"Good night, Uncle Mike," came the sleepy chorus.
"Good night," he replied - but they were already asleep. He smiled in the dim glow of the night-light that sat next to the young princess' bed.
"You're good with them."
"Mentally, I'm not much older than them. Emotionally they probably have a few years on me." He turned to look at the Queen. "Well, yours do, your Majesty. Josh and Lenka's brood are having a somewhat normal life, at least."
He joined her in the doorway and they turned to look at the peaceful vista before them.
"Any chance of you adding to the next generation?"
He blinked.
"Cast your mind back fifteen years, wing. You're Leia, I'm Wedge..."
"And you have enough on your plate looking after the children in your squadron."
"It was all a lot easier when it was fiction."
"It's not worked out too bad," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. He flinched for a second, then nodded.
"What about Jean and you?" she asked.
He would have shrugged, but bouncing a queen's head probably counted as treason, and he knew that the palace guards were maintaining a discreet distance, but not a distant one.
"She's like me. Damaged goods."
*
The airport was a lot of work to maintain, and it wasn't uncommon to find the two men working late into the night, elbow deep in the guts of an airplane with the only illumination the moon, the stars, and a flickering mechanic's light that was one of the few functioning pieces of equipment that had somehow survived the previous owners' tenure.
"We need more staff."
"No-one wants to work here. They still think we're drug dealers," Ben said, giving a loud grunt as he extracted a tricky chunk of machinery from the depths of an engine.
"You'd think that the police would have put the word out."
"They probably think we're drug dealers as well," Ben replied, without rancour. "We took out our predecessors, but how do they know we've not just taken over the business?"
"The lack of flights coming in at 2 in the morning with enough coke to keep London hopping for a month?"
"Who's keeping track? We're the FAA around here. Besides, we still get smugglers."
"So you say. Its not our job to check every plane that lands here."
"That's a very precise reading of the law, kid, and probably not one that'd stand up in court."
"Do we carry out checks? Yes. Does the paperwork hold up? Generally, yes. If it doesn't, do we report them to the authorities? Yes. And there are only two of us."
"What about Jean? You know she'd be good at the customs work."
"Too good. I want some planes to land here. Pilots see things, and sometimes that's worth turning a blind eye to whatever they've got stashed in the hidden compartments. If someone wants to charter a plane to shave five pence off a pack of cigarettes, good luck to them."
"It still puts us on the wrong side of the law, and that still limits the number of people who'll want to come here."
Clark pulled a face.
"Give it time. You're a good mechanic and pilot, so am I - the business will come, and the money will be too good for people to ignore for long."
"Oh, good. Mercenaries."
"Nothing wrong with being a mercenary," Ben replied, equably. "Besides, it's not like we're working for a cause. This is just a business - admittedly one that's more fun than most."
Clark set down the tools he was using.
"Ben?"
The older man was holding a welding mask in his hands. He looked up, as much at the tone of Clark's voice as the sound of his name.
"You've killed, haven't you? I mean, other than when we took this place."
Ben looked at the mask as though wanting to put it on. Eventually he just said, "Yes."
Clark nodded. He gestured at the paraphernalia lying around them - tools, chemicals, engine parts, and sundry bits of shrapnel where tools and engine had met with no quarter given.
"With everything we've got around here, how many ways could you kill me?"
Ben looked around. "Without repeating myself?"
Clark nodded.
"Eleven."
"Huh."
"You?"
"Six."
"You're still young, lad. Hell, when I was your age I'd have been impressed with six."
*
"Hey, did you know that if Thayer was Adumari, he'd have had to duel me for the right to ask for your hand?"
Becki blinked. "What? "
He smirked. "We've always called each other 'wing'. Not 'wingman' or 'wingmate'. In Adumari culture you always use the full term to describe the person you fly with. 'Wing' is only ever used when you're taking someone for your life-partner - someone who'll be as integral to you as a wing is to a ship."
Becki stared dubiously at her friend.
"You're making that up."
"Not even for a second. I was as surprised as anyone. Cheriss was very confused when I talked about you and Thayer - it lead to a very awkward conversation after a couple of months."
Becki fixed him with an armour-piercing stare.
"What aren't you telling me?"
He shrugged. "I'd give you a flip answer, but I imagine you're carrying a weapon. One of Sylvana's stilettos in your hair, at a guess."
"I've learned to carry it in a scabbard, at least. I lost six months worth of hair the first time I tried wearing it."
He threw up his hands.
"I bought you that Smith and Wesson for a reason."
Becki looked down at her clothes, a formal gown noticeably lacking in places to discreetly holster even a snub-nosed revolver.
"You couldn't get one of the ladies-in-waiting to sew you something? What's Kristy doing with her time?"
"Kristy has other uses for needles. Wing, talk to me."
"I don't have kids. There's no-one special in my life."
"Jean-"
"Came into our lives in an unusual - well, illegal - fashion. Ben wanted to keep her, so I let him."
"That answer begs several more questions. For a start, 'keep her'?"
"Ben's past sixty. He never married, never had any kids either. Taking on Jean gives him a taste of that, and even if she's a petty thief and burglar, well, his past makes her look like a well behaved nun in comparison."
"You don't have anyone normal in your life?"
It was his turn to respond in silence, his exaggerated eye movement taking in the castle in which they were standing, the coronets hanging from the hat rack in the childrens' bedroom, and once again the formal attire worn by the Queen of Mendellia.
"Being a queen makes you a target. Do you have any idea how many people seem to feel that even minor royals like Thayer and I - and our children - are legitimate targets?"
"Last year? Seven."
"What?"
"I keep tabs. Sometimes I am tabs - I found one of those plots before the intelligence service did."
"Oh. Thank you."
"I need something to do when I'm not working at the airfield. And I was always more of a Wraith than a Rogue, unlike most of the group."
"You monitor us?"
"I monitor everyone. SACUL didn't get everything, and Sci had contingency plans in place. I imagine he told you about some of them - this was one he left for me."
