A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, private messages, follows and favorites! I say it every time on every story, but it's true. These always help and I apologize for being behind in answering them! Special shout outs to Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Shadir, IntelEwok, and Hoplite39 for the wonderful reviews to the last chapter. You are my heroes this week. :)

Another special shout out to m4x70r for the use of Nathon Tydon from "To No Avail." And to Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo for the use of Station Alpha from "The Unknown Regions." Both are favorite stories of mine, and I hope you take the time to read them. They are worth it!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs. Please do not sue. This is purely for fun.

She was still a ghost to the people that served her Dark Lord, though she no longer ran on bare toes through their massive warship. Her gown was white like before, belted now across her narrow waist with a sash of silver, and upon her forearms rested heavy silver bracers large enough to cover her from wrist to near elbows. Red-blond curls wove into a simple but elegant bun at the nape of her neck, secured by a single silver hairpin.

All gifts from her Dark Lord, forced upon her regardless of her lack of desire for them. It was enough that it pleased him that she wore his gifts, his marks of favor. It was enough that the crew of the Executor understood what they were, what she was now, and that they obeyed.

The Dark Lord's new toy, his message girl. The former rebel serving out a lifetime sentence in Imperial service for the crimes she committed. When she addressed them on whatever errand she'd been sent on, they jumped as if the Dark Lord could reach through her and snap their necks if they balked.

They despised her, hated her. Feared her for the same reasons.

It was enough. Enough to satisfy the terror in her at being given these gifts, these honors. Passing along the horror that she could not express, watching it dance in the eyes of those around her instead. She let that be her outlet, skimming the torment her life had become and spreading it among the crew. Isn't that what he did, what he wanted? And even if it wasn't, it was all she could do to hold onto her sanity.

She no longer thought of home, thought of escape. He'd sense such things in her and the punishments would begin again. Everything was for him now, for her dark lord. Her thoughts, her feelings, the very breath pushed in and out of her lungs. Controlled, rigidly locked away. Only the anger leaked through, the outright fury that was becoming her shield and savior.

Anger at the rebellion for tempting her with its false promises of freedom. Angry with Luthar for letting her master take her in the first place. And so, so angry with Avery for leaving…

Stars, why did he leave her? What had she done wrong that merited two days with no food, no light, nothing to break up the horror? Languishing in utter darkness until her dark lord had come. And then pain to go with the light. Pain to make the nothingness go away. Pain to swallow everything, to be both reward and punishment, to make the act of drawing breath little more than agony personified.

Pain enough that her Dark Lord had found a sort of kinship with her, made her into an extension of himself. Someone that finally understood the barest hint of what his life was like...

The doors to his meditation room parted for her at her approach, and she glided silently through. She kept her head bowed, kneeling before the closed hyperbaric chamber in its center. He knew she was there, his mind slamming into hers with a now familiar ache. A completeness she missed when it was gone and abhorred when it was there. She gritted her teeth against the pain, against the brutality of his roving across her thoughts.

Against the kinship that flared to life between them, the revolting blending of her memories and his torment until it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

You delivered the message to Admiral Piett.

"Yes," she hissed between her teeth, spine bending under the intangible weight of his will until her head touched the cold steel of the floor. "Yes, my lord. He sets a course now for the Endor system at your command."

And what of my other message?

"Grand Admiral Thrawn reports that he has the warlord Nuso Esva on the run. He has managed to—"

The pain in her mind became a firefight of agony. She screamed, falling to her side, hands grasping frantically at the invisible bonds crushing her skull.

I do not care for Thrawn and his foolish vendetta against this Nuso Esva, servant. Has he news of my son?

"N-n-no, my lord," She gasped, the pressure easing up enough to let her speak, to let her breathe. But the bonds were still there, the strength pressing ever so lightly as a reminder of his displeasure. "I-if Skywalker is hiding in the outer rim territories, it is not in the sectors the Admiral controls."

What of the prisoners sent to the Peremptory. What has your precious Luthar learned?

"Th-the interrogations are on-on on-going," she stuttered, pushing up to her knees again, eyes squeezed tight against his displeasure. "C-captain Kallic states that C-commander Friel reported that one of the r-rebels has broken. T-the one named Farrah Rendyn. She w-worked with the tr-traitor Airen Cracken, and he b-believes she'll divulge more information on the rebels soon."

