Blood of Heroes, Part III
Posted: 2004-03-14 01:05pm
Annika Hansen Skywalker sat up nervously on the bed as the Doctor looked over the results of the many tests she'd been subjected to. She pulled her snow white hair into a bun; it gave her something to do. “Bad news?" she finally asked.
"I'm afraid it's not news," the Doctor replied. "It's what I'm sure you already figured out on your own; the nanoprobe treatment is no longer having any effect on the disease." He held the hypospray to her neck with a faint hiss of discharge. "It is still helping your body some, and your immune system seems to have picked up the slack..."
"But it's not enough, is it." It wasn't a question; she'd known the answer long before Han insisted they return to Earth for a full check-up. "I'm not going to make it."
"Annika, I can help you if you stay," the Doctor said with restrained exasperation.
Annika shook her head; the effort made her head swim. "There's still too much to do."
"Yes, it's called 'life,' Annika! Running around the galaxy looking for Nom Anor is killing you, can't you see that?"
"I'm not going to just lay here and wait to die," she said. She took his hand kindly. "I have every faith in you," she added, "but there's nothing you can do for me, right?"
"We're making progress-"
"But not soon enough... not for me." She hugged him tight. "You've given me years more than anyone else ever had. I saw my son's wedding thanks to you. But there comes a point where we have to accept the inevitable."
The Doctor tried to persuade her, but her mind was made up. She kept herself under tight control and only stumbled once on her way out of the building. A short walk to the transporter station and she was in Paris, but while ground crews were looking over the Millennium Falcon, Han wasn't among them. She had a pretty good idea where he was, but you never know when a Cardassian ambush squad or alien doppelganger might be involved, so she connected her commlink to her tricorder to track him down. She closed the tricorder once it confirmed her suspicions, then, wincing, she walked as best she could to the swoop rental depot and set out into the heart of the city.
Han was standing next to a marker. It was one of the few times that Leia ever wielded the weight of her position, but replacing the apartment complex with a memorial park had seemed the right thing. With the movement of the capital to Sydney, the Parisian housing demand had dropped considerably anyway.
Annika stayed a little ways back in silence. She hadn't known Chewie - really known him - for very long. He'd been just another alien to come through the wormhole, another partner in their struggle against the Empire and the Borg. But then she became engaged to Luke, and that changed. He told her, in no uncertain terms, that he would protect her if she ever needed it. She was family now. Family. Not the way Capt. Janeway had tossed the word around in the "we're all in this together" mindset, but that there was an unbreakable bond between them. Even Han's hatred for Luke couldn't sever it, couldn't drive him out. Family sticks together, no matter what... and no one had felt that way about her in a long, long time.
Han left Chewie's grave and walked over to her, a forced smile on his face. "Hungry?" he asked as he led the way to one of the wheeled stands the locals kept up for the tourists.
"No," she said. She hadn't eaten in eight days, her stomach couldn't handle it any more. She regenerated and injected nutrients into her system to keep her strength up, but even then she still needed to sleep several hours a night. Han bought a pretzel; her insides twisted at the sight of him eating it. "I brought a swoop."
"Good, I'll drive," he said crumpling up the pretzel wrapper.
"It's my swoop," she chided him. "You don't think your macho ego can stand having to take the back seat to a woman?"
"Oh really?" he said, drawing to a halt. "Hold out your hand."
Annika held it out; it was as steady as a mountain. "See? Maybe you-" She stopped and blinked after the pretzel wrapper hit her in the face. She'd been so focused she hadn't seen it coming.
"Nice try," Han said as a droid scurried out of some underbrush, grabbed the piece of litter, and vanished. "I'll drive." He stepped onto the swoop and hummed it to life. Grudgingly, Annika took the back seat and grabbed him around the waist, and they took off back to the docking bay. "How did things go?" he asked.
"No surprises," she said. He didn't probe further, and she didn't volunteer anything. They returned the swoop and a few minutes later the Falcon was heading for space.
"I'm thinking we should change our plans a bit," Han said as he examined the instruments and made some adjustments.
"What do you mean?" Annika took a deep breath, ready for the heated argument that was coming.
"Finding Nom Anor is important," he said, "but so's stopping his plans, right?"
