14 ABY

Inner Rim

Bilbringi System

Bilbringi Shipyards

Yves Auspharrde held out the package of datacards, barely keeping himself from wincing as the slender gloved fingers plucked them away and secreted them in a black utility belt. Seeing vital information on the shipyards disappear into the hands of a bounty hunter was bad enough, but what was really painful was having to deal with one at all. Still, the problem had been solved, and no fingers would point to him. The knowledge did not erase the uneasiness he felt. His policy in dealing with the underworld so far had been to maintain control of every situation, looking every hireling in the eye, and interpreting what their thoughts and intentions must be. But in this case, he could barely bring himself to look into the assassin's face. Constantly he found himself staring at the floor, wishing with all of his might that this situation would be wrapped up and she would leave and let him be in control once more.

Now that he had found the courage to raise his eyes, he wished he could afford to lower them again. One mechanical eyepiece stared back at him, surrounded by a shining metallic headpiece that stretched down to cover her cheek and jaw and upwards to cover half of her forehead and skull. The other half of her face was covered with long black hair that completely obscured her right eye and cheek. The only skin he could see was her chin and mouth. Nothing could be read from the set lips. The hand that had grasped the datacards returned to her side, unmoving, but he knew in those mechanical fingers rested the strength to crush his throat. Even her breathing sounded metallic.

He waited for her to speak, but she only stared at him with her eyeless face for a few more tortuous moments before turning with absolute grace and walking out of the office and into the hall on silent feet. The desk chair behind him creaked slightly as he all but fell into it and breathed a sigh of relief. She was fast, yes, silent, and deadly. The most competent assassin he had ever met. But if he had it his way, he would never deal with Jelt again.

Ausfarrde allowed himself one last shudder before pulling out some flimsiplasts from within the desk. The time had come to work.


His real name was Gett Loupre, but he called himself the Viper. It was a dangerous name, and he had long ago decided that he was dangerous. Unfortunately a dangerous name was not all it took to establish a reputation, so he had planned and executed a number of operations, each of which landed him with more credits, and more loyal men. A ship of his own was not far behind, followed by another, and another, all commanded by criminals almost as competent as himself.

The flash and flare he had found in his name when he was younger was gone, but he continued the theme for the sake of simplicity. His ship, the Viper Strike, was sitting securely in one of the many commercial hangars of the shipyards, lurking beneath a false transponder code that labeled it the Miratto. The Fang and the Venom were en route, and would come in under their own disguises, their captains contacting him once they were in position.

He was almost ready. All of the men were in place, and all that was missing were the datacards that Auspharrde had just handed off to the bounty hunter who was even now approaching his position. The comm in his ear crackled and came to life.

"Target is approaching."

"Acknowledged. Strike when ready."

From his vantage point in a convenient service alcove in the corridor, Viper could see the black-clad woman when she rounded the corner. His right-hand man, Krait, stepped out in front of her promptly, his blaster aimed for the side of her face not sheathed in metal. He was backed up by four more men, one on either side and two that closed in from behind. Krait's voice came through the comm.

"Now, if you would please hand over those datacards Auspharrde was kind enough to give you."

Viper waited for a nasty reply, or a blaster shot. Neither came. The assassin simply looked at Krait, then moved her hand slowly towards her belt. The datacards emerged and she handed them over, then stepped lightly around the henchman and continued on her way.

He watched her retreating back with suspicious confusion. He had heard rumors of the cyborg bounty hunter, and this behavior fit non of them.

"What do you make of that?"

Viper pursed his lips and remained silent, thinking for a moment. "Something's wrong. I want those datacards checked out immediately. Head back to the ship while I take care of security around that corvette."

"Acknowledged."


O'pahz System

Carratos

"Come on, come on!"

Der's hand smacked the console angrily as he let out a stream of curses, ignoring the glare his copilot gave him. The Far Voiance was misbehaving again, its deflector shields steadily losing power as they were battered again and again.

"Is the nav'puter dying too?"

The Twi'lek bit her lip as she huddled over the console. He noticed her face was a paler green than usual, but then she straightened quickly, color flushing back into her skin.

"Got it. Go!"

Starlines flared and they were gone.

Starlines flared and they were back.

"Thaya! What did you do?"

Thaya looked at the console's screen, then peered into his face curiously. "Are you angry? You don't look angry."

"Yes, I am angry. Thaya, for the last time. I'm a Kajain'sa'Nikto."

"Oh." She turned back to the navcomputer. "Well, here we are, safe at Bilbringi."

Der humphed through his membrane and turned back to the controls, his frustration cooling down somewhat. Thaya never seemed to remember that the muscle structure of his face was vasty different from hers, and that only drove his annoyance. Still, she had been very helpful in the short time that they had been partners.

"Bilbringi was a smart move. Let's head in."

"Yes sir, captain!"

A jolt shook him suddenly and he snapped around, looking over his shoulder by reflex. The flashing status lights suddenly went red.

"Rear deflector's gone!"

"Take us in! He followed us!"

"I told you Carratos was a bad idea."

"If I had had any idea at all that Gytendsao'bframi had put a price on me, I wouldn't have gone anywhere near the place. And how was I supposed to know that a bounty hunter would just happen to be sitting in orbit?"

Thaya looked at him sullenly, then turned her attention back to the comm and Bilbringi Control as Der pushed the crippled Voiance as fast as it would go.

"Maybe he's supposed to take us alive," Thaya suggested hopefully.

The Nitko did his absolute best to communicate the effect of a glare at her. "Just get us a place in a hangar. Preferably one with lots of security."

Thaya looked up at him and exploded in a flash of white.

The Slave III skirted the expanding dust cloud that had been the target as the ship accelerated toward the Bilbringi Shipyards and more fuel and supplies.


He pulled the last body into the service closet and palmed the release for the door, his mind still on the bounty hunter that had so easily given up the datacards. They had to be decoys; there was no other reason he could think of for her quick compliance. The thought crossed his mind that she had been afraid of the weapons, but somehow that didn't fit either. She was an enigma, as were her actions. This puzzle he would have to think on.

He didn't have to think on it long.

Viper rounded the corner and stepped into the vast hangar, heading for the sleek yacht that he had stolen and refitted almost seven years ago. The Viper Strike was his headquarters, his haven, and his home. He never left it unguarded. Even now he could see Krait standing by the port boarding ramp, the datacards in his hand and a smug look on his face. So perhaps they were want he wanted. Then what, exactly, was the bounty hunter thinking?

He received the answer in a blinding flash that seared his eyes and threw him back against the hangar wall and left him with a ringing in his ears. When he regained his senses he realized that the appearance of the hangar had completely changed. All of the other ships still rested securely on their own docking pads, but pieces of the Strike were still falling to the deck immediately around where it had been. The entire yacht was gone, leaving only bits of debris no larger than a datapad. His lips parted in disbelief, eyes staring, uncomprehending. His ears could not hear Krait's moan as the man rolled over, clutching one arm where shrapnel had driven into it. His brain did not register the fact that Krait was the only man from his team visible; all of the others were dead, their remains mingling with what was left of his ship, his beautiful ship. A ragged breath escaped him, and then he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

She was standing there in the shadows near the wall, not six meters from where he lay. Her mouth was set in the same expressionless line it had been before, but then she turned her head toward him slightly and the lips took on a slight upward curve. Something flashed in her hand and he tensed as the object flew through the air and landed near him, skidding over the deck to rest by his elbow. It was a simple detonating device, one used to control remote detonators attached to high explosives. So a bomb, or more likely bombs, had torn his ship apart. His eyes snapped back to the assassin, who then turned away and began walking toward the smoking remains. He tried to call out, but his throat closed, and he tried to reach for his blaster, but his hand froze. She reached Krait, but instead of drawing a weapon, she merely reached down and slipped the datacards from his hand, then continued on down the row of ships, finally disappearing.

