Three entire decks of the Invictus were dedicated to the whim and arrogance of one man, Lord Rainier Jyaard. The top deck boasted a separate bridge built for a contingency where the main command deck might be destroyed. Living quarters, dining halls, and training facilities comprised the second deck. Beneath it, the third had a private hangar, an armory, and separate barracks accommodations for the detachment of stormtroopers who served the Sith's enormous ego. 

A solemn, macabre darkness permeated every corner and crevice of the massive corridors, which were decorated with black tapestries, velvet drapes, and ancient arms from long-ago battles. Tabraile felt as if he were attending a formal funeral ceremony for a high-ranking officer, only the man these decorations belonged to was very much alive.

"This is as far as I go," Yates said, three paces from the elevator. He waved his hand at Tabraile before he could protest. "Tabraile, please. No more adventures. Especially not here. The stakes are too high." He held a hand to his stomach. The faint odor of his fear followed him into the hallway. "You'd do well to head my warning this time." He turned to a pair of stormtroopers patrolling the hallway. "Your designations?"

"JT-2029," said the first.

"ML-7793," said the second.

"Take Captain Tabraile to Lord Jyaard's chambers."

"Sir!" The stormtroopers stood at attention with their weapons at the ready.

Yates turned to Tabraile, his eyes clouded with regret. "Goodbye, Tabraile," he said, extending his hand.

Tabraile shook it reluctantly. It was taboo among Socorrans to say goodbye, and Yates knew that. "You say that as if the nails were already in the coffin."

Yates mustered a thin, veiled smile. "For one of us, they might be." He did a curt about-face and returned to the lift.

Lost in his thoughts, Tabraile followed a stride behind the stormtroopers. If what Yates said was true, Lady Vannre was in trouble, and so was he. He shrugged off any concern for himself. He was used to being in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons and was willing to shoulder whatever burdens came with it.

He was not so certain about her. She seemed fragile, frayed at the edges, barely keeping herself together. Despair was a madman's false refuge. He understood too well what it was like to be one step from the precipice.

That realization brought him out of his dark thoughts. He found himself walking alone in an unfamiliar corridor of the Invictus. Tabraile looked back over his shoulder. The two stormtroopers charged with escorting him were standing still, three paces behind. They wavered like frightened dewbacks at the edge of a river.

"His chamber's right there," JT-2029 said, retreating down the corridor from where they come.

"Good luck." ML-7793 quickly fell in step with his companion.

A ventilation shaft blew ice, cold air down on him. Tabraile could see the wispy fog of his breath as he stared into a glass barrier that separated the hall from a training room with various weapons mounted on the walls and grass mats on the floor. He stared at the gash in his forehead. Though it was healing rapidly due to the bacta treatment, the skin was slightly puckered. A purplish bruise was raised beneath his left eye, a residual effect of the trauma. It burned when he touched it, his fingertips cold against the feverish skin.

Left alone in the wing, Tabraile felt terribly exposed in the hallway. Through controlled breathing, he tried to make himself small in the enormity of the annex by vacating his mind and deliberately suppressing the fear that gripped his heart. He heard voices coming from an opened doorway and made his way toward them.

"You've always been erratic, Anayera. Inconsistent," Jyaard said in an even tone. "You've grown into a woman, so much like your mother. Complete with her flaws: compassion and remorse."

Anayera? A beautiful name, Tabraile thought, wondering if it had any significant meaning.

"I did as you asked," she replied. "The Rebels responsible for the assassinations are dead. Their families are all dead. Including their children."

"And there it is again. That sense of remorse. A weakness."

"They were just children!"

"You of all people know that motivated children often emulate their parents. Terrorists breed more terrorists. Let their deaths be a message to the Resistance and any who would harbor them."

"Was such a cruel message necessary?" she asked, as if trying to convince herself.

"It was, but I remain unsatisfied. You are a disappointment. Do you think the Rebels would have spared you?"

"No, Uncle Jyaard."

"If the Rebels had not killed you, they would have turned you over to your father! Do you think he would want you back after what you've done?" Jyaard's voice cut as deeply as any blade. "Those were his people you killed. You have nowhere to go, Anayera. No one wants you. No one cares for you. No one, except me."

Hearing the unshed tears in her voice, Tabraile clenched his teeth. He thumbed the restraint from his heavy blaster, but hesitated.

"One more chance to prove my loyalty," she pleaded. "I won't fail you." When he did not reply, she begged him. "Please, Uncle!"

"Very well, have you heard of Mol'jattu the Hutt?" Jyaard asked, baiting her.

"I know of him. He owns a great deal of property in the Qulmech Districts in Omman City."

