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Chapter Text

Oblivion

XXX

They stood on the roof of the terraced spire. Below, Coruscant spun, with its lights like a billion tiny smiles. The city churned with life, and hope, and promises; just like Carth had promised her what felt like a century ago: atop a doomed platform on a dying station, orbiting a world with no name.

But Revan's face felt raw and exposed. And every nerve urged her to flee.

...

Revan took a deep breath. "Carth, when I thought I was Polla Organa, I thought I knew how to pilot a ship, man a gunner turret, race a swoop bike, and drink an entire bottle of Tatooine wine. But when I tried to do those things…."

"You were terrible at them." Carth tried to laugh, but it came out choked. He raised a hand to her cheek, pulled her closer. She felt his heartbeat through the horrible sequined dress uniform. His lips pressed against her forehead. Almost a kiss.

He'd shaved, and he smelled like something expensive and citrus, not as she remembered.

"The things that Revan knew how to do came easily to me. So easily that I stopped wondering why I knew how to use a lightsaber, why I could do things with the Force no master ever taught me, why I knew languages…. And then, when I learned who I was, I didn't want to be her, but I was her. I am her. I don't remember half of what she was, but I think like her, I fight like her."

She felt his breath on her cheek, his lips next to her ear. His cheek was smooth and that was all wrong for him. His arms tightened around her, sure as a vise.

Now is the part where you're supposed to say you love me, love me as I am, Carth.

But he said nothing.

The enormity of what she'd risked, what she'd done to get to this point, made Revan want to face down Malak a hundred times more. Their battle had been simple by comparison.

XXX

Chapter One / Kiss the Sky

"Wake up."

Something was making a hell of a racket, like fifty prox alarms on a Huttese freighter all at once. Whatever it was interrupted the dream Polla had been having that featured her ex, Therion D'Cainen, being tortured in some kind of weird red and black holovid prison, complete with whips, interrogation droids, and a helpful dozen sents with red laser swords, just standing around waiting to chop bits off.

It was a good dream considering the way Therion had tried to set her up for the failure of that spice run.

Polla Organa chuckled darkly when they cut off his legs for the third time, listening to his comical scream-

"Wake up," the voice repeated.

"Go away," she told it and pulled the pillow over her head.

"Wake up," the stubborn voice insisted again. Weirdly, it seemed to echo through her skull. Someone shook her shoulder. Hard.

Polla Organa opened her eyes to flashing lights and the claxon sound of an alarm.

"The hell?" Her head ached when she sat up, but that was familiar-ever since the head injury where she'd hit the wall two hundred meters up on Janstak's Canyon. The head injury, which had led to the Republic hospital on the warship orbiting Deralia, which had led to Nurse Shan being her nurse, which had led to the Republic recruitment spiel... and then to Polla's enlistment into this fracking war that wasn't even her problem in the first place.

"Surprise." The guy looking down at her had a harsh Rim accent, some kind of Fleet Officer stripes and a very tense expression on his face. He also, Polla noted, had a blaster in his right hand. It wasn't pointed directly at her, but it wasn't far off.

"Trask?"

They were in close quarters on the Spire, so close that they shared bunks with opposing shifts (probably due to the number of fracking Jedi mystics they'd shoved on board); but she could have sworn her bunkie was blonde and kinda steely. This guy had brown skin, but pale, startlingly yellow eyes like he was part Cathar.

Is that a thing, being part Cathar?

"Trask," the man repeated, making the word almost a question.

He had thick eyebrows and close-cropped black hair. He'd be handsome, Polla thought, if he looked healthier; but there was a grayish cast to his skin. When he frowned like he was doing now, the lines around his mouth cut like knives, drawing his mouth into a grim expression, maybe even a little scary.

"What have you done to your hair?"

He reached out, as if to brush it out of her eyes, and Polla sat up fast, scooting back out of reach.

"Not so fast, guy! Are you looking for Trask, or for me? We work opposite shifts so he's…" the alarms were really distracting. They made her head hurt even more than usual. "He's probably at work now. You should leave." Before I shoot you.

Polla looked around for her blaster, but the holster wasn't on top of the pile of clothes she'd worn yesterday and-weirdly, she… she couldn't remember where she'd put it.

Da would kill me if he knew I forgot where I put my gun. He'll kill me anyways, for enlisting in a Republic war, but if he learns I lost my blaster I'll never hear the end of it-

And that was when Polla realized she was still in her skivs. Not that she gave a frack, but this not-Trask guy seemed to be eyeing her skin like he'd never seen a woman before. More than a little creepy.

"Trask," he snorted. "Trask Ulgo? Really? The Alderaanian? Is he what life among the Jedi has driven you to?"

"We're not exactly on a first and last name basis, me and Trask." Polla didn't like the way his eyes were looking at her. But she was relieved he was here for Trask and not because he was some kind of insane killer who snuck into women's rooms when they were blissfully asleep. "Can you turn off that fracking alarm? It… it hurts my head."

"No." The leer on his face vanished so fast she wondered if she'd been mistaken. "I didn't just come here as an amusing diversion. The Endar Spire is under attack."

Polla snorted. "Yeah, right. We're in hyperspace. You sure it's not a drill?"

They had a lot of drills in this Republic Fleet, aboard the Endar Spire. Like almost every day she had to run through the ship, find Nurse Shan, and stay with her to protect her. Like Nurse Shan needed Polla Organa for protection against nothing when she had a freaking Jedi army. Plus the soldiers? It was kind of ridiculous overkill, considering they were never fighting anything, or landing anywhere, except... except that one time. But that had been... n-nothing, really. Not important.

That planet wasn't important. The important person is Nurse Shan. When it's an alarm and there's a drill I have to go find her-I have to go find her-

And Polla would find her as soon as this stranger left.

Polla had only been conscripted into the Republic Navy for like a week… or… maybe a few months, but she already had realized they were a laughingstock.

Da had been right all along. Who knew? The Republic were idiots. Pathetic fools.

He's going to kill me. My Da's going to kill me. He must be pissed. That's why I haven't heard from him or Ma since I enlisted-

"We're not in hyperspace now." The stranger smiled again, a teasing smile, almost flirtatious-maybe sly. His mouth was a little like Therion's-like a knife. "Not anymore. Your ship's under attack."

"Trust me; it's not my ship. Anything this big leans like a ronto on sleep derms. Wouldn't be caught dead flying it. Hey, are you hurt?" There was a charred patch on the jacket of his uniform, like an almost perfectly circular burn. Looked nasty actually; the cloth was stained, but the skin she could see underneath seemed okay.

"Would you care if I was?" His voice was light, but his eyes kept scanning her face as if he was looking for some kind of reaction.

The ship took that moment to lurch violently to one side, sending Polla stumbling across the floor, and into the corner of her footlocker. It collided painfully with her shin. "Oww! What the hell?"

"If your ship's captain continues his foolish attempts to set up a passive orbit around this planet, we will all see hell. Quite soon." The man laughed as if that was funny. "The two interdictors that pulled the Endar Spire out of orbit have set up opposing tractor beams. Currently the Leviathan and Demon Moon are pulling your ship apart." He sounded more amused than horrified. Was it a joke?

"Sith?" Polla snorted. It's not my ship, asshole. "Yeah, right. Those has-beens? They… they're fracking idiots."

"True. They're not what they were." Not-Trask moved fast when he wanted to, reaching her side in a heartbeat and taking her arm. "But their efforts will, in a short time, tear this ship to pieces. We should leave."

"I can't."

He raised an eyebrow. It was bisected by a faint scar, very dark above his yellow eyes. "Can't?"

"I can't leave. This ship is safe." This ship is safe. How many times has Nurse Shan and Ensign Trask said that? This ship is safe. "There's a ton of Jedi. And soldiers. I have to stay here. I'm supposed to stay here. What's your name?"

"Revan," he reached down and pulled her to her feet. His hand was cold, very cold. "You should get dressed quickly. We need to leave."

"Revan," she scoffed, jerking away from him. "Don't feed a load of bantha poo to a banthashitter. You're not Revan. She was a woman. And she's dead."

He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, long enough for Polla to become aware of her skivs again, and the strange cold in the air.

Could be a vacuum leak, if he's not lying about the tractor beams. If the hull gets compromised, we're fracked.

"I assumed you were joking," he muttered. "She warned me, but I never thought-"

"Nurse Shan warned you?" Polla nodded. "She warns me about things a lot too. She's nice. Very conscientious. "

"I can barely even sense..." he stepped back slightly, that blaster still held loosely in one hand. "If he sees you like this, or if the others…. Bandon's here. And Beya. Xaset… not all your old friends are still as loyal as I am."

Polla swallowed and took a step backward. "Hey… just putting it out there, but maybe you're fracking nuts? I don't know any of those people."

The ship rocked again, and half the lights cut out entirely. She ran away from him, fumbling with her footlocker, scrambling for clothes.

Her gun wasn't there.

Da will kill me for being so careless. I had it. I know I had it when I hit the canyon wall-

"Something might be wrong with the ship," she admitted. "Come with me. Let's go find Nurse Shan."

"Nurse... Shan." He laughed. "Of course! By all means. Lead the way."

"I will." Polla grabbed a shirt, but in the dark, she'd lost one shoe. Given they were about to die, she abandoned the other too, scrambling to her feet and heading towards the door. It would be locked, of course, it always was, except when Nurse Shan needed something, but-

But this time it opened before she even reached it. Weird. Even more strange, the lock looked like it had exploded open.

Polla froze, suddenly aware of the stranger's breath on the back of her neck. His cold hand closed around her shoulder. The other one nudged her hip with the gun.

"Go," he whispered in her ear. "I'm quite interested in the talk we'll have with Nurse Shan."

"Did you do that?" she asked him. "The door is supposed to be locked at all times."

"Did I-what in nine hells have they done to you?" his evil act seemed to crack, as she turned around, pulling out of his grip again, halfway in the hall.

"Scout Organa? Is Ensign Ulgo with you?"

The comm on Polla's wrist chimed, with a miniaturized figure of a man appearing. Tousled hair, stubble, looked like one of the career poster boys Polla had seen in the officer's mess.

"Our hull integrity's down to nothing, and t here's a Sith boarding party already aboard . Bastila Shan made it out in an escape pod, but she left me strict instructions to get you two off safe. We three are the last in this deck-Sith bastards have sealed everyone else off-"

Mister Officer continued with his explanation about how they were totally fracked. Over and over. Until Polla wanted to puke.

Dying in space. I don't want to die like this. Vacuum. Every spacer's worst nightmare-

"Trask isn't here," she finally interrupted. "But there's… this other ensign came to get me. He's… he might be kind of nuts. I think we'll need Nurse Shan. I need to find her, even if this isn't a drill. Okay?"

"Another ensign? Well, good. That's… good. We don't have a lot of time. They've got lightsabers; they're cutting through sections-and personnel. Most everyone's pinned down in C-deck, but the Jedi promised reinforcements. The three of us don't have time to wait. Make your way to the escape pods off the bridge. Now."

"Sure," she said. "I'll-I'll-where's the bridge?"

"What?" Republic guy's voice cracked. "Are you kidding me? They brought you in as some kind of nav jockey, I heard, and you don't-"

"I know where the bridge is," Ensign Not-Trask whispered in her ear. "Tell him we'll meet him at the escape pods."

Don't tell me what to do! I should know where the fracking bridge is; this is a starship! I'm a pilot. "I'll tell you that we'll meet you at the escape pods," she said out loud. Her voice felt strange and wooden, compared to her emotions.

The guy on her commlink looked like one of those Republic recruiting posters too. And that pissed her off.

These brave men and women are the heroes of our age. Don't you want to be one of the heroes of our age? Save the Republic. Save the galaxy.

And even if you say no, they'll drag you along anyways. Kriffing losers.

Polla cut the comm, even though the guy was still talking, something about directions to the bridge. Whatever. Not-Trask said he knew.

"Maybe we should surrender to the Sith," she told the guy who wasn't Trask. "My Da always said the Sith had the right idea. At least about some things."

The alarms rang again in time with her aching skull. She wanted them to stop.

Stop, she thought at them.

Not-Trask Whatever blinked at her. His nose was curved, like a talon. He had a cleft in his slightly-pointed chin. He shifted the blaster in his hand, holding it awkwardly as if he had no idea what he was doing.

"We need to go," he said, more gently. "Scout… uh, Organa, they've ordered a ship-wide evacuation. You heard the man. The Sith are boarding-"

"Oh, I get it." Polla should be afraid, probably, but her head hurt and this was so damned typical with the kind of fracked year she'd already had. Here she was, on her first assignment, and it had already gone wrong. Like the fracking kanna mites and Therion all over again. "You know I'm not even a Republic citizen? I'm from Deralia. Just because I had a head injury and you guys had medics… and then you made me sign on! But you can't tell me what to do! I'm not some kind of conscript. Nurse Shan said I'm a highly trained professional. I know languages. Lots of languages. And… navigation. Like that guy… like that guy said."

Nurse Shan probably meant to tell me about the navigation later.

"Nurse Shan," he repeated. "Right. She wants you to go. Now. To the escape pods. Like that man said."

"Hold your hessi." She'd only managed to throw on the shirt. She was well aware he was staring at her skivs (even if his cold-eyed Selkath imitation was more creepy than a compliment).

Polla walked back to fish through the footlocker bolted to the wall. A holographic image of an old man and woman was taped to the inside top. They beamed back at her with toothy, frozen smiles. Their heads were shaved at the sides, and their hair identically piled into loose tails on top of their head.

Vaguely ridiculous.

Like Bey-an aberrant thought, Polla noted, even as she pulled out the more familiar coverall beneath. She dressed fast, still staring at the picture.

The picture was strangely out of place.

Beya. Her mind scattered like a scratched holodisc. She ripped the holo out of its frame and shoved it in her vest pocket, glancing up and seeing a reflection of her own image in the ferraglass porthole.

Hair, shaved at the sides, the top falling into her eyes. She reached for a tie to tie the top knot-

I'm so fracking pale. She looked down at her own body, suddenly dizzy. Her skin looked like it was breaking out in reddish spots on her arms and her eyes were-

"My name is Polla Organa," she muttered to her reflection. It always made her calmer to say it out loud. "My name is Polla Organa. I am a smuggler from Deralia. My name is Polla Organa. I am a smuggler from Deralia…."

"Blast, they've egg-rotted your mind!" Ensign Not-Trask's hand closed around her arm. "Look at me! Look at me!"

"Let go!" She lashed out with a foot, half-tripping him, but the bastard was faster than she expected-really, stupidly fast-like he was stimmed to fracking Sleheyron and back-and then he had both her arms in his grasp, was staring down at her like he-like he was Therion and thought he still had the right.

"I said, let go," she growled at him. "Now."

"You even sound Deralian," he said, like that was a surprise. His eyes were really yellow. Could he be part-Cathar? Was that a thing?

Polla's knee jerked up and got him in the choobs. The resultant relaxing of his hands and startled 'oof' allowed her to step away.

"I am Deralian," she snapped. Asshole. Just like Therion. "And on Deralia, we don't frack around."

Instead of looking injured or pissed, the man smiled. "I see."

"Do you?" she snapped. "Because the Jedi will save us. We just need to find Nurse Shan."

"I think we should look for her separately," he murmured. "I may… I may have made a mistake."

"Oh." Was it the kick to the choobs? Polla still didn't regret it. "I'm a crack shot," she offered. On Trawler deer and targets. On shooting holes on some spacer's kit a millimeter from his stupid lying nose-but I bet I can shoot Sith too. "Have an extra pistol I could have?"

Not-Trask glanced back and her a thin-lipped smile. "No." He took a step backwards, bowing slightly. "Good-bye, Polla Organa, I don't expect we'll meet again."

"Good riddance." She folded her arms and feigned checking her chron. "Not-Trask whoever you are."

"I'm Davad." He was frowning again, staring at her. "Davad." There was a long pause, as if after practically abducting her, and not being able to shut off the alarm, he expected a compliment for one of the most boring fracking names she'd ever heard.

"It's a nice name?" she finally offered. "What is that, Corellian? My family's from Corellia if you go back like four generations, before they founded the Outlier Colonies-"

"Good-bye," he repeated. "Good luck finding your bridge."

"I don't know where it is." Polla blinked her eyes. When she opened them, Davad was already gone.

"The hell with you then," she mumbled.

The ship rattled ominously. Alarms rang. Stop, she told them in her head. Stop ringing.

For some reason, that didn't work.

Xxx

The world lived in flashes, in time with her beating heart and the Spire's failing electrical grid.

There was a dead guy, wearing a Republic uniform, about a meter into the hall. Polla hadn't noticed him at first-she'd thought he was just debris-there was debris, scattered all over the hall.

Dead Guy was in pieces.

At least three. And they were still smoldering.

The… the smell hit the back of her throat, and Polla felt herself gag. Her stomach heaved. Behind the first, she saw another body. Only this one had been stripped, as if someone had killed them both and then stolen this one's uniform.

Or he was in his underwear and barefoot already.

Polla looked down at her own bare feet, totally seeing how that could happen.

Frack, as a smuggler, sometimes you saw bad shit. There'd been that one time, back on Ryloth when she'd accidentally wandered into the backroom of a slave auction, but this… this was….

It's just death. The thought was so detached that it didn't feel like her own.

"I'm going to be sick," she whispered, and was, violently and noisily, behind the bulkhead.

"This is Captain Carth Onasi," the voice on her wrist said. "What happened to Ensign Ulgo? I was tracking two life signs on your unit. Now I just see yours."

"He left," she muttered into her wrist. "Wasn't Ulgo anyway. I don't know who he was."

"Oh." Captain Carth Onasi sounded nonplussed. "Then... this is him... here. I see it now. He's close, close to you, but there's a bunch of Sith between you guys and me. I don't know how much combat training you've had..."

There was something metal on the floor next to the dead guy. A small snub nose repeater. Polla grabbed it. Captain Obvious kept talking. Blah, blah splice. Blah, blah rewire something...

Dead guy's arm was a meter off from the rest of him. And beyond that-what looked like a blaster rifle.

She had a rifle, had always carried one: a Czerka repeater with a chip on the handle that jammed when you spent the sustaining clip too fast. She'd had it in the speeder… bike… before she hit that canyon wall, trying to impress Seiran Wen, of all people. Like it mattered what some farmer's kid she'd known since they were five thought of her.

A shot winged across the room, with barely a millisecond warning. Polla screamed and dropped to the ground behind a broken crate.

"You okay?" Captain Carth Onasi interrupted himself to ask.

As helpful as dear old Davad. Mister, I-don't-expect-we'll-meet-again. I'll-see-you-in-fracking-hell, Mister Davad.

"I am not okay," Polla whispered to herself. To the comm. To the galaxy. "This is not okay."

"Scout Organa?"

"It's Polla," she mumbled.

Another shot winged over her head, then a whole barrage of them. When Polla tilted her head through a crack in the crate, she could see an armored soldier, wearing that silver crap made famous in every anti-Sith newsvid that Nurse Shan had ever made her watch. And the soldier was shooting at her.

"Stop that," she muttered, whispering a prayer to the Grass Priests. She peered around the edge of the crate and fired back with the snub, only to be rewarded with the crate crumpling like plimsi. Something like white-hot fire skimmed her arm and she screamed. "Stop!"

The soldier laughed, a crackling noise through his helmet's speaker.

You're laughing when I'm dying?

No. Not like this!

Polla closed her eyes, raising the blaster high, and firing in the Sith's direction at random.

At least I'll go down fighting, Da would be proud even if this is fracking stupid-

Suddenly, something cracked: a crashing noise, and then one of the conduit pipes running above her head detached itself from the ceiling, sparking dangerously. Sparking-

The pipe fell someplace in front of her, and the Sith's laughter cut out with a scream.

Polla peered cautiously above the bulkhead and saw that the soldier had been electrocuted by the loose converter line.

That's lucky, she thought, and then felt guilty. Guilty for the schutta who was trying to kill me?

She scrambled to her feet, wiping her mouth and went for the bigger gun. The severed hand that still held it didn't seem to want to let go. She had to pry the fingers off. The place where it had been cut from the body was blackened, slightly charred.

Cauterized. Methodically. Not torn off by a madman at least-

Like that's better? Polla wanted to puke, but the weight of the rifle was reassuring in her hands.

The ship rocked, the lights flashed. "Still with me?" Mister Republic. Captain Republic. "Scout Organa? Polla?"

"I think so," Polla muttered. Her arm hurt like frack, but a part of her mind categorized it as inconsequential. Just a burn. "Where's the damn bridge?"

"I'm tracking your position. Bridge is to your left. Careful. More life signs ahead. You're gonna need to find some way around-"

A red laser sight swept through the doorway, and Polla ducked, flattening back down to the ground, rolling for cover.

The beam seemed too slow. Seemed to... ripple. It had to be some kind of hallucination, as it made no fracking sense at all that a disrupter could fire that slowly.

Instead of dead, Polla found herself flat on the floor, behind a wall of broken crates.

"What's your location? Did you find Trask? He just patched in to me. Said he's on his way. Said we need to sit tight, sister."

"I am not your sister. They've got a sniper," Polla told him. "Help?"

"I'm trying, but Trask is closer. His tracker's practically on top of you-"

Polla peered above the crate, leveling the blaster rifle carefully.

Normally, on a normal day, when she wasn't on a ship being attacked; when the gun she was shooting wasn't an utter piece of crap, Polla could have handled this, maybe. Imagine it's just a trawler deer. Just like hunting, and you're safe behind the blind-

But for some reason, her shots went wild today and the target blurred.

"Hell!" she cursed. "This gun is a piece of crap!"

The door slid open abruptly, bringing an arctic chill with it, like the air around them was suddenly freezing and cold.

Words died in her throat. Cold, like-her mind slipped away from the comparison, like feet skidding on ice. Polla could have no more moved than she could have screamed. The door opened, and death walked in.

Peering through a hole in the cracked crate, she could see that there were two of them, two deaths: one Human and one Duros, the latter's green skin a strange, speckled gray. Both wore robes, not armor, and carried glowing red laser swords-

They carry sabers. Lightsabers.

"Jedi?" she whispered, almost hopeful, but she knew better.

How many episodes of Nomi Sunrider and Friends had Polla watched on Sixthday mornings as a kid? Enough. Enough to know that these were the real bad guys.

Bad guys always had red lightsabers.

These were Sith. Real Sith. The sniper lifted her rifle out of its brace as if she knew it was no longer needed.

"Hello?" the Human murmured. He was pale, too pale, and almost bald. "Come out, youngling. I can sense your unformed presence. Not the most impressive specimen, but every tool has its use. Lord Malak is making a collection. Come out, little Padawan. Come out-and I'll let you live."

Malak.

Polla knew the name. She knew the name, because it was famous and she wasn't a fracking idiot who had lived under a rock for the past five years... but for a second, that name distorted into meaningless syllables. Mal-Ak. Mal-Eym-Eym-

"Surrender now, child." The Duros had a rusty voice. "Others have. Your masters are doomed, but you may have a better fate."

Living was always preferable to not living. Da always said the Sith were okay, maybe. Maybe they had the right idea. Polla wasn't sure what those ideas could be, but they had to be better than death.

"You won't kill me? You promise?" She couldn't see them very well, couldn't see the sniper at all from this angle.

Soft laughter was the only response.

"No! Okay! I surrender. Sure. Me. The pada-whatsit. I surrender!"

Polla scrambled to her feet before she lost her nerve.

Bluff your way out. Like with Drago the Hutt on Biscayne. No problem. Smile nice, show them the gun but don't point it, don't make any sudden moves at all. Smile. Smile nice. Bluff your way out.

"Excellent. I'm please you see reas-" the Duros broke off mid-sentence.

Polla smiled, holding the blaster rifle above her head, casually dangling it between two fingers, and trying not to freak out. "I am reasonable. Totally reasonable. I surrender. Okay?"

The Human made a little choking noise in his throat.

The Duros deactivated his saber.

A few heartbeats later, so did the Human.

The sniper stood up suddenly, from behind a nest of debris. She was female, small. A Twi'lek under the black targeting helmet that obscured most of her face.

All three of them stood there for another heartbeat.

Then the sniper dropped her rifle. The Duros dropped his laser sword. A detached part of Polla's brain noticed it went out on its own before hitting the ground.

She pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared back at them. "I surrender?" she repeated, dropping the rifle too-to drive the point home.

"Sheris?" The Human seemed the bravest. He was the only one still looking up. Both of the others were suddenly staring at the ground.

Polla glanced behind her to see if a sheris (whatever that was) had suddenly appeared, but there was nothing.

The Human laughed, bitterly, mouth twisting with scorn. "You fools, it's not her, merely Lord Mal-"

Something whizzing and blue bisected his neck, before slashing by Polla's face, close enough that she screamed.

"Polla. Behind me. Now." A man had appeared in the doorway to her left. Robed. The blue thing was back in his hands now-the blue... blue sword-laser. The blue laser sword. The blue... lightsaber.

Polla obeyed, as though her feet were in charge, not her head.

The Human Sith… he no longer had a head. His body collapsed sickeningly.

She'd been shooting blasters since she was five, but not at people. Never to kill anyone-

"Surrender," the man said, amazingly, to the people who'd been trying to kill them a second ago.

The Twi'lek sniper started to kneel, but the Duros shook his head, his eyes a strange yellow-orange in the light-

"Not to you, Jedi," he practically snarled.

Another explosion rocked the ship; this time, Polla fell back, heard the tell-tale hiss of oxygen escaping.

"No," she mumbled. Every spacer's worst nightmare, being sucked into the deep. "We have to get out of here!"

Something exploded, yellow and white from behind the two Sith. When Polla opened her eyes again, the Duros and Twi'lek were just as dead as the Human-and now two humanoid figures in light-colored robes with more damned laser swords stood there in the smoldering wreckage of a broken blast door.

"There she is!" the smaller one said. "With Trask!"

The woman, half a head taller than Polla, brandished a green laser sword. The kid had a yellow one.

"Who's Trask?" Polla didn't want to look at the dead Sith bodies, but she couldn't help it. The sniper hadn't even been armed. Neither had the Duros-he dropped his weapon.

The new Jedi kid-Eosian, maybe-stared at Polla, and she glared back at him. He looked away fast.

"Where is Bastila?" Polla's first rescuer asked them.

"She got away," the woman answered. "Master Levrees insisted she evacuate first. He charged us with getting you all to safety."

"Who's Master Lavrees?" Polla interrupted. "Who's Bastila?"

"Whoa," the Eosian kid muttered. "Seriously? You know Bastila Shan. You see her every single day."

"Do you mean Nurse Shan?"

"Let it be, Jaik," the older Jedi (for they could be nothing else) said.

"Nurse Shan," the older male Jedi repeated. "Nurse Shan sent us to you. Look at me, Polla Organa."

She felt… obliged to. His eyes were a faded blue that reminded her of something. It was difficult to even articulate what. She noticed the gray at his temples, the laugh lines on his face.

"There is no Nurse Shan," he whispered. He had to be four meters away, and there were explosions everywhere, but somehow, his words sank into her skull like an echo.

There is no Nurse Shan. There is no Nurse Shan. No Nurse Shan.

"Huh?"

"Why are you doing that?" The kid again.

"If she is captured, there can be no connection, no confusion, no loyalties for them to abuse-"

The air felt strangely heavy, like an ion storm building.

There is no Nurse Shan. There is no Nurse Shan. My name is Polla Organa and I am a smuggler from Deralia and there is no-there is only Nurse Shan.

"Bastila Shan is my nurse." Polla snapped. What the hell? "She's nice. She's my friend. Where is she? What the frack have you done with her?"

"Stang," muttered the man.

"Ready to give up, Trask?" the woman sighed. "She's resistant. We have to continually reinforce the transfer-"

"Wait. You're Trask?" The sky-eyed man wasn't wearing the uniform. Polla hadn't recognized him dressed like a Jedi. "You're Trask Ulgo! You're my roommate! Why are you dressed like a Jedi?"

"Yes." Trask nodded, deactivating his laser sword. "I am dressed like a Jedi because I am one."

"Oh." Had she known that before? It made Polla feel fracking stupid, finding out now. "They must be really short on bunk space if they have Jedi bunking with the hired help-"

"Polla," the woman said, as if she had a stick up her ass. Her voice gentled, dripping with fake sympathy. "Let's move to the bridge, before this ship explodes."

"Hey, I've got an idea," Polla suggested. "Why don't we get off this fracking ship before it explodes? Sound good?"

"This is Captain Carth Onasi," her commlink cut in again. "What's your loc, Scout? Ensign? I'm picking up a bunch of life signs…."

No kidding, Captain Carth Obvious. "There's a bunch of Jedi here," she noted. "I think they want to stand around and die and not escape. I'll start shooting them in thirty seconds."

Don't back down. Like on Biscayne. Polla kept her fingers steady on her gun.

Trask coughed. "You heard the woman."

The kid Jedi gave a choked laugh. "Rev-"

"Don't," the woman interrupted. "Trust me. The overlay slips and she goes fugue. It's not pretty."

"You don't know Bastila Shan-not yet, but we must find her," Trask told Polla. "We are the first Jedi you've seen. We are your friends. You want to help us. Your name is Polla Organa. You are a registered smuggler from Deralia, aboard the Endar Spire. Our ship is under attack. You have to escape. You want to escape. You want to help Jedi. You need to find Bastila. You need to help us. You want to avoid the Sith."

"What was that about a Sith?" Onasi again. "You're cutting in and out. All I got was Bastila and Sith-"

His interruptions were annoying her. Polla cut him off.

"I know what my name is." Anger spiked, infusing her gut with a strange fearlessness. Why was Trask Ulgo talking to her like she was brain dead? Or a child. "It's Polla Organa, and if you lot are what Jedi are like then it's no fracking wonder the Sith are winning your stupid Republic war-"

"Just come on." One of the other Jedi grabbed her bodily by the arm, pulling Polla behind her like a puppet. "This way."

Xxx

The bridge was blocked by more Sith soldiers. Their visors were all faceless and silver, reflecting the room back at them. Reflecting everything, like fifteen mirrors. The Sith all looked the same: faceless, anonymous. Their weapons leveled simultaneously, a wall of shining, silver, reflecting-

"Stand back," Trask murmured to Polla.

"Sure," she muttered, diving behind the nearest chair. Close your eyes, don't look-

The three Jedi deflected blast bolts back on their aggressors. Three Jedi, versus a squad of fifteen soldiers… and it wasn't even close.

The soldiers all died. Some of them in pieces. It didn't even take minutes.

It was a waste. All of this-

Polla felt another wave of nausea. Sure, she'd been hunting since she was a kid, but this was different. The laser swords cut things. And the smell-

Nobody on Nomi Sunrider and Friends ever mentioned the smell.

"I quit," she said.

"Hira?" Trask ignored her, talking to the female Jedi, the one with dark, almost black skin and hair braided tightly to her head, who had immediately gone to the large nav board and was doing something on the communications array.

The bridge showed the extent of the damage to the Spire. The map projected on the side of one wall was a mess of flashing red, showing where hull integrity was breached, overlaid with yellow, where power was gone too. The pilot and co-pilot were slumped dead in their seats. Other crewmen looked like they'd been thrown against a wall, and then dropped.

The viewscreen was too full of a grayish blue planet's surface, bristling with installations, faintly etched in green.

We're falling, Polla noted. We've lost orbit. We're kriffing plummeting to our deaths.

I'm a pilot. I can save us.

"I can try and pull us out," Polla ran to the yoke. She'd never flown a ship this big, but how hard could it be? Beats dying. Beats falling out of the fracking sky-

Readouts looked bad… her eyes went up, noting the constellations, nearby jump points. The information was useless now-something had pulled them out of hyperdrive, and their engines had suffered complete, catastrophic failures… she could see that from the redlined readouts, the dead patches on the board.

Polla pulled at the yoke, and nothing seemed to change at all. Because the engines are dead. We're dead in the sky. Dead in the sky and it's a race between being blown to pieces or coming to pieces on the way down- "I can fly this," she repeated. It didn't seem true, but she had to try.

"They're holding us here," the kid said. "The ship should have fallen by now. Somehow they're holding us-"

The woman laughed, but it was a hopeless, hollow sound. "They're recruiting, Jaik."

"There's more coming," he said. "Can you… do you feel that? It's so… it's cold."

The kid was right. Polla was suddenly freezing. More coming. More who? Why does it make it cold?

"Get her out of here," muttered the female Jedi. "Now. Pods are just off the aft door. Down the hall."

"I'll make sure Jaik reaches safety," Trask told her.

"No." Hira shook her head. "I can't hold them alone. And you need to stay with her."

"Why did you kill those soldiers?" Polla interrupted. "Can't you Jedi float the ship back into orbit?"

The Eosian kid laughed hollowly. "Maybe you could, if-"

"Don't," the woman said. Quiet, but her voice carried. "Go with Trask, Polla Organa. He will keep you safe."

That's insane. She'll die. That kid will die. What is the life of one kid worth? It's not worth me, I can fracking fight my own battles!

"We should all escape, right?" Polla offered. She was an excellent shot. She had… where the frack was her blaster? She'd dropped it. Somewhere. "Look, just give me my blaster back. I-I know I don't have a ton of combat experience, but I'm a great shot-"

I had the Czerka pistol, I always carried it. Ma must be holding it for me after the accident.

"Go with Trask," the woman repeated. "He will keep you safe. You will do what he asks."

Trask had stepped back, taken Polla's arm, was leaning over the comm board punching something in, presumably last words. To his wife? Did Jedi get married?

It was an odd thought, almost hysterical.

"I will go with Trask," she said. "He will keep me safe. I will do what he asks."

The temperature seemed to drop another few tics, and all Polla could think about was all the air escaping.

"Watch for fugue," the woman added. "Keep her away from mirrors too." She was one to talk about mirrors, with that polished face. Looked like she'd spent all day in front of one. Polla had better things to do.

The thought was random and felt like it had been inserted.

Xxx

Another hallway. This ship was a maze. "Freighters make a lot of sense," Polla told Trask. "It's like engine room, cargo bay, cargo bay, cockpit. Sometimes a lot of cargo bays. Sometimes even hidden ones." What the frack was wrong with her? They might be about to die and she was rattling on about ships. "You know, my Da was a smuggler too, he used to run goods out this far on the Rim. Always said Taris is a cesspool. Not a lot of profit out this far, when sents would as soon gouge you as look-"

"You know where we are?" Trask sounded surprised. "How did-?"

"I know nav charts like the back of my hand." He still had hold of hers, too tightly, like they were kids, like she was his kid, and he was dragging her along by her heels. "So what was the plan? You guys needed me for languages. Someone… I think someone told me that. Or... or flying? Was it flying?"

"Right. We can… we can worry about that later." His head turned sharply, and the chill seemed to intensify. Polla felt something.

Light going out on an overtaxed grid.

"That-that kid." Sick feeling in her stomach. "The woman. The other Jedi that we just left. They-they-"

He was just a kid. She-that woman let him die.

Except the kid wasn't dead. Somehow… somehow Polla knew that too. "The boy-we need to go back for him!"

"We can't. Keep moving."

"I am moving." Polla had never seen this man before, (had she? had she?), but this act, this whole running for their lives thing, it was kind of a bonding experience. She ran to keep up, slightly out of breath.

He stopped suddenly, in front of a door. "Listen to me. You have to find Bastila Shan. When you get to the planet's surface, you have to find Bastila Shan. You can trust Captain Onasi, but you have to find Bastila Shan."

"Bastila Shan?" Her head felt strange, almost feverish. For a second she didn't feel like she was in her own body at all. "I-I had a nurse named Shan, once. I remember."

"No." Both of his hands closed on hers. "No nurse. There was never a nurse. We need to keep moving-"

No nurse. But Shan. Find Shan. We need to keep moving.

The door in front of them slid open, but there was no one there-only another precipitous drop in temperature.

"I have a bad feeling," Polla whispered. Really bad, like a shadow across a sun bad-

And then, like a shadow coming into light, a man emerged, entirely blocking their path.

Trask made a noise in the back of his throat. "Knight Bandon Agare."

The man in front of them had pale skin, and yellow eyes. His dark hair was shaved close to his skull, narrowing to a pointed beard that made him look like a holovid villain. He carried a silver cylinder in each of his hands. And he… the air around him seemed to shimmer. Polla could almost taste his bad intentions in the back of her throat.

This man could be our deaths. This man is dark. Dangerous-

"I see," he murmured, almost conversationally. "Apparently, there is more than one prize aboard the Fleet's most heavily-guarded ship."

"Knight Bandon," Trask replied. "I can't let you leave this room." But he'd let go of Polla's hand, pushing he half behind him. She glanced back, looking frantically for anything that looked like a weapon-

"Knight is a title I no longer hold. It is Lord Bandon now, Darth Bandon."

Trask has a gun. In his holster. Trask was holding a lightsaber, so he probably didn't need it. Polla pulled his gun out of his belt before he could stop her.

"Get back," she warned the Sith, training the barrel down on him. He looked up, giving her a clear target. "I won't warn y-" she fired before finishing the sentence, just like Da had always said to do.

XXX

"You don't want to kill em, Pollie. Just aim for the space above. Pretend you're shooting a goreapple off the top of their head. Get close enough to singe their hair right off-"

XXX

But this time, instead of aiming for the wall behind, Polla sent this shot straight between the Sith's evil yellow-red eyes.

Or would have, except she missed. By at least a meter.

"Frack!"

The Sith looked just as astonished as she did-for a millisecond. His mouth dropped open, and then he laughed, taking a step closer to them. In unison, both of his laser swords ignited. He twirled one, deftly, slowing advancing-

He'll throw the other. He's going to throw the other one if he gets a clear shot at me and he won't miss-

"Next time I won't miss," Polla growled at him, trying to make the best of a very bad situation… while still keeping Trask between her and the holovid villain.

"That hall," Trask murmured, soft, but she heard it-reverberating all the way into her bones. "There. On the left. Find Onasi, Polla Organa. Stay with him and Bastila. You must. Find Bastila Shan."

"Bastila?" The Sith chuckled, deep and dark and something in it was terrifying. Somehow it made Polla want to run. All of this made her want to run.

"Come with me," she tugged at Trask Ulgo's arm.

"Go," he murmured, with his eyes still on the Sith. "Now."

The Sith chuckled again, but softer. "Beya's behind me. And Xaset. Arkan is skulking around here too. At least with me, your prize would get a clean death. I am not burdened by sentiment or lust-"

"Yeah," Polla muttered. "Obviously. You're a real catch, Sithguy."

"Polla." Trask repeated. "Go. Run."

And just like that, Polla found herself stumbling towards the door, still clutching the blaster. It slid open under her touch.

"We destroyed the escape pods," Sithguy said. "There's no escape, Re-"

Maybe not, but Polla was already running down the hall. She heard choked noises coming out of her throat and realized they were sobs.

Lights on an overtaxed grid. Another one winked out. It was cold. So cold.

Trask. That was Trask. That man killed him. That asshole killed him, and he's gonna kill me. I have to find Onasi. And Bastila. I have to stay with them-

Something crashed behind her, part of the ceiling. Polla kept running, feet moving like a footrace on Seventhday, like the kath of nightmares were after her, an entire Exchange goon squad-

"Wait. Stop!" A man stepped out from a side of the wall and into her path. "Wait. Is Trask with you?"

"He didn't make it." Polla stared at him, weird echo in her thoughts. His face, like a fracking recruitment poster for the Republic: solid chin, stubbled jaw. His hand was surprisingly warm on the bare skin of her arm.

"We won't make it if we don't get out of here. They sabotaged all the pods on this side, but I think I've got this one working. If not…" his voice trailed off, looking at her. "If not, it'll be quick."

"I have to find Carth Onasi," she told him. "And Bastila Shan. She's not my nurse. She's a Jedi-I-I think. Are you one. Are you a Jedi?"

"I'm Carth," he said, as if that was an answer. He scanned her face, frowning. "You okay, sister?"

"Not really." Her teeth were chattering. She felt-something felt, like the ship was going, all the air rushing out. Spacer's worst nightmare. "We have to get out of here, Carth Onasi. I'm Polla Organa. I can trust you. Trask said I should go with you."

"Yeah," he nodded, and took her hand, pulling them both into the pod. "You sit here, okay?"

Polla found herself pushed into the drop chair, safeties puffing around her, watching as the guy did the same. Only two chairs on the pod. Their knees brushed.

"We're gonna go fast-" they were already going, the gees drowning out anything else he had to say, anything at all, blurring the world into white and gray. Polla closed her eyes.

Ma, she thought. Mal, I-

XXX

"Deralia. An unlikely planet to conquer. Do we need more farmers in our Empire, Revan?"

"This is Beya's homeworld. She always told me it was beautiful, and it is."

"For now." Davad Arkan slipped his arm around her waist. "Is there to be a ground attack, or is this another one of your tricks, to lure the Republic into false complacency?"

"We'll draw them out," she murmured. "The Republic Fleet has used these Outlier worlds as supply bases for long enough."

"Ah," he said lightly. "And this trap, today… it wouldn't have anything to do with the Hope of the Republic?"

"Do they still have hope?" She chuckled softly under her mask. "Send the signal to Leviathan. Tell Lord Malak to close orbit and join us."

"But that eliminates the element of surprise." Arkan sounded surprised himself. "We only have the flagships in this sector. If the Republic brings more forces-"

"Do you doubt the might of the Sith?" She pushed him away, turning away, and back to the sleeping planet beneath.

"I have no doubts left," he muttered. If she turned, she would see him, half crouched-ready to spring, or kneel. "Master."

XXX

A/N You know, I always thought writing one of these Star Forge narratives would be easy, and it is actually not. This is incredibly referential, possibly spoilerific, but hey. Some of the italicized quotes are from my other ficts, as is some of the dialogue. Some of it's from the game. I hope nothing is from another fict, but that's the other hard thing about writing this: I've read so many. Consider it an homage, if my Polla seems referential. I know she's heavily influenced by Jen Sahara, and all the other unreliable mindwiped Sith Lords out there.

It may be worth noting, before you get too attached, this is prequel to Memory, which means it will end badly. For some. Many. Most. But there's hope in darkness, we build rebellions on it, eh?

Thanks for reading, please review!

Chapter Text

She was dreaming, muttering something in a language he didn't know. She did that a lot—she always had, ever since Taris. It didn't bother him anymore; it was just another thing about her. Like her arched eyebrows or the way she never closed the fresher door, the lost green of her eyes.

XXX

Chapter Two / I Fall to Pieces

Carth thought they were dead. It didn't even seem possible they'd make it out of the Spire, let alone land right. Read-outs on the pod's primitive nav had all redlined early on in the descent. The woman across from him looked like she'd flatlined too-eyes half shut, showing only slivers of white. The air was too hot, and the pod's thermals were fried. They were going too fast, and whatever was down there wasn't gonna be a bed of mallowstars.

But remarkably, just as he thought he was going to black out, just as the gees kicked into overdrive, the ship stabilized, their trajectory smoothing into an even arc. They came in hard and fast, twisting like a manka by the tail, but they came in right; landing open enough that the stabilizers hit, taking up most of the shock.

I think we might make it. It's a mir-

Xxx

That was one hell of a landing.

Carth's eyes snapped open. He'd blacked out. No telling how long he'd been unconscious, but the pod had stopped.

Either the afterlife or Taris. Made it through another fall out of the sky. How many did that make now? Eleven? Not that Carth was counting.

Curved dome above his head, gray durasteel. Head locked in place, crash belts strapped over his shoulders. Faint light filtered through a crack in their pod. The air from outside stank to high heaven. Across from him, the woman he'd saved twitched in her sleep, barely visible in the dim light, but breathing. Definitely breathing.

So this is Taris. His limbs felt frozen. This is Taris, and we're not dead.

Carth didn't know much about Taris, except the nobles kept their Upper City pristine. Had some kind of Human separatist movement, he'd heard, kept the non-Human races boxed up below. Oh, and if that didn't make it lovely enough, Taris also was occupied by the Sith.

Taris had been one of the first Revan and Malak had taken. It had a standing military, strong defenses, but after seeing what had happened on Telos, those brave soldiers had given it all up without a fight, let the former heroes and their armada roll right in.

Revan and Malak, they'd been the best the galaxy had to offer, right up until they'd become the worst-

Accented Basic interrupted his thoughts. Two voices. Sounded like they were arguing over spoils. Took Carth another beat to realize the spoils were him and the woman. His hand crept down to his blaster, as his eyes cracked half open. Sun-no, some kind of widebeam-was shining into the now-open hatch.

He looked across at her, his fellow survivor, the woman who'd sounded like she was brain-damaged before they'd fallen from the sky. She was a mess. Looked like she'd had a nosebleed going down, a bad head wound, and her lips were nearly white. But she was alive. Her eyes fluttered once. "Eeshay," she mumbled suddenly. "Maleye korroh see. No. Esta deem! Trakellen. Sikuth-"

"Hear that? You argue, they awake!" The voice outside was male. Rim accent, maybe local.

We survived a crash like that. We can't die in the first five minutes!

That was Carth's first thought when the two helmeted and visored heads cracked open the hatch. He kept his eyes half-closed, feigning unconsciousness. Making it easier for them to shoot you. But what could he do? There'd been no time to break the restraints.

Sith. These are those Sith on this freaking planet that's everyone's talking about-

"Don't move," one of them ordered, brandishing a nasty-looking snub disruptor at Carth.

He opened his eyes, trying to feign helplessness at least. "Wouldn't dream of it." Still in crash restraints, there was no way he'd make it to the guns on his belt… but the hold-out tucked in his boot was a possibilty. Maybe….

"No!" the woman across from him muttered. "Get out! Get out! Nar'kellan Shirmok Tai! You fracking loser!" Her eyes were still closed. Half of her face was bloody. There was a cut on her head, bleeding enough to stain her dark hair red.

"Shakorr…" the Sith holding the pistol jerked his head in her direction. "Cover that one."

"Sure, I-holy… blastballs!" The second Sith nearly dropped his weapon, fumbling with it. "Look-"

"What?" The other one snapped. His head turned, away from Carth. Both of them now looking at her, the unconscious woman.

She was struggling in her restraints. "Ucah'alla y nik! Rysya Mandalore phar ech nhi' Republik infi! Nhi! Nhi Mandalore!"

Carth dove for the holdout, half expecting to feel his insides turned to jelly any sec by one of their disruptors-no time. He brought the weapon to bear.

"Is it Sheris-? Lor-" the man never finished his sentence.

One. Two. The slugs hit their targets exact, piercing the armored plating on their throats like cheap plimfoam. As designed. Nasty, but so was this bleeding war.

Carth finished unbuckling his restraints and stood up, pushing their bodies to the side.