It was only then that Viper found his voice again and he grabbed for his comlink.

"Viper to Taipan, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear, Viper. Something wrong?"

So the tremble in his voice really was there, and not just his imagination.

"Yes, Taipan. I want to you to bring the Venom in as soon as possible. Try and get a pad somewhere in Hangar T8. Contact me with your location once you've docked. Also transmit the same message to Divto on the Fang. I'll brief you both as soon as you arrive. Oh, and when you disembark, put a double guard on the ships and be sure you have those ARC casters ready"

"Acknowledged, Viper."

The comm went dead and he gripped it, knuckles turning white as he stared at the ship the cyborg had disappeared behind. She had destroyed his ship and she now had the information he needed. But he could wait to pursue her until reinforcements arrived. For now he started towards Krait to assess his injuries from the blast and see if anything could be salvaged from the scattered debris. He seriously doubted it.

Counterstrike

Bilbringi Shipyards

Hangar T8

Jelt rested securely in the shadows across from Pad 9, watching the Graystar out of one corner of her eye while she kept most of her attention on the yacht that had landed some time ago. The shipyard's computer had tagged it as the Jeilon Ferry, but she had no doubt that it was one belonging to the man who called himself Viper. He had approached the vessel immediately and conversed with the man who disembarked, after which all activity around the ship had abruptly ceased. Suspicious didn't even begin to describe her current attitude. She had listened with great interest to transmissions between a Yuria V and Control as the ship begged for a Pad in Hangar T8 but was assigned to R5 instead. Someone wanted to be near someone else, and she wanted to find out why. Viper had wanted those datacards for a reason. An imminent criminal operation, perhaps. If she could stop it, Auspharrde would owe her for much more than just the recent assassination.

The ship on Pad 8 lifted and backed slowly out of the hangar, and another almost immediately took its place. Traffic was heavy today. With nothing better to do, Jelt idly checked up on the newcomer's transponder code, and her attention was immediately caught by the name that flashed across the datapad screen. Slave III. So the infamous Boba Fett was here, the bounty hunter whose name was on everyone's lips. She watched that ship for a little while as well, but the man obviously had no intention of leaving. An attendant pulled up a fueling tube as several labor droids stacked crates near the main cargo hold. A stop for provisions only, it would seem, the electronic credit transfer making the entire transaction one easy, painless procedure.

That was the other reason she had for sticking around, made up though it was. The Graystar was refueled, but she had not taken on any foodstuffs yet, and she most definitely needed them. The supply at Freighter Base was almost completely depleted. Again, having nothing else to do, she pecked at the datapad and ordered a healthy number of crates brought to Pad 9. The action had the desired effect.

Along with the labor droids came two men, mingling with them while not trying to hide very hard. They went straight to the only blemish on the underside of the entire ship, the release for the boarding ramp. She was satisfied to see their confused expressions as they considered how to open it. So concentrated were they that they failed to notice two sections of chrome hull sliding away and two nasty looking turbolasers descending and silently swiveling in their direction. And so intent was Jelt on the men themselves that she failed to notice the others slipping up on her from either side.

A flicker in the Force was all she had before the beams of an ARC caster enveloped her, causing her to stagger from her upright stance. A brief thought of satisfaction flashed through her mind; they were obviously expecting to incapacitate a woman of wires and circuits and datachips. They couldn't have been more wrong.

Stretching out one hand, she sent a stream of white lightening out towards the group on the right, even as she spun away from another beam of energy that came from those on her left. Her left hand palmed a blaster and she began methodically shooting down each assailant, avoiding what blasts she could and enduring the ones she couldn't. But then, as her vision began to blur and she began to feel the burns in her skin, she knew that she was outnumbered. Not outmatched, just outnumbered. Then a loud explosion tore up the deck plates near her and she recognized the sound of turbolasers. Her ship had joined the battle. They stood no chance now.

And neither did she if she stayed in the midst of them. She slipped past a Rodian and a burly human that must have come from a high-gravity planet, but then her arms were seized. She broke free and managed two more blaster shots before the weapon was knocked from her hand and another ARC caster blast hit her. The long blaster on her right hip felt suddenly very heavy, and her hand reached for it, only to pause as something heavy came down on her skull. She crashed to the ground, her last moments of awareness filled with the sound of her ship's turbolasers. A deep sense of satisfaction filled her. At last, at long last, this was it. She was going to see Dalve again. She was going to be whole again. She would be able to feel again. At last. At long last.


The Graystar was not an ordinary ship, nor did it have an ordinary ship's computer. It was complex, more so than most that flew among the stars. Up to a droid level intelligence, the ship builders at Kayan had said. Jelt had added to its many features, and now the loyalty that had built up kicked in.

The photosensors saw the image of her crumpled body, lying on a deck ravaged by the carefully place turbolaser shots the ship had fired. The ship also registered the man standing over her, talking to another that had a bandage around one arm and several cuts elsewhere. It considered what to do, but even the intelligent computer did not have many options. Its offensive weaponry was designed to be used on much larger targets. With them standing so close to the hunter's body, it couldn't use the turbolasers. The ion cannon and the missile launcher were equally useless.

Then the sensors picked something off to starboard, in the direction of Pad 8. Blaster shots again began to fly, and men everywhere hit the deck. The Graystar opened up the lasers again as several gas grenades were lobbed into the area. When the smoke cleared, only one person was standing at Jelt's side, a man dressed in armor the ship identified as Mandalorian. He knelt, checking her vital signs, expression hidden beneath a helmet. Then he carefully eased his arms under her and lifted the limp form, prompting the ship to act.

It lowered the boarding ramp, and the man turned at the slight sound, taking in the still-depressed laser cannons and the two dead men at the base of the ramp. The Graystar quickly retracted the weaponry in a show of good favor and the man wasted no more time in ducking under the vessel and heading up into the interior of the ship. Once he was inside, the ship activated the shipwide comm.

"I am called the Graystar. Who are you?"

The man glanced around, then spoke, his voice gravelly beneath the helmet.

"I am called Boba Fett, Graystar."

"Her cabin is the first one down the corridor to your right."

He didn't respond, only turned in that direction, and the ship powered down from combat status, content that its owner would receive proper care. The sensors remained on full strength, however, as it did not intend to let anyone within ten meters of Pad 9. Or Pad 8, for that matter, since that was where the man had come from. Quiet watchfulness resumed, but not a soul came by for a long time, except for Shipyard Security. Hangar T8 had apparently been sealed off as the destruction was inspected, first that on Pad 3 and later that near Pad 9. The situation bothered Security for obvious reasons, and the Graystar remained tuned to the comm channel that soon filled with reports and opinions about the incidents. Jelt would want to hear them later. That was the way she was.


It was dark and it was black, and she savored the feeling of safety and comfort that had come over her. Emotions, yes, let them run. Her heart was finally free of the shell that it had been encased in since the last voyage of the Aetherfox, and she knew when she opened her eyes she would see Dalve once more. They would pick up where they left off, and at last she would be happy again. A slow smile curled the corners of her mouth and she lifted her eyelids.

The shell came crashing in around her again, binding her back to the barren space between the stars, swallowing her into its endless, lightless maw, consuming her. Emotion fled, her mouth settling back into its hard line and her heart once again entered the endless void from which she had felt such a brief respite. Panic engulfed her and before she could come back to herself she screamed, a replica of the previous scream she had released so many years ago.

"Daaaaaallllveeeeeeeeeee!!!!!"

