"Please consider it," she said, mistaking his hesitation for a possible negative response.

"You know what? If I live past the end of this war, I believe I will try to find my way home." Den paused, took a deep breath, then said, "It would honor me to join my cave with yours."

She smiled, a broad, delightful expression. "Really? It would?"

Her enthusiasm washed over him, full of energy and cheer. "I can't wait to tell my family!

Den Dhur, the famous reporter, joining us!"

"Not so famous."

"You hide your sconce under a shield, Den-la. I've been reading your stories for years.

Everybody on Sull.u.s.t knows who you are."

"Not nice to mock your elders," he said with false severity.

"Nonsense. It's true. In my home-warren there are younglings who want to grow up to be you."

"No mopak? Uh, I mean-"

She laughed. "No mopak," she said. She reached out and caught his hand. "Perhaps you'd like to come back to my cubicle and seal the vow? Unless, of course, you're too busy with your story . . . ?"

Den smiled. "The story can wait. It's not that important." And even as he said it, he realized it was true. In the end, there really were things more important than tomorrow's newsdisc, or even easy money.

Who would've thought it?

As Den left Eyar's kiosk, it was already getting dark. He saw I-Five standing outside the OT, talking to Jos. The surgeon said something to the droid, then turned and went back inside. "I-Five, old buddy!"

The droid turned and saw him. Den swaggered up to him and punched him playfully in one arm. "Goodt'see you. What's up?"

"Besides you?"

Den giggled as the two of them walked through the muggy evening air. Eyar had opened a bottle of fine Bothan grain wine to celebrate their possible nuptial agreement, and it had put up little resistance. He wasj feeling just fine, all around. While at u Eyar's, he'd confirmed via his comm the bota story's probable veracity from three separate sources whom he trusted. He was now in a mood to celebrate.

"Hey, I'm just feeling a little friendly. Don't knock it till you've tried it," he told the droid. "Speaking of which, we still got to get you into the club."

"And what club might that be?"

Den wagged a finger at him. "Don't tell me you're backing out. You must experience the joys of intoxication. It'll be good for your silicon soul."

"Ah, yes. As a matter of fact, I believe I've come up with an absurdly simple way to do it. I'm embarra.s.sed I didn't think of it before."

"Do tell, then."

"I am, as I was just reminding Doctor Vandar, a machine, essentially. My synaptic grid processor is heuristic-I extrapolate new data from known data. But I also have an algorithmic subprocessor that serves my auro-nomic needs."

"Okay..."

"You didn't understand a word of that, did you?"

"I believe I got also, and my."

"It's like your parasympathetic nervous system, which controls your breathing, heartbeat, and so forth-functions your body needs that aren't under conscious control. While I don't need to breathe, I do need constant monitoring of things like balance, lubrication, powerbus functioning. . ."

"Right, got it," Den said. "But what's this got to do with tying one on?"

"Simple. My subprocessor is programmable. I can encode it to simulate a state of inebriation."

Den stopped and stared at him. "You can program yourself to get drunk? I thought you couldn't mess around with your systems."

"The hardware is protected. I have some leeway with the software, now that my full memories have returned."

"How long would it take you?" There was a slight but unmistakable hint of sn.o.bbery in I-Five's voice as he answered. "I have a SyntheTech AA-One nanoprocessor, operating at seven petahertz, with a five-exabyte capacity. I wrote the program just after I mentioned it to you. It took me six-point-one picoseconds to encode the basic algorithm and calculate its functional parameters."

"Wow. That's . . . fast."

They stopped to let a small flock of R4 astromechs toll by, beeping and whistling at each other. "So, when are you going to implement the program? Or get mopak-faced, as we organics say."

"No time like the present. As you organics say."

Den considered. "Okay. I guess you could do it anywhere. But there's custom to be observed, trust me on this. Besides, I'd like to join you. I've got a nice little buzz on, and I don't mind keeping it going. And it's getting close to sabacc time. Everyone'll be there."

"Wonderful. Nothing like an audience."

Den made an after-you gesture toward the cantina, then fell in behind I-Five.

There was an old saying on Nedij-you are never more than seven wings away from the Great Raptor. Stretched to fit the entire galaxy, that number went up considerably, of course, but the principle was the same: talk to somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody else, and so on, until, in what was always an amazingly short list, you found that you were able to link up with just about anybody.

