Schematics

[Gambit]

Schematics (Arc 2)

Coruscant

In the week that followed Dexter’s arrival in the Omniverse, the young Prime settled rapidly into his life at Gizmo Labs. Still lacking tangible memories of the time prior to encountering Omni’s grinning silhouette, he felt it prudent and logical to take the sweeping changes that had come over his life in stride. One thing was for sure, for a keen scientific mind such as Dexter’s, Coruscant offered no shortage of marvels to whet his intellectual appetite. He had not yet ventured out of Gizmo Labs, and indeed spent most of his time in his tiny living quarters, and yet he counted that first week among the most exhilarating of his life.

In total, seventeen people lived in the underground compound. Aside from Gizmo and Baxla, there were seven other HARPY pilots, a handful of computer hackers, and two silent custodians who scurried down the long corridors night and day in their tireless upkeep of Gizmo’s laboratories. The furthest from a social creature, and still not fully trusting his duplicitous hosts, Dexter kept to himself unless summoned, content to pore through the stack of volumes detailing every known aspect of the Omniverse, which Baxla had provided him with on the night of his arrival.

Above it all, though—above every interaction with Baxla and Gizmo—, Dexter felt a looming presence, the inevitability of the mission Gizmo seemed so sure the young Prime would carry out.

Dexter had not heard mention of the schematics again, neither out loud nor picked up by his newfound mental abilities, but a hush often descended on the room when he entered, all eyes looking determinedly anywhere but at him. Had he not known better, he would have attributed it to the simple presence of a newcomer, particularly of a Prime, a group Dexter quickly realized was a very small minority of the Omniverse’s inhabitants. Still, he felt safe enough and relished the opportunity to learn and better prepare himself for the oncoming trials.

In one of the towering volumes of Omniverse history, Dexter discovered a passage about a Prime that piqued his interest: Tearan Wover. Among the most powerful Primes in the Omniverse, Tearan Wover’s domain was that of the mind, bending and shaping physics like clay to suit his purposes. An adept telepath, the passage stated, Tearan could convey his thoughts directly into the minds of others as easily as speaking the words aloud and could listen in on the thoughts or telepathic conversations of others.

Dexter felt he had his answer. It had to be telepathy that allowed him to overhear the conversations between Baxla and Gizmo, or Baxla and the guard outside the gate to Coruscant. Because he had not ‘overheard’ any more conversations since that first night, he posited the ability only came to him in times of danger or stress. To truly excel as a Prime, though, Dexter knew he had to gain a better understanding of his telepathy, to refine his abilities.

Even beyond that, when he walked into a room and everyone got quiet, Dexter wanted—needed to know why.

[Gambit]

It was late, even by the standards of the young Prime, who spent hours each night poring over the dense historical volumes.  Dexter sat cross-legged on the military-style cot, his eyes closed and his hands on his knees, palms turned upward.  Only the dying flicker of candlelight illuminated the room.

The history books went into great detail concerning telepathy, particularly where Tearan Wover appeared.  Debilitating foes with a barrage of mental images, implanting fears and compulsions into their behavior, speaking to allies across great distances and even across the many realms of the Omniverse.  The list of abilities extended far beyond telepathy, Dexter soon learned.  Other Primes could command the elements, become invisible, grow to gargantuan proportions or shrink to the size of a cell phone, and even manipulate the flow of time.  While these abilities were impossible on Earth, at least at the point on the timeline in which Dexter had existed, nevertheless there appeared to Dexter to be an underlying logic, a binding set of principles keeping all Primes in check and preventing the Omniverse from being torn apart by the violation of its physical laws.  It called to mind the words of Arthur C. Clarke, from Earth: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.  Dexter felt he had stumbled upon a place where Clarke’s words were put to the test, and passed.