"No," his fellow survivor murmured again. Blood had made a mask of her face now. Her eyes were only narrow slips of white, still half open and rolled up. She twitched like she was having some kind of seizure. "Issrakay? Mal?"

Carth checked her pulse. Despite her battered appearance, it was strong and steady. Not gonna die on my watch just yet. I suppose that's good.

"Thanks for the assist, kid. Guess whatever you told them worked." Whatever you told them in… Mandalorian? I'll worry about that later. "Let's get you out of here." And then what? At least she looked light. Carth's entire body felt like one long bruise.

They'd landed in some kind of waste recycling facility, and all the junk had helped cushion their fall. Lucky.

His unconscious fellow survivor was heavier than she looked. There was no time to think too much about how to escape, Carth just had to do it, keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other, soldier. Across the pit was a yellow access hatch. Carth headed towards it, the woman half over his shoulder in a modified battle man's carry.

Xxx

The creamy trace of her spine followed the curve of the white, circular bed, like overlapping tiles on game of ryss. Her hair was spilled effortless, loose and artful, a red banner across that perfect, pale back. She had one hand poised, so perfectly supporting her weight that it might have been posed there. Posed and prized, just for him.

"My Lord?" Sheris turned towards him with that faint, mocking smile on her lips. The smile, exact. "I was waiting for you on the Bright. But I grew cold."

Her hair was beautiful, like sunset, a bonfire, like blood. In the open ferraglass reflection of the viewport, it was her reflection that stared back: cool and serene. With nothing of innocence left.

"Sherisss." Her name came out in a mechanical hiss through his voder, vibrating against the alumoid edges of his artificial jaw.

"Malak." She turned her head, showing him that perfect profile, swoop of her nose, delicately arched eyebrows, graceful as birds. Wide green eyes stared up at him, thickly framed by red lashes.

She'd used to darken them with cosmet, until he made her stop.

Red had never darkened them, rarely painted her face at all, except when expected for some formal function. Red had rarely bothered to curl her hair. Her vanity had been well-disguised, more concerned with delusions of her own power than visual artifice.

Sheris was naked entirely, and Malak's hands dropped to his belt. It had been nearly a year since he'd killed his wife and he had begun to forget the difference.

Xxx

"You let her go? Just like that?" Bandon had an ugly smirk on his face, looking up from the feeds.

They'd locked into the Endar Spire, pulling the smaller hammerhead into the Leviathan's maw like into the jaws of a firaxan. Davad appreciated the conservation of a valuable resource, but the security footage still existing from the Endar Spire's dormitory cameras was… an unfortunate mischance.

"I assumed she'd die well enough on her own. The pods were sabotaged. "

"Some might wonder at your loyalties."

Davad ignored the brat, spearing another piece of nerf with his knife. The delicious taste made his mouth water, his senses sing. He was starving. He took another bite, chewing more carefully, before responding. "What did Master Ulgo tell you?"

"Not enough before I broke him. There was a Jedi plot."

"No," Davad deadpanned, but poor Bandon didn't get the joke. "Should have left him alive. Where's Malak?"

There was a chance he could salvage this. But only if Davad was the one to tell Malak. And not the other way round.

"With her." Bandon sneered. "Her shuttle arrived yesterday from the Grave."

The Grave Bright was an aptly named ship, Davad thought, not for the first time.

His stomach growled, and he waved at the nearby serving droid to bring another plate. Brandon's was almost untouched.

"You should eat something," Davad told him. "You look like shit."

The man's yellow eyes glared back at him. "I didn't come here to be taunted."

"No. I know. You came for information. You want to tell Malak yourself. Of course, he's rather unpredictable. He might strangle you. Wouldn't be the first time our Lord strangled a messenger." Davad kept his voice unconcerned, shoving another succulent slice in his mouth, chewing carefully while he watched the other man burn. "Losing Shan was a blow enough, but Malak never had her. "However, Lord Revan, in the hands of the Jedi… with their claws in her mind… there's no telling." He laughed. "You know, you're right. I should have killed her."

Those unmistakable eyes, staring at him blankly, all the light in them gone out.

I should have killed you, Rev.

Xxx

"Go on; I like watching you crawl."

She stood over him like a colossus. Standing, she was taller than he was, and that seemed… right now. As right as this.

He could see his reflection in the mask of her face.

She pushed back her hood, revealing the thinning ruin of her hair, the oddly vulnerable shape of her delicate skull. His breath caught as she removed the mask: the movement as strangely sensual a gesture as he had once found the innocent nape of her neck, turned from him unaware, turned always toward Malak.

An eyebrow arched, delicate and frail as a bird's wing above her bilious, yellow eyes. Her teeth bared in a smile through her perfect lips, and she let the mask fall, clattering to the floor, her hand moving to the nape of her neck, the buckles of her robe-

He hungered for her, as sharply and savagely as the beasts he used to ride in the Dxun winds between the Demon's Moon and home.

"I would have made you a queen," his voice felt hoarse and thick.

"Don't speak." She frowned, eyes going distant. Davad lay before her, but she was thinking of him, her Coruscanti ruin.

Xxx

"You have a hard-on right now for her. Still?" Bandon jeered. "Wipe the fracking drool off your chin, Arkan."

Davad felt his teeth pulled back from his lips. The meat in his mouth turned to ash, and he spit it out. "I remember how you cried when we killed your Master, Padawan. Don't speak of things you were too young to understand."

"Too young?" Bandon was young, and right now he looked it. All bravado and no brains at all. He pushed back from the table, stood, one hand on his saber. "I'm not too young to kill you, Beast-lord." He scoffed. "Why don't you slink back to your cave and cry about her some more?"

Davad stood up too. "I plucked you from Korriban; I can send you back just as easily." He smiled. "Maybe in pieces. Uln is always looking for experimental subjects."

Bandon smiled slowly as if this was what he'd wanted all along. His lightsaber ignited.

The beast roared, and this time, Davad heeded its call.

Xxx

Padawan Jaik Sensa, formerly of the Endar Spire, was barely alive, a mere spark, but Beya Organa thought he would survive. The worst of his injuries, the severed hand, had already been replaced by a prosthesis and packed in kolto. The rest… the rest could wait until he awoke and answered her questions.

Their dossiers on members of the Order were extensive. Jaik had been apprenticed at four, originally from a merchant family on Balmorra. Eosian on his mother's side, he was fifteen now. Perfect fodder for the Korriban crucible, if he survived her interrogation.

Before the Spire had fallen, they'd collected seventeen Jedi still living. Mostly Padawans. Masters had a certain inflexible rigidity to conversion that was impossible to break; and Knights… well, there weren't very many Knights left.

Only us. The Order's golden children, forging a new order in the ashes of the old-

The clash of sabers interrupted her thoughts. Another duel? She glanced at the chron. Oh. Of course. It's time for lunch.

Competition among Sith was commonplace enough to be beneath notice, but the cafeteria always seemed to inspire more conflict than it sated-especially, Beya had noted, when Arkan was aboard their ship and not his own Demon Moon.

"It's her fault," the child whispered.

Beya glanced at him. "Awake already, Jaik?" She was pleased.

"Yes. Did you kill her?"

"Your master? Hira Kiteen? Not personally. Didn't you see? I believe Xaset had the honor."

"I'll kill him," the child vowed.

"Maybe." She smiled. Such an easy turn. It was like the Jedi didn't even try anymore, rot eating them from within. "You need to become stronger first."

"Did you kill her?" he repeated.

Beya walked over to him, watching as he took in her face, saw him flinch as he felt her strength. "Are you addled? Xaset killed your master, boy."

"I meant her." His lip curled. "Revan."

"Revan…?" She started to laugh, at the absurdity. "Our Lord Malak killed Revan; although, in the Republic, I believe they say it was Bastila Shan."

"No." His mouth twisted. "I saw her. On the ship."

"I didn't realize Malak had sent Sheris with us." A part of her raged that he'd risked his lover on such a dangerous mission, but it was a part of her that she tamped down quickly.

Sentimental Sith were soon dead ones.

"No," he repeated. "Master Hira was… sometimes I helped. It never worked. We kept wiping her over and over but it never worked. We tried everything. She kept coming back. It got worse and worse. Every time she saw a mirror, or a saber, or heard about the wars-"

"What are you babbling on about?" Wiping? Master Hira?

"We took her to Dantooine and it didn't even work."

Clash of sabers again. Shouts. A crashing noise from the cafeteria.

Animals. Mad kath. But there's strength there. And we need that to win. We need to win this war.

That truth remained, even if Beya had forgotten why. The reason no longer mattered, not in the face of true strength. Power was its own reward.

"Who?" she asked slowly. Later, she realized that was when she knew already, knew this boy didn't mean it was his poor dead master who had been wiped. "Who did you take to Dantooine? Who was… wiped?"

"Revan," the boy spat. "Force-damned Revan Starfire, Dark Lord of the Si-"

Her saber slashed across his throat.

It was a painless way to die. He was only a child; he deserved that much.

Xxx

Polla Organa's dreams were nightmares. It was the first thing Carth had learned about her. Nightmares in… at least a dozen languages. Some Carth recognized, and some sounded like the back of a hoverbus exhaust pipe belching, but 'no,' was pretty clear in all of them.

Whatever her nightmares were about, Polla Organa obviously wanted them to stop.

The second thing Carth learned about his unconscious roommate was that she wasn't a natural brunette-certain, awkward realities made that clear early on.

The third was that she wore a man's standard small, in shirts and trousers, a size sept shoe. Her own clothes were too battered to be usable, except maybe the vest; but he'd traded some of the pod's medical supplies with an Ithorian swindler in the Taris Lower City for a few changes for both of them. His own new civs felt too loose and too uncomfortable at the same time. How long since he'd worn civilian gear anywhere?

No point. Never thought I'd need to wear it again, never thought I'd see anything but the hull of a ship before the end-

The fourth thing Carth learned was that Scout Organa had a tolerance for sedatives. A huge one. The doc he'd gotten to come look at her (recommended by Gaz, the Ithorian), had tried half a dozen types and combos to get her calm. Nothing worked.

Xxx

"Smuggler, huh?" The doc frowned. "Probably an addict." He rolled up her sleeves like he was checking for injection ports, but the only thing they found was a fading red scar on her left arm. "I can't waste any more drugs on her. We've got others… men in real pain. Ones I can help-"

The smuggler twitched, yanking her arm back. Her eyes rolled under their lids. Carth had still never seen them open-not since the Spire-but he had a memory of a vivid green, almost too hard to be real. She'd seemed a simpleton back then, maybe a little crazy, but at least she'd been awake.

"Ishmay. Lekeen. Aryun. Malachor. Avedin vishate nah! Aveedin vishate NAAH!" She shook. "No! You can't… can't win."

"Basic," the doc noted. "You catch the other one?"

"Not that one. There's been a few." Mandalorian was one he'd never forget. She'd cursed at someone in it for nearly an hour.

Could she be Manda? She had no tattoos… wouldn't that be ironic.?Saving a Mandalorian, after all those years spent shooting them out of the sky.

After Revan and Malak had broken their might, the clans had scattered across the galaxy. Mercs on practically every planet. They even hired out as Republic fighters now. Carth didn't like it any more than any other flyer he knew, but they made good cannon fire. Even enjoyed it, the kind of bastards they were.

"If she's not an addict, and the drugs don't work…" the man leaned over, peeling back one of her eyelids. "Huh," he commented, shining a light into the woman's eye. It was green, faded in the dim light. "No pupillary response at all. Sure she's not brain dead?"

"You just heard her talk." Carth was starting to wonder if this loser was even a doc at all.

"Get her scanned," the man suggested. "Zelka Forn in the Upper City. Had a clinic up there. He'll do it. Don't tell him I sent you. Used to work there, 'til he fired me."

"No kidding." Carth bit back a harder response.

"No kidding." The man shrugged. "Forn's real helpful, always likes helping you Republic types."

Carth felt a chill. "I never said we were Republic." He'd tossed everything with an insignia, everything military, even down to his shoes and skivs.

"Head injury, not from around here. Do I look stupid?" The man snorted. "She's Deralian, and you're… you've got one of those farm accents. Can never keep the Rim colonies straight."

"It doesn't matter." Carth let his hand fall on his blaster. "Get out."

"Hey. Just making conversation." The man shrugged, backing away slow.

The second the door slid shut behind them, Carth had started to pack their kit.

"Genoharddon," muttered the Deralian. "Therion. Asshole."

"You tell em, sis!" Carth sighed, and slung the pack over his shoulder, lifted her in his arms. She was long-limbed and floppy, heavier than she looked.

He wasn't sure what it meant about the neighborhood when no one blinked an eyestalk at a man carrying an unconscious, bloody woman in his arms; but they weren't exactly choosers.

XXX

The Endar Spire shouldn't have come anywhere near Taris. Their mission had been to go to some forest world in the backend of beyond. Them, and the rest of the so-called Jedi Battle Fleet: nine capital ships under High Admiral Forn Dodonna's command.

Just like old times, with Jedi calling the real shots.

Jedi Battle Fleet, that was a joke if Carth had ever heard one.

Back when the wars had begun, back when the Mandalorians began their attacks on Eos, Althir and all the rest; the Republic Navy had put Jedi on all its capital ships as a way to sense out their hidden enemies. Had worked too-like a damn charm.

Carth still remembered the sense of awe he'd had the first time he saw one: she had been little more than a kid, but they'd called her a Jedi Knight, an honorary General. General Knight Pando. Short as the dickens, even for a Rodian.

He'd never known her first name.

She was dead now. A lot of good people were…and that was a road he was going to avoid.

He'd changed apartments after the run-in with Doc Gurney; now they were one level down, the only Humans in a sea of Twi'lek, Duros, and Rodian faces. The water barely worked and the power was sporadic. There were rumors of some kind of plague running wild… and even wilder rumors that it wasn't a plague at all; but some kind of virus dreamed up in a lab that turned sentients into monsters.

Sents into monsters? Carth could've laughed. In his experience, most sents weren't that far off.

Xxx

Malak watched the footage silently, seething with fury. They'd cut and shaved the woman's hair in a barbaric fashion, dressed her as a half-clothed street urchin, but she still moved like her: brash and arrogant; as unaware of her grace as a planet was to its orbital satellites.

Revan. Red. Master. My wife.

"You should have come to me immediately, Arkan," he muttered. "The trail is colder now."

"Revan had one duplicate made that we know about," suggested the woman. Beya Organa. Her dark hair was loose and long now, but she'd worn it like a Deralian for years. Like Revan's hair now in the holostill. "This could be another. We all felt… we felt her death."

They had. One last scream in the Force. It had half-deafened Malak, sent him unconscious, and when he awoke for a moment he wasn't sure which one of them had died.

For another moment, he wasn't sure which he had wanted.

You tried to kill me, Red.

He should feel triumph for his success, his victory. But it wasn't complete. Not until they held the Core, not until he gripped Coruscant's dark pearl in his hand, and squeezed, taking his rightful place in the Senate, bringing the Republic to leash, the Senators and Jedi Council both mere ash beneath his feet...

She promised to see you in ashes, and I will.

"It was her," Davad said. Darth Arkan. They'd been friends, long ago. Long ago, and that time is gone. "But changed. She didn't know me." He sounded surprised.

"How did you know?" Malak demanded. "How did you know to find her?"

"A chance encounter."

A lie. Arkan and the woman had come out of what looked like a dormitory bunk. No footage of the room itself, but there was in the hall. In the hall: Revan's face, caught by the camera, looking up at the Beast-Lord. Her eyes wide and-and it was impossible to read any expression in the grain of the feed. And Malak had sensed nothing. Nothing of her there at all.

Nothing, when once they'd been close enough for him to feel her dream across a sector.

"And you, Beya? Another chance encounter?"

"No." The Deralian spat on the ground. "My prospect confessed. He blamed her for the death of his master."

"I will question him myself."

Something in her eyes glittered. "Impossible. He died of his injuries."

Lie. Again, another lie.

Did they know they were so easily opened? Malak could not read their thoughts-not entirely-but he still had his gift for gleaning intent.

He would allow them their falsehoods. For now. (Although they begged further discovery.) Despite the small lies, these two were still loyal.

Of course they were. Sith were nothing without attachments. And Malak was all they had left.

"And so. Revan took the redemption." Bitter irony choked his throat.

Redemption. The secret eating away at the heart of the Order. Jedi rose and fell, almost cyclically. But their power, their knowledge… it could not be squandered. And so. Waste not, want not. Memories replaced. Death with light. Past lives of exemplars merged to present fallen ones-

There was an entire cadre of masters from the Exar Kun wars the Jedi trotted out for Days of Remembrance every year. All of them scarred and twisted composites, shells of the sentients they'd been.

Even my own master Jopheena. A woman who had never existed. Would you have offered it to me, Master, if it had been me in your grasp and not her? Is it the Sith'ae'rah you wished to preserve? Selfish, even in your damned mercy….

Davad coughed, exchanging a glance with Beya, and Malak realized he had been silent for too long.

"Who?" he asked. "Which ancient master has my wife's body now?" His thoughts were strange, a mix of scorn-and still, desire.

Davad coughed again, either a sound of distress or amusement. "My Lord. I sensed… I sensed no Force at all."

"She was blocked? They stripped the Force from her mind?" Fury spiked in his heart: for the waste of the woman he'd tried to kill and the Jedi hypocrisy that had ruined her after. Jedi fools, they piss on their own redemption. "They gave her a Jedi's memories, then stripped her like they did Meetra Surik?" It was… remarkably cruel of them.

Malak almost wished he had thought of it himself. If we possessed the ability to remove the Force at will from our enemies…. How quick, both Coruscant and Kaas could be brought to heel.

Davad shrugged. "She insisted her name was Polla Organa, and that she was a Deralian smuggler. She seemed to have no memory of a Jedi's life at all. Quite honestly, I assumed she'd be killed in combat. She was entirely hapless."

"But you let her live," Beya sneered.

Beya the Betrayer. Malak did not know what had triggered the Deralian's transfer of loyalty from her closest childhood friend to him; but it had been Beya who gave warning of Revan's planned attack against Malak. It had been Beya who gave him the means to strike first, and it was Beya he had to thank for his triumph over his old master.

He trusted her loyalties now above Arkan.

"There was no sport in her death." Arkan's feigned carelessness fooled none of them. There was dried blood on his teeth, flaked around his lips.

Malak had been informed that Arkan had taken a chunk out of their latest Korriban initiate's arm, the boy, Bandon Agare. With his teeth.

Bandon would survive the scar. It was almost amusing.

"Who else knows?" Malak asked, standing up from the table and walking over to the holographic projection of the planet beneath them. "Who else knows of this? Besides the Jedi… the remaining Jedi."

"Bandon," Davad said. "He provided me the security footage."

Provided it to you and not me. Attempted to blackmail you with it.

Malak would have to have a word with the Sith Academy tutors about their curriculum if this was what passed for cunning in their new recruits.

I would hire teachers for my disciples from the Senate Academies, if they didn't screen out Force sensitivity as a matter of course. A null would last five minutes in my Academy on Dreshdae. As by my design-

"Question the other survivors. Find out what you can. I will send Bandon to the planet's surface to hunt for Shan. Remember Bastila Shan?" Malak chuckled. "Touching as a reunion with my broken master would be, Shan is the prize. The planet is quarantined. We will find Shan first. No need to allocate resources for a mind-wiped null... even if she does possess my wife's... physical attributes." He stared hard at Arkan, until the man's yellow eyes turned to the floor, a kicked kath. "I have no need for another copy, but we need to know the Jedi's true intentions. Was this merely punishment? Or some deeper game afoot?"

"As you say," Davad muttered. Lie. For Arkan, Shan would never be enough.

Malak had more long-term goals. Revan's obsession with her plague (and his death) had been disruptive to their New Order. In her absence, he was fast-bringing a new doctrine of strength and unity to the galaxy.

"What about you, Beya?"

"My Lord?" Her head was bowed, staring at the steeple of her hands, presumably lost in thought. Memories of dear old Rev? Or the ones they'd forged later, with war and Mandalorian blood? "What was your question?"

"Polla Organa. A Deralian smuggler. Have there ever been any other Deralian Jedi? I was under the impression you were an outlier."

"Polla Organa is about as common a name on Deralia as Jain Antilles is on Coruscant. There have been some Deralian Jedi. We test for Force-sensitivity as part of school screening." Beya smiled. "That's how I came to the Jedi. You remember."

The sentiment and conceits of our bygone youth. Yes, Malak remembered.

XXX

The sidewalk cantina was open, too open. Public. But the patrons were used to seeing Jedi by now. They'd been coming here for years, Padawans on the verge of their trials. Coming to satisfy needs not granted in the Temple. An unspoken, allowable rule-as long as those needs were not becalmed between their own kind.

Revan's loose hair was a flame down her back. She was sitting on his lap, legs askew, a rare carelessness for them both. Her mouth was hot and open and sweet, and he could not stop devouring it.

But reason had to prevail. No matter what they did in private, (and it was extensive), it should not be done here. Not like this.

"Do you want the whole planet to find out about us?" he warned, finally catching his breath. At that moment, he would have set the world ablaze for her smile; but in this place, with his own station constantly in question-not to mention hers-this was madness.

Malak found that he did not care.

"I want the whole galaxy to know how much I love you," she declared.

"Keep carrying on like this and the whole galaxy will know." Beya Organa was a golden-skinned girl with black hair in a Deralian topknot, already knighted. She rolled her eyes.

"Frack the galaxy," Malak announced. "We leave for Malachor tomorrow with Vrook and we'll be cooped up on a ship for weeks."

"We'll have to find some way of entertaining ourselves." Red laughed, so careless. She, who was never careless-and that laughter had been no ruse, no trap-just pure joy for the both of them. It was, he thought later, perhaps the last time things were simple, duracrete, clean... for either of them. More joyous moments had followed (now a great source of power for him-his rage fueled by their loss); but those had all come with a price.

In this one memory, they had been free.

"I'm going to find Davad and 'Tina," the Deralian said, getting up from the table. "if I don't see you before you leave, good luck and may the Force guide you."

"May the Force keep us from getting sand in places there should be no sand," Revan chuckled, breath warm against his ear. "From what I've read about Mandalore, that will be the real test of our knighthood."

"Come here," he urged, pulling her back. Eyes were upon them, it was too public a place, but in this most perfect, simple moment, Malak D'Reev no longer cared.

XXX

The image of Taris shimmered before him, outlined by read-outs of its sectors, populations, troop positions, news broadcasts. His eyes scanned the data, noting the chatter about escape pods, rumors about plague in the Lower City, the Under City... perpetual rumors of rebellions... the normal gang violence that kept the masses entertained...

"Perhaps the Jedi meant the Organa surname as an homage to your merits, Beya," Davad broke into Malak's thoughts, as he had once tried to break into much more.

Malak felt his fists curl, at the man's impudence. Jealousy. It was a useful tool, even in his own mind.

Beya's voice mocked the Beast-Lord, sharing Malak's sentiment. "Jealous they didn't make her an Onderonite princess?"

"Revan is dead," Malak reminded them, not even turning to look back at them, his former friends, still sitting at his table.

Even without looking, he knew they were staring daggers at each other, honing their hate upon their shared past and their own lost conviction.

You were both too weak to hold your own needs. That is why I hold you. "Find what you can from our Jedi captives, and report back to me."

Malak stared at the map of Taris, rotating it slowly, while they muttered their acquiescence and departed. Somewhere below was Bastila Shan, Hope of the Republic with her Battle Meditation. And also, it seemed, the broken shell of the woman who had brought them all to this.

Bastila Shan and her Battle Meditation. The broken shell of my wife. A false equivalence that I will not choose between.

Xxx

"Wake up." A hand shook her shoulder.

Waking up was like crawling through a nest of eridu, struggling to surface.

"I-" Polla's eyes snapped open.

There was a man with a worried face staring down at her. His face needed a shave, his eyebrows knit in a way that made his eyes squint, half-obscured by the hair.

I need to see his face. I need to see his eyes, I-

"Seiran-?"

For a second Polla almost thought it was Seiran, the guy who'd convinced her to fly the canyon loop in the first place. But no, this guy had a square face with more lines in it.

"Trask? Ensign Jedi Trask?"

"You said he didn't make it." The gentle smile on the man's face receded, so quickly she wondered if it had been real before.

Trask didn't make it. Echo in her skull. She blinked. "Oh. We need to find Bastila Shan."

"Right ahead of you there, sister. You… you had a pretty bad knock to the head. You've been out for a week."

"My name is Polla Organa. I'm a Deralian smuggler."

"Might not want to go bragging about that. From what I hear, Sith take a dim view on smuggling." His smile was quizzical as if he was trying to make a joke.

"Sith." Her mind slipped, images of black robes and red blades and... and eyes. Eyes. "We have to avoid the Sith. We have to avoid the Sith and find Bastila Shan and Carth Onasi."

"I'm Carth." Now his smile was rueful, humoring her. "So we've found me already. I'm Carth Onasi and you're…"

"I'm Polla Organa," she repeated. "Registered smuggler. At your service."

"I know who you are. Registered… smuggler?" He had stubble and eyes the color of Deralian wheat, and now a scowl, twisting that pretty mouth. Republic types. Always sticks in the hyperdrive.

"Yes," she said slowly. He loomed above her. "Do you have a problem with smugglers?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not as long as you don't get us arrested."

"I see you read my file?" Polla tried to laugh. Therion was an asshole.

"What?" He frowned. It made him look older, made the planes of his face seem less pretty-boy hotshot.

It made him more attractive. Polla Organa was done with pretty-boy-hotshots. "Nothing, don't get your unders in a twist—"

"Okay, okay." He held his hands up, backing off.

Was he… mocking her? Insolent cretin! She sat up, bringing another wage of pain ringing through her skull. She stood up, and that was even worse.

"I'm sorry, I seem to have hit my head. Hurt my head. My head's.…"

"Yeah, I had someone take a look a few days ago." He grimaced. "Wasn't sure you were gonna make it, to be honest. We crashed pretty hard. I think you got the worst of it."

"We need to get back to the ship, it's safe there." Standing, she only had to angle her head slightly to see his eyes. They were brown. Worried. Not at all yellow. Or red.

Why did I think-

"Stars," Captain Onasi muttered. "Why don't you sit down? Eat something. I… I'll run through it again. Okay?"

"Okay." There was a puffy hydroderm on her arm and another one next to it that looked like kolto. Polla peeled them both off and dropped them on the floor.

"Hey!" He said. "You might… you might still need those!"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm better. Where's Bastila Shan?"

He started to talk again. He talked too much. Polla waited until he was finished before asking the next question.

Should have just taken me back to the ship. It's safe there.

Xxx

It took Carth about ten repetitions before any facts seemed to sink into Polla Organa's brain; and even then she followed him around the apartment like a pet loth cat, peppering him with questions that only seemed to have one set of responses. He'd answer her questions and she'd tell him again: her name, her occupation, her home planet, that the Endar Spire was a safe space, that he was a trustworthy guy (somehow not flattering), and they needed to find Bastila Shan.

Oh, and she knew Sith were bad. That was a relief.

It was damned hard not to be annoyed, but he'd seen this before. The Force could do terrible things to a mind. They'd liberated a few prisoners that had been interrogated by Sith on Endor, about a year ago. They'd been like this too. Like they'd been pushed. One guy had ended up offing himself. The others had gotten over it. Mostly. Far as Carth knew. He'd been transferred to the Jedi Fleet soon after, assigned to their great hope, Bastila Shan. Kid was only about nineteen and too serious for her own good, going by her inspirational speeches in the officer's lounge.

But under her command… well, he'd heard Battle Meditation was a thing to see. But Bastila had never had a chance to use it, between sitting in orbit around Dantooine and this jump that was supposed to take them to a world called Edean, but had left them stranded and separated from the rest of the Fleet instead. The only thing Carth had seen was a bunch of Jedi Masters packing Bastila and a few other Jedi into an escape pod the second the first Sith ship was sighted, then sending Carth off to fetch Master Ulgo and some patient of his, and then….

Well, and then they'd lost... they'd lost everything. So many dead, and for what?

Carth had been suspicious of this Polla Organa at first, but now he thought he got it. Master Trask and Bastila Shan had been the powerhouses on the Spire:-the great Jedi hopes. Only, because wasn't it just how the galaxy crumbled (and it was crumbling); they were both lost, and what had been saved instead was their little charity project, this hapless kid who'd been caught up in some Sith factory or something, half-brainwashed, maybe left to die.

Hell, he'd even heard her screaming about a factory: in Huttese, Mandalorian, and Basic. Factory. Foun'day. Rydisc…. Forge.

There were rumors the Sith were doing sweeps on the Undercity. Looking for escapees. Being Human, he and this woman stood out already. He wasn't sure how long goodwill was gonna keep them alive. Goodwill didn't feed a man's kids, and the Twi'lek family next door looked hungry.

The way Carth saw it, they'd be safer above ground, where they could blend in. If this woman, with her blank stare and nonsensical babble, was capable of blending anywhere.

He gave her another sleep cycle before he sent her into the fresher with the change of clothes that looked the most upmarket, and some lave. She was in there for an hour, long enough that he started to get worried.

"You okay?" He knocked on the door. "Polla?"

"Ja'kun," she called back. Hey, he knew that one. A minute, or your life's breath; it makes no difference to me. That was Huttese.

"Fine," Carth muttered. "Be that way."

Women spent a lot of time in the bathroom sometimes. Frankly, it was the first kind of normal thing she'd done.

XXX

The fresher had a mirror. There hadn't been any on the ship, which was really strange. They… they said it was because of collisions. So no one got hurt.

They said. Who? Who said?

The people. The people on the ship. It's safe there, but we're here.

Polla Organa stared into the mirror.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale.

You just fell out of the sky and landed in a coma again. Of course you're pale.

I should call Ma. She'd have a fit. She'd probably kill me. Maybe… maybe I'll call her later.

Her eyes were-she blinked them. They were eyes. Eyes change color, you know that. Sometimes they're brown, sometimes green. Sometimes yellow-or-red.

Red's bad.

"Red's bad." Polla Organa bit down on her lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, watching it well to the surface and then recede. It hurt. Her lips looked funny. She pulled back her hair to check the healing gash on her head. It hurt a little too, not much. Her hair felt strange and thin-

Tie it up. Need a topknot. I'll feel better when I have a topknot.

She looked around the bathroom. Her hair had been wet and now it was dry. How long had she been standing-?

There-the shirt she'd been sleeping in. It was too large anyway. She ripped off a sleeve and used it to wrap around her hair.

Tie it up. Need a topknot. I'll feel better. She checked the mirror.

Polla Organa blinked.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? And the spots? Faint, but there.

I look old. And pale. She pulled up her shirt, peering around it. And thin. She dropped the shirt back down, scrambling into the pants the pilot had provided. They seemed wrong, but so had the clothes on the ship.

Polla Organa blinked.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? Faint, but there.

I look old. And pale.

You just fell out of the sky and landed in a coma again. Of course, you're pale. I should call Ma. She'd have a fit. She'd probably kill me. Maybe… maybe I'll call her later.

A noise behind her, a door sliding open. She tensed-

Blaster. Where the frack is my blaster? I had it, and then I crashed the canyon loop-

"Sorry to bug you, I just wanted to check, make sure you didn't fall in or something... Oh! Didn't have you pegged as vain." The man's voice behind her was strangely grounding. Normal. His reflection behind her in the mirror. Grounding. Normal.

Of course. That's Carth Onasi. I trust him. She left out a breath. I trust him. We're going to find Bastila Shan.

"I'm fine," Polla Organa said, turning away from the reflection. The approval she saw in Mister Republic's eyes was better than the mirror anyway. She pulled her hair up and out of her eyes, looping the tie around her top knot. "Thanks for dragging me out of that escape pod. Guess I was pretty out of it."

"You hit your head pretty hard," the man agreed. "And whatever you were dreaming about sure made you talkative."

"Oh? What did I say?" Her dreams had all been like some children's vid about Jedi out of legends: a woman's face, a yellow-bladed laser sword, and a feeling of overriding panic, like the images should mean something; but the words themselves were lost.

"Nothing in any language I know." He paused. "But you know a lot of languages, right? I read your service file. Isn't that why the Republic brought you in on this mission?"

"Languages?" She frowned. That was—that wasn't right. Not exactly. But she did—she did know a lot of languages. When you're making your way through the galaxy, you need to learn a lot of languages. She knew basic, and Corellian, and Huttese, and—

And I know a lot of languages. I know a lot of languages. That is why I am on this mission. My mission is to report to the Jedi and follow their instructions—and I know a lot of languages.

It's not my fracking fault the Jedi all died. Did this mean the deal was off? She felt a surge of relief. Fracking Jedi.

"The Jedi are all dead," she told him. "We're free."

"Yeah…." His voice trailed off. "That's the... optimistic way of seeing things, I guess."

"First we'll find Bastila Shan," she allowed. "Do you know where she is?"

He seemed to pause for an irritatingly long time before he answered her. "Yeah, maybe I was thinking we'll find you a safe place to hunker down and then I'll do some snooping. Bastila Shan's a Jedi, but no one's gonna be looking for a few grunts like us."

"No, the Jedi are all dead," she told him. "Therefore, Bastila Shan isn't a Jedi."

"Yeah…." He was attractive, the way that line furrowed his brow.

Polla Organa glanced in the mirror again. And blinked.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? Faint, but there.
I look old. And pale.

"Do I-?" her voice broke off. I can't ask him that, can't ask if he thinks I'm old and pale. He'll think I'm nuts. Or vain.

He already thinks you're insane. See how he's looking at you?

"I sorry," Polla apologized. "I'm not myself."

"It's okay. It's okay."

He could gentle a hessi with that voice, she thought. "I'm really fine. I'm just… I hit my head."

"Yeah..." He stared at the ground and kind of shuffled his feet. "We should… we should probably make tracks. I made friends with this guy Larrim. He says there's a bounty on Republic escapees? I don't think folks down here would want to turn on us, but if they offer a reward that's big enough-most sents aren't saints. Guess you... you probably know that already."

"How much of a reward?" More for you, probably than me, Mister-Republic-Poster-Boy. "Hey, didn't you do some recruitment posters a few years back?" She shifted on her feet, regaining a little equilibrium. "Or maybe you just have one of those faces?"

"Maybe both," he smirked. "I'm… I'm pretty well known in some parts, but not around here. Taris is pretty far out there."

"Not as far as Deralia. I'm from Deralia."

"Yeah… you… you keep saying that." The worried look was back.

"Let's go." She was suddenly restless, like something was stalking along her spine. Hessi walked on your grave, Auntie Mita would say. "Do you have my gun? I'm an excellent shot. I think I need my gun. I left it in the speeder-"

Carth Onasi sighed. "We'll see."

XXX

"Taris," the narrator said sadly. "Just another planet to burn under Sith occupation and then shatter under Sith bombardment. Just another planet in a string of Malak's atrocities. Atrocities that began with Endar, Yu-Phaedra, and Telos. But Taris was different. It is said that Darth Malak bombed Taris to rid the world of one Jedi: the brave Knight, Bastila Shan."

"Unbeknownst to him at the time, Taris was also the current residence of his former Master and his mortal enemy."

"In one of the Republic's finest moments, Revan Starfire saved Bastila Shan—and a few others—from certain death. There are few survivors and fewer images; but here are their stories. Stories from simple people, whose lives Revan Starfire changed irretrievably for the better, despite the great tragedy that followed..."

Chapter Text

Oblivion

XXX

The yellow blade flashed and spun, propelled by the earnest Padawan who would be dead a thousand times by now if she wasn't potentially so useful.

Almost bored, Revan waited for the next pathetic attack. Her own double blade was still in her hands. Not even lit.

"You can't win." Her own voice. Flat. Pointing out the obvious. Why even bother.

Behind the girl, the corpse of a more useless Jedi. Necessary refuse.

Irritation. Irritation at all of this. The Jedi were wasting her time. She'd let them board to get Bastila Shan, and now it was done. She had Bastila Shan, the rest of this game was pointless.

Jedi, wasting her time, when she needed to kill Malak.

Her head turned away from the girl, towards the viewscreen. Leviathan's expanse filled the horizon. Their ships were aligned on her orders: bridge to bridge. Cameras displaying his image, even as his ship's recorders watched hers. Holocams everywhere.

One final show for the old man, for the Coruscanti inheritance laws.

Lord Revan raised her hand, readying the command to fire. Adratus nodded. Always loyal to a fault. Good man. She preferred the company of nulls now, even if you couldn't trust—

Something flashed in her eyes. Something broke. Something exploded, so fast her personal Force shields barely had time to activate. Something slammed into her, knocking her backward. Her head hit the deck with a shattering crack.

White and yellow light. Stars. Scream of vacuum from a hull breach. Fainter screams of her crew, those too slow to activate their magtreads in time. Even with eyes closed, Revan saw the strike from behind: a yellow blade flashed, and she rolled away, turned away from the sonic blast even as it screamed through her shield, upended her, sending gravity and reason tumbling. Magtreads failed.

The yellow blade stabbed. Something gave in her guts, burning, like cold fire. Like stars.

Malak. Malak shot first. He dared—?

XXX

Chapter 3 / Why They Call Me It I Do Not Know

XXX

He'd only left her alone for a second, just long enough to use the fresher himself after her hour-long primping session in there; but when Carth came out, Polla Organa, registered-Deralian and nominally-sane smuggler had a blaster in her hand. One of his to be exact, the plain Aratech he'd carried ever since enlistment, the one he'd won off Jordo in a long-forgotten game of pazaak.

Carth froze. "What… what are you doing?" No sudden moves, just keep her talking.

"Nice piece," Polla commented, sighting along the barrel. "My Da had an Aratech like this; single-cell, auto-recharge. They don't make 'em anymore. These days, it's all too much push in the doubles… get more clips—but too much weight. Hard to be accurate. This here is precision. Sign of a real shooter." She looked up at him, raising one arched brow, almost red against her skin. "You got good aim, Flyboy?"

"I try." His mouth felt dry. "Your… Da sounds like a nice guy. I guess… Deralia must be a pretty rough place."

"Sure. Mean streets," she snorted. "If you're an eridu bush. Or a kissra lambie. It's farmworld, Flyboy. Where are you from, again?"

"Can I have my gun back?" Carth gave her his own best disarming (hopefully literally disarming) smile. "Now? Please?"

"Sure." She held the grip loosely in one hand, and then flipped it, almost effortlessly into a spin like she was some kind of pistol jockey—

Her hand must have slipped, though; because Carth's pride and joy discharged with a sharp explosion, opening up a whole new hole in the damned wall.

"Wow, that's some kick!"

He ignored her, diving for the thing before the crazy schutta picked it up for another try.

"Something's off with the weight," she kept going. "Maybe you need to get the chargers rebalanced, if it shoots that trigger when all I did was—"

"Don't," he snapped. "Don't ever. Touch my weapons again." He grabbed his belt and the other (still holstered) blaster before she could.

"I'm sorry," Polla hedged. Indignant. "You... you don't have to be a ronto about it."

"It's okay." Carth didn't know what to do with her. Her voice sounded so sincere, but that story about her father, all her sleep-talking in Mandalorian… not that it… it didn't matter if she was Mando'ade, he reminded himself. That war was over, and sents like Malak and… and the men who served under him, men who weren't Jedi, men who chose, willingly to follow the mad—they were worse than the Mandalorians had ever been—it didn't matter.

If she's Mandalorian, she's Mandalorian. She's still on our side. The Jedi said so.

"Let's go," Carth ordered.

Polla had turned her head again back to the mirror, frowning, as if she saw something wrong in the balance of her face. Her face was fine: maybe a little too pretty and a little too pale, but fine.

"I should… call my folks. They must be worried sick. D'you think they'll know that our ship crashed?"

Do I think your family on the other side of the Rim knows that our top secret mission with the damn Jedi Fleet ended with us crashing in Sith-occupied space?

Sure, Polla. I bet it made prime HoloTime.

"No way to call them now," Carth pointed out, trying for diplomacy. She'd taken another step towards the fresher, and he took her arm, trying for gentle, and pulled her towards the door.

Polla followed his lead, surprisingly docile. "I bet we don't have the credits to make an interstellar direct," she added as they walked through the door, which wasn't the point at all. "Do we?"

"Not really." Gaz the Ithorian had given what Carth hoped was a decent rate of exchange for the Republic chits he'd had on him, but Carth had spent half their local currency on damned Doc Gurney.

"We'll need to figure something out," Polla mused. Carth still held her arm, but now she was the one leading him; practically pulling him down the hallway. "Gather some equipment. Weapons. I had this fantastic modified blaster rifle I found on the ship, but I… I dropped it." She rubbed her temples, abruptly pulling away from him, turning and walking backward, so they were still face-to-face. "I'm a good shot. Maybe Bastila Shan has more credits or weapons. When we find her—how are we gonna find her again?"

"We don't need more weapons," he corrected her hastily. "We won't need anything that draws attention," he added, lowering his voice. It was a little late for that, though, with the way she kept moving, not even looking where she was going. Not many sents on this level, but the few that they passed—all of them turned and stared at the crazy woman with her hair tied on top of her head walking backward down the corridor as if she was dancing.

"Will you turn around?" He lowered his voice. "Please?"

"Huh?" She frowned. "Why?"

A Duros family stepped to the side to let her pass, and Polla didn't even react, keeping her eyes locked on his. Hers were a strange green, like hyperdrive ducting; thickly-lashed and lighter than her eyebrows.

"You're gonna run into someth—"

She sidestepped a janitorial droid and a Human janitor neatly, her hand brushing the droid's dome. "You want me to walk on your arm instead, Flyboy? I don't get leashed."

"I wasn't…." She was attractive, he realized—not that he hadn't noticed the individual parts before: but seeing her animated, secure, almost….

Are you flirting with me, Polla Organa? "I don't think we're at that point in our relationship, Deralian," he grinned back.

"Oh?" She tilted her head to the side, still walking backward. "I don't know. I think you'd look good on—"

"Hey! Watch where you're going, eh?" The Duros man had an aggressive tone that immediately put Carth's teeth on edge. "You almost ran into me, Human!"

Polla half-turned, and then froze. "Oh." The smile on her face wiped clean, leaving it blank.

"You Humans! Slumming it down here! Think you can get away with murder!"

"We could," she agreed, so calmly that it set Carth's teeth on edge. "We could do anything, Red-Eye."

"Polla!" He grabbed her arm.

"Red eyes," she muttered. "Bad."

"Excuse my sister; she's uh…." Carth pulled her arm harder. "She's been ill."

"Got my glare on you two!" the Duros man yelled as Carth dragged the smuggler away.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded when they were around the curve of the wall, safely out of earshot.

"I don't… I'm not sure." She looked up at him, suddenly chastised. "All Duros have red eyes. All of them. That was all that was. Wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Somebody sure did a number on you. No wonder the Jedi were trying to help. He tried to make a joke. "If you're going to flip every time you see a red-eyed sent, we'll have to make a sign."

" A sign?" Polla frowned. "Like a holosign to wear above my head?"

"They do it with social deviants on Althir," he told her. "And jaywalkers."

She laughed. "Now, I know you're yanking my motivator."

"I'm just saying, if you're gonna jump every time you see a Duros on this planet, maybe we need to warn folks."

"Hah." She glanced up at him, rolling her hyper-green eyes. "Can the sign say, 'I'm with Captain Stick-in-the-Power-Modulator-Onasi?"

"I think you hurt my man feelings there." He could give back good as she dished.

She smiled slowly, like that was a challenge. "Oh yeah, Flyboy? Trust me; I'm just getting started—"

XXX

Duros have red eyes. It is nothing. The man is harmless. You are harmless. You must stay hidden. You must stay with Carth Onasi until my comrades and I make our escape and find you—

Lost in uncertainty, trapped within her own bonds, it was easy to lose herself in the other woman's mind—and necessary, in fact, as it seemed that Bastila's help was so sorely needed.

You are Polla Organa. You are a Deralian smuggler. That is all. Eyes change color. There is no need to panic. No need to communicate with your family. Trust Carth Onasi. Stay with him-

Polla Organa's world thrummed with life and color. But there was nothing to see in the world where Bastila was now. Nothing, save a wall and the blur of an energy field. Bastila kept her eyes closed, reaching out, reaching out to where there was light and sound and life—

"This the one?" The voice was male, jarring her thoughts with all the subtlety of a thermocrete detonator—pulling her back to her own body. "The one you wanted? Others got froze and shipped."

Others… frozen and shipped? Does he mean my companions?

"Maybe…." The voice was dark. I know that voice! But the name escaped her. Then, an all-too-familiar sound: the snap-hiss, the soft cry, the life snuffed out.

Nothing. Light on a grid. I will not mourn an unnamed Sith, who serves a Dark Jedi-

"Thank you for your service, Ensign Coates," the voice chuckled. A door slid open, the door to her prison.

"Bastila Shan," the familiar voice chuckled again. "You're looking quite well… for a prisoner of the Sith."

Bastila opened her eyes—

"Hello, Knight Agare," she said.

XXX

There were many things that the Council never made clear to Bastila about the day that brought her former idol crashing into the muck above the remote Outer-Rim world of Deralia. One of the greatest questions that no one ever answered, (not even Malak himself, when Bastila had the occasion of being his prisoner for two and one-half months in an ancient Sith Temple), was how the Jedi had known where to find Revan's flagship in the first place.

Yes, Master Korr had her network of spies on Sith worlds: presumably, that was how Master Korr had learned that Malak was planning to betray Revan. (But had she known? Really? Because the woman had seemed genuinely shocked at the time.)

But the question that would hound Bastila Shan like a vornskr unleashed until the end of her days was how Master Marla Korr had known that Malak would not capture their brave band of Jedi too.

It was almost, she thought later, (quite bitterly as Malak's captive), that Lord Malak had known there was no need to contain her. That the patterns set in motion upon that day could end in no other place but with Bastila by her Lord Malak's side. That this, this dark cloister upon the Star Forge was always her destiny. And all Bastila's actions preceding: the good, the bad, the foolish, the sincere and the vain—all had meant nothing at all, there at the end of all things.

There, at the end of all things, she blamed the Jedi fools who had set her upon this path.

For, while it was true that Bastila herself was young and inexperienced, she could not help but observe that the Jedi Masters, her former teachers, had made some terrible decisions.

If their task force was removing only one Sith Lord; would it not have made more sense to remove Malak? He was the Butcher of Telos, the madman held in check by his consort's cold prudence. Why leave him standing, with his endless fleet?

Revan, by all accounts, held a certain reputation for rational thought, despite her corruption. Perhaps she could have seen reason. Perhaps even… been properly redeemed?

But no one had asked Bastila why this option was not considered—except Revan herself—and by the time Revan thought to ask it was too late for all of them.

