The Shin'ador

The people of Mandalore were a literal folk. When they said 'fight', they meant fight. And apparently, when they said 'circle', they really meant circle.

The room was a series of wide concentric rings of steel, alternately colored grey and black all the way to the round center platform, raised slightly above the rest. The small circle surrounding it was deep red, a reference to the name of the contest waged here - the Shin'ador, the "Crown of Blood". Along the walls curving around the chamber, there were weapons. Blaster pistols, rifles, even vibroblades and axes of antique styling.

Darus had checked the ship's history files with the aid of his Basilisk. He was allowed to use personal weapons in this fight; the wall-mounted ones were replacements if he was disarmed or if his armaments were broken during combat.

Though he would have been more comfortable fighting with his lightsaber, that was still safely concealed in his rifle and its appearance in the fight was a possible risk of exposure. He still was not up on current events but it seemed like the Jedi were extinct aside from a notable or two. He did not want to be revealed yet, not until he knew the attitude of the galaxy towards his kind. Once he knew how the Jedi would be accepted in this new age, he could approach this Skywalker and his people, but not before. He had learned the hard lesson of misplaced trust.

Right now, all of those were secondary concerns anyway. He was stepping out into the round room, decked in his armor and carrying the weapons of his choice in accordance with the rite of the Shin'ador. He has selected only one, the curved blade hanging at his waist. Even sheathed, he could feel its hum. The katana seemed to share his apprehension.

Apprehension and, truth be told, excitement. This was a fight he could devote himself to without fear of killing and without the need to hold back. The Shin'ador was a ritual combat, a battle to first blood only. And Tymor was an ally, a man fighting for honor and duty without a shred a malice in the act.

Darrus was not used to fighting when his life was not on the line. Aside from sparring with Maya, he had not been able to pit his skills against a living opponent without the heavy weight of knowing that someone would die before the dance was done.

The far door opened and his foe stepped forth onto the other side of the grey circle. Tymor was clad head to toe in armor, plates and ballistic cloth in an older style of Mandalore battle dress. His helm was a full piece that stretched from shoulder to crown with a wide triangular eye visor. At his sides, a pair of short vibroblades with over-long handles rested patiently. He did not recognize this sort of weapon and the uncertainly added a bit of spice to his already growing eagerness for the challenge to commence.

Tymor bowed and, assuming he should do the same, Darrus followed suit. Above them both, every hand aboard the ship was watching behind foot thick transparent plasteel. They would see every step, every swing of the battle, both with their eyes and replayed on hovering monitors in a ring above the canopy. Nothing would be hidden; there was little room to cheat.

Mandaloran honor, it seemed, was self enforcing. Darrus appreciated that.

Then the first of three tones echoed through the chamber. His basilisk's sliced files had prepared him for this. Each tone indicated three seconds of readiness. After the third, combat would commence. Seeing Tymor crouch into a fighting stance, Darrus did the same.

The second tone was the mark to draw weapons. Darrus slipped his songsteel blade from its scabbard with but a whisper of noise. The weapon emitted a gentle note of clarity, a first breath in the aria to come. Tymor reaches across his waist to pull each short sword with the opposite hand. As they passed in front of him, there was a brief flash of light between the handles. Then a crackling arc of energy linked the pommels, stretching into a line between them as he held them apart.

Darrus' eyes widened behind his faceplate. That were certainly unexpected. In a way, that energy looked much like the beam of a lightsaber. It was unfocused and wavered greatly from a lack of coherence but he suspected it would be just as effective at piercing armor and lancing flesh.

The intonation of the third note marked a flurry of motion. Tymor flicked his wrists, thrusting the pommel ends of both blades forward. Much to Darrus' surprise, the arc of power leapt free of the swords and fired across the arena!

His first reaction to any surprise in battle was to leap clear, an instinct that served him well as he vaulted over the curving beam of light and landed two rings closer to the center. The arc continued on to the wall behind where Darrus had been, shorting out in a black mark that pitted the metal bulkhead more than an inch deep.

Tymor certainly was not pulling any punches. That only made this better. Darrus dashed forward, blade to his side, moving as fast as he could without relying on the Force. He suspected anything beyond normal capabilities would be seen by the critical audience above. History was replete with incidents of hostility between the Jedi and the Mandaloran. Darrus had no desire to write another page of the same.

At the last moment, Tymor managed to catch Darrus' sudden strike with the edges of his blades, parrying the katana wide and avoiding a chest slash. The first mate's attempt to capitalize on the moment of open defense with a vicious snap kick failed as well, ducked as Darrus went down and under it.

Darrus seized on the chance for a leg sweep and kicked outward, catching Tymor hard in the side of his lower greave. The Mandaloran's leg gave way and he staggered back, barely managing to remain upright by falling against the wall.

To cover himself and regain his footing, Tymor slashed wildly, a hissing web of quick strikes that made Darrus pull back to avoid their sting. It was enough to get his back back under him and Tymor used the returned balance to reignite the line between his weapons. Not knowing what to expect, Darrus jumped backwards to give himself breathing room...

...and nearly fell from the playing field. One of the metal rings, a black one, was moving silently, revolving up over the battle. Only a few feet thick, it was now arching high overhead, its underside covered in hundreds of tiny electrical discharges. Darrus managed to catch the edge of the sudden pit and launch himself back to a stable ring before the black one finished its transit. Now flipped over, it stopped moving. Where its had been smooth metal, now it was a ring of storms, bolts of lightning surging between small emitters mounted in the steel.

Darrus took a second to get his bearings, assuming he was safe while the ring of electricity was between him and Tymor. He could not have been more wrong. With a shout, Tymor hurled one of his blades through the flickering barrier. It lashed arrow straight towards Darrus, trailing lightning as it flew.

Reflex proved unfortunate this time for Darrus. He dropped to the side and slashed a perfect parry, knocking the blade aside and avoiding its strike. Unfortunately, the contact of metal on metal send the vibrosword's borrowed current down his katana and into his arm. Darrus' armor protected him from most of the charge but it still shocked his hand enough to involuntarily spasm. His blade dropped to the floor with a song of protest and an eerie clatter.

The parried sword was not finished with Darrus yet. Tymor swung the one he was still holding sideways in front of him and the beam of power between them coiled brightly. The thrown blade reacted to the motion, reversing direction and slashing back towards Darrus. It was everything Darrus could do to avoid the riposte, falling flat and then leaping back up once it passed.

With a quick twist of his wrist, Tymor recalled the flying blade, its tether of energy pulling it back to his empty hand. Those weapons were as effective as they were exotic. Darrus resolved to take them and the man wielding them more seriously.

Twice more the thrown blade came, lashing like a dire arrow through the storm, and twice more Darrus dodged. He did not have a sword to parry with, nor would he have done so if he did. Though he evaded the attacks, Tymor's goal became clear. He was trying to get Darrus to dodge because each evasion made him move farther from his fallen katana. If Tymor could not hit him, he was intent on keeping Darrus disarmed.

Clever, but Darrus did not need his weapon to fight. With a quick run immediately following the third attack, he reached out and grabbed the vibrating blade as it tried to return to its skilled master. It was a risky move with that deadly line of energy behind it but Darrus was quick enough to avoid it and take hold of the handle. He was betting the thing had controls on both grips.

And the bet paid off as his finger clutched a sliding button and pressed it down. Instantly the line of light disappeared, severing the connection between the swords. Now both armed and no longer under fire, Darrus readied himself for whatever came next.

It was not a moment too soon. The ring he was on shuddered and began to move just as the black one had done before. Faced with the choice of jumping forward or back, Darrus instinctively vaulted backwards. It put more distance between him and Tymor but it also gave him more time to plan. This mobile battlefield was a new concept, one that had him off-balance. Against a man like Tymor, that was something he could not afford to be.

This new ring was not electrified like the one before. Instead, it was spiked with a very familiar kind of threat - force pikes of varying heights. These weapons were usually ceremonial but there were some worlds where law enforcement agents would use them to subdue targets. Tipped with micro-generators, they could generate anything from a numbing pulse to a lethal blast. Darrus supected they were cycled fairly high and had no desire to test the thory.

A few seconds after the pike ring clicked into place and stopped moving, the storm ring started to flip back over. Seizing his chance, Darrus pushed aside his misgivings about the spikes and picked a low enough spot to leap. With a quick running start, he jumped as hard as his body and the servos in his armor would allow.

It was barely enough. He felt the highest of the pikes discharge against his chest and leg plates as he tumbled over them, shaking from their impact as he landed. He knew Tymor would be coming fast.

He was right. A fast kick announced his opponent's arrival past the black ring. Darrus was still momentarily stunned by the pikes, a second's defenselessness that earned him a staggering blow to the head. He went backwards, nearly falling onto the pikes again. Forcing himself to steady, Darrus raised his stolen blade and managed a last second block against its twin.

Their edges whined as they clashed, steel biting against steel. Tymor was over him, Darrus forced by the strength of the blunted attack to one knee. Above them, the roar of anticipation could be heard from the crew. For a moment, Darrus could make out a gasp of worry, a mental wash of concern from Maya.

Tymor was good, very good, but he had one vulnerability in this fight. He was a Mandaloran and as such, he fought like a Mandaloran. This attack was called the Gundark's Surprise, an overbearing move where the first step was to take a weapon in both hands and force an opponent to the ground. That part has been successful.