Her body flew to a sitting position, breathing hard, heart pounding wildly. Vaguely she saw the bulkheads of her cabin around her, felt the cuts and burns that had just been treated, heard the hum of the Graystar's systems change as its sensors registered her altered physical state. For a brief moment she felt a vast emptiness, a wish that the ship could actually care, actually help her. But at the end of day, all it was was a ship, unable to share her pain the way a sentient being could. The way Dalve could.

She clenched her teeth down hard together, and then, sweet release. The emotion was gone. She was herself again. Unable to laugh, unable to cry, unknowledgable about such things as anger, compassion, loneliness, companionship, wonder, amazement, joy, hope, love.

She had died again, just as she had died every day since Dalve himself had.

She blinked once.

Twice.

The world came rushing back and Dalve was gone.

Now she could assess her situation.

There were burns from the ARC casters everywhere. Much of her black jumpsuit was gone, the skin underneath inflamed and even blistered in a few spots. The tatters that clung to her limbs and waist had been carefully pealed away, the injuries treated with a bacta salve from her own shipboard medkit. The headpiece and mask had been left in place, and she could feel the dried blood underneath, matting her hair. What had trickled down over her face had been washed away.

How?

She hadn't done it herself, she knew. Her last memory was of the cold deck of the hangar. If she had managed to crawl aboard the ship she would have stripped completely and bathed in the cooling salve, and she certainly wouldn't have left the headpiece in place. She reached up to remove it, but a sudden thought stopped her.

"Graystar?"

The ship's modulated voice came over the comm system. "Yes, Captain?"

"How did I get in here?"

"The man in armor carried you in."

The man in armor? There had been no man in armor in the near vicinity that she could recall. But then she remembered the ship that occupied Pad 8, right next to her, and a suspicion grew.

"Did he tell you his name?"

"Yes, Captain. He is called Boba Fett."

The confirmation only served to bring more questions to her mind. She knew about Boba Fett, but now his actions confused her. Why in star's name would the hardened bounty hunter take time to steal her from death and bring her back to life? There had to be some motive, something she had that he wanted. The Bilbringi datacards, perhaps. If so, they were probably gone, along with him.

"Graystar, when did the Slave III depart?"

"The Slave III has not departed. It remains docked on Pad 8."

So he wasn't gone. "Did Fett take anything from him when he left here?"

"All is in place, Captain. The man in armor has not left."

"Not left. What is he doing?" Hacking her shipboard information database, no doubt. She glanced around for her utility belt and weapons, finding them on the deck beside the bunk. When she got her hands on him–

"He has been loading the supply crates into the main cargo bay. He is finished now and is coming to check on your condition. I have not told him that you regained consciousness."

"Thank you, Graystar."

"You are welcome, Captain."

He probably thought to steal her ship out from under her, and now he was coming to make sure she wouldn't interfere. That made sense, but at the same time it didn't. Why would he bother to treat her wounds if that was the case? The entire situation was most perplexing. Jelt did not like being perplexed. When that bounty hunter walked into her cabin he was going to find a very unhappy woman.

She reached down painfully and managed to extract a blaster from its holster and cradle it in bandaged palms. With her enhanced hearing she could hear him walking through the ship–her ship–coming ever nearer. She tilted the barrel of the weapon toward the door, just as he appeared. It was indeed Boba Fett. The armor was unmistakable, as was the string of Wookiee scalps that hung from one of his shoulders.

"Stop."

He did, making no attempt to reach for his blaster.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing." The voice was low and rough, slightly mechanical from being spoken through the helmet. Her suspicions flared.

"You don't even want my name?"

"I know your name. Only the assassin called Jelt flies a ship like this and wears a mask like that."

So he knew more about her than she had assumed. That was not good. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

"Why did you–" She broke off. What exactly had he done? The word…she couldn't think of the word. He didn't supply one, only stood straight and silent, unmoving.

She couldn't avoid saying it if she wanted an answer. "Why did you…help me? What do you want?"

"I want nothing, as I have said." The flat voice took on a little edge. "You were outnumbered. I did what anyone should have done."

"But why?!" She nearly shouted. This made no sense. None at all.

The helmet shifted slightly and she could almost feel a glare coming from behind it. "There is a moral code in this galaxy that few live by now. I am one of the few. This code dictates that I help a fellow being if they are in danger and cannot help themselves."

She snorted. "You sound like one of those insufferable Jedi."

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but she thought he stiffened at that remark. The moment passed quickly, though. She threw the blaster to the deck, almost choking on her next words.

"I thank you for your assistance. You will leave my ship now."

He didn't move. "How old are you?"

Of all the nerve. She would humor him if it meant his swift departure. "Twenty-five standard."

"Young for one so successful."

She glared at him. "And just how long did it take you to reach your lofty status?"

"Forty-five years."

She had no reply to that. Her burns were beginning to hurt again and the blow to her head, though deflected by the headpiece, was rapidly growing an enormous headache.

"Get off my ship."

Again he did not move.

"I no longer require your assistance. Go."

"I think you are wrong."

So now he was a physician.

"You are bitter, as I was once. There is no way to become what you are capable of while still holding on to that."

A physician and a psychologist. Her next words carried a distinct bite in them.

"I am going to ask you for the last time. What is it that you want?"

"I want to help you."

For once, she was struck dumb. He motioned to the container of salve on the desk. "Put some more of that on those burns." Then he turned and was gone, palming the door shut behind him.

Departure

The salve stung and tore at her skin as she slapped it on, but she ignored the pain, angry eyes focused on the mirror. There would be no scars, thanks to the specially-made medication for her specially-altered skin, but for now the burns on her face were ugly. Fingers paused as they ran over the scar in her right cheek. That was from the one wound she had never treated. Too angry and bitter to even bother with wiping the blood away, she had let it heal in its own time, and now it served her as a reminder of the last time anyone had ever helped her. The last time she had really, truly felt.

Snatching her hand away she rinsed the salve off of two fingertips, being careful not to wet the bandage around her palm. Washing her hair and scalp had been difficult to do without assistance, but she took her shield off in the presence of no one, for that is what the mask was. A shield. The last person to see her without it was Dalve, and she intended to keep it that way. Gritting her teeth, she held her black hair up with one hand and used the Force to manipulate the damp cloth. The red marks slowly receded, leaving small cuts and bruises. She glanced down at the mask on the counter ruefully. It was dented and scratched. She would have to start using one of her spares. Now? No. Fett would know it was a different one. By all outward appearances the skullpiece was a permanent part of her head. She would have to continue to use the damaged one for the time being, until she could get rid of him.

I do not need help.

She tried to convince herself of that. She really did. But still the thoughts kept invading her head, driving the ache from the wound in deeper and deeper.

But you do want help. You've wanted help for years. You've just been longing for someone to notice you as something other than an object to be feared. You want this.

No!

You need this.

No!

She pulled the black jumpsuit on slowly, clenching her teeth until pain shot through them to supersede the pain from the raw skin. The donning of the mask was agony. It closed like a vice against her skull, pressing into the bandage and biting into the burns. If she had had her way she would have left it off, flying the Graystar away immediately and heading straight for Freighter Base. But Fett remained aboard for some reason. The ship refused to force him to leave. It had told her that it liked him. Actually liked him! Her ship had more capacity for feeling than she did! The thought made her headache worse and she swallowed several caplets of pain medication.

She had to make him leave.

He was sitting in the common room, reading a datapad. A quick glance confirmed it wasn't one of hers. Her boot made a slight noise on the deck and the helmeted head rose quickly, then he set the 'pad aside and stood.

"You are feeling better?"

"Yes." She spoke through clenched teeth. The medication was helping a little bit, but even with the bandages the jumpsuit chafed the wounds. Carefully, she steadied herself, but before she could speak again, he did.

"Who will fix that for you?" The gesture was toward her mask.

"I'll fix it myself."

She could almost see his eyebrows rising beneath his helmet.