Kaird, now comfortably and gratefully back in the robes of The Silent, stood in the gathering shade of a building thunderstorm, watching the food service tech leave the main chow hall kitchens and head for her communal kiosk. The proverb's truth was even simpler here, on a world peopled entirely by occupying forces, with no indigenes of its own. With this female, he was but two sets of hands away from the pilot of the ship he intended to steal.

The female, a Twi'lek named Ord Vorra, had a relationship with Biggs Bogan, a human pilot, who was one of a trio of such in the rotation to fly the admiral's personal ship. This Twi'lek-human relationship was noteworthy for an unusual-at least here on this world-reason: Vorra and Bogan were both Strag players, and both of them were ranked Adepts. The ancient game of strategy and tactics, played on a simple hologrammic board with a dozen pieces on each side, was an intellectual pursuit that required an excellent memory, and years of practice, to achieve mastery. Kaird himself was pa.s.sing familiar with the game, but had never been able to give it the time necessary to reach the level of Adept. That there were two such on a planet like Drongar was most unusual, and so, naturally, they would have found each other.

A ship's pilot and a kitchen worker, both of them Strag Adepts. Just went to show you that the galaxy was a strange place-a fact of which Kaird had long been aware.

He moved across the compound, staying well back from the Twi'Iek as he shadowed her. If she noticed him, likely she would not think much of one of The Silent out taking an evening stroll, but best not to take chances.

A warm breeze, heralding the coming rain, barely stirred the humidity, adding a small bit of freshness to the fetid air. He had already checked out the communal living quarters in which the Twi'lek lived-much too crowded for his uses, and always somebody around. But Vorra and Bogan had no doubt found places where they could be alone, since constant noise and motion were distractions that Strag players preferred to avoid. Not that they couldn't tune such things out-an Adept, it was said, could plan four moves ahead in the middle of a Pilu-vian salamander-storm-they just would rather not. So Kaird was confident that, sooner or later, the Twi'lek and the human would seek out a place where they could be together without other company, and that place would be a potential contact point for Kaird.

He had no interest Jn Vorra, save as a conduit to Bogan. Bogan, who, on the days when he was on standby for ferrying Admiral Kersos about, would have the new security codes for the admiral's ship. Kaird would learn when that was, and then it was just a matter of how and when to gather what he needed . . .

Ord Vorra stopped at the stores kiosk. Kaird drifted into the deep shadow of one of the industrial recyclers across the lane from the supply building and became effectively invisible.

The wind picked up, and the smell of the coming rain grew heavier. Kaird waited and sweated. The dome would not slow the rain coming, nor the evaporating puddles from leaving. When force-shields and -domes were first experimented with, ages ago, such things had not always been taken into consideration, and the result had often caused much discomfort-and worse-for the residents. A force-dome that filled with greenhouse gases that could not escape, allowing water vapor to condense on the inner aspect and causing thick fog or more rain-not to mention a sudden lack of breathable air-these were all bad things. And so the newly repaired dome had been set to pretty much the same environmental parameters as it had before the "winter glitch," as it was now referred to. Which meant they were back to weather that would steam the hide off a dewback.

The new admiral had apparently inherited the old admiral's personal vessel, or at least the use of it. Kaird approved of this. The vessel in question was a modified Surronian a.s.sault ship, a sleek craft powered by a quad cl.u.s.ter of A2- and A2.50-grade engines. It was fast in atmosphere, according to what Kaird had learned-comparable to a Naboo N-l starfighter-but, more importantly, it was fast to lightspeed, also. Not to mention being armed with fire-linked ion and laser cannons, and, while less than thirty meters in length, sufficiently fueled and comfortable for a long flight, with more than enough range to get him off this mudball and back to Black Sun's headquarters on Coruscant.

Once he was there, and his business was done, it was his intention to somehow keep the ship and use it to get back to his real home.

Back to the snow-dusted mountains of Nedij . . .

The Twi'lek emerged from the store, carrying a small package. She was not unattractive, if one's desires ran to featherless bipeds, though she was much too heavy for Kaird's taste.

Nediji females were hollow-boned and willowy, and that standard was hardwired into male Nediji's brains.

She moved off into the gathering dusk, and Kaird resisted the urge to follow immediately.

No need to rush. He had his quarry, and now he would learn everything germane to his needs about them. He would obtain their medical records from Lens. From a clerk in Personnel, he would get their service information. A censor in Comm Intercept would provide copies of communications, if any, the pair had sent or received from family or friends, In a day, probably less, he would have ama.s.sed as much intel about these two as anybody here could possibly need to know. Then, when he had enough information, he would find a keystone, a link, a glitch-some small bit of data around which he would build a plan, Not a perfect plan, perhaps, but Kaird had learned many things in his years with Black Sun, and he counted this as one of the most important: it didn't have to be perfect, One always had to leave some looseness for variables.

