A Lesson in Trust

[Lúka Jibral]

Of all the adjustments that Lúka had made since leaving the Black Archives, his accommodations were the strangest, and hardest to adapt to. His interactions with the Cadets were enticing challenges, offering a sense of fulfilment that he had not truly understood he was lacking until now. Exposure to so many people each day was tiring, but it came with a satisfaction that outstripped any downsides. But coming home to an apartment, even one as small and spartan as one purchased on Coruscant with a military budget, was deeply strange. There was a window. A view. Streets full of speeders whizzing by. A city full of people to observe and watch. There was space for more than just the uniform on his back and his mandatory military-issue toiletries. This was not a place where someone merely slept: it was a place where someone lived.

Therein was the problem. Despite there being space for souvenirs, mementos, and belongings, Lúka possessed none. Everything from before his time with the Empire and the Archives was gone - not to mention heretical Jedi contraband - and everything since was so deeply classified that it had forgotten the light of day even existed. It was fitting, he supposed, for a former apprentice of the Jedi Order to find himself so devoid of personal belongings and attachments; but instead of feeling appropriate, it felt wrong.

Who am I?

The question nagged at him as he slid his keycard into the lock, the doorway sliding open to admit him into the darkness of his home. It nagged at him as he stepped in side, halting as he always did at the edge of the pool of brightness the lights from the hallway cast. It nagged at him even as a brow furrowed, Force attuned senses detecting something strange and out of place in his surroundings. He reached out, mind fumbling through the darkness as if blindfolded, until it stumbled on an unsettling and familiar presence lurking in the shadows.

An inventory of the only belongings Lúka did possess ran through his mind. Weapons, mostly, strategically positioned around the living space, in paranoid preparation for a moment such as this.

"So much for security locks," he spoke into the black, carefully modulating his voice into it's usual calm.

[Khalid]

A flame flickered in the distant shadows, casting a small aura of light that illuminated deep and haggard features. In a moment it was gone, replaced with a simple dim red point of light, that flared brighter as a deep drag was taken from the deathstick attached. The intruder pulled it from his mouth, watching it with idle curiosity as he rolled it back and forth between his fingers, a momentary age passing before a breath unleashed a cloud of sickly sweet fungal smoke into the air before him.

"You know that I have neither the time nor patience for locks or privacy, Agent Jibral."

Each word he uttered was savoured slowly, breathed out of ancient, faintly wheezing lungs, the edges grated into rough rasps by the addles of deathstick abuse upon his body.

"The only security I care about is that of the galaxy."

The deathstick returned to his mouth, another drag taken as the intruder reached across to the table beside him, triggering the controls on a shadeless lamp. Jibral's apartment was immediately beset with harsh shadows from the unfiltered light source, stretching out across the carpeted floor towards Lúka's island of bright safety as if they were creatures at the intruder's command. His eyes glinted with unspoken malice as he surveyed the Imperial Knight, an unnerving smile tugging at his sunken jowls and wrinkled features.

"My apologies. Knight Jibral."

There was a note of mirth and silent laughter in the intruder's voice, the tone of a Titan stepping down from the heavens to play among the tribes of mortals that scurried around at his feet.

"I hear the Minister of the Interior recommended you for Knighthood himself. Quite the political ally you have acquired for yourself."

[Lúka Jibral]

"Entirely of his own volition, I'm sure," Lúka countered, barely managing to summon up the requisite patience.

This was not his first encounter with this mysterious figure, though it was the first time the man had approached Lúka directly: other times, Lúka had merely been present when one of his associates from the Black Archives and beyond had been the subject of the man's attentions. He'd heard him called by many names. At the Archives he had been referred to as the Benefactor, or by the codename Chimera. Mal'achi Ath-Thu'ban referred to him by a number of colourful alternatives; though never to his face, of course. Lúka had engaged in research of his own, hunting through datafiles and department records dating back as far as the dawn of Palpatine's reign as Chancellor of the Republic. As best he could glean, the closest approximation of a real name was "Khalid", and even that was likely an alias.

While past associates may have had the patience for games and spycraft such as this, Lúka did not. If something was required of him, so be it; but all this obfuscation that delayed him from understanding the nature of the task at hand spawned a spear of frustration that stabbed at the core of his being. Perhaps Khalid knew; the same kind of comprehension and manipulation that Lúka had begun to employ upon his students. He wondered if Khalid too saw the actions as benevolence, or if the man somehow took a kind of strange enjoyment from toying with others.

"I presume this is not a social visit." His words were clipped but precise, not rushed but still undercut with urgent impatience. "Perhaps it would be best to brief me, so that you can leave before you are discovered."

[Khalid]

The smile on Khalid's expression faded, disappointment taking it's place as Lúka refused to engage with his playful banter. A sigh escaped, and the deathstick was plucked from his mouth again, pressed and extinguished against the table beside him, the half-smoked remnant left discarded beside the illuminated lamp.

"Very well."

A datapad was lifted from Khalid's lap, and placed carefully upon the arm of the chair, a moment spent carefully straightening it to align just right with the edges of the leatherette block. Khalid didn't need to browse through it, all the details committed to memory; and Lúka would have the opportunity to review it himself, in due time.

"As you know, the contents of the Black Archives have been fully evacuated from the facility in the Maw, and moved to -" A pause. "- an undisclosed location."

Jibral was acutely aware of this fact. As custodian of the Archives, he had been overseeing the deconstruction of the asteroid facility, stowing and securing all of the prototypes, experiments, and subjects that the Archives had accumulated over the decades. To preserve the security of so many valuable and potentially dangerous assets, Agent Jibral had of course been kept in the dark about where the Black Archives were now be located: something that, if Khalid understood correctly, had been a source of considerable frustration to the man. He supposed that he might have reacted the same way, had he found himself in such a situation; and regardless, that lack of disclosure had not impacted Jibral's performance of his duties. It did however make this briefing somewhat problematic, and Khalid had almost considered directing this assignment to a different asset. But no: Lúka was the best choice. The only choice, truth be told.

"While in transit, one of the transport ships carrying certain Black Archives items was attacked and boarded by dissidents."

Not the only time, either; though unlike the incident with the Anathema, these thieves had merely been opportunists, blundering across an Imperial transport with no true understanding of what it was they had found. Even so, it left Khalid with deep concerns about the security measures that were being taken; but such decisions were beyond his scope and influence. He was a benefactor, an ally, a fixer who greased the wheels of politics towards his own ends. The Black Archives were something that had held his interest, and so he imposed himself in their operation, making himself an invaluable resource; but ultimately the decisions, and the failures, were someone else's to make.