"Because of your Wraith training?"
He nodded. "That, and my time walking the earth."
Becki didn't smile at a phrase that had become an in-joke among members of Terra Group - the two years that had been on hiatus after Operation Arrakis had seen him in and out of scrapes on every continent bar Antarctica.
"What else did Sci ask you to do?"
He didn't say anything. Somehow the conversation wasn't going as he'd expected.
Becki's voice dropped to a whisper even as she dragged him away from the bedroom.
"Did Sci ask you to kill people?"
*
The Bachelor Officer's Quarters were a short distance away from the airfield's main offices. Ben's room was generally dark and quiet less than ten minutes after he closed the door - he'd told Clark that after sleeping through artillery barrages, air raids and one occasion sniper fire that had included a shot that passed through his sleeping bag between his legs, falling asleep in the rural silence was easy.
Clark's room was never entirely quiet. A computer hummed constantly, chuntering its way through the reports it downloaded from news feeds and satellites. It had started life as an off-the-shelf desktop several years before, and had somehow survived the transfer of ownership of the airfield. On removing the casing Clark had discovered enough bugs, tricks, slices and gimmicks to make him wonder whether word would get out about the druggies' departure before someone else decided to storm the joint. He figured that it would - word like that spread fast.
With the help of a cannibalised datapad, the creaking desktop had become a high-powered device capable of handling several planets' worth of data. Keeping track of Terra alone was simple enough. Sorting through all the data to search for rogue Force users at least meant its capabilities were somewhat tested.
*
"That's what you've been doing? Hunting Force users? Why you?"
"When Sci left, Josh was still working on the Jedi thing. We have no idea where Vickie is... and honestly, I wondered if Sci thought Josh wouldn't be able to take her."
"But... why you?"
He pointed at himself, his hand cocked like a gun.
"Wraith, not Rogue. 'What do we blow up first?' and all that."
"So Sci did ask you to kill-"
"No. Sci asked me to track. Becki, we live on a backwater planet at the arse end of a long voyage from the nearest part of the Outer Rim. Star Wars may not have actually turned out to be a long time ago, but it's sure as hell far, far away. We're so isolated from anywhere that the concept of Force-users doesn't even occur to people when we hear about psychics, or water-dowsing, or people having visions of the future, or mediums, or ghosts, or..."
He tailed off.
"What?"
"That's all real?"
"Er, some of it, yeah. Don't get me wrong, anyone you see on TV hosting a phone-in and offering to contact people's dead cats? Fake. But there's a surprising number of Force-sensitives out there."
"And you track them?"
"Yes."
"How do you find them?"
"I actually started by trawling through the Guinness Book of Records. Champion athletes, strongmen, those guys with beards of bees... All potential latent or unconscious Force users."
Becki seemed thrown by the lightness of his answer. Curiosity piqued, she asked, "Usain Bolt?"
"No, he's just that good."
"But... how many?"
"A few dozen. Oh, the majority of them don't have Josh or Vickie's ability. Most worlds in the GFFA don't produce any Jedi candidates for years at a time - but people who have an active connection to the Force crop up sometimes. They might never know there's anything unusual about it - not everyone knows they have the talent to be an opera singer if they're never trained, for example. Those who do show signs usually make the news in some way - rolling a crashed car to save their boyfriend, setting a free diving record, that sort of thing."
Becki's eyes narrowed. "And?"
He shrugged. "And sometimes they make the news for other reasons."
*
"You don't carry what I'd carry."
Clark looked up. Ben was sat in the front of the van, watching in the rear view mirror as Clark assembled his gear.
"You used to charge across battlefields with a crew-served machine gun on your back and another under each arm, according to your old friends."
"They exaggerated slightly. You can't carry one under each arm - you need both arms for one. The others I carried on my back, but the image is better the way they tell it."
"I want to look discreet. I don't want him to spot me as soon as I walk in. I know you like sniper rifles, but I can't fit that under a suit jacket."
"I wasn't talking about that. Your gun is a poser's gun."
Clark looked at the Five-seveN. "What's wrong with my gun?"
"No penetration."
Clark sighed. "If he's wearing armour, I won't shoot him where he's got it on. If he's not, then this will do fine."
"I have a Desert Eagle, right here."
"I like my wrists intact, thank you. Not all of us wrestle bulls for fun."
Ben smirked. "That wasn't fun. That was tequila."
"You won, didn't you?"
"It was closer than it should have been. I have to tell people I had my appendix out now - that'll be interesting if it ever needs taking out for real."
"Just say you were born with two. You can have a write-up in Lancet."
"Already had one - most bullet-wounds survived in one go."
Clark looked up, momentarily distracted from his equipment check. "Really?"
"Yeah. Of course, that was back in '78. Nowadays with all the gang stuff going on over here in the States I don't think I'm even in the top five. Damn kids..."
Clark smiled and went back to his check.
"As for the rest of your stuff, do you really need two bits of metal pipe?"
"More than I can possibly say."
"Did you bring any grenades?"
"No. I don't like them."
Ben sucked in a breath over his teeth.
"It's a night club, Ben. Even a flashbang would cause collateral damage."
"You think you're going after a real piece of scum, you don't worry too much about minor collateral damage."
"I do."
"It'll come back to haunt you."
"I hope so - it'll mean I'm still alive."
"If this guy is that bad, let me help you," Ben offered, his voice only now becoming serious.
"No. I've had experience of guys like this."
"There's not much that I haven't seen - and if I haven't seen it, I need to know about it just in case."
Clark shook his head. "Maybe another time, Ben. This time I don't want to be looking after anyone else."
Ben snorted. "You're only up to eight ways, lad. I can look after myself."
"I know. If I'm not back in half an hour, call the police," Clark said, tossing Ben a mobile phone.
"If you're not back in half an hour, I'm coming in."
"I know that too. Call the police first, though, okay? Ask to speak to Sergeant Montgomery."
"Who's that?"
"No-one."