As his second week in Gizmo Labs came to an end, Dexter felt more tension growing between him and his hosts.  He sensed instinctively that the request for him to retrieve the mysterious schematics was imminent.  There would be danger, he assumed--some threat that prevented Gizmo, seemingly a more powerful Prime than Dexter, from putting himself in harm’s way.  Given their proclivity for falsehoods, he suspected their request would be laden with half-truths and a downplaying of the risks.  If Dexter had learned one thing in his two-week tenure at the labs, it was that Gizmo was single-minded in his hatred of the Empire, and anyone who joined in his crusade was expendable.
Not that Dexter disagreed, necessarily.  The history of the Omniverse didn’t view Palpatine and the Empire favorably, describing their rise to power and the questionable ethics allowing them to maintain their tenuous hold.  While Dexter took no issue with Gizmo’s crusade, he also questioned the wisdom of getting involved in a conflict much larger than himself.  His first and only run-in with the agents of the Empire had almost killed him.  It seemed to Dexter he would be better served seeking a safe haven where he could gather more information and expand his mental abilities.

To the end of self-preservation, Dexter decided it was past time to learn more about the ulterior motives of his hosts.  

Turning within himself, coaxing forward his latent abilities, Dexter sent out a pulse.  By his estimation, the telepathy functioned much like radar.  Dexter, the transmitter, sent out a telepathic signal.  If the signal encountered the consciousness of anyone nearby him, Dexter, also the receiver, became aware almost instantly of their presence.  He could then attempt to infiltrate the mind of his unwitting target, gleaning thoughts and eavesdropping on conversations without, at least thus far, he thought, being detected.

Dexter followed the path of his pulse as it spread past his quarters, a great wave filling every corner of the long corridors and the various laboratories and common areas.  At this hour he expected to discover only the distant stirrings of the sleeping pilots and hackers.  When the pulse returned, though, he detected two minds, quite awake and buzzing with activity: Gizmo and Baxla.

Still wary of Gizmo’s power and the consequences of being detected, Dexter slipped quietly into Baxla’s mind and listened intently to their conversation.

--starting to think this isn’t a great idea, boss.

Then I guess it’s a good thing you don’t make the decisions around here, crud-muncher.

He isn’t ready, Baxla pressed.  He didn’t come from a world like you did.  He isn’t used to fighting.  You’ll get him killed.

Doesn’t matter what happens to that pit-sniffer, Gizmo said.  All I need is a useful idiot to distract Rex and Ultan.  You and I will take care of the rest.

What if he says no?

You remember the last time you told me no?  We have ways of making him comply.  And if that doesn’t work, there’s always room in the dungeons for another Prime who doesn’t follow orders.

But--

I’ve had enough of your stinking doubts.  Ask him tomorrow, or I’m gonna send you in his place.

Dexter felt the shudder of fear coursing through Baxla at the notion of having to get the schematics himself.  Fine.

Tomorrow, Gizmo reiterated, first thing… or else.

Dexter eased out of Baxla’s mind, careful not to leave any trace of his infiltration.  His stomach roiled and churned with unease.  The conversation confirmed all of his thoughts, and all of his fears.  He had stumbled into a situation he couldn’t begin to control.  In fact, it was far worse than he expected.  Gizmo knew Dexter was unprepared and didn’t care.  He only planned to use the young Prime as a distraction while he stole the schematics himself, a ‘useful idiot’ as he so ruthlessly described it.

Yet what choice did Dexter have in that moment?  As far as he knew, there was no way out of Gizmo Labs without the express permission of its namesake.  Dexter had wandered every inch of the place, when sleep eluded him and his eyes ached from the long hours of reading by candlelight.  Never had he seen an exit from the underground compound, and given Gizmo’s threats, upon which Dexter had no doubt the obnoxious and sociopathic Prime would act, he expected Baxla, the closest he had to a friend in the Omniverse, would not help him to escape.

Ever a rational being, Dexter knew his only choice was to accept the suicidal mission, if only as a means to escape from who he now knew to be his captors.  He resolved himself to obey Gizmo’s commands the next day when the request came, although he had no intention of following through with the mission.  While he held no love for the Empire after reading the atrocities described in his history books, he knew they at least provided Primes under their scope of command with autonomy and agency, the freedom to pursue their own desires so long as they pledged loyalty to Emperor Palpatine.  The information Dexter now possessed supported his original instinct: they were far preferable captors to the Gizmo, the bald-headed maniac.  