"A number of items were stolen before the boarders were successfully repulsed. One item of particular is of concern to us."

It was all the information that Khalid was willing to provide himself; the datapad held a little more, but specific details were necessarily withheld. That was why Jibral's personal involvement was so important: unlike anyone else that Khalid could have called upon, Jibral would surely know the item in question when he saw it. No need to allow written copies of such details to exist; and no need for Jibral to know in advance, lest he be captured and forced to reveal information before successfully securing the item.

Khalid rose, levering his tired bones out of the seat. He slouched as he walked, as if his shoulders were too weighed down by his nondescript suit to achieve the kind of posture that might bely a background in the military. He stepped forward in slow, tedious paces, hesitating as he found himself beside Jibral to delve into his pocket and retrieve another deathstick from a battered cardboard wrapper. As the 'stick settled between his lips, and another match struck into life to light it, he took a moment to offer a note of parting wisdom.

"You might require some assistance with this. Perhaps your new position will be of some use."

[Jeryd Redsun]

In the two months since his fateful lesson with Knight Jibral, Jeryd had transformed. Gone was the seething antisocial recruit with a chip on his shoulder the size of a Star Destroyer, and, in his place, there was a positive motivated cadet, hellbent on being the very best in his class – the very best in the Citadel. But it hadn’t been easy: from the stubborn immovable boulder that had been his old self, the new Jeryd was carved, chiselled, day-by-day, one tiny fragment at a time. Sometimes, he looked in the mirror, only to find whole pieces of himself missing, and it gave him pause, to reconsider the path he was taking, and weigh the cost against the man taking shape before him, sculpted from hard work and sacrifice.

He traced it all back to that hard-earned lesson in humility – that’s what Knight Jibral called it – when the walls of his denial had been finally fractured, allowing reality to seep in. Slowly, thereafter, and painfully, the walls began to crumble. Whatever warped and twisted capacity in which he was doomed to serve the Empire, he reminded himself, he would do it to the best of his ability. He'd make them all proud: his father, his mother, his brother... himself. All that remained was to forge his words into reality. And, it was as the old saying went: easier said, than done.

First, he returned to the dorm, alone. Next, he tried to hurl something across the room in the same way he’d thrown his instructor and superior officer to the ground – a bed, a footlocker, a shoe, anything – but despite all his red-faced grunting and constipated exertions, nothing moved, not an inch. Later, he revisited the exercise, attempting to the replicate the same conditions that yielded success the first time around with Knight Jibral; anger was a path to power, he understood that now, and it came hand-in-hand with failure, but it was never enough. Slaps to the face, bites to the arm, punches to the testicles – whatever it took to boil the blood and focus the mind to a knife’s edge, to rediscover the thought process that granted him power beyond the common man.

Of course, being the proud and private sort that he was, Jeryd could not tolerate the idea of his fellow cadets bearing witness to him struggling and failing to float a credit chit across a room, so, whenever they were around, he’d retreat to the ‘fresher, and continue his work in private. Crowds gathered with alarming regularity to bear witness to all the anguished grunts, the painful yelling, and the howls of frustration that drifted out of that solitary cubicle, giving rise to both concerns for Jeryd’s dietary habits, and rumours of his sordid kinks. And it was during one of those prolonged ‘fresher straining sessions, that history repeated itself, and Jeryd’s fortunes changed.

####

“Come on, guys. You know I didn’t do it on purpose.” That was Nebbil’s voice, and there was a nervous flutter to it that Jeryd recognised at once. He heard a scuffle of feet, followed by a heavy thud, “Ow! Jeez!”

“Get up, you little snot!” He recognised that voice, too. Gorm Jolee, the Iridonian brute who took perverse pleasure in making Nebbil Hoob’s miserable existence just a delicious fraction more unbearable. In his mind’s eye, Jeryd could see his broad sneer, his cruel eyes, and the faces of his ever-present sidekicks, Algosh Moll, and Tyrell Catanna. At the sound of their voices, phantom pain blossomed all over his body.

“Double P.T.” said one.

“Two weeks of ‘fresher duty,” said the other.

“Allow us to show you are appreciation, Cadet Hoob…” There was a note of anticipation in Gorm’s words, which was punctuated by the heavy packing sound of fist meeting flesh. From inside the safety of his cubicle, Jeryd heard Nebbil’s feeble whimper as he went down, and it was more than he could take. He took a deep breath to force down the nerves, then threw open the door of his cubicle. The sudden clang of metal drew the attention of the thugs.

“That’s enough, Jolee. Leave him alone.”

“Look who it is, boys!” Gorm brightened in a way that made his stomach turn, “Now, isn’t this familiar?”

Crumpled on the floor, behind Gorm and his friends, Nebbil nursed his side, heaving with every breath. A thin ribbon of blood ran from his nose to his chin, and speckled the tiles red. He was a pitiful sight, a sight that made Jeryd’s fingernails bite into his palms. With a nod, he said, “Do you know who he is?”

“Yeah,” Tyrell chimed in, “He’s the gutter rat that’s making our lives hell because he can’t lace his own blasted boots!”

“He’s the grandson of CT-2468. One of the best clone troopers who ever lived. Show some respect!”

The laughter was sudden and explosive. While the trio reeled from their amusement, Jeryd glanced at Nebbil, “Get up, and go.”

Gorm snapped out of it at once, “He’s not going anywhere. Now, you run along, princess. You remember what happened last time.”

Algosh and Tyrell moved into formation with all the uniform grace of ace starfighter pilots, flanking their smirking leader. Jeryd braced himself. How they had not been cast out of the programme altogether baffled him. He took a step towards Nebbil, “That’s not going to-”

A low rumble, like a surge of wind, barrelled towards him from behind. It lifted him from his feet, twisted him through the air, and slammed him into the wall, where he was deposited in a heap next to Nebbil.

“No. Not again…” Nebbil was on his feet, scrambling into the place between Jeryd and his attacker. Another rush of air, and Nebbil was on his arse again.

“Is anyone else getting a sense of déjà vu?” Gorm was enjoying himself, and it looked like his boys wanted a piece of the action, too. Algosh moved in, aiming a heavy boot for Jeryd’s midsection. There was no satisfying crunch; the kick was stopped short, and Jeryd, with one hand on his ankle, and the other on his toe, wrenched his entire leg to the left. There were a series of sharp clicks, and Algosh fell to the floor with a cry.

