Maybe he'd had enough to drink for today, after all.

Dhur said. "Let's look at the replay on that." He touched a control on the sphere.

Everyone sat up and watched carefully as the scene began again at one-quarter speed.

Even slowed down, it wasn't easy to see exactly what Phow Ji did, but Jos knew enough anatomy to recognize what damage had been inflicted as the three mercenar-ies fell. One had a crushed larynx, one a broken neck, and the third had taken an elbow to the temple that had surely cracked the skull. All three injuries were apt to be fatal if not treated, and he didn't see any Separatist medics in the jungle clearing.

Phow Ji went to each in turn, squatted next to the body, and appeared to take something.

The image froze as he squatted next to the last one.

"Not sure what he was doing at the end," Dhur said, "but I'd guess he was taking some kind of trophies. Sep-aratist troops use sub-Q implants for ID, so it's proba-bly pieces of clothing, or... something."

Looking around the table, Jos knew everyone was thinking the same thing-the "something" Ji had taken could have been a chevron or some other adornment - or it could have been a finger, or an ear.

"The droid's power kicked out about then, 'cause that's all there is." Dhur looked at Jos.

"Worth the drink, Doc?"

"Worth several," Jos replied quietly. "However many it takes to forget it."

"He killed those three mercs," Zan said, outrage in his voice. "With his bare hands. He could be court-martialed and sent to prison for that!"

"Not likely," Dhur said. "They were mercenaries, pretty much the sc.u.m of the galaxy, on a battlefield, and it was three against one. Except for this recording, there were no witnesses, and who would trust an enemy cam droid? Everybody knows how easy it is to fake such things. They could have left this here for just that purpose, for all we know."

"Cold-blooded murder," Zan said. His voice was thick.

"People die in wars, Captain," Dhur said. "If Ji had shot them down, n.o.body would blink twice at it. En-emy troops, on a field of battle, looting the bodies of our dead? Even though he killed them with his bare hands, there are a lot of Republic officers who would say 'More power to him!' and put him up for a medal."

Zan finished off the last of his drink and set the gla.s.s down carefully. "I hate this war," he said. "I hate every-thing about it. What kind of people are we that such things can go on and n.o.body is outraged? What does that say about us?"

n.o.body had an answer to that.

Zan stood, carefully, for he had drunk enough to make him unsteady. You couldn't tell unless you knew him, but Jos could see it. "I am going to bed," the Zabrak said. "Don't wake me until the war is over."

After he walked away, Dhur sipped at his own drink. "There's a good story here, though I doubt the censors will let it by. The citizens back home might find it... disturbing." He paused. "Your friend's too sensitive to be here. He's an artist. They never do very well in wars."

"Does anybody?" Jos asked.

Dhur nodded at the frozen holoproj image. "Some do. Where else can you legally beat people to death and get paid for it?"

On her way back to her quarters, Barriss thought about the recording she had seen. It was night, warm and muggy, and wingstingers and scavenger moths swarmed the glow lamps, casting giant, ghostly shad-ows. A late thunderstorm grumbled in the distance, heat lightning flashing in the darkness. The rain would be welcome if it got this far-it would cool the smother-ing, sticky air somewhat, and the sound of it on the foamcast roof of her cubicle would be comforting. She could certainly stand some comfort-there was little enough to be found on Drongar. Tropical worlds had their beauty, and humans were at their core tropical, or at least temperate, creatures, but she preferred cooler worlds. A walk in the snow was, for her, far more in-vigorating than one in broiling sunshine.

The Jedi part of her had been impressed by Phow Ji's efficiency as a fighter. His moves had been fluid and powerful; against an opponent unaided by the Force, he would be formidable indeed.

But the part of her that lay deep beneath her Jedi training was repulsed by the violence.

It had been mur-der, for it was obvious that the three mercenaries had not had much, if any, of a chance of defeating Ji. Even three against one and barehanded, the odds had still been in his favor-and, of course, he had known it.

How many trophies did he have hanging on his wall? She did not really want to know, but again, a part of her was curious. Back in the Temple, she had once listened to Mace Windu tell a group of students that killing somebody was easy-you could do it with a single swipe of your lightsaber. But living with the knowledge that you had killed somebody would change you for-ever. The Jedi Master had been right-it had certainly changed her. Killing was not a thing you did lightly, not if you had any kind of compa.s.sion, or even minimally decent moral and ethical codes. Sometimes, to protect the innocent, or one's own life, justice and survival de-manded a Jedi strike with enough power to lay an at-tacker low.