Breaking his pose and reclining back, pulling the coarse woollen blanket up to his chest, Dexter began the fruitless quest for sleep.  The next day’s trials promised to be taxing, but Dexter knew one thing: he would be ready.

[Gambit]

Early the next morning, Dexter found Baxla in the cantina, a whimsical name for the cafeteria where gray, nondescript piles of greasy food were served three times a day at predetermined hours by one of the two silent custodians.  Exhaustion hovered around Dexter, who had tossed and turned fitfully for the remainder of the pre-dawn hours, like a cloud, but on this morning the young Prime couldn’t afford to lose his edge.  Anticipation sharpened his senses as a whetstone did a dull blade.

As Dexter expected, Baxla seemed to suffer from the same impediment.  The pilot regarded Dexter wearily from his stool, dark circles ringing his eyes and his straw-colored hair sticking out at odd angles.  He nursed a steaming cup of coffee, hunched over the bar with fatigue.  They were alone, the cantina empty at this early hour, silent save for the clang of pots and pans from the kitchen, doubtlessly one of the custodians preparing breakfast.

Dexter eased himself into the chair beside Baxla with an uneasy smile.  “Morning.”

Without responding, Baxla fished a metal flask from the pocket of his jumpsuit and untwisted the cap.  He tipped a generous amount of amber liquid into his coffee, then took a sip and sighed audibly.

Dexter tipped an inquisitive eyebrow.

“If the coffee’s gonna taste like shit it might as well have booze in it,” the pilot said, almost apologetically.  He flashed a look at Dexter as if seeking the Prime’s approval.

“To each his own,” Dexter allowed.  

“Want some?”  Baxla extended the flask.

Dexter shook his head.  He had never had so much as a sip of alcohol.  The consequences of addiction had hung like a pall over most of the Prime’s childhood, scaring him off of the stuff at a young age.

Tense sIlence descended over the pair.  Dexter struggled to think of something innocuous to say--something to keep from giving away his secret knowledge of what was coming.  Small talk had never been Dexter’s strong suit.

Fortunately, Baxla spoke first.  The pilot shifted uneasily on his stool to face Dexter.  “Eh, listen, Dexter.  There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“What is it?”  Dexter tried his best to look innocent.  

“Well, it’s been a couple weeks now,” Baxla said, frowning, “and, don’t get me wrong, we’re more than happy to have you.  But, uh, the thing is… is, things are really heating up right now with the Empire, and we’re hoping you’re ready to start contributing.”  He drank deeply from the mug clutched in his white-knuckled hands and sighed, relieved as much by the liquor as by the weight that must certainly have been lifted from his shoulders after he got the words out.  Indeed, the pilot seemed instantly to uncoil, the tension dissipating.

For all his preparation, Dexter wasn’t sure how to respond.  Would a quick yes seem too eager, almost as if he knew the question was coming?  Would it tip Baxla off to the Prime’s blossoming psionic abilities?  Baxla’s tactic seemed to be guilting him into agreeing, drawing on the two weeks of free accommodations Dexter had enjoyed.  Dexter had absorbed a great deal of abstract information from the stack of dusty, historical tomes, but they had done little to aid the social intuition the Prime had always lacked.  In some ways, Dexter mused, he had more in common with the HARPY than he did its pilot.

“I might not be of much use,” Dexter said, praying the long pause preceding his answer had given nothing away.  “Two weeks isn’t long where the strength of a Prime is concerned.”

Baxla nodded solemnly.  “True enough, but Gizmo is pretty insistent.  Don’t worry though, we don’t need you to fight or anything like that.  Just a little reconnaissance, is all.  Matter of fact, your lack of strength and the fact no one knows who you are might be your best qualities for this mission.”

“Reconnaissance,” Dexter echoed, feigning ignorance.  “You mean like a stake out or something?”

