A Lesson in Trust

[Lúka Jibral]

Of all the adjustments that Lúka had made since leaving the Black Archives, his accommodations were the strangest, and hardest to adapt to. His interactions with the Cadets were enticing challenges, offering a sense of fulfilment that he had not truly understood he was lacking until now. Exposure to so many people each day was tiring, but it came with a satisfaction that outstripped any downsides. But coming home to an apartment, even one as small and spartan as one purchased on Coruscant with a military budget, was deeply strange. There was a window. A view. Streets full of speeders whizzing by. A city full of people to observe and watch. There was space for more than just the uniform on his back and his mandatory military-issue toiletries. This was not a place where someone merely slept: it was a place where someone lived.

Therein was the problem. Despite there being space for souvenirs, mementos, and belongings, Lúka possessed none. Everything from before his time with the Empire and the Archives was gone - not to mention heretical Jedi contraband - and everything since was so deeply classified that it had forgotten the light of day even existed. It was fitting, he supposed, for a former apprentice of the Jedi Order to find himself so devoid of personal belongings and attachments; but instead of feeling appropriate, it felt wrong.

Who am I?

The question nagged at him as he slid his keycard into the lock, the doorway sliding open to admit him into the darkness of his home. It nagged at him as he stepped in side, halting as he always did at the edge of the pool of brightness the lights from the hallway cast. It nagged at him even as a brow furrowed, Force attuned senses detecting something strange and out of place in his surroundings. He reached out, mind fumbling through the darkness as if blindfolded, until it stumbled on an unsettling and familiar presence lurking in the shadows.

An inventory of the only belongings Lúka did possess ran through his mind. Weapons, mostly, strategically positioned around the living space, in paranoid preparation for a moment such as this.

"So much for security locks," he spoke into the black, carefully modulating his voice into it's usual calm.

[Khalid]

A flame flickered in the distant shadows, casting a small aura of light that illuminated deep and haggard features. In a moment it was gone, replaced with a simple dim red point of light, that flared brighter as a deep drag was taken from the deathstick attached. The intruder pulled it from his mouth, watching it with idle curiosity as he rolled it back and forth between his fingers, a momentary age passing before a breath unleashed a cloud of sickly sweet fungal smoke into the air before him.

"You know that I have neither the time nor patience for locks or privacy, Agent Jibral."

Each word he uttered was savoured slowly, breathed out of ancient, faintly wheezing lungs, the edges grated into rough rasps by the addles of deathstick abuse upon his body.

"The only security I care about is that of the galaxy."

The deathstick returned to his mouth, another drag taken as the intruder reached across to the table beside him, triggering the controls on a shadeless lamp. Jibral's apartment was immediately beset with harsh shadows from the unfiltered light source, stretching out across the carpeted floor towards Lúka's island of bright safety as if they were creatures at the intruder's command. His eyes glinted with unspoken malice as he surveyed the Imperial Knight, an unnerving smile tugging at his sunken jowls and wrinkled features.

"My apologies. Knight Jibral."

There was a note of mirth and silent laughter in the intruder's voice, the tone of a Titan stepping down from the heavens to play among the tribes of mortals that scurried around at his feet.

"I hear the Minister of the Interior recommended you for Knighthood himself. Quite the political ally you have acquired for yourself."

[Lúka Jibral]

"Entirely of his own volition, I'm sure," Lúka countered, barely managing to summon up the requisite patience.

This was not his first encounter with this mysterious figure, though it was the first time the man had approached Lúka directly: other times, Lúka had merely been present when one of his associates from the Black Archives and beyond had been the subject of the man's attentions. He'd heard him called by many names. At the Archives he had been referred to as the Benefactor, or by the codename Chimera. Mal'achi Ath-Thu'ban referred to him by a number of colourful alternatives; though never to his face, of course. Lúka had engaged in research of his own, hunting through datafiles and department records dating back as far as the dawn of Palpatine's reign as Chancellor of the Republic. As best he could glean, the closest approximation of a real name was "Khalid", and even that was likely an alias.

While past associates may have had the patience for games and spycraft such as this, Lúka did not. If something was required of him, so be it; but all this obfuscation that delayed him from understanding the nature of the task at hand spawned a spear of frustration that stabbed at the core of his being. Perhaps Khalid knew; the same kind of comprehension and manipulation that Lúka had begun to employ upon his students. He wondered if Khalid too saw the actions as benevolence, or if the man somehow took a kind of strange enjoyment from toying with others.

"I presume this is not a social visit." His words were clipped but precise, not rushed but still undercut with urgent impatience. "Perhaps it would be best to brief me, so that you can leave before you are discovered."

[Khalid]

The smile on Khalid's expression faded, disappointment taking it's place as Lúka refused to engage with his playful banter. A sigh escaped, and the deathstick was plucked from his mouth again, pressed and extinguished against the table beside him, the half-smoked remnant left discarded beside the illuminated lamp.

"Very well."

A datapad was lifted from Khalid's lap, and placed carefully upon the arm of the chair, a moment spent carefully straightening it to align just right with the edges of the leatherette block. Khalid didn't need to browse through it, all the details committed to memory; and Lúka would have the opportunity to review it himself, in due time.

"As you know, the contents of the Black Archives have been fully evacuated from the facility in the Maw, and moved to -" A pause. "- an undisclosed location."

Jibral was acutely aware of this fact. As custodian of the Archives, he had been overseeing the deconstruction of the asteroid facility, stowing and securing all of the prototypes, experiments, and subjects that the Archives had accumulated over the decades. To preserve the security of so many valuable and potentially dangerous assets, Agent Jibral had of course been kept in the dark about where the Black Archives were now be located: something that, if Khalid understood correctly, had been a source of considerable frustration to the man. He supposed that he might have reacted the same way, had he found himself in such a situation; and regardless, that lack of disclosure had not impacted Jibral's performance of his duties. It did however make this briefing somewhat problematic, and Khalid had almost considered directing this assignment to a different asset. But no: Lúka was the best choice. The only choice, truth be told.

"While in transit, one of the transport ships carrying certain Black Archives items was attacked and boarded by dissidents."

Not the only time, either; though unlike the incident with the Anathema, these thieves had merely been opportunists, blundering across an Imperial transport with no true understanding of what it was they had found. Even so, it left Khalid with deep concerns about the security measures that were being taken; but such decisions were beyond his scope and influence. He was a benefactor, an ally, a fixer who greased the wheels of politics towards his own ends. The Black Archives were something that had held his interest, and so he imposed himself in their operation, making himself an invaluable resource; but ultimately the decisions, and the failures, were someone else's to make.

"A number of items were stolen before the boarders were successfully repulsed. One item of particular is of concern to us."

It was all the information that Khalid was willing to provide himself; the datapad held a little more, but specific details were necessarily withheld. That was why Jibral's personal involvement was so important: unlike anyone else that Khalid could have called upon, Jibral would surely know the item in question when he saw it. No need to allow written copies of such details to exist; and no need for Jibral to know in advance, lest he be captured and forced to reveal information before successfully securing the item.

Khalid rose, levering his tired bones out of the seat. He slouched as he walked, as if his shoulders were too weighed down by his nondescript suit to achieve the kind of posture that might bely a background in the military. He stepped forward in slow, tedious paces, hesitating as he found himself beside Jibral to delve into his pocket and retrieve another deathstick from a battered cardboard wrapper. As the 'stick settled between his lips, and another match struck into life to light it, he took a moment to offer a note of parting wisdom.

"You might require some assistance with this. Perhaps your new position will be of some use."

[Jeryd Redsun]

In the two months since his fateful lesson with Knight Jibral, Jeryd had transformed. Gone was the seething antisocial recruit with a chip on his shoulder the size of a Star Destroyer, and, in his place, there was a positive motivated cadet, hellbent on being the very best in his class – the very best in the Citadel. But it hadn’t been easy: from the stubborn immovable boulder that had been his old self, the new Jeryd was carved, chiselled, day-by-day, one tiny fragment at a time. Sometimes, he looked in the mirror, only to find whole pieces of himself missing, and it gave him pause, to reconsider the path he was taking, and weigh the cost against the man taking shape before him, sculpted from hard work and sacrifice.

He traced it all back to that hard-earned lesson in humility – that’s what Knight Jibral called it – when the walls of his denial had been finally fractured, allowing reality to seep in. Slowly, thereafter, and painfully, the walls began to crumble. Whatever warped and twisted capacity in which he was doomed to serve the Empire, he reminded himself, he would do it to the best of his ability. He'd make them all proud: his father, his mother, his brother... himself. All that remained was to forge his words into reality. And, it was as the old saying went: easier said, than done.

First, he returned to the dorm, alone. Next, he tried to hurl something across the room in the same way he’d thrown his instructor and superior officer to the ground – a bed, a footlocker, a shoe, anything – but despite all his red-faced grunting and constipated exertions, nothing moved, not an inch. Later, he revisited the exercise, attempting to the replicate the same conditions that yielded success the first time around with Knight Jibral; anger was a path to power, he understood that now, and it came hand-in-hand with failure, but it was never enough. Slaps to the face, bites to the arm, punches to the testicles – whatever it took to boil the blood and focus the mind to a knife’s edge, to rediscover the thought process that granted him power beyond the common man.

Of course, being the proud and private sort that he was, Jeryd could not tolerate the idea of his fellow cadets bearing witness to him struggling and failing to float a credit chit across a room, so, whenever they were around, he’d retreat to the ‘fresher, and continue his work in private. Crowds gathered with alarming regularity to bear witness to all the anguished grunts, the painful yelling, and the howls of frustration that drifted out of that solitary cubicle, giving rise to both concerns for Jeryd’s dietary habits, and rumours of his sordid kinks. And it was during one of those prolonged ‘fresher straining sessions, that history repeated itself, and Jeryd’s fortunes changed.



####


“Come on, guys. You know I didn’t do it on purpose.” That was Nebbil’s voice, and there was a nervous flutter to it that Jeryd recognised at once. He heard a scuffle of feet, followed by a heavy thud, “Ow! Jeez!”

“Get up, you little snot!” He recognised that voice, too. Gorm Jolee, the Iridonian brute who took perverse pleasure in making Nebbil Hoob’s miserable existence just a delicious fraction more unbearable. In his mind’s eye, Jeryd could see his broad sneer, his cruel eyes, and the faces of his ever-present sidekicks, Algosh Moll, and Tyrell Catanna. At the sound of their voices, phantom pain blossomed all over his body.

“Double P.T.” said one.

“Two weeks of ‘fresher duty,” said the other.

“Allow us to show you are appreciation, Cadet Hoob…” There was a note of anticipation in Gorm’s words, which was punctuated by the heavy packing sound of fist meeting flesh. From inside the safety of his cubicle, Jeryd heard Nebbil’s feeble whimper as he went down, and it was more than he could take. He took a deep breath to force down the nerves, then threw open the door of his cubicle. The sudden clang of metal drew the attention of the thugs.

“That’s enough, Jolee. Leave him alone.”

“Look who it is, boys!” Gorm brightened in a way that made his stomach turn, “Now, isn’t this familiar?”

Crumpled on the floor, behind Gorm and his friends, Nebbil nursed his side, heaving with every breath. A thin ribbon of blood ran from his nose to his chin, and speckled the tiles red. He was a pitiful sight, a sight that made Jeryd’s fingernails bite into his palms. With a nod, he said, “Do you know who he is?”

“Yeah,” Tyrell chimed in, “He’s the gutter rat that’s making our lives hell because he can’t lace his own blasted boots!”

“He’s the grandson of CT-2468. One of the best clone troopers who ever lived. Show some respect!”

The laughter was sudden and explosive. While the trio reeled from their amusement, Jeryd glanced at Nebbil, “Get up, and go.”

Gorm snapped out of it at once, “He’s not going anywhere. Now, you run along, princess. You remember what happened last time.”

Algosh and Tyrell moved into formation with all the uniform grace of ace starfighter pilots, flanking their smirking leader. Jeryd braced himself. How they had not been cast out of the programme altogether baffled him. He took a step towards Nebbil, “That’s not going to-”

A low rumble, like a surge of wind, barrelled towards him from behind. It lifted him from his feet, twisted him through the air, and slammed him into the wall, where he was deposited in a heap next to Nebbil.

“No. Not again…” Nebbil was on his feet, scrambling into the place between Jeryd and his attacker. Another rush of air, and Nebbil was on his arse again.

“Is anyone else getting a sense of déjà vu?” Gorm was enjoying himself, and it looked like his boys wanted a piece of the action, too. Algosh moved in, aiming a heavy boot for Jeryd’s midsection. There was no satisfying crunch; the kick was stopped short, and Jeryd, with one hand on his ankle, and the other on his toe, wrenched his entire leg to the left. There were a series of sharp clicks, and Algosh fell to the floor with a cry.

“You bantha-breeding scum!”

No time was wasted in the retaliation. Before he could right himself, Jeryd found himself pinned against the wall by, what felt like, a rancor’s fist. The breathless cough forced up from his lungs was crimson and wet. From beneath all that weight, his heart thumped violently. Despite the noise, and the pain, and the panic, a memory surfaced on the rising tide of fear.

You know what to do… It’s an instinct…

Suddenly, he remembered. Even as Tyrell moved in to lay blows upon his body, he was transported back to the classroom, to that pivotal moment, when Knight Jibral turned a weapon on him. This was the feeling. He understood. At last, he understood. Anger, alone, wasn’t enough. It made him strong, but he was a blunt instrument, flailing wildly, with all the futility of a marksman trying to score a bullseye with a boulder. And he was done trying. It was fear – that’s what made him sharp, that honed his senses into a pinpoint. Anger gave him the strength, fear gave him control.

Stop thinking… Stop trying…

That was it. The final piece of the puzzle. His head was flushed of all thought, and not from the fist that had just connected with his chin. The pain was a dull buzz, like adrenaline, and all that remained was the feeling. There it was: the Force. He remembered everything, and finally, those words made perfect sense. All this time, he’d been trying, when all he had to do… was do.

It was like a bomb went off. Gorm, Algosh, and Tyrell caught the brunt of the blast, and were hurled across the room. Into the tiled walls, into the sinks, and into the cubicles they scattered, landing broken, like ragdolls. In the fresh silence, the anger dissipated, and Jeryd heaved a sigh of relief. Nebbil, who surveyed the chaotic scene with wordless shock, turned at last to Jeryd, and offered him his small sweaty hand. “Thanks, man.”

“You can thank me…” Jeryd accepted the hand, and rose with a grunt, “By learning to lace your boots.”



####


That was how he and little Nebbil Hoob finally became friends. Nebbil Hoob, of all people: the first to get chewed out and the last to finish circuit training. They started from the ground up, quite literally, with the proper lacing and polishing of boots; they folded sheets, practiced drills, stripped rifles, and even cleaned the ‘freshers together. It was a long and arduous process, but, little-by-little, Nebbil Hoob started to resemble something like a model cadet, and, so too, did Jeryd.

Though the rest of the cadets kept their distance, Jeryd started to watch them; he saw how Kass Pheridae took extraordinary care with her uniform, but struggled to keep time during drills, and he noticed the way Tolomy Pash allowed his shoulder to drop a fraction before every shot, robbing his rifle of vital pressure; Thida needed to increase her energy intake, and Terk Wombley’s PT shorts were too tight for squats. He saw, in each of them, the desire to do better - this band of misshapen undisciplined misfits, ripped from their lives to be forged in the unforgiving furnace of the Imperial machine – they wanted to be the best, just like him.

It was no longer enough to be the best, he realised. In opening himself up to the Force, the Force had, in turn, opened him up to the people around him, colouring them in a light beyond the spectrum of his understanding. He could feel them – in his head or his heart, he couldn't be sure – he felt their hopes, their dreams, their fears, as real to him as his own. It was not enough to be the best. To be the best, alone, was meaningless. But together? That was the real victory. It was what the Empire was all about.

Life at the Imperial Citadel was changing. Jeryd was changing. Flight instruction with Baron Ketterzau remained a highpoint, and Lady Vissica’s rare appearances continued to terrorise; Jeryd’s private collection of Baastian Cain paraphernalia was growing, and his loathing of Kyle Rayner… well, it was still loathing, but in a healthier, more competitive sort of way. Rayner was skilled, and set a high standard for him to beat, and when he finally does get to beat him, Jeryd will shake his hand, then dance in his face. And, sure, there were times when it felt like he was enduring the grind of basic training all over again, and then, there were times when it was completely different: being asked to meditate on the Force in a room full of people never failed to make him feel stupid and self-conscious. But throughout it all, there had been one constant that had kept him on task, pushed him when he needed it, and inspired him to be better; the person who, perhaps, saw in him something no-one else could see.

So, it was with a familiar thrill of excitement, and trepidation, that he arrived outside Knight Jibral’s office and pushed the buzzer.

[Lúka Jibral]

The datapad that Khalid had provided was held in Jibral's hands, but his thoughts were elsewhere, delving through old texts and training manuals that had been catalogued and recorded in the back corners of his mind. They spoke of all sorts of concepts that Lúka had drawn upon during his time here at the Citadel; but right now the passage that lingered in his mind was drawn from a letter composed by a Director of Republic Intelligence to a new graduating class. Armand Isard spoke of how despite appearances, Intelligence was just as much a form of warfare as any other. There were still battles, adversaries, strategies, tactics; and above all, the war against secrets waged by Intelligence Agents was just as reliant on allies as any other campaign. The difference, he said, Is that we call our allies 'assets'. Cultivating your assets, just like forging strong alliances, will be essential to your success; and to the Empire's continued victory.

