"...ONE..."

No. I'm too late- A laser lances through the air, cutting clean through its steel neck. The droid's head tumbles off its shoulders. Searing metal bits seem to burn holes in the air as the mechanical skull rolls away into the grass.

The commando droid's body slumps to the side.

That wasn't the culmination of a self-destruct sequence.

Someone did that. Someone who steps up to Jas, standing over her and offering a hand. The rich baritone of Jom Barell's voice reaches her: "You know, Emari, I leave you alone for a second and you go make sweet with a droid. You're lucky I'm the jealous type."

"Shut it, Barell. Fall in line-Sinjir needs our help." She pretends like it's nothing at all that he's come back-that he's chosen loyalty to their little team. She'll never tell him about the flutter in her chest at hearing his voice again. She'll hardly acknowledge it herself, even though it feels like she has a flock of birds trapped inside her rib cage.

- Inside the house, now. Inside Aram's compound.

Outside in the dark lie the sparking bodies of Aram's droids, and the smoldering craters of where the mines were.

Inside, though, there's nothing.

Or, rather, no one.

"Blast it," Sinjir says, coming back through the house.

Jas warns him: "Be careful. We don't know that he didn't trap this place."

"Is he here or not?" Jom Barell asks.

To which Sinjir responds: "No, he's not here, and by the way, when the hell did you show up?"

Barell grunts and shrugs.

"He's gone," Sinjir says. "Half his computer systems are fried. His droid docks are empty-either we met the clanking monstrosities that were in there, or he's got a whole gaggle of them marching with him somewhere."

"Where'd he go?" Jom asks.

"I don't exactly know, do I? My job is to ask questions, and it's bloody hard asking questions of someone who isn't here."

Jas says, "We know he has tunnels dug under this place." Han and Norra went down to intercept him in case he made it that far. She pulls up her comlink. "Solo?" Nothing but a crackle. "Solo. Report in."

"Nnnn," comes a voice.

Sounds like the smuggler. And he doesn't sound good.

"What happened?" she asks.

"That...big-headed freak surprised me. Was..." Over the comm come more groans, followed by a fit of coughing. "Was riding a hoverchair, and the damn thing shocked the hell out of me when I reached for him."

"What happened to Norra?"

"I don't know where she is. Before Aram came through she said she was going to check something out and then-then I got suckered."

She has to remind herself: Aram really isn't their mission. He's Solo's problem. And if Solo let him go, well, that's that. Jas will tell Temmin to have Mister Bones bag and tag the smuggler, they'll toss him in the back of the Halo and fly him back to Chandrila.

Just the same: Where is Norra?

As if on cue, another crackle as Norra's voice comes over the comm: "I got him."

"You got who? Aram?"

"I did."

"How?"

"I followed one of the subtunnels out. It ended up at a small solar shuttle prepped on a platform. The nav computer was already loaded with a destination: Seems Aram has family on Saleucami. I hid. Aram hopped in, tried to take off. I stunned him. He's heavy, though-I could use a fly-by. Bring the Halo in to pick up the prize?"

Jas grins ear-to-ear. "You got it, boss."

The prime operator within all Imperial ranks was the human being. "Aliens" were by and large unwelcome within its labyrinthine order because aliens were seen as different. They were serfs and slaves or, at best, obstacles. They needed to be tamed, removed, or ignored.

At least, so spoke the propaganda.

Sinjir felt the tug of that prejudice himself from time to time, for it was so programmed into them that even near-humans were to receive a measure of distrust. Palpatine and his propaganda machine worked to drive that nail of bigotry deeper by demonstrating how the old Jedi thugs and the scumfroth rebels consisted of many more nonhumans than humans. You could trust a human, the Empire said; aliens would always betray you.

Of course, over time Sinjir learned the foolishness of that, because as it turned out human beings were fairly horrible. Full of treachery! Just brimming with the stuff. He came to believe that the Empire's corruption was precisely because it was xenophobic. It afforded no one any other voice, and so man and machine ruled the Empire together while the rest of the galaxy-despite being predominantly nonhuman in origin-suffered, powerless while under the twisting heel of the Imperial boot.

Whatever the case, Sinjir's training as a loyalty officer gave him little opportunity to, ahem, extract information from nonhumans. He was acutely aware of the physiological pain points of the human animal.

Aliens, not so much.

And so when presented with a Siniteen, it took him some time.

The Siniteen frame is similar to that of most human beings, with the exception of the cranium. There, the alien's head is large. Twice that of the average person's skull, and, well, squishy. The human head is protected by that precious mantle of bone, but the Siniteen head seems like little more than a leather sack full of meat. The creature's brain is so immense that it literally strains against the inside of the wrinkling skin.

No way to know then if Golas Aram's attitude was typical of the species, but the Siniteen cared little for the sanctity of his body. Sinjir threatened to pull the alien apart like a warm sweet roll, but Aram was not forthcoming. The threat failed to land. Aram's legs were already ruined, and he traveled around on a hovering repulsor chair.