But Darrus had trained, at his own insistence, along side his troops as they sparred during the war. He knew knew their moves. He knew their Mandaloran-based fighting style. And he knew what came next.

Tymor suddenly let go with his left hand and unleashed a crushing punch to Darrus' face. He had strength, height and momentum advantage over Darrus. A punch like this could drive a target's faceplate back against him nose, bloodying him instantly and sending him reeling, open to a strike to the back. It was a powerful attack...

...assuming it ever hit. Darrus released his blade at the exact same time, caught the incoming fist and fell to the side, all in the same motion. Tymor went flying past, impacted the pikes and shook violently as two of them discharged, one in each of his shoulders and another along side his pierced helm. The stench of ions and burning blood hit the air as the pikes retracted and the lighting along the walls went from red to white.

It was over.

Darrus quickly dropped his blade and turned to Tymor as he slumped to the ground. It took one second to get the man's helmet off and another to check his vitals. Tymor was alive, though shocked unconscious and bleeding from three wounds. The worst were probably his shoulders, the slash across his cheek was not terribly deep.

That was a relief. This was not supposed to be a battle to the death. Darrus was glad to see that, for once, a fight turned out as planned.

The doors opened again and dozens of armored men poured into the chamber, quickly arranging themselves into an honor guard around the outermost ring. Two white armored figures, one male and one female, entered and bore Tymor away on a hovering sled, presumably to a medical bay and well-earned rest.

Maya was at the doorway, watching him with her helmet off, eyes wide. he slowly stood, looking around the assembly, unsure what would happen next. In the several seconds of silence and stillness, he retrieved his songsteel weapon and returned it to its sheath. Darrus turned as a third door, one he had not seen before, slid open and a trio of Mandalorans walked in, approaching him slowly.

The one in the lead bore a small pile of shimmering black cloth in his armored hands. He stood, hands out but cloth tightly gripped, right in front of Darrus. Several tense seconds passed with no reactions from anyone in the room.

Finally, Darrus felt Maya's mind brush his. "Kneel. They are expecting you to kneel."

He did so, even bowing his head slightly. He felt very exposed this way, unable to defend himself well should the room turn violent. When the man with the cloth spoke, his apprehension faded fast.

"Hail, victor of the Shin'ador. You have earned the right of command." The cloth unfurled in front of him, revealing itself to be a mantle and cloak, connected at a pair of inscribed silver discs. "Rise."

Darrus did so, head still bowed in respect. The other two men near him each took a disc and stepped close, draping the cloak over his shoulders and the mantle over his upper chest. The discs attached magnetically to his armor, one just below either side of his collarbone. Looking down, he could see that the black cloth had countless motes of reflective light, stars hanging in the void of the cloth.

In that same moment, the ring of men around him and the three in front all dropped to a kneeling salute. "Hail, Silverlord Wraith, our captain and commander. Where you lead, we will follow. Where you strike, we will slay. Your word, our duty. This we swear."

The words were those of the man who had borne the cloak but the last three were echoed in whispers by every one else. Then they were spoken aloud. Then they were shouted in unison, everyone standing and saluting with a clenched fist.

"THIS WE SWEAR!"

Darrus just stared at them all, their enthusiasm and fervor more than a little overwhelming. He faced the man who had spoken first and returned the salute, more an act of instinct than of any real understanding. It was the right thing to do, as the entire room followed suit again.

"THIS WE SWEAR!"

Yes, these men would fight for him. They would die for him if he asked it. They were like the Clones, but not slaves to his will. They were the soldiers he had always wished for and never quite felt the Clones could be. With this small army, this battered warship, what could he accomplish? No, what couldn't he accomplish?

Quietly, he felt Maya again. "Darrus, this is still just until we can get away, right?"

In this moment, with thoughts and plans and possibilities raging though his mind, Darrus simply could not give her an honest answer.

Directives

He was resting, breathing carefully and focusing his energies when a soft tap on the chamber's only door caught his attention.

"Yes?" Darrus said softly. Though the wound to his throat that had, for years, ruined his voice was healed, he was used to speaking quietly. It would take a long time before he felt comfortable raising his voice. In truth, he was not sure he could any longer.

The door slid open, revealing Maya in a steel gray bodysuit and a loose fitting sleeveless robe the color of a Coruscant night. "I'm sorry to interrupt you."

He shook his head slightly, reaching out with one hand. It had taken a lot for him to make quiet gestures like this, casual intimacy, but Maya had earned them a dozen times over. "It's all right," he murmured as she approached and wove her fingers into his own. "What do you need? Have I been in here too long?"

It was a fair question. Darrus knew all too well that whenever he trained alone, time could easily get away from him. With the Force sustaining him, he could and often did put off sleep, nourishment and fatigue until their want came crashing down on him at the end of days of battle katas. Maya had seen this for herself a few times now and had a tendency to gently interrupt him if she thought he was going too far into such a state.

"No," she smiled gently. "Well, yes, but that's not why I'm here."

He tilted his head, blinking black eyes at her green ones. "It isn't?"

Maya covered his hand in both of hers. "The Mandalorian, the one that called you a Silverguard? He wants to speak with you in the Captain's Room. He's got several others in there with him." The concern in her tone was obvious.

And it was there for good reason. Darrus had been wondering how long this ruse could continue. "Right."

As he rose to his feet, still holding on to her, she looked up at him furtively. "What are you going to do?" Again, her intent was easy to read. If he was going to fight, she would be right at his side. He had come to depend on that loyalty. She no longer had to assure him of it; he knew she would follow his lead in all things.

With that devotion came a need to be closer and a responsibility not to abuse it, something he took very seriously. If he had been more cautious of others, more communicative and inclusive in the past, things in his life might have turned out differently. Dwelling on past mistakes would not help him avoid ones in the present, however. It was time to move on.

"If he wants a meeting, Maya, we'll give him a meeting." He helped her to her feet. "Are the Mandolorians wearing armor?" he suspected the answer was yes.

"I think so, yes. All of them. They never seem to take it off."

He nodded and gave her something he knew she could use right now - a kiss. It wasn't long or lingering but it made her face light up like nothing else could. Then, quietly, "Go suit up and meet me on the bridge. If we have to make a run for it, make sure you aren't leaving anything behind."

He watched her walk away, grateful that he had someone to watch his back. That was another thing he had missed in the past, another lack he could only blame on himself. There had people able and willing but be it arrogance or over-caution, he had never let them do it for long. Had he really been that much a fool?

Darrus clenched his fist and drove back the waves of doubt. No. No dwelling. No brooding.

By the time he met with Maya on the bridge of this strange new ship, he had already donned his battle armor, fetched his custom rifle and contacted his basilisk through the embedded communicator link in his head. The fact that he had a communicator stuck in his forehead was a matter of some concern on its own but right now, it was far more useful than disconcerting. His pensive droid was awaiting his arrival, as was hers.
If and when they fled this place, their rides would be ready.

They walked into the side room together, armor polished, weapons slung but at hand, a sign of prepared combat readiness. Maya had discerned this as a part of Mandalorian culture. Someone who stood in their midst unarmed was a victim, a civilian not worthy of attention. They needed to be taken seriously, thus they came to the meeting with every weapon their owned.

From the demeanor of the men in the room, some masked, others not, they had made the right decision. While there was some amount of bluster, it seemed to be the level of bravado that always lingered around these warrior folk. None of them seemed offended, a fact that Darrus verified by glancing to Maya and seeing her approving nod. Her mental voice whispered over his conscious thoughts.

*Go on. They seem calm enough.*

He thanked her silently and walked to the head of the room's stark metal table, standing rather than sitting. He cycled his helmet's voice modulator down to its lowest setting, lending just a little of the ominous tone to its amplifier. "You wanted to speak with me?"

The men at the other end of the table looked to their commander, saying nothing on their own. With a quick nod, that one opened both hands - a symbolic gesture of disarmament if Darrus read it correctly. Some of these mannerisms, he already knew. They were, it seemed, universal among soldiers, especially those of the Mandalorian mindset. He had seen all of this before with the clone troopers under his command. "We need to talk, sir. We have been in touch with homeworld."

Here it comes, Darrus thought to himself. He had been worried about this since he had been told the ship's communications array was online. He had hoped for a little longer before the crew managed interstellar comms but they were nothing if not efficient. Were they all here to calmly push him out an airlock now?

"I see. Go on." There was no sense in not seeing things through to the end, but just the same, he sent a quick command to his Basilisk to start up her engines. Maya did the same, sensing his concern.

"No one from homeworld sent you , sir. They had written us off as lost when we lost holonet link. No reinforcements were sent either." The tone was obvious. They had realized their mistake in assuming where he was from and since he had not corrected their error, he had obviously meant to deceive them. This was about to get unfortunate.

*It's all right, Darrus. I still sense no hostility in them.*

That surprised him. Still, if they were not upset, what did they want?

The leader of the Mandalorians stood up. Darrus knew his name to be Tymor; the man had introduced himself shortly after the end of the survival celebration. He had been instrumental in the rest of the crew so easily accepting his temporary command. "We think we understand why you let us believe you were from homeworld. We won't question you again, Silverlord."