“You bantha-breeding scum!”

No time was wasted in the retaliation. Before he could right himself, Jeryd found himself pinned against the wall by, what felt like, a rancor’s fist. The breathless cough forced up from his lungs was crimson and wet. From beneath all that weight, his heart thumped violently. Despite the noise, and the pain, and the panic, a memory surfaced on the rising tide of fear.

You know what to do… It’s an instinct…

Suddenly, he remembered. Even as Tyrell moved in to lay blows upon his body, he was transported back to the classroom, to that pivotal moment, when Knight Jibral turned a weapon on him. This was the feeling. He understood. At last, he understood. Anger, alone, wasn’t enough. It made him strong, but he was a blunt instrument, flailing wildly, with all the futility of a marksman trying to score a bullseye with a boulder. And he was done trying. It was fear – that’s what made him sharp, that honed his senses into a pinpoint. Anger gave him the strength, fear gave him control.

Stop thinking… Stop trying…

That was it. The final piece of the puzzle. His head was flushed of all thought, and not from the fist that had just connected with his chin. The pain was a dull buzz, like adrenaline, and all that remained was the feeling. There it was: the Force. He remembered everything, and finally, those words made perfect sense. All this time, he’d been trying, when all he had to do… was do.

It was like a bomb went off. Gorm, Algosh, and Tyrell caught the brunt of the blast, and were hurled across the room. Into the tiled walls, into the sinks, and into the cubicles they scattered, landing broken, like ragdolls. In the fresh silence, the anger dissipated, and Jeryd heaved a sigh of relief. Nebbil, who surveyed the chaotic scene with wordless shock, turned at last to Jeryd, and offered him his small sweaty hand. “Thanks, man.”

“You can thank me…” Jeryd accepted the hand, and rose with a grunt, “By learning to lace your boots.”

####

That was how he and little Nebbil Hoob finally became friends. Nebbil Hoob, of all people: the first to get chewed out and the last to finish circuit training. They started from the ground up, quite literally, with the proper lacing and polishing of boots; they folded sheets, practiced drills, stripped rifles, and even cleaned the ‘freshers together. It was a long and arduous process, but, little-by-little, Nebbil Hoob started to resemble something like a model cadet, and, so too, did Jeryd.

Though the rest of the cadets kept their distance, Jeryd started to watch them; he saw how Kass Pheridae took extraordinary care with her uniform, but struggled to keep time during drills, and he noticed the way Tolomy Pash allowed his shoulder to drop a fraction before every shot, robbing his rifle of vital pressure; Thida needed to increase her energy intake, and Terk Wombley’s PT shorts were too tight for squats. He saw, in each of them, the desire to do better - this band of misshapen undisciplined misfits, ripped from their lives to be forged in the unforgiving furnace of the Imperial machine – they wanted to be the best, just like him.

It was no longer enough to be the best, he realised. In opening himself up to the Force, the Force had, in turn, opened him up to the people around him, colouring them in a light beyond the spectrum of his understanding. He could feel them – in his head or his heart, he couldn't be sure – he felt their hopes, their dreams, their fears, as real to him as his own. It was not enough to be the best. To be the best, alone, was meaningless. But together? That was the real victory. It was what the Empire was all about.

Life at the Imperial Citadel was changing. Jeryd was changing. Flight instruction with Baron Ketterzau remained a highpoint, and Lady Vissica’s rare appearances continued to terrorise; Jeryd’s private collection of Baastian Cain paraphernalia was growing, and his loathing of Kyle Rayner… well, it was still loathing, but in a healthier, more competitive sort of way. Rayner was skilled, and set a high standard for him to beat, and when he finally does get to beat him, Jeryd will shake his hand, then dance in his face. And, sure, there were times when it felt like he was enduring the grind of basic training all over again, and then, there were times when it was completely different: being asked to meditate on the Force in a room full of people never failed to make him feel stupid and self-conscious. But throughout it all, there had been one constant that had kept him on task, pushed him when he needed it, and inspired him to be better; the person who, perhaps, saw in him something no-one else could see.

So, it was with a familiar thrill of excitement, and trepidation, that he arrived outside Knight Jibral’s office and pushed the buzzer.

[Lúka Jibral]

The datapad that Khalid had provided was held in Jibral's hands, but his thoughts were elsewhere, delving through old texts and training manuals that had been catalogued and recorded in the back corners of his mind. They spoke of all sorts of concepts that Lúka had drawn upon during his time here at the Citadel; but right now the passage that lingered in his mind was drawn from a letter composed by a Director of Republic Intelligence to a new graduating class. Armand Isard spoke of how despite appearances, Intelligence was just as much a form of warfare as any other. There were still battles, adversaries, strategies, tactics; and above all, the war against secrets waged by Intelligence Agents was just as reliant on allies as any other campaign. The difference, he said, Is that we call our allies 'assets'. Cultivating your assets, just like forging strong alliances, will be essential to your success; and to the Empire's continued victory.

Jibral's thoughts dwelt on that notion. In the past it had been somewhat comforting to think of the world around him in the terms that Intelligence Officers used. When the world was compartmentalised, and when the people within it were nothing but assets, or targets, or persons of interest, there was no complication. No attachment. In the isolation of the Black Archives, that had seemed easy for the most part; but here at the Citadel things had changed. His success no longer hinged on his detachment from his subjects: it now rested on his investment in his students. If one reaped what one sowed, then the successful training of each Cadet relied upon the effort and interest and subjective attention that they were afforded. While his mind still assessed them analytically, while he still strove to maximise performance scores and assessment grades across the board, achieving those ends required him to consider Cadets not as numbers or names in a data set, but as individuals with individual data and their own personal needs. Perhaps that was not the way that an ordinary mind would perceive a person; but for Lúka, it was about as close as he got.

The Cadet currently summoning Jibral's attention was one whose potential far outweighed many of his peers, and one for whom Lúka saw the greatest return on the investment of time and attention that he paid. That was to say that the Cadet was one of his favourites, and that the progress Jeryd Redsun had been making these last months had become a point of satisfaction and pride. It was an odd feeling, and it made matters complicated. Right now, Lúka was not in the market for a favoured pupil: he needed an asset, for a mission that would likely pose a not insignificant amount of danger; and his mind had begun to struggle as it sought to rationalise Redsun the person and Redsun the asset into the same individual.

