Monitoring the instrumentation panel, Tabraile flipped the flight toggles in a choreographed sequence and set the shuttle down in an open field. He tapped insistently at a blinking indicator light, but was disappointed when the switch did not go dark like the others. "Are you sure this is the right waypoint?"  

A barrage of beeps and angry whistles assailed him in response. RK-O9 shot out of its charging station and chided him.

"Settle down. I'm not questioning your coordinates. They're dead on, but we're in the middle of nowhere. Twenty clicks from civilization." He stared through the view port into the darkness of Dantooine's wilderness. "What are we doing here?"

RK-O9 gave a curt answer. It was as close to an insult as any droid could manage.

"Classified? I thought we were on the same team." Tabraile glared down at the droid, who hummed a rhythmic reply. "Apology accepted." He heard the access ramp lowering in the rear of the craft. "Come on, Lady Vannre's disembarking without us. Better get down there. We need to check that landing sensor."

Tabraile snatched his gloves from the console and tucked them under his belt. Stumbling over RK-O9 as the distracted mouse droid made its way to the aft of the ship, he listened to its inquiry and shrugged. "I know it's a brand new shuttle. It happens. Just run that diagnostic."

After sliding down the emergency ladder to the cargo bay, Tabraile readjusted his gunbelt. Left to him by his father, the Caelli-Merced heavy blaster was a familiar comfort. The weapons were worn by high-ranking members of a crime syndicate, the Black Bha'lir, who governed Socorro. A symbol of piracy, the blasters were often cause for harassment from law enforcement. Wearing an Imperial uniform and a captain's insignia plaque, Tabraile doubted anyone would challenge him.

Dantooine was a backwater world, uncivilized and feral like the Danteri primitives that made their homes on its surface. He trotted down the ramp into the encroaching darkness. It was well passed dusk, which meant being smothered within a purple veil of shadows, low-hanging clouds, and unwelcoming skies.

"Security lights," Tabraile whispered into the comlink. The shuttle's landing lamps brightened to illuminate a signature patch of the velvet night.

Lady Vannre walked to the edge of the circle, as if repulsed by the brilliance.

It was cold. Cold enough to take his breath away as Tabraile stepped down the ramp into the purple grasslands. He pulled the gloves from his belt and yanked them on, his fingers growing numb. "Lady Vannre, you might want a jacket or a—"

"Remain here with the ship." Her voice was as frigid as the night air.

"Copy that. If you need anything—"

"I won't." She walked away into the darkness toward the outskirts of a small village.

He believed her. During the five-hour flight, Vannre kept to herself in the passenger compartment. There was no mission briefing, not even a lecture on expectations. Her presence did little to alleviate Tabraile's loneliness and everything to raise a sense of alarm. He hoped the recent promotion had not simply elevated him to another level of Imperial whipping boy.

"RK-O, check that forward strut. It's probably nothing more than some packing tape the techs missed—" The distant sound of blaster fire drew his attention to the village and the path Vannre had taken into the shadows. "Get back inside the shuttle. Prep to leave. Something tells me we might need to lift off in a hurry."

Thumbing the restraint from the blaster, Tabraile drew the gun and sprinted into the darkness. Thanks to his father, he was as adept with blasters as he was behind the controls of a fighter, and he had the bravado and confidence to say so. Afraid Vannre had fallen prey to Danteri natives, he scanned the shadows for hostiles. While the primitives lacked any technology, they were dangerously proficient with stone axes and knives. As far as he could tell, she was not armed.

A pulse of blue light lit the interior of a nearby home. Tabraile recognized the telltale report of a DC-15 blaster rifle. The bolt went wild, flying from the opened door. A swath of red light glowed from within and filled the stillness with a persistent hum like a swarm of indignant wasps. He recognized that sound, too.

Blaster extended to clear the shadows in the near vicinity, Tabraile slid across the mud-brick wall near the entrance and went inside, finger poised on the trigger. "Lady Vannre!"

