<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->


<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Garbage.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

Nearly 5,000 meters of garbage.

5,000 meters of garbage rent asunder, now littering fifty rough-shorn miles of pocked landscape. Piecemeal fires sputtered at odd intervals along a telltale wake of doomed passage; churlish streams of spume rising from the wreckage, blackening a sky mottled with high cirrus clouds, .

The <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Vindication<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> was no more.

A stunning array of turrets, missile tubes, tractor-beam projectors, and deflector shields had comprised the bulk of this bulwark of protosteel, a gargantuan battlecruiser of absolutely auspicious proportions.

So much scrap.

And twistwoven into the fabric of this chaos:

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Death. <!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

A thousandfold.

There had been no warning. No jettisons. No alarms.

It were as though the planet itself had simply reached out to snatch the Dreadnought as a gnat from the air, to clutch and crush the life within moments—not a moment spared to void any living being from the guts of the beast.

And yet…

Just to the anterior of the brig sector, the caul/core housing below subdeck C had punched easily through into the D level entryway, neatly bisecting the security control room from the lowdeck causeway. The housing had contained the failsafe supply for the brig sector, ensuring that, in the event of a failure, the holding cells would not be compromised.

Security, needless to say, had been breached.


<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->


The worst of the pain had passed.

So he continued, groping along the ceiling in utter darkness, mindful of what was a very sharp and disconcertingly <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> wet<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> feeling underneath his left arm, just between the 6th and 7th rib. It didn’t feel as though a lung had been compromised; however, after he’d discovered (and as a result, <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> removed<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->) the shard of foreign material piercing his side he now questioned if he’d done the right thing. As disoriented as he was from the cant of the ship and the utter darkness, he couldn’t tell how much blood he’d lost, or if his light headedness was a result of his environment or his physical state.

The darkness, he decided, was a <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> very good thing<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->.

He reaffirmed this as his fumbling hands found yet another <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> something<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> firm-but-yielding-and-moist beneath, and he recoiled, which aggravated his injury, which in turn aggravated his resolve.

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> He had no idea where he was.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

Upon awakening in the void, his choice had been simple: panic or move.

Until now, he’d been moving. Direction unknown he crawled, crouched, and picked over terrain wholly alien—and quite unsettling.

And this took his mind off the other disturbing phenomenon he’d discovered:

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> He had no idea <!--EZCODE BOLD START--> who<!--EZCODE BOLD END--> he was.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

Vagueries assaulted him—of beasts, of uniforms, of metal upon metal upon metal and lights searing his vision, of men and more metal—snippets of memory or fancy he’d no idea.

He hoped that, as his head cleared, as he found his way <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> out<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->, the truth would return.

So now, as he continued on, the darkness gnawing, gnawing, gnawing but sparing him the details of what must have been a cataclysmic event, he focused once again on his task of <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> moving, of moving, of moving<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->, gazing blind into the inky smell of acrid ozone and death…

And all the while, the darkness <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> gazed back<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->.

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->


“Did you just say <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> ’We lost her?<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->’”

<!--EZCODE BOLD START--> Imperial Governor Salome Tarkin<!--EZCODE BOLD END--> spoke to most as though lying next to them in bed.

The news of the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Vindication<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> did nothing to alter her characteristically demure countenance; she’d merely shifted her gaze from the aft viewport of the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Arbitrator’s<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> main deck to the understandably averted eyes of the Ensign, who understood clearly these might be his final moments alive.

The Ensign lifted his head, eyes still lowered in abject deference.

“Yes Milady.”

Her own eyes flicked to the viewport, then to the crew who, as her gaze fell on them, quickly returned to their duties.

Finally:

“Tell me…how does one <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> misplace<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> a Dreadnought-class battlecruiser? Might one tuck it under a pillow?”

She circled him, well aware of the cliché.

“Perhaps they leave it in their other trousers?” She leaned in to whisper. “The ones they haven’t soiled.”

The Ensign blinked several times in succession.

‘Milady, what, what I mean to say is—she’s gone down. She’s gone...down.”

Silence. She remained there, breathing softly in his ear, staring through the fore viewport at the ruddy Northern Hemisphere of Rouan through dark eyes lucid and clear.

“Down?” she whispered and he jumped and she continued.

“<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Landed<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->, you mean?”

