#jhera

The back room of the cantina was quiet and the lighting low, the music in the main room muffled by the thick door. Three Sith Lords had already gathered around the central table; four of their number were yet to arrive.

The first—a human woman, pale-skinned and golden-eyed—set down her glass with a clink, prompting the others to look up. “I had missed this place,” she said.

The second—male, and in that indistinct place between pureblood and human, his skin ruddy and lined with occasional small ridges—murmured indistinct agreement. “Odessen did leave much to be desired,” he said, “in… certain areas.”

“I definitely didn’t miss the looks I keep getting,” the third muttered. He was a wiry zabrak man, jagged black tattoos crisscrossing his dark red skin.

The second sighed and tapped his fingers on the table. “Such concerns do seem a bit pointless now. I have seen a Hutt who can credibly claim to be a scientific luminary; a zabrak Sith does not stretch my imagination.”

“And I have never called Dulsu a man of great imagination,” the first chimed in, smirking as she lifted her glass to her lips.

Dulsu narrowed his eyes. “If I recall, Karadae, you were the one who spent a week on the tunnel expansion squad for your ‘philosophical debates.’”

“And Cerak here spent a day in the lockup for nearly starting a lightsaber duel.” Karadae’s smirk intensified. “And the less said about your first encounter with the good Doctor Oggurobb, the better. So I’d be careful throwing those stones, if I were you.”

“I said that Cerak didn’t stretch my imagination anymore, not that that Hutt ever became tolerable.”

“You and I can at least agree on the slug,” Cerak said, grimacing.

“I hope Jhera gets here soon.” Karadae glanced at the door. “She’s never late, ever, and I heard there was a bit of trouble with her old master.”

“She was never late on Odessen,” Cerak pointed out. “Perhaps she’s just enjoying our return to the days when military discipline was for other people.”

Karadae raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you aren’t.”

“I can’t say I miss it applying to me,” Cerak grumbled, “but I can definitely think of a few people that could use some.”

Dulsu frowned, looking almost sympathetic. “Darth Anavis?”

“Yes.” Cerak glowered at his drink, tapping the fingers of his cybernetic hand loudly against the glass. “I liked that lieutenant.”

“Anavis does have a bit of a cavalier attitude towards his resources,” Dulsu muttered. “I keep feeling like the Commander is going to appear from thin air to castigate him.”

“I, for one,” Karadae said, “am glad to know she’s on another planet entirely. In case you’re forgetting the times she did that to us.”

“Misery loves company,” Cerak suggested, grinning toothily.

“I’ll take Anavis for a longer leash.” Karadae went to take another sip of her drink, then scowled when she found it empty. “Hmph. That droid had better get back in here soon.”

“Feh. Leashes wherever you go, whatever you do.” Cerak drained his own, then set it down on the side of the table next to the others. “And whatever happened to the Force setting us free? They were so insistent on that back at the Academy.”

“We’re certainly freer here than on Odessen,” Dulsu said. “Especially now.”

Cerak laughed bitterly. “Are we freer,” he asked, “or are the rules just stupider?”

Karadae snorted. “You, my friend, are certainly drunker.”

“I can’t help it if the drinks in the Alliance cantina were terrible.”

The door slid open, and a bronze-skinned, buxom human woman entered with a serving droid at her heels. “I suppose I’m late?”

“Jhera!” Karadae shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Yes. Yes, you are. I was almost getting worried.”

“I was busy.” Jhera pulled out a chair and sat down. “Leave for two years and everything goes up in flames, I’m telling you.”

One of the drinks floated off the droid’s tray and found its way to Karadae’s hand. “I do know what you mean, trust me.”

“We all know what you mean,” Cerak said. “Not that it wasn’t burning before.”

Jhera snagged a glass of her own. “Yes, well, that was when Zakuul was still busy setting fires.”

Cerak reached for the tray, and Dulsu’s brow-ridges climbed a bit higher. “Don’t you think you’re drunk enough already?”

“Considering that this place hasn’t started making sense again yet,” Cerak growled, snatching one of the glasses, “I’m going to say no.”

“I’m glad we’re skipping all the posturing where we try to pretend we’re not having to re-adjust,” Jhera said. “Or did I just miss it?”

Dulsu took another tiny sip from his own half-full glass and waved the droid away. “I see no reason to posture to you.”

