The planning discussion can be found here.



Coruscant. 10.9 years after the Battle of Yavvin. Relona.

Palpatine is dead. Finally. Ultimately I hope. Indeed, messages of enemy leaders mysteriously rising from the dead aren’t what I’d call my favourite morning news; They make more than your caf chill and, in my post especially, call for a lot of explaining. Why? How? Can his reign at all be defeated?

Of course, men.

Of course, I sent for details per express delivery. I needed details. Every unreliable information baneful to future trust. And loss of confidence oft the price of messages spread unprocessed. We needed to be creative while specialists worked on a solution. The specialist we’d counted on had been Skywalker in the first round. Still it seemed not even death wanted the guy. Palpatine I mean—though, actually, I’m not fond of the Jedi either.

Occultist chaps.

I wished we’d been able to get along without them. But well, this stubborn Emperor was one of those occultists himself. Obviously. The show he delivered was more than simple cloning—we did our best to leave that aside in official informations. Anyhow, it took yet another of those glow-rod brandishing people to finally do away with what hung around of the old bastard. Empatajayos Brand, after what leaked through. A hero. That luckily carried out his task with a complete disregard for his own life.

Yes, he got killed.

And yes, I do find people like them unnatural. Eerie at any rate. The power they hold lets them look down at your decently normal man as a creature in need of protection. It leads them to misuse it after their whims and claim they were directed by said higher power itself. To keep up the galaxy’s order and balance. Hah! If they’d ever been able to, or willing, to do their proclaimed job we hadn’t possibly slided into this mess of a civil war, had we? Unfortunately my son, Gavin, showed a certain intrigue whenever he picked up something about those ‘knights’. It had me frown. Or maybe I was just jealous? Ridiculous!

But.. I digress.

Fact is, soon after the Emperor’s ultimate death the battle for Coruscant was finally won; Our Republican core recaptured, the triumphal march through, victory celebrations subsided. Having completed my notes on where and how to direct further recordings during the reconstruction I was happy to return home. Sleepy I leant back in the ocean-liner sized air bus to Coruscant spaceport  and smiled, dreaming ahead of my family.


Catharin, Gavin.

I’d come by a holo-model of the Galactical senate even. Though, of course, my boy, soon turning seventeen, was much too old for such toys. Just I didn’t regard it as a toy, the Galactical senate. To me it was more like a symbol. The core of democrathy and justice we fought for. The reason I’d been absent for long. That I hoped he’d understand.

My business might only be words.

Indeed, at times that narked me. I was rarely myself under fire. At times I felt hypocritical for that. But, on the other hand—with the countless of wounded and killed who should have been properly recorded, man by man—it made the difference of alcoholism, suicide or saddened pride what messages you sent to their bereaved families.

I deemed this important.

I found it mattered a lot whether you addressed an unfortunate loss in human ressources or every soldier by name who had faithfully served to win back our all liberty. This, in the end, laid down how much their life had been worth and reassured us all our devotion would be valued. It was the very least we could offer—along with reliable welfare for the surviving dependent. Unfortunately not all of those generals shared my sentiments. Or cared for the recommendations we worked out for their speeches.

In fact, I’d found myself concerned to pick a discussion with one or the other..

..of these downright insensitive Bantha heads! Lookoan for example, I bet he hated me—and the more after I positively obliged him to follow the guidelines by pointing some significant superiors’ attention his way. Luckily that was but one part of my area of responsibility. halfwise through my justifications I blinked into the Coruscant sunset.


Then came the flash.

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

Approaching the shoreline of Corellia’s famed Gold Beaches, Gavin throttled back his speederbike and slowly coasted to a halt. The tourist season was over, and the beach was nearly empty save for a bonfire in the not too far distance. His friends, gathering around the flames to ward off the chill that was blowing in with the wind off the ocean. He could hear an occasional burst of laughter from the group, and Gavin decided that a couple of them had already popped open a few ales. He figured that he should go over and join his friends, but not yet.

Raising the face shield on his helmet, Gavin looked out over the dark ocean, beyond the waves glowing green with phosphorescence, out toward the horizon, beyond Corellia. Up toward the stars, shining like durindfire gems in a sea of obsidian. Not quite yet considered an adult on Corellia, Gavin was already beginning to feel the wanderlust that characterized his people. His father was out among those stars, perhaps satisfying his own instincts that Gavin felt as he served the New Republic.

Coruscant. Gavin could hardly imagine such a planet. Almost completely paved over and built up. It was said that some building towered thousands of kilometers into the sky, and that a person couldn’t see to the bottom of the urban abyssal depths. A rotten, miserable existence actually, Gavin thought, grateful once again that he lived on Corellia, where there were real beaches, forests, and meadows to enjoy. Perhaps when his father returned from his duties with OPI, the family could pay a visit to Grandpa’s place out in the country. Of course, Father’s homecoming wasn’t going to be all joyous, especially when he found out that Gavin had received yet another traffic citation, this time for–

“Hey, GeeVee! Over here!” someone in the crowd shouted and waved for him to come over. His reverie over, Gavin revved his speederbike and glided over to the bonfire. “’Sup, GeeVee?” Ilir Linn asked as pulled a bottle out of a cooler. “Want an ale?”
“Naw,” Gavin said slowly, “ I’d better not. Last thing I need is to have my mom finding me coming home drunk. My ass is in a sling as it is,” he said, waving the pale yellow citation.
“Oh no, Gavin! Not another one!” Pamr Antyllies said, giving the teen a sympathetic look.
“Twice the posted limit.” Gavin shook his head. “My old man’s really gonna hit the roof this time.”
“So you got another citation. Big deal,” Ilir replied as he took a swig of ale. “You and yer old man’s got connections. He’s gotten you off the hook before.”
“Yeah, but last time my dad gave me some song and dance about how I’m supposed to be an adult now, and can’t rely on him always bailing me out. Besides, its not like how it used to be anymore.”

Gavin was right about that. His father had earned his reputation in the CorSec, but that organization was gone now, dissolved by the Diktat, and replaced by the Public Safety Service. The "Pissers", as Gavin and his friends called them. The old CorSec vets that Matheron Thayer had served with, and had transferred over to the new force, were growing fewer and fewer with each passing month. The new officers were a more suspicious lot, constantly harassing Gavin and his friends, especially those who weren’t human.

Gavin couldn’t understand how someone, especially a Corellian, could have such prejudices. Selonians and Drall had lived in the Corellian system as long as humans did, and they had every right to claim Corellia as home as anyone else did. And the Ranats, Nimbanese, Rodians, Squib, and other beings who lived and worked on the planet didn’t deserve to be treated as an inferior merely because they didn’t look how someone thought they should. Heck, if one looked throughout the Galaxy, humans seemed to be the odd-looking species.

“ I feel like going to the Blue Sector,” Ilir announced, as he finished off his bottle of ale. The Blue Sector. Coronet’s “adult” playground and hotbed of vice. Its reputation at one time was titillating; now it was just a gritty haven for cheap thrills. Treasure Ship Row was in even worse shape. The carnival-like atmosphere that had once epitomized the area was gone; all that remained were a dwindling number of grim shops that catered to a criminal element. The fortunes of Treasure Ship Row was a reflection of Corellia’s: sinking. And the people’s weren’t too much better. Gavin was lucky his father and mother had jobs with the New Republic. “Anyone else want to go?” Ilir asked.

Most of the human teens said they would; the other beings demurred, knowing that their presence would merely be a lightning rod for trouble. Gavin began to feel slightly depressed. His human friends seemed to be gravitating more and more toward a cycle of self-destruction, his sentient friends sinking into a pit of resentment and rage due to prejudice against them. Deep down, Gavin feared the day when his friends would begin to start thinking and acting like the adults.

“Goin’ with us, GeeVee?” someone asked, but Gavin shook his head no. “Suit yourself, then.” Slowly, the group of teens began to break up and drift away, and Gavin began to debate whether to take another high speed circuit of Coronet, traffic enforcement be damned.
“Gavin?”
“P-Pamr,” the teen stuttered in reply.
“Do you think you could give me a ride home? I didn’t want to go to the Blue Zone with the rest of them.”
“S-Sure,” Gavin stammered, silently cursing his nervousness. “Climb on,” he said, hopping off his speederbike and removing his helmet. “Just hold on to-” Gavin began when he suddenly dropped his helmet.
“Gavin, what’s wrong?” Pamr asked worriedly.
“I, I don’t know. I just suddenly felt something, something really weird,” Gavin said dully, noticing that he was clutching himself and trembling.
“I think we should go,” Pamr whispered.

“Sometimes that’s what I dream about, me and my ship, sailing along through the cosmos,” Gavin said, sitting on the front steps of Pamr’s house and hoping he didn’t sound too foolish. “I think my dad would approve, but my mom probably wants me to go to Corellia University.”
Pamr smiled at Gavin, causing his heart to quicken its beating. “ I hope you’ll be able to do what you want, Gavin. I wish I could go to the university, but my parents have been out of work, and I don’t think I could get a scholarship.”
“Don’t think that way. You should at least try.”
“I know,” Pamr sighed, “but I may have join one of the NR work programs. At least that way my family will have some credits.”
“Things will get better here,” Gavin said earnestly. “They have too! Nobody keeps us down.”
“I hope so. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t go with the others to the Blue Sector. I always knew you weren’t like that.”
Gavin blushed, not knowing quite what to say. He didn’t exactly want to be a goody two-shoes but, blast it, if that’s what it took to get Pamr to look at him the way she was now, then…

A sudden tone from his comlink made Gavin wince. He thought about just ignoring the call, but a second tone, his mother’s special alert call, caused him to snatch the device from his pocket.
“Hello?”
“Gavin, it’s Mother. Come home. Please.”
The tone of his mother’s voice made Gavin tense with alarm. “Mom! What’s wrong?”
“Gavin,” Catharin’s voice cracked, came out a whisper, “please come home.”
“Gavin, what’s wrong?” Pamr asked worriedly.
“I don’t know, but I have to go. I’ll see you later Pamr,” Gavin said as he clambered on to his speederbike and sped away.
“Pamr, who was that?” Mr. Antyllies asked as he came out onto the porch.
“Just Gavin. He had to go suddenly.”
“What were you two talking about?”
“Not much. Gavin was just telling me about how he wanted to be a pilot.”

“Mom! Mom!” Gavin shouted as he burst into his family’s home. He found his mother in the main salon, sitting by the holonet transceiver, her eyes red-rimmed. “Mom?” Gavin asked, but his mother merely laid her head down on the console and began weeping. The teen could see that a message had been sent, and cautiously, Gavin hit the repeat button. He was taken slightly aback, for the image that formed was none other than the Chief of State Organa Solo.

“To the Thayer family, Catharin and Gavin.
It is with deep regret that I greet you with the news that Matheron Thayer, your beloved husband and father, has been grievously wounded in an Imperial terrorist attack. I am afraid I cannot give you his current prognosis, but rest assured, that he is receiving the finest medical care the Republic has to offer. We in the New Republic are deeply thankful for Matheron’s dedication to the government, and highly respect your willingness to allow him to serve. Our thoughts and prayers are with you during this difficult time, and hope your reunion with Matheron will swift and joyous.
On behalf of the New Republic, Leia Organa Solo.”

Gavin sank to his knees as the image de-rezzed. His breath came in short gasps, his throat constricted. “Mom,” was all he could whimper as he grasped her around the waist and buried his face against her.

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

Our son.

The comforting embrace of Gavin's arms could not have come at a better time.  There were so many thoughts and far too many unknowns.  Catharin wrapped her arms tightly around their son as her emotions poured free.  Matheron.  It was difficult to picture him in danger.  Not him.  No.  He was far too strong to let anything happen.

"Grievously wounded."

Fingers stroked the softness of Gavin's hair in a repeated effort to calm him.  Or was it more to calm herself?  She had to be strong, for all their sakes.  The inner trembling just wouldn't subside, and she hated it.  Hated feeling that weakness.  Hated not knowing.  She felt so small.  Just a speck in the grand scheme of things.  How could she ever hope to get anything accomplished?  Damn those Imperials!

A shuddered breath would bring a moment of peace; a clarity of the mind, even.  Catharin's hands braced evenly against Gavin's shoulders, and she pushed him back gently to look into his eyes.  The eyes of his father.

"Go upstairs and get your things together."

The look on their son's face was dire.  Grim.  She wouldn't have it.  No, she couldn't.  Fingers released him to brush aside her tears, then Catharin slowly stood up.

"Gavin, go get your things.  We are going to go find your father."

She saw his sadness waver, took witness to the doubt in his eyes.  Quietly she pulled him to his feet, then cupped his cheeks in the warmth of her palms.  "He's alive."  She wouldn't believe otherwise.  Not unless she was standing before his lifeless body.  That was an image that she couldn't even bring to mind.

Infused with his mother's strength, Gavin nodded and left to make his preparations.  Catharin turned to the transciever and set up a connection with the Office of Foreign Ministry.  By the time their shuttle pod arrived, she had made connections on Coruscant with several offices there.  They left for the port immediately.


Six days after the attack.

It was tiring.  She supposed that they liked it that way.  Maybe she would give up in another day or two.  The thought invoked anger that was already nearing its boiling temp.  Catharin sat before the holovid, her arms crossed over her chest as she waited.  Three hours!  She could hardly understand why it had already taken them so long to get the necessary information.

Cut the crap!

Through initial visits with secretaries of secretaries and the ocassional explanation that 'investigations were still under way', Catharin had been patient.  Extremely so.  To a fault.  And where was it getting her?  Already she had called in favors with the OFM on Coruscant, and had received the run-around on details concerning her husband and the attack.  With options running out, the only one becoming left to her was anger.

She let it seethe within her.  Waiting.

"Mrs. Thayer?"  The white on black emblem of the Alliance wavered into a face she hadn't seen before.  Catharin sat up as hope flowed into her.

"Yes."

She looked to the man expectantly, waiting for the information that would lead her to Matheron.

"I'm sorry for the long delay.  I am Lieutenant Tole and I have been placed in charge of your claim."  Her…claim?  Catharin ground her teeth as she listened to the man's report on what he'd found.  Same information.  Nothing new.  In the middle of his blathering, Catharin held up a hand as she interrupted him.

"So, what you are telling me is that you still haven't found him?  Your telling me that your incompetence and the incompetence of your office can not tell me where I can find my husband?!"

Voice was raising.  She'd had enough.  "Now, ma'am…."  Catharin's glare sealed his mouth shut.  She grabbed the notepad and pen at her side, then began jotting down notes as she continued to speak.

"For four days I have been here.  I have spoken with numerous people, most of which have no idea that an attack even took place.  I have been sent from office to office in the hopes that at least someone would be able to help me.  And now, here I am again, speaking with someone whose sole purpose is to keep me occupied!"

Her hand continued to scribble more and more notes upon the page.  Catharin paused as her gaze returned to the lieutenant.  She took satisfaction out of the fact that he appeared rather nervous.

"I am tired of playing these games.  I want to know where Matheron is, and I want to know right now."

The man stood there sputtering for a moment, uncertain of what to say.  Catharin sat her pen down upon her paper and looked him square in the eyes.

"I am going to give you twenty four hours.  Twenty four hours to find something, anything, that is going to lead us to my husband's whereabouts.  If you don't come to me with some information when next I speak with you, then I am going to be forced to report you and everyone else I have dealt with to the proper authority.  If I must…"

Catharin paused for effect, her hand picking up her pen once more as she tapped it against the paper.

"…I will seek an audience with Mrs. Organa Solo herself, whom I am certain would be interested in learning just how incompetent those who are placed in these offices truly are."

He blanched at the idea of his superiors placing the blame of this incident on him.

"Twenty four hours, lieutenant.  Good evening."

With that, Catharin severed the link.  For several moments she sat before the dark holovid, her trembling taking over her senses.  Matheron, where are you?  Behind her came comforting hands that braced against her arms.  "We'll find him, mom."

Gavin.  Dear, sweet, precious Gavin.

Catharin raised a hand and placed it over one of his.  She nodded even as a single tear rolled down her cheek.  He was out there.  She knew it with the entirety of her soul.


The damned shuttle couldn't move fast enough.

Catharin sat in the bench seat, Gavin at her side.  The nervous tapping of her foot against the pod's metal floor made little noise as the engines roared.  They sped towards one of Coruscant's many hospitals, the one that supposedly housed Matheron.  Across from their seat rested Lieutenant Tole and two other men that he had brought with him.  She supposed that it was a ploy to look official.

Still, she was grateful to him.

Apparently, some records had been messed up.  Some spelling got mustered.  The event was still under serious investigation.

Whatever the reason, Catharin no longer cared.  Tole had done his job, she couldn't ask for more than that.  Most important was that Matheron was alive.  The medical report had been damned vague.  Unfit for duty.  No matter what had happened, her and Gavin would make things right.  Together, they would take Matheron home.

The moment they stopped, Cathy was up.  And out.  Tole and his goons were an asset, one that she used with amazing sway.  Fraggin' nurses, damned reports.  The first one she came to found herself being ushered right along to find the necessary information.

As Matheron struggled to get to his feet, the door swished aside to admit the arrivals.  Catharin stood there as a flood of relief, gratitude and love poured from her in a tidal release.

Without further delay, she went to him.

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

“Damn!” Catharin Thayer muttered, peering out the viewport and cursing the interminable slowness of the shuttle. Her foot tapped impatiently against the deckplates, and Gavin felt compelled to give his mother’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t worry, Mom. Please,” Gavin said, attempting to interject some confidence into his voice. He had been trying to be a source of support for his mother these past days, though he wasn’t too sure that he was succeeding. Still, Catharin gave her son a smile, grateful for his efforts.

Dear Gavin; my darling boy, you’ve been so brave…

Striding through the corridors of the hospital, attempting to keep pace with his mother, Gavin’s nose wrinkled at the olfactory onslaught, assaulted by odors he had come to loathe: the commingled stench of bacta, ryll, synthflesh, antiseptics, disinfectants, and the stale scent of Coruscant’s reprocessed air.

The coldness and cheerlessness of the of the hospital struck Gavin as well; as a youngster, he had spent his fair share of time in Corellia’s medcenters, but they seemed to be positively joyous compared to this place. Corellian medcenters had been carefully designed to be soothing to the patients, almost creating the sense that they were recuperating in their own homes. Aiding in this was the fact that many of the medical personnel were Drall, that short, furry species whose stuffed toy-like appearance did much ease the patients' state of mind. No such resemblance in this place, though. Everywhere Gavin looked, all he could see were harsh colors, faceless med droids, and pale, soulless hospital staff.

“Here,” the nurse accompanying them said with distaste, while casting a disapproving glance at Catharin and Gavin. Offworlders was what the woman was obviously thinking, but Gavin and his mother couldn’t care less. As the portal slid aside, the long days of frustration and anxiety ended as the Thayer family was reunited.

Matheron slowly lifted his head, then struggled to rise from his bed as he recognized his family. Gavin and Catharin were momentarily shocked by Matheron’s appearance; through the translucent synthflesh, they could see ugly scars criss-crossing his shaven scalp. Gavin remained by the door as Catharin swept into the room and her husband’s waiting arms, the teenager wanting his parents to have a moment together.

Matheron embraced his wife tightly, frantically, a few tears escaping from his eyes as he ran his hands through Catharin’s dark hair, deeply inhaling the wonderful sweetness of her. “Cathy,” he whispered.

<img src="http://members.cox.net/isb_agent/COaby11.jpg" border="0" align="left" vspace="5" hspace="5"> “Matheron,” Catharin gasped huskily as her body was racked with sobs of relief. “I was so afraid,” she said as she looked up at her husband, her eyes brimming with tears. “I-”

“Shhh,” Matheron said, placing a finger on Catharin’s lips, before engaging her in a long, passionate kiss.

Gavin watched his parents, trying to keep his emotions in check. I’ve got to be a man about this he thought, but when his mother said ‘Gavin, come greet your father,’ the teen took a few hesitating steps forward, then all but launched himself at his father.

His arms wrapped around Matheron, Gavin wept uncontrollably as the built up strain of the past days finally released themselves. “Easy son,” Matheron said as he gently caressed his boy’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. Dad’s going to be fine.”

Raising his tear streaked face to grin happily at his father, Gavin’s smile cracked when he looked into Matheron’s eyes. No longer was there the warmth, understanding, and occasional twinkle; in its stead was a cold, hardened gaze. Gavin shrank back involuntarily, drawing a worried response from his mother.

“Gavin, what’s wrong?”

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

His abrupt move made me start, my heart raced.. I don’t know what he had seen, yet the look in his eyes revived terror. Impact, screams, tearing metal. Take cover! I’d nearly shouted at him.. then realized I lay in that bed. Sweating, shivering. Must have looked like a damn psycho. Great!

My boy looked dismayed, momentarily lowered his eyes then faced me with a supporting smile. While Cathy quietly took my hand, her gaze concerned and caring. I was lost. Wished they’d never seen me that way, for really only my own Mom had been entitled. But well, you grow older… pass time you change roles. Or should. And after an eternity apart I was thankful Cathy was here. Thankful for the both of them. Thankful after I’d feared…

For a moment I felt like crying. Wanted to snuggle into her, curl up, pull the bedclothes up over my head, take shelter from everything. Then my saviour was back. The other one I mean. He who kept me going past sundown to fight off those bastards.. or do what I could to support those who did. Yes, shavit, I never was a real frontliner and I have issues with that.

Anyway, this time they’d hit me.

Yet I wouldn’t let them get away with, nor submit to what they meant to inflict. Terror. Instability. Fear? Not I. Not in front of my family. In mind though aiming at the invisible enemy I forced a grin.

‘Come over. Everything’s alright.’ Gavin sat down opposite to Cathy, it was good to feel his small hand within mine and I did my best to stay steady. ‘Great you come rescue me of this snakepit,’ it was meant cheerful, yet made me realize the unpleasant reality the moment I’d spoken. Frak, they’d entered a terrorist-infected battlefield, stood here in a damned hospital—what better objective could there be for some sick mind? Frantically I thought through my options. Could I ask for a military transport? What of connections? My family! Bloody, they owed me that.

‘What is it?’ upon my familiar frown gently Catharin inquired.

‘I’m really happy you came… I missed you both, greatly.’ And another shared hug sealed the truth. I bet my roommates had been envious, had they not still drifted in semi-conscious slumber. ‘Yet I need to know you in safety. I’m sorry to say but Coruscant is…,’ well, it was obvious it wasn’t yet quite as pacified as we had wished for so I wasted no breath. ‘You must be back to Corellia.’   

‘No objections, Sir,’ Cathy kissed me smack on the nose. ‘Just so you think anything could make leave here without you. Sorry, no ten terrorists!’ Catharin. She must have read my mind. She always does. And Gavin sided with her, I know his pugnacious grin.

The next hours were the usual degrading procedures you undergo in every poor hospital possibly all around our galaxy. No, we can’t let him go. Under no circumstances. I can’t accept the responsibility. Still far from moveable.. safely I mean. No, the doctor in charge is unavailable. I said he may not.. But after the place is overcrowded, and the nurses are overtaxed and the whole staff is underpaid anyway. Er..  in that case, yes. But he can’t really walk, can he? Ah, well, sign here and I fetch a repulsorchair.

Yes, my lady she did the talking. I’d probably freaked out. My son but kept by my side, punishing objecting artificial or sentient beings with disgruntled gazes. He did that very convincing and I began wondering how many rows he’d started this time. The two of us waiting back in the sick-room, another patient meantime snoring aloud, I turned at my junior and asked the unavoidable.

‘Tell me, what's been happening while I've been away?’

I Want a Better Family!

Some weeks later, during dinner at the Thayer’s temporary residence

“Mom?”

Catharin winced at the sound of her son’s voice, knowing full well what was coming next. “Gavin, please! Just once, would you stop nagging?” she said crossly, unable to keep her voice under control.

“I just wanted to know when we’re going back to Corellia. Back home,” Gavin replied sulkily. “The second semester’s already started at school, and everyone’s getting ready for finals, graduation, and the Senior Dance.”

Why, Gavin, must you bring this up every night? Catharin thought bleakly as her temples began to throb with the beginnings of a massive migraine. Futilely, she began massaging her head in an attempt to alleviate the pain. I have enough stress to deal with as is.

The grievous injuries her husband had suffered in the attack on his shuttle was traumatic enough, and Matheron’s recovery was cause for further concern. His convalescence was taking much longer than expected; nor was he responding to therapy very well. Further, Matheron had been undeniably changed by his experience. At times, it seemed he scarcely resembled the man Catharin had wed.

And Gavin–lately, Catharin had found herself becoming increasingly irritated with her son, though she always felt an immediate pang of guilt whenever such emotions took hold. Gavin was clearly unhappy about having to remain on Coruscant, but he could at least try to make the best of the situation instead of constantly sulking and moping about. At times, it even seemed that her son deliberately injected a whining tone to his voice, just to antagonize her.

“You needn’t worry, Gavin, you won’t miss any such events,” Catharin stated flatly. “At the start of the week, you’ll be attending school here on Coruscant.”

“What?!?”

“Your father needs to continue his convalescence,” Catharin went on, “and the facilities here are the best for that purpose. He’s also receiving a promotion, and his new responsibilities will leave little time for him to travel between here and Corellia. And I’ve been promoted as well. I’m to receive a posting with the New Republic’s diplomatic corps here. And these opportunities require us to relocate to Coruscant.”

“This is totally unfair! All this doesn’t mean that I have to live here! Why can’t I stay with Grandmother and Grandfather?”

“Because that would be unfair to them. You know your grandmother’s health is not very good, and you’ve also proven to be quite irresponsible with that speeder bike of yours, young man. The last thing your grandparents need is the burden of being responsible for you, Gavin.”

Left unsaid was another reason Catharin didn’t want Gavin staying with his grandparents: Marissa Tatyana Thayer. Relations between Catharin and her Mother-in-law had always been somewhat prickly. Who knew what sort of malicious ideas Marissa would put into Gavin’s head?

“And not only that, but our family needs to remain together. Especially now. And you’re going to remain here because we’re your parents and we say so.” Catharin looked at him reproachfully. “Quite frankly, I’m very disappointed in you, young man. It would be nice if you could think of someone else, rather than yourself, once in a while.”

“Wish you’d say that when you’re going to the Coruscanti opera with all your new friends,” Gavin muttered, staring at his dinner plate.

“What was that?”

Gavin looked up, his face flushed. “Does Dad’s convalescence involve you spending so much time at the symphony and all those museums? Is Corellia not good enough for you anymore? Trying to be someone you’re not?”

“How dare you use that tone of voice with me–”

“I’m finished,” Gavin snapped, abruptly rising from the table. “I’m going to my room.”

“Gavin! You come back here this instant!”

Ignoring Catharin, Gavin stormed off to his bedroom, his mother in pursuit. She wasn’t able to reach him in time before the portal slid shut in Catharin’s face.

“Gavin! Open this door! Now!” Nothing. “Gavin!” Catharin jumped backwards as her son kicked the interior of the door in anger and frustration.

“I hate this place!” Gavin shouted. “I just want to go home!”

What’s happening to us?  Catharin thought despondently as she sank back against the wall in despair.


“There you are, Sir.”

Matheron tried not to let his irritation show to the two orderlies that Miroslav Channing had assigned to assist him. The pair meant well, but they seemed a bit too enthusiastic in carrying out their orders. They really didn’t have to pick Matheron up and set him in his repulsor chair, did they?

“Thank you. That will be all. You two are dismissed.”

“But Sir! Our orders–”

“Carry no weight within the walls of my home. Your devotion to duty is exemplary, and I very much appreciate that. Now, if you please, I’d like to spend some time with my family.”

“Yes Sir.”

Matheron waited till the two orderlies had departed before he entered the apartment. Once inside, he retrieved a greel wood cane from a nearby closet and stiffly, painfully, rose to his feet.

“Cathy? Gavin?” he called out, slightly concerned over the silence within the apartment. In fact, Matheron sensed that a palpable tension was in the air as he limped down the hallway leading to the dining room.

“Cathy? Cathy, what’s wrong?”

“Math. You’re late.”

“I’m sorry. Channing kept me longer than I thought he would. Where’s Gavin?” Matheron asked, eyeing his son’s barely touched dinner plate.

“In his room.”

“Why?”

Catharin sighed. “I decided to tell him that we’ll be living on Coruscant from now on.”

“And?”

“He didn’t take the news very well. He was really upset and said some things I–Math?”

Already, Matheron was hobbling toward his son’s bedroom. “Gavin! Open the door! I want to talk to you.”

“Go away,” his son answered in a bitter voice.

“Gavin! I said to open this door! Right now!”

“Go away! Leave me alone.”

Trailing her husband, Catharin was stunned when Matheron began beating furiously on the door to Gavin’s room, his voice and temper savage.

“Gavin!” Matheron bellowed. “You open this door or I’ll–”

Catharin cried out in fear as Matheron suddenly reeled, clutching his head in agony.


“Matheron, please,” Catharin said after she’d helped her husband to a recliner. She was still trembling, not only from Matheron’s near collapse, but also in reaction from the rage her husband had directed at Gavin. “You’re still not well.”

“Cathy,” he said, raising a finger for emphasis. “I will not have him showing us disrespect. Not in our own home.”

“Math, you have to understand. This is very difficult for him.”

“Difficult for him? Cathy, don’t tell me you’re excusing his behavior!”

“I’m not excusing it. But we’re taking Gavin away from home–our home–and at this point of the school year. His senior year. He won’t be graduating with his friends, and you know how much they mean to him.”

Matheron frowned, privately conceding that his wife was right. Once past that first, awful, decade of Gavin’s life, when it seemed doubtful that he would even survive to adulthood, Matheron had been increasingly distressed about Gavin’s seeming inability to make any friends. His son had been so painfully shy and awkward then, but Gavin had (after many bumps and bruises along the way) finally managed to fit in and was actually quite well-liked among his peers.

“But this is a lifetime opportunity for us. Even for Gavin, if he’d make use of it. He has to know that Corellia is on a downward spiral, economically and socially.”

“I’m sure he does,” Catharin murmured.

“Still, Gavin’s going to have to answer for his behavior tonight.”

“Oh, the dreaded ‘Matheron Thayer punishment’” Catharin said with a mischievous grin. “How many times have I heard that one? You can’t pay off any of his traffic violations this time, Math. He hasn’t been cited for any here. Yet.”

“Cathy–”

“And you’ve done that because you’ve always wanted to protect him. Because you’ve always been the most afraid for him. And I love you for that.”

Matheron sat silently, realizing that Catharin, as always, had managed to gain the upper hand. “So what do you propose we do?” he finally asked.

“That we wait till morning. When we’ve all had a chance to calm down. Once we talk to him, I’m sure Gavin will understand.”

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

The next morning

‘Math?’ drowsy after once more she had fallen asleep only very late this night Catharin turned and blinked at her husband, sitting at the edge of the bed. ‘You’re early. What is it?’

‘Sleep,’ he whispered and gave her a half smile. ‘You haven’t slept much again. No wonder your body’s giving you headaches.’ She mustered a smile in return and sought his lips when awkwardly he leant back towards her. He but evaded and kissed her brow. Her smile died, as did his the moment he turned away; erased by the memory of nights that used to make them feel dizzy.

Catharin sat up, watching dejectedly as he picked up the clothes she had laid out ready and limped towards the door. Painfully. Supporting himself in which he had difficulties with the suit and shirt draped across his arm. Reluctantly she looked away. He did not want her to help and he did not want her to witness his struggle, through the past weeks she had learnt.

Almost every situation in which she offered a hand ended in tensed silence. At best. Still some moments were worse. That was when he realized he was unable to accomplish something of what he thought he could do it by himself. She could not bear the look in his eyes—after relentlessly trying, to the verge of their both strength as she suffered with him.

That also was why he would not change in her presence. Or one of the reasons. His hand having reached the door controls she swallowed, ‘Math?’ He turned about and she gave him another cautious smile, ‘Don’t be too harsh with him.’

Malcontent in a Muddle

“Well kid, your parents have been notified,” the security officer said to the small figure hunched miserably in a chair. “They should be on the way to the precinct.”
 
Gavin stared at the officer bleakly, and then resumed a frightened gnawing of his fingernails. On one of his hands anyway; the other was shackled in a pair of binders to the chair Gavin was sitting in. I’m dead, the teenager thought dazedly. I’ve wrecked everything: My life at home, my future. I wasn’t very good at anything before; now I’m good for nothing. Why did I have to be so stupid?


<a href="http://img150.imageshack.us/my.php?image=floorplanthayerresidencejradelr0.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img150.imageshack.us/img150/1638/floorplanthayerresidencejradelr0.th.jpg" border="0" align="left" vspace="5" hspace="5" /></a> Despite Catharin’s contention, the passage of time had done little to improve Gavin’s disposition, and the Thayer family’s permanent move into a midlevel residence in the Jrade District only exacerbated the situation. And when the family belongings arrived from Corellia, it seemed to signify a complete break with their homeworld and their life there.
 