But the fact that it was necessary did not absolve you from seeing the faces in your dreams, or hearing the anguished cries of the fallen late in the silent night. How could a person with any humanity at all de-liberately go out and stalk victims, kill them with his bare hands, and then take trophies to remind himself that he had done it?

As if he could possibly forget?

The Force allowed you to be a powerful fighter, but it also leavened your impulse to do violence. When you knew what you could do with your lightsaber, knew how deadly you were, it gave you pause. Because you could do a thing did not mean that you should...

She shook her head. Phow Ji was a killer, a seeker and savorer of violence, and whether he did it as some per-sonal challenge or because he enjoyed it really didn't matter-it was a sickness. If she could touch his mind, bring the Force to bear upon his psyche, maybe she could cure him of this sickness.

Or maybe he could infect you with it.

She shook her head again, this time against her own thoughts. The constant pressure here, the intensity of the work, the lack of real rest... all these things took their toll. A Jedi who was worried that the Force couldn't protect her against a trained thug was defi-nitely overfatigued. She should get to bed and sleep - she needed it.

In the distance, the thunder grew louder. Good. Maybe the rain would wash away some of these dark thoughts along with the spores and rot in the air...

15.

Getting rid of the body on board the MedStar would have been easy. A little messy work with an industrial vibroblade, then a trip down to the waste station with a bulky, liquid-proof bag, and hatoo! Mathal, the dead human, would be no more than garbage by now, indistinguishable from the rest of the all-purpose trash that was sieved from waste disposers and even-tually s.p.a.ced. But Bleyd knew that to have an agent of Black Sun mysteriously disappear, especially when he could be traced as far as Bleyd's ship, would be bad. They would automatically suspect him-rightly so in this case-and having Black Sun turn a quizzical frown in his direction was not even remotely appeal-ing.

The problem was, there was no flunky Bleyd could trust to help him. The troops owed their fealty to the Republic, not to him personally. Droids' cognitive mod-ules could be probed, and even after extensive repro-gramming their data banks might retain residual quantum imprints. Some of the ship's personnel might be amenable to bribes, but there was no way to know if their loyalty would stay bought.

Which meant he had to do all that needed to be done himself.

Fortunately, he had considered his actions for some time and in detail; this left only the actual execution of his plan. It entailed some risks, but Bleyd felt it could be managed, with sufficient attention to each element.

The admiral first treated his own wounds-Mathal had been skilled enough with a blade to mark him. Bleyd had known that would be the case going in. It was the way of knife fighting-only a fool believed that fac-ing an opponent with a knife would end without blood-shed. In his case, the injury was not serious-two long, shallow cuts on his right forearm. The pressure of his thumb for a few minutes on the proper nerve ganglion had stopped the bleeding temporarily, and an applica-tion of synthflesh would finish the job.

His injuries attended to, Bleyd then put Mathal's corpse into one of the carbon-freezing chambers in the quarantine section and sealed the body into a rectan-gular carbonite block big enough to show no sign of what was contained within. This he then holostamped with markings indicating that the block contained a set of defective harvesting enzyme converters. Sealing such volatile and active catalytical components for transport was normal enough. Then, with the help of a small antigrav generator, he moved it via the service lift tube to the aft cargo hold's trash lock.

In theory, he could have shipped the dead agent to a chemical storage warehouse and had him shelved. As long as he paid the pittance of a fee, the block of densely interlaced carbon and tibanna atoms containing Mathal's remains would sit stacked there forever, un-molested and uninspected.

But the body itself was of no consequence. The trick was to convince a skeptical Black Sun that their human agent had left Bleyd's ship in his own vessel, and that the ship had subsequently been destroyed by forces unconnected to Bleyd.

That next part would be a bit trickier, because on this vessel, everyone knew who Admiral Bleyd was-by sight, or, if not blessed with that sense, then by smell, taste, touch, or hearing. In order to continue his plan, Bleyd had to be disguised.

He had pondered this aspect at some length, and had i decided that a simple disguise was better than an elabo-rate one.

He returned to his quarters. There he packed into a small case a long, white robe, hooded with an osmotic veil that would completely conceal his features. The robe was identical to the ones worn by a meditative] caste of siblings-in-service called The Silent. There were usually a few of The Silent to be found on any large medical ship, since the order's universal mission was to aid the sick and injured. They did not speak aloud, even to each other. They took their meals in private and wore their hoods up in public, effectively hiding their identi-ties at all times. A few days ago Bleyd had surrepti-tiously caused microtransmitters to be placed in their food-tiny devices no larger than grains of sand, which enabled him to track those few of The Silent who were on board, at least for a while. He would not run into one of them by accident, and no one else would be able to sense who was under the ersatz robe.