He would also think of ways that would cover any contingencies, of course. Then he would put things into motion. All things going well, it would slide like a greased mynock over transparisteel. Even if there were problems, he could deal with them. It would still happen.

A few days from now, he would be in his new ship, with a cargo valued far beyond easy measure, on his way to turn it in, and then to take an early retirement. And to live happily thereafter, until the Final Flight. . .

There was a flash of lightning, an almost immediate clap of thunder to reveal how close the strike had been-very close-and the rain started falling, fat, heavy drops, Time to get indoors, Kaird thought. He'd done enough for tonight. It was best, he knew, not to get too far ahead in his plans. It was always good to remember his egg-mother's recipe for taboret stew: first, you must catch a taboret. . .

Column was not without regret, or even remorse, as the coded message was sent to the spy's Separatist superiors, There had been a moment of hesitation, a long and reflective pause-but in the end, one did what one had to do. The control function was initiated, the information transmitted. And it could not be recalled, once it was gone.

The transmission was accomplished without difficulty, even though communications all over the base had been subject recently to noise and loss of signal. This was because the area had been covered not long ago by a new, state-of-the-art broadband confounder stationed in the jungle about five kilometers away. The blockage wasn't consistent enough to arouse suspicion, but it did provide cover and protection when the spy had to send and receive.

The official explanation, of course, was sunspots.

The code, as always, was c.u.mbersome and overwrought, and most of the time a major waste of effort, but in this instance the intricacy of it was useful. One most certainly did not want the Republic to intercept and read this particular missive.

On the other end of the communication the deciphered message would undoubtedly cause much consternation-to put it mildly. That they would disbelieve it was to be expected. Column knew there would be follow-up exchanges, at least one or two, perhaps more, to verify the information. It was not a matter of trust, per se, but of certainty: if a large-scale attack was to be launched, if ma.s.sive forces were to be gathered and expended, such things could not be done with any possibility of some code reader's simple error.

What? No, I didn't say that the bota is going bad, / said Bothans are far too sad . . .

Column smiled, but the smile quickly faded. The mission here was coming to an end. If not a blow that could topple the Republic, this last strike would at least be a barb in the beast's side worthy of a painful howl. It was tragic that many of the staff of this and of other Rimsoos would surely die as a result of this action. But it was done now, and there was no turning back. Best start getting prepared to exit this venue. There would be other places, other ident.i.ties, wherein an agent of Column's skill and capability would be useful. Chipping away at the foundation of the Republic a bit at a time was slow but, over long enough a period, effective.

All this the spy knew to be true, of course. But the bottom line was that it was still going to be extremely difficult to look these people-one, in particular-in the eyes and pretend to know nothing about the impending doom, It had to be done, however. To not meet their eyes, to act in any way departing from normal, any fashion that might cause the slightest bit of suspicion, could be disastrous.

Column turned to the door. It was time to mingle with them, share their friendship, joy-and love-now, while there was still a little time left.

26.

Of all moments, the instant of realization came to Bar-riss as she was washing up to join the sabacc table over at the cantina. She reached for a towel to dry the water from her face and hands-she preferred water-washing.to ultrasonic, even when the latter was working in her kiosk. And, as she caught sight of her wet features in the mirror above the small sink, it abruptly came to her: The answer is in the Force.

This shouldn't have been a revelation. It was something she had been told a thousand times, at least, a litany that every Jedi student grew up hearing: When in doubt, trust the Force. You may not always interpret it correctly, but the Force never lies.

She knew that. Had learned it early, had had it come to mean more and more to her as she had grown older, and had, at a very basic level, never doubted it. The Force doesn't let you down-it is eternal, infinite, and omnipresent. If you can figure out what to ask, where to look, how to get to it, the answer you need is always there.

How many times, after all, had Master Unduli said the words to her, gently and with the calmness of complete conviction?

Use the Force, Barriss.

Don't think, don't worry, don't get caught up in the small details, the nagging concerns, of it. Just use the Force, trust it, embrace it. Because that's where Jedi live. Not in the past, or the future, but in this eternal moment of joyous realization, this everlasting now. Don't let fear of failure keep you from taking the chance.

Barriss dried her face, hung up the towel, and looked into the mirror. Her face, calmer and more composed than it had appeared to her in a long time, looked back. Yes, of course.