The Ensign shook his head minutely, aware of her proximity and quite afraid to accidentally touch her.

“N-no. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think—“

“Those are four completely contrasting statements, Ensign. I’m terribly confused. I don’t think my poor little brain can grasp such depths of juxtaposition.” Her breath, quite warm, chilling him. “Might you simplify your answer in a way I can wrap my frail, dainty mind around it?”

He balked. Continued.

“I…none of us can quite tell what happened to her. She came out of hyperspace into the Venator Sector over Koda. She gave her position and within seconds just….went down.”

Imperial Governor Tarkin straightened his perfect collar for him.

“I see.”

She moved out from behind, gliding past to place her hands on the back of his chair, her back to him, gazing at the instruments before her.

“I trust someone is on their way to Koda as we speak.”

It was not a question.

“We have a command garrison on Bryx, which isn’t that far away. I’ve contacted them and been assured they will look into it.” Once out, he marveled at how childish he sounded, and how utterly insipid he felt.

The only indication he had that she’d heard was the casual brushing of obsidian hair from her face, back over her ears, as she gazed at the panel.

“Why don’t you contact them again,” she cooed. “And let them know that they’re going to have company.”

“Milady?”

She turned then, regarding him. Considering.

“Would you like to come along, or stay here?”

This was an honest question.

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->

As she left the upper deck, the Ensign settled into his seat.

He punched in the directive, sending the command out to calculate the path through the North Quadrant to the Venator sector.

He then sent the missive to Bryx, hoping they would take him seriously this time. He'd heard tell of the impressive Sith faction on Bryx, after the overthrow, and could only hope they were still in the area.

Really, <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> really<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> hope they were still in the area.

As he connected, his shaking hands reminded him:

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Exhale.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->


He maintained his capacity to reason; as such, he reassured himself, he had not gone mad.

His abrupt laughter broke the indeterminate silence, startling him into cringing—and thereby calling to question his previous assessment of his psychological well-being.

Who knew how long he’d wandered; the disorientation had exponentially increased throughout the distorted, angular maze. Some time ago (minutes? hours?) he’d huddled in a fetal position weathering a wrenching nausea, the cause of which could have been anything ranging from hunger, concussion…or perhaps a the presence of foreign gas in the air from a ruptured line, slowly filling his body with subtle, noxious poison.

He listened as his echo receded into the unknown, then set about the task of—

He froze.

Low, guttural, something akin to a <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> yawn <!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> stifled the last remnant of his laughter.

Resonant, ethereal, faraway…

His brow ached—he realized he’d been straining with eyes prised open to their limit and he closed them, forcing himself to relax

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Ijustwantto<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--><!--EZCODE BOLD START--> see<!--EZCODE BOLD END-->

and his eyes snapped open once again.

An image in <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> bas relief<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> burned upon his consciousness, impossibly, of the fantastical condition of the space around him:

of the gnarled gangway forty meters above

of a mangled metal man suspended up and left, entangled in a broken mess of bracing and pipes

and of the rumpled surface of the (ceiling?) beneath his feet, stretching on and at a slight incline, littered with various detritus from the ruined area above…

(I <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> have<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> gone mad)

Licking cracked lips, tasting blood, reminded that he had no idea how long he’d been in perpetual night, he tentatively closed his eyes once more, breathing deep—

He spun violently, thrown bodily several feet up into the bulkhead. His wounded side shrieked the instant before his head filled with the horrible ringing of solid impact.

Sliding, dazed, a symphony of pain; he lay supine at the base of the bulkhead and the distant <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> yawn<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> slipped through the and over the throb in his head and he came to an understanding that he was dead.

Dead, and in hell.

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->


<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> “Milady?”<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

Governor Tarkin continued the reassembly of the modified E-11 blaster, her eyes unreadable through the magnification goggles. The Captain’s face remained in awkward silence, knowing she’d heard him but unsure of his next move, as he had no permission to proceed. Watching her perched upon the high stool he stood at attention just inside the doorway of Ordinance II…the Governor’s playground.

She solved his problem.

“We’re out of hyperspace?”

He balked.

“Milady?”

She continued tinkering and spoke slowly, as though addressing a small child.

“We have exited hyperspace and are about to rendezvous with the envoy from Bryx. That’s what you’re about to tell me, correct?”

A deep breath.