Jibral's thoughts dwelt on that notion. In the past it had been somewhat comforting to think of the world around him in the terms that Intelligence Officers used. When the world was compartmentalised, and when the people within it were nothing but assets, or targets, or persons of interest, there was no complication. No attachment. In the isolation of the Black Archives, that had seemed easy for the most part; but here at the Citadel things had changed. His success no longer hinged on his detachment from his subjects: it now rested on his investment in his students. If one reaped what one sowed, then the successful training of each Cadet relied upon the effort and interest and subjective attention that they were afforded. While his mind still assessed them analytically, while he still strove to maximise performance scores and assessment grades across the board, achieving those ends required him to consider Cadets not as numbers or names in a data set, but as individuals with individual data and their own personal needs. Perhaps that was not the way that an ordinary mind would perceive a person; but for Lúka, it was about as close as he got.

The Cadet currently summoning Jibral's attention was one whose potential far outweighed many of his peers, and one for whom Lúka saw the greatest return on the investment of time and attention that he paid. That was to say that the Cadet was one of his favourites, and that the progress Jeryd Redsun had been making these last months had become a point of satisfaction and pride. It was an odd feeling, and it made matters complicated. Right now, Lúka was not in the market for a favoured pupil: he needed an asset, for a mission that would likely pose a not insignificant amount of danger; and his mind had begun to struggle as it sought to rationalise Redsun the person and Redsun the asset into the same individual.

"Come in," Lúka called, setting down the datapad and adjusting his sitting position into something a little more comfortable. He mustered a smile for the Cadet as he entered - nothing too outlandish, but Jeryd seemed to respond well when Lúka behaved as if pleased to see him. He gestured for the Cadet to join him in the seat opposite, hoping that perhaps this time they'd overcome the hurdle of Redsun's protocol-bound need to remain standing until forcibly instructed not to.

Lúka reached across the desk, grabbing a bottle of purified water and cracking the seal. "So," Lúka asked, retrieving two glasses from the drawer in his desk, and pouring out the water as if he was serving whiskey. "How is Cadet Moll's ankle?" A slight pause. A slight flicker of a restrained smile. "And Cadet Jolee's pride?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Healing, sir," Jeryd said, with a rebellious curl in the corner of his mouth, "Slowly, but surely."

Inside the single beat of silence, a feeling of deepest satisfaction crystallised from a thousand unspoken words; they passed like an electric current through the air, charging the space around them. Jeryd could not properly convey his gratitude for everything that Knight Jibral had done for him - not in words, at least - words were soft malleable gestures that lost meaning with time. But his actions, on the other hand, each one was a commitment, to honour the lessons learned and make good on his superior officer's generous investment. To celebrate his victory together, no matter how quietly and restrained, was an opportunity to be relished.

It was strange, Jeryd thought, to forego the formality of being instructed to take a seat. In protocol, he found comfort, and refuge from the ever-present risk of making a complete fool of himself. Out of the rigid shade of military procedure, he was more awkward than he cared to admit, not from a lack of confidence, but, perhaps, because he didn't know how to act any other way. Of course, he took the gesture for what it was: an invitation to make himself feel welcome. And, to finally break the old habit, it felt good. For the most fleeting of instants, it made him imagine a future where he and Knight Jibral were peers - old friends, even - shooting the breeze over a glass of Corellian brandy.

As it was, however, they were not old friends, and there was no Corellian brandy in the glass he received. Before taking his first sip, the glass was raised, a curt gesture of thanks - the Imperial officer was nothing, if not a gentleman. No, the reason Jeryd was sitting in Knight Jibral's office was because he had been summoned there. That, in itself, was no strange occurrence: he had been summoned on several previous occasions, to evaluate his progress, in the wake of their first private lesson together. But there was something about this particular summons that struck him as odd; the timing was irregular, it felt different. Perhaps it showed, for the glass had scarcely left his lips when he said:

"Sir, I have to admit, I was surprised by your summons. Is this another performance review?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka mustered a frown to counteract his impending smile. He liked that about the Cadet - or at least, the version of the Cadet that had been slowly evolving these last few weeks. Jeryd noticed things. He observed a discrepancy and, knowing that he was free to question things in Jibral's presence, he asked. He didn't merely sit in silence and wait for the answer to occur. He didn't falter with indecision over whether a question was appropriate. It was a mindset that the Cadet would do well to preserve. The Empire was served better by people who pressed for answers than those too lazy or inattentive to seek them.

"In a manner of speaking."

The faintest pang of regret jabbed Lúka in the stomach. He had no desire to mislead the Cadet; and yet that was something the situation required. It was a matter of operational security, not malicious intent; but that rationalisation did not seem to abate the reluctance any. His only solace was that, when Lúka did have the opportunity to be honest, the reality of the situation would outweigh any of the Cadet's disappointment at being lied to. Now was not such an opportunity, however. Now, they were within the Citadel, where privacy was something of an illusion. This was not a place where one could trust that a clandestine conversation would go unheard.

His brow furrowed a little deeper, considerable effort invested in making the cover story as convincing as possible. Another learned trick was employed: concealing a lie behind layers of truth; minor admissions to distract from the deception being perpetrated.

"I joined the Imperial Knights on a recommendation from the Minister of the Interior. As you know, COMPNOR falls under the Minister's jurisdiction, and a class from one of their preparatory schools is due to graduate. Many of its students are about to progress into basic training with the military and the Security Bureau; and some might perhaps find themselves here at the Citadel one day, as prospective recruits for the Knights."

That much was entirely true, and was the basis for the cover story that Khalid had arranged. It was perhaps a little unnerving that the mysterious figure was able to call in a favour from the Minister of the Interior; but from what little Lúka knew and understood, Khalid's currency of choice was exchanged favours, and his claws sank into a great many things. Perhaps time would be dedicated later to considering what the Minister might have gained in exchange, or what leverage Khalid needed to spend to get his way; but not now.

"The Minister has asked that I attend the school's graduation ceremony to convey the importance of the Knights in the Empire's new hierarchy; and that I select and bring my most promising Cadet, to meet with the students."

Lúka stopped fighting his smile, and let it form.

"It was not a difficult choice."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The surprise started at his eyebrows, raised in twin peaks that lifted the rest of his face with them; his eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth pulled away, making him smile before he could stop himself. That was not cool. For a fraction of a second, his gaze drifted off to the corner of the room, enough to pull him out of the moment and turn him into a professional, again. He allowed for a tactical clearing of the throat, and still managed to fumble his words:

"That... I'm... Thank you, sir."

Thereafter, it was difficult to see beyond the glow of being declared Knight Jibral's most promising cadet. He was working hard. He wanted to be the best. There was nothing wrong with taking satisfaction in the acknowledgement of a job well done. And, if Knight Jibral was pleased, he was pleased. Beyond that, there were ramifications to consider, in the wake of an unexpected new assignment.

So, they were to attend a graduation ceremony at the request of the Minister of the Interior, himself. It was not unknown to Jeryd that Knight Jibral was, in some way, associated with the Minister. When he learned that his superior officer had once been some sort of Jedi apprentice, he struggled to reconcile that sordid sort of detail with the man who taught him to be strong, to be resourceful, and loyal - a man he respected. From that moment on, every time he had access to a computer terminal, he dedicated time to researching Jibral, and, every time, there was nothing. The only concrete piece of information he discovered about him was that he had indeed joined the Imperial Knights on the recommendation of the Minister, but, even then, the details were elusive. But, if anything, this latest turn of events revealed that Knight Jibral and the Ministor of the Interior were still associates. That put his superior officer in the company of some very powerful people, indeed.

The thought didn't do much to alleviate the growing concerns that were starting to put his stomach in a spin. Jeryd had walked the straight and narrow path of Imperial education, he passed into the academy and excelled in every field, he graduated, and was on course for a superlative career as an officer in the Imperial Army. That was, until fate switched the sabacc cards at the last moment, and his entire world, as he knew it, was turned upside down. The broken and scattered fragments of his old life had been gathered up, and rebuilt into something new, something better. But he could not deny his suffering. Could he stand before people like him, young men and women, each harbouring the same hope as he had, to serve in the Imperial military, and pretend the turmoil of change did not exist? What would he say to them? He was no good with words. Shit.

"Sir, when is the graduation ceremony taking place?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka was afraid of this. No, not afraid, such an imprecise idiom: Lúka was cognisant of this possibility.

He was lucky to have such a reliable alibi provided by the Minister of the Interior. Really, as clandestine missions went, they didn't get much better than unofficial requests from a figure of such repute. But the content of it had given him pause. Cadet Redsun was a man driven to excel, who seemed to regard anything less as an abject failure. While Lúka had no reservations describing him as his most promising Cadet - that was a fairly robust objective assessment - he did have reservations about misleading the Cadet into believing he was about to speak before a collection of malleable young minds. Not only would Jeryd elevate the situation to one of extreme importance, he would also dedicate time and focus into preparing himself; perfecting himself; only to have it all be for naught when it was revealed to be only a falsehood. It felt almost cruel.

Lúka tried his best to stall and deflect.

"It will take a few days of travel," he explained, allowing a complicated smile to form on his lips: part knowing, part sympathetic, part reassuring. "Which means there will be plenty of time to discuss your talking points on the way."

The smile grew a little. Lúka leaned back in his chair, sipping at his water to distract himself from it.

"In other words, worry about it later. I would not have selected you for this if I was not absolutely certain that you were capable and prepared."

That much was true, of the real mission as much as the fraudulent one. Lúka may have been short on allies, yes, but even so: short of a squad of veteran Stormtroopers, Jeryd was as capable an option as he could ask for. Excellent test scores. Impressive hand-to-hand skills, and blaster range ratings. An analytical mind. A dedication to duty. A respect for authority. Lúka even knew what Jeryd was capable of in a dire situation: knew that pressure made him stronger, not vulnerable. Other Cadets might have been cavalier, or reckless, or otherwise problematic, but Jeryd Redsun was that most important of things.

Reliable.

"For now, just relish the opportunity; and think of how good a favour for the Minister is going to look in your service record."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Yes, sir." While his fears had not been addressed, per se, they had certainly been deferred. There was still time, and Knight Jibral's vote of confidence was enough to bolster Jeryd's own self-confidence. In the here and now, it was enough to put his mind at ease, and though he was careful not to grin like a giddy schoolgirl, there was a brightness to his expression when he said, "Thank you for this opportunity."

Through an open window came the rhythmic drumming of a hundred heavy boots double-timing it around the Citadel. On the other side of the closed door, a droid burbled feverishly as it drifted past, and in the neighbouring office, some unfortunate soul was on the receiving end of a ferocious dressing-down. It felt like home - not the dysfunctional crucible of paternal disappointment where he grew up - his real home. And Knight Jibral, he'd reminded him what it felt like to be a part of it. He pushed the last of his concerns aside. If their mission parameters required him to perform an elaborate cabaret act, complete with a wig and gold bikini, then, by Stars, he'd get up on that stage and think of the Empress.

The sudden spark of amusement was buried behind his glass. He took one last sip, and said:

"When do we leave, sir?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"That entirely depends, Cadet."

That wasn't entirely true. While their mission - both cover and actual - did call for the exclusive use of a shuttle, and while Imperial Knights were granted a certain degree of liberty and freedom in their comings and goings, the mission began with a departure from Coruscant: and Imperial Center was anything but accommodating to variation and discrepancy. Things were not as bad as they might have been when the Imperial Senate still existed, but the planet's airspace and starspace still remained one of the more congested flight paths in the galaxy. Yes, an Imperial Knight could transmit their credentials to Control, and have the lower priority orbital traffic inconvenienced on their behalf; but such things drew attention, and that was the last thing that their voyage needed. Perhaps it could be dismissed as the hubris or impatience of a self-entitled Knight; but it was not a complication that Lúka was prepared to court.

Fortunately, Lúka had studied his asset closely; knew what he was capable of; could predict his actions and reactions. He knew the answer to his question before he even asked.

"How quickly can you be ready?



####


The landspeeder came to a gentle halt a few feet short of the edge of the landing platform. There were alternatives much closer to the Citadel itself, and Imperial personnel were more than happy - or at least, more than obligated - to move transport ships into position for a Knight's use. It had always seemed like a wasteful exercise to Knight Jibral: fuel that needn't be burned, inconvenience provided to Imperial crewmen who sought nothing but to serve their Empire. It also earned them valuable distance before their journey began: away from prying eyes, and unwanted scrutiny.

Lúka swung open the gull wing door of the passenger compartment, and stepped out onto the reinforced duracrete. In an ideal world he would have driven them here himself, eliminating yet another human variable from the mission in the form of their driver. Unfortunately, the Delta-class T-3c looming ominously ahead of them lacked the cargo space for a speeder such as this to be stowed; someone would have to drive it back to the repulsor pool after they departed.

Having spent a moment to surveil the landing platform, Lúka turned towards the speeder's cargo compartment, only to find the driver already loading their luggage into Cadet Redsun's waiting arms. He wanted to protest; wanted to carry his own luggage himself; cringed internally at the implication that he was too important to do such menial things for himself. He knew such thoughts were projections, though - knew that Redsun acted out of eagerness and propriety only. Swallowing his reluctance, Lúka rooted himself to the spot, offering a curt nod of dismissal to the driver as he swung the cargo compartment closed with a clunk, leapt back into the speeder, and rumbled off towards the Citadel.

A beat of silence passed, until Lúka was certain that the speeder was long gone. One last subtle glance was taken at his surroundings, before he reached into a pocket and pulled out a comlink - not the one that the Imperial Knights had issued, but a more easily concealed and seemingly benign alternative - and clicked it on.

"Ivy, what's our status?"

[Ivy]

Ivy did not reply by comlink. The transmission was safe, and carefully calibrated to avoid notice by the Citadel's detection, but it was a needless risk. Transmissions of any kind presented a vulnerability. A risk to mission security. Disappointing. Prior encounters suggested that Unit Jibral was programmed better.

The super tactical droid descended from the Delta T-3c with slow, methodical purpose, dactyl manipulators clasped behind him in accordance with his Separatist programming. Despite the extensive changes that first Republic R&D and later the Black Archives had made to his operating system, many of his base behavioural subroutines remained intact. During the Clone Wars, it had been a deliberate effort towards espionage: a droid capable of moving seamlessly among the Confederate forces while working towards a Republic agenda. For the Empire however, the retention of such mannerisms seemed far less logical. He had queried this with one of his technicians once. The response had been frustratingly pedestrian.

Aesthetic.

The precise distance between the base of the ramp and Unit Jibral was calculated, and divided into equal segments. The interval of Ivy's strides was modulated accordingly, ensuring that he would reach the Imperial Knight at the completion of his final stride. His ocular receptors aimed at the comlink device in Unit Jibral's hand for a brief moment, before orientating themselves to focus on the Unit's face directly. A sufficient time delay was added, which Ivy calculated would accurately convey his dismay.

"I have scanned the shuttle and the surrounding area for surveillance devices. There are none."

The droid's head cocked to the side slightly: a mannerism inherited from Geonosian programmers, to whom it conveyed momentary contemplation.

"We may speak freely."

Ivy turned, focusing his sensors on the additional Unit that was present. A coded transmission from Unit Jibral identified the Cadet as Unit Redsun, and additionally explained that he was a newer Unit: one who had not yet been adequately customised with the appropriate preferences and security protocols. Ivy lamented the slow manner with which human Units were able to adapt their base code to account for new parameters: Unit Redsun would have to be reprogrammed manually, one verbal line of code at a time.

The droid's gaze shifted to the armful of luggage the Cadet was carrying. A utility Unit, it seemed. Perhaps that would be of some benefit to their mission.

"You are taller than I expected, Unit Redsun."

It was a valid statement. Ivy had been under the impression that newer human Units were significantly shorter in stature.

"The area designated for cargo is this way. You will follow."

Without another word, Ivy's motivator limbs paced through a quick half-circle, and the droid strode off back towards the shuttle.

[Jeryd Redsun]

For a moment, Jeryd watched, in stunned silence, as Ivy departed. Had he just received an order from a droid? Judging by the heavy clunk of his feet and the sharp firing of servos, it was probably in his best interest to just do as he was told. Yet he remained, staring at strange looming droid, and the unusual shuttle - a Delta-class T-3c, if he remembered correctly - both an uncommon sight in Imperial space, these days. Perhaps his feet felt compelled to remain, sensing, much like every other fibre of his body, that there was something not quite right about this set up. His gaze narrowed, creasing his youthful face into a frown.

"Did he just call me..." Before the words tumbled out, he stopped himself, and shook it off with bemusement. That was when he pressed on, but not before he stole a sideways glance at Knight Jibral, and then, a double-take. His expression was calm, almost vacant, but Jeryd could've sworn he'd just seen him smiling. Side-by-side, they advanced up the boarding ramp, into the belly of the sleek and angular black shuttle. "He's one of those old Separatist droids. The intelligent ones. He was a commander... sir."