“Pretty much.”  Baxla brightened.  “All we need you to do is--”  The pilot stopped talking abruptly at the sound of approaching footsteps.  Two of the HARPY pilots, both younger than Baxla, slouched into the cantina and headed straight for the coffee pot, giving no indication they had even seen the pair sitting at the bar.

Nevertheless, Baxla stood, draining his mug, and said, “Why don’t you come with me?”

Perplexed, Dexter followed him out of the cantina.  Their footsteps echoed loudly in the early morning stillness as they made for the hangar, where row after row of the deadly HARPYs hung from ceiling hooks, awaiting repairs or commissioning for one mission or another.  The pilots, who to a man were misfits, exiles, and criminals from all walks of Coruscant life, used the winged robots for all their business above ground, avoiding the dangerous presence of Judge Dredd and the rest of the Empire’s ‘security forces.’  As far as Dexter knew, none of them even knew the way out of Gizmo Labs.  Maybe they were unwitting prisoners just like him.

They entered the hangar and Baxla shut the door behind them with a gentle click.  At this hour, the pilot stations, which reminded Dexter of old arcade games where you sat behind a drawn curtain and drove a racecar or gunned down generic bad guys, were all empty.

As soon as he confirmed they were alone, Baxla wheeled around and fixed Dexter with a panicked stare.  “We don’t have much time.  I’m lying to you,” he said plainly.  “It’s bullshit, all of it.”

“What do you mean?” Dexter asked, genuinely confused.

“Gizmo’s ‘resistance,’ my happening to run into you at the fountain in the Nexus, the reconnaissance mission.  It’s bullshit.  All of it.”  Baxla’s breath came in sharp gasps.  His breath, Dexter now noticed, reeked of alcohol.  Clearly the drink he gulped down in the cantina hadn’t been his first.

To Dexter, of course, most of Baxla’s confession wasn’t new information to Dexter.  Thankfully the Prime still managed to look astonished, if not by the revelation itself than by Baxla’s haggard appearance and slurred admission of guilt.  Something the pilot said piqued his curiosity, though.

“The resistance?” Dexter asked.

“Bullshit,” Baxla slurred again.  “All he did was round up a bunch of criminals, turn them into HARPY pilots, and put them to work serving his own ends.  He says he sees some bigger picture, that he’s trying to bring down the Empire, but that bald little fuck has bigger plans.  Big enough to throw you to the wolves I guess, but I won’t let him.  Your life isn’t worth the damn schematics.”

“My life?” Dexter echoed, latching onto the last sentence of Baxla’s semi-coherent rant.  “You know Primes can’t die, right?”

Baxla surprised him with harsh laughter, baring his teeth in a humorless grin.  “Trust me, Dexter.  When the Empire gets their hands on you, there are fates far worse than death.”

“What are the schematics for?” Dexter asked, his composure faltering as fear flooded through him.  “How can you be sure Gizmo isn’t trying to use them to hurt the Empire?”  Of course, Dexter already knew Gizmo to be a lying psychopath.  The Prime was just fishing for information, curious what else he could learn from Baxla in the pilot’s inebriated state.

“Well,” Baxla said, “they do belong to the Empire.  There’s just no one good skilled enough to use them.  The difference is, the Empire keeps them locked up in the Archives, whereas Gizmo… well, you’ve seen what that weasely little genius can do.”  The pilot swept a hand out wide, indicating the rows of vicious HARPY robots.

“So what do we do?” Dexter asked.

“You get the fuck out of here.  That’s what you do,” Baxla said.  He spun on his heel and crossed the room, stopping in front of a tall shelf overflowing with tools and spare HARPY parts.  The room’s dull fluorescent light cast his warped, distorted shadow across the room as he began to drag it out from the wall, huffing and groaning with the exertion.  It took several long moments for the shelf to budge.  It scraped and squealed across the linoleum floor, revealing what appeared to be a crawl space.

“Get in here,” Baxla wheezed.  “In about fifty yards you’ll hit the sewer.  You’ll have to find your way to the surface from there.”

Dexter didn’t budge.  “No.”

“No?” Baxla repeated, his expression caught somewhere between fear and anger.  “What do you mean, no?  I just told you: it’s a set up.  Gizmo is the villain in this story, Dexter.  It won’t end well for you.”