"I'll do it for myself," she snarled, "just as I have always done."

He nodded slowly.

"Leave."

He turned and walked toward the boarding ramp and she felt a sudden sharp pang of remorse. Regret. She quickly shoved it back down beneath the mask. Turning to the cockpit, she made sure that he was well away from the ship before sealing the ramp.

"Graystar."

"Yes, Captain."

"Set a course for Base. I need to rest."

"Yes, Captain."

The low drone of the engines accompanied her back to her cabin, mirroring the buzz that was growing inside her head. Prying the mask off, she cried out in pain, anguish that sprang not only from the outside wounds but also the inside. She wanted a friend. She needed a friend. Why in all of space had she thrown him out? The one person in all of this known galaxy who had actually shown a desire to be a friend, to help, and she had scorned him. With another cry she threw the battered skullpiece against the bulkhead and sank down to the deck and wept.

The tears would not stop.

Hyperspace flowed by outside the viewport and still the tears would not stop. They stung the burns on her face and soaked the bandages of her hands, but when the ship exited hyperspace she was still weeping. It docked in the old freighter and still she did not move.

One hour passed. Two.

At last she took a final gasp and rose, eyes expressionless. Freighter Base was home, it was familiar. Here she would regain her senses. Here she would heal. And from here she would hunt again. Without feeling. At all.

Rescue

Two Months Later

Mid Rim

Perlemian Trade Route

Debris floated randomly in the dark emptiness. Jelt kept the shields at full strength and maneuvered lazily around the larger masses of burnt hull, occasionally coming in a little closer in an attempt to get a better image out of the sensors. Some radiation was still lingering from whatever had happened, just enough to make the sensors jumpy. As for just what had happened…it was likely that no one would ever know. Sheer luck had guided her here, or maybe it was the Force. It had prompted her several times in the past, and she grudgingly accepted such prompts as inevitable. Now she was curious as her ship floated through the small graveyard.

Not pirates; she knew which ones frequented this region and the debris bore none of their evidence. Not a mid-hyperspace collision, for those were almost unheard of, and even if it had happened there would be absolutely nothing left. Perhaps a radiation storm…that would fit with the remains, but not entirely. Frowning, she began to pull up the enhanced visuals for the whole scene. The remains of a passenger liner, one super freighter, two smaller freighters, a private yacht… What in space could have caused all of these to drop out of hyperspace at the same moment and meet with such destruction? An interdictor cruiser, yes, but why would the attackers have burnt their targets to a crisp? It was easy to see that there was nothing worth salvaging, certainly nothing worth a boarding attempt.

She would have to think on it longer, and preferably away from here. Pulling the ship to starboard she was beginning to head out of the debris field when a tone sounded. She glanced down, then glanced again. No, that was impossible. No ship out there could have survived whatever had hit all of these others. The sensors were misreading data from the radiation…

"Graystar, confirm readings."

"Readings confirmed. Transponder code identifies vessel as the Slave III."

All of her thoughts stopped. She looked at the console again, then at the stars outside the canopy. Gloved fingers hesitated over the controls. She didn't owe him anything. She could have gotten out of the situation. But even as she told herself these things she knew. He had saved her life. And in a good galaxy, a galaxy that she had once lived in, Dalve's galaxy, people returned such a favor. It was part of a code that people in such galaxies lived by. A moral code. Boba Fett's code.

Just one quick look, she told herself. No one could have survived this. I just have to confirm that.

The freighter moved in on the new ship and she could see immediately that it wasn't as badly damaged as the others. Perhaps it had arrived late to the scene, perhaps the super freighter in whose shadow it now lay had sheltered it somewhat from the mysterious onslaught. Whatever had happened, the readouts declared that the bare minimum of the life support was still functioning, and that the rest of the ship might not just be salvageable, but even repairable.

She didn't let herself think. Last time she had let herself think she had regretted it, and she wasn't going to do that again.

"Graystar, activate the tow cable."

A tone acknowledged the order as she maneuvered the ship in closer. Now that her mind was made up about the ship, her thoughts turned to its captain. If he was dead, she needed to know, and if he was alive, then he needed to be brought aboard the Graystar and taken care of.

"Get me a boarding tube ready as well. We're going to dock first."

Another tone acknowledge her, a green light appearing on the console when the connection was made.

"Damage to the Slave III has made a complete seal impossible, Captain. There is some air leakage around the opposing hatch."

"Thank you." She moved faster now through the corridor. The ship had not made the warning for her sake, knowing that she could survive in vacuum, but rather for the sake of the man in the other ship. A fast transfer would have to be made.

She caught her breath at the inside of the Slave III. Bulkheads were twisted and buckled and scorched black, and the guts of the ship were strewn all over the deck. It was a wonder that the hull had maintained its integrity. The artificial gravity was gone and she pulled herself carefully over the mess, pushing off the newly formed irregularities until she reached the cockpit. It was shut, jammed shut, and she had no time for anything fancy. Pushing in the firing mechanism of the long blaster that hung from her utility belt, she twisted the barrel and pulled out her lightsaber. The white blade flared in the darkness and made short work of the door.

He was there, held upright in the pilot's chair by a crash harness, expression hidden beneath the Mandalorian helmet. Her first instinct was to pull it off, but her hands hesitated and instead she pulled a glove off and stuck two fingers underneath the helmet, feeling for a pulse even as she reached out with the Force. She could feel both him and the pulse, barely. Undoing the harness, she managed to maneuver the bounty hunter out of the cockpit and through the docking tube into the Graystar. Her ship's gravity was a hindrance. He was too heavy for her to carry, so she half dragged him down to the unused cabin next to her own. By then the Graystar had disengaged and was maneuvering the tow cable into position. Jelt hurried up to the cockpit to make sure the link was secure, then she reached over to the navcomputer.

Again, her fingers hesitated. Biting her lip, she pulled her hand back slowly.

"Graystar, take us on a heading away from here at sublight speed until I decide on a destination."

The tone answered her and she left the cockpit, her steps still quick but now filled with less purpose. She pulled up short in the doorway, suddenly stilled by the sight of the man who lay motionless on the bunk before her. Dying on that bunk.

He is not my responsibility. I don't owe him anything.

But from somewhere deep within her a small voice spoke, forcing her to the realization that had Fett not helped her, she would be dead. She did owe him, for more than she wanted to admit. Now he was here, and she was the only one who could save him.

You could not save Dalve. But you can save this man.

The rest of her screamed that helping Fett would gain her nothing, there was no reason in what she was doing. The small voice subsided, but the sentences had been enough to transport her back to the weeks following the last voyage of the Aetherfox. In those weeks she had flown on autopilot and had made decisions only by asking herself what Dalve would have done. For Dalve had lived in the good galaxy, the galaxy where people did not help one another in payment of a debt or because they hoped to gain something. In the good galaxy, a simple galaxy, people helped others because it was the right thing to do. And for a while she had lived in that galaxy, under its moral code. Dalve's code. Fett's code.

But she did not live in such a galaxy any more. She lived in one of her own making, where she made the rules. There were no feelings, there was no guidance, only what the harsh voice inside of her said. But somehow a part of her had been left back in the other galaxy, a small part at her very core, a part that knew she wanted to find a way back. She wanted to live in Dalve's galaxy, not this dark one of few flickering stars. But she had cast a dark veil about her, and though she could imagine the flames dancing, she could not see them or feel their warmth. All was cold and empty space, except for that one small spark.

The person she had become strove to snuff it out, but it fought back, creating turmoil and a war within her. She felt her head begin to pound and she reached up to touch her forehead, brushing her scarred cheek on the way. At that she became still and lowered her hand, still bare of the glove, to notice the silver ring on her finger. It sparkled in the light from the glowpanels and her lips parted in anguish as the memories came crashing in around her. This was Dalve's ring, the one he had worn his entire life, and his last act had been to give it to her. And as she had placed it on her finger, she had sworn to remember him.