School was another area of strife for the Thayers. Much to Gavin’s distaste, the school—“academy”, as those blowhard Coruscantis referred to it—had a dress code, requiring him to wear a blazer, slacks, and a necktie. Gavin complied, but always managed to appear sloppily dressed: tie askew, shirt not tucked in, kerchief flopping from his breast pocket. The slovenly appearance of his son infuriated Matheron—somewhat of a stickler for neatness anyway—and he began to express his irritation with ever greater frequency. It was one thing if Gavin was wearing his preferred denims and pullovers, but a uniform was another matter, even if it was his school clothes. After enduring another one of Matheron tirades, Gavin would adjust his clothing, but use the opportunity for another act of defiance: tying his neckwear into a clumsy knot, tugging his gig line off-kilter, and stuffing his kerchief into his pocket so that it was nothing more than a bulging wad.
 
Catharin knew things were going to come to a head sooner or later, the smart money being on sooner. Gavin’s face might have had a sullen look on it, but she spotted a simmering resentment in her son’s eyes more than once. And when his father was berating him for something or the other, that look would flare into outright hostility. Normally, she could assert herself and keep a tenuous peace between the two, but Catharin knew that there would be a time when events would spiral out of control. That time was coming, but when?
 
That time was one of those hideous days on Coruscant when the accumulation of noxious fumes and effluvia began to overwhelm the capacities of the planet’s atmospheric scrubbers and oxygen generators. Advisories were broadcast to citizens, particularly those inhabiting the lower levels, warning them to keep breath masks and air packs handy. Struggling through the crowds of unfortunates who were unable to afford such luxuries and were seeking respite in the upper levels, Catharin made her way home after another hectic day at the New Republic’s diplomatic headquarters. Grateful that their apartment was pressurized, she spent a few moments taking deep breaths of fresh air the instant she entered. And yet another reason for Gavin to despise this place, Catharin thought, recalling the countless times the family chose to have their meals on the upper deck of their home on Corellia, where they could enjoy the breeze coming off the ocean, or bask in the warm sunlight of  Corell. Now we find ourselves cooped up into small boxes . . .
 
Gads! I’m becoming as bad as him! “Gavin? Are you home?” Catharin called out.
“Yes,” her son responded listlessly.
Catharin found Gavin sitting at the comm terminal, staring glumly at the
display. “Messages from your friends?”
“No,” he replied, his voice turning bitter. “Nothing. Nobody answered any of my messages.”
“Well, there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation, Gavin. The transmission node to Corellia may be out again. Even the government transceivers can’t get through sometimes.”
“Or maybe they don’t want to be my friends anymore. Friends don’t run out on each other.”
“Gavin, you know that’s not true. And you didn’t ‘run out’ on them. You went where your family needed you most. Your friends on Corellia understand that.”
 
Catharin placed a comforting hand on her son’s shoulder. “And you’ll make friends here, Gavin. Once you become more involved at school and get to know some people better, you’ll find yourself surrounded by friends. But you have to make the effort. You have to try, Gavin.”
 
When Gavin glanced up with a woebegone look on his face, Catharin knew that she hadn’t succeeded in encouraging her son. There were times, and this was one of them, when Gavin had absolutely no confidence in himself, displaying an utter lack of faith in his abilities. And more often than not, it would be Matheron who would pull Gavin from the abyss, utilizing the father-son bond to discover yet another way to provide encouragement to their son. Even if it wasn’t enough to pull Gavin out of his nosedive and get him climbing again, Matheron could at least get the boy to level off. But what about now, with the two virtually at each other’s throats like a pair of neks?
 
“Everything will work out in the end, Gavin. You’ll see,” Catharin said, even though it sounded somewhat lame to her own ears. Gavin looked unconvinced as well.
“I’ve got some homework to do,” he said as he walked toward his bedroom, shoulders slumped with depression.
 

“Gavin! Dinnertime! Would you please come to the table?” Setting the dish of traladon cutlets on the table, Catharin cast a worried glance at her son’s room, then at her husband sitting at the head of the table. Matheron was clearly in a foul mood, but maybe dinner would improve his outlook.
“Rough day at work, Math?”
“Only a most delightful initiation to the idiocies of a Senatorial subcommittee sub-panel. They weren’t interested in any facts or policy discussion. All they wanted to do was make campaign speeches for the hypermedia!” Matheron knuckled his brow. “And I had to sit there and listen to it all. Their ridiculous diatribes, their asinine statements that were so far removed from reality so as to border on the ludicrous. It–” Matheron cut himself off as Gavin slinked to the table with a half-mumbled apology to his mother. “Gavin, your mother called you three times to come to the table.”
“I was just finishing up my homework,” the teenager answered defensively.
“And the least you could have done is shown her the courtesy of informing her of that fact.”
“Matheron. Gavin.”
Both of the Thayer males turned to face Catharin, who fixed them with a steely gaze. “This is one of the few times of the day that we are able to spend some quality time together. I would kindly appreciate it if you two wouldn’t spoil dinner with your bickering.”
“Of course, Cathy,” Matheron said hastily, while Gavin only grunted a reply.
 
As the family ate their meal in an uneasy silence, Catharin felt a wave of
despair wash over her. What had once been a joyful experience had devolved into a grim affair, with father and son surreptitiously glaring daggers at each other. “Gavin,” she suddenly asked, hoping to jump start some sort of conversation. “How was school today?”
“It was all right.”
“You said you were finishing up some homework,” Matheron observed. “What were you studying in class today?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Matheron echoed, which only drew a shrug from Gavin.
“Nothing,” Matheron repeated, ignoring a warning glance from Catharin and fixing his eyes on his son. For some reason, the boy’s flippant response was causing a rage to boil up within him. “So you mean to say that you sat in your classes all day, reading nothing, studying nothing, and learning nothing. I’d like to think that the New Republic Educational Council is putting the credits I pay in taxes to better use.”
“Maybe I need to be transferred to a better school—excuse me, academy,” Gavin said snidely while glowering at his father. “Tharen High School on Corellia, maybe.”
“Enough!” Matheron bellowed, slamming his fist onto the table.
“Math,” Catharin pleaded but her husband’s upraised hand cut her off.
“I’m sorry Cathy, but no, I’ve about had it up to here with Gavin’s sulking and snotty attitude. If I said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times: His place is here with his family and he’d better damn well start getting used to that fact. End of discussion.”
“What discussion?” Gavin sputtered. “It’s just been you yelling at me!”
“Watch your mouth.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with me staying with Grandfather and Grandmother,” Gavin said hotly. “They’re family too! Just because you all have some hang up with them doesn’t mean that I do.”
“How dare you!?!”
Gavin wasn’t even sure which of his parents had shouted their outrage at his behavior, and at this point, he didn’t even care. All he knew was that he was finally venting his all of his pent up frustrations. “All everyone does is boss me around. I’m not one of those toadies and yes-men that Dad had surrounded himself with!”
“I’ve had just about enough of this, young man!”
“I’ll be seventeen in a few months. An adult. But you’re still treating me like I’m a baby!”
“That’s because you insist on acting like an infant. Besides,” Matheron said with a sneer, “it’s not like anyone would ever consider you to be any sort of a man anyway,”
“Yeah?” Gavin spat as he shot to his feet, his face a mask of pure hatred. “Well, . . .”
 

Catharin let out a gasp at the horrific words that spewed from her son’s mouth: The profanity, the vile insult about Matheron’s impotence resulting from his trauma. Apparently, Gavin began to realize what he had said as well; though his eyes still flashed defiance, the color had drained from his face and his mouth worked silently. Matheron, on the other hand–
 
Her husband sat still in his chair, regarding his son through hooded eyes as if he were some sort of predatory ibbot. Only his hand betrayed Matheron’s emotions, alternately opening and clutching the tablecloth, as if he were suppressing the urge to backhand Gavin across the face.
 
“Gavin,” Catharin said weakly. “You need to apologize to your father.”
“No,” Matheron choked out. “He’s said what he’s said, and he’s said enough.”
“But,”
“He’s said enough. Get—go,” Matheron seethed. “Go to your room. I’ll deal with you later.”
With a last scornful look at his father, Gavin turned his back on his parents and stormed away.
 

“I can’t believe you,” Cathy snarled, pacing about furiously. “ Either of you!”
“Cathy, I’ve told you. I apologize for my behavior. But your son—”
“‘Your son’. Since when did Gavin cease being ‘our son’ and my responsibility exclusively?”
“You know what I meant, Cathy!” Matheron protested before slumping back into his chair and rubbing a weary hand over his five o’clock shadow. The argument with Gavin had left him whipsawing between blinding rage over his son’s foul insults and an overwhelming nausea over his own boorish words.
“And that vocabulary Gavin seems to have developed! I think we both know where he picked that up from, Math.”
Matheron sighed, wondering how it was that fate decreed that Gavin should sit in his room while he alone had to face the wrath of Catharin Thayer.
“Sometimes I wonder if Gavin really is an only child, or whether I’m actually some schoolmarm on a playground at recess!”
“I promise you, Cathy. I’ll watch my language from now on.”
“I’m glad to hear that Math. But that vow comes a little too late. How could you, Matheron? You know it’s not Gavin’s fault that he’s grown up the way he has!
 Matheron winced, feeling yet another wave of nausea wash over him at Catharin’s accusation. Gavin didn’t even come close—never would—to matching the popular conception of the idealized Corellian male. If anything, he would be considered somewhat of a misfit by their people, a freak by the fringe elements, and Matheron had cruelly thrown that fact right into Gavin’s face. My own flesh and blood . . .
 
“And Gavin!” Catharin raged, uttering an animal-like growl. How dare he conduct himself like that in my presence? In my house! I won’t let him—” Catharin stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the indicator display for their speeder parking bay. “Math, someone’s accessing our parking bay!”
“Gavin? Cathy,” Matheron, yelped. “Check to see if he still in his room!”
“Math! He’s not there!”
“Cathy, we’ve got to stop him!”
 
Catharin raced to the apartment’s main portal, with Matheron limping along behind, letting out a curse as she fumbled with the pressure seals and locks. How did that blasted boy manage to sneak out without us noticing?
 
As the two stumbled into the corridor, they were staggered by Coruscant’s noxious atmosphere. The air seemed to have gotten progressively worse, and with every breath, the pair felt as if they were being smothered. Despite this, Catharin and Matheron forged on to the garage area, where they heard the distinctive growl of Gavin’s speederbike. Spying his parents, Gavin shot them a disdainful look before gunning the throttle and racing away.
“Gavin, stop! Come back!”


Gavin nursed the engine of his Mobquet, trying to compensate for the atmospheric conditions as he picked his way through of the teeming masses of beings. The foul air was making his own chest heave and his vision swim; what was it like for these unfortunates on foot?

Up, the teenager thought. Have to get to the higher levels, but up ahead, Gavin see that access to the upper surface was being blocked by a security barricade. Using a variety of stun devices, the troopers there repeatedly drove the pleading crowd away.

His mouth a grim line, Gavin aimed his Overracer directly at the barricader. The crowd fell away as he coaxed every erg of power from his bike’s engine. Ignoring signals to halt, Gavin instead maxed the power to the bike’s front repulsors while simultaneously dampening the rear coils and hitting the Mobquet’s boosters., Clearing the barricade in a high arc, he furiously worked the bike’s compensators to cushion his descent, then hit the throttle to race up the helical skyway. A quick glance showed the spotbeams of two 74-Zs giving chase, but Gavin could feel his own speederbike coming to life as he ascended into the clear air. Pushing  the readouts to the redline, Gavin left his pursuers in his wake and lost himself in the upper levels of Galactic City.


Despite cruising about aimlessly in the pure atmosphere of the upper levels, Gavin found that his chest still heaved and his breath came in ragged gasps. Not only that, but his mind was constantly yammering at him with hundreds of conflicting thoughts, leaving Gavin practically emotionally and physically spent.

Some of those thoughts told him that what he did was wrong, that he had been behaving like some beastly little vrelt. How could he have defied his father like that, spoken so foully to him? Whenever Gavin needed him, his father had always been there for him. He needed to turn his bike around that instant and go home, to apologize to his parents for his actions and hope that they forgave him.

Why should you go home?  another thought said. For most of his life, Gavin had tried to keep his one of his worst fears shoved into the deepest recesses of his mind, but tonight, such fears proved true: His own father thought of him as a worthless, pathetic chumani. Even said it, right to his face. He’s probably ashamed that he has to admit that I’m his son . . .

Choking back a strangled sob, Gavin continued his aimless wandering, still wrestling with his confusing thoughts, answers remaining elusive as ever.


“Okay kid, this ain’t funny.” The Flivian shop owner glared at Gavin as he set a bottle of juri juice on the counter. “If you kids want to come in here after school and buy some carbosyrup, that’s one thing. I can bend the rules for that. But coming in here at this hour and trying to buy some alcohol on the sly, forget it.”
“I’m not a kid,” Gavin protested. “I’m older than I look!”
“Do tell,” the Flivian said drily. “You got an identi-chip? Yours, not your brother’s, not a forgery, but a real one.”

Grumbling, Gavin fished about in a pocket, then placed his identi-chip–resting on a twenty credit piece–on the counter. The teenager marveled at the way the Flivian palmed the coin as he lifted Gavin’s IC up for a cursory glance before tossing it back to him.
“That’ll be five credits,” the shop keeper said. “Thank you, and please come again.”


Whatever benefits anyone has ever attributed to alcohol, they were grossly mistaken, Gavin thought as he took another swig of juri juice. His head was still a confused jumble of thought, sensations, and emotions, while his stomach was sending urgent signals on the need to vomit.

Closing his eyes, Gavin realized that his mother had been right (wasn’t she always?). He had been so busy being mad and hating everyone and everything, that he found himself friendless at a time when he needed someone the most. And he had done his best to drive his father away from him.

Tilting his head back for another slug of alcohol, Gavin was suddenly blinded by a spotbeam from a hovering PCBU. Dazzled, he staggered about, heard the security speeders moving in and the shouted orders from the police officers. Tossing the bottle of juri juice aside, Gavin’s hands curled into fists. Chumani, frell! I’ll show you what I can do . . .


“Officer? My name is Thayer. I was informed that my son was being held here.”
“Yes Sir, Mr. Thayer. One moment, please.”

Matheron glanced around the police station, somewhat disgusted that it had come to this. But when the police had commed the residence, Matheron had had a moment of dread, fearing the worst. Blasted, irresponsible boy!

“Mr. Thayer?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Tureya, Police Prefect. May I speak with you in private?”
“My wife, Catharin, Prefect Tureya,” Matheron said, Tureya bowing his head in greeting. “If it concerns my son, I must insist that she be present.”
“I’m afraid that this conversation is on a professional levels, Sir, and I must insist.”
“Math, go with him,” Catharin said, though she was clearly perturbed at being excluded.
“Thank you for your understanding, Mrs. Thayer. If you would come with me, Sir?”

Settling into the proffered chair in Tureya’s officer, Matheron gazed steadily at the police officer. Fidgeting for a moment, Tureya looked at Matheron and said, “I must say, Sir, that it is indeed an honor to meet you. Even on the Fed-Dub, your reputation was well known.”

Matheron thought that the man’s accent was familiar, the dialect sounding Talusian. “Actually, my so-called reputation is probably nothing more than some vulgar epithets hurled about in the bars and cantinas of Coronet. There were others who accomplished more, and were far more deserving of the credit and honor.”
“Yes Sir. At least let me offer my sympathies for your injuries. I hope the New Republic is doing everything to facilitate your recovery.”
“Thank you. They are providing more than I deserve.”
“Yes,” Tureya said before lapsing into a brief silence. “Mr. Thayer, your son has been apprehended  under the following charges, some of them quite serious: Reckless operation of a repulsor vehicle, evading apprehension, public intoxication, resisting apprehension. He is also the prime suspect in the running of a security barricade in the Corellian Sanctuary, and his actions there apparently caused others in the vicinity to rush the barricade. The troopers there were compelled to abandon their post, allowing a mob access to the upper levels. ‘Incitement to riot’ and its related charges may be included as well.”

Matheron knew what the man was speaking of; he’d been following the hypermedia reports.  He had been repelled by the reporters’ sensationalized accounts, disgusted by some citizens’ demands that the security forces use lethal means to “‘drive the sub-terraneans back down to where they belong.’” The incident was enough to frighten the civic government into putting every emergency oxygen generator in action, at least.  Somewhat nervously, Matheron asked, “How soon before the arraignment process?”

Instead of answering, Tureya rose and moved to stare out of his office’s permaplas viewport. “There won’t be one,” he finally said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr.  Thayer, how long have you been on Coruscant?”
“My family, just a few months,” Matheron answered cautiously, trying to fathom what Tureya was driving at.
“And the transition, how did they handle it?”
“Coping.”
“Yes. Well, from your son’s actions tonight, perhaps he wasn’t coping with it as well as originally thought. But in a sense, I can sympathize with him, though. The urban environment on Coruscant can be somewhat disconcerting to new arrivals. I had a few bad experiences myself.”
“Your point being?”
“My point is that I am fully prepared to release your son to your custody, Mr. Thayer. As far as we know, he’s caused no property damage, no bodily injury to anyone. He hasn’t even been formally booked, so you could walk out of here with no the wiser. It would be somewhat of a shame for a young lad to have his whole life ruined before it even started. But in this way, the family will be the one to apply the appropriate punishment.”
“I see,” Matheron said, recognizing where Tureya was leading the conversation. And the next step would be the quid pro quo. Idly, he wondered what form it would take: A bribe? Perhaps a job within OPC for Tureya or someone close to him. Matheron felt a sense of disgust for the prefect, but part of him also desperately wanted to get Gavin out of this place and back home. Where I can tan his hide! Of course, Cathy would never approve. Then again, perhaps she would demand to go first!

“This seems a bit out of the ordinary,” Matheron ventured. “It sets a rather poor example for my son.”
“I can also release him on my own, and not into your custody, Thayer.”
Matheron stared at Tureya, noticing that a sheen of sweat had broken out on the man’s forehead. He seemed awfully anxious to be rid of Gavin. Very well then, Matheron would certainly oblige. “Of course. What was I thinking? I would be most grateful if you would release him into my custody.”
“I’ll have him brought forward, and his bike as well.”
“Thank you. You are most kind.” What sort of game are you playing, Tureya?


Catharin leapt to her feet when she spied Matheron exiting Tureya’s office. “Math! What’s going to happen to Gavin?”
“They’re releasing him into our custody.”
“But–”
“Here he comes.”

Rubbing his wrist, Gavin was being escorted down a corridor by a pair of officers. Spotting his parents, the teenager couldn’t help but start trembling  with both fear and relief.
“Cathy, he’ll go with you. I’ll ride his speederbike home.”
“Yes, but Math, what did you say to Tureya? What went on in there?”
“Frell, Cathy, I’m still not too sure. All I know is that the sooner we’re out of this place, the better.”


After seeing Cathy and Gavin off in the family airspeeder, Matheron trudged to his son’s Mobquet, stopping in front of the craft as he momentarily regarded it.  Recognizing that his son desired something more than a velociped or hover skimboard, Matheron had purchased the speederbike for Gavin’s fourteenth birthday. Cathy had initially been opposed to the idea, but once she saw how her son’s eyes shone with happiness, she had whispered to Matheron that he was the greatest father in the galaxy.

And how many hours did we spend together working on your bike, Gavin? His son was always eager to improve the Overracer’s performance, and Matheron was a willing source of information, credits, parts, and labor. Sometimes the two would be in the garage for hours, carefully modifying this, patiently tuning that, every new peak of performance specs a cause for celebration. Cathy bore such exasperating male bonding with good humor, leaving their dinner plates on the workbench so the two could wolf their meal down later, filthy hands and all.

Adjusting the compensator settings before mounting the bike, Matheron wondered if such days were in the past. And with their relationship at a nadir, could such cherished times ever occur again?


“Mom, Dad,” Gavin pleaded. “I’m sorry! Please, you’ve got to believe me! I’m-I’m sorry!”
His eyes welling up with tears, Gavin bit down hard on his lower lip as he faced his parents. His mother had a look of utter disappointment on her face, but his father’s was cold and emotionless.

“Take yourself out of my presence, boy.”

Gavin flinched as if he’d been struck. The utter lack of compassion in his father’s voice had sent a chill through him, and the refusal to address him by name gnawed at his very soul. ‘Boy’. Not even ‘son’. That would at least acknowledge him as family. ‘Boy’. Coldly anonymous, contemptuous, and impersonal. As if he had no right to the Thayer name. “Mom, Dad,” Gavin whimpered. “Please don’t do this.”
“You heard your father,” Catharin interrupted. “Now do as he says.” Taking Gavin by the shoulder, she guided him to his room.
“Mom, please! I’m so sorry! For everything I did tonight! You have to believe me!”
“ ‘Sorry’ isn’t some magic word that instantly makes everything better,” Catharin told her son. “ You said some things that hurt your father deeply.”
“Now he hates me. You both do.”
“No, we love you dearly. Be we don’t know if we can trust you right now, or if your father will even respect you.”
“H-how can I earn his forgiveness?”
“I can’t answer that question for you. That’s something that you will have to learn, and do on your own.”


A few days later . . .

His school uniform impeccable, Gavin rode with his father to school, but the mood inside the landspeeder was frosty. Besides being grounded, restricted from using his speederbike, and having perform any number of extra chores around the apartment, Gavin was still being treated in a coldly impersonal manner by his parents. For a Corellian like himself, it was the loneliest, worst sort of exile one could experience.

“You be waiting out front after school lets out,” Matheron said as he brought the landspeeder to a halt in front of Gavin’s school.
“Yes Sir.” As Gavin climbed from the vehicle, he turned to face his father. “Dad, even if you can never forgive me, I’m sorry for what I said and I’ll always try to make it up to you.”
Matheron’s only response to his son’s plea was a cold stare before he shut the speeder door and sped off.


“Matheron! How are you?”
“Quite well, Director Channing.”
“I must say, you’ve done wonders in the short time you’ve been assigned to this post. I’ve received quite a number of favorable comments in regards to your work.”
“Thank you, Director Channing. I consider it an honor that I’m able to perform such vital work for the New Republic.”
“Vital work,” Channing purred. “Yes, that reminds me. It was quite the commotion that your son Gavin caused the other night.”
“Sir?” Matheron gulped, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Getting arrested and what have you. Distasteful. Oh, come now, Matheron, you don’t think Prefect Tureya released Gavin because he has a big heart and your son’s best intentions in mind, do you?” Miroslav Channing showed his protégé a chilly smile. “Unfortunately, such interventions don’t always come in tidy packages. There are inevitably some loose ends, and those need to be tied up. And that requires you do a small favor for me, Matheron.”