And then he bowed, followed quickly by the other warriors in the room.

Darrus quickly looked to Maya for some kind of explanation but all he got was the psychic equivalent of static. She was just as bewildered. Covering quickly, he turned to face Tymor and rested one hand on the table. "I appreciate that. My actions should matter more than where I am from."

To his relief, his words were instantly agreed upon, the Mandalorians nodding among themselves. Tymor sat back down before answering. "Yes, sir. We are glad to feel that way. That makes the next step much easier."

"Next step?"

The Mandalorians behind Tymor all stood at attention, arranging themselves in a line formation, hands resting on the stocks of their carbines. Darrus' eyes narrowed behind his reflective visor. Perhaps things were not as disarmed as he had hoped.

"Sir, the ship needs a captain. We want you to step up and fight for the position."

Darrus almost asked what the man meant but thought better of it. This was likely some kind of tradition, some system of promotion by combat. Professing ignorance of it would only make his appearance as a fellow Mandalorian more tenuous. Quickly, he thought-asked Maya how she believed they would react to his polite refusal.

The answer was exactly as he expected. *Very poorly.*

For the moment, at least, he would need to play along. Later, when the ship was no longer bound to dry dock and getting back to Tattooine was nearly impossible, he and Maya would be able to slip away quietly. If they tried it now, they would have to steal a ship, something he was loathe to do for many reasons.

"All right. I accept. When?"

Again, it seemed like exactly the right answer. Tymor folded his hands and smiled, his mouth visible under his half-mask. "Everyone eligible has agreed to withdraw from the shin'ador, Silverlord. There will be only you and I in the circle tomorrow."

Darrus noted the term, 'shin'ador', and resolved to look it up as soon as he could. Without asking it to, he instantly sensed the mind within his Basilisk, take the word and start researching it. The droid was already sliced into the ship's computer and, before he could ask her to stop, she had cross-referenced 'shin'alor' with the vessel's language files. In that strange place where Darrus' thoughts and his droid's consciousness overlapped, the word translated to 'crown of blood'. To his great relief, he also felt that such a combat was to first flesh wound, not to the death.

"Acceptable. Summon me when it is time."

Tymor bowed again. "It will be done, Silverlord Wraith." Then, once the other Mandalorians had paid their respects and left, he added in a more personal voice, "I am looking forward to seeing you fight, my lord. It will be an honor to cross steel."

After Tymor had gone to join the others, Darrus pulled Maya down into the chair beside him and pulled off his helmet. "This just keeps getting more complicated, doesn't it?" he asked her with a long, weary sigh.

Maya reached forward and rubbed his neck as far down as she could reach. "Yes, but this way the crew still believes you are who you pretend. And with you as the ship's captain, we'll have a much easier time getting home, right?"

Darrus rested his hand on hers, offering Maya a rare smile. "Thank you. I really don't know what I'd do without you."

She leaned forward, nipped him on the lips and grinned playfully. "That's easy. You'd wallow in self-doubt and senseless guilt until you became a danger to yourself and everyone else around you. Again."

Then she collapsed into giggles because the look on Darrus' face was priceless...

Private Dancer

He was alone for the first time in weeks.

Completely alone. No monitors, no audience.

Just him and an empty metal room in the heart of a starship under repair. Most of the crew had moved to the station, still celebrating their victory over an ambush by a much larger force. They were happy to be alive.

Darrus knew he should feel the same way. Against the odds, he had survived again. This was becoming a habit, a trend of defiance that was at once hopeful and depressing. His friends were all gone, his loved ones vanished in the fires of time. All he had left was her.

Maya.

She was all he really had but she was enough. Without her, he would have no connection to this future world, this time of rebellion and tyranny he had awoken into. He was going through the motions now, fighting against this Scarlet Wake and whatever greater plot was at work here...

...but in the end, he was only doing for her. He was a spent hero. The universe had gotten its pound of flesh from him two decades ago. He was weary, in spirit if not in body, and if everything ended tomorrow, Darrus was not altogether certain he would care as long as he could disappear with Maya at his side.

Except for her, he felt dead inside. The glimmer of consciousness now living in his mind both helped and hurt. He did not feel quite so alone with the strange droid staring soul-space in his head but it also made him feel just a little more inhuman. Disconnected.

Hollow.

He needed to feel again. He had to find a way to reach the part of himself that was once alive. He owed it to Maya. She deserved more than what he was now. He was cold, getting colder by the day. He was withdrawing into himself. He could feel it. The droid could feel it. He was certain Maya felt it too. She was an empath; his emotional state was hardly capable of being kept a secret from her.

That was why he was here. Only one thing had ever really made Darrus feel like part of the universe instead of just an observer. Some felt the Force, their connection to all life, through careful meditation. Other felt it through study and contemplation.

And then there were Jedi like Darrus - people who only really felt the weight of their own lives when they were fighting to defend it.

He took a step forward, feeling the slide of memory cords as alien cloth constricted over his muscles. This bodysuit had been a gift from the Mandaloreans, a present from a grateful band of mercenaries charged with the guardianship of this outpost - one of the last remaining worlds of a true Mandal clan. Vor'agal'terest, they called it in their native tongue, a word that translated to "living spider steel".

Darrus could feel why. With every move, the braided cords of the bodysuit followed his actions by means of kinetic sensors mimicking him down to the smallest gesture. Repositioning itself through tiny adjustments of the links between each braid, the suit remained body-tight while providing complete unrestricted mobility.

Vor'agal'terest was a rare and precious commodity, a substance whose manufacturing secrets died with its last known makers a generation after the founder of this colony's clan. Few Mandaloreans even know of the substance as its use was reserved for warchiefs and champions. This particular suit had been owned by a bodyguard of the colony's founder - Mandalore Ordo. Getting used to the feel of it move around him would take some time, some practice, but the benefits of having an undermesh for his battle armor were more than enough to justify the effort.

Besides, it gave him an excuse to be here, walking through a battle dance from years long past. His body clad in the living steel, an opaque skin of braided hematite shadows, Darrus strode around the middle of the room in a ritual practice of stepping off the perimeter of his practice area.

That done, he lifted his weapons into a ready position. In his right hand, his songsteel katana hummed a tune of quiet readiness. On his left, Darrus wore a powered gauntlet, lines of silver light moving over its striking plates and down the curves of the retractable blades worked into the plates on its back. They were out now, out and thrumming with a dark vibration of their own.

And the dance began. The first few steps were simple, graceful strides intended only to close the distance between the center of the practice area and its circular border. With each step, there was a swift exchange of blows, two blurring sweeps of the sword in a X pattern followed by a quick left jab-and-slash.

It pained him to think about it but the latter move was a legacy of his lost friend Marr-ek. Once a trusted companion and bodyguard, Marr-ek had broken that friendship bond in a terrible, brutal fashion. Though Darrus had killed the man himself, there were still vestiges of the deep connection they had forged, combat training not the the least of them. As long as Darrus lived this violent life, Marr'ek's memory could never truth be forgotten.

At the edge of the circle, he spiraled and cross-cut in a parallel line at chest height, his sword moving past enough to leave only a black line and a lilting note of aggression in the air behind itself. His rush of motion was now around the circle, running swiftly, blade out at shoulder level, held across the body, pirouetting every third step into a whirlwind of symphonic steel, a storm of slashes, all the while never missing a step forward. To anyone watching, the motion was too fast to be believed, just a blur of graceful violence.

Returning to his starting point, Darrus kicked off with his legs in a half-crouch. The Force and his new suit both boosted the strength of his jump, sending him into a somersaulting arch back to the middle of the combat circle. Landing with another flurry of slashes and cuts, he rose back up into a defensive stance and slowly turned to face 'forward' again.

The center and the edges now defined by his movements, he was ready to truly begin. This dance was not the one taught by his mentor Windu, nor the katas of his teachers on Almas. This was a combat form all his own, created from lessons given by masters of the art and tempered in a hundred battles during the Clone Wars against foes of many kinds. This was a tempest of Force and skill...

This was Mael Vaakai - The Storm That Destroys.



And from a distant window high above the floor of the chamber, a woman watched the dance with tears of admiration and concern in her eyes. He was both beautiful and frightening to behold.

She wanted to go down to him, help him find himself, but it was obvious he needed this time alone. Maya sighed as she bore witness to his exhausting ordeal, desperately fighting the urge to be with him. He needed her but she could not help him... not by anything other than being there when he inevitably collapsed.

She would be. She would carry him to bed, nurse him back to health, and stand by silently while he did it again. And again. And again.

A thousand times if that was what it took. She had faith.

She had faith that someday there would be room in his dance for two...

The Unanswered

She stared up at the ceiling, tossing a ball of surgical tubing at it again and again, catching it each time. This was no exercise or test of coordination, nor was it an act borne of boredom. This was, as it had always been, the physical sign of contemplation. This was Maya's mantra, her bodily activity while her mind raced.

She'd had him tipsy and available, able to ask him all the things she dearly wanted to know and she'd let him get away.

Again!

Why?!

Bounce.

Why was she here? Was it her feelings for the dark eyed man? Yes, certainly that but was there more?

Bounce.

Would she still be following him had it not been for the Scarlet Wake and their message of hate? A message that went entirely against her beliefs?

Bounce.

