Kit-Sun Wolfgana regarded the floor outside the High Council chamber, tracing his blue eyes across the smooth polished tiles. The craftsman had been something of a genius, fitting so many intricate shapes together to form the beautifully designed mosaic. Not a single piece strayed more than a millimeter from its setting, all arranged according to the grand scheme of their creator. In a way, that seemed a more appropriate metaphor for the Jedi Order than most wanted to admit. For better or for ill, everyone went along with the pattern, and if anyone stepped out of line, they were either hammered back into their proper alignment or simply removed and replaced with something that fit better. That’s what happened to Master Dooku, why he “chose” to leave the Order; he no longer fit. Such observations had earned Kit-Sun a reputation as being wise beyond his years.
        He cut a less than impressive figure for a supposed warrior; at thirty standard years, he was slightly built with long, shiny black hair he bound at the end with a piece of white ribbon and sharp, intelligent features deeply creased with laugh lines. His cunning eyes were eternally mirthful, belying weight left on his heart ever since the ill fated mission to Galidraan.
        In a manner of speaking, he felt that no one had truly left that snow-covered forest; they were casualties all of a battle that should not have been fought. Had they really made a difference? Maybe Dooku had made the right decision in the aftermath.
        Kit-Sun shook away the thought.
        A moment later, his friend, Nurt Ulasac, stormed into the great hall from out of the council chamber, lekku bobbing erratically as he strode. Kit-Sun didn’t need the Force to know the Jedi Master’s frustration; he could see it painted plainly across his chartreuse complexion.
        Levering himself to his feet, he crossed the hall and fell into step beside the Twi’lek, smiling warmly at him. “So,” he began good-naturedly, “how did the interview go?”
        “You should know,” Ulasac replied tersely, not breaking stride. “You were aware of the Council’s decision before I was even summoned.”
        “Master, you wound me,” Kit-Sun chuckled. “I never meant to imply that I had a hand in their decision.”
        “Well the decision’s been made,” the senior Jedi practically snapped his pointed teeth. “I’m to take no part in investigating the intrusion into the Temple archives. Master Windu thinks I’m too hotheaded as of late.”
        Kit-Sun placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, projecting an aura of calm he hoped would soothe Ulasac’s nerves. “He isn’t wrong,” he said softly. “We’ve all been tormented in one fashion or another since our return to Coruscant, plagued with questions and doubts. Why did so many have to die? Could we have settled matters differently if we hadn’t been so quick to take up arms? Every Jedi who’s been forced into battle has faced these same demons, since the very origins of our Order.”
        “And each time, righteousness has remained firmly on our side,” the master said. “Questioning that is what has cost us our best in this instance.”
        The younger knight hesitated, then decided it best to change the subject. “So, what assignment has the Council given us for the time being?”
        “We’re to go to Corellia,” Ulasac answered after taking a deep breath. “There have been a number of threats made against the diktat and CorSec. A mag-lev train laden with explosives has already been used to blow up a major rail hub and Chancellor Valorum has requested aide from the Jedi on behalf of Senator Fordox.”
        Kit-Sun tilted his head to one side, appalled, and asked, “Master, who would do such a thing?”

        “Terrorists?” Lynli asked skeptically, arching a brow over one golden eye.
        “A separatist group,” Buruk clarified, lifting his gaze from the datapad displaying the bounty information. “They call themselves the Drall Patriots.”
        “And how much is CorSec offering?” his violet-skinned partner continued, arms folded across her breasts.
        “Five hundred thousand credits to bring the organization down,” the Mandalorian answered. He then quickly pointed out, “That’s over ten times the fee we got on the last cargo you talked me into hauling.”
        “And a thousand times more dangerous,” she insisted.
        Ganhuff, Maalku, and Aerek watched the heated exchange in silence, enraptured by the pair as they switched their attention back and forth between them.
        “Remind me again,” Buruk said with mock forgetfulness, crossing his own arms, “what exactly was that cargo again?”
        “Ten live gizka,” Lynli answered sullenly, her eyes down turned to the scratched surface of the kitchen tabletop.
        Maalku leaned in close to Ganhuff, modulating his vocoder so only the doctor could hear, and said gleefully, “I love this show.”
        “You mean five mated pairs of gizka.” Buruk paced the galley, shaking his head as he continued the tirade. “Ten, which turned into twenty, which turned into forty, and so on until the hold was bursting with the duse.” He shuddered as he remembered cleaning up the mess when they finally managed to clear the last of the little frog-creatures off the ship.