foundations of freedom

<p><strong>OPC, Senate District</strong></p>
<p><i>So here comes the tab. </i>Wary how and when the refund would be called in Matheron had been on edge since the night; Had thought through the possibilities and options, here at Coruscant, where no net of relations would help if somebody wanted you trip up. And now it was Channing… <i>Frak!</i> After all skill he himself, of necessity, had acquired in the risky juggle with barters—this was the worst of all constellations.</p>
  <p>Still standing before his superior’s polished desk, in the latter’s commodious, conservatively furnished office Matheron stared down at the elder who - hands folded, upright in his high-backed chair - returned his gaze impassively. While the local atmosphere generator gently processed and pressurized overstretched silence. </p>
  <p>Eventually he exhaled,<i> </i>‘So what would that be?’</p>
  <p>Channing flashed a patronizing smile then leant back in his massive chair, ‘You’re up-to-date on the situation, Matheron. After everything we picked up through the past weeks, Sector 3 suspects <i>Equalizers</i> will launch large-scale actions <i>this</i> afternoon.’ His turned up mouth betraying his view on the faction of left-wingers who did not quite agree as for the state’s monopoly of power, the director scrutinized him searchingly. ‘And things will not hold at some barricade running as your son has so exemplarily initiated…’</p>
  <p>Matheron resentfully shifted his weight. Worried all the while how his task should be linked to the disturbances—that really merged into a fight for the air you breathed. </p>
  <p>An organized black block, so called <i>Equalizers</i>, demanded vital ressources must be apportioned equally, independent of race or class. (In which they made themselves into a mouthpiece of the polluted depths; and their blaster-arm.) Coruscant’s elevated citizens, however, did not see the point in sharing their residential areas with those of the nether regions. </p>
  <p>‘And neither the Senate nor our citizenry will be looking kindly upon a Prefect who fails to avert such uprising; Or on any of the affiliated offices. Matheron, you <i>are</i> following the media?’</p>
  <p>‘Yes, Sir.’</p>
  <p>‘Now, Tureya’s men have been able to catch one of those <i>Equalizers. </i>A classified, familiar with details as sure as smog and taxes—yet the lad proves regrettably <i>uncooperative,</i>’ he locked eyes; the same sharp and expectant gaze. Matheron but silenced. </p>
  <p>‘You would not turn your back on friends who stuck out their neck for you in the first place, Matheron, would you?’ </p>
  <p>‘No. Not usually, Sir.’</p>
  <p>‘Good. As you have two hours to provide Tureya with all the necessary information.’</p>
  <p>‘Sir… it is very unlikely I could be more convincing than the fully fledged officers in charge. Maybe there would be something else…’</p>
  <p>Channing smirked obnoxiously, ‘<i>You</i> completed RS prior to your supraplanetary assignment. A notable effort—I’d be interested to learn more on your motivation some day. Anyhow… I <i>know</i> this lends you the <i>competitive</i> edge our friend needs in this play for time.’</p>
  <p>The reference had Matheron pale. ‘No,’ disturbed he shook his head. ‘No, certainly not, Sir. RS.. prepares you for what you might experience in <i>Imperial</i> captivity. The techniques…,’ he took a deep breath, forcing back the wave of nausea and helpless repulsion stirred with the memory. ‘I know the situation is dire, and I’ll readily do my utmost. But, Sir… these beings are struggling for <i>air</i>. We <i>may</i> not stoop to such methods!’</p>
  <p>Channing, who had listened rather bewildered from the first NO on to his opposite number’s unexpectedly passionate appeal, looked up at him like you might on a rebelling garbage worm.</p>
  <p>‘Frink, Thayer, do <i>you</i> want them in your flat?’ Contemptuous he shook his head, ‘The people up here, anyway, don’t. Frak, you’d think our military culls out such prissy feelings! Tell you what—those shiks threw their rights when they started carp at our Republic! I don’t entirely care <i>what</i> methods you use, but you will find out what they plan and whatever it takes to stop them!’</p>
  <p>‘Sir, I understand… part of your feelings. Yet there are other ways. Ways to enhance the efficiency of our generators; Emergency accommodations, shared districts… long-term strategies to cut down the pollution—Ways to prove to these beings that they have every reason to appreciate our system and re-integrate themselves into our structures. </p>
  <p>Like Captain Antilles said: ‘<i>Just because we have Coruscant doesn't mean that's ended</i>.’ To provide for the needs of your every man is really the only way towards peace on the long run.’</p>
  <p>‘<i>You</i> tell <i>me</i> what to do?’ His tone threateningly low, Channing surveyed the Corellian in angered disbelief, ‘<i>You</i> think you limp in here and change how the smog rises?’ </p>
  <p>Matheron straightened, indignation gradually twisting into a glower, while the director’s eyes narrowed even more. ‘<i>Visionary!’</i>* he spat out disdainfully, ‘And I’d thought to be crippled by terrorists taught you one or two things about reality. Frak!’</p>
  <p>A passing speeder cut through the silence.</p>
  <p>Channing took a deep breath, ‘Alright, I’ve no time for anymore sissy talks. So listen closely while I prove my enormous heart for the war-disabled and help you open your eyes: Against what, hopefully, led you into giving me this whisked cark, this is <i>not</i> some kind of audit. From right now you will save your emotional fallout and visionariness for PR purposes; And have me screen it before. </p>
  <p>You<i> will</i> either play for the league and get Tureya his information within, at this point, one hour and fifty five—or he’ll be startled to learn that there were charges brought for the night in question. Two hit-and-runs, Thayer, grievous injury to persons…,’ he paused, letting the words sink. ‘Can you imagine what it means for a boy to be dragged from school in binders?’</p>
  <p>Having noticed the widening and brief flare in the other’s eyes Channing sneered, ‘See, in my equitable office of liberty you got all freedom to choose…’ Without a further word Matheron turned round and hobbled towards the door. That did not open before him. </p>
  <p>‘Matheron… how awfully rude—I did not hear your answer…’</p>
  <p>‘Sir..,’ he gritted his teeth, ‘Yes, Sir.’</p>
  <p>‘Ah, there you are! One fifty three. And, Thayer… we have yet other ways of dealing with buddy frakkers…’</p>
  <p align=center style='text-align:center'>| | |</p>
  <p>Out, high up atop of the skyscrapers, the air remained all but clear. Why, they had planted actual frinkin bushes and flowers up here, that needlessly stretched their trumpetlike purple heads against the bedrokked sky…</p>
  <p>It cost Matheron some will not to tear out what leaned into his path as he limped out onto the office’s open court. <i>Droyk! What a becarked, motherfrakking shik!</i> <i>And the frinking head of the OPC! The carking chairbeing of the chundering CSI! Frak! </i>Naturally Channing had <i>friends—</i>having seen Tureya sufficed. Logically he had his net of bedrokked henchmen. <i>Cark, droyk, cark! They really appointed the conduit worm to guard our foundation! OPC, hah! ODC it would rather be, for as long as you are…</i></p>
  <p>A young officer precautionary gave him a wide berth. <i>So what now? Call Cathy and Gavin? To pack stuff and crawl back to Coronet?</i> <i>Contact Tallon? – To tell him what, exactly? </i>The office’s fleet ahead Matheron paused, glared back up—to where the fourth story’s permaglass façade reflected the filthy clouds.<i> Petchuk!</i> His right brusquely touched his chest.</p>
  <p>The harmless gesture looked violent.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><strong>Same time, 35km southeast…</strong> </p>
  <div align="center"><i>"We, the beings of the Galaxy, in order to form a free union of planets, establish justice, provide for common peace and prosperity, and to secure liberty for all being, do ordain and establish this New Republic. Let the stars sing! Let the planets shout! Let the Republic begin!"</i><br>
  – Excerpt from the Declaration of a New Republic<br>
</div>
  <p>‘The Declaration of a New Republic was signed one month after the Battle of Endor by the eight leaders of the Alliance of Free Planets, that also constituted the Provisional Council. It declares that we shall live in a democrathy determined by the ideals of freedom and justice, as established in the Galactic Constitution, and that our New Republic will return these ideals to the Galaxy.</p>
  <p>The Galactic Constitution itself dates back from about 25,000 BBY. It invests executive and legislative powers in the Senate, and judicial powers in the Supreme Court. It denames the Republic's capital to be Coruscant, sets our official language as Galactic Basic Standard, and makes our official currency the Galactic Credits Standard. </p>
  <p>Its most notable clause are the Rights of Sentience, which declare that all sentient lifeforms are equal, and are to be treated as equals in law; That throughout our Republic we will not tolerate slavery and that all our Republic citizens are entitled to all rights enshrined in this Constitution, including suffrage as well as the protection from undue hardships and… many more which to name would go beyond the scope of this lesson.’</p>
  <p>‘Well said. And when have these principles been restored, formally?’</p>
  <p>‘With the dissolution of the Provisional Council and the establishment of our Senate on this planet in 7ABY—thence Restoration Day.’</p>
  <p>‘Very good, Gavin. Now, after the final liberation of Coruscant, our Senate is working on a series of government restructuring programs. In contrast to the governmental structures of the Old Republic, what are the main innovations?’</p>
  <p>The politics teacher, a petite Vultan by the name of Mrs. Tellarion, inquiringly crinkled her pale olive brow as she commanded a view over the put up hands, claws and other corresponding appendages. Tilting her head so the cartilage folds on top gleamed under the classroom’s glaring light, at last she selected a hand—that had not been put up, ‘Merdoc?’</p>
  <p>The face that went with it grimaced, ‘They… established specialized Councils.’</p>
  <p>‘Which are?’</p>
  <p>‘Er.. the Council on Defense, on.. Security and Intelligence.. Science and Technology.. Commerce.. Justice and.. the Ministry Council.’</p>
  <p>‘Right, thank you,’ she looked all but surprised, ‘And why do you think have they been formed?’</p>
  <p>‘To take some load off our Senate-in-whole? I mean.. it’s getting unwieldy with all the new members…’</p>
  <p>‘So to say, yes. Given autonomous decision-making and appropriation authority over some segment of government operations, the Councils are to relieve our Senate and drive forward the treatment of necessary applications. That thereupon are to be executed by the respective agencies under the jurisdiction of the General Ministry. All in all a step towards efficiency—that brings along an additional monitoring body as well. Who can picture what I’m refering to?’</p>
  <p>‘The Ruling Council?’ </p>
  <p>‘Yes. Comprised of our Chief of State and the Chairbeings of the six Senate Councils, the Ruling Council replaces our Inner Council and is entrusted with a special authority. Which is? – Laman?’</p>
  <p>‘The Ruling Council has the authority to remove Mrs. Organa Solo if she becomes too powerful.’</p>
  <p>‘Er.. more or less, yes. If a vote of no-confidence is brought against our Chief of State, the Ruling Council will review its legitimacy, then vote on whether or not the motion should be brought before the Senate. Also the election of a Chief of State can be blocked on an unanimous vote. That is how our Ruling Council functions as one of the innovative monitoring bodies—implemented to grant supplementary security against a conceivable, undesirable shift of power, as witnessed in Palpatine’s rise.’ </p>
  <p>Through the rows the industrious took notes, scribbling on thinkpads that was—the principalship of Lujayne Forge Academy <a href="#_ftn1">[1]</a> regarded the art of writing as a hallmark of the cultured, and conductive to the learning curve, furthermore; Mrs. Tellarion paid respect to that in a brief pause before she continued. </p>
  <p>‘It is from the Ruling Council as well that our Chief of State selects her representative for the case of her absence. Whereat, became she incapacitated, incommunicado or died, it were upon the chairman of the Ministry Council to select an acting Chief of State… – Yes, Wobbr?’ </p>
  <p>‘I read that by a majority vote the Ruling Council may also present a motion of no-confidence by themselves.’</p>
  <p>‘Yes, that is correct.’</p>
  <p>‘But then… after the Ruling Council can null an election <i>and</i> initiate the recall of a sitting Chief of State, in practice that means that the Senate pretty much can’t do anything without the Ruling Council’s approval, right?’ </p>
  <p>‘As for our Chief of State.. well, as I said—they <i>are</i> a monitoring body.’ </p>
  <p>‘Why, but the one who may select our Chief of State’s successor, for worst cases, is the chairman of the Ministry Council. The <i>chairman</i>, mark you, so a member of the Ruling Council again!’</p>
  <p>Mrs. Tellarion creased her olive brow, ‘This regulation is for an <i>interim</i> Chief of State! Only until the Senate can elect a new Chief of State that means. And the candidate in question, furthermore, has to be chosen from either the current Minister of State, a former Minister, or a former Chief of State. So here we meet another significant precaution.’</p>
  <p>Wobbr clearly wasn’t content.</p>
  <p>‘Yet back upon the Senate Councils again. Take the CSI for example, the Council on Security and Intelligence. We got four Senators here and three ‘informed officials’. Namely the heads of the NRI, NRSF and the OPC—New Republic Intelligence, New Republic Security Force and Office for the Protection of the Constitution. Now…like you just said, every of the Senate Councils is given ‘autonomous decision-making and appropriation authority’—speak: they decide what’s done and who gets the money. Yet the NRI and the NRSF at least are agencies under the General Ministry or, clearer said, entrusted with enforcement authority–’</p>
  <p>‘Yes, excellently observed. The Councils hold a special position: The informed officials in question are part of the Executive branch on ministerial level, do form a legislative body parallel to our Senate in their function as members of the Council, however. Another of the innovations that as such didn’t exist in the governmental structures of the Old Republic. So what are we dealing with here?’</p>
  <p>Wobbr quizzically rose his black brows, ‘Why, I don’t know, Madam—beings that can make their own laws?’</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><strong>NRSF, minutes later</strong> </p>
  <div align="center"><i>“The sentients’ dignity shall be inviolable. To respect and protect it shall be the duty of all state authority. The citizens of the Galactic Republic therefore acknowledge inviolable and inalienable sentients’ rights as the basis of every community, of peace and of justice in the Galaxy.” </i><br>
  – Excerpt from the Galactic Constitution<br>
</div>
  <p>‘Ah, there you are,’ having summoned him straight to his office Tureya looked about anxiously till the heavy door slid shut behind his OPC guest. Matheron scrutinized him coldly,* ‘Is everything prepared?’</p>
  <p>‘What do you mean?’</p>
  <p>‘You asked for an extraction in regards to a classified S3, is that correct?’</p>
  <p>‘Well..’</p>
  <p>‘I was told you were fully informed and cooperating. Is this the case or will I have to check back with our client?’</p>
  <p>The Prefect swallowed nerveously, ‘No. What do you need?’</p>
  <p>‘A massive desk, average 2 meters, somewhat inclined. Shackles. Cloth. Water supply. Two buckets. All in a discreet, soundproof place. One man whom you trust with your life, if there is one. Another to check on data—to confirm or negate directly.’ </p>
  <p>Tureya looked shocked, ‘You’re an expert?’ </p>
  <p>‘Also have him blindfolded in advance.’</p>
  <p>The Talusian set his teeth, steadily more uncomfortable at his opposite number’s indifference. His looks, tone… and the black gloves he noticed first when the other passed him a datapad; the grey LCD of which held a concise list: <i>Headquarters, estimated current whereabouts of fellow activits, meeting point/s, estimated strength, target/s, weapons, attack plan if existing.</i></p>
  <p>‘Add what additional information you need. And look smart. I’m not paid for hours.’</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><strong>Lujayne Forge Academy, just after school finishes</strong>  </p>
  <p>‘Man you’ve really shoved the holonet, haven’t you?’ Startled, Gavin turned about, briefly glanced at the brawny Merdoc, then shrugged, ‘Not too much.’</p>
  <p>‘Sounded but like a good deal of work.’ Planting himself before the significantly smaller Corellian, the shockball-champ looked him up and down, ‘My, and so tidy these days.’ He gave an obnoxious sneer, ‘One could almost think you applied for integration…’ Another cackled behind him, ‘Mind you, Merdoc. His dad’s with the OPC.’</p>
  <p>‘And? What they’re doing there, anyway?’ </p>
  <p>‘Frisk you for holopics of the Emperor, I reckon. So come on, or he’ll report you in for those chips.’</p>
  <p>The addressed paused, gave his gawky comrade a stare, ‘Are you totally cracked up now?’ Outraged he shook his head, ‘You believe him no word.’ That was back at Gavin, primed by a grin—that but seemed pretty thin layered. Lanky Ilras rolled his eyes, ‘Huh, ’twas a joke.’</p>
  <p>‘Well…’ Gavin shifted his weight and gave a strained grin, ‘I gotta go then. See you tomorrow.’ His goodbye remained unanswered. A few meters down the awe-inspiring, wide permacrete staircase, however, hairy feet fell in step. ‘Hey,’ Looking up he was met with Wobbr’s dark, canine features. </p>
  <p>Wobbr Kre’fey was a Bothan, a little shorther than Gavin himself yet thrice as massive. What resulted in estimated 90 kg of combat weight and the fact he was mostly spared by bullying tallers. Courageous enough, sometimes he even would interfere where Merdoc & Co had somebody cornered, that’s why they nicknamed him <i>Watchdog</i>. Or perhaps that was for his conspicuous suspicions… </p>
  <p>Gavin found him to be amongst the most tolerable of his new classmates, nevertheless, up to now, they had exchanged but a few words. Why, that was with every of them—that’s how the Corellian returned his greeting slightly amazed. After some more steps the chunky Bothan broke the ensuing silence, ‘That true about your dad?’</p>
  <p>‘What?’</p>
  <p>‘That he’s at the OPC?’</p>
  <p>‘Yes.’</p>
  <p>‘Why, that’s cool. For which section?’</p>
  <p>‘Uh.. I.. don’t know exactly.’</p>
  <p>‘Like.. he may not talk about it?’ Wobbr’s dark eyes widened, ‘Wow.’</p>
  <p>Gavin made no comment. Actually, he had never asked. While there had been rarely an evening his dad had not inquired about at his day at least in the passing. <i>And now…</i> </p>
  <p>Another minute they walked in silence. Through the main portal, out into Jrade district’s mediocre smog, and further towards the skyway. Stopping short as they passed the academy’s parking range Wobba gave him an inquiring glance, ‘Hey, what you’re up to?’ </p>
  <p>‘How d’ya mean?’</p>
  <p>‘Didn’t you come with an Overracer all these days?’ </p>
  <p>‘Yes.’</p>
  <p>‘And now?’</p>
  <p>Gavin gave him a pained look.</p>
  <p>‘Allright, allright. I don’t wanna bug you. Can I give you a lift?’</p>
  <p>‘No. Sorry.. but thanks.’</p>
  <p>The Bothan furrowed his bushy brows, then shrugged. ‘Well.. as you like…,’ he suddenly sounded defensive, ‘Cya tomorrow then.’</p>
  <p>‘Right, Wobbr,’ Gavin gazed after him with a lump in his throat, ‘Cya tomorrow.’ </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><strong>Late afternoon, the Thayer’s midlevel residency in Jrade district</strong>  </p>
  <p>Matheron took a deep breath when the apartment door hissed to slowly lock out the world behind him. <i>If only it were so. </i>Involuntarily he paused to listen—redeemed by Catharin’s voice as she peeked into the hall, ‘Darling!’</p>
  <p>Her radiant warmth. This same upright delight that had not lessened through the years but… matured more, like Zeltronian wine. This same affection that made this place home, and might it be lightyears away from where they should rather be. Though, lately, a guardedness had set in—like the smog that herearound left its stain on the sills and walls. Smutty, acidic layers… </p>
  <p>‘Hey dear,’ his lips but brushed her cheek, his right obstinately clenched up around the grip of his agrinium case as he evaded her hug. ‘Sorry… I’d first like go change… and take a ‘fresher.’</p>
  <p>‘Everything alright?’</p>
  <p>‘Yes. It’s just been a long day. Is Gavin home?’</p>
  <p>‘Yes, I fetched him from school as arranged. Why?’ </p>
  <p>Matheron dismissively shook his head as he sqeezed past her, ‘Just wondered.’</p>
  <p align=center style='text-align:center'>| | |</p>
  <p>Though he had helped cooking and set the table, Gavin sat strained in wait for his father to eventually return from the bathroom. Afraid of the imminent still. Stiff, as the generator’s ubiquitous whine shrank back from the reefs of the approaching shuffle. </p>
  <p>Apprehensively, sitting straight as you’d expect from a model-cadet, Gavin risked a glimpse—yet the man who laboriously sat down in his dad’s place did not deign looking at him. Fretfully he lowered his eyes, ‘Good evening, Sir.’</p>
  <p>‘Good evening.’ </p>
  <p>Catharin straightened out a pan on its mat, gave Matheron an inquiring glance as he took but half a ladle of the <i>Runyip stew</i> they had prepared. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he gave her an apologetic half-smile. And the room fell back to the unnoticeable hum that now and then washed into a perceptible drone when the engine attuned the flat’s pressure.</p>
  <p>‘Gavin will write an essay about the <i>Contemplanys Hermi.</i>’ </p>
  <p>‘Really.’</p>
  <p>The cutlery’s chink became disconcerting. </p>
  <p>‘Sir, I wondered… what do you actually do at the OPC?’ </p>
  <p>His spoonful stew pausing in mid-air Matheron gave him the strangest stare, ‘Why?’</p>
  <p>‘W-we discussed our governmental system today.’</p>
  <p>‘I see,’ only now he broke his penetrating gaze. ‘Well.. it’s all in the holonet.’</p>
  <p>Gavin swallowed. Catharin frowned, then looked down, ‘Math—’ </p>
  <p>‘What?’ His tone held an edge. <i>So quick. Too quick. Like a knife the slipshod sheath of which prematurely falls apart.</i> There had been times it had secretly thrilled her. <i>But not against your family, Math. Not against us.</i> Forcibly, she replaced the bitter note with a smile.</p>
  <p>‘The Ministry organizes a gala evening on the occasion of Restoration day. I’d like you to come with me.’</p>
  <p>‘Hmm,’ seized with very conflicting emotions, Matheron grimaced, ‘And what about <i>him</i>?’</p>
  <p>‘I referred to the <i>both</i> of you!’ Her blue eyes glittered abruptly, to only slowly put on a coquettish smile, ‘There will be speederloads full of foreign beings—I can’t see any of you to deny me your escort.’</p>


<hr align=left size=1 width="33%"><a href="#_ftnref1" title="">[1]</a> <i>Lujayne Forge was a Human female member of Rogue Squadron from Kessel. She joined the squadron at the same time as Gavin Darklighter, Corran Horn and Riv Shiel. Corran considered her the heart of the unit, always looking after the physical and emotional well being of the Rogues. She died on Talasea during an attack by Imperial stormtroopers sent there by Kirtan Loor and Admiral Devlia. Her sister Inyri Forge later joined Rogue Squadron after earning her place in the conquest of Coruscant and to honor Lujayne.</i>

Morning, noon, and night on Coruscant

(Datunda morning)

“Matheron! How are you, my boy?”

“Fine, Director Channing,” he replied, bristling at his superior’s hearty manner.

“Good! Here, I’m sure you’ll find this interesting,” Channing said as he handed Matheron a sheaf of printouts. “Quite fortunate,” as the director clucked with contentment, “that the OPC was able to swiftly acquire intelligence in regards to the Equalizers' organization and intentions.”

Matheron looked over the sheets handed to him. All of them were copies of the hypermedia’s reports, trumpeting the success of the OPC in the smashing of the Equalizers. Editorials lavished praise on Channing and his operatives, hailing the fact that the OPC had eliminated a terrorist threat as great as the PCF. Nowhere was there any mention of the beings whose wretched existence had galvanized the Equalizers into action; in fact, the hypermedia portrayed the radical group as nothing more than a pack of malcontents acting out their nihilistic fantasies.

“You see, Matheron?” Channing said, his eyes slitted as a feral smile slowly spread across his face. “Even the Fourth Estate, in their own way, recognizes the importance of stability in our fair Republic. Unless you happen to be a purveyor of the underground newsnets, but nobody believes the slander those radicals publish anyway.”

“I would respectfully point out to the Director,” Matheron countered, “that it was those types of newsnets that exposed Palpatine’s reign for what it was.”

“That was then, Matheron. This is now. Nothing, I repeat, nothing will prevent this office from carrying out its duties in the defense of the Republic.”



(Datunda afternoon)

“Math, are you even listening to me?”

“What? I, er, I’m sorry, Cathy. It’s just . . . what were you saying again?”

“I said I was having some second thoughts about Gavin having to go the fete with us tonight.” When Matheron didn’t say anything, Catharin went on hopefully, “I saw a banner outside of his school when I picked Gavin up today. There’s a dance tonight, a sock hop. I thought that we could let him go to that instead.”

“Out of the question.”

“But why? You know he’s just going to be miserable at the ball.”

“That’s one of the consequences of being punished. Cathy, that boy needs to understand how much he violated our trust in him, that there are consequences to his actions–”

“I know what you’re saying Math, but how far do you intend to carry this? To the point where Gavin will end up going around begging for someone to please sign his yearbook at the end of the schoolterm?”

“If that happens, that would probably be his fault anyway. You’ve said it yourself, Cathy: He hasn’t made any effort to meet anyone new.”

“Stop that,” Catharin demanded. “Use Gavin’s name, blast it!”

“I will,” Matheron bristled. “When I think he’s proven himself worthy of the respect–”

“Respect! Matheron, Gavin’s becoming terrified of you now! I’m . . . I’m becoming frightened by you.”

“Hey,” Matheron said as he crossed the bedroom and slid his arms around Catharin. “Hey, it’s just me. Matheron, remember?”

From the way his wife trembled, Matheron knew Catharin was highly upset. Lately, conversations had become somewhat testy, mostly over disagreements over their son’s punishment. Both agreed that it should be firm, but Catharin thought that the parameters for Gavin’s punishment should be set, and then life would go on. She made no effort to hide her disapproval over Matheron’s more heavy handed approach, all but accusing him of ‘psychological terror’.

That really stuck in Matheron’s craw. The boy wasn’t being treated too differently than recruits in the Corellian military; plus, he was always demanding to be treated like an adult, wasn’t he?And yet, there was the time Matheron had stormed into Gavin’s room, ripping the blankets from the newly made bed, tipping out the contents of the dresser, flinging articles of clothing from the closet, raging all the while. Turning to confront his son however, Matheron was taken aback to see Gavin backed into a corner, quaking with fear. He realized his son’s reaction was just like that of the youthful Equalizer suspect, when Matheron had returned for the second “interrogation” session. Staring at his son, conflicted with a sense of shame and anger, Matheron abruptly left Gavin’s room without a word.

“Will you let Gavin go to his school dance?”

“I’m sorry Cathy, but no. But if he behaves himself tonight, maybe . . . maybe we can have a discussion tomorrow.”


(Datunda evening)

“Will you look at that?” Matheron exclaimed as he piloted the family speeder to the hall where the grand fete was being held. “Real upper crust stuff.”

Gavin’s eyes widened as he viewed the gathered luxury and high performance speeders. By comparison, the Thayer’s plain and practical  Aratech seemed badly out of place. Just like he would be, but Gavin hadn’t held out much hope that his father would allow him to go to his school’s dance anyway.

After arguing with a valet droid, Matheron relented and allowed the mechanical to park their vehicle, joining Catharin and Gavin at the entrance. “Ye Gods, you look beautiful, Cathy,” Matheron enthused.

Despite the tension between them, Gavin agreed that his father was correct. Even if she’s not dressed in some expensive chroma-silk, Mom’s still the beautiful person here. And the suits Catharin had chosen–formal black for Matheron, and a blue pinstripe for Gavin–that if not as flashy as the designer dinner jackets favored by the other guests, gave the two Corellian males an understated elegance by virtue of their simplicity.

As Matheron offered Catharin his arm, Gavin moved to take his place at this parent’s side, but a dark look from his father caused the teen to backpedal. Instead, Gavin fell in several steps behind his parents, a look of dejection on his face.

Cathy’s hand dug into her husband’s arm. “Matheron,” she whispered dangerously. “I’m warning you–good evening!” she said brightly to the protocol droid greeting arriving guests. “Catharin and Matheron Thayer, and our son, Gavin.”

“Very good, Madame,” the droid replied. “Have a most enjoyable evening. Sir, Master Gavin.”

Upon entering the main hall, Gavin could see that the fete was the most glittering, opulent affair that he would ever attend. Yet he would gladly have traded it for the chance to be at the Lujayne Forge Academy sock hop. Meanwhile, his parents had been swept away by a crowd, eager to meet them or introduce Matheron and Catharin to someone. Gavin, ignored, was left with little to do except wander aimlessly through the throng of revelers.

Well, not quite ignored. As he circulated about, Gavin picked up snatches of conversation, snide and derogatory, and directed at him:

“Who’s that boy?”
“Don’t you know, dahlink? He’s that Thayer boy.”
“Thayer boy?”
“Of course, dahlink. That little hoodlum who led the bottom dwellers up to our level.”
“Disgusting. What’s he doing here?”
“Being shown what’s important in society, I hope.”

“Who’s the young one?”
“That’s Thayer’s kid.”
“He has two sons? I thought he just had one, a teenager?”
“That’s him. Pretty pathetic, ain’t he?”
“I’ll say. Talk about your recessive genes! You think he’s adopted, maybe?”
“I wouldn’t know. But Thayer’s got more guts than I do. I’d be embarrassed as hell if I had to let people know that that shrimp was my son.”

Gavin sighed, then went looking for a place where he could remain unobtrusive and just wait out the evening. A spot by the drapery looked promising, but from there  he could see his father, a center of attention.

Why couldn’t have I been more like him? Gavin thought despondently. Tall, strong, confident, a person that people wanted to be around. As he watched, a never ending stream of military men, politicians, and other persons of note made their way to Matheron, to shake his hand or clap him on the back.

“That’s an odd place to enjoy this celebration, isn’t it?”

“Whaa–uhh, hello Sir.”

“Gavin, isn’t it? I’m not sure you know me, but your father works for me.”

“Director Channing! I’m pleased to meet you, Sir.”

“No need to be formal, Gavin.”

“Yes Sir. Mr. Channing.”

“Not having a good time, are you? Rather be somewhere else?”

“Well . . . actually, yes.”

“I understand. These stuffy events are no place for a young person like yourself. But how are you finding Coruscant overall?”

“It’s a lot different from what I’m used to, Sir. Mr. Channing.”

“Yes, plenty of fields and forests on Corellia. And the open road. Your father tells me you’re quite the swoop enthusiast. Another Zip Beeline, perhaps?”

“It’s actually rated a speeder bike, Mr. Channing. And I’m not nearly as good as Zip ever was. But I’d like to be!”

“I’m sure you would,” Channing smiled. “Here, why don’t we find someplace to sit while we talk?”


“Good job, Thayer,” the man said, a district security chief. “We all appreciate everything you’ve done. It’s about time someone acted.”

“Thank you,” Matheron murmured, no longer knowing exactly what to think. Many of those who had come up to him had been connected with Republican or planetary security, tendering their thanks to Matheron for his role in crushing one of the threats to society. In doing so, he knew he had operated outside of the law, violating some of the most basic rights the New Republic guaranteed to all sentients. In a sense, Matheron could understand the approval of those connected with the military or law enforcement; chafing under and feeling hamstrung by rules of engagement, written by well-intentioned but clueless bureaucrats.

But what to think of the others? The business magnates; well, they didn’t want anything that would disrupt the flow of profits. But the politicians, journalists, and religious/spiritual leaders, especially those who purportedly crusaded for social justice, what was he to make of their thanks and “atta boy” comments?

“Matheron Thayer?”

“Yes, hello!” Matheron said, pumping the man’s and and discovering that he was an aide to the senator representing the Darpa Sector.

“And my son, Chypp. He’s to graduate from Prefsbelt Academy soon.”

“How do you do, Sir?” the cadet said, nearly crushing Matheron’s hand with an iron grip.

“We’re all very proud of him. You have any children, Thayer?” the aide asked by way of small talk.

“Yes.” And when the other two guests exchanged quizzical looks, Matheron quickly supplied, “A son. Gavin.”

“Oh. Then that was him who I heard some people making reference to. Perhaps we should introduce our sons to one another, so they can be rid of us old fogies.”

“Perhaps. I’m sure that boy of mine is circulating about somewhere.”


“It was nice talking with you, Mr. Channing. Good night.” Gavin nodded as the director of the OPC took his leave. The teenager was glad that he had had the chance to talk with Channing, though the man proved to be a better listener than conversationalist. Funny, wasn’t it? Corellians were normally reticent to talk about any discord with the family to outsiders, but Gavin, persuaded by Channing’s encouraging words and understanding manner, found himself detailing the strife that had beset his family since their arrival on Coruscant. The conversation had proven to be somewhat therapeutic for Gavin, and the director was someone who could to be trusted, wasn’t he? The man was the head of the OPC, the place where his father worked.

Furtively making his way back into the midst of partygoers, Gavin spied his father in the company of two new admirers, a father and son, the younger dressed in the garb of a military cadet. Wistfully, the teenager wished the scene was reversed, with his father proudly introducing Gavin to the crowd as “my son”.

Maybe that was the path to redemption, Gavin thought, if I volunteered to serve the New Republic after graduation. Then maybe Dad wouldn’t think that I was some wastrel. And maybe . . . maybe I could go to an academy myself. I could become an officer. Gavin glanced back at Matheron, this time imagining himself standing next to his father, dressed in the black, white, and red dress uniform of the New Republic’s Starfighter Corps.

“Gavin.”

“Mom!”

“Come along. I want to introduce you to some people.”

“M-me?”

“Yes, you. You’re my son, aren’t you?” Catharin said, a determined glint in her eyes.

Comprehending, Gavin nodded, an utterly grateful look on his face.


(Later, that same evening)

"I think that it ended up being a rather enjoyable evening,” Catharin announced as she brushed her hair.

“It wasn’t half bad,” Matheron agreed.

“And Gavin was quite the gentleman, don’t you think?”

Matheron didn’t reply. True, his son hadn’t acted like his recent usual self:  No sulking, no snotty attitude had been in evidence at the ball.

“So we’re going to have that discussion tomorrow then. Aren’t we, Math?”

Matheron sighed. “I suppose so.”

“By the way, did you and Channing have a chance to talk?”

“Channing?”

“Yes. He was at the ball.”

“I didn’t know that. No, I didn’t speak with him.”

“I didn’t get a chance to talk with him either. That’s odd. Well, he did spend quite a bit of time with Gavin, though. I saw the two of them go off someplace together. Math, could you–Math?”


Matheron strode purposefully down the hall to his son’s bedroom, his throat tight. The thought of Miroslav Channing snooping around his family enraged him, but then there was Gavin’s actions to take into account. What sort of information was Channing able to pry from his son? Even worse, what did Gavin volunteer to the director?

Opening the portal to his son’s room, Matheron could see, even in the dim light, that Gavin’s bed was empty, the blankets still pulled taut across it. Matheron had forced Gavin to make the bed ten times before he was satisfied with its appearance, his son’s hands shaking all the while.

A slight stirring attracted Matheron’s attention, and as he came around the bed, he discovered Gavin sleeping on the floor, curled up on a throw rug, huddled under a too small quilt. Matheron stared at the small figure for a long moment before leaning over to pull the covers back on his son’s bed. Then, somewhat stiffly, he bent down and gathered Gavin in his arms and laid him on the bed. The teenager stirred, but dropped back into a deep sleep when his head touched the pillows. Tucking the blankets up to his son’s chin, Matheron turned and silently stole from Gavin’s room.