The refresher next to the library was empty, and it

was one that was not covered by surveillance cams. Ad-miral Bleyd entered the 'fresher; it was a nameless, face-less member of The Silent who emerged.

None of the people he pa.s.sed on the way to the star-board docking bay did more than nod or smile at him, and he, of course, did not speak. He walked in a slight i stoop, aware that he was taller than most of the robed ones he had seen on the ship.

The Silent would not have the codes, nor the keycards for security doors that were locked, but Admiral Bleyd did. That part could be adjusted later-all traces of those security recordings would have to be altered or erased, leaving nothing that even the most diligent search might uncover. But there would be no such search, because there would be no reason for it. A per-son might remember one of The Silent pa.s.sing through these doors, but it was unlikely in the extreme that any-body would ever ask about it. And even if someone did, there would be no way to connect that shrouded figure to Bleyd. He was covered.

He smiled at that thought as he strolled, unhurried, about his task. He was covered, wasn't he? The osmotic veil pa.s.sed air freely, and allowed him an unimpeded view, but no one could see his face. It was pleasant. He found himself rather enjoying the novelty of being anonymous.

Mathal had been directed to park his small KDY Star-spin in the darkest, least-used corner of the subflight deck, where a light had burned out only moments be-fore, courtesy of a tiny timer that had, not coinciden-tally, vaporized with the electrical flare that killed the lamp. The ship had been precleared-on the admiral's orders-to leave at any time.

Bleyd smiled again as he approached the vessel. Yes, he had thought of everything. The key to a successful hunt was proper preparation. If you knew your destina-tion before you took the first step, you saved yourself endless amounts of grief.

Once in the ship, he informed the controllers that he wished to depart, and was granted immediate clearance.

He taxied the vessel through the double sets of pressure doors and onto the launch pad, waited for the green lights, and put the craft into s.p.a.ce.

Now came the hard part.

Timing was of the essence, if he was to pull this off. He looped under the multistoried keel of the medical frigate and headed aft, staying close enough to the hull so that the sensors couldn't see him. He rocketed past a few open portholes and smiled; anybody looking out would likely have gotten a sudden and considerable fright as he blew by them almost close enough to touch. In theory, however, that was good. If anyone ever did ask-not likely, but if they did-then the recklessness of the Black Sun pilot would surely be remarked upon.

Yar, I saw him. Freaking fool near broke the trans-paristeel port, he was so close-!

As he headed for the aft trash lock, Bleyd began to seal the robe. Under the cloth was a thinskin emer-gency vac suit, complete with gloves and boot seals, a flexicris head shroud and face cover. The emergency air tank held but five minutes of life-thinskin vac suits were designed to work inside a ship during a sudden atmosphere loss, and then only long enough to get to a pressurized section or a full vac suit. But five minutes would be more than enough, a.s.suming everything went as planned...

The trash lock was just ahead. Bleyd triggered the re-mote control, and the hatch dilated.

A second remote activated the antigrav unit on the carbonite slab and pushed it out the lock.

Expertly, for he was a good pilot, Bleyd pulled the Starspin to a velocity matching the slow-moving slab's, then used a grapple arm to grab it and pull it against the ship's body. He locked the arm in place.

He took a deep breath. This part wouldn't be pleas-ant, but he could not tarry. He sealed the vac suit, acti-vated the airflow, and cycled the ship's canopy open. Then he maneuvered himself out of the c.o.c.kpit, aimed at the open trash hatch, and pushed off.

Since the MedStar's...o...b..tal position was currently over the night side of Drongar, it was cold out there, a biting, harsh chill that stabbed him through the robe and thinskins like a thousand needles of frozen nitro-gen impaling him all at once. But he ignored the cold, refused to accept the shock it threatened to plunge his system into. Bred into him was the stamina and strength of a thousand generations of hunters, an ar-mor woven from his ancestors' ancient DNA. His re-solve was icier by far than the void through which he floated.

His aim was a hair off, but not so much that he missed the hatch. As soon as he was in the ship's gravity field, he dropped, but he had been expecting that, and he landed on his feet, his balance firm. He slapped the hatch control, and the hatch constricted and closed. The chamber, even unpressurized, was still considerably warmer than the raw vacuum outside.

He activated the pressurization cycle and moved to the viewport to look at Mathal's ship, triggering the re-mote for it as he did so. The Starspin's ion drive lit, and the little vessel, its carbonite load still firm in its grasp, shot silently off into s.p.a.ce.

