty hunter shot Viraess a quick, pleading look, as if to say, _I didn't mean it!_ But the damage had already been done.

"Why would she call you 'Admiral,' Shelarne?" Markus went on, and Viraess knew that the use of her full name was not a good sign. "You only ever made it to captain, right?"

"It was just a joke," Sarka cut in. "You know how bossy she can be -- "

_Just shut up_, Viraess thought. _Shut up before you make it any worse_. "Don't listen to her, Markus -- she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about."

But Markus would not be distracted. "You didn't answer my question."

Before his angry dark gaze, she suddenly faltered. All the lies she'd thought she could hand him suddenly seemed exposed for what they were: fatuous, demeaning, _wrong_.

"It was just an act, wasn't it?" he asked. "You're still working for them, aren't you?"

Even in the dimly lit corridor she could see the sudden pallor of his face as he stared down at her, the whiteness of his knuckles as he tightened his grasp on the handle of the satchel he carried. "Markus, I can explain -- " she began, but he shook his head.

"I don't need any more of your lies." His contemptuous gaze slid from her to Sarka. "I supposed she's working for you, too."

"I am not -- " Sarka began to protest, even as Viraess said,

"Markus, please -- "

His face might have been that of a stranger. "You can both go to hell." And he turned from them and ran, his long legs quickly putting a formidable length between himself and the two women.

Sarka stared after him, her mouth open, and Viraess snapped, "Just don't stand there looking like an Aqualish on dry land!" She had already started to run as well, although she knew she had scant chance of catching up with Markus. She had seen how fast he could run back on Albri'ar.

After a second or two Viraess heard Sarka chasing after her, and the bounty hunter caught up quickly -- she was a tall and athletic girl, her stride much longer than Viraess'. From somewhere above her Viraess could hear more explosions, smaller ones this time, but the building still shook under her feet. The noise covered up the sound of Markus' pounding footsteps, but then Viraess caught them again -- it sounded as if he had gone off to the left, moving back toward the 'lift that had brought them to this forsaken floor in the first place.

"That way," she said, pointing, and Sarka swerved to follow after her. Viraess couldn't even think what she would begin to say once she caught up with Markus, but the important thing at this point was not to lose him, to make sure that the bowels of the prison facility didn't swallow him up forever. There were so many levels here, so many dark corners, that Viraess knew if she didn't keep him within earshot she would probably never find him again. Random landmarks -- more blaster burns, chunks of durasteel knocked out of the walls, a fallen ceiling luma -- signaled to Viraess that they were in fact doubling back on themselves and moving to the 'lift. Finding some hidden reserve of energy she didn't know she had, she increased her pace, while Sarka lengthened her stride to keep up.

They rounded a corner -- and Viraess found herself trying to skid to a stop, her boots scraping against the scuffed floor. Sarka muffled a curse, then stopped as well, her dark eyes wide as she looked at the scene before them.

Markus was frozen in place, his hands halfway in the air, while the duffel bag dangled from the crook in his right elbow. In front of him, the black snout of his blaster trained directly on Markus' chest, stood Commodore Matteson, flanked by several of his black-uniformed guards.

Matteson's gaze shifted from Markus to Viraess, and he smiled slightly, a smile only slightly colder than Hoth's frozen wastes. "Ah, Shelarne. How good of you to join us and save my men the trouble of searching for you." The smile faded. "Did you tire of my hospitality so quickly?"

"Things sounded a little busy around here," Viraess replied, her voice sharp. "An opportunity presented itself." _Don't let him see your fear_, she thought. _Don't let him think he has the upper hand..._ "I thought you might be otherwise occupied. Escaping out the back door and leaving the rest of your men to fend for themselves, I see."

Eyes narrowing, Matteson said, "The situation has changed slightly -- but don't think yourself saved, Admiral. You want to know who's up there?" His gaze shifted slightly upward. "New Republic forces. They're no more your friends than mine."

_Not one break_, she though bitterly. _Not one bloody break. Here we are, caught between the New Republic and Matteson_. And which was the worse of the two, at the moment she couldn't say.

"So it is true," Markus said, speaking for the first time. He remained staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed on Matteson and the blaster, but even from where she stood Viraess could see the bleak expression on his face. "You're still working for the Empire."

"Working for it?" said Matteson, and he laughed. "She _is_ the Empire, Klem. Our lovely Admiral here was appointed to the High Command well over six standard months ago."

Markus flinched, but remained silent.

Viraess did not waste her time with any denials. Instead she said, "My offer to you still stands, Commodore."

"Yes, your generous offer." Matteson's gaze shifted from Markus to her, and Viraess could barely suppress a shiver as those cold green eyes met her own. "But it seems to me that Dr. Klem here and what he carries are worth far more than the piddling bounty placed on his head -- or even double that amount, as you promised me."

_How could he have found out about the Corona Project?_ Viraess wondered despairingly. _Those files were classified..._ But she knew that a man of Matteson's background would have his own resources for discovering that sort of information, and no doubt he had begun digging just as soon as he had captured her and Markus. At least it seemed as if he were still motivated by simple greed, and she was willing to offer him whatever it took to see them safely out of this place.

"Name your price, Commodore," she said at length.

Markus made a shocked sound. "Shelarne, you can't -- "

The blaster in Matteson's hand didn't waver. "I don't think you need to participate in these negotiations, Klem."