XXX

"It's a little dull," Sheris commented. "Why did we come to this wretched planet again?"

"Shopping," Beya drawled. "And to piss off his Lordship." And to get a good reading on you. But no point in mentioning that. It had been simple enough to manage, and now the local authorities were conducting their own sweeps for a biometric match, based on the scan they'd taken of Sheris Darkstar as she disembarked from her Imperial shuttle.

Looking for an Imperial imposter, was what the (classified) bulletin warned. Beya thought that read better than 'looking for a former friend and master who should be long dead.'

"Careful," Sheris warned Beya. "Cross Malak, and I cannot protect you."

"I once gave you the same warning," Beya noted. "Remember?"

"Yes." Sheris made a face. With artifice dropped, it was her own expression, only slightly ajar on the copy of Revan Starfire's face. "I remember everything, Beya."

Was that gratitude, or accusation?

"My Lady… Ladies…." The groveling shopkeeper approached nervously, her hands full of white fabric. "Perhaps this…?"

"No." Sheris shook her head. "I need something ankle length. To wear under robes."

"Try it on, at least," Beya urged. The fabric was beautiful.

"Why?" The eyelash flutter was overdone, but that snide smirk might make Beya undone. "You want to see?" Hard green eyes met her own, calculating their own equation.

As do we all, all of it's a game, a gamble, a throw of the dice—

There was a decent casino on Taris. Beya had been hoping they could end the evening there, though it would be better if Sheris wore a half-mask: being in the company of someone continually recognized as Lord Malak's consort was wearying, after a time. All the scurrying and sniveling and currying favor—

"Yes," Beya murmured. "Of course, I want to see. It will look beautiful on you."

Sheris smiled. "You're too kind."

At that unfortunate moment, Beya's wrist-comm chimed. She glanced down, noting the coordinates, the surveillance cams now tracking her target—

"But later," she finished, looking back up at Sheris. "I have to go… there's been a sighting."

"Bastila Shan?" Sheris rolled her eyes. "Just between us— "

The shopkeeper took that moment to make a noise, reminding them of her existence.

"Wait." Beya held up her hand. "Hold that thought."

Then the shopkeeper made another noise: a short, gasping, garbling one.

Beya extinguished her saber as the woman's body fell to the floor.

Sheris frowned at the stain forming in the formerly pristine white eridu fabric, now lying in ruins. She scuffed it to the side with the edge of her boot. "It was too short," she noted. "I think it looks strange when a gown is shorter than the robes over it." She seemed to eye Beya's trousers. "At least on me."

"You were saying…?" Beya prompted

"I was saying…" Sheris agreed, "that Malak is obsessed with that woman Bastila Shan and her Battle Meditation. By all account, she is quite strong. They call her 'the Hope of the Republic.'"

Quite strong and quite beautiful. Beya thought she knew where this was going. Women were a predictable lot.

Even me.

"I think the important goal here is to keep Padawan Shan out of Republic hands," Beya suggested. "As long as their Fleet cannot use her against us… their will is already broken."

"Yes." A slow smile lit Sheris's beautiful, fake face. "I'm glad we're in agreement. Meet you in a few hours, back at the hotel?"

"I should be done by then," Beya agreed. "Try not to lose your guards this time. There has been some… unrest here, the governor said."

"Ugh, that worm." Sheris got up and began thumbing through the garments suspended by anti-grav hooks against the wall. "My Lord and I had dinner with him once, and he was the most disgusting, boot-licking k'lor slug I have ever seen."

Beya laughed. "And you've met our boy Bandon?"

"Him?" Sheris laughed. "Lord Malak says sometimes it takes a carpet bombing; other times a single knife. Bandon is a good brute. Effective for some things…." Her eyes narrowed. "And you are effective for other things, Beya."

Yes. I am. "I'll return as soon as I can," Beya promised. "Then, I thought… we could go out. There's a casino here. It's quite nice. Do you like to gamble?"

"Of course. We are Sith." Sheris laughed. Her eyes were wide and green as leaves. "And still alive."

xXxxxXxx

Initially, there was merely this: the claxon of alarms as their own ship barnacled onto Darth Revan's flagship, the Aleema's hull. Then, the whine of specially-calibrated sabers as the Jedi task force sawed through that hull; blue sparks and yellow flames from their explosive; the stickiness of the airlock sealant; the crash of Bastila's magnetized boots, touching down on the surface of a vast ship. Then, the sound of pounding feet running through coiling halls that would seem a nigh-impenetrable maze without the maps Master Marla Korr had provided.

Even with the maps, Bastila and Knight Selusia would have been lost without Master Korr's guidance. They had split into teams of three, better to infiltrate separately and then regroup. (The strategy seemed ill-advised to Bastila, whose own gift worked best with the largest unified force before it, but no one asked a nineteen-year-old Padawan anything, even one as profoundly gifted as she.)

In any event, Bastila's group of three encountered little resistance until they reached the Aleema's bridge. There, it became quite evident that they had encountered little resistance before the bridge because the real resistance had been focusing its efforts on the other strike teams; while luring Bastila, Selu'a, and Master Korr straight into the Aleema's black heart.

(And while on the topic, which was one Bastila did broach with Lord Malak after a particularly nasty exegesis of self-reflection and regret: what kind of woman names her flagship after a failed Krath aristocrat anyway? If the ship had been named the Nomi Sunrider, Revan's motivations would have been comprehensible. But when Bastila asked, Malak only laughed. At the end of all things, his reasons for mirth were often not clear.)

XXX

"Stay with me," Carth muttered to the smuggler, who looked so wide-eyed that he was starting to wonder if she'd ever seen a city before. "Don't fall off the plat."

Polla Organa was peering over the side. "What's down there?"

"The Taris Lower City. Where we just were?"

She glanced back at him, rolling her eyes. "No kidding, Captain Obvious. What's below that?"

His nerves were bad, jumpy. There was a pair of Sith guards not very far away, silver and anonymous; and other soldiers in Imperial uniforms walking the streets like they owned them.

Because they do.

Carth wanted very badly to do something about it all—wild thoughts occurred to him: like finding the resistance, helping—he'd commanded fighters before—how much different would it be?

We could make a difference here. Maybe… maybe we should.

"Below that's more city," he answered her finally. "If Taris is like every other city-planet I've seen, the farther down you go, the worse it gets. Less light, less air, less food—"

"I'm starving," Polla interrupted. Woman had the attention span of a gizka. "After we find Bastila Shan, we need to eat. How long d'you think it'll take?"

"I think..." His voice trailed off. He hadn't come up with much of a plan himself. "I asked around when you were unconscious. There are a few hotels up here where they don't ask too many questions. We'll book a room in one, and then I'll go out and scout—"

"I'm the scout," she interrupted. "Scout Organa, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Trying not to seem like he was going to drag her down the street by her arm, Carth held out his hand to hers. "Come on. This way."

"Hotels where they don't ask too many questions?" She had a directness of gaze that rattled him. She rattled him. One second she seemed… normal. Charming, even. But then the next—

"Sith!" She froze. "Sithspit, those are Sith!"

The two armored heads turned in their direction; and Carth, not knowing what else to do, grabbed her arm and pulled Polla Organa through the first open door he saw, which turned out to be a cantina.

XXX

In addition to the overwhelming dark presence of Lord Revan herself; Bastila and her comrades found Knight Davad Arkan, Knight Vikor Tio, Knight Beya Organa, Admiral Armon Wu, and—much to everyone's astonishment—Master Arren Kae, who had been presumed dead some years ago at Malachor.

Against such superior force, they three had no hope at all, and that was horrifically quite clear; as was, Bastila realized all too quickly from the smug smiles on the faces of the fallen Jedi surrounding her, the fact that the Council's trap had only served to deliver them all into Sith hands.

Bastila wondered for a moment if there was a traitor in the heart of the Council itself—but subsequent events left no time for further reflection.

Bright-eyed Selucia, with her absolutely filthy jokes and her love of choco cakes, was killed almost instantly. Master Korr was encircled and held back by Tio and Arkan… leaving Bastila to face Revan alone.

The Dark Lord was masked but hardly anonymous beneath thick black robes. When she turned towards them, Bastila saw her own face reflected in the battered Mandalorian artifact the strongest Knight D'Reev wore on her face. The mask was a deliberate taunt, Bastila assumed, just like every other effort of intimidation and extortion the woman had made in their horrid, bloody, pointless war.

The Force coiled around Revan like a living, poisonous snake. The paragon of Jedi idealism that Bastila had met when still a child had ceased to exist, been replaced by a mask and a robe and the sudden, sinking sensation that Bastila and all the other Jedi had walked into a trap instead of springing one.

The Dark Lord took a step forward, and they exchanged words—childish jibes, really.

If anything, the woman seemed bored; the officers on her bridge poised, but not interfering. (There were almost no enlisted troops there at all, as if Revan had the arrogance to assume they would not be required.)

What was supposed to be a heroic effort to capture and contain a galactic scourge instead began to seem like something far different.

It began to seem like an audition.

XXX

Knight Agare. But Bandon was a Jedi Knight no longer. A Sith smiled back at Bastila now, with a death's head grin on plasti-white skin. Yellow eyes of the damned glittered greedily, his mouth twisted in an expression she could only describe as a leer.

How long has it been since you were captured? Not long before Revan's… end.

"Bandon Agare," Bastila acknowledged, trying to keep herself composed. They had gone through padawan training together, before Bandon's disappearance. A disappearance soon followed by rumors that the strongest Force user of their class had been taken to Darth Malak's side.

And then, examples of his raw brutality began to filter back to the Council… the sack of Endor, the capture of the apprentices on Denova, the Escooine massacre….

Bastila took stock of her surroundings: a small room; crude, definitely groundside on Taris, from the stench. The shimmer of a containment field lay between Bandon and her; restraints bound her hands. But no disruptor. Her Force abilities were intact.

Because he wants you to use them. The more you struggle, the more he enjoys it. He's a sadistic bastard. And you are a pathetic fool.

The vitriolic nature of her thoughts was quite shocking.

Peace, she counseled her thoughts. We shall persevere.

"Where are my companions?" Her voice sounded frail and thin in her own ears.

The pale man stroked his narrow beard. "Master Derium Vash? Master Ski'tal? Padawan Lakenna?' He smiled slowly. "Quite safe, I assure you."

And by safe, he means dead. He would not leave them alive. You are the only prize they value.

Bastila's heart sank. Handsome Vash, wise Ski'tal—and Lakenna had been… young. Lakenna would have grown into a capable woman someday.

An errant image disrupted Bastila's senses, pushing away the physical world again, replacing it with a vertiginous view off an urban platform: drizzle, the sensation of rain on her face—

My name is Polla Organa. I am a Deralian smuggler. I trust Captain Carth Onasi.

You trust Captain Carth Onasi. You do! Please. Trust Captain Onasi. Stay with him. Stay safe from harm—

Lost in her captivity, Polla Organa's world seemed preferable to her own.

In her own world… the shadows gathered. Even with her eyes closed Bastila could feel the new dark approaching; a hunger, needs consuming all else-

Sith! There are Sith here! In Polla's world, an armored patrol passed. The woman's panic spiked, feeding back into Bastila's—or was it, the other way 'round? In the moment, covered in shadow, Bastila did not know.

Panic gripped, blinding her from both. Bastila squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her knees buckle.

I cannot be there for us both! I cannot be in two places at once!

"She's coming along quite well, Master. I think you'll be pleased." Bandon's voice suddenly had acquired a new, wheedling tone—with the undercurrent of something else. Fear. He's frightened too. Bandon fears this master. And if Bandon fears him, then what hope have I—what hope do any of us have?

The darkness was with them now. Even without opening her eyes, Bastila knew, she could feel it, cold hunger, like dark wings, blocking the sun's light.

"Nurse Shan?" A darker voice than Bandon's, a low growl. "I believe we need to talk."

XXX

Perhaps Nomi Sunrider in days of old had been capable of fighting and projecting her Battle Meditation at the same time. Perhaps she had been able to instill strength to herself while weakening her foes; but Bastila could not. She lacked the strength, or the masters who had trained her had deliberately kept it from her, denied her the chance to fulfill her destiny—

The Dark Lord merely lifted an arm, and Bastila was buffeted back, almost knocked over by a wave of darkness that felt like the slap of a hand. For a moment Bastila was reminded, quite strangely, of her own mother's chastisement after the woman had had too much to drink.

"You cannot win," Bastila called out. You cannot win because you are wrong. You cannot win because I am right. You cannot win if the others arrive soon. You cannot win if my reinforcements come and save us.

The Dark Lord of the Sith merely lifted her hand again, beckoning Bastila forward. Daring her.

Courage, Bastila told herself. She thought of Meetra, and the brave Knights D'Reev before their fall. She thought of Meetra, and all the other brave ones they had lost. She steadied her lit saber, readying for the next charge.

But the Dark Lord turned her masked face away, barking a command to one of her men and then—

Then, the world exploded with an outraged shriek of vacuum and durasteel. Everything not magnetized or bolted began to stream through the suddenly large gash in the hull. And worse, worse than the carnage, (as Bastila herself grappled with the bulkhead plating, scrabbling for purchase like nearly every other sentient in the room), was the dying scream of Revan Starfire echoing in her head.

Did she do this to herself? That was Bastila's first, astonished thought. But no. The anger and loss, the sense of betrayal—those emotions could be nothing less than reactions to treachery.

Bastila had never been to a polar world: really, she'd traveled to so few planets. With the new war effort, she'd spent months inspiring troops on ships; meditating to bring unity to troops of thousands, imagining battles as exchanges between two sides, each like grids of light—

But never groundside, never where she could be risked.

Still, even with no empirical knowledge of the experience, the image of ice cracking on a planetary scale stuck in Bastila's mind . Like an ice floe, with the tide surfacing what was underneath: what one should not see, what one must never know—

Revan's death throes deafened all else. It took another few heartbeats before Bastila's half-blinded eyes noted that the ship's automatic shields had finally kicked in, leaving them all choking on the suddenly restored equilibrium, compressors kicking in to replace the depleted air.

And in Revan's darkness, Bastila had found shadows from her own past, an echo torn from the heart of the Force itself, like an hallucination….

Xxx

"Meetra! You're back!"

Bastila would recognize that black tangle of braids anywhere, halfway down the girl's back, in dark contrast with the bleached gray, stained silver of her robes.

From across the hall, standing by the stairs to the Jedi Council door, her friend turned, and Bastila's heart froze.

"I-I like the tattoo," she ventured.

A red star etched on the girl's cheek. Some Mandalorian clans tattooed their faces: they'd studied that and many other cultural traditions as children; before the world changed and Meetra went to war while Bastila was kept isolate—the shy sequestered Padawan.

Her cloister did not rankle; she reminded herself. It was necessary.

Meetra's mouth twitched. "Hello, Tillie."

Bastila embraced her—the last careless embrace she would have in childhood.

And then, she felt it: the death of a world. She felt all of those Jedi on Malachor again, screaming fresh across the stars—raw agony, contained within her friend's thin frame, contained within the bond of friendship that lay between them.

It was—it was too much to grasp in that moment. Her mind shrank back, withdrew, landing on platitude and half-apologies. "You were there? You were at Malachor! Thank Force you escaped, Meetra!"

The girl from Balmorra shook her head. "I didn't escape. Not really." She stepped back carefully. "You… did you see the newsvids?"

"I'm afraid not." Bastila shook her head. "Master Vandar and I were on a diplomatic mission. To Freelia. We sensed… something, but we didn't know until—"

"Oh," Meetra interrupted. "Well, then. I… I suppose you will hear. Later." She turned towards the stairs that curved upwards towards the High Council chambers. "I… I'm already late," she murmured, glancing up at the ferracrystal dome.

"Of course." Bastila frowned, expressing her concern. "We'll speak. After Council. Of course."

"Of course," Meetra responded.

Bastila was still young enough not to catch the lie.

It was only after Meetra was gone that Bastila did see the feeds: the ones calling her friend the Jedi Deserter, the ones suggesting she'd fled instead of following the rest of the brave Jedi and Fleet to the Unknown Reaches to chase the last Mandalorian threat—

And when Revan and Malak were exposed as betrayers, Meetra's tale was almost lost entirely: a few mentions of a Jedi Exile, a Jedi brave enough to defy the others… but precious few. Almost, Bastila had thought, as if no one wanted that tale to be told.

It was Malak himself—even later than that—who finally told her the real truth. It was Malak himself at the end of all things who told her so many real truths.

Xxx

Meetra, Bastila thought in that moment—feeling her friends emptiness echo through her again.

She lunged forward. The Dark Lord was already falling, felled from the bolt from the other ship, robes smoldering, mask askew.

Bastila had been trained, trained more than half her life, but she had not killed; she was rarely risked in close combat, despite her then, that scream echoed through her mind, like Malachor again, like madness, like watching the Order that had been gentle and nurturing turn strange—and in that instant, her saber lashed out, and the Dark Lord failed to counter.

There was a sickening noise when Bastila's blade seared flesh, and then Revan Starfire collapsed, a pile of black robes: a mask, an outstretched hand, still twitching.

The former Jedi's body twitched and stilled.

A holo-camera flashed above them, and Bastila blinked at it in confusion.

Bastila stared at the body of the Sith Lord, the first sentient she'd ever killed. (Or so it seemed, at least in that moment.)

The living behind her seemed to let out a collective breath.

In front of them, the ship's shielding sealed vacuum. Later, when Bastila thought about the choice to save Revan, (and in Malak's prison there was too much time to think), she realized that she'd had as little agency in doing so as when she'd first turned away from Meetra, her best friend.

And that… that burned. Always so little choice, so few options… even for her, the most promising Jedi of her generation, the… the Revan of her age.

Xxx

"There are fracking Sith here," Polla Organa whispered again, mouth half-full of the nerf burger she'd ordered. Carth had already devoured his own. Surviving on pod rations while he watched her scream for a week… had gotten a little stale.

"It's an occupied planet," he told her. "This is Taris. It's Sith-occupied—"

"I know." The waitress had brought them both something to drink too, muttering something about it being on the house. Carth had taken one sip and gagged—deathly sweet wine wasn't his thing—but Polla had drained half of hers.

Her eyes met his directly, and she put the burger down. "This is Taris. It's on the Outer Rim, off the Youanis Belt, off the 378th parallax. And you must think I'm nuts."

"I think you hit your head pretty hard coming down." he joked. He'd barely even seen her on the ship, just heard about Shan's special project. Medical charity case? Or picked for expertise? What expertise? Like every sent on the wrong side of the law he'd ever met, she talked a smooth game (or tried to) but it all was off-kilter. Medical charity case? Or… Mandalorian?

"K'atini," he muttered to her. It was almost the only Mandalorian phrase Carth knew, and he wasn't even sure what it meant, except that it was rude.

"Excuse me?" She almost choked on her wine. "If that's a pass, it was terrible."

"No." He shook his head, trying to gauge how much to be on the level. "You… you talked in a lot of languages when you were unconscious… like you were having nightmares."

"Did I tell you to suck it up?" Her mouth twitched. "That's what k'atini means, pretty much."

"What are you?" he goaded her, "some kind of linguist?"

"Yes." She took another sip from her glass. "What are you? Some kind of pilot?"

"Some kind, yes," he agreed. "Guess you never heard of the Jagos Cluster Surprise or the Mantell Offensive…."

"Are those from a war? Or dessert specials?" she snickered back. "Was it the war you Republics won, or the one you're losing now?"

"It's your war too."

"Everyone keeps fracking saying that! Over and over…." She rubbed her temples. "When we find Bastila Shan, I'm gonna tell her exactly what I think about stupid wars."

"They're not stupid to the people who die in them!"

"No kidding." She pointed a finger at herself. "Neutral planet, remember? I don't give a frack as long as I have a fast ship and cargo to take someplace. I was running spice through the Sith Blockade on Dagary. You're welcome."

"You think I'll thank you for smuggling drugs into Republic space?" Oh, but she was something else, a real piece of work.

"We ran a bunch of weapons out— "

He laughed. "Are you joking?"

"I don't joke about jobs."

But we're on the same side now; he reminded himself. The Jedi wanted her saved for a reason. She was hurt. She seems to want to get Bastila as much as you do.

"Dagary jumps are no kid's ride," he admitted grudgingly. "Sun spots fry sensors, and you have to— "

"Steer it blind. Yeah." Her lips quirked. "Then do it around two capitols and a few corvettes and get back to me. Without cloaks. Cloaks are cheating."

"Since when do smugglers have cloaking tech?" He frowned. Or care about cheating?

"Oh, some do." She shrugged. "Not me, I was never a big fish, but my ex, Therion, he knew this guy… big crimelord type, said he swore he could get us some from the Mandalorians—"

"Is that why you know Mandalorian?" If it was a con she was running, it didn't make enough sense, he thought. Nothing… nothing about her made sense.

"Sure." Polla rolled her eyes. "Hey. Maybe… lower your voice? A little?" She got up suddenly. "Be right back."

"Where are you going?" He tried to keep it light. Maybe it's your war too? Maybe not? Maybe you're going off now to meet up with your Mandalorian friends and sell me to the Sith?

"Fresher." Polla shrugged, picking up her wine glass and draining it. "Be right back."

"Try not to walk backwards into anything."

She was doing it again, walking backward, still with her eyes on him, practically upending a cocktail waitress.

Without him requesting it, the bartender came over and refilled Polla's glass, frowning when he saw that Carth's was still almost full.

"Hey, we didn't order more of these." Carth glanced down at the datapad set into the table, but the bill display wasn't even lit.

"On the house," the Zeltron murmured, clearing their plates. "Everything."

"Thanks…?" There has to be a reason. Whatever it is, it's probably not the goodness of someone's heart.

Carth stood up, scoping the room slowly, looking for traps—or allies. They weren't the only survivors; surely others had made it off. Would make sense they'd come here. Maybe the tab was some kind of sign—

A few sents looked his way, and one woman-brunette, long-haired, and attractive in a way he didn't like to notice-gave him a hopeful smile.

Too hopeful. And she looked too much like—

No use thinking about that.

Carth sat back down at the table and nursed his wine.

XXX

All the Jedi and Sith stood frozen in shock, as if no one had expected this outcome.

The blast doors broke open and three entire squads of Republic Troopers burst in, suddenly shifting the abrupt balance of power on the—as they would learn later—remarkably undermanned flagship—to a decided Republic victory.

And then, the Leviathan, instead of closing its offensive, pulled back. Its wedge-shaped maw filled their broken viewport as it pulled away from Deralian orbit. Even more incredibly still, Darth Malak's flagship went into hyperspace immediately, abruptly blinking out, and vanishing from the system.

Malak and his Sith legion were gone. And Revan Starfire was dead.

Xxx

One of Bandon's arms was bandaged with a thick sleeve of kolto. His eyes were yellow and mad.

But the man behind him was smiling, and that was much worse.

Bastila knew him as well. Knight Davad Arkan had been a Beast-Rider prince, a would-be King of Onderon, assigned to Jedi training. Instead of ruling his planet, he had followed Revan and Malak to war; become a beast indeed, if the rumors of the sack of Endor were to be believed.

"Tell me," Davad Arkan asked Bastila. "Why Nurse Shan? Why would the Jedi assign their only Force user with the gift of Battle Meditation to the role of nursemaid for a brain-wiped Dark Lord?"

They know. Bastila's heart sank. They know everything.

No, whispered her conscience. They know only what they can see.

"She knew all of us as medical professionals," she dissembled.

"But she asked for you." Davad Arkan chuckled. "Did you know, she asked me to find you?"

You saw her—? You saw Revan? I will not panic.

But a jolt of fear spiked through her spine all the same.

It took Bastila another moment of heartstopping terror to realize that the fear was not her own.

Xxx

Revan Starfire was dead, lying like a broken droid on the broken bridge of her own ship. Killed by Malak's betrayal—and a Jedi task force.

Behind Bastila, one of the Sith—or their men—made a sound like a choked sob. Or a laugh.

Bastila turned. The troopers were already efficiently sorting the prisoners. She recognized so many: Knight Vikor had called her 'kiddo' when he was merely five years older himself. Master Arren Kae had been Revan Starfire's own Master. Admiral Armon Wu had once asked Bastila's advice during the Mandalorian engagements.

And, as if they were the only two sentients in the room, Knight Beya Organa stared at Knight Davad Arkan, who stared back at her. Almost as if, at any moment Knight Arkan would take Knight Organa into his manly, strong arms—

Bastila Shan blushed, realizing the inappropriateness of the sentiment. The enormity of this moment.

Revan Starfire is dead. My mind scatters to the mundane and the foolish to escape the enormity of… of my actions. Revan Starfire is dead, and I-I struck her—

In the hushed silence, Beya Organa dropped something on the floor, something metal and small and crushed. Her fingers opened and then closed into a fist. The small metal thing burst into fragments, disintegrating until it was a pile of dust.

"Why?" Davad Arkan demanded. His words echoed. "Why betray—?"

"It was personal." Beya Organa turned her head, staring at the viewscreen. With Malak's ship gone, all there was to see was the Outer Rim planet spinning below.

At the time, Bastila wondered if their disagreement had involved some lover's token: if that was what had crumbled into dust. At the time, Bastila had thought to herself that surely Davad and Beya were examples of the dangers of attachment.

"Get them out of here," Master Korr commanded, with more vitriol than Bastila thought appropriate in a Jedi Master. "Collar them. Force cages. There will be trials."

Some of the Republic squad had already dispatched the common soldiers and Wu, the Fleet Admiral who had betrayed his own.

"Save her," Master Arren Kae implored Bastila, as she was led off in chains with the rest. "Jedi do not kill their prisoners. Save her. Save Revan. Please."

How?Bastila wanted to ask. How does one save the dead?

But the woman was already gone.

The blast doors closed behind them, leaving Bastila and Masters Korr, Ferrin, and C'Var standing alone before their fallen paragon.

XXX

The bar's fresher was dim and dark, with a single mirror. Polla was just checking her reflection and puzzling over what color her eyes were in this light (not red) when the door opened, and another woman came in.

The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees.

Polla looked up. Behind her reflection, she could see the other: dark hair, loose to the shoulders, half-hiding a pale, nearly gray face. Yellow eyes...

Yellow, that's bad.

She stared down at her hands, trying to center herself, to calm the immediate, jolting fear that electrified her body—making her want to run… or scream… or… or fight—

You wouldn't make it to the door. She could end you with a thought.

"So, it's true," the voice said behind her. "I had wondered if this was some kind of trap—not even the first between us baited with children; but you… I can sense nothing of you at all."

Familiar voice. Familiar accent, familiar as home.

Deralian. She's Deralian.

Come on! No Deralian's gonna kill me!

Polla looked up again. Their eyes met in the mirror. The woman obviously recognized her.

It took Polla a few heartbeats of wracking her brains before she got it. Had been ages, but… but….

"Beya… right?" Wow. She looks like shit.

"Davad said you did not know him." The woman frowned. "Me, but not him?"

"Beya Organa?" The tension poured out of her like a rush. Beya Organa! The only Jedi I knew except… except—for those dead ones on the Spire. And they died. They died because there were those fracking Sith assholes—

Polla turned around to face her cousin… cousin… her aunt's cousin's kid, the one who used to make the crops fail until they shipped her off to Jedi… even though Ma said they were all just superstitious yokels and the Force couldn't mess up farming, as everyone with HoloNet knew.

Is she now a Sith asshole too? She was wearing black.

Also, Cousin Beya wasn't smiling back, Polla realized. In fact, Cousin Beya looked pretty grim. And Sithy. She looks SIthy.

Is that a thing?

Polla smiled nervously, trying to put them both at ease. "Hey, didn't you join the Jedi? Because I was just on this fracked mission for them? Did your parents tell you—I don't know how often you even call home these days—"

"My parents are alive?" Beya Organa raised both eyebrows. They looked like she'd painted them on. "Is this meant to be some threat?"

"Huh?" Polla thought back. There had been talk, she hadn't paid much attention.

Cousin Beya. Gone to Jedi. Gone to war for the Republic. (Her Da had been pissed.) Beya Organa, gone off with the heroes of the galaxy and then—

"I said," Beya Organa murmured, "is this a threat? Are you threatening my parents? My planet? Again?"

"Why the frack would I do that?"

Beya laughed harshly.

"It's my planet too!" Polla added.

"Cut the act," Beya snapped.

"What act?" If Polla had her blaster, she'd be tempted to shoot the other woman in the knee for being so fracking intimidating. She'd done that once, to a Rodian on Nar. Asshole had squealed like a hessi. Served him right for tapping their port fees.

"You're quite sincere." Beya Organa sounded surprised. "Did the Jedi do this as a message for me? Or… was it her? The old woman?"

"Your Ma's not that old. She looks good. We saw her at the Grange meet last…" week? Last month? Last year? For a dizzying second, Polla panicked that she didn't know. "She's in good nix. Your Da too. I mean… they looked. I didn't really talk to them. Aunt Mita did most of the talking—you remember her."

"Yes." Beya's eyes were yellow. They should have been a deep brown. Like... like eyes get sometimes. Sometimes… mine are. Sometimes they're brown too. They should have been brown, but eyes change. Eyes change. "I remember her."

There was something weighted in one of Beya's sleeves, Polla noted. Blaster?

"Hey, do you have an extra gun? I think I left mine in the speeder, and… it crashed, and I don't kn—"

The door burst open again, making them both jump.

"Sorry," said a yellow Twi'lek, "is the stall free?"

"Help yourself." Polla gestured. "Just catching up with my cousin—"

"Cousin," Beya echoed like she was the one with the head injury. "I have six cousins named Polla Organa."

"Tell me about it!" Polla had always hated having such a common name. "We only met a few times. Remember that one… when Sara and I snuck out to see that concert, guess you were home from… Jedi school on some kind of break…."

"Jedi School." Beya's lips twitched as if that was funny. "You don't have the Force at all, do you, Polla Organa?"

Polla scoffed, holding up her hand. "Right. Sure, I do. I'm gonna lift you up in the air now—"

Her words died as the joke seemed to fall flat. Beya's hand vanished inside the sleeve of her robe; and something, like a giant invisible hand pushed Polla back a few steps.

"Hey! No need to show off! I had enough of that Force stuff on the Spire. Jedi are fracking scary."

"Right." Beya's mouth pursed. "Jedi are scary. And you are my dear cousin Polla Organa. The one from Adaston. Jasp's daughter. That night, the children with the fake idchips—Polla. And Sara. Organa…."

"We were sixteen," Polla grinned. "What was it, ten years back? Thanks for that, by the way. Knew having a Jedi cousin would come in handy. Hey, did you know… this planet's full of fracking Sith?"

"I… joined the Sith. Guess you didn't hear?"

"Oh. That's… nice." She took a cautious step backwards. Nice? That's nice, dear. Frack, I sound like Ma! "Well, I was gone for seven years… so I probably missed some stuff. Got my smuggler's license though and everything! Was doing really great for a while, until… did you know Therion?"

"D'Cainen?" Beya gave an incredulous snort. "In fact, yes. We went to… to… primary."

"Yeah, well… the Sith are bad," Polla remembered. "And Therion turned out to be an asshole."

"Excuse me," the Twi'lek pushed through them both to the sink.

"You should leave," Beya told her. "This room was empty. You heard nothing."

"I didn't hear anything." The Twi'lek walked away with a glazed look.

"That was a little rude," Polla pointed out. "Way she just walked out like that."

"Stars," muttered Beya. "What do I do with this?"

Maybe you could help us find Bastila Shan? She wasn't supposed to trust the Sith, Polla knew that.

But Beya Organa was family.

Xxx

"We should… carry her. With honor," Bastila began, struggling for words to acknowledge the woman she had killed. "Even fallen, Revan died one of us, a true—"

"No. She's alive," Master Korr interrupted. "Barely. I sense… a spark. A small spark, but there, nonetheless. She's alive. She must be saved. She must."

"Alive?" Ferrin sounded shocked. "How—?"

"I sense nothing," said C'Var, but the Cerian sounded uncertain.

Bastila turned back to the broken figure on the floor, knelt before her. The mask covering Revan's Starfire's face was fastened by magnetized clips, easily unsealed. She lifted it away, revealing the fine, ruined features: a woman fallen, flesh pale as death where it was not blackened into corruption. A terrible wound in Revan's head, a pool of blood soaking the floor. The face was cold and still, and Bastila's hands could find no pulse, no sense of anything at all.

Except—Malachor.

Faint as an ember in a dying campfire, something flickered; a primordial insect, struggling as the block of ice closed around it.

"Help her," Master Korr's voice commanded; but Bastila was already kneeling in front of the woman's broken body, searching within, opening every skill she had learned of healing. "She cannot die," Master Korr whispered, her words like a scream in Bastila's mind.

And then—strength flared within: the same strength that had inspired armies, driven the Fleet to victory, won the ground on Dagary Minor before Revan and Malak's forces beat them back again—Bastila Shan's power and hers alone. She, Bastila Shan, the first Jedi in two generations to have the gift of Battle Meditation… she… she narrowed the focus of all of that power; primal and world-bending, into a spindle, slender as a spear—

Help her. For a moment, she almost heard the fallen Master Kae's words again, echoing in her own mind.

Bastila felt herself sink like a stone into a world of sand, endless sand; and then a ripping pain, a fierce, harsh joy that she, Bastila Shan, realized suddenly was the most volatile and intense of passions. She felt that joy change as well, freezing into an endless well of grief and betrayal, felt her own mind wilt beneath the onslaught—

Bastila felt her own body, dimly, as if from a great distance, fall to floor next to Revan's. When she opened her eyes, their faces were centimeters apart, and for a dizzying instant, she could no longer tell if the woman staring back was her or this strange, twisted stranger's reflection—

"Help her." Somewhere above, Master Korr's voice was dark and strangely deep, shaking with emotion. "Bastila Shan. You must."

XXX

"What shall I do with you, Malak's prize?" Davad's smile was unearthly, lit from within, his eyes like yellow suns. "I have so many questions…."

"And you're gonna answer all of them, Shan!" Bandon gloated like a schoolboy.

Davad snarled softly in his throat. "Leave us, Bandon."

"Lord Malak said—"

Whatever krayt pearls of wisdom Malak may have imparted were lost to posterity, as Bandon's body slammed into the wall. There was the sound of loud and noisy choking. And… and a part of Bastila almost… it was almost—

Pathetic worm. Mad Sith are so limited—the noise that came out of her mouth could have been a gasp. It only sounded like laughter.

Davad's laughter drowned it away, in any event. "Get out," he told Bandon.

Without another word, her former classmate did so.

Davad Arkan's head turned back toward her. He smiled slowly. "And now, we may talk in peace."

Xxx

It was probably a stupid idea, Polla thought, to ask her cousin the genuine Sith about where to find the Jedi Bastila Shan. But maybe she should ask her about what the hell had happened, aboard the Spire.

"Do the Sith have the right idea?" she asked Beya. "Da always said they might, but what I saw—there was this kid, and this woman, and Trask, and they—"

"I don't know." Her cousin's hand was still inside her sleeve. Like she was definitely holding something there.

Like your death. She has your death in her hands.

Like you're going crazy, with this crazy voice in your head saying banthashit things about people and death in their hands.

"Hey," she asked. "Look, this is a little awkward—"

Her cousin's mouth twitched. "Indeed."

"But maybe… you think I could borrow some credits? We… so we… we're kinda trapped here, and there's this… this thing…" I guess if you're Sith I shouldn't tell you about rescuing the Jedi? "This thing I promised this guy I'd help him do."

"Davad?"

"Who?" It took Polla a second to remember the scary guy aboard the Spire. "Frack! You mean that loser who snuck into my room? No. This… other guy. He's nice. You'd like him. I think. Except you… I don't think he likes Sith much? But we… we need to find this… this person—"

"You don't need to do anything, Polla Organa." Beya's voice was hard and strong. It echoed strangely in the fresher, probably because of all the tile.

"I know I don't need to, but I—"

"No. You don't need to." Beya's eyes were yellow (not red), and still, somehow very dark and deep. Like the wise cousin she'd been back when they were teeners, lying for them to their parents, the cops, everyone. "You can do anything you want. Understand?" Her mouth twitched in a smile. "You're Polla fracking Organa."

"I can do anything I want," Polla repeated. Weird echo in this fresher. "I understand. You know what I want to do is find Bastila Shan—"

"No." Beya shook her head. "It's too late for her. What you want to do is be free." She laughed. "After all of this, someone should."

"No." Free from what—Taris? "We don't have any credits, Beya. How the frack can we be free with no—"

"Here!" her cousin snapped, upending a pocket. A purse dropped to the ground, and a mass of gold chits spilled on the floor. "Take them. Be free. Forget you ever saw me."

"Thanks," Polla said, bending to the ground, scooping them up. "Thanks, um…" she lifted her head.

But no one had ever been there.

XXX

"Weirdest thing…." Carth tried to make it a casual joke. "Someone comped our meals, our drinks—everything."

The Deralian smuggler shrugged. "This planet is fracked. I just found ten thousand credits in the ladies' fresher." Polla Organa lowered her voice. "Maybe we should get the hell out of dathomir before someone comes looking for it."

Xxx

Three weeks later, they were aboard the Republic medical ship Ascendant, still on patrol above Deralia. Nominally, they were still there to protect the world from the Sith possibly returning—but truthfully, as Master Ferrin said when he'd shared too much firewhiskey with General Sand— they were still there because no one was quite sure what in all the nine hells and seven heavens to do with the Sith Lord in the coma, who kept making the ship tremble in its orbit.

Revan Starfire, Dark Lord of the Sith, had survived her wounds—at least physically—but her mind was shattered. There was nothing left to redeem. Little even that seemed sentient. The scream that Bastila had felt years before from Meetra Surik echoed even louder through Revan's tortured thoughts—and when she seemed close to waking, it drowned all else.

Just a word: Malachor.

For Bastila, Revan's turmoil made reaching the state of clarity required to use Battle Meditation impossible. She had somehow formed a Force bond with the Sith in the act of saving her. And she was now damned to the same patchwork of dark rage; the same sense of betrayal—of loss—and, she feared, if the rage continued, that it would lead her to the same madness that had consumed poor Revan.

When she was a child, Revan had rejected Bastila's offers to help with the war. Now Revan had ruined her ability to fight.

XXX

Davad Arkan paced back and forth before the energy barrier, and Bastila was oddly glad it was there.

"Do you have any questions for me?" he murmured, pleasantly enough. A smile played at his lips, sly and knowing. A thousand times more terrifying than all of Bandon's bluster. "Before we begin?"

"How… how were we captured?" Master Vandar had once told Bastila that negotiating from a position of strength was done even in weakness—if your belief was strong enough. It sounded like weak panacea now, but she wanted to believe it true. "We were four Jedi in our escape pod, and— "

Her memory only was full of pain and darkness, the whirr of a stasis field. The numbness of a sedative before she even had a chance to release herself from the pod's restraints—

"I assumed whoever was in the first escape pod would be the Jedi's biggest prize, and instructed my men to retrieve its contents, over all others." The former Jedi Knight shrugged. "I wasn't there personally. When you being captured by a team of Force-hunters, I was still aboard the Spire, having the most curious conversation with a mind-ravaged ghost."

Do not react. Give nothing. Bastila lifted her chin, trying for bravery. "Who?"

"Who?" He scoffed, pacing back and forth like a jungle beast. As if it was he who was caged and not she. "I began to wonder that myself. She did not know me at all."

Inwardly Bastila quailed, imagining the confrontation between helpless the Polla Organa and the Sith before her. And yet, she lives. And yet she lives, and she is free. Stay free; she thought, a little desperately. Stay free, Polla Organa. Do not let yourself be taken as I have been—

Ask Arakan why he is so memorable. Her conscience interrupted, cutting through the chaos of her thoughts with near-surgical coolness. Ask him why she would know him, why he would ever assume he was worthy to know her—

"W-why?"

"Why? Why what?" Arkan stopped, folding his arms.

"Why would you expect to be kn-known." It would probably be more mocking-sounding, Bastila thought, if her voice didn't waver. "By her. Y-you are not the man you were, Knight Arkan. I s-scarcely recognized you myself."

His eyes narrowed to slits, assessing her. "You have grown too, Padawan Shan. It is still… Padawan Shan? Curious, that Bandon received his knighthood trials before you."

They said I was too valuable to risk. They said this war was my trials, and it has been—a trial beyond any I have ever dreamed—

"Rank matters not," she told him crisply.

"Even so." The Sith resumed his pace. Back and forth in front of her energy shield. "Enough sport. Malak wants you alive, and he shall have you alive; but I shall have my answers first. I can rip what information I require directly from your brain, or you can tell me. The latter is much more pleasant, and will leave your childish and humiliating secrets intact—mostly." His eyes glittered. "So hard to admit, even to yourself how much you admired young Knight Malak D'Reev—idolized him… even more, than you idolized his—"

"Stop!" Her mental walls were slippery things, lost barriers blurring, even as a part of her mind fled to the refuge of the smuggler's simple thoughts:

Soft rain on her face, the strong shoulders next to her, the orange banthahide jacket.

He's cute, huh? Shame he's such a soldier-type, probably balls in the sack….

Xxx

Polla Organa was whistling something that sounded uncannily like a Mandalorian marching song to Carth as they walked down the street. A smug smile played on her mouth, and he wondered again if she'd just found the credits—tucked inside some plain, vaguely military-looking purse—or if she had robbed someone for them… or worse.

Well, we need them. Don't ask too many questions. She's a smuggler. That's a step up—or maybe down—from being the kind of sent who robs pensioners. But we need them. Don't ask questions when you won't like the answers….

"So, someone picked up the tab for us in there," he began. "You… you have any friends on this planet?"

"I don't know." Her voice was careless, but her eyes glinted. "Do I, Flyboy?"

"Maybe," he allowed. "Jury's still out. We need to find Bastila and the others and get out of here."

"Let's get the lay of the land first." She took his arm like he was some kind of Mandalorian escort, and dragged him into another bar.

It was packed.

Sents on this planet do a lot of day-drinking, Carth thought, while noting that more than half of them were also wearing Imperial uniforms.

Xxx

Bastila was not privy to the Jedi deliberation that led to the decision to give the raging dark Lord a replacement personality: she was only rather too personally aware when every amalgam they attempted—three, she thought—shattered under the woman's native strength. Holocrons of Jedi masters of old were apparently too peaceful, too weak to contain Revan Starfire and whatever passions had compelled her to turn against the Republic.

Meanwhile, Bastila's own nightmares increased, fragmenting to madness. She could not use Battle Meditation; she could barely manage enough concentration to buckle her shoes some mornings. She was a failure.

Bastila realized, in one horrifying moment, that she despised Revan Starfire. She found herself in the middle of the night, as half-conscious as a somnambulist; standing before the woman's bacta tank with her saber, extended but unlit, pressed hard against the flat of the tank, directly above the fallen Jedi's black heart.

And, at that moment… she looked up and saw Revan's eyes, watching her. Those eyes were yellow and damned through the bacta mist—and entirely too conscious for someone who should have been drugged into oblivion.

The woman's lips moved, she could have been saying anything, but Bastila heard the words in her own mind: Not yet.

It was quite fortunate that no one else witnessed that moment of dark desperation—or so Bastila assumed until much later—when Malak's own dark whispers insisted over and over that everyone else surely had.

They chose Revan over you, Bastila. They chose her power over your own—you might have survived her death—at least then, when the bond was new. But they wanted her more than they wanted you, as everyone has always: wanted her more than they ever wanted you—

Seeking solace, Bastila requested to volunteer in the general medical wards….

XXX

Bastila heard herself stammering, the strange mix of lies and truth—enough truth for him to believe it—

"—but her mind was damaged, as well as her body, and… every attempt for redemption failed— "

You mustn't tell him why. Mustn't tell him the real reason, what the Jedi know, what they seek… tell him something else, something that will distract—put him on edge, off-guard—

"So, you made Revan this… Force-blind thing." His yellow eyes glittered. "And then what? Were you going to set it free? No. There is some reason, some purpose beyond a Jedi experiment— "

Admit a weakness to save the rest. Admit the first, but not the second.

"They did it to save me!" she burst out. His thoughts were on hers, slippery, pressing, probing—Bastila had an image suddenly of a winged beast, swooping in for the kill. "Revan's body and mind were damaged beyond repair, but I saved her. The… the effort forged a bond between us. And what I saw in her mind— "

"What you saw?" He straightened. "In her thoughts? What did you see?"

The conceit in wondering if her thoughts were of you, Arkan.

The amusement felt like it was coming from some place alien, a part of Bastila she had never allowed to exist.

"Malachor," she whispered truthfully. Only the word, but echoing through Revan's broken mind like a scream—

"Malachor," he scoffed. "Malachor is obvious. What do you mean, 'bond between you?'"

"Her nightmares were driving me mad." Red eyes. "I… there was a link—she— "

Davad's commlink chimed. He glanced down at his wrist, frowning, held up a hand. "A moment, Shan." He took a few steps backward, muttering to whoever was at the other end of the unit, and then, to her astonished eyes, vanished behind a door.

Now, her conscience begged. Escape now.

My hands are bound. There's an electrical field.

Free your hands from restraints first, her conscience prompted. Then the field.

And then? There was one door, the one Arkan had just exited.

This prison was not made to hold Jedi. There are as many doors as you make.

Xxx

As was customary on military stations, the Ascendant had taken on several difficult medical cases from the planet below. Bastila's skills as a Force user were compromised, but performing simple tasks assisting others was quite grounding. She worked anonymously there, as all Jedi did when providing service.

And, in that small respect, Deralia was quite remarkably refreshing: its denizens truly did not seem to know who she was!

And so it was, on a mission of pure altruism, that Bastila met Polla Organa, a registered smuggler, and amateur speed racer; recently Force-healed of her brain injury, and recovering under observation in the critical wing of the Ascendant's medical facilities.

The Order and Fleet were both quite desperate at that point. Truly.

XXX

"Frack the Republic!" Polla cheered, raising her glass.

"Frack the Republic!" the table of Imperials Polla had befriended when Carth was questioning the old pazaak shark in the corner cheered back.

Carth had discovered there were rumors of additional escape pods in the sublevels of Taris; but nothing about a Jedi, famous or otherwise. He'd also discovered that those levels—including the one they'd been occupying for the past week—were now under lock-down for anyone without residence papers. Pazaak guy had said something about a door-to-door search too.

"Hey…" Polla had utterly ignored his furtive gestures from across the room, forcing Carth to squeeze in between her and a guy with lieutenant's bars. "About time for us to get going?" he murmured in her ear while trying to keep his own head down.

"Hrm?" Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was coming loose in little tendrils around her ears. Her eyes were half-lidded and lazy. "Guys," she announced with a sweeping gesture, "this is my partner in crime. Kath… Kath O'Blasti."