The pressure eased until it was the usual sharp ache, a pulsing behind her eyes that made her wish she was blind. But lack of sight wouldn't save her from the pain. If anything, the darkness would remind her of those days of isolation, of empty nothingness. And still it was a tossup if she would prefer the nothing to the everything dangled above her head, the tiny droplets of power he dribbled in her direction each time he sent her off in his name.

Each was a sweet agony of its own.

Good. I want you to monitor his progress, servant. There is a link between what the Admiral does and these rebels you so foolishly aligned yourself with.

"Yes, my lord," she whispered. "The Emperor has foreseen it, as you have shown me."

What the Emperor has not foreseen is that my son is involved indirectly. And we, my precious little servant, will find him through it.

"And then you will free me?"

Perhaps. If that is truly the reward you wish. Your feelings betray you, servant. I know your conflict, the satisfaction in your torment and the power over others. You must know by now that the only freedom left to you is death. You belong to me. That is your penance for your choice to join the rebellion.

She curled up on her side, nearly fetal, her back pressed to the cold walls of the hyperbolic chamber. "I am already dead. That's why you do not call me by my name, while the others under your command address me with wide eyes and terrified words. Ghosts don't have names."

Names are power, servant. You have neither until I deem you worthy.

A single tear escaped her eyes, unnoticed as it shattered on that cold durasteel deck. Memory floating up from the equally shattered chambers of her heart. Avery Gant brushing her hair from her face, smiling that professional yet… somehow personal… tiny smile, as he told her how well she was doing. How she had earned back the name Renet Camlyn, had moved up from 'Prisoner Seven' to the rebel name she'd so idiotically claimed as her own.

Names were power, her dark lord just said. And she believed him. Because the name Renet Camlyn had had the horrible power of destruction. Destruction of self and the life she once loved, of hope gained and ripped away so quickly as to leave her bleeding inside. It had been so much better to stay Prisoner Seven, bereft of the spirit crushing guilt of her actions.

For now, it was better to remain a nameless ghost. A living, breathing extension of her dark lord's power. Nothing more. But only for now, a nearly insignificant part of her whispered. The part that tasted the pain given and the power and found the flavor pleasing.

"Yes, my lord."

The fingers of his will, tipped with monstrous claws, seized on that memory of Avery's smiling face. Blew corrosive breath on the tiny spark that had whispered its enjoyment of her current situation. That part of her responded, pulsed in time with her heartbeat. And she felt that utterly rare, singularly unique moment of pleasure from him.

Yes, servant. It won't be long now, and you will have your reward in full. Until then, accept… this.

As quickly as his pleasure appeared, it vanished, bringing back the lingering pain that pulled a moan from her lips. Those claws picked at the tender corners of her memories, sorting through until he found the one he wanted most. Sweat broke out across her skin, watching as it played out behind her eyes. She was little more than a babe in that memory, barely three years old. Luthar and Nathon were boys barely into their teens, yet ecstatic that their applications to the Academy program had been accepted. While they could not enlist at their age, they could begin the pre-requisite study program that would ensure they graduated as full officers.

Nathon, smiling with the cool reserve of all noble-born when hearing news he had already expected. Luthar whooping loudly, unable to believe that Nathon's father had thought highly enough of him to put his name forward for such a program. Luthar, a commoner with the good fortune to have found a deep friendship with the heir of the Tydon family.

And her father sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her away, allowing the two boys to make their plans for their glorious futures in private. Her father, holding her close. Petting her hair, loving her with all the strength a noble could, with all the fiercely possessive pride a father held for his precious daughter.

"He'll love you and cherish you, my little jewel," her father had said. "He's like a son to me, and will be a son to me if Luthar continues to show aptitude in the Academy. And you, my baby girl, will wed him. I could not ask for a more loyal husband for you. One I groomed myself…"

Her tears were a river, washing the deck of his meditation room. "He will not love me now."

The claws caressed her mind with needle stabs of their points. Perhaps.

"Why show me this?" she hissed, daring to ask. "Why reward me when I don't want it?"

Because I want it.

She froze, a stray thought daring to fill that nothingness where her name should have been. "You want my pain, or you want that marriage?"

There was no answer, and the lessening of the pressure in her thoughts let her know he was done with their conversation. He'd found whatever he wanted in her memory, even if it did not make a bit of sense to her, and already his mind turned towards other tasks. She was forgotten again, a nameless servant watering the floor with her tears.

A small keening wail starting in the back of her throat, one that grew until she was rocking back and forth, her sorrow a serenade to help her dark lord continue on his quest.

