“Will you stop fidgeting.” Mirla ordered, irritated. “We’re meeting Lord Morgan, not the Emperor.”

Kripaa scowled at her. “Easy for you to say. You're not the one that scared his whatever she is. From all reports he favours her, so forgive me for being a little nervous.”

“Mad Mouse is not the type to punish a misunderstanding.” Soft Voice assured the pureblood. They had been waiting for an hour now, but he was amusing himself with some mental chess. He had quite liked the wooden set he had found here, even if it was technically looted, but for now he had to make do with playing against himself.

“We haven’t seen him for months.” Astara pointed out, throwing fuel on the fire as usual. “Who knows what he will do.”

Soft Voice sighed as Kripaa looked at her with wide eyes. For all that special forces had shaped him into a terrifying effective specialist, he could be so easy to tease.

“Well I’m not the one who basically swore him a life oath.” He shot back after a second, making Soft Voice raise an eyebrow. That was true, and a good deflection. Astara narrowed her eyes.

“That was a group decision, one I remember you voting for. Don’t put that on me because I’m the one that told him.”

Soft Voice chuckled softly, the sound lost in the arguing. It was the first time they'd been together for almost two weeks, with how the war had been pulling them in all directions. He’d missed them.

‘Not that the new recruits are bad.’ He admonished himself. ‘They just need time. And retraining, but mostly time.’

Finding sith recruits that had a snowball's chance in hell of fitting in had been a stroke of luck to begin with. He smiled as he remembered how Mirla had kicked them into the dust, quite effectively breaking their delusion that she was weak because she was polite. They’d learn.

He felt Morgan’s signature as an elevator came down, turning towards it. The others followed, their arguing forgotten as the doors opened.

Something was wrong. His old friend's shield was far too good to get an accurate read on, well, anything, but his body language was off. He didn’t know the twi’lek personally, but she seemed guarded, too.

Getting reports on Mad Mouse had proven more difficult as of late, with his apprenticeship to a Darth and all, but he had stayed informed on his activities as best he could. As Kripaa had said, those two were thick as thieves. Quite accurate, seeing as the twi’lek used to be one.

The twi’lek spotted them first, narrowing her eyes. Her hand stayed close to her blaster, only relaxing as Morgan whispered something to her.

His friend strode towards him, clasping his offered forearm. He remembered reading his friend had taken to wearing armour, so it was strange to see him without. “Soft Voice. It’s good to see you.”

“And you, my friend.” He replied warmly, wondering why they were whispering. It sounded normal enough, if a tad gravelly. He turned to the twi’lek, nodding in greeting. “Zethix, pleased to meet you.”

She nodded in return, her eyes piercing into Kripaa. “Vette. I already know that one.”

The pureblood stiffened, his face blanking. “Lady Vette. My apologies for our interaction on Dromund Kaas. It was not my intention to present myself in a threatening manner.”

His friend stayed silent, watching but not intervening. Soft Voice did the same, curious. Mad Mouse had no problems taking charge, and he doubted his friend had changed that much, so he wanted her to solve this herself. He wouldn't intervene, in any case.

“Don’t worry about it.” Vette finally answered, turning to inspect the others. Astara was the first to take back initiative, stepping forward. She always had been a social engineer.

“Astara.” She introduced. “Pleasure ael meet nu.”

Vette’s eyebrow shot up, returning the greeting in Ryl while the tip of her right lekku curled upwards. From what he remembered that meant ‘greetings’, but he hadn’t studied the language as Astara had.

“So how’s the boss? Been keeping him out of trouble, I hope?” Astara teased. It still amazed him how she could get people to talk to her like old friends. How she could insert into and twist any narrative she wanted. Not three weeks ago she’d turned a resistance captain so inside out he’d spilled whatever she wanted, desperate to please her.

This time, however, she’d miscalculated. Vette flinched, gripping her still holstered blaster. Morgan put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s alright.” He assured her, turning to them. “There was an incident when we left Dromund Kaas, the scars of which haven’t quite healed. Afraid I’ll not be combat ready for a few more days.”

Vette scowled at him, noting how it seemed a familiar gesture to them both. “An incident. You got blown apart by a fucking lunatic with a deadman’s switch.”