"Like a hound?" the lieutenant said.

"Yeah," Polla didn't miss a beat. "Madkath O'Blasti… these… these gentlemen were just saying the entire planet's under martial law? Because of some stupid Republic thing?" she raised her glass again. "Frack the Republic!"

"Frack the Republic!" the table echoed.

"Listen, um, Sis—" Carth had no idea what name she'd given them.

"I'm Madkath O'Blasti's sis," she echoed. "His sister. Sis O'Blasti."

"We should… we should go. Sis."

"Your sister's quite a girl." The Lieutenant chuckled. "You know, we're having a party tonight in the officer dorms. They're in Sector C. Stop by."

"I like parties," Polla agreed easily. "Maybe we will." She stood up, swaying a little on her feet. "And, like I said, once we crack the blockade, Bro here and I should be able to meet your… contraband needs. What was it? Deathsticks, spice, glitter stim, jolt— "

"Kinda hard to get anything from the Deep Core now," a blonde kid offered. "I miss CoruGin."

"Jedi porn for old Skylak here," another one offered. "Our masters outlawed everything to do with Jedi…."

The guy who might have been Skylak punched the other guy in the arm.

Everyone seemed perfectly fine with Polla announcing they were lawbreakers, perfectly fine with all of this and it made Carth… damned uneasy. He kept his head down, close to the bulb of ale he wasn't drinking, trying to scope the table, scope the room.

Hells.

"'Nother round?" Polla asked the table, rising in one smooth moment like it was a done deal.

"I'm gonna… help her get another round," he offered, following Polla fast, without looking back. She ambled her way through a pack of mercs, actually edging one two-meter guy to the side on her way back to the bar—

"What is this?" he hissed in her ear. The bar was crowded; mostly Human, mostly uniformed; but at least for the moment they seemed anonymous.

"It's a bar." She eyed him up and down, a faint smirk on her lips. "It's a bar, and I'm free."

"Free?" He tried to laugh, but it came out choked. This morning you could barely form sentences!

"There's this guy, Holden," she continued coolly. "He's in deep with Davik Kang, and even a Rect' like you must've heard of Davik. So we make a deal with Holden, get an intro to Davik, Davik calls Suvam, my old boss, who says good things… then—bam." She folded her arms. "Next thing you know, we've got a quick and profitable route through Sith space… with Exchange protection."

Polla grinned smugly. "Sounds a lot better than dying in some war, right?"

Carth stared at her. "Is this a joke? Your cover?"

"My what?"

"We have to find…" he dropped his voice, even if he wasn't going to say the name.

"Bastila Shan?" Polla said, loud enough that a blonde woman in officer's brass turned and looked. "Sith picked her up already—her and a whole… pod of Jedi. Is that the right word? Pod? Flock?" She giggled. "They stashed her in the local precinct. I don't think they're taking bail, though."

Polla leaned on the bar like she owned it, peering over the side. "'Scuse me, Barkeep? May we get another round during this era, please?"

Xxx

After informing him of the… the sighting, Beya Organa had come as Davad requested, to the local Taris jail, where apparently, the Hope of the Republic was already safely ensconced. Bandon had been sent skyward, to fetch an escort suitable for delivering Shan to Malak with the appropriate pomp.

Beya suspected Malak would not care, but Davad was always trying to impress him. In any event, the delay served her.

Perhaps Shan and Bandon could suffer the same mishap. A ship malfunction? A terrorist attack?

"I don't know if I'm more surprised that you're confiding in me, or that you let her go." Davad leaned back against the wall, looking at her with that amused smile that Beya wanted to burn off his face.

"You let our Revvie go too," Beya pointed out.

"I merely assumed someone who would enjoy killing her should do the honors." He shrugged lazily, but Beya didn't buy it. "I had assumed that would be you."

"I would enjoy killing you," Beya offered. "Much more."

"I would enjoy the duel," he replied mockingly. "But I'd miss you after. Not many of us left."

"True." Not many of them at all. And fewer every day. The way of the Sith.

"We give Bastila Shan to Malak…" Davad laughed. "And then what? You and I just leave our mindwiped master roaming free in this planet like a… a free-range nerf?"

"Works for me." Beya shrugged. "There is nothing left of the woman we know—agreed?"

If it was just Revan, would I still let her live?

No. A year ago, Revan had been a threat to Sheris—and driven the point of her mastery home with the implied promise of invading Deralia.

Years of loyalty. I embraced the Dark for you. And you'd repay me with the death of my homeworld?

It has been a simple thing, warning the already paranoid Malak of his wife's treachery… but even then, the man had refused to act until the last moment when Beya transmitted Revan's command to fire upon the Leviathan as it happened—giving him, with mere seconds to spare—the opportunity to shoot first.

You were foolish to confide in me, Revan. You were foolish to confide all sorts of things to me, foolish to think I would let you hurt her, or Deralia. Ever.

"It would be kinder just to kill her," Davad offered. "Revan… I mean."

Beya looked up from her thoughts. "We were never kind."

But her mind remembered two laughing cousins on Deralia, topknots in their eyes, golden skin edging out of their ridiculous dresses: kids with nothing but blue skies in front of them.

Xxx

"Thanks for bailing us out, Cousin Beya? Jedi Beya?" the shorter one—Polla—beamed at her.

"Just Beya," she smiled back at them. At their age, she had never been so free.

The taller girl, Sara, was puking behind a bush.

"Is it true you're not allowed to drink or frack or curse?" Polla asked, wide-eyed. "Because that sounds like hell— "

Beya laughed. "Not true at all. It's more like… like… we help people. But I might… I might leave." She missed home, even if half her relatives made the sign against evil and blamed her for crop failures.

"You could probably make a bunch of credits using Jedi tricks," Polla suggested. "Like in casinos and stuff?"

"We got kicked out of Krakow's Dice Hall," Sara added, wiping her mouth. "Can you Jedi us up some better idchips?"

She had to laugh. "That's not really how it works— "

XXX

"You were never kind," Davad corrected her. "Always a bitch, Beya. Even back when we on the side of the— "

"Angels?" She laughed. "Honestly, Arkan, sometimes you still sound like a barbarian. Or a bloody Twi'lek. Like Vikor. The lot of you and your pathetic idealism— "

"We all have singular motivations," he said, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "At this moment, yours and mine… coincide." He stared at her thoughtfully.

"At this moment, they do," Beya agreed.

Xxx

Bastila Shan dropped through the hole in the ducts made by a direct application of Force to a weakened duracrete floor, and landed in a loose crouch in the middle of some muck. The light was dim enough that she had to adjust her eyes to see. By her calculations, she was roughly below the last level of the prison complex, in the network of sewer tunnels that ran between levels of this city—if it were like Coruscant—which was an assumption.

Keep moving; she reminded herself. There will be less mercy shown if you are recaptured. The fate of the Republic is at stake.

Something large and rodent-shaped ran across her path, and she stifled a scream—

Just one of the Force's creatures, she reminded herself. And I am at peace with them all.

Except the fracking Sith, whispered her conscience.

Xxx

"I couldn't help but notice your companion…" the Imperial officer said to Carth.

"Yeah, she's hard not to notice," he agreed.

Polla Organa was back at the table with the Imps again—and now seated its head. And she… she appeared to have organized a sing-along.

The words filtered back, "Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde…."

"That's Mandalorian!" The Imp sounded surprised.

"Yeah." Carth wished he was surprised, but he'd moved to a place beyond surprise, and somewhere into regret. You knew she was crazy, but you trusted her. You trusted a Sith-sympathizing, drug-smuggling, gun-running Mandalorian because the Jedi gave your orders. Since when do we even take orders from them?

He had another gloomy thought. You know who takes orders from Force-users? Imperials. Sith. Whatever the blast they call themselves.

"You take orders from Force users, don't you?" he asked the woman.

"Most sane sentients do," she said. It was then that Carth noted the small, needle-nosed pistol in her hand pointed at his mid-section.

His hand started to drop to his own belt.

"Don't," she said, quite pleasantly. "There's an Imperial alert on your companion… and you're… I could swear I saw your picture on a Republic recruitment holoboard, back on Serocco, in the reconstruction zone." She smiled, almost apologetic. "I don't remember your name, but… I'm good with faces."

"An Imperial alert on her?" Carth snorted. "For what, being a crazy Mandalorian?"

"Beyond my pay grade," the woman said seriously. "But I'm not blind. Look at her. Maybe unauthorized surgery… or… or some kind of black ops—"

"Something's rotten," Carth agreed. Agreed with an Imp who was arresting him! This was… this was a new low.

Amazingly now—or not so amazingly, considering: considering everything, it was probably normal—two actual Mandalorians, he'd recognize that beskar armor anywhere—had joined in the fracking sing-along.

One of them was weeping. Like it was a sad song? A sad Mandalorian song? What's it about? Being sent to your room with no grenades?

"So now what?" There was a side exit three meters to his right. The bar was dark. Maybe he could make it out—

"I'm not quite sure. I commed in," she told him. "Waiting on a response."

"Black ops, huh?" He laughed. "Guess that explains the languages."

"Lang—?" the woman's comm beeped. "Oh. Oh!" she looked startled, actually got up from her chair. And backed away from Carth. "I'm… my apologies for the confusion. You're… you're both free to go. Of course. Have… have a good day. May I get you anything? Do you need assistance?"

"Excuse me?" he scoffed. "That's what your comm just said? We're free to go?"

One of the Mando'ade was laying out an array of weaponry on the table. Polla Organa appeared to be shopping. As Carth watched, she picked up a Bothan shock stick and twirled it. At least she can't kill anyone with that. He was less sure about the nasty looking ion rifle she was cradling in her arms as if it was her new first-born. As he watched, she pulled out a handful of chits and scattered them on the table. One of the Imps exchanged a weapons belt for cash, and another handed her his gray and black hat. She tugged her topknot down so it lay flat and put the hat on her head.

"I don't understand." He wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Sometimes it's safer that way," the officer offered. "You know, I don't know if you're spoken for, but there's a nice… hotel, about a block away. Does she give you any time off? I keep a room there."

"You were going to arrest me and now you want to sleep with me?" He coughed. "I… uh, I'm flattered, but— "

"Hey, Madkath, look what I got!" Polla Organa came in with the force of a solar wind, bristling with weapons. "Rialis over there says he's got some clips for your Aratech too. And he's definitely gonna introduce us to Davik, if the Holden thing falls through…." Her eyes flickered to the Imp woman. "Who're you?"

For some reason, the woman who'd been hitting on Carth with all the delicacy of a Wookiee was now stiff and still. "Infantry Sargeant Devry, Second Class— "

"We need to be going. Really." Carth didn't see any way this could end well.

They know who we are; if it's some kind of sadistic trap, sitting around isn't gonna help.

He grabbed Polla Organa's arm, his own bumping the rifle now slung on her back. "Come on," he hissed. "Sis."

"Bye!" Polla turned and waved back at the table, but then she let him drag her away. She even listened while he recounted how they'd almost just been arrested or shot—before obtaining some kind of reprieve, which obviously had something to do with her.

"Look, just… just tell me," Carth asked as they walked along the platform. The hovering holocams, normal as they were anywhere in urban areas, suddenly seemed an ominous threat. "Were you Sith? Are you Sith? Black ops? Mandalorian?"

"No!" Polla shook her head. "Grass Priests! What is up with your trust issues?"

Xxx

The cell was empty, except for the broken hand shackles, the fried shield generator, and the large, circular hole in its floor. When Davad peered down, he could see a similar hole bored into the floor below them, and, it appeared, the floor below that.

"How did Shan escape her Force restraints?" Beya snapped, voicing the obvious but unfortunate question that in hindsight was all too painfully clear.

"Bandon secured her without any," Davad admitted. "He likes to break Padawans by encouraging them to draw upon their power: to fight, to struggle. To unleash— "

"This sounds like something you taught him," Beya accused. "So Bastila Shan's escape… sounds like your fault."

He wanted to tear her throat out for the arrogance of accusing him… but she was right.

"You will help me retrieve her," he said. "Or I will inform our Lord Malak that you had Revan Starfire in your grasp and then let her go."

"I had other plans for tonight," she snapped. "Plans that did not involve resolving your mistakes."

"Cancel them." Obviously.

The Deralian narrowed her eyes. "And when your little Sithling Bandon returns with Malak's Imperial guard to fetch Padawan Shan? What will we tell him?"

"To wait." He shrugged. "Until we are finished with the prisoner." His eyes flickered to the cell, with its nearly perfectly circular hole in the floor. From the cracks around the duracrete, it appeared that Shan had channeled the Force to create an extremely localized, sesmeitic event.

He had to admire her skill.

Xxxx

Polla opened her eyes to find the world blurred into greens and golds. Her body felt weightless and warm, and her skin tingled. It took another few moments to notice the tubes attached to her skin, the visor attached to her head, the goggles covering her eyes.

The explosion. Seiran dared me to beat his time at the canyon loop, and I took him up on it? What was I thinking?

Slowly, her surroundings registered: a medical droid hovering outside of her tank, pale, antiseptic walls; and a dark-haired woman sitting at a desk, monitoring her closely.

There was a beeping noise, as the medical instruments registered her return to consciousness. The woman gave her a reassuring smile. Her hair was pulled back in two fat braids and her eyes were very wide. She looked young, really young for the medic's robes she was dressed in.

"Don't try to speak." Her accent sounded Core. "You're in a kolto tank. I need to drain the chambers."

Polla's head hurt. She'd come back to Deralia after everything went wrong: Therion told her he just wanted to be friends; her shipment of spice was wrecked by kanna mites; she was almost out of credits—and no one wanted to pay up in advance.

It had been a rough year. So rough that she'd gotten stupid drunk and tried to race the loop in the dark.

I'm so lucky not to be dead.

Polla banged on the tank walls—

Let me out! Her breath hissed through the breathing mask.

The medic stood up smiling, and started draining the tank. The top snapped open, and then the sides, as the kolto drained out. The air was chilly on Polla's skin. The breathing apparatus unsnapped, pulling with it gross tubes from her nose and throat.

"H-how long?" Her voice sounded strange. Her throat felt raw.

"You've been in a coma for several months," the woman said. She pushed a few buttons, and smiled reassuringly. "You're doing very well."

"Where is… everyone?" It didn't look like any hospital room Polla had ever seen.

"You're on the Ascendant, in orbit around Deralia. The local authorities asked for our assistance." She looked down, maybe being modest. "Our facilities are better than anything they have groundside."

"M-my family?"

"They've been up to see you." The woman began unfastening the tubes and drains. "Your parents, cousins, aunts, uncles—your family must love you very much."

The mask felt heavy. Polla was relieved when the medic lifted it off, and handed her a robe to wrap around herself.

"That's what families do—so am I healed now?"

Several months, the medic had said. How many was several?

"Soon, I promise." The woman seemed to hesitate, frowning slightly. "There's just one more thing. It's… standard with traumatic brain injuries: we like to take a holocron of the victim's memories. That way, we can establish a baseline for your doctors as you improve. It won't hurt; but I need your consent."

"Why?" Polla frowned.

"It is optional." The woman hesitated again. She seemed strangely reluctant, glancing back behind her, at the mirrored wall of the room. "It's just a test. To make sure there's no damage to the... limbic arrays."

"Um… sure—if you think it will help." Why would they need to capture my memories unless—unless I'm—is she lying? Am I going to die?

The woman's smile faltered for a moment, and her blue eyes looked too bright. "You're going to be just fine, Polla."

XXX

A/N thanks, Ether as always, for a lot of inspiration here. And I think maybe a roll of the dice line entire. This Bastila would not exist without yours. And double thanks for the corrections and insights that helped shape this chapter.

Chapter titles I use are usually song lyrics, some more obvious than others, this is from Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue singing: "Where the Wild Roses Grow." It's an uplighting happy song about-okay, no it isn't. It's really depressing and sad. It's from an album named Murder Ballads. Guess you get the picture.

Mandalorian song is also wedding vows. So of course, it's sad. Geez. Poor Rialis Clan guy probably misses his wife! (or wives.)

Please let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

XXX

On the summer solstice back home, night and day aligned, and the Dxun moon grew close enough that its atmosphere bled into the sky of their planet; colors of orange and gold mixing with a heartrending blue. That was when Davad, and his brothers, and cousins, and all of their royal escort would mount their great drexl and fly straight up, angling towards that impossible moon, the thread between their worlds. The air would grow thin and their limbs would shake; but they'd still rise, impossibly high—until the moon's heavier gravity took hold, and the wings of their great beasts would falter and fall, plummeting towards the demon moon suddenly below.

That was the true test of a rider's skill, to guide a beast through its fear of falling, fear of oblivion; against all of its natural impulses: to command it to spread its great insectine wings and glide, catching the dense air currents, and angling down, slowly, gentle as a lover's kiss.

Do it wrong, and you would both perish. Like more than one of Davad's cousins—and his eldest sister.

Do it right, and a feast awaited: a feast for man and beast: roasted cannok and slices of sweet, wild melon. Charred and buttery tubers baked in giant pits with tarja pulp; and stolen glasses of spiced tarja wine….

XXX

Oblivion / Chapter 4 / They Shine For You

XXX

The planet was beautiful. The planet was a cesspool, rotting from the inside up. Both things were true.

Nothing ever changes in crapholes like this. Meet the new boss same as the old—

Polla stared across the plat at the adjoining, gated one. A tall, blue tower spiked the heavens with a flashing, circular sign with giant holographic letters.

Luck, it read.

She stared at it. Secuum, Lakah. Chance. Irgoshital.

"What the hell?" Hell was an angry man, yelling at her on this planet. Taris. The man was Carth. Captain Carth Onasi. "That stunt you pulled—back at the bar. What the hell was that?"

"Huh?" Polla blinked.

"You were singing in Mandalorian!"

"I know a lot of languages." His eyes were brown. Ways to say the words scrambled her sentence. Too many. "Yo isegah sam. Jai mhi nar. Aba khutta lais—"

"Hey!" He grabbed Polla's arm, making her stop again. Across the plat was some kind of Entertainment Plex: lit with blue and white holosigns. A casino. Chance, the sign said in Aurebesh lettering, now.

Secuum, her mind supplied. Lakah. Luck.

"Look at me," he hissed, but Polla was still staring at the building. Red-liveried guards were escorting a white-robed and hooded woman from a mechanical palanquin. Had to be a pretty swank place, the way they were all drooling on her. Uniformed group of guards surrounding her too. Sith guards. Imperials, they—they—

"Huh?" Now Carth blocked her view, all broad-shouldered and omnipresent.

For a second, she had no idea who he was at all. Secuum, Lakah. Chance. Irgoshital. Captain Carth Onasi.

"Polla!"

"Yeah?" She finally tore her gaze away from the guards, away from the woman in white. "I'm sorry, I—maybe that last drink was a bad idea, huh?"

"I think you… you got a nasty bump there. Let's go find that doctor."

"I'm good." She was. She was fine. She was just cold. She was cold, knew a lot of languages, and he was Carth. Polla wrapped her arms around herself. "It's late," she pointed out. "Unless your doc works at night?"

Overhead, the sky was still lit by the artificial lights, but above that it stretched, open and black.

Like stars. A grid— something above felt… wrong, from above. Like the darkness of space, pressing down.

"Damn, you're right." Carth's smile looked forced, but at least it was there. "Was underground so long, forgot the diurnals. Up here, they probably follow 'em."

"In the morning we'll go, and then we'll—" Polla suddenly wanted to be inside very badly. "We could check in there—" she nodded at the casino, which had to have a hotel too.

"Are you kidding?" Carth looked suspicious again. "Place looks like it's full of Sith!"

"They're just people."

That smile was gone now, replaced by something flat and cold. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Not here," he muttered. "But we need to talk, sister."

"I'm not your fracking sister!"

"Inside—we'll find a place."

He reached for Polla's arm, but she pulled away, picking a direction at random, forcing him to trail behind like an ass.

"That way," he snapped, directing her anyway. "To the right, street gets a little more down-market into places we can afford."

"I've got plenty of credits," she reminded him, not even looking back. Something bumped on her hip. What was— oh. The stun stick. She'd shoved it in her pants pocket. What the frack was I thinking, that I'm gonna stun some sents? Most of the sents on the street weren't armed, not like home; but some were. Mostly ones in uniform, or with that swagger Polla had come to associate with coreslime. She herself had been proud of the ion rifle she'd snagged for a song from that Sith officer (corporal) back in the bar; although the straps were too long and it was dangling awkwardly off her back now. But that was different. Everyone back home—you never knew when there might be a good brace of partegga to shoot; or a ten-point trawler—

What am I gonna do with an ion rifle here? Shoot the bloody Sith?

"We might need those credits to get off this planet." Carth had caught up, but at least he wasn't trying to take her arm again.

"I'll buy you a ticket off right now..." she muttered.

"Can't tell if that's a joke, or if you've forgotten: entire planet is locked down. Nobody's getting off, not legally."

Don't panic. Polla looked up anyway, up at that oblique black sky. No moon—at least, none visible. Taris has four moons: Lakeya, Isphain, Dirata and Jocaste; but they're not visible through the atmospherics, not in this hemisphere, this season—I know that. I'm good at languages….

"I knew that," she lied. Did I? Did I know that? Carth had said… something before. He'd said a lot of things, but she'd been focused on finding… who was it she had wanted to find again?

It's possible I might be losing my mind. I don't need to find Bastila Shan. I'm free. I can do what I want.

I want to sleep. Ma always said a good night's rest makes it better. Maybe that's all I need. Maybe if I get some sleep this will all make sense.

"Let's find a cheaper hotel," she agreed. "Maybe things will… things will make more sense in the morning."

"This way." Carth took her arm and this time Polla didn't stop him, let him lead her across an intersection onto a smaller thoroughfare.

"Yes," she nodded. Hesh. Gert'e.

XXX

No sooner had Sheris settled herself in the casino's penthouse suite then her comm pinged.

Finally. It was not like Beya to be this late.

Sheris composed her features into an appropriately perturbed sneer.

But it wasn't Beya calling, it was Lord Malak.

"You should not be planetside," he said, forgoing any introduction. "Not now."

"I have my guards—and Beya is here." Or she will be soon. It had sounded nice, having the opportunity to gamble and to shop. Taris was not nearly as provincial as Thule or Ziost; she could actually get Republic-made clothing here; food that wasn't grown in a vat; a decent glass of ice wine….

"You could join us, my Lord?" Although it would inevitably turn awkward. Malak would be compelled to express his strength in some tedious expression of atrocity, and those could drag on and on past the point of anything.

"I need to see to the re-education of Padawan Shan," he told her. "Lord Bandon has been dispatched to bring her to me."

I will need to mediate your disappointment when that does not happen—if Beya does her job.

In a world surrounded by Sith, every one of them (who still survived) was a stronger Force-user than Sheris Darkstar. Lord Malak's devotion to her was her greatest strength. But this Shan… with her Battle Meditation, and her power… she could prove a threat greater than any before.

"She is attractive," Sheris ventured, trying not to sound like a schoolgirl, speaking out of turn.

"She has a great gift, which will be useful to us." It was difficult to register voices, especially over a comm, but Sheri's thought Malak sounded admiring. More than she liked.

"Nothing compared to your gifts, my Lord." Sheris fluttered her lashes, which usually worked quite well, but Malak seemed... unusually distracted. His face loomed too close to the camera, and she could hear his harsh breathing through his jaw's voder—too fast and shallow as if he were especially excited—or in pain.

"I need you here. Now," he clipped. "Return at once."

"Beya promised to take me gambling," she countered. "I would say you should join us, but it would ruin the sport." The thought of the casino pitmasters recoiling before Malak almost made her laugh.

"I need you… here," he repeated. His hairless brows drew down, and she thought she saw pain in his colorless, comm-blurred eyes.

With the distance between them, Sheris couldn't feel the agony of his rotting mouth or the madness of his thoughts; but she knew his words well enough now to hear the plea in them.

My Lord needs me. Sheris had made him prove it once more. A small victory, but upon such, she had built a castle.

XXX

Polla Organa might be a Sith agent. She might still be suffering the effects of her head injury. Not mutually exclusive conditions, Carth realized.

The Deralian was thankfully quiet when they checked into the Blue Palace Hotel, clerk smirking, even more, when Carth asked for connecting rooms and single beds, not that he gave a damn what some clerk thought—not here, and not now.

While the man counted out their credits (charging them about five times what Carth had expected to pay, but they were hardly in a place to bargain), Polla Organa had said nothing at all, just stared at the news holofeed above the man's head with an abstracted frown. The local HoloNews was going on about 'the defense of Taris,' as if the Endar Spire had been some kind of sneak Republic attack, instead of the other way around.

No pictures of wanted 'Republic terrorists,' at least. Small relief.

"Are you drunk?" he finally asked her, when they were safely inside their suite.

"If we're gonna keep spending time together we're gonna need to work on your pick-up lines."

"That wasn't what I—" Damn if she wasn't infuriating.

Polla Organa was whistling something atonal and vaguely ominous. She flopped down on the bed in the hotel room, stretching her arms out. Her head turned, part of her topknot falling in one eye. "Still here? Cause... your room's over there, I think. You should go check it out." She pointed to the archway connecting the two small rooms.

"I know. But, wait. What the hell was that… what were you doing? Back at the bar?"

She turned over lazily, reaching for bed's cheap controls and rotating it into an incline. "Huh? I was just… collecting information? What do you military types call it? Intel?" She raised a hand, counting off her fingers. "One—I found Bastila Shan; two—I found an Exchange contact; and three—I made some business connections." She folded her arms behind her back and leveled a hard, green glance at him, eyes widening with pretend innocence. "You're welcome, by the way."

"And you sang a Mandalorian marching song. Don't forget that part." And that woman as good as said you were on an Imperial watch list. Don't play dumb with me— "Cut the act," he snapped.

"Act?" She frowned up at him, narrowing her gaze. From this angle, her eyes were slits of green. "You're the one who needs to cut it! You've been looking at me cross-eyed since before we checked into this slughole. Told you we could afford something better—"

"That's not—" How could he argue with her? He'd picked the most nondescript, ask-no-questions hotsheet place on the strip. (And don't remind yourself why you know how to tell, Onasi. Now's not the time.) "You speak Mandalorian?"

"Yeah?" The Deralian shrugged, but a faint frown sketched between her brows. "I know a lot of languages. Helps me do my job—to know languages. I'm good. I'm good at languages."

You're paranoid, Carth scolded himself. Although, between Polla Organa and this planet, he was starting to think he had reasons to be paranoid.

She's on an Imperial watch list. That doesn't just happen. Makes her either a really good smuggler, a really bad smuggler or… something else entirely. They looked her up and then let us go. Who do the Sith just let go? Their own spies—that's who. Or dupes they're trying to get to lead them to something else... but they have Shan already, so what do they want?

Is it me?

The woman in the bar had been looking at Polla. Had said it was her—to just look at her— but looking at Polla Organa, all that Carth saw was a good-looking woman (who knew it) with a typical smirk. Hotshot pilot. Smuggler. Probably thought she had skills—

Was it me all along they were after? Was that Sith Lieutenant just playing me? Tried to get me to go back to her room. But then… why… why let us go? They have Bastila already. Captain Jakar died in the first wave. And the other Jedi… most of them stayed on the ship. I have to assume… I have to assume the worst. I was assigned to Trask and Shan, and Trask is dead—Polla said so—

Is there someone else the Sith want?

"Trust issues." Polla rolled her eyes. "We'll find this guy Holdan, get hooked up with the Exchange, and get off this rock. Then, if you want, I'll drop you on some army planet, or… whatever planet you want. Won't even charge you."

"Charge?" He was having a hard time getting a grip on her thought process. "Charge me for what? You enlisted. Remember?"

"I enlisted for credits." She frowned, suddenly, the careless smirk fading. "Hey, am I still getting paid for this gig? It's not my fault the ship got blown up. If I dropped you off at—what's the nearest Fleet supply station—Ankara? They'd pay me there, right?"

"Ankar—" he lowered his voice. "Ankara got fragged by Malak's forces seven months ago. But how did you even know—" Ankara was supposed to be secret. Not on charts. Not on anything, but Malak's forces found it. Cut the supply chain to the Mid Rim with one blow.

Carth had lost a few friends there. Poor bastards on shore leave. Never came back.

"I don't—" For a moment, she looked confused. "I-I don't know. Just heard it around. I… smugglers hear things, right? I'm a smuggler. I'm Polla Organa—"

"Yeah, I got it." If you were a Sith agent, would you really be putting on such a brain-damaged act? Something in her face made him soften—a little. "Look… you did a good job back there, getting information out of those Sith."

"Information?" Her head turned towards Carth and he suddenly wasn't sure if she'd heard a word he had said.

"Intel." He kept his voice light. "We were just talking about it?"

"Yeah. I know." Polla drew her knees to her chest suddenly, hugging them. "Hessi walked over my grave," she muttered. "Is it cold in here?"

He glanced at the thermostet. It wasn't.

"Let's get some sleep," Carth suggested. "Then maybe… maybe we should let that Doc Forn I heard about take a look at you." His first impression, that the Sith had done something to her, that her mind wasn't right, came back to him suddenly. Seemed likely, watching her now.

"I feel fine." But the ease of her smile had faded. "I'm… free, right? I can do… I can do whatever I want?"

It was tempting to say 'yes.' Maybe he'd be better off trying to pull off a rescue of Bastila Shan from the Taris police prison without her crazy baggage. Maybe what Carth needed to do now was find a secure comm and call in the troops. If Bastila Shan was captured by the Sith, it would take more than an ace pilot and a brain-damaged smuggler to rescue her anyway.

"We need to… to confirm your intel. About Bastila Shan. Okay?" You're nuts, sister. Maybe it's just your head injury, making you think you know about Bastila. Maybe those Sith were just fracking with me. Maybe it's me they're after. Maybe they want to see who I call…. "And get you to a doc."

"You want me to ask some other Sith about her?"

"No!" He walked to the door, wondering if he should have given her the inside room. Cursing himself for not making an excuse to do that. A little late now. "You just… you just get some sleep now. We'll figure this out tomorrow."

Xxx

Bastila was not ashamed to admit she was terrified. There was no dishonor in fear.

She'd found an exit hatch that had led to some kind of sewer system; a maze of never-ending and branching paths. There was a darkness here as well; a wrongness, a taint, like something rotting and desperate and best avoided.

There were also repeated bursts of panic from Revan. Without their team of Jedi handlers, the woman's jumbled mind kept trying to reconcile the Deralian's knowledge with her innate abilities. In the best of times, under careful observation, this mental acrobatic had become a dim, but constant murmur in the back of Bastila's thoughts; but now, without the positive reinforcement of a dozen Jedi masters, Revan's disorientation bled the link between them with increasing force—threatening to swamp Bastila's own fragile peace.

Why is Captain Obvious asking me how I know Mandalorian? Tion'jor vaabir ni kar'taylir mando? Ni jorhaa'ir… I speak. I speak a lot of languages. Ori'sol. I speak… many. Lots. Pakod. Easy. Big galaxy. Lots of people… lots of people speak. Jorhaa'ir. I… I hit my head. I was out for a while, I must have forgotten—

You speak many languages. Bastila had to stop and close her eyes. Mandalorian has common antecedents with both Ryl and Basic. Iridonian too, has many of the same roots. In your profession, it was quite useful to learn languages. You studied languages as a hobby. You have a natural gift. Do not question your gifts. Accept them.

I'm going crazy. Talking to myself. The way he's looking at me, like he knows it. Those guys at the bar, maybe they knew it too, maybe they were only laughing at me. Fracking Sith hu'tuun—

Bar? Sith? Bastila willed herself not to panic.

Something the size of a womprat, only multi-legged and chitinous, lounged on the filthy sewer, blocking her path. Bastila stifled a yelp, summoning the Force to gently push it to one side.

One of the Force's creatures, she reminded herself. Just like I am. As we all are, even—

I just have to find Holdan, get an in with Davik Kang and then I'll get the hell off this planet. Why is Mister Flyboy looking at me? He knows. He knows I'm losing my fracking head—

Bastila heard herself whimper, because this was madness. No. Listen to Carth Onasi. He is your friend. You trust him. You need to stay with him—

Cold washed over her, as she felt the shadows press closer. Forgive me, she begged the other. I have my own problems now. Her feet, given flight, slipped across the muck-filled floor, as she picked a descending ladder at random, and went deeper into the darkness.

Xxx

Polla's dreams were nightmares, nightmares of being chased by shadows in a dark place. Numbered doors, mechanical ladders. Everything was dark and slippery and scary. She had to keep running, or they would catch her. There were two of them maybe… but there was something else too. Something that was rotting and screaming with a hundred claws. She was running and sobbing—and that thing—

I'm sorry, I'm sorry—

You can't run forever, she told herself. Frack, hide! Hide and let them pass!

But there was nowhere to hide. They'll see. They'll find me—

Then kriffing fight! Shoot them. Use… use your-

Her mind stumbled on the word. All she saw was a blur of yellow light.

Run. Her feet slipped in the muck, her hands were skinned from where she'd fallen. They're coming. They will not stop. Run.

"Polla!" An arm on her shoulder. "Wake up."

Wake up. That's what he said. That man. That man on the ship.

I must run, I have to keep running—

"Polla!" Hand shook her again, but gently. "Wake up. I think you're having a nightmare."

Trust him. Save yourself—

Polla's eyes snapped open

Warm, brown ones stared back into hers. "Wake up," the pilot repeated. Hair, falling in his face. She wanted to push it back, away from his eyes, but he hardly knew her, and he thought she was nuts already. That was obvious.

"I trust you," Polla told him. "You're my friend, right?"

She'd fallen asleep. Dreamed about a woman, running. Her-and-and not. When Polla closed her eyes she could see the woman's hands again; muddy and scratched. Not me. Not my hands. But I know her she's—

The woman's name escaped Polla, like space dust sparking off a deflector shield.

She's—

"You were screaming in your sleep." Carth Onasi looked nice with his hair tousled like that. Reminded her of someone. "Just came in to check on you."

"Sweet you're worried." Polla sat up, pulling the blanket over her shoulders, wrapping herself in it like a cape. "I was having one hell of a dream… but I-I don't need to worry, right? I-I can trust you?"

"Yeah," he smiled back at her. Trustworthy smile. She wondered if he was as good a pilot as he seemed to think he was. "We'll go see the doc at the medix in the morning. Get a handle on this. Maybe you should… catch a few more hours of shut-eye, if you can."

"You… you should too."

He looked exhausted.

"You'll need to stop screaming for me to do that." He gave her a pained smile. "I know it's… it's not your fault. Is there… do you want to talk about—is there anything you want to talk about?"

"No." She shook her head and closed her eyes again. "You're right, I'll sleep again." Garod nishentye.

Xxx

"This is your idea of damage control?" Beya Organa stepped gingerly into the muck. "Traipsing through the sewers ourselves after Shan?"

"We could hardly send Bandon." There was too much life down here—more than Davad had expected; as noisome and fetid and random as a plague. The Force sang; and within that cacophony Shan's power was only another spark—the brightest one, perhaps, but all of them blurred together for him into one long scream.

"I expected you to use your own men." Beya Organa glanced back at him, frowning suspiciously. "Aren't you the King of Onderon and Malak's Second? Don't you have minions?"

"As much as you're Queen of Deralia," he snapped. "Or does broken Rev get that title now, since they patchworked some Deralian Jedi's mind into a Force-blind persona for her?"

"There's something up ahead." She was ignoring him, moving deftly to take the lead, as if they were back on the Xoxon killing fields again; when Davad had been the Force shield to her spear. "A lot of somethings, in fact."

"Shan?" Something, definitely something in the Force—someone—but it felt dark. Wilder than Shan. And not strong enough to be Revan, if such a creature as his Starfire could ever be born again.

You no longer exist, Master.

Master. That word still felt branded on his soul, even after her death; even after he had been forced to renew his pledge to the other. The old woman had told him of Revan's rebirth and warned him she was truly gone in nearly the same breath, but somehow Davad still couldn't believe it—would have refused to believe it—if not for the evidence on the Spire.

That blank, green-eyed space where his lover should have been.

"I believe that it's Shan, ahead of us in those tunnels." But Beya didn't sound sure. "Definitely a Force user. But… not alone. There's something… something else." Her comm beeped, loud and strange in the dim muck.

His gut rumbled. "Something edible, I hope," Davad quipped. "I've already missed my dinner reservation."

"A moment." Beya sounded distracted, swiping a message back to whatever lover or minion was on the other end of the comm.

Her own dinner plans, no doubt. His stomach rumbled again.

Xxx

Two weeks ago, Davad had been on his ship the Demon Moon only a few light years from the ashes of Endor. He had been alone with his supper, as was his custom, his thoughts gratefully diminished into the simplicity of crunch and bone.

And then, the old woman's voice had intruded, with the temerity of a cannock herd.

"Malak plans to capture Bastila Shan and shatter the Jedi Fleet; but there is another prize aboard the Jedi's flagship: a secret one, which I require—"

"Do you ever knock?" Davad refused to turn around—half the time when her voice broke into his thoughts with the subtlety of a Force choke there was no one there.

Besides, he… he was—messy. An inconvenient time. He reached for a napkin to wipe the grease from his mouth, his chin, and set the nearly-raw haunch of ronto down on the table. His hands were bloody with its juices.

"Your needs have increased." Her interest in that sharpened. He could almost feel that too, like a needle in his skull.

How did you even get on my ship? He wanted to ask. But no use. Their shadows called her the 'Mother of Lies.' She came without warning; she came with her commands and Davad was bound to follow them.

And he did. Ever since Malachor.

"It's dinner, don't you eat too?" Davad licked the juice from his hand, salty and pungent and… fat. Resisted the urge to bury his face back in the feast.

"There is not enough meat for two. Not enough for a hundred when the beast calls you." Her voice was scornful. What passed for a jest. He'd heard the Other make her laugh, (on the rare occasions of their meeting), but Davad received no such indulgence.

It got worse, this hunger, when the old woman was close.

Indeed, he had known she was close by the gnawing emptiness in his gut.

Ever since Malachor.

"The name of the ship is the Endar Spire. Shan is the prize, of course… but there is another. Or rather, the shell of another. Give Shan to Malak. You will bring the shell to me."

"The shell? The shell who?" These games. Davad was heartily sick of them. Master Arren Kae claimed to have the means to defeat Malak… but did nothing. Not for the first time, he considered turning her in—

Of course, to her, his thoughts were an unlocked datapad.

She chuckled softly now, hearing them. "You cannot betray me, Beast-Lord. You, who have been betrayed at every turn, are still loyal to Revan. A loyal beast, even to one you think dead—"

Davad snorted, sinking his hand into the meat and ripping off a chunk. "Oh, I saw Revan die—the same as you did. Are you going to offer me Sheris after we kill Malak together? I must regretfully decline. And I believe the lady would as well."

Malak might enjoy looking at the gene-spliced twin of his dead wife… Davad did not enjoy looking at her. Looking at her made him feel ill. He shoved the succulence into his mouth quickly, letting the taste melt in his throat.

"I will not offer what is not mine to give."

Kae paused, long enough for Davad to choke down the meat, and demand more explanation—and then launched into a fantastical tale of Jedi mindwipes, and a flawed Jedi redemption.

There was a long silence after she was done, before Davad carefully picked up the cleanest napkin next to his plate and wiped his eyes, blinking them until he saw clearly once more.

Too clearly.

If what Kae said was even half true, (and the Mother of Lies liked the truth, it made her subterfuge more palatable), then his mindwiped master would be as helpless as a newborn nerf in her former empire.

"Why?" he asked.

And if Sheris isn't yours to give, why is Revan? But that was a question he did not dare ask. For he wanted Revan. He wanted Kae's lies to be true. He… he hungered for them to be true.

"Why?" Kae chuckled softly, under the hood of her dark robes. "Have I taught you nothing, my apprentice?"

Nothing I hadn't learned from Revan first. "Why would the Jedi save Revan from the brink of death? Why mindwipe her? Why give her the personality of a Deralian peasant?"

"Perhaps I told them to." Kae laughed softly. "Or perhaps, they too seek an end—some of them. Malak's power increases unchecked, and with it—"

"Why now? If you knew, why not take her before? This mindwiped shell of yours?" Davad scoffed. For all her power, all her shadow army, her abilities to cast illusions, to cloud men's minds… Kae could not hide her true nature from Davad any more than he could hide his from her.

And that was how he knew that something had gone wrong with Kae's games. Her anger and frustration beat through the Force like a red tide. A hunger there too—it strengthened him, sustained them both.

And had: ever since Malachor.

"May you never have the misfortune of choice, Beast-Lord." Her voice cracked slightly. "The fate of the galaxy or the fate of your family? Your world? I made such choices. Revan made such choices."

"I have no family," he muttered. "Both of you saw to that."

And then Arren Kae told him the coordinates and ship's codes. All the information needed for Lord Malak to pull the Spire out of orbit. All the information needed to find a locked wing, off the main level, heavily guarded (but no match for his power), an unmarked door, and inside—

Davad had assumed that Kae's claim was a trap, a trick, but behind the locked door Revan lay sleeping like a princess out of legend-pale and still as a corpse. At first, he even thought she could have been a corpse-somehow preserved, inexplicably altered-her hair dyed a drab brown, the sides of her scalp shaved... but then she turned her head, mumbling something in her sleep—

And then, those wide set eyes opened, staring blankly, all their light extinguished, that strange perfection of her skin, unsullied and new—

His former Master could almost have been Sheris before she opened her mouth.

Xxx

She did not know me. That woman was not my master. Not my Revan.

Something nagged at Davad, like a needle in his skull. Kae had… had wanted the shell of Revan retrieved. Commanded him, and yet—

And yet I— The thought slipped away even as he reached for it. And yet I—

I was commanded to retrieve her. But I did not. Is that her game? Or mine?

"Well?" He demanded, when Beya Organa gave no further response.

"My agents see no trace of Shan in the Upper City," she replied blandly.

"What about Revvie?" He smiled as if he was joking.

"She's not our concern, remember? Malak wants Bastila Shan."

Beya's lie screamed through the Force, a hammer through his skull. It took Davad a moment to realize that the scream was outside—that the scream was real.

Xxx

Someone was screaming. Not very far away. Not just with words, but in the Force as well. And it wasn't Revan—dimly, Bastila sensed the other woman asleep. Dreaming uneasily in a narrow bed, but dreaming. No, this sentient was closer. And suffering.

"Is someone there?" She softened her voice, trying to project an aura of calm that she certainly did not feel.

"Stay away!" A woman's voice, young. "Whoever you are, stay away!" The voice choked. "Oh, Force, they… they're waiting. I think they know. They know what I will become and they're waiting—stay back! Please! I will… I will not see another hurt!"

"I can help," Bastila assured her, moving forward. The tunnel forked, and she could see now, with the Force enhancing her eyes, the huddled clump of rags resolving itself into a Padawan's robes. A young Togruta looked up at her, eyes wild and terrified.

"You can't," the child whispered. "I thought I could help the villagers. I tried… but it's too, late… I-I can feel it. Save yourself, Knight Shan, you must! Run away!"

"Padawan," Bastila corrected her. A common mistake—and not one that rankled when she thought of creatures like Bandon. Not at all.

"Pada—" the girl whispered, voice breaking off into an agonizing scream. "It hurts! Burns—please, please make it stop! Please!"

She threw her head back, monotails twisting in agony, and then the heavy ridges of bone along her skull seemed to… to ripple. There was a cracking, sickly noise like bones breaking.

"Please! Pleezzze…." The girl's voice cracked and splintered, as her face began to… to shift. Her arms bent back, limbs twisting into impossible angles. Barbs of what looked like bone poked through her skin.

Force! What is— Bastila dashed forward, unthinkingly, hands outstretched, trying to help. "I'm here," she soothed, even as the girl transformed before her eyes, shedding off her sentient skin, transforming into… a creature of nightmares before her eyes—

"Back!" she commanded, drawing on the Force, freezing the pathetic thing that had once been Padawan Triss Dar (the name coming belatedly to mind, and far too late to help Triss at all). "Stay back!"

The transformed monster shed the remains of its robes like discarded skin, howling a challenge.

Flesh chilled Bastila's arms as she heard identical calls from behind her, from the side—from every direction save one.

No time for reflection—she turned and ran.

Xxx

"Rakghouls." Davad stopped dead, blocking all egress in the narrow corridor. "That smell! I should have realized before."

"Really?" Beya scoffed. "Didn't we eliminate them the first time we liberated this planet?"

And what a heady time that been: hailed as heroes; Revan insisting on airlifting the pod of refugee children; Malak trying to keep their names out of the press so his father and the Senate didn't know the Jedi had committed to war; Beya and Gliz assigned to defending the Taris Academy… and where had Arkan been?

Beya smiled slightly. That's right, sulking over a woman who didn't know he existed.

"Apparently not." Davad edged closer to the wall. "I assume your ignorance means you brought no antidote."

"It takes some time, generally, the transformation." She would not give him the satisfaction of showing fear.

"Sometimes," he replied. "Sometimes days, a week—even. But other times, it's fast. Extremely fast. Did that Republic science team ever learn why?"

Beya had been one of the liberators of the Tarisian science labs years ago. Experiments destroyed, hysterical Selkath and Ithorian researchers… it had been all they could do to grab the rakghoul antidote before the next bombing run.

"No." She shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Another scream echoed in the caverns ahead. Then a roar, like the call of a wild sea.

"It sounds like a lot of them," Beya drawled. "Did you want to go first, Lord Arkan? You do outrank me."

"I defer to your superior ability with a blade."

"From what I hear, these days, you prefer to use your teeth." She smiled at him, showing hers.

"Our Lord Malak will be vexed if his prize padawan is eaten by rakghouls." Davad quite obviously feigned checking his chron. But then his comm chimed. Once. Twice.

He glanced down at it frowning.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Beya asked him sweetly.

Her own comm message had been quite educational.

Xxx

"The unauthorized copy of… her is contained, and under constant surveillance," Lieutenant Idra had said, the night before, when Beya's cautionary bulletin bore fruit. " The … clone is traveling with a Republic Officer, a Captain Carth Onasi. Is this some kind of Republic trap for Lord Malak?"

"Undoubtedly." And one he will never thank me for containing. But his consort might. Sheris might be very appreciative indeed.

Idris looked up at her from the bed. "Some of the other officers… they've seen Sheris. They know enough to feign ignorance, but—"

"The woman—and her Republic officer—may yet lead us to Shan. Make sure the orders are quite clear: no impediments to their progress. Assistance should be minimal and unobtrusive. Republic officers are trained to see watchers: make it too easy, the captain may grow suspicious; but if they happen to find Bastila Shan..."