        The silent spectators did likewise; smallish droppings they may have been, but they had literally gotten everywhere. With the exception of the Gand Findsman, they’d all had cotton wadded in their nostrils for weeks until the smell finally faded. Against Buruk’s advice, the doctor had taken it upon himself to shoot the vermin in a failed attempt at population control. Every near miss had resulted in a blaster bolt ricocheting haphazardly along the Cuun’yaim’s narrow corridors, pinging against the bulkheads.
        “Besides, you owe me,” Buruk added. “That run took us pretty far out of the way and I’ve got places to go, Jetiise to kill. I need to be getting back Rimward.”
        “Okay,” Lynli sighed. “The payoff might just be worth the risk. But they could be operating out of anywhere in the sector; just how do you plan on taking this organization down?”
        “They’ve been bombing landmarks and infrastructure on Corellia itself; the other four Brothers have been left alone. We get a sample of their handiwork, we find out who’s supplying the explosives. Through them, we find the customers.”
        “Hmph, sounds easy. How do we pull it off?”
        “I… might know someone who could help,” Buruk said hesitantly.

        They touched down on Iridonia without so much as a hail from port control, the repulsors kicking up dust and gravel as the Cuun’yaim settled on its landing struts at the bottom of the Aro-voa canyon near the northern pole, several thousand kilometers from the city of Wortan. The Zabrak homeworld’s two moons were high in the sky overhead but despite the late hour it was still blistering hot. The air shimmered as the crew made their way down the entry ramp and the humidity weighed down on Lynli like a thick, damp blanket.
        “I never much cared for this planet,” she muttered as they followed the Aro River. “Too hot, too rocky, and too many predators.”
        “Only on the prairie,” Buruk replied, keeping his attention forward. “It’s actually pretty balmy here.” As if to spite her by taking his side, a slight breeze chose that moment to blow through the canyon, ruffling the heavy brown cloak he wore.
        He hadn’t told them who they were going to see, which annoyed her to no end; she didn’t like surprises and that seemed to be all she ever got from him since they first met a year ago. “What’s with the armor?” Lynli asked. “I thought you knew this person. You expect them to shoot you?”
        “Maybe a little,” he answered with a shrug.
        “A ringing endorsement, that,” Ganhuff said dryly.
        Eventually a deep lowing greeted them and they came upon a small herd of bloks, rugged livestock similar to banthas and native to Iridonia, about a hundred head at least. The cattle shifted uneasily at their approach, becoming restless, bunching up together for protection from the strange newcomers.
        “This should be her herd,” Buruk acknowledged, creeping forward, trying not to alarm them.
        “‘Her’?” Lynli wondered, placing her hands on her hips.
        Suddenly Buruk went down as the whine of a blaster rifle pierced the air. The high-pitched sound echoed off the canyon walls, making it impossible to determine where the shot was fired from, and Lynli, Ganhuff, and Maalku threw up their hands. “Nobody move!” a female voice called out in accented Basic. “Anybody so much as twitches, I’ll put the next one right between their eyes!”
        Lynli squeezed her eyes shut as Buruk groaned, climbing to his feet, and shouted back, “Su’cuy Qate! Bic Buruk!”
        To Lynli’s amazement, no shots were fired. Instead, she heard rocks clattering down the cliff side as someone scrambled down from their hiding place.
        She opened her eyes as a Zabrak woman with dark brown skin, darker brown ringlets of hair cascading down her shoulders, and a crown of short, smooth horns sprouting up from her skull made her way toward them. She wore a look of disbelief on her intricately tattooed face as she approached, though her rifle never wavered from their direction. Her clothing was simple, a dark red lizard hide vest over a brown cotton shirt, a pair of black fitted trousers, and a pair of knee-high boots. A black leather belt with a gold buckle wrapped around her waist and a hand blaster hung from a second, lower belt, as did a sheathed vibroblade, a few spare power packs, and what Lynli suspected was a thermal detonator.
        “Buruk Kelborn…” the Zabrak woman, Qate, said in amazement.
        She then promptly fired again, throwing him once more to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. Lynli and the others flinched as the sound of the blaster shot rang over them and Buruk lay flat on his back, gasping for air and massaging his armored chest.
        “Gar ganar ori’gett’se, chakaar,” she snarled as she stood over and spat in his direction.
        “Jate haa’tayli gar balyc,” he coughed, standing back up. “Thanks for aiming for the armor, by the way.”
        “You know how rude it is letting someone who loved you think you’re dead for a whole year when you’re really not?” she demanded, finally lowering her weapon.