Drunk on surprise and admiration, Jeryd almost forgot himself. An hour ago, he was bracing himself for another tedious lecture on politics and the ethics of military intervention, now he was beyond the walls of the Citadel, boarding a stealth shuttle, with an Imperial Knight and a tactical droid, to carry out a mission from the Minister of the Interior, himself. It was difficult not to get swept up in it all. Even if something seemed amiss. The non-regulation communicator, the droid, and the talk of surveillance equipment and being able to speak freely. Why so much secrecy? Perhaps Knight Jibral was afraid someone was going to try stealing his speech, Jeryd thought, with a smirk.

One the bags were deposited in the cargo hold, Jeryd turned on the spot, to inspect the smart interior of the shuttle. If the familiarity with which Ivy spoke to Knight Jibral was any indication, the droid belonged to him, which begged the question:

"Sir, is this your ship?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"It is the Citadel's shuttle."

The answer was offered casually: not a correction, merely a clarification. Lúka watched for a moment as Jeryd surveyed his surroundings, before following suit. The shuttle's interior was much the same as every other craft of his class. On this lower deck, the walls were lined with crash seats: places for a small contingent of Troopers to sit in minimal comfort, safely segregated from the flight crew in the cockpit on the level above, ready to charge into the heat of battle without posing any danger to pilot or crew. In a way, it reminded him of the old Nu-class attack shuttles that the Grand Army of the Republic had used: a ship designed for the transport of prisoners, not the transit of bureaucrats.

There was one exception however: an ominously large yet unassuming cargo container, awkwardly crammed into the back corner of the main hold. Lúka chose to ignore it, turning his attention instead to the ladder that led upwards to the flight controls.

"The Imperial Knights have access to a variety of shuttles and transports," he explained as he climbed; facts Cadet Redsun no doubt knew on some level, though it bore reiteration in the interests of clarity. "Including a handful of more uncommon examples, including Deltas like this one. Some Knights prefer a shuttle like this: something more menacing than the familiar sight of a Lambda. For me, it feels -"

He hesitated for a moment, stepping off the ladder and onto the flight deck, waiting a moment until Jeryd arrived to join him.

"- appropriate."

It was a carefully chosen word: a crafted double entendre. The imposing black hull of the T-3c conformed with the ominous expectations of the Imperial Knights, something Lúka found it advantageous to cultivate; but for this mission in particular, the stealth parameters of the shuttle would prove particularly useful. His brow furrowed, a quiet sigh escaping from him.

"Cadet Red-"

He cut himself off. Paused. Began again.

"Jeryd. I am afraid that I have not been entirely forthcoming about this assignment. We are acting on behalf of the Minister of the Interior, as well as other senior figures within the Empire; but you are not here to serve as an example to a class of students. You are here to assist me in retrieving an item that has been stolen from an Imperial research cache; an item that the Imperial Knights cannot be made aware of, hence my subterfuge."

It was a gamble. A make or break moment. Lúka could have revealed the situation by degrees, allowing the Cadet to acclimate to the truth gradually; but that was a perilous option. Lúka knew how the Cadet thought; knew that anything short of reasonable transparency would not sway Jeryd's opinion. He knew how stubbornly the Cadet could fixate to his beliefs, and how strong an impact it took to dislodge them. If Jeryd was to continue as part of this mission, if Lúka was to continue to trust him, it would need to be tested and proven now, while there was still time for any mistaken decisions to be corrected.

As Lúka studied Jeryd for a reaction, he became acutely aware of the weight of his lightsaber, hanging from his belt.

[Jeryd Redsun]

His name sounded like a warning when it came out of Knight Jibral's mouth. It landed like a cold hand on his shoulder, and, when he heard it, he knew it was time to brace himself. As the truth was revealed, he became very still. Underfoot, fragments of floor were falling away, leaving him with nothing but a tenuous strip of metal on which to balance himself, and a plummeting feeling in the pit of his stomach. The familiar tingle of adrenaline trickled down his arms and legs, electrifying his extremities. Inside his head, the steady rise and fall of his chest sounded like the howling and hissing of great turbulent sea.

"I understand, sir."

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if in agreement with all the grand conclusions slotting together in his mind, like the formidable hull of some monstrous space faring behemoth, made mighty by the sum of its parts. He had been deceived, and now he was being asked to participate in the lie. A chilling thought turned his insides to ice. If he was to deceive the Imperial Knights, was he, by extension, deceiving the Empress herself? No. His allegiance was to the Empire, and, everything he did, and would ever do, was in service to the Empire - including the compartmentalisation of information. Such were the parameters of the mission - his first real mission.

Across from him, Knight Jibral waited, poised for a response that may require a response.

I would not have selected you for this if I was not absolutely certain that you were capable and prepared.

Those were his words.

All around them, panels of computers burbled and whined in curious anticipation. Jeryd took a breath, and mustered a tone of voice, so deadpan, Wilhuff Tarkin himself would've been proud:

"Does this mean I won't be needing my dress uniform, after all?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"Not unless you disclose any of what I'm about to tell you, and we need to bury you in it."

It was delivered as deadpan humour, but there was a dark reality to it as well. Lúka relaxed imperceptibly, his imminent concerns fading slightly; but he remained watchful and observant, studying Jeryd for any indications that the mission might already have been compromised.

Lúka turned away, clambering into the pilot's seat, and gesturing for Jeryd to take the station beside him. It took a few silent moments for him to run the preflight preparations, and coordinate their departure with Citadel Tower: an unfortunate side effect of selecting a craft that wasn't quite suited to Ivy being at the helm. For all of the galaxy's advancement and sophistication, the Clone Wars had shown that a simple ladder remained a surprisingly effective countermeasure against droids.

The shuttle rumbled into life beneath them, repulsorlifts raising it from the duracrete, a clunk echoing through the hold below as the boarding ramp closed itself and the stabiliser fins descended down into flight configuration. Atop the stark black pyramid, Lúka steered them towards the sky, feeling a slight pressure against his seat as the inertial dampeners struggled to compensate for the acceleration. Lúka waited until the inertia had abated, a single stray glance thrown in Jeryd's direction before he spoke again.

"As a Padawan, I was captured by the Inquisitors. After spending time being processed, and having my loyalties adjusted -"

Such a cold and clinical way to describe what had been inflicted upon him. Flashes of memory, or pain and darkness, of anguish and betrayal, clawed at the edges of his thoughts. He didn't push them aside: he drew strength from them, letting the bitterness seep into his bones. Such a waste to repress such things, when they posed such a potent source of potential.

"- I became the custodian of something called the Black Archives: a facility where many of the Empire's clandestine organisations stored dangerous artefacts and rare prototypes. The droid you encountered is one such prototype. Ivy, from the Tionese numerals, was the fourth of several attempts made by the Republic during the Clone Wars to develop an infiltrator to undermine the Separatist Droid Army from within; but the project amounted to little, and Ivy was Archived at the war's end. Our mission is to recover another such item."

The sky beyond the cockpit darkened, blue fading to indigo, and on into black as the atmosphere thinned and faded around them. Lúka subtly adjusted their course and orientation, rotating the craft so that Coruscant was beneath them, their escape trajectory rising ahead of them like a mountain incline.

"After the Starkiller incident, the Treaty that followed rewrote the galaxy's astrography, leaving the Black Archives facility far beyond Imperial borders. It was decided that the facility would be dismantled, and the Archives moved elsewhere. I was reassigned to the Imperial Knights as a security measure: the fewer people who knew of the Archives' new location, the less risk their was of any artefacts or prototypes being intercepted in transit. At least, that was the idea."

There was a faint bitterness to Lúka's words. While his new assignment with the Imperial Knights had proven far more fulfilling than he had ever expected, there was still a certain discomfort that came from knowing that, despite more than a decade of loyal, obedient, exemplary service, you were still deemed insignificant and expendable. Perhaps another man would have protested; perhaps Lúka should have. Something had stopped him; that latent urge that prevented him from disobeying or disagreeing with a directive from Mal'achi Ath-Thu'ban.

"Unfortunately, it seems that while the Black Archives were safeguarded against deliberate acts of espionage, the operatives involved were not quite as prepared for acts of random happenstance. A group of activists saw an opportunity and took it: a nondescript Imperial convoy moving through uncontrolled space. They were repulsed, but not before they could get away with a number of items; one of them potentially quite dangerous. Given my familiarity with the item in question, I have been asked to recover it personally: to inform the Knights of this formally and make it an official mission would risk exposure of countless Intelligence, Security Bureau, and Inquisition projects that the Imperial Knights should not, and do not need to be made aware of."

He turned to Jeryd fully, hoping that his sincerity had managed to convey the situation well enough.

"I cannot tell you what this item is, and I cannot stress this enough: the Knights cannot know it exists. It is in the best interests of the Empire, and the Empress. Is this a secret I can trust you to keep, Jeryd?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

In accepting that he was now involved in a clandestine operation, Jeryd understood there would be things he didn't, and could never know. He was a cadet, not some shadowy agent from ISB. Hells, he hadn't even earned his first plaque, yet. So, when Knight Jibral unleashed upon him a veritable deluge of top secret information, Jeryd sat and listened like a toddler in story corner. Every detail, he absorbed with a fierce attentiveness that came from a place of both sincere interest, and also fear that, once uttered, his superior officer may never say these words again. It was his one chance to understand, to know more beyond the tiny scope of his own comprehension, of the Empire, and the nameless faceless patriots that safeguard its secrets. Men like Knight Jibral.

The way he related the secretive inner-workings of the Empire with events that transpired on the broader galactic stage informed Jeryd he was in the presence of the sort of person who always knew more than he realised. In their time together, Knight Jibral had never given him reason to underestimate him, and yet, clearly, that's exactly what Jeryd had done. He wanted to ask him about the Black Archives, and all the strange and wonderful things he'd seen; on the tip of his tongue, a dozen questions were loaded like proton torpedoes, ready to fire. And, one-by-one, each question was considered, weighed, and disposed of as a dud. He would not insult Knight Jibral, nor betray his trust, with such a display of childish disregard. Because, despite everything he'd said, about the Black Archives, about the droid, about their mission and all the secrets they must withhold from the Imperial Knights, there was one tiny excruciating detail that had become lodged like a splinter in his mind:

I was captured by the Inquisitors.

By his own admission, Knight Jibral had been seized by the men who made people disappear. He had been processed, and had his loyalties... adjusted. Such a sordid euphemism. It made his skin crawl. When Jeryd was a boy, he and everyone his age were kept awake at night by the rumours that lurked in the shadows, by the fear without a name. As he grew up, those fears were dismissed as childish flights of fancy, and the rumours faded into superstition. Then, in recent years, it was revealed that, not only had all of his childhood fears been well-founded, but that they also had a name... Inquisitors. And, just like that, they were gone. As if, in giving breath to their hateful name, they returned to the smoke and the shadow from whence they came. But that, Jeryd realised, was the real make-believe.

When the question was finally asked, he knew at once he'd never have a reason to betray the man before him - his trust was far too important to him.

He gave a nod, "You can trust me, sir."

[Lúka Jibral]

There it was again: that feeling that matched every description Lúka had ever read of pride.

Weeks ago, the man beside him had been nothing but an unrealised punching bag, too buried behind his own stigmas and misconceptions to tap into the supernova of potential that lurked beneath the surface. So much advancement had been made in such a comparatively short time, and while perhaps Jibral had been the key that unlocked the door for that to happen, Redsun had been the one who stormed through it, guns blazing. It wasn't the first time that Lúka had felt this way - not even the first person to be the object of his pride; two of his former charges had that particular honour - but it was the first time he knew for an absolute, undeniable fact that he was feeling it.

This shuttle might have been capable of carrying a full strike team, but Jibral was utterly content with the backup he had.

He remained silent, letting Jeryd's statement hang in the air as he readied the ship for hyperspace, keying in the coordinates of their destination. Their ultimate destination was Ubrikkia: an industrial world, sandwiched between the Hutt Cartel and the Alliance of Free Planets, in a bubble of neutral space that the Alliance no doubt hoped would buffer them against encroachment and profiteering from the Hutts. It had once been home to a subsidiary of Kuat Drive Yards, but as with all things left unattended too long, the Hutts had consumed it, and just about every other enterprise that had been abandoned when the Empire withdrew from the region. It had never been a particularly savoury place, but it's placement mid-way between Kessel and the Core had made it a valuable staging ground for the Black Archives during their clandestine operations. That had been their undoing: they had relied upon the familiar, and it had lulled them into a false sense of security.

Perhaps that was what they got for exorcising their best analyst from the process.

Jibral reached forward for the hyperspace controls, but stopped himself, looking fully at the Cadet once again. A thought puzzled it's way across his brow, contemplation and consideration allowing conflicting notions to go to war, before settling on a conclusion.

"This isn't an official Knights mission, Jeryd."

He hesitated for the briefest moment.

"Perhaps for the next few days, you should just call me Lúka."

[Quan Marivva]

####


Quan Marivva bristled as he stalked into the abandoned warehouse, tentacles quivering in frustration with every step. Vexation clouded everything, these days. The damnable Rebel Alliance had gone and legitimised, turning the rich pickings of the oft-neglected Hutt frontier into a churning feeding frenzy of raiding and piracy that left even the most resourceful of the galaxy's freelancers with nothing but scraps. There was a saying: honour among thieves. The aquatic balked at the idea; there was no such thing, not in this day and age. The types of filth that seeped into the gaps between the Alliance and the Cartel were the worst dregs of the galaxy. Murderers, reprobates, and cut-throats, yes - but a few positive traits hardly made amends for the burdens they placed upon Marivva's operations.

He missed the old days. He missed the days when Bothawui had been isolated and alone, resolute in their opposition to the Empire only because the Imperials frankly didn't care about this corner of the stars. The same was true of Calamari, Ryloth, Lothal, and all the other pockets where resistance and rebellion had taken root back then. It was easy to oppose the Empire where it was weak. The Corellians, on the other hand? Chandrilans? Alderaanians? Perhaps their resistances were less impressive, and less extensive; but there was more bravery there. They'd kneed the Empire in the soft and perishables from up close, and the price that Alderaan had paid proved just how bold a move that had been.

One of his underlings opened their jaws to speak. Quan snarled to ensure her silence, tentacles flaring angrily at the albino Herglic. She shuffled awkwardly, a milky white eye blinded by the scar running through it twitching back and forth anxiously. Marivva's snarl became a sigh, tentacles slumping in tandem with his shoulders. This was the quality of pirate he had been left with: people like Mob Dicky, squeezed out to the fringes because they lacked the spine or skills for anything else. At one time, Marivva had boasted a fearsome crew, one that had plagued the space lanes; but those that still lived had been lured away to richer pastures, leaving him scraping the bottom of the barrel.

"What is it?" he hissed at the Herglic through a thick, rumbling accent that rolled and tumbled like open seas.

Mob shuffled, jaw hanging slack to expose gums studded with broken, blunted, and missing teeth. "We -" She faltered, a few nervous clicks stuttering from her throat, a strange gurgling fwee leaking from parts of her anatomy that Marivva had no desire to learn about. "We're not sure."

The frustration that rattled at the back of Quan's throat sounded like the idle snarling of a caged Nexu. He glared daggers as he stalked past, shoving the albino aside with a shoulder so that he could poise his hunched and ragged frame over the Imperial-branded container she stood sentry over. He grabbed the case firmly and twisted it towards him, knocking aside the tools and devices that his mechanic had used to bypass the security locks. Perhaps not entirely useless, he quietly amended; not that such an admission or the praise it appeared to represent would ever escape his lips.

With a flick, the latches opened, and the case was flung open. Immediately a warm glow began to emanate from within, a radiant warmth washing over Quan Marivva, and sparkling in his eyes.

"My, my," he purred softly, sucking damply on his bottom lip as he admired his prize. "What have we here?"

[Ivy]

####


Much time had passed since the voyage began. Ivy knew the duration precisely, of course, but his programming had been adapted over the years to dismiss such specifics as irrelevant. Organic beings seldom cared about elapsed time with any degree of specificity, and the rare exceptions would usually be explicitly stated.

Despite the timing data being earmarked for deletion, Ivy was able to use it to calculate their approximate position in space. As anyone with even basic astronavigation software was aware, Ubrikkia lay a few lightyears from the edge of Hutt-controlled space. An error flag encroached on Ivy's operating system. In reality, Hutt controlled space extended far further: in earlier periods, the Hutt Empire had extended as far as worlds like Tatooine and Ryloth, and despite repeated conflicts with the Galactic Republic over the millennia, and the sterling efforts of the Galactic Empire to clamp down on their illegal activities, the Huttese underworld still exercised a disproportionate level of control.

If Ivy were to be accurate - which his programming stipulated he must be - then Ubrikkia lay a few lightyears from the edge of the Hutt frontier, as defined by the Galactic Empire in the wake of the Clone Wars. Typically the Galactic Empire had shown little interest in the region, but ensuring that the Hutts remained firmly in their place had been an ongoing concern for the Imperial Governors of the region. Unwisely, the Alliance of Free Planets had forced the Empire to withdraw from that region, and had - initially at least; Ivy required far more data for his tactical projections to make an accurate current assessment - lacked the resources to enforce control of the area. Certain sectors had been left abandoned. Alliance politicians branded them as Free Sectors, part of a network of buffer zones that they presumably hoped would avoid the kind of tensions that a rigid border might create. In reality, they had simply become avenues for smugglers and subterfuge which, currently, was a category of individual that included Ivy and the organic units aboard.