He suppressed a trill of alarm, turning to inspect Morgan more closely. He was still alive, clearly, but it explained the suppressed limp.

His friend sighed. “I got sloppy. Grathan noticed my tendency for lightsaber combat, so rigged a resurrected assassin with a deadman's switch. Won’t happen again, now that I know what to look for.”

Soft Voice narrowed his eyes. “When was this? Not too recently, or the damage to your leg and vocal cords shouldn’t have healed yet.”

Strangely, his friend smiled. “Well, good to know not all my secrets are documented yet. It was a few days ago. I’ve been studying since we last saw each other.”

“Clearly.” He replied, lacing his voice with understanding he didn’t feel. “Now enough holding up traffic. Darth Lachris wants to see you, and I answer to her for the duration of my time on Balmorra.”

----------------------------------------

Vette kept a close eye on her boss's supposed allies, but she had to admit they seemed adequately protective. Balmorra was a war torn hellhole, as far as she was concerned, and Morgan wasn’t at a hundred percent, but the spaceport looked in good condition. It wasn’t until they left the port, and upon seeing the clear skies, that she was reminded of its current status.

The city was covered with a translucent dome, that little visual detail alone making her want to double check her blasters.

She’d been on planet’s like this before, but it’d always been for jobs. Short get in and out operations, either stealing something or supplying overpriced goods to desperate rebels. Staying to fight wasn’t exactly on her todo list, but she supposed it could be worse.

They could be on the side of the resistance.

After another subtle inspection, deciding to trust Morgan when he said he trusted them, and smirking back at Astara when she caught her, she peeled off. Four of them should be enough to protect Morgan, and she had things to fence.

‘Time to go shopping.’ She thought gleefully.

Her acquired goods were burning a hole in her metaphorical pocket, and they needed new armour. Something more protective than what they had, since she hadn’t quite anticipated being bombed when they got it.

She was an old hand at finding black markets, and Balmorra was a better place for it than most. The market, a misnomer, since it was more dealing with the right person and getting your stuff delivered later, was quite expansive. It might be under occupation, and there might be a war going on, but smugglers existed for a reason.

Those brave, or stupid, enough to risk Imperial ire got rich quick, especially in a warzone.

Another reason the planet had a still functioning underworld, aside from the fact you’d never be able to kill one entirely, was the factories. Balmorra was covered with them, and ones that specialised in high value weaponry. Prototype battle droids, disruptor rifles and so much more, all for the right price.

Vette didn’t have the right price, not yet. But the things she had rightfully taken from Grathan had value, especially after she had them appraised. Value she was planning to turn into credits, and then getting both of them some proper armour. The kind her once owner had worn. The kind that shielded against high-yield blasts, and came with redundant layers of shielding.

It took her half an hour to convince some thug to bring her to someone important, only needing to fend off two desperate thieves in the meanwhile. She hadn’t even needed to use her strength, something part of her found disappointing.

Then it was walking, being guided by a streetrat through tunnels and, surprisingly, abandoned military facilities. She wondered if they were still under the dome, but had no way to check.

She rolled her eyes at the old factory they finally stopped at, the rust covered machines still standing where they once produced munitions. Maybe it worked on some, but to her it looked quaint. The scowling mook waiting there certainly did.

She had seen Morgan terrify hundreds of rebels into executing their own leaders. Seen how a sith’s rage could warp reality, Baras’s scream shaking the walls. How the Temple had twisted slaves into Lords, and how her boss had built an army out of predators.

The mook scowling at her inspired little fear, and she promised herself to wait another five before finding someone else.

Big boss, as the mook had called him, took four. She immediately regretted waiting, and had to suppress a flare of irrational anger at the sight of him. A Trandoshan.

Like the ones that tore her family apart, muttering about offerings. Like the ones that had killed her sister all those years ago. Vette still remembered the indignation on her face when they had found out they were to be separated. Tivva had tried to escape, refusing to be parted from her.

“So you are the one selling artefacts, humm?” Big boss mused. “What do you have then, little twi’lek?”

Vette resisted snapping his neck on the spot, taking out her collection. Big boss inhaled deeply.