Behind her, Viraess could hear Sarka mutter, "Shut your trap, Markus," but she did not have time to pay any more attention to the bounty hunter. She could only hope that Sarka was sharp enough to follow along as the situation played itself out.

"Twenty million?" asked Matteson, his tone silky.

"Done," Viraess said. She knew she couldn't argue. How she would ever explain any of this to Kezler, she didn't know, but time for consequences later. For now she just wanted to make sure that she, Markus, and Sarka got out of this breathing and upright.

"However," the Commodore went on, "I think I should hold on to the data until you produce the funds." He extended a hand toward Markus and waited.

Damn. She should have known Matteson would pull something like this. But Viraess knew that if she didn't accede to his request he would shoot Markus anyway and take the bag for himself. She took a breath and looked over at Markus. "Give him the duffel."

"You can't be serious -- "

"Now, Markus." It was a voice she had never used with him, the steely tone of a fleet officer who knew that her every command would be obeyed without question.

He gave her an unbelieving stare, then slowly lowered his arms. The duffel bag slid down into his palm, and he reached out, extending the bag toward Matteson. The Commodore nodded briefly at one of his underlings, who stepped forward to take the duffel from Markus. But just as the other man's fingers began to wrap around the handle Markus jerked it back violently, and the bag's contents flew out into the air.

Among them was the small pouch of coins Markus had carried, and even as Viraess stepped forward, a shocked cry coming from her lips, she watched as it fell to the scarred durasteel floor, its varied coins spilling out...and somehow seeming to multiply.

For a few seconds she could not comprehend what she saw. Then she realized that the golden New Republic marks were hollowed out, and within them had been hidden the familiar dull-gray circles of microdisks. Markus had had the Corona Project data with him all along.

But she had no time to focus on that, or anything else, for just as Markus pulled back on the bag Matteson raised his blaster and fired.

There was no missing at that range.

The bolt hit Markus square in the chest, and he staggered back a few steps, then collapsed, his long legs splaying out on the cold, gray floor.

From somewhere Viraess heard a scream, and then realized it had come from her own lips. The blaster she had tucked into the back waistband of her pants seemed to find its way into her hand of its own volition, and she drew it forth in one fluid motion, aiming at Matteson's own chest. The same place he had shot Markus.

The blaster spat forth green fire, and the bolt plowed directly into Matteson, who gave her a shocked look, as if he couldn't quite believe what she had just done. Sarka, bless her, lifted her own blaster and shot the guard on Matteson's left before he could begin to react. Viraess dimly noticed Sarka aim once more and fire at the second guard, who also went down in a messy heap.

Matteson's eyes were slits of pain. Viraess stepped toward him, staring down at his contorted features. "That one was for Markus," she said. "This one's from me." And she took careful aim and pulled the trigger once more, hitting him below the belt with surgical precision. His body jerked convulsively, and she watched with satisfaction as his eyes showed white, rolling back in his head as the death throes took him.

"Damn, that was _cold_," Sarka breathed. She seemed rooted in one spot, the blaster dangling from her hand.

"It was personal," Viraess replied briefly. Then the bounty hunter was forgotten as Viraess saw Markus move slightly. Without thinking she went to her knees beside him, one arm reaching underneath to hold his head up off the floor.

"Remind me...never to get you angry," Markus breathed. One corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to smile.

"Don't, Markus," Viraess said. She looked down into his face, at the odd pallor of his cheeks and the bluish shadows under his eyes, and she knew she was looking at death. She had seen it too many times before not to recognize it now.

"Told you...I had a bad feeling about this place." He coughed, and Viraess could feel the sudden weight of his head against her icy fingers as he went limp.

_Gods, this can't be happening_, she thought. _I was going to save him_...

Shaking, she leaned over Markus, brushing the hair away from his cold brow. "I was going to take you to Coruscant, I swear," she murmured, leaning close so perhaps whatever lingering spirit that still clung his body might hear her words. "I would never have let them hurt you. I wanted to take you far away, someplace you'd be safe."

His eyes remained shut. She had no idea whether he had heard her or not. All she knew was that within that one second he was gone, and the screaming emptiness he'd left behind was the sound of her heart breaking.

A gentle touch on her shoulder. Viraess lifted her burning eyes from Markus and tried to focus on Sarka, who crouched a little ways off, staring at the two of them with an uncharacteristically gentle expression on her face.

"He's gone, Viraess," she said. "But we still need to get out of here."

"I can't leave him like this -- "

"We can't carry him. You know that."

Viraess did know, but she could not bear to acknowledge the fact. The knot of unshed tears in her breast seemed suddenly as heavy as a black hole. It ate all feeling, all warmth. Soon she would simply collapse from the weight of her despair. With a sigh she laid Markus gently down against the cold floor, then lifted her blaster once more.

"What are you doing?" Sarka exclaimed.

One shot, then another. It took four in all, but when she was done Viraess had made sure that nothing was left of the Corona Project microdisks but several pools of melted metal and plastic. _It wasn't worth dying for_, she thought, _but at least this way I can make sure that no one else loses their life over the forsaken thing._

Viraess knew she should get up, but somehow the thought of attempting to stand made her feel as if she were trying to lift herself from the surface of a gas giant and not a planet that actually had a lower gravity than her own homeworld. Instead, she inched closer to Markus. Surely it wouldn't matter if she just held him for a few more seconds, one last time...