Was she here with him, her mind now bonded to an alien device that lived in her thoughts, out of some sense of loyalty? She had taken the lost Jedi in as a patient, the first she'd tended since her disgrace on Hoth.

Bounce.

Was this guilt, then? Was that it?

Bounce.

Cursing under her breath, she clenched the ball of tubes in her hand, squeezing as tight as she could. So many questions. Things she had wanted to ask him...

...but perhaps she was hoping he could give her answers to the ones she couldn't bear to ask herself.

Meditation

Kneeling, eyes closed, Darrus finally let himself do what he'd been putting off for weeks. Ever since he began this Scarlet Wake business, he'd set aside part of his mind. Day after day, he had avoided what he was doing now. With a deep breath, Darrus opened the gates of his consciousness and let himself remember.

There were those who called the Jedi heartless. Unfeeling, uncaring monastics with mystical powers at the cost of their own souls. The truth was a little more complicated that that. Jedi were not at all uncaring. Quite to the contrary, the reason they seemed this way was because their connection to the Force made them exactly the opposite. The Jedi were not unfeeling.

They felt everything.

When someone without the ability to sense the Force had an emotional reaction to something, their thoughts and feelings remained within themselves. This could be a very strong reaction but it was centralized and limited. A Jedi's feelings echoed through the Force, affecting others and feeding on their reactions in turn. All intense emotion became amplified this way, resounding and increasing until even the smallest thought could become overwhelming.

And it did not stop there. Jedi were in touch with life and with all living things. They were not just affected by their own emotions. If someone near a Jedi felt strongly, he or she would start to feel that way as well. It was hard enough to control one's own mind; filtering out the untrained thoughts of others could border on the impossible.

Focusing on himself now, letting himself finally think after so long trapped in the persona of Wraith, it occurred to Darrus that this was probably why he had appreciated the clone troopers in his army so much. They were disciplined, trained to control themselves in battle and in everyday life. In a way, their minds were quiet. Even when they did show emotion, they never let it get out of control, thus providing him a certain peace in their company.

What had brought up that thought? Was he drawing a correlation between his clone troops and the Mandaloreans? Perhaps, though the only real denominator linking the two was their military lifestyle. In every other way, they were two very different animals.

Darrus moved past that, placing his hands on his knees as he straightened his back and breathed in deeply. There was more troubling him tonight than just runaway emotions.

During the battle, he could feel every death just as he had during the many engagements of the Clone Wars. Back then, it had taken all his training not to be overwhelmed by the loss. It had not always been easy to block out the dark echoes of ending life.

But during the battle earlier that day, there hadn't been any trauma at all. Each death, each fading light disappearing into oblivion, had been like a brief flicker of pain. Nothing more. What once had been so hard to endure was now barely more than a second of mental discomfort. By the end of the combat, there had been no sadness or anguish at all.

What was happening to him? Was he losing his connection to the Force?

No. That would have been a better answer than what he feared was the truth. For years he had struggled with the Dark Side, trying to keep himself for ever forging a true connection to its powers. No matter how badly his emotions had strayed from his control, he'd always been able to keep them from going too far. He had always drawn the line at death, always been able to make the distinction between right and wrong.

Now, the loss of so many lives wasn't affecting him at all. He sensed them but there was nothing there. No impact. No emotion. How could he feel this way, or more to the point, not feel? He had finally become jaded. Apathy was as dangerous as hatred. Not caring was as sure a path to the Dark Side as passion.

And of course, that word brought up other issues. Passion takes many forms.

"Darrus? You all right in there?"

Speaking of which...

He rose quietly, smoothing down his black metasilk robe over his legs. His arms and legs were bare, his hair loose and falling over one shoulder. Only his bantha leather belt and his lightsaber accompanied his robe; the rest of his garments were in the other room. With her.

"I am well. Just taking a moment to meditate. I haven't done it in a while."

Maya opened the adjoining door, leaning against its silver frame, one bare leg pulled up to rest foot first against her other knee. "You mind company?" Even in the half light of the bed chamber beyond, her gown clung to her invitingly.

Darrus closed his eyes, folding his hands and trying to center. "I really should do this alone."

There was a soft sigh and then the sound of the door closing again. "I understand, Darrus. No trouble. Just come back to bed when you're done? Please?"

He nodded, knowing she wouldn't be able to see the gesture and returned to his crouch on the floor. Lightsaber in hand, resting it across his lap, he tried to regain his focus.

There is no emotion; there is peace.

Very little in his life felt peaceful right now. At one time, he had been able to set all the turmoil in his soul aside and concentrate on the Code. Now... that was harder than ever. There was blood on his hands. Blood of friends. Blood of the innocent.

There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.

He was lost in this. He had no idea how to save himself, especially if he truly was starting to lose the ability to feel the darkness and find his way through it. Emotional detachment was useful but being heartblind was not. He needed help. He needed advice.

There is no passion; there is serenity.

That was not at all true these days. Passion was almost a given and not just because of the beautiful woman in the other room. The last few battles he'd fought had been more than just tactical. The rush of combat, the touch of fury riding every nerve. Dangerously close to the Dark Side each time, this was why he'd sworn his oath not to take a life again.

An oath he was no longer sure he could keep.

There is no death. There is the Force.

Groaning, Darrus stood up, returning the saber to his belt. This wasn't working. He felt no better now than when he'd started. Whatever was wrong, the Code was no comfort. If he was going to find himself again, it wouldn't be here.

Perhaps, and this concept terrified him deeply, it wouldn't even be as a Jedi.

To The Victors...

Deneb Station was alive with lights and motion, every ship in stardock running fully lit and firing its energy weapons into the darkness all around the aging, but still intact, facility. It was a celebration of survival. Everyone at Deneb knew how close they had come to getting blasted out of the stars.

And they also knew who to thank for their survival.

In the station's galley, all the best from the larder had been brought out and prepared like only spacer cooks with decades of experience could. The food was spiced within inches of explosion, the libations were flowing freely and the music was deafening. Throughout the station, no one was quiet or alone. Even the dock workers were taking a well-deserved few hours to just celebrate life. Life and the continuance thereof...

A mug of something cold and foaming lifted into the air at the heart of the galley throng. "A toast to the finest warrior drew in space!"

The response was like thunder. Three dozen men and women, all armored in one way or another, raised their drinks and shouted at the same time.

"And a toast to our ships; the fleet that would not fall!"

Again, a roar of agreement. Glasses were raised. Drinks were drained and refilled.

"And let us not forget," the commander-soldier speaking said with a wide smile, "a toast to the Archon that made this all possible!" He tipped his mug towards the man of the hour, the only 'Mandalorean' still wearing a helmet.

Behind his visor of alloys and glass, Jeht was feeling remarkably nervous. Never exactly a social creature on the best of days, all this attention was making him quite uncomfortable. Had it not been for Maya's insistence that the troops needed him here, Darrus would have already retired to a private chamber for the night.

"All hail the Silverguard and the savior they sent us!"

The reply boomed through the hall. Of all the toasts, this one echoed the loudest. "Hail! Hail! Hail!"

Darrus winced at the noise and the focused attention of everyone in the room. They were looking at him now. They were all expectant. They were calling him a savior. Part of him wanted to run. The rest of him wanted to vanish.

Instead, half at Maya's telepathic prompting, he raised his own mug and nodded quietly, hoping that would be enough for them all.

It apparently wasn't. The room went silent.

"Say something to them. Something encouraging."

He glances sideways at Maya, sitting beside him with a drink of her own. Mentally, he asked, "Like... what?"

Beneath the table, she patted him consolingly. "Let them know you are proud of the job they did. They are warriors. They want to know they fight well."

He sighed quietly and started to speak. Before he could even get the first breath past his lips, Maya cut him off quickly with another short, telepathic burst.

"Take your helmet off, silly."

Jeht cringed. "Do you really think that's a good idea? I don't exactly look normal, Maya." His pale skin and black hair would not be a serious issue but the total lack of white or color in his eyes would probably make an impression. If these people were expecting something specific, taking off his helmet was possibly the worst thing he could do.

"I will watch their emotions, Darrus. If any of them become apprehensive about the way you look, I'll let you know and we can get out of here before they react. All right?"

As they were conversing, the commander lowered his drink slightly. "Sir? Is everything all right?" Around him, people were starting to look nervous, shifting and staring at Darrus with curious eyes.

The time for discussion was clearly over. Time to act.

Darrus put his drink down and reached up to his chin, popping the respirator lines and unlocking his helmet. With a soft hiss, the faceplate split down the middle and slid back into the helm in both directions. Taking it off completely, he set it down on the table, retrieved his glass and looked up into the concerned gazes of the many people crowding the main table around him.

"I don't talk much outside combat," he started. His natural voice, barely more than a whisper, was loud enough to be heard by everyone in the suddenly silent room. "So you'll have to forgive me if this takes a moment."

Instantly, he could tell he'd said the right thing. Mentioning combat set the Mandaloreans at ease. They were obviously used to battle leaders with more savvy on the field than in the barracks. Maya reassured him quietly, confirming that suspicion. he'd disarmed the moment but he had to keep this momentum going or risk losing this goodwill.

"I have led troops into battle for years. I've seen wars fought among starts that no one has even named and killed people on planets that no one will ever remember."