The seed of suspicion

<p> Pausing out on the murky hall, Matheron tried to force the Equalizer’s look off his mind: The frightened young face, his shocked disbelief, curses, insults.. and how they degenerated into horrified, sobbed pleas. Kernan Addler, 15. A youth of Gavin’s age. Troubled, he turned away. And startled in sight of Catharin who leant mutely against their bedroom’s plasticrete doorframe; Arms folded in front of her slender torso, scrutinizing him with a censorious scowl. </p>
<p> Moving up to her, he shot her a sour glance. “What? Keeping the watch on me now?” He momentarily squinted against the light that came in from their common room, then squeezed past, pointedly avoiding to touch, and lay down near the edge of his side of their double bed. <em>Oh Cathy, do you really think I could harm him? </em>When she closed the portal and staggeredly slid in on her far end he averted his eyes. </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> “I know you wouldn’t harm either of us,” Catharin spoke quietly after a long moment, “But what were you just up to?” </p>
<p> Turned away from her in the green sheets, Matheron took a deep breath. What if he told her? What if he just put it on the table what hypocrite emwhulb the director was; Cathy surely was able to face it. But…had he actually tortured this youth to protect Gavin? Or not rather taken the easiest way out—to keeping his status, disguising the consequences of how badly he failed as a father… and being commended… </p>
<p> Catharin sighed, “Darling.. if it concerns you, then it concerns the both of us. And Gavin.. why does it disturb you so much to hear he had a chat with director Channing?” </p>
<p> Channing, yes, that was the other thing that had him profusely wary, and after but the little he had thus far been able to dig up about the Chandrillan: There were rumours his superior was obsessed with loyalty, secretly monitored his agents’ personal communications and kept tabs on who was friends with each other. Also a handful of former agents apparently had let out stories of infiltrating various government bureaucracies in an effort to weed out ‘traitorous’ members of the New Republic; before they had mysteriously vanished from sight. </p>
<p> Tales maybe; that but fitted too well with the glimpse the avid gardener had <em>granted</em> him behind his charming façade. <em>Shavit!</em> He should have taken his time to scrutinize the man <em>before</em> alerting him to his position. <em>But who should suspect the head-protector of our Republican constitution to be such a shik.</em> Suddenly he felt very tired. Anyhow, a character like Channing wouldn’t take chances. And how difficult was it really to bug their flat that lay abandoned for a guaranteed six to seven hours by every single workday? </p>
<p> One workman, one routine check. Or less: currently all it took to enter their midlevel residency was one suiting fingerprint—which to pick and forge a replica of really was child’s play where the OPC pretty much <em>consisted</em> of polished, smooth and clean surfaces. So essentially… every slovenly, minor agent could, and might eagerly, spy on him. </p>
<p> “Or do you fear <em>the boy</em> could have disgraced you before your superior?” Eventually annoyed at his persistent silence Catharin’s question came cutting, “Say, have you <em>seen</em> Gavin tonight, at all? Have you seen how our son wandered lost among all those people? And how some of them looked at a boy who, obviously, stands unrecongized by his father!?” </p>
<p> Swallowing at her reproach Matheron turned to face her with an aggressive whisper, “Knock it off now, alright! Do you actually think I enjoy this?” </p>
<p> “I shouldn’t hope so,” her voice likewise alarmingly quiet she gave him a long, inscrutable gaze, that only slowly softened up to a dejected expression. “Oh Math, I wish you’d finally tell me what the matter is.” </p>
<p> In view of her sorrow he grimaced. <em>Well, I should say…I’m very dissatisfied with how we dealt with those of the lower levels. We must improve their living conditions, that’s the only sensible way on the long run and that’s what I told that fulle guth named Channing; who but jabbad me into torturing a youth instead and now even dares to sneak up to our son – while a host of elevated and alledgedly social people keep their eyes wide shut and say attaboy for keeping their districts tidy. </em></p>
<p> Playing for time, under the dim of their bedside lamp Matheron rubbed his face. He fleetingly thought about writing his suspicion down for her—then about how small up-to-date cameras really could be: No, he shouldn’t take that risk. </p>
<p> Yet if the Chandrillan was cunning, he would be, too. Right tomorrow he’d acquire the necessary tools, scan the entire area, then <em>accidentally</em> get rid of all bugs. But frak if it <em>were</em> cams. No, much safer, discreetly move to a place he’d secure against infiltration right from the beginning – inconspicious, like any rational agent. And then, from a safe base, set up his counter-campaign on the barve. </p>
<p> Yes, that was it! Hadn’t there been an estate agent amongst those exuberant well-wishers? </p>
<p> Determinedly he moved closer to his wife and propped himself up beside her. “Please excuse, darling.. that was actually some rash action.” He hid the contented glow behind an appropriately remorse-filled expression, yet genuine passion shone through as he whispered, “You know I just hate the idea of our familial affairs being detailed to <em>any</em> outsider.” </p>
<p> “Yes, naturally. Same here.” Catharin agreed as expected. “But you don’t even know what they talked about, so what makes you think Gavin would…” </p>
<p> “Shhh.” He smiled and put a fingertip on her lips. “I know nothing but that our son’s mom is a splendid, protective lady. And I think… that I should make peace with him first thing in our common morning.” Catharin gave him a brief, checking glance, then beamed and intertwined her fingers with those of his proffered left. “You know,” she drawled through her grinning yawn, “sometimes his dad comes up with excellent ideas.” </p>
<p> “That I hope.” He turned off the light, only then took her fully into his arms and allowed himself a gleeful grin.<em> There you are now, petchuk! This time you picked a fight with the wrong Corellian!</em></p>
<p align="center"> / | \ </p>
<p><i>Natunda morning.</i></p>
<p>Gavin woke with the shrill of his chrono. Stunned, disoriented when he found himself on his bed, tucked in to the blanket he had knowingly wrapped himself up in on his room’s carpeted ground. The first second was shock. Frak, how did he come up here? How should he now succeed in making this bed, smooth the sheets and orientate the folded quilt as meticulously straight as his father demanded? Had his exacting instructor at last discovered his little scheme? Would his door hiss open in a spell to leave him unmasked as not only the flop that he was, but a liar now, into the bargain? </p>
<p> Messy haired the youth jumped up, panicky, quick – shook out the the rumpled quilt, tried to smooth out the sheets and adjust the cover so that you’d find its folded edge running as a straight line from the foot’s to the head’s bedposts inner demarcation, while at the same covering two thirds of the flattened out pillow, exactly. </p>
<p> After some seconds Gavin stopped to check: but shavit, it lay a little bit crooked and creased, just as always. He simply couldn’t seem to arrive… Frantically he repeated the procedure, his hands increasingly shaking as they dashed across the white linen, with ever the same film passing in review before his mind’s eye. </p>
<p><em> “You think I do this to harass you?” </em> In vivid detail his father took a deep breath while his grey eyes first flared then hardened to cool composure, <em>“You must educate yourself to being able to follow and keep up meticulous routines. There will be tasks the significance of which may escape you when you’re first faced with.” </em>A stranger in the flawless black suit, that rendered him yet more untouchable than the old beige or darkblue uniforms he had worn back on Corellia, he dismissively folded his arms in front of his chest. “<em>But some time you’ll be tested; attacked while you sleep or, anyhow… the most adverse of situations. And then you must know where your boots stand. Where your blaster lies. You must be prepared, and able to operate unhesitatingly. This doesn’t only go for the military.” </em></p>
<p> With that he had left and Gavin had gazed after him, mortified he had disappointed his father anew. And why the frell had he not been able to see for himself: of course, it wasn’t simply about this sheet’s straightness, conservatism or some unfounded spleen as which he had almost shrugged it off. No, naturally, his father wanted his best—only he was a flop that he screwed every time and let himself go. No wonder dad eventually turned away. </p>
<p> Despondent he stopped and subjected his work to a critical examination – aware of the conducting’s faint roar, a casual accelerating speeder, a passing hoverbus’s warning blare –painstakingly he straightened out a crease, pulled the quilt’s upper edge two millimeters to the left to perfect the line… then footfall: measured steps with their distinctive, minute difference between left and right. Hastily he stepped back and stood to attention as they seemed to slow down, paused right before his door… then picked up again and vanished out of earshot. </p>
<p> Only now Gavin realized his quickened pulse and the sick feeling. Droyk! Was dad now completely finished with him? </p>
<p> Of the both of his parents only his father was able to lift him up into his bed, no? But if he cared no more, then why would he? Or maybe, after he had behaved to his best all of these days, and yesternight, Mom had been able to convince him to end his internal exile? </p>
<p align="center"> / | \ </p>
<p> Seated at the breakfast table, Matheron looked up when his son treaded softly down the hallway and entered the family's dining area. “Good morning, Gavin.” Beside him Catharin spontaneously chewed her lip and looked down at a slice of dricklefruit on her plate as a beam lit up her features. Momentarily Gavin flushed, not knowing how to reply or act if he should not rush towards the man who welcomed him with a delighted grin—then but quickly collected himself, determined not to risk one bit of the ground he was given. A model of good behaviour he crossed the room, sat down in his place and returned the greeting with a composed smile, “Good morning, Sir.” </p>
<p> His mother winked as she glimpsed and passed him the cereals. His father however got up and motioned towards the den, “Glad you’re up in good time. I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” Surprised, Catharin rose a questioning brow; upon her husband’s pleading expression but shrugged and featured a look somewhere between disappointment and impish smirk. “Well, I guess that is men’s stuff. I’ll be guarding your caf then.” </p>
<p> “Thank you,” Matheron grinned and took Gavin along to the den. The small room was darkened, Matheron having adjusted the permaplas doors leading to the terrace to maximum polarization. What illumination there was was provided by a wall mounted tri-d unit, the screensaver displaying soothing images of the Corellian System's natural wonders. Entering, the youth found himself instantaneously captured by a lifelike view of the Selonian ocean, all complete with the faint splash of navy blue breakers against a dark, pebbled strand. Mom loved it, and so did he; sometimes felt like hiding in here just to stare, for hours and hours. But woe if dad caught him – that’d be another tirade about the necessity to accept and cope with the local conditions. <em>He only keeps it for mom. </em></p>
<p> When suddenly the width and soft roar ripped open to fling the scene of a Coruscant street battle upon him. Startled he looked back at his father, who sat on one of the fawn easy chairs with the remote relaxedly in his left. “Please.” Frowning, apparently distracted, his right gestured towards another chair. Only now the teenager stiffly took place on the edge of the linen covered, opposite seats; watching bewildered as his dad, all against his own ruling, started to casually zap through the channels. “You held yourself well this past week.” </p>
<p> Gavin didn’t know what to say while the constantly changing programmes blared at unusual, bothering volume. His father but gave him a half smile, “Had a nice chat the other night?” </p>
<p> Recalling the conversation with director Channing that had been about their familial strife much rather than anything, the teenager immediately felt tense. “Well.. yes, quite nice.” He gave an insecure glimpse towards the kitchen, and earned a disapproving glance from the black clothed before him. “Really? And what were you chatting about?” </p>
<p> “Uh.. I don’t know…” It came automatically, yet the slight narrowing of durinium-grey eyes made him correct himself quickly, “Er.. Corellia I suppose.” </p>
<p> “You s<em>uppose</em>?” His father’s tone cutting, the adolescent sat up yet straighter. Nervously he smoothed out a strand of hair. “Corellia. Yes, Sir. And school. Wobbr, a classmate, recently said the separation of powers really wasn’t implemented so perfectly. And Mrs. Tellarion, our teacher, actually couldn’t refute him.” Suspicious his son attempted to turn the conversation, Matheron scrutinized him coldly; while the subject brought up only served to disquiet him the more. “So.. you took the chance to ask an ‘informed official’?” </p>
<p> His mouth parched, Gavin nodded. While his father kept changing the stations without even a look at the blaring screen. “And?” </p>
<p> “Well.. he.. he said Wobbr’s unfortunately right. He’s aware of the current, critical situation, it saddens him himself he said and he’ll pleasedly hand back all questioned authority once you succeed in damming in the ongoing threats for just long enough… for the senators and our chief of state to find the perfect solution…” </p>
<p> Opposite him Matheron zapped on with an empty stare – why, if here really was bugged they should encounter big hitches in obtaining records of all 217 core stations and seeking out the corresponding seconds required to filter their talk from the variing background noise – though, right now it had not surprised him to come upon Palpatine’s face in the flitting channels, where the reported sounded him like a new edition of the latter’s infamous speech of 32 BBY. ‘Senators, It is with great reluctance that I have agreed to this calling. I love democracy … I love the Republic. The power you give me I will lay down once this crisis has abated…’ <em>That barve of a smiling Chandrillan! </em></p>
<p> “…lucky you do such excellent work, and that he’ll soon convince you to function as his deputy.” Not knowing what to make of the flare in his father’s eyes, Gavin stuttered, “What… what is it, dad? Have I said something wrong?” </p>
<p><em> Depends on whether you like Wobbr. Or me. Or your life. Shavit! </em> Irritatedly, Matheron fixed his son in a penetrating gaze and forced himself to keep his mind on the job. “Why? Do you suit your answers to what you think I want hear?” </p>
<p> Startled at his scathing tone the youth’s pupils widened. “N-no, Sir.” </p>
<p> “Don’t <em>lie</em> to me!” The uniformed’s angered bellow had tears shoot to his eyes. “And don’t <em>bawl</em>! You obviously had no problems to spill your guts to a perfect stranger, or why can’t you drokking answer me quiet and straightforward?” </p>
<p> Quivering before him, the teen pressed his lips together and dug his fingers hard into his palms in an effort to hold back the tears. “B-because I’m afraid of you, dad.” His voice high-pitched with suppressed sobs he blurted it out, then covered his face as telltale drops started to run down his cheek. “.. this feels like an interrogation..” </p>
<p> Embittered Matheron gnashed his teeth.<em> An interrogation feels different, Gavin, believe me. Oh frak, I wished you’d just tell what else he wormed out of you so I knew where he’ll try to get us. </em>Helpless he stood and rubbed his jaw. <em>Probably really better I ask you somewhere outside, just under no circumstances in that OPC speeder… </em></p>
<p> Noticing his son peeked up drowned in tears, he shook his head at him and barked, “And if? Chunder, boy! Do you think whining will cause your enemy to send you back home to mommy?” He looked scornful. “No! All she’ll get is a body bag and a compassionate note complete with the copied signature of Organa Solo.” Realizing he had easily drowned the trid’ he gave a <a name="OLE_LINK1" id="OLE_LINK1">twitchy </a>glimpse to the door, then leant in and lowered his voice, “A small <em>durni</em> will starve underground, without ever having felt sorry for itself. So drokking pack it in and recall your allegiance!” Grimacing, he straightened and turned to go. When a wilful sniffle caused him freeze, “But <em>he</em> listened to me. You always just play the instructor.” </p>
<p> The backhand threw his face around in a flash of pain. <em>Yes, I imagine he listened, Gavin. And maybe he does now. He seeks to learn how to raze you!</em> The teen’s vision rapidly becoming blurred he did not see his father’s sorrowful look, nor the hurt covered up in an incensed whisper. “Listen to <em>me</em> now. There’s good reasons for being Corellian, and herearound even more. You better…” </p>
<p> “<em>Matheron</em>!” A violent bang was heard as Catharin slammed down the datapad she had held and stormed in to fling her arms around her young. “What in a vast void!?” In sight of knuckles’ marks across his cheek she spun around and planted herself before her cub, right in front of her scowling husband. “<em>What</em> did you do?” She hissed at him and her eyes took on a dangerous glitter. “Is that what you call making peace recently?” </p>
<p> Upon his cold look she took on an aggressive stance. “Will you <em>dare</em> to make peace with me now the same way?” Furiously she snatched the remote from his hand and turned off the tri-d’s unnerving blare. “Frankly, Matheron, I do not know what is up with you, but…,” swallowing hard her eyes wandered, over the stranger in front, then across to the open door. “You really better go now.” </p>

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

Natunda, late morning:

“Gavin? Listen to me.”

With a grunt, Catharin managed to wrench her hand free from her son’s grip. “Put this on your cheek,” she said, activating a cold pack. Gavin did so, his movements mechanical, eyes never leaving some fixed spot on the wall. It’s almost as if he’s in a state of shock, Catharin thought as she knelt down if front of her son, seated on the edge of the bathtub.

After confronting Matheron, Catharin had sealed herself and Gavin in the teenager’s refresher, where she ministered not only to the ugly welt that Matheron’s blow had raised, but also to Gavin’s shattered psyche.

Gavin suddenly let out a hoarse croak and his body shook with fear; Catharin stiffened nervously as well. Both could hear Matheron milling about in the apartment’s foyer, then the sudden hiss of the main portal as it opened and shut. Catharin breathed in relief, noting ironically that it was probably the first time she was glad that her husband was absent. She had ignored Matheron as he called to them through the refresher portal, Catharin’s arms wrapped protectively around Gavin. Her husband seemed just as confused as they were, at times sounding angry, then contrite. What was wrong with Matheron? Did the surgeons and med droids miss something?

After several minutes, Catharin finally opened the portal of the refresher and peeked out cautiously, her fist raised and prepared to defend Gavin. Satisfied that Matheron was indeed gone, Catharin motioned to her wide-eyed son. “Come along, Gavin.”

The teenager hesitated, but allowed his mother to guide him to his bedroom. Gavin resisted and let out a whimper of fear when Catharin tried to get him to lay down on his bed. After some reassuring words, Gavin finally relented, curling up on his side and staring despondently at the baseboard.

Catharin stared sadly at the small, forlorn figure, wondering how she would ever explain Matheron’s behavior to her son. Matheron, who on occasion became sick with worry himself over Gavin’s precarious childhood health, but had vowed that he would see his son grow up and flourish. There were times when her husband would arrive home from some military operation, his fatigues grimy, and utterly exhausted, yet Matheron would deny himself his own comfort so that he could cradle a pain- and fever-racked Gavin in his arms. Catharin could still recall how Matheron would gently brush Gavin’s damp hair from his sweaty brow, and whisper comforting words and encouragement into their son’s ear . . .

“Gavin, if you need anything, just let me know. Okay?” Catharin said softly as she knelt down to kiss the top of her son’s head.


Gavin screwed his eyes shut as his mother left his room. All the teenager could think about was how his father was utterly contemptuous of him now. And didn’t even bother to hide the fact anymore, either; the backhand Gavin had received across the face was ample proof of that. A lump formed in his throat as Gavin recalled the scene again and again in his memory.

I’m absolutely useless to my parents as a son; a burden on them. What had he been thinking, when he told Director Channing all about the strife that had been occurring in the Thayer home?  I’m nothing more that some rotten, selfish, little vrelt, Gavin thought, I humiliated my parents. Who knows what Channing thinks of Mom and Dad now. And I didn’t even have the courage to admit to Dad what I really did.

Gavin twisted about on the bed, his stomach churning. The teenager had been frightened–terrified–by what his father had done. ‘This feels like an interrogation’ Gavin had whimpered, yet his father had only regarded him with a steely glare of his blue-grey eyes, unaffected by his son’s desperation and fright.

Gavin rolled onto his back to stare at his bedroom’s ceiling, nuzzling the cold pack up against his face. Some of his classmates had asked what exactly did his father do at the OPC; Gavin had been unable to give them an honest, complete answer. Dad didn’t conduct interrogations of people, did he? Growing up on Corellia, Gavin had heard the rumors, later learned the horrific facts of what the Imperial’s secret police apparatus had done on his homeworld and elsewhere. Dad wouldn’t ever do those sort of things, the teenager told himself, yet Gavin, sick with realization, recalled just how his father had evaded the question when asked . . .


Atunda, first break period at Lujayne Forge Academy:

“Gavin! Hey, Gavin!” Wobbr shouted as he rushed up to his classmate’s locker. “Hey, where were you Datunda?” the Bothan asked, frowning at Gavin’s glum expression. “We missed you at the hop.”

“Couldn’t go,” Gavin answered listlessly, keeping his face averted from Wobbr.  Thanks to Mom's ministrations, there wasn’t any telltale bruising on his cheek, but Gavin still felt self-conscious about it.

“Why not? What’s the story?”

The Bothan’s snout wrinkled as Gavin mumbled an excuse about having to attend some function with his family that the Diplomatic Corps had put on. Wobbr supposed that could’ve been the reason; he certainly didn’t want to believe what Merdoc, Ilras, and some others were saying about Gavin: That he was a conceited little ass who couldn’t be bothered with the rest of them. After all, why didn’t Gavin ever socialize with his classmates?

“Well, anyways, I wanted to ask you about your speederbike again,” Wobbr continued, noting how mere mention of the Mobquet had caused Gavin’s eyes to light up, if only momentarily. “When are you going to bring it school again? You are going to ride it to school again, aren’t you?”

Even if it seemed a bit silly, Wobbr was secretly thrilled by what he saw the speederbike represented: freedom and rebellion. The Bothan recalled the envy he felt when his Corellian classmate had pulled up to the school for the first time: Gavin, a leather jacket over his blazer, looking like some pint-sized hellion (What in blazes was a pint?) transplanted into Lujayne Forge Academy’s midst. And though Gavin had shown himself to be somewhat timid and meek at school, Wobbr couldn’t deny that his classmate was an entirely different person behind the controls of the Mobquet.

After school let out for the day, the esplanades and skylanes around L.F. Academy turned into raceways, as students fortunate enough to own personal vehicles drag raced each other for bragging rights, credits, and even ownership chips sometimes. Gavin had been in the thick of it all, cocky and self-assured as only Corellians could be, the new kid blithely scorching the competition. And Wobbr desperately wanted to be part of it.

The Bothan had spied Gavin several times from the shuttle hoverbus Wobbr rode to and from school (save for those rare instances Father would pick him up), watching as his classmate would ride toward CoCo Town, and at times head for the lower levels of Coruscant. What Wobbr wouldn’t give for the chance at that kind of freedom! The Bothan knew that very shortly, when he entered the university, he would begin living the future already planned for him: The initial process of creating an extensive client-patron network, all carefully designed to exploit his peer’s weaknesses and to further Wobbr’s own personal power.

But maybe, over the summer perhaps, there would be one last chance to let loose, to raise hell like some swoop gang member, and not worry whether it would be used against him politically in the future. Wobbr didn’t have the slightest idea on how to pilot a speederbike, but surely Gavin would be more than willing to teach him, wouldn’t he?

And if purchasing a speederbike was out of the question, there were always rentals and leases. Wobbr smiled as he imagined himself and Gavin on a thunder run, joining hundreds of other leather clad swoop riders as they blasted their way through Galactic City.

Gavin swallowed nervously, not quite sure what to make of the beatific look on Wobbr’s face. The teenager didn’t want to admit why he wasn’t allowed to ride his Mobquet to school anymore, especially after the way his father had reacted when he found out that Gavin had spent an inordinate amount of time speaking with Director Channing at the Diplomatic Corps Ball. Gavin could just imagine how the scenario would play out:

Frink, boy! Matheron bellowed. It’s bad enough that you reveal all of our troubles to someone you’re barely acquainted with, and now you feel compelled to blab everything to some junior-league Borsk Fey’la? Pray tell, boy; where in the frell did you ever learn to be such a complete wagyx?

“Well, you see, Wobbr,” Gavin stammered, trying to phrase his response so that it wouldn’t reveal the true reason he was restricted from riding his speederbike. Wobbr looked incredibly disappointed at first, then irritated as Gavin’s explanation became more rambling and unconvincing.

“Man, what is wrong with you?” Wobbr seethed. “Here I am, about the only person trying to be your friend, and you won’t even give me a straight up, honest answer. No wonder nobody likes you.”

“Wobbr, I–”

“You know what? Just forget about it, all right? I’m sorry I even asked,” the Bothan said before turning on his heel and storming away.

“Wobbr, wait!” Gavin blurted frantically but his classmate paid him no mind. “Wait . . .”


 Lujayne Forge Academy, at the end of the school day:

The final bell rang, and students poured from the halls of Lujayne Forge Academy, jubilant that the day was finally over. Gavin shuffled along at the rear of the throng, his eyes never leaving the ground. Typical of most days, it had been a lonely one for the young Corellian; even more so, now that Wobbr didn’t even want to socialize with him. Merdoc and Ilras had picked up on that fact, and had used the opportunity during gym to level some particularly vicious tackles on Gavin during the class zoneball game.

Utterly dispirited, Gavin spied his mother waiting for him, and after casting a wistful glance at some classmates drag racing in a pair of Sorosuub speeders, made his way to her.

“Gavin Thayer!”

Startled, the teenager spun about. “Mr. Vardillijan!” he exclaimed.

“I’m glad I managed to catch you.”

Adan Vardillijan taught classes on the arts at Lujayne Forge Academy, and served as the Theater Group’s advisor as well. A native of Alderaan, Vardillijan and his family had escaped that planet’s annihilation due to the fact that he had accepted a teaching position on Corulag, of all places.

There, Vardillijan had waged a near-hopeless battle at Corulag’s Imperial Academy, attempting to inculcate some appreciation for the arts– ‘humanities’, as decreed by the COMPNOR apparatchiks–among the student body. Upon Alderaan’s destruction by the Death Star, he had been compelled to issue a statement approving of his homeworld’s demise. Even though the statement had been made under duress, Vardillijan found himself shunned by the majority of the Alderaanian expatriate community. Rumor held that was one the many reason he always had such a sad look on his face.

“What was it that you wanted, Mr. Vardillijan?” Gavin asked. “Umm, this is my mother, Sir.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Catharin Thayer.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Vardillijan said. “I just wanted to ask Gavin if he would be willing to try out for the Theater Group. I noticed in his datafile that he was active in his old school’s Thespian Society. I was hoping that he might continue here.”

“I, uh, I don’t know if I’ll be able to–” Gavin hedged.

“We’re going to reading for parts for the production of Dha Werda Verda.”

“ ‘Warriors of the Shadow’,” Catharin translated.

“Yes, the great epic from Coruscant’s history,” Vardillijan noted. “All the schools in the Jrade District collaborate on the production.”

“It was much the same on Corellia for the production of Uhl Eharl Khoeng,” Catharin said eagerly. “Gavin was one of the youngest persons ever to be in the cast for Coronet’s citywide production,” she continued, smiling proudly at Gavin and causing him to blush with embarrassment.

“Outstanding! So Gavin, will we see you at the rehearsal hall then?”

“Yes, you most certainly will, Mr. Vardillijan,” Catharin said firmly, answering for Gavin. “He’ll be there.”

“Splendid,” said Mr. Vardillijan, showing the faint trace of a smile. “Here Gavin, this datacard has the script. I’ve highlighted some of the roles that I think might interest you.”

“I–Thank you, Mr. Vardillijan.”

“Mr. Vardillijan,” Catharin asked, “do you need any of the parents to lend a helping hand? I’m more than willing to volunteer my time.”

“As a matter of fact, I could use any help I can get.”

While his mother and Mr. Vardillijan engaged in conversation, Gavin stared at the datacard in his hand. What was his father going to say? As far as Gavin knew, he was still on restriction, which meant no extracurricular activities. Mom had to be absolutely furious with Dad, for her to blatantly go against his authority like this.

“Get in the speeder, Gavin. We’re going to the Museum of Fine Art.”

“The Museum?”

“Yes. Mr. Vardillijan has invited us. There is a private showing of Chassu’s work this afternoon. We’ll be attending as his guests.”

Gavin was agog. “Wait. Venthan Chassu?”

Catharin looked amused. “Of course, Venthan Chassu. Who did you think I was talking about?”

“You don’t think,” the teenager ventured, not wanting to get his hopes too high, “that Chassu’s Selonian nude studies will be on display, do you?”

“We’ll never know by just sitting around here. Get in, Gavin!”


Later that evening, back at the Thayer family residence:

Matheron’s brow wrinkled as Catharin and Gavin entered the family’s apartment, arriving much later than expected. He hadn’t been able to contact either one of them, as they had both shut off their comlinks.

“I still can’t get over it,” Gavin was saying, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “The way Chassu was able to fully capture the sensuality of the Selonians. I–”

“Cathy, where have you two been?”

Gavin let out startled squeak and started to shy away from his father, but was restrained by his mother’s firm hand.

“Gavin and I were at the Museum of Fine Art,” Catharin said coolly, her blue-grey eyes boring into Matheron’s. “At the invitation of one of his teachers. And afterwards, we stopped at a bistro to get a bite to eat.”

“It would have been quite considerate of you,” Matheron growled, “if you had commed and apprised me of that fact.”

“Yes, I suppose I should have,” Catharin countered, “but I didn’t want to disturb any of the patrons by calling you.”

Catharin turn to her son. “Gavin, why don’t you go and tend to your studies? I’ll drop in later and we can look at that script Mr. Vardillijan gave you together.”

“Yes, Mom,” Gavin answered, sounding relieved. After a nervous glance at Matheron, the teenager all but fled for his room.

“Our son will be reading for a part in the Jrade School District’s production of Dha Werda Verda.  And he’s doing so with my permission. I fully expect you to support him; don’t you dare cross me on this. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Catharin said, brushing past an almost dumbfounded Matheron, “I’d like to go and freshen up.”

Almost as an afterthought, Catharin handed her husband the container she had been holding. “By the way, we stopped to get you some take-out for dinner. I hope you like Kubindi food.”


Late night:

Matheron cast a surreptitious glance at Catharin as he she prepared herself for bed, the tension between them almost palpable. Catharin had spent most the remainder of the evening doting on Gavin, the two of them going over the script of Dha Werda Verda and discussing the upcoming production. Matheron had listened his son’s laughter, and and there was an excitement in Gavin’s voice not heard since . . . well, since they had lived on Corellia.

“What were you two doing at the museum?” Matheron asked, hesitatingly.

“There was a private showing of Venthan Chassu’s work. His Selonian nudes.”

A nude Selonian? How does that work? “Well, I’m glad you two enjoyed yourselves, but really, Cathy. I would’ve appreciated it if you had let me–”

“I’m not interested in having this conversation.”

Matheron remained silent as his wife climbed into their bed. “All right, Cathy. I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “for bringing it up.”

Sliding in under the covers, Matheron leaned over to kiss his wife, but Catharin coldly turned away from him. Stunned, Matheron slumped back onto his side of the bed, then clumsily extinguished the room’s illumination.

Moodily lying awake in the dark long after Catharin had drifted off to sleep, Matheron remained acutely aware of the fact that his wife had refused to address him by name . . .