"Come in," Lúka called, setting down the datapad and adjusting his sitting position into something a little more comfortable. He mustered a smile for the Cadet as he entered - nothing too outlandish, but Jeryd seemed to respond well when Lúka behaved as if pleased to see him. He gestured for the Cadet to join him in the seat opposite, hoping that perhaps this time they'd overcome the hurdle of Redsun's protocol-bound need to remain standing until forcibly instructed not to.

Lúka reached across the desk, grabbing a bottle of purified water and cracking the seal. "So," Lúka asked, retrieving two glasses from the drawer in his desk, and pouring out the water as if he was serving whiskey. "How is Cadet Moll's ankle?" A slight pause. A slight flicker of a restrained smile. "And Cadet Jolee's pride?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Healing, sir," Jeryd said, with a rebellious curl in the corner of his mouth, "Slowly, but surely."

Inside the single beat of silence, a feeling of deepest satisfaction crystallised from a thousand unspoken words; they passed like an electric current through the air, charging the space around them. Jeryd could not properly convey his gratitude for everything that Knight Jibral had done for him - not in words, at least - words were soft malleable gestures that lost meaning with time. But his actions, on the other hand, each one was a commitment, to honour the lessons learned and make good on his superior officer's generous investment. To celebrate his victory together, no matter how quietly and restrained, was an opportunity to be relished.

It was strange, Jeryd thought, to forego the formality of being instructed to take a seat. In protocol, he found comfort, and refuge from the ever-present risk of making a complete fool of himself. Out of the rigid shade of military procedure, he was more awkward than he cared to admit, not from a lack of confidence, but, perhaps, because he didn't know how to act any other way. Of course, he took the gesture for what it was: an invitation to make himself feel welcome. And, to finally break the old habit, it felt good. For the most fleeting of instants, it made him imagine a future where he and Knight Jibral were peers - old friends, even - shooting the breeze over a glass of Corellian brandy.

As it was, however, they were not old friends, and there was no Corellian brandy in the glass he received. Before taking his first sip, the glass was raised, a curt gesture of thanks - the Imperial officer was nothing, if not a gentleman. No, the reason Jeryd was sitting in Knight Jibral's office was because he had been summoned there. That, in itself, was no strange occurrence: he had been summoned on several previous occasions, to evaluate his progress, in the wake of their first private lesson together. But there was something about this particular summons that struck him as odd; the timing was irregular, it felt different. Perhaps it showed, for the glass had scarcely left his lips when he said:

"Sir, I have to admit, I was surprised by your summons. Is this another performance review?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka mustered a frown to counteract his impending smile. He liked that about the Cadet - or at least, the version of the Cadet that had been slowly evolving these last few weeks. Jeryd noticed things. He observed a discrepancy and, knowing that he was free to question things in Jibral's presence, he asked. He didn't merely sit in silence and wait for the answer to occur. He didn't falter with indecision over whether a question was appropriate. It was a mindset that the Cadet would do well to preserve. The Empire was served better by people who pressed for answers than those too lazy or inattentive to seek them.

"In a manner of speaking."

The faintest pang of regret jabbed Lúka in the stomach. He had no desire to mislead the Cadet; and yet that was something the situation required. It was a matter of operational security, not malicious intent; but that rationalisation did not seem to abate the reluctance any. His only solace was that, when Lúka did have the opportunity to be honest, the reality of the situation would outweigh any of the Cadet's disappointment at being lied to. Now was not such an opportunity, however. Now, they were within the Citadel, where privacy was something of an illusion. This was not a place where one could trust that a clandestine conversation would go unheard.

His brow furrowed a little deeper, considerable effort invested in making the cover story as convincing as possible. Another learned trick was employed: concealing a lie behind layers of truth; minor admissions to distract from the deception being perpetrated.

"I joined the Imperial Knights on a recommendation from the Minister of the Interior. As you know, COMPNOR falls under the Minister's jurisdiction, and a class from one of their preparatory schools is due to graduate. Many of its students are about to progress into basic training with the military and the Security Bureau; and some might perhaps find themselves here at the Citadel one day, as prospective recruits for the Knights."

That much was entirely true, and was the basis for the cover story that Khalid had arranged. It was perhaps a little unnerving that the mysterious figure was able to call in a favour from the Minister of the Interior; but from what little Lúka knew and understood, Khalid's currency of choice was exchanged favours, and his claws sank into a great many things. Perhaps time would be dedicated later to considering what the Minister might have gained in exchange, or what leverage Khalid needed to spend to get his way; but not now.

"The Minister has asked that I attend the school's graduation ceremony to convey the importance of the Knights in the Empire's new hierarchy; and that I select and bring my most promising Cadet, to meet with the students."

Lúka stopped fighting his smile, and let it form.

"It was not a difficult choice."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The surprise started at his eyebrows, raised in twin peaks that lifted the rest of his face with them; his eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth pulled away, making him smile before he could stop himself. That was not cool. For a fraction of a second, his gaze drifted off to the corner of the room, enough to pull him out of the moment and turn him into a professional, again. He allowed for a tactical clearing of the throat, and still managed to fumble his words:

"That... I'm... Thank you, sir."

Thereafter, it was difficult to see beyond the glow of being declared Knight Jibral's most promising cadet. He was working hard. He wanted to be the best. There was nothing wrong with taking satisfaction in the acknowledgement of a job well done. And, if Knight Jibral was pleased, he was pleased. Beyond that, there were ramifications to consider, in the wake of an unexpected new assignment.

So, they were to attend a graduation ceremony at the request of the Minister of the Interior, himself. It was not unknown to Jeryd that Knight Jibral was, in some way, associated with the Minister. When he learned that his superior officer had once been some sort of Jedi apprentice, he struggled to reconcile that sordid sort of detail with the man who taught him to be strong, to be resourceful, and loyal - a man he respected. From that moment on, every time he had access to a computer terminal, he dedicated time to researching Jibral, and, every time, there was nothing. The only concrete piece of information he discovered about him was that he had indeed joined the Imperial Knights on the recommendation of the Minister, but, even then, the details were elusive. But, if anything, this latest turn of events revealed that Knight Jibral and the Ministor of the Interior were still associates. That put his superior officer in the company of some very powerful people, indeed.