Sarka watched Viraess carefully, her dark eyes wary as a wild animal's. Then she jerked her head back toward the way they had come, and hissed, "Someone's coming."

_It doesn't matter_, Viraess thought. _Let them come. I have nothing to protect anymore_. And she dropped her blaster on the ground, even as a group of NRI commandos, led by Luke Skywalker and Han Solo, came around the corner.

* * *

Han had hated Kessel since the moment he first set foot on it, and this return trip had not improved his impressions any. Oh, resistance had been sporadic at best -- whoever had been directing this group of pirates, mercs, or what-have-you appeared to have cut and run. Lando had reported he'd found the main offices mostly intact, but the computer files had been scrubbed, leaving no trace of those who had been using them last. A few holdouts had locked themselves inside one of the offices on the tenth floor, but several blast grenades had persuaded them that their sanctuary was anything but safe. Lando's group of NRI commandos had quickly secured the area, and the rest was just mopping up.

But the descent into the prison levels reminded Han painfully of the time he had spent here, and even though he knew he was among friends and not likely to ever become a resident of the facility again, he still couldn't help shivering a bit when they'd come out onto the fifteenth sub-level. Luke had indicated that he felt life presences there, although not Klem's -- he was still in the building but moving rapidly, and Luke couldn't lock down exactly where he was.

Sure enough, on the fifteenth level they'd found a large group of Sullustans and a scattering of humans and Wookiees. Oddly enough, some of them had already been freed, and Han soon saw the reason why. A scruffy-looking human and a pair of Sullustans had somehow acquired a key card for the prison cells and were systematically moving from floor to floor, setting free everyone they found.

"How did you get that?" asked Luke, once they'd been able to convince the prisoners that the troops surrounding them were friendly.

The man looked nervous, but Han couldn't blame the guy. The whole place put him on edge, too, and he hadn't just been locked up in a cell.

One of the Sullustans said something, and the man nodded reluctantly. "Some prisoners on a lower level gave it to us."

"Do you know who they were?" Luke inquired.

The guy shrugged. "They didn't say. Two women and a man."

_Two women?_ Han thought. As far as he knew, no human women had been included in Lando's complement of mine workers.

"What did they look like?" Han asked.

The guy actually grinned at the question. "Well, the one woman -- I don't know who would be crazy enough to lock her up down here. I could have found better things to do with her, if you know what I mean."

Luke shot the guy a disapproving look. "What about the other two?"

"Another woman -- dark hair, too, but dark-skinned. And the guy looked a little older than either of the women, and he was pretty tall, with dark hair."

Han and Luke exchanged a significant glance. Granted, there were plenty of tall dark-haired guys running around the galaxy, but it sounded as if the mysterious escapee could be Markus Klem.

"Do you know where they were headed?" asked Luke.

A lift of the shoulders. "They went the opposite way we did, but I guess they'd be making for the surface, just like we were."

"Then we go up," Luke said. He turned to the leader of the commando group. "Lieutenant Majeris, give me five from your group. The rest of you can keep searching for prisoners."

"Yes, sir," replied Majeris, who made a couple of quick hand gestures, singling out the men to go with Luke and Han.

The commandos fell into place as Luke headed toward the turbolifts. Han followed along and watched as the Jedi pushed the button to take the center 'lift up to the higher levels of the prison floors. Suddenly Luke startled, as if someone had just hit him with several thousand volts of electricity. The blood seemed to drain out of his face, and he murmured, "Oh, no..."

"What is it?" Han asked immediately. When Jedi started having those sorts of reactions, planets got blown up and all kinds of general nastiness usually ensued.

"Klem," whispered Luke. His eyes stared upward, and Han could see the whites ringing his pale blue irises.

"Dead?" Hell, he'd known this was going far too smoothly --

"No -- but he's in pain."

The 'lift chose that moment to arrive, and the two of them rushed in, followed by the five commandos. Unerringly Luke selected the button to take them to the fourth sub-level, and Han raised an eyebrow in question at his brother-in-law.

"That's where he is," Luke said quietly.

Han nodded, then glared at the numbers flickering in the digital display above the door as they moved upward. Damn, he'd never realized how slow a turbolift could be...

But even as the door opened, Luke staggered suddenly.

"What?" Han asked, but he feared he already knew the answer.

"He's gone."

All the curses Han could think of seemed woefully inadequate, but he uttered a few mentally before replying. "So what do we do?"

Luke answered immediately. "We still need to find him. We've got to recover the Corona Project data, if he still has it." He pointed down the corridor to their left. "That way."

Of course, Luke was right, but Han couldn't help feeling an overwhelming sensation of futility as he jogged along the bleak gray hallway. _What does it become when it's no longer a rescue?_ he thought. _Guess we're just doing search and recovery now_.

They rounded a corner and came upon an odd tableau: Markus lay sprawled on the floor, while one woman held him in her arms, her long dark hair obscuring both their faces as she bent her head over his prone form. Another woman -- bounty hunter or merc, Han guessed, from her beat-up leather clothing, hard eyes, and the professional way she held her blaster -- stood above the two in a protective stance. Several black-clad bodies lay beyond them.

The bounty hunter -- or whatever she was -- fixed them with a challenging stare. "We've got nothing you want."

"Is that Klem?" Luke asked quietly.

She hesitated, looking down at the man's prone form and the woman who cradled him. "What does it matter?"

"He's carrying something of vital importance to the New Republic."