"Oh," Ben replied. He said no more - coded messages were a fact of his life.
Clark ran his gaze over the weapons one last time, before attaching each item into its place on the lightweight harness strapped to his body. He pulled a suit jacket out of his bag and slipped it on.
"How do I look?"
"Nothing showing. If you get patted down-"
Clark held up a diplomatic passport. Ben's eyes widened.
"Royalty? Been holding out on me?"
"You can't have one, if that's what you mean. And I'm not royalty. I just know some."
Ben snorted. "Royalty in the family, and you became a professional like me. Nice to know it's a walk of life open to anyone."
Clark didn't say anything.
*
"What did he do?"
"Nothing that the police could prove."
"What did you believe he did?"
"I believe he used his Force abilities to coerce women into-" Clark glanced in the direction of the kids' room, "-spending time with him. Then he mind-rubbed them. Sometimes he did it well, sometimes not. The only common factor for these women was the nightclub - and he was the owner."
"Did you know?"
"Did I know it was the owner when I walked in? No."
"When did you know?"
"When he walked up to me five seconds later and invited me to his VIP lounge. Royalty hath its privileges."
"What happened then?"
"We drank, we talked, and then..."
"Then?"
"Then I did what Sci would never ask me to do."
*
Getting into the club took longer than Clark had expected, but at least some part of that was down to the bouncer's apparent inability to read when presented with the Mendellian passport Clark carried with him. A few minutes passed, during which Clark leaned against a fire hydrant, brushing some lint off the sleeve of his coat.
"M. Clark?"
He looked up. The club's maitre'd stood before him, his expression a strange mix of the superciliousness native to one of his species and the apologetic native to one of his species when an actual VIP has been discomforted in some way.
"Should I take my passport and leave?" He affected the bored manner and faint accent common to Mendellian nobles who'd spent time overseas.
"Indeed no, sir, and I apologise for the delay. The owner of the establishment would like to invite you to join him this evening."
"I'd be delighted."
*
The club was heaving, and the length of the queue outside told Clark that any bad publicity had failed to become sufficiently public to harm the club's reputation - or perhaps it had helped? Human nature was a strange thing.
Clark almost smiled. If the latter was the case, he was about to test the partiers' capacity for bad news. He wondered if someone, somewhere, would use this night in studying societal migration patterns.
"M. Clark?"
It had taken less than ten seconds. Either the owner had already been on the floor, or he'd made it there fast from the VIP area.
Clark looked at him, taking in as much as he could in the time it took to frame a reply.
The man was in his early thirties, a few years older than Clark. He was a shade under six feet, and there was the suggestion of an athletic build. His skintone was difficult to make out in the flashing lights, but the slight upturn of his eyes suggested Oriental blood in his ancestry, although probably not a dominant bloodline. He wore a rollneck sweater and black trousers - indeed, everything he wore was black, down to the watch on his wrist, which must have made telling the time difficult.
"I am."
"Please forgive me the delay in bringing you in. We've entertained royalty in the past, but your passport was one we were unfamiliar with. I assure you that it will not happen again."
"Mendellia is a small nation. Few have heard of it, unless they're from the area."
"Nonetheless, royalty is royalty. May I ask how I should address you?"
"I'm scarcely royal at all, but the passport is useful at times. Getting into the hottest club in New York, for example."
He looked around as he said, taking in the décor and clientele with obvious approval. The other man smiled.
"It's nice to be appreciated, of course. My name is Owen, I'm the owner of this club."
"Mike," he held out a hand. The other man took it, and shook.
Firm grip, dry hands, Clark thought. Not bothered by my arrival. If he knows I'm armed, he's not showing it - but there'll be security everywhere, and they'll be armed too. A hint of excitement in his voice over 'royalty', though. He probably hasn't had anyone royal in here before, although he wants me to believe otherwise.
"Please, come and join me in my private bar for a drink."
"I'd be delighted."
The two men made slow progress through the club, with Owen stopping to meet and greet a number of people whom Clark failed to recognise, but who evidently had some caché in New York society. He suspected that the rate of progress was also designed to let him take in the richness of the club's interior, and he gave the matter his full attention. Thick silk banners hung from the ceiling. The carpet was a heavy woollen material that must have been difficult to clean. The wood panelling was real, if Clark was any judge, and clearly bespoke. The dance floor was mahogany, highly polished, and almost seemed to belong to a different age. If Clark was supposed to be impressed, he was - Owen had spent real money on furnishing his club, and his money would keep being spent keeping it in pristine condition.
Eventually they climbed up a roped-off spiral staircase and into a secluded area that, Clark noted, had lightly-tinted glass and which was set at an angle and elevation that made it almost impossible to see into from the lower levels. The pulsing throb of the music faded to a background hum as they passed through the switchback panels that prevented a hurried entrance to the area.
"Nice set-up," Clark commented. The room within was intimate, with space for a dozen or so people on couches and chairs. Two guards lurked in the shadows in one corner of the room. A small but extensively-stocked bar along the rear wall was tended by a woman in a basque, brief skirt, bowtie, fishnets and a top hat. Her presence struck Clark as incongruous, but he paid more attention to his host.
"I can run the club from here," Owen replied. He sunk into the largest chair, and a wave of his hand made a bank of monitors rise up behind him. Scenes from around the club played out on the monitors, and as Clark watched a security guard reached a long arm into a huddle of people and hauled out its centrepiece, pills and powder spilling from the young man's fingers.
"They don't learn," Owen said, distractedly. He picked up a radio as two more guards swept on-screen and quickly claimed the illegal merchandise.
"Tony, break a bone for each problem we've had tonight, then call the police. Captain Shepherd knows what we do here."
Clark filed the policeman's name away for future reference. He didn't especially object to the dealer's fate, even if he was at the club for bigger fish.
"Double redundancy on the doors," Owen said, turning back to Clark and pointing at the glass panels. "There's a separate air circulation system ready to go at a moment's notice, and small arms tucked away in a couple of hidden places. And that's just for starters."