I will never forget…

But she had.

She had turned into something dark and ugly, using her grief and horror at the memories as an excuse. She had forgotten all that Dalve had been, all that he had stood for. She had forsaken his world and turned to her own, one of starless skies. Running a finger over his ring, she felt a tear well in one eye and threaten to spill over to her cheek. It was quickly brushed away and she pulled herself up straight, looking into the cabin with a steady gaze.

The bounty hunter still lay there motionless. When Dalve had died there was nothing she could do. But here, she could do something.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be a step back towards the lost galaxy, the other world.

Retracing her steps down the corridor, she grabbed a medkit and hurried back into the cabin. The first thing to do would be remove his helmet, but as her fingers touched the faded green armor, she hesitated. He had not removed her skullpiece when he had tended her wounds, though blood was obviously leaking from under it. Slowly her hands moved from the helmet and began unfastening the armor on his torso and arms. He had left her with her secret, so she would leave him with his.

When the armor was off, she cut the tunic away to reveal enormous bruises where the crash harness and the armor had pressed into his skin. There were only a few minor cuts, but instead of gashes, he had serious burns. They were patterned, as if his armor had protected the skin immediately beneath each plate but not anywhere else. She inhaled sharply. The Graystar was not currently equipped to handle such injuries, not to un-altered human skin.

Her mind raced furiously. She could put in at a spaceport and gather the necessary supplies…but that was foolishness. A ship as unusual as the Graystar towing a barbecued Slave III would attract more attention that she wanted. And it wasn't as if she didn't already own the supplies; they were just…

Once again she pushed down the instincts screaming at her and didn't think, only sprang to her feet and rushed to the cockpit, keying in a destination and going to hyperspace before she changed her mind. When that was done, she sighed. The time of solitude and darkness was over. Now her base which she alone knew the location to would no longer be only hers. Another would enter it, and walk where only she walked. Her secret place, the one place that she could find rest.

She looked at hyperspace rushing by and thought of the old freighter, floating among the stars. Her secret now betrayed, by herself.

And oddly enough, she felt not even a twinge of regret. For once the screaming voices were silent.

Conversation

Deep Space

Freighter Base

The repair job was going to take weeks.

"Weeks I could be chasing info, weeks I could be taking jobs…"

Talking to herself was a bad habit, but it was a difficult habit not develop when one spent most of one's time alone. "Fried thrusters, fried dampers, fried exhaust, fried shielding, fried lasers…"

Standing back a little way from the ship, she planted her hands on her hips and gave it one more general appraisal. Her first assessment had been correct: the Slave III was barbecued.

"Weeks. Full-time weeks." She couldn't leave the base in those weeks, for that would mean leaving Fett here alone, and that was completely out of the question. She could offer to drop him off on a planet of his choosing, but she didn't think he'd want to leave his ship. So the inevitable remained, she would have a guest where she had never had a guest before, and for an extended length of time.

She pursed her lips and was attempting to put the thought out of her head when the flicker in the Force brushed her, very faintly. The bounty hunter was waking up, it would seem. Abandoning the tools she had laid out on the deck, she palmed open the hatch and quickly made her way back to one of the spare cabins that had been set aside for agents and scouts of the Planet that needed to stop at Freighter Base for whatever reason. It had seen no occupants until now.

The man on the single bunk was lying still when she reached the doorway, but she could tell from his life-sense that he was conscious. Taking stock of his surroundings, no doubt. She had had the luxury of waking in her own ship, he had no such luck. She waited for a moment, then one finger twitched slightly and he spoke.

"How long was I out?"

"Since I found you, four standard days."

"Burns?"

"Bad ones."

"My ship?"

"Repairable."

The helmet moved slightly at that, but Fett didn't say anything else. After a moment she spoke.

"Helmet can't be too comfortable."

"No."

More silence.

"There's medications and salve in that cabinet. If you feel the urge to leave the cabin, the comm's there."

"Thank you."

She turned and left. He wouldn't be up for moving anywhere in the next few days, she suspected, but he would eventually. He would want to help with the repairs on his ship, more likely wanting to do them himself, and giving him access to the hangar would mean giving him access to the common room, along with all of it's consoles. Still he seemed as if he could be enough of a gentleman to not touch anything that she requested be left alone. The front of the freighter–where the Silverstar was docked–was sealed off, so that really left only the library and her cabin. Both had locks. Not a problem.

The real annoyance was not being able to remove the mask. It chafed at her skin and, like Fett's helmet, was not the most comfortable to sleep in. At least it didn't require armor to make it look presentable. Perhaps she could take it off in the privacy of her own cabin with the door locked. Still what a pain to have to wear it here at all. But she had made her choice. Returning to the engine room she glared up at the monstrosity that had been a ship and set to work planning an approach to the first of the many systems in need of attention. Weeks indeed. Many, very long weeks.


There were footsteps in the corridor.

Jelt lifted her hand and shut off the datapad she was reading, glancing around at the consoles to make sure none of the freighter's navigational data was displayed. Footsteps in the corridor…footsteps that were not her own…

How long had it been since she had heard such a sound?

She stood and turned around as he entered the common room, careful to keep all expression from her face, including surprise. His helmet was off. No armor, just one of the fresh tunics she had pulled from the freighter's storage units and set out for him whenever he woke up. But mostly no helmet. Dark skin, dark hair, piercing eyes… she felt like wincing.

"Jelt."

His voice sounded strange without the distortion from the helmet.

She nodded in response then watched as he looked around the room. How strange it was to see someone else in this space. The bacta was making quick work of his burns, but they still weren't fully healed. He would be here for a few days more at least. His gaze returned to her.

"Is there anything to eat here besides liquid crelnut?"

The corner of her mouth managed to jerk up before she could stop it, and she motioned for him to follow as she led the way to the food prep room. "If you think that's what I've been feeding you, you have very poor taste buds. Help yourself to whatever you find."

He nodded again and began opening cabinets. Now was as good a time as any for laying down guidelines. "You can have free run of your cabin and the common areas while you're here. Hangar too; I expect you'll want to see your ship, or what's left of it."

He glanced up at that.

"I'll go ahead and warn you, it's not pretty." His jaw worked as he looked back to what it was doing.

"If a door is locked, just leave it, and if you're overcome with curiosity, just ask me what's behind it. As for your options, you have two. Recover, come with me in the Graystar to get what supplies you need and repair your ship here, or recover and name the place you want yourself and the ship dropped off at."

"If the ship is in as bad shape as you make it out to be, I'd like to repair it here. At your convenience, of course."

Just as she had thought. "Whatever you like."

He moved back into the living area with his plate of food, eyes watching all of the different screens.

"Deep space is often the best place to rest and make repairs."

She didn't answer that one. Instead she moved over to one of the screens and keyed in the data from the wreckage. Stars and blackened hulks of ships moved slowly across the screen, vital information webbing it's way across them. She backed up beside the bounty hunter, still watching the scene.

"Recognize that?"

"Vaguely. That super freighter hadn't been hit yet when I arrived."

"So what happened?"

"I'm not sure. The Slave III's memory banks should be able to tell us everything."

"If they survived."

He wasn't hardened enough not to wince at that.

"I remember being pulled out of hyperspace, the interdictor coming up on my scopes… along with several other ships that appeared to have already been destroyed. Then the sensors registered a large energy source powering up and I made the quick decision to get that freighter between me and it. After that, nothing. Until I wake up here."

"So you didn't see whatever it was."

"No. No time for any readings, nothing. I don't know if it was even a ship."