        Lynli did a double take. “Excuse me?” she blurted out. “Did you just say ‘love’? As in ‘you love him’?”
        Qate turned her attention to the Twi’lek. “What of it?”
        “Him?” she repeated, pointing at the human. “The redheaded guy with the nasty scar on his face? You love him?”
        Qate slung her rifle over her shoulder, replying icily, “You’d be surprised what feelings you can grow out of in a year.” She turned her blue eyes back to Buruk. “You can have him.”
        Buruk chuckled uneasily, as he threw his braid around his neck. Maalku turned to Ganhuff and whispered, “Awkward…”
        Clearing his throat, the doctor stepped between the jilted lovers, asking, “So, you two aren’t together anymore, it’s safe to assume?”
        “That’s right,” Qate answered before Buruk could open his mouth.
        “I am so very glad to hear that, my ebony goddess,” Ganhuff purred, slipping his arm around her waist. “My name is Doctor Ganhuff Riscan and, if I may, you are one of the loveliest women I’ve laid eyes upon. A veritable warrior-woman”
        She smiled sweetly, then her eyes turned hard and she asked, “Tell me, Doctor, in which cavity would you like me to insert your arm after I break it off?”
        “Yikes,” Ganhuff hissed, releasing his hold on her before she could make good on the threat. His hand began trembling slightly, which he covered up by hiding it behind his back. Buruk wondered when he’d taken a hit of spice last.
        “I assume there’s something you need from me,” the Zabrak continued, turning back to Buruk, “since it took so long to come see me.”
        The human nodded solemnly, replying, “Corellian diktat’s offering big credits to whoever brings down a terrorist group wreaking havoc on his fair planet.”
        “And you need an explosives expert to track the material to its source,” she reasoned.
        “That’d be about it,” he admitted.
        “Just how much payoff are we talking here?”
        “Five hundred large; we’ll cut you in for twenty-five percent.” Buruk could feel his partner glaring daggers at him; he ignored her.
        “Forty,” Qate countered.
        “Hey, I may owe you an explanation, but not alimony,” he protested. “Thirty percent.”
        “Thirty-five, or I walk away.”
        “Haat, ijaa, haa’it,” Buruk said, holding out his hand.
        Qate grasped his forearm and repeated the Mando’a phrase, meaning truth, honor, vision, the traditional words used to seal a pact between Mando’ade.
        Just then Lynli grabbed a handful of Buruk’s braid and yanked, pulling him back several steps until they were out of earshot of the others. “Go help her pack,” she called back to Ganhuff and Maalku.
        “Ow! What the shab are you doing, woman?” the Mandalorian demanded, reaching back to take the strain off his scalp.
        “Are you out of your mind?” she countered. “You’re going to let her walk away with thirty-five percent of our bounty?”
        “Do you know an explosives expert who’ll work cheap?” he asked. “And one that’s trustworthy? Qate is a very reliable woman; she won’t double-cross us no matter how much money’s on the table. If she really bore a grudge, she’d have shot me by now.”
        “She shot you twice already!” Lynli pointed out, raising her voice above a whisper.
        “Nowhere that counts,” Buruk shrugged. “And to be fair, it was warranted.”
        The Twi’lek eyed him suspiciously. “You’re still sweet on her, aren’t you?”
        “What?” he blurted. “Are you dini’la? That’s ridiculous.”
        “Is it now?”
        “Ready to set sail!” They turned, interrupted by Qate who approached carrying a duffle over her shoulder, with Ganhuff and Maalku following in her wake, dragging a pair of heavy cases after them. “Be careful with those, cyar’ike, they’re loaded with grenades.”
        “Grenades?” the doctor exclaimed, dropping his to the canyon floor with a dull thud, his eyes going wide as dinner plates.
        “And a few mines, a couple bricks of detonite, some timers and remote detonators, and a bunch of charges. A girl’s got to be prepared for anything, you know?” She winked as she passed Buruk, smiling devilishly.

        “What a piece of junk!”
        Those had been Qate’s first words upon seeing the Cuun’yaim. Lynli ground her teeth in frustration as she followed her up the boarding ramp. I can already see this job was going to go real well, she thought. The Zabrak was pushy, arrogant, and domineering, and to badmouth her baby on top of that? Next thing you know, she’ll be treating Wally like a piece of furniture. Images of Qate setting empty cans of narcolethe on the droid’s head or propping her feet up on him danced through her mind. No way is she going to get away with that.
        “She’ll fool you,” the Twi’lek replied defensively. “She’s got a class one-point-five hyperdrive.”