Cerak leaned back, arms folded. “You missed it.”

“There wasn’t that much posturing,” Karadae said, waving a hand dismissively. “Mostly we complained about Oggurobb.”

“If a Hutt can be a mad scientist,” Cerak said, “then everyone can damned well stop losing their minds over me being Sith. Brands or no brands.”

“Yes, and that,” Karadae said. “You didn’t miss that much, really.”

“Good.” Jhera slumped down in her chair, half-covering her face with a hand. “Sounds like you’ve been having a better day than I am, at least. I’m probably going to have to kill Gaedun.” She grimaced. “Cerak, you have no idea what a missile you dodged when your master died in the invasion.”

“And I’d rather not know,” Cerak grumbled. “I have more than enough problems already, thank you.”

“Well,” Jhera continued, ignoring him, “the fool’s gotten it into his head that everyone who came back during the Alliance’s ‘moment of weakness’ is suspect, needs to prove their loyalty, et cetera… starting with the apprentice he ordered back the moment Zakuul was defeated.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back out of her face. “Because I’m the one he actually has a case for, you see, so that he doesn’t start and end his crusade with the Empress putting him back in his place.”

Dulsu put his chin in his hand, looking entirely unimpressed. “And perhaps if you’d bothered to tell us your master had ordered you home, I would be feeling a bit more sympathetic right now.”

“You didn’t need to know,” Jhera said. “Anyway, that’s water under the bridge now. If he manages to convince the Empress that I should be placed back under his power…”

“Then it will look like we’re all up for grabs,” Cerak finished morosely.

Karadae set her glass down with a theatrical sigh. “And here I had been hoping that returning home might involve a vacation.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to show Gaedun that we’re not a group to cross lightly,” Dulsu said, smiling toothily. “It’s been too long since I’ve had the chance for this sort of thing.”

Cerak rolled his eyes. “You’re out of practice.”

Dulsu shot him a brief glare. “At least I’m not intoxicated too.”

“If the two of you can keep your hands off each other long enough,” Karadae said, “I do believe we have a pressing concern. Yes? Yes.”

“And three people still late,” Jhera muttered. “If we’re going to be planning, we need to wait for them.” She pulled a holocomm out of her pocket and stood, tapping in a number as she made her way over to a corner. “I have Vua’s commcode, I’ll find out where the hells she’s been.”

“Osfe changed hers, I think,” Karadae said. She made a disgusted noise. “I swear, if we’re making this a regular thing, we need to coordinate a little bit better than this.”

“Not to mention the assassination we seem to be plotting,” Cerak added dryly. He raised his glass in an ironic salute. “Look at this. The moment the Commander isn’t looking over our shoulders, we fall apart.”

“Was that you volunteering to coordinate?” Dulsu asked.

“I suppose so,” Cerak said, barely managing not to snarl the words. “After all, the rest of you don’t seem to be doing very well at it.”

“Vua says she was off-planet and she just landed,” Jhera said, returning to her seat. “I would appreciate it if we didn’t make the drunkest person here our coordinator, by the way.”

Cerak drained his glass. “Too late.”

The door opened again, revealing a short and skinny chiss. “I apologize for my absence,” she said, stepping into the room. “Someone decided that the present would be an excellent time for a full debriefing.”

“Hello, Ofse,” Karadae said. “Would it have killed you to give me your new commcode?”

“Possibly.” Ofse glanced over at the other end of the table as she sat down. “Is Cerak drunk already?”

“Yes, and still the most competent person here,” he said. “You’re just in time to hear why we can’t assassinate somebody.”

“I’m fairly sure I can,” Ofse said, arching a brow. “I take it you’re about to explain why I shouldn’t.” She tilted her head. “Who are we not assassinating, by the way?”

“I don’t know,” Jhera replied, giving Cerak a sharp look. “I definitely recall saying that Gaedun had to die.”

“He turns up dead, it’s a conspiracy and we have the whole Revanite flap all over again.” Cerak reached out a hand, found no more drinks forthcoming, and frowned. “Except with us as the targets. So either he has a nasty accident instead, and one that doesn’t look like us, or we get him to shut up some other way.” He gestured encouragingly. “Well? Ideas? Or am I going to have to plot this all myself?”

“If you’re done stating the obvious,” Jhera said, “I vote nasty accident.”