The thought didn't do much to alleviate the growing concerns that were starting to put his stomach in a spin. Jeryd had walked the straight and narrow path of Imperial education, he passed into the academy and excelled in every field, he graduated, and was on course for a superlative career as an officer in the Imperial Army. That was, until fate switched the sabacc cards at the last moment, and his entire world, as he knew it, was turned upside down. The broken and scattered fragments of his old life had been gathered up, and rebuilt into something new, something better. But he could not deny his suffering. Could he stand before people like him, young men and women, each harbouring the same hope as he had, to serve in the Imperial military, and pretend the turmoil of change did not exist? What would he say to them? He was no good with words. Shit.

"Sir, when is the graduation ceremony taking place?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka was afraid of this. No, not afraid, such an imprecise idiom: Lúka was cognisant of this possibility.

He was lucky to have such a reliable alibi provided by the Minister of the Interior. Really, as clandestine missions went, they didn't get much better than unofficial requests from a figure of such repute. But the content of it had given him pause. Cadet Redsun was a man driven to excel, who seemed to regard anything less as an abject failure. While Lúka had no reservations describing him as his most promising Cadet - that was a fairly robust objective assessment - he did have reservations about misleading the Cadet into believing he was about to speak before a collection of malleable young minds. Not only would Jeryd elevate the situation to one of extreme importance, he would also dedicate time and focus into preparing himself; perfecting himself; only to have it all be for naught when it was revealed to be only a falsehood. It felt almost cruel.

Lúka tried his best to stall and deflect.

"It will take a few days of travel," he explained, allowing a complicated smile to form on his lips: part knowing, part sympathetic, part reassuring. "Which means there will be plenty of time to discuss your talking points on the way."

The smile grew a little. Lúka leaned back in his chair, sipping at his water to distract himself from it.

"In other words, worry about it later. I would not have selected you for this if I was not absolutely certain that you were capable and prepared."

That much was true, of the real mission as much as the fraudulent one. Lúka may have been short on allies, yes, but even so: short of a squad of veteran Stormtroopers, Jeryd was as capable an option as he could ask for. Excellent test scores. Impressive hand-to-hand skills, and blaster range ratings. An analytical mind. A dedication to duty. A respect for authority. Lúka even knew what Jeryd was capable of in a dire situation: knew that pressure made him stronger, not vulnerable. Other Cadets might have been cavalier, or reckless, or otherwise problematic, but Jeryd Redsun was that most important of things.

Reliable.

"For now, just relish the opportunity; and think of how good a favour for the Minister is going to look in your service record."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Yes, sir." While his fears had not been addressed, per se, they had certainly been deferred. There was still time, and Knight Jibral's vote of confidence was enough to bolster Jeryd's own self-confidence. In the here and now, it was enough to put his mind at ease, and though he was careful not to grin like a giddy schoolgirl, there was a brightness to his expression when he said, "Thank you for this opportunity."

Through an open window came the rhythmic drumming of a hundred heavy boots double-timing it around the Citadel. On the other side of the closed door, a droid burbled feverishly as it drifted past, and in the neighbouring office, some unfortunate soul was on the receiving end of a ferocious dressing-down. It felt like home - not the dysfunctional crucible of paternal disappointment where he grew up - his real home. And Knight Jibral, he'd reminded him what it felt like to be a part of it. He pushed the last of his concerns aside. If their mission parameters required him to perform an elaborate cabaret act, complete with a wig and gold bikini, then, by Stars, he'd get up on that stage and think of the Empress.

The sudden spark of amusement was buried behind his glass. He took one last sip, and said:

"When do we leave, sir?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"That entirely depends, Cadet."

That wasn't entirely true. While their mission - both cover and actual - did call for the exclusive use of a shuttle, and while Imperial Knights were granted a certain degree of liberty and freedom in their comings and goings, the mission began with a departure from Coruscant: and Imperial Center was anything but accommodating to variation and discrepancy. Things were not as bad as they might have been when the Imperial Senate still existed, but the planet's airspace and starspace still remained one of the more congested flight paths in the galaxy. Yes, an Imperial Knight could transmit their credentials to Control, and have the lower priority orbital traffic inconvenienced on their behalf; but such things drew attention, and that was the last thing that their voyage needed. Perhaps it could be dismissed as the hubris or impatience of a self-entitled Knight; but it was not a complication that Lúka was prepared to court.

Fortunately, Lúka had studied his asset closely; knew what he was capable of; could predict his actions and reactions. He knew the answer to his question before he even asked.

"How quickly can you be ready?

####

The landspeeder came to a gentle halt a few feet short of the edge of the landing platform. There were alternatives much closer to the Citadel itself, and Imperial personnel were more than happy - or at least, more than obligated - to move transport ships into position for a Knight's use. It had always seemed like a wasteful exercise to Knight Jibral: fuel that needn't be burned, inconvenience provided to Imperial crewmen who sought nothing but to serve their Empire. It also earned them valuable distance before their journey began: away from prying eyes, and unwanted scrutiny.

Lúka swung open the gull wing door of the passenger compartment, and stepped out onto the reinforced duracrete. In an ideal world he would have driven them here himself, eliminating yet another human variable from the mission in the form of their driver. Unfortunately, the Delta-class T-3c looming ominously ahead of them lacked the cargo space for a speeder such as this to be stowed; someone would have to drive it back to the repulsor pool after they departed.

Having spent a moment to surveil the landing platform, Lúka turned towards the speeder's cargo compartment, only to find the driver already loading their luggage into Cadet Redsun's waiting arms. He wanted to protest; wanted to carry his own luggage himself; cringed internally at the implication that he was too important to do such menial things for himself. He knew such thoughts were projections, though - knew that Redsun acted out of eagerness and propriety only. Swallowing his reluctance, Lúka rooted himself to the spot, offering a curt nod of dismissal to the driver as he swung the cargo compartment closed with a clunk, leapt back into the speeder, and rumbled off towards the Citadel.

A beat of silence passed, until Lúka was certain that the speeder was long gone. One last subtle glance was taken at his surroundings, before he reached into a pocket and pulled out a comlink - not the one that the Imperial Knights had issued, but a more easily concealed and seemingly benign alternative - and clicked it on.

"Ivy, what's our status?"

[Ivy]

Ivy did not reply by comlink. The transmission was safe, and carefully calibrated to avoid notice by the Citadel's detection, but it was a needless risk. Transmissions of any kind presented a vulnerability. A risk to mission security. Disappointing. Prior encounters suggested that Unit Jibral was programmed better.