"I suppose so. Anything he does inevitably further the Vong cause. You have something in mind?"
"Yeah, I was thinking about this fungal disease." He pressed on before she could say a word. "It's been spotted across hundreds of worlds now, and some people are starting to panic. If we found a cure, I figure that would hamper the Vong effort."
"True... but flawed. Medical researchers have a much better chance of finding a cure-"
"There's a cure out there," Han interrupted. "Remember?"
Annika's mood darkened. "That is not an option."
"All I'm saying is, maybe we can find a way to negotiate it from them. Offer them something else."
"They're not interested," Annika said. "They made it clear what they want, and I'll die before they get it."
"You never know," Han said, "maybe they've changed their minds."
"They are Borg."
"And I thought Borg adapted. It's worth a try."
"Han-"
"I've already buried one co-pilot," he said sharply. "If I have to steal the cure from them, I can live with it."
Annika sunk back into the chair; she didn't have the energy to fight any more. "Okay, you win. Set course for Sanctuary; that's the best place to start."
"Actually, we're going to make one other stop first." He finished entering the coordinates into the nav computer.
"The delta quadrant?"
"I think we're going to need some help on this one," he said as he pulled back on the lever and sent the freighter into hyperspace.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Garak had been lying back on his bunk, but as the door to his cell opened he jerked up, and a grin spread across his face like a plague through a slum. "Minister Terraine. What a delightful break in my daily tedium. Have you come to administer my daily torture sessions? I've been hoping they would send a master to do the job."
"Spare me, Mr. Garak," Terraine said as a chair was brought in. He sat down; with a single nod the guards left and sealed him in.
"I know you didn't order it, but I'm afraid they do enjoy their petty torments. Really quite amateurish in my experience, and I have been in-"
"I have no interest in today's work of fiction, Mr. Garak," Terraine said evenly. Those who knew Garak was in ISB hands - a small number to say the least - would have been surprised to know that no harsh interrogation methods were used on him, even though he was the one person who knew everything about his organization. The ISB had met its match in the Cardassian; no instrument was fine enough, no droid precise enough, to cut through his lies to find the truth. If you believed the reports, it was one hundred percent certain that Garak was actually a disguised clone of Grand Admiral Thrawn, had constructed a fleet of one thousand Eclipse-class star destroyers in the Badlands, and that he had rebuilt Cardassia by gathering all the planetary fragments and fusing them back together again. Terraine had once called in Sebastian Skywalker to see if he could tell when he was lying; Garak told him he was the temporally displaced reincarnation of his father.
"I see," Garak said. "In that case, why would the head of the ISB wish to see me?"
"The Emperor has made his decision regarding your appeal of the death sentence."
"Really? I thought for a while there he must have forgotten about me... it's almost as if he kept me alive for a reason."
"The war is a complication; he wanted to consider all the ramifications, perhaps even the possibility of your reform."
"Ah, you mean to become an Imperial lapdog such as yourself." Garak took a perverse pleasure in Volgo Terraine's look. "Still, I suppose one should know when it's time to switch to the winning side. I accept. I think I could be best put to use here in the ISB. Oh, you've done some wonderful things with it, but I think there's potential here that's not being explored, for example-"
"Enough, Mr. Garak," he snapped, then pulled himself back under control. "The Emperor has made his decision, but these things must be handled properly. You'll be brought before the tribunal again the day after tomorrow, where he will render his decision. If he supports the ruling, you will be executed immediately, so I suggest you prepare yourself for the possibility." He stood up to leave.
"You're not going to tell me?"
Terraine turned back. "No," he said sharply.
Garak gave a half-shrug, half-nod. "I see you enjoy your petty torments as well." Terraine said nothing as the guards opened the door and let him out. They kept blasters pointed at him as they removed the chair, and Garak took a certain pride in that. At his age, to still be seen as dangerous was a sign that he was doing things right. He lay back on his bunk and reflected. The Oracle, like she had with everything else, had been right. He still didn't know why, but the Emperor had been keeping him alive for this long, and now was going to announce his execution. If the situation were reversed, Garak would have ordered a swift public trial and an even more public execution, then gotten down to business. There had to be a reason; the Emperor had grown far more calculating once the galaxies had been conquered.