Agapos' curse

<p><em> 13 hours prior. </em></p>
<p><em> Out of the tunnel, he chose an “uncustomized05” to enter the shadier corners in which the sooty, cracked foundations were covered over and over with graffiti – patter and depictions of all and the most unpleasant sorts. The majority of them dealing with sex, bad living-conditions, discrimination, pollution, sex, unscrupulous industrials, music, corruptible politicians, violent security forces, sex, drugs, rebellion, sex, sex, and more sex. </em></p>
<p><em> Sex in the way of frak the Senate, frak the CSF, frak the CSI, frak Mothma, Solo, Fey’la and all their hypocrytical Bishwags. Sex also in the form of Leia O. Solo kneeling before Palpatine, Vader frakking Ackbar and Mothma having it with… a grandfatherly dude that looked a lot like Miroslav Channing – “spawn the Office for the Protection of Class-society” was the caption in bold violet. </em></p>
<p><em> And apparently inspired by it, just a few ferrocrete boulders farther, the illustration of a pack of howlrunners; spread out, sniffing and marking beneath some of the most rebellious pictures. Every individual beast though put on a strong lead, some on chains actually, while all leads ran together in a hefty, distinctly pigmented hand…</em></p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>
<p><em>1150 OPC </em></p>
<p><img src="http://img159.imageshack.us/img159/7103/postercorelliataenabeacsr5.jpg" alt="Corellia, Taerna Beach" width="300" height="210" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="right" /> Seated beneath the newly put up, static holo of a Corellian shore, Matheron started as his office’s door was actuated without warning. He looked up from his desk’s built-in screen and impulsively minimized the underground newsnet, when Director Channing strode in. Clothed in an impeccable white suit, hands tranquilly clasped in his back, the Chandrillian conveyed the image of a father. Just whether this patriarch was good…</p>
<p> Matheron straightened instinctively and greeted him with a confidence he did not feel, while his grey eyes followed the older man’s measured steps across his office; his suit’s shine under the glaring incident light, before the dying hiss of the closed door released the cloth’s rustle and the soft creak of polished brown shoes, likewise. Only at window ledge he stood and casually glanced out. </p>
<p> ‘A wonderful morning, isn’t it?’ </p>
<p> ‘Indeed.’ Matheron wondered what was good about this morning at which his son shied away from him and his wife gave him supercooled glares. If she looked at him at all, that was. </p>
<p> ‘With a climate like this I may soon have to prune my <em><a href="http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ch%27hala_tree" target="_blank">Ch'hala trees</a></em>. I…cannot tolerate rank growth, Matheron, can I?’ The Gardener turned his wrinkled face towards him and smiled. ‘How did <em>you</em> spend your precious day off?’ </p>
<p> Well, he… hit his son, first time ever; had a terrible fight with his wife in the course of which he sometime realized he alternately cursed and beseeched a locked door… then had called in here and swept this entire room for bugs – in the disguise of personalizing it. Could it be this that brought the director into the arena? </p>
<p> Matheron produced the veneer of a grin. ‘I’ve… taken the chance to put initials on my place, Sir. I.. hope you don’t mind?’ </p>
<p> ‘Really. Now that you mention it…’ Turning partly, Channing’s gaze swept over the framed static holos of Catharin and Gavin Thayer, various uniformed units, a jagged Corellian strand, then rested upon the large-scale print of a squad of soldiers rescuing civilians from a wrecked high-rise building. </p>
<p> ‘Salute Challenge.’ In an undertone the Chandrillian read the caption, then stepped up and inspected the image of the five uniformed jumping from a hovering TaggeCo.Strikebreaker into the damaged tower that looked threateningly close to caving in. ‘What’s this, Matheron?’ </p>
<p> ‘A motivational poster for the Corellian Forces, Sir.’ </p>
<p> ‘Your work?’ </p>
<p> ‘Yes, Sir. An early one.’ Matheron recalled the circumstances after the Battle of Corellia. 1 ABY, in which squadrons of TIE Bombers had attacked Coronet’s capitol tower after the Imperials had managed to distract the defending Rogue Squadron by a handful of specifically programmed Viper probe droids. More squads of TIEs had then touched down and attacked the technology center—many rescue operations had become necessary. The holo, however, had not been taken in action… </p>
<p> ‘Nice. Really, very nice. I like your style.’ Turning towards him, Channing’s mouth twisted appreciatively. ‘Unity, comradry, discipline—you made it your task to encourage these feats within, while communicating the worth of every single soldier to the outside. An excellent strategy.’ He paused, then grinned. ‘Some even call you the mother of soldiers, no?’ </p>
<p> ‘Yeah…erm, yes, Sir.’ Matheron grinned. ‘I’ve heard of that.’ Indeed, he had a good stand with his boys, and there had been quite a commotion, he’d heard, after those terrorist shiks had gotten him; a handful of his former comrades must have volunteered to buy them a free journey to the maw. The case was in the responsibility of the navy, however. That’s why they still lived… </p>
<p> ‘Well, yes, that were great times. Alas, my boy, the Rebellion is over. Now it’s holding the fort. And that’s an incredibly more difficult task…’ </p>
<p> Blinking disturbedly Matheron looked down, caught unaware by the words the older must have been picking up from his heart. Yes, that exactly was what he felt – since yesternight, when he had been cruising the corridors of the city that made up the center of this old galaxy. This ugly, polluted place, in which two spiced ale and a nerfburger came at the daily rate of a Corellian soldier; the rich lived high up and the rest was duly oppressed. </p>
<p> Was this the world they’d been fighting for? The great prize for which Doren and Mrad had died, Kresh, Shylla and Prann… and too many more admirable fighters and comrades? The great prize <em>he</em> had promised? Matheron nervously kneaded his fingers while the worn-out emptiness had him stare down at his clasped hands. Why then, that made him an abject liar. Looking at <em>this</em> world, they must reassemble from their scattered ashes! And they’d be furious… </p>
<p> ‘Matheron?’ Disquieted, the director stepped up to his desk. ‘Are you alright?’ </p>
<p> ‘Erm.. yes, of course, Director Channing. Just memories. I apologize. You were saying?’ </p>
<p> Channing gave him a disturbed look. ‘I said we are facing a big problem, Thayer. Why, people think we have won and that’s that. But in truth, the battle is raging on. Always. As soon as the external enemy has quit the field, unity is about to decompose. As soon as the dust settles, the newborn state is in danger to become subverted.’ He frowned as he gave his opposite number a determined gaze. ‘And that, <em>Major Thayer</em>, is what really induced me to request your transfer.’ </p>
<p> Matheron’s head jerked up instantly. ‘Sir?’ </p>
<p> ‘Yes.’For a split second, the director grinned. ‘Indeed, you have <em>not</em> been shunted off, as you’re apparently thinking. Only we do not need so many ground forces anymore. By now, we’re in need of your expertise here, at the currently most important frontline: <em>Within</em>.’ </p>
<p> ‘But why…?’ Matheron broke off puzzled and gave Channing a questioning, rather sceptical gaze. </p>
<p> ‘Why, we needed to see if you could fit in and adapt to the new requirements, first. Some are too stubborn, you know, that’s how they’re landing themselves up on the scrap heap. But you… after you’re gradually developping a feeling for what it takes… and proved your readiness for action…’ </p>
<p> The director gave a finely-honed smile as he produced a little white case from his pocket, swivelled it in his ringed left, then held it up between index and thumb. ‘I may now entrust you with your first <em>original</em> operation.’ Matheron’s eyes stuck to the lustrous little box as Channing clicked it on the desk and gave it two taps with a hefty, distinctly pigmented forefinger… </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p><em> 1230 Repulsorlift downwards </em></p>
<p><em> Nerf tenderloin, Pashi noodles, Krakana filet.</em> An excellent choice of dishes, as per usual—each costly enough for a lowlevel Coruscanti to only be able to treat himself to one of them about once a month. </p>
<p> Having studied the running text on the display over the lowering cabin’s door, Matheron consciously straightened, split seconds before the turbolift’s portal slid open, then set his teeth and tried to suppress the hobble as he entered the canteen – even if regularly recurring enquiries had meantime made him aware of that the venture was futile. He limped. But he did his best to limp with measured tread as crossed the spacious hall that smacked of roast meat, various aftershaves and thin smoke. </p>
<p> Every time, and if but moderately filled up like today, Matheron still hated every meter, and feigned to study the menu yet again as soon as he’d queued up. He had built up a routine of discouraging any attempt on small talk these past weeks, practised a lot, and grew better by every day… </p>
<p> Why, he was decidedly not in the mood to talk about Coruscant’s preprogrammed wheather, the <em>wonderful</em> look upon the OPC’s gardens or nightly disturbances of his collegues’ peace. Or not with agents like Schmach, anyhow, who forgot their own rants as soon as they climbed into their polished LUX-3. Matheron had recognized the lean young man by the license plate when they’d travelled home from work the other Satunda: once beneath the tidied up Senate district he cut the corners and trespassed the 25 residential himself—hours after he had demanded a tripling of the 25 meters belt of protected airspace around residential buildings over canron and grilled nerf steak. Well, he’d apparently meant for his own place, solely. </p>
<p> Spying his blond crew cut next to Luvsey’s black one – ahead at one the tables between the partitioning tubs of greens in front of the hall’s polarized glass façade – Matheron’s face grew even colder. He’d usually sit in one of those places. Only today his wish for privacy exceeded even his natural preference for daylight. Ostensibly ignoring a few agents’ looks he returned the tall Coruscanti’s scrutiny, then forked right and set his teeth while he balanced his tray to one of the last vacant tables alongside the far wall. </p>
<p> Where he remained undisturbed for an estimated ten minutes. </p>
<p> ‘Hey, Matheron. I thought you might like one, too.’ Tam Menats, a cheerful brown-haired curly-head sat down uninvited and put a tray with two cups of steaming hot caffa before him. He grinned his contagious grin in which he unashamedly exposed two rows of clean but fascinatingly crooked teeth. ‘A wonderful day, isn’t it?’ </p>
<p> ‘Thank you.’ Matheron rose his brow and gave him a quizzical look. ‘Indeed, I can barely stop wonder…’ </p>
<p> ‘Aww, what’s up? Say,’ The young Nabooian gave a furtive glimpse around, then leant in, ‘the office’s freshest rumour is true?’ </p>
<p> ‘What? That we’re changing to Talon I Combat Cloud Cars?’ </p>
<p> ‘Uhm.. no.. that other one, actually. Do we?’ Menats beamed. </p>
<p> ‘No.’ Matheron gave the young brown-eyed a critical gaze. ‘<em>What</em> other one?’ </p>
<p> ‘They say you had a clash with Stevan. Uhm.. <em>Luvsey </em>I mean?’ </p>
<p> ‘<em>Who</em> says that?’ </p>
<p> ‘Oh.. I don’t know.. people. Sounds he…included it in his report that you… refused to give him information on the cause of your calling in here, yesterday. And though he was the agent on duty. Why, some say it went till he saw himself forced to make a firm demand.’ He paused to look innocent. ‘I naturally wouldn’t believe.’ </p>
<p> ‘Good boy.’ Matheron gave him an ironical smirk as he reached for one of the cups and added some sweetener. ‘You certainly know how to gather intelligence.’ He stirred the black brew, while his opposite number still seemed to scrutinize him. ‘What is it, Tam? Anything else?’ </p>
<p> The curly-head frowned briefly, then shrugged. ‘Well… no.. I.. actually just wanted to …hear your side. After all…,’ he tactically cleared his throat. </p>
<p> ‘After all <em>what?</em>’ </p>
<p> ‘Uhm… you wouldn’t shoot down the messenger, no?’ </p>
<p> ‘Not usually.’ Matheron grimaced. ‘Now spit it out.’ </p>
<p> ‘Uhm, well.. it seems he let something drop that sounded remotely like…<em>loud snarls… from a limping old tusk cat</em>.’ </p>
<p align="center">| | | </p>
<p><em>1320 After lunch, Alone in his office</em></p>
<p> Matheron took a deep breath while he rubbed his face, then pensively rested his chin on the thumbs of his folded hands and stared at the opened little case. Well, this <em>was</em> a tidy <em>package</em> for sure. How it glistened, white crest, next to the tall glass of Ralla spring water, on the dark side of which incident light fanned out into a bullet-sized, trichromatic formation… </p>
<p> Eventually he smirked. Yes, perhaps this was his chance to throw off the chains and have an influence on it whom the howlrunners would hound—perhaps it <em>was</em> a way to do justice to the fallen. Why not, if their handler would have it with a crippled bitch. Giving his notepad’s drawing pen a spin, Matheron smirked suggestively. And fell back to his brooding expression before the gyration had ended. </p>
<p align="center">| | | </p>
<p>While behind the glass, the bullet of Coruscant’s violet and blue spectrum crawled from right to left, Matheron went through the office’s register as well as his mental notes on every of the agents he had met or been introduced to, so far. Up till now, a good number of them were but blurred sketches on just about empty files. With only few he had exchanged more than the polite ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ during the past weeks. That would have to change. </p>
<p>That the office talked about his collision with Luvsey suddenly became momentous. By now, he would really have to think twice whether or not to give in to instinct when it came to the tall dark-haired Coruscanti. And though that agent resurrected Matheron’s belief in hate on first sight: Why, from the moment they’d first met Matheron had hated the dude’s guts, that bloodcurdling aftershave, and had wanted his clear-cut face to frakking get lost—that’s why he had given him a few retorts that, obviously, had <em>displeased</em> Channing’s model howlrunner.</p>
<p>And now that sneak grassed on him! He must have submitted that report by now, what would bring about consequences—<em>that</em> guy was an <em>agent</em>, really! <em>Another gadfly emwulb nearing to…</em> frak your operation, ritually. Matheron glowered. If, through all of his years at the forces, a man had dared suggest he’d end up as one of the <em>Untrustables</em> himself… </p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>
<p>Creeping to the left, where it’d point away from his desk and towards the executive case, the bullet would slowly extend and disperse into diverging lines that eventually became blurry—like the trails of his own thoughts as he found himself staring… out of the window, up at his five comrades jumping… yet most of all at his son’s portrait. </p>
<p> Just like yesterday, when he had first put up their both framed static holos upon this desk. This one showed Gavin and his mates during school’s annual zoneball match – Nelona 9ABY, back at Coronet. It had been cool, drizzling… and a joy to watch him playing that day: finally healthy, spirited and involved. Sharing in with a CorSec collegue and fellow father, Matheron had been proud like the maw, and when Gavin had come to him during the half-time.<em> ‘D’you see, dad? We equalized!’ ‘Yeah, little partner, and how!’</em> They’d exchanged the ritual clap… </p>
<p>Today, ‘equalized’ evoked yet another youth’s features… waxen, scared stiff and pleading under the back room’s flickering neon light. The terror of drowning—Ironical that he had put up eaxctly <em>this</em> portrait of Cathy. The one he had taken during their day out on her father’s yacht: her sitting back on deck, sneakers propped up on the rail, feigning to angle—while he’d been battling attacking seagulls, the spray, most but his own clumsiness – a few times short to going overboard. She’d been laughing all the time during that cruise, hadn’t she? </p>
<p> He found that he greatly missed her laughter… </p>
<p> Eventually he couldn’t stand it any longer. </p>
<h4></h4>
<p align="center">/ | \</p>
<p><em> 1630 Thayers’ flat, Jrade district</em></p>
<p> In view of the inane remark about doing one’s job properly – that he had chucked at Luvsey in their yesterday’s clash – Matheron quit work almost embarassingly early. It was Atunda. At this time of afternoon Catharin and Gavin would be home… </p>
<p> On entrance, however, the flat lay jarringly silent. He listened. Restrainedly called her name, then looked about with bated breath. Their bedroom, bath, closet… empty. Gavin’s parts, too.</p>
<p><em> The kitchen table! She’d usually leave a note. </em> He hesitated to enter. Looked twice, checked the floor, too – just in case it’d fallen…Nothing. </p>
<p> Sitting, dejectedly, he dared to tap Catharin’s comm-number only after several minutes. <em>Click …not available. The person you have called is temporarily not available…</em> Same with his son. </p>
<p><em> ‘Gavin is scared of you now, I…I am frightened.’ ‘I’m afraid of you, dad…’ ‘Matheron!’ ‘You really better go now…’ </em></p>
<p> Matheron swallowed as the constricted sickness settled in deeper. He knew the feeling. He had felt it before. Like when his wife had gone out during his convalescence. To the opera, galleries, museums… He’d been happy she took some time off, distracted and enjoyed herself; it was relaxing for him, too—no-one who’d constantly peer over to see whether she could help… </p>
<p> Yet… he had never really shared her interest in the fine arts… and women yearned that, didn’t they? That you understood and appreciated them, wholly. Now, all those half-cooked dudes out in those galleries would fall over one another to do exactly that—go into raptures about one of those deeds of art, then lean in to his wife and whisper her how much more fascinating <em>she</em> was… </p>
<p> But to think of it! And why, because for once in their pathetic little existences they were right: she <em>was</em> beautiful. Cathy was stunning, breathtaking, rousing…He frinking knew! He always knew. Only during the past months, since he’d been injured precisely, he was tormentingly more aware of it than through the past twenty years. And he had not told her so often… </p>
<p> And it had happened to Ian, Tonay, Macnan… His comrades had altogether been tough. They’d all done their best to bear it with dignity – or as far as he could judge. </p>
<p><em> But girls just wanna have fun. </em> Sure, everyone did. It was sentients’ nature, and Cathy’s of all. Really, his wife knew how to have fun – real, impudent, provoking <em>fun</em>. That was the difference between a girl that looked good and one that was driving you crazy, no? Her ability of enjoying herself… </p>
<p> And if the beam hit you nude, exactly the moment, Satunda night in the surf of Taerna beach – his girl would actually chuckle.<em> Come</em>, she had whispered, thrown him off of her and dragged him behind one of the jagged black rocks – till the coastguard got bored, and so they wouldn’t be on the newsnets. They were both <em>decent</em> Corellians, after all, no? Cathy could say that with such conviction… </p>
<p> Only at times she did not <em>want</em> to be decent. That’s why his mother and her undesirable daughter-in-law were at loggerheads for all time: acting natural, his wife had the power to spoil a party’s all carefully orchestrated affectation. Or… <em>solemnity</em>, as the self-styled grand dame of Coronet would call it, pardon. Yet if Lady Marissa Tatjana first knew <em>why</em> it was that her <em>respectable</em> son suddenly flashed an ardent grin when his <em>embarassing </em>wife but touched him by the wrist… </p>
<p><em> Come</em> . She would say, and he couldn’t but grin, thinking of how they’d agreed they <em>needed</em> to eventually finish off that one. By one word she could tempt him to follow her anywhere since, and though it hindered a natural gait. Now, however, he walked unnatural all of the time… Handicapped, moody and bitter—everything that persuaded you against when you considered visiting your disabled comrades. You still went there, at times. Of course, it was bounden duty. But they were no fun to be with.<em> That’s</em> why his comrades’ ladies had left… </p>
<p> And then he had fallen back to unpleasant old patterns, too: after their fight yesterday morning he had left for the OPC and had stayed away till late. First occupied with his bugging hunt, then actually scouting for a more secure flat—though after his CorSec days he should have realized at once… But that was the nature of being jabbaed, no? It rendered you blind, panicky and paranoid with your own guilty conscience. That’s how you threw yourself into senselessly hunting your own shadow—and forked left before Jrade district for four times, instead of returning home. Cruising, lost in ever the same circles, concerned with the dead instead of the living… </p>
<p> But.. they had not <em>really</em> left, no? Catharin had not <em>really</em> taken Gavin along and boarded the next shuttle? </p>
<p> A long moment he stared at the comm. Why, that would explain why there was no connection—or… was it something far worse? Was he wasting precious minutes while something terrible had happened? Nervously he got up, limped to the den and searched out the number of her office, Luyane Forge academy and the telecomm service provider… </p>
<p align="center"> / | \ </p>
<p><em> 2000 hall. </em></p>
<p> A little noise at the door, their both voices… it had been deliverance. But for the way she snubbed him, and Gavin fled to his room before even saying hello. There he stood. Perplexed. Alone on their flat’s hall, a pack of Kubindi food in his right, wondering whether he knew his own family, at all. Or what <em>they</em> were thinking of him, much rather. </p>
<p> Given, Gavin and him had not had the warmest of welcomes for a good while now, but since yesterday his own son winced at his every sight; eager to leave a room where he entered, peering about cautiously, ready to jump and run… <em>like a durni from a Corellian slice-hound. </em>Matheron swallowed, then made a face and withdrew to his den. <em>How fitting!</em> Why, slice-hounds were known to attack anything…<em> smaller than themselves…</em></p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p><em> 2030 study. </em></p>
<p> He didn’t like it. After minutes of picking at it, Matheron pushed the colourful dish of Kubindi takeaway aside and listened for the soft murmur of their both voices that came through from his son’s room; pictured how they sat, huddled up against one another before Gavin’s small desk, studying the adaptation of the ancient poem. </p>
<p>Dha Werda Verda. The heroic saga that told of the Taungs and the Zhell and their final battle for Coruscant. <em>The possibly first one of the many more that then followed.</em> Leaning back in his chair Matheron frowned. Why did they have to go through <em>this</em> epic exactly <em>now</em>? </p>
<p align="center"><em>200,000 years before the Battle of Yavin <br />Earthen fire came upon the Zhell army –<br />Ash covered the skies…</em></p>
<p>Why, it was one of the greatest; one of those myths you <em>inevitably</em> had heard about, conscious or not, for the heros and happenings depicted in there had influenced your ethics, coined your language and enriched it with an imagery you only learnt cherish after you familiarized yourself with its origins. Only then your mind added context and emotion and you <em>knew</em> what it meant to be ‘strong like Adin’, ‘persevering like a Zhell’ or that ‘the ash came down on you’ when an unforeseen event helped your opponent to triumph—like it did the <em>Taungs</em>, who after centuries of a relentless war of attrition had almost managed to extinguish the Zhell, only thanks to a natural disaster: A volcanic eruption that kindly scorched the defenders’ capital and spit out enough ash to darken the skies for a chundering two years—a great big shadow; that first gave those grey-skinned tribes the idea for the fancy naming: <em>Dha Werda Verda</em>—<em>Warriors… of the Shadow.</em></p>
<p> Well, that fortunately did not help: Though they were making the most of the Zhells’ detriment, hunted and systematically destroyed all remaining camps—it were the united survivors of these thirteen nations of humans who eventually stroke back, drove the Proto-Mandalorians and secured their homeworld. Thus beat the final drums in this <em>cradlesong of civilization. </em></p>
<p> Yes, it was a frinking classic! Back in his own youth Matheron had devoured the stuff. From the literal translation to every bit he could get by of secondary literature that led to ever new, fascinating insights. And then, these studies also led to affiliated theories… revolving around Ice Crypts, Centerpoint Station and the Corellian genome… </p>
<p><em> Frink! </em> While he was really not able to see the attraction of Nude Selonians, he had loved to learn how his son experienced this saga. </p>
<p> Bending, he ran his palms over his face and sighed; then got up, limped to the kitchen and exchanged the half-emptied tray for a bottle of Corellian spiced ale. Leaning against the sideboard he wiped condensation from the shiny black glass; thoughtfully caressed the embossed golden stroke.<em> Oly’s Nhar'qu’ale.</em> It was soothing. Why, it was an all time favourite; the rich, stoic with its morbid humour. You drank it before battle and when the battle was over. Before the next battle, that was. Upon your fear, the fallen, and everything that was more bearable if you just took it as it came. The export-sticker artlessly called it <em>Old Black Beer,</em> while the misapostrophed pun suggested it was <em>Oly’s Dark Death.</em></p>
<p> An Old Corellian joke between the brewery and the knowing who travelled too far from home. Like in that ad with the smuggler out in some Nar Shaddaanian bar – the situation got tight, Hutt henchmen stormed in – that’s when his <em>Nhar'qu’ale</em> would whisper:<em> Salute, compatriot, and stay easy. They‘re droyking emwhulbs, I know, but they won’t get you. Why, they don’t even get me. Chakta Sai Kae!</em> In the next scene, the Corellian walked calmly out of the back door. <em> Kas tulisha abia al port.</em></p>
<p> Matheron took a sip of the bitter brew and frowned; Why, yes, there was still the little white box in a pocket of his Quadanium executive case. That’s what he <em>ought</em> to think about and that’s where he would need to stay easy and find the back door as well. Because something <em>was</em> fishy about the OPC’s current wheelings and dealings; he could try to dismiss and justify things all he wanted, it still stank! And through the sweet appreciation the gardener had tried to butter him up with. </p>
<p><em> Droyk!</em> To protect ones family and homeworld, <em>that</em> was the only thing worth risking ones life for, anyway. The only fight <em>any</em> sentient could really justify. <em>No?</em> He gave his <em>Nhar'qu’ale</em> a questioning look, wherupon it rose and approvingly mirrored his grimace. <em>Good!</em> That brew had always agreed with him, so some things at least stood the same. He took a resolute swig then stared at the black and golden bottle, as it casually rested upon his right thigh. <em>We had best stood on Corellia, no? From the very beginning… </em></p>
<p> But in sight of an enemy who could erase entire planets it had been in Corellia’s interest to ally. And alliance demanded commitment. And now? Once you decided for something you didn’t just pull back, did you? A Corellian didn’t chuck up at the first trace of trouble. What skraggy example would he be! And exactly now, that his son was apparently enjoying himself for the first time in months. </p>
<p> Clinging to his chilled comforter, Matheron hobbled out on the hall, then paused at the sound of their joyous laughter. Furtivley stood, eavesdropping as it trailed off into a moment of silence before his Gavin’s voice rose to recite a passage he recognized as ‘Khomar’s admonition’: <em>“And if we lost our city, and if too many of our heart’s bearers lie scattered under these ruins—in their honour and for those of our loved ones who are still living…” </em></p>
<p><em> ‘…we must carry on to hope and fight, and under this great big shadow.’ </em> Leant against the wall next to the closed door, Matheron silently moved his lips to his son’s solemn reading of the old Zhell’s urgent appeal to the vastly diminished fold of his comrades. Then swallowed when the youth’s baritone gradually declined to a choked alto and broke off. Ahead of the final line.<em> ‘For only then… we will see… again…’</em> Catharin softly offered the cue, only his son remained silent… </p>
<p> Matheron drank up and limped a detour past the fridge; The black bottle clinked as he put it down next to the shower. </p>
<p align="center"> / | \ </p>
<p align="center"><em> Dad, why can’t you be as forgiving as mom?<br />For nothing in life will ever be as forgiving. </em></p>
<p><em> 0100 Bedroom. </em></p>
<p>He heard her deep and regular breathing… underlied by the air conditioning’s ubiquitous hum; now and then drowned by the roar of nearby trespassing speeders. Even now, around 0100. Matheron hated it! He hated this hideous, inflated planet; its noise, its dirt, its duplicitous high-society; Channing, Luvsey and the rest of his gossipping howlrunners! He wished for a bedroom installed CEC AG-2G! </p>
<p> Catharin claimed he was prickly. Or.. <em>hyper-aroused</em>, as that shik of a head-shrinker would call it, sympathetically smiling up in her lime green surgery up Sah'c Town. <em>“A common effect of trauma,” </em>she’d say<em>. “Why, of course, the noise of those passing speeders is disagreeable… but it is multiplied only by the way of your own perception of it, Mr. Thayer. Please, I prescribe you these two preparations—you take one in the morning and one before going to bed.” </em></p>
<p><em> Why, of course, </em> there <em>were</em> no trespassing speeders, up Sah'c Town! Her sticky grin! Matheron safely flushed two down the toilet only so Cath would be at ease—Pills against speeders! Rubbish! Hovermines, <em>that</em>’d be the only <em>efficient</em> medication! Only one or two times you’d still wake with a start, but then there was silence. <em>Lasting</em>, yes—just like Catharin had stonily kept up hers… </p>
<p><em> Frink!</em> They had had their arguments before, naturally, but they would usually <em>finish</em> discussing. Her, especially. <em>She</em> forever confronted him when he broke off some unnerving fight and remained silent.<em> Please, Math,</em> she had said a time, <em>don’t cut yourself off from me. That won’t help us… it only makes me feel very lonely. </em></p>
<p><em> Strange, Cathy, -</em> I-<em> never feel that way.</em> He snorted quietly, then set his teeth against the ache that still flared by every time he even turned over, and wrapped himself in the bedclothes. </p>
<p> Nude Selonians! The stupid Droyk! He had <em>yearned</em> to speak with her. But not, Mistress Thayer didn’t want to disturb the patrons! That she had shut off her comm and had not even <em>informed</em> him—cross or not, <em>that</em> really was <em>not</em> alright. And what lousy excuse! <em>Patrons!</em> Bah! She hadn’t cared for that a few months ago—she had combed through a bombed city… </p>
<p><em> But then was then…</em> Staring at the outline of the wardrobe that eventually took shape against the thick darkness, Matheron swallowed. Why, even <em>if</em> she were up to talk, what should he say? What the frink other than what he had said by yesterday morning already; and for what she obviously did not care a chit? </p>
<p> It was much better if they could work it out the old way… Like back then when they’d ended up lost, each alone in his very own dead end – at the opposite sides of their double bed – a felt 10 kilometres apart. Some of those evenings it seemed everything was lost—no possible alleyway, no want to push through. It had felt cold. Nonsensically lonely. And then, with the next little stir, your curse sometimes slipped out out with an entirely different inflexion… and they would clash. Physically. Desperately and unrestrained like the very last beings, and a very last time… </p>
<p> Frak, <em>that’d</em> incinerate the waste from his messed up mind! Her groan… the way she moved her hips, hungry and urging against him. It’d blot out everything, burn him straight clear. </p>
<p> His mouth felt dry. Frak, in his mind he could taste her…salty and hot in the surf of Taerna Bay—her breasts wet from the breakers that washed round, times over her as she stretched out under the reddish moonlight… the sparkling drops rolled down her thighs…<em>inviting</em> was understatement. White crest her bed, she smiled for him like a foamborn goddess. Only more provoking. That were the moments it did not matter anymore <em>why</em> a woman like her would chose him. </p>
<p> Frak, he was hot. How long had it been? Since before he’d left for ‘Coruscant final’. Six months? Seven? No wonder he acted strange! On cold nuna like this, you <em>could </em>not think straight! </p>
<p align="center">| | |</p>
<p><img src="http://img407.imageshack.us/img407/3928/charcatharinsleepinghi0.jpg" alt="Catharin sleeping" width="251" height="136" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="left" /> Sound asleep, Catharin snuggled up to the solid warmth in her back, sighed pleasantly at the embrace and provocatively moved her wagyx against a gradually hardening pledge. His breath quickened, he started to kiss her neck when she opened her thighs to his starved caress…when suddenly her body went rigid. </p>
<p><em>‘Aliha sel valle volgoth?’</em> Her cold hiss came startling, yet still fanned his want. ‘What does it feel like?’ He leant in and gave her a coarse whisper, ‘Doaba, Cath. Min min volgoth valle! Ahn valle…’ </p>
<p><em> ‘Saltan valoramosa n telvalk mord!’</em> She interrupted him harshly and tried to move from his arms, he but intensified his embrace. She preferred it a little insistent, he knew. She had entrusted it to him, once, when they had been very close. And he wanted her. Frak, he felt like a dust-happy in her sight. ‘Bela, min min <em>nyiad</em> valle! Ihn Corellisi nyeve min bhiq suman ehn nyiad.’ His grip tightening around her waist he smirked suggestively. ‘Come, min min mahn ishiia valle guld.’ </p>
<p> She hesitated, but only a second, then spun around despite his tight grip. ‘<em>Koccic sulng</em>, <em>valle pry guerfel!</em> Aliha <em>valle</em> nyiad … Are you wasting one thought on what Gavin needs?’ </p>
<p> Only here he let go of her, sat up and gave her a glower. ‘What? <em>Aliha</em> ets anuld yke nyiads? <em>He</em> doesn’t do what he needs to, <em>never</em>! That’s why I need to force him? What can I do?’ </p>
<p> '<em>Valle volbrick!</em>’ </p>
<p> ‘<em>Me</em>? What <em>is</em> there to understand? Eh? Explain me that!’ </p>
<p> ‘Speak with him and do <em>listen</em>! Gavin needs no force. He needs hope. A goal. Our son needs your help. <em>Aanor ishiia zals.</em> But you’ve grown so cold…’ </p>
<p> Matheron huffily folded his arms. ‘<em>Talk with him</em>, great! You see what happens when I try to speak properly with that boy—confide in that dangerous emwhulb, that he can, yet lies to his own blood!’ He paused, then carried on softer. ‘But I <em>do</em> love him! Catharin, you know that! You know I’ve always been there for him… whenever I could. What in the maw did I ever do to my little partner?’ </p>
<p> Catharin switched on the bedside lamp beside her, squinted at the alarm clock that showed unmerciful wee hours, then turned back towards him and reproachfully turned up her mouth.</p>
<p> ‘Well… before this slap? <em>Me</em> being cold…’ He broke off with a snort and scrutinized her ‘So what kind of <em>scrag</em> is this about being afraid? Of <em>me! Bad instructor my wagyx!</em> Alright, maybe I treat him a <em>little</em> strict. But he must frelling know that he can always <em>rely</em> on me. With his life! And when he’s tired of being torn off a strip and all extra chores, there’s always an easy and clear-cut way out: he just chundering keeps his things tidy, fulfills his tasks and frelling stops harming himself! Get me? He must learn loyalty, respect and strength! I will not chundering pretend everything was alright, and smile while my own son keeps ruining his life!’ </p>
<p> ‘And you think I am doing that!?’ Catharin was outraged enough to drop the blanket she had been about to wrap herself into and fold her arms likewise. </p>
<p> ‘Well, dining with teachers, fine arts, stage plays—how do you think that’ll win him pals? Or get him anywhere? Theatre trains your expression, g<em>reat!</em> But how will he like being branded as teachers’ darling, an eccentric softie? There’s things you should only do <em>after</em> you’re an accepted guy. And others that are blunt spare.’ </p>
<p> ‘Like art, yes?’ She snapped and craned her slender neck as she flashed an incensed glare. ‘Tell you what – the Rebellion is <em>over</em>. Through. Out. Finished. We don’t need another generation of men who know nothing but fight. We are here and rebuilding democracy…’ She swallowed and blinked sorrowfully. ‘You always told me there will be a time.. for peace.. art and all of the good things. When the war is over. And now… <em>“I must study war, so that my offspring may study economics and astrography. They ought to study economics and astrography, philosophy and agriculture, to give their offspring a right to study painting, poetry, and porcelain”</em> -Agapos the IX’</p>
<p><em> The Rebellion is over. </em> Just why kept everybody telling him that, on this <em>wonderful</em> day? <em>Why you, too, Catharin?</em> He shook his head and whispered bitterly. ‘Fine arts and opera, yes, that’s what we divert ourselves with while our dreams crumble.’ </p>
<p> ‘What dreams? Of more armies marching?’ Initially cutting, Catharin’s voice became soft and despondent as she watched the man for whom she seemed to wait a lifetime. ‘Sometimes I think you’re missing the military so much you’d incite a war… just to be back with <em>them</em>.’ </p>
<p>Matheron momentarily squirmed over her charge, then answered with a chilly calm. ‘I won’t need that, Catharin. Unfortunately, there will always be war. And as soon as the dust settles outside, unrest is growing within.’ He paused as she gave him a bewildered gaze. ‘So there… that’s why I regard a few other things to be more important than <em>Selonian Nudes.</em> And Gavin…anyway, he better showed interest in the girls of his own species.’ </p>
<p>Noticing his glance on the curves under her nightie, Catharin blinked in angered disbelief. ‘<em>Valle volbrick, volivyn! Bhesj!</em> Can you think of <em>anything</em> else? Go… go polish your gun alone, <em>Major!</em> Valle mahn brick anulda ten…’</p>
<p>He stared at her for long seconds. Then got up, awkwardly gathered his pillow and blanket under his arm and limped to the door… </p>

You always hurt the one you love . . .

Atunda, noon:

“Everyone squeeze in tighter, please! Gavin, move in closer or you’ll be left out of the holopic.”

Gavin hesitatingly shuffled sideways, wedging himself in with the rest of his classmates, showing a wan and halfhearted smile at his teacher’s urging. The class had earned the privilege of a field trip to Monument Plaza, Gavin and his classmates spending the morning touring the various exhibits and sites. The culmination of any trip to the Plaza was, of course, visiting the peak of the Manarai Mountains, the pinnacles of which were now dwarfed by Coruscant’s surrounding architecture. Still, many tourists thrilled at the chance to touch the outcropping, and most of Gavin’s classmates were no different. Gingerly, they would place a hand, paw, claw, or pseudopodia upon the cool stone, then draw it away quickly, reacting as if they had received an electrical shock, often to the merriment of their fellow students.

Glancing at the rock, Gavin felt another pang of homesickness wash over him. How he wished they could be instantly whisked away to Selonia, to the base of the Cloudland Peaks. When Gavin was thirteen, the Thayers had vacationed on the planet, and he remembered gaping in awe at the perpetually mist-shrouded summit. “It looks like you could climb your way up to the stars,” his father had remarked, smiling at Gavin’s wonderment; now, the young Corellian had to make do with the towers of Coruscant.

Sighing wistfully, Gavin barely heard his teacher announce that the students were free to go to lunch. “But meet back here in two hours!” the Vulptereen quickly added, recognizing that her charges were impatient to run off and start exploring on their own.

As the other students began to scatter, Gavin looked about with rapidly ebbing hope, in that someone would ask him to accompany them. A few did cast pitying looks at him, but were dissuaded from inviting him by the scornful looks of other classmates. Even Wobbr seemed to think the better of it, the Bothan snorting in contempt at Gavin as he headed off with two other companions.

Totally disheartened and utterly alone, Gavin ended up boarding one of the free public shuttles, intending to spend the next few hours riding aimlessly about. He briefly entertained the thought of just heading on home, but decided against it; in effect, Gavin would be ditching class, and that would give his father yet another reason to be angry with him. Mom would be mad as well, and probably would force him to withdraw from the school play. And right now, the play and Mom’s volunteer activity in assisting the production were about the only bright spots in Gavin’s life. Besides the holonet text messages that Pamr sometimes sends me, the teenager added to his thoughts.

The view from the public shuttle did little to lift Gavin’s spirits. The hover tram traversed a district that had suffered heavy damage from the Reborn Emperor’s attacks, as well as from fighting during the Imperial Civil War, and much of the rubble and ruin was still waiting to be cleared by construction droids. Waiting till the train arrived in a relatively undamaged area, Gavin disembarked and determined to continue his wandering on foot. A building with a hemispherical roof attracted his attention, and a quick check of a holographic map revealed it to be the Corellian Sanctuary. Looks like a suitable locale for me. Just the place for a lonely, put down upon Corellian to kick back and get away from the Coruscantis and all their insufferable egos, Gavin mused  insolently as he entered the building.

Once inside, he was stricken with a sense of shame by his earlier flippant thoughts. The Corellian Sanctuary was, in reality, a tomb; a memorial for those who had fallen in combat during war against the Empire. Prevented by the pro-Imperial Diktat, Daclif Gallamby, from entombing their comrades in their home system, the Corellian expatriate community had erected this shrine to their memory instead. After cremating their fallen compatriots, the survivors had the remains compressed into diamonds, then placed the gems on the inside of the Sanctuary’s dome, recreating the stars and constellations as seen in Corellia’s nighttime sky.

Gavin gulped as he craned his neck back to look up at the glittering roof. So many stars. So many people. His people. Family, friends, neighbors, strangers who had lived down the street or in some rural agricultural combine; all who had given their lives so that a galaxy could live free from fear, tyranny, and injustice. And the gems only represented those who were recovered. For the rest, whose final unknown resting place might be the burning sands of Tatooine, the windswept snow and ice of Hoth, or the cold blackness of deep space, their names would live forevermore in the Circle of  Valor: Alloy nameplates ringing the walls of the Sanctuary, emblazoned with names of the fallen.

They had given their lives for that most precious of gifts: Liberty. And what had he, Gavin Thayer, done to honor that sacrifice? Nothing. Instead, he had shamed his family, disrespected his parents, insulted his father, and acted like a sniveling, petulant, disagreeable little vrelt.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin whispered as he somewhat unsteadily sank down onto a nearby bench. What good could apologies do though? The teenager already had the sensation that he was an intruder in this honored place, the fallen heroes, from their distant places in the afterlife, demanding that the chumani remove himself from the grounds. “Please. I . . . I solemnly vow upon my family’s honor that I’ll be as loyal, dutiful, and brave as a Son of the Five Brothers can be. I–”

Gavin winced, suddenly aware that he was not alone within the chamber. Stars only knew what the female standing on the opposite side of the hall  building thought of him, muttering to himself and all. Casting a furtive look at her, Gavin noticed that she was quite striking: Trim, with dark red-brown hair, the woman appeared to be in her mid-to-late 20s, and was dressed conservatively though quite stylishly.

As Gavin continued to observe her, the woman reached out to caress one of the name plates set into the wall. She might have murmured something–Gavin couldn’t be sure at this distance–then placed a handful of white flowers into an aperture next to the plate. The woman bowed her head for a long moment, then turned to exit the Sanctuary. Gavin hurriedly turned away, feeling guilty for having spied on what was obviously a private moment. After the woman had departed, his curiosity got the better of him. Approaching the place where the female had stood, the teenager read the name on the alloy plate that the woman had caressed: Diric Nabira. Below that was “KIA, Algara II”, along with some sort of eulogy: “I shall always be with you.” Gavin identified the blossoms the female had left behind as Nova Lilies, the flowers that Corellian lovers would give as a symbol of their undying devotion to one another. And Dad would bring Mom a bunch home every week when we lived in Coronet.

At times, Gavin dreamed of the day he would present Pamr Antyllies with a bunch of Nova Lilies himself, picked by his own hand in the Nomad Mountains. How he would tell Pamr in a strong, steady voice–not the nervous, stuttering one that Gavin always seemed to get when around her–that he loved her, and if she would spend the rest of her life with him. Mournfully, Gavin looked at the name plate once more, and sadly guessed that the woman was Nabira’s widow. He had no idea when the two had declared their love for one another, but not nearly enough time had passed before Fate cruelly separated the two.