Jelt turned back to the screen and bit her lip. She very much needed to go see the scene again, see if she could find out anything more about this weapon…but she couldn't leave Fett here alone.

"Jelt."

She turned around.

"Thank you for helping me."

She shrugged. "You saved my life. Now I've saved yours. We're even."

He smiled, very slightly. "No one in life is ever even." And with that he stood and returned to his cabin, leaving her staring after him down the corridor.


"This looks good."

Jelt didn't glance up from the console she was working on. Fett was examining the list of parts she had prepared and comparing it to what he had observed on his own ship. The burns were gone and he was more than ready to begin the repairs. She could easily sympathize with him. If the Graystar had been through half of what the Slave III had…

"We can easily acquire the more illicit parts in Hutt space."

"You're friendly with them, right?"

"Most of the time."

"I'm not. They won't like seeing my ship."

"I saw another freighter in the hanger beside the Graystar."

"It'll work in a pinch," she acknowledged. The spare freighter looked like a piece of junk, but it hid the best upgrades she could manage out here.

"For the harmless parts we can try Gala, or Belderone. If they aren't too far from here."

He was not going to trick her into giving away any hint of her base's location. "The Perlemian Trade Route."

"Yes. I'm sure you wouldn't mind stopping on the way to have another look at that site."

"Not at all."

There was a long silence, during which Jelt continued to peck away at the keys, drawing data from her enormous library on ship repair and parts.

"You're doing me a great service."

She pursed her lips, focusing on the screen in front of her. "You're someone to talk to."

"You don't have anyone to talk to, do you."

She spun around and pushed hair from her face, giving him a full view of the scar on her cheek and one glaring eye. "I haven't had anyone to talk to for years. Hasn't done me much harm."

"Not from what I've seen."

Her defenses were rising again, the war inside was raging in another battle. "I did not ask for a psychoanalysis. You helped me, I'm helping you. That's all."

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed, one eyebrow quirked. "Every human needs someone to talk to."

"Don't look at me like that." He was looking at her like Dalve used to look at her when she lied to him and he knew it. "Besides, I'm hardly human."

His eyes shifted to the metallic side of her face. "I think you're human enough."

"You're not exactly the model for this sort of thing anyway."

"Oh I talk to people."

"Oh yes? Who?"

A small smile. "Nobody you know."

He was beginning to make her angry. "You had better start stocking the Graystar. Your guess is as good as mine as to how long we'll be out there."

He nodded and stood, and she turned back to her console. She hadn't been this angry since that Overseer on the Planet… wait.

"Fett."

"Yes."

"Why does this human need someone to talk to?"

"In our line of work, it is necessary to push emotions aside and become the mask we wear. But if you leave yourself behind the mask, you become a shell. Talking often helps bring the person back to the surface. Gives them a reason and a way to show themselves."

"And that is necessary."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"If you remain a shell you might as well be dead."

The words on screen swam a little. "This is why you wanted to help me."

"You're a good bounty hunter, Jelt, and an even better assassin. But a droid could do what you do."

"I am not a droid."

"Exactly."

Hyperspace

Mid Rim

Perlemian Trade Route

"I remember now why I hate shopping."

Jelt sat in the pilot's seat with both elbows on the console in front of her, chin in her hands, staring out the viewport as hyperspace rushed by in mottled patterns. Fett didn't respond, he only glanced at her from the jump-seat and turned an idle eye back to the unchanging displays. She had been careful to keep him out of the cockpit as they departed Freighter Base, but once they were well away she had invited him in. It seemed the sort of thing a friend would do, and if they were going to pretend to be friends, she might as well do her best. When the ugly voice attempted to argue the issue she rationalized that at the very least she could consider it practice for some sort of future undercover work. But the other voice freely admitted that she liked having someone to talk to, and Fett was just about perfect for that. He didn't jabber–in fact for a normal person on a normal planet he probably would have been maddeningly quiet. But for her, so used to silence, the occasional remark or short conversation was more than enough. And when he spoke, it was actually to say something. He was like Dalve in that way, though not in much else.

They had been flying from planet to planet now for about a standard month, picking up supplies here and there, never too many in one place. That was how Fett said he usually bought parts, and as it was his ship, she had no problem letting him do the buying. At first she had questioned what effect his showing up would have on the atmosphere of whatever city they landed in, but his solution to that proved to be shockingly simple: he simply went in the simple tunic he wore aboard ship and carried only one of his smaller sporting pistols, or went unarmed, depending on the locale. When she had remarked on this he had simply explained that the fearsome bounty hunter Boba Fett was the one in the armor, and without it he might just be any other drifter, crewman, or farmer, into town to buy a few spare parts. That was one enormous advantage of the armor, he had said, and looked pointedly at her skullpiece. She had grown uncomfortable at that and had quickly gone back up to the cockpit, leaving him to venture out alone. It made sense, and she had even used that idea from time to time on undercover missions for the Planet. No, it was that look that had startled her. He had that in common with Dalve too.

But other than that, the two men were as unlike as could be, and over the past month she had seen it clearly. While Dalve's way of speaking had been simple and direct, it had also been soothing, and there was a roughness to Fett's that held no comfort whatsoever. Fett was also a killer, despite his morals, and as many training sessions as she'd had with Dalve, she could not quite imagine him actually killing anyone. Well, he had that day on the Aetherfox, but that hadn't been the sort of killing that she and Fett did. He wasn't hunting those men. Fett had a harshness about him that seemed to be the result of many long hard years of pain and trials, while Dalve had remained tranquil throughout all his trying experiences. At times she thought Dalve might have liked the bounty hunter, while at other times he wouldn't at all. In the end the whole situation puzzled her the more she discovered, and she didn't like being puzzled at all. And she especially did not like being relegated to the role of chauffeur.

"I don't seem to remember you doing much shopping as of yet."

She tapped her fingers against her cheeks, the nails of her left hand making small ringing noises on the metallic skullpiece. "I mean I don't like this sort of shopping. You said you always by parts this way? Little by little?"

"For a large-scale repair, yes. No need to leave a trail that points straight to my ship." He cocked his head to the side. "How do you do it?"

"I don't have to buy parts for the Graystar," she said automatically, then suddenly went very still. That was the wrong thing to say. The very wrong thing to say…

"You steal them?" He gave her a thoughtful look. "Or do they come in those crates I saw stacked in the hangar? No doubt they come from the same shipyard as all this." He gestured vaguely at the bulkheads. She didn't respond except to lean back in her chair. He didn't smile and his tone didn't change. "I'm no fool, Jelt. Every inch of this is custom, and your base is too well-established to belong to a bounty hunter as young as you, no matter how successful. You're working for someone. Full-time."

Now she turned to face him, swiveling her chair around and leveling a small blaster directly at his chest. "Friend" or not, she wasn't ready to trust him with any of this just yet. He didn't move, only his eyes flicked down to the blaster then back up to her face. She spoke very clearly.

"If we are to continue in this way you will not ask any more questions like that. I do what I want and go where I like, and your ship repairs have nothing to do with the rest of it."

With that she subsided into a watchful silence. He didn't take his eyes off her face.

"Two objections. First I can't help you if I don't know you, and that includes where you come from." She scowled at this, the mention of help and history, but he went on before she could speak. "Second, I begin to wonder what might happen if you fall out of favor with your employer. I should think parts for this ship might be hard to come by."

Her scowl grew deeper. "No danger of that. But, to reassure you, the Graystar is designed to accept parts other than those designed specifically for it, and I have performed all of its maintenance."