All of that was true and because it had a weight of honesty behind it, the people in the galley accepted his words without question. The Clone Wars had taken through a general's journey, one that these soldiers could definitely relate with easily.

"But tonight, I saw a handful of men and women with virtually nothing take down an enemy with virtually every advantage. This night, those who opposed us are frozen among the stars while we burn in the fires of the righteous. They died. We lived. Be proud of this victory."

He paused long enough to look through his drink at the beaming faces of the Mandaloreans at the table. Even the commander was now smiling, all trace of suspicion or worry gone.

"And be proud of yourselves. Many stood as one and as one we stand triumphant now. You all salute me, but it is I who should salute you." Darrus raised his glass and downed its unknown contents in a single quaff.

"Well done, men. Well done."

The applause was louder than the roar of a thousand engines. The room exploded in cheers and activity, drinking and revelry. The commander at the other end of the table stood tall and rpoud, returning the gesture by finishing his own drink and bowing his head in deep respect.

"Darrus! That was incredible!"

He leaned against her, sighing and closing his eyes. "Maybe. But that speech was even better when Master Windu gave it after the Battle of Tirilis V."

Maya could not help but laugh into her glass, instantly frothing what was left of her drink.

"Maya?"

She grinned up at him. "Yes, love?"

He rested his hand on her shoulder. To the rest of the room, it just appeared to be a gesture of companionship or affection. Only Maya could tell it was something else. Only she could feel that Darrus was suddenly resting more of his weight on her.

"I have no alcohol tolerance at all. Could you help me get out of here before I pass out?"

He was already swaying slightly. One drink and he was plastered. Maya had been the owner of a bar and now she was hopeless over a man with the beer stamina of a sun-addled Jawa. The irony most definitely wasn't escaping her.

But speaking of escape...

"Oh course, Darrus. Just lean against me and stay still when I stand. I'll walk you out of her and make it look like you are taking me to your chambers for some 'private celebration'."

Maya made a big show of fawning on him as she guided him through the galley. The envious looks and warm leers were all rather complimentary and nothing she hadn't dealt with before. No one here would question why Darrus was leaving so quickly. Between body language and slowly undoing his armor as they walked, she was making that pretty obvious, after all.

Besides, Maya thought to herself as they left the mess hall and the raging party behind. An inebriated Darrus was a prize in and of itself.

She'd never take advantage of him, drunk or sober, but there were a few questions she'd been meaning to ask...

Raising the Stakes

Black Four throttled back his engines, watching all the red on his hull status display flash angrily. Plasma flames racing over the main engine's cowling, his gunship had more holes and gaps than the second Death Star...

...before it blew up...

...which was going to be his fate if he didn't get help quickly. As a squadron leader, he had access to the emergency frequency but he'd been informed by Black One upon pain of death not to use it unless he absolutely had to do so. It was for the most dire of circumstances only, to be punched up only if he was in danger of being captured or if there was absolutely no chance of the mission succeeding.

The former wasn't a risk; he'd managed to hyperspace out of that death trap. Four flights of Ties, each lead by a gunboat, and he was the only one to make it out alive. They'd jumped into a firestorm, turbolaser fire tearing them apart before most of them even knew they were under attack. He'd resented being chosen as the rear squad leader. Now, he was grateful.

The lasers tearing through all the others first had given him the few precious seconds he'd needed to run like hell. Sure he'd abandoned his flight but they were all going to die. No sense in throwing his life away with theirs.

Besides, someone had to report the mission failure. He just hoped a rescue ship would get here before his life support ran out.

He entered the manual code numbers, activating his transponder as soon as the frequency locked in. His communications array dispatched a pre-recorded distress call complete with current space coordinates and recorded footage of the mission.

Then the thermal detonator under his seat exploded, killing him instantly and setting off a chain reaction of plasma charges that vaporized his assault ship down to the last fight panel. Within moments, even the glowing motes of ash dispersed, leaving only empty stars and the cold void between them...

-----------

Thick fingers toggled a bright red switch on a dark wooden desk, revealing a display screen behind a hidden, sliding panel in the wall. The monitor alone was worth thousands of credits, the concealing systems around it costing ten times that to install.

He didn't care. The money was irrelevant. He had hundreds of millions of credits, scattered across the galaxy in hundreds of accounts. He could buy and sell star fleets. He had before and he would no doubt do so again. Right now, money did not concern him. All that mattered was this transmission and what it would mean to his plans.

The watcher took in every last image on the screen, silently observing the attack on the Mandalore fleet, the Rebel fools breaking off their assault, his Imperial vessels having to strike at the Neo-Crusaders directly, their unexpected retreat and the ambush waiting for his ships on the other end of the hyperspace jump.

That was not been in his plan at all. Neither had the survival of the Ithorian hive carrier nor the Rebels not doing his dirty work for him. These were chaotic elements in an otherwise flawless scheme.

Random factors.

He hated random factors. They could not be bought or sold. They could not anticipated. He preferred to deal in assets and exchanges. A few hate groups combining to form an intergalactic racist brotherhood. A single base on Tattooine traded to simulate planetary bombardment. A ship full of worthless aliens to instigate a Rebel response.

And finally a manipulated clash with rabid would-be "honorable warriors" to simulate a false first strike in what would become a very real war. Such a plan had worked twenty years ago to forge the Empire, after all. There was no reason it couldn't work again.

Expect that now there was a very good reason. He needed lots of dead Rebels and angry Mandaloreans getting righteously blown out of the stars by Imperial forces. Right now, he had neither.

This would not do. This would not do at all.

Fortunately, he never did anything without a contingency plan. And a contingency for when that contingency failed. And a third plan to back up the other two just in case.

He detested being in the position of having to relay on his very last option but such was life. If this was how the game would be played, he would have to make the best of the sabacc hand being dealt. Fortunately, just like in sabacc, he knew how to cheat.

It was time to stack the deck.

"Vessa?"

A calm, feminine voice played over the desk's integrated speaker. "Sir?"

"Get me Savan."

He steepled his fingers in front of his heavy-jowled face. Black Sun. He'd been trying to avoid this, but there wasn't any choice now.

"Tell her I am ready to discuss an alliance. Tell her... tell her I know where she can find a certain droid she's looking for."

Chain of Command

Dim red lights pulsed along the halls of the almost-derelict ship, lighting their intermittently. Many of the glowing strips had burned out, leaving several sections of walkway in deep, dangerous shadow.

Even without the optics of his helmet, Darrus could see without difficult. Darkness had never been a problem for him. Even as a child, night was far preferable to day. The day, especially on Coruscant, was painful. Bright agony. He'd was twelve years old when his mentors in the Academy got him his first pair of night lenses. Once he had them, he stopped weeping blood in the daylight.

In a place like this, he was grateful for his light sensitivity. There was little of it left, especially the deeper they all went into the Mandalore vessel. Beside him, Maya was obviously not so comfortable. She was tightly clinging to his hand, relying on him to lead her through the tangle of dark, broken corridors.

He kept his hand behind him, letting her hold on without making it obvious to the hunters in front of him that he was doing so. He was not entirely sure who they thought he was but Darrus doubted that handholding was a common occurrence among this lot.

Wat little he knew about this situation bore him out on that suspicion. These people were Mandaloreans... or at least they were using Mandalore technology and wearing the trappings of that ancient, military culture. Some of their body armor was new, other pieces were old or obviously salvaged. Their weapons were a mix of tech from all over the galaxy and no two men were armed the same.

What they lacked in uniformity they were more than making up for in training and discipline. They had the look of professional soldiers; that much suggested that they were at least familiar with the warrior's way of Mandalore. But something seemed odd, something that suggested that these people were not all their seemed... or perhaps more than they appeared.

In his mind's eye, he pictured Maya and used that connection to speak to her through thought. "I do not think these people are entirely Mandalorean. There's something strange going on."

She answered, her mind-voice softer and less controlled but still strong enough to be heard. "I agree. I feel a lot of unease about them. They aren't deceiving us... but they all seem to be part of some kind of self-deception. I can't explain it."

He nodded, more to reassure her than to express any kind of understanding. None of this made much sense to him and he was quite willing to admit Maya's expertise over his own when it came to people. "Who do you think they believe us to be?" Maya was empathic on a level he would likely never reach. She often had insights he did not. He appreciated her for that ability, even envied it slightly.

"Their reaction to you was genuine and I don't sense that they mean us any harm." She squeezed his hand reassuringly even as he helped her avoid a panel of sharp, ragged metal. "They are scared, not that they'll admit it. I can't really sense anything beyond that."

Fear was something Darrus understood. Fear and what it could make people do. This situation was starting to make a little more sense. As they walked, he reached out with his other hand and tapped the armored soldier in front of him on the thick, reinforced shoulder.

"Yes, sir?" The man's voice was slightly obscured by static, issuing from a small speaker in the front of his helmet.

Darrus asked in as calm a voice as he could, leaving the reverberator effect in his own helm off for the moment. "What happened here? Why is the ship so damaged?" It seemed like a simple enough question, general but to the point.

The soldier gestured to the warped walls as he answered. "The Telos IV exchange station was attacked a few hours ago. We were responding to the open distress call when we were jumped by a surprise attack. The..."