“But we have the advantage,” Dexter said, a sly smile creeping onto his angular face.  “He doesn’t know we know.”

Baxla paused, gulping air.  

“Look, you say Gizmo is evil, right?  A villain?  Well, it sounds like we can kill two birds with one stone here.  Keep the schematics out of Gizmo’s hands, but still take them away from the Empire.  I say, instead of sending me away, you should go to Gizmo and tell him I’m on board.  And when the time is right we’ll take the schematics for ourselves.”

“You don’t get it,” Baxla protested.  “Gizmo doesn’t even want you to steal the schematics.  You’re just a distraction while he sneaks in the back and gets them himself.  And when he does, he’ll vanish.  This whole operation was just a pretense for him to get his hands on them.”

“I think you underestimate the element of surprise,” Dexter said plainly.

“Whatever happened to two weeks isn’t long where the strength of a Prime is concerned?”

Dexter couldn’t dispute Baxla’s logic, but he could see the HARPY pilot’s resolve softening through a combination of his approaching sobriety and Dexter’s interminable logic.  How tired Baxla seemed to Dexter in that moment, torn for weeks between wanting to protect Dexter, to do what was right, and obeying Gizmo, his pint-sized master.  Not for the first time, Dexter wondered at the relationship between Gizmo and Baxla, two contrasting personalities he once thought thrust together by necessity, by survival, by Palpatine’s heinous empire.  The pilot’s comments gave him pause, though, and suggested something sinister might be at play.  While Dexter couldn’t properly read minds yet, his psionic powers were growing, and the fledgling Prime expected he would soon have his answer one way or another.

“All right,” Baxla sighed.  “Fuck it.  Let’s do it.”

Dexter offered a thin smile.  “Go back to Gizmo,” he said softly, “and tell him I accept his little… reconnaissance mission.  Then get some sleep.  We’ll figure out the rest tonight.

Baxla nodded, but his eyes betrayed his fear.

By the time the two pilots from the cantina burst noisily into the hangar, revitalized after their morning coffee and embedded in some passionate political argument, the newly forged allies were long gone.

[Gambit]

Crouching in the crawl space behind the displaced shelf, his bald head dripping with sweat, Gizmo heaved an exhale as Dexter and Baxla exited the hangar. Anger quickly displaced his fear of discovery. He clenched one small hand and punched the rough stone wall of the secret tunnel, pulling it back to observe his scraped, bleeding knuckles. If the pint-sized Prime felt any pain, his deceptively cherubic face showed no indication.

“Traitors,” he growled. “Snot-eating, crud-munching traitors.” Curled into a ball surrounding Gizmo to allow him to squeeze into the cramped space, one of the four huge, mechanical spider legs shot forward, shoving the shelf back into the room. Spare parts cascaded onto the floor with a crash, but Gizmo knew no one was nearby to hear it.

The four legs exited the tunnel first, finding purchase on the walls surrounding the opening, and Gizmo soon followed. A second spider leg roughly pushed the shelf back into place as more parts and tools hit the floor. Gizmo ran a hand over his bald head, wiping away the sheen of perspiration.

“Idiots. Jerks. Morons. Losers,” he cursed under his breath. Gizmo knew bringing the fledgling Prime here was a mistake on Baxla’s part, but he had underestimated the extent to which Dexter’s presence threatened to throw a wrench in his carefully laid plans. And now he learned Baxla, perhaps the most trusted member of his organization, conspired against him? How many more obstacles would he have to overcome in his hunt for the schematics? How many more weaklings would stand in his path, only to fall to his cunning and prowess. At least two more, Gizmo reasoned, because he couldn’t allow anything to stop him now, not when he was so close to the end.

A characteristically wide grin spread across Gizmo’s face then. The element of surprise, indeed, he thought, rubbing his diminutive hands together. The element of surprise, indeed.