Bleyd watched for a moment. The course was laid in-there was nothing more to be done now.

He unsealed the vac suit and headed for the inner lock door. In a matter of a few minutes, an unidentified ves-sel would violate Separatist orbital s.p.a.ce on the far side of the planet. The ship would not respond to queries, nor would it deviate from its course. There would be warnings given, and finally the Separatist batteries would open up, and the ship would be blown to bits.

And alas, Mathal, the representative of Black Sun, would be vaporized as well, and n.o.body would ever be able to tell that he had been dead before it happened, for the thermonuclear explosion that destroyed the Star-spin would not leave enough of the slagged carbonite to fill a wingstinger's ear. There would, however, be just enough trace molecular residue to establish that an or-ganic body, probably humanoid, had been vaporized along with the ship.

No one would be particularly surprised, either. While the rules of war forbade one side attacking the other's...o...b..ting medical frigate, no such injunction held against the invaded side defending itself.

As he stripped off the robe and thinskins to change back into a spare uniform, left there earlier for that pur-pose, Bleyd went over it yet again. He was no fugue master, but he was adept enough at dissembling to pull this off. When Black Sun came to call, as eventually they would, and when they asked him what had become of Mathal, as eventually they would, he did not doubt that he would be able to pa.s.s a truth-scan, if he worded his reply carefully enough.

Mathal? He left here in his ship, but for some reason he flew into Separatist s.p.a.ce. They shot him down. Most regrettable, but this is, after all, a war zone, and Mathal did not have the proper clearances...

Which was all technically true.

There would be records in the ship's systems to show just that. Controller's logs, sensor logs, maybe even an eyewitness or three who saw the ship fly past, obviously piloted by an idiot, given how close he had been to the hull...

And nothing to show anything else.

Of course, it was a temporary stopgap at best. Sooner or later, Black Sun would wish to reinstigate its de-mands, but by then Bleyd would have another plan in place. Perhaps he could use Filba to buy more time. In any event, he would continue to smuggle the bota and add to his fortune...

16.

Barriss would not have sought out a confrontation with Phow Ji-Jedi were trained to deal with conflict, not to go looking for it when there was no compelling reason to do so. What she had seen of Ji's action in the field had been reprehensible, in her opinion, but her mission was not that of military security. It was not her job to demand rest.i.tution for the mercenaries' deaths.

But the next morning, as she had gone out into the dawn's relatively cool light to do some stretching exer-cises, the Bunduki fighter had swaggered into view and stopped to watch.

"Up early, eh, Jedi?" There seemed always to be a sneer in his voice. She didn't bother to reply to the obvi-ous comment, but instead continued her exercises.

"You don't look to be in bad shape," he commented. "Good to see that you don't rely entirely on your 'magic'"

There was still no reason to engage in conversation, as far as Barriss was concerned. She was sitting on the damp ground, her legs extended to either side in a full split. She leaned over first one knee, pressing her cheek against her outer thigh, then did the same for the other side, feeling her hamstrings and back muscles warm with the effort.

"I wasn't aware that the Jedi took vows of stillness," he said. His voice was clipped, now, and there was an edge of steel underlying it.

She stood and extended her hands straight over her head. "We don't," she said, bending to put her hands flat on the ground, keeping her legs straight. "We talk when we have something to say-not simply to hear our own voices."

"You're angry. I thought Jedi kept their emotions un-der control." Ji smiled. "Something I said?" His tone was taunting.

Barriss raised herself from the front bend, brushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair back, and turned to look directly at him. "No. Something you did. You murdered three mercenaries."

If that surprised Ji, his face didn't show it. He gave her a small, bland smile. "And what makes you think so?"

"Someone recovered a crippled cam droid. It was all recorded."

"Really? I'd like to see that."

She could hear the interest in his comment; she did not need to use the Force to know the truth of it.

"Taking trophies wasn't enough?"

Ji made a gesture probably intended to be self-deprecating. "Well, I can only see things from my own viewpoint. A holorecording from other angles would be useful in self-critiquing my moves. Besides, I have a wall full of trophies. But a holo? That would be a first."

Barriss shook her head. "It doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

"What?"

He was baiting her, that she knew. Be ever mindful of the living Force-that had been the advice of Qui-Gon Jinn. She had been quite young when the Jedi Master had died in the Battle of Naboo, but she still remem-bered hearing that-one of the first bits of Jedi wisdom imparted to her. Rise above this, she told herself. But she could not help answering him.

"That you beat three people to death."