“Two Rakata machines, broken but in good condition otherwise. The helm of Rebans, still rumoured to hold his spirit. Six jewellery pieces, none of the same set.” She sold cheerily, no note of her feelings in her voice. Showing no rage was an old skill, learned long before she ran with pirates.

“A worthy offering.” Big boss praised. “But that is not the helm of Rebans.”

She smiled. “I disagree. Had it appraised before coming here.”

Sending over the document for it, and all the others as well, she waited as the Trandosian read them. No need to inform him the inspections had been done off holograms, let alone by an old contact of hers. One of the few not dead or refusing to speak to her.

‘Not that the old man knows my name.’ She reflected. ‘Probably still thinks I’m that art thief from Coruscant.’

Big boss made a call, turning back a few minutes later. “My own people tell me Ardough is a reputable appraiser, enough so that my own appraiser has rechecked her work. It seems I will need to clean house after this is done. ”

Vette raised her eyebrow, making the Trandosion continue. “I already have the helm of Rebans, you see. Making me aware of a possible traitor has already made this a profitable dealing, so I will spare us both the haggling.”

She frowned, annoyed at not being able to fleece the bastard. Then she took a deep breath, because she was letting personal feelings influence work. They both needed better armour, Morgan more than ever.

“Seven fifty for everything, and I will personally introduce you to the best arms dealer this side of the conflict.”

Vette scoffed. “What makes you think I’m looking to buy?”

“Because if you weren’t, you’d have held onto these until you’d found a collector, not a middleman. I may not know you, but I know those like you.”

So he wanted her to buy from his allies. Fine. She needed to wrap this up anyway, and not having to bully her way through the lower ranks would save time.

“Fine. I’ll need the credits in cash, and the meeting soon.”

The Trandoshan whistled, a pair of mercs wheeling in a card. Big boss took her money out of it, and soon she was holding seven hundred fifty thousand credits in a little sack on her waist. That score rivalled the best of her old days, and it was all hers.

‘Morgan probably just tell me not to spend it all in one place.’ She thought fondly. ‘Nevermind trying to take a cut.’

“Armie can meet soon, if it’s weapons you're after. Armour too, but droids are out of stock. Not just for him, either. Imps have the factories on those locked tight.”

“Just armour.” She confirmed easily. Droids were never her kind of thing anyway. “How long is soon?”

“Half hour.” Big boss replied as he turned, motioning to the mook. “I’ll have the lad show you somewhere more comfortable to wait, now that we know each other.”

The two mercs fell into step behind their boss as he left her with the mook, Big boss hissing to them as they walked. “Round up everyone, full meeting. I better find this is one enormous misunderstanding, and whoever fucked it better be glad I haven’t found a buyer to that helm yet. Reputation is everything, so selling fake merchandise is a shit move. Why am I telling you two this? A goldfish has more brain cells than you to put together. Go on, get. Round everyone up.”

The waiting room was well appointed, and Armie hobbled in twenty minutes after she had gotten horribly bored. Bored enough she contemplated armwrestling the mook in the room with her, but reason won out. Better to not flaunt unnatural strength. Armie was, to her surprise, a Jawa. One smart enough to bring his own translator droid, so that was a good sign. She’d met exactly one person capable of understanding Javanese, and she was pretty sure he’d been faking.

“Big boss tells me you wish for strong armour, yes yes? Tells me you have many credits to trade.”

Vette had bargained with Jawa before, if not enough to make a habit out of it. Enough, however, to know they made themselves sound juvenile on purpose. Made people underestimate them. Even odds Armie could understand basic, too. Sneaky little furballs.

“Two sets, both with a custom fit. Four layers of shielding on each, with their own integrated power supply. None of that second rate ‘prone to explode’ shit either. Proper fusion reactors. One light, another heavy. Here’s the specs.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

She sent the info packet to the translator droid, it spitting out a string of incomprehensible noise that made the Jawa nod excitedly. Vette praised herself on saving their measurements from last time.

“A customer that knows what she wants, yes? This is good good. Twi’lek and human, both within standard deviation of the norm. This is all possible, even the reactors. But only because you came to Armie, yes?”

Here it comes. The unreasonable prices. Maybe the rights to Balmorra, that be a good one. Or her kidney. Had that happen once, since the Jawa had thought it made for a good replacement part in a speeder. Somehow.