"Station Alpha," the coolly modulated voice drifted from the hologram, the fingers of one blue-skinned hand tapping lightly on the conference table. "Now that is interesting."

From where he stood slightly behind Captain Kand, Luthar Friel did his best to keep his eyes forward, to follow the decade or so of military protocol that had been food and drink to him. Still, it was hard not to let his eyes slip to that life-sized hologram, to linger on the lean, angular face that wasn't quite human, the glowing red eyes that seemed like something out of a nightmare. And not to start in surprise that a voice so sophisticated and cultured came from those lips.

With eyes like that, he'd expected Grand Admiral Thrawn to sound like the Emperor, himself. A grating and booming tone that made one shake in fear and quiet awe. Thrawn spoke eloquently and without the stress his command should have shown in him. They could have been discussing the latest sporting event on Imperial Center as easily as they were discussing mission specifics, for all the change in the Grand Admiral's tone.

He wasn't certain if that made him like the man, or if it ratcheted up his paranoia in regards to this entire mess.

"Yes, sir," Captain Kand said respectfully.

And if his Captain was as clueless as Luthar felt, it didn't show. Certainly nothing in the Peremptory's extensive databanks had indicated that Station Alpha was more than a joke at best. A forgotten research facility on the outskirts of civilized space, with one foot in Imperial Territory and the other in the Unknown Regions. Officially, it was the last way-station before one headed out to Wild Space. Unofficially, it was where careers went to die.

At least, he thought, the ignorance well hidden. The Admiral, apparently, had sharper eyes. Even through the distortions of subspace and holograms.

A tight smile graced those blue lips. "Station Alpha is the key to something I have been searching for for quite some time, Captain," he explained, a glint in those impressive orbs. "Or more to the point, an item hidden in this seemingly inconsequential research facility. Tell me more of what Miss Rendyn declared in her interrogation."

Kand glanced over his shoulder, a motion indicating it was Luthar's turn to speak. "The rebel confessed that the stolen Merr-son weapons we intercepted were modified under the direct supervision of Airen Cracken," he began. "Chief Engineer Bouchard has gone over every inch of those weapons. As the report indicates, the weapons were altered with vibration detectors so that when placed within a specific frequency, they would transmit a jamming sequence. Quite a powerful one, I will state."

Those eyes glanced downwards, reading the same report that was on Luthar's datapad. "I see. Is Miss Rendyn and Miss Camlyn still viable?"

Translation: is there anything left of the named rebels to further interrogate. Luthar kept his expression carefully neutral, calling up the requested information though he knew it by heart. Ferrah was currently undergoing medical treatment for her injuries, a special cell prepared to house her once she was released. Special, because that idiot Kittinger did not know its location. Special, because Luthar was going to make damn certain the medical reports showed that Ferrah Rendyn died in surgery.

Kittinger was not going to get this prize for a multitude of reasons. And as for Renet Camlyn… that one he could answer easily enough, though it tore him apart inside.

"Miss Camlyn's current state is unknown, sir," he answered. "She was transferred to the Executor under the direct orders of Lord Vader."

That caused one shimmering blue-black eyebrow to raise, an interest simmering to life in those eyes that suddenly put Luthar on edge. "Lord Vader, himself," the Admiral echoed thoughtfully. "I see that she is the only survivor out of the rebels captured with the Merr-son weapons. All others were executed?"

"Yes, sir," Captain Kand stepped in, either not liking the look in the Admiral's eyes, or simply out of his dislike of anything that had to do with 'that girl.' "All in accordance with Lord Vader's commands."

The eyebrow lowered, but the look of interest remained. "There is more to this story than you are telling me, Captain Kand. Why this girl, who, by all reports, held no significance whatsoever in the eyes of the Rebellion?"

"Unknown, sir," Kand replied, lip almost twisting around the words. "Lord Vader gave no explanation for these orders."

"And you did not ask," Thrawn finished. "A wise decision, Captain, make no mistake about that. Though it seems you were pleased to have her off your ship."

"She was a rebel, Admiral. And a particularly disturbing one at that."

Again Luthar kept himself very still, displaying none of the discomfort his Captain's backhanded rebuke caused. Trying not to think about the fact that Renet could very well be dead at this moment, and that Nathon Tydon and Avery Gant were out there in the galaxy somewhere, racing against a clock that had long run out of time to find the proof to clear her name.

Perhaps the Admiral had come to a similar conclusion.