The super tactical droid descended from the Delta T-3c with slow, methodical purpose, dactyl manipulators clasped behind him in accordance with his Separatist programming. Despite the extensive changes that first Republic R&D and later the Black Archives had made to his operating system, many of his base behavioural subroutines remained intact. During the Clone Wars, it had been a deliberate effort towards espionage: a droid capable of moving seamlessly among the Confederate forces while working towards a Republic agenda. For the Empire however, the retention of such mannerisms seemed far less logical. He had queried this with one of his technicians once. The response had been frustratingly pedestrian.

Aesthetic.

The precise distance between the base of the ramp and Unit Jibral was calculated, and divided into equal segments. The interval of Ivy's strides was modulated accordingly, ensuring that he would reach the Imperial Knight at the completion of his final stride. His ocular receptors aimed at the comlink device in Unit Jibral's hand for a brief moment, before orientating themselves to focus on the Unit's face directly. A sufficient time delay was added, which Ivy calculated would accurately convey his dismay.

"I have scanned the shuttle and the surrounding area for surveillance devices. There are none."

The droid's head cocked to the side slightly: a mannerism inherited from Geonosian programmers, to whom it conveyed momentary contemplation.

"We may speak freely."

Ivy turned, focusing his sensors on the additional Unit that was present. A coded transmission from Unit Jibral identified the Cadet as Unit Redsun, and additionally explained that he was a newer Unit: one who had not yet been adequately customised with the appropriate preferences and security protocols. Ivy lamented the slow manner with which human Units were able to adapt their base code to account for new parameters: Unit Redsun would have to be reprogrammed manually, one verbal line of code at a time.

The droid's gaze shifted to the armful of luggage the Cadet was carrying. A utility Unit, it seemed. Perhaps that would be of some benefit to their mission.

"You are taller than I expected, Unit Redsun."

It was a valid statement. Ivy had been under the impression that newer human Units were significantly shorter in stature.

"The area designated for cargo is this way. You will follow."

Without another word, Ivy's motivator limbs paced through a quick half-circle, and the droid strode off back towards the shuttle.

[Jeryd Redsun]

For a moment, Jeryd watched, in stunned silence, as Ivy departed. Had he just received an order from a droid? Judging by the heavy clunk of his feet and the sharp firing of servos, it was probably in his best interest to just do as he was told. Yet he remained, staring at strange looming droid, and the unusual shuttle - a Delta-class T-3c, if he remembered correctly - both an uncommon sight in Imperial space, these days. Perhaps his feet felt compelled to remain, sensing, much like every other fibre of his body, that there was something not quite right about this set up. His gaze narrowed, creasing his youthful face into a frown.

"Did he just call me..." Before the words tumbled out, he stopped himself, and shook it off with bemusement. That was when he pressed on, but not before he stole a sideways glance at Knight Jibral, and then, a double-take. His expression was calm, almost vacant, but Jeryd could've sworn he'd just seen him smiling. Side-by-side, they advanced up the boarding ramp, into the belly of the sleek and angular black shuttle. "He's one of those old Separatist droids. The intelligent ones. He was a commander... sir."

Drunk on surprise and admiration, Jeryd almost forgot himself. An hour ago, he was bracing himself for another tedious lecture on politics and the ethics of military intervention, now he was beyond the walls of the Citadel, boarding a stealth shuttle, with an Imperial Knight and a tactical droid, to carry out a mission from the Minister of the Interior, himself. It was difficult not to get swept up in it all. Even if something seemed amiss. The non-regulation communicator, the droid, and the talk of surveillance equipment and being able to speak freely. Why so much secrecy? Perhaps Knight Jibral was afraid someone was going to try stealing his speech, Jeryd thought, with a smirk.

One the bags were deposited in the cargo hold, Jeryd turned on the spot, to inspect the smart interior of the shuttle. If the familiarity with which Ivy spoke to Knight Jibral was any indication, the droid belonged to him, which begged the question:

"Sir, is this your ship?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"It is the Citadel's shuttle."

The answer was offered casually: not a correction, merely a clarification. Lúka watched for a moment as Jeryd surveyed his surroundings, before following suit. The shuttle's interior was much the same as every other craft of his class. On this lower deck, the walls were lined with crash seats: places for a small contingent of Troopers to sit in minimal comfort, safely segregated from the flight crew in the cockpit on the level above, ready to charge into the heat of battle without posing any danger to pilot or crew. In a way, it reminded him of the old Nu-class attack shuttles that the Grand Army of the Republic had used: a ship designed for the transport of prisoners, not the transit of bureaucrats.

There was one exception however: an ominously large yet unassuming cargo container, awkwardly crammed into the back corner of the main hold. Lúka chose to ignore it, turning his attention instead to the ladder that led upwards to the flight controls.

"The Imperial Knights have access to a variety of shuttles and transports," he explained as he climbed; facts Cadet Redsun no doubt knew on some level, though it bore reiteration in the interests of clarity. "Including a handful of more uncommon examples, including Deltas like this one. Some Knights prefer a shuttle like this: something more menacing than the familiar sight of a Lambda. For me, it feels -"

He hesitated for a moment, stepping off the ladder and onto the flight deck, waiting a moment until Jeryd arrived to join him.

"- appropriate."

It was a carefully chosen word: a crafted double entendre. The imposing black hull of the T-3c conformed with the ominous expectations of the Imperial Knights, something Lúka found it advantageous to cultivate; but for this mission in particular, the stealth parameters of the shuttle would prove particularly useful. His brow furrowed, a quiet sigh escaping from him.

"Cadet Red-"

He cut himself off. Paused. Began again.

"Jeryd. I am afraid that I have not been entirely forthcoming about this assignment. We are acting on behalf of the Minister of the Interior, as well as other senior figures within the Empire; but you are not here to serve as an example to a class of students. You are here to assist me in retrieving an item that has been stolen from an Imperial research cache; an item that the Imperial Knights cannot be made aware of, hence my subterfuge."

It was a gamble. A make or break moment. Lúka could have revealed the situation by degrees, allowing the Cadet to acclimate to the truth gradually; but that was a perilous option. Lúka knew how the Cadet thought; knew that anything short of reasonable transparency would not sway Jeryd's opinion. He knew how stubbornly the Cadet could fixate to his beliefs, and how strong an impact it took to dislodge them. If Jeryd was to continue as part of this mission, if Lúka was to continue to trust him, it would need to be tested and proven now, while there was still time for any mistaken decisions to be corrected.