        “Missiles go fast too, but they still blow up when they get where they’re going,” Qate replied, unimpressed, as Ganhuff practically stumbled over himself taking her bags to the aft dormitory across the cargo hold.
        Lynli crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes as the doctor made a fool of himself. Men.
        Curling her lekku in disgust, she proceeded up the stairway to the cockpit where Buruk prepared the ship for takeoff. “I don’t like her,” she declared without preamble, throwing herself into the copilot’s seat. “That woman will bring us nothing but trouble.”
        Buruk eyed her dubiously and she just knew he was thinking something about the pot and the kettle.
        “She called Cuun’yaim a piece of junk!” she protested.
        “No accounting for taste,” he said simply, firing up the repulsorlifts to take them out of the canyon.
        “Yeah, she dated you, after all,” Lynli replied dryly. “Do Mandalorians date? Or is that just what they call it when a man and woman decide not to shoot at each other?”
        “You know, you two actually have a lot in common.”
        She pouted as Iridonia shrank into the distance beneath them. “Now you’re just being mean.”
        He cracked a smile and winked at her. “Maybe a little. Anyway, we need her help on this one job. That’s all.”
        And if this one job turns into a prolonged stay? she wondered.
        Lynli shook her head. Was it possible she just felt threatened because she was Buruk’s old girlfriend? She couldn’t begrudge him anything, considering her own sordid past. “So if you two were so close, why didn’t you try to contact her after what happened on Galidraan?” she asked.
        The Mandalorian cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It’s… complicated…” he hesitated.
        He remained silent for several minutes as he made the calculations for the jump to hyperspace. She watched him patiently as his fingers punched the coordinates into the navicomputer; he’d answer in his own time, she’d learned that over the past year. As usual his determination won out over everything else. Some would call him single-minded. Lynli—if she was feeling especially complimentary—would call it focused.
        The stars stretched and the Cuun’yaim leapt forward beyond the speed of light. “Really I didn’t think I’d make it this long,” he continued at last, leaning back heavily in his chair. “Those first few weeks I was just running around in a frenzy—blood-drunk I’d guess you’d say. The fewer people I dragged down into that dark place I went with me the better, so I just let her think of me as dead, assuming it’d be true soon enough.”
        “Well, I’m glad things didn’t turn out the way you expected,” she replied, laying a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise, he didn’t shrug it off.

        When Lynli left the cockpit for the engine room, Buruk closed his eyes and tried to hold on to the last lingering sensation of her touch. He couldn’t help reflecting that she’d changed a lot since their first run-in with each other, back on the Wheel. So had he, for that matter. He regretted having dragged her into his problems, but the fact that she stuck around, in spite of the obvious fact that she strongly disagreed with his intentions, amazed him.
        “She’s quite a woman, isn’t she?” Qate asked, leaning in the hatchway.
        He grunted noncommittally as she swaggered into the cockpit and sat down at the copilot’s station. He threw her a sidelong glance and saw she held a baking tin in one hand and was digging into something dense with a strong sweet-citrus aroma. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.
        “You tell me; I found it in the back of the conservator, hidden behind a pile of frozen dinner packs.” She took another bite and through the mouthful she asked, “When did you take up baking?”
        “I didn’t,” he said, confused.
        She offered him the tin and he leaned forward, taking it gingerly. Just as he thought, it was uj cake, coated in thick syrup. He took a bite and was swept away to another time and place, where all was right and his people lived and laughed and led their lives as they always had, as the taste of honey, almonds, and citrus triggered memories of times long passed. “This is good,” he said, voice trembling as he fought back tears. “This is really good.”
        For several long moments, they said nothing more to each other, Qate watching him closely, studying him with an intimate familiarity only she possessed, while the sole sound came from the thrum of the ship’s engine. Finally, she said, “I understand why you did what you did.”
        “You—?” he began, sitting up quickly.
        “What happened at Galidraan was bigger than the lives of any two people,” she continued, taking the tin back from him. “It was an assault on our whole way of life and you had to do right by Mand’alor. I’d have done the same thing in your place.”
        Buruk just stared at the deck, lost in his tortured memory. “I lost so much,” he whispered.
        “For every loss, a gain,” she mused.
        Buruk didn’t reply. He hadn’t thought about it like that before. So many new things and new people had entered his life since then.
        Eventually Qate finished the cake and, after licking the fork clean, said, “You know, not every aruetii would go to the trouble of learning to make uj’alyi. And any one that did is definitely worth holding onto.”