"Is?" He asked, pinning Kand with that stare. "Or was?"

Kand let himself frown, let some of the annoyance peek through his military discipline. "It is not for me to speculate, sir, on a prisoner of the Lord Vader. However, if she caused him a fraction of the trouble she caused me, she is very much dead now."

The Admiral's lip twitched, an almost smile. "Unfortunate, that. I would have very much liked to speak with her."

"It would have been a waste of your time," Kand retorted. "She knew nothing of use."

"Yet the Lord Vader saw fit to execute every member of her rebel unit and then take her with him. No, I am afraid I must disagree with your analysis, Captain Kand. The girl knows something. Whether or not it pertains to our current mission is, as you have said, not our place to speculate. Still, all is not lost. Have the entire file regarding her interrogation sent to me. Every detail, if you would be so kind. Now, tell me the status of Miss Rendyn."

Luthar cursed beneath his breath, hoping the Admiral would have moved on. And not sure why he felt that way at all, or why the image of steel grey eyes filled his thoughts. With a mental shake of his head, he pulled up the requested data. "Miss Rendyn is currently in med bay for treatment for injuries caused by her capture and interrogation."

The eyebrow rose again, fractionally. "Level three interrogation, I presume?"

"No, sir. Prolonged engagement at level two."

Kand's face darkened slightly, watching as that eyebrow smoothly rose again. Luthar felt his own face harden, a frown creasing the impassive mask of perfect officer etiquette. He and his captain were of the same mind when it came to Kittinger and his methods. The fact that a confessed rebel was now taking up valuable space and resources within the soft confines of the medical facility was yet another irksome fact that kept his Captain in a foul mood.

"The situation has been corrected," Kand put in before the obvious question could be asked. "A new transfer overstepped his boundaries and will be disciplined for it."

Those eyes glanced downward, reading information once again. "Kittinger," the Admiral said. "I have heard of the man. He has ambitions of joining IAB, if memory serves."

Luthar suppressed a shiver. The thought of Kittinger doing those horrible things to Imperial personnel… But it was the fact that Kittinger had shown up on a Grand Admiral's radar, even if only by reputation, that was the scary thing.

"They are welcomed to him," Kand remarked, clearly having had enough of the man and the entire conversation. "I already have a suitable head of detention on my ship."

"I see," was all the Admiral said for a long moment, before finally glancing back up at them. "I am transmitting your next set of orders now, Captain. Continue towards the rebel rendezvous point where Miss Rendyn was to deposit the weapons. The Admonitor will meet you halfway at a designated point, during which time I expect Miss Rendyn to be recovered enough from her injuries for a brief conversation. Dismissed."

The hologram vanished, and Luthar let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I don't like it, Captain."

"Nor do I," the other man said, sinking into one of the chairs. "I'm not a man that believes in coincidences, Commander. And there are too many of them in this situation to be random. There's something going on between Lord Vader and the Grand Admiral. I could almost swear to it. We need to figure out what that is, and how these two rebels fit into it."

"Do you think it's a vendetta of some kind?" Luthar asked.

"I hope not," he said with feeling. "For the sake of the Empire, I hope not. The last thing we need in the midst of a rebellion is for a decorated Grand Admiral and the Dark Lord of the Sith to start tearing into one another. No, I want you to concentrate on these Merr-son weapons. Ask Intelligence to discreetly dig for as much information as they can on this Station Alpha without setting off any flags."

"Yes, sir."

"In the meantime," Kand stated, rising to his feet. "I'm going to make a few rather discreet inquiries of my own."

"Backdoor channels, sir?"

"Absolutely, Commander. And if you tell anyone I said that, I'll call you a damn liar. I dislike random transfers onto my ship. I dislike even more when Grand Admirals hear about it and seem to know more than I do about my own crew. It's time I found out just why Kittinger was put on my ship."

"I would advise caution, sir," Luthar warned. "If the Grand Admiral is correct and Kittinger has ISB aspirations, it could be dangerous."

Kand snorted. "Friel, the day that upstart idiot running my detention team poses a real threat to me is the day they pick his remains off the side of my hull with microscrapers. Am I clear?"

Luthar wisely suppressed a grin. "Crystal clear, sir."

"Good, now go about your duties."

He was not sad to see Tatoonie stretch and distort as their ship hit lightspeed. If Avery Gant saw another pile of sand again it would be too soon. It was the first time in a long while that he was glad to feel durasteel beneath his boots, to take in recycled air and immerse himself in the constant temperature settings of the life support system. Anything was better than the endless desert and utter hopelessness of that sandbox of a planet.