"Prepared to hold off a siege?"
"I find it helps to be prepared. I'm a wealthy man, and this club is an indulgence, but that doesn't mean I should take my protection lightly." He stared intently at Clark, who felt a familiar sensation at the back of his neck. He glanced at the bartender, unwholesome thoughts flooding his mind. Owen smiled.
"She's something, isn't she?"
"She's unquestionably something," Clark replied. He turned to look at his host. "Not your usual staff uniform."
"You noticed? Well, you're quite right. If all my staff dressed like that, there'd be mayhem out there - even more than there is already."
He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. In the more sedate lighting of the VIP area, his skin was an even bronze.
"In here, though, anything goes. That's the same for me... and my friends."
He waved a hand and the woman immediately walked over to them, her hips swaying in a way that brought the word 'undulating' to mind. Her reactions were sharp, and Clark's eyes narrowed slightly. She had been very prompt in moving forward. Either she'd been expecting to be summoned... or she'd been prompted.
"She looks even better up close, doesn't she?"
Clark looked at her, and was well aware that the unwholesome thoughts on his mind weren't just there as a conscious response to what he'd felt before. The woman was the most attractive he'd seen in a very long time - dusky skin, with dark hair framing a beautiful, heart-shaped face. That on its own would have been enough to quicken Clark's pulse, but her costume did nothing - deliberately, he was sure - to hide the fact that her figure was of a type that men and women dream of, although not always for the same reasons.
"Exquisite," he replied, trying to catch the woman's eye. Her gaze remained fixed in the middle distance.
"And well behaved, too," Owen said. Clark felt the same sensation again. He concentrated on the woman.
"Is that so important?"
"Not all of us are royals with a staff of servants to cater to our every whim."
Owen smiled.
"Has she been with you long?"
"A few weeks."
Clark nodded. "You've done well to train her in that short a time. This kind of discretion or obedience or whatever you call it... It takes months, years even to train some people."
"I have my ways," Owen replied, tapping his temple, his smile widening. Clark smiled as well, certain now that he'd found the man he was looking for.
"Is it something you look for in all the women in your life?"
"Women and men - I know what I want, and I won't stand for disagreement."
"And have you always managed that?"
"Ha, I wish! My parents were fools. They tried to discipline me. Then, one day, they found out the hard way that I am my own man."
"As your name says."
The other man smiled still wider, revealing too many teeth.
"Well done. In ten years, no-one has noticed that before. Yes, I changed my name. There was some... unpleasantness, and sometimes it's best to be someone else."
"I understand. At home, the courtiers are used to hushing things up. Sometimes people expect too much from their handsome prince and... measures are necessary when they won't settle for a pay-off and a quiet marriage to a respectable member of the middle class."
"I knew when you walked in that you were a man like me," Owen said. The smile had faded a little, as though suddenly something were pressing on his mind. "Drink?"
"Red Bull."
"And a whiskey."
The girl turned and walked away, Clark's eyes following every sway as his mind raced.
"Do you not drink?"
"Never the first of the night."
"Sensible. Of course, I live above the shop, so it's not so much of an issue for me."
"Of course. Don't mind me, you go ahead and drink."
The girl came back with the drinks, setting them in front of Owen and Clark before returning to a dormant state by Owen's chair. He reached out absent-mindedly and laid a hand on her hip. Clark felt the sensation once more, and watched the woman sashay away. Tearing his eyes away from her departure, he settled back in his chair and regarded his host over the rim of his glass.
"You remind me of a man I once met. A German, a young lad... Well, I suppose he was much the same age as me. It was a long time ago. Life has made you your own man, Owen."
"Life makes us all what we are. I am free, unfettered, able to do what I want."
"And people fall in with you."
"Oh yes." He smiled, and tapped his temple once more. "Oh yes."
Owen tossed back his first drink. Clark sipped his own, and watched patiently as the waitress came forward once again and filled up Owen's glass. This time, he watched Owen, and didn't much like what he saw on the other man's face as he looked at the girl.
"Tell me about it. It's a handy trick to learn, and whenever I come across someone who can to it, they always say different things."
Owen laughed, and half his drink followed. Clark picked up the bottle from the tray and filled the glass again before she could move up.
"You can get me as drunk as you like: I'm only into women, your highness."
"I just want to make sure you tell me everything," Clark replied, staring the other man in the eye.
"Oh, I don't need to be drunk. It's just you, me, the girl and..."
He snapped his fingers, and waved the bodyguards to the doorway. They stepped through obediently, and the doors hissed shut behind them.
"Now we have privacy."
Clark glanced at the waitress.
"She'll say nothing."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because..." he drained the rest of his drink and tapped his temple once more.
"You are psychic then?"
"You don't seem surprised."
"It comes with being royalty. There are no secrets, and we have long memories. Psychics have... uses, for a royal family that wishes to remain royal in the face of revolutions."
"Keeping it out of the public eye is impressive."
"You're not common."
"I've always known that."
Clark smiled. The man was not without charm.
"There are never more than one, perhaps two, in a generation - and in some countries none at all. My family has imported those of your ability in the past."
"Are you here to do that now? I am a wealthy man, and serving others has no appeal."
"You could help determine the fate of nations, perhaps even the whole world."
"You hail from a minor island nation, your Highness. You seem very certain of your place in the world."
"My passport identifies me as coming from a minor island nation. My accent," Clark's voice changed, losing the Mendellian accent and returning to his normal one, "suggests an island nation rather more than minor."
"I see. That changes matters."
"We will require evidence of your abilities."
"Name it."
"Show me the extent of your influence." Clark looked out across the heaving dancefloor, momentarily struck by the apparent sight of so many people dancing in silence. "Start a fight out there."
Owen looked affronted. "My club has a reputation to maintain."
"You will be rewarded commensurate with your abilities. If you can start a fight between the people of my choice, you will be in for remuneration in the order of half a million pounds."
"A year? I make more-"
"A month. Tax free."