"Yes, my Lord." Idra twisted her long, dark hair with her fingers, evoking a memory of Beya's own hands doing the same, not so long ago.

Xxx

And now, Idra's latest report placed Carth Onasi and his charge in a hotsheet hotel in one of Taris's corporate districts. The woman spent credits like a drunk Deralian—Beya found that fact strangely comforting—Revan never had, barely even carried them, and of course, Malak—

But there was no use chasing shadows of the past. Not when her future was at stake.

Arkan was still keying in some message of his own. A plot, she assumed. Probably to further discredit Bandon and save himself from Malak's wrath.

It occurred to Beya that she and Davad had one obstacle standing between them and their twinned objects of desire, but this seemed a bad time to dive into betrayal.

And I have more to lose. Malak might give you that pathetic shell in exchange for my life, but he would never give me Sheris—

"Shall we?" She gestured to the tunnel. "We do want to find Shan, correct?"

"Of course," Davad replied mockingly. "Together, so we have every assurance she comes to no permanent harm."

"Of course." She matched his smile and wondered how to dispose of him.

Is Shan strong enough to kill you, Davad? Not on her own, perhaps. But with an unexpected alliance….

Xxx

The scan of the Deralian's brain appeared in three-dimensional holographic display, floating in the air while the woman herself was masked by the resonator: face a blank, metal ovoid, bisected by the resonator's scanning lines.

Carth was no expert, but… Polla Organa's brain just looked like… a brain. Not that he'd seen many—any, except on those true crime dramas Morgana used to watch.

"Hrm…." Doctor Zelka Forn was chatty—about everything except his work.

He'd already had a lot to say about the Sith crackdown, the fate of the evacuees from the Endar Spire, and the Sith checkpoints that now isolated the Lower City from the Upper.

According to Forn, the Republic soldiers that the Sith had picked up were lucky compared to the ones whose pods had crashed on the ground. He'd launched into an improbable tale about a mutagenic virus loose in the sublevels, and claimed that only the Sith had the cure.

Carth had his doubts—the rumor sounded just like the kind of fear-mongering that bastards like the Sith would set up to divide sents: fear was a Sith's stock in trade, after all; but the man claimed there was some kind of bioscanner on the subs that scanned for infection and then shot on sight when it was detected.

"So, there is a cure?" Polla asked, words muffled through the mask. "But the Sith assholes won't let anybody have it?"

Forn adjusted some controls on his datapad, and the image of her brain rotated. "Yes. It's a serum. I could synthesize their anti-viral if I had a sample. But they aren't letting folks down there. Not without the right idchips. Not civilians."

"Yeah, we heard about the lockdown the other night," Carth told him.

"We can help…" Polla added, improbably.

Carth's jaw dropped open.

"I don't see how, but it's kind of you to offer." The doctor smiled.

"Well…" Her voice slipped into a careless drawl that Carth was beginning to realize was anything but. "Probably a lot of credits to be made if someone starts the distribution right."

And there it is.

The incredulous laugh died in Carth's throat, replaced by inevitability. "We're not in this for credits," he gritted. "Just looking for a way off this rock. Maybe… maybe with a few of our friends."

"Hrm," Doc Forn said as if he'd already moved on. "You said you were in a coma for two months, Miz Organa?"

"Three? I don't..." her voice trailed off. "Can I take this thing off yet?"

"In a moment." He shook his head frowning. "Remarkable."

"What?" Panic edged in her voice. "Please. Let me out if this thing. It… it feels like the sky is pressing… pressing down. I hate it."

"Jedi healing." The Doc motioned to Carth, waved at the scan. "Jedi healing is incredible. There's no sign of damage at all—not even scarring. Remarkable. Kolto's a miracle drug too; but nothing like this. If it wasn't for the edging here…." He traced a shadow on the top of double lines representing her skull. "If it weren't for that, I wouldn't believe she'd been hurt at all; but there's a regrowth line—see? Skull graft. Stars knows what her injury looked like before the healing… not good, if they had to regrow bone."

Suspicion bloomed in Carth's chest. "I never said there were Jedi with us."

"Your ship was part of the Jedi Fleet?" The doc snorted. "We might be an occupied planet, but we still get Republic broadcasts. And… there are rumors about Jedi. I heard Hope of the Republic was on the Spire."

"Did you now…." Carth eyed the exits to the room.

"Who?" Polla reached her hands up, tugging at the mask over her face.

"Bastila Shan. Don't move that—" Doc started to get up, but it was too late.

The smuggler stood up. "Bastila Shan," she repeated. A slight frown on her face. "She's the Hope of the Republic? Why?"

"Don't ask me," Doc Forn said. "Something about Battle Meditation?"

"I bet that wins a lot of fights, meditation." Polla snorted, glancing at Carth. "Does it, Flyboy? How come it didn't win this one? How come we crash landed on this rock?"

"It's not Bastila's fault." Although he'd wondered the exact same thing, much as he'd wondered why they'd given a junior Jedi officer command of her own flagship.

"Well, it's not mine— or yours—either." Polla turned to the doctor. "So, there's a mutie plague in the lower levels, a quarantine, and… a bunch of Republic escape pods crashed down there? Survivors?"

Carth couldn't help but notice the man's furtive glance towards the back of his office, and a door that looked freshly marked as 'storage.'

"Rumored survivors. Yes," the man said. "But the Sith are collecting the Jedi—those that they find."

Damn. We could use Jedi help to rescue Bastila.

"Or, she could be dead," Polla added brightly. "Or infected with the rakghoul plague-thing."

Xxx

Bastila had long since stopped using logic, or reason to guide her path. Now it was pure adrenaline that sent her careening through the tunnels, picking access points at random, journeying ever-deeper into a maze of dank and twisted tunnels—only too-aware of the monsters—and something far worse—at her back.

Dark Jedi. Fallen ones. Two, she thought. The patterns of their Force felt vaguely familiar—but twisted, like slow, dying screams. They were farther away now, held in check by the same creatures that Bastila feared.

She'd read about the rakghoul plague: the mysterious affliction that had dogged the Taris sublevels for hundreds of years—perhaps longer, if some stories were to be believed. A cure had been synthesized rather recently; although obviously too late to help the poor, maddened creatures that were chasing her now.

A cure had been synthesized, but too late to help Padawan Dar, who had done nothing to deserve her fate but be selected to be part of Bastila's escort.

And now, Bastila's fate as well—

Would that you could rescue me, she thought rather bitterly to the woman whose fate had doomed her own.

Xxx

"Hessi walked…."

"Over your grave. You've said that a lot."

She'd talked to Doc Forn in private and come out subdued, almost meek. But Polla's former brashness returned out here in the streets, enough to tell off a few drunks, and then amble right though a Sith patrol with that damnable Sith officer's hat on her head, as if she owned the place.

Polla Organa was one hell of an actress though because the crowds parted like water to let them through.

"I was thinking we need to get to the Lower City," she offered, peering over the edge of one of the plats again and frowning. "Right?" She twirled the hat on her hand, with more success than she'd shown with Carth's blaster before, because the hat didn't go flying off into the depths of nowhere.

"I was thinking we should… figure out a way to check out the Taris police logs," he offered back. And find a secure comm to call for help. Forn hadn't offered, even when Carth dropped a lot of hints. Suppose he couldn't blame the man—the man had a target on his back, just helping at all.

"Why?" She pursed her lips in thought. "No, what we're gonna do is, get down there, see if Holdan can hook me up with a ship, and maybe find some of that serum or whatever to stop the rakghouls." She paused. "And be rich."

"You heard Forn. And your Sith friends the other night? No one gets down there anymore—I got us out just in time, looks like. Not without authorization."

"We should have gone to that Sith party last night," she muttered. "On Block C? We could have stolen some uniforms, idchips, easy. Johan said they have parties every night. They have their own rec room. Sounds like a blast."

"So now you want to go to a Sith party—"

She was insane. She wasn't going to help. Carth needed to get to a comm, call in the guns, search for more survivors, maybe Forn had some hidden in that back room of his—

XXX

What a puking mess.

The Imperial Guard assigned to escort their prize were growing restless: Bandon could feel their fear and uncertainty, hear their hushed whispers, even two rooms away—such was the extent of his power.

His own rage would have been sweeter had it not been also futile: in front of him, the blasted corpses of the mewling excuse for a security force told no more tales—not that any were needed. The holes in the floor of the TarSec station, Lord Arkan's absence… all told their own tale quite well enough.

A choked gasp gulped behind him as another foolish administrator stumbled on the scene, no doubt drawn by the disaster alarms Bandon's prodigious Force lightning seemed to have triggered.

"You," he hissed, without turning. "Send a communication to Beya Organa and tell her to report here at once. It seems that Lord Arkan has fled with Malak's prize. We must retrieve both before Malak learns of this—and then tell him of Arkan's betrayal—"

"P-pardon, m-my Lord, but B-beya Organa was… she was…."

Any further words the worm had were lost when the man's neck snapped in two.

Bandon flexed his fingers and sighed, reaching for his comm. "I did not require conversation," he muttered. "Only results."

He would have to lay a trap for Arkan himself.

I will summon Beya myself as well. But first, I will tell Lord Malak of his Second's treachery….

Xxx

I can't keep running. Bastila knew it in her bones, in the Force itself. The Sith and the rakghoul horde together had herded Bastila into an area of the sewers where the tunnels had narrowed, the air grown bad. Earlier, she might have—should have—attempted to tunnel herself out in much the same way she had descended, but the ceiling above now felt loose in her perceptions, made of ancient layers of rusted durasteel and cerma.

Her breath heaved in and out, ragged and exhausted. She wiped stinging sweat from her eyes, willing her body to process the oxygen more efficiently, to cool her skin, to remain calm—

Stop running. She closed her eyes. Maybe falling to the rakghoul plague is a kinder fate than the one Malak has in store for me.

So cold. Revan's damaged mind was a strange echo. I need to find Holdan. I need a ship. I'm free. I can do whatever I—I can do whatever I want. To find Holdan I need to get down to the sublevels. Exchange must have some way past the checkpoints, there's always a way past.

No. Bastila focused with all her strength, all that she still possessed. You must not come here. It's not safe, they will find you—

They will find me? Who? Who will find me? Who the frack are you? I'm losing my mind—

They will find me and break me. They broke you, and you were the finest of us all—

I'm losing my mind. I'm hallucinating. I hear voices. No wonder he's looking at me like that! That doc said the Jedi healed my brain—what was… what was wrong with it? What's happening to me?

I cannot help you. I tried. It was to be a mercy. It was supposed to be mercy—

The howls were closer.

You will die here, Bastila. Her own voice in her mind this time. Cold and strangely rational. The rakghoul will tear you to pieces before the Sith can save you.

Is that what you want?

I don't want to die! The smuggler's thoughts, her panic, echoed by Bastila's own.

They called her the Hope of the Republic. She had never felt she deserved it, never been worthy of her gift; but she had seen her Battle Meditation turn the tide. She had seen the results. She had received honors. She had learned that her status as a figurehead meant as much to the Jedi, the Senate, and the Fleet as her abilities.

The howls were closer now. Much closer. Closer than the Sith.

The Sith cannot save me from the rakghoul , but the rakghoul can save me from….

Bastila dropped to her knees and brought her palms together.

They began to glow.

Xxx

"Bandon Agare is back," Beya said. Her voice sounded amused, as she scrolled through her comm, still trudging through the tunnels.

"Oh?" Davad kept his voice cheerful, with some effort, slowing his pace to match hers.

"He wants me to assist in a search for you and Bastila Shan. He seems to have concluded you've run off with Malak's prize."

Davad stopped walking. 'Well, you've found me. Congratulations." For some reason, his mouth watered. He held out his hands, keeping his gaze steady on hers. Any sudden movement would be matched: his raw strength against her superior skill with a blade—

Beya snorted. "Bandon's a child telling tales at school. He'll run to Malak—if he hasn't already. That endangers… other assets you may wish to protect more than your own skin."

"What assets? I left Revan to die on the Endar Spire," he reminded her. But his pulse increased. And suddenly, he could hear hers too. Just as tense as his own.

"I find that so hard to believe." Beya smiled at him. "There has to be more to the tale."

I left her to die. Only… it was not only that—was it?

Kae told me to take her. Kae told me she needed her. The old woman gave me an order, and I—

"You let her go as well," he countered. "I still don't understand why. If it hadn't been for your betrayal at Deralia, none of this—"

"Do you think if Revan was still Lord of the Sith you'd be ruling at her side?" Beya's lips bared in a snarl. "Or does that even matter, if she let you back into her bed? She was shedding attachments—you and I would both be dead by now. If she would kill Malak, do you really think she'd keep us alive?"

"My life is hers." He spoke the words before he thought them. Weak words. Foolish ones.

Her blade ignited, sparking blue. Unlike most of them, Beya still used her knight's saber. It lacked the killing edge of a red, but with the power of her blows behind it, the crystal's advantage hardly mattered. "Will you sacrifice it now, Davad? To save her? If I bring back your body, Malak will not question either of us—"

"You're doing this for love? After you killed her?"

"Not for her." Her eyes were feral, teeth pulled back. She took a step forward, and Davad still wasn't sure if he was going to let her do it—

And then… a rushing noise, like water, like the tide, a roar from a thousand throats. Increasing—screaming—

The rakghoul tide broke over them both and in a haze of teeth and claw, Davad discovered he wasn't ready to die after all. His blade flashed red, and cut through them like water.

No time to die. Not when there was so much meat left in the world.

XXX

So many. So strong. So… hungry.

Nothing like the cold dark of the Sith, nothing like the bright hope of Republic soldiers. Nothing like bolstering courage or faith. Bastila was channeling pure need now—rage—despair—

It's dark, it's so dark and there is power here—so much. Is this what they felt, the Knights D'Reev? This power?

Later, when she thought back, Bastila knew that was the true moment when she'd realized that hope and courage could inspire an army—but hatred and hunger could drive a mob.

And driving was much more effective.

XXX

A block from the police station, Polla grabbed Carth's arm. "Stop."

"Stop?" But he did, looking at her as if he thought she was nuts.

"The sky," she said, looking up. It was the color of blue milk, normal, a dim sun high above. Normal, except for the lack of air traffic, but that was the Sith, that was normal. He'd said so, when she asked him five times already.

He was looking at her now like he thought she was crazy still.

You think I'm crazy, Carth Onasi. I think I'm crazy. But the sky—

Xxx

"You wanted to speak to me alone…?" Doctor Forn prompted as Polla struggled to find the right words. "It isn't… is it something to do with that man who brought you here?"

"Huh?" It took her a moment. "What? No! I mean… not really. Carth is… nice. He's kind." Her cheeks felt too hot suddenly, which was strange because she never blushed. "No, he saved me. He's been very kind, but I… I think I might be… I think I might be losing it."

"Losing what?" The man didn't seem to understand.

Or he wants you to say it. Just say it.

"My mind." Sometimes you need to be blunt was what Ma always said. "I-I hear voices. Whispers in my head. I have dreams. I know things I don't remember."

Languages. I know a lot of languages, except I remember flunking Ryl in school and the Huttese I picked up would make a Hutt blush.

"Just because my scans saw no damage doesn't mean there was none." His voice gentled. "You were given extensive Jedi healing. That doesn't just happen. With head injuries memory loss is common. From what you —uh, from what I've heard, the invasion of your ship by Malak's forces was violent. You may have witnessed trauma—"

"Malak?" For a second the name was just syllables. Mal. Eck. Mal. Eym. Eym—

"The leader, self-proclaimed Dark Lord of the—"

"Yeah, I know." She shrugged.

"You're pale as water. Here." He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small envelope. "Anxiety is normal, and these are not normal times. These are trank patches. Don't take more than two in one day. And no alcohol or death sticks." He frowned, as if a habit was Polla's problem here and not being trapped on a strange planet on the lam from the fracking Sith.

"Thanks." It was kind of him, even if it didn't help.

I'm not scared of some Sith Boogeyman. I'm scared I'm losing my mind.

"Look, if we come across that serum rakghoul stuff, I won't charge you for it."

"That's… nice of you." His smile had hardened and for a second she wondered what she'd said wrong.

"Everything okay in there?" The door apexed open to Carth Onasi's smiling face. Fake joviality, strained mouth.

"Everything's great." Polla flashed him the smile she'd used on those tariff agents back on Kessel, to get their untaxed spice past the patrol. "Just clearing some stuff up, you know?"

Xxx

Now, Polla took a deep breath. The air was strangely sweet and flat at the same time. Clean. Not like—not like it would be a thousand meters down where the scrubbers failed. For a second, her throat choked, and then a dank, rotting smell threatened to make her puke.

I'm losing my mind.

It's dark, it's so dark and there is power here.

What the frack? If it's dark, turn on the fracking lights!

Polla looked up at the sky again. Not dark at all. Except… it felt dark. Like dark pressing up and down at the same time. Boxing her in. Like no lights would help save her. Like nothing could stop it.

"We have to get off this fracking planet," she told Captain Obvious. "I hate this fracking planet."

"We'll do a little recon and then take you back to the Doc." Carth's smile looked the same now; like he'd welded it on his face. "Okay? Here… you… you put these on." He pulled out a pair of goggles he'd bought earlier at a kiosk and handed them to her; put the other pair on his own face. "Just… can't hurt, right? Someone might have… they might be looking for us. We're gonna check out that police lead. See if they have her—"

"You want to go into the station? The station with Taris Security? Police?" She glanced back the way they'd come. There was a row of dress shops that made her—made her think of something. "We can't just waltz in there!"

"We have to know." He was fracking stubborn.

Was that something they taught in Republic school? Being stubborn and stupid? Sounds about right. Those pathetic fools let themselves be manipulated. "Know what?" She interrupted her own thought because it was terrifying—didn't even feel like her own.

"Bastila." Carth lowered his voice. "If the Sith have Bastila—"

"If the Sith have her, she's fracking dead," Polla told him. "I saw them. I saw the Sith. I saw this guy… he was gonna kill me. He did kill Trask. And that kid, that woman—"

"Woman? Bastila? Of course, you saw Bastila. You were assigned to her. Working with her?"

The world felt like it was tilting. "I don't know Bastila. Not yet. But we have to find her—"

"That's what I just said." He reached for her arm. "You—you seem… confused. It's okay. I think you need to lie down. Maybe we should go back to the doc now. Maybe better if I check out TarSec alone anyways."

"No!" He seemed to be moving slowly. Polla sidestepped easily, brought both hands up in case he tried to grab her again. "I'm free!" she told him. "Frack you! I'm free!"

"Easy." His voice was easy. Easy and fake.

She was suddenly aware of her weapons, the ion rifle hanging down her back, the blaster in her boot… but it was the stun stick in her pocket that her hand went for, resting her fingers on it like… like….

"Easy," Carth repeated. "Polla, I'm on your side. Remember?"

"I don't remember Bastila. But you said I was assigned." Pressing down. Like the sky above. "Assigned to her. To Bastila."

"You hit your head." His hand reached out, even a few meters away, extending it. Universal gesture of friendship. For sents who had hands anyway. "Maybe… let me at least take you back to the hotel."

"No." She shook her head. It didn't hurt anymore. That had to be good, right? "Look, I know you think I'm crazy, but I've got a plan. Those officers we met last night—they have parties every night. Section C, B-block. They told me? We'll go to one tonight. Steal credentials or uniforms… or armor. Then we'll get to the Lower City. See if we can find your Bastila—"

"Bastila's captured. You told me that yourself! You said you heard it from the Sith!"

"Yeah, I… I think she was. Okay, frack her." I sound insane. I am insane. "Whatever. We can milk the Sith at the party for more information, okay? And Holdan's in the Lower City. Exchange connections. Our kind of people. We… we need to get back down there. Now. You should never have brought us up here to the sky—"

His brows drew together into a glower. "Sorry, sis. I did think you might be dying of a brain hemorrhage."

"Yeah, well, next time, just let me die. It was foolish. A tactical mistake—"

"Tactical—" he shook his head, looking at her as if he thought this might be a joke. "You… you're sliding in thin orbit now."

"Too late." She heard her own breath hiss out sharply. "Look."

A ship was descending straight down from the blue milk sky; black, and pointed, and cold; its escort trailing in its wake like anchors.

The sky pressing down on me. Pressing down. It's bad. It's darkness. It's my death.

XXX

"Look!" Her hand pointed at the sky, shaking. The teasing tone in her voice had vanished. Been replaced, with raw fear.

A troop carrier was descending from the sky. Carth had seen the design before—hell, he'd shot a few down himself before—but unlike those this one was plated black, and escorted by four Sith fighters.

"Too late," Polla repeated. She laughed nervously and took a step backward. She pushed those goggles he'd given her up on her forehead, then took another step. She still had one hand up, like she was waiting to block him. It was the other in her pocket that worried him more. "There's something bad on that ship."

"Sith. Goes with the territory," he snapped. "I know you think they make great drinking buddies, but they're all fracking bad. Revan and Malak were the best the galaxy had, and then they—"

All the color seemed to leave her face at once. Her arms dropped. She wavered on her feet, eyes closing.

"Polla? Polla!" He had to grab her, grab her to keep her from falling over. "Easy. Easy— don't faint on me!"

Her arms tightened around him. Still conscious then. She made a choked sound, like a sob. "We need to get off the street." Voice a hoarse whisper in his ear. "I know you think I'm crazy, but we need to get off the street now. Please."

Something in her voice—Carth looked around wildly. There, a row of shops. One was marked off with what looked like security tape, but the one next door was open—

"Can you walk?" he muttered. "There's a store—right over there." He slipped an arm under her shoulders, holding her up. Her topknot brushed his chin.

"Yeah," she pulled away from him, a little unsteady, but back on her own generator. "I know how this looks. I know…." Her hand grabbed him, and she dragged Carth into a dress shop. A fancy-dress shop, although its opulence was somewhat marred by the police barricades around the shop next door. Crime scene, looked like. Weird that it had happened across from a TarSec station, but hey, it was a Sith planet.

"May I help you?" The shopkeeper was blonde, with artificially tan skin and eyes almost as green as Polla's—although on her, they looked fake. The disdain in her voice suggested she thought they were beyond any help at all.

"Yeah… uh, my—sister here's just a little dizzy," Carth lied. "Mind if we sit down a sec? She's… she's been ill."

"Ill? Actually, I do mind." The woman seemed rattled. Very rattled. Maybe it was the crime scene next door. "There's a clinic down on the next platform. If you need medical attention, seek it there."

"Wait—" Polla pulled out of his arms. And then, just like he'd seen so many times in the two days he'd known her conscious, Polla Organa, crazy smuggler, seemed to switch off her scared and confused act. She flashed the shop lady a brilliant smile and strolled over to the racks, thumbing through the clothes like they were in her personal closet.

"You have anything for a party?" she asked almost from the middle of the rack. "And underwear. I need underwear."

The Human proprietor looked at them disdainfully.

"We serve a very exclusive clientele here," she said haughtily. "Perhaps you might be more comfortable shopping in the Lower City?"

The one that's under quarantine? Carth wanted to ask, but it seemed wiser to hold his tongue.

Polla laughed and fingered the blue fabric of a dress disdainfully. "Off-season harvest," she drawled. "See? The threads are uneven. Machine woven. Dregs." She raised an eyebrow, and her topknot flopped to one side. "Don't try and cheat a Deralian, citizen..." Her mouth curled into a smirk. "I'll give you fifty credits."

The woman sputtered in outrage. "The price is five hundred credits. I think you should leave now, before I call security."

"We don't want any trouble," Carth began, grabbing Polla's arm. The damn smuggler was going to get them arrested or worse. She shook him off, widening her green eyes in a protestation of innocence.

"I'm going to a party," she told the woman. "Exclusive. With the… local authorities, if you know what I mean?" Her smile slanted. "Look. This eridu you're getting is trash. Who's your distributor? Perhaps I could put in a word for you."

"Polla—" Carth grabbed her arm and pulled. This whole plan was insane. Go to a Sith cocktail party and steal uniforms? "I don't think it's the kind of party you need to dress up for," he hissed in her ear.

Her smile faltered. "Is there any other kind?" She shrugged and turned back to the woman. "Okay, look. Frack the dress. We're here for information. Do you know anything about the Republic escape pods that crashed in the lower city?"

"I'm calling security." The proprietor backed away from them both and went towards the counter.

Carth dragged Polla Organa out of the store by the scruff of her ragged jacket. Her shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter.

"Back home we use eridu like that for dishtowels," she said disdainfully. She held one hand to her chest, like she was holding something under her coat.

"Yeah, well here we're across from that police station." That Sith ship she'd been freaking out about could have been for Bastila. She could be already captured. "Are you nuts?"

"Maybe. A bit." Polla reached in her pocket and pulled out a small packet, ripped it open. Inside a packet of derms—they were blue. Carth wasn't sure what kind.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"Something from the Doc." She took four of them and pressed them on her arm, shoved the rest back in her pocket. Took a deep breath. Glanced across the street at the police station again and shivered. "I know you think I'm nuts."

"I-I think you hit your head pretty hard," he began.

"The doctor said that the… when I hit my head before… he said memory loss is pretty common. And confusion. I'm going to get better." Green eyes searched his face. "I am, right?"

"First we have to get off this rock." He gave her a wan smile.

"First let's get the hell off this plat," Polla said, pulling that damnable Sith cap out of her other pocket. "Here. Put this on…." She smiled slyly and pulled a long, black coat out from under her ragged one. The fabric fell, heavy and long, rippling in the slight breeze. "Not sure this robe will fit you… so I'll pretend to be the scary Dark Jedi. You can be the scary Dark Jedi's officer."

"Did you just… did you steal that?"

"Haven't done anything like that since I was a dumb teener." Her grin glinted, somehow lighting up her entire face. "Yeah. It's Imperial Weave too. Not everything in that store was trash."

Polla glanced back over their shoulder, suddenly quickening her pace. The ship had landed on the station's plat. "We need to get the hell out of here now though." She shrugged off the jacket she'd been wearing, leaving her bare-armed in the vest, before slipping the black robe over her shoulders. "Come on."

Without waiting for Carth to follow, she broke into a dead run.

XXX

Fear. Fear. Fear. Rage. Hate. Mere words, but they sang like a dirge in Bastila's mind. There was a strength in them, a power, as if the invocation of forbidden emotions was enough to summon their energies. The potency of a thousand rakghouls surged through her veins and channeled back to her horde a hundredfold in an endless loop.

Exquisite. Battle Meditation had never felt like this. Long ago, a visiting master had told Bastila to imagine the control of armies as points of light on a grid: now all of those points had flared to red, and every one of them was moving in unison under her command—

At some point, the fragile body she had almost forgotten began walking again, feet moving, one after the other. In a blind direction—Bastila Shan was blind. But she... she had a thousand eyes, and all of them were mad. She was claw and teeth and pestilence, she was Polla Organa, cowering at a ship in the sky, she was one with the Force like her fallen Master Trask. She was everything, she was all, she was One—

"What the—" A voice. Voice in the void. Oddly prosaic.

"Is she bit? Looks like a goner."

"I don't see a mark on her."

"You don't see much—look at the eyes. Nobody's home."

One of her thousand claws found purchase in Sith skin, and she smiled. One of us.

My death in that ship. We need to get the hell off this plat. We need to get away from the sky—we need to run—her feet pounded down a duracrete path, jumped over a railing, half-flew down a flight of stairs, almost stumbling-

Another of her had wrestled a chunk from the female's arm. The Dark Jedi fought like demons, the tunnel around them was stacked with meters of their dead, but they would soon tire, and she had so many—so many more—

The Two would be a strong addition to the herd.

She stopped running, panting, glancing behind where there were no monsters, no teeth, no death from the sky-only a worried pilot speeding after her with shadows in his eyes-

No! No! I'm Polla Organa. I'm a Deralian smuggler. I'll be fine. I just need to be fine.

She tore the throat out of one of her wounded companions and lunged at the man with the red blade whose teeth were bared as much as hers-

No! No! I'm not! I'm not going crazy! What the frack was-what the frack was in those derms?

Revan's wild thoughts swamped the rest, shattering Bastila's concentration like dropped ferracrystal-splintering her awareness back to one body.

And in that moment, Bastila saw her surroundings: some kind of access point, more branching tunnels, and—

And two Humans, both with shock sticks, staring at her as if she was a wrapped gift on a Seventhday Talravinian morning.

"Lookit, Froda," one said to the other. "She's stopped glowing."

"Whazzat mean?" asked the other.

"Stay back," Bastila warned them, raising her hand. "I'm warning you—"

The two Humans laughed. "Okay."

And then their companion shoved something hard in her back, and all of her muscles spasmed; frozen long enough that all she could do was watch helplessly as a Gamorrean punched his trank gun into her stomach.

Pointed teeth scratched her ear as Gamorrean arms closed around her body, lifting her up in the air before she could fall.

"I think this one's a real Jedi, guys!" her captor grunted.

"I think you're right, Honta!" one of the others said.

Darkness spiraled, and Bastila knew no more.

Xxx

"Stop!" Carth was winded, but Polla Organa went another fifteen meters before she turned her head and noticed he'd stopped behind.

"Oh." She ran back, moving easily even in the flapping, ridiculous robe. Her cheeks were pink with exertion, and the tip of her nose. "I'm sorry, I… something was… it was dark, but it's… it's better now. It's… gone."

"You're pretty fast for someone who just got out of a coma," he muttered. They had attracted quite an audience, but no one seemed to be approaching. Maybe those black robes really worked.

XXX

His command shuttle touched down on the Taris platform, and Malak waved the door open before the seals were even clear. The planet resolved itself in a hiss of steam and gravity: gray duracrete, the squat security building, a few, groveling guards—

—something.

Something flickered, like a spot on the edge of his vision and then vanished. He strode down the gangplank and through the wide-open doors of the local police. The reception area was empty, the guard's desk deserted. The smell of death was everywhere in the TarSec hall and Malak's comm was beeping.

"One moment." Malak held up a hand, trying not to show his disdain, while his guard hastily scurried back, like the insects they were, leaving him alone in the suddenly-empty reception room.

It was Sheris on the comm.

"You commanded me to return, My Lord?" Her image resolved, wearing three scraps of fabric, with her hair braided in elaborate loops. "But you came to the planet?"

"I will return soon. There is a small matter I must attend to first."

"Oh." The pout on her face was false and he hated her for it, suddenly and vividly.

His phantom jaw throbbed with pain. "I must go now." He needed to say nothing at all, but some courtesy remained. Like the dreams from a boy who danced at a Coruscanti ball, imagining an infinite peace.

And my peace is close. Closer than ever, once I have my prize—

Outside the sealed door, he heard voices.

"Let me through! I need to speak with him!" That voice, intruding. He knew it. Bandon.

Murmured objections from his men, then the sound of a lightsaber igniting—

"I have to go, Sheris." He kept his words gentle for her.

"Is it her?"

"What?"

Outside, a garbled scream. I will have no honor guard left, if I do not intervene—

Malak raised his hand and flexed his gloved fingers. He could not see Bandon, but the boy's throat was suddenly in his hand, feet dangling a meter from the ground: choking, gasping, the Force struggling back like the heart of a dark star—

So strong and so useless. He moved his hand back and the body slammed into the wall. The door between them was nothing. He held the boy's life in his hand, exhilarating in it—

Sheris was still talking. "... is nothing. We were padawans together, you know. You cannot trust a fallen Jedi—not that one, not really—I hope you don't think I am speaking out of turn, my Lord, but she—"

But she—

For a moment, his wife's face swam before him, replacing the copy. Red had worn her hair like that before the wars. Sheris must have copied the style as she copied so much else.

"Bastila. You're speaking of Bastila." Of course. Beya had… Beya had once teased them, him and Red both for being so unaware, oblivious to the normal games that lovers played. But for years there had been no reason to learn them: no subterfuge, no jealousy, no division...

And it made us weak.

"You… did you find Bastila?" That false hope, the lie, bright as her hair. He wanted to bury his face in it.

"No." He took another breath, hissing through the voder. Bastila is nothing compared to you. Merely a tool to be harnessed to the Forge. But you, Sheris. You, who are precious to me beyond measure… beyond your ability to comprehend… I cannot have you complacent.

I need you strong.

"I will tear this planet apart if I have to," he vowed. It was not a lie, tearing apart planets was pleasurable—almost as much as the cream of her skin, the smell of her hair. "We need Bastila Shan for the war. And I… I need her too." If Malak had a mouth, he would have smiled.

Sheris bowed her braided head. "Yes, my Lord."

XXX

"Act natural," Polla Organa said, as they approached the Sith checkpoint.

Time or distance seemed to have restored Polla's former swagger. Between the hat on his head, and the goggles, Carth felt half-blind. Half-blind and half crazy, but he was starting to agree with her—at least as far as getting nowhere without getting back down. They stuck out like rontos here.

"Come on," she moved half-turned, walking backwards again, eyes on him.

"We were going to wait—"

They'd agreed to wait, steal uniforms or something from a blasted Sith party; but this damnable woman was heading straight towards the checkpoint now, as unerring as a torpedo locked on its target.

"My Da always says, you don't know how bad something is until you try it." She shrugged. "We need to test their defenses, right?"

Keep your voice down, was what Carth wanted to say, but there was no time.

Two armored Sith stood in front of an elevator door. One had his blaster out, holding it casually. The other held some kind of scanner.

"No admittance to the Lower City without authorization," the one with the datapad said. "And I need you to turn around, Citizen. Immedia—"

Polla turned to face him. "Yeah, yeah." She held her hands up, the black robe hanging open. She'd pushed the goggles up again too, even after he told her not to. "Hold your hessi, okay?"

And this is when we get shot and arrested. Or arrested and then shot. Two grunts like us, what will it matter?

Carth stayed very still, well aware of the centimeters separating his blaster from his hand. Polla's hand had slipped back into the pocket of her loose trousers. Carth had been trying to figure out what she'd stashed in there and he thought he'd gotten it. The stun stick. If she thinks we can overpower these guys with that surveillance camera—elevator will have codes and we don't know them—

Her face was a pale oval, in the reflection of the guards' armor. Twinned. She looked like she was staring at herself, mouth slightly open, the animation draining out of her face—

Oh, no. Not now! Without thinking, Carth rushed forward—not even expecting to make it before he was shot, his pistol out, bringing it to bear—

But the guards… the guards were frozen too.

One of them made a small noise, a little gasp, magnified by his mic. "Oh," he said.

"Crap," the other echoed.

Before Carth could react, they stepped to the side, elevator door opening.

"My name is Polla Organa," Polla Organa was muttering. She said something else too, in one of her languages, fast and under her breath. And then, "I am a Deralian. I just need to go to the Lower City, okay? With my… my friend here. This Sith… officer. Him." She turned, and the naked fear on her face made Carth think they were all going to die, except—

Almost as one, the guards saluted him and let them go.

She grabbed his arm, half-dragging him inside. The doors closed behind them.

"What was that?" Carth demanded. "What the hell was that?"

"You military all look alike." Her face didn't match the ease of her voice through. No, now she was staring at herself in the mirrored reflection of the lift, tugging at her top knot. "I bet if we get you a jacket and some regulation pants, we could rob a bank."

"Rob a… bank?" The fear in his gut was turning. Are you playing me? Is this all some kind of game? "You rob a lot of banks, sister? Huh?"

"Never had to before now." She glanced at him. "You?"

"Not really my thing. Anyway, credits aren't the problem, remember? You already robbed some Sith in that bar, or… or whatever you did to get those credits."

"Whatever I did?" Her small chin lifted. "What did you do, Republic?"

"Saved your life," he snapped. "Changed your damn diaper for a week while you were unconscious. Listened to you scream in Mandalorian. Who are you?"

Her face flushed. "I'm Poll—"

The elevator doors opened. The air down here was strange. Smelled like there'd been a fire since they'd left. Something round and small rolled into the lift.

Carth was already reacting, grabbing the smuggler's arm, over her astonished squawk and pulling her out. Out fast. Something red whizzed above their heads, and he had his own gun up and out, firing back before his mind caught up.

Find cover.

There was a stack of crates a meter to their left. He grabbed the smuggler again, dragging her behind, shielding her, ducking, laying down a returning blast. Something whizzed by his ear—too close, and he realized that somehow, she'd pulled out that damned ion rifle and was firing it up.

A smoking hole appeared in the ceiling above their heads.

Was that her?

"Aim at them," he suggested. "Not the ceiling."

She fired again. There were three of their attackers visible to the left, and Carth winged one in the next volley. Polla's shots were all wild, but at least it helped, she was a good distraction, laying down suppressing fire—

"Stop!" she yelled at them, just when Carth was starting to think he could trust her to do the right thing. She stood up, and he had to tackle her back down, rolling on top of her and the damn rifle.

"Don't move," he hissed. "They mean business."

"Why are sents trying to kill us?" Polla's voice was younger than her face. Her face had freckles. He hadn't noticed them before, a dusting across the bridge of her nose. Carth had a sudden, senseless urge to kiss her.

Maybe she's not the only one losing their mind.

Her brows knit together, and those green eyes widened. Flecks of yellow in them too. He'd never noticed. A fine line of red at the roots of her hair. Made him remember how he'd learned she dyed it, and he felt his face flush.

"Flyboy—"

An explosion, faint but muffled. The grenade in the elevator. Guess we're not getting back that way.

More shots winged overhead from the opposite direction. Her green eyes followed them.

"It's not us," she murmured. "Crossfire. There's someone—"

Another volley. Shouts. Running feet. Running closer—

Carth risked a glance over the crates. The fighters were little more than kids—two Rodian kids wearing what looked like gang colors—same a galaxy over, some things—and now engaged in close combat with each other. One had a vibroblade and the other some kind of pike. More blaster fire, more shouting from the left—and then another barrage of fire from the right and both melee kids took off at a dead run straight down the middle corridor.

Together? That doesn't even make sense.

"Swoop gangs." Gurney had said something about that—the first medix Carth had gotten to take a look at Polla. His Ithorian buddy had said more. "They control a lot of turf down here. Looks like we're in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Great." Polla smiled slightly, eyes still locked to his. "When they finish killing each other, we can ask whoever's left to introduce us to Holdan—"

"No." Two points of fire, two points of cover… but straight ahead of them, the hall was clear—the way those sword fighters had gone. "On my mark, you break and run, understand? Straight ahead. As fast as you did before. I'll be right behind."

He expected an objection or another round of senseless hysterics, but she only nodded. "Okay."

"Don't stop til you hit the wall's curve." All the walls down here curved, the legs of the platforms above, hollowed for occupancy. "I'll be right behind."

Green eyes searched his face and she nodded again.

"You got it?"

"Aye, aye." Another round blasted over their heads. He watched her head tilt up, her eyes tracking the movements, sharp, almost birdlike. "I got this. Just follow my lead."

"That's not—" Later, he realized he knew. He knew immediately what she was going to do—or what she wasn't. But Carth didn't have time to say more because she was already gone, crazy black robe and all, running… towards the left-hand corridor. Not the center like he'd said.

Blaster shots sparked wildly in her wake, stippling the ceiling and the walls.

Nine hells! Carth was on his feet and following her before he could come up with any other plan.

XXX

The right-hand side is automated. A turret of some kind. Triggered by blasts, or proximity. Stay away, don't shoot at it, and it's not gonna plug you in the back.

Her shoulders itched all the same, even though Polla was positive she was right.

The left-hand corridor was occupied by two more kids: a Duros boy and a Twi'lek girl. They had a stack of grenades and a couple of cheap-looking carbines propped behind some blaster-poxed barriers that looked military grade. Salvage or scavenge. Probably left over from the Mandalorian invasion—

"Ho!" the Duros kid scrambled to his feet.

Red eyes. His eyes are—

Her blaster shot intended for his skull went wild, glancing off the wall instead. "Hey!" the girl squawked, leveling a wicked-looking vibroblade at Polla. "Don't come any closer, Creep."

Red eyes. Red eyes are bad. He's a kid. I almost shot a kid—

"What the hell was that? I gave you orders!" Carth. Behind her

Hells, Carth!

"I don't take orders," Polla muttered. She'd dropped the rifle back behind, found herself brandishing the shock stick in her left hand, the blaster in her right.

It's wrong, but I—I always shoot with my right.

I almost killed that kid!

"What is this?" Carth interrupted. "A game? With live ammunition?"

"Yeah?" The girl was blue and skinny, shorter than Polla, but she didn't back down. "You the one who got Lonny? Nice shot. He ran like a scalded manka!"

"Is he… he's a kid like you? Is he okay?"

Sort of cute how Flyboy worried about children who were trying to kill them.

"He'll be fine! We got plenty of kolto."

"When I was your age, we used to steal booze and race our bikes," Polla offered. "Kids are dumb."

The Duros smiled, like he agreed and she repressed a shudder. Red eyes. Not his fault, just losing my mind.

The Twi'lek beamed at her. "Right? Blame the Vulkars for leaving their turret up. We'll find a way around, one of these days."

"If you don't get shot by the Sith," the pilot muttered. "How… how old are you?"

"Fourteen. Taris, anyway." The girl glanced at her companion "Digba's seventeen. He don't talk much though, since the Imps killed his family. You're dressed like Imps, but you ain't them. Can't kid a kidder. Get lost. This is Beks turf!"

"You're nuts," Polla told her. "I almost…." I could have killed them.

"Almost what?" the girl asked. "Shot us? No offense, but you suck. You almost missed the frelling wall."

"I'm sorry," Polla said. "Now, scram—wait. You know Holdan?"

"Holdan the sleemo? You his new girlfriend? Sith wanna-be girlfriend?"

"I just need to do a deal with him is all." Kid was a brat, but Polla respected that. Kids are dumb, but this one's kinda not.

"Gross. He'd be at Javyar's Cantina, down the west wall. He's pretty much always there since he pissed off that girlfriend of his. Dia. I think he's scared to leave. Davik's gonna flotz when he figures it out."

"Uh huh."

"How'd you know we're not Imps?" Carth interrupted.

"Imps are better shots," the Twi'lek said. "I mean… your girlfriend here looks pretty evil in black, but I had an action figure with that hair when I was a kid: white robes and Mercy Corps and everything." She shrugged. "Mercy Corps were huge on Taris. You know em?"

Mercy Core? The name meant nothing to Polla.

"You're still a kid," Polla told her. "Don't they have school on this fracking planet?"

"Not down this far. Where are you from, you don't know…?"

The Duros nudged her, shaking his head.

"We gotta go," the Twi'lek added fast. "Good luck with Holdan, okay?"

She turned and ran, leaving the grenades behind, bending down deftly halfway down the corridor to retrieve something. Polla realized just as the two kids vanished from sight that the little twerp had taken her ion rifle from where she'd dropped it.

"Son of a Bith!" She started to go charging after, but Carth's arm on her shoulder claimed down like a vise.

"Let them go," he muttered. "That kid is right. You're a terrible shot."

"Good thing, I guess." She would have protested, if it hadn't meant being good would mean those two might be dead. "I wasn't before. Maybe the head injury messed with my depth perception—"

Carth was packing the grenades in the pockets of his jacket with the air of someone who knew how not to blow themselves up.

"I gave you an order," he added coldly. "And you disobeyed."

"You're not my… you're not—I don't follow your orders. I said so." Weird, maybe it was the adrenaline, but Polla felt more clear-headed than she had since she'd woken up. Since she could… since she could remember.

What do I remember? What do I—don't fracking ruin it. Breathe.

She exhaled. Carth was glaring.

"Come on," she said sweetly. "Let's find Javyar's. Buy you a drink?"

Xxx

"It looks like someone took a chunk out of your arm, Beya." Davad stretched, every nerve alive and singing. Something about… the hunt, the beasts, it was one of the few things that still made him feel alive. He wiped the hilt of his saber on his robes, as the Deralian woman ripped hers for a make-shift bandage.

"I wouldn't get too cocky." She glanced up at him. They were surrounded by dead rakghouls. Nearly walled-in, truth be told. "Your leg is bleeding, Arkan. Did you think you cut it on a rusty pipe?"

"I—" he looked down, and saw the claw marks, four of them, in a perfect line. "Ah. I see."

Beya shouldn't be smiling at his misfortune, but she was. Quite impudently. She raised an eyebrow at him. "How long do we… you said it's random, how long the transformation takes?"

"I did, yes." Davad tried to match her tone. "But the Taris governor installed sensors to scan for rakghoul infection on the elevators and they don't have a 'please let these Sith live' setting. Unless you would enjoy climbing our way back to the surface we need to find one of our own patrols and get the serum from them."

"That's… a shame." She frowned. "You know, before the end… those beasts almost seemed…."

"Sentient?"

"I was going to say organized, but yes."

Davad closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses again. The spark that was Shan was… gone. Extinguished entirely. "Well, some good news: I think the Republic has quite lost its hope. Forever."

"Good." Beya wiped her forehead with a hand covered in ichor because he could caution her.

I suppose we're already infected, he told himself. I suppose if she transforms first, I will have the pleasure of another kill before I transform into a mindless killing machine.

"You're the tracker," she added. "Sense any patrols close by?"

"No." He exhaled, extending his senses—

And then his comm beeped, three times, long tones.

"Oh, look," Beya purred. "Lord Malak. Maybe he will save us!"

"Ha hah." Davad snorted and answered, because they had no choice. If no response was made on this channel, the comm was triggered to explode in fifteen seconds.

Malak had used the visual override instead of his comm's standard text protocol, meaning he wanted everyone in visual range to know it was him, or he just didn't care. His override included a two-way feed, and they both watched the Dark Lord's narrowed eyes take in their disheveled appearances the piles of rakghouls, and their obviously underground location.

"Bandon says you betrayed me, Arkan."

Funny how much expression was in a mouth. One never noticed until an old friend lost his.

"Bandon secured Shan without a neural band and she escaped. Lord Beya and I were merely trying to retrieve her. For you."

Davad's eyes dared Beya to contradict him, but she was silent, watching.

"And where is Shan now?"

"We came upon her beset by rakghouls," Beya said tonelessly. "We gave pursuit, but the beasts turned on us. Davad can't sense Shan now. We assume she perished with the rakghouls."

"A pity, if true." Malak's voder gave no hint of his opinion. "And my wife?"

"What?" Davad cursed his response a millisecond too late. I should have said nothing. Across from him, Beya's eyes were wide and blank. "I-I haven't seen—she… may not have survived the escape from the Spire. And in any event, she—you… you said she was irrelevant. A shell—"

"To me she is." Malak's hairless skull turned, his eyes growing larger in the holocam's view. "But to you, Arkan. I cannot help but wonder… what remains? I ordered you… ordered you both to remain in orbit with our fleet. And yet… I find you both trapped underground. In a sewer." One eyebrow raised. "You both presume rather heavily on the closeness of our acquaintance. Lesser Sith have been executed for much less."