“Five hundred.” The droid told her. She was only just fast enough to put an outraged expression on her face. Five hundred was an actual reasonable price, so something was very wrong here. “In addition to a favour from your sith friend.”

The Gamorrean Armie had brought, one kitted out in enough armour she had to guess at his gender, took a threatening step forward. Maybe something to do with how her hand had gone to her blaster. “I’m not sure this is a path you wish to go down, Armie.”

Armie waved his guard back, the droid injecting a soothing undertone to its voice. “A misunderstanding. No threat, just an offer. I’m no fool, yes? You cannot speak for sith, I understand. Bring him my offer, and the armour is yours for five hundred.”

Vette drummed her fingers on her blaster, thinking. “I want the armour now, and I won’t promise he’ll listen.”

“Yes, deal.” The droid said, Armie sticking out his hand. They shook on the deal, Vette having to bend down to reach it. The appreciative whistle took her off guard, turning around to a new face leering at her.

“Now that business is done, how about you and me get a drink? I can show you a real good time, if you know what I mean.”

Armie took an alarmed step back at her predatory smile, his guard shielding the small Jawa behind his massive legs. The mook, the one that had guided her here, smirked and stepped back, holding up his hands in a clear gesture of surrender.

She walked over to the new face, cocking her head. “Now now, big boy. Let’s make sure you can handle what you’re implying.”

Her hand shot forward, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming him against the wall in the process. Then she applied pressure, forcing it up. The man was screaming by the time resistance snapped, drowning out the sound of his bones breaking. She caught him as he collapsed, lifting him up by the throat.

“Focus on my voice.” Vette soothed, his wild eyes landing on her. “Try not to speak, it’ll just damage your vocal cords. Now, it seems you’re not quite up to it. Don’t feel bad. My standards have skyrocketed lately. Next time, try to gauge someone's mood before hitting on them. They might be sitting on some unexpressed anger. They might even take that out on you, if you’re unlucky.”

She turned to Armie, dropping the man. “So how fast can you get the armour fitted and brought here?”

----------------------------------------

“So the new recruits are coming along well enough. Not the same as the old crew, of course, but they’ll adjust.” Soft Voice finished, making Morgan smile. It was good to see his friend again. Even better to see him flourish.

“So you’re working for Darth Marr now? And here I thought I was the one with the most influential master.”

Soft Voice scoffed. “Never met the man. An apprentice of his apprentice, for training and such, but no more than that. He sends me where I’m needed, but at least I get my own people. Turns out having a battalion of sith used to working together, and then attaching a few thousand troops to them, is a rather dangerous combination.”

“I bet.” Morgan smiled, turning to the other three he was sharing a turbolift with. “How about the rest of you? Having fun?”

“Can’t complain.” Astara covered smoothly, Kirpaa and Mirla both sharing a panicked look at being addressed. “It’s been interrogation and infiltration for me, and I’m sure Mirla could tell you more about her life than I can.”

Mirla shot her a betrayed look, making Morgan smile. It seemed they had gotten closer without the constant fear of having to kill each other. The Overseer had been a bitch like that.

“I’ve been handling portions of military command, to prepare me for assuming the effective command of a major. It frees Lord Zethix's schedule to train and look at the bigger picture.”

“Always appreciate it when you make it sound like I do nothing.” Soft Voice teased dryly. Mirla spluttered, Kirpaa stepping to the rescue.

“Forgive her. She’s been nervous since we heard of your arrival. Something about wanting to make a good impression, since you’re one of the first to believe in her.”

Mirla turned red, stomping on Kirpaa’s foot. He yanked it out of the way, smiling at her reassuringly. “No need to be ashamed. I’m sure Lord Morgan understands that girls want to impress their crushes.”

She spluttered more, Astara rolling her eyes. “Oh, now he’s all confident. Not an hour ago you were fidgeting like a schoolboy called to the headmaster’s office, terrified he did something wrong.”

“I didn’t go to school.” Kripaa pointed out smoothly. He frowned. “That wasn’t the defence I thought it would be.”

“Show time.” Soft Voice commanded. The three turned serious, Mirla’s complexion rapidly returning to normal. Fast enough Morgan raised an eyebrow. That looked, if he was forced to guess, like fleshcrafting.