Finally the woman who held Klem's dead body glanced up, and Han barely stifled an exclamation. True, right now she was a far cry from the vision in red silk who had held a crystal goblet of Gyndine liqueur in her manicured fingers so long ago on Doranne, but he would have recognized her face anywhere. Admiral Viraess.

Even Luke looked a little startled.

_Guess the Jedi don't see everything_, Han thought, and he stepped forward. "Admiral?"

Her full lips curved in a bitter smile. "I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that, Captain Solo." Viraess looked down at Klem, lifted a hand to smooth a tumbled lock of hair away from his brow, then gently laid him down on the cold durasteel floor. With an effort she stood, then shifted her gaze from Han to Luke. She pointed at a nasty-looking little puddle of melted metal and plastic that lay between Klem's body and the forms of the dead men a few feet beyond him. "There's your Corona Project."

Han raised an unbelieving eyebrow. Once he'd seen her, he'd rapidly begun to put two and two together -- of course she had once known Markus, and no doubt Grand Moff Kezler had instructed her to track down the scientist and the data it carried. But how could it have been destroyed so utterly? He would have thought that Viraess, as a member of the High Command, would have protected the data with her own life.

"What happened?" Luke asked.

Viraess paused, and for the first time Han took in fully the despair in those burning gray eyes, the tension in the fine jaw. _It's terrible when a woman won't let herself cry_, he thought, and began to comprehend the rigid self-control that kept Viraess from breaking down before them. Obviously she had cared far more for Markus than perhaps even she had known.

"I destroyed it," she said. "No one should have that kind of power. Not the Empire." The harsh gray stare took in Luke and the group of commandos who stood at attention behind him. "Not the New Republic."

"What will they do to you?" Luke's tone sounded almost kind.

Again that bitter smile caught at her lips. "What could they do that's worse than what's already happened?" Seemingly against her will, she looked down at the dead form of the scientist. "He was only trying to make the galaxy a better place. And this is his reward."

Luke stepped forward, and reached out to touch her arm. Han could almost feel the compassion radiating outward from him. She was the enemy, she was dangerous -- but somehow Han could feel only pity for her at this moment.

The other woman, the merc or bounty hunter, shut her eyes for a moment. She adopted a touch stance, and no doubt she was a hard customer, but even she seemed a bit shaken by the events that had transpired.

"Let us help you," Luke said.

At that Viraess lifted her head, and her eyes flashed with anger and something more. Was it self-loathing? Han couldn't be sure -- he didn't know her well enough to read her every expression, and at any rate her face went still and cool once again almost immediately. "How can you help me?"

"In more ways than you might think," Luke replied, never lifting his hand from her arm.

Viraess stared at him for a moment longer, gray eyes catching and holding Luke's clear blue gaze. Han would never know what she saw there, but suddenly she seemed to crumple, and she became a woman, not an admiral. She leaned her head against the Jedi's shoulder, and wept for the loss of the man she had once loved.


	20. Chapter 20

I wanted to make a few slight changes, so I uploaded a new chapter. Thanks again to anyone who was reading this story!

* * *

Chapter 20

In the end, they let her go. Viraess knew that Skywalker and Solo would be completely within their rights to take her into custody and bring her back to Coruscant as a prisoner of war. But after that searing moment when the Jedi looked into her eyes and read the horror and despair within her soul -- and when she had stared into the face of her enemy and seen nothing but pity and compassion -- Skywalker had somehow known that she posed no future threat.

The group of commandos who accompanied the two New Republic leaders had respectfully gathered up Markus' body and brought him back to the _Morning Star_. From somewhere within the prison complex Lando Calrissian produced a stasis-field generator, and it now hummed gently in the cabin where Markus lay, preserving him for the trip to Lanarsk Prime. Viraess had sworn to herself she would return him to his mother so that he might lie in the family mausoleum. And after that --

The thought of her homeworld filled her with a fierce, aching longing. How she wished she could stay there, return to the home where she had grown up, bury herself away from the ongoing struggles of the galaxy. But she knew that once she had fulfilled her promise to take Markus home she would have to face Grand Moff Kezler. Certainly she would have no real peace until she relinquished her position on the High Command. Even then she had no idea whether Kezler would accept her resignation. Perhaps it would amuse him to see her as a private citizen once more. Or perhaps he would simply have her executed for failing him. At this point Viraess didn't much care which was to be her fate.

Sarka had already departed Kessel, although Viraess had made sure the bounty hunter received the compensation she had earned. Of course Viraess could not access the Imperial coffers from the computers on the prison colony -- but she could pull the money from her own accounts. Somewhere over the past few years, between the trust from her grandmother and her generous salary from the Navy, Viraess had become quite wealthy. The thought of the healthy balances in her various accounts brought her no real pleasure, but at least she had the means to ensure that she could pay Sarka what Viraess felt was owed her. Perhaps if Sarka had kept her mouth shut things would have turned out differently, but recriminations at this point would be useless.

Now Viraess stepped aboard her ship once more, making sure it was ready for the trip to Lanarsk Prime. One team of commandos had already returned to the Nebulon-B frigate in orbit, along with the prisoners they had rescued from the mining facility. Calrissian had spoken as if he planned to stay on Kessel for a while; Viraess had overheard his request for additional New Republic forces to establish a temporary garrison on the planet until he could be certain it was secure. She supposed that was wise. The glitterstim spice and the profits it could generate were too tempting a target to be left in the hands of a few miners. It was a resource the New Republic should cultivate.