“Never. Never again,” Gavin said aloud, his voice resonating surprisingly  strong within the dome. “I vow that I will do everything in my power, within my lifetime, to ensure that no son or daughter of Corellia shall ever again perish upon the field of battle. That our homes and hearths remain free, and at peace. This, I give to you, my brave brothers and sisters, as my solemn vow.


As the last of the students scampered aboard the hover transport that would take them back to Lujayne Forge Academy, Wobbr slid into the seat next to Gavin, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m really sorry, Gavin,” the Bothan mumbled miserably. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

Gavin turned his head to look steadily at him. “Don’t worry about it, Wobbr.”

The Bothan nodded uneasily as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, puzzled by the determined glint in the small Corellian’s eyes.


Katunda evening, living room of the Thayer’s apartment:

“Gavin, why don’t you read this scene for me, please? I really like this soliloquy.”

“Okay, Mom. I–”

“Math. Good evening. Why so late? Did Channing keep you for another meeting?”

Matheron looked down his nose at his son, who was wearing the half-finished costume Catharin was making for him over his clothes. The teenager seemed to wilt under his baleful gaze. “Evening, Cathy. No, I was involved in field operations. The OPC doesn’t squander its time and resources in endless meetings and hearings, as our present government is apt to do.”

Catharin frowned over that last remark. “Well, I’m glad that you’re home. Sit down and relax, dear. Gavin, will you read that scene for your father?”

Matheron waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. I need to get back to headquarters. I’m just here to retrieve a few things.”

Looking disappointed by the news, Catharin asked, “Do you want me to fix something for you to eat before you go? Or brew some caf perhaps?”

Matheron shook his head. “Won’t be any time,” he said, disappearing into the master bedroom.

“Do you want some sandwiches to take with you? I could easily make some,” Catharin called out.

“I’ll stop by and get something to eat on the way back to OPC.”

Catharin watched as her husband exited their bedroom carrying a small valise. “How late will you be? Do you want me to wait up for you?”

“No need. I may not be back till tomorrow morning.”

“Math,” Catharin asked softly,” are you sure you can’t stay for a few minutes? I’d really like you to be hear to listen while Gavin rehearses this scene.”

Matheron gave his black uniform tunic a downward tug. “I’ve got more important things to do.” And with that, he quickly and wordlessly exited the apartment.

Gavin exhaled in relief, acutely aware of how his heart was hammering in his chest, brow damp with nervous sweat. The teenager was somewhat pleased that his father wasn’t remaining at home that evening, but felt an even more overwhelming guilt for having that emotion, especially after seeing how his mother was affected. “Mom? Are you all right?” Gavin asked hesitantly, his stance reflecting his uncertainty.

“I’m . . . fine, Gavin,” replied Catharin, but her son could see that that was not true as she all but collapsed onto the couch, and resting her head upon the armrest, began to weep uncontrollably.


Satunda, early afternoon:

Utterly exhausted in spite of the half day at work, Catharin gratefully entered the family’s apartment, looking forward to a few hours of relaxation. “Math. You’re home.”

Matheron, clad only in a pair of shorts and looking somewhat bedraggled, was sitting on the couch, using the remote to scan through the channels of the tri-D. “Afternoon, Cathy. Got home after you two had left in the morning. Just woke up about ten minutes ago.”

“Would you like me to make you some caf?”

Matheron grinned. “How about a kiss instead?”

Smiling, Catharin moved to the sofa and entwined her arms around her husband’s neck. “You know, I find a man with a five o’clock shadow to be incredibly sexy at times.”

When Catharin’s lips touched his, every nerve was fired across Matheron’s body. After all these years, the passion had never diminished between them, raging as hot as when he first set eyes upon her. “Last night,” he murmured.

“Oh, Math; you don’t know how upset I was,” Catharin whispered huskily. “Promise me that you’ll make up for it? For my sake? And Gavin’s?”

“Where is he anyway? Why isn’t Gavin at home like he’s supposed to be?”

“Dammit, Matheron!” Catharin burst out as she shot to her feet, her frustration plainly evident. “In the name of all that is holy, will get over this idea that to punish your son, you have to grind him down completely?”

“Where is he, Cathy?”

“With some of the other students who are participating in the play. With friends. They were going to a local teen hangout after rehearsal, and they invited Gavin. And I told him it was okay for him to do so. Because I think this “punishment” has gone on long enough!”

“That’s just wonderful, Cathy. Undermine my authority as his father, why don’t you. What kind of example do you think that sets? One of these days he’s going to find out that he can’t run to–”

“Run to Mommy so she can make everything better?” Catharin countered hotly. “ What’s the matter, Math? Jealous? Anyway, why would he have to? Wasn’t Daddy always the one paying off his traffic citations for him so he wouldn’t get into any trouble?”

That retort left Matheron momentarily speechless, allowing Catharin to continue: “Gavin was the world to you. Has it come to the point that you think that poorly of your son nowadays?” When her husband looked away guiltily, she pursed her lips sadly. “When we lived on Corellia, do you know how often Gavin would tell me how much he admired you, Math? How he wished that he would grow up to be just like you?”

“What?” For your sake Gavin; please don’t . . .

“He would say that you were the best father a son could ever have. You were smart, strong, funny; the best at everything you did. And Gavin said he could see how people respected you not only for your courage, but also for your compassion.”

Compassion. Matheron mulled over that word while the searing image of the teenaged Equalizer suspect, screaming in agony as he was being tortured, flashed in his mind.

“He hasn’t said anything like that lately though, Math; after last night, I doubt he ever will again.”


Satunda, dusk:

Gavin was smiling as he used his identichip to let himself into the family apartment, still giddy over the afternoon’s events: Some of the other kids had actually invited him to go to a cafe with them after rehearsal. And Mom had allowed it! Gavin had been quite nervous and clumsy at first, but Mom’s reassurance and advice had stood out in his mind: “You’ll make friends here, Gavin. But you have to try.”

So he asked several girls if they wanted to dance. Surprisingly enough, most accepted. To top it off, Gleeza whispered to him that she had heard Sevva had told Liinna that Hayase had said she thought he was cute.

His mind reeling, Gavin hung his school uniform blazer and knapsack up in the hallway, and called out to his mother. “Mom! I’m home! When are we going to–”

The teenager’s words died in his throat when Matheron suddenly appeared before him in the hallway. Gavin backpedaled involuntarily, slamming into the wall, his face turning white as a sheet. Staring up at the towering figure, Gavin found no comfort in the fact that his father was dressed in civilian clothes rather than his OPC uniform.

“Hello, son,” Matheron said, stepping toward him.

“G-g-good evening, Sir,” Gavin stammered, his voice oddly pitched from fear. The teenager began inching away from his father, desperate to remain out of reach of him.

“How was rehearsal?”

Frantic, Gavin looked over his shoulder, eyes widening in horror as it appeared that his father was trying to force him into the den. Once there, he could once again vent his wrath at Gavin for disrespecting his authority.

“Son?”

Terrified, Gavin’s answer came out only as a series of squeaks and whimpers. The teenager could barely believe his father when he dismissed him so as to get ready for the evening meal. Silently counting his blessings, Gavin dashed away, never seeing the look of sorrow and hurt that appeared on Matheron’s face.


OPC Headquarters, Datunda morning:

“Director Channing?”

“Matheron, my boy! Come in and have a seat. It’s been some time since we’ve been able to sit down and chat.”

“Yes Sir,” Matheron nodded, entering Channing’s office. Unlike other high-ranking bureaucrats, the director of the OPC kept his office sparsely furnished, as if in luxuriating in the amount of open space–always at a premium and in high demand on Coruscant–he was able to command. Decoration was furnished by a number of meticulously tended terrariums and planters with blooming flowers. One such riotously colored blossom was affixed to the lapel of Channing’s coat, providing an incongruous contrast to the Director’s distinctive white suit. “I do apologize for that, but the demands of my position have been quite demanding as of late.”

“Tsk. You need to compartmentalize better, Matheron. Prioritize things.”

Matheron hid the grimace he wanted to show, offering the OPC director a crooked grin instead as he sat down. “Yes Sir, you’re quite right. Speaking of prioritizing things though, I would ask of you if it is permissible that I leave early this afternoon.”

“Some important business? More important than that of the OPC?”

“My son.”

“Ah, yes. Gavin."

Matheron smiled. “He’s in the cast of his school’s play, and Catharin has been running herself ragged lately–assisting with the production, transporting students, and the like. She deserves a well-earned break. I thought I could go in today to help out with the rehearsal instead. Plus, I’ll admit that I’d kind of like to see him performing his role on stage now. I don’t think I can wait till opening night.”

“Really? What play are they going to perform?”

“Dha Verda Werda.”

“Bah! An overblown and overrated melodrama. I much prefer The Kallea Cycle myself. You and your family must accompany me as my guests the next time a production is done here on Coruscant.”

Not in a million years. “Of course, Sir. I’ll be looking forward to that.”

“Splendid! Permission granted, Matheron. Looking after governmental affairs is vital, but family affairs are more so. The family is the bedrock of our society, after all.”

“You’re absolutely correct, Director Channing.”

“Oh, and Matheron? I’d very much like a holopic of Gavin dressed in his costume. Please provide one to me.”

Matheron felt as if any icy talon had suddenly reached in to seize his heart. “Yes Sir. By all means.” How will I get out of this one?


“Ministry of Interplanetary Relations. Special Counsel Catharin Thayer, please.”

“At once, Sir,” a synthesized voice replied. “And the name of the party desiring to place the transmission?”

“Matheron Thayer.”

“Connecting.”

“Counselor Thayer.”

Matheron grinned as he heard his wife’s voice. “Cathy, it’s Math.”

“Hello dear. How are things at work?”

“Couldn’t be better,” he lied, quirking a frown. “Listen; I spoke with Director Channing, and I have the afternoon off.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you can now take some time off for yourself. Relax, or do whatever you’ve been wanting to do.”

“But what about–”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of . . . Gavin.”

Catharin was silent for a long moment before answering, but there was no mistaking the happiness in her voice. “Math, I think that’s wonderful. Oh, try and make sure that you get there early! Gavin mentioned to me that they will be rehearsing his big scene today.”

“You bet I will,” Matheron promised. “And you make sure that you enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, I’m positive that I will. Thank you, Math. You’re such a dear.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Hey, love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Math.”

“I’ll see you later on tonight.” Terminating the transmission, Matheron leaned back in his chair, his face an unreadable mask.


Lujayne Forge Academy, that afternoon:

Entering the school’s auditorium, Matheron spied his son on the stage, conspicuous by the fact that of the cast members, including the females, he was the smallest of them all.

Gavin stepped forward to place a hand on fellow actor’s shoulder. “The Taung press us greatly, my dearest friend! Listen not to the enticing appeals of Vanity, nor to the spirited  demands of Braggadocio! Yea, shall it be a sorrowful sight for our brothers to find our fallen bodies here, when their massed ranks would have swept all before them.  Let Prudence guide your actions; sound the call for reinforcements!

A small grin crept across Matheron’s face. Gavin had won the supporting role of Olyveyer: Friend, admirer, and confidant of Rollan, one of the play’s heroic leads. And what a tragic role it was! Olyveyer was to be mortally wounded in battle with the Taung, dying the arms of his closest comrade, a casualty of Rollan’s stubbornness and impetuosity.

“Prudence is worth more than reckless,” Gavin continued, moving to the edge of the stage. “Righteous our cause may . . m-m-may–” Instantly, the teenager began to stammer when he spied Matheron, before abruptly spinning about and rushing offstage.

“Cut!” Mr. Vardillijan yelled, while the rest of the cast was abuzz over what caused Gavin to react the way he did. “Everybody, take five!”

Noticing Matheron, Vardillijan approached the tall Corellian. “May I help you?” the man asked, eying Matheron’s OPC uniform.

“I’m terribly sorry if I caused a disturbance. I just came to watch my son, and I suppose it was a bit of a surprise for him to see me here. I’m Matheron Thayer.”

Vardillijan grasped the proffered hand. “Gavin’s father! I’m very pleased to meet you. Adan Vardillijan, student advisor and director for the production.”

“The honor is mine.”

“I must say, Gavin has been quite a find for us. And Catharin has been performing miracles on our our behalf, if I may say so.”

“I’m very proud of them both, but especially for my son. After our relocation to Coruscant, I thought he might do nothing but sulk, but it is readily apparent that he has poured his heart and soul into your play.”

“He certainly has,” Vardillijan agreed. And the rest of us are certainly grateful for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to round up my troupe and get them back onstage. Give teenagers five minutes nowadays, and the next thing you know, they’re so engrossed in sending message packets or talking on their comlinks that the play ends up being the last thing on their minds. Please have a seat Mister Thayer, and enjoy the rehearsal.”

Vardillijan located Gavin in the wings of the stage, alone, and seemingly trying to regain control of his emotions. “Gavin? What happened there? Is anything wrong?”

“Mister Vardillijan! I-I guess I got startled and lost my concentration. Sir, I’m so sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Gavin. This is only rehearsal. If it was opening night, then we might have some trouble.”

Gavin offered a wan smile. “It won’t happen again, Sir. I promise.”

“Your father’s come to watch rehearsal,” Vardillijan commented, eyes narrowing as he gauged Gavin’s reaction. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

“No Sir. No problem at all.”

Vardillijan sucked on his teeth. “Very well. Why don’t you start rounding everyone up, then? We’ll be taking the scene from the top.”

“Yes Sir,” Gavin replied and made to leave.

“Gavin, is everything all right at home?”

The teenager turned, and faced the adult squarely. “Yes Sir. Everything is just fine.”


Gavin was more than tense; his entire body was taught with overwhelming anxiety as his father piloted the OPC LUX-3 speeder back to their apartment tower. The teenager had been asked a few questions, to which he had given monosyllabic replies. Lately, his father would have been angered by such responses, but now he took such answers in good-nature; how very odd.


“Looks like your mother’s not home. I guess it’s just us two.”

Escorted into the silent apartment by his father, Gavin felt his pulse quicken at Matheron’s observation, and the youth began to feel faint. No Mom, which meant that there was nobody who could stop his father. The youth wondered sickly just how long he could defend himself, and considering his father’s physique, if that was even possible.

“Gavin.”

Hearing his father speak his name caused the teenager to start in surprise. Gavin had longed for the day that this would happen; had it finally arrived?

“Change out of your school uniform and into some old clothes. We’ve got to get busy if it’s going to be ready for tomorrow.”

“S-sir?”

“Your Overracer,” Matheron smiled. “All of this shuttling you back and forth is getting to be a bit much, so I figured that it would be best to let you ride your speederbike to school everyday again. It can be just like before. Your bike could probably use a good tuning up though, and I think we could get it done before dinnertime. What do you say, little partner?”

Gavin wanted to jump for joy, shout with glee, run to his father and embrace him, to thank him over and over and over. Almost did. Instead, Gavin’s eyes took on a cautious, even wary look. “I’m not so sure.”

Matheron’s grin collapsed. “What? What do you mean?”

Something–conscience, inner voices, The Force–was screaming at Gavin to stop, think, and accept his father’s offer of a reconciliation, but the teenager seemed hell-bent on disregarding whatever sage and sane advice that voice had to give. Ignoring too, the vow he made in the Corellian Sanctuary a scant few days ago. instead, Gavin was driven by images: Mom sobbing in despair over Dad’s callousness; the refusal to speak his name; the blow across his face. Looking up at his father, eyes filled with spite, Gavin bared his teeth . . .

"Nothing can be like before, Father. For there never really was anything from your side. Oh sure, you spent the maw of a lot of money; you worked double shifts when I was ill—but only so you can hold it against me. Eternally. Every blasted day! You never cared for me as your son . . . only did it for Mom. Or maybe not even her in particular . . . just the nice face–Nova-lilies and cruises and my tuned-up Overracer–everything you gave or did, everything it took– like a bribe—for that is all that you ever really care for . . . that we put on the act of the happy family—for your bosses and toadies or any Presk, Totch and Sekki you ever wish to impress.

That’s why you were so pissed the other morning, too, no? For I might have messed up your appearances with Director Channing. Why, I always mess up your show! I’m simply not good enough! But you can be relieved: I didn’t let out a word to Mister Vardillijan, and I won’t. So, you don’t have to fritter away any more of your precious working time to check up on me there and listen to me stammer in that useless play. And you don’t have to waste anymore creds or hours on me or the Mobquet, either; I’ll tell Mom you performed fine so she’ll allow you back in bed—though, considering your medicine cupboard, I really don’t know what difference it’d make."


The urge to bash his head into the duracrete was intense, but Gavin knew that, considering how thick his skull was, the duracrete would be worse for it. Once again, he had opened his mouth and made his father the target of hateful words, and there was no taking them back. How was it that he was possessed of this singular talent of always doing the wrong and/or stupid thing? His father was making an attempt to reach out to him, and all Gavin could do was think of spitting in his face.  

What was entirely unexpected to Gavin though, was Matheron’s reaction. The teenager had deliberately baited his father, acting out of sheer vindictiveness; the expected rage, fury, or anger never materialized. Instead, Gavin watched as the look on his father’s face crumpled, as if –as if he was waging a losing battle to keep his deep sense of sorrow and despair in check. Whirling, Matheron abruptly retreated toward the master bedroom, leaving an anguished Gavin in his wake.


Catharin let herself into the apartment, feeling totally content in a long while. It appeared as if Matheron had finally forgiven Gavin, and his offer to go to his school had to be a clear signal of that reconciliation. That was good; father and son needed the time together to reforge the bond that had momentarily frayed.

In the meantime, Catharin had used the opportunity that Matheron had given her to spend some quality time on herself. Begging off at the Ministry just before noon, she lunched at an exotic bistro, visited a salon for a much needed facial, and explored several charming shops and boutiques that were just off the Glitannai Esplanade.

Her bliss was shattered when Gavin rushed up to her, before she had even taken two steps into the apartment, in a state of extreme agitation.

“Mom! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Gavin! What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Dad! I did something terrible! He–I,” Gavin choked on his words before recovering. “I hate myself! I do! I do!”

“Gavin, listen to me! Where’s your father now?”

Her son gestured toward their bedroom portal. “He won’t come out. He won’t listen to me.”

Guiding her quaking son to the living room, Catharin set him down in a chair and tried to to enter the master bedroom. “Math? It’s Cathy!” Cursing softly as she fumbled for her keychip, Catharin finally managed to gain access to the bedroom.

Upon entering, she saw that Matheron sat on the edge of their bed, back to the portal, his shoulders heaving. “Math?” Catharin called out softly.

“Cathy,” Matheron croaked as he turned to face her, his voice wracked with emotion.

Much to Catharin’s shock and consternation, her husband’s eyes were red and raw, his cheeks wet from tears. “Oh, Math. What happened?” she asked, reaching out to comfort him.

Matheron leapt to his feet instead and dodged out of Catharin’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Cathy,” he said, his voice breaking as he rushed past her, “but I need to be alone right now.”

“Matheron! Come back! Please!”


Natunda, in the wee small hours:

Gavin tossed and turned, tormented by images from his subconscious. “No,” the youth mumbled in his sleep. “No!”

He found himself in the Corellian Sanctuary again, all alone this time. Or was he? Gavin could hear disembodied voices, sense vague figures around him, but nothing could be detected clearly. The condemnation directed at him, however; that he could feel: The contempt, the scorn, the hatred. Fiercely hurled at him; piercing his heart, searing his soul.

A great blackness materialized beneath him, and Gavin felt himself being pulled inexorably into the abyss. His fingers clawed desperately, but could find no purchase. “Help! Help me! Somebody, please help!”

The interior of the Sanctuary grew dark, the stars overhead winking out. He was to suffer his fate alone. Or was he? There, a figure, dressed in dark clothing, stepping from the shadows to offer salvation! Slowing raising his face, the mysterious figure was revealed to be Matheron Thayer. “Dad! Help me! Please help me!”

Staring down impassively at the flailing youth, Matheron coldly intoned, “You are not my son. No, you could never be my flesh and blood.”

The Sanctuary  faded to black, Matheron disappearing into the shadows. Gavin’s fingers slipped and he began falling . . .

“Nooooo!” Gavin shrieked as his eyes flew open, the scream muffled by a pillow. Panting heavily, the teenager lifted his head up, momentarily disoriented. My room, Gavin realized,  I’m safe and sound in my own room.

Continuing to rest on his stomach, Gavin tried to banish the images of his nightmare from his memory. But if anyone ever deserved such a fate,  he thought sickly. Maybe it would be best if I just fell off the face of the planet.

Gavin froze. The portal to his room had slid aside and someone entered. Not someone; his father, recognizable by the shuffling sound of his slight limp. Limp? Wasn’t he over that? Or has he re-aggravated the injury? The teenager remained perfectly still, listening to his father’s breathing. To Gavin, it sounded resigned; defeated even. Then, a shuffling sound as his father turned to leave.

“Dad?” Gavin called out in a low voice as he actuated the bedside glowpod, squinting at the sudden illumination.

“Gavin. I thought I heard you, and wanted to make sure everything was all right. I’ll go and let you go back to sleep.”

“Dad, wait! Can you stay with me for a while? Please?”

Hope is a family

<p><em> Coruscant, district, Thayers’ flat, Gavin’s room, Natunda, in the wee small hours cont. </em></p>
<p> Matheron stood. In loose dark grey pajamas he looked self-conscious as he turned round, eyed his son, then limped back and gingerly sat on the chair – two meters away, in front of the new, black and white desk—despite pants, shirt and socks that lay spread out there because, after yesterday, Gavin had found no energy or reason left to still put them away. </p>
<p> Silence streaked with his breath. </p>
<p> He smelled of smoke, stale remnants of liqour. Hunched at the edge of the glowpod’s circle of light, his eyes looked red; anxious and dejected. His hands, though supposed to rest, still worked; occasionally twitched… now it stopped. Now dad clasped them. In the back, the ventilation whirred like a gnat at the end of its tether—that yet drilled through your skull; sunk its proboscis and sucked every word… </p>
<p> When the chair creaked, Gavin looked up despairing; relieved father still sat; tensed to see he had folded his arms and stared at the diskshelf beside him. </p>
<p>“Back at Hoth I had this comrade… <em>Cyn</em>. He was from Dariac, South Hasoa. Reliable, down-to-earth …honest hands. … One evening when he returned from guard… stiff and white; his beard frozen… frost and ice all over… he stamped in and stirred things up about how HQ wouldn’t care… that no-one would… care for another anymore once he himself… sat safe and comfortable.” He took an audible breath. “I wouldn’t hear it. He called me naïve… and I, in turn… flung in his face that he wasn’t committed… that we were all better off with no cynics and abject grousers to stink out our team spirit.” He grimaced. “24 hours, I was too pissed and mulish…” </p>
<p>“Then the Imperials moved up. …It was in this storm that Aunt Sara was wounded… lasered by Blizzard Force she lay right in their field of fire—Cyn sprinted out first. Like mad; he ran, dodged… covered them in a mawish barrage. Only <em>he</em> made it possible for me to retrieve her.” </p>
<p>Gavin gave a tentative smile.</p>
<p>“No.” His father swallowed. “In the final spurt, a bolt hit him in the back of his head.” A beam of light brushed past, briefly illuminating the polarized window; and his face. Sombre. Like watching… something… a long way off. “His name was Rolland Paulsn.” </p>
<p>“You see: we all get up to things we’re not proud of… the more important we recognize.” He snorted. “Or as Macnan once put it: the call of conscience is like a bomb scare—if you sit out, you’ll end up in trouble…”</p>
<p><em> Really.</em> The image of the tortured boy came up like vomit. Uneasily Matheron stood, stepped up and tucked Gavin in – tremendously careful. Hand shaky, he reached out to stroke his son’s cheek… yet recoiled, just before, switched off the ‘pod and limped out abruptly. In the dark, Gavin hung on the shuffle dying; back into the air-conditioning’s ghastly whine. With a sniffle, he buried his face in the pillow. </p>
<p align="center"> / | \ </p>
<p><em> Master bedroom, Natunda morning </em></p>
<p> Matheron woke on Catharin’s side of their double bed. Rain drumming against permaplas, he glowered at the alarm. 8:32? The blue digits jumped. 8:53?! He gave a disoriented scowl all round… tentatively reached for the note that shone from his bedside table; read; pulled a face and rolled over. </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p><img src="http://www.oakendawn.de/pics/posts/post_11aby_sara_hoth.jpg" alt="Sara 'Pushup' Maurer" width="277" height="396" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="0" align="right" /> It beeped, soon turned disturbing. Reluctantly Matheron craned his neck, checked the strip of screen in the bed’s head rule: INCOMING TRANSMISSION: CORE-CORE-CORE-CDF–MANS—<em>Core, Corellian System, Corellia, Corellian Defense Forces…</em>He shot up, hastened to the den and typed in the key to confirm the taking. CDF. Silver, white, ocean-blue. You are linked to: Base Manseny, ‘<em>Community of Excellence</em>’ – calls from this location are to be treated as confidential. Matheron stood to attention; the screen flickered; and was blown by an ebullient dark crewcut. </p>
<p> “Hey Math, it’s Sara here. How you’re doing?” </p>
<p> His face fell. “… Hey Pushup, <em>Olys guerlle</em>. Quite good. You?” </p>
<p> “Oh boy! Still hope on a recall?” She smirked, rolled her shoulders that protruded solid and well-defined from the olive tanktop. Noticing his gaze she stopped. “Why yes, maneuver was hard. I’d say good; lost a comrade, however—hovertank died, tumbled down an embankment; unsure yet what broke.” “I’m sorry.” “Yes. No <em>DoC</em> should spill his last for a carkin’ technical defect! Should snipe those frinked cutters!” “Right.” “Anyhow, I wanted talk to my sis; set her free for a min?” </p>
<p> “Sorry, Catharin’s away. Won’t be back before evening either.” </p>
<p> “Ooh? Wasn’t that your part.” Her tanned face twisted into a grin, more when she surveyed him: down the pajamas that blobs of light turned an urban camou, “I see your new job’s quite dangerous…” back up to his peeved look. “Oh come on, Moma! Do tell: how’s life as now that you advanced to a damnable big earner? How is it at the OPC? What you’re doing exactly—to protect our constitution?” </p>
<p> His stiffled yawn froze. “I struck Gavin.” </p>
<p> A singular speeder passed. Sara’s jaw muscles tensed and had her weather-beaten face look grim. “What do you mean, <em>you struck Gavin</em>?” </p>
<p> “Backhand. Across the face.” </p>
<p> “What?! Cark, Math, what’s gotten into you! … He’s injured!?” </p>
<p> “The cheek heals.” </p>
<p> “But why the frak did you do that!?” </p>
<p> Matheron grimaced and took a deep breath. <em>Why, he fraternized with the enemy! Why he won’t trust me! And I’ve no frinkin’ idea if The Gardener has my line tapped, either! </em>On the small screen in Base Manseny’s public holo-booth, Sara saw his expression turn cold. </p>
<p> “What!? So you can thrash kids but not answer!?” </p>
<p> His face froze completely. “He did not trust me.” </p>
<p> “So you <em>thrashed</em> him!? <em> Chunder!</em><em>Suman chun al valle B'rrsk</em>?!” </p>
<p> “Droyk, Sara! I don’t need you to tell me I steered up cark-creek!” He burst out in turn. Only then paused and spoke on softly. “See… I apologized. Tried make it up with him, too. Just he thinks I’d do only that for Catharin. … And exactly today she leaves me this note: there’s this exhibition; you’d give him great pleasure; please go and sort it all out.” He grimaced and shook his head. “<em>Gnardly</em>! Gavin will <em>know…</em>” </p>
<p> “<em>Bhesj!</em> It’s no matter who brought up the idea—just show him you <em>care</em>!” </p>
<p> “Aha! What ya think I do?!” </p>
<p> “Apart from thrashin’?” Sara snorted contemptuously. “How often you tried patch up? Once? Twice? <em>Chunder!</em> You displaced him, off all his friends! Onto a world that’s really just like a penal complex! And now you blub if he comes you a little cross?!” </p>
<p> “A <em>little</em>? You can talk, Sara! But you’ve got…” </p>
<p> “Yes, <em>I</em>’ve got no kids! <em>I</em>’ve always had it easy.” She gave him her war face. “Angst and excuses! Cark, what’s become of you, Moma? That city eatin’ your jiffies?” </p>
<p> Matheron set his teeth. </p>
<p> She ran a callused hand through her crew-cut. </p>
<p> “What you’re still gaping? I expect you to put that straight! And report! Today! 2000!” </p>
<p> “I don’t kn…” </p>
<p> “<em>Koccic sulng!</em> I will speak with <em>my nephew</em> this evening! And if <em>anything </em>does<em> not </em>sound like absolutely clear skies… I will take a <em>leave</em>!” </p>
 – disconnected –
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> Matheron stared at snow flurry. </p>
<p><em> Frink! I’m married to witches! </em> Why, Catharin was bad; but she was still tempered compared with Sara: his sister-in-law absolutely <em>adored</em> her nephew: called him Selba, told him bedtime stories when he was ill—that weren’t always quite suitable for children. That’s why one evening Gavin dodged from her and ran out to them, wailing: <em>Mommy, mommy, aunt Sara shot Hoppy!</em> That was his cuddle Squall; which unfortunately sat in the same warddrobe as the imaginary bloodsniffer she had eliminated. Jogging up behind, she explained to us remorse-filled it’d been only a stun shot… </p>
<p> Then the day Catharin got that call from a fellow mother: her son was beside himself after our boy had claimed, his aunt could snipe his dad at 2 kilometers. That was some clash and atonement! Only eventually Gavin saw he would not like him sniped either: he gave away his favourite starship models. </p>
<p> And then… snow flurry—as the transport vanished in driving hail, her blood had frozen all over him… Gavin looked so desperate at her hospital bed, and she always put on her brave face: Just a scratch. Just a little sieved. Just a tiny little bit barren.<em> Socorro!</em></p>
<p> But that woman from the maw sucked it up! More than: she trained a next generation of New Republican commandos as a <em>convalescent</em>, then returned to liberate Coruscant… and resumed her position in the CDF. Bah, <em>resumed</em>—she <em>conquered,</em> every single promotion. Up to the highest noncommissened rank possible: Sergeant-Major. ‘<em>I am no friend of females in the forces; but if we keep snubbing this woman… she’ll have us all for a QuickSnack!’ </em>Right. Sara was a DoC truly: a true <em>Defender of Corellia…</em>and everything that stood for it. She and Catharin… </p>
<p> Peering out at the drizzle his face twisted into a grin. </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<em>Kitchen</em>

<p> “Cath? You’re still here?” His father’s voice came astonished; Gavin spun round in front of the automatic oven, juggled with a baking tray full of hot cross buns, lost the teacloth he’d put underneath… </p>
<p> “Sir… good morning, sir.. fff..” He put down the tray on the fireproof sideboard, bit his lip and stood to attention. Astonished to see his father still wore his pajamas. </p>
<p> “Oh boy! Good morning!” Matheron snorted a grin and looked over the generously set table. “Which army do you expect?” </p>
<p> Gavin shrugged uncomfortably. “Thought you might like.” </p>
<p> “Yes…” Matheron snorted again and stared at the mug Gavin had put instead of the old CorSec one that was <em>his</em> per customary right: <em>This</em> was the red, checkered they had received as a thank you from <em>Speedolution — solution, evolution… revolution? Whatever.</em> Fact: they sold the most renowned tuning material their side of Corellia, and last they ordered was… <em>much too long</em>. </p>
<p> He looked back and forth between his son and cup, then sat down, rubbed his face and poured himself a caffa. Gavin surveyed him keenly. <em>Two spoons Mom says, two BIG spoons—that is the secret! …Please, it means Corellia to me. We belong together!… PPS.: I believe dad has a surprise for you… </em></p>
<p> Matheron gave him an inquiring glance. Only then sipped. Looked appreciative. “Mom left me a note.” He put in much sweetener. “Writes the Galactic Museum features the finds of Dr. Corellia Antilles. Today’s the premiere. You’d like to visit?” </p>
<p> “I’d…” Gavin’s eyes shone; for a fleeting second. “Well, yes—if you would like to?” </p>
<p> “Yes, why not? If you like that better than screwin’…” </p>
<p> “No.. uh.. we.. could also work at the Overracer…” </p>
<p> “Mom got us on the list for the opening, today. I bet that wasn’t easy.” </p>
<p align="center"> / | \ </p>
<em>Galactic museum</em>