As Lúka studied Jeryd for a reaction, he became acutely aware of the weight of his lightsaber, hanging from his belt.

[Jeryd Redsun]

His name sounded like a warning when it came out of Knight Jibral's mouth. It landed like a cold hand on his shoulder, and, when he heard it, he knew it was time to brace himself. As the truth was revealed, he became very still. Underfoot, fragments of floor were falling away, leaving him with nothing but a tenuous strip of metal on which to balance himself, and a plummeting feeling in the pit of his stomach. The familiar tingle of adrenaline trickled down his arms and legs, electrifying his extremities. Inside his head, the steady rise and fall of his chest sounded like the howling and hissing of great turbulent sea.

"I understand, sir."

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if in agreement with all the grand conclusions slotting together in his mind, like the formidable hull of some monstrous space faring behemoth, made mighty by the sum of its parts. He had been deceived, and now he was being asked to participate in the lie. A chilling thought turned his insides to ice. If he was to deceive the Imperial Knights, was he, by extension, deceiving the Empress herself? No. His allegiance was to the Empire, and, everything he did, and would ever do, was in service to the Empire - including the compartmentalisation of information. Such were the parameters of the mission - his first real mission.

Across from him, Knight Jibral waited, poised for a response that may require a response.

I would not have selected you for this if I was not absolutely certain that you were capable and prepared.

Those were his words.

All around them, panels of computers burbled and whined in curious anticipation. Jeryd took a breath, and mustered a tone of voice, so deadpan, Wilhuff Tarkin himself would've been proud:

"Does this mean I won't be needing my dress uniform, after all?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"Not unless you disclose any of what I'm about to tell you, and we need to bury you in it."

It was delivered as deadpan humour, but there was a dark reality to it as well. Lúka relaxed imperceptibly, his imminent concerns fading slightly; but he remained watchful and observant, studying Jeryd for any indications that the mission might already have been compromised.

Lúka turned away, clambering into the pilot's seat, and gesturing for Jeryd to take the station beside him. It took a few silent moments for him to run the preflight preparations, and coordinate their departure with Citadel Tower: an unfortunate side effect of selecting a craft that wasn't quite suited to Ivy being at the helm. For all of the galaxy's advancement and sophistication, the Clone Wars had shown that a simple ladder remained a surprisingly effective countermeasure against droids.

The shuttle rumbled into life beneath them, repulsorlifts raising it from the duracrete, a clunk echoing through the hold below as the boarding ramp closed itself and the stabiliser fins descended down into flight configuration. Atop the stark black pyramid, Lúka steered them towards the sky, feeling a slight pressure against his seat as the inertial dampeners struggled to compensate for the acceleration. Lúka waited until the inertia had abated, a single stray glance thrown in Jeryd's direction before he spoke again.

"As a Padawan, I was captured by the Inquisitors. After spending time being processed, and having my loyalties adjusted -"

Such a cold and clinical way to describe what had been inflicted upon him. Flashes of memory, or pain and darkness, of anguish and betrayal, clawed at the edges of his thoughts. He didn't push them aside: he drew strength from them, letting the bitterness seep into his bones. Such a waste to repress such things, when they posed such a potent source of potential.

"- I became the custodian of something called the Black Archives: a facility where many of the Empire's clandestine organisations stored dangerous artefacts and rare prototypes. The droid you encountered is one such prototype. Ivy, from the Tionese numerals, was the fourth of several attempts made by the Republic during the Clone Wars to develop an infiltrator to undermine the Separatist Droid Army from within; but the project amounted to little, and Ivy was Archived at the war's end. Our mission is to recover another such item."

The sky beyond the cockpit darkened, blue fading to indigo, and on into black as the atmosphere thinned and faded around them. Lúka subtly adjusted their course and orientation, rotating the craft so that Coruscant was beneath them, their escape trajectory rising ahead of them like a mountain incline.

"After the Starkiller incident, the Treaty that followed rewrote the galaxy's astrography, leaving the Black Archives facility far beyond Imperial borders. It was decided that the facility would be dismantled, and the Archives moved elsewhere. I was reassigned to the Imperial Knights as a security measure: the fewer people who knew of the Archives' new location, the less risk their was of any artefacts or prototypes being intercepted in transit. At least, that was the idea."

There was a faint bitterness to Lúka's words. While his new assignment with the Imperial Knights had proven far more fulfilling than he had ever expected, there was still a certain discomfort that came from knowing that, despite more than a decade of loyal, obedient, exemplary service, you were still deemed insignificant and expendable. Perhaps another man would have protested; perhaps Lúka should have. Something had stopped him; that latent urge that prevented him from disobeying or disagreeing with a directive from Mal'achi Ath-Thu'ban.

"Unfortunately, it seems that while the Black Archives were safeguarded against deliberate acts of espionage, the operatives involved were not quite as prepared for acts of random happenstance. A group of activists saw an opportunity and took it: a nondescript Imperial convoy moving through uncontrolled space. They were repulsed, but not before they could get away with a number of items; one of them potentially quite dangerous. Given my familiarity with the item in question, I have been asked to recover it personally: to inform the Knights of this formally and make it an official mission would risk exposure of countless Intelligence, Security Bureau, and Inquisition projects that the Imperial Knights should not, and do not need to be made aware of."

He turned to Jeryd fully, hoping that his sincerity had managed to convey the situation well enough.

"I cannot tell you what this item is, and I cannot stress this enough: the Knights cannot know it exists. It is in the best interests of the Empire, and the Empress. Is this a secret I can trust you to keep, Jeryd?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

In accepting that he was now involved in a clandestine operation, Jeryd understood there would be things he didn't, and could never know. He was a cadet, not some shadowy agent from ISB. Hells, he hadn't even earned his first plaque, yet. So, when Knight Jibral unleashed upon him a veritable deluge of top secret information, Jeryd sat and listened like a toddler in story corner. Every detail, he absorbed with a fierce attentiveness that came from a place of both sincere interest, and also fear that, once uttered, his superior officer may never say these words again. It was his one chance to understand, to know more beyond the tiny scope of his own comprehension, of the Empire, and the nameless faceless patriots that safeguard its secrets. Men like Knight Jibral.