He nodded slowly. After a moment she sighed and holstered the blaster, but she kept her hand near it as she returned her gaze to the view outside the canopy. How was it so possible to nearly trust someone and then continuously recede from that trust? With every question her defenses automatically came and with every bit of advice or quiet remark he slowly brought them down again. And she was tired of it. She was so very tired. How easy it would just be to tell him everything, all of the things she had told no one. It wouldn't be treason; there was no law against it on the Planet that she knew of. They had their statutes of secrecy, but nothing was ever said to the agents about silence. Perhaps this sort of situation had never been foreseen. Most other agents worked at least in proximity to their fellows, if not directly with partners. Hers was a lonely post, and that was probably the reason she had been assigned there. Put the troublemaker out in the middle of nowhere. Well, she was no danger to them, not even if she told Fett. He would keep his mouth shut. Perhaps she would, someday. But not yet.

"Is your food shipped directly to you as well?"

Oh he was impossible! Dalve had annoyed her sometimes, but he had never been pushy to this extent. But then, he hadn't had to wonder anything about her life either. She set her jaw and attempted to answer without gritting her teeth. "No, I buy all other supplies myself."

"All at once?"

"Depends. On where I am and what I'm doing."

He nodded once more and then settled into the deep silence that she knew would probably last for the rest of the trip. She glanced down at the displays and then stared back out at the monotony of hyperspace. One last stop, then they would swing back past the site of the wreck and then back to the base to trade the Graystar for the spare freighter. Better to go unrecognized in the dirtier parts of the galaxy. Fett had closed his eyes and appeared to have drifted off to sleep quite quickly. Perhaps he trusted her, perhaps not. All his actions indicated he did, but she wasn't sure. The more she found out… Well, the more she found out about him, the more she found out about herself. Such as that she was remarkably averse to taking risks, any risks. But here, now, weighing the options, she thought the potential benefits outweighed the potential trouble. From him she could, and already was, receive training that she had not had access to on the Planet. He also gave her someone to talk to, and, perhaps, could even serve as backup. Having a second port in a storm was not a bad thing. And he was leading her back, back from the dark universe she had somehow woken up in after Dalve died. She leaned her head back, thoughts swimming in a hundred different directions. For if all of the was some sort of con, he had succeeded where everyone else had failed: he had her off balance. Only time could right that, and only time would see to the future. For now…she would watch. And wait.


All they saw outside the canopy were stars. A few pinpoints shone brighter in the direction they'd come from, that would be the Roche system. But here there was nothing. Fett had asked her once if she was certain of the coordinates, and upon receiving her answer had not asked again. The Graystar itself would have told her if any of it's memory banks had been tampered with, and she was not a bad navigator. Charts and nav'puter aside, this was the place. And there was nothing here.

"Perhaps someone came back and removed the evidence."

Jelt shook her head. "There'd be no reason to do that. Where could they dump it that would be more remote? This is the best place to hide it, right where it happened."

"Perhaps they wished to study the results further."

"There's no reason they couldn't do that right here, away from prying eyes." She sat up straight. "Unless…" She slammed her palm against the console. "Unless they knew someone else knew where the wreck was. Unless they knew you got away."

"Or knew you came along. How did you find it in the first place?"

She hesitated a moment. In the short while she had known him, she had learned quickly that Fett had a distinct dislike for Jedi. He didn't care much for Sith either, but not like he hated Jedi. She wasn't sure if his feelings extended towards independent Force-users as well, but it seemed best not to advertise her skill any time soon. She wouldn't be letting him know that the Force had inexplicably guided her here.

"Luck. Sheer luck."

"You might not think yourself so lucky if what you think is true."

She glared at the empty sensor readings. "It still doesn't make sense. If they suspected someone knew, then they wouldn't just move the evidence. They would have something set up in case we came back. At most, a whole ship, waiting to get rid of us, at least some sort of probe that could track our trajectory when we jumped. Just having nothing here…doesn't make sense."

"Perhaps they hoped we would think we had the wrong coordinates and leave."

She grunted and leaned back in her seat, staring out the canopy, tapping her fingers idly. Fett didn't move even that much, just sat there, watching her.

"The thought hasn't crossed your mind that I could be with them? And that is why there is nothing here waiting for you?"

"Crossed my mind and dismissed. If you were with them, you wouldn't have been fried, or you would have been fried and rescued. I don't think you were bait: it's not your style, and you love your ship too much to let that happen to it. And finally, I'm not sure they even know you lived. If they had, they would have finished you off. No, I think it's me they're after, if they're after anything."

He nodded. She shifted a little in her chair, then suddenly sat up. "A cloaking shield!"

"What?"

She spun to face him. "They could very well be sitting out there under a cloaking shield. It would explain the sensors."

"But not their purpose. Unless they've come across a one-way cloaking device."

"Right." She slumped back down. Even the Graystar's cloaking device was two-way, and made the ship underneath as blind to the rest of space as space was to it. Still, she wasn't ready to let go her idea… But there wasn't much else to be done here, and she said as much.

"Back to your base then?"

"No, not yet. I want to be certain we aren't followed." With a faint smile she activated her own cloaking device and set the sublight speed running. That would do for an hour, and then she would jump from under the cloak. A few more and she would feel comfortable heading back.

"Something's going on here, Fett, and I'm not comfortable with it at all."

He looked at her, seriously. "I don't like what they did to my ship, either."

"Well then. First we'll find them, then we'll see if they've a bounty on their heads."

"As good a plan as any."

Space slipped by them, black and unseen.

Mirrors

Deep Space

Freighter Base

Most of the time she wished she didn't have a mirror in her cabin. She almost never look in it, but she would catch glimpses every time she moved past it. The skullpiece would catch the light and send reflections from the mirror all over the room, like a blasted diamond that had too much blood following it to be moved. But the mirror was necessary and stayed for its own small purpose. Jelt sat staring at it now, as if by her glare she could force it to retreat. The image in it stared back, daring her to utilize it for the only reason she tolerated it. She resisted, but the harder she glared, the harder it stared back. Now she had gone from talking to herself aloud to arguing with her reflection. She stood abruptly.

This is pathetic.

Fett had pointed out once again that the spare freighter wouldn't do them much good as a disguise if Jelt was seen walking down the boarding ramp at every port. By now her own arguments were moot; she could tell that he knew the skullpiece was a mask, even if he wasn't completely certain. There was precious little left to to gain from maintaining the facade, and much more to be gained by losing it. She twisted her face into a snarl at the mirror and glared at the ugly face it gave back to her. But then, in the privacy of her cabin, her face fell just a little. She had once been beautiful. Sure, everyone else on the Planet had avoided her due to her rebellious attitude and off-worldish ideas, but that hadn't stopped them from giving her admiring glances. She had gathered these and stored them up tightly as a small comfort against all the alienation, and she had been proud too. But that one day changed it all. She turned her head to one side and examined the scar in the mirror. It covered most of her right cheek, crawling along angrily as though it wished to consume her mouth and nose as well. Facing the mirror again she attempted to relax her mouth into the carefree smile that had occasionally transformed it back then. The mask was in the way though, and it never looked right. She turned again to look at the scar. It could be covered up. Makeup would diminish it some, and some synthflesh could make it disappear completely. A surgeon might even be able to vanish it completely, but not without slightly changing the structure of her face. Her nose wrinkled at the thought. What need had she for beauty anymore? Fear was her weapon now. Perhaps someday the needs would be reversed. But not today.