“Milady…we have yet to enter hyperspace. We’re receiv—“

“Are you a thinking man, Captain?”

The particle accelerator casing replaced, she reinserted the core into the housing.

“…pardon, Milady?”

She slipped the casing together, now realigning the barrel intercooler.

“For instance, a bolt generated by an E-11 blaster emits several dozen watts of luminous power. One can see the bolt because part of the energy beam decays into light, directed transverse to the blast ray. Now, this light, when striking an opaque surface such as, perhaps, <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> skin<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->, the energy is absorbed, thermalising the target area…”

The casing tightened, she held the blaster up to the suspended worklight.

“The energy loss from the bolt is more rapid in a medium such as a <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> body<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> than in open air, so the bulk of the energy is deposited in the target before a good deal of its charge can decay—the end result being absorption by the surface the bolt strikes. In the case of a living creature, the impact not only thermalises the affected area, but can, when placed correctly, disrupt neurological functions relayed by the synapses firing between the brain and the rest of the body.”

She lifted the goggles from her face, wiping a bit of moisture from her upper cheekbones with the back of her hand; the other hand twirled the blaster twice without effort.

“I trust you’ve been able to follow along so far, Captain?”

The Captain averted his eyes from the blaster in her hand to her face, which bore a genuinely inquisitive look. Or so it appeared.

“Yes Milady. Very well.”

A furrowing of the brow. Pursing her lips, she brought the muzzle of the blaster to rest upon them as she regarded her charge, nodding slowly. The muzzle retreated slightly to her chin as she spoke.

“Since you’re a thinking man, perhaps you could help me with a problem I’m having?”

He had a bad feeling about this.

“As best as I am able, Milady.”

She exhaled, resting the gun in her lap, her legs kicking out then back, out then back, the way a pensive child awaits her name to be called at the dentist’s office.

“In recent history, I gave an order. That order seems to have decayed somewhere between the initial <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> charge<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> and the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> opaque surface<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->.”

He noticed her hands idly exploring the blaster in her lap.

Or so it seemed.

“Now, being the thinking man that you are, here is my quandry,” she raised a hand to emphasize each point. One hand happened to grip the blaster. “On the one hand, the blaster might have been faulty—that is to say, the charge never left the gun. On the other hand, the charge may very well have left the gun—but somehow missed the target. Now, the way <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> I<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> see it, the best way to discern the problem would be to fire the weapon again, to make sure it isn’t faulty. Does that make sense to you?”

Her right arm crossed under her left armpit; the left, bearing the blaster, hung over this upon the elbow, the gun now absently tapping the inside of her left knee. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Milady, there has been—“

“Obviously <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> not<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->, as that was a simple <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> yes<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> or <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> no<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> question. ‘Does that make sense to you Captain?’ ‘Yes Milady, it certainly does!’ ‘No Milady, I’m thick that way!’ There’s no ‘There has been’ or ‘Someone said’ or ‘My arse aches from sitting so much’—there is only positive or negative: I am <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> positive<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> I gave the order to proceed directly to the Venator sector so I might better understand why I’m suddenly lacking one of my favorite warcraft. I feel quite <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> negative<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> when confronted with the, shall we say, <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> lack of initiative<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> from the crew on <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> this<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> warcraft. I <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> truly<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> hope that this behavior isn’t some sort of contagion—although if it were I might have already found the answer as to the demise of the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Vindication<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->.”

The blaster had continued tapping the inside of her knee in its own slow, smooth rhythm, utterly separate from her vocal expression. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Now, Captain, answer me this: has my initial blast hit the mark, or shall I fire again?”

The Captain weighed his options.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Ultimately, he would be damned either way, so he said as much as he could before she inevitably dropped him..

“Milady, there has been a deep space priority transmission with which we only now have been able to properly connect due to the proximity of the Torch cloud. We suspended our activities pending further notice, as the sender of the transmission requests to speak with you directly.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She regarded a point in space somewhere directly through his head, perhaps all the way to the Venator sector.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Milady, begging your pardon, but the transmission has been routed to your quarters.”

Tap.

Her eyes came into focus again.

“You have a priority transmission and you’ve waited this long to tell me?”

Tap.

He nodded once, not looking her in the eye.

“Milady, you take priority over any other priority.”

The gun ceased tapping.