Lesser Sith are mindless drones. You need us more than we need you. "Do you doubt my loyalty? I was the one who gave you the codes to Shan's ship."

"I know. I wonder at your motive. You knew Revan was on that ship—and how did you know?"

"My shadows, My Lord. As you know. The Blades live to serve you." As long as you're doing what the old woman wants.

"My Lord," Beya interrupted. "We… require some of the rakghoul serum. I hate to trouble you with such a minor matter—"

"Then, why are you?"

Oh, Beya. He's not stupid. Madder than the rest of us, but not stupid! Don't bring it up! We can solve this ourselves!

"As courtesy," she bit out. "Send us a Sith patrol with serum."

"Find my wife," Malak taunted. "First."

The comm cut out.

"You know he's recalling every patrol with rakghoul serum from on at least half the planet right now?" Davad poked the slashes in his leg experimentally. The skin felt strangely… numb. That couldn't be good.

"You wanted to find her anyway," Beya murmured. "Now, you have an excuse."

"I can't sense her. It's like looking for a speck of dust on an egg."

"Your savage metaphors are incomprehensible." Beya sighed. "I can find her. Quite easily. But you will do something for me in return."

"Your intelligence network...?" Could he kill her and take it over himself? Before transforming into a rakghoul? It might be interesting to try.

Beya nodded. "They're keeping close watch on her location." She glanced at her wrist. "I receive updates."

"Then why not just tell Malak—?"

Beya Organa blinked at him, her heart-shaped face as closed and quiet as an egg itself.

Ah. And then he knew.

"You do so many things for a girl who offers so little return."

"Leave her out of this." Beya's voice was even. "And think upon the one obstacle in both of our paths."

He didn't need to think long.

Malak D'Reev. Dark Lord of the Sith. The lover of your pet. The husband of my lover. Master of the Star Forge. The Butcher of Telos and so many worlds since. Dear old Mal, our former friend.

"What you propose is… easier proposed than executed." What she proposed was insane. One thing when the old woman... but the old woman was always lying. Really take out Malak? And then what?

And yet—and yet—the Star Forge had infinite capabilities. Who was to say it couldn't restore a Dark Lord's cracked mind? And if Davad could heal her, and then lay the galaxy at her feet—for her—

He glanced at Beya again, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

With Revan at my side, you would finally pay for your part in her destruction, Beya Organa.

Malak had indeed executed many for much less.

"I propose nothing." Her voice was grim, and Davad knew she had her own plots—perhaps, even this was another one of her traps. And yet— "I act. We are Sith."

"Does Sheris know? Does she know what you risk for her? Are you two even—"

"Given the state of Revan's mind at present…" Beya made a show of checking her comm again. "I place my own odds of finding personal... fulfillment... rather higher than yours."

XXX

And seeing the hunger sated—for perhaps the first time in his life since he'd abandoned his drexl and his crown to follow the path of the Jett'ai… was like hearing the end to a poem Davad had been trying to end all of his life. Sate a hunger that had never left: one that food, drink, sex, or fighting had never touched.

He'd been taught all of his life that the Force was in all living things; but now he knew: the Force was life. And, maybe ever since Malachor, he had been starving for it, starving to fill himself with something, after all of that death.

XXX

A/N Annie Lennox, Love Song For A Vampire

Thanks, Ether, for advice and beta! A thousand screaming rakghoul(s) worth.

Thanks to everyone who's ever written a Taris intro, because this is influenced by them all.

Next up, I swear it: with Bastila unconscious, Polla Organa should become a lot more coherent.

Chapter Text

Mission….The first kid you let yourself love after Dustil. Hell, the first sent you trusted after Saul's betrayal. You trusted Mission before Polla. In fact, if Mission hadn't been so easy with Polla first, would you have ever trusted Polla enough to fall for her?

—Carth Onasi, Memory, Chapter 37

Xxx

Oblivion / Chapter 5 / Before the World Fell at Our Feet

Xx

Jayvar's Cantina was about what Carth had expected. Darker and dingier than the places in the Upper City. More scum. Less Sith military.

In fact, it had no Sith military (at least in uniform) at all—not if you discounted the woman dressed like one next to him at the bar.

"Much better than the Upper City," murmured Polla Organa. "See?"

"Maybe lose the hat." Carth was trying not to notice the number of eyes on them.

Polla had taken the hat back, whistling as she did so when they were still walking own the hall. She'd tied the black robes around her waist. Now they almost looked like some kind of skirt.

"You don't find me terribly intimidating?" She narrowed her eyes at him, drawing the corners of her lips down. "I'm a Sith captain!" Her voice deepened, developed an arctic chill. "You will follow my command. Or die, sir."

The Devaronian bartender took half a step back, but then advanced, producing a bottle of something neither of them had asked for and put it on the bar with two glasses, before backing away.

"See?" Polla smirked. "Free drinks." She picked up the bottle and frowned, lifting her eyes to the bartender.

He stepped back again.

"Just get us some beer?" Polla called to him. "Okay?"

"It's a lieutenant's hat," Carth told her. "Not a captain's."

The bartender was speaking to someone at the other end of the bar now—one of the Calamari groups, although with the sent's rebreather on it was hard to get a read on an expression; but he stopped immediately. In another moment, they had a new bottle on the table.

"How do you know Sith hat types?" Polla picked up the bottle and looked at it, before making a face and putting it back down. "Were you in the Sith?"

"No! No! Of course not. And it's not… you're not in the Sith. You join. Join the Sith. Some… a lot of Republic officers… they use the same insignia. It… it doesn't matter, anyway."

"Right." She frowned and poured him a drink. "I think this is some kind of ale? Ale is beer? Better than that crappy ice wine they keep bringing us?"

"Tarisian ale." Their fingers brushed when she handed him the glass. "Careful. It's supposed to be strong. Humor me, okay? Lose the hat."

"You're kind of cute when you're boring," Polla Organa drawled, but she took it off as he'd asked, shoving it into the side pocket of the battered vest she was still wearing. That thing looked like it had been through a war, but it showed off her smoothly muscled arms. She had freckles there too, he noticed, and a thin, fading scar on her left arm, nearly down to her wrist.

"What'd you do?" Carth pointed, indicating it. "Get into a knife fight with the wrong Besalisk?"

"What?" She'd already turned away again, was frowning now thoughtfully, at a couple of pazaak players over in the corner.

"Get stuck slumming it?"

A voice. Male. Carth turned and discovered a tall, green Rodian had parked himself next to them at the bar.

"We're not stuck," he replied warily.

"You sure? Whole quarter just went on lockdown. Sealed it up and down. Nobody's getting out."

"Why… why would they do that?"

He felt more than saw her leave. Polla Organa, once again wandering off.

"Something about those Republic escape pods? Maybe another plague outbreak? Or rakghouls? Who knows." The Rodian shrugged. "That's why we drink, right?"

Carth had already turned his head away, watching her ease across the room, lean in and ask one of the card players something. Whatever their response was, it made Polla Organa smile. Watching her jabber away at them gave him a chance to watch her, every movement graceful, even with the robe flapping around her waist.

Could she be a Republic agent? SIS? Could this crazy act be just an act? Watching her now, he saw no trace of the woman who had been babbling about the sky and danger less than an hour ago.

"Rakghouls?" He turned back to the Rodian. "We heard about them, but I thought they didn't leave the planet's surface."

"Well, they can climb." The Rodian chuckled. "Who knows, right? This was a nice planet back when. Now…" he made a whistling noise of disgust. "Now it's all gone to hell."

"Yeah." Carth took a sip of ale, and looked over again.

Polla Organa had vanished.

Hope she's not mugging someone in the fresher, he thought. Again.

Xxx

This is more like it.

Back of Jayvar's was a womprat warren of private rooms, storage lockers, and two dining rooms that looked more full of contraband and card games than actual diners. A Duros gatekeeper took one look at Polla and waved her through a security checkpoint, no questions asked, (which was good, because she didn't want to see his red fracking eyes).

The back room where all the deals went down had a stage, a bar, a number of Twi'lek and Neimodian dancers shifting on and off the stage, and a Hutt holding court in one corner.

Funny, she'd thought Davik Kang was Human.

["What can I get you, beautiful?"] The bartender in here was Ithorian, and beautiful was only a rough translation of the word he meant, which was more like 'planet-bright.'

His words, transcribed in Basic Aurebesh, scrolled across his forehead a millisecond later, but Polla was already answering him.

["Republic hovercar bomb, rocks, selz chase-down."]

The bartender gave a grunt that could have been surprise, but filled the order.

"I know a lot of languages," Polla bragged in Basic. "What do I have to do to get a meeting with the big guy? Holdan said he'd introduce me, but…."

["Holdan is standing there."] The bartender pointed, not at the guy in armor next to the Hutt like she'd expected, but at a weedy Human glomming onto a joygirl by the stage like he was payday. He wasn't bad-looking, actually; although the black eye probably meant trouble.

"Oh." Polla nodded, asking a few more questions. Turned out that Dax the Hutt only worked for Davik. He was some kind of bounty bondsman—sents on Taris seemed pretty bad at paying their debts. Davik wasn't here, or anything so convenient. Davik didn't come to places like this. And the whole sector was on lockdown. Something about a plague—

"There you are!" Looking flushed and irritated, her Republic sidekick burst into the room. "Polla, what are you—"

"Cool jets." She nodded to the bartender. ["Get him one of what I'm having."] She drained her own drink. "I gotta see a man about a job."

Carth was still sputtering when she walked away.

XXX

"Hey! You gotta pay the elevator tax before you go in there! It costs two hundr—"

The rest of the beggar's objections to Beya and Davad's approach were lost to the sound of the man losing his breath, the snap of his neck. His body dropped to the ground.

His co-extortionist screamed and ran away.

The remaining population of this wretched refugee settlement seemed to be (rather more wisely) in hiding. Davad and Beya had broken the gates of the compound and strode through unaccosted, although Beya had noted a few cowering eyes watching, sensed the fear of trapped sentients within the cheap plimfoam huts.

I was here before. The thought had come as they walked, a useless whisper.

XXX

The Mercy Corps set up a medical clinic near the front lines of the fighting. They'd expected it to be used by the Tarisian forces, such as they were—but instead they'd be inundated with children. Mines were a problem, of course, and injuries from sabotage (Tarisian mines, Tarisian sabotage—not Mandalorian). The Mandalorians seemed to prefer tests of their pathetic weapons against the might of the Jedi—

Beya had not thought so then, of course. It was only later when she'd learned the truth of the galaxy that the Mandalorian assault began to make sense. Over the years, she had even developed a respect for them.

But it had mostly been children back then in their care. And they had not been victims of Mandalorian violence.

No, they had been starving. By the look of them, most had been starving for a very long time—

XXX

Davad dropped a stack of credit chips onto the man's cooling corpse.

Beya sighed, trying not to roll her eyes. "If you leave credits, they're all going to want credits. And you overpaid. That was more than two hundred."

The Onderonite ignored her. "I will triple that," he called out to the empty plaza. "For a vial of rakghoul serum. We've noted your raids on our patrols. I commend your initiative! But surely, there are those among you who would like to do more—"

"You should ask for two, at least." Beya checked her wrist comm again. Finally! Reception. She began tapping in commands to bring two vials down to the sublevels.

Almost immediately, Dia pinged back, confirming her supply. All of Beya's agents carried the serum on Taris. It was only a matter of time, according to her own calculations, before the mutated hellspawn broke through the barriers and invaded the world above.

"Made your own arrangements, Lady Organa?" Davad's teeth were bared. "Did you think to include me in them?"

Of course. I need you, Arkan. For now.

Confirmed sighting: Jayvar's cantina. En route now, her agent sent back.

Beya frowned, thinking.

Capture and contain, she sent back. On my way.

She would have to lose Arkan first, find some distraction… perhaps tell him that dear Rev was visiting one of the swoop gang bases….

"How long have we been friends, Davad?"

"Is that what we were?" His scarred eyebrow rose, and suddenly, all humor faded from his expression. "That friendship died above Deralian skies, Beya. It died when you sided with Malak over her."

"Before that. Our alliance ended with Malachor." Beya knew she was taunting the terentatek. It was not wise, but neither was the man's obsession with the walking dead. "Remember. I was chosen to be saved—you merely survived the gravity well's implosion."

And how strange it had been, seeing his return—seeing such blind loyalty to a woman who had sentenced him to death.

"Was that how it was?" His tongue licked his lips and then he pulled them into a feral smile. "Watching a world die was… transformative. And—we saw power on Malachor. Power far beyond anything—"

"We?" Beya scoffed. "Are you counting your own men you slaughtered before your ship even docked at Rekkiad? Or, do you mean Surik?" She paused, watching him closely. "Surik was on the other ship—she went straight to Coruscant."

The elevator dinged open. They both stepped inside. The doors closed behind them and the lift started to rise.

"Meetra left. On Revan's orders." His voice was soft. "I remember. How high can we travel before the bioscanners begin?" Changing the subject?

"It depends," she leaned against the back wall. "The locals constantly sabotage all the automated fail-safes. Some think it's just a matter of time before the rakghouls break free—"

Lights flashed in the lift, bathing them both in a blue haze, which abruptly shifted to red. Then, an alarm rang, and the elevator shot back down again all the way to the floor. The doors dinged open again, with a hiss of steam.

"Blast," Beya muttered. "I suppose I will have to get Dia to meet us down here with the serum now."

"Do you think these wretched paupers have anything decent to eat?" Davad's voice was developing a plaintive whine. "I'm starving."

XXX

From the leer on his face, her man Holdan looked to be just as much of a sleemo as that Twi'lek kid had said.

"You Holdan?" Polla gave the man a lazy smile, even if she wasn't feeling it. What she was feeling suddenly was nausea, and a throbbing headache, as if the republic hovercar bomb she'd just knocked back had been a bad idea.

Maybe it had been. It had tasted off.

"And who are you who wants to know?" He looked her up and down and then up again, gaze lingering on her chest.

The two Twi'leks faded into the background. One of them shot Polla a look she couldn't quite read.

"Name's Polla Organa. I'm a registered smuggler, out of—"

"If you want me to get your ship in the air, forget it. I don't have any pull with the Sith!" His sleazy grin faded, but he looked at her again. "Course, if you're interested in some dancing, I might be able to do something…." Man gave her the up and down. He wasn't bad looking, for an Exchange thug. Lotta them tended to run to fat—as if hanging out with Gamorreans made them want to eat like Gamorreans.

"Me." Polla pointed at herself. "Registered smuggler. Polla Organa. I'm looking for work."

"Registered," he scoffed. "Outlier colonies, huh?"

"Deralia."

"And a woman. Sure, I could see Davik being into you… but he's a hard man to see. You need an introduction."

"Yes." She could almost feel Carth glaring blaster bolts at her. "That or I need to do something to grab his attention, like shoot a goreapple off some coreslime thug's head."

"Spicy," Holdan muttered. He wouldn't be bad-looking, almost her type, if it wasn't for the shiner over one eye, the swollen lip that looked chewed by a thresher. Guy had a limp too, was leaning hard on the bar, one leg packed in kolto. "How about you do something for me, then I'll do something for you?"

"Maybe," she allowed. "What you got in mind?"

"My ex." He shrugged. "Schutta tried to kill me. I put a bounty out on her… dead or alive… but if you can bring her in alive and… say, contained? I'll make an introduction to Kang for you."

Polla snorted. "Do I look like a girlfriend collector?"

"You look like you got your own muscle there, by the door." The thug nodded at Carth. "Make him work for whatever it is you're dealing… and I'll make a deal for you."

"I'm a smuggler not a bounty hunter." Asshole. "I'm probably the best smuggler this side of the Rim. In the right ship, I could run that Sith blockade. You tell Davik. I could run it in my fracking sleep."

Her gut twisted, and the taste of the drink in her mouth made her want to puke all over this loser. It tasted off. I love hovercars. They don't know how to make them in this fracking craphole—

"Sorry, kid." The loser's face had an ugly smirk, even with the swollen lip. He took another step forward. "Davik's already got the best flyers in the system. But he's always on the lookout for… other kinds of talent. How are you at massage?"

"Massage? No," she seethed. "You tell Davik I'm a good pilot. Or… tell me where to find him myself."

"Hey, now, don't be like that, babe—" he reached out his hand put it squarely on her waist, as if they were about to dance—

It was instinct that made her grab his wrist, twisting it high above his back. Da always said, don't let sents get fresh; but was it instinct that made her grab him—and it had to be instinct that suddenly had her shock stick out of her pocket and shoved hard into his sternum—and somehow in their toss-up, Holdan had landed on the floor and Polla was looking down from above—

"Don't touch me!" The world was suddenly clear and cold. She was kneeling above him, holding the shock stick at the point where his ribs met his guts. Pathetic. Fool.

"Polla!" To his credit, Flyboy was on them almost instantly. Even had that sweet Aratech out, aiming it at the asshole.

Aiming it at Holdan, but yelling at her.

"What the hell's going on?" Captain Carth Onasi hissed. "Who is this? What are you—?"

"This is Holdan. Guy who was supposed to get us a Davik intro? Well, he's fracking useless." She felt her lips curl with disgust, pulling the shock stick back without activating it, straightening to a stand. "I bet he doesn't even know Davik."

On the floor Holdan didn't argue differently, maybe because he was still trying to catch his breath after the toe of her boot had connected with his guts. He made a harsh, wheezing sound, rolling over, and scrambling at his belt.

His belt. His blaster is at his belt. He's going to shoot—

A bolt whizzed about her head—or—she wasn't where it had been, conscious mind catching up, finding herself a few centimeters to the left, staring at the smoking hole in the ceiling—

He shot above my head? He shot at me and missed? Does he have ossik for brains?

"Asshole! Can't even shoot straight!"

Her foot kicked out and knocked the blaster from his hand—or, at least, it seemed like that had happened, because now it was her boot stepping on his throat and bitter mirth bubbled in her gut and she might have laughed, and he was nothing, nothing at all—

"Polla!" Arms tackled her from behind. Captain Carth Onasi tackled her and pulled her off. "Stop!" He was yelling in her ear, whispering in it too. "We're trying not to draw attention. Don't be insane—"

"What?" Polla didn't wait for an answer. Carth's grasp was hesitant, and she was already breaking free, scrambling across the floor for Holdan's blaster, grabbing it herself, noting the cell charge, and shoving into the waist pocket of her vest—

Her conscious mind caught up again, looking up at Carth and then down at the man gasping on the ground.

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" His eyes were wild, he'd holstered his own gun again, but she saw how close his hand was to it, the way he was looking at her. "You just—"

On the floor Holdan made a choking noise. His nose was bleeding. He held up a hand defensively. "Guhg—"

You nearly crushed his windpipe. It will have to be restored for him to speak.

Her eyes went up to the new hole in the ceiling, still smoking, and then back to Carth. "Good thing this asshole is such a lousy shot," she offered. Everything felt… strangely flat, like it wasn't real.

He was a lousy shot. Man, I dodged a bolt there. Literally. It's okay. My name is Polla Organa, and Da always said, you can't dodge a blaster so make sure they don't shoot first—

She felt her breath go out in a sharp exhale. Suddenly, she just wanted to puke.

He did shoot first. He did, but he missed.

"Yeah…." Carth Onasi had a furrowed look in his eyebrows. She'd seen it before on him. Not a bad look. Almost soothing.

Trust him. Kind of sweet the way he charged in there. Trying to save you?

Or stop you. You almost killed that guy. You wanted—you wanted to kill him, it's a good thing Carth was there. It's a good thing Holdan's such a lousy shot—

"Relax." Polla forced her breathing to calm, took a few steps back, angling her distance to the door, sussing up Carth's expression, and suddenly aware, also, of their audience: the dancers, the bartenders, the Hutt holding court in the back of the room—

"Hey, anyone got any kolto?" she asked, still trying to smile, to keep an even keel. It's over. "Anyone? Guy over here has a crushed windpipe."

"Hmmm," rumbled a deep voice at the back of the room. "Chuba da mi ersa. Gii." Well done, Human. Small Human. Special.

["He needs kolto, I think,"] Polla repeated in Huttese. ["Can any of your servants offer assistance?"]

The Hutt waved a flipper and one man advanced. He was Zeltron, pink skin set on permanent blush.

"That was flash," the man told her, using Standard. "Truly an exceptional bit of fighting."

No one seemed particularly upset that she had almost killed the guy, so Polla tried to relax a little more.

I did, I almost killed him. For a sec, I thought I was gonna kill him. I was gonna kill him and he'd be gone—

He shot at me.

"Let's get out of here," Carth hissed in her ear. He took her arm, and then almost immediately dropped it, taking a step back, as if he were afraid of her now too.

"Relax, Flyboy," she lied, not feeling relaxed at all. She wanted him to take her arm again. Get them the frack out of here suddenly. Suddenly, the walls above seemed too close like everything was pressing in.

"Relax, Flyboy," she repeated, and took another step back, standing next to Carth now, reaching for his hand. He looked startled when her fingers brushed his, but his grip was warm and strong, like a tether back to ground. "Relax," she repeated numbly. "I've… I've got this."

"It's okay," he mumbled, looking down at her. Odd light in his eyes—or the room. "I thought you were a goner when he pulled out that gun—"

"Yeah." She took a deep breath and let it out again. "Me too."

["You seem quite skilled, Small Human. Would you like a job?"] From across the room, the Hutt's words crackled over the speaker, loud as a grenade.

"No, she wouldn't!" Carth practically growled at the Hutt—proving he wasn't a total wet envirosuit. He understands Huttese. Not something you pick up in Republic Army charm school.

"Let's get out of here." He squeezed her hand. "Trust me, don't mess with Hutts."

"Maybe you don't. My line of work? They're a fact of life."

["Is this your master, Small Human? Does he speak for you?"]

Polla dropped Carth's hand and crossed the cavernous floor, standing before the Hutt. "No one speaks for me. What about you? You a free agent? Or do you belong to Davik Kang?"

One of the Neimodians hanging off the stage gave a nervous giggle.

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" The Hutt was young, almost thin for a Hutt. Lean and hungry—for a Hutt.

She glanced back. The Zeltron was putting a kolto pack on Holdan. Carth was still standing back where she'd left him, frown deepening again on his face.

["I am Dax,"] the Hutt continued. ["Would you like a job, Female Human?"]

"She's got one," Carth yelled out.

"What's the job?" Polla Organa smiled. Never say no to a Hutt. Everything's negotiable.

Xxx

From the top of Monument Park, the rest of Coruscant was a dizzying, ever-shifting haze of color and light. The pollution from its atmosphere created bands of color, striping the skies with gold and green and red. There'd been an ice crema vendor, one in a line of vendors once, years ago, selling concessions when it had been open to the public. Gone now, and the boat rental stands on the artificial lake were closed and shuttered dark.

He liked to come here for his morning constitutional. On a few occasions, she'd joined him. He could still hear the sharpness in her voice on their last walk. The accusation, the righteousness of the young.

XXX

"We wouldn't be here if you'd helped. You said you'd take our case before the Council. You said you could convince them—"

"I said I would try. But you have to remember. We fought the Mandalorians before. You don't understand the risks—"

"They're not risks for me." Her voice was flat, but he knew her. The confidence now was as much of a mask as the real mask she'd shown him, made of cloth and gray, like the ones they all used to wear in the war.

"You can't fight them alone."

"I won't be alone." Her resolve sang in the Force. "Malak. Beya. Davad. Vikor. They've all agreed to come. High Admiral Dodonna agreed to take us. One Jedi in each ship. All we're going to do is scout for cloaked ships. But once the Fleet authority sees what Jedi can do—"

How do you argue with conviction? Exar had been charismatic too, swaying so many with his vision of a new Jedi Order, where power was harnessed to cause—where they helped—enacting positive change on a galactic scale—

At least Revan was no ideologue. His niece wanted to stop an invasion, not start a rebellion.

At least she was not her father. Radik had never found peace in the Force, had possessed too much raw ability to ever learn prudence.

At least she was not her uncle. Vrook himself had chosen distance over attachment… only to realize it was as much of a lie as his niece's composed expression as she stood next to him, arms folded in her sleeves, watching the Coruscanti dawn.

"When do you leave?"

"In a few hours." Her head ducked, and he understood that too. "Uncle, I have to… I have to take my leave now, but I—"

She waited to tell me until it was too late to be stopped. Radik had done that too.

"Go." He nodded. He did not approve, but he understood.

"Will you…?" She started to walk backward along the lakeshore, already leaving him. "If we don't come back—"

"As much as I am allowed," he called out after her. "You know that legally, I have no grounds—"

"We'll be back!" she promised. Her voice rang across the lake, echoing. "We'll be back soon, I promise—"

Soon had never come. If she had returned to Coruscant after that, it had not been for him.

XXX

"Master Kae said I would find you here." A voice interrupted Vrook's thoughts, startling him.

Master Jopheena emerged from the shadows, snapping off the controls of her stealth belt. The smug smile on her lips told him how much she'd been amused by his discomfiture. Jopheena had a childish streak—mischievous. Perhaps that was why she had been assigned the calmest padawans, although she had rejected all candidates, these last five years—still mourning Malak D'Reev, the one lost.

"A revised casualty list from the Endar Spire arrived this morning." Jopheena handed Vrook the datapad.

"Through the Senator again? Are we sure he isn't involved?"

"His information is always accurate."

"Because it's what Malak wants us to know." Revan had not played games with the Jedi after her betrayal. Her assault had been cold and precise as a game of dejarik—or Mandalorian chess-it had been logical. Malak's war was anything but.

Vrook looked down at the list, noting the list of the fallen Jedi had grown longer. Next to each name, a holoimage. He'd made the mistake of enlarging a few before. They were always from when the Jedi were alive, but in some cases, it was evident that death was not far away.

J aik Sensa, Padawan. Irlissa Day, Padawan, Ir'luk Hirlota, Jedi Knight, Siskamee, Padawan—

"He's weeding them out. Testing them, with those infernal Sith games."

"There's another page," Jopheena said.

Vrook turned and his breath caught.

Bastila Shan, Padawan.

Revan Starfire, Jedi Knight.

The holoimages were larger, large enough he could not look away. There was Bastila, behind the shimmer of what looked like a distortion field.

And there was his neice—or, at least her body—staring blankly into space. They'd dyed her hair black and shaved the sides of her head, but it was Revan. Or her body. He could read no expression in her eyes, but he had seen the reports from the Ascendant. He'd seen all her medical records before they went over his head to the Senator with them.

Of all the ironies, that old man controlling her fate in the end.

The woman his niece had been would not have stood for that.

"That's it, then." Vrook was suddenly very tired. "You know what we must do."

Enter this war ourselves. Even if it costs us the Order. Our sanity. All we have gained back after Exar—

"If I were Vandar or Vash, I'd try and come up with an optimistic platitude," Jopheena said. "Now I just hope he's lying. This could be some kind of trick. One of his games—"

"Malak never lied." His voice felt too tight for his throat. Malak never lied. For all that he was a Senator's son. Jopheena's padawan had been staid and serious, as serious as Vrook's own. The two of them, so well-matched that the Order allowed their marriage, preferring to try and contain what it would never be able to control. We learned that from Exar too. He did not look at Jopheena. Contain this. We have to control this—

"Thank you for showing me before the main Council meeting." He turned to the lake again. The sunrise was peaceful at least.

"Malak never lied before," Jopheena said. "But he has changed."

Xxx

It was quieter in the front section of the cantina. Main stage was empty. Easier to think.

"I said… you're welcome?" Polla Organa's head tilted, eyes practically glittering with glee. She slouched against the wall lazily. as if beating up the thug in the back room had been all in a day's work. "By the way… despite what you seem to think, I do have standards." She paused. "Ethics. There's banthacrap I would never do."

Unbelievable. Carth was rapidly losing patience, rapidly losing ground. He wasn't sure what their objective was anymore. If Bastila was already in the hands of the Sith—

Should I get myself captured and try to break her out?

What if I can't? I know too much. Sith interrogation techniques are… horrible. They say the Sith can do terrible things—I've seen terrible things—the things they've done—

XXX

The monitor beeped softly. Morgana Onasi could have been sleeping, if he hadn't seen what lay under the packs of bacta and blankets, seen the medcharts, been told her chances by at least six, sad doctors. Her ship had crashed, they'd said. She'd been flying routine patrol when the shields went down, but it was the injuries she'd suffered after—at their hands—

Morgana Onasi wasn't going to wake up. Not this morning. Not ever.

"Carth." A voice behind him.

When he turned his head, he saw his own expression looking back on Rew Ekkumi's face. Blank. Shellshocked.

Their entire world was gone—not just the radioactive hellscape down there on the surface. Their entire world. At least Carth still had Morgana (today at least he still had her today). Rew didn't even have that.

But Rew smiled. Sad, a little grim. "We knew what these bastards could do when they were on our side—"

XXX

I've seen what the Sith can do.

None of the plans Carth could make now seemed to make any sense. No more than this made sense, trying to drag Polla Organa out of a Lower City bar before she got them seen.

"Look, sister. I'm not going to thank you for not becoming a bounty hunter!"

"You're the soldier. Maybe you should—"

"Are you nuts? Wait—don't answer that!"

Her lips twisted, but she didn't take the bait. "You heard what Dax said about his buddy Ajuur and duels? A duel might not be a bad way to get the Exchange guy's attention—"

"You don't think almost killing his henchman was enough?"

The smuggler had been fast when she took down Holdan. Faster than he'd expected. Carth had barely blinked and that sleazebag of a thug had been on the ground, with Polla's boot on his neck.

Takes training, knocking a man down that fast. Real training. Holdan wasn't big, but he had at least fifteen kilos on Polla. And yet… she had knocked him over like he was made of plimsi.

Then the man had missed shooting her—had missed shooting her at point-blank range.

"Deralia must be a rough place."

"Sure, if you're a kissra lambie." Those green eyes rolled at him. "We had this conversation already? Where are you from again? You still haven't said."

"Forget it!" What was the point of talking about a world that no longer existed?

"Whatever, Captain Obvious." She walked towards the bar like she owned it, and the Devaronian was already handing her another drink.

Carth looked past her towards the bar's entrance. The air was better in this part of the cantina. It didn't stink like Hutt here. Collaborating slug larva that they were. It was Huttese trade routes that had opened their gates to the Sith invaders. Huttese worlds first, who hadn't fallen but just opened their stinking legs—

Hutts don't have legs. Watch it, Onasi. You're losing it.

XXX

Looking at Rew was like a punch in the gut, so he stopped looking at her. Their kids had grown up together. Their families had—

"Did... did they tell you about the school?" He stood up because it didn't seem right, saying it in front of Morgana. "I don't want to upset her. We should… we should go to the hall—"

"They told me. A direct hit." Maybe it was because her husband was dead that Rew didn't care.

"Not in front of her." He shook his head. "Please—"

Rew's eyes flickered towards the body of his wife, and then back to his face. "We'll get them," she said quietly. "Those Jedi and all the men with them. We'll get them—"

XXX

"Hey, sleemo! Beat it! I told you to leave me alone, so give me some space!"

Carth was still trying not to think about Telos when a high-pitched voice to their left broke his concentration.

The speaker was young, indignant, and sounded—almost familiar. Carth turned his head.

The little blue delinquent who'd shot at them earlier was now yelling at two Rodians. The Rodians were dressed entirely in red. Easy to know what that meant. Gang colors were the same the galaxy over.

That kid's too young to be running with gangs. He frowned.

["Repeat the message again,"] one of them chirped in Huttese. ["Hanging out in bars, maybe little girl isn't so smart. She might have it wrong."]

"That's my ion rifle." Polla put her drink down on a nearby table, starting forward.

Carth grabbed her arm halfway there and pulled her back. "Hang on, sis. Not so fast."

Her eyes went down to his hand, and then back up at to his face. The smile on her mouth was almost cruel. "Oh, this isn't fast, Flyboy."

"Pretty fast, that stunt you pulled back in there with that Holdan character. You could've—"

"After I tell Gadon about how your mom sucks eggs for the Exchange, I'll tell him about your stupid swoop race! Jeez!" The Twi'lek in front of them put her fingers to her mouth and whistled sharply.

["Little girl stupid to think Rodians come from eggs—"]

A roar interrupted all of this as a Wookiee emerged from what looked like one of the public freshers.

A real live Wookiee. Carth had seen quite a bit in his thirty-eight years, but he'd never expected to see a Wookiee. At least, not in an underground bar.

Edean, where we're supposed to be now is their homeworld. The Endar Spire was headed to their homeworld. What are the odds there just happens to be a Wookiee here—?

"Yeah, Big Z. They don't trust me with their stoopid message." The girl raised her voice. "Hey, maybe you Vulkar pricks want Zaalbar to tell Gadon about your swoop contest and the captured Republic terrorists 'stead of me? Thing is, Big Z here, he don't talk Basic so well. He'd have to rip the lips off your face and bring them along to do the talkin...?"

What did she say about Republic terrorists?

["Easy, little blue. Lukas was just yanking your chains."] The taller of the two pulled out a credchip and tossed it to the kid. She caught it and palmed it all in one go. ["You tell Gadon for us. You tell him good. We—"]

"Swoop race?" The madwoman next to Carth yanked out of his grasp and butted in. "What swoop race?" Polla Organa was one hell of an actress—or insane. Because she really sounded like that was what mattered here. "You know, I was tweener champion on the swoops back home?" She smiled. "Maybe this planet's not a total waste of my time."

"Bug off, Humie—oh!" The Twi'lek kid looked startled, stepping back. "Hey! It's you!"

"Me," Polla agreed, nodding. "And I'll be taking that rifle back now."

"No way! Scavenger's rights! It's mine!" The kid had it slung over her back. All wrong. Looked like the safety was on, which was good.

The Rodians' clicked something in their own language, too quick for Carth to catch.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll tell Gadon." The Twi'lek rolled her eyes again. "You know the Sith are offering a huge reward for any Republic prisoners right? Why don't you think the Beks won't just crash your base and take the kriffing prisoners?"

"How-how many prisoners?" Probably wasn't the safest move, asking questions like that in a place like this, but—

["Four,"] the Rodian told him in Huttese. ["Winning gang can turn them in with Sith and collect reward."]

Oh yeah? Then why doesn't your gang just turn them in? And then Carth realized. "You have to know that the Sith won't pay. They'll probably just kill whoever—"

Polla snorted and the Rodian who'd been speaking, the taller one with blackish-green scales, swiveled his antenna and curled his lips nearly back into his head. His sharp chirps were laughter, Carth realized, echoed by the low rumble from the Wookiee that could have been mirth too—or just a growl.

They all know, Onasi. Rules in the rough haven't changed that much in the last twenty-five years. Same, no matter where you are. Here, it's the Vulkars and the Beks. Back home we had the Slammers and the Skyjam—

"Loosh here don't make the rules," the Twi'lek girl said. "We got our ways of dealing with the Sith. You're not from around here, are you?"

"What was your first clue?" Polla drawled. "Didn't we have this conversation already, you gun-stealing brat?"

Her words were harsh, but her tone wasn't.

The little blue Twi'lek grinned, and pulled the rifle from her back, and to Carth's surprise, handed it back. "You want me to show you how to use it sometime, Grandma?"

"Grandma?" Polla laughed, as she slung the thing over her shoulder. "Oh, kid. It's on."

"Name the time and place." The girl giggled. "I'm Mission, by the way. Mission Vao. And this here big guy is Zaalbar. We run with the Hidden Beks."

"That's one of the swoop gangs? Bartender was telling me about them. I'm Polla Organa." Carth couldn't help but notice Polla Organa had a beautiful smile. He'd noticed it early. He was noticing it again now.

Smile of the damned, he thought. If she can smile like that in a place like this, she's either crazy, or she has nothing to fear—

"Uh-oh. Trouble—" hissed the other Rodian, jerking his antennae towards the door. His companion turned too—and squeaked an alarm.

Carth didn't see anything strange about the crew coming in the door—not at first. They looked a lot like the rest of the pack of motley mercs.

Except for the woman leading the pack. She was Human, wearing civs, like the rest; but as they drew closer, the way she moved, the way her hair was slicked back, even the creases along the seams of her clothes—so pressed they looked plated—he could see that every centimeter of her lean body screamed military.

Not Republic military. Not here.

Good pilots, good shooters have a sense of danger. Carth was having one now. "Don't do anything," he hissed at Polla, because that was all there was time to say.

Xxx

"Dia says they're still at Jayvar's Cantina. Our girl and her Republic escort." Beya snapped her fingers sharply at Old Wrinkle-Skin to bring more caff, while Davad gloomily munched on a tasteless ration bar.

"Can we assume this was the Jedi's cunning plan? Give our Revvie the personality of a drunk to keep her biddable?"

Jayvar's Cantina. Davad had never heard of it. But he hadn't wallowed in this much fetid life in a long time either. Beya was the one planetside, with her networks of nulls, her spies in the crimeworlds of a hundred planets. Davad preferred to see their empire's expansion from the abstract refuge of space and his own fleet.

His leg was numb now to the thigh, which seemed like a bad sign. So far, none of the villagers had remarked upon their injuries, but Davad sensed they all had fled too—to the opposite end of the compound. Herded in like nerf.

A few of them were visible though, making hasty repairs to the gate he and Beya had cut through with their sabers. He watched them struggle with the scavenged rebars and pondered the futility of their miserable existences.

For some reason, his mouth watered. Was that a bad sign?

"I told Dia to come here with the rakghoul serum as soon as she secured our friend," Beya added.

"Secured?"

"Don't worry, she won't hurt a hair on her head." Beya's voice was careless—he didn't trust it at all.

An alliance with you would be useful, Beya Organa. But I have resources far beyond your imaginings—and if you dare cross me—

Still, he wondered. Could I end Malak? The old woman wouldn't like it, but she wasn't here. If it were done quickly, would it not consolidate their position faster?

Xxx

Some jerk with a bunch of muscle interrupted her reacquisition of the ion rifle and learning about the swoops, much to Polla's annoyance.

"Polla Organa?" Woman looked a little twitchy. So did the mercs behind her. Two were Human, wearing battered body armor, with crap for arms; the other two, the 'Doshan and the Chiss, looked like more trouble. She didn't like the look of the gun at the Chiss's belt. Systech disruptor, with a power C cell. That thing'd dissolve a fifteen-point trawler like it was mud. Probably take down a terentatek with it, if you—

Terentatek— the word was funny, and when she blinked, Polla had no fracking idea what it was.

Claws, her mind supplied unhelpfully. Poison. The ichor from the joints between makes an effective poison.

The Chiss couldn't keep his eyes off her. Polla glowered back. Fracking Chiss with damned red eyes.

His eyes are red. Red. Lots of sents have red eyes, they change color—eyes… eyes do that.

Someone had said that. Someone had said—

"Excuse me… Polla Organa?" the woman repeated. Again.

The Chiss couldn't keep his eyes off her. His eyes were red. Red is bad. It's bad. Eyes can change color but that color's bad—

"Nope!" Polla said. "But I get that a lot. Whoever Polla Organa is, she must look a lot like me. I'm Desiderata D'Cainen. This is my husband Therion, and our kid, Bluebell. She's adopted—"

"I am not a kid!" Mission interrupted.

"Kids." Polla flashed the room a smile and shrugged.

"Maybe you should meet us back at the apartment, Bluebell." Captain Obvious didn't sound happy, but at least he was trying to play along.

"And leave you to deal with Dia Shakell? Her boyfriend's coreslime, sure. But she's a Sith collab—"

Click of weapons, four of them, all now aimed at the Twi'lek kid.

Fracking hell!

Polla's gut sank, all the way to her toes.

"There's no need for that." Next to her, Carth's voice had softened, but it had an edge she understood. "We're all just having a conversation."

"A conversation," Polla repeated. "That's right. Leave the k—leave Bluebell out of it."

Behind them, the Wookiee growled softly. ["Mission, this is not our fight. Get behind me. Now.]"

["Good advice,"] Polla muttered, in Shyriiwook. ["Listen to your friend, cub."]

"I'm not—whoa!" The kid paused. "You can understand Big Z? Ain't nobody on Taris who can do that!"

"I'm not from Taris." Polla shrugged. "It's a wide and wonderful galaxy out there. I know a lot of languages." I know a lot of languages. I know a lot of languages. I know Huttese, Rodian, Ryl. I know… I know Shry—shryiiwhatsit.

Shyriiwook, her mind echoed. Spoken on Kashyyyk, by the native race. Wookiees. Trandoshans have been hunting them for centuries and selling them into slavery. They are hard to break, but once broken make excellent—

The frack? Where the frack did I read that?

"Listen to my offer," the woman said. "If it displeases you…"

"Your name is Dia?" Polla interrupted, forcing her thoughts back on topic. The hell with Wookiees. "Hey! You have an ex named Holdan?"

The woman's composure shattered. She went three shades paler, took a step back. "Are you… you can hear my thoughts?"

"What?" Maybe dating a scumbucket like Holdan had driven her nuts. "No, I ran into him. You know he has a bounty out on your head?"

"He does?" Dia gave a choked laugh. "Oh! He will regret that very soon."

"Think he already does." The mercs had relaxed their weapons, Polla noted. The Rodians had scarpered at the first edge of trouble. And Mission had put three meters of Wookiee between her and the guns. Good. "Guess you won't be upset then… After I turned him down, I kinda crashed his larynx. Just a little. Dax says he'll be okay, just not very talkative for a few weeks."

"Y-you crushed…." So much for the kinship of womankind. Dia looked pale again.

"He wanted me to hunt you down," Polla added, but Dia was staring at her comm unit and tracing symbols on it furiously.

Behind her, the four mercs looked utterly confused.

Xxx

"How are you tracking Revvie?" Davad asked Beya again. It was a point the man had repeatedly questioned, and Beya was getting tired of dissembling.

"Engineered isotopes in her drinks. Flushes through her system in about twenty-four hours, but they're easy enough to replace."

"So. Your network of bartenders has finally amounted to something of use." His tone was acid, but she thought he was secretly impressed.

More useful than your shadow blades. "You know me, I quite like bars." Beya stretched her hands over her head, easing the tension from her body and yawned.

"Perhaps when this is all over, you can open one," he deadpanned.

"And perhaps then you may settle down on a farm on Deralia with your biddable Deralian wife. Reports say our mindwiped shell keeps mentioning Deralia to everyone she meets. Kind of like a trained monkey-lizard."

"Engineered isotopes…." His yellow eyes narrowed. "You could poison her so easily."

"Really, I could poison anyone so easily." Beya chuckled. "Of course, we Sith Lords are harder to kill."

"But Revan wouldn't be. Not like this." Davad frowned, lines grooving deep in the gray-brown of his skin. He'd been so pretty once, too. Almost as pretty as Rev herself. They would have made a lovely couple, had Malak never existed. He sneered appropriately, but Beya didn't buy it. "She's helpless."

"I know." Beya yawned. "Sad, isn't it?" She kicked out her legs, propping them on the body of that beggar man, and took a sip from the bulb of water the villagers had been thoughtful enough to provide while they waited for their caff to be prepared properly.

As if her thought had summoned him, the latest attempt appeared from around the edge of the platform's base, doddering and filthy, but carrying a shining silver tray.

"I am Rukil," their new server announced. The other two still lay where Davad had fried them; against a wall, their offending offerings scattered to the wind. The villagers had learned something since, because Rukil was ancient, and worthless. His hands trembled as he offered them what was clearly the only decent bulb of caff left in this wretched sewer. Beya had to admit, it smelled delicious. "Wrinkle-skin, the children call me. This day has been long foretol—"

Davad's hand twitched and their server choked on his words. The tray containing their caff shook dangerously but did not drop.

"Don't kill Old Wrinkle-Skin," she murmured. "He promised cakes before. Remember?"

Davad's hand opened slightly and the man gasped for breath, stumbling back.

"They are… they are but humble things. We—we do not have many supplies down here..."

"Go," the Onderonite snapped. "Fetch the cakes."

The man set the tray down and fled.

"This place," Beya said with disgust. "Hasn't changed a bit in five years."

Xxx

Deralia had poor sents, sure. Sometimes crops failed. Sometimes the bank or the insurance took more than its due.

And sometimes your traitorous family blamed you for a bad harvest, then made you go off for Jedi training, and then disowned you when you grew up believing in a cause.

A cause… or a person.

Did Mandalorians have their own universities? Their own research laboratories? The Mandalorians weren't the ones attacking the University of Taris, even through the campus was in their occupied territory.

But they didn't seem to mind letting it burn.

Beya Organa was here because she'd believed in their cause—and in her friends. But it was fast becoming clear that part of her job involved defending the weak who were rich from the even weaker (but more numerous) refugees in the Lower City.

Revan said there was something valuable in these research laboratories: a cure for a mutative plague, the fabled Rakghoul Curse. And they needed that now because the Mandalorian troops had infiltrated the lower levels and found things buried there better left dead.

Rumor was, the Mandalorians were using fear of the rakghouls for recruiting down there—using fear of the plague to fill their ranks. That seemed smart of them, morally bankrupt assholes that they were.

They offer the Lower City denizens weapons and safety. We offer them a place in line for a refugee camp. Which would my family take, if this was us?

One of the Republic Admirals—she didn't know which—had had the bright idea of putting their main ground supply line in the middle of one of the refugee camps.

And that's when they had learned that although Mandalorians didn't target civilians, they also didn't give a frack—

Beya's face was sweating under the blasted mask, but she kept it on. The mask was great for not showing expression. It wasn't very Jedi-like that what she felt right now, when faced with evacuating an entire research lab of scientists who didn't want to go, was irritation—coupled with a natural sympathy for the poor slobs from the Undercity who seemed dead-set on burning down the place.

Still, she stood at the entrance to the transport, blue saber a beacon for the scientists to follow through the smoke. There were already a few basilisk dropships on the ground; but the Mandalorians seemed to be holding back. Why? It made no sense. This was a fortified position. She had expected a fight.

A part of her… might have enjoyed one.

A slippery slope. The reminder was automatic now, although it had been years since she'd had a master to remind her. Knowing when to step away is just as important as knowing when to hold the line.

"Bey!" Revan appeared in the transport's doorway, mask pushed up, streaks of what could have been dirt—or blood—on her hands and face. She'd picked up a Mandalorian cape somewhere, and it billowed out behind her. She looked ridiculous. She looked like a damned general, probably already hatching some scheme to save an art museum next—or another orphanage. "You made it!"

"Force, tell me you brought a real pilot." Beya smiled under her mask. "I didn't save all these people to have you crash the transport."

"Davad's flying." Her friend's mouth quirked, accepting the insult. "Is this all of them? Did you get the samples?"