She paused in the corridor outside the small cabin where Markus lay and stood there for a long moment, looking in at his still form on the narrow bed. Almost she could pretend that he just slept; the stasis generator would keep him frozen as he was, and his profile in the dim light was as clean and handsome as ever. But his chest beneath the dark blanket did not rise and fall, and she knew if she went to him and touched his shoulder there would be no response.

The tears rose again, but this time Viraess blinked them away angrily. Bad enough that she should have dissolved like that in front of the Jedi Knight. Once the sobs had arisen in her there had been no stopping them for a good while, and by the time she had recovered even a shaky composure she had wondered whether she wept not just for Markus but for the innocence she had lost on Carida; for her brother, dead in the skies over Endor so many years ago; for every friend and compatriot she had lost during the years of this long, bitter war. She wept now for all the times before when she could not.

"Almost ready?" a quiet voice asked behind her, and she turned to see Luke Skywalker looking on her with sad eyes.

"Yes," she said briefly. Her voice sounded thick even to her. Clearing her throat, Viraess went on, "Thank you."

For a second the Jedi looked almost surprised. Then he replied, "I'm glad you have a home to go to." His gaze flickered to Markus' still form. "And a safe resting place for Dr. Klem."

_Home_, she thought, and wondered what that truly was. How many years had passed since she had called the gracious house in Ariston her home? And what would her reception there be? Her father would try to understand, but her mother had always overflowed with ambitions for her daughter. That Viraess would choose to leave the High Command voluntarily would be a crushing disgrace to the woman who had been active in COMPNOR since the time she was an adolescent. Then she sighed and shook her head. _Your parents are the least of your worries_, she thought.

Aloud, Viraess said only, "I look forward to returning to Lanarsk Prime."

And the Jedi, perhaps reading her chaotic thoughts, gave one last glance at Markus before shifting his calm blue gaze to her. "May your journey be a safe one," he said, then turned and left.

She could hear the light click of his boots against the metal gangplank, and knew she was alone on the ship once more. "Good-bye," Viraess said softly, although if someone had asked her at that moment whether she was addressing Luke Skywalker or the still form of Markus Klem, she would have been hard-pressed to know for certain.

He and Solo and the remainder of the commandos would be gone soon enough. They only lingered to see that she got away safely, and even as she moved forward to the cockpit she could hear the sounds of activity within the hangar as the last of the troops got into their transport. Lando's pretty little yacht, the _Lady Luck_, was tucked away into one corner of the hangar as well, since he would be remaining here for a time.

But Viraess had nothing to hold her on Kessel, and she activated the controls to retract the gangplank, then powered up the repulsors. The _Morning Star_ had apparently suffered no harm during the time she was in the hands of Matteson's men, and Viraess was glad of that, if nothing else. The little ship had served her well, and she had come to love it the way she loved every starship she had called her own, from her TIE trainer at the Academy to the sleek and deadly Super Star Destroyer _Overlord_. Ships could be almost living beings at times, and like almost any other creature, they needed love and respect to flourish.

Viraess guided her ship out of the hangar and up, away from the rusty, mottled landscape of Kessel. Off to starboard she could see the NRI troop transport lift from the surface in parallel with the _Morning Star_, and it flashed its landing lights at her once, as if in farewell. Then they curved away from another as they sought the freedom of space.

On the outer edges of the Kessel system's gravity well Viraess paused. Her coordinates were already plotted in, and everything had been prepared for the jump to lightspeed, but she hesitated, her hand hovering over the controls. She had left so much behind in this system -- the future she had thought she wanted, and the past she had too long denied. Perhaps it was only fitting to stop for a few moments to pay her last respects.

The NRI transports, followed by the Nebulon-B frigate, jumped into hyperspace, the shock of their disappearance sending flickering distortion waves across the starfield. Viraess lifted one hand in a gesture of farewell. How odd, she thought, to have found such respect and regard from those who should have been her mortal enemies. She knew that, if the roles had been somehow reversed, there were few in the Empire who would have done the same for Solo and Skywalker.

It was time. She still would have almost twenty standard hours to plot strategies and plan during her trip back to Lanarsk Prime, and it would do her no further good to linger here.

Viraess leaned forward to toggle the switch that would send the _Morning Star_ into hyperspace, and a flicker at the very corner of the forward viewscreen caught her eye. Sitting upright, she turned, and saw three Victory-Class Star Destroyers sail majestically into realspace.

* * *

No one dared to ask any real questions. She'd hailed the lead ship, the _Vindicator_, and transmitted her private codes directly to its captain, who had responded immediately and with the utmost deference. And once she'd come on board the Star Destroyer, the _Morning Star_ looking distinctly out of place among a phalanx of TIE fighters and Lambda-class shuttles in the aft hangar bay, she'd only had to say, "Business of the Grand Moff," before she was ushered to a spacious cabin on the forward deck. The traces of personal belongings there that hadn't been hidden away indicated she had been given Captain Meere's own quarters. 