There were stories that the Emperor was a Sith, much like his own young partner, Ben. Some say the Sith can see through time in much the same way the Oracle can. Could he have figured out what they were planning? Did he delay deliberately so that he could foil their efforts? If so, then Garak was beaten; even if he escaped, he could never reach the pinnacle of power he'd attained. They'd just be what everyone thought, a collection of terrorists and malcontents, not a force for galactic change.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Gorren walked up and down the ranks inspecting the rebels. They were standing at what passed for attention among farmers, mechanics, merchants, and anyone else whose closest approach to military service was watching adventure holos. Gorren reached the end of the line and bellowed. Few can bellow like a Klingon; they've spent millennia crafting shouting into an artform. "Stomach in! Chest out!" The makeshift army shuffled to comply. "You!" He pointed a dirty fingernail at a small man in the front row. "What is your name?"
"Gorlif-" he started.
"EYES FRONT!!!"
The man jerked so hard Sebastian winced in sympathy. "Gorlif Otts, sir. I'm a swoop mechanic."
Gorren continued down the ranks. "When they write the songs of the great deeds done on Dane II, will they take time to sing of Gorlif the Mechanic, who tended to slouch?" He turned back to them, and there was fire in his eyes and a smirk of approval on his face. "Or will they sing of Gorlif the Warrior, who stood tall and proud in the heat of battle and sent a dozen enemies to their judgment with his righteous hand?" He waited. "Well?!"
Gorlif stopped looking at his hand and jerked back to attention. "The second, sir."
Borda shook his head as the Klingon went back to it. "[Where did you find him?]"
"Qo’nos," Sebastian said. "He was the leader of a Klingon resistance cell, so he knows what he's doing."
"[These aren't Klingons.]"
"He knows that; that's why he's not hitting anyone."
Borda looked back to Sebastian. "[Why would a rebel Klingon join with you?]"
"I defeated him with five forms of hand-to-hand combat. He said whatever cause such a warrior fights for must be honorable."
"[And what do you think of these rebels, warrior?]"
Sebastian ground his teeth as he looked them over. "Honestly... I think most of them are going to die. They have no idea what they're going up against."
"[But-]"
"But they'll make a difference. They'll help rid this world of the Vong, and that's what they came here to do. I just hope it's worth it to them."
"[And the songs?]" Borda asked.
Sebastian forced a laugh. "I'm afraid I never found it much to sing about?"
"[I thought you said you were a warrior?]"
"I said Gorren thinks I'm a warrior. The only thing you can do to get a song out of me is to end the war this afternoon."
"[Yet you side with a Klingon.]"
"He follows my lead, and he's a good person. He just has a different cultural background than I do. Battle, conflict, war are the heart of Klingon culture. For him, this is opportunity for honorable victory or honorable death."
"[And you?]"
Sebastian looked back to the rank and file. "War is a monster," he said. "And it eats people."
Borda nodded as he turned to the rebels. "[You know,]" he said, "[we hear stories out here on the Rim. They say there's a Jedi who secretly works for the ISB, that he's got contacts on a hundred worlds..." He turned back to Sebastian. "...but really he's supposed to be in line for the Emperor's throne.]"
Sebastian's face was blank, but when he spoke, one corner of his mouth turned up in a forced attempt at a smile, and his voice was low and unfriendly. "Never heard of him." He stepped to the front and Gorren drew himself up. "At ease, Gorren," Sebastian said, then turned to the rebels. "All that is good advice," he said loudly, "and I'd think about it. But two things are most important of all to remember when you're out there facing the real thing. Remember that this is your world, your home that you're fighting for, not for cause or glory. And remember that the best way to defend your home is to live to defend it when it’s threatened again. Now, stand at ease and pay attention." Gorren handed him a weapon. "We're going to learn to fight with this, but first, a little tidbit for those of you without training. I don't care what your beliefs or philosophies are, but when it comes to this weapon here," he held it up high, "you are now an existentialist. Every weapon is loaded unless you have examined the charge yourself when you've picked it up. This is a Blastech S-14 Hybrid Rifle; it's designed to kill people. Never point it at anyone unless you are prepared to kill them; there are no exceptions to this rule." He passed it back to Gorren. "Mr. Borda's going to take some of you to practice using this weapon; I'd better see all of you return. Now, some of you have mechanical and engineering experience." He rattled off a list of names from memory. "I want all of you with me; we're going to discuss the art of sabotage. Mr. Gorren will be selecting some of you to learn heavy weapons. Does anyone here speak wookiee?" A large hairy arm went up, accompanied by a few chuckles. "Thank you, Mr. Shekaaala, I'll keep you in mind. Is there anyone who can translate wookiee into Basic?" He pointed to a raised hand. "Good, Mr. Cloudstorm you're with Mr. Gorren."