"We salvaged two labs, and I don't know. These are who's left. The rioters are burning everything."

In the abstract, Beya didn't blame the angry mob. She'd seen how the Humans in this ecumenopolis treated the other races, the conditions they were forced to live in underground. Even Coruscant was better than this—at least there was the possibility of working your way out from the Coruscanti Underground there; getting lucky, finding help. And the Tarisians believed in inheritable offenses. She'd met families in the Lower City stuck down there for for their great-grandparent's crimes.

Even these scientists were second-class citizens because they weren't Human.

["We have a copy of the serum, Master Revan."] One of the Ithorians—Suun, Beya thought or Firtusk—had come up behind them and stopped. His fellow scientists continued up the ramp and into the troop carrier.

["I am not a master, you should not honor me with such a great title. I am a humble seeker, like yourself."] Her friend's Ithorian was as flawless as everything else she did.

Beya couldn't even hate Revvie: you can't hate the sun, you need it to live.

"You can call me, Master Beya," she joked. "I don't give a hessi's ass—"

XXX

"Did you manage to poison this caff?" Davad interrupted her rememberings, still eyeing his cup.

"What would be the point?" Beya shrugged. "You're already going to turn into a ghoul."

"Speaking of that... where is your agent with our cure?"

"I don't know." Beya looked over towards the half-repaired gate, beyond which stretched a blasted plain and the sewer entrance they had recently exited. "I hoped that the pathetic healer and her two companions I sent to search for lost Sith patrols might return with a vial or two as well."

"That healer was Force Sensitive, I thought." Davad licked his lips, and finally took a sip of caff. "Kind of a waste, sending her out there to die."

"Not strong enough for Sith." Beya shrugged. "But maybe the Force will guide her."

"If she returns, I'll take her."

"Sure. I sometimes wonder what you do with all of your weaklings—"

Her comm beeped and she glanced down, frowning at what she read. It was a lie she'd just told: Beya knew exactly what he did with them. That pathetic shadow army. Still, they were very effective against Jed.

"Dia says our girl denies being Polla Organa and is using the Force," Beya announced to him. Dia's message was brief and seemed panicked, but it was too comical not to share.

Davad gave a sharp laugh. "Then how is your spy still alive?"

"Because she's not stupid." The woman had passed all of her screenings with flying colors.

"Revan would hardly stand there and let her comm you—"

Their eyes met. "Unless it's a trap," Beya finished. "One for us."

"That seems unlikely," Davad said. "Considering we're in one now."

Her shoulder felt numb where the rakghoul's teeth had bit.

XXX

"We're gonna go," Carth said. "It's been… interesting."

"You Sith maybe have some jobs?" Polla asked. "I'm an ace pilot."

The woman looked as gobsmacked as Carth felt. "Are you toying with me?"

"Yeah…?" Polla tilted her head. "Maybe I need to ask somebody else." She grabbed Bluebell's hand, keeping the Twi'lek behind her, and away from the weapons. Carth couldn't decide anymore if she was brave, crazy, or just trying to act like it for his benefit. (Or for the Sith?)

It was bad, he realized when you still weren't sure what side your partner was actually on.

"You coming, Flyboy?" Her voice was easy enough, but there was a tension riding in it too. Did she care? Did he?

"He just said he was." The kid's eyes were wide and trusting. A kid like her shouldn't be in a place like this.

The thugs and their leader were just standing there, the woman staring at her comm again. Carth didn't like the look of that Chiss and that gun.

Who the hell brings a Systech disruptor to a bar?

That woman on the comm, she's taking orders.

"Yeah." Carth had a bad feeling. Hells, he had a whole mess of them, all playing havoc in his gut and chest. The Wookiee had already shuffled off with Polla and the kid—Mission. Mission Vao. Carth noted the Wookiee had his bulk in between the kid and potential blaster play too. Made him feel a little better.

"Wait!" The woman—Dia—called out. "My-my master wants to meet with you."

"You date assholes like Holdan and you have a master?" Polla Organa shook her head. "Unless your master's Davik Kang or some other Exchange joyboy with a fast ship, I'm not interested."

"Please. She will punish me. I know this all a game to you, but the stake is my life." Dia's aristocratic tones seemed to have turned desperate. She took several steps forward. Behind her, more worryingly, her mercs had their weapons raised again. Carth stared down the red light of an auto-recharge, uncannily aware that it was locked on him.

"Don't. Move," the Chiss added silkily.

Polla froze, her voice pitching low into a series of sharp growls.

The Wookiee whined softly, and Carth caught a glimpse of Mission Vao's face peering back through the fur of his elbow.

"I'm gonna turn around, okay?" The smuggler's voice was careless, breezy. Carth was starting to think when her voice got that breezy was when he should start worrying.

"Drop your weapon first."

Dia seemed to have recovered a great deal of her composure. Carth watched her hand trace a few symbols on her comm. Her other hand was hidden from his view, but he'd bet anything it held a blaster.

"This old thing?" Polla laughed carelessly and pulled the salvaged blaster from her boot, slipped the ion rifle off her shoulder. Her hands dropped both on the floor. "Right. I get it. Anything else, your Highness?"

"Get the collar," Dia hissed at one of the mercs. "And the neural band."

It was one of the Humans who turned his head. "I thought you said she didn't have the F—"

Polla growled again. Something about the noise made the hair stand up on Carth's neck.

And then everything happened at once.

Xxx

"Here are… the cakes." The old man set down an elaborately carved tray in front of them, stacked with several round, grayish biscuits. Davad felt his lip curl with disgust.

Those are ration bars. Republic issue. Left over from the last time we were here? How long ago was that? Five years?

It feels like fifty.

"Where did you find those, old man?" Beya actually sounded interested.

"My pupil… she had been… she searches the Outside for the Promised Land. Do you know the legend of our Promised Land?"

"In fact, I do." Beya smiled.

"Typical. Every subjugated culture has its legends of a promised land." Davad took a bite of the tasteless disc and choked it down to ease the gnawing in his gut.

The Beast-riders of his native Onderon had been exiled to the Wilds. Although the city folk of Iziz had romanticized their existence beyond any point of reason, Grandmother's tales had been quite clear: generations had lived and died dreaming of a better world before one was actually made.

They should have just taken their better world like my people did. Like my grandparents, Oron and Galia.

He smiled at the old fool standing before them now, currying favor like a desperate kath. "Rise up against your oppressors. Take your Promised Land back, instead of begging for it."

"Difficult to do, when the bioscanner stops them from rising above this level." Beya's voice was acid. Her eyes had been dark blue once, but now they seemed a bilious black.

"Only the infected ones can't leave," Davad shrugged. "And they die anyway. During the wars, I quite remember that the others rose up and—"

"The others don't make it past the automated turrets they have set up for everyone without idchips now," she said. "I've studied this world, Beast-Lord. Unlike some."

Studied the world, but not the rakghoul plague. Or were you feigning ignorance of it before?

For all Davad knew, Beya had the antidote already, had taken the antidote already, and was just waiting for him to change before she killed him.

"We could disable the bioscanner…." He would do it himself if he knew how.

Beya scoffed. "If it were that simple…. Dia will be here soon."

Xxx

The Human stepped forward, holding something silver in his hand. Looked like a necklace. He had sidled behind Polla, circling back. Carth already had his blaster out—the split second where you have to make the call had come and gone.

'Doshan first. He's the toughest. He's the one you don't want to meet this close-range—

But then the Trandoshan vanished, lost in a howl of pure rage, and three meters of brown fur, as the Wookiee… basically jumped him.

As if they'd planned it, (and later, Carth realized they had, realized that Polla Organa and Zaalbar and Mission had said something to set this up with their series of growls), Mission rolled across the floor, behind him, upending a table and ducking behind it for cover.

A blur of gray armor whizzed in front of Carth and then the man holding the necklace was on the floor about four meters behind where he'd been; groaning, and clutching his guts.

The other Human was down too, and Carth hadn't even seen it happen. From the angle of his neck, he wouldn't be getting up.

A hot line of pain scored Carth's arm and he met the red eyes of the Chiss, the whine of the man's blaster. Carth fired back, keeping it steady and the Chiss collapsed. The part of his mind that kept score, noted Polla, now kneeling over the woman—the Sith. She had the stun stick pressed into the woman's ribs, and her hand around the woman's throat.

Another whine of blaster fire, and a kid's gleeful cry. "Got one!"

Carth turned his head to see the bartender slumped over the bar, hold-out pistol falling from his suddenly limp hands.

The Wookiee growled something and turned to look at Carth. His teeth were bloody. The Trandoshan wasn't moving.

"Geez, Big Z! Yeah, it's still on stun! But that means old hammer-head there is gonna wake up sometime. Sure you're ready for that?"

The other one.

Carth turned back towards the merc that Polla had… somehow thrown backward. Kicked? His own blaster wasn't on stun. The merc was staggering to get up again.

Down you go, he thought blackly, and fired.

The man collapsed.

He looked up, watching for more. Bartender was in on it? Was this all a trap?

"Why did you try to kill us?" Polla's voice cracked. Her hand jabbed the shock stick into the woman's ribs again. Dia's body arced as the charge hit. "Why? Why the frack did you try and kill us?"

"Sounds like you guys need to lay low," Mission said, voice almost cheerful now. "Pissing off the Vulkars is bad enough, but you guys took out a Sith patrol! They get pretty mad… Governor Macis is an asshole."

They seemed to have emptied the room, but Carth still felt exposed. Too many exits. Not enough cover. The bar looked like it was made of ferraglass—or one of its cheaper cousins. Wouldn't hold up under a rain of blaster fire.

"What the frack was that?" The smuggler's voice rose in near hysterics. "Why'd you try and kill us?"

She shoved the stun stick harder. The woman's body twitched, but her face… mouth half-open, eyes rolled back….

"She's not going to answer, Polla. She's dead." His voice felt dead too.

"Dead?" Polla turned and looked at him. Her eyes were wide and shocked. "How can she be dead?"

The Wookiee wiped his mouth on his furry arm and groaned something.

"No! It's a stun stick! Like we use on the farm! For kissra and hessi! I didn't—there's no way I could have killed—anyone. I don't… I never—"

"Wow, did you break that guy's neck?" The Twi'lek leaned over the Human merc's corpse—the one who had died before Carth even registered they were up the slipstream in hell. "Can you show me how to do that?"

"I didn't." Polla shook her head sharply. "I didn't fracking do it."

"You told us to be ready for anything," the girl insisted. "In Shyriiwook, right before."

"I meant… I meant… stun them. Like you did. I was only trying to stun them—"

"Sure. Whatever." Mission had walked over and picked the silver necklace off the floor. This is pretty. Can I have it?"

"What?" This pale, the freckles on her nose stood out in sharp relief. Her eyes were liquid, and she wiped them angrily. "Sure, kid. Take… take whatever."

Something beeped.

Carth looked down.

The comm on the dead woman's wrist was flashing blue.

Xxx

"Dia's not answering my comm." Beya sighed and crumbled another disgusting cake between her fingers. She stared at the blinking comm on her wrist and then across the blasted ground. Five years ago, it had been… not less wretched, here—perhaps. But different. Or I was different.

She canceled the call.

Five years ago, I was a fool.

Davad stood up, stretching to his full height. "A pity. I think I'm going to check on the quarantined unfortunates. Some of them seemed to be suffering."

Beya felt a smile pull at her lips. Finally. "I'll dispatch another agent."

"You don't want to come help me dispatch some sufferers?" His own grin was feral. "Remember they used to call you an angel? Our angel of the Mercy Corps?"

"I'm surprised you remember," she snapped back. "You seemed to spend most of those days wishing you were Malak D'Reev, and asking Revvie to spar Echani-style—"

A miasma of dark energy lashed at the exposed skin on her shoulder, and Beya felt gripped with an inexplicable, overwhelming fear. In a flash, Davad's breath was sour and stinking on her face. His fingernails dug into her arm like claws.

She hadn't even seen him move, from one instant to the next—he just… had.

The yellow eyes boring into hers burned with the same rage as the power he held in his hands. The terror he was projecting was almost… elemental. Her own shields struggled under the weight of it, with every instinct in her body now screaming at her to run, to hide, to escape—

"Do you think adrenaline hastens the rakghoul mutations?" He grinned, mad as Malachor itself. "I can almost taste yours."

"You will drop my arm and step away," she growled, summoning her own rage like a black wall between her and this ravaging Dark. "Now, Arkan."

His fingers dug in more tightly. "No. You betrayed her," he muttered. "All of this comes down to you. I could kill you now. Your vassal is summoned. What use do you have left?"

He was stronger than she'd thought. Stronger than she had realized before this moment. Did Malak know?

XXX

Above Polla's head, (which was throbbing like the pressure of an ion storm above a gas giant planet, making her head feel like the gas giant itself), Captain Carth Onasi was yelling. The Twi'lek girl was yelling too. And the Wookiee was howling.

In front of her were two dead bodies. Two dead bodies the others had said she had killed.

There were other dead ones too, but for some reason, it was the two she'd killed that she couldn't tear her eyes from.

How?

You broke the man's neck, her mind supplied. And the woman had a bad heart. Not every sentient can survive having a stun stick shoved into their cardiac cavity over and over again.

It was an accident! The man… the man had fallen. Hit his head. Twisted… his neck somehow.

The woman had… the woman should have just answered her questions.

I didn't know! I didn't know about her heart! They were trying to kill us!

And now they can't, her mind whispered back. Because they're dead.

"Hey!" Wide, blue eyes stared into hers. Blue eyes. Blue face. "You okay, sis?"

"Yeah." The lie came out in a croak, but it came out.

Behind the Twi'lek, she saw other sents. The Rodian gangsters. A few mercs in battered besk—battered armor. Helmets made their faces expressionless.

They put those on for a fight. The Mando'ade don't wear headgear in bars. Not unless they're planning on a fight—

"Mission," Polla hissed. "Get back. There's more trouble over there."

The Twi'lek flicked a dismissive t'chun. "More trouble?" She turned her head, and then incredibly, laughed. "Who… them?"

["This is not your fight,"] Polla told the Mandalorians. Her hand was gripping the shock stick, like it could fracking do something against two Mando'ade in beskar—

"Copaani gaan?" Need a hand? The taller one unclipped his helm, setting it on his belt and revealing a square, graying face. A slight smile pulled at his thin lips.

"No, I—we're good. Thanks." Polla frowned. Thanks. Vor'e. "Vor'e."

"Kandossi!" Great job! His companion took off his helm too. The shorter man was younger by at least a decade and handsome. Human too, but maybe a little something a few ages in the woodshed back, like Aunt Mita used to say, from the ridges above his eyes, the greenish color of his skin. He spat on one of the bodies. "Sith hu'tuun!"

"Do you know these men, Polla?"

Carth? She turned her head and looked up at him, shaking it. "No. Of—course not. I don't know… I don't know any of these people!"

"Yeah? Because they seem to know you."

Polla stood up, better to take on Captain Obvious. At her feet, Mission was still going through the pockets of the dead with brutal efficiency.

"Trust issues? Again, Flyboy?" A spark of anger coiled in her gut. "We just almost died—"

I killed someone. Two someones.

They were going to kill me.

"Seemed like they were after you?"

Mission made a face, and tugged off the silver necklace she'd draped over her t'chin. "This thing makes my skin itch!"

Looks valuable— Polla reached for it, then dropped it as if her fingers burned.

"What the frack is that?" Her foot lashed out, kicking it away. Her hand still felt a little numb. It was a strange feeling, like part of her arm had fallen asleep. "Some kind of stunner. They were trying to kidnap me!" Carth was still glaring. "Us."

"You don't look like much now." The taller Mandalorian assessed her slowly. ["But that was an impressive dispatch of two enemies in eight heartbeats. Your Clan Mother taught you well."]

"What?"

"Did he say clan? I knew it!" Carth unleashed a whole slew of curse words in—

Gutter Telosian. Gang argot. Not so fracking fancypants if he knows that—

"I'm from Deralia," Polla said slowly. "My name is Polla Organa. I'm a registered smuggler from Deralia."

I've never been to fracking Telos. I know I've never been—

"As you like." The taller man had gray eyes, like chips of rock. She'd always trusted eyes that color—you couldn't hide anything in them. ["In these times, we all wear the names we must."]

"Zaalbar… the Wookiee… he—he took down the Trandoshan. And Carth. He shot those others. And Mission, she—"

"I coulda shot them all," the tweener bragged. Under different circumstances, Polla would have liked her. Kid reminded her of herself at that age, if—reminded her of kids she'd met before, on Nar, and… and other places.

"Your companions fought well too," the Mandalorian agreed. ["With blasters. You bested them unarmed. I would like to see your work with a blade in your hand."]

"Oh?" Fracking weirdo. "Are you Exchange? I was hoping to meet Davik. Do you know him?" That other Mandalorian in the cantina did. Maybe all Mandalorians know Davik. Her brain should go back to the important banthashit. "That's why we came here. Somebody told me Holdan could make an introduction—"

"You want to work for the Exchange?" He looked her up and down, lip curling in a sneer. "You? What a waste. You belong in the dueling circle. Next time you're in the Upper City, look me up."

Mission muttered something under her breath.

"I don't know your name," Polla told him.

"Trouble," the girl at her feet bit out.

["Death,"] the Wookiee added, voice edging to a whine.

"Bendak," the Mandalorian's smile was thin. One of his teeth was gold. "Bendak Starkiller."

XXX

Davad's eyes burned, staring into Beya's, and his lips slipped back like an animal's, teeth baring—

He took a chunk out of Bandon, she remembered. He could do the same to me.

Her hand twitched, calling the hilt from her belt and her saber slid into her grasp like safety. She nudged his ribs with it, a hot wave of fury overriding Arkan's illusion of fear.

"You could try." Stare him down. Maybe she couldn't match him for power, but for hate—

We are Sith. I am Sith. I fear nothing, not even my death—

Her comm beeped. And then beeped again.

Davad Arkan stepped backward abruptly, his hand twisting, taking the moment of her distraction to knock the saber from her hand.

She took the chance for distance as well, flipping back. Then, Beya extended her hand and the blade slapped back into her palm, igniting with a hiss. "Hold," she muttered. "Now."

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

"Yes." She jabbed the saber closer, noting his instinctive flinch. "Are you going to be a good little Sith lord and let me?"

"Please." He extended his hands, stepping farther away from her blade and giving her a courtly bow. "Go right ahead, Lady Organa."

Xxx

The Mandalorians left, after offering Polla Organa a shot in some Upper City dueling ring. Why? Why would they do that? They'd all—

Carth hadn't even seen her take out those two Sith. Not really: there was just the evidence in front of him—the man had a broken neck. The woman—Carth looked more closely and realized that she had a broken neck too. The entire time Polla had been shaking her, she'd already been dead.

Polla Organa took out two trained Imperial spooks with her bare hands?

There—that had to be some explanation. Or… her shocked look now. Had to be an act.

It was then that a nervous Rodian came up and handed Polla a credchip for killing the woman, Dia.

Holdan's bounty.

Icing on the Sithspawned cake!

Polla had shot Carth a guilty look and then handed the chip to Mission.

"Thanks!" the tweener enthused. "You sure, sis?"

"You earned it." The woman picked up the ion rifle that was on the floor and handed it over too. "Here. Scope is fracked through. You're gonna have to get it fixed. Thing can't aim for kriffing stars."

"Is there a catch?" Mission Vao's brow ridges rose higher. "You didn't like, get bit by any monsters, didja? You're not about to jump off a plat?"

"No catch."

A staff of cleaning droids descended, dragging the bodies away as if this were a normal occurrence. (And it probably was, given the deadpan expressions around them.)

The woman who made no sense was still standing there in the middle of the room staring at the pile of personal effects the Twi'lek kid had collected as if she wasn't sure what they were. Carth wasn't sure what they were either.

Six blasters. Five vials of something yellow in injectable syringes. A stack of passkeys. A surprisingly small pile of cash credits. A credchip stamped with the Imperial symbol. The Trandoshan had had a locket with a small, sharp tooth in it. Carth didn't want to think about why.

And all of them had Imperial idchips, circular discs of plasteel, plain and unmarked.

Another thing Revan and Malak borrowed from the Republic. Blank ids for their spooks.

"Wow!" On the floor Mission was shaking her head and laughing. "We scored big. Huge! Any idea what these things are worth?"

"Not that much," Polla Organa's voice seemed to regain some of its normal scoff. "How would you forge the biometrics?"

"That's easy. Old man Gadon, he'd pay big for these. He has slicers who could whip them into shape in no time—"

"Don't—" Carth could see what Polla was reaching for, even before she reached it.

A wrist comm. Small and expensive. Meant for a lady's wrist. The chains were links of imperial gears.

Polla's fingers traced a symbol he couldn't quite catch on its surface. More Mandalorian?

Nothing happened. She frowned, and slipped it on her wrist, raising it to her mouth. "Last number dialed," she said into its speaker.

"What are you doing?" Carth wondered how far the range was, if someone could track them—rage gripped his guts. "Are you calling the Sith now?"

"Somebody's after us," she said flatly. "We need to know who."

The responder pinged green, indicating the connection was made. "Hello?" Polla said. "Who is this?"

XXX

"Hello?" the ghost's voice answered. Flat as Dantooine farmland. "Who is this?"

Next to her, close enough to gut, Davad exhaled. "Who is this?"

A pause. The sound of a man's voice in the background. Then, a childish voice interrupted with a nervous giggle. "No. You first." A pause. "He can't see us, right?"

"I don't think so?" The Deralian accent in Revan's voice made all of her words seem to end as questions, but this, Davad thought, was a real one.

Next to him, Beya took a step closer, her saber still lit. She raised the comm on her wrist with the other hand. "Pollie? Is that you?"

"Huh? Who is this?"

"I knew it!" A man muttering in the background. "You're in with them. You're one of them!"

"I'm… I'm not! Who is this?" the voice repeated. Colder now. "Tell me who the frack you are right now, or I'll… I'll flush your fracking comm down the fresher!"

"It's Beya. Beya Organa."

There was a long pause. Then, "Bey—Beya? Organa? How the frack are you here?"

"Long story." Her eyes didn't leave Davad's face but her smile deepened. "It's really me, Pollie. Beya. From home."

"From… from… home? Me and Sera snuck out to go to that concert. And we… you helped us. You helped us get home."

"That's right." Her voice was soothing, gentle and strange, like something from long ago.

"What are… you're here? How are you here?"

"I'm here to help. But I need your help too, Pollie. I'm in a bit of a jam."

"So are we." Ragged laughter, nothing like Revan. "Your friends just tried to kill us?"

"Are you working with them? Is that it? You're a Sith collaborator?" The man, interrupting again.

A roar in the background, and then what sounded like Revan growling back.

"Is Dia there, Pollie? May—can I speak to her?"

"You can't speak to her. She's dead." Shuddering breath. "They're all… all dead."

"Are you unharmed?" Davad broke in. She didn't sound like she was in physical pain—

Beya raised an eyebrow. "Dia wasn't my friend, Polla, but she did have something I need very badly. Did she… she was going to bring me vials of rakghoul serum. Do you know what that is?"

"Is it yellow?"

"That's rakghoul serum? No way!" Child, interrupting again. "D'you know how much that stuff is worth?"

"A lot, I heard." There was a babble of voices now, as the child and Revan took the time to chatter about the local black market. If he hadn't already known the real Revan was dead, that talk would have proved it.

Remember that time we went shopping in the bazaar on Taris, towards the end of our stay and neither of us brought enough credits? We never knew the costs of things, but I had enough to buy you a cup of caff and the sun made fire in your hair—

Of course, Davad was dreaming of nothing. She'd remember nothing. Davad was losing patience with this enterprise. "Polla?" he broke in. "It's me here as well—"

His voice broke off, interrupted by the buzzing blade of blue uncomfortably close to his neck. But igniting her saber had brought Beya closer, close enough that he could smell her fear.

Fear of me. So much of the time Davad had to hide his true nature. It was... refreshing to be free. If Malak were here now, Davad might have challenged the man. Might have let the beast unleash and ripped out the betraying bastard's throat—

"Who? Who are you?" Revan's own voice—almost, sharp with suspicion.

"Davad," he said. "From the ship? We were both on the Endar Spire…."

"Davad Who, from the Spire the man interrupted. "What was your rank?"

"Just an ensign… sir. Ensign… Davad Kier," he picked the surname at random. "Look, I'm here with… with Beya, and we need your help. We're in the UnderCity. Can't miss it—last stop on the elevator from your quadrant."

"Davad from the ship." A heavy sigh, the Deralian accent coming to the fore again. "I-I don't remember the ship. I had to… there was someone I had to—"

"Don't worry about that now," Beya murmured. "Come help us, Pollie. Please."

Davad's own saber slid into his hand. The Deralian put herself in striking range—but she was too much of a duelist for that to be accidental.

She thinks I am distracted.

"What?"

"Polla, it could be a trap." The voice on the comm hardened edged with a ton of command—and it was then that Davad thought he recognized it. That man on the comm on the Spire. That Captain who wanted us to go to the bridge. He's still giving her orders.

"Relax, Captain Obvious. It's just…." A long pause and the voice sharpened again, acquiring an ice that sent shivers up Davad's spine. "Beya. Why are you here?

"I came here to help. Ensign Davad needs my help."

"You said Ensign Kier before." The man again.

"Ensign Davad Kier needs our help. We'll die without that serum, Pollie. Please."

"I-I go by Polla now. Not Pollie. You went to Jedi. You're a Jedi?"

"Yes, yes I am. I'm a Jedi, here with a… Republic ensign. We're trapped. We need your help."

How can she think that will work?

"A Dark Jedi, maybe. Polla! You can't… you don't believe her!"

"She's my cousin, Carth! She's family!"

Family? Just how long did Beya have Revan in her clutches to make her believe that? Davad wanted to rip that smug smile from Beya's face; but incredibly, her ruse seemed to be working. You know she saw Revan in the Upper City. She admitted as much. Obviously, she planted quite a history in the woman's already cracked mind—

"You remember me." Beya's lightsaber hummed softly, closer to Davad's person than he would have preferred. "Polla, I sent Dia to help you. What happened, exactly? How did she die?"

Davad had seen the last text message from Beya's agent himself: some frantic nonsense.

She knows, it had said. We will try restraints but she knows.

The woman on the comm didn't seem to know anything at all. And Revan had been many things, but never an actress.

"Dead." A rapid intake of breath. "She-she just died. I just wanted her to stop—but she died. They all… they're all dead."

How many? Davad mouthed to Beya. She frowned as if she didn't quite catch his words. "How many?" he whispered.

Smiling slightly, the Deralian held up her free hand with all five fingers extended.

Five insects. Even a mind-wiped dark lord can manage five insects—

"Whoever that is on the other end of that line, Polla, they're not on our side." That man again. Somewhere in the background there was a growling noise too, a low gobble that almost sounded like speech. "You have to see that. If… if you're not a damned Sith yourself, you have to see that."

"She sounds like Beya. I-I think. It's been… been a long time, since I—I can't remember the last time I saw her. She went to Jedi. She went to Jedi and then the war, her da was—"

"—my da was pissed. He hates politics." Beya Organa laughed, sounding almost like the girl she had been. They both continued on, recounting details of this fake narrative. Davad was more focused on the Deralian's blade than her words, than her false voice, bringing up memories of a time long gone.

All of us, so young. Such fools.

XXX

"Had enough?" She shook her braids free from the band that held them when they sparred and they tumbled down around her shoulders. Beastriders strung bells in their braids, but hers were silent.

"Never," Davad murmured, raising his blade in the training circle. He could never get enough of this.

Revan's skin had darkened in her time on Mandalore and Eos, and her body had softened, grown lush. Despite the gravity of the Mandalorian attack, the desperation of the times, Davad was having a hard time focusing on their exercise.

She'd always been beautiful, but hard. Now—

The slight smile on her face might mean that she noticed his inattention, because it widened when the tip of her training saber buzzed against his ribs.

"You said Malak is leaving the Jedi?" Malak leaving and Revan staying. There was a logic there that Davad wanted to believe in. Malak was his father's heir, after all. But Revan in the Jedi without him….

Ever since their return, he never saw them together. They, who had once been inseparable. He hadn't asked, had barely left himself speculate or hope—

"Malak blames the Council. We both do—"

"It was a pretty speech you two gave the Senate." Davad couldn't quite hide the acid in his voice, not when Mandalorian patrols were rumored in the skies above Iziz. "But it will take more than pretty speeches."

"I know." She paused. "It will take finding others to rally to our cause. I need you, Davad." Those eyes: green and direct and frank, staring into his. He knew she meant with politics, with the Senate, with his own people. He knew and yet, still, at the time he thought—

And then I learned she left every night. Every night she spent in the Senator's tower instead of the Temple. Then I learned Malak had left the Jedi, but Rev would never leave him—

Xxx

"—yellow with injectors built in? There's five of them? Is that the serum? Thought it was some kind of stim."

"Yes, that's it." Beya took a step backward, finally, not letting go of her saber. Behind her, Davad saw their old, wretched servitor approach, and then freeze as he took in the scene. "Bring them here. Now."

"Take the first elevator down, you said?"

"Yes," Davad interrupted. "We'll see you soon?"

"Hey! Where did that bartender go? The one I shot? Did you kill him, bud?" A child's voice again. Not the first time Revan had attracted an orphanage. Davad would have to be careful. Children were easily scared and he did not want his prize to bolt.

"Damn! He's gone! We have to—"

Their voices were muffled, farther away from the comm.

"Polla, we have to go. Now. Are you— you're not still on that comm? Blast, don't you realize—"

A buzz of static, and then the line went dead.

"Her companion seems slightly less gullible," Davad noted dryly.

"She'll come." Beya's smile was smug. "She could hardly refuse me."

"Either her mind is entirely cracked, or I commend your skill with compulsion," Davad said lightly.

"Both can be true." The Deralian beamed, her smile as cold as Revan's.

Xxx

Polla bent down and pocketed up the five yellow vials of serum. "Beya will help us," she repeated stubbornly. She stared at the weapons for a sec, then grabbed that Chiss's disrupter, shoving it into her boot. Be a waste to just leave that lying around.

"Your cousin." Carth didn't buy it, that was obvious in every line of his body. "Your cousin the Jedi who just happens to be here?"

"My cousin, the Jedi, who needs my help! I don't know what kind of fracking planet you're from, but from where I'm from we help—"

"Sith." The word seemed to erupt from the pilot's gut. "You're helping Sith."

"They're just people!"

"Whoa. Okay." The Twi'lek girl interrupted them suddenly. "You're kinda… pushing it there. Do you know what they've done on Taris?"

"I don't care." It had been Beya's voice. Probably. She'd known stuff. What kind of trap would dig up a cousin you barely knew as bait anyway? And why would the Sith want to trap her in the first place?

Dia said she was bringing us in. Maybe we should have gone. Maybe I shouldn't have killed….

The room was empty, except for the four of them: her, Carth, the Wookiee and that Twi'lek kid. While she'd been talking on the comm, the cantina's clean-up crew had come and gone, leaving only the pile of stuff Mission had taken from the bodies.

Our spoils.

"It's a Sith planet. Beya's a Jedi. Jedi fight Sith. If those guys were with her, these were probably like, secret Republic agents that we just killed."

"Huh." The Twi'lek kid raised both eye ridges, lekku wrapping around her neck. "Okay. Me and Big Z are gonna… gonna go now. Okay?" The Twi'lek deftly swept up the idchips and pocketed them, backing off. "You can keep the rest of the junk."

"Be careful," Polla told her, eyes never leaving Captain Obvious.

["Watch your own steps upon the branch,"] the Wookiee groaned.

Behind Carth, both vanished through the open door.

Carth Onasi just stared at her. "Polla. I know you… you hit your head. You… you've been confused ever since we got here—but this entire thing… it stinks. You have to see that."

"You don't have to come with me."

"I don't want to," he muttered. "But I'm worried about you."

"That's sweet."

"You don't sound like it is."

"That's because it's not. I can take care of myself, Flyboy. I'm a free agent, remember?"

"Yeah." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I remember. You've made it all pretty damned clear."

"Then buzz off." She looked down at the broken comm unit, the one he'd grabbed out of her hand and then fracking fried with his blaster, and suddenly, she was so angry she could almost taste it. "I don't need you."

"I see." If looks could kill, Polla thought she'd be dead. "I see that now."

He turned and walked out before she could say more. But really, what more was there to say?

Beya needs me.

Xxx

"Hey!"

"What?" Mission turned her head, peering around Big Z just in time to see an out-of-breath geezer run up to them—that guy from Jayvar's, the one who taken out Eli the Chiss with like one blaster bolt.

Zaalbar whined warningly. ["That one smells like pain, Mission. Do not engage."]

"We're already engaged, kinda." She giggled. Big lunkhead wouldn't even get the pun. "What did the nice lady who gave me stuff smell like?"

["Like the Starkiller. Death."]

"You're a real bundle of laughs today—"

The geezer had not gotten the hint, 'cause he was still following, stepping faster to keep up.

"Wait," he repeated. "Before all that… that happened, you said something about captured Republic pilots and a swoop race?"

"You got a bike?" Maybe he had values after all. "I'm pretty good, but Zaerdra won't let me ride in the officials, you know? She worries too much. Not like she's my mom…."

"No, I-I just want to help them."

"Then you gotta win the race. Or break into the Black Vulkar base… if the Vulkars are dumb enough to keep em there." Mission shrugged. "My credits are on not… but they are pretty dumb. You know? And hey, what about your girlfriend? Is she really Sith?"

"I don't know what she is."

"You can talk to Gadon and Zaerdra if you want. If you come in with me, Beks will let you in. I'm in tight with them, even if I'm not like, a real member. Not officially. Gadon says when I'm older, but he's kind of out-of-touch. You know? Streets are pretty rough, and we kids have our own gangs, but it's not the same—"

"Thought you said you weren't a kid."

Mission giggled. "You're funny!"

["I do not understand the joke."]

"What did he say?"

Mission gave the man more props for figuring out that Zaalbar was actually talking, and not just some overgrown pet.

"Zaalbar doesn't really find a lot of stuff as funny as we do. He likes jokes about… trees." She shrugged, looking up at him. He had a square, furry, human face. "That's kind of funny, right? Because there are none here. I liked your girlfriend." She didn't, really, but he looked like he was worrying about her. "You sure she's gonna be okay?"

"I'm not sure of anything," the guy muttered. "But we're not… it's not like that."

Xxx

Good riddance, Captain Carth Onasi. I don't need you!

Polla reached in her pocket and realized she'd left that shock stick behind.

I've got credits though, and that blaster. I'll buy another stunner. Right after I save Beya. She's a Jedi, right? Jedi can get me out of this mess!

The elevator was at the end of a deserted corridor, lights around flickering on and off. A battered sign announced that bioscanners had been installed and would stop "anyone infected with the rakghoul virus from traveling past the Lower City. Travelers were advised to "descend at their own risk."

Screw Carth Onasi. Frack the Republic.

Polla pushed the button, and her stomach dropped as the lift descended. The lights flickered when the doors opened upon a dark and dusty ground that smelled oddly of kelp and mold and something industrial, like rotting metal.

She stepped out cautiously, blinking in the dim light.

They seemed to appear between one blink and the next: two figures wearing dark robes. The man had dark skin, almost gray in this light. The woman was ghost-pale, with dark hair falling past her chin, half hiding her features.

The woman, she noted, was watching the man, and not looking directly at Polla at all.

"Hello," the man said. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

Polla blinked at him. "Hello," she echoed. Even though he'd told her who he was, those memories on the ship were a blur: flashing lights, dead people, the Jedi and—

"Not-Trask," she said. "That's who you are! You were the one, you… you just left!" Asshole. He left me to die.

"You left me to die up there!"

"I never wanted you dead," he murmured, taking a step closer. "If there is anything left at all, know that I never wanted you to die—"

"Polla!" The woman interrupted sharply, her features resolving themselves into familiar ones as she came closer, flicking back the hair from her face. "Polla! It's me. Did you bring the serum?"

"Yeah, I—" Beya. She looks like shit. "You look like shit, Beya."

"An effect of the illness. Please. There isn't much time." Beya had an edge to her voice now, like she was trying to sound all Core and sophisticated. If she hadn't looked so fracking grim, Polla might have teased her for it.

"Here." Polla fumbled in her pocket as they both approached, both of them suddenly closer than seemed reasonable.

Up close, Beya really did look like hell. Or like she'd been there. Her hair was graying at the temples, and she was so thin that Polla could see the cords in her neck, almost see the skull beneath the skin of her sunken eyes.

She's not that much older than me and Sara! Frack, what happened to her?

Beya's eyes… which had been an unusual (for Deralia) shade of blue, were now transformed into dark brackish yellow, the color of mud.

Her companion didn't look much better. His hair was shaved too close to his skull to be any more than a shadow, but his lips were dull and cracked and close up, his skin was mottled and splotched. His eyes were yellow too. Yellow is bad, but not red, at least it's not red—

"Here." Polla handed Beya one if the vials and the woman instantly injected herself. Polla's fingers closed around the other one still in her pocket, and eyed the man again, warily.

"You said your name was…" it took her a sec. "Davad?"

"Yes." He nodded slowly, those eyes not leaving her face. There was a gash on his leg, and dried blood caking the dark fabric of his trousers. He smiled slightly at her, almost shy.

"Are you a Jedi too? Because you said you weren't, but that's a laser sword, right? That thing hanging on your belt?" It's sure not his dick.

For some reason, her face felt too warm, she jerked her eyes back up to his face to the trace of a smile there.

"Yes." He nodded. "I'm a Jedi too. My name is Knight Arkan."

"Oh, this is adorable," Beya snapped.

"You may go," the man told Polla's cousin. Even if he was staring at Polla, she knew he wasn't talking to her.

Beya gave an incredulous laugh. "Really? May I?"

"Here." Polla remembered the serum and held it out to him. His hands were colder than she expected, and he held hers a moment longer than she expected. It'd be flattering, being stared at like she was the last woman in the galaxy by a handsome, strange Jedi, if he didn't also look like he might be an extra from one of those scary space brain-damaged holovids.

Jedi don't look like that. You know what they are.

"Thank you," he murmured, and sank the ampule into his arm, discarding the vial a millisecond later. "Much better."

"Why did you tell me you weren't a Jedi?" And you're not a Jedi. And if you're no Jedi, then what are you—

"I never said I was not." When he smiled he had dimples, oddly ajar with the frozen planes of the rest of his face.

"But yellow eyes… they…."

"Yes?" His voice was gentler than his face. Something… something about it made Polla want to close her eyes and imagine him differently, lean into him. Let his strong arms—

The frack? She took a hasty step backward, stammering. "Eyes. They're not… not always yellow. Eyes change color. Eyes can change color, you know?"

"We know," he murmured. "Yours are the color of jungle leaves in this light. They were the color of the sun once. They were beautiful."

"I might be sick," Beya interrupted. "Right now."

"Can you make her remember?" He smiled again, and Polla felt something… weird, like her thoughts were sleepy and slow. "Her mind is… locked. I can barely sense it at all."

Sadness. He's sad. Not a feeling, just like I know that expression.

Or the feeling behind it.

Captain Obvious looks like that sometimes—looks like that sometimes, when he doesn't know I'm looking—he looks like that.

Not at me. It's not about me—

Only this man—this Jedi man—was staring right at her.

"You want me to tell you about Beya?" Polla asked, trying to make light of the situation. "I can tell you everything about Beya, if that'll jog her memory. Long time since she was home. Rumor was, she used Jedi magic to cheat on her six-year exams, and then, that was the year we all had the bad harvest, and my ma said that her cousin told her that over on Jada Farm they—"

"Pollie, I'm sure Davad's not interested in all of that!" Beya's voice sharpened.

"So much detail in a lie. Was she real once?"

"No offense, but is he crazy?" Polla sidestepped carefully away from the potentially crazy man with the laser sword and the yellow eyes.

You know what he is. Like the man on the ship. The man who killed Trask—

She felt her breath catch. Lights going out on a grid. This is my death here. This could be my death—

"He's nuts, but he's loyal, Pollie. Do you like him?"

"Sure," she lied, wishing her gun was closer than her boot suddenly. She backed up, wishing there was a corner, but the platform wall curved and the giant wall about twenty meters away did too. But there were people over there. Maybe less crazy people.

Her thoughts felt thick and slow. Like the sky was pressing down again, like it was cold—

Beya's head turned to the man's. Her voice was conversational. "I hope you like farms, Arkan, because Polla here is a farmer's daughter through and through. Easier to shatter a ferracrystal vase than to reassemble the pieces."

"Excuse me?" she interrupted. "I'm standing right here!"

Their heads turned, almost at the same time. Beya looked startled.

"She still retains a command of Ancient Si—"

"She always had a gift for it. Perhaps her other gifts are the same. You'll come with me," Davad told Polla. Not really told. Kind of commanded. "We'll go to my ship."

He's not a Jedi. You know what he is. You saw that one—those ones on the ship. You saw them before. Yellow eyes. Yellow is bad, but not as bad as red—

"I will not!" Polla took a step away from him. "I'm free." She took another step and her blood froze.

There were two dead guys propped on the wall. One was holding what looked like a tray with plates on it. Burned food. She'd seen a hessi once, hit in a lightning storm. It had looked like that too.

Beya chuckled. "I said you were free. Do you remember that, Polla?"

"When?" She kept her voice as calm as possible because something was… the more time she spent with them, the more she felt it. A coldness, like something in the air. Like ice. "Last time I saw her I was with my cousin Sara. We went to this concert and didn't tell our parents? We got pulled over, but Beya got us out of trouble—"

"A charming tale." The man—Davad—was staring at her cousin now, frowning. "And so complete. When was this?"

"I don't—I was fourteen… sixteen?"

"You at sixteen." He shook his head. "How I used to dream—"

"Okay! Don't be a creep!" Colder now, like the chill was setting into her very bones. "Are you sure you're a Jedi? You don't… seem… you… you don't. You're not—"

Patches of memory assailed her: a dark-haired woman, blue eyes. Blue.

XXX

"You've had another nightmare. It's just the head injury, Polla. You'll be fine." The woman's eyes were a dark blue, like Beya's, a little. Like Beya's weren't now. But she was younger, so kind.

Her name dangled on the tip of Polla's tongue. Her friend.

Trust her. You can always trust her.

"Dye her hair black," someone said, from a place outside the world. "Maybe that will help."

She screamed again, limbs lashing out, something was wet, sticky.

Tank, I'm in a tank. Seiran dared me to run the canyon wall and I fell—

XXX

"Seiran Wen?" She smiled at him. "Hey."

"Heard you were back in town," he said. "Did you come for the races? Qualifier's next week. I do some work on swoop gliders now, if you're interested."

Polla hadn't known that. Backwater swoops seemed small spacers compared to the galaxy out there."It's been seven years. I sold my bike after graduation."

"I could hook up — hook you up with something." Was he… blushing?

If you were in the mood for adorable, Polla might find that adorable. But she wasn't. She drained her drink. It had been ages since she ran the swoops, but she knew the routes like the back of her hands.

"What course is the qual on?" Maybe now was a good time to give it all up. Become a famous swoop racer, instead of a smuggler. She could too. It wasn't a bad idea.

"Janstak's Loop." Seiran had a nice smile, maybe a little too soft. His lips were big, like purses. Kissing them would be very different than kissing someone like Therion: all teeth and lies and infidelity.

XXX

But I never did. I never saw him again. My speeder hit the canyon wall and I fell—

Her eyes snapped open. The man's face was too close. His breath smelled bad, like meat rotting.

"Move away from me," she muttered.

"How did you reach her before?" He wasn't looking at her at all now, was staring at the other one. More details of their surroundings began to filter through Polla's consciousness: the two fried sents in the corner, another dead body near the lift itself. A tray and two cups of caff on the ground.

Like these two assholes had been having a picnic surrounded by death.

Across an expanse of open ground, she saw a gate and more people. Human, it looked like. They were trying to fix a hole in the gate. It looked like. Something… something came through the hole. It ran on all fours and had barbed spurs for hands. It started to tear one of the fence builders apart.

"I don't know." Woman's voice. Cousin Beya.

"Rather a complete set of memories. And you can't reach her now? Try."

"Polla," Beya said. "Shoot Davad with the blaster you've got in your boot."

"How did you know?" She—she bent down, she—

"I can see the bulge." Her cousin chuckled. "Go ahead, He won't die."

Suddenly, the smell of burnt… people reached her, and she wanted to puke.

"No." Reality came into crisp focus. What was important now. What was real. "That… thing over there. What's it doing to those people?"

Beya's head turned. "Killing them, it appears."

No. "We need to stop it. We need… we need to stop it."

Davad sighed. "I thought the Jedi programmed her to be a drunk."

"We could just let her go try and stop them herself?" Beya shrugged. "What do you think she could do with a weapon?"

"It would be an interesting test. She took out five, you said? In the cantina?"

Their voices dimmed to nonsensicality. Polla realized they'd stopped speaking Basic at some point, although what language they were speaking seemed to slip through her mind, glancing off like a forcefield. Impossible to know.

Someone was… someone was screaming. The monsters… the—the rakghouls were coming. There were more of them. There were more—

"We have to help them," Polla said. She broke into a run, leaving the other behind. Her blaster was in her hands before she even thought.

XXX

She tore across the coast, perched precariously on top of her hessi. Her topknot swung over her eyes and she clutched the pony's mane tight. Dancer's eight legs sliced through the ferra grass. She was racing with her cousin Sara, and she was winning. She always won. Polla Organa, the fastest tweener racer on all of Deralia.

—Memory, Chapter 5

A/N This is the revised version, typos fixed-as well as a few continuity issues. Song is "Hello" by Adele, cheesy as an UnderCity bar on an interdicted planet.

Please review, with choca sprinkles on top. I feel silly asking, but hey.

Chapter Text

"Seriously, Polla Revan?" Mission's hologram interrupted. "Don't be so dramatic." — Memory, Chapter 2

Chapter Six / Don't Count on Any Second Coming

XXX

The Chiss had shot Carth, just a score across the top of his arm, but it burned like fire. He tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the hall, the kid, and her Wookiee in front of him.

What worried him was that guard station they were approaching, with its red, flashing lights and automated turrets.

“Careful, kiddo.”

“What? I told you already! I ain’t no kid!”

Polla’s ion rifle was practically as long as the little blue Twi’lek who was carrying it. Carth bit back pointing that out when the Wookiee looked back and growled at him.

Mission Vao was shorter than—girls were shorter than boys—although if she was fourteen in Taris cycles that had to be close, that had to be—close. Maybe a little younger. Taris was about the same class of planet as Telos, days about as long. Longer than Coruscanti days. Standard Galactic, she’d be older, few years, maybe.