The door opened into a grand office, a view spreading out over the city. Darth Lachris was facing the window, her back to them as they entered.

They all politely ignored the finely dressed corpse on the floor.

“I am Darth Lachris, and I’ve been tasked with securing Balmorra. A task my master has given me ample sith for, so I am left to wonder what Baras’s newest enforcer is doing here.”

Morgan nodded at that. Darth Lachris was the apprentice to Marr, so no surprise he’d entrusted her with his experimental sith battalion. “Darth Baras wishes me to assist in any capacity you deem necessary, my Lady.”

“How kind of him.” She praised. “I’m sure no ulterior motives are at play. Nevertheless, your presence here has been cleared with the Council. It seems Baras still has friends in high places.”

She walked to the desk, sitting down and glaring at her datapad. “You can consider yourself below Zethix during your stay here, to follow whatever orders he gives you. He, at least, has shown a level of competence past getting blown to pieces.”

“As you command, my Lady.” Morgan assented calmly. It’d been a while since he’d had to endure this level of rudeness, but it wasn’t like he cared about her opinion of him. “Is there a particular task you wish me to accomplish, or am I free to wander?”

Darth Lachris sneered. “The subtlety of a rancor. Assist Zethix with his missions. If those happen to coincide with whatever Baras wishes done, so be it. If I find out this somehow impedes my effort here, I will kill you.”

“As you say, my Lady.”

“Astara. Mirla. Stay. I have questions about your latest reports. The rest of you, out.”

Morgan contemplated the interaction as the lift brought them back down. “Figured she’d want to keep her eye on me personally, but it seems I’m not that important. Guess I'm under your capable command, oh mine lord.”

Soft Voice snorted. “We both know that’s not going to happen. She’s usually more even than this, though. Must really hate Baras.”

“Oh? Figured we would pretend, at least. Seems a bit brash to just ignore a Darth’s orders like that.”

“You gonna do something that’ll fuck me over?”

Morgan shook his head. “Nah. I’m here to kill commander Rylon, so if nothing else I’ll be helping you.”

“See? No need to pretend after all. It’ll be fun to work together again.”

He laughed. “Fun. Yea, I’m sure it will be. Speaking of which, how about a spar? Could use some exercise to see how my healing’s coming along.”

Soft Voice led them to his battalion's sparring rooms, finding it empty. Kripaa bowed as they arrived, mentioning debriefing his squad as he left. Morgan turned to his friend.

“He never did answer my question. What do you have him do these days?”

“Special operations. He pretty much commands what special forces we have, so he’s doing well. Him, Mirla and Astara are the reason I’ve been able to focus on training the new sith. Mirla as my second, Kripaa to lead the elite and Astara to head the intelligence division.”

Morgan nodded easily, stretching. “Delegation is key. Haven’t really had to delegate all that much, since it’s just me and Vette.”

Soft Voice opened with a lazy probe, allowing his practice saber to be slapped away. Morgan responded with a push, leveraging strength to press him back. Soft Voice grunted as neither could get the upper hand, Morgan pirouetting as his opponent increased the pressure.

“Mind answering a question?”

Morgan scowled, flexing his shoulder. Found another weak point. “Sure.”

“How, exactly, did you compress months of healing into days?”

Soft Voice sprung forward, Morgan stepping aside. The block was off, his reflexes a little slower than normal. His shoulder screamed, forced to take the brunt. “Fleshcrafting. Enhanced healing and strength, among other things. I find it fits me well.”

Still not quite back to normal, though.

The devaronian narrowed his eyes, probing carefully. “You’ve gotten better. Fleshcrafting. Thought so. Mirla’s been looking into it. Thought about making it mandatory, but the level of control needed makes it difficult.”

“That it does. Glad to see my training on Dromund Kaas has closed the gap between us.”

Soft Voice laughed as he had to dodge a practise saber coming at his head, Morgan just scraping his hand with his own. “Take your false modesty and shove it. Figures you’d pick up telekinesis at some point, and that gap wasn't wide to begin with. Now my strength, my one big advantage, has been cruelly overtaken by vile sorcery.”

Morgan snorted. “I normally use knives, stop complaining.”