Borda stepped towards him while Gorren began handing out weapons. "[I can't stay long.]"
"I know. Just long enough to get things started, let them know you find it's important enough for your time."
"[You really think they're going to die?]"
"Most," Sebastian said. "The new weapons are helping, but even stormtroopers have trouble facing the Vong."
"[Then why are you bothering with us?]"
"Because I do want the war to end this afternoon, and if I help you, the odds can only go up."
--------------------------------------------------------------
Anakin Solo took a deep breath as he switched on the computer. "Begin scan of holo-network, use filter Sith-3." He sat back as the computer began searching through a trillion trillion listings of the events from throughout the galaxies, tapping his hands on the table in boredom. They didn't sound the same; it was hard to tell, but if you were the owner of the hands you couldn't help but notice. One resonated with the vibration of muscle, bone, and blood, of real skin and real flesh. The other was a facsimile of advanced mechanics and complex polymers that Anakin didn't begin to understand. He had it because of a run-in with a Sith... a Sith that seemed to be very busy.
The computer beeped that it was complete, and Anakin held his breath as he examined the results. Two were false positives that he deleted, but the third... He punched the datapad and the full story came up.
The victim was Miko Reglia, a swoop racer who was competing on the Malastare circuit. Once again, a figure showing no concern for his safety had arrived, dressed in black and wearing a black and red mask. He'd slaughtered twelve guards who got in his way before striking down the pilot and disappearing. It was just like all the others.
Anakin sat bolt upright. Not quite like the others; they'd gotten an image. He stared at it for a long time. Of course, it was just a mask, nothing special in and of itself. The number of people in the universe who would recognize its significance could fit on a single shuttle. He filed it away with the rest of the reports. He had a theory, but no one was going to listen to it until he had more. He just wished that wouldn’t involve people dying.
"I'm afraid it's not news," the Doctor replied. "It's what I'm sure you already figured out on your own; the nanoprobe treatment is no longer having any effect on the disease." He held the hypospray to her neck with a faint hiss of discharge. "It is still helping your body some, and your immune system seems to have picked up the slack..."
"But it's not enough, is it." It wasn't a question; she'd known the answer long before Han insisted they return to Earth for a full check-up. "I'm not going to make it."
"Annika, I can help you if you stay," the Doctor said with restrained exasperation.
Annika shook her head; the effort made her head swim. "There's still too much to do."
"Yes, it's called 'life,' Annika! Running around the galaxy looking for Nom Anor is killing you, can't you see that?"
"I'm not going to just lay here and wait to die," she said. She took his hand kindly. "I have every faith in you," she added, "but there's nothing you can do for me, right?"
"We're making progress-"
"But not soon enough... not for me." She hugged him tight. "You've given me years more than anyone else ever had. I saw my son's wedding thanks to you. But there comes a point where we have to accept the inevitable."
The Doctor tried to persuade her, but her mind was made up. She kept herself under tight control and only stumbled once on her way out of the building. A short walk to the transporter station and she was in Paris, but while ground crews were looking over the Millennium Falcon, Han wasn't among them. She had a pretty good idea where he was, but you never know when a Cardassian ambush squad or alien doppelganger might be involved, so she connected her commlink to her tricorder to track him down. She closed the tricorder once it confirmed her suspicions, then, wincing, she walked as best she could to the swoop rental depot and set out into the heart of the city.
Han was standing next to a marker. It was one of the few times that Leia ever wielded the weight of her position, but replacing the apartment complex with a memorial park had seemed the right thing. With the movement of the capital to Sydney, the Parisian housing demand had dropped considerably anyway.