Wry smirk.

“Not bad, Captain.”

She stood, holstering the blaster on her left thigh, and brushed past him, talking over her shoulder.

“Tell anyone I didn’t kill you and I’ll have you killed.”

He nodded, turning, purposely refraining from observing her from behind as she strode off toward the lift to her quarters. He’d never once entertained the notion of her physicality.

Or so it seemed.

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->

The figure materialized on the screen with the usual light haze of deep space transmission, and Salome’s characteristic resolve shattered.

The face regarded her without emotion—only the eyes spoke of affinity beyond protocol.

“Governor Tarkin, so glad you could make it. I was beginning to think you believed yourself too important to bother with priority communication.”

Salome straightened, recovering her voice.

“Moth—,” her voice caught. She cleared her throat, which tenuously hid the husky strain of emotional chaos. “<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Admiral Daala<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->.”

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->

The transmission sputtered and

(<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> died<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->)

ended.

He remained as he’d been, leaning heavily into his seat aboard the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Entrepreneur<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->, still staring at a screen as blank as the expression on his face.

He would have really, really appreciated a drink at this point.

A voice from the cockpit slid out of the speaker above his right ear.

“Coruscant.”

Nothing more, a simple point of reference: they were home.

The transmission had been waiting for him when the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Entrepreneur<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> had split the seam from hyperspace into his home system, had been waiting for nearly two days—a long time.

Too long.

Nakadai blinked slowly, leaning back to stare at the striations running to and fro along the cabin’s luxury interior. He traced one to the opposing wall, found another, and traced it back.

Minutes passed. The speaker whispered.

“Stationary orbit.”

He nodded to no one.

And spoke to no one.

“<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Koda.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> The last movement. Fat lady sings. KoooodaKodaKodaKoda<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Kodaaaaaa…<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->”

He spun the chair, sitting upright, tapping lightly at the panel before him.

<!--EZCODE BOLD START--> >>SECsearch VENATOR/NEWACTIVE/48
>>Searching<<
>>Searching<<
>>…<<
>>..2
>>..5
>>..7
>>..7
>>..7 ENTITIES/36.2
>><!--EZCODE BOLD END-->

He closed his eyes, sagging briefly, exhaling. Nearly a day and a half and already a half dozen new entries into a system that saw about as much action as his housebound grandmother.

It had to be.

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Had<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> to be.

Drumming of the fingers. Eyes flicking back and forth under furrowed brow.

Punch.

“Get us down.”

As he felt the barely perceptible motion of the ship align itself with the descent pattern, he leapt from his seat, strode to the door and turned leaping back into the seat.

Fingers flying, a new search began….

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->


<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Pain now.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

He’d lain dazed and bleeding from the scalp as agony continued dancing on invisible strings across his head and back and forth and back and throb <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> pulse<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> throb <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> pulse<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> liquid along his neck and into the seams of clothing and consciousness he cried out silently and was answered

<!--EZCODE BOLD START--> Submit<!--EZCODE BOLD END-->

but instead he lay in darkness against the cool dead steel of a coffin large enough to house a thousand lifeless shells within its shell—

He realized his eyes were open and he closed them, crush, the kaleidoscope of showersparks coursing as blood <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> pulsed<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> and slowed and <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> pulsed<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> and clotted—

A sharp moan found his ears and crawled inside to burn.

Only after holding his breath to listen did he realize it was his.

Voices.

Voices.

Vo

<!--EZCODE BOLD START--> Submit<!--EZCODE BOLD END-->

ices.

Hands found the wall secure; he rose like a new-birthed foal, wobbling, unsure—blind.

“…I will not.”

Cracked whisper monumental in the silence, cacophony of sound ricocheting throughout the interior of the dead hulk.

He had spoken—now, he followed the sound of his own voice as it fled. Void-black he staggered, arms outstretched, reaching for it—to clutch and repossess, to throttle, to kill—

“…I will not…submit…I willnot submit, Iwillnotsubmit…”

Hoarse horse galloping away, away he lurched, caroming from something solid, stumbling through something soft, reaching, reaching, reaching—

<!--EZCODE BOLD START--> Submit and live<!--EZCODE BOLD END-->

“<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Iwillnnnnnnnnnnggggggh<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->”

Eyes and fists clenched teeth grinding he beat at the wound upon his head, bludgeoning the ringing in his ears increasing in volume

(<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> I beat my body to make it my slave<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->)

and he recognized something

(<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Destroy the flesh fear not the grave<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->)

some twisted phrase above the shriek of nerves in his compromised mind,

(<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Who is the Master?<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->)

and he slowed,

slowed,

slow

slow

slow he breathed.