They sparred until they were interrupted, Morgan using the stress to find what still needed healing. After four sessions of unintentionally ignoring Teacher the cube had huffed and said to do it alone. He felt a little bad about it, but couldn't argue with the results. Few people could go from near death to almost healthy in less than a week.

Vette dragged a piece of armour into the room, Morgan holding up his hand to stop the match. He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

New armour was adorning her frame. Very form fitting armour. It was also closer to medium than light, something he appreciated. It was still sleek and painted in muted colours, but clearly a few steps above her old set. Her blasters remained the same, but a new sniper hung off her back.

“Got some new toys.” She called, bending over to set her burden against the wall. Morgan noticed how she bent further than strictly necessary, giving him a good look at her armoured ass. “New armour, and even a jobsie. Well, the job is more of an offer, but it’s pretty good.”

Morgan saw her smirk when she turned around, rolling his eyes. Of course she was messing with him. He should have known better, really.

Soft Voice had stepped out of the arena, hanging up his practice saber. “This was fun, but I unfortunately have work to do. Chambers have been prepared, if I know Mirla at all, so you can sleep in friendly territory for as long as you need. Let me know when you’re ready to go after Rylon, since I’m sure our approach will coincide in one way or another.”

He waved goodbye, leaving him with Vette. Who had, by now, graduated from smirking to hopping in place. “Try it on!”

Morgan rolled his eyes again, walking over. His new armour looked much like hers, probably part of the same set, but heavier. Thick plating, especially around the vital organs, with a full helmet. He spied a wetsuit underneath.

“Four overlapping shields, with its own internal power supply.” She boasted. “Rated for limited space exposure and plating so strong no little bomb will even scratch it.”

Vette frowned. “A lightsaber will still fuck it, so be a tad careful.”

“It’s great.” He praised. “Help me into it?”

She did, grumbling how she got into her own piece herself. He decided against pointing out her fingers did rather more touching than was warranted, not wanting to give her more fuel.

Vette grinned as he put on his helmet, the comms syncing with her own. “About that job. Before I start, we don’t need to take it. I’d like to, since it pays well and it’s probably something we’ll end up doing anyway, but it’s not like I gave my word.”

He waved his hand. “It’s fine. What needs doing?”

“Armie, the Jawa I bought all this stuff from, wants the schematics for a new prototype battle droid. Willing to pay a quarter million for them, so obviously well guarded. Apparently kept in the mainframe of the Balmorra arms factory, and wouldn't you know it, the resistance-without-Republic-support has made its headquarters there.”

Morgan nodded, testing his mobility. “That does indeed sound like something we’ll end up doing anyway.

“Right?” Vette grinned. “So, what now?”

“Meeting Baras’s contact, Malavai Quinn. We’ll see how much daylight we’ll have left after that.”

Quinn was, by their standards, not very far away. Sobrik, serving as both the port city and headquarters for the Imperial military, was a fraction of Dromund Kaas. It was one of the reasons they could afford to keep a shield running over it, despite the ruinous amount of power it must cost.

It had been abandoned, bombed and rebuilt by Imperial engineers, so it could be argued it was more military base than city. It still housed many civilians, but since the military had built it, they had built it for their purposes first.

It took only some asking around, Vette asking and him standing there, to find the man. When they did, it wasn’t what Morgan was expecting.

“Focus, Jillins. Breath. Copy me. In, out. Slow. In, out.”

A silent but crying ensign was on the floor, Quinn sitting beside him. It was a barracks, clear as day, but aside from those two it was empty. Morgan raised his hand to Vette, who sent him an indignant look.

“I wasn’t gonna barge in there.” The comm crackled. “I have people skills, unlike some.”

“I, I’m sorry sir. I just. I didn’t know what to do.” Jillins babbled. “There were so many of them. They killed him. Tore him apart and flew off like it was nothing.”

“Wingmaw are dangerous.” Quinn soothed. “And were not supposed to be anywhere close to your patrol route. You are alive, ensign. Alive. Breath.”

The lieutenant’s head shot up, looking at them. His eyes dipped to the lightsaber hanging off Morgan’s belt, eyes widening. “Come now, ensign Jillins. Go find the others. Get some food in you.”