Though the area surrounding Ubrikkia was not controlled by the Alliance, almost all routes leading to it were. The simplest path from Coruscant to Ubrikkia was to directly follow one of the old hyperlanes; perhaps via Lantillies and Kashyyyk. Both worlds were unfortunately Alliance-controlled, and their territory stretched toward the Outer Rim in either direction. Flying around was out of the question, and flying above or below the plane of the galaxy was a tactic fraught with danger: the slightest complication or failure, and a ship and crew might simply disappear. Instead, Unit Jibral had chosen - shrewdly, by Ivy's calculation - to fly through the Free Space surrounding Zeltros, seeking to pierce through Alliance space at one of it's narrowest points. It was a strategy that still carried considerable risk; but between the stealth capabilities of the shuttle that Unit Jibral had wisely selected, and the tactical projections of Alliance patrol movements that Ivy was currently calculated, their chances of success fell within the parameters of what Ivy had adapted to deem appropriate.

The specific value of their survival chances was automatically flagged for deletion as well.

For the duration of the flight so far, Ivy had merely sat in the hold and calculated; but as they approached Alliance space, there were preparations that perhaps should be made in the interests of efficiency and preparedness. It simply would not do for them to be caught unawares by a Free Planets boarding party all because the organics were busy mingling in the cockpit.

"Unit Redsun," Ivy vocabulated, standing at the base of the ladder and aiming his headpiece directly upwards. "I require your assistance."

[Jeryd Redsun]

For the past three months, Jeryd had woken, washed, drilled, trained, studied, shot, piloted, talked, eaten, washed, and slept to the same rhythm, with the same people, in the same place. As it was, the placid journey, in the relative comfort of the shuttle, with no-one else to talk to except Knight Jibral - Lúka - was a dramatic shock to the system. By the end of the first hour, he felt like a spice junkie in need of a fix: his body tingled with unspent energy, turning him into a one-man percussion section - his fingers drummed, his feet tapped, his knees bounced - if it bothered Lúka, he declined to say so, but Jeryd stopped himself as often as he could; his mind was buzzing, too, desperate for distraction. Conversation helped, and, whenever he felt his attention wandering or his gaze drifting to the chrono, Lúka always had a question at the ready.

Jeryd told stories about his time at Carida, and his experiences with the Sub-Adult Group, before that; they talked wegsphere, and grav-ball, and life on Coruscant; thoughts about the Citadel were shared, as well as a couple of amusing tales about his fellow cadets. It wasn't until he stopped talking, in those quiet moments in between, that Jeryd realised that they had been almost-exclusively talking about him. And, every time conversation resumed, he made a deliberate effort to learn more about his companion, who he was, where he came from, what he liked and disliked, and, every time, he ended up talking about himself again. What an egotistical arse, he must seem!

Another probing personal question was prepared, designed to unearth the mysterious story of Lúka Jibral, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, Ivy called out. His brow furrowed as he rose out of his seat. Every muscle in his legs rejoiced, and, instantly, he was glad to have an excuse to move. Once he was down the ladder, he turned to find Ivy almost on top of him. He recoiled an inch, to meet those glaring red ocular receptors.

"You... wanted me?"

[Ivy]

Want. Require. Synonyms, Ivy supposed, if your linguistic capabilities were at a somewhat rudimentary level.

"You are a Utility Unit, correct?"

It was not a question, and yet Ivy's software compelled him to parse it as one. Perhaps it was a glitch in his subroutines, an artefact left behind from the various rewrites to his operating system. Perhaps it was deliberate; he had observed that organic units found comfort in slight ambiguity, perhaps allowing them an illusory sense of control or agency. Such things hardly seemed relevant, but then organics were strangely inefficient machines. While there was a certain logic to their inbuilt power generation, and the ability to extract and process raw fuel from a variety of sources in a broad selection of environments was certainly a commendable design trait; but the amount of waste byproducts, and the sheer scope of potential system failures, errors, and variations sometimes made Ivy wonder how organics even functioned at all. Surely it would be far more efficient to charge their internal batteries from a direct feed? With their onboard processing systems made redundant, the rear disposal port would be a prime location to insert a power conduit.

Ivy spun at the waist, his feet lagging a second or two behind as he reorientated himself towards the stowed cargo. Bending slightly, his broad shouldered frame easily lifted a wide storage container, and deposited it on the ground between himself and Unit Redsun.

"You will assist me in checking this ordnance, and preparing it for potential boarding by Alliance patrols, pirates, or other such aggressors."

His head ticked to one side slightly, processing an additional calculation.

"As well, you will select the weapon with which you are most proficient. Your file states that you are also rated as a Combat Unit."

The last sentence was uttered with a droid approximation of surprise, and perhaps misbelief. Ivy flagged his estimations of Unit Redsun's mission usefulness for recalculation: clearly his initial assessment had been run prematurely.

"Perhaps you are more useful than I thought."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The last remark made Jeryd's gaze tick up from the unopened crate, and onto Ivy, "Let's hope so."

The eye-contact lingered long enough for him to weigh Ivy's choice of words, and to dismiss them as the soulless prattle of a machine. There had been a moment, though, when the tactical pause and the slight tilt of the head looked a little too human for his liking. He'd never been sassed by a droid before, and he wasn't about to get into the habit, now. Without further ceremony, he threw open the container.

There was a gasp, that Jeryd later realised had come from the releasing seals, although it could've just as easily been produced by him. Inside the container, a pair of square shelves rose up on hydraulics, each carrying a blaster rifle and pistol - to his left, there was an A280c and a DH-17, and to his right, there was the more familiar E-11 and its rowdy counterpart, the SE-14r - Jeryd reached out to claim his would-be stormtrooper weapons, when, with a hiss, the shelves parted to either side, revealing a second layer beneath.

"Frak me!" he blurted, his eyes blossoming like supernovas. "That's..."

Inside the container, rested a DLT-19 heavy blaster rifle, it was much larger than the standard E-11 and was typically reserved for elite stormtroopers. Jeryd had fired one once, when the academy was visited by a grizzled commando, intent on turning them all into sharpshooters. He couldn't just leave it there. He reached out, took it in his hands, recalling the weight at once, the smooth black finish, the sturdy grip, the firm clasp of the stock against his shoulder. Stars, it felt like it was made for him!

"What do you think, Ivy?" he took aim, with a grin, "This is one sexy piece of kit, right?"

[Ivy]

Ivy's linguistic subroutines processed the choice of language. Curious. A confession of sexual attraction towards an item of ordnance. A literal application of the terminology seemed unlikely, though his operating system flagged a few suggested articles which documented cases of humanoid sexuality directed at inanimate objects. A quick review found no suggestion of such preferences in Unit Redsun's file, but he made a note to esearch the issure more comprehensively as soon as they were in range of a secure Imperial Holonet tranciever.

In the meantime, his operating system calculated likely alternative definitions. Perhaps this was an attempt at interpersonal bonding. Discussion of sexual preferences was among the topics of idle conversation that Ivy's analysis software deemed socially normal. Perhaps Unit Redsun was attempting to foster such a conversation, using the blaster rifle as a proxy for something that a mechanoid might desire to interface with.

Or, perhaps it was simply an oversimplified similarity between the rifle and the genetalia of male humans. Ivy had observed a number of instances where males approaching the expiration of their service warranty requisitioned fast vehicles or large weapons as part of a process called compensating for something - the something, Ivy had concluded, likely being perceived anatomical shortcomings. Ivy found this notion problematic to rationalise. If one had an interface node of insufficient size to properly interface with the desired data ports, how did an oversized blaster in any way compensate? Surely a replacement part, or a handheld data spike would be vastly more effective.

Ivy remained still as a statistical analysis evaluated his possible responses. One found, he turned again, retrieving a rifle case designed for a single weapon. Opening it, he turned back to Jeryd with a specislly customised T-7 ion disruptor rifle in his hands. He was a tactical droid by design, not a battle droid, but it had been prudent to ensure that he was programmed for at least some degree of combat; and this rifle, with a trigger specially modified for his dactyl manipulators, and a targeting scope that interfaced directly with his visual receptors, made for a devastatingly efficient contingency.

"In that case, perhaps you will find my weapon of choice to be equally stimulating to you sexually."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"No. Ivy, that's not..."

At the prospect of having to explain to a droid that he didn't find blaster rifles arousing, a half-smile crept across Jeryd's face. It was with some reluctance that he lowered his beloved DLT-19 and turned to regard Ivy's weapon, with every intention of breaking the tragic news that it didn't quite do it for him. And yet, at the sight of the mighty piece nestled in the droid's dactyl manipulators, Jeryd felt a strong urge to drop trou and stand at attention. It was an urge he resisted, of course, for everyone's benefit. Instead, he stared, the words snatched out of his mouth, and scattered beyond memory.

"Is that..."

He'd never seen one before - outside of old holo-documentaries - but, stars, he knew one when he saw it. It struck him like lightning, and given the chance, it most certainly would. Slowly, he approached, taking in the bold chunky lines, and the brutal angular stock. It looked like a weapon designed to destroy, and destruction was something at which disruptor rifles most certainly excelled. And, of all places, he found himself looking back at the ladder that lead to the cockpit, and to Lúka. Who was this guy? And how the frak did he get his hands on such an illegal piece of hardware?

When he returned his attention to Ivy, and his death cannon, Jeryd couldn't help but smile.

"Okay, Ivy, introduce me to your lady friend. What's her name, and how did you two meet?"

[Ivy]

Curious. Contrary to Ivy's calculations, Unit Redsun was now ascribing feminine characteristics to their arsenal, rather than male. That seemed incongruous, though it correlated with observations Ivy had made of the anthropomorphic projections that organics made towards ships and vehicles. When Ivy had queried this, an organic unit had helpfully explained: If I'm gonna ride it, it had damn well better be a lady. Briefly, Ivy calculated the possibility that Unit Redsun might perceive some sort of parallel between the differences in blaster versus ionic weaponry and the gender disparity of many organic species, but the statistical likelihood was well below probable. A projection of latent patriarchal sexism and moderate suppressed homophobia was the most likely explanation.

Ivy's head tilted downwards, ocular receptors settling on the ion rifle, a query running through his database in search of a name variable. Did the weapon have a name? Was such a thing normal practice? Was there some corruption in his memory banks that left him unable to access the relevant data on these facts? The query yielded zero search results; Ivy accessed his maintenance log, and scheduled a full system diagnostic to be run at the mission's conclusion, just in case.

His receptors targeted Unit Redsun, scanning his microexpressions for signs of deceit and duplicity. None were apparent, though Ivy was programmed for battlefield tactics, not protocol or human intelligence. Perhaps an upgrade was in order, to ensure his continued viability to Unit Jibral. A few possible emotional states were calculated. Friendliness. Pandering. Jealousy.

The last one triggered an alert flag in Ivy's operating system. He regarded the ion rifle again, and then the utility unit once more, before his arms protectively pulled the rifle slightly closer to his body.

"Her name is T-7 Ion Disruptor Rifle," he uttered, the hesitance in his vocal construction inadvertently conveying a sense of confusion and defensiveness. "We met in the weapons vault at the Black Archives."

[Jeryd Redsun]

A short burst of laughter, like a cough, rocked Jeryd's composure. He bit down on his lower lip to keep himself in check, and rode it out in silence, until the shaking in his shoulders stopped. Ivy did not strike him as the sort of droid to take offence, but then, neither had he seemed like the kind of droid to get jealous over his possessions. But that response, it had been so... human.

"Alright. Alright. I get it." If he could have raised his hands in a display of surrender, he would've done. As it was, however, his hands were occupied with several feet of BlasTech powerhouse - which was, decidedly, less reassuring. "Look, but don't touch."

The smile returned, however. He still felt warm from the residual glow of hearing a tactical droid describe how he and his disruptor rifle first met. And his mind started to wander in search of what other amusing things he could get Ivy to say - the potential for unintentional comedy was outstanding. Of course, there were other places for his thoughts to get lost, too. Darker places, like the Black Archives. According to Lúka, Ivy was archived at the end of the Clone Wars. Thirty years. Thirty years of waiting to be put to use, again. If he thought, for a second, that droids were capable of depression, boredom, or an existential crisis, he would've surely felt a twinge of sympathy for the old wretch.

As he considered Ivy, he became aware of the extra weight in the DLT-19, and adopted the port arms position, both for comfort, and to reduce the risk of his jealous droid companion turning him into dust.

"I bet it feels good to free of the Black Archives, at last." He leaned against the container behind him, and did his best to sound as casual as possible, "Is this your first mission since the Clone Wars?"

[Ivy]

Never in a billion ticks would Ivy's operating system have predicted that change of direction in their conversation. He might have suspected an attempt at espionage, had the question not been presented in such a brazen manner, and amid such a display of what Ivy interpreted as positive human emotions.

It completely interrupted Ivy's ongoing processes, which were in the midsts of updating Unit Redsun's file to catalogue him as an individual who had been appropriately informed of what Unit Jibral described as the droid's For Your Eyes Only Protocol - something the Knight stated with an odd additional emphasis on the third word. Unit Jibral seemed to consider it an amusing play on words, but Ivy found it fitting nomenclature for the protocol: not only should he be mindful of anyone interfering with the careful calibration of his ordnance, but also of any potential breaches to Imperial security that might transpire from letting an uncleared individual inspect a highly classified prototype.

Ivy rededicated those interrupted resources to analysing the potential intentions that might lie behind Unit Redsun's intentions. Correlated with his earlier analysis, an attempt to broker friendship - or at least workplace civility - seemed like the leading possibility. Strange that Unit Redsun would attempt to foster such a thing with a droid. That observation was added to Unit Redsun's datafile.

"My missions on behalf of the Black Archives are classified, Unit Redsun."

Ordinarily, Ivy would have ended his explanation at that point: a simple statement of fact that provided an answer to the question posed. However, if Ivy was correct in his analysis of Unit Redsun's intentions, it would not adequately satisfy the parameters of what was intended. His response was ineffective. Incomplete. Unacceptable.

"However, this is -" He searched his linguistic database for the appropriate vernacular. "- not my first rodeo."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"I bet it's not." Jeryd's grin was broad. He had expected the secrecy; to hear an acknowledgement, a generous concession that hinted at Ivy's past experiences, was one thing, but to hear it expressed in such a colloquial way? It was a small delight. He studied the droid a moment longer, and wondered if he did it on purpose. Ivy was a tactical droid, after all. Perhaps it was his intention to seem more human to appeal to him, Unit Redsun. Did he seek camaraderie? Unit cohesion? Whatever his motivation - however artificial - it didn't matter. Jeryd liked him. He winked, "I'm glad to have a real professional watching my back."

With one last longing look at the DLT-19, he returned it to its case. Checks were then carried out on the rest of the ordnance. It was the sort of routine stuff Jeryd had done, time and again, at the academy, at the range, and at home. The bores were clean, and clear of carbon scoring; the trigger pulls felt good; there was no jamming from the power cells, or the stun switches; the bolts were only lightly scratched - they were all relatively new, with very little work done to them. When he picked up the E-11, he handled it with the familiar intimacy of a lover, understanding every groove, every notch, every inch of the weapon in hands. Those checks, he could've performed blindfolded. And, as much as he horned for the exotic allure of the heavy blaster rifle, he knew, in his heart, where his loyalties lay.

"This is my weapon." It came out like a confession. He regarded the rifle with fondness, enjoying the weight in his hands, "She might not be much to look at, but she's got it where it counts."

With a happy sigh, he returned the E-11 to the container, and watched it vanish, with a faint hiss. Ivy was nearby, watching.

"Need anything else, chum?"

[Ivy]

Chum. Multiple definitions detected.

Ivy cocked his head to the side, contemplating the potential translations. A species of fish. A variety of tent used by nomadic aboriginals on certain outlying worlds. Bait used to lure out aquatic predators; also it's usage, as a verb; and metaphorically applied to provocation. Mon Calamari slang for the pilots of unshielded starfighters, likely derived from the previous definition. See also Chums, a short format situational comedy set in a subterranean tavern in the shipwright district of Corellia. CHUM, the Coronet Hyperspace University Museum, displaying exhibits on astro-sciences and stellar navigation.

Likely definition found. Chum: affectionate term denoting fondness and kinship.

Though it seemed the most relevant - or rather least irrelevant - of the options, but even then it did not properly compute. Was this some sort of obscure human bonding ritual that Ivy had stumbled upon, the comparison and sexualization of firearms creating some sort of unspoken alliance between the two? The confession of fetishes as a demonstration of trust? Ivy made a note to extensively research it later; to begin doing so now would take up far too much precious processing power, and thus was unwise in the middle of a mission as critical as this.

"Your assistance is no longer required -"

A momentary hesitation interrupted Ivy's response, as he searched for an appropriate synonym.

"- amigo. I will ensure that your selected weapon is prepared and available for emergency use."

Another pause. More hesitation. More processes clamouring for a percentage of Ivy's CPU power, draining the resources of his RAM. Ivy had no explicit desire to reinforce Unit Redsun's sense of kinship - he simply was not programmed for such things - but his analysis did suggest that it would be beneficial in the long term to maintain an amiable relationship with a strategic asset such as the Cadet. That meant rapidly calculating some sort of response that Unit Redsun might misinterpret as friendly. What options were there? A data file not accessed in an incredibly long time suggested that kinship was cultivated by expressing an interest in activities that the organic individual spent a considerable amount of their time doing. Ivy quickly calculated the Cadet's activities since boarding the shuttle, filtering out those which were essential to his basic operations. He found a match.

