Continued from 'Original Sin'...

As the landing struts of his shuttle touched down within the belly of the Whaladon, Vega Van-Derveld sat in the dark of the ships cockpit and indulged in a private moment of relish. The security co-ordinates which had allowed him to infiltrate one of the most heavily guarded vessels within the Wheel had been accepted without question, his cover-story – that he was an Alliance specialist arriving to assist in essential maintenance – had not been challenged.

It was exactly as Darth Acera had planned.

There were men waiting to welcome him as he descended the shuttles boarding ramp, their attention divided between the new arrival and data cards of information that they were examining. Van-Derveld's footsteps echoed heavily as he lurched down the ramp, something almost arachnid to his gait. Awareness creeping over them, the Alliance crew felt their gazes pulled away from their data cards to the figure approaching them. His skin was white, his eyes as cold and empty as space and in his hand he carried a lightsaber.

With a snap-hiss the blood-red blade came to life.

Ripples of fear spread through the hangar as shocking realisation dawned upon those closest to Vega's shuttle – but he was on them before they could react. The rancid scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, thrilled his senses, as he struck down one then two, the third struggling to get away as a concussive burst of telekinetic energy slammed into his back and sent him sprawling on his stomach.

The messenger of death spoke with a hollow voice, his words laced with the venomous power of the Dark Side:

“Take me to the Jedi.”