Carefully she reached up to the eyepiece of the mask and touched several hidden points around the seams. The entire piece released itself from her with a snick and she gasped quietly as she slowly pulled it away. It shouldn't have hurt that much, but she had been leaving it on for longer and longer with Fett around. She set it aside to clean later, then stood quickly and ducked her head under the sink in her 'fresher. The water ran red with blood. When it didn't stop quickly she brought her head up again and went to the mirror. An angry red line ran down the center of her forehead, over the bridge of her nose and down the left side, around her mouth and down under her jaw. It was seeping in places, but most of the blood was coming from her scalp where the mask dug in the deepest. She grabbed a towel and pressed it over the gouge, and squeezed her eyes shut tightly against the pain. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't leave the mask on long enough for the skin to start healing around the clasps, but it appeared that was the case this time. That was the other thing that had spoiled her face. Though the salve she had would heal the mark it left, there was always the faintest hint of scar there. Her mouth twisted. Perhaps that was the Planet's final parting gift to her. They had made her ugly on the inside, then they decided to take her face as well. Why else design such a disguise? She grimaced and pressed down harder on the towel. Perhaps the pressure could force the memories out. Ugh.

Fett kept talking to her about things like memories. How they made you who you were and you learned from them, blah, blah, blah… He didn't understand that it her case, less memories meant more sanity. She was better without them. But he would not be convinced. He kept gaining ground, day after day. Well, this might satiate him for a while. Tears started to well when she looked at the mask on its stand and she resisted the urge to kick it across the room. With a wince she removed the towel and frowned at it. Head wounds bled entirely too much. She tossed it in the rubbish bin rather than the laundry. A quick shower got the blood out of her hair and off her face, but by the time she sat back down in front of the mirror the wounds had already begun to close. The salve only worked its scar-preventing magic on fresh open cuts, and she applied it quickly with a well-practiced hand. Within ten minutes the mark had almost completely disappeared. She traced a hand down it slowly, then tapped the top of a makeup case. With a sigh she pushed it aside and sat back in her chair. There was no reason to disguise what she was here. Lines crossed her forehead as she examined herself in the mirror once more. Two scars and a scowl. At least the outside reflected the inside, if only to a small extent. Then the scowl twisted into a sneer. What was she doing, sitting here in front a mirror, acting as if appearance mattered? Only to deceive or to frighten. Those were its only uses, just as the mirror's only use was to guide her hands in applying the medicine that facilitated that appearance. She stood quickly and stormed out of the room without giving herself time to ponder the validity of more anxiety, only to storm back in to clean the clasps and inside of the mask carefully before placing it back on the stand. Though she avoided the mirror it still seemed as if it was watching her, mocking her for a failed exit and relishing her embarrassment at having reentered the room. She growled under her breath, irked at her own behavior. It was a blasted mirror, not something that could think. Still, the sulkiness that accompanied the embarrassment seemed to follow her out of the room like a mist. Blasted mirror. She'd probably smash it next time she was home.

Fett was waiting for her in the common room, and thankfully his only remark on her appearance was a single raised eyebrow. He was good at picking up on moods and probably already knew that she would only talk about the mask and the reason for it when she was good and ready. That was one plus of knowing each other better: things didn't have to be said. For her that was a relief. Despite his usual stoic silence there had still been a surplus of conversation in her Base recently and she was in no mood now to put up with more. He acted as if nothing about her different and just motioned toward the corridor that led to the hangar.

"Ready?"

"Yeah." She stalked through the hatch and down the hall, he ducked through and followed.

"Is that what you're wearing?"

She glanced down, only now realizing that she still had on the signature black jumpsuit that accompanied the mask. She practically spit her reply at him.

"I'll change on the way."

He wisely said nothing more, and after a moment she felt a small twinge of guilt. There was no reason for it; she wasn't angry at him, and he was only resuming his usual level of noise-making. A tiny part argued for explaining herself, but how did one explain that they were angry at a mirror? One didn't. She set her teeth and headed for the spare freighter, a loop of angry noises playing itself over and over again in her head.


They were currently running under the name Starman's Luck. It was Fett's suggestion and Jelt had thought it ridiculous. That became the topic of their first real argument that involved shouting (on her part, which Fett thought was an improvement), and slapping (on Fett's part, when she wouldn't calm down). That had stunned her for a moment, but it had worked and she was quiet long enough to listen to Fett's reasons for the name: first, he had actually met someone who's surname unfortunately enough was Starman, second, it made perfect sense as a name for a ship, and third, it was just the sort of uncreative, boring name a couple of uncreative, boring shippers might come up with. She had replied that just because they were "people from the stars" hoping to be "lucky" enough to come across some information while they were out buying parts still didn't make it a good name for a ship. Fett had then mentioned that at captain might name his own ship and she had almost started shouting again. Almost. They had decided earlier that he would be the captain on the ground, leaving her free to look frail and ineffective until an emergency, making her the ace in the hold. It was a good plan, and she had no counter against his last point , so she grudgingly put her forger skills to work and came up with a very passable ID. Once that was done she made certain everything was running smoothly and left the the cockpit, but not before slapping him hard in the face on her way out. He didn't respond except for a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, but she had already swept on out the hatch. She had good self-control in most circumstances, but she could probably stand to work on other things, like interpersonal communication. Still, the blasters hadn't come out, and that was most certainly an improvement. Perhaps they were moving from suspicious allies to…well, less-suspicious allies. She wasn't sure how that worked, since she had discovered that Fett, for all his self-discipline, had a fairly significant superiority complex. Truth was, he probably was superior to most of the company he kept, but the manifestation of that personality trait was that he was used to being in charge, and Jelt was used to working alone. Somehow, something was making them work together far better together than they should have. Jelt gave the Force-sense inside her a mental shove full of suspicion, but it just settled back in around her like an emotionless blanket. It was probably the tentative mentor/mentee relationship that was effecting the cohesion, she reasoned. That was the best solution she could come up with. Still, for him to slap her like she was some first-level trainee back on the Planet–but that was just her pride talking. There had been severe disciplinary measures for repaying one of her instructors in kind, there wouldn't be anything like that from Fett. In that way they were equals at least. A small smile crept over her face. Apparently all of that "severe discipline" hadn't sunk in. For all the Planet's molding they hadn't been able to change her from what they made her into.

The comm in her cabin crackled briefly and Fett's voice fought through the static to announce their arrival at Nar Shaddaa. Quickly she kicked off her shipboard shoes and pulled on a pair of old boots, followed by an old leather jacket that completed the "poor, mostly honest shipper" persona she would be portraying. Makeup hid the worst of her scars, and she would hopefully look nondescript enough standing in Fett's shadow to give them an edge should it become necessary. Fett himself was intimidating enough without his armor to draw plenty of attention away from her. Of course they wouldn't be together for that long: the plan was to get away from the spaceport and then split up, with Fett going to a place he had here and donning one of his spare suits of armor to buy a few small, vital, and very expensive parts, while she as the shipper would buy some of the larger more mainstream items they needed. Of course plans often changed on this moon. She checked her hair one last time and made sure the tiny blaster was snug in its holster. This was the main reason she kept her hair long. It was very thick, and pinned and braided in certain styles it could hold and hide any number of small items. The blaster had saved her more than once when the inevitable "put your hands on your head" came. Still, she'd rather count on the larger blaster that was lying on her bed, but this harmless character wouldn't carry such an ugly weapon. That was Fett's job. Her protection consisted of the small blaster and a vibroknife concealed in one boot. Fett didn't know about the Force of course. That was her own secret weapon.

She met him at the top of the boarding ramp once they landed, noting that he was sporting an especially large blaster compared to his usual more elegant choice of weaponry. And though she expected to detect a bit of annoyance coming off him that she hadn't used any of the long trip to reveal more about her history or her mask, she felt nothing. He seemed perfectly content in his ignorance and that irked her greatly, more so than if he had pestered her the entire way. Perhaps that was his plan, to annoy it out of her. Well, it wasn't going to work. She would only hand out information when she was good and ready. The foul air of the moon hit her full in the face when she stepped out of the ship and she gagged a little in exaggeration. No laugh from the stoic bounty hunter. He glanced back to be sure she was there and with that they descended into the grime and grit of Nar Shaddaa.