FORSAKEN - Target: Zero

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Jarriss sat at the common table, reading Words of Truth, while listening to Wroonian blues over the subdued sound of Theleema and Elynn fencing in the cargo hold. A glass of Quanya rested by him. His hand moved down the holobook fast before going to the next page.

A weary Syrran came out of the lift, rubbing his eyes. He headed to the galley to pour himself a glass of Ardees. "No offense, but how are you able to read?" he said.

"I can perceive the light modulations. I don't read the words, I sense them. It's been a long time since I read this book," Jarriss said. "It makes more sense now than it did back when Dooku published it—how ironic."

Syrran plopped in the chair across from him. "Yeah, well... insightful thoughts badly executed. Not the only example I know."

"You mean the Jedi?" Jarriss put the book down.

"Among others."

"I can't argue with that. Is Gorin taking over?" Jarriss waved at the lift with his glass before drinking.

"No." Syrran rubbed his face. "He just wants some space; he's tinkering with the bowcaster and talking shop with Ilum. Addia?"

"Napping." Jarriss drank to make a pregnant pause. "This thing you do—the Force navigation—I've never heard of it."

"It's kind of my thing."

"Huh... is it worth it? You look positively drained. How much time can we be saving?"

"By my calculations? Four days. We need to make up for the time it took us to go help you." Syrran had some of his Ardees.

"I stand corrected." An impressed Jarriss raised his glass to him. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"You may but be quick. I need to get some sleep, if I plan to keep this up."

"Certainly. Where are you from originally?"

"Pantora. But I was raised at the Jedi Temple in Coruscant from an early age."

"Is that so?"

"If you're going to say something about my eyes, it better be something original. I've heard it all growing up—some of them were rather creative."

"Understandable. How about this? Your eyes are not red because of any mutation known to affect Pantorans. If I were to make an educated guest, I'd say they do so to detect a wider range of the light spectrum than most sentient species, which will make you a bone fide member of a totally different species. One that, based on darker pigmentation of your blue dermis, comes from a frigid environment where levels of oxygen are lower than those found in the marshes of Pantora.

"Now, you can claim you were born in Orto Plutonia, which you didn't. And, if know my pan-species anatomy right—and I do—I can point out your facial bone structure is decidedly more angular, your cheekbones and sides of your frontal bone are more pronounced, than a Pantoran.

"Of course, you have the facial tattoos of a noble house. That could certainly be faked. But being a former Jedi, it means you would be potentially in contact with members of the Pantoran Assembly, as well as dignitaries, and diplomats, exposing the ruse. Since I don't recognize the house they belong to, I'd venture they belong to an obscure and inconsequential one. Is that original enough?"

"Elementary, my dear doctor." An unbothered Syrran finished his drink. "You would have made an excellent investigator. I guess this is the part where I kill you and throw you out the airlock. Lucky for you, I can barely lift a finger"

"No lengthy monologue to explain why the deception?"

"Let's just say, some secrets are better left unearthed."