Ofse stole one of Cerak’s empty glasses, removed a flask from a fold in her robes, and poured. “I am fond of blackmail, but that has its own risks.”

“Let’s not go rushing off on our own doing anything before we know who his other enemies are,” Karadae suggested. “I know, I know, we may have a time limit, but if his case were particularly good he’d have had Jhera as soon as we got back. I suspect we have enough time to find out who might be happy to solve this problem for us.”

“I’ll duel him on the steps of the Citadel if I have to,” Jhera hissed. “But… I won’t take unnecessary risks, however much I want to spill his blood.”

“I suppose I’ll poke around and find out how much traction he really has,” Dulsu said. “Though I suspect everyone will be waiting to see where the cards fall.”

“Information-gathering sounds like a great idea,” Cerak said. “Truly. An idea that should have been stunningly obvious from the start, but better late than never.” He glowered at his three remaining glasses. “Now, can we get that droid back in here?”

Ofse took a sip from her stolen glass. “I suggest that the answer be ‘not.’”

“I second that,” Dulsu said. “Unless we order dinner, that is.”

Cerak slouched aggressively, scowling. “Who goes to a cantina for the food?”

“It’s good here, I promise,” Karadae said. “Why else do you think I picked one of the fancy cantinas?”

“So I could drink too many fancy drinks, obviously,” Cerak said.

There was a knock. Everyone at the table looked over at the door. There was another knock, a few seconds of silence, and then the door finally swished open. The latest arrival was a heavyset pureblood woman with a tremendously complicated hairstyle. “I know how late I am,” she said, holding up one hand as she used the other to stuff a keycard back into her pocket, “but I’ve been on Ziost for the last week. They wanted someone with at least secondhand information on Nathema’s revival to speak to the team investigating its rebirth.”

“Vua,” Ofse said, nodding in acknowledgment. “I will staple your keycard to your hand next time.”

Vua eyed her hand dubiously, then hurried over to the table. “I don’t think any stapling will be necessary.” She smiled and took her seat, leaving only one empty. “I’m just a bit scattered right now, you understand. All these meetings I’m being dragged into!”

Cerak gave her a vague wave. “If the ex-spy would catch the archaeologist up…”

“Ex?” Ofse drew herself up, looking supremely offended. “I would already be back with Sith Intelligence were my loyalties not in question now.” She turned to look at Vua anyway. “Vua, you are aware Jhera’s old master wishes to re-assert his authority, yes? We have been plotting to prevent this.”

“Ah, politics, I can’t say I missed you.” Vua shook her head. “Well, I do see the common threat here, so I’ll help if I can. Of course, I doubt that I or my new team can do much to ruin his reputation—much less kill him outright—though I suppose if you wanted him framed for artifact theft…”

“I’m going to signal to the droid that we’re ready for dinner,” Karadae said. “Did everyone leave their order with the kitchen?”

Vua lifted a hand. “I forgot, I’m afraid. Just have them give me something spicy, and I won’t complain.”

Ofse stared at her. “Vua? How is it that you are still alive?”

Vua beamed. “Luck, a harmless facade, and a willingness to zap idiots.”

“If your scatterwittedness is a facade,” Ofse said, “then I commend your dedication to the deception.”

“Thank you!”

Cerak leaned over to look at Karadae’s datapad. “I hope you’re ordering another bottle as well.”

Karadae put a hand on his chest and shoved him away. “Not for you, I’m not.”

“Fine.” He put a hand on the table to steady himself. “But next time I’m taking charge of my own drinks.”

“So noted. I’ll let Dulsu carry you home.”

Cerak waved a hand dismissively. “Have a little faith in me.”

“My faith in you stops at about four drinks,” Karadae said dryly.

Dulsu crossed his arms. “Mine stopped at three, so I would say you’re being unusually tolerant.”

“Fine, fine, I get it,” Cerak grumbled. “Back to the task at hand, perhaps?”

Any response was cut short by the door skidding open and slamming back into the wall. Into the room walked a short, stocky human woman in red armor, a long cape trailing behind her. She swept a blazing gaze over the six people already at the table. “I see I’m late.”

The other six exchanged various glances. By some unspoken agreement, Dulsu was the one to speak: “Never, Lord Wrath.”

“You may use my name. All of you have earned that privilege.” The woman strode over to the last remaining seat and put a hand on the back. “Besides, I haven’t reclaimed my title. Yet.”