"I see. Well, I do like London."
"I would expect you to be located somewhere rural, in fact. Our experience tends to be that psychics can focus better in relative isolation."
He looked uncomfortable.
"I've never lived away from a city. I have certain... needs."
"Any drug or alcohol addictions, anything, in fact that can impair your abilities, will need to be overcome. Happily, our existing psychics will be able to teach you how to... rewrite the relevant areas of your mind."
"You have others?"
"Oh yes. But we are always looking for fresh blood. Your pay reflects your importance to our goals and future."
"Hmmm... Well, my needs are not to do with foreign substances. I enjoy whiskey, but in moderation. No, I have honed my abilities by pressing others into service."
"Others?"
"Women."
Clark frowned, projecting distaste that was not feigned, but rather reigned in.
"Hardly uncommon, but you will be provided with companions. It is in our interests to keep you happy, after all, and we do not want you exerting yourself unnecessarily."
"Well... I enjoy the power, but I imagine that the prestige will be a more than adequate replacement," Owen smiled, taking another drink. He was, Clark thought, about ready.
"Now, your subjects are those two men on either side of the dance floor - your bouncers, in fact. It should make for an entertaining brawl."
"Fine. I've not tried two before, but okay..."
He turned in his chair and reached out his hands, looking from one man to the other. As he worked, Clark sat back and took a drink, casting his mind back to another encounter with a telepath.
*
"I can tell that you're nervous."
"Yes, well, you don't need to be a Jedi to know that, Master Skywalker."
"True." The Grand Master of the Jedi Order smiled. "And you can call me Luke."
He let that one pass. It would be a long time before he felt comfortable enough to do that.
"I'm intrigued by the discovery that you and your colleagues have made. There are stories in Darth Sidious' records of him 'creating' Force sensitives capable of emulating Jedi and Sith techniques to some extent. It seems that he may have screened potential agents for a latent Force sensitivity, and then activating the powers of his chosen subjects. They would never be as strong in the Force as someone who was born with true sensitivity... but that would probably have suited his purposes. Let Palpatine and his apprentices wield the true power, while his agents could employ the most basic skills to impress those they were sent to keep in line."
They reached the end of the corridor. The lift doors opened at their approach, and Skywalker led the way into the lift without breaking stride. Clark followed him and the doors whisked shut, before the lift began to drop quickly and smoothly groundward.
"You think that's what happened to me?"
"It seems so. Corran was using the Force to sedate you while you were being operated on. When that connection was broken by an ysalamir field, the violence of the break seemed to awaken something in you. Then you were surrounded by Force-sensitives for a time - your own Captains Cochran and Boyd, Corran and Tyria. And then you were caught in an explosion that gutted half a palace. Small wonder that you were traumatised, even when we last met a few years ago."
"So... Big question: Can I use the Force?"
The lift came to a halt.
"Let's find out."
*
Clark stood up, the better to watch the chaos unfolding below. The bouncers were struggling to reach each other, but the crush of club patrons was forcing them further and further apart. It wasn't hard to see why - one had pulled a gun, the other a knife, and while a few of the clubgoers had probably seen weapons before, Clark was willing to bet few had handled them, and still fewer how to defend them.
He looked at Owen, and reached behind him, hand closing on the butt of the pistol clipped to back of his belt.
"Enough."
Owen spun around, and Clark's hand tightened on the gun. The other man's face was alive - and alight - with power.
"That was... amazing. I never knew... Touching so many minds... Pushing them, bending them to my will... Is that what I'll do in England?"
"As a matter of last resort. It's immoral to use your powers that way, but not as immoral as letting another country nuke you."
"No arguments from me. If it feels that good every time, I'll do whatever you ask. And when I'm trained..."
"That's why we keep several pyschics around. We understand how tempting it can be to have that kind of power, and there are checks in place to make sure you don't try and take over the country."
"Such as?"
"For a start, all the psychics monitor each other."
"Really? That seems-" He stopped. "Reasonable. Sensible, even."
"And then there's this," Clark said, drawing the gun and aiming at a point between and an inch above Owen's eyes. "Now, tell me, just how many women have you forced into sleeping with you?"
"Am I supposed to be intimidated?"
Owen flicked his fingers, and the gun was sent flying across the room. His other hand folded into a claw, and Clark found himself trapped, unable to do more than blink.
Owen smiled.
"I dislike the implication of 'forced'. I prefer 'emphatically seduced'. And as for you, little man, I think I'll walk up to Buckingham Palace tomorrow with your head in a bag and tell them how you tried to kill me. And while I'm there, I might just kill any other psychics I come across, after all, I doubt any of them can do what I can. I don't like competition - but I do like the idea of becoming the ruler of an entire country. I imagine I can find out what I need to know from you before I kill you."
He jabbed out his fingers, and Clark grimaced, closing his eyes as he felt the telepathic strike hit home.
*
Clark gasped as the lift doors opened.
"Lunch?"
He nodded dumbly as he followed Skywalker into the room, a dining hall peopled by dozens of individual clad in the garb of the Jedi.
"How do you feel?"
"Like I've just got into a hot bath after living on a cold planet for the last five years."
"Yes. Being able to feel the Force after being separated from it... Being around an ysalamir for any time can give me a similar feeling when I walk away."
Clark looked around.
"Why?"
"The power that Jedi possess, our ability to use the Force, certain Jedi can read it like an aura of sorts. Your bloodline, should it continue, may run along those lines. You were never meant to be sensitive to the Force yourself, and no amount of training will give you that power. However... Do you remember how you used the Force when you did have it?"
Clark nodded.
"Good. Have a seat. Master Sebatyne, Master Katarn, Jaden Korr, this is Mike Clark of Terra. He's going to be joining us for a time."
"Pleased to meet you," Korr said, reaching out a hand to shake. Sebatyne, a reptilian Barabel Jedi, nodded across the table. Katarn sized Clark up steadily.
"Cochran's sparring partner? The guy who uses a lightsabre without the Force?"