"He has resisted every invitation to join with our cause and rid this planet of its Alliance malefactors. We are aware that he harbors their supplies and goods, and even spies for a price. While the Empire does not care how he makes his living, we do care with whom he keeps as company."

"He's a criminal dealing in spice trafficking. Why not eliminate him?"

"Killing him would leave a dangerous power vacuum that could be filled by the Black Bha'lir, who have proven to be well beyond our sphere of influence. Subverting either faction would send them straight into the hands of our enemies."

"What are your intentions?"

"You will go to Mol'jattu and make a final plea. Hutts are infamous for their appetites. Ply him with your charm," he whispered the insinuation. "Win his fealty by one means or another without causing any diplomatic trouble for the Empire. Do you understand?"

There was a cold silence that lasted an eternity. "Captain Tabraile," Anayera said, "I trust you are well?"

Quick on his feet, Tabraile walked into view with a cocky smile. "I am, Lady Vannre." He folded his hands behind his back and bowed respectfully. "Lord Jyaard."

Jyaard regarded him with a cool air. "Lady Vannre tells me you're quite handy with a blaster, Captain."

"When I need to be, sir."

"Good. A show of force may be needed." He turned to Anayera. "Any questions?"

"No, Lord Jyaard," she replied. "Captain Tabraile, prepare the shuttle. We're leaving for Omman."

~ ~ ~

Omman was an Imperial-held world, but only on the surface. Tabraile knew that the true ruling element was a criminal one, a tenuous balance between the Black Bha'lir and the Hutts. Mol'jattu was a notorious spice dealer and gun runner, who ran his legitimate and illegitimate businesses from the Heart of Omman, his estate, a territory of multiple city blocks in the seediest, most dangerous section of the metropolis.

There was no love for the Empire in the depths of Omman City. Even local law-enforcement officials avoided that sector of the capital. Tabraile was on his guard. An Imperial uniform would garner no respect and could quite possibly get him shot in the back of the head.

He kept his hand near the heel of his blaster and wore the weapon slung down low on his hip and tied down on his leg in the fashion of a Socorran pirate. The style was a calling card, but the Caelli-Merced was the authentication and would give any rivals pause before challenging him.

"Does it hurt?" Anayera asked, as they walked down a dimly lit boulevard.

"Huh?" Tabraile walked to her right, hesitating midstep in confusion. "Oh, the love tap?" He self-consciously rubbed the bruise beneath his eye. "It's fine."

"I asked if it hurt," she demanded, the air about her growing colder.

"Yes, it did," Tabraile replied, desperate to avoid her ire.

"I apologize."

"I said it's fine, Lady Anayera."

She swung around to him in anger. "Why will you not accept my apology?"

"Why must every conversation with you lead to a contest of wills?" he said, regretting the impertinence in his voice. "You're impossible."

"You are not the first to say so." She stared at him and then averted her eyes to the mosaic walkway that resembled an ocean floor. It shimmered in waves of green and blue beneath the streetlights.

"Yes, it hurt, Lady Anayera. Yes, I accept your apology, but only if you accept mine."

"How much of the conversation did you hear?" Anayera asked.

"Enough to know you're in trouble."

She looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm not expecting this to go well."

"You'd be right. He's setting you up to fail," Tabraile said. "Hutts are many things, but weak-minded isn't one of them. What you did to Lieutenant Samr won't work on Mol'jattu."

"I don't suppose your former smuggling connections could be of use?" she asked, hope rising in her voice.

"Min min volgoth noh pethcuk," he said. "In Socorran that means: I mean you no bad blood. Unfortunately, there's plenty of that between the Bha'lir and the Hutts."

"I may need to rely on you to help me through this."

"Say no more." He leaned on the rustic fence that lined the lane and jumped the hedges. Blowing a sharp whistle to a passing vendor on the street, he handed the Twi'lek some credits and took the offered bag before rejoining her on the walkway.

Anayera stared at the paper bag and the trail of wispy steam exuding from it. "Smells delicious. What is it?"

"Rishi Honeystix," he replied. "When dealing with a Hutt, one should always bring a gift, especially to a slug known for his sweet tooth. Come on, we're not going in the front door. He'll think we're weak. We'll go in through the casino."

"There's no casino here."

"Not one that the Empire is aware of," he taunted. When she glared at him skeptically, he added, "Look, you asked for my help. Going in through the secret entrance will say to Mol'jattu and his cronies that you know who they are and what they are up to. By hanging out and playing a few games shows that you are in no hurry to make any deals. A Hutt will respect that. Trust me."

She actually smiled, a subtle gracious reaction to his charm. "Alright, show me."