The scent of burnt flesh was sickeningly sweet. As the scent assailed his nose, Tabraile wrinkled his nostrils against it. Stomach twisting in knots, he moved into the living area while skirting overturned tables, chairs ... and bodies.

Lady Vannre stood near a small hearth in the kitchen. The lightsaber in her hand cast a crimson aura over her expressionless face, the rustic walls, and the floor.

Tabraile stared at the bodies. The nearest was a man lying facedown beside the table. "Is this the mission?"

"Rebel sympathizers," she replied in a whisper. "The terrorists responsible for the recent assassinations of Imperial Council members."

"Looks like he's lying on top of something." Tabraile returned his blaster to its holster and pulled a glowrod from his belt. The acrid smell of the cauterized wound in the Rebel's back made his mouth water as he bent over the corpse to roll him over. As the body fell to the side, an infant tumbled from his arms.

The baby was dead, killed by the same lightsaber strike that had killed the father as he shielded the child in his arms. A teenager dressed in a mechanic's tunic laid in the opening to an adjoining room. The blaster rifle was still clenched in his hands: a failed attempt to defend his family.

Tabraile heard a whimper behind him and turned to the smallest body laying on the floor at the father's feet. He bit his lip as the light passed across her. The little girl was no older than the Moff's daughter, Pari. Clutching a stuffed tauntaun to her chest, she rasped, "Daddy?"

Tabraile felt a lump rising in his throat. "Hush, sebla. Ssh."

She was mortally wounded from a slash across the abdomen. The injury was cauterized, but oozing bodily fluids. Brushing damp strands of hair from her feverish face, he cradled her in his arms. From the shallowness of her breathing, her final moments were imminent.

"Be still," Tabraile whispered when she opened her eyes.

A tiny, frightened hand squeezed his fingers. She convulsed in the throes of a violent seizure. When it passed, she was dead, staring at him with wide, shell-shocked eyes.

Tabraile reverently closed her eyes and laid her back on the floor where she had fallen. Crossing her arms over chest, he placed the stuffed tauntaun beneath her hands, which allowed the dead girl to embrace the stuffed toy against her still chest. He stood up, his hands balled into fists. "Rebel sympathizers? These are children."

"Traitors to the Empire!" Vannre growled.

"A baby and a kid—"

"Don't you dare judge me!"

"I don't mind meeting the Resistance in a good fight, on the ground or in space," Tabraile said, struggling to maintain a civil tone. "But this? What's next? Slitting their throats while they sleep in bed? These people were sitting down to have a meal!"

A powerful wind swept through the house. It knocked pictures from the wall and snuff out the fire in the hearth. A potted plant skidded across the wooden floor and then flew across the room. It struck Tabraile in the face. Blinded, he squinted against blood trickling into his left eye and pressed his hand against the cut. Wiping at his face, he cleared his vision enough to see a second pot flying in his direction. He had no time to react. It smashed into his forehead and splattered him with loose soil.

"Lady Vannre!" A third pot flew toward him, but Tabraile had enough wit about him to dodge it. Deflected to the side, it crashed into the wall behind him. "Lady Vannre, enough!"

She disengaged the lightsaber and stood staring at him, visibly shaking. "H-how did you do that?"

Feeling faint, Tabraile bowed his head and licked his dry lips. He felt a slight tremor in his knees, but suppressed his emotions by clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt. "At least let me bury them."

Vannre raised her chin in defiance, staring down her nose at him. "Bury them if you must soothe your troubled conscience. But if this is how you want to mourn terrorists, just know ... it's going to be a very long night for you." Glaring at him, she cut her eyes to the night beyond the door and left him alone among the dead.

Tabraile took a faltering step back and leaned against the wall until he caught his breath. Taking a blanket from a bench, he laid it over the little girl's body, then covered her father and the baby, and finally her brother.

He stared into the water-stained ceiling above him. His head ached with a roaring that rattled his eardrums. Taking a deep breath to quiet the squall, Tabraile pushed the officer's cap back on his head, away from the injury. With a final glance, he walked out of the home into the night and closed the door behind him.