"Yes, that's me."
"I should teach you some tricks. He was sloppy when he came here. Needed a lot of remedial work."
"Really?" Clark beamed. "He didn't say."
"Korr here knocked him on his ass every day for a week before learned the three rings properly. For a big guy, he was no good at using his size to control a fight. He had to go back to the beginning - I'm not used to teaching Shii-Cho to guys who've been using a lightsabre for years."
"Well, Corran had about two days to train us, and then we were teaching each other."
"Yeah, well, I'd say you probably taught each other all you knew. Probably didn't take long."
Clark couldn't help but smile.
"Master Katarn, if you want a challenge, I would love to learn more about lightsabre duelling."
"I'll teach you what I can, if Master Skywalker is agreeable."
"Of course. I understand that you have your lightsabre with you?"
Clark reached behind him and unhooked the weapon from the custom harness he'd had made to hold it. He set it on the table, and the Jedi all leaned in to look at it.
"Brutal."
"Not all my own work - a nasty piece of work named Hierce got hold of it. Not that it was much to look at originally, I admit. I worked with what I had, which wasn't much, and never got around to cleaning it up."
"I've seen something like this in the archives... one of Palpatine's apprentices, right?"
Clark nodded. "Darth Maul carried a double-bladed lightsabre. It suited his aggressive style. When I built it... Well, I let the Force guide me."
"No need to be apologetic. This was the lightsabre of that moment," Skywalker said.
"It wasn't my design, but someone got hold of it and re-modelled it. If he'd had more time, he probably would have stuck horns to his head and tattooed his face to match Maul, too. I've been thinking of doing something with it, but I don't have the ability to rebuild it and have it work properly, anymore."
"I've made several," Korr commented. "Never felt the need to go for double-bladed, though. You give up range and speed, and I've never felt the advantages outweighed that."
"With strength, with speed, you can compensate. This one has trained with such a weapon, but mastery is another matter."
Sebatyne picked up the lightsabre and hefted it in her clawed hands.
"This weapon has been tainted by the dark side. It can be cleansed, but it will not be the same weapon afterwards."
"The construction of a lightsabre is a rite of passage. Perhaps you might think of rebuilding this one when you complete your training here?" Skywalker suggested.
"Well, I'd need to be able to use the Force to do that."
"Indeed. I would like a desert plum - the bowl over there, would you mind?" Skywalker pointed down the table to a bowl sat at the far end. Clark was about to stand, when Skywalker laid a hand on his arm. "From here. I believe you can do this."
Clark hesitated but, in truth, Skywalker's words struck a chord. He reached out with his right hand to the bowl of fruit and it lifted slowly into the air. Gradually it moved up the table until settling into place before Skywalker.
"Well, I was hoping just for one... but in fact these have always been a favourite of mine, thank you."
Clark smiled.
"Okay, that was great, but I didn't feel anyone channelling through me."
"No-one was - not deliberately, anyway. You drew on the Force from everyone within range. While you train here, we'll work out what that range is, and how much you can draw from a person. You may even be able to shut down another Force user, although I suspect that they'll have the edge if they've been properly trained..."
*
Clark's eyes snapped open. He shoved his arms forward, and the Force attack crashed back into Owen, sending him tumbling backwards over his chair.
"You never asked what happened with the German boy I met who was just like you," Clark said, reaching both hands behind his back.
Owen rose to his feet, his expression wary as he looked at Clark.
"What happened?"
"I killed him, and you're going to have to work very hard for me not to kill you too."
Owen gestured and the bottle of whiskey flew up at Clark's face. He threw up an arm and a blue blade erupted from his hand, slicing the bottle cleanly in two and briefly igniting the spirit within. Owen's eyes widened in horror as he took in the sight of the other man standing before him, twin energy blades clutched in his hands.
"No, no, this isn't happening!"
He threw out his hands and tendrils of violet lighting cracked out from his fingers. Clark threw up one blade to catch the attack, which sputtered for a few seconds before fading.
"That fear you feel is how your victims must have felt as you crushed their resistance. You could have done so much good with your gifts," he said, his tone neutral as Owen backed himself up against the thick glass. "If you'd shown remorse, if you'd even just thought you were that good with women, I might have taken pity on you. As it is, I'm going to make sure that Owen dies tonight."
"Wait! I can give you money, I can give you anything!"
"I don't want anything - anything, except a world where you're no longer hunting down the helpless. Do me a favour..."
He concentrated, his stomach churning as he consciously drew on the other man's power in earnest for the first time. The window behind Owen cracked, splintered, and finally shattered, adding further chaos to the last of the partiers as they pushed for the door. Clark hoped no-one would be hit by the glass, but the power had been difficult to control.
"Jump. Save me the trouble."
Owen teetered on the edge, glancing over his shoulder before turning with a snarl. He lunged forward, caution forgotten as he powered though the air. Clark backhanded him across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"I could have taken your head off. I'm giving you a chance to live."
He laid one blade an inch from Owen's cheek. The other man groaned, one hand clasped across his nose. Clark had felt it crumple under his hand.
"I wouldn't even feel it if I put this through you now. Neck, heart, gut - you'd be dead wherever."
"Then kill me and have done with it. My security system will have a hundred photos of you, and you'll burn for this."
"No, I won't. Your security system is compromised, and all it will show of tonight is your bouncers and you going crazy before you burn this place down."
"I will never-"
"No. You'll be dead. I'll be doing the burning. Last chance - walk away, or die here."
"You'll let me walk?" Owen asked. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and stared dubiously at Clark.
"I may have to carry you. For you to walk, I'm going to have to wipe your memory."
"You're a psychic too."
"I am - and a powerful one, but my training was a little limited when it comes to memory erasure. You might retain your basic motor skills, or you may end up as helpless as a new-born child, dependent on others to take care of your every need. Helpless. No guarantees. Just tell me how many women you forced to do what you wanted."
"I'd rather die."
Clark swung.