Once she safely esconced in the cabin, and the door had shut behind her, Viraess dropped down on the padded chair in front of the computer console. Her legs suddenly felt as if they could not support her weight any longer. _So close_, she thought, _so close...and now what?_

It turned out the three ships were here on Kezler's direct order. Somehow he'd made the connection to Kessel, and sent a sufficient force to recover her. Whether he knew or had even guessed at her betrayal Viraess had no idea. Certainly she had been treated with all courtesy, and she'd managed to convince Captain Meere that Kessel was deserted and not worth investigating. She could only hope that Lando and the people who had remained with him had detected the Star Destroyers' presence and would have the sense to lie low until the three ships once again exited the system.

Now they were traveling at top speeds back to the Veil Nebula, back to the _Overlord_, and Viraess knew she could do nothing to extricate herself. Of course she had known that at some point she would have to confront Kezler, but she hadn't expected such a meeting to come so quickly. She'd thought she would have time to regroup, time to bury the dead. But again the capriciousness of fate or whatever other force ruled the galaxy had decreed otherwise. She could only go along and pray that she survived the ride.

At least Markus was as safe as she could make him; Viraess had informed Captain Meere that Markus had been a loyal citizen of Lanarsk Prime, caught by a traitor's blaster, and that she had intended to take him home for a proper burial. Even as she'd uttered the lies she'd gotten the impression that somewhere, somehow, her dead friend was laughing at her, at her continued need for duplicity.

A holo portrait on the desktop in front of her caught her attention, and Viraess lifted it for closer inspection. It showed Captain Meere, a fair-haired woman who must have been his wife, and a grinning, gap-toothed girl of about six or seven standard years. They seemed a happy, ordinary-looking little family, and suddenly Viraess envied them. Oh, no doubt his wife struggled with the long periods of separation while her husband was away on his various missions, and perhaps Captain Meere sometimes fretted over missed recitals and milestones he wasn't around to witness, but she would have given anything to have their commonplace troubles.

But that way led only to self-pity, and Viraess shook her head at herself. _You're still alive_, she thought. Alive, when so many others were not. The one she couldn't mourn was Commodore Matteson. Unlike many others she had known in the Imperial armed forces, Viraess considered the taking of a life to be an act of last resort. But if there was anyone who had needed killing, it was Matteson. At least she had put one thing right in the universe by removing him from it.

For now, she had to prepare herself. At least she had this comfortable cabin and its 'fresher at her disposal. Unfortunately, she had no uniforms with her -- she couldn't have risked Markus discovering them, after all -- and Viraess doubted anyone on board had anything that would fit her. No, she would have to face Kezler in civilian clothing, but perhaps that was only proper. After that interview, she doubted she would ever wear a uniform again.

* * *

Everything on board the _Overlord_ seemed as she had left it. Somehow the ship looked sterile and alien to her, but Viraess knew that was only because of what she had suffered through over the past few days. Once her only dream had been to serve the Empire, and now? 

Lieutenant Venn, her adjutant, met her in the forward hangar where she had docked the _Morning Star_. Beneath his neutral expression she thought she detected a trace of unease, but his voice was pleasant enough as he greeted her. "Welcome back, Admiral," he said, and for a second his gaze flickered as he took in her civilian attire, the slim black pants and light spider-silk shirt.

"Grand Moff Kezler is expecting me?" she asked, ignoring the questions in his eyes. Not even Venn had known the object of her mission, but he had been told that she would not be traveling in an official capacity, so her clothing shouldn't have been that surprising.

"Yes, ma'am." Instantly Venn was all business again. "He instructed me to see that you went to him immediately."

As she had known he would. Well, at least she'd had time to clean herself up a bit, and although she felt hollow and tired, she knew that on the surface she looked relatively unchanged.

Viraess allowed her adjutant to lead her to the forward deck where the Imperial suite was located, even though she probably could have made her way there blindfolded if necessary. Most of the personnel she passed in the corridors knew her well enough by sight that they still saluted as she passed, despite her lack of uniform. Once she even felt a slight smile pull at her mouth as a very junior lieutenant -- probably freshly commissioned during her absence -- began to breeze past her, only to be elbowed in the ribs and have something whispered in his ear by his companion, who wore a commander's rank bar. The poor lieutenant looked as if he'd been Force-piked, and then he had blushed red and somehow managed a sloppy salute.

"Carry on, lieutenant," Viraess said, without missing a beat, but somehow the little encounter put her in a slightly better humor. She wondered, with a touch of rueful amusement, if the shock had just taken a few years off that boy's life.

But then they reached the antechamber that fronted Kezler's suite, and Venn paused beside her.

"Thank you, Venn." Viraess stared at the double doors, at the two red-robed Imperial guards who stood there in impassive silence. Irrelevantly, she realized she had never asked her adjutant what his first name was. And perhaps now she would never know.

Taking a breath, she turned from the lieutenant and moved toward the doors. Still silent, one of the guards activated the switch to open them, and they retracted with a soft hiss of repulsors. Then she went inside.

Viraess had thought that Kezler would be waiting in the conference room where he usually met with her, but she was mistaken. Almost immediately he stepped away from the large transparisteel viewscreen that took up most of the far wall and moved toward her. "Admiral," he said.

"Grand Moff Kezler," she replied, with a sense of inward relief that at least her voice sounded steady and firm.

"Sit with me," he instructed, and indicated a group of heavily upholstered divans clustered around a table of polished _zebba_-wood. A very old, graceful-looking caf decanter of gleaming silver sat on the burnished surface, flanked by a pair of equally antique cups.