[Gambit]

In his quarters, sitting on the edge of his military-style cot, Dexter opened his eyes and smiled.  The pulse of psionic energy rapidly dispersed from the hangar and the adjoining corridors, flooding back into the room as Dexter stood and stretched the kinks from his back.  

   He had sensed Gizmo in the tunnel behind the hidden crawlspace, the bald child’s surge of fear setting off telepathic alarm bells as soon as Baxla began to drag the concealing shelf out from the wall.  As soon as he and Baxla exited the chamber, Dexter hurried back to his room and sent out the pulse, which had become child’s play in the ensuing days since his first attempt.  He had listened in as Gizmo spat his curses into the empty room.

The conniving little maniac doubtlessly thought he had the upper hand now, having overheard Dexter and Baxla’s conversation from his not-so-secret hiding place.  Determined to keep up the charade, Dexter had laced his words with enough exposition to plant in Gizmo the knowledge that he and Baxla were trying to betray him.  The plan had gone off without a hitch, Dexter knew.

Now the real game could begin.  

No stranger to strategy, Dexter, a chess champion from a young age, lauded for his advanced tactics and unshakable demeanor, felt comfortable ensconced in the web of intrigue he had carefully spun.  While he did see Baxla as something of a victim in Gizmo’s maniacal quest for the schematics, he knew it could only benefit him to keep his tentative ally in the dark--to leverage all available information into the best possible outcome.  He did not share Gizmo’s opinion about the disposability of his allies, and would protect Baxla with all the strength his meager abilities could muster if it came to it, but at the same time he knew the pilot, with his propensity for drunken ramblings and his inexplicable servitude of the bald Prime, was a liability he could not afford.  Everything the history books could teach him meant little in the visceral reality of combat.  Dexter was smart, but he was not prepared to do straightforward battle with Gizmo and his four enormous, mechanical spider legs.

The next phase of his plan would prove difficult.  Dexter had to play both sides of the coin now, treading a fine line between success and disaster.  His apprehension almost defeated him as he made his way down the corridor toward Gizmo’s private laboratory.  Yet he did not falter, stepping up to the door and rapping on it with his knuckles.

Dexter heard the crash of metal falling on stone, followed by a, “Stinking crud… hold on!”  Despite himself, he smiled at Gizmo’s quirky choice of insults.  Perhaps beneath the veneer of his profoundly advanced intellect lurked a child after all.

A moment later a spider leg flung the door open.  It met the stone wall with a loud smack, rebounding from the force.  Dexter stopped it with an outstretched palm.

Gizmo could not conceal his surprise at Dexter’s appearance.  “What do you want?”  He seemed to remember suddenly that he had no reason to treat Dexter with such disdain--at least, no reason about which he wanted Dexter to know.  “Sorry,” he muttered.  “Busy.  What’s up?”

“I have to talk to you about something,” Dexter said solemnly.  “Something important.”

“What?”

“Well, I talked to Baxla this morning…”  Dexter paused to choose his words carefully.

“And?”  Gizmo blinked furiously behind his goggles, his short legs jittery with impatience.

“And, well, he told me about the reconnaissance mission you have for me.  At least... that’s how the conversation started.”  Dexter feigned nervousness, his gaze flitting around the room before settling on the ground at his feet.

Gizmo seemed to understand where Dexter was headed, but he was equally unwilling to give up his perceived advantage.  “And?” he pressed again.

“And… and then he told me it was a ruse,” Dexter said.  “He told me your whole operation is a cover so you can get some schematics.  He said you were using me as a diversion, that I might get locked up or killed if I helped you.  He tried to help me escape, but I wouldn’t go.”

“Liar,” Gizmo muttered.  Then, louder, “Stinking liar!”

Dexter took an uncertain step back and braced himself against the impact of the crushing spider leg.  It didn’t come.  When he opened his eyes, Gizmo regarded him with a wide grin, although his round cheeks were still flush with anger.

“I knew Baxla couldn’t be trusted,” Gizmo said, “and you just proved it.  That pit-sniffer’s been trying to take over my operation since the day I saved him from a lifetime in Palpatine’s stinking dungeons.  That must be why he snagged you from the fountain.  He knew he wasn’t strong enough to take me down himself.”  