 <p> <img src="http://www.oakendawn.de/pics/posts/post_11aby_mysteriesofhistory_poster.jpg" alt="The Fund of Finds of Dr. Corellia Antilles" width="277" height="396" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="0" align="left" />The flight of stairs that led up to the magnificent building lay deserted. A giant banner stretched across the left of the ancient façade. You saw from afar; heard it whirr and throb under the steady breeze as you approached. High up, a cable clanged against the ‘pole of the New Republic’s flag; all but drowned the distant noises of traffic—the air was fresher here. To their right, a golden droid combed the broad banisters, balancing a tray of empty champagner flutes; a bit off, two constabularies peered at them from their patrol speeder. </p>
<p> Looks we just missed the official part: highlevellers, small talk, address…Good! Climbing up, Matheron gave a relieved grin. Why, Gavin would not have attracted attention; he wore The Perfect Suit: all black, complete with white bow tie and a gigline drawn with a ruler. Only he himself had put on the first thing he had grabbed: it was turquosish, rumpled and the tie he’d thrown after the second fitting—first seeing each other, they had both stood flabbergasted. But run back and change, for your little partner outshone you? Ridiculous! And now, all was wiped by his son’s excitement: eyes wide, flitting to take in every detail, it appeared Gavin curbed his pace only for him to be able to keep up. </p>
<p> At the top, nearing the colonnaded doorway, however, the liveried porter eyed them rather dubious – till he had convinced himself, twice, that theirs were indeed two of the last names that remained to be checked off on his gilded notepad. He rechecked, then frowned. “You are late, Sir.” “Really?” Matheron arched a brow at what sounded like cheek.<em> Last I checked I still lived. What about you?</em> He snorted. The gatekeeper looked grumpy; still activated a door that swung open next to the huge, wood-like main gate. </p>
<p> The silence embracing them was tremendous: just like that it cut off all business of the planet. So solemn… it picked on your every step, reflected your words and breathed them back in your face qualified by the might of millenia. Reverent, the father followed his son’s eyes along the rows of grands that flanked the dimly lit colonnade, looked down on you from their fluted, marble pedestals. <em>They founded our Constitution…</em></p>
<p> Uncomfortably Matheron put a hand on Gavin’s back and nodded towards the sign that pointed out the special exhibition: straight ahead—right through their middle. <em>Oh Bey Min Oblivyn! How can I pass under the eyes of our Founding Fathers?</em></p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p><em> Ancient civilizations,
Tyrants & Heros >></em></p>
<p> Following the signs, they traversed the restored ‘Annals of the Republic’ hall, at a junction kept right, ignoring the ‘The Errant Order’ on to the reopened Jedi-Wing, where the same larger-than-life banner hung next to some smaller ones featuring names and logos of numerous companies. Beneath, a handful of nobly dressed stood immersed in contained conversation. </p>
<p> “…the position was not quite accurate, but what a <em>clever</em> solution! There had been really no other way…” “I agree.” “Yes, absolutely. Though, I had preferred…” </p>
<p> Further in, you reached a drape of burgundy brocade flanked by an antique looking board: <em>‘We kindly ask you to leave cameras behind and confer with our staff in case you are a cardiac patient.’ </em>Matheron rose a brow; the lady in lavish green shimmersilk stepped up with a radiant smile. “Questions, Sir?” </p>
<p> “Actually. But I think I’d rather not ask…” </p>
<p> “You’re right.” She courtseyed and winked at Gavin as she pulled back a bit of the brocat for them. “We hope you enjoy the journey.” </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> It became dark. Up ahead naught but some lines. Fine flourescent … coordinates on the ground. 0 0 0… Bormean Sector… <em>The Scintillant</em>, said a writing in old Basic under the shimmering small capitals of which gleamed Coruscant’s orbits. Above, about waist-high, two lines of glowing cord marked out a passage. </p>
<p> They exchanged a blink; then stepped into space. </p>
<p> “We’re going Deep Core…” Gavin whispered, studying the grid few meters of which bridged thousand parsecs. In front, a crescent-shaped partition wall depicted planetary orbits. <em>“Koros </em>system?” </p>
<p> Rounding, they gazed onto a sumptuous dressing room… </p>
<p> A flood of light pushed in through a bow window, reflected back from the mirror above an ornate, carved dressing table on which a pair of pearl-earrings lay next to a tortoiseshell comb and a finely crafted knive. Matheron pulled a face; when at once Gavin breathed in sharply. “Look!” Eyes wide, he tugged him by the sleeve. “There! In the mirror!” </p>
<p> Matheron saw nothing. But a moment later, a small woman crossed your sight: stately, her black hair braided, lavish green dress… now a maid flit past, helped her put on a silvery waistcoat reflections of which sprinkled the wall with a grit of light… </p>
<p> And all the time they moved at the very edge of your view! Involuntarily, father and son craned their necks to spy round the corner; that wasn’t: but the empty room – behind them female chuckle – when in the the background a door flew open, the image shook, green silk became blurred, alloy flashed; and her raider bled on the floor… </p>
<p> “Empress Teta.” Gavin breathed. “Her fabled personal weapons. Wow!” </p>
<p> “Indeed.” Only gradually Matheron discerned it was only the chair and the three items upon the table that were real; all the rest but projected—true to life on a concave screen that made up the scenery’s rear and backdrop. “Well, well! Here someone really came up with something amazing.” Flabbergasted he shook his head; barely took notice of the two women that moved along, instead surveyed the board that was set in beside him. </p>
<p><em> Teta was Empress of the Koros system in 5,000 BBY. The system was renamed in honor of her after her death. She commanded the Koros forces during the Unification Wars…</em></p>
<p> On a sidebar, the touchscreen offered extension history in ten languages, additionally signs and brailles. The company name unobstrusively within every screen: <em>Rikhous</em><em>‘databank access systems.’</em> Succumbing play instinct, Matheron zapped through the beginnings of a Dark Side society called the <em>Krath</em> then yielded controls and enjoyed as Gavin browsed on: eyes wide, he positively devoured every new display; only suddenly jumped and looked round anxious… </p>
<p> “What?” </p>
<p> “Nothing.” Spotting him, Gavin gave a shy smile. </p>
<p> “Ready for the Corellian run?” </p>
<p> “Oh yes!” </p>
<p> A last gaze back: the mirror mirrored again but the empty chamber; to their left, on the outbound partition, a number of logos and company names: <em>Farbreini MicroElectronics Limited, Kamperdine Clothing Specialists, Myris Pictures </em>in friendly cooperation with<em> The Galaxies Opera House.</em> Matheron snorted. Back in space, the passage traversed the Core Worlds, Colonies, Inner Rim, slightly left across vastly compressed Expansion Regions; till you entered Brak System; through a drape of artificial liana… </p>
<p> All green! A bird clamoured and flew off with a train of glistening blue feathers; giant trees; it smelled of rain, resin and flowers. “Like a jungle clearing…” Ahead, the roofs and walls of a labyrinthine, multi-levelled town; at their feet, right behind a pinnate bush, lay an ornate staff on carved rock… </p>
<p> Behind a twig snapped; Matheron gave a glimpse… and started towards Gavin as ahead a four-armed humanoid pounced right at them. Or so it had looked. Leaves rustled and four more of the stout, reddish-brown warriors jumped from surrounding trees, raced up, stood and flashed at them out of solid black eyes. From behind came a throaty snarl; then they were gone… </p>
<p> Matheron folded his arms and gave a glower at the taller of the both females who smirked from next to the camouflaged touchscreen, then grimaced at Gavin. “Sorry. You’re alright?” </p>
<p> “Yes. Absolutely. ‘part from I didn’t see half of them.” He stepped off his lee and grinned. “Mind watching again?” </p>
<p> So they did. And the beginning of a third time – after studiing the history of the isolationist Aramandi, the Cirra Akia and their sacred Mace for long enough to see the following party start. Only then stepped back into space; followed the <em>Hydian way </em>and<em> Rimma Trade Route</em> on to the Outer Rim’s Elrood Sector. </p>
<p> Planet <em>Merisee</em>. Large fields of toz grain; you lived through the rise and fall of the Loag Assassins: for ages the brotherhood subjugated their own people, the Meris and Teltiors. Only six Jedi eventually broke the tyranny; three gave their lives, three took the Loag Dagger as a symbol of the order’s service to the Galaxy—the grateful population but formed the <em>Cult of Those Who Redeem</em>, sworn to try uphold the Jedi Code to the best of their ability… </p>
<p> “I thought I’d read this piece had gone lost.” Gavin gave the stiletto a suspicious glance, then shrugged; and forgot about it the moment he spied the circular, seemingly free-standing doorway but few steps out of Tarabba System. Behind a semi-transparent flap you walked a luminous tunnel the inside of which was covered with static holos of most unfamiliar devices. “Looks like Gree technology.” Mesmerized, the youth studied the illustrations. “Looks we just entered a hypergate!” </p>
<p> “<em>Hypergate</em>, huh?” Matheron looked sceptical. “As in those series?” </p>
<p> “Noo.. as in <em>real</em>, dad! Gree civilization was one of the oldest in the Galaxy; they discovered hyperspatial travel and picotechnology before everyone else even knew fire!” </p>
<p> “Aha! And now they’re gone—yet another ancient and mysterious race that decided shake the stardust off their feet…” </p>
<p> “<em>Cephalopods</em>!” </p>
<p> “What?” </p>
<p> “The Gree were <em>cephalopods</em>. Grey. They’d six tentacles, a big head and grew about one meter; often marked their foreheads with tattoos, too.” He bounded to the touchscreen. “Here! That’s an <em>operator…</em>one who operated the tech—they’re organized in castes, you know, and they as well as so called <em>administrators</em> remained longest.” </p>
<p> “Charming.” Matheron turned up his mouth, then nodded towards an alloy-mineralic sphere that was set in the middle of the tunnel. “And what’s that supposed to be?” </p>
<p> “Hmm…” Gavin zapped. “I guess… it’s a <em>Sharka'k Noor!</em> Manipulates geologic activity.” “Gnardly! If someone steals that…” “No risk. No-one knows how to use: Gree technology seems to operate on principles quite different from what our scientists claim to be the galactic standard…” “Their word up the maker’s auditory canal.” </p>
<p> Minutes later they walked out the outbound flap; the passage, however, was blocked… </p>
<p> “Wreckage?” Nonplussed, Gavin looked at his father; above a holoprojektion flickered to live: showed a sleek starship in orbit; becoming indistinct… invisible… </p>
<p> “<em>The Emperor’s Shadow.</em>” Matheron whispered satisfiedly. “The ship disappeared from the Imperial Palace shortly after the Battle of Endor; supposedly stolen. Rumor was it’d crashed on Kaal… an aquatic world somewhere Mid-Rim that served an Imperial resort. And now… the intrepid Dr. Corellia Antilles brought it back. Crushed. How fitting.” </p>
<p> Past, Gavin studied the flourescent lines of the ground. </p>
<p> “Auril Sector… Adega system… That’s Ossus!” He beamed; Matheron but snorted. “Oh, just 80000 light-years, quite a stone’s throw—so now we’re Padawans…” </p>
<p> The partitions looked like a ruined temple. Barren wastelands, mist and shadows you saw if you peeked out through the cracks in the spartan cell. Ahead on a plank bed three lightsabers, a handful of texts and the cubic shape of a holocron—that came live to project the turning points of the Great Sith War: the death of Odan-Urr, students’ turning, the deadly shockwave of Cron Cluster, eventually the stripping of Exar Kun by a dedicated Sunrider… </p>
<p> Matheron sniffed. “Is it but me…?” “No.” Gavin looked round fidgety: after the shockwave racing towards you from blown up Cron Cluster, the air in the Jedis’ old training center did smell scorched… </p>
<p> And the dark corridor at the end of Daragon Trail did smell musty; sooty the cobbwebbed vault wherein torches flickered back from obsidian chalices. On one carved red cupboard a vast candlestick above four sculptures; one of which portrayed a Zabrak in dance.. upon writhing bodies. </p>
<p> “Sacrificial victims…” Gavin whispered and stared down at three corpses: a Teevan, a Chiss and an Anzat; all but nude; limbs extended in unnatural poses. “The Sith believed in taking their wealth with them—they also liked slaves…” “Emwhulbs! As for me they should all croak! And their artifacts should be blasted!” The youth started then eyed him insecurely. “But… wouldn’t that be like censoring history?” “Why keep? For another Palpatine to come and abuse them?” “No… just… Mr. Vardillijan says… if you destroyed all evidence, so all heinous deeds were forgotten—weren’t the victims, too?” </p>
<p> They left Korriban in gauche silence. Teeth set, Matheron glowered till almost Tingel Arm only then grumbled. “He’s right in that. <em>Ritual</em> objects of the Sith, however, <em>should</em> be destroyed; and the problem with occult artifacts is that you never know what harbours which powers.” </p>
<p> “But the Jedi can…” </p>
<p> “The <em>Jedi</em> can easily be <em>turned</em> by them, yes; As you just saw in even that last recording on Ossus—wonder they even included it. Or how was that about that holocron shattered? Simple <em>shards</em> sufficed to turn the Republic’s brave servants into rapt followers of Kun!” Gavin bit his lip. Uneasily, he rounded the unusually high partition behind Corporate Sector… </p>
<p> “Dad, it is a Shrine of Kooroos!” Following, Matheron looked up 8 meters of bluish mineral: a central dome surrounded by eight carved stone obelisks that were inscribed over and over with runes and sigils. “Impressive.” He stepped right up to the glowing cord. “What’s it for?” </p>
<p> “Opinions differ: some think they’re just places of bloody sacrifice and obscene rituals; the Fellowship of Kooroo believes they’re built by their leader himself to help enlighten them to telepathic abilities. Today, however, a number of experts presume they’re ancient communication devices, created by a civilization that scouted the galaxy millions of years earlier.” </p>
<p> “Like the Gree.” </p>
<p> “Yes, similar maybe—but this looks a lot different.” </p>
<p> Matheron studied the touchscreen. <em>…Kooroo. Figurehead of a semi-religious sect… similar edifices are found on many Outer Rim worlds. The shown may be the largest of its kind… originates from the planet of Boztrok, possible birthplace of The Fellowship…</em>“Hmm.” </p>
<p> “What?” </p>
<p> “Some’d call Shockball barbaric, too—and I’d be pissed if they snatched our stadium.” </p>
<p> Gavin chuckled, still they moved on rather pensive. A long way to Artrivis System. Showcased were handwritten scrolls, magnified excerpts of which wrote themselves across parchment backdrop: </p>
<blockquote>
  <p><em> ‘There are three ways to defeat your enemy. The first, and most obvious, is to better him in a trial of force. The best way is to have him destroy himself…’ </em></p>
</blockquote>
<p> A second quill added notations in red, then signed: </p>
<blockquote>
  <p><em> Uueg Tching, fifty-fourth Emperor of Atrisia, 4,519 BBY
  </em></p>
  <p> ‘A notable tyrant, Uueg Tching led campaigns against newly-discovered continents on his homeworld, crushed thirty rebellions against him. His sayings became the base of classic instructional texts on the use of political manipulation, grand strategy, internal rule and conquest.’</p>
</blockquote>
<p> The first hand resumed: </p>
<blockquote>
  <p><em> ‘If ten times the enemy's strength, surround them; if five times, attack them; if double, divide them; if equal, be able to fight them; if fewer, be able to evade them; if weaker, be able to avoid them.’ </em></p>
  <p><em> ‘It is essential to seek out enemy agents who have come to conduct espionage against you and to bribe them to serve you. Give them instructions and care for them. Thus doubled agents are recruited and used.’ </em></p>
  <p><em> ‘Treat your men as you would your own beloved sons. And they will follow you into the deepest valley.’ </em></p>
</blockquote>
<p> Father and son uneasily tried to look straight ahead… </p>
<p> … then their eyes met. </p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<p> <img src="http://www.oakendawn.de/pics/posts/post_11aby_sponsors.jpg" alt="We thank our Sponsors" width="277" height="396" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="0" align="right" />Gavin squinted. Out in the spacious hall, the nobly dressed had multiplied. Glittering, flashy or solemn, they gathered in little groups, chatted over champagne and Horsd'oeuvre that a team of obsoletely dressed up passed round from ornate black trays. Matheron spied for the best way around… </p>
<p> “Dad! There’s the Empress Teta!” “Huh?” Indeed, there was the regal small with the black braid; who had formely taken charge of the entrance. Next to her Odan-Urr; lightly dressed in a violet cloak, the Draethos Jedi librarian sank his protruding teeth in a grape topped canapé. And there… the actor for Exar Kun; dark, tall; animatedly nattering with a petite old lady: </p>
<p> “…the acting, the scenery, the costumes—I am fas-ci-nated! And there I was thinking there were no funds?” “Now, asides from her cooperation with us, the museum’s new Mistress won a number of sponsors… though, some are… a little unusual. <em>Paradour</em>, for example, is a manufacturer of chemical synthesizers…” “Ah, therefore the perfumes! Oh how <em>fabulous</em>! What a witty darling!” “Well yes…” ‘Kun’ sarcastically cleared his throat. </p>
<p> Following the man’s glance, Matheron came across a sturdy blonde. Erect in a crème pantsuit she looked rather serious amongst a group of business looking males: a Bothan, a Bith, three rather unequal humans… </p>
<p> Face freezing, Matheron put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Gavin. Come, let’s have a look at the other parts of the museum.” “Oh yes! Just a minute please.” The youth’s eyes still hung at the troupe. “They re-enacted fantasticly, no?” “Yes, they were great. Come.” Pushing gently, Matheron tried hustle him towards the junction. <em>Too late.</em></p>
<p> “Matheron, Gavin!” Beaming, the white suit approached and extended his arms in a generous gesture of welcome. “What an unexpected pleasure to meet you both! Gavin, how did you like it?” The youth blinked into a pink, sweet scented Velanie Flower. “Uh.. great… yes, it was really great… Director Channing, Sir. The best mixture of classes, holo and action I’ve ever seen.” </p>
<p> “I am happy to hear that. And how about you, Matheron?” </p>
<p> “Sir? Different from what I’d expected, Sir.” </p>
<p> Matheron’s glance was on the tall, spruced up colleague behind: dressed up in a noble grey custom suit, dark crewcut smarmed, Luvsey looked him up and down, then smiled; slightly disdainful. “Matheron.” </p>
<p> “Stevan.” He shook the Coruscanti’s strong hand. “Stevan, this is my son Gavin. Gavin, this is Stevan Luvsey. Mister Luysey is a colleague.” The both greeted each other; Stevan smirked; Channing observed them with a smile – Matheron wished himself back in black. </p>
<p> “And, young man, do you have a sufficiently bad conscience?” </p>
<p> “Sir?” Swallowing, Gavin’s eyes flit from OPC’s director to his own father, and back again; anxiously. </p>
<p> “Why, after you just partook in a <em>sacrilege</em>.” </p>
<p> Gavin looked helpless. Matheron put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Sir?” </p>
<p> “The shrine of Kooroo, my boy. Don’t tell me you missed their little lightshow?” </p>
<p> “Sorry, Sir. I’m afraid I am not informed.” </p>
<p> “Aha, late-risers!” Channing grinned and accepted an offered champagne with thanks. “You must know: this morning…a portrait of Dr. <em>Corellia</em> Antilles was beamed across the museum’s front…” He sipped then put down the flute on a nearby table. “It depicted her as a tomb raider.” </p>
<p> Matheron rose a brow. </p>
<p> “Another group… went into a sit-down strike before the main portal. They held up banners… that denounced our fair Republic as a stealing state… and basically <em>demanded</em> of lady Organa Solo to return the <em>purloined</em> shrine and <em>stop</em> such <em>desecrations</em> hereafter.” The director spoke softly, a little distressed; the sturdy blonde looked over; around, quiet conversation sprinkled with clinks and scattered laughs. “Now, what do you think?” </p>
<p> At once, Gavin found their both gazes on him: the colleagues’ as well as Channing’s; questioning; his father’s hands on his shoulders seemed to tense. </p>
<p> “That is unpleasant, Sir.” </p>
<p> The director and Luvsey exchanged a glance. </p>
<p> “Yes. Yes, that it is, indeed. Matheron… but before I monopolize you in your precious little leisure time…” He gave Gavin a cheering up smile. “Have you both at least seen some of the other parts of the Museum? It provides most worthwhile insights…” </p>
<p> “No, unfortunately not. We haven’t yet had the time, Sir.” Matheron gave a glimpse at his wristcomm. “And I fear we won’t have the opportunity today, either.” </p>
<p> “You still have an appointment? On a holy Datunda?” The way Luvsey sneered… </p>
<p> “Yes.” Matheron put up a grin and laid his arm around his son’s shoulder. “Yes, we have.” </p>
<p> “Well then..” Channing pulled a handy cam. “Allow me at least one quick record of you.” Adjusting sights he smiled as though taking a static holo for his own family album. Click, flash. “What edifying view! How oft you still see fathers and sons in such pleasant unity?” </p>
<p align="center"><img src="http://img26.imageshack.us/img26/7323/postergavinmatheronlibraryligh.jpg" alt="recorded" width="602" height="291" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="0" /></p>
<p align="center"> | | | </p>
<em> Open space in front of the Galactic museum </em>

<p> They walked a while across the wide plaza. Matheron limped. He realized he had forgotten about it while they had walked in the dark. Now it was back. Or he was back aware. <em>When things come to light… </em>An elegant couple of Neimoidians passed, seemed indignant at the constabularies… still patrolling? Had they cordonned off the area? Was that why it was so quiet? Exceptional for Coruscant most of the plaza was theirs. </p>
<p> “We must talk, Gavin.” </p>
<p> “I know.” </p>
<p> They walked. Behind, far up, the wind quivered and roared in the huge banner, made the cables clang on the flagpole. </p>
<p> “About last week… and what you said by yesterday…” </p>
<p> Gavin stared at the square’s huge ashlars. </p>
<p> “It was <em>not</em> for I think you’d messed up my <em>show</em>… and I did <em>not</em> drop by to check up on you, either … … … only the director… ” his father glanced round then lowered his voice to a whisper. “He's <em>dangerous</em>.” </p>
<p>Perplexed, Gavin glanced up. </p>
<p> “He may <em>appear</em> nice and candid… but all that is really always open about him.. are his eyes and <em>ears</em>. … And the day you ran that barricade, Gavin…you brought me into a very difficult situation.” </p>
<p> “Why? That constab released me when you even showed up. Was it so costly?” Gavin bit his tongue, instantly cursing himself. </p>
<p>His father snorted. <em>Costly. Yes, I guess you can say so.</em> “No… this time I didn’t bail you out.” He gave another glance round. “This man… was ordered by another. And this other… is ordering me.” Though low, it came piercing and very angry. “<em>That</em> is why I do <em>not</em> want him to learn <em>anything personal</em> about us.” His grey eyes looked hard. “Do you <em>understand</em>?” </p>
<p> Gavin eyed him uncertainly. <em>The grandfatherly with the Velani Flower—a dangerous emwhulb? Sure!</em> He scowled. “Yes.” </p>
<p> Seeing him unconvinced, Matheron flashed a penetrating glare. “<em>Gavin!</em>” He broke off and set his teeth. “Listen… I am serious about it.” </p>
<p> “But why you’re still working for him if he is so bad?” </p>
<p><em> Frak! Frak, Gavin! Why don’t you just trust me? </em> Matheron felt his throat narrow. “I did not say he is <em>bad</em>. But he…” He rubbed his chin, then stood… made a tentative step and laid his arm around his son’s shoulder. “When you seek to protect something precious, Gavin… something you<em> love</em>—you don’t always know how far you should go. Where the border is… between necessary…toughness, and right no longer.” He swallowed. “You always walk that line. In war… and in peace also.” </p>
<p> The youth nestled up to him all but involuntarily. </p>
<p> “And though I myself am learning it only reluctantly: the peace and liberty our comrades have given their lives for… do not spring like Nova-lilies just for the nobility of their sacrifice.” He sounded upset. “Their blood levelled the grounds, but we must <em>keep</em> fighting: another war; another round in the everlasting <em>internal</em> struggle—for order, justice and liberty… are really not plasteel ingots, rather the fleeting perfumes of a delicate state of balance.” He smelled the blown rain, even up here enriched with a hint of exhaust fumes.</p>
<p> “So you see: this battle <em>must</em> be fought. It is <em>inevitable</em>; in the service of our Republic, our comrades… and everything I believe in.” </p>
<p> Looking up to him, drizzle in their faces, a gust of wind blowing about his hair, Gavin hung on his every word. Just what had it all to do with director Channing?</p>
<p> “Yes, and so… exactly <em>because</em> he and I do <em>not</em> always agree on where this border is, I must stay. And that's where I need your help, Gavin. For the less he sees, the less he can possibly target you… or Mom; the rather can I throw in <em>some</em> weight into his decisions.” He stepped before Gavin; hands on his son’s shoulders he looked him in the eyes; behind, the fluttering red and white of the New Republic. </p>
<p> “My son. Will you help me?” </p>
<p> </p>

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

<B>Ministry of Interplanetary Relations.</B>

The rotunda was a vast, three-lobed space, symmetrical except for the public entry located at the juncture of the two eastern wings. The three domes overhead were painted with murals of planets and systems in the galaxy. At the juncture of each wing, a five-story glass wall admitted natural light, and the grand entrance to each wing was marked with a three-story stone arch, carved in beautiful relief, depicting the heroes of the New Republic. The floor was a mosiac inlay of many kinds of stone, representing a somewhat dated star map of the Core Worlds.

This is where Catharin Thayer now spent most of her time, while her husband and son hopefully were enjoying the complimentary passes to the premiere she placed with Math to surprise Gavin. She rubbed her brow carefully as to not displace the makeup she took time to apply earlier.

"You did well this morning. I've scheduled a follow-up meeting tommorrow with VicePrex Ivik based on the groundwork our little meeting established. If we can revise your accord to his satisfaction, we'll be a long way toward getting a favorable result next time it's before the senate commitee. Who knows? We might even come up with something the VicePrex likes and shortcut the whole process." The Director of Relations smiled apologetically. "But probably not."

She sighed. Her initial feeling that she might be able to ram things through and have VicePrex Ivik, Emissary of the CSA's Executive Direx Board, to agree to provide Coruscant with several thousand EVS construction droids to clear out the debris and reconstruct Coruscant was fading. She seemed as mired in galactic politics as ever.

"Chin up, Catharin. This is going nearly as well as it could, under the circumstances." The Director put his briefcase on the table and opened it. He pulled out a datapad. "I've got a new draft of the accord for you to examine here. It removes all the trade restrictions we had with the CSA that were in the original draft."

Catharin blinked in surprise. "What? No trade restrictions? What if they decide to sell the agreed goods to the Empire, or a higher bidder?"

"Understand, Catharin– that's at the heart of the accord's initial failure. This planet has strong history ties to the CSA, and they're important trading partners. The actions of the New Republic surely don't represent the entirety of the galaxy. The Corporate Sector Authority are leery about the current incursion, yes, and might be willing to lend some material support to a stabilizing New Republic. But not to the extent of losing a substantial portion of the trade that increases their bottom line."

"That's unacceptable."

"But it may be inevitable, if you wish to get this accord accepted." He looked faintly embarrased. "I don't know how extensive your diplomatic experience actually is, Catharin, but perhaps if I placed you <I>entirely</I> in charge of having this accord pushed through, would you take the job? It would take much time from your schedule, there would be much traveling between systems, but it would secure a higher seat in the Ministry for sure."

Catharin stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

The Director studied her face, looking for some sign of an answer. "Look, I can tell you have the drive for this job and I know if you get this approved, this would open up many doors for you. I have faith you can do this. Just look over the agreements for comparison, underline where you have problems, cross out what's totally unacceptable, and we'll discuss it tomorrow morning." He pushed the datapad over to Catharin's side of the table.

"Well, do you accept?"

She seemed to shake off the excitement of this new opportunity almost immediately, and her smile returned. "Yes. Yes, I do. This is quite some news, Mr. Director. I do accept it." Catharin's mouth opened, and hung that way for a moment. "Oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh! I must tell my husband and son about this tonight! They are probably still at the museum. Mind if I stepped out and comlinked them?"

The Director felt his grin spread. "By all means, you can leave early tonight and tell them the good news."

<center>~*~</center>
<B>The Wroshyr Bistro, Monument Plaza</b>

The restaurant where Catharin had arranged to meet Matheron and Gavin was located within view of the peak of the Manari Mountains. She had arrived at the bistro early. She knew Gavin enjoyed wookiee cuisine so she thought this would be a perfect place to tell them the news.

With a few whispered words to the maitre d' and the exchange of a hundred credit chit, she arranged to change their table to an intimate private dining room in the back. She ordered a bottle of wine; swivelled the ruby liquid in her glass and took some sips even before they arrived. On edge. Given, Matheron had sounded delighted when she'd commed– but were things really better between her husband and son? Had they reconciliated?

As they were escorted in, Catharin rose, studiing their faces. Relieved, all but unbelieving as Matheron took her hands and squeezed them with a smile; that reached his eyes. She gave a cautious smile in return, looked at Gavin… who faced her with an enthusiast grin. Utterly relieved, she leant in and brushed Matheron's lips in a quick kiss, then put her arms around Gavin's neck and held him close for a moment. "I'm so glad." Separating, she whispered at the both of them; father and son exchanged a jittery grin.

||||

"Well… I don't know about you– but I'm hungry."

"Oh Math." Catharin rolled her eyes and sat down again, followed by her family. "So how was the museum?"

The exchanged grin yet again. "It was grand. Entirely different from what I'd expected. Though… I think my son fell in love with the Empress Teta."

"The Empress…?" She arched a brow at a blushing Gavin.

"No.. not at all! She was just … it was just so cool how you saw her in that mirror–only there, so you got the feeling you could just peek around the corner and she rea… Mom! You gotta go see this!"

"He's right. You actually should." Over his folded fingers, Matheron grinned; eyes sparkling with a warmth she had missed for long. "Who knows, maybe your men would jointly volunteer for that dreadful task…?"

"Perhaps we could go see the other parts of the museum then, too?" Gavin looked from one to the other with an enthusiast grin… that waned as his mother showed an apologetic smile.

"I'd love to…"

"So.. what should keep you?"

She nervously chewed on her lip.

Matheron gave a glimpse about, then leant in to her. "What is it, Cath? Is there anything…?"

He broke off as a Wookiee entered to pick up their orders.

||||

"Now?"

"No.." Her eyes took on a proud glint. "It's something good, really: the Ministry may promote me if I get an accord signed off that I'm currently working on." She looked to Gavin for a moment, then smiled. "I accepted."

"That's great, Mom!"

"Yes, I think it is, too."

"Yes, but–"

"There's one thing, though… in order to gain support for this accord… the Director wants me to do some travelling…"

"What do you mean by 'some'?"

"Well.. I don't know yet. They want me to go to some parties, talk with people, let them know I am now in charge. It won't be a big deal, I guess."

His eyes became cool, then he looked away. Shortly poured himself a glass and swigged down half of it.

"Math?" She sought his eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Aren't you even happy for me?"

"Sure. If you think you'd like me to do that."

Catharin swallowed, then her own eyes turned hard. "Yes. It is the big break I've been wanting for years."

"Good then. Why you're asking at all?"

"I did not ask!"

Matheron gazed at her for a long breath. "Right."

Clattering and a spicy waft; speedernoises outside; above the stolid flap-flap of an old-fashioned ventilator.

"Mom?" Gavin swallowed. "…What about the play? … You'll still be able to…?"

Turning towards him, she brushed back his hair and smiled. "I wouldn't miss it for anything."

Aanor Ishiia Zals

Reassured by his mother’s answer, Gavin gave her a lopsided grin that faded as he cast his eyes downward to the table. The teenager sensed the tension that had developed between his parents–Matheron’s somewhat cool response to the news of Catharin’s diplomatic mission–and Gavin’s once chipper spirit was turning into one of despair. He and his father had finally managed a reconciliation; was that now to be replaced by discord between his mother and father?

Gavin’s mood was lifted by the arrival of a servant droid, bearing their dinner to the family’s table. Deferring to their son, Catharin and Matheron had let Gavin place their order, and the teenager had chosen his favorites: Barbecued trakkrrrn ribs, Xachibik broth, and Vrortik cocktail, along with wastril bread and a salad garnished with rillrrnnn seeds.

Matheron eyed the Vrortik cocktail, then scooped out a generous sample with his spoon. “Smells pretty good,” he commented.

“Careful, Dad. That stuff is pretty potent. You should–”

“Bah! I can handle it,” Matheron said before shoveling the food into his mouth. As he chewed the meat and wroyshr leaf concoction, the elder Thayer made a curious face, then gagged and turned a shade of crimson. Matheron seized his glass of water and drained it in one gulp before sagging in his seat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Wow.”


The family was going to take an air taxi home.