Uneasy, she took the seat he had requested. The divan felt overly soft beneath her, and she perched at its edge, wondering at his seeing her here, in the hospitality section of the suite, and not in the conference room. The very informality of the setup only increased her disquiet. Surely this was not the sort of place for a debriefing.

Kezler took his own place on the divan to her right. She could not recall ever being this close to him before, and she looked over at him, feeling her disquiet increase as the cold blue eyes held her own for a moment. Something in their depths made the breath catch in her throat.

But he said only, "Caf?" and leaned over the table, pouring the steaming liquid into a cup so elegant and fragile Viraess thought she could see the light glowing through its translucent sides.

"Thank you," she replied, and took the cup from him. Curling her cold fingers around the warm porcelain, she breathed in the aromatic steam, trying to let the familiar scent bring some measure of calm to her mind.

Kezler did the same for himself, then settled down once more on the divan he occupied -- although Viraess noted he remained as upright as she, his back never touching the furniture. The cup of caf sat neglected in his hand, however, as he looked over at her.

"So," he said, and paused. His head tilted slightly to one side, and the glowing sconce on the wall behind him cast an odd ruddy glow over his fair hair.

Viraess suddenly realized that the lighting in here was much dimmer than she had recalled; instead of the glare of the white overhead panels, the suite was illuminated only by the wall sconces and a few torch-shaped lamps at the far end of the main room. The darkness of her surroundings seemed to lend an air of secrecy to their discussion, and she waited, dreading what she knew must come next.

"No Markus Klem, and no Corona Project," Kezler went on. "You realize this does need some sort of explanation."

"Of course, sir," she said. Deliberately she took a sip from her cup, feeling the hot liquid course down her throat and spread a welcome warmth into her knotted insides. Its comfort gave her courage. "I won't deny it, Grand Moff Kezler. I had Markus Klem in my hands, but we encountered an unexpected adversary on Kessel."

"Matteson," he said, and she started, then realized that of course he would have read her preliminary report.

"Yes, sir. His operatives forced my ship from hyperspace and brought us to the prison colony on Kessel. It was while we were imprisoned there that Klem was unfortunately killed and the data destroyed." How cool she sounded, how calm and unaffected, as if the events she had just described had not changed her forever. But she knew that her very life depended on Kezler believing her plausible lies, and she was a novice when compared to a COMPNOR professional who had been schooled in deception the way she had been trained in four-dimensional fleet deployments.

"And how could such a thing occur?" Kezler's voice was silky, calm -- and Viraess knew that meant nothing at all.

But she also knew that she could lay all sorts of perfidy at Matteson's feet -- the gods only knew the man was guilty enough of various other crimes. A few more certainly wouldn't change anything. "Matteson somehow discovered what Markus was carrying, sir. He tried to seize the data, but Markus was able to destroy the microdisks on which it was stored. In retaliation, Matteson shot him." Lies, nothing but lies, but there was enough truth woven into her story that she hoped it would be strong enough to pass Kezler's inspection.

"And how is it you were unable to discover the microdisks prior to your capture by Matteson?"

Again, no accusation in the smooth, cultured voice, no change of expression, but Viraess knew better than to take any comfort from Kezler's apparent mildness. She would not bother to make excuses here; after all, she was a naval officer, not an Intelligence agent, and Markus' subterfuge had been too clever for her. Better to admit to her failure and get it over with. "Sir, he concealed the microdisks inside some New Republic currency he was carrying. Of course I had seen the coins when I went through his belongings, but at the time they did not seem particularly noteworthy, either by weight or appearance. Many people traveling in the Outer Rim carry hard currency instead of relying on credit vouchers."

"True." Kezler steepled his fingers under his chin and watched her for moment. "And when the data was finally revealed, you did nothing to attempt to recover it?"

Without blinking, Viraess met his stare. "Matteson had me bound at the time, sir. There was nothing I could do to stop Klem from destroying the data, or the Commodore for murdering him over it." _If you believe it hard enough, it can be true_, she thought fiercely, repeating the mantra over in her mind. _This is the only truth. This is what really happened..._

After a few seconds Kezler nodded slightly. Viraess could almost feel the instant he withdrew his laser-hard stare from her; the sensation reminded her of being on board a ship caught in a tractor beam and having the beam suddenly switched off. "And what happened to Matteson?"

_I shot him_, she thought, then took a breath and said, "The base had been controlled by a New Republic affiliate named Lando Calrissian before Matteson seized it. Calrissian returned with NRI operatives and retook the base. At that point Matteson was killed, and I was freed."

"I would have thought they would keep you for questioning."

Viraess lifted her head and gave Kezler as guileless a look as she could manage. "Sir, the cover you provided worked admirably. They had no reason to believe I was anyone but a charter pilot, caught there by the Interdictor Matteson had stolen."

"Yes, the missing ships. And Kessel is where they all ended up?"

"As far as I've been able to determine, sir. Unfortunately, they appear to have all been destroyed by the New Republic forces that came in to retake the system."

At that Kezler frowned slightly. "A tremendous loss," he said.

"Yes, sir." On that point at least they could both agree. Just because she didn't particularly want to lead the Imperial Navy any longer didn't mean she desired it to be weakened in any way.

The Grand Moff sat in silence for a moment, then lifted his own cup of caf to his lips and drank. He appeared to be thinking over everything she had just related; Viraess could only hope the story was plausible enough that he wouldn't question her further. "It must have been difficult for you," he said at last.

"Sir?" Why would Kezler care whether or not the situation had upset her personally?