The lie started small but built momentum into a thundering crescendo of dishonesty.  Dexter ignored the slip in Gizmo’s logic--if Baxla had brought him here to defeat Gizmo, why then would he have tried to help him escape?--and played his final card, the one he knew for certain would endear him to the egotistical Prime.

   “I came straight to you, of course,” Dexter said.  “I didn’t believe a word of it.  He stank like alcohol, and, well, I’ve seen him kill with one of those HARPYs before, so I played along as best I could.  There’s a shelf in the hangar with a secret tunnel dug out of the wall.  Do you know about that?”

   “You did well, Dexter,” Gizmo purred.  “It was the right thing to do, coming to me.  I’ll kill that little crud-muncher myself.”

   “No!” Dexter said.  He almost clapped a hand over his mouth at the slip-up.  

   Gizmo’s spider legs clanked and creaked, bringing the bald child to within a few inches of Dexter’s face.  “Why not?” he asked.

   Dexter searched for the right words.  “If I’ve learned one thing about the Omniverse,” he said, weaving a tale to placate Gizmo’s suspicion, “it’s that there are worse things than dying.  You can use him.”

   He could see the suggestion made Gizmo curious.

   “Use him how?” he asked.

   “Well you do want the schematics, don’t you?  To help take down the Empire?  I know Baxla’s story is a lie, but maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

   Now came the most dangerous part of Dexter’s scheme, the moment that would either ingratiate him to Gizmo or leave him as a smear of gore on the ground, just like the Empire guards outside the gate.  

   Gizmo narrowed his eyes and waved a hand for Dexter to continue.

   “Send me on the mission,” Dexter said.  “More specifically, send both of us.  Baxla might be a traitor, but he’s right about one thing.  A distraction really is your best chance to get the schematics and get out of the Archives safely.”  

   “How does that solve my problem, idiot?” Gizmo sneered.  “What if Baxla escapes?”

   Dexter marveled at the little maniac’s ability to shift between emotions in an instant.  “Because I’ll be there,” he said firmly.  “I won’t let him.  Stealing the schematics has to set off some kind of alarm system, right?  The place will be crawling with troopers and marines.  Right now Baxla trusts me.  He thinks we have a shared plan to take you down.  I can exploit that, and when the time is right I can make sure he ends up in an Empire cell.”

   Gizmo stared at him for many long moments, his expression grim.  Then he burst into gleeful laughter.  “I like you, Dexter.  We think alike.  I can’t think of anything more satisfying than seeing that pit-sniffer back in the dungeons.”

   “A fitting punishment,” Dexter agreed, filing away the clue about Baxla’s past for later evaluation.  “And when he’s gone, you can make me your second in command.”  

   Gizmo cackled again.  “Deal!” he exclaimed.  “We go tomorrow.  Keep up your charade with that stinking loser pilot till then, so he doesn’t get suspicious, will ya?”

   “No problem.  We’re meeting tonight.”

   “Good.  Now get out of here, crud-muncher.  I have work to do.”

   Dexter backed out of the room and shut the door behind him, struggling to hide his grin.  His plan had worked.  It had been the only way, he figured, to get both him and Baxla out of Gizmo Labs at the same time.  As expected, the sadistic Gizmo was overjoyed at the notion of making Baxla suffer.  All Dexter had to do was suggest a method, and Gizmo seized on the idea.

   Still, there were many variables for which Dexter had to account.  It was true that he was not so strong yet, just scratching the surface of basic abilities such as mind reading.  There seemed in this case to be no other options before him.  If he had not set his clever scheme into motion, he would be forced to accept Gizmo’s mission and try to escape without Baxla or the schematics.  This plan came with a greater degree of risk, no doubt, but Dexter couldn’t ignore the upside.  He had no intention of handing himself over to the Empire once he escaped Gizmo’s tiny clutches, nor of allowing Baxla to remain in Gizmo Labs any longer.  By his estimation, having an ally knowledgeable in the underworld of Coruscant could only benefit Dexter in the time after their escape.