"You may return to your unrequited sharing of personal history with Unit Jibral, if you like."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd was smiling. Hearing himself being called 'amigo' by an old Separatist tactical droid might well have been the highlight of his brief career as an Imperial Knight cadet. It was a broad happy smile, full of fondness and amusement. There was no longer any question in his mind that Ivy was deliberately using language to forge a friendship between them, and it was working. He'd never been friends with a droid before. His father would've been scowling by now, having found the whole exchange pitiful and degrading - droids were things, like hydrospanners and swoop bikes - but then, his father had never had a droid attempt to sexually stimulate him with a disruptor rifle.

Jeryd's brow creased in a flicker of revulsion, and shook it off instantly.

He moved to the ladder, and had placed a hand on it, ready to climb, when Ivy said something that made him freeze. In silence, he repeated the words slowly in his head, and found himself wondering why he'd say a thing like that. Unless... Could he be jealous? Ivy, the cold calculating tactical droid, jealous of his developing relationship with Knight Jibral. No, Lúka. Slowly, he turned to regard him, with narrow suspicious eyes.

"Unrequited... what!?" Just the thought of it prompted a snort of disbelief. He patted his hand on his chest, where his heart was, and addressed the droid in a serious undertone, "Me and Lúka? We're tight. Tight!"

His words were punctuated by a warning leap of the eyebrows, and a finger, prodding the air in Ivy's direction. He opened his mouth to speak again, and, instead, finished on a stiff nod. With that dealt with, Jeryd promptly ascended the ladder to the cockpit, where he and Lúka were going to continue to bond.

[Quan Marivva]

####


Quan Marivva stirred in his sleep. Where perspiration might have dotted the brow of a mammalian, the aquatic's usually soft and clammy skin had turned dry and wrinkled. Each shift, each shudder, came with a mumbled grunt of distress that set his tentacled jowls quivering. The soft, fleshy back of his head pulsed with each distressed and laboured breath.

Behind the nictitating membranes of Quan's closed eyes, icy blue shifted back and forth, vision reacting to thoughts that weren't his own. Voices. Feelings. Flashes of memory. A nightmare, and yet not. Not some product of Quan's own subconscious, but something darker, more insidious, and far more sinister. Quan felt blackness. Confinement. An oppressive nothingness, a prison that fused and multiplied the solitude of prison with the silent oblivion of starless space. He felt lost and alone, blind and confused, drowning in fear and anxiety that clogged his gills and paralysed his air sacs. He struggled, but couldn't move. Shouted, but couldn't be heard. His eyes searched for restraints, but there was none to be seen; nor a body to be seen or felt around him. A chilling, icy realisation lanced into his soul. Was this death? Was this what lay beyond?

Quan's eyes snapped open, a muttered gasp escaping from his throat, his impossible struggles suddenly manifesting in a spasm that left his hammock swaying. Breaths rattled as they were forced into his body. His eyes darted around him, startled and stunned by the overwhelming brightness of the dimly lit room. Moments passed before his senses returned, and even then, everything he had felt still lingered, lurking behind him, a heavy hand weighing down on his shoulders.

Swinging his feet over the edge, Quan felt the hammock shift beneath him until his bare fins managed to find the floor. Something solid and tangible beneath him helped, a tactile reminder that the world really existed. He reached for the shipping container flipped on it's side, that approximated a bedside table in his cluttered and makeshift abode. A glass was raised, cool saline poured over his face, and blinked into his eyes. He shuddered as the dryness abated, only slightly; prayed for the humid air of the Ubrikkian night to undo some of what his sleep had inflicted.

Something whispered to him from across the room.

Quan rose before his mind comprehended. He felt himself fall into slow, staggering strides, feet slapping against the duracrete. He felt it call to him, drawing him closer, an impulse that he was too tired to resist, too lost to understand. His fingertips brushed across the tops of containers as he passed, finding their way to the case that held his latest treasure. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the latches, trembling like the hands of a withdrawing spice addict. It only abated as the case lifted open, the warm glow from within slowly seeping out, washing over him, driving away the darkness that had taken root inside Marivva's soul.

They wanted to sell it. Fools. His crew looked in the case, and saw nothing but a benign trinket; a few thousand credits if sold to the right buyer. Marivva knew better. He could feel it's value: knew that this was not some treasure that one tossed aside for a quick payday. He let his hand rest upon it, feeling the warmth seep into his bones. Who would even dare to think of surrendering something such as this? To the Empire it had been a secret, guarded treasure. Now it was his.

He would not let them take it from him.

[Lúka Jibral]

####


It was strange, being here.

It had not been long in the grand scheme of things, and yet it felt as if it had. This safehouse on Ubrikkia had gone far longer between uses in the past, but only now did it feel as if it had been neglected and left vacant. Lúka's thoughts strayed to his last visit: a task that had seemed so simple at the time. As part of preserving the Black Archives' secrecy, as few resources as possible had been invested from the Imperial military machine. Funds were skimmed from budgets and invoices across millions of transactions across thousands of worlds, and then spent through shell corporations and shadow agencies on private contractors and third parties. Layer upon layer of subterfuge and anonymity, hiding their efforts from the Empire as much as from anyone else. Everything relied on being benign and unnoticed.

A deviation from that had been the cause of his last visit here: an unknowing asset drawing a little too much attention to herself, and by extension to the Archives' business. Lúka had wanted to remedy the problem personally, but his superiors had insisted it be done through a proxy, a firewall to conceal the Archives from any investigation into her death. That had been a mistake. Never trust a Hutt to do an Inquisitor's job. Fortunately, fear had been enough to resolve the situation to the satisfaction of his superiors, for now at least. Lúka detested the loose end; but worse, he detested the sneaking suspicion that the task had merely been a distraction, a means to keep him occupied while the fate of the Black Archives was decided.

That frustration was allowed to escape with a sigh.

"Make yourself comfortable," he called over his shoulder, hearing the door of the modest studio apartment slide closed behind Jeryd. He didn't turn, didn't wait to pander to the Cadet and ensure that he was settled; instead he strode across the room, discarding the duffel bag from his shoulder onto the bed as he passed, and deposited himself into a battered but comfortable chair in front of the computer terminal in the room's corner.

"The 'fresher is the door on the left; door on the right is a closet. Should be some non-perishable food in the kitchen nook somewhere. Might even be a few beers in the cooler if we're lucky."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The moment the door closed, Jeryd's nostrils flared. His eyebrows crashed in sudden concentration. He sniffed again, this time pulling the corner of his mouth up, in a flicker of disapproval. That smell. What was that? He turned stiffly on the spot, nose twitching, like a dog trying to zero in on a bone. Except, in this case, it was not a bone he was in search of, but the source of the strange sickly-sweet smell that festered in the air. It was faint, and yet, inescapable. No matter where he stood, there it was. He dropped his bag in surrender, and made a beeline for the kitchen... nook? Was Lúka just making stuff up, now? A kitchen was a kitchen; this was a crevice with condiments.

It wasn't easy, squeezing himself into the limited space, in the first place. But that he then had to reverse, in order to turn, and crouch to retrieve the drinks from the... He called it a cooler? It was a beer safe. Jeryd prized the bottles free from the beer safe, and hoisted them aloft, so that they could be reached by what limited light tumbled in through the window. He squinted to read, first, the date, and then, the brand. Some Corellian swill, by the look of it. Still, it was cold. The caps released with a satisfying hiss. One bottle was handed to Lúka; Jeryd considered his for a second, and took a swig. It was no Grand Admiral's Reserve. And now, he took in the apartment itself, in all of its... humility. There was that word again.

"So, where's the other room?" he asked, and looked back at the 'fresher, then the closet, as if a third door was about to magically appear.

[Lúka Jibral]

A moment of confusion was followed by realisation, understanding, and then a snort of laughter.

"Right," he responded, mostly to yourself. He knew Redsun's personnel file inside and out by this point, and had delved beyond that extensively, into information that was only of use to a mind such as Jibral's. School reports. Family financials. Holiday travel plans. Lúka had been baffled by the number of times the same people could go to the same destination, and ski down the same slopes without becoming mind-numbingly bored. But then, the prospect of hurtling down the side of a mountain at potentially deadly speeds, for fun, was a concept that he would never be able to consider normal.

"This is probably your first time away from home in a place that doesn't have room service, right?"

The statement was delivered deadpan, but with the tiniest hint of something playful; just enough so that Jeryd would, hopefully, not take the jab too much to heart. Lúka let out a good natured sigh, abandoning the terminal to turn in the chair. One hand rested against one half of a spread pair of knees, the other poured a refreshing mouthful of beer into his mouth. For an idle moment, Lúka pondered the beverage, it's origin, and the way it's circumstances had changed. Would the Blockade cripple the economy for Coronet Export, driving the brewery responsible for the cheap, ubiquitous, and mildly inoffensive beverage out of business; or would it become a boon, the rarity inexplicably bolstering prices and demand.

Lúka's bottle-holding hand came to rest against his other leg, the coolness from the chilled rim of the bottle's base seeping through the fabric into his thigh.

"A lot of the Empire's work isn't glamorous, Jeryd. Your operations budget won't always stretch to fancy hotels, and luxury is a long way from discrete. This?"

He gestured at their surroundings with a finger, and the bottle.

"This is discrete. And when you start to live this life, you have to learn to make the most of what little comfort you get."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Little being the operative word."

The last thing Jeryd wanted was to appear ungrateful for the opportunity he'd been given, and yet, he felt his face twisting downwards, compelled by forces beyond his control. He surveyed the apartment again, and this time, he really tried to be generous in his appraisal of his surroundings, to make the most of small comforts. It was a spartan affair, furnished with the basic necessities for a civilised life, and where the decorators had taken creative liberties, it was all so hideously outdated - like the safehouse had been frozen in time. He took a sluggish route around the bed, and back again, inspecting the fixtures, testing the light switches; one swipe across a shelf left his finger thick with dust. This he revealed to Lúka, one eyebrow raised in silent protest, but Lúka... well, he seemed different.

Since arriving at Ubrikkia, Lúka appeared to relax, and it drew to mind a snake, perpetually poised, ready to strike, that suddenly came uncoiled. That was Lúka: removed from the Citadel, and the uniform, and the protocol, he was becoming uncoiled. The sharpness was still there, of course. Indeed, Jeryd suspected the man would be a stranger without it. But he seemed more at ease with himself, somehow. And that put him at ease. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and it yielded like jello under his weight; his jaw clenched so tight, he could've shattered his teeth. The simmer of anger was transformed, for Lúka's benefit, into a tight-lipped smile. Another swig of beer.

"Do you prefer this kind of work, Lúka?" Jeryd said, suddenly. He basked in it for a moment - using his first name never got old - then his shoulders lifted with a dismissive shrug, "You're a badass teacher, don't get me wrong, but this? It feels like a better fit."

[Lúka Jibral]

The question actually caught Lúka off guard. He was glad for the laugh that it startled out of him, leaning into it to provide a little extra concealment as he wrestled his reaction under control.

"A badass teacher, huh?"

The compliment meant more to Lúka than he was prepared to let on. While winning the favour and affection of his Cadets was not something that Lúka set out to achieve - preparing them to survive and serve with distinction was his central consideration - it felt strangely significant to know that at least one of them regarded him in such a way. He supposed he had brought this upon himself, engineered it even through the manipulations and machinations that had led to Jeryd being here as a viable asset; but knowing it on a strategic level, and hearing it stated voluntarily from the Cadet's own mouth were two vastly different things.

He found himself at a crossroads. Every instinct told him to weave this into an opportunity to advance his objectives. Offer the answer that would cement Redsun's loyalty, or that would push him forward on his path towards becoming a Knight. Yet beneath it all was the impulse to answer honestly. Had Jeryd not earned that by now, a reciprocation of the same trust that Lúka asked for? Disclosing details of their mission was one thing: that trust was professional. The trust that Lúka sought was more personal: Jeryd's trust in him, his faith that this mission truly was for the Empire's cause, and that his instructor was not leading him dangerously astray.

"This is -" He searched for the word. "- familiar."

Honesty it was then, after a fashion. It wouldn't be a whole truth, of course. No talk of how much time Lúka had spent in dives like this on worlds like this, barely a few scrambled steps ahead of the Inquisitors, Security Bureau, Senate Commandos, and whoever else Emperor Palpatine had set on their trail. No details on the kinds of missions experiences like this had entailed, nor the rare joy they had provided as a reprieve from his Archives isolation. If anything, the deepest concern was that Jeryd would relate too well. What Jeryd experienced now, a brief escape from the Citadel, the opportunity to be outside the confines of a certain structure and a certain set of expectations; that had been Lúka on missions such as this. That would all go unsaid; but he would offer Jeryd something.

"You must get what it's like, right? For me, missions like this are like your time on Carida. It's not a matter of preference. The Citadel isn't worse, it's just unfamiliar. How you must feel when you get to run through Stormtrooper drills, or spend time on the rifle range. You know what you're doing. It feels comfortable."

He poured a little more beer into his mouth, and shrugged.

"This is all familiar ground to me. Not as uncharted as a classroom at the Citadel."

[Jeryd Redsun]

While Lúka spoke, Jeryd felt a flutter of exhilaration that had nothing to do with the beer. It was hard to believe he would've ever found himself relaxing in the company of an Imperial Knight, having a beer, shooting the breeze, being treated like an equal, and yet, there he was. Another swig of beer disguised the creeping grin. He didn't want to ruin the moment by acting like a candy-loaded kid at the E.E.P. When the bottle was lowered again, he regained his composure. Lúka had so far shown an extraordinary amount of trust in him, a lowly cadet, to choose him for this mission, to share secrets - it was time he earned it.

"I understand. The other day I was meditating coins into cups. I had to stop, and remind myself of what I was doing. It was like I was... spying on someone else's life."

He shrugged it off, realising how ridiculous it sounded. It had been a degree of openness he'd not quite been prepared to share, as if he'd just revealed his secret crush or something. Jeryd's gaze retreated to the floor, where he inspected his civvy boots, they were clean enough to be brand new. He was already missing the uniform; it reminded him of who he was. Jeryd Redsun, Imperial Knight-Cadet. And Lúka Jibral was still his superior officer, and the boundary between them was sacrosanct. In relating to him, the way he had, Lúka had struck a nerve: while he might occasionally be free to return to the world of shadows and secrets, Jeryd knew that he could never revisit his old life. Carida might as well have been a place in a fairy-tale.

"Where do we go from here?" he asked, suddenly, surfacing from his thoughts. Once more, he glanced around the apartment, "Not that this place doesn't have its own modest charm, of course."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka felt the slight flutter of emotion that trickled from the Cadet as he delved into his thoughts. Good. Nostalgia was a double-edged sword, and one that Redsun needed to be disarmed of. As long as thoughts of his previous life lingered, as long as he harboured the faintest hope of an existence other than this one, it would be an anchor slowing his progress. Short of unearthing a forgotten Death Star prototype and wiping the Carida Academy from existence, there was little else that Lúka could do except continue with the same subtle strategy, amputating Redsun's past from his thoughts one muscle fibre at a time.

That Jeryd returned from his thoughts by his own volition was a promising sign; the fact that he did so to focus upon the mission at hand was even more so. Lúka turned in his chair, indicating the data terminal behind him.

"We have a vague description of the ship that made off with our stolen item. No specific name or model, but we have markings and a manufacturer, which narrows things down. Based on their escape trajectory, they either returned to Ubrikkia, or at the very least relayed through the system. This terminal already has a back door slice into starport security, and landing control; and we have a few covert surveillance drones scattered about in a few different orbits. Either we find the ship we're looking for, and track down whoever is leasing the landing berth; or we pick up the ship as it arrives and leaves, and follow it to wherever it headed next."

The Knight fell silent for a moment, draining a little more of the beer bottle before offering the Cadet a shrug.

"You were probably hoping for something a little less analyst, and a little more Baastian Cain, right? Unfortunately, this is how real operations tend to go. A lot of time waiting, watching, and analysing to make sure that when you act, you aren't gonna screw it up."

Lúka offered a small, knowing smile.

"It isn't just you Cadets who are inundated with homework."

[Jeryd Redsun]

After a couple of months under the frosty tutelage of Knight Jibral, Jeryd was used to being on the receiving end of his sharp observations and cutting remarks. Even to the point where he believed he was developing a callous to them. Then, there were times when Lúka said something that opened him up like a laser scalpel, allowing everything to spill out. It was downright unnerving. This time, Jeryd had been foolish enough to both let his guard down and allow his mind to wander, no doubt in flight of the prospect of being huddled over a computer terminal for hours on end. Later, perhaps he'd wonder if Lúka had deliberately chosen that moment to wrench him out of his reverie, or if it had all been a happy coincidence. And later, of course, he'd recall the fact that, when it came to Lúka Jibral, there were no happy coincidences.

At the mention of Baastian Cain, his gaze snapped back to where it ought to be, on his all-too-knowing mentor. The light of surprise was snuffed out too late to go unnoticed, and an unflattering hint of pink bled into his face while he was forced to consider the implications buried beneath those words. Perhaps it was just an innocent throw-away remark. Of course, it wasn't. If Lúka was aware of how he felt about the Face of the Imperial Knights, did he also know about his proclivity for all things Baastian Cain? Had he seen the posters? Did he know about the smashball cards? Or even his holonet browsing history? He was peering into an abyss of uncertainty, teetering on the edge of suspicion, and he had to pull himself back. His shoulders sank with resignation. If there was any consolation to be found, it was that at least he was beginning to understand that the secret to working with Lúka Jibral was that there were no secrets, except his own.