He looked around. The girl stood in the back of the room, her expression still blank. He reached out with his mind, feeling the last vestiges of Owen's power fading as he did so. The tight lock that had been placed on her mind was fading too, although he thought it might be some time before she had full control. He settled for planting a suggestion in her mind that she get dressed and go home. It was the best that he could do, and he was sorry it wasn't more. As Owen's latest companion, he was sure that with freedom would come horror, disgust and a helping of self-loathing. He hoped that she had someone to turn to... and realised as he thought it that he was still watching her hips sway. He grimaced, and chastised himself. The woman walked downstairs, pausing to fetch a long coat from the cloakroom, and walked out of the door. With the dregs of Owen's power, Clark pushed out a sensory sphere throughout the building, and nodded as it faded. He was alone.
He stowed his lightsabres and, after a moment's thought, retrieved his pistol. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a glass vial and regarded its carefully segmented contents. Dropping on the ground, he crushed the glass under his heel and stirred the powders and granules together. After a few seconds the mixture began to smoke a little, before igniting into a flame that burned hot and fast, spreading across the carpet at Clark's heels as he dashed to the door.
He took the stairs three at a time, pausing at the bottom to pull out two more vials. One he crushed on the carpet at the foot of the stairs, the other he broke on a hanging banner, and quickly made for the door as it erupted into flames that raced ceilingward, to the gathering of material where all the hanging banners came together. Clark paused at the door, one hand on the fire alarm as he took in his handiwork, in particular the flaming banners plummeting one by one from their hangings onto the floor below. Drawing a second, smaller pistol from a hidden pocket in his coat he quickly took aim and vapourised several windows, letting more air in, and letting the smoke out. That, he hoped, would prevent people coming in if they saw the miraculous lack of a queue.
He yanked at the alarm, and almost jumped at the lack of response - but then, it would be alerting the authorities rather than the clubgoers. Any fire in the main area wouldn't go unnoticed for long.
He stepped out into the night air, already noticeably cooler than the heated air within the club. The blacked out windows prevented the flames from being seen, but the missing windows were now billowing smoke. Over the sound of traffic, he could hear the mini-explosions as the bottles of alcohol inside the club reached their individual points of no return. He could also hear sirens, and made his way back to the van quickly, but without undue haste.
"Want to leave?" Ben asked, as he closed the door. "Seems like you were the last one out."
"I hope so."
"Leave anyone alive in there?"
"No."
"Leave anyone dead in there?"
Clark shot him a look. The older man sat back in his seat, hands on the steering wheel.
"What did they do?"
"He had multiples. Most of them bad."
"Just one?"
"The one that counted. The police can clean up the lackeys."
"Hmmm."
They sat in the van, parked in shadow under an elevated rail line, watching from behind tinted windows. Clark wondered where the van had come from, but knew that Ben had contacts worldwide. He suspected that the van would be repainted, retagged and possibly even refitted after their use, in order that any trace of their presence was removed.
Outside, firefighters and police were cordoning off the building. Hoses pumped water through the doors and windows. After an hour, it was clear that the fire wasn't going to be put out by normal means.
"Seems like a hot one. You used an accelerant?"
"Yes."
"Must be a good one."
"Yes."
"Out of professional interest-"
"You can't have any."
Ben exhaled, exasperatedly.
"They're going to have pull it."
"Yes."
"Which you planned for."
"Yes."
"To cover your tracks."
"And to wipe that place off the face of the earth. Some places are just tainted. Better to start from scratch."
"I don't suppose anyone'll be claiming on the insurance tomorrow."
"Couldn't say."
"Are you always this chatty on a mission?"
"Are you?"
Ben smiled.
"Fair point. Whatever you did in there... It's not the way I'd have done it. I always preferred the air vents for a mission like that. It took guts to walk in the front door."
"Never underestimate the stupidity of the other side, Ben. Sometimes they're just lining up to be taken down."
"True enough. Seen enough?"
"Yes. I think we've been disinterested observers long enough. It's not interesting any more."
Ben started the engine, checked his mirrors, indicated, and pulled out into the light flow of early hours traffic.
"I saw the windows do something interesting."
"Your eyes must be playing tricks on you in the dark. Or it could be age, of course."
"You hear stories, in the merc business. Some interesting tech's been spotted on the black market."
"There's always something to keep buyers interested."
Clark stared out of the window, willing his companion to continue.
"It was only going to be a matter of time before someone weaponised a laser."
"So I hear."
"Why do I get the feeling that you're playing at a level above what I'm used to?"
"I couldn't say."
"Hmmm."
They sat in silence through the traffic as Ben navigated a circuitous route back to the chop shop in Hunts Point where they'd collected the van. They picked up their hire car - it had been valeted, which Clark thought was a nice touch - and head back towards Newark Airport.
"This is my business, Mike. In any business, information is power - and if I need to be prepared for lasers, then I need to be prepared for lasers."
Clark looked out the window, wishing that his old Major was around to shield the truth with a bodyguard of lies.
"The accelerant is a powerful one," he said at last. "It's a new invention from a friend who works in Hollywood. It's not illegal, yet, just too powerful to ever get a commercial license." A lie, but not a major one.
"Okay."
"I think the military are looking at tank-mounted lasers, but so far as I'm aware the power supply necessary so far makes them impractical to convert into handguns." Not a lie.
"What happened to the glass?"
"Superheated and cheap, at a guess." A lie, but not a major one.
"Hmmm."
"The man I went after was... gifted. I have a standing contract to bring in or take down anyone with his talents." Not a lie.
"Talents?"
"The chances of encountering someone like that in the field are so small as to be non-existent. If you ever do, it'll be because I screwed up and didn't get there first."
"Still..."
"You ever go to the cinema, Ben?"
"Sure."
"See The Men Who Stared At Goats? Or X-Men? Or Carrie? Or how about this: You did merc work during the Cold War. You've worked with different governments, and one of those was the American government. So, are you familiar with Project Stargate?"
"The fake psychics? Yes."