The way he related the secretive inner-workings of the Empire with events that transpired on the broader galactic stage informed Jeryd he was in the presence of the sort of person who always knew more than he realised. In their time together, Knight Jibral had never given him reason to underestimate him, and yet, clearly, that's exactly what Jeryd had done. He wanted to ask him about the Black Archives, and all the strange and wonderful things he'd seen; on the tip of his tongue, a dozen questions were loaded like proton torpedoes, ready to fire. And, one-by-one, each question was considered, weighed, and disposed of as a dud. He would not insult Knight Jibral, nor betray his trust, with such a display of childish disregard. Because, despite everything he'd said, about the Black Archives, about the droid, about their mission and all the secrets they must withhold from the Imperial Knights, there was one tiny excruciating detail that had become lodged like a splinter in his mind:

I was captured by the Inquisitors.

By his own admission, Knight Jibral had been seized by the men who made people disappear. He had been processed, and had his loyalties... adjusted. Such a sordid euphemism. It made his skin crawl. When Jeryd was a boy, he and everyone his age were kept awake at night by the rumours that lurked in the shadows, by the fear without a name. As he grew up, those fears were dismissed as childish flights of fancy, and the rumours faded into superstition. Then, in recent years, it was revealed that, not only had all of his childhood fears been well-founded, but that they also had a name... Inquisitors. And, just like that, they were gone. As if, in giving breath to their hateful name, they returned to the smoke and the shadow from whence they came. But that, Jeryd realised, was the real make-believe.

When the question was finally asked, he knew at once he'd never have a reason to betray the man before him - his trust was far too important to him.

He gave a nod, "You can trust me, sir."

[Lúka Jibral]

There it was again: that feeling that matched every description Lúka had ever read of pride.

Weeks ago, the man beside him had been nothing but an unrealised punching bag, too buried behind his own stigmas and misconceptions to tap into the supernova of potential that lurked beneath the surface. So much advancement had been made in such a comparatively short time, and while perhaps Jibral had been the key that unlocked the door for that to happen, Redsun had been the one who stormed through it, guns blazing. It wasn't the first time that Lúka had felt this way - not even the first person to be the object of his pride; two of his former charges had that particular honour - but it was the first time he knew for an absolute, undeniable fact that he was feeling it.

This shuttle might have been capable of carrying a full strike team, but Jibral was utterly content with the backup he had.

He remained silent, letting Jeryd's statement hang in the air as he readied the ship for hyperspace, keying in the coordinates of their destination. Their ultimate destination was Ubrikkia: an industrial world, sandwiched between the Hutt Cartel and the Alliance of Free Planets, in a bubble of neutral space that the Alliance no doubt hoped would buffer them against encroachment and profiteering from the Hutts. It had once been home to a subsidiary of Kuat Drive Yards, but as with all things left unattended too long, the Hutts had consumed it, and just about every other enterprise that had been abandoned when the Empire withdrew from the region. It had never been a particularly savoury place, but it's placement mid-way between Kessel and the Core had made it a valuable staging ground for the Black Archives during their clandestine operations. That had been their undoing: they had relied upon the familiar, and it had lulled them into a false sense of security.

Perhaps that was what they got for exorcising their best analyst from the process.

Jibral reached forward for the hyperspace controls, but stopped himself, looking fully at the Cadet once again. A thought puzzled it's way across his brow, contemplation and consideration allowing conflicting notions to go to war, before settling on a conclusion.

"This isn't an official Knights mission, Jeryd."

He hesitated for the briefest moment.

"Perhaps for the next few days, you should just call me Lúka."

[Quan Marivva]

####

Quan Marivva bristled as he stalked into the abandoned warehouse, tentacles quivering in frustration with every step. Vexation clouded everything, these days. The damnable Rebel Alliance had gone and legitimised, turning the rich pickings of the oft-neglected Hutt frontier into a churning feeding frenzy of raiding and piracy that left even the most resourceful of the galaxy's freelancers with nothing but scraps. There was a saying: honour among thieves. The aquatic balked at the idea; there was no such thing, not in this day and age. The types of filth that seeped into the gaps between the Alliance and the Cartel were the worst dregs of the galaxy. Murderers, reprobates, and cut-throats, yes - but a few positive traits hardly made amends for the burdens they placed upon Marivva's operations.

He missed the old days. He missed the days when Bothawui had been isolated and alone, resolute in their opposition to the Empire only because the Imperials frankly didn't care about this corner of the stars. The same was true of Calamari, Ryloth, Lothal, and all the other pockets where resistance and rebellion had taken root back then. It was easy to oppose the Empire where it was weak. The Corellians, on the other hand? Chandrilans? Alderaanians? Perhaps their resistances were less impressive, and less extensive; but there was more bravery there. They'd kneed the Empire in the soft and perishables from up close, and the price that Alderaan had paid proved just how bold a move that had been.

One of his underlings opened their jaws to speak. Quan snarled to ensure her silence, tentacles flaring angrily at the albino Herglic. She shuffled awkwardly, a milky white eye blinded by the scar running through it twitching back and forth anxiously. Marivva's snarl became a sigh, tentacles slumping in tandem with his shoulders. This was the quality of pirate he had been left with: people like Mob Dicky, squeezed out to the fringes because they lacked the spine or skills for anything else. At one time, Marivva had boasted a fearsome crew, one that had plagued the space lanes; but those that still lived had been lured away to richer pastures, leaving him scraping the bottom of the barrel.

"What is it?" he hissed at the Herglic through a thick, rumbling accent that rolled and tumbled like open seas.

Mob shuffled, jaw hanging slack to expose gums studded with broken, blunted, and missing teeth. "We -" She faltered, a few nervous clicks stuttering from her throat, a strange gurgling fwee leaking from parts of her anatomy that Marivva had no desire to learn about. "We're not sure."

The frustration that rattled at the back of Quan's throat sounded like the idle snarling of a caged Nexu. He glared daggers as he stalked past, shoving the albino aside with a shoulder so that he could poise his hunched and ragged frame over the Imperial-branded container she stood sentry over. He grabbed the case firmly and twisted it towards him, knocking aside the tools and devices that his mechanic had used to bypass the security locks. Perhaps not entirely useless, he quietly amended; not that such an admission or the praise it appeared to represent would ever escape his lips.

With a flick, the latches opened, and the case was flung open. Immediately a warm glow began to emanate from within, a radiant warmth washing over Quan Marivva, and sparkling in his eyes.

"My, my," he purred softly, sucking damply on his bottom lip as he admired his prize. "What have we here?"