Annika stayed a little ways back in silence. She hadn't known Chewie - really known him - for very long. He'd been just another alien to come through the wormhole, another partner in their struggle against the Empire and the Borg. But then she became engaged to Luke, and that changed. He told her, in no uncertain terms, that he would protect her if she ever needed it. She was family now. Family. Not the way Capt. Janeway had tossed the word around in the "we're all in this together" mindset, but that there was an unbreakable bond between them. Even Han's hatred for Luke couldn't sever it, couldn't drive him out. Family sticks together, no matter what... and no one had felt that way about her in a long, long time.
Han left Chewie's grave and walked over to her, a forced smile on his face. "Hungry?" he asked as he led the way to one of the wheeled stands the locals kept up for the tourists.
"No," she said. She hadn't eaten in eight days, her stomach couldn't handle it any more. She regenerated and injected nutrients into her system to keep her strength up, but even then she still needed to sleep several hours a night. Han bought a pretzel; her insides twisted at the sight of him eating it. "I brought a swoop."
"Good, I'll drive," he said crumpling up the pretzel wrapper.
"It's my swoop," she chided him. "You don't think your macho ego can stand having to take the back seat to a woman?"
"Oh really?" he said, drawing to a halt. "Hold out your hand."
Annika held it out; it was as steady as a mountain. "See? Maybe you-" She stopped and blinked after the pretzel wrapper hit her in the face. She'd been so focused she hadn't seen it coming.
"Nice try," Han said as a droid scurried out of some underbrush, grabbed the piece of litter, and vanished. "I'll drive." He stepped onto the swoop and hummed it to life. Grudgingly, Annika took the back seat and grabbed him around the waist, and they took off back to the docking bay. "How did things go?" he asked.
"No surprises," she said. He didn't probe further, and she didn't volunteer anything. They returned the swoop and a few minutes later the Falcon was heading for space.
"I'm thinking we should change our plans a bit," Han said as he examined the instruments and made some adjustments.
"What do you mean?" Annika took a deep breath, ready for the heated argument that was coming.
"Finding Nom Anor is important," he said, "but so's stopping his plans, right?"
"I suppose so. Anything he does inevitably further the Vong cause. You have something in mind?"
"Yeah, I was thinking about this fungal disease." He pressed on before she could say a word. "It's been spotted across hundreds of worlds now, and some people are starting to panic. If we found a cure, I figure that would hamper the Vong effort."
"True... but flawed. Medical researchers have a much better chance of finding a cure-"
"There's a cure out there," Han interrupted. "Remember?"
Annika's mood darkened. "That is not an option."
"All I'm saying is, maybe we can find a way to negotiate it from them. Offer them something else."
"They're not interested," Annika said. "They made it clear what they want, and I'll die before they get it."
"You never know," Han said, "maybe they've changed their minds."
"They are Borg."
"And I thought Borg adapted. It's worth a try."
"Han-"
"I've already buried one co-pilot," he said sharply. "If I have to steal the cure from them, I can live with it."
Annika sunk back into the chair; she didn't have the energy to fight any more. "Okay, you win. Set course for Sanctuary; that's the best place to start."
"Actually, we're going to make one other stop first." He finished entering the coordinates into the nav computer.
"The delta quadrant?"
"I think we're going to need some help on this one," he said as he pulled back on the lever and sent the freighter into hyperspace.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Garak had been lying back on his bunk, but as the door to his cell opened he jerked up, and a grin spread across his face like a plague through a slum. "Minister Terraine. What a delightful break in my daily tedium. Have you come to administer my daily torture sessions? I've been hoping they would send a master to do the job."
"Spare me, Mr. Garak," Terraine said as a chair was brought in. He sat down; with a single nod the guards left and sealed him in.
"I know you didn't order it, but I'm afraid they do enjoy their petty torments. Really quite amateurish in my experience, and I have been in-"
"I have no interest in today's work of fiction, Mr. Garak," Terraine said evenly. Those who knew Garak was in ISB hands - a small number to say the least - would have been surprised to know that no harsh interrogation methods were used on him, even though he was the one person who knew everything about his organization. The ISB had met its match in the Cardassian; no instrument was fine enough, no droid precise enough, to cut through his lies to find the truth. If you believed the reports, it was one hundred percent certain that Garak was actually a disguised clone of Grand Admiral Thrawn, had constructed a fleet of one thousand Eclipse-class star destroyers in the Badlands, and that he had rebuilt Cardassia by gathering all the planetary fragments and fusing them back together again. Terraine had once called in Sebastian Skywalker to see if he could tell when he was lying; Garak told him he was the temporally displaced reincarnation of his father.