"They ambushed us, Exarch." That voice came from the front of the group ahead, the same man who'd addressed him before and told the others to hold their fire. "We got caught with our greaves down and the Battlelord paid for his failure with his life."

"How so?"

The leader of the Mandaloreans continued to press on as he spoke, answering Darrus succinctly with seemingly no emotion in his voice. "When the attack hit us, we lost our forward cruisers in the first volley. The Battlelord ordered all power to the main guns and returned fire on the attacking destroyer instead of rising deflector screens. We punched a hole clean through the enemy's main vessel..."

Darrus could tell there was more.

"...and then a drone fighter carrying a full rack of primed torpedoes rammed our bridge and killed the entire command staff. The flashback gutted us, taking out primary power, half our guns and detonating most of our charged ammo stores. Only Mandalore luck kept us in the star and not scattered between them, sir."

Darrus nodded, his face obscured by an armored mask similar to their own. "I see. And the ambush? How did you make it out?"

The men bristled, making Jeht think for a moment he'd chosen a poor question to ask.

"We survived because we were stronger than those cowards thought." The man's voice was ice-cold.

"Reassure them, Darrus. Take charge."

He turned on his vocalizer and let the sound module turn his voice into a grave-like rasp. "That's Exarch to you, soldier, and I wasn't questioning your skills. I wanted to know how you managed the jump to this system."

The sudden wrath in his modulated tone startled the men, shaking them all from their moment of hostility. Even the soldier in the lead was visibly cowed. "Forgive me, sir. Exarch. I misunderstood the question, sir."

"I want an answer, not an excuse. Can you provide it or do I need to give your rank to someone who can?" Darrus had been a general in the Clone Wars, commanding the finest soldiers in the galaxy for several years. If these men needed command, that was something he could provide. Behind him, he could feel Maya's surprise. She had never heard him like this before.

The soldier in the lead stopped and turned, stiffening to attention. "No, sir; I can and will answer your question. We were able to keep navigation and the hyderdrive engines online, sir. Once we repelled the ambush, every ship capable of pursuing them do so, sir!"

Darrus nodded, his dark silver armor gleaming like old blood in the flickering red light of the access corridor. "That is better. Carry on."

"Sir!" The man saluted with his fist to his chest and then spun on his heel. The passage through the halls was faster now, as if the men here now had something to prove. Darrus didn't mind the haste at all. Outside the battle might still be raging, especially if whomever had made that strange transmission on a Jedi frequency proved unable to call off the Rebel ships. The sooner they got to where they were going, the better.

"That was well done, Dar. I didn't know you could do that." Maya sounded impressed. Surprised but impressed.

He allowed himself a slight smile, knowing she could feel it but also glad no one else could see his face. He seldom let his emotions reach his expression... but Maya had a way of doing that to him. She was a lot like Trill that way.

Trill...

Before his mind could go down that dark road, the world shook violently. The ship was taking hits. Lots of them...

"We need to hustle."

"No need, sir. We are already there." The soldiers between Darrus and the leader started to scatter into the room, taking up positions at computer stations and targeting screens. They had emerged into a well-armored command room, a secondary bridge located deep inside the vessel's bulkhead.

"Your orders, sir?" Even as the commander spoke, the other Mandaloreans were bring up tactical displays and charging weapon batteries. A large cylindrical holo-screen in the middle of the chamber showed their situation. All but three of the Mandalore ships were gone, overwhelmed by a large force between their location and the planet below.

Planet below? That didn't make any sense. The Rebel ships had been straight ahead, splitting to flank even as he and Maya were being pulled above. They hadn't been approaching from below. Besides, there were too many hostiles on that display, flying in a tight, oddly familiar formation. More than two dozen. Had the Rebels already gotten reinforcements? Or...

Darrus cussed under this breath, a bad habit he'd picked up from Marr-ek.

"Sir? What was that? Permission to fire?"

Darrus shook his head, the math in his mind coming up with some very ugly... and final... numbers. "Negative. Order the remaining ships to charge deflectors to full and jump on our mark."

The soldiers in their chairs reacted exactly like Darrus had assumed they would; all of them hesitated, turning to their commander in confusion.

"Sir? We may be outnumbered but we can die with honor..."

"We will fight them but not here." Darrus let the reverb in his helmet trail off into a spectral growl before continuing. "I want them to chase us this time, soldier. All the way back to Telos."

Darrus was gambling that one very important aspect of the station at Telos IV hadn't changed in the time he'd been asleep. If it was still the same stardock he remembered, it had one special feature not normally found in a repair/refueling point -a full array of fire linked, capital class turbolasers.

The total change in the commander's posture told him his bet had paid off. "I understand, sir! Send the command and set our course. Get us as close to Tee Four as possible. Now!"

Darrus nodded; the commander understood his strategy perfectly. "Send a tight comm as soon as we get there. I want the enemy to come out of hyperspace to a very warm welcome. Am I clear?"

"Sir, crystal, sir!" The commander ran across the room to the communications console and started seeing to the order himself.

As he did, Maya pulled Darrus aside as subtly as she could, concern in her eyes and an upset waver to her thoughts. "Darrus! We can't just gun down Rebel ships! Those pilots out there are innocent. They were only trying to help!"

Jeht rested his hand on Maya's shoulder, hoping his touch would calm her as it always did. It worked, to an extent. He could still sense her worry. Her panic. She cared so much about people. Sometimes, she cared too much. There would be times, probably sooner rather than later, when they would he to make hard choices and good people might end up hurt.

But this wasn't one of those times. "Maya, you need to trust me. The ships outside are not Rebels and they aren't innocent."

She stared at him a long while, not looking away even when their ship trembled and shook from the effort of lurching into hyperspace. She wanted to trust him but fear was making that hard. Fear of hurting former friends. Fear of good men dying. Fear of being responsible for it.

He stepped around the corner of the room's doorway and pulled her into his arms. "I know I am right. I can feel it, Maya. Please. Please, believe in the Force."

She buried her face in his armored chest, forcing herself to make a very hard decision. In the end, even if they were about to do something terrible, she had chosen her path longer before this moment. Nodding, she clung tight.

"I do. I believe... in you."

Dark Homecoming

"Darrus, what's happening?"

He had nothing to tell her. Darrus was as confused as Maya at the moment. The what was actually quite simple. Their Basilisks were no longer under their control. They were flying as fast as the war droids could move towards the lead Mandalorean vessel, weapon systems retracted and environmental shields up.

The why, on the other hand, was a complete mystery. They had started moving this way only a few moments after the dark fleet arrived. Their flight systems were all off-line, controlled from an outside source. Presumably, the ship was bringing them in but there hadn't been any communication or attack. If they had been identified as enemies, why weren't they being shot at? The ship definitely had its share of guns.

Right now, those weapons and the ones bristling across the hulls of the other vessels in the Mandalorean fleet were making themselves known, sending glowing lances of deadly light across space into the makeshift Rebel ships in the distance.

Before he could say something to his panicking partner, his comm light glimmered. Hoping it was some kind of explanation, he toggled the receiver. Only then did he notice it was on a frequency usually reserved for Jedi Temple communications.

"If you're hearing this, 'Wraith', you are who I think you are. Don't talk, just listen. I'll try to reach the Rebels and get them to break off their counter attack. This has all gone Bantha up. If you can, do the same with the Mandals."

Then the transmission ended. There was something familiar about the voice but at the moment, Jeht couldn't place it. He silently wished the mysterious figure, whoever it was, luck and sighed to himself. He wasn't sure he'd have the ability to sway the Mandaloreans from their attack but he was certainly about to get the opportunity.

The side of the vessel was scored with dozens of blaster cannon hits, a single working cargo bay opening to receive them. The other loading doors were too damaged to open or, in one case, close. There was a plasma fire raging inside that bay, metal glowing from intense, unquenchable heat. He hoped there hadn't been men inside it but he suspected that hope was in vain.

"Darrus... I'm scared."

That wasn't over the comm. That was Maya using the thought sending ability he'd shown her. Unfrtunately, she was also sending her fear and it was very strong. Strong enough to touch a darkness of a wholly different source.

"Calm yourself, dear." He used the term of affection to change her mood, knowing that it would make her focus on her feelings for him. It was manipulative, yes, but it was better than them both dwelling on fear and panic right now. "Calm your mind. We have to both be prepared for whatever awaits us here, be it battle or escape."

He could feel her affection but it was tempered with embarrassment. She answered with a quick, "Of course. Sorry..."

He sent soothing thoughts her way, easing her mind of doubt and regret. They would also cloud her vision and he was concerned they would both have need of her healing skills before this was over. A warship of angry Mandaloreans? That did not bode well.

The bay engulfed them, swallowing their relatively small Basilisks like a Naboo spurwhale feasting on glow-krill. Below them, the landing deck was in shambles. There were four fighter craft, all with serious damage. None of them looked flight-worthy. Half the bay was a mass of wires and twisted metal, as if a massive explosion elsewhere had nearly shaken the bay apart. On the outside, the ship was a fearsome sight.

Inside, Darrus wondered how it could possibly still be functional.

His time to wonder anything was cut sort by what he'd been fearing. As guidance tractor beams brought their Basilisks in for an auto-landing in a small cleared area of the bay, several Mandaloreans in full gear, complete with heavy blasters and powered armor, came forward and pointed their weapons in a textbook cover formation.