He was still fairly certain there was sand in his hair, and he'd gone through the vibe shower twice already. And speaking of his hair…

Avery flopped down in the co-pilot's seat, running his hands through the too-long strands. Well, too long by imperial standards. Two weeks off the Peremptory and he was letting his grooming habits slack. Necessity was a fine excuse for slovenly behavior and appearance, though. He was supposed to be a dirty spacer, not an impeccably groomed Impeiral Officer. Still, he was looking forward to things like clean nails, military-short hair, and the familiar shape of his command chair back in the detentionary.

Though he was going to be sad to see the goatee go away, he mused, glancing at his murky reflection in the nav station. He was rather pleased with the way it made him look. Perhaps he now appeared like the romanticized smuggler that was so popular in the latest holodramas, the type of man that would have caused young girls like Renate Tydon to throw away bright futures to live on the rim of the galaxy with him.

His somewhat pleasant mood faded at that thought. Why had he even considered sweeping Renate away like that?

Because you like her, his brain snickered, filling in where his conscious mind had tried to reason away the attraction. She intrigues you on multiple levels. And despite your duty, you'd spirit her away to the edge of known space if it would save her from this fate.

He tried to tell himself that he'd save anyone from a fate at the Lord Vader's hands. Having been nearly strangled by the man, himself, was it any wonder that he'd spare a young woman that horror? He was only being civilized, after all, chivalrous even, as any officer was trained to be in regards to women of good breeding and station. The rational side of his brain continued to snicker at him, telling him he was allowed to think as he wanted until experience proved otherwise.

He liked Renate Tydon, and that was the simple truth of the matter.

Avery was careful not to look at the man seated at the pilot's console, passing his hand over his chin in an effort to buy time. Nathon Tydon probably wouldn't have taken kindly to someone thinking such thoughts about his baby sister. Especially not the man that had interrogated her—regardless if he was under orders or not. If he noticed his partner's sudden reluctance to glance his way, he didn't show it. Those eyes, so like Renet's in their intensity, were focused solely on the small japoor snipet held up in one hand.

A japoor snipet that was nearly identical to one that had been seen all over the galaxy. The one that had been last seen in the cold dead hands of Senator Padme Amidala of Naboo during her very public funeral, and was presumably buried with her.

Just as the piece in Nathon's hand had been buried with this Shmi Skywalker Lars.

Another step in the puzzle, another link to the truth. From Renet to Vrad Dodonna on Tatooine, to Shmi Skywalker Lars and now the dead Senator and former Queen Padme Amidala of Naboo. It always circled back to Naboo, to that thrice damnable sketch of a lake house. And now they knew the answer to part of the puzzle:

Skywalker.

This all had something to do with the rebel pilot that was credited with destroying the Death Star, the one Lord Vader was adamant about finding at all costs. He knew now, at least on some level, why the dark lord had taken Renet. But that knowledge brought him no closer to finding a way to take her back.

"How long until we hit Naboo's system?" He asked, wanting to fill the silence even though he could easily read the nav computer from where he sat.

"Two days," Nathon replied, absently rubbing the japoor snippet between thumb and forefinger.

The heavy silence threatened to return, bringing with it the knowledge that they had found a powerful clue in connecting Skywalker and Amidala, but that it may not be in time. They had two weeks to figure out the rest. Less than that, actually, as they needed to account for travel time back to their respective ships. Off the top of his head, Avery did the math, his heart sinking at the answer. If the Peremptory was at the furthest point in the known galaxy, he was going to need four days minimum to get back.

That left six—including the two travel days to get to Naboo from Tatooine—to save that girl's life.

Four days. He had four days. A glance back at Nathon nearly confirmed the other man had come to the same conclusion on his own.

"We'll find the proof," Avery said softly, but with feeling. "We have time. It's possible that Vrad Dodonna is still on Naboo."

"It's possible that he's not."

Avery turned, staring hard. "I never figured you for a pessimist, Nathon."

"I'm a realist, Avery. Serve long enough and you'll become one out of necessity."

"So you're ready to give up on her?"

A fire glinted in those eyes. "Never. I'll never give up on my sister. However a good friend of mine gave me some advice. He said to prepare for the worst, that Renet may be a rebel to her core. I'm doing that now, preparing for the fact that we will find the truth on Naboo. It just may not be the truth we hoped to find."