"So, what do we know about the ship, so far?"

There was nothing subtle or unexpected about his sudden desire to remain on task - no matter how cerebral and actionless that task may be - anything was preferable to exploring his relationship with Baastian Cain. It was... complicated. He shuffled along the bed, its tired old springs creaking and groaning every inch of the way. And, armed with the knowledge that they were about to have sliced access to starport security and top-secret surveillance drones, he had no need to pretend to be interested. He leaned forward, and while Lúka worked the terminal, he found himself wondering about the next step of their mission:

"And, when we do find this ship, how do we proceed?"

[Lúka Jibral]

A soft chuckle escaped as Jeryd unleashed his questions, setting them off like countermeasures against the threat of more missiles of personal information being fired his way. Many Imperials in his situation, even among the Knights, might have refused to answer: seeking to discourage this kind of curiosity, to encourage the Cadet to know his place or stay within the parameters of his mission role. Even where this not an unorthodox situation though, Lúka would still have welcomed the inquiries. Curiosity, thoughtfulness, and insight were all traits that he sought to encourage in his students. He wished them to think critically and analytically about the world around them, and that which could not be gleaned through observation and analysis was often best learned through direct questions. Perhaps not the most subtle of options, but the fact that Jeryd was even prepared to speak up and ask was enough of a transition from his earliest encounters with the Cadet that Lúka was willing to consider it a total victory.

"Technically it's ships rather than ship we're looking for, a lead vessel and an assortment of hyperspace escorts. The fighters were pretty dime a dozen, so we aren't likely to to get any duracrete leads on this front, but the lead ship was a little more unique."

Lúka delved into his pocket, pulling out a palm-sized holoprojector and triggering it, placing it on the bed so he could begin typing the appropriate parameters into the search fields. The image displayed was grainy and blurred, but amid the streaks of fast-moving ships, an odd shaped craft moved, all slopes and angles and flat surfaces, and yet somehow strangely sleek at the same time.

"I'm no expert -"

That was a lie.

"- but this looks to me like an H-6 Bomber (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Scurrg_H-6_prototype_bomber). The design is Nubian, older than I am, and they only ever got around to making a handful. It's not the kind of design that just anyone would recognise, so odds are it's registered under a false class and designation, but it gives us a scale and some basic specifications to search for, and that's better than nothing."

Lúka paused for a moment as he entered the last of the data, triggering the terminal's search through the starport database, filtering by approximate size, estimated crew and cargo capacity, and a plausible arrival window based on the travel time from the raiding point to Ubrikkia. Scrubbing through camera footage would be a slightly more manual task, but that could wait a moment or two.

"As for what we do when we find them?"

The Knight shrugged.

"That's why I brought a tactical droid and my most promising Cadet with me. Whatever we find, and whatever or wherever it leads to, I'm sure we'll figure something out."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Hells, yes, we will." Jeryd gave Lúka a nod of approval, and resisted the urge to wink, or to offer a high-five. That kind of talk brought out the wegman in him, which made it difficult to remember he was still in the presence of his superior officer, regardless of name. It was a natural response, and yet, it was also a calculated response.

As much as he wanted to be Lúka's most promising cadet, and as much as he wanted to believe that Lúka believed that he was his most promising cadet, Jeryd knew a well-placed compliment when he heard one. You didn't become the most popular guy at school and the academy without knowing how to work people, you didn't captain a wegsphere team if you didn't know how to inspire your teammates, and what was the point of training to become an officer if you didn't, at least, know what it took to motivate your men? It was a rare moment of the veil being pulled back to reveal the machinations at work behind his words. There was no malice in his design - this, Jeryd knew from experience - and, yet, he found him motivated by it, nonetheless. If it was important for him to believe he was Lúka's most promising cadet, then he wanted to earn it.

So he played his part, of the confident wegman-turned-protégé: it was a believable in-character response that slotted neatly into his mentor's plans.

And Lúka had plans. Even if he didn't want to share them. We'll figure something out? Not a chance. If Lúka Jibral lacked contingencies for any eventuality on this mission, then Jeryd Redsun was in fact a lapdancing Gamorrean. He wanted to consider why the details were being kept from him: was it a test of trust? Did Lúka want to see how he reacted in the moment? An evaluation of his own tactical analysis, perhaps? Or, maybe, there were yet more secrets to discover? But he couldn't dwell on those things; time was limited, and there was work to be done. He palmed the holoprojector for a closer look, and, as he attempted to make the leap from one durni hole into another, he was beginning to realise how mentally exhausting it was just trying to keep up.

"I've never seen a ship like this before. At least it won't be difficult to spot."

He was stating the obvious. Annoyed with himself, Jeryd replaced the projector back on the bed, and sought out a way to make himself useful. There was a datapad nearby, behind Lúka. He could use it to access the terminals security feeds and start searching for any sign of the bomber. A thought occurred to him, just as he was about to retrieve it, and instead of standing and walking, he reached out, first, with his hand, and then, the Force. It was there. Everywhere. Being around Lúka made it easier to recall the time when he first tapped into his own potential; the feelings, the focus, the memories all came flooding back. He took strength from it, and applied that strength to that one object across the room. Slowly, his mind wrapped around it like a hand, and lifted. To his delight, he saw it float and spring tentatively on the air, as if dangling from a flimsy piece of string.

The strain of concentration was taking its toll, however, drawing battle lines on his face, and painting it with a fresh shimmer of sweat. He was pulling, or at least, he thought he was. Yet, the datapad simply bobbed lazily in the air. Lúka was lost in study, the glow from the terminal made his eyes look like ice. With the lapse in concentration, the datapad wavered dangerously close to the table, and Jeryd had to redouble his efforts just to keep it aloft. He was getting angry, mainly at himself, but also at the inanimate object that was besting him. Fear and anger, he repeated to himself. The fear of failure kept him focused, clinging tight to the datapad across the room. But, the anger? For that, he had to dig deep. He had so little to be angry about, lately. Life was good. He was finally able to be himself - all of himself - around people just like him. And, better still, in embracing who he was, the Empire had provided him a wealth of opportunity beyond his wildest dreams. He was on a covert mission sanctioned by the Minister of the Interior, for star's sake, doing vital work for the Empire, protecting its secrets. The Empire's secrets...

Suddenly, the datapad launched itself across the room as if it had been fired from a canon. Jeryd dived backwards, and with the unerring skill of the wegman, he snatched it out of the air before it smashed itself against the wall. Unfortunately, in his landing, he was not quite as graceful. There was a loud thud, as he rolled backwards off the edge of the bed and hit the floor. He rose, a second later, albeit a little sheepish, but holding the datapad aloft in victory.

"It's okay. I caught it."

[Quan Marivva]

####


The colour had drained from Quan Marivva's face. Darkness pinched at the corners of his eyes, a spider web of blood vessels beginning to peek into view at the periphery of his features, shadowed patches deepening his eye sockets and the gaunt of his face. Tendrils twitched and quivered with every movement, every thought, a permanent frown tugging down on the fleshy folds above his eyes that approximated humanoid brows. In a word, he seemed trouble; in another, sick. Hacking splutters punctuated wheezing breaths; concerned - or perhaps merely opportunistic - underlings had offered concern, and assistance. They had been met with scowls, growls, and other sorts of threat. They would stay away if they knew what was good for them.

The door to Marivva's chamber - not quarters, but rather the hammocked nest within his assembled horde in which Marivva chose to live - was sealed and locked, circuits removed from the panel beside the door to further discourage anyone's entry. It would have been welded closed, if that would not also have prevented Marivva's entry, separating him from his Treasure. Soon though, perhaps. He had felt it's light stare into him, and at the corners of his mind he had heard whispers, promises of power and enlightenment. Perhaps soon he wouldn't need such a thing as doors; or at the very least, perhaps soon he would not need his pestering associates. Two. The Treasure had whispered that notion. Only two. Always two. Marivva, and his Treasure.

The aquatic stalked and stumbled forth from the bowels of his hideout, clammy webbed fingers brushing against the duracrete walls as he staggered past. The corridors were quiet, most of his crew ushered forth to enjoy the spoils of piracy in the city beyond, each with varying degrees of eagerness and reluctance. A few stood sentry, avoiding their Captain as best they could. The Treasure whispered to him about their locations, their conduct, their thoughts and dispositions. Some were concerned. Some were scared. Some mistook Marivva's awakened mind for a weakness that they could exploit. Quan marked their names, and counted off a slugthrower round in the chamber of his concealed revolver for each of them.

A thought stabbed into the aquatic's mind, equal parts agonising and euphoric. It tugged at him like a cabled harpoon through his forehead, pulling his attention in a direction, off to the distance. He hacked out another growl as his pace quickened, two rights and a left, and several ignored doorways bringing him to the groaning tower of communications equipment that had been haphazardly piled into this particular nook of his storehouse den. One of the few remaining pirates was thrown effortlessly aside, clearing the controls for Marivva's attention. A few strokes and commands pulled up the security footage from the starport, cameras cycling from the docking bay that berthed his ship outwards, Marivva's icy blue eyes scanning across the faces and figures in the crowd. A twist of the knife in his mind settled his vision on one in particular: a human man, moving along the concourse inconspicuously enough, if a little too ordinary. But there was no mistaking it. The Treasure's whispers grew louder, almost seeming afraid.

Marivva let it blossom into anger. "Ssomeone iss coming for the shhip," he hissed, grabbing the discarded pirate by the scruff of his clothing, and jabbing a finger that left a slimy smear behind over the human face on the monitor. "Find him."

The whispers in his mind grew insistant. Marivva's voice came in unison with him. "Kill him, and anyone with him."

[Lúka Jibral]

####


Lúka's confidence had dwindled, ever so slightly, the faintest hint of reservation creeping in as he considered his choice of associate. It was not the result of any misconduct or failing on Redsun's part; but part of him wondered if he might have been better served on this operation with a little more ethnic variety at his disposal. Despite his best efforts, the simple fact was that he and Cadet Redsun had a certain look about them: a certain physique, a certain stature, and most importantly a certain humanity that was somewhat rare on a world such as this. There was only so much that clothing and body language could do to disguise that fact, and only so much notice that could be avoided.

The best solution had been to split up: to approach the docking bay that held the pirate craft they'd identified from different directions, intending to come upon their quarry before they had the opportunity to react or flee. With luck, they would manage to reduce the pirates' options for escape down to one, the ship itself, and Lúka was confident in Ivy's ability to navigate the starport's security systems and make that as difficult for them as possible.

On the subject of Ivy, Lúka felt a faint pulse of vibration from the device strapped to his wrist. A quick glance down at the otherwise unassuming chronometer ovvered a fleeting display of Aurebesh characters: a warning from their cybotic guardian angel. Ivy had detected another presence actively within the system, accessing many of the same subroutines and surveillance feeds that Ivy was. Someone else was watching, and they were watching the same thing. It could have been nothing, but the Force whispered otherwise.

Lúka's hand tapped one of the controls on the wrist chrono, triggering the two-piece concealed comlink tucked into his ear and collar. "Ivy thinks we've been made," Lúka stated calmly and quietly, too soft for anyone around him to hear, relying on the technology to convert the vibrations of his throat into audible words once they reached Jeryd. "Odds are the cautious approach is about to go out the window."

He let his body shift just enough to renew his conscious awareness of the various weapons secreted about his person, mentally preparing himself to reach for whichever one the situation demanded first.

"Stay fast, stay low, and stay alive. And Jeryd?"

There was the faintest flutter of hesitance, Lúka almost choosing a more formal address, and continuing to deliberate the choice even after the words were spoken.

"The only reason anyone out here will give a damn what you are is so they know how wary of you to be. Don't hold back. Make me proud."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Against the cacophony of the crowd, of burbling droids, clattering tools, and hissing hydraulics, Lúka's voice came with all the invasive intimacy of a lover's whisper. Jeryd gave a sharp glance to the side, half-expecting to find his superior officer leaning in close, to pour more secrets into his ear. The secrets came, of course, but Jeryd righted himself in their wake. Such a rookie mistake, he chided himself, silently, with the slightest shake of the head. Already his gaze was sweeping the docking bay, for any sign of suspicious activity. He gave his chrono a tap.

"Understood," he muttered, "Good hunting."

It was a phrase he'd heard before in the holos; words bandied about the academy to avoid damning one's comrades with feeble motherly words like "good luck," or "take care of yourself out there, sweetheart." Besides, it sounded pretty badass. In his brevity, he limited the chances of being spotted talking to himself in public, and he also reduced the risk of exposing his own anxiety to Lúka. Things had taken a sudden turn for the worse, and it looked like he was going to be making use of his blaster much sooner than he'd anticipated. He took a measured breath, and resumed his journey along the concourse.

Above, slate grey clouds towered like mountains, ready to burst. Jeryd would welcome the rain, perhaps it would wash away the sour stench of fumes from neighbouring factories, or provide some reprieve from the trapped afternoon heat. Little that it matter, he supposed, as he made another pass by the now-familiar H-6 Bomber: the small cluster of surly types that had once surrounded it were gone, and, on the floor, their freshly-abandoned tools. Damn it. Now they could be anywhere.

Wheeling around, Jeryd swept his gaze left and right for any would-be threats, but instead of finding any blaster-toting pirates, he found his attention drawn to a family. A family of Rodians, he assumed, since they all looked like Cadet Thida. It was unclear which of the adults were the mother and father, respectively, but the children had to be a boys: scrambling over their deposited luggage, firing toy blasters at each other, each shot accompanied by an inventive boom, or whizz, or screech. Another minute or so, and there would be nothing pretend about the blaster shots they hear.

"Hey, you can't stay here," he heard himself say, in an undertone, as he closed the distance between them, "There is... important maintenance work about to take place, here. And gas. Lots of dangerous poisonous gas."

The Rodian looked at him with those large vacant eyes and started babbling something in Rodish, or whatever the hell their language was called. They didn't move an inch. Jeryd pointed to the exit, and repeated his message, hoping to convey the urgency of the situation with wide telling eyes. But no, it appeared the subtleties of body language were wasted on them - they looked like simple folk, from the way they dressed, and carried themselves. Time for something they would understand, then. From his concealed holster, Jeryd slid out his SE-14r, and said, "Get out."

The Rodian gave a wild piercing shriek, and staggered backwards. The other quickly swept up the children in his arms, and together, they ran, leaving their belongings behind. Before the stunned silence could truly take root, a voice rang out from behind:

"Over there!" Jeryd turned in time to see a gnarled looking creature raise a blaster in his direction, "Blast 'im!"

The hanger bay blossomed with bursts of red and flashes of white, as the first volley of shots was unleashed, exploding in showers of sparks all around. Jeryd, having wasted no time in beating a hasty retreat, dived behind a large cargo crate, and pressed his back to it. His next message to Lúka was decidely less badass than the first:

"Definitely made! Definitely made!"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka didn't need the clarification from Jeryd: the echoes of blaster fire thumping their way through the utility corridor he'd ducked into was notification enough.

It didn't change anything though; or rather, couldn't be allowed to. Whatever urgency Jeryd's words managed to convey or instil in him couldn't be indulged, couldn't be allowed to provoke him into a rush or a run. He moved swiftly, but with precision rather than panic. His eyes drank in the details as he approached the service ladder, calculating the interval between each rung - narrower than you'd expect in the Core; a concession to species of shorter stature like Ugnaughts and Utai, no doubt - the for the briefest flicker of a moment before ascending two at a time. Each ascended stride was rhythmic and instinctive, his mind exploiting the precious few seconds to consider options and eventualities.

He halted at the top of the ladder, a hand held aloft, resting flat against the durasteel of the access hatch above him. He reached out with the Force: not the wide net he would usually cast, but something more confined and focused, his senses dancing across the starport rooftop in search of the forms and disruptions of figures in wait. He felt them, two in all, one sixty degrees or so around the docking bay's circumference; the other a handful of meters counter. He glanced at the access hatch, took note of the hinges; a plan took only a moment to form, and Knight Jibral sprang into action an instant later.

Two more rungs were climbed in a surge of motion, feet and knees pressing against the outer edges of the ladder to brace himself and liberate his hands. One gripped the access hatch like a shield, angling it up as a crude momentary barrier against the thug he knew was behind him. The sound travelled the short distance almost immediately, the thug responding as expected with a staccato flurry of blaster shots that peppered the access hatch, vibrations trembling through the metal and shuddering into Lúka's arm and shoulder. He ignored it, exploiting the thin sliver of time that the speed of sound and speed of reaction granted him to snap off a trio of precise, lethal shots towards the henchman opposite. He staggered and crumpled backwards, stumbling into a satisfying fall over the edge of the rooftop, but Lúka didn't have to relish it. The Force gathered beneath him like the rumbling imminent pressure of a geyser, and with a loud clunk of access hatch against rooftop he surged upwards and forwards in an impossible leap. The arc was low by necessity, ending in a diving tumble that brought Lúka over his right shoulder and off to the side, buying him enough rotation to bring his blaster to bear on the second assailant. Whether it was surprise, or luck, or some passive intervention by the Force that Lúka didn't have time to contemplate, the thug's next volley went wide, piercing the air where Lúka should have been but inexplicably wasn't. Lúka didn't waist the opportunity: a double tap of blaster fire lanced out from his EC-17, converting the Nikto's throat into a charred crater of cauterised flesh.