At least one mystery was solved - the reason for their Basilisks having their environmental systems active. His instruments showed that outside the droid's cockpit, there was pressure but no breathable atmosphere. The bay's life support was completely shot. No real surprise.

His control panel crackled to life, the communications array switching on. "Come out slow, hands up. We see a weapon, you stop seeing. Comply." The voice was rough and invited no argument or discussion.

So Darrus didn't argue or discuss. Popping the clasp on his seat harness, he left his blaster cannon behind and opened the droid's chassis. Plates slid open and footholds extended to let him climb down outside the loyal metal beast's body. His back still turned to the Mandaloreans, he watched to make sure Maya's rebreather would be up to sustaining her outside the droid. Seeing that she was fine, he touched down on the warm deck and turned to face his captors.

There was a stir among the Mandalorean soldiers. Jet had been afraid of this. His armor was a custom piece of work by Vaaro but it was still noticeably Mandalore in design. By their warrior culture, owning a suit without being one of them was an offense punishable by death.

This was about to dissolve into a fight. An ugly one. And he was disarmed.

The Mandalorean in the lead strode forward, pistol still in hand, and crossed halfway to Jeht before dropping to one knee and clapping the grip of his gun to his chest in a salute. "Sir! We had no idea one of the Silverguard had made it here before us!" The soldier turned his helmed head to the others, ordering them to stand down immediately.

They did.

"Sir, please come with us. Our Battlelord and his entire command staff are dead, the bridge is knocked out and we are running the entire ship from the aft consoles. We need you!"

The other soldiers all stood at instant salute. "Lead us to victory and glory, Exarch!" As one, they turned and followed the speaking commander out, obviously expecting Darrus to bring up the rear.

Inside his helm, Jeht blinked very dark, very confused eyes.

"What just happened?" Maya said, handing him his cannon and fetching her blasters.

Now, like before, he had nothing to tell her. Nothing at all.

Hell in Zero-G

"That's the last of them, Darrus."

Maya was not at all used to this new communication system. Of course, she wasn't used to any part of this huge, robotic war machine surrounding her flesh, fused to her nervous system and acting as if it were part of her body. All she had to do is think and the Basilisk responded. Sometimes, she didn't even have to think.

The strangely agile mechanic monster was seemingly prescient, moving at times before she had completed her instructions for the action. When a shrapnel canister from one of the bombs on the Ithorian breed ship had come loose and started to drift away, the Basilisk's right arm had extended and caught it before she was consciously aware of the need to do so. Part of her was grateful for the droid; it was the only way they had been able to get here in time to disarm all these explosives.

The rest of her was utterly terrified.

Maya was a medic, a healer both in training and in spirit. All her life, she had been raised and educated to understand the body and its functions. She knew muscle, bone, blood and tissue. She was comfortable with the myriad forms of life in the universe. From big to small, organic existence was endlessly fascinating to her.

This... this machine was not alive, yet it acted in every way as if it was. The Basilisk was more than just a droid. It was something more, something beyond its metal and composites. Something beyond even the cerebral link that melded its operating systems to her brain.

This thing was not a mere tool or a weapon. It was not just a siege engine or war machine. It was...

...a companion.

An alien, nigh-incomprehensible companion to be sure, but like having a Rancor for a lap dog. It was loyal, faithful, unquestioningly obedient while being apocalyptic and unbelievably destructive at the same time.

And in the end, it was hers. Or she was its. Maya really couldn't be sure.

"Darrus, did you hear me? That was the last of them. The bombs are disabled."

She waited again, drifting in space near the gargantuan Ithorian vessel. Held in place by glowing blue thrusters, Maya was able to move in any direction and rocket forth with as much speed as she desired. Right now she was just hovering near the connection site of the final ion charge, holding its disengaged power core.

But Darrus wasn't answering her. Instantly, the engine cores along the back of her Basilisk fired up and sent her hurtling towards where he had last been, where his locator showed him to be right now. She didn't will them to do so; the droid just started moving on its own.

In this case, she didn't not mind at all. Panic was already starting to grip her senses. When the ex-Jedi stopped talking, she started worrying.

She darted like a shark through a sea of darkness, flying up over the glimmering transparent dome of the breed ship. Below, the arboreal floating city, encased in silver metal and softly glowing crystal, rested like a timeless forest among the stars. It was beautiful, breathtaking really, and if she wasn't so frantic to get to Darrus she would have admired it longer.

As it was, the city was no longer in danger of being blown apart and dropped onto Tatooine in a fiery rain of death and destruction. That was good enough for now. The ship was safe. Now all that mattered was finding Jeht and making sure he was okay too.

He had to be all right. He just had to!

She finally found him, but only because of the internal sensors of the Basilisk. It was linked to Darrus' own war droid, allowing her to track him anywhere within a parsec of open space. This was good, because the black finish of the basilisks made them virtually invisible in space.

She hovered close, watching him closely, not getting within reach in case something was seriously wrong. Darrus was just floating there, engines barely blazing. Through the shadowy cockpit, she could see him staring down at his droid's instrument panels, dark eyes wide and expressionless.

"What is it?" she sent again. She knew he could here; there was no way to quiet the mental channel between these two droids. He was hearing every word. He just wasn't responding. "Darrus, what is it?"

"I know why we are here."

His voice was ashen, the exact tone she was afraid she'd hear. That was Darrus' cold voice, the sound of imminent death. Usually someone else's. Somehow, she suspected he wasn't talking about someone else this time.

"To save the Ithorians," she said hopefully, upset at how flat it sounded. "Right?"

She could see him shaking his head, the visor of his armored helm reflecting the lights of the screens inside his canopy. "No. I mean why we were sent here."

She thought she knew that answer as well. "To plant the final bombs."

"That's what they told us... but that's not why we were sent."

She came a little closer, easing her Basilisk beside his. "Why then?"

The main arms of his droid came up, holding open the bomb he'd been given to mount onto the Ithorian ship. It was open, its shrapnel cases exposed, and its timer wired into one of the computer ports of the Basilisk. "This thing was set to explode as soon as it was turned on. The timer was a fake."

She narrowed her eyes. "They sent us up here to die? Why? Did they figure out who we were?"

Darrus shook his masked face again. "No. It's bigger than that." He reached into the bomb with a secondary servo arm attached to the droid's right battle claw and withdrew a fragmentary canister. "Look at this." With that, he crushed the cylinder open, bursting it and scattering its contents.

Maya looked at the drifting metal shards uncomprehendingly. "It's anti-personnel shrapnel. I've seen it before."

"Look closer."

She shrugged, not really understanding, but did so. Some of the pieces were painted, others weren't. A few even had lettering or symbols, in whole or in part, but she still did not see their significance. It was shrapnel, something usually made by grinding up salvage just like this seemed to be. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"What am I supposed to see, Darrus?"

His tone was still cold and dead still, the sort of thing she hated to hear. "It's Mandalorian iron."

She blinked again. "Some of it?"

"All of it."

That made no sense. Anti-personnel weapons were typically packed with random material; in any given bomb there could be a dozen different alloys present. She'd seen the terrible effect of these weapons on their intended victims. 'Soft targets', the military called them. She called them people, usually people in several small bags once exposed to this kind of hideous munition.

"Wait... Why was the Scarlet Wake using a shrapnel mine on a starship?"

Jeht looked up inside his cockpit and nodded. "That was meant for us. The other bombs are, I'm sure, much more appropriate for the task of destroying the hive vessel."

"But..." Her mind was reeling. "Why Mandalorian iron? Are these Basilisks that tough?" Mandalorian iron was generally regarded as one of the strongest metals in the galaxy, capable of being forged into superheavy armor or weapons of surpassing sharpness.

"No. A mine of this size and power could have torn us both apart with Jawa scrap. The Mandalorian iron is there for another purpose." His tone was still grave, still dire. Her stomach sank as his suspicions started forming in her own mind.

"Mandalorian armor, Mandalorian shrapnel, Mandalorian battle droids..." She murmured this, doing the math in her head. The clues were painting an unfortunate picture, one she was sure Jeht had already seen in its entirely.

Below, along one arc of the planet's atmosphere, Maya could see more than a dozen ships moving this way. Planetary security ships, likely Rebel starfighters and transports on loan from the main fleet and here for repairs and refueling, had already been dispatched to their location. No doubt this was all prearranged by the Scarlet Wake; all that was missing was the demolition charges that would have given them something to investigate.

"No, Maya. There's something else missing."

She looked into his eyes, suddenly wishing there wasn't so much armor plate and glass between them. "What, Darrus? We saved the ship. There won't be a massacre today." Again, she was trying to have hope. Again, it sounded so bitterly flat.

"The Scarlet Wake, or more accurately the power behind the Wake, wants a war." Darrus closed his black void-eyes. "And every war needs two sides."

Maya sighed, understanding at last. She pointed with one servo-claw to the incoming Rebel ships. "There's one... but where's the other?"

Darrus didn't answer. He just turned his Basilisk to regard the empty depths of space beyond the Ithorian ship. Moments later, the glimmer of hyperspace anomalies began to form.

"I can only assume, Maya, that this plan had two halves. We stopped our half but if the other succeeded..."