"She's a child," Avery shook his head, trying hard to banish the very unchildlike way she fit into his arms when he'd lifted her from that deck. "She did not know what she was doing."

The fire remained in those lion-like eyes, but the bittersweet in his small smile tempered it. "She knew. Renet's always spoken against what she felt was wrong. Always a champion of the downtrodden, even when she was a child. It was why we pushed her into the diplomatic corps in school. I know she knew what she was doing when she joined up with Dodonna, at least in part."

Avery suppressed a frown, and the need to sock the other man in the face. Maybe knock some sense back into him. "I still blame him."

Nathon's laugh was harsh and soft at the same time. "So do I. And I'm going to make certain my hand is the one that pulls the trigger at his execution. Trust me, if we don't find the proof to save her, we'll find the evidence to damn him."

That, at least, was a subject he could get behind. "Good. I like that plan."

The smile that touched Nathon's mouth this time wasn't so bitter. "I like you, Avery. Against my better judgment. You're a good man."

There was a tingle of pleased embarrassment that went through him at that praise. "If I am, it's because you were one of the officers that made me who I am."

The other turned, lifted an eyebrow. Having clearly forgotten the young Ensign that had served as his adjutant on that assignment near Yavin. Then again, it was hard for those in service to remember much of Yavin save for the crushing loss of the Death Star and the boiling rage that quickly replaced it. The rebels that had suffered under his care in the detention block alone done so horrifically—at his hands and the men he could find that had family or friends on the Death Star—before their short lives were ended.

That work alone had given him one of his promotions.

It took a minute of Nathon searching his face before memory connected the two. "Ah, I know you now. The eager Ensign desiring a shipboard posting."

Some of that embarrassment turned into a flush of annoyance. Apparently while Nathon had changed the course of his life, Avery had been little more than a blip on his daily radar. "Nice to know I served with such distinction."

Nathon's laugh was real this time as he shook his head. "Don't take it personally, Avery. There were thousands of men looking for a posting on a Star Destroyer, on any ship really, after the battle of Yavin. Everyone wanted to be remembered. Everyone wanted to take the fight to the rebels personally. And everyone did their best to stand out to the senior staff for the right to one of those positions."

It made sense, Avery thought as he turned back to the console before him, and yet it nagged at him. He decided to shrug it off, blame his disappointment on the brain-burning heat of the planet they'd just left, and the amount of salt still floating in his bloodstream from that swill they called reclaimed water.

"It was a while ago," Avery shrugged. "I hardly think about it anymore. The memory came up simply because we're forced to work together again."

If Nathon could hear the blatant lie in his words, he was honorable enough not to call him on it. "True," He replied neutrally. "Still, you were a good officer then, and a better one now. Regardless of what you think about your recent promotion, you truly earned it. I can see that in the way you've behaved on this assignment alone."

Annoyance gave way to pleasure, and that quickly turned into embarrassment again. He wasn't a child to prop himself up on the approval of others. Former idols or otherwise. And it irked him that he could feel that way after so many years of service.

"What assignment, sir?" Avery put in, meeting the other man's stare with an innocent questioning one of his own. Changing the topic. "I'm suspended from duty without pay, asked to ferry a higher ranking officer about while he's on leave so I can think about the things I've done wrong and figure out how to never do them again."

Nathon's smile grew. "Do you like Corellian whiskey, Commander Gant?"

"Yes, sir."

"How about Sabacc?"

Avery couldn't stop the lopsided grin that touched his mouth. "Sir, I'd be remiss if I didn't point out the fact that gambling is prohibited both onboard any Imperial Military Installation and when in uniform, sir."

"Well, isn't it lucky that we are neither in an installation nor in uniform."

"Yes, sir."

"When all this business is over and we're back where we belong, you'll join me and Luthar in a glass and a game. I'm certain the XO of the Peremptory has better things to do than report an unauthorized game in his own quarters."

"Absolutely, sir. Especially if Captain Kand happens to be there as well."

It was Nathon's turn to give that questioningly innocent expression. "Especially so. Now, if you'll forgive me, I believe it's my turn in the shower. Take the con, Avery."

He watched the other man go, wondering if the shift in conversation had been a renewing of Nathon's vow to prove his sister innocent, or if it had been the words of a man who had braced himself for the worst. He noted that nowhere in those plans for a game and a drink did the terms 'victory' or 'celebration' appear.

And he wasn't certain he liked that at all.