Lúka's vision and Force senses swept the rooftop in opposing arcs, confirming that there was nothing else still moving around him. Fortunately these pirates seemed to have invested in manpower rather than droids or automated defenses; perhaps an act of frugality, or perhaps merely an exercise in tradition, though it hardly mattered. One more second passed before Lúka surveyed the scene below, only now allowing - or rather, failing to resist - the encroaching sense of concern over Jeryd's wellbeing. Be it genuine, or merely a byproduct of having to explain Jeryd's fate to the Academy if he did not return, it was present and clawed at Lúka's mind the same way; the relief that came from spotting Jeryd behind dubious cover did little to dislodge it.

"Two targets approaching," he stated into the comms, his words carefully calculated to radiate a sense of calm, "One by the outer wall; one in the shadow of the ship. Whichever one you shoot for, the other tags you as soon as you're exposed."

As he spoke, Lúka slid the scout blaster back into a concealed pocket in his jacket, switching instead to the slugthrower stowed at the small of his back. A flick released the magazine, a quick glance confirming the Dissuader was loaded with the correct blue-flecked ammunition. Loosening his shoulders, he took aim at his chosen target.

"You take the first. I'll take care of the second before he gets the chance to take his shot."

A lingering moment passed, Lúka plagued by the unbidden thought of the kind of assurance his old Jedi master might have offered in a situation such as this. Lúka and Jeryd had no time for such platitudes, however. They were soldiers. Knights. Everything the Jedi strove not to be.

A few shots of opportunity bit into the crate that Jeryd had ducked behind, trying to pressure and rattle him out of cover.

"On your lead, Cadet."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The shots made the metal ring, and tremble against his back. A few errant sparks rained down upon him, as he considered his move. His heart was pounding, but his mind was clear. From the moment he heard that calm familiar voice in his ear, Jeryd was transported back to the citadel, to the safety of the classroom, where everything was under Lúka's control. He took a breath, allowing the tranquility to take root - just as he had in the garden, with Knight Iscandar - and as he breathed out, he rose from his hiding place.

Senses as sharp as a knife's edge, directed his gaze to the point by the outer wall, where he could almost feel his attacker, waiting. And, once he was within sight, every other instinct, carefully crafted over the years spent in military prep school, and the academy, took over. Two shots rang out. The first struck the alien in his shoulder, and the second landed like a punch to the chest. His expression of concentration, frozen on his leathery face, took in the sight of the black smouldering wound, before he crumpled to the floor.

Another shot sounded, loud, but not with the unrestrained thunder of a typical slug-thrower. Jeryd's eyes snapped to the man beside the ship, he was seized up, as if reeling from a kidney shot. Two powerful cracks followed, and another; all the tension in the pirate's muscles came undone, and he flopped to the floor with an unremarkable thud. It was over.

Jeryd looked up, and, sure enough, there was Lúka, watching over him like a guardian angel. He gave him a nod, "Thanks."

To his surprise, he sounded good. There was no tremor in his voice, or breathlessness from the spike of adrenaline that accompanied the firefight. Indeed, his thoughts had already drifted away from the smoking corpse across the room, to the other one, except, in his case, there were no scorch marks, no entry wounds, and not a single drop of blood. He approached the fallen pirate, and tossed Lúka a glance, "Tranqs?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka didn't respond immediately, his senses reaching down into the bay below, focus washing across surfaces and around cover like water across a polished floor. Nothing moved, and nothing lurked, but that didn't ease the prickling sensation at the base of Lúka's neck that urged caution.

Analysis flickered behind the Knight's eyes as he considered the sights and facts that lay before him. The four they'd taken out thus far had been armed, and alerted, but not prepared. These weren't guards in a conventional sense: the discarded tools, and the unfastened fuel line left abandoned half way across the landing floor spoke to that. Pirates and mercenaries such as these relied on intimidation to discourage anyone from messing with their equipment; these had no doubt been the poor souls who'd drawn the short straw and been left with maintenance and cargo duties while the other pirates could enjoy their plundered bounty. That might mean that the rest of the crew would be scattered and distracted, slow to respond and provide reinforcements; but Lúka couldn't rely on such an assumption of course, especially not without having a better understanding of whose pirates these were. Were they cut from standard cloth, or were they organised, militarised, honed into something dangerously effective by a leader or leaders who knew what they were doing?

Using the Force to vault himself into the air, Lúka landed in a controlled crouch beside the unconscious guard, surveying his outfit and any exposed patches of flesh for markings or brands that might speak to a particular gang or syndicate affiliation. Nothing caught his eye, which didn't mean such markings were absent, but it seemed a safe presumption that marks of loyalty would be worn visibly, especially in as criminalised an environment as this.

"More or less," Lúka answered finally, broadening the scope of his visual survey to the ground around the pirate. He found what he was looking for: one of three crumpled projectiles, mostly crumpled and fragmented upon impact with their target. He held the spent round up for Jeryd to see, the nasty looking needle glinting slightly in the muggish Ubrikkian light. It was set down atop the unconscious pirate's chest, and a control was triggered on the side of the corresponding pistol, the magazine sliding out into Lúka's other hand. He passed the ammunition to Jeryd, letting him glimpse the liquid-filled rounds while they were still intact.

"Technically it's a presynaptic neurotoxin - acts as a paralytic and a sedative. The tip of the slug is ablative, designed to shatter on impact without damaging the target; that releases the spring mechanism and jams the needle through most kinds of fabric and meshweave. Not quite as efficient as a stun blast, but it's a lot harder to resist or absorb. These, on the other hand -"

Lúka reached into his jacket, the calmness of his motions disguising the slight pang of urgency that now guided them. A different clip laden with red-marked rounds was pulled free, and slid into the KD-30 with a satisfying click. A tug of the pistol's moving parts later, and Lúka's arm aimed casually to the side, his gaze following a moment later, training on the hatch at the top of the Havoc's boarding ramp a second or so before it slid open and the pirate behind charged forth. Two shots spat forth from the slugthrower, catching the pirate center mass. The slugs tore through the fabric of his shirt and shattered against his skin, their violently acidic contents rupturing across and into flesh, seeping through bone and into the bloodstream. It took less than a single eye-blink before the caustic substance reached his heart, sending the pirate collapsing into a writhing gasping heap on the floor that swiftly fell silent.

"These aren't quite so benign."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Lúka suddenly took aim, Jeryd ceased to study the unconventional tranq round, and watched, with equal parts shock and awe, as the new pirate threat was nullified without fuss. His tumble down the ramp was punctuated with the sort of agonised sounds that made Jeryd wince to hear. Fuss, it seemed, was relative. A moment longer, Jeryd watched the curls of smoke climb from the now-still body, before he allowed his gaze to creep sideways.

"I have the strangest boner, right now."

[Lúka Jibral]

It wasn't enough to catch Lúka off guard, but it certainly wasn't the kind of response the Knight would have expected. That the Cadet felt comfortable making such a comment to a superior brought with it layers of potential analysis; but it went beyond Lúka's sense of Jeryd's predictable behaviours. Growing up in the Jedi Temple was a complex experience, that sheltered young men from certain things. Contrary to popular belief, that kind of development wasn't completely stunted - even Jedi endured puberty after all - but students at the Temple were taught to control rather than indulge. Lúka hadn't experienced any truly sexual or romantic experiences until after the fall of the Order, and even then they had been limited, often a component of a mission as much as anything else.

Before Lúka had been a Knight however, he had been an Agent, and he had long since learned how to work around any gaps or shortcomings in his upbringing and history.

"Not much of a bulge, Cadet," he countered with an air of disinterest, casually tucking his slugthrower back into his belt. "I wouldn't go drawing attention to it if I were you."

He let the statement hang in the air, mind already moving on to the next stage of the operation. Reinforcements were no doubt on the way, and there was no telling how much time the duo had before thry were under fire again. They had succeeded in subduing a captive - a potential source of information who could expose the location of whatever safehouse or headquarters these pirates had - but it would take time to interrogate, and that was an unknown variable. Moving their captive meanwhile came with its own problems though, especially with the crowded state of the starport. Lúka's contingency had been to evade, and then tail the pirates back to their hideout, but if the ringleader had any sort of intelligence experience - a definite possibility, especially in the wake of the galaxy's Treaty-driven paradigm shift - these pirates might be more skilled at evasion and counter espionage than the average. There was the ship as well, though of course time remained a factor on that front as well.

Decision made, Lúka reached back into his jacket, retrieving the blaster he'd earlier stowed.

"Grab the prisoner, and move him onto the ship," he instructed, already advancing slowly up the ramp, blaster in hand. "Find a chair, and tie him to it."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When aspersions were cast upon the quality of his bulge, Jeryd's mouth fell open, partly, out of shock, but mostly, to defend his honour. Then he thought twice about it, and grinned despite himself. Such a deadpan riposte was typical of Lúka, but even he had not expected that. The conundrum he now faced was three-fold: did he explain to Lúka that it was just a figure of speech, or does he respectfully terminate the inappropriate bants with a superior officer, and allow him to go on thinking he is some kind of pervert who goes full mast for violence, and, in the process, and yet, somehow, worse still, leave him with the impression that he is, in some way, anatomically... shortcoming? The residual horror left him stunned, and the moment passed: he was now Knight Jibral's strange sexual deviant little protégé.

Lúka spoke, again, and they were back on task. Glad to have something else to think about, Jeryd approached the lifeless pirate, and crouched; there was a lingering stench of tobacco on his clothes, and it smelled like he hadn't washed in a week. Before he committed to the lift, fully, Jeryd hesitated, and spared a glance at the corpse across from him. His corpse.

"What about... that?"

[Lúka Jibral]

It only now occurred to Lúka to wonder if this was the first time Jeryd had been responsible for a kill. For Lúka it had become a natural extension of his function for the Empire. He killed when it was required, and always comfortable in the knowledge that their deaths were in the best interests of the Empire and his mission. It helped that he his first exposure to violence had come against the Separatist Droid Army, and his first taste of inflicting death had been against the clones sent to hunt him during the Jedi Purge. Perhaps he should have felt some change when clone pursuers had been replaced with, well, what even was the term for someone who was a genetic original, rather than a clone? Regardless, Lúka had killed plenty in his time on the run, both from a distance and close enough to see the light fade from their eyes, and feel the Force grow quiet in their corpses, and he could not recall feeling anything explicit: no remorse, no satisfaction, nor anything between. It felt practical, rational, ot the detachment of a sociopath, he was confident of that; merely a sense of peace that he had acted as was necessary.

Jeryd on the other hand? He wondered what thoughts might begin to sink in over time, and what comfort - or at the very least, what justification - he might provide to assuage them and keep the Cadet functioning effectively. They were pirates, that helped. Not humans either. Aliens who broke the law, and opposed the needs of the Empire: enough of an initial lever to try and dislodge any guilt that might try to take hold. That could wait, however: Jeryd's mindset, for now at least, seemed practical and focused.

"We leave them," was Lúka's simple reply. It was blunt, no time wasted on sugarcoating the harsh reality. There were several ways he could explain why - that's what local law enforcement is for was the most glib response - but Lúka followed Jeryd's lead, focusing on that same practicality. "The pirates know we're here, so there's nothing to be gained by wasting precious time trying to hide the bodies; and if local law enforcement shows up before we're done here, a few scattered corpses will make them wary enough to not storm in and complicate matters. Either someone will come along to deal with them after we're gone, or the local vermin will take care of it in due time. Either way, they stopped being our problem as soon as they dropped."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Understood."

Jeryd gave a nod, acknowledging, not only Lúka's words, but the meaning behind them. A more sentimental man might have called it callous, and, in the eyes of a religious man, it was perhaps disrespectful, but, for a soldier, there was no greater authority than the Empress, and no greater purpose than to serve her Empire. If that meant leaving the corpse of an enemy to rot, then so be it. Sentiment or faith were of no concern to Jeryd, and, it seemed, his superior understood that, making clear the tactical logic behind abandoning the body, rather than hiding it. The way it came to him, as instinctual as muscle memory, laid bare, before the observant eye, just how much experience Lúka Jibral had had with this sort of thing.

One last glance to the dead Weequay. He found himself wondering if that coarse face had fallen slack, or if he still had that same look of concentration he was wearing when he died; the memory was vivid, and encroached on Jeryd's thoughts, even as he hoisted the pirate onto his shoulder. Up close, the smell was repugnant, like unwashed toilets and blue milk turned sour. With haste, he ascended the boarding ramp, and ducked as he stepped inside the unusually slim ship, careful not to inflict any further damage to their captive.

On his way to the cockpit, he stopped in a narrow room, lined with seats for passengers. It was rudimentary, but sufficient. The pirate was deposited onto a chair, without ceremony, and the straps from neighbouring seats were used to lash his wrists to the armrests. With a third strap, cut loose with one swipe of a concealed vibroblade, his ankles were tied together. That should do it. Jeryd considered him for a moment, then, called in the direction of the cockpit.

"Need any help in there?"

[Lúka Jibral]

The cockpit was empty. Lúka had known that before entering, but it was always a satisfying relief to have his Force senses confirmed by his others. Though some Knights, Inquisitors, and Jedi liked to believe otherwise, the Force was not infallible, and such extrasensory perceptions were not flawless - a lesson that many Jedi had learned during the Clone Wars, when in their overconfidence in their abilities they momentarily forgot that the units of the Separatist Droid Army did not register as lifeforms when sensed through the Force. Lúka had quickly learned to avoid that mistake, relying on his other senses and the technology at his disposal to overcome such flaws; but not every Jedi had been so vigilant. Yet another important lesson to try and convey to his students, Lúka supposed.

After a momentary sweep of his surroundings, Lúka ammended his assessment. The cockpit was clear of any hostiles, yes, but it was far from empty. Scattered tools and fragments of circuitry littered several surfaces, though whether it was the midsts of a repair or an upgrade, Lúka wasn't quite sure. The smell eminating from a crumpled metallic container of now lukewarm food suggested that whatever the task, it had required a great deal of concentration, and had been enough of a priority to distract the mechanic from his meal for a reasonable amount of time. The repairs presented a mystery, one that could either be solved by examining the dismantled circuits in an attempt to understand what process had been undertaken, or perhaps by an examination of the last pirate to leave the ship - whom Lúka presumed was the mechanic - to find any missing components or instructions; but that mystery was not the priority. Instead, Lúka turned his attention to the navigation controls, scanning through the ship's flight plans and hyperspace records, comparing them to the memorised details of the raid against the Archives transports. He found the confirmation he was searching for; but as he feared, the ship's records of transit through the Ubrikkian atmosphere led only to his same starport. Whatever the pirates had done with their stolen contraband, it had been transported from here to an alternate location, rather than being ferried there by the ship itself. That had been expected, of course; anything beyond that was a long shot.

As Jeryd spoke, Lúka looked up from the console, but hesitated before answering. In terms of their primary objective - to retrieve the stolen shipment - there was little more of value that the cockpit could yield. Perhaps there were comms logs that could be downloaded, transmissions that could be triangulated or transcripts that could be scoured for a possible location; but the quickest avenue to the information they sought was through interrogation. That was a task Lúka was inclined to take point on; but then, Lúka was inclined to do everything himself, a habit born from a largely solitary approach to similar missions on behalf of the Inquisitors and the Archives. The Imperial Knights represented a deviation from that prior norm however, and though far from official, bringing Jeryd here had been a deliberate choice to take advantage of the resources and assistance the Knights could provide. True, Lúka could have had Jeryd take over in the cockpit, delegating a lesser task to his student; but why? Why bring Jeryd at all, if the same functionality could be employed by having Ivy here rather than back on the shuttle.

"I've got things covered up here," Lúka replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, self-contained injector unit. He tossed it out into the corridor behind him, but snared it mid air with the Force before it could strike either the ground or Jeryd, holding it afloat a little below eye level. "You've done Advanced Interrogation with Lady Vissica, right? One dose of stim should start to negate the toxin. Get him conscious, and get me a location on their storehouse."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The injector unit was plucked out of the air. He studied it for all of a heartbeat, before giving a nod. Anything longer was hesitation, and, though Lúka was not around to see it, Jeryd was unwilling to humour it within himself. Hesitation was not the quality of good soldier, let alone an Imperial Knight. A moment was taken to consider his approach; Lady Vissica was not only a ruthless instructor, but a thorough one, too. His identity was a mystery - he wore no uniform, no Imperial insignia, and the weapons could quite easily be Black Market - he could use that to his advantage. Their mission was also a covert one, and it would not do to unveil the Empress's influence in the presence of a common pirate. Almost nothing was known of his prisoner - that, too, could be turned in his favour. And, beyond a trifling piece of information, the pirate was of no value to him whatsoever. That was where his power lay.

He took a long steady breath, then pressed the unit against the pirate's neck. There was a faint hiss, and a moment later, his prisoner stirred. Jeryd watched the weight lift from his heavy eyes, and as soon as he had his attention, he spoke.

"My employer takes a grim view of those who steal from him."

"I... I am no thiefff."

The alien rasped. Jeryd had never seen his kind before: a noseless reptillian sort, with thick tendrils where there ought to be hair, and skin mottled greyish green, like paint-soiled water. Though his facial expressions were difficult to read, there was no mistaking the focus, when it returned to his gaze.