Matheron insisted upon it, ostensibly so that they wouldn’t miss Aunt Sara’s holocomm, but it was apparent that the spicy Wookiee cuisine was giving him a case of heartburn. Gavin couldn’t understand why; if anything, he thought the flavoring had been somewhat on the mild side.

Piling into the repulsorlift vehicle, the teenager sat up front with the operator, allowing his parents the rear seat so that they could enjoy some time together. The taxi joined the traffic flooding the skylanes, skirting the edge of the Calocour Heights before turning toward the Thayer’s home in the Jrade District.

Despite his antipathy toward living on Coruscant, Gavin had to admit that the view from the taxi was an impressive one: Stratoscrapers, aglow with illumination, rose from the abyssal depths while speeders and starships floated and darted around–through some–the immense structures. The numerous advertising billboards of the Heights provided a riotous display of color and action, but even these were overshadowed by the imposing massif that was the Imperial Palace.

Leaning out over the side of the taxi’s coaming, chin resting on his folded arms, Gavin spied the Senate rotunda, and his eyes lit up with excitement as a flight of A-wings lifted off from West Champiane Landing Field. Twisting about in his seat, Gavin was eager to point out the spectacle to his father, but pursed his lips at the sight of his parents.

Catharin was snuggled up to Matheron, his arms draped around her shoulder, a look of contentment on both of their faces. Noticing his son, Matheron grinned at Gavin and gave him a wink. Gavin smiled back at his father, suddenly happy beyond words. Finally, it seemed that they were a family again. The Olys Corellisi saying was never more true: Aanor ishiia zals.


“It’s so good to hear from you, Sara,” Catharin told her sister. “I’ll put Gavin on now, so I can check on Math and see if his stomach is still bothering him.”

“Oho, Moma!” Sara called out. “So soft now you can’t even handle what your son feeds you? What happened to the fighter who said he’d eat raw tauntaun with servo lubricant for breakfast?”

“Pardon me for not having a ray-shielded stomach,” Matheron shot back as he mixed yet another antacid for himself. “But I was young and stupid back then.”

“So now you’re–”

“Don’t go there, Pushup. Gavin, go talk to your aunt.”

Approaching the holocomm unit, Gavin gave his aunt a shy smile. “Ol’val,  Aunt Sara.”

“Khasaani’l, sebla. Stars above, Gavin,” Sara gushed, “look at you! You’ve grown a bit since I’ve last seen you.”

“A bit,” the teenager allowed, grinning bashfully.

Sara gazed at her nephew fondly. “The Prince of Corellia has grown into a man.”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean, sebla? You–”

“Aunt Sara, please don’t call me that. I’m not worthy of it anymore.”

Sara’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Since when is my nephew not worthy of the title, “Sebla”?”

“Ever since I brought shame to our family, and I dishonored my father. And I don’t think any amount of pveric’ell will ever allow me to be referred by that term again.”

“No, little partner, you’re wrong,” Matheron said as he gently placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I know that you’ve earned that title, many times over in your life, and no one can ever take it away from you.”

“Your father’s right, Gavin,” Catharin added. “Later on in life, when people greet you, it will be with “Cjaalysce’l, sebla.” Giving her son a hug, she whispered into his ear, “I can’t even begin to imagine the number of times that I’m going to be so proud of you.”


Atunda morning–

Matheron’s nose wrinkled in distaste as his wife scooped a generous helping of porridge onto his plate. “Really, Cath,” he began, casting a longing glance at his son’s breakfast, “my stomach’s a lot better this morning.”

“Nonsense,” Catharin replied. “This is much healthier for you. Anyway, a man your age should be watching what he eats. Gavin, don’t put your elbows on the table, dear.”

“Yes Ma’am,” the teenager replied, looking up from his meal of eggs and spicy sausage.

Matheron poked at the glutinous mass on his plate with a spoon, shuddered, then settled for drinking caf instead. “Gavin, what’s going on at school this week?”

Gavin wiped some namana preserves from the corner of his mouth before answering. “Well, I’m submitting my essay on the principle of Contemplanys Hermi  at the end of the week, Sir–Dad.”

“I’d like to read it before you turn it in, Gavin,” Catharin asked.

“Sure, Mom. We’ll be having dress rehearsals this week, too. If you’ll be going away on your diplomatic mission, how–”

“Your father will be there to help out when he can,” Catharin answered.

“And your mother and I decided last night,” Matheron added, reaching into one of his tunic’s pockets, “that it would be simpler and more convenient to just let you ride your Mobquet to school and back.” The elder Thayer set the ignition chip to Gavin’s speederbike on the table and pushed it over to his son.

The teenager couldn’t say anything. Gavin could only look at his parents with an ear-to-ear grin, his eyes shining with happiness.

“It’ll run like the wind,” Matheron continued. “I gave it a quick tune-up after you went to bed.”

Catharin regarded her husband with a bemused look. “So Math; you’re saying you tuned up Gavin’s bike first, and then we decided he could ride it again?”

Looking very much like someone caught in the act red-handed, Matheron could only gesture helplessly. “I really don’t think that the exact sequence of events matters all that much. It’s the final outcome that matters, doesn’t it?”


Accompanying his son to their parking stall, Matheron leaded up against his OPC speeder and watch with a grin as Gavin mounted his Overracer. The teenager settled onto the seat and closed his eyes, as if relishing the moment, then inserted the ignition chip. The bike’s thrusters came to life with a throaty roar, rising in volume as Gavin revved the engine. “It sounds great!” he shouted.

Matheron responded with a thumbs-up. “You be careful, now!”

Buttoning up his leather jacket and pulling his helmet onto his head, Gavin nodded. “I promise!” he shouted, then guided the Overracer out of the stall.

Matheron watched as his son drove his bike down and out of the apartment building’s parking structure, then shook his head and grinned anew as the echoes from Gavin redlining the Mobquet reverberated up to him. “Go get ‘em, little partner.”


Wobbr kre’fey stepped off the hover bus that deposited him in front of Lujayne Forge Academy with a frown. I’m a Senior, and I still have to take the bus to school. That sucks.

A classmate clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Wobbr! Why so down? Your political faction lose a procedural vote in the Senate?”

“Oh, hardy har har. What a card! What a wiseacre!” the Bothan retorted sourly. “You know, it’s because of twerps like you that cause me not to like Atundas.”

Resigning himself to hours of imprisonment and drudgery, Wobbr started to enter the school when he detected the approach–rapid approach–of a speederbike. Turning, the Bothan abruptly dashed for the student parking lot, waving his arms frantically. “Gavin! Gavin!”

The Corellian came to a halt, pulling up with a blast from his braking thruster, but left the engine running. “Hey Wobbr!” Gavin replied as he pulled off his helmet.

“You got your bike back!” Wobbr enthused as he knelt ot get a closer look at various components. “Blast! I wish my father would permit me buy one!”

Gavin checked his chrono. He had made it with plenty of time to spare. “We got some time before first period. Want to take it for a spin?”

Wobbr looked uncertain. “I don’t know how. I’ve never had the chance to operate a swoop.”

“It’s easy. We’ll just ride around the parking lot.” Gavin dismounted, then gestured to the bike. “C’mon, Wobbr. Hop on.”

unprintable

Katunda night

The bedroom was dusky. From below came yells; above, a tri-d squawked. Speeders roared past and sent streaks of blue through the tinted window. Under the glowpod’s low light, Matheron sat on his side of the double bed and gazed at her suitcase. At the sound of the shower, he gave a glimpse at the ‘fresher’s door, then stood…


Shirtwaists, polo necks, pullovers; carefully checking through the pile of neatly folded clothes, Matheron looked embarrassed. He gave a glimpse back at the ‘fresher’s door; reluctantly peeked through the other stack, and stared: right at the bottom, concealed under two pair of slacks, sat her red dress: the one close-fitting, Republican red, that showed off her every curve. Still beneath, a set of panties and bra that gleamed like embers. His face fell. Absent-minded, he stroked the smooth cloth, then slipped in the small box, closed the lid and limped back; just to pause in the gleam of light.


Water swooshed, then stopped. In the steamed up cubicle, Catharin foamed herself up. Eyes closed, a blissful smile on her lips she raised her face towards the warm spray, stretched, and rinsed her hair. From the crack of the door, Matheron watched her mesmerized; then swallowed and turned away.


Eventually, the shower stopped. Hair damp, wearing but a grin, Catharin stepped out, put on her nightshirt and slipped in beside him. Hands folded in his neck, Matheron gave her a glimpse, then stared back at the ceiling from where shots rang out: the Squibs above habitually turned up their tri-d too loud. Two more speeders, he glowered direction the source of the shoot-out, then turned up his mouth and looked at her.

‘Oh come on now, it’s only one week!’ She propped herself up on an elbow and returned his scowl. ‘Moreover, paceball season’s begun, ‘Naughts come and the freezer’s full of your both favorites!’

‘Well then.’

‘See! Round this time of the year no-one can talk to you guys, anyway. So…’ she yawned and nestled up to him. ‘I’ll just make this quick trip, get our deal sealed and be back before you or Gavin will even miss me.’

Grudgingly, he put his arm around her. ‘You know I’m but worried.’

‘Yes.’ She mumbled, head on his chest. ‘But you don’t have to: Etti IV is no war zone.’

‘That’d be the limit! If it were, I would make sure that you don’t go there.’

She raised her head and flashed. ‘Aha! But you did go all the time!’

‘That’s something different.’

‘No. It is not.’ She frowned and looked him in the eyes. ‘When you were away on one of those missions, don’t you think I was worried?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Every time the comm rang; every time I found a note in our postbox…’

And then that note came. And from then I’m a cripple and terrorize you with my frakking moods—no wonder you’re keen on some days off. Eyes narrow, he looked away. ‘What’s your exact task there, anyhow?’

‘Oh… I’m sorry, heart, but that is top secret.’

‘What!?’

She shrugged regretfully. ‘Yes, this journey to Mondder and meeting with VicePrex Ivik actually is only a pretext.’ Under his dumbfounded look she stretched, ran a hand through her damp locks, then leisurely down his chest. Flabbergasted, he watched her every move.  

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Hmm…’ Her hand wandered. His eyes on her, she licked her lips, straddled him and bent down. ‘In a way… I am quite serious.’

.

Re: Coruscant, 11 ABY

Matheron returned to the family's apartment with an oversized suitcase and an additional handbag under his arms, both retrieved from their storage space. Just a day ago it seemed that Cathy's bags were all packed; now she announced that she needed to take "a few more things." Hopefully, she hadn't started the process of unpacking her smaller suitcase, lest she discover the small box Matheron secreted in it the day before.

After fumbling with portal controls, Matheron was making his way to the master bedroom when he noticed his son slumped on the couch, staring blankly at the tri-d, the expression on Gavin's face frozen in one of disbelief. "What's wrong?" Matheron asked with a frown.

"We lost," Gavin replied numbly.

"What?" Matheron protested, all but dropping the luggage he was carrying. "We were up by three tallies!" He sat down on the edge of a lounger. "I was gone for only a couple of minutes! What happened?"

Gavin didn't reply, the replays on the tri-d doing more to explain than he ever could: Hubble, the 'Naughts relief hurler with the deformed arm, committing a baulk with scarpers at second and third position, bringing home a tally and putting scarpers at the corners. Hubble then hung a curve ball right over home plate which Fydrich, the Tigers' slightly demented starting hurler, absolutely crushed. The ball sailed toward left field, where Trixx, the 'Naughts Lepi left scout, backpedaled desperately. At the warning track, Trixx leapt and made a valiant stab at the ball, but the nut sailed three meters over the Lepi's mitt for the game-winning tripper.

"He gave up the winning hit to the blasted flinger?" Matheron wailed before burying his face in his hands. The season had just started, and had the Dreadnaughts already managed to get themselves eliminated from the playoffs? The team had never contended in his lifetime; in fact, the last time the 'Naughts had played in the Interstellar Series was when Leonhard Thayer had been a five year old. One could say "Just wait till next year!" only so many times . . .

The hiss of a portal opening caused both Gavin and Matheron to look up as Catharin, holding a datapad, exited the master bedroom with a frown. "Gavin," she began, "I hope this isn't what you intend to turn in for your essay on Contemplanys Hermi. Besides the errors in grammar, you . . . Math! I asked you to bring those suitcases to me right away!"

"I was!" Matheron replied sheepishly. "I just sat down for a second to catch the final score!"

Catharin made an impatient noise as she handed the datapad over to her son. "Gavin Valintyn Thayer," she commanded, "You march right into your room and correct those errors on that essay, young man! You know better than to do your homework while watching tri-d. And Math, would you please carry those suitcases into our room so I can finish packing?"

Both of the Thayer males scrambled to their feet to comply with Catharin's order. "Well, Little Partner," Matheron commented, "It looks like both the 'Naughts and us are really up cark creek tonight."


Traffic pressed in on the Thayer's speeder, but Matheron paid little note to it, focusing his attention on tuning the Aratech's receiver to one of Coruscant's more popular sports networks, at present broadcasting the post-game interview of the Dreadnaught's long suffering manager, Jawn MacGrath.

"Coach, about your team's execution . . ."

"I'm all for it," MacGrath snapped. "And the sooner, the better."

"What would you say was the turning point of the game?"

"Probably the seventh frame, when we had the bags loaded with no outs. We've got to learn how to stop hitting into triple plays."

"Do you think your team will make the playoffs this year?"

"I don't see why not. It's still early, and we can turn things around. If not, well then, there's going to be some sentients looking for a new job come Katunda morning."

"Are there any specific players who–"

The reporter's question was suddenly cut off as Catharin abruptly reached over and switched the receiver off.

"Mom!" Gavin protested, Matheron joining in as well.

"Gavin. Math. The galaxy isn't going to collapse if you miss a post-game interview. It's only a game," Catharin said somewhat peevishly. "This, on the other hand," she continued, gesturing to her datapad, "does deal with the fate of the New Republic. I need to review these reports that the ministry sent me, and it would be a lot easier to do without the distraction of yammering sports reporters and their inane questions."

Review? Catharin thought grimly as she turned her attention back to the datapad. Skimming through is more like it. The ministry kept transmitting files to her datapad, so many that the storage capacity of the device was nearly overwhelmed. Surely the Director of Relations didn't expect her to read them all tonight, did he? The way things were shaping up, she could, at best, only spare each file a cursory glance before moving on to the next.

"'Only a game,' she says," Matheron muttered as he drummed his fingers impatiently along the top of the speeder's control yoke. Gavin, for his part, began to fidget and squirm restlessly in his seat.

Catharin tried to put up with the distractions as best as she could, but the more she stared at the datapad, the more her temples began to throb. In the silence of the speeder, the ceaseless drumming of husband's fingertips was like the endless crashing of thunder; Gavin's squirming in the rear seat akin to a full scale riot. Forehead sinking into her upraised palm, Catharin, in frustration, submitted to the inevitable.

"All right!" she burst out, her voice seething with irritation as she switched the receiver back on. "You can listen to your blasted sports show!"

". . . Come see my amazin' Dreadnaughts," MacGrath was saying. "I've been in this game some fifty years, but we're finding ways to lose I never knew existed before."


Westport. Sited in a strategic location near the Galactic Senate, the bustling spaceport was favored by members of the government over Coruscant's other terminals, but the complex was heavily patronized by civilians and the military as well. Ion trails flared as shuttles and transports took off and landed, with passengers and cargo arriving from and departing for all sectors of the galaxy.

Matheron piloted the family speeder to the part of the vast spaceport reserved for diplomatic use, the Thayer's rather plebian Aratech looking somewhat out of place among the more upscale models favored by members of the government. The elder Thayer shooed away the valet droids that crowded around the speeder, offering in their obsequious manner to carry Catharin's suitcases to the terminal. Instead, he dispatched Gavin to retrieve a baggage repulsorcart, and the three Thayers made their toward the departure gates.

Forming a solid line in front of the building was a row of zZip Astral 8 speeders, ready to whisk the diplomats to their various destinations, with heavily armored TaggeCo. SCS-19 Sentinels available to those of a more paranoid bent. Catharin displayed her credentials to the security guards, and the family entered the main terminal.

Once inside, a wide eyed Gavin looked around in wonderment, gaping in fascination at the several species and beings he had never seen before. Corellia was fairly cosmopolitan as far as Core Worlds went, but even his home planet couldn't compare to the variations found on Coruscant. Representatives from various planets and systems, resplendent in their finery, conversed with each other or performed rituals of greetings or farewells. Staffers and aides–some organic, others mechanical–hovered about the diplomats, prepared to cater to any wish or whim. The individual conversations grew into a collective buzz, as orders, requests, inquiries, and commands were spoken into miniature secretary units. A few individuals and groups had retreated into sound bubbles, foiling the aims of any would be eavesdroppers.

As he trundled the repulsorcart along, Gavin heard his father make a disapproving noise in his throat. "What's wrong, Dad?"

"All these droids," Matheron replied, his brow furrowed.

Gavin looked around. Indeed, the terminal seemed to be swarming with automata: Protocol, valet, and secretary droids waddled obediently behind their masters, while message droids glided along silently on repulsorlifts. Diplomats from the wealthier or more technologically advanced systems displayed—flaunted–the latest models from Cybot Galactica, Accutronics, or Caldrahlsen Mechanicals, whereas representatives from the Outer Rim looked to be relieved in retaining the services of a superannuated CZ secretary droid.

"They were designed to help us," Gavin pointed out. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"No," Matheron conceded, "there's only a problem when people start letting droids do what they should be doing themselves. That's why you and I did all the landscaping at our home on Corellia, and did all the work on your speederbike instead of letting some utility droid do it. Look at some of these people! Take away their droids, and they probably wouldn't even know how to wipe their own asses."

Gavin didn't immediately respond, thinking instead of those hot Corellian summers when, toiling in the yard, he fervently wished that his father would buy a landscaping droid so he could concentrate on the more important things in life. Racing his Mobquet, for example . . .

Walking alongside Matheron, Catharin quirked a frown at her husband's crude language. "Math, do you mind? Someone might overhear you."

"Good. Some of these stuffed shirts need to have the truth thrown in their faces every so often." Turning his attention back to his son, Matheron continued: "And take a look at some of those droids, son. They're not assistants; they're being used as status symbols."

The teenager looked over to where his father gestured. Many of the droids were indeed customized, with precious metals and gems replacing standard alloys and photoreceptors.

"Waste of credits. Even worse, probably taxpayer credits," Matheron grumbled, but the Corellian winced inwardly. During the Rebellion, the Alliance had, at times, been desperate for any piece of machinery in working order. Departments and sections had willingly shared their resources for the common good. Now, with the Empire seemingly vanquished, everyone only seemed interested in acquiring a bigger and bigger slice of the government's budget. Matheron felt guilty every time he piloted his OPC LUX-3 speeder, but for most others, spend, spend, spend, seemed to be the name of the game. The sense of purpose from the war years seemed to have dissipated. How long would it be before complacency and corruption infected the system, leading the New Republic along the path of the old?

"Math, where are you going? I said this is my boarding gate."

"Sorry, Cathy. I guess I just spaced out for a bit."

"Obviously. Gavin dear, would you take my luggage over to the attendants?"

"Sure, Mom." The teenager pushed the repulsorcart over to the gate attendants, where a mighty struggle to load Catharin's baggage into one of the cargo pods ensued. That task accomplished, Gavin returned to his parents, his father standing there with his arms around his mother.

"Hey, Little Partner, mind turning in the cart? I'd like to spend a moment alone with your mom."

For a moment, the two of them stood silent amidst the bustle. Eventually, Matheron cleared his throat. “Where exactly will you be staying at Etti IV?”

“I don’t know yet,” Catharin gave him a guilty look. “At some hotel around the capital I guess.”

“You’ll comm me when you arrived?”

“Yes . . . I’ll try.”

He looked reproachful; she grimaced.

“Remember what you kept telling me? ‘A soldier can’t always step out to search for a holocomm booth right upon his arrival.’”

“Hit.” Matheron grumbled. “Now’s your day of reckoning, ain’t it?”

She smirked but briefly. “C’mon now sweetheart! All I wanted to say is—I’ll comm as soon as possible.”

“Good.”

“And you . . .,” she hesitated, visibly sorting her words.

“What?”

“I’d like you to promise me . . .”

“What?”

“That, whatever happens, you will treat Gavin gently!”

His eyes narrowed before he swallowed and looked past her with a guilty glower. “You had to say that, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Her bluntness sabotaged his frown. “Alright then. As you ask me so kindly, I shall for once not be the brute you know me as.”

“Good.” She grinned, pecked his lips and whispered. “Then I will trust you.”

* * *
Gavin strolled back to the gate his mother's shuttle was departing from, sipping on an iced caf. Spying him, Matheron waved his son over to where he and Catharin were sitting.

"Where'd you get the credits to buy that?" Matheron asked as Gavin plopped down into one of the lounge chairs.

"You get a half-cred back when you return the cart," Gavin answered. "So I went all around the terminal rounding up the abandoned carts and turning them in. Made almost ten credits. Mom, your shuttle won't be leaving soon, will it?"

"I'm afraid so, Gavin. The Director of Relations has arrived, and it won't be long before I leave," Catharin sighed. "Is there anything you'd like me to bring home for you?"

Gavin shook his head. "But you're going to be back in time to see me in the school play, aren't you, Mom?"

Catharin reached out to take her son's hand in hers, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Gavin was clearly worried that the diplomatic mission would cause her to miss the play, but Catharin vowed that nothing would keep her away from her son. "I promise I will."

"Catharin?"

"Yes, Director Brya," Catharin replied as she stood and turned around.

"Our shuttle has its' launch window. It's time we boarded."

"Of course. Director Brya, you've met my husband, Matheron. This is my son, Gavin."

As the youngest Thayer exchanged greetings with the director, the diplomatic shuttle appeared and made fast to a docking tube. Gavin let out an impressed whistle. "A Felpajh 10A! Prime! Mom, you're gonna be traveling in style!"

The director gave Gavin an indulgent look. "The Diplomatic Corps travels as befitting its' status. But the shuttle will only be taking us to Hesperidium orbit. We'll rendezvous with our cruiser there. I understand it's a Sorosuub variant of the old CEC Consular-class ships."

"A cheap knock-off," Gavin blurted out. "Nobody can build ships like CEC."

Again the director favored Gavin with an indulgent smile. "Of course. Perhaps when Corellia formally joins the New Republic, they can bid for a contract." The director turned to leave. "Shall we, Catharin?"

"I don't like him," Matheron muttered as soon as Brya was out of earshot. "I've got a flick knife I can give you. If that creep tries anything, you can slice his choobies off and shove them right down his–"

"Math, I'll be fine. I can take care of myself. What I need you two to do is take care of yourselves while I'm gone. I'd like to have a planet to come back to when this mission is over."

Matheron swept Catharin up in an embrace, planted a firm kiss on her lips. "I'll have more than a planet waiting for you when you get back."

Catharin smiled at the devilish look in her husband's eyes. "I'll bet," she said playfully before turning to Gavin, who stood with a downcast look on his face. "My darling boy," Catharin whispered as she wrapped her arms around Gavin and kissed him on his cheek. "I'm going to miss you so much." Gavin hugged his mother back fiercely; unable to say anything, but all too quickly it was time for her to leave.

Gathering her traveling bag and datapad, Catharin hurried down the boarding tube, pausing to wave once more to Gavin and Matheron–both of whom already looked totally lost without her–before entering the shuttle and taking her seat. Pulling the acceleration straps across herself, Catharin took a moment to once more contemplate the nature of the mission she was about to embark upon.


Datunda afternoon–

The stage lights slowly dimmed behind him, leaving Gavin illuminated only by a single spot beam. “And if we lost our city,” the teenager intoned solemnly, “and if too many of our heart’s bearers lie scattered under these ruins—in their honor and for those of our loved ones who are still living…”

Pausing as the light from the spotbeam began to fade, Gavin continued, “We must carry on to hope and fight, and under this great shadow.” Lifting his eyes skyward in an appeal to the stars, voice thick with emotion, he finished the soliloquy: “For only then . . . we will see . . . again.”

As Gavin slowly lowered his chin to his chest, the spotbeam faded out as well, leaving the stage engulfed in darkness. It remained dark for several moments more before the lights were brought back up again, to the enthusiastic applause and appreciative whistling from the other students.

“Magnificent, Gavin!” a beaming Adan Vardillijan enthused. “Absolutely magnificent!”

All the other teens agreed as they clustered around Gavin, heaping praise on their diminutive classmate. The young Corellian looked around with a shy smile, unused to but happily basking in the moment.

“Listen up, everyone!” Mr. Vardillijan said loudly as he checked his chrono. “On that note, I think we’ll call it a wrap for today.” That announcement was met with cheers from the students. “I know many of you will be leaving on vacations, but try to reserve some time to review your lines. Otherwise, I want all of you to enjoy yourselves during the Expansion Week holiday.”


Racing along one of the Jrade District’s skyways on his Mobquet, Gavin spared a glance toward the horizon. Dark storm clouds were gathering, the skies split by bolts of lightning. Despite the efforts of Coruscant’s Weather Control Network, the planet was still plagued by violent storms, most spawned in the microclimes that existed in the canyons between the stratoscrapers or the thermals over the factory districts.

With the smell of rain pervading the air, Gavin increased his speed, hoping to reach the family apartment before the storm broke over him. An added incentive was the afternoon start of the Dreadnaughts-Chancellors paceball game, and he didn’t want to miss that. Gain and his father had planned to order in some Toydarian sour fry and watch the opening game of the series together.

Enjoying a post-rehearsal malted with some of his fellow actors, Gavin’s peers expressed amazement that he was planning on spending part of the holidays with his parents, of all people. Gavin shrugged the criticism off, merely grateful that, considering what he and Matheron just went through, his father would spend some quality time with him.

Raindrops splattered on the faceshield of Gavin’s helmet. Exiting the skyway, the teen sped the last few kilometers to the Turnberry Towers’ parking structure, entering it just before the skies opened up and the rain fell in great, drenching sheets.


Matheron entered the apartment, the tray of steaming sour fry in his arms. “Come and get it, Little Partner! What I miss?”

Flopped onto the sofa, Gavin looked up at his father in discouragement. “Nothing. The game was postponed.”

“What?”

“Rained out.”

“How can the game be rained out? The Chancellors play in a domed stadium!”

“Well, some numbskull apparently decided that the game would be played under the stars tonight. The dome was retracted when the storm hit, and they couldn’t get it closed in time. Look,” Gavin said as he pointed to the tri-d.

Matheron frowned as he knelt by the console and stared at the holographic images. Water cascaded down from the grandstands of the Chancellors’ stadium, while the playing field itself resembled the Great Western Sea. “Of all the . . .”

“What a rotten way to start the holidays,” Gavin grumbled.

“Maybe not.”

“Huh?”

“They’ll make up the game tomorrow, right? Play a double-header?”

“Yeah?”

Matheron smiled as he withdrew a pair of tickets from his tunic pocket. “Guess where we’re going tomorrow, Little Partner.”

Home Alone

The tracking laboratory is dark apart from a small monitor that shows a spacious hotel room –flamboyant, furnished in crème and crimson, dominated by a wide double bed–; all empty till, at once a door slid back to the right. The ‘fresher. Out of which steps Catharin, nude as a foam-born goddess; at the edge of the bed, the Director of Relations sits leering…

Late morning light filtering through the polarised window, Matheron growled, rolled over and punched off the blaring radio alarm clock; what only marginally reduced the harassing noises: from below sounded yells, bloodcurdling as per usual as the Devaronian blonde introduced her horned guy to another level of misery; above, the trebly cursed Squibs fought in their own damnable language, while outside the first tactless speeder presented its holiday compliments. Well good morning, Matheron followed its howl with a cantankerous stare. Why did that bloody alarm have to go off before I could at least smash that prick’s face?

Anyhow, it was ten past nine and his turn on the duty rota that he himself had coerced into being: fifteen shifts of kitchen duty, three times vacuuming and cleaning, two washdays; all unambiguously drawn up, fairly shared and scheduled. On Cath’s return, everything would be impeccable! No speck! Not the slightest cause for complaint! Also, differences about daily chores were the most widespread cause for dispute and –determined to preserve the harmony between Gavin and him–, he planned to eradicate any foreseeable source of friction; as well as his own sloth. He rolled back, grimaced in sight of the empty half of the double bed, and closed his eyes.

It’s not right if your wife’s sent abroad. And accepts! Why, yes, he was aware that he himself had spent much too much time away –exactly the last five years that he’d been sent on long and undeniably dangerous missions. He also knew he was fascinated by her exactly because she was a self-directed woman—but that’s the trickiness about relationships, no? You feel increasingly more attracted, the rather your partner could do without you. And Cath could. Oh yes! Different, still very similar to her older sister –Sergeant Major Push-up– she had it in her and could manage anything on her own. Honest to himself: she was a lot more self-reliant than he was. Probably that’s why, after twenty-three years, she still had him on edge; missing her; and suffering now that it was her turn at taking the field.

He stretched, briefly screwed up his eyes at the sharp pain, then snorted. Just another oddity: out on campaigns you never thought about cleaning your billy; you did! Routinely, after every use. Why, it was necessary; it’d been drummed into you; everyone did; and you had only one set. Back home, in turn, you had an entire cupboard: fifteen or so excuses to heave replete you to the tri-d without caring for dirty crockery; what’s what he’d naturally do—his student digs had been the untidy evidence—but what kind of example would that set? Sighing, he folded back the cover. In truth, kids are the most relentless instructors: wherever you fail, sooner or later they’ll make you repent.


10:20 Kitchen

<img src="http://www.oakendawn.de/pics/posts/post_11aby_jradeview.jpg" alt="Jrade District - View from Thayers' apartment" width="300" height="224" hspace="8" vspace="4" border="1" align="left" /> Gathering together the crumbs on his greasy dessert plate, Gavin glanced out of the kitchen window. It was a fine morning: the antiquated corridors of Jrade district lay unusually quiet –meant the window pane vibrated only every so often–, and the haze of smog that ritually hung between here and the nearby Maglev stop barely blurred the larger-than-life advertisement for Somnaskol Red.

Or maybe that even came from the fog that dad had produced as he’d burned the toast –the smell, at any rate, did still linger–; just as the last slice along with one ladleful of spiced Yot beans and Bantha bacon. Dad eyed it for a while, then he gave an inquiring glance upon which Gavin shook his head without yearning. (Even with dad’s partiality for DIY, his cooking skill never made it beyond the meat part of a barbecue. Though, there was this legend about one dinner he allegedly had cooked for Mom somewhen in their courtship: dad missed no opportunity to point out that the mounder potato rice he’d prepared had been just right—from the way Mom smiled when he told that, she’d married him despite.)

Watching as dad heaped the rest of the greasy mass upon the slice –twice as thick as what would have passed Mom’s standards for healthy eating– Gavin couldn’t but grin; his glance roaming back at the corridor he already thought he’d evaded the question . . .

‘And? Got any assignments over the holidays?’

Groaning inside, Gavin did his best not to make a face: he knew dad would ask! He simply knew! Though, he’d reckoned on that it’d be earlier. ‘Yes, an essay.’ The grimace showed. ‘The Old Republic’s failure – reasons and conclusions.’

Chewing, his father gave a grunt. He momentarily looked as if he was about to say something, instead added another spoonful of sweetener to his cold caf and stirred at length. ‘A highly topical subject.’ Watching him gaze into his cup, Gavin couldn’t tell whether his pained look was at the topic or the amount of spicy grease that’d likely give him a heartburn; when, all of a sudden, dad got up, downed it, and put the used crockery into the ‘washer. ‘Now?’ Turning back round, he wiped the table like a landlord at ten to closing. 'Work before game, hm . . partner. You better start early!’
 
That’s what he’d feared. ‘But . . . what about my mitt? You said we’d have to find it before we go.’

Momentarily, dad looked indignant, then but flashed a wry grin. ‘Of course! I’ll take care of that.’ With that he threw the damp cloth into the sink and ticked off his turn on the duty rota that hung on their fridge since the other evening. ‘Here’s our duties, junior: I shared, you choose.’ Sounded fair; yet had proven sobering in so far as the sets of shifts were identical, up to the small difference of whether you’d take a double shift in the vacuuming or cleaning. Under dad’s serious look he’d made his choice –against cleaning– and had his name put down: responsible for the hatched squares . . .

‘Gavin?’ Dad’s voice turned commanding.

‘All right, okay!’ Hurriedly, he got up. Passing the fridge, his glance flit to the rota—in contrast to Mom’s to-do lists, dad noted tasks in a grid: duties set under days; pinned on a ruled timeline that tied you down to hours. It was a strict grid. A military grid. Likely that’s how you’re treated as an adult. What felt odd, somewhere between being proud and sighing inside. Fourteen shifts till Mom’s return…