"I see," Garak said. "In that case, why would the head of the ISB wish to see me?"
"The Emperor has made his decision regarding your appeal of the death sentence."
"Really? I thought for a while there he must have forgotten about me... it's almost as if he kept me alive for a reason."
"The war is a complication; he wanted to consider all the ramifications, perhaps even the possibility of your reform."
"Ah, you mean to become an Imperial lapdog such as yourself." Garak took a perverse pleasure in Volgo Terraine's look. "Still, I suppose one should know when it's time to switch to the winning side. I accept. I think I could be best put to use here in the ISB. Oh, you've done some wonderful things with it, but I think there's potential here that's not being explored, for example-"
"Enough, Mr. Garak," he snapped, then pulled himself back under control. "The Emperor has made his decision, but these things must be handled properly. You'll be brought before the tribunal again the day after tomorrow, where he will render his decision. If he supports the ruling, you will be executed immediately, so I suggest you prepare yourself for the possibility." He stood up to leave.
"You're not going to tell me?"
Terraine turned back. "No," he said sharply.
Garak gave a half-shrug, half-nod. "I see you enjoy your petty torments as well." Terraine said nothing as the guards opened the door and let him out. They kept blasters pointed at him as they removed the chair, and Garak took a certain pride in that. At his age, to still be seen as dangerous was a sign that he was doing things right. He lay back on his bunk and reflected. The Oracle, like she had with everything else, had been right. He still didn't know why, but the Emperor had been keeping him alive for this long, and now was going to announce his execution. If the situation were reversed, Garak would have ordered a swift public trial and an even more public execution, then gotten down to business. There had to be a reason; the Emperor had grown far more calculating once the galaxies had been conquered.
There were stories that the Emperor was a Sith, much like his own young partner, Ben. Some say the Sith can see through time in much the same way the Oracle can. Could he have figured out what they were planning? Did he delay deliberately so that he could foil their efforts? If so, then Garak was beaten; even if he escaped, he could never reach the pinnacle of power he'd attained. They'd just be what everyone thought, a collection of terrorists and malcontents, not a force for galactic change.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Gorren walked up and down the ranks inspecting the rebels. They were standing at what passed for attention among farmers, mechanics, merchants, and anyone else whose closest approach to military service was watching adventure holos. Gorren reached the end of the line and bellowed. Few can bellow like a Klingon; they've spent millennia crafting shouting into an artform. "Stomach in! Chest out!" The makeshift army shuffled to comply. "You!" He pointed a dirty fingernail at a small man in the front row. "What is your name?"
"Gorlif-" he started.
"EYES FRONT!!!"
The man jerked so hard Sebastian winced in sympathy. "Gorlif Otts, sir. I'm a swoop mechanic."
Gorren continued down the ranks. "When they write the songs of the great deeds done on Dane II, will they take time to sing of Gorlif the Mechanic, who tended to slouch?" He turned back to them, and there was fire in his eyes and a smirk of approval on his face. "Or will they sing of Gorlif the Warrior, who stood tall and proud in the heat of battle and sent a dozen enemies to their judgment with his righteous hand?" He waited. "Well?!"
Gorlif stopped looking at his hand and jerked back to attention. "The second, sir."
Borda shook his head as the Klingon went back to it. "[Where did you find him?]"
"Qo’nos," Sebastian said. "He was the leader of a Klingon resistance cell, so he knows what he's doing."
"[These aren't Klingons.]"
"He knows that; that's why he's not hitting anyone."
Borda looked back to Sebastian. "[Why would a rebel Klingon join with you?]"
"I defeated him with five forms of hand-to-hand combat. He said whatever cause such a warrior fights for must be honorable."
"[And what do you think of these rebels, warrior?]"
Sebastian ground his teeth as he looked them over. "Honestly... I think most of them are going to die. They have no idea what they're going up against."
"[But-]"
"But they'll make a difference. They'll help rid this world of the Vong, and that's what they came here to do. I just hope it's worth it to them."
"[And the songs?]" Borda asked.