Sinjir decided to go back to his own instincts, then. This he learned from practice and not the ISB Loyalty Manual, but sometimes it was valuable just to let someone talk. And so he talked at some length with Aram. About the droids. His compound. His ship. The planet Irudiru. Anything and everything. Aram didn't want to talk and remained belligerent the whole way. He infused even the stiffest rebuke with alarming ego.

My droids are custom-built, hand-programmed in a way that no one else in the galaxy could duplicate.

My compound was designed to be impenetrable! You primates were beneficiaries of luck is all that it was.

Irudiru? Better here than anywhere else in the galaxy-seems every other system is choking on the fat and stupidity of a torpid, indolent population. Fools, fools, everywhere!

Golas Aram thought very little of the rest of the galaxy.

And quite a lot of himself. In particular, his intellect. He cared very little about his body, true. But he cared a great deal about his mind.

That, then, is the approach Sinjir takes. He tells Aram: "I wonder, Golas, what would happen if I took, say, a knife-or something long and sharp like this bit here?" He snatches a small antenna off the top of one of Temmin's crates of random parts here in the main hold of the Halo. He twirls it about, then tap-tap-taps it against the Siniteen's head. "And I wonder, what if I pressed it through the folds? Or inserted it through one of your earholes? An urgent push and then a pop as it sticks into your brain."

He teases it around the Siniteen's earhole. Working it just inside.

"What? What are you doing? You ape. Stop it!"

Sinjir slides the antenna deeper. Pushing. Aram cries out.

"It would be a terrible thing. I'm just some clumsy, graceless primate, right? I would have no idea what I was even accomplishing. One wonders if it would have a deleterious effect on your own intelligence, hm? I might even suggest it could turn you as lack-witted as someone like me. All that genius stored up-if I popped that balloon, would it come leaking out?"

There. Fear in his eyes. Bright and alive like light reflecting off rippling water. Every person is a lock, and Sinjir is adept at finding the key-the one that undoes them, unbundles them, opens them up so that all within is fresh for the taking.

It is a moment that has in the past given him great joy.

Not this time.

Instead, he pushes out of the hold and steps out of the ship. To the others gathered in the morning light of Irudiru he says: "He's ready. Go ask him whatever." Then he staggers forward through the thirstgrass, failing to feel the pain of its blades.

- The sun is over the horizon now. Gone are its gilded fingers splaying across the grass; it's just a throbbing white ball in the sky. Sinjir sits outside on a stack of boxes, staring off at nothing.

Someone blots out the sun. It's Solo.

"You did it," the smuggler says.

"Aram? I know."

"He gave us everything we needed." Solo has a ragged, feral grin. He's excited. Raring to go like a hound straining at its leash.

"Very glad to have been of service."

"You're Imperial."

"Ex."

"I don't like Imperials."

"Join the club. Even Imperials don't like Imperials."

"You did good. Get yourself cleaned up. Me and Norra are going to head into Kai Pompos, do a quick supply run. Then we're off to the races."

Sinjir offers a weak thumbs-up. Yay.

Solo is gone. Soon replaced by Jas as she comes off the ship, bantering with Jom Barell-oh, joy, he's back. The two of them came down off the plateau last night just as he was about to be overrun by a pack of commando droids. Ones apparently set to cook off like fireworks. Jas and Jom saved him. Sinjir supposes he should be grateful. And he is. Maybe.

Eventually, Jas gives him a wink. "You okay?" she asks.

"Golden," he responds, summoning a liar's smile.

Then she and Barell are gone. Off to do whatever it is they do. Probably thump like engine pistons.

"Hey, Sinjir," says Temmin, coming up from behind him.

"Hello, boy."

"You don't look so hot."

"That's rude."

"No, I mean-" Temmin laughs, nervously. "You seem like something's bothering you."

"Something's always bothering me. The sun. The air. Other people. Nosy younglings who pop by with rude questions."

"I don't know what crawled up your exhaust port and died, but fine, I'm outta here. See ya, Sinjir."

"Wait."

The boy pauses and looks back. "What?"

"Back on Chandrila. Looking in on Yupe Tashu. That bothered you."

"Yeah, sure."

"Why?"

"I dunno. Woulda bothered anybody."

"Mm-mm, I don't buy that answer. It hit you like a fast little meteorite fragment-pop, right between the eyes."

Temmin kicks a few stones, then says: "Okay. You tell me what's bothering you, I'll tell you what bothered me."

"A little tit for tat, hm? Fine. I don't want to be who I am anymore. I want to be someone different."

"You are. You're one of the good guys now."

"And, as one of those good guys, I just threatened another sentient being with the act of sticking an antenna through his ear and into his brain."

"So why'd you do it, then?"

Sinjir scowls like he's tasting something foul. "Because history demands distasteful things be done to preserve it. Because being good sometimes means still being bad. Because it's who I am and if I didn't do it, we'd probably still be sitting here scratching ourselves wondering whatever could we do? I am here for a reason. I am a tool that fulfills a very exclusive function. What good am I if I don't fill it?"

"You're good in a lot of ways."

"Such as?"

"Uhh."

"Right. Your turn."

"No, wait, I feel bad, you're really good at-"

"Too late. Buzzer is buzzing. Alarm is alarming. Your turn, I said. You. Me. Yupe Tashu. You were upset. Why?"

"Because."