The glimmers resolved into several military transports and a huge battle carrier. Its gun ports were glowing bright and fully open, its hull proudly bearing the symbol of Mandalore. Sections of the carrier were badly damaged but it was still in fighting shape, despite one of its command desks being gutted and trailing smoke.

Maya looked first at the arriving armada and then at the Rebel squadron. "This..."

Jeht finished the sentence, his voice colder than ever. "...isn't going to end well."

Last Words

"Is it done?"

Red One's hologram flickered as he spoke. Masked and impassive, his face betrayed no emotion but Gannar could hear the tension in his voice. This was their biggest action to date and, unless he missed his guess, only the start of something much bigger. Gannar chose his next words carefully, phrasing things in as neutral a tone as possible.

"Yes, sir. The two mercenaries you requested have been dispatched using the special vehicles as you directed."

"Have there been any delays?"

Gannar's brow furrowed. Did Red One have other informants in the Tatooine base? How could he have known about the alien woman or the missing operative? Red One's question was a leading one; perhaps he did not actually know but was merely fishing. Time to be diplomatic again, and perhaps do a bit of fishing on his own.

"Nothing significant, sir. Were you concerned about something?"

The helmed figure shifted in its glowing blue and white image. "Then you have no personnel unaccounted for?"

Blast it; he did know. But why this verbal game? Red One not just directly asking him about the technician and the other bounty hunter could only mean that he didn't trust whatever answers he might get. That meant that at some level, Red One didn't trust him.

Gannar clenched his jaw. After all this time, all these tests of loyalty, his place in the Scarlet Wake was still tenuous?! Surely he'd proven himself. Surely the leader of the Wake, assuming Red One really was the highest authority in the group, trusted him by now. Perhaps these were just precautions.

Surely that was it. Red One was just being cautious. Only one way to find out, though. Gannar took a deep breath and did something he'd never done to his superior before; he lied.

"Yes, sir. Every member of the Tatooine chapter of the Scarlet Wake is present and accounted for here. Our only two outstanding are on assignment, ensuring the success of your objectives involving Operation Planetfall."

There was a long pause. Did Red One believe him?

"One last thing, Red Two."

Gannar breathed a sigh of relief. There was no mistrust in the leader's tone of voice.

"Anything, sir."

The image flickered and changed to a schematic of the massive Ithorian vessel in orbit over Tatooine - the target of Planetfall. Two red dots glimmered into view over the ship's station-keeping thrusters. "Primary explosives have been placed already, yes?"

Gannar nodded, speaking affirmatively.

"Yes, sir. Primary charges were set before the vessel left its last port of call. The secondary charge inside the ship's bio-dome was set up yesterday and slaved to a remote detonator. You should have the code with you, sir."

The image returned to Red One, his blank steel face nodding slightly.

"Correct. And the two operatives you sent to oversee the successful detonation of the primary charges have not been informed about the secondary device?"

Gannar smiled, pleased that all was returning to normal.

"Indeed, Red One. They have no advanced warning, as per your instructions. They will be caught in the secondary charge's blast radius and destroyed along with the target."

Inwardly, Gannar considered this a waste. Even if the Wake needed bodies to blame the attack on for alibi reasons, why had it been necessary to sacrifice two priceless pieces of technology with them? Perhaps there really was more going on here than just taking out a few million aliens.

"You have everything in order, Red Two. The Scarlet Wake commends your efforts."

Gannar beamed. No matter what this mission was a prelude to, he was sure now that his place in it was secured. From here, his good service could get him moved to Red One's location and put in charge of a larger part of the Wake. There was still so much to do, so many aliens to do away with and power centers to destabilize. The future was looking very bright.

"Thank you, my lord. Your orders?"

Red One's image showed the masked figure pushing a small button on the console at his right hand. A set of six lights illuminated above the button, one vanishing almost immediately.

"No further orders, Red Two. You may stand down."

A second glow went dark, leaving only four.

"Stand down? Sir? What do you mean?"

Half the lights were out now.

"The Tatooine chapter is no longer required."

Two glowing lights remained, even as the image of Red One started to fade.

"But... what are we supposed to do now, sir? What about us?"

All the lights were gone except for one.

"Your sacrifice will be remembered."

The last light disappeared and with it, so did Red One's transmission.

"Sacrifice?!?!!"

-----

Gannarsen had been right about one thing.

His future, both seconds of it, was very, very bright...

The Ticking Clock

"Is he dead?"

Darrus didn't mean to sound so cold; his tone was stilted and quiet all the same. Since he'd woken up, it had been hard for him to articulate anything emotional. He suspected something was interfering with his ability to feel - probably the same something still stretching its microfilaments through his brain.

"No. He's comatose but he's not dead." Maya's voice was just as flat. She was slightly more emotional in her words than him; Darrus suspected that was her natural empathy at odds with her own Mandalorean implant. It would also explain why she woke up with a migraine and he did not.

"Can you do anything for him?"

Maya nodded, already cradling the bounty hunter's head in her lap and injecting his arm with a spray hypodermic. "His device seems to have malfunctioned slightly. One of its cerebral probes has gone off course and burrowed into his hypothalamus. The hormonal imbalance has..."

Darrus shook his head. "No time. Can you help him?"

Maya nodded again. "Yes. I've got him stable and once his vitals went back up, the probe corrected itself. I think it's working now. He'll sleep for a while but he'll live."

Darrus took a moment to look over the war droid standing in front of him. "And these... They are somehow bonded to us now. Any way to reverse it?"

His partner frowned. "I do not think so. The implant had anchored into our skulls and its leads are..."

He interrupted again absently, his hands checking the plating of his droid for some way to extend its boarding rungs. Instantly, a dozen half-moons of dark steel slide out of its side, a ladder ascending to its armored saddle. "I can feel the leads; they are still active."

"Yes they are. I am fairly sure they will stop once they completely weave their way into our nervous systems. I don't think they will hurt us, though."

Darrus had to agree. His 'conversation' with Vykara had not ended poorly. As long as she was in control of this massive steel beast, he doubted it would ever be a threat to him. His real concern was what would happen if she couldn't control the robot. As scared as she felt in his dreamscape, he had his doubts about her ability to remain calm and focused during battle.

Still, Vykara had been a Jedi padawan. He would have to trust in her training. He might even be able to draw on her experiences as a Jedi to help her deal with what had happened. He could only barely imagine what pain she'd already gone through. And being completely divorced from life, entombed in a metal shell? Such a horror was inconceivable. For her to have been sane enough to even reach out to him like she did? That spoke of serious inner strength.

"Darrus?"

Jeht blinked. He'd been standing against the war droid, eyes closed, for... well, he didn't actually know how long. "I'm sorry. I was lost in thought."

Maya smiled and squeezed his arm gently. "It's all right. It's been happening to me too."

"Must be a side effect of the implant."

Maya walked over to her own droid, its ladder extending as she approached. "Let's hope it's a temporary one. A flashback in the middle of a fight could be..."

He finished her sentence, "...fatal. Yes."

Both of them slid into the saddle cockpits of their droids, both surprised by how comfortable the padding and contours of the machine felt. It was practically molded to them - a perfect fit. Controls lit up unbidden, a low, crackling thrum of ionic engine power building in the hearts of their combat robots.

Darrus put his helmet back on, becoming Wraith again as it settled in and locked shut.

"We have less than an hour left. If we stand any chance of stopping Planetfall..."

Maya pulled on her own helmet and nodded, acting as his Echo as she completed his thought. "...we have to move quickly."

Wraith tilted his head, thinking something without saying it. *Are you reading my mind?*

Her answer came swiftly, an audible voice that seemed to reverberate through the front of his skull. *Only when you send like that. Are you hearing this?*

He just nodded silently and reached out to the droid's controls. Without actually touching them, several buttons started to glow. The machine was controlled through willpower, something Darrus had heard of but never actually seen in action. Some Jedi had lightsabers that activated by thought but to the best of his knowledge, that was as complex as the technology had ever gotten.

Apparently, he was wrong. The robot, which he instinctively know to be a 'Basilisk', was completely under his mental control, able to react to his thoughts like an extension of his own body. At the same time, it had a will of its own and could act independently if it wished to.

In many ways, it was like the Force itself. Controlled yet separate, willing to serve yet possessing its own desires and identity. There was a duality to this droid, a fact that led Darrus to wonder off-handed if the Basilisk had a dark side as well.

*Darrus?* Maya's mental voice brought him back to the present.

*I did it again, didn't I?*

He could feel her soft amusement as she sent, *Yeah, a little. Not long though.*

He sighed inwardly and thought about lifting off. Instantly, thrusters pivoted beneath him and lifted the droid into the air. It was an interesting feeling; he was both riding a flying vehicle and also sensing the air rushing past him as if he was the vehicle itself. This was going to take a lot of getting used to.

*We don't have any more time to waste. The Ithorians have forty two minutes before the Scarlet Wake's bomb tears out their ship's hull. We...*

There was even more amusement as Maya finished his sentence, this time doing it intentionally. *...have to find it and dismantle it before that happens.*

Darrus glowered, his face hidden by his helmet but the emotion not at all lost on her. *You are really enjoying this, aren't you?*

Maya did not hesitate at all before answering, even as their droids' cockpits unfolded behind them and rose up to cover them before they left the atmosphere.

*Oh yes!*