"No," said Jeryd, with a casual lift of his eyebrows, "You're much more than that, aren't you? You are a pirate, wanted in no fewer than 3 systems for theft and multiple counts of murder."

His accusation was met with a throaty chatter, which he took to be the alien approximation of a snort.

"Has the Empire become so bored, in its peace, that it has taken to the bothering offf common fffolk? I know what you are, Imperial."

Now, it was Jeryd's turn to snort:

"Because I sound like I'm placing an order of afternoon tea?" He took a seat opposite the pirate, and conceded his point with a shrug, "It is rather useful, getting around the Core Worlds, with an accent like this. I suppose it adds to my charm."

His mouth straightened into a brief and perfunctory smile.

"But, you? You are a pirate. You are a thief, and a wanted murderer across 3 different systems. That's quite a résumé."

"That is not me." The pirate sounded annoyed, and twitched with impatience against his bindings, "I hafe nefer killed a man befffore. I don't know these people. We hafen't efen leffft the system, yet."

So, he was a newbie. Good.

For appearance's sake, Jeryd considered his prisoner with unguarded suspicion, frowned, and shook his head.

"Do you think my employer gives a shit where you've been? All that he cares about is what you have taken from him. Something small, lightweight, easily concealed? You acquired it within the past 7 days."

"I do not know what you are talking about!" the pirate snapped, fighting his restraints, "I don't hafe-"

"No, you don't." Jeryd stood, closing the distance between them in an instant, "But I expect you know someone who does. One of your new buddies, right? Tell me, do you think they will care that you died protecting their secrets? Will they shed a tear? Hold a memorial service, perhaps? I thought not."

He crouched, lowering himself to the alien's eye level. His tone softened.

"This item is of significant value to my employer. I do not need a name. Just a place. If you co-operate, there is no need for you to come to harm. You can start again. And, I assure you, there will be nothing to fear from your old pirate buddies once our business is done. So tell me where the storehouse is."

After three seconds of silence, he took action. The strike was sudden and fast, with enough power to split the alien's lip, and put a quiver in his silly chin tentacles. It was time to put aside the niceties and make his prisoner aware, in no uncertain terms, that the threat was very real. He rose, ignoring the sting in his hand. When he spoke again, he drew on his earliest conversations with Lúka, and replaced the softness in his voice with ice.

"Did you think I was good cop? You're off the beaten path, my friend, and make no mistake, the longer you delay, the worst it will be for you. Now, tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything! I-"

"The storehouse. Where is it?"

The alien's eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open with all the banal vacancy of a dead fish. There was a flash of silver, as Jeryd unsheathed his vibroblade, it turned gracefully in his fingers and was buried to the hilt in the pirate's hand. His cry was muffled beneath a large heavy hand. Hot ragged breaths dampened Jeryd's palm, as his prisoner writhed beneath him. Though his heart was pounding, he discovered that, in the strange violent intimacy of the moment, his head was quite clear. He pressed himself close, to swim in that dreadful stench of body odour, and forced serrated words through his teeth into the alien's ear.

"Your friends cannot touch you, here. But I can. Are you ready to die for this?"

He lingered for one agonising moment longer, before he yielded his grip, relinquishing the pressure on both the blade, and the pirate's mouth. To afford him some small sense of reprieve, he returned to the seat opposite, and allowed himself to relax while his prisoner whimpered and hissed.

"You still have everything to gain: your freedom, your life. I have no interest in causing you anymore pain. But, if I do not find the next words to leave your mouth to be useful to me, I am going to start removing pieces of you. So, tell me what I want to know, and I'll be on my way."

A moment later, Jeryd stepped into the cockpit, and sheathed his clean vibroblade.

"The storehouse is on the edge of town. Cresh District, where 83 and 109 meet. Look for a green sign, written in Huttese."

[Lúka Jibral]

# # # #

Cresh District. The corner of 83rd and 109th. Lúka peered at the vidscreen in his hands, watching the results of the perimeter sweep being fed back to him from the compact and discrete survey droid that currently shuffled along the alleyway that ran down one length of the building. In fact, there were several survey droids, each one a conversion from generic and unassuming droids of different types and configuration. A messenger droid had bobbed past, scanning one arc of the perimeter. A nanny droid with sensor equipment loaded into a stroller had passed by on the main streets. Lúka's current view was provided by a gonk droid, a slowly shuffling power unit that's lethargic pace allowed for a more intensive deep scan of the storehouse structure. The video feed swayed slightly as one of the guards in the alley hurled a mostly empty beer bottle at it, urging the droid to shuffle along faster.

Lúka tucked the device back into his pocket, and turned his attention to the A-Two Ninety-Five that leaned against the heating duct he was concealed behind. The A295 was a solid rifle, manufactured by the Empire's chief arms supplier, BlasTech, but for some reason, the weapon had never been adopted for Imperial use, instead more commonly seen in the hands of rebels and dissidents. It was a subtle detail, but one of many that Lúka paid attention to. In the wake of the treaty, the illusion that they were Alliance operatives a few lightyears past the border was a believable lie, and less worthy of note than a pair of Imperials a dozen sectors out of their way.

His attention moved past the rifle to his partner, his protégé, the Cadet he had co-opted for this mission. He was a problematic variable, an aspect of the mission that Lúka could not entirely predict and rely upon. He knew the Cadet's scores. He had trained Jeryd Redsun himself. He had seen him in action and under pressure here on Ubrikkia. But each new challenge was a new strain, a new pressure, a new weighty vehicle travelling over an untested bridge. The human mind was a strange thing: at times it could take escalation in stride, rising to each new challenge; at others, one strain too many could simply cause it to snap. It was too late now. This was the backup he had chosen, and no reinforcements were coming. All that remained now was trust.

"On my signal," Lúka said slowly, and quietly, reiterating the plan once more as a reassurance and reinforcement, well aware that Jeryd had already committed every facet to memory. "You are going to emerge from cover, and make a break for that warehouse. You will have two rooftops to cover, and you will be exposed: but that will draw the sentries on the roof out of cover, and that's where this comes in."

A hand reassuringly patted the sniper rifle cradled in the crook of Lúka's arm.

"I will take out the sentries before they get a shot off at you, but in the unlikely event that you don't, that shield generator on your belt will stop anything short of a heavy repeater for more than long enough to get you inside. Your entry point is on the top storey, third window from the left. Shoot the glass before you jump, set off the stun grenade as soon as you land, and keep your eyes shut tight when you do, else you'll be of no use to me. As soon as the sentries are dealt with I will be right behind you: all I need from you is thirty seconds, and then I will be at your side."

Lúka drew in a breath, and collected his emotions, a wave of confidence and reassurance flowing out of him as he exhaled.

"Are you ready for this, Jeryd?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"I'm ready."

In Lúka's presence, under his cool instruction, Jeryd felt the last fragments of doubt solidify, bolstering his answer like durasteel bars. It was a familiar feeling, assuming a certainty that was not entirely his own in the face of the unknown: Lúka Jibral had been pushing him outside of his comfort zone for some time now, and today was no different. Beneath the calm collected exterior, his heart was racing, and the adrenaline was starting to make him feel heavy from inaction. His muscles were ready to explode. Mimicking his mentor, he took a long slow breath, and visualised the challenge ahead.

On the signal, he saw himself take off at speed, pounding the ground with his heavy boots, and enjoying the sudden release of tension in his arms and legs as they worked in powerful unison to propel him towards danger. The first of the sentries appeared, and collapsed before the stock of his rifle could meet his shoulder; the second took aim, but the scope shattered against his eye, and he toppled backwards, through a halo of pink mist. Jeryd could see himself approaching the edge of the first roof, and the wind, that once whipped against his skin, now passed through him. He leapt, making a mockery of the expanse. And when he landed, shots rang out, kicking up geysers of gravel on either side. His military training kicked in, then. As he rolled into cover, he saw a streak of light from Lúka's direction, and from behind, there came the telltale clatter of a fallen body. That was his cue to move.

They were close now. So close he could see the whites of their eyes as they raised their weapons to shoot him down. His legs fired like pistons, his chest heaved like a furnace - he was a machine. When one of the sentries dared to block his way, he was transported, in the way one who blocks the path of an armoured hovertrain was transported, clear of rooftop, into the chasm below. Again, Jeryd took flight to the neighbouring roof. He couldn't recall at what point he'd stopped thinking of making his advance and actually made it, but the effect was all the same. It was as if he was seeing through someone else's eyes, trapped inside of someone else's body. Instinct had taken over.

The shots were getting closer now. And when a glancing shot triggered the shield generator, a perfect sphere of blue energy rippled all around him. Despite Lúka's assurances, Jeryd had no interest in putting the generator to the test - one close call was enough. More shots rang out behind him. He dared not look back. Ahead, the warehouse loomed. And opposite, the third floor, and the third window from the left, just as he'd been told. Surfacing from that numbing heady buzz of adrenaline, he heard the thunder of blood in his ears once more. It was time.

From the holster to his right came the blaster, and from his belt clip on the left, came the grenade. He'd had time to think about it, he wouldn't slow down. If he missed the jump, he'd fall, but if he was going to go, he was going at full speed. He was in the air again, and the frame of the window gaped as he soared towards it, pistol in hand. He fired. The blaster barked, tense against his fingers, and ripped the glass to pieces just as he ploughed through. He tumbled, and rolled, with a crunch of glass and the clang of metal underfoot. In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed movement, shapes dispersing as one. His left hand was already empty. He closed his eyes.

From the warehouse there came a loud bang, a bright flash, and then, a chorus of blaster fire.

[Lúka Jibral]

As Jeryd made his final jump, Lúka rose from cover, advancing in his wake. An access hatch hinged open on the building between them; the blaster shot caught the arriving pirate in the throat, the hatch slamming closed against his head as he clattered back inside. Quick and precise, with calm rather than hurry, the rifle was slung across his shoulders, adjusted slightly until it hung comfortably. Lúka's pace quickened over the space of a few strides, a jog more than a run as he reached the edge of the building and let the Force launch him to the next, landing in a momentarily stationary crouch.

The advance continued, a small thermal charge plucked from his belt and attached via magnetics to the hatch. Three more strides and it activated, a blistering momentary burst of heat liquidizing the hatch into a makeshift weld that would hold things closed for now. A lightsaber would have been more elegant, for that and for all of this; but they attracted attention, and that was far from what they wanted. Just some gang-on-gang violence in downtown Ubrikkia, that's all this was. Nothing to see here.

Lúka's pace grew quicker as he drew closer to the edge of the final rooftop, evolving into a leap that sent him diving through the already broken window, and into a three-point landing, a cushion of the Force slowing his descent at the last moment to absorb the worst of the impact. The instant his boots and fingers felt floor, a pistol was whipped out from within his jacket, barrel sweeping from exit to exit, clearing the room. Unconscious forms slumped across the various surfaces, immediate threats neutralised; but sounds had already begun to stir in the rest of the building. There was time, before whatever forces the pirates had sent to the starport had the opportunity to be warned and turn back, but such time was fleeting. They needed to act fast.

"Clear," Lúka announced, voice crisp and clear, modulated to fill the room but not spill too far beyond it. "You good, Cadet?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"I'm good."

Jeryd answered. He was facing away from Lúka, eyes keen, tracking from corner to corner of the room. The sound of his voice filled the space, bold, clear, and unbroken. Another deep breath. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. He was good. He was confident. He was calm.

In his mind's eye, he recalled the scene: dazed and panicked, fumbling their weapons, the pirates fired in futility across the room. Dodging their attacks was child's play. He strafed, picking his shots as the windows shattered and the walls cracked behind him. One by one, they fell. Each shot was unerring, punching smoking holes in torsos and heads. By the time they regained their senses, three of their comrades had fallen. When they took aim, Jeryd dropped from one gangway onto another, breaking a fourth enemy under his boot. A shot hit the metal railing, it sung in protest, spitting sparks where he had once been. They moved so slowly, labouring, it seemed, under the weight of some unfathomable burden. Jeryd killed his fifth with a shot to the temple; he hadn't even seen it coming.

That was when Lúka arrived, and, in the time it had taken for him to secure his first kill, his superior officer had dispatched of the rest without so much as taking a single step. Jeryd didn't want to smile - it was cocky and unprofessional - but he couldn't help it. Perhaps later, in some quiet moment of introspection, he'd wrestle with the guilt of killing strangers in cold blood. But that was later. In the now, he was a finely-tuned instrument of the Empire's will, a harmony of peerless training and unfaltering belief. The Force had indeed made him strong, and his journey had only just begun.

With a glance at Lúka, he corrected his assessment with a thankful nod, "We're good."

[Lúka Jibral]

It was all the confirmation Lúka needed. Within a moment they were both on the move, advancing down the corridor in perfect sync, pistols drawn. Two pirate figures appeared from a doorway off to the right; immediately they succumbed to a double-tap to the chest, one delivered from each of the Imperials. A few yards were gained, a glance cast at Jeryd to confirm that he was watching the corridor before Lúka stepped into position to clear the inside; but it was barely needed, not a word uttered between them, training and instincts and the Force guiding their actions.

As Lúka stepped back from the doorway - a makeshift bunk room, a few rusty frames and dirty mattresses; nothing worthy of attention - a figure appeared around the corridor intersection ahead, blaster rifle in hand. Lúka turned to react, but Jeryd reacted faster, a blaster shot striking an exposed knee that the pirate hadn't fully tucked behind cover. The gunman stumbled, falling into view, and Lúka dispatched him with a quick shot between the eyes. A glance was exchanged, a quick nod of gratitude given, and then the Knights were on the move again, Lúka pausing for a moment to retrieve the gunman's rifle.

A few more yards, a turn in the corridor, and then the next doorway. The Knights took positions either side of the frame; Lúka gave Jeryd the nod to trigger the door control, rifle held ready to dispatch whoever was inside. The metal plate shot aside rapidly, and the room's lone occupant reacted, turning away from the bank of security monitors to nervously aim a blaster towards the door. Shots from Lúka's commandeered rifle caught him in the groin, stomach, and chest, slumping him back against the security desk, and then down onto the floor.

Lúka stepped inside, and to the side, clearing a path before he beckoned for Jeryd to follow. Repositioning himself in the doorway, covering the corridor in both directions, he gestured with a jerk of his head towards the surveillance equipment. "We're looking for wherever they store their valuables," he explained, pausing for a quick moment to fell another pirate with twice as many perfectly-aimed shots to the head than were needed. "We're looking for a secure door, Captain's Quarters, a gap in their surveillance coverage - anything that seems out of place."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Got it."

Jeryd advanced into the surveillance room, and occupied the dead man's seat. The security panel was unfamiliar to him, its layout lacked the elegant simplicity of an Imperial system; there were screens and switches everywhere, and a half-eaten sandwich on the console. He tossed it to the floor next to the body.

"Okay, anything out of place..." he repeated quietly to himself, performing a regimented sweep of every screen on the terminal. In half of the images he didn't even know what he was looking at, and in the other half, there was nothing particularly noteworthy: scruffy dorms, empty corridors, large open spaces littered with storage containers, a kitchen, a mess hall. There was nothing. The thirty seconds that passed felt like a lifetime. In his desperation, Jeryd started playing with switches, to see what happened. Displays changed, swapped, zoomed in, zoomed out, changed angles. In his haste, he didn't seem to be making any sense of the controls. He'd seen the same storage crate now from three different directions.

Any moment now, he thought, Lúka would be upon him, to demand he stepped aside for a professional. He could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head, as the last fragments of his patience shattered. An itchy heat started to trickle up his neck and encroach upon his face. Once again, his gaze dashed from image to image, searching for a clue. There was nothing: no safe, no extra security, no reinforced doors, just the same stupid crate over and over again.

"Wait," he said, suddenly, cycling back to the last image of the crate. It was about the length and width of a single bed, and about as tall as an average human, but most notably, it was alone. Another switch flicked, and there was the same solitary storage crate, but from a different angle, another switch, and again, it was the same crate. Jeryd rose at last.

"That's it," he said, pointing to the screen, "It has to be."

His apprehension evaporated. The strength of his conviction went beyond confidence, it was something else. And yet, despite his sudden certainty, he couldn't shake the thought that, had it been Jensen, he would've figured it out in half the time.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka glanced in the direction of what Jeryd had discovered. From this distance, it seemed like nothing but a nondescript shipping container, but something about it had caught the Cadet's attention. Part of Lúka wanted to step over and study the findings for himself, review and confirm Jeryd's suspicions with his own. But no: that was not why Cadet Redsun was here. This was not a training exercise, not a subject for review and grading. He trusted Redsun for a mission of this sensitivity. He had trusted him to extract the necessary information that had led them here; trusted him to run point on their infiltration into the building. If this had been a test, Redsun would have thus far passed each stage of it. There was no reason to entertain any speculation that this current instance was any different.

"Alright, Jeryd."

He made a point of using the familiar address, balancing the dynamic between them into something with a little more equilibrium. Much as his nascent Jedi instincts begged for their interactions to resemble that of Master and Padawan, in this instance it was the concept of equal operatives that served as the common ground for their understanding, and so that was the configuration that Lúka chose to adopt.

"It's your theory."

He stepped out into the corridor, and then backwards, clearing the pathway for Jeryd to exit.

"You're on point."