It was so simple, really: a perfect example of those enigmatic riddles that Master Yoda liked to pose as ways to help your mind let go of linear thoughts and concepts. The question was: how should she determine whether or not to use the bota again to increase her connection to the Force? Ask the Force.

And what, so far in her life, had been the strongest, the most powerful, the best connection she had had to the Force? The bota.

She could see Master Yoda, smiling and nodding gently, in her mind's eye. The bota was a key, a key that opened a door to new modes of perception. Beyond that door was a path that she could follow, to a place where she could find the'answers she needed.

And there was no point in waiting. Barriss opened the lockbox next to her bed and removed one of the remaining poppers of bota extract. She took a deep breath, pressed it to her forearm, and triggered it.

As if her first experience had somehow attuned her, opening her receptors, as it were, the rush was almost immediate this time. That amazing sense of familiarity, coupled with awe and wonder at the newness of it, the astonishing, held-breath feeling, the breadth and depth of it, stretching to infinity . . .

She thought she was prepared for it, but she wasn't. It was just too .

. . big. She couldn't see how anyone could accept it, take it all in, process it. It wouldn't fit into her limited comprehension; it was like trying to confine the blazing, multifaceted glory of a firestone into a flat 2-D image. Her senses, corseted into only three dimensions, couldn't even begin to make sense of it. But she didn't have to make sense of it, she realized. She had but to accept it, to be one with it. It was glorious, uplifting, and terrifying, all at the same time . . .

Her fear that this was an illusion vanished. There might be those who would say this was not a true connection to the Force because it had been induced by something outside herself, not arrived at through inner peace and meditation. She might even have said that at one time-but not now. This cosmic oneness could not be anything else but true-she could feel it to the core of her being.

It didn't matter how she got there. What mattered was being there.

It was if she were hungry, and, upon realizing this, was given a boundless table set with every kind of food imaginable. Choosing one dish over another was hard to do, and yet, on another level, she knew that she could.

Abruptly, the "table" swirled and shifted, melting into variegated colors like the mingling threads of spore colonies in Drongar's night sky. It become a giant, galaxywide tapestry, a woven fabric so intricate and complex as to bring tears to her eyes. A perfect piece of art, beautiful beyond description, beyond belief-But wait. Yes, there was perfection here, but there was something else as well. She could sense flaws in the pat-tern, tiny, almost insignificant defects scattered throughout its immeasurable expanse. Barriss knew, instinctively, that these tiny mistakes were somehow necessary, that they were st.i.tches in the skein of existence-imperfect ones, maybe, but nonetheless essential. Without them, the fabric would not hold together.

She reached for one of these small twisted threads with her mind, saw it expand and shift, so that it became readable, somehow . . .

The concepts revealed to her were not words, or images; neither smells, tastes, sounds, nor touch. They were instead some kind of wondrous amalgam of all of these, plus senses no being of flesh had ever had . . .

In that moment, Barriss, herself a part of the grand pattern, knew the flaw in the tapestry: The camp was in danger. There was a spy among them, the same one who had been responsible for the explosions of the shuttle, and on MedStar. Not dead, us they had thought, but still alive. This spy had initiated events that would, if left unattended, cause the destruction of all those who were there.

For the briefest of times, less than an eyeblink, she had more-she had the how and why and where and when of it-but then that was gone, swirled away in a burst of energy that she could not control. She couldn't remember the details.

She strained to regain them, aware of how supremely important it was. But now something somehow stood in her way . . .

Barriss abruptly found herself floundering, as if swept away by a raging, swollen river.

She was tossed helplessly, like a twig-in it, but not of it.

It was the flaw, she realized. She had seen it, reached for it, but she had not had the power or the skill or whatever was needed to control it properly. And now, by trying, she had somehow disrupted the flow of the Force. She had lost her footing, her stance upon the firm ground that her serenity had given her. The roiling current had her now, was sweeping her along . . .

No. She had power. Great power. She would use it!

She tried to anchor herself, but there was nothing to grasp, nothing solid that she could perceive. She was caught in a flood, a gale, an avalanche that spun and disoriented her.

Deep within, she knew that she was desperately seeking metaphors for that which could not be described, searching for some kind of mental a.n.a.log that would enable her to separate herself from this chaos. She fought for calm, struggled to center herself, but she could not. Like a flood, it seemed to splash into her mouth, threatening to drown her; like a gale, it flung her in all directions, s.n.a.t.c.hing the very breath from her lungs; like an avalanche, it threatened to crush her. It was like all those things, and none of them.