Faraway his voice came back

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Iwillnotsubmit<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

and he inhaled it.

In the silence, his thoughts became familiar.

(<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Who is the Master?<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->)

And for a time, he simply stood, remembering.

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->

<!--EZCODE BOLD START--> [OVERHEARD THROUGH COMMLINK]<!--EZCODE BOLD END-->

"--eah, you’re right. I’m kidding. Ha ha, funny funny, I think I’ll pop in out of the blue and play a big joke on someone I’d just as soon gut like a <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> turl<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> than ever have to see on my screen again—no, I’m not gonna calm down, this is not “calm down” material here—did you hear a word I said? Let me break it down to its basic, monosyllabic elements so you can understand it: <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> It. Has. Be. Gun.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> Clear enough?…..No, the source is sound—of course its sound, you think I’m gonna trust a <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> t’kenchi<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> after the last time you.…yes. Yes, its verified. What rock do you live under, its called ‘multitasking.’ I don’t stick my head in the sand like <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> some<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> people—oh, does that hurt your feelings? Now, no, hey, look—I’m not <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> talking<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> to you because I’m feeling sentimental, is, hey, is this line secure? No, I’m serious—yeah, I’m absolutely sure. Less than two days ago the range spiked nearly <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> twelve thousand percent<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->. Yes, a spike—a spike that seems to have attracted the attention of an Imperial runner that—will you shut the hell up? Do—ok, fine. Talk to you later….well then <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> grant<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> me the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> courtesy<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> of <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> informing<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> you . Good. Now. As I said, the Imps must have pulled out of the Bryx garrison—any Sith would’ve had a shot in the ass when the spike went up—and so they pull up alongside <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Koda<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->—yeah, Koda. I know. Real hospitable party rock—slaves and caves. Nah, I think the Kryd were flushed a while back. Might still be some Kessel hypes exiled to the trees. Wives tales. But get this: the runner <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> plants<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->. Yeah, done deal. No, wasn’t an Ion c—what the hell, who the hell would put an Ion Cannon on Koda? Did you hear a WORD I said? The burg is basically prehistoric with a bunch of migrant workers and hyped out rejects! Y—no, the Empire has <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> nothing to gain<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> by an outpost there. Why—ok, intellect extraordinaire, if it were an <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Imperial<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> Ion Cannon, why the hell would it drop one of it’s own damn warships?!? YES, it was a WARSHIP. Have you gone senile?!? No. No. <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> No.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> If it were a rebel base <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> do you really think<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> they would drop a Dreadnought when <!--EZCODE BOLD START--> Bryx<!--EZCODE BOLD END--> is about as far away as your head from your ass? Listen, no, you LISTEN to me. I’m telling you, this is IT. I’ve got a <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> feeling<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> about this. You’re in, or you’re out. Plain and simple…yeah, of course she’s in. Why? …No, I’m smiling because I’m laughing at you. You’re cute when you puppy. So what’s the answer?

Good. Two days. Ropagi. Phillius Roost. <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Bring your tambourine.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->


She slipped from the satin glove of sub-light to touch the exquisite jewelry of the Venator sector.

Eight flawed stones comprised the string of brilliant planets adorning the very fringe of the Northern quadrant, hanging now before the discerning silence of the Imperial-class Star Destroyer <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Arbitrator<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->.

One of many such vessels having graced the stellar landscape of the Venator sector in recent history.

And in the silence of space she drifted, her fore softly arrowing toward the emerald hue of her occupant’s desire.

<!--EZCODE BOLD START--> Koda.<!--EZCODE BOLD END-->

Aboard, a different type of silence. One of tension, of anticipation.

Of wonder.

If the reports had been true, the serenity of the sphere ahead belied a thousandfold grave, the bodies wrapped within a shroud of shifting stratus and cirrus clouds.

Into the swirling patterns she gazed, alone within her stateroom..

None could know.

Not her crew.

Not her mother.