Sebastian forced a laugh. "I'm afraid I never found it much to sing about?"
"[I thought you said you were a warrior?]"
"I said Gorren thinks I'm a warrior. The only thing you can do to get a song out of me is to end the war this afternoon."
"[Yet you side with a Klingon.]"
"He follows my lead, and he's a good person. He just has a different cultural background than I do. Battle, conflict, war are the heart of Klingon culture. For him, this is opportunity for honorable victory or honorable death."
"[And you?]"
Sebastian looked back to the rank and file. "War is a monster," he said. "And it eats people."
Borda nodded as he turned to the rebels. "[You know,]" he said, "[we hear stories out here on the Rim. They say there's a Jedi who secretly works for the ISB, that he's got contacts on a hundred worlds..." He turned back to Sebastian. "...but really he's supposed to be in line for the Emperor's throne.]"
Sebastian's face was blank, but when he spoke, one corner of his mouth turned up in a forced attempt at a smile, and his voice was low and unfriendly. "Never heard of him." He stepped to the front and Gorren drew himself up. "At ease, Gorren," Sebastian said, then turned to the rebels. "All that is good advice," he said loudly, "and I'd think about it. But two things are most important of all to remember when you're out there facing the real thing. Remember that this is your world, your home that you're fighting for, not for cause or glory. And remember that the best way to defend your home is to live to defend it when it’s threatened again. Now, stand at ease and pay attention." Gorren handed him a weapon. "We're going to learn to fight with this, but first, a little tidbit for those of you without training. I don't care what your beliefs or philosophies are, but when it comes to this weapon here," he held it up high, "you are now an existentialist. Every weapon is loaded unless you have examined the charge yourself when you've picked it up. This is a Blastech S-14 Hybrid Rifle; it's designed to kill people. Never point it at anyone unless you are prepared to kill them; there are no exceptions to this rule." He passed it back to Gorren. "Mr. Borda's going to take some of you to practice using this weapon; I'd better see all of you return. Now, some of you have mechanical and engineering experience." He rattled off a list of names from memory. "I want all of you with me; we're going to discuss the art of sabotage. Mr. Gorren will be selecting some of you to learn heavy weapons. Does anyone here speak wookiee?" A large hairy arm went up, accompanied by a few chuckles. "Thank you, Mr. Shekaaala, I'll keep you in mind. Is there anyone who can translate wookiee into Basic?" He pointed to a raised hand. "Good, Mr. Cloudstorm you're with Mr. Gorren."
Borda stepped towards him while Gorren began handing out weapons. "[I can't stay long.]"
"I know. Just long enough to get things started, let them know you find it's important enough for your time."
"[You really think they're going to die?]"
"Most," Sebastian said. "The new weapons are helping, but even stormtroopers have trouble facing the Vong."
"[Then why are you bothering with us?]"
"Because I do want the war to end this afternoon, and if I help you, the odds can only go up."
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Anakin Solo took a deep breath as he switched on the computer. "Begin scan of holo-network, use filter Sith-3." He sat back as the computer began searching through a trillion trillion listings of the events from throughout the galaxies, tapping his hands on the table in boredom. They didn't sound the same; it was hard to tell, but if you were the owner of the hands you couldn't help but notice. One resonated with the vibration of muscle, bone, and blood, of real skin and real flesh. The other was a facsimile of advanced mechanics and complex polymers that Anakin didn't begin to understand. He had it because of a run-in with a Sith... a Sith that seemed to be very busy.
The computer beeped that it was complete, and Anakin held his breath as he examined the results. Two were false positives that he deleted, but the third... He punched the datapad and the full story came up.
The victim was Miko Reglia, a swoop racer who was competing on the Malastare circuit. Once again, a figure showing no concern for his safety had arrived, dressed in black and wearing a black and red mask. He'd slaughtered twelve guards who got in his way before striking down the pilot and disappearing. It was just like all the others.
Anakin sat bolt upright. Not quite like the others; they'd gotten an image. He stared at it for a long time. Of course, it was just a mask, nothing special in and of itself. The number of people in the universe who would recognize its significance could fit on a single shuttle. He filed it away with the rest of the reports. He had a theory, but no one was going to listen to it until he had more. He just wished that wouldn’t involve people dying.