"You have known Markus Klem since you were a child, have you not? My sources tell me you were close at one time. I would think that seeing him die would be...troubling."

To cover her confusion, Viraess drank from her own caf. It was cooling rapidly, and she could not take the same comfort from it now that she had a few minutes earlier. But she looked at Kezler with as direct a gaze as she could manage, and replied, "Sir, I was on a mission for the Empire. My only regret is that I was unable to secure the data you requested or, failing that, at least bring Markus to Imperial space where he could be questioned directly." Was that really her own voice, so cold, so impersonal? Was she really discussing the betrayal of the man she had vowed to save with such apparent unconcern?

But Kezler seemed to believe her; even as she watched him she noted a subtle softening along the jaw line, and he appeared to look on her with something almost approaching warmth. And why not? In his eyes, she had done everything she could. He had no way of knowing the doubt which had seized her, the sea-change that had caused her to realize that she still loved Markus -- and hated what the Empire had forced her to do.

His slight approval made it even more difficult for Viraess to utter the words she knew she had to say. But she realized she had to divorce herself from the Navy now, or she would never again have the courage to do so. She went on, "Sir, I have failed you. You have neither the Corona Project data nor Markus Klem. I know how important this mission was to the future of the Empire. And so I must respectfully request to resign my commission."

She didn't know what she had expected. Surprise? A swift denial of her request? But she received neither. Instead, Kezler watched her carefully, and a slow smile touched his mouth. "Tell me, Shelarne," he said, "have you been briefed as to the current status of the High Command?"

The use of her first name was not lost on her. Warily, she replied, "Has the status changed, sir?" Viraess thought she had detected an undercurrent of unease while she was on board the _Vindicator_, but she had merely attributed the feeling to the possibility that the ship's crew was uncomfortable with having such a high-ranking officer aboard.

"During your absence, Moff Naren attempted to orchestrate a coup." The Grand Moff drank from his cup once more, then set it down on the table. "He was found out, and dealt with. Grand Generals Linzer and Nivri were foolish enough to follow along with Naren, and they too have been relieved of their commands -- and their lives."

The shock threatened to overwhelm her for a moment, but Viraess willed herself to calm. Not that she didn't believe Naren was capable of such a thing -- she'd known too well how the head of Intelligence had despised Kezler. But she had expected more of Nivri and Linzer, both men whom she had respected. What had they possibly hoped to accomplish? But with them gone, she realized, the Grand Moff truly had the Empire completely within his grasp. No doubt he had already appointed his own puppets to fill their positions. All that remained was the Navy -- and she had just handed it to him.

Dismay filled her, followed sharply by relief. The Empire was all Kezler had ever desired -- let him have it. Of course he would not protest her resignation. He would accept it, perhaps grateful that she had come up with a way to save face and walk away from her command without question. There would be no one left to contest him, no barriers to the absolute control he had always wanted.

_And I can go home_, she thought. _Away from all this, back to Lanarsk Prime. I can attempt to become myself again_. She could take Markus home to his mother, and hold Lizhbeta Klem as they mourned the man they had both loved.

"The Navy is yours, sir," she said. The words _I don't want it_ hung unspoken between them.

"Thank you, Shelarne," he replied gravely. Then that strange expression crossed his face again as he looked at her. Viraess felt a chill as she suddenly put a name to it: _hunger._ "I respect your decision. But do not think that your duty to the Empire is ended with your resignation."

"Sir?" The room seemed freezing, the silk of her shirt icy against the back of her neck.

"An Empire needs an Emperor, Shelarne. The High Command is finished. It is time for me to take my father's name and rule as I should have done all along."

In silence, she waited. She knew there was more.

"But an Emperor needs an Empress," he continued softly.

With that, Viraess looked up at him. Past the smooth, handsome features to the cold ambition and barely masked desire in his eyes.

_I should have known there was no way out_, she thought, and forced herself to keep her head high. He would not see her despair, or her sudden fear. "I don't know what to say, sir," she managed at last, knowing how weak the words sounded. But she felt she should say anything to prolong the moment, to give her the time to think of some way to escape.

She knew there was none, however.

"There are only two things you can say, Shelarne," Kezler replied. "Yes, or no."

Too well did she know what a denial would cost her. To refuse such a request could lead only to death. _Are there fates worse than death?_ she thought, and wanted to give a despairing laugh. Perhaps she had read that somewhere, but she had survived what Matteson had forced on her, and since then had always thought the notion antiquated and foolish. And Kezler was no Matteson, after all. He was offering her what he no doubt thought was the highest honor he could give.

She thought suddenly of the Jedi Skywalker, and the calm compassion he had showed her. Certainly she should have hated him because of who he was, but she'd discovered she could not. He had given friendship and expected nothing in return. And he had given her one more gift -- the understanding that an enemy didn't always have to remain an enemy.

Perhaps if she consented to rule at Kezler's side she could bring some peace to the galaxy -- perhaps she could help him to understand that it didn't have to be all or nothing between the Empire and the New Republic. Perhaps she could finally find some way to reclaim her lost honor by pursuing an end to a conflict that had already claimed so many lives.

Viraess reached out and placed her hand in Kezler's. His fingers felt smooth and warm, and she felt them tighten on her own as he appeared to realize what the gesture meant. She smiled at him, and watched his lips slowly lift in return.

"Yes," she said.


End file.