Not until after the incredible, impossible directive had been delivered had she succumbed to the blow, driven blind, shaking and wracked with bittersweet conflict.

Ecstasy of revelation. Agony of understanding.

And the miasma of her own human emotional weakness suffocating her, taunting her to rage.

She systematically slaughtered the majority of her crew. The stupid ones. The pseudointellectuals. The nay-sayers. The yes-men. The ambitious and the apathetic.

She laid waste to legions of them. She tore the eyes out of those who judged, ripped free the tongues of the opinionated and emasculated the hierarchies that frowned upon her sex, upon her emotions—damn her emotions, damn everything and everyone for weakness.

Damn her mother for living, for being alive, for returning. Damn her for grief borne and passed and now exhumed. Damn her for memories, for bitterness, and damn her for opening her legs, for whoring and for life gained cold and harsh, as sterile and void of warmth as the vacuum outside her now settling craft.

She disemboweled her, ripping the very womb from her mother and feeding it to her, choking her with it. She immolated the breasts which had given her life. She stripped the flesh from her bones and all the while reveled in the glory of her proud mother’s shrieking turned to rasp and gurgle bloodclotted mass of blackened ashes —

Salome Tarkin drew a deep breath, focusing again. Blinking.

All of this as she stared into the gently drifting clouds of Koda.

Not one would know.

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Not one.<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->

Her eyes stung, her body shook, and every fibre of her being bent to her desire to murder the man before her.

He stood nearly two full feet taller than she, his frame enhanced by the sheer Force of will behind his unmitigated hatred--his presence tainted the very air, and she

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> pushed<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

the palpable stench of death from her senses.

Head wet, hair plastered across her brow, tacky with the copious bleeding all head wounds produce--she found her footing even as her left eye shut, burning from the intrusion of tears and blood.

He <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> pressed<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->.

The vibratto pulse of his sabre split the air hot at her left ear as her body took over under the

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> sway<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

of her own training:

Back arching, she threw her shoulderblades to the ground at the loss of her feet from the floor; constricting her stomach she executed the <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> kip<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->, coming back to a standing position in the precise spot she'd just determined secure

(twofivesevenmovesahead)

behind the natural course of his arms in their momentum--and she hooked a cocked wrist into the area just below his nose at the nerve cluster there, torquing her body with her own landing, then dropping her body behind his leading knee as she

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> threw<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

all of her weight into buckling him, still

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> pressing<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

into the nexus of nerve endings in his face.

His momentum had come too far to reverse; it was all he could do to maintain control of his sabre as he buckled over her--

He played what could only be his final trump, and as he fell he

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> guided<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

the sabre up and back along the length of his arm, steeling himself already for the pain of its loss as it severed and found her neck behind, her head surrendering to the sacrifice--

But she wasn't there.

As his arm left his body, he realized too late how she'd tricked him, rolling forward to safety but

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> leaving<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

the impression of her weight against his body, misleading him into believing she still pressed close, intimate--

And she was, then, as she descended upon him.

<!--EZCODE CENTER START--><!--EZCODE CENTER END-->

Wine Marisinthe moved gracefully even as she limped from the elevator, leaving patrons agape at the evidence of the Sith's passing--the clotting blood upon her brow, the tatters of her serving uniform, the wickedugly cauterization of her expensive skirt <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> into<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> her left thigh, shallow but hardly a 'scratch'...

She smiled a patented Hostess Grin at the Security Officer who gawped comically as she passed through the reservations area from the garage. He leapt to his feet, at which she shook her head, waving a tired hand for him to sit.

"What?!?" came his eloquent assessment of the situation. She had only been here <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> four hours<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> of the two days the Boss had allotted for her to come on staff "on the hush-hush," presumably meaning her job was not actually to serve the guests, but something neither he nor the rest of the Security Staff need know about. He hadn't even seen her leave..."What the hell happened to you?!?"

She pressed a finger, nail torn off at the cuticle, to her lips. She then noticed the nail. Her jaw set momentarily, and something

<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> flashed<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

through eyes that normally could be described as "bedroom windows."

And then back to the Hostess Smile; the lift to the upper quarters opened and she boarded. And as the doors slid closed, she spoke softly as a lover to an object of affection:

"Where I come from, the customer is <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> not<!--EZCODE ITALIC END--> 'always <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> right'<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->."