"Yeah. Turns out that some people do have psychic powers." Not a lie.
Ben didn't respond. Clark suspected he was turning the idea over in his mind.
"The Soviets?"
"Maybe. They're not on my consultation list right now, and information coming out of that part of the world is still a bit unreliable." Not a lie.
"The Middle East?"
"Once." Probably not a lie. Sahhar hadn't shown up in any records, but odds are that he was from that general area.
"Right." Ben's tone made it clear he understood.
"What is this, some government experiment gone wrong?"
"Michael Jordan, Mozart, Richard Feynman, some random guy in some random country somewhere in the world..." Not a lie.
"And it's your job to find them."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because power corrupts." Not a lie.
"Why you?"
"There are psychics, and there are those who psychics can't get a grip on." Not a lie.
"I see. Anything I can do if I find one of them?"
"Depends how good they are, and how suggestible you are. Some just come across as charismatic. Some can make you forget what you're doing. Some can make you shoot your teammates."
"Right. No tech to counter it?"
"No." Not a lie. Ysalamirs, it had been determined, wouldn't fit into Earth's ecology.
"If I run into one-"
"Give me a call. I'll be there quickly. I have quite a lot of clout... provided I only use it for legitimate purposes."
"Right."
Ben wasn't happy, that much was clear. On the other hand, he was too experienced to expect the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Clark wondered about giving him the full briefing... but better, on the whole, not to spread the word too wide. The Terra Irregulars worried Clark, but so far there was no evidence of a leak... and really, wasn't he an Irregular too? Only Sci's absence had prevented him being formally decommissioned. Kristy had been too reluctant to stand him down for Clark to press the issue.
They boarded their flight without incident. Ben didn't ask where Clark had stashed his weapons, and Clark extended him the same courtesy. That the barrel-chested mercenary might have not been carrying some form of weaponry was a thought that never crossed his mind - but he did wonder how the older man coped without the sensor baffles Clark had fitted into the lining of his bag.
Landing back in England, they boarded the airport shuttle bus which whisked them to the private terminal where their helicopter lay waiting. Clark climbed tiredly aboard, taking the pilot's seat but letting Ben run through the pre-flight checks, including a sweep for bugs, just in case.
"You should sleep."
"Not when I'm flying. Just can't do it."
"Sure you're not thinking about what happened in New York? Doesn't make you less of a man, or anything."
Clark thought of the death of Owen, a man who had used and abused anyone who caught his fancy.
"I know, but that's not bothering me. It wasn't the first time. Chances are it won't be the last time, either."
"Sure you're okay with that?"
"Yes. I am."
*
"Was he the only one?" Becki asked. They'd walked over to the Royal Suite, and she'd made tea.
"There was another, in London, in fact. That was fun, sort of - a midnight rooftop chase through the City and the West End, trying to keep him in range so I could use his powers to keep up with him. It was like juggling cats."
"Juggling cats?"
"You'd be surprised how boring it can get, sat on a quiet airfield waiting for the one scheduled flight to come in."
"What happened to him?"
"He saw sense. I think he was more scared of his powers than anything. He can't have been more than fifteen or sixteen."
"Did you wipe his memory?" she asked.
"No. I called in some help from outside. Corran and Mirax came and picked him up."
"You sent a teenager off-planet?"
"Would it help if I said he was an orphan?"
"I don't know. Was he?"
"No. Corran handled that side of things."
"'Handled' it?"
"His immediate family relocated with him. His wider family were informed that they were moving away to make a new start. E-mails and Facebook accounts will be available to them, and the NRI will be screening all updates. It's not perfect, wing, but it's the best we can come up with," he said, with a shrug. "We're not set up to take in a padawan, not these days."
"And that's everyone?"
"Everyone that's dangerous, yes. Sahhar, Owen, and Hierce are dead. The kid in London is far, far away. Brad's accounted for. Vickie's... somewhere in America, and Josh is here."
"You know where Vickie is?" she asked, surprised.
"I know approximately, yes. She wanted privacy, and that's what she's getting."
"You said dangerous..."
"I know you well enough to know how quickly you think, wing. We've got contingency plans in place for planetary invasions, for our tech getting out there, for knowledge of our existence getting out there... But we can't stop there. Of course Josh and Vickie are dangerous. In terms of sheer ability, access to materiel, influence and connections, Josh may be the most dangerous man on the planet. I'd be remiss not to keep an eye on him. I don't doubt that he'd die before betraying us... but I'm not gambling the lives of everyone on this planet on that assumption. That's the level of danger Josh represents... and you know he'd be the first to take me to task if he thought I was taking that lightly."
"I suppose. I just remember the times when you were the joker in the pack, wing."
"I still am, Becki. Just remember that the joker can be played as a wild card sometimes, and you're fine."
He smiled and drained the last of his tea. Standing up, he sketched a short bow, and turned to leave.
"Mike?"
"Yes."
"Thayer has access to the same materiel Josh does. He's got connections, he's got influence, he's got power... If you've got a contingency plan for Josh, have you-"
"Wing," he replied, the word falling across her sentence with the weight of a granite slab.
"Oh..." The Queen of Mendellia stood up, and turned to face her team-mate. "And, of course, anything that can be said of my husband... can be said of me..."
He didn't reply. She closed the distance between them, holding his gaze.
"I trust you, wing, but... is there anyone that you trust?"
He sighed, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
"No."
Becki reached out and took her team-mate's hand. "Find someone, Mike. For you - before we have to develop another contingency plan."
He smiled crookedly.
"Give me some credit, wing. I didn't leave myself out."
"You mean-"
"Thayer, Sci and Ben all have access, if needed. Sci's is a bit out of date, of course, but I imagine he's been keeping an eye on things and updating it himself.
"Now, get some sleep, your Majesty. Even if Josh doesn't give us an early take-off tomorrow, I imagine your kids will be awake before you want them to be anyway."
He turned and left the room, leaving his wingmate alone with her thoughts.