The ensign shuffled out, not sparing either of them a glance. Quinn stood, bowing formally. “Apologies, my lord. Lieutenant Malavai Quinn. I’m to be your liaison here on Balmorra.”

“Well met, lieutenant. What happened?”

Quinn flinched slightly, looking at the door. “Jillins’s a local, one whose house was bombed by resistance forces about a year ago, killing his family. He’s been an ardent supporter of the Empire since, so much so they graduated him early from training. Good shot, loyal to a fault and a near expert with explosives thanks to his dad.”

“A miner by trade.” He clarified at Vette’s raised eyebrow, who by now had joined Morgan in taking her helmet off. “Him and Habo were ambushed during their patrol by Wingmaw, dangerous flying insects that command reported didn’t exist within fifty clicks of Sobrik.”

Quinn’s eyes unfocussed. “They were wrong, and now I have to bury another one of mine. Quite possibly scarring Jillians for life, as an added bonus.”

The lieutenant focused. “Apologies, you are not here to listen to me complain. Lord Baras will brief you personally, but I’m here to acquaint you with the climate on Balmorra. How much do you already know?”

Morgan sat on one of the bunks, his armour making it creek. It held, to his relief. That would not have been a good first impression. “The Empire conquered it during the last war, with a bitter resistance forming immediately after. Rumoured to have Republic backing, and extraordinarily well supplied. The numerous weapon facilities on the planet means they can fight far above their weight class, and sympathies run high for them. They want their home back, and will fight to the end to achieve it.”

“I’m not one to judge the righteousness of their actions.” Quinn said carefully. “But you are correct. High levels of support and expertise has been reported on most, if not all, attacks made by the resistance. The Imperial Conquest Consolidation Corpse, or ICCC, have their hands full. I’m afraid you cannot expect much support outside of myself and my men for your mission, my lord.”

Well, that wasn’t true. “That’s alright, lieutenant. We’ll have to make do.”

Quinn looked relieved, walking to the holoprojector mounted against the wall. “I have a secure line to Lord Baras. I’ll patch him through.”

The grainy image of Baras soon joined them, towering above them imperiously. “I see you’ve convened with my apprentice. Very good. Lieutenant, leave us.”

Quinn bowed and left without a word, Vette joining him. Unlike Quinn, she stopped at the door. Out of earshot but still blocking access to the room. Morgan suppressed a trill of fondness, focussing on Baras.

“Quinn owes his career to me, but we should keep the details of your mission between the two of us.” Too late for that, Morgan reflected. “We must act swiftly. Commander Rylon must be silenced, preferably with his cover intact. He acts as my central contact for all operatives in this sector. Losing such a valuable piece is bad enough, and I will not have the entire sector purged.”

Baras scowled, leaning forward. “Quinn is tracking the investigator sent by the jedi. That means we have to cover our tracks before you kill Rylon. Destroy the evidence that links Rylon to the sabotaging of Balmorra’s defence systems during the war. Break into the satellite control tower and wipe it clean. Quinn has all the relevant details.”

The hologram flickered out, Baras’s voice drifting out before the connection cut entirely. “Consider it an introduction to proper war, apprentice. Try not to die, but if you must, take out the tower in the process.”

Vette dragged Quinn back inside, the lieutenant smiling slightly at something she had said. Morgan felt an unexpected pang of jealousy, smashing it an instant later. “Me and my men are ready to assist, my lord.”

Morgan nodded. “Very good, lieutenant. We will depart at sunrise tomorrow.”

He waited a second, but the lieutenant said nothing. Vette rolled her eyes. “This is the part where you protest if you need more time, Quinn. He won’t cut your head off.”

Quinn hesitated. “Afternoon would be better, my lord. That part of the region is covered in steep mountains, the cold making an early assault difficult. Its protections are automated, so the time of attack will not matter to them.”

“Afternoon it is.” Morgan agreed readily. “I am no military man, lieutenant. Vette is correct. I will rely on you to point out any mistakes I might make, preferably before I make them.”

Quinn straightened, relaxing. “As you say, my lord. I will prepare my men.”

Vette piped up when Quinn was gone, turning to him as they walked out.

“I like him. Can we keep him when we’re done here?”