He’d done the math in his head before.

He’d be taller than she is. Like I was. I shot right up about that age. Morgana’s father was tall. He’d be taller—someday, maybe even taller than me.

If he had lived.

“Careful,” Carth repeated to the kid who was standing right in front of the turret now. Above their heads, a blue light flashed and then beeped.

Surveillance? He tried not to look jumpy. “I don’t like the look of that—”

“Huh?”

The Wookiee growled something, long and low. Impossible to see how there were words in that noise.

“Big Z says, if you’re freaked about the guns, don’t be. TarSec puts em here, but they’re too chicken to stay and we turn the sensors off—easy!” Mission ran forward, straight into the gun’s range, while Carth’s heart went to his throat. The light beeped again and she nodded, pointing to the cathode array attached to the ceiling. “Cept we leave the bioscanners alone. Nobody wants a rakghoul party. Nobody.”

The Wookiee rumbled something else.

“Big Z says, that’s for sure!” The kid leaned against the deactivated turret, grinning.

Her carelessness was just like Polla’s.

Maybe that’s why they get along so well.

It bugged him, that he’d just let the smuggler go.

She told you to leave. You left. She wanted to go meet some Sith down in the Undercity where the rakghouls are—alone. You thought that was a bad idea.

You let her go down there alone.

She proved she can take care of herself. It’s a war. My responsibility isn’t to some crazy Sith sympathizer. It’s to the Republic. The Fleet. Even those useless Jedi that didn’t do a damned thing to stop the Sith from taking down our ship —

Carth’s arm hurt, and he reached up, touching the place where the disrupter had grazed his skin. Jacket sleeve was half melted, and his arm felt burned.

You’re lucky it didn’t get disintegrated. Hell of a thing. A few millimeters closer and you’d only have a stump.

“Come on.” Mission was knocking on a panel in the wall behind the turret. It slid open under her hands, and a purple Twi’lek woman appeared in a doorway that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“No, Mission. Absolutely not!” she opened with, before the girl had the chance to say anything. She was glaring at Carth, making it clear what she was talking about.

“Oh, c’mon Zaerdra, he took out Eli the Chiss in one shot! He got hurt trying to save me and Zaal! Course, we had stuff under control, but still—”

“He's got credits and a face for the Upper City. Let him go there. Med supplies are limited as it is!”

“I have my own.” More than I need on my own. “Here.” Carth fished in his pocket and brought out a handful of kolto packs. “Here. Some for you guys too.”

“Oh!” Zaerdra's eye ridges raised. “Well, that changes things. Some.”

“Enough?” Carth tried to smile and look harmless, ignoring the burn in his arm.

“We’ll see.” One of her headtails lifted, beckoning. “But I’m keeping my eye on you, soldier.”

“Soldier?” He tried to laugh it off. What keeps giving me away? “I’m just a—smuggler. Caught here in the blockade like every other off-worlder.”

“Hrm…” she shifted on her feet, looking him up and down. “You’ve got an honest face, for a smuggler.”

“We got other stuff too,” Mission added. “Wait’ll you see—”

“Inside.” Zaerdra stepped to the side and let them enter.

Xxx

Polla ran towards the gate. There were five sents still standing, and another three on the ground. There were three rakghouls that she could see crowded at the gate, and another that seemed to be dead, lying on top of an achingly small body.

Something had broken the gate from the outside, shattering the makeshift durasteel plates into twisted ribbons.

Rakghouls can do that? Polla shivered. If they can do that, why are these people still fracking here at all?

“Help!” She called out, looking back. “We have to help them!”

Beya and Davad just stood where she'd left them, staring at her. Assholes.

Ahead, the people were ragged and dirty and poor. They were fighting with literal sticks and a few poles of what looked like durasteel rebar—construction materials meant to mend the broken gate—maybe. Debris was scattered everywhere.

And there were monsters. Three of them, and another lay dead on the sand. Looked like someone had gotten in a lucky shot and bashed its head open. The monsters were gray and had barbs along their legs and arms, ridges of spikes along their spines. Their heads seemed to be all made of teeth, mouths open wide, when they weren’t tearing into their victims.

I have to help!

Polla ran closer, trying to get an angle on the monsters that wouldn't include the poor sents they were trying to eat.

She fired, but the shot went wild. She fired again, and one of the monsters looked up from the man it was trying to tear apart and lumbered forward in Polla’s direction.

“Frack you!” She fired again and again, but it kept advancing.

This gun’s a piece of shit too. Shoulda kept the rifle.

Her foot nudged against a piece of metal bar half-buried by debris and she had a strange impulse to drop the gun and pick it up.

Yeah, because that makes sense. Let’s fight the moon-fracked monster with a stick.

Gritting her teeth, Polla aimed again and fired. Only five meters now. There was no way she could miss—

The bolt grazed one of the monster’s legs. Not the headshot she’d been trying for.

Run. Or stand and fight. Just don’t stand there like a lost manka—

“Hey!” Her voice felt thin, too high in the wind. “Help! We need to help them!”

“They're dead already.” The feminine voice was soft behind her. A hand closed on Polla’s arm with a grip like durasteel. “They’ve all been scratched by now. At least.”

“Beya.” Polla didn’t dare turn away from the advancing thing, but she tried to tug her arm—her arm with the blaster—free. “Please! We need to try!”

“Humor her.” Davad was suddenly on Polla’s other side, although she’d sworn that seconds ago he’d been much farther away. He extended his hand and a red-lit blur flew from it, arcing out. The rakghoul thing toppled, with half its head suddenly gone. The red light was back and the sound of it was—that sound—

Lightsaber. On the ship. That man had one, the one who killed Trask—and the others—the Sith and the Jedi—

“You’re Sith,” she mumbled. “I-I mean, I knew, but… thanks.”

“Thank you for the Sith?” Davad chuckled. “Or, thank you for the Sith?”

“I-I don’t—” She didn’t like him. He made her skin crawl—and yet there was something—

Some horrible monster was howling. One of the rakghouls. Run, I need to run—

“Help!” A kid came running towards them, but froze, wide-eyed, as if he'd just realized who he was running to. Kid was Human, maybe ten or eleven. “Oh! N-no, please. Don't hurt me!”

“We won’t,” Polla whispered. His head was shaved. Lice. They get lice down here. She took a step forward, dropping the blaster to show him they were the good guys. Run? No. I’m not fracking running. Let the guy with the laser sword use it on the monsters, not people. “Are you okay? You should leave this place. It’s not safe.”

“You're bleeding already, child,” Beya murmured. “And from those scabs on your leg, you've been bitten before.”

“Will he die?” A part of her was watching the others, the rakghoul behind them—and then Davad, the man in dark robes... suddenly moved from being beside them to jumping into the fray. He had his laser sword—lightsaber—in his hand now and the sentients scattered, while the monsters advanced.

“Everyone does.” Beya put her hand on Polla’s arm. “This… upsets you, doesn’t it? All of this death?”

“Of course it fracking does! Doesn’t it upset you?”

Her cousin laughed. “You get used to it.”

Davad was killing another monster with a lightsaber. A few slashes and the thing was dead. But instead of cheering, the sents around the gate scattered at his approach.

“Don't—” she whispered the word, but he was already moving, extending a hand. One of the injured slammed into the wall. A twist of his hand and a sickening crack came after. Neck. He broke that woman’s neck.

Red. You knew his laser sword would be red. You know what they are—

“Don't!” She picked up the blaster again. Her shot winged by Davad’s shoulder, meant for his knee, meant as a warning; but her vision was blurry. “Stop!”

Davad looked up, brown face a blank oval from this distance. In another instant, he had moved behind the broken gate, vanishing from sight.

Beya’s fingers tightened on her arm. “Davad gets excited. We should leave him the hunt. You need to come with me….”

A soft groan snapped Polla’s attention away from her cousin. The little bald kid was still standing there, looking frozen in terror, backed against the wall.

“Help,” the boy whispered. “Please. It hurts.”

Frack. “You need a medix. I know a doc, on the upper levels. Those bites look infected, they look—”

“He’ll turn soon,” Beya murmured. “I can feel it. Can you?”

“Turn?” Beya had latched onto Polla’s arm again like a mynock. Her fingers felt like ice. Polla tugged her arm away, stepping back sharply.

“Into a rakghoul.” Her cousin smiled at her, like this was a fracking harvest dance. “You need to come with me now, Polla Organa.”

I’m Polla Organa. “I-I need to come with you.” The blaster fell from her hand. She didn’t need it.

The boy was still staring at them, wide-eyed and frightened. “Please….” he whispered. “My sister Malya went to look for serum, but she never came back.”

“Oh. You've been bitten.” Polla fumbled in her pocket. The world seemed too slow, laced with syrup, like eridu stuffing in her head. “I have serum…it’s yellow, right?”

His eyes were brown. His face was narrow, features still young, voice cracking. His eyes widened. “You do? I'd do… I'd do anything—”

“I know you would.” Beya chuckled, and the boy started back, suddenly afraid again.

“I don't need help from Sith.” His face was slicked with sweat. He didn’t look good.

“We’re not Sith,” Polla told him. “Least… I’m not. Here.” She held out one of her remaining three vials and the boy grabbed it, injecting himself quickly.

He looked up at them once more—terrified. “You're wearing black robes. Just like them.”

“It's a coat,” Polla said.

“Kind of you,” Beya whispered in her ear. “Always thinking of others.”

Polla looked over again, even as the boy’s footsteps pattered into the distance. The rakghouls were dead… and so were the sents who had been trying to hold them back.

“Davad killed them.” She felt numb somehow. Inside. A part of her was starting to panic, but it felt slow and trapped, like her fear was weighed down with stones.

“Correction: he is killing them. There are more rakghouls beyond the gates and Davad enjoys this sort of thing.” Beya’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist like a vise. “Do you?”

“No.” Polla shook her head. “I shot trawler deer with my da, and birds a few times but I never—”

“Never? What about Dia? And her men? Dircassian said you were very… efficient.”

“Who?”

They were walking and Beya was leading, dragging Polla by the wrist like she was fifteen (sixteen?) again, and they had to face the—face ma and da and that was Sara, not Beya at all. The wind blew sand in their faces. Polla squinted her eyes. Wish I was home.

“Dircassian. The bartender. He saw your work—you, and your… escort. Where did you find a Wookiee? There can't be many on this world.”

On Kashyyyk. Where else would I—? “What?”

“That Republic slave they've got following you. And the child and the Wookiee.”

“They were just there… and Carth’s not a slave—why the frack would you think that?”

Because she’s Sith. Cousin Beya the Sith. Sith have slaves. “Your da would have a few words to say if he could see you now!” Polla added. “Beya Organa the Sith slaver? What the frack is that?”

Beya chuckled. “Be silent now.”

“I—” Polla didn't want to talk anymore. She just felt… numb.

Beya led Polla like she was a dumb hessi, around the corner, to a deserted hut banked against the outer wall. Inside it smelled like damp rot. There was a child’s land speeder toy in the corner, some bed mats rolled against the wall.

Someone else lives here. Or lived. They might be dead.

Polla was freezing.

“Sit,” Beya told her. “While I decide what to do with you next.” She sat too, taking Polla’s hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.

Polla felt her knees bend, her ass hit the floor. The back of the hut was curved and she edged into it.

“You don't need to be afraid,” Beya told her. She brushed Polla’s hair off her forehead. Her hand tugged at Polla’s top-knot, straightening it. “There is no fear. Not anymore.”

“I'm not afraid.” But she was, she just couldn't move.

“I am always afraid, but I don't let it rule me.” Her cousin’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. Was it twilight—did that made it so dark? “I don't know what to do with you.”

Dangerous. This is your death. She is your death.

“Huh? I'm free! I'm not yours!” Polla jerked her wrist back.

Beya let go of her, laughing slightly. “Don't run.”

“I won’t run.” Polla felt like that was a lie, but her legs wouldn't move to prove it. “But I’m free,” Polla reminded her, although she felt anything but.

“None of us ever were.” Beya turned Polla's hand over over and ran a finger across the palm. “Do you remember that witch woman we met on Wayland? She said we had great destinies. I couldn't sense the Force in her at all, but you said we made our own fate. Then, she said we'd die young. I thought she just wanted credits.”

“That wasn’t me.” So, Beya was nuts. “Uh, you know we met this doc in the Upper City? I could introduce you. Maybe you need someone… to… talk to?”

“He saw your face? What was his name?”

“Forn—Forn something.” Dodonna? No, that isn’t right. “Something Forn. Doctor... Forn.”

“No relation,” Beya said, chuckling to herself like that made sense. “So many have seen, but most won't know what it is they see. You look more like Sheris than yourself.”

“I'm not like, wanted or anything.” Polla forced a laugh. “Not in this sector! Who’s Sheris?” The name tugged at a memory, like someone had said that before. “Is she another cousin? Your side of the family, there’s like a hundred Organas.”

“Sheris Organa.” Beya’s mouth quirked. “It has a certain ring.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know her.”

“You were never going to let her live. Once you arranged Deralia as a test of my loyalty that was entirely clear.” Beya sighed. “I confess, even after all that has come between us, I find this choice difficult.”

“I don’t fracking kill sents! I didn’t… fracking… kill Sheris Organa!”

“Dia and her men…?” Beya smirked. “Do you believe in an afterlife like the Grass Priests? Because they’ll be waiting for us both in hell. Along with so many others.”

“I only killed two of them!” The words felt like they were coming from someplace underwater, welling up from her gut before Polla’s brain had a chance to censor them. “T-the others, Carth and the Wookiee and that kid—they killed the other ones—”

“Only two.” Polla’s Sith cousin had a fracking scary smile, even in the half-dark. Or maybe especially in the half dark. “How?”

“H-how?”

“How did you kill them?” Beya’s voice made it an abstract.

“I-I don’t—the woman—she just died. I didn’t—” it wasn’t just her heart. It was her neck too.

“How?”

Something in Polla’s gut tightened again, like the words welled up from there and not her brain. “Necks. Their necks were broken. I must have—maybe they fell or—”

“You broke their necks? With your hands?”

“How the frack else would I—” Her brain supplied gristly answers like it was cycling through variations on hyperdrive coupling. With the hard edge of a bladed weapon. With a stick. With—who the frack breaks necks with their hands in the first fracking place? Who the frack breaks necks?

“I didn’t do it.” She wanted to curl up into a ball and close her eyes, but her limbs felt frozen. “I dunno what happened up there. M-maybe Carth, he coulda shot them. He’s a soldier with the Republic Fleet—”

“He’s a war hero.” Beya laughed again. “There’s a song. I don’t suppose you ever had the mind for such things—even when you had a mind….” She hummed something, soft. Almost to herself.

Did the Sith make you crazy? Polla felt like the top layer of her mind was desperately trying to rationalize something that could not be rational. Rational would be getting up and running away—rational would be—

Her saber’s on her belt. She’s distracted. She finds you distracting. Use it. Get closer. Gut her if this can’t be salvaged—

“He’s nice.” The thoughts felt dragged from her guts again, made into words. “Carth is… nice. He’s kind. And… h-he has a great ass. And… muscles. On his arms… his face gets all funny when I scare him.” She wanted to laugh because she wanted it to be funny. “He’s kinda sensitive though. I don’t know what crawled up his beam—”

“Not my type, Pollie.” Beya leaned forward again, wiping a tear that Polla didn’t know had fallen from her cheek. Polla’s face felt numb. “Any more than you are, kid.” Her voice edged, losing the posh Core accent, until she sounded like home again. “Fracking hells, you wouldn’t last a millisecond against our master; or even the least of us. You bend like a thisla sapling in a light rain. That frack-damned Order turned your brains to sludge—”

“Order?” She’s crazy. Nod and agree with her. “Right. We need to get everything in order down here and then maybe we’ll go see Doc Dodonna—”

“What?”

“Forn. I-I mean Forn.” Why did I say Dodonna? Dodonna Forn?

“Sludge,” Beya muttered. “I could make you jump off a plat and you’d call me cousin and cry. No power left. You’re not even a threat to her. Not like this.”

“I’m not gonna jump off a plat!” She’s crazy. Right. Play along. Try and play along. “Uh, unless you think it’s a good idea, Cousin Beya.” The smile wasn’t working, but she’d found her limbs enough to hug her own ribs. Her teeth were chattering. Something inside felt… strange, like a cold light, working its way through her gut. Her head felt too heavy for her neck.

“But even so. You could be used against her.” Beya’s eyes were luminous, and her hand had moved to the saber at her belt. “You won't feel any pain. I can do that much.”

“Won't feel….” Something made Polla look up, toward the doorway. There was a shadow there, hooded, looming above her cousin. “Beya!” She grabbed the other woman’s arm, fumbling for her blaster, but it was gone. Again? I dropped it again?

“Careful,” murmured Davad Arkan. He hadn’t been there a moment ago. Polla could swear he hadn’t been there a moment ago.

XXX

“Thank you.” Lord Malak stood up from the bed, reaching for the robe that lay discarded on the floor. It levitated into his hand, and he draped it gently over her shoulders. “I hope that was… pleasant.”

Lord Malak was always formal after, as if once the fire of passion had found its release, his mind went to the manners he must have learned on Coruscant, before he even came to the Jedi.

“It was perfect, my lord.” Long ago, she’d looked at holonovels, scripts to find out how a well-bred woman from the Core would have behaved in this situation—not that Revan Starfire had ever been one, no more than Sheris Darkstar had. But now, the formal phrases came almost as naturally as breathing. “Had I known you were going planetside, I would have kept the suite. We could have ordered breakfast, if we were there instead of here.”

“Tired of ship rations?” The Force was soft with his teasing intentions, even if the voder made Malak’s voice flat. “As am I, although of course….” Still naked, he walked across the room. Muscles flexed in his back, the thick lines of his thighs. From the side, he looked carved in marble, lines of Sith corruption stippling his pale skin like some Zabrak god of old.

Stupid, Sheris. Very stupid! “You said you enjoyed watching me eat.”

“I do.” He’d turned back to that display, the globe of Taris floating above his personal desk by the viewport. “But there is some unrest. If you tire of rations, I could have the officer’s chef prepare you something—”

“You said she only ate what her men did. It inspires loyalty.”

“They would hardly know.” From the way his muscles tensed, mentioning her had been a mistake.

“The chef’s Bothan. You know how they like to gossip.”

“Then we should replace him with one who cannot.” His brows raised, which meant he was joking, almost surely. “Or rip out his tongue?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She wrapped the cape around her shoulders. It still smelled of him, and scorched flesh. She had grown to like it. “The pain is better?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Thanks entirely to you, my bright.”

Bright, but not heart. They had pet names, and so do we. Of a sort.

“I live only to serve you, Lord Mal.”

The Force blackened suddenly, with the abruptness of an ion storm, coalescing around Malak like an almost visible cloud. But he didn’t move.

Sheris’s heart beat faster, but she met his gaze, steady and cool. Just like she would have.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said after a pause. “I need one sentient who will never lie to me.”

Everyone lies, my lord. Even you. There was something he was holding back. Sheris could sense it. Something about Taris. Whatever it is doesn’t matter, because Bastila Shan is dead from the rakghouls and there are other worlds to conquer.

“I love you, Malak,” Sheris whispered. That, at least, was no lie.

XXX

“We coulda spliced in some normal id-sigs!” Mission Vao looked genuinely upset as the Twi’lek woman Zaerdra fed the idchips they’d scavenged from the dead Sith into the galley incinerator like last week’s leftovers.

“Some things are too hot,” Gadon chuckled, and the three-meter-tall Wookiee next to him roared softly as if he was echoing an agreement.

If he’d roared loudly, Carth figured that would have been an objection.

“Mission, those chips belonged to dark operatives,” Zaerdra added. “Eli the Chiss reported directly to Malak’s Dark Jedi—the others probably do too. There’s no way we could crack the codes and use their ids—and even keeping them around is risky.” She glanced at Gadon. “Might be worth shifting bases.”

The bald Human snorted. “Now who’s paranoid, love?”

“We’re the Hidden Beks for a reason,” she said grimly. “We need to keep these three out of sight—at least until those Imperial ships leave orbit.”

“But I was gonna race—” Mission’s voice had that indignant whine that was painfully familiar.

xxx

“But I was gonna race, Dad! It’s not fair!”

“There’ll be other races, son. You can still—you can still go. I just won’t be there. But your mom… bet she’ll record the whole thing—”

“Right.” Those dark eyes were hers. Like gold in rich, Telosian soil. He’d grown another five centimeters in the two months Carth had been gone, and now those eyes were nearly level with Carth’s own. “Sure, Dad. Unless you die or something—”

XXX

Carth took a deep breath. This is just another kid. Planet’s full of kids. You need to focus on keeping them all safe. Not just one. There’s a chance to save Bastila—and there are other survivors—

“It’s okay, Mission. It’ll be okay,” Carth muttered out loud. “Easy come, easy go.” His arm still ached through the kolto bandage, but it would heal. And he’d started to breathe easier, once Zaerdra and this Gadon guy had confirmed that their rival gang, the Black Vulkars, really did have some Republic prisoners. Four, to be exact. Vulkars had sent holos as proof—proof that Carth cajoled Zaerdra into letting him see.

The Black Vulkars had sent holos of Lieutenant Jara Sang, Padawan Elias T’chong, a Duros Carth thought he’d seen in engineering (named Pan, he was pretty sure), and Padawan Bastila Shan, the Hope of the Republic. All were strapped down on what looked like medix beds. All had their eyes closed, and portable monitors showing their life signs and the date.

They all looked unconscious.

They all could be faked. They all could have been killed right after the Vulkars snapped those holos.

Bastila Shan’s image was dated from yesterday. Jedi Bastila Shan. Alive. And not with the Sith.

Carth had let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he saw her.

Polla Organa lied. Or she was wrong. Or she just didn’t know—? Why would I believe anything she said? Any cocked-up rumor she picked up from some Mando’ade merc in a bar in the first place?

This could all be a trap.

Wasn’t the first time he’d wondered. Things here seemed a lot like they’d been in Chiras City when he’d been a kid in the Skyjammers. Gangs that worked with the Sec forces on Taris ended up jailed by the same. Only the Sith wouldn’t throw them in stir. They’d just shoot them.

Whichever gang took the risk of turning these prisoners in for the reward would be either stupid, well-connected, or Sith themselves.

But I don’t have another option.

The prisoners all appeared to be unconscious, but they didn't look dead. Carth hoped. He hoped.

So, we—I’ve—got to rescue them. Get us all off this rock. Fight the blasted Sith here if we can’t.

Get Bastila away from the Sith at all costs.

Avoid Sith-collaborating smugglers at all costs—

“We are not so safe, if the Sith have Mission and Zaalbar on vid shooting at their own.” Zaerdra sounded tired. “If there was a way past the blockade, I’d send you off-planet myself, Vao. Your brother—”

“Not a word about kriffing Griff! I don’t need him! Or you, or anyone!” The girl crossed her arms and glared at them all.

The Wookiee bared his teeth and whined, almost questioningly, and the girl shook her head.

“No way, Big Z. They’re just scared. We killed those guys pretty easy, right? We can do more.”

“Mission killed them?” Gadon’s head turned. His eyes were milky white orbs, but there was a tracery of silver around them that suggested cybernetic implants. Whatever it was, the man could obviously see something—blast, maybe even see better than Carth himself.

“She laid down suppressing fire,” Carth comforted him, if that was comfort. From the way the kid handled a blaster, she’d done her share of shooting at live targets before too, but it was none of his business.

Not my world, not my problem. Just like that blasted Deralian Imperial spy—

Or smuggler with a head injury that you abandoned to some Sith trap.

“Sith patrols usually carry rakghoul serum,” Zaerdra interrupted. “Some sents are immune after one dose, but a lot aren’t. If you had some of that, Captain Onasi, maybe then we’d let you download our schematics of the tunnels—places where Sith patrols don't go.”

“I don’t,” he snapped.

“His crazy girlfriend took it all,” Mission added. “Five doses. Did I tell you about her? She took out Dia and some other guy even before Big Z ripped off the arms of that Trandoshan.”

“Good job, Big Z.” Gadon smiled.

The Wookiee roared.

“She’s not…” Carth's voice trailed off. “She was working with them. Maybe. I-I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“She was nice,” Mission chirped in. “Just crazy. She gave me this rifle.”

Zaerdra eyed her. “You’re not keeping that. It goes in the arsenal with the rest.”

“No way! It’s mine!” The girl took a step back, voice rising to an indignant squawk.

“Bring us a set of armor from one of the Imperial patrollers.” Gadon ignored the squabbling Twi’leks, resting his hand on Carth’s arm with precision that proved he was seeing something. “Sith armor. It has the idchips programmed in, but they’re generic. That, we can use—even some non-Humans can use—to go easily between levels, access the Imperial’s offices, their factories. Bring us a set of armor, and we’ll even sponsor you in the race. You’ll have to run against our racers too, of course; but if you win, we’ll back your claim to collect those prisoners.”

Pride made Carth want to think he could win, but it had been a long time since the old days in Chiras City and Thani; and flying a snub or a bird was nothing at all like riding a swoop bike. The Beks had two jockeys on deck already, he’d been told. “With your racers plus me, we’d have triple the chance of winning,” he argued. “And you’d get the help of the Republic after. That’s… that’s worth a lot more than whatever reward the Sith are offering.”

“What makes you think we want the help of the Republic?” Zaerdra’s lekku twisted around her finger. That probably meant something to Twi’leks because Mission started giggling.

“I’ve got training. And the others do too.” He didn’t want to mention Bastila Shan by name. “We could help you fight the occupation of your planet. Send a flotilla to break the blockade. Smuggle in medical supplies. More kolto!”

Gadon coughed. “The help of the Republic?” He jerked his head towards the wall behind him. It was covered in framed holos—most with black rims around the edges. It took Carth a second before he saw the one Gadon must’ve wanted him to see: what looked like a much younger Gadon, surrounded by six hooded figures. All were smiling, and each one had a lightsaber on their belt. “We had that once. Republic Mercy Corps.” the old gangster looked grim. “You can see how that worked out.”

XXX

One advantage of possessing poor impulse control was that your fellow Sith always expected you to be rash. Davad only had to run out of the gates before wrapping the Force around his presence like a shield, vanishing from sight.

The remaining rakghouls scattered, proving more sentience than he’d expected. The fool villagers were not as fortunate, as three had emerged from their hiding place like cannock cubs when he crossed through the gates again. They were all scratched and bleeding, and none saw the blade that ended their lives.

The fourth villager he saw—a bald child—ran away squeaking at Davad’s approach. Since the lad was clever enough to run toward the elevator and the possibility of escape in the levels above, Davad did not pursue him.

But the child dropped something, and Davad levitated it into his hand, absently, still cloaked in the shadows his master had taught.

A used vial, traces of precious serum still clinging to the sides.

Where did a wretch like that boy get rakghoul serum?

The surge of anger at the waste was momentarily sweet and distracting, but Davad did not forget his purpose.

Beya’s presence, now that his mind had affixed to it, was as clear as her scent in the air: emanating from a small hut, tucked in the curve of the wall. Revan’s presence was a whisper there too—foreign and barely visible in the Force: merely the throb of a fast-beating heart, the murmur of confusion.

Her voice, still slurred with the Deralian accent, harsh on his ears.

“I only killed two of them! T-the others, Carth and the Wookiee and that kid—they killed the other ones—”

“Only two. How?”

“H-how?”

“How did you kill them?”

“I-I don’t—the woman—she just died. I didn’t—”

“How?”

“Necks. Their necks were broken. I must have—maybe they fell or—”

“You broke their necks? With your hands?”

“How the frack else would I—”

Revan’s voice had faltered as Davad slipped inside. In the moment it took for him to adjust his Force weaves to the new shadows, he fancied he saw Revan’s eyes focus and widen, but she gave no other reaction, and a heartbeat after, her gaze dropped back to the floor and he doubted that he had seen anything at all.

She sat in a corner of the crude dwelling, knees almost drawn to her chest, in the perfect post of subjugation. Beya sprawled lazily and unprotected on the other side of the room.

Davad could have ended either of them—or both—in the time it took one of them to draw another breath.

“I didn’t do it. I dunno what happened up there. M-maybe Carth, he coulda shot them. He’s a soldier with the Republic Fleet—”

“He’s a war hero.” Beya laughed. “There’s a song. I don’t suppose you ever had the mind for such things—even when you had a mind….” She was humming that song they’d heard on Ziost now. ‘The Admiral’s Doom.’ Some revenge ballad against Karath. Davad did not concern himself with such petty conceits.

“He’s nice. Carth is… nice. He’s kind. And… h-he has a great ass. And… muscles. On his arms… his face gets all funny when I scare him. He’s kinda sensitive through. I don’t know what crawled up his beam—”

Is she toying with Beya? Davad would not react to the rest.

“Not my type, Pollie.” Beya leaned towards the other woman, hand extended. Her fingers brushed against Revan’s cheek and his former master merely blinked. “Any more than you are, kid. Fracking hells, you wouldn’t last a millisecond against our master; or even the least of us. You bend like a thisla sapling in a light rain. That damned Order turned your brains to sludge—”

“Order?” Revan nodded, but the blankness in her face was chilling. “Right. We need to get everything in order down here and then maybe we’ll go see Doc Dodonna—”

“What?”

Dodonna?

“Forn. I-I mean Forn.”

“Sludge,” Beya muttered. “I could make you jump off a plat and you’d call me cousin and cry. No power left. You’re not even a threat to her. Not like this.”

Forn Dodonna? Admiral Forn Dodonna was not a name a smuggler would recall so readily.

XXX

It had been a week since the Aleema had been taken by Republic forces, a week since Revan’s death. A week of sitting in isolation on a capital ship’s brig, deafened to the Force and chained like an animal.

A week since he had demanded trial in an Onderonite court, and a jury of his peers.

“Diplomatic immunity,” Davad repeated flatly, keeping his head high. The neural band at his temples throbbed. Without the Force and in chains, he felt like a beast bound—but not for long. “Did my cousins send the request?”

“They did.” Admiral Dodonna turned to face him. “But as long as you and your fellow prisoners are on my ship, you will be treated as the traitors you are.” Her gaze was as flat and cold as dear old Rev’s. Not for the first time, Davad thought the admiral would have made a fine Sith Lord, had she possessed any power at all. “And you are traitors, Knight Arkan. Make no mistake—”

Davad feigned unconcern with a yawn. “It’s Lord, actually. Lord Arkan. Or, Darth—if you would like to give my station full recognition….”

Forn Dodonna had a handsome, almost feral face. There was more gray in the hair peeking out from under her admiral’s cap than Davad remembered. And her proud mouth twisted, lips curling back from her teeth in a fashion that would have made prey retreat—had Davad been meat, instead of a hunter himself.

“I would give you a public execution,” she snapped. “You and all your fellow traitors. But the senators—”

“They took you back after Malachor,” he pointed out, smiling. “Are we so different?”

XXX

Admiral Forn Dodonna. Revan remembers her, but not me? The idea was beyond galling, but it could mean…. Is there something left?

Davad took a step closer, still cloaked in shadows, to the right of Beya. Across from them, in the corner of the hut, the steady beat of Revan’s heart… faltered abruptly.

“You won't feel any pain.” Beya’s eyes were luminous, her voice gentle. It had been years since he’d heard her sound so soft. “I can do that much.”

Her fingers moved, and Davad watched Revan’s eyes flutter closed, her breathing slow—Davad felt her fragile spark weaken—

“Won't feel….” Revan’s dull head drooped, a flower on a broken stem.

No! Rage swelled at the thought of a threat to her: rage, discounting all reason. Bloodlust surged within him, its strength a cloud—burning—sharp as hunger, as release—

Across from them, Revan’s head jerked up abruptly, those perfect leaf-eyes widening, and for a moment… he felt… something. A jolt of power, of promise, as those eyes locked with his. Recognition? Hope? Something of you left in that damned Jedi-made shell?

“Beya!” Revan cried out as Davad revealed himself to her, slipping fully out of the shadows to stand before them.

But the woman he had sworn to die for yelped and reached for Beya’s hand. Reached for Beya; for protection and comfort. Revan reached for Beya; who had been about to end her life but a moment ago.

“Careful,” he choked. A warning for both of them. He would end Beya Organa in this moment, if not for the expression on Revan’s face now. She trusted the woman she thought was her cousin. Beya seemed to exert some influence over her; where Davad’s attempts were met only with a shield wall.

“Y-you!” Instead of looking grateful to see him, Revan scrambled to her feet, pressing her back into the wall. Her fear was thick and heavy between them, almost a living thing in the Force.

The Force. It’s there. Some part of her remains—she spoke of Forn—

“I won’t let him hurt you, Pollie.” Beya stood too, inserting herself between them, her voice dripping with false sincerity.

“We may need to rethink our alliance, Lady Organa.” Davad summoned more of his power, frustration fueling his strength. He had a moment of satisfaction at her indrawn breath.

“I was testing her defenses,” Beya murmured, taking one step back. “I’ve met nulls with better shields than she has. You will have to keep her well-hidden… or, how will you explain this to dear old Mal? Do you think he’ll let you just keep her? Like some of pet?”

“Who are you talking about?” Revan slipped around Beya, edging towards the door. “Listen… I think… I should… I should be going.”

“Wait!” Davad put the edge of a Force command behind it, but his old lover didn’t pause.

Revan was halfway out the door when Beya caught her by the arm. “Wait, Pollie.”

“Beya.” She blinked. “I’m free. Frack off!”

“Sit down again.” Her words were syrupy, thick with command, but this time Polla Organa only blinked.

“Why the frack should I? Your friend’s a fracking murderer!”

“Only for you,” Davad muttered, half under his breath.

“That excuse died years ago, Arkan.” Beya chuckled. “Rev may have shown us the light, but what happened after that—”

“I’m leaving,” Revan said. “Both of you Sith scum assholes can frack off.”

XXX

“I’m leaving,” Davad said, not trying to hide the smugness in his voice. “Unless the Republic wants war with Onderon and its allies, you won’t stop me.”

“It’s a war your planet would not win,” Forn said.

“Not alone.” Although that would be glorious. “But with the might of Malak’s forces behind us—”

“If your claim is that Onderon is a Sith ally, you become a prisoner of war.” Form smiled grimly, like her words meant anything at all—

“Admiral Dodonna....” Masters Kae and Kavar arrived together at so precise a right moment, Davad assumed it was timed. It was Kavar who spoke, but Davad knew who held the reins.

“Admiral Dodonna, the Jedi Council will take command of this prisoner now.”

The warrior whipped her head around to glare at them both. “The Senate approved another petition?”

“Senator Phin was most persuasive on our behalf….” Kae murmured.

XXX

“You're letting her go?” Beya’s voice was too mild, as he kept her from following, blocking the door and fingering the scrap of black cloth he had ripped from Revan’s coat. “Again?”

“She needs assistance,” he snapped. “You offer her death. Where is your true loyalty, Organa? You need to decide.”

Beya’s jaw set, and her stance shifted, became aggressive. “Oh,” she murmured. “I have.”

Xxx

Polla refused to freak out. Something felt hot in her guts, like her terror had its own weight. She fumbled for the stun stick in her pocket—only to find it not there.

Dropped it. I don't remember where—maybe back at the bar? I dropped it.

Behind her, she heard the two Sith arguing again, probably about how to kill her.

So, Cousin Beya is a Sith. Lots of sents are Sith. Walk away slowly. You saved her life with that rakghoul serum? She should be grateful—

The second Polla’s feet hit the sands outside, she burst into a sprint for the gate.

Xxx

“You were going to kill her,” Davad said accusingly. “If I hadn't intervened—”

“She's getting away.” Now, he was blocking the door.

“She won't go far.” But his head turned and in that instant, Beya’s blade whipped out and arced towards his ribs.

Not a killing strike, but it would have paralyzed him, if the Onderonite hadn’t been inhumanly fast with his defense. His blade locked with hers, and then he began to use his superior strength, forcing her own saber back. Beya deactivated her own weapon and ducked in one smooth movement—leaving him swinging at thin air—as she delivered a thrust from behind that would have severed his leg, had his own blade not suddenly been there to block—

“Hah.” His yellow eyes narrowed. Those abominable dimples of his flashed as his mouth curved up.

In that instant, Beya forgot about Revan completely. In that instant, she merely wanted Davad Arkan dead. Hate makes me strong—strength fuels my passions—

In the next instant, Davad’s commlink chimed. Three long tones.

“Hells,” the man muttered. He stepped backwards, and she lunged. Their sabers clashed again, but now hers held the higher plane. Davad was obviously rattled, glaring at his wrist.

Beya couldn't help but smile.

Lord Malak calls. And you're his pet drexl, Beast-lord.

Even the thought that Davad might be foolhardy enough not to answer, thus triggering the explosive chip set in the device, did not dampen her glee at seeing the Onderonite so easily cowed.

His brow furrowed as he activated the audio with the Force. “Yes, my lord?”

If the weight of Arkan's power hadn't required her full attention, Beya would have found his cringing amusing. The blue light around them as Malak triggered the visual override again was less funny. The fact that Lord Malak could activate the camera in Davad’s comm—but not hers—seemed to indicate the two had not entirely resolved their issues of trust.

Darth Malak’s voder clicked. Light glinted on his metal jaw, and his mad eyes narrowed, taking them in. “How fortunate I am, finding you still together.”

“Beya asked for a sparring lesson, my lord.” Arkan parried, but Beya slid her own blade back, bringing both her hands together on the hilt, and then suddenly executing an upthrust with the Force and her own strength. Arkan’s hilt knocked from his hand—

But before she could call his weapon to her own grasp, he called it back again, flipping the blade up in an unexpected riposte.

He's better at this than he pretends.

“Stop,” Malak ordered them. “Now. I have need of you.”

“Lord Malak.” Beya froze immediately, bowing her head, clipping her quickly-deactivated weapon to her belt.

Davad was slower, face still lifted in an ugly sneer as he deactivated his blade. Hard to tell if the expression was meant for her or dear old Mal. “Yes?”

“The Tarisian Security Force has just informed me of an incident that my two most loyal and trusted Sith Lords did not bother to mention.” Malak paused, just enough to make his threat clear. “An incident in an Undercity bar involving Lord Beya Organa’s operatives? I assume you are aware? When last we spoke, I was told you were both on your way to investigate a presumed sighting. Not a confirmed one.”

It was probably her imagination that made Beya think their master’s Sith-damned eyes were boring a hole through her chest, but all she could do was smile.

“I was on my way there,” she murmured. “But then, Lord Arkan decided to settle an old score.”

“So I see.” Malak paused. “I assume you know that the incident involved a black-haired Deralian with my consort’s face? I assume you know the location of this Javyar’s Cantina has not changed since we last spoke?”

Brown hair, really. The color mine was. Beya was vain enough to dye hers now.

“We have just acquired the rakghoul serum, my lord, and restored ourselves,” Davad broke in. “But I will not trouble Beya, should she wish to go to another bar instead. I will go retrieve your wife.”

“My wife is no longer in this cantina. Her whereabouts are unknown. But you will both go there now and question every sentient in the sector.” That metallic voice deepened, shifting into a cold fury they both knew better than to ignore. “Go immediately. This is no time for games. If one of you dies, the other will also at my hand. If you do not recover my wife—”

“We know,” Davad interrupted, with more arrogance than Beya thought he would have dared use in the same room as their old chum. “We have all been Sith for some years now, Malak.”

“You are nothing,” their master breathed, rasp of his voder increasing with his agitation. “You draw breath only through my will. If you attempt to deceive me again—”

“Did you want Revan alive or dead?” Beya interrupted.

“We reached an accord on that score when you betrayed her on the Aleema,” Malak’s voder crackled over the comm. The sound could have been laughter or rage. When he got like this, it was good to have an atmosphere and several thousand kilometers of space between them.. “Has that changed, Beya? Do you now want our Revvie alive?”

“No.” I don’t know. But Sith had no time for reflection. Better her than me.

Davad didn't move. He had known about the Aleema —Beya still remembered the burning grip of his hand nearly breaking her wrist when she let the transceiver she’d used to comm Malak fall onto the bomb-blasted floor—but hearing Malak confirm her betrayal had to sting.

“I want you to end her in person,” their mad Sith Leader added. “For me. With your saber. Through her heart. And, if she truly does not know who she is, you are to tell her before she dies. Record the response. I want to see.”

“Do you have a preference as to which one of us should… have that honor?” Oh, but Beya was twisting the blade in deep now. She could see it in Arkan’s expression. If she dared look directly at the comm, she suspected she'd see the same expression on Malak’s face as well.

For all your talk, Mal. For all of your power. For all that she did to you. For all that you have Sheris… you still call Revan your wife.

“Lord Arkan will perform the act,” Malak rasped. “But if he is too slow, you may intervene, Lord Organa.”

“No doubt Lord Arkan is quite capable of performing the act.” Beya let her lips twitch.

I will force you to keep your word and challenge Malak, or I will break you, Davad.

Her death would break you.

“And the body?” The Beast-lord stared at Beya with the fury of all nine Corellian hells. Staring at Beya, but speaking to Malak. “My lord, do you wish to see—”

“A recording and a lock of her hair will suffice.”

Still squeamish, Mal? Not even a hand? Beya would not allow herself a true smile, but her smirk widened.

“My Lord Malak, will you give our regards to Lady Sheris?” Davad’s voice reminded Beya of a coiled spring, stretched near breaking. “Beya was just telling me how close she and Sheris have become.”

Oh, Beya would end him for that. But if he could only end Malak first—

“I've been teaching your consort ryss,” Beya stared the Dark Lord of the Sith straight-on—at least through the commlink. “You and I and Vik used to play, Mal. Do you remember?”

“The assignment on Felucia?” His brow furrowed as if he was actually trying to remember. Men.

“Dagmar.” Girlish confidences had their advantages. “Davad and Revan were assigned guard of that slaver’s base near the lake while the rest of us were stuck on that interminable ranger’s station with the rescued children.” She laughed softly. Both of you, so predictable. “Rev told me later that all they did there was loll around half-clothed in the water—”

From the corner of her eye, Beya saw the Onderonite’s mouth twitch.

“You have five days to kill my wife,” Malak’s voder crackled again, lacing his words with the fury of tombs. “Fail in your efforts and I will bomb this ecumenopolis from orbit—with both of you still languishing in its depths.”

Xxx

“Hey!” The bald kid Polla had helped earlier was curled in the shadow of a crate near the lift. “Don’t come any closer!”

“It’s me,” she said, trying not to look back to see if those assholes were following. “Remember? Serum Lady? Are you feeling better?”

He looked better.

“You gonna torture me now?” His face was a combination of terrified and fierce, like an unbroke hessi colt back home.

Wish I was there. I should call Ma—

“I’m one of the good guys.” She would not look back.

“You’re dressed like them.” He pointed at her coat. “Black robes, like them.”

“This thing? I stole it.” They could be sneaking up on me right now. “Look, kid. You need to run. Those two Sith are trouble.”

“But this was the safe place!” His nose was running. Kid couldn't be more than ten. “My sister Malya went out to look for dumb old Wrinkle-Skin’s maps or something. She told me to wait here.”

She’s probably dead. Old Wrinkle-Skin too. Polla swallowed hard. Poor kid. Frack, when I was ten, I had Dancer and that trip to Alderaan with Ma and Da and school and swoop training—

This kid has dirt. Nothing.

“Here.” She pulled out a handful of credits and one of the serum vials. “Take these and take the elevator up, okay? Rent a flat someplace. Give that vial to Doc Forn Dodonna. I think he’s paying plenty. Ask him to set you up—seems like a nice guy….” Her voice trailed off. “Tell him Polla Organa says hi too. Tell him my head feels a lot better.”

It did. In the middle of all this banthashit, Polla suddenly realized she actually felt fine.

“We are the Outcasts of Taris! We are forbidden to go into the Upper City—”

“Kid, I just came down here in that elevator. What goes down, goes up. There's no one to stop you.”

But there was a… a bad feeling, like an itch on Polla’s shoulder blades. That gate needs to be fixed to keep the rakghouls out. I need to find someone to fix that gate.

“You come too?” His eyes were wide, almost colorless in this light. His hair was shaved to the scalp, his clothing filthy with grime.

“I will. But you go first.” Those Sith are after me. I need to run.

“Doc Forn Donna.”

“Something like that.” She nodded. “Go on. Shoo!”

Polla didn't wait to see if he listened or not. Despite every nerve telling her she was running the wrong way, she ran out onto the sands.

It was the direction away from the evil Sith.

XXX

“Big Z!” Mission had appeared in the cafeteria just as Zaalbar was finally settling down to lunch. Roast vat-meat wasn't his first choice, but it was better than the grubs that grew in the sewers that the locals of this planet called steak. “C’mon!” his chirpy cub said. “That guy just left! We need to trail him, make sure he doesn't die. Okay?”

“Zaerdra and Gadon asked us to do this?”

“Yes,” Mission swore, round-eyed and not blinking. He suspected she was lying, but then, if the man did die, the weight of his soul would be on Zaalbar’s back like a rotten tree branch.

“I follow,” he growled formally.

XXX

Shouldn't have left her, Onasi.

She told me to leave her.

Polla Organa knew Mandalorian. She knew Sith operatives—or they knew her. Cousin, my ass. She could be one of them. One of them that got tortured and rescued by Jedi—

Maybe she didn't know. He'd heard of such things. The Sith were certainly capable of worse. Polla Organa could have been in deep cover as a Republic operative, or-or brainwashed, or just flat-out insane—or lying. It all could be an act.

But you don’t buy that. Your gut says you just let a woman who barely knew what year it is go meet someone who claimed to be her Sith cousin in the Undercity of Taris. Alone.

Carth knew it was bad when his conscience started arguing with itself. Didn't help that the Twi’lek kid seemed to think the best way for them to win this swoop race was to steal a piece of lousy, illegal tech from a rival gang’s base. Now, she was trailing along behind him as he walked back the direction they’d came, followed by her Wookiee. Who was groaning his protests every fifteen seconds or so.

“Hold your speeder,” Carth told the kid. “First, I'm gonna go get my partner. Then, that armor for your boss.” Look for Polla. Stupid, Onasi. Stupid. What are you gonna do if you find her? Or the Sith? How is she gonna help Bastila, or Lieutenant Sang, or any of them?

“Gadon’s not my boss,” the kid muttered.

“Okay, okay.” He glanced back at her, grinning. “Fine. Not your boss. Your… good buddy, who runs a gang. You know, when I was a kid, I ran with a swoop gang on Tel-Telos.”

“Telos? Wow.” There was a long pause, followed by a low growl from the Wookiee.

“Zaalbar says that’s pretty harsh. What happened.”

“Yeah,” Carth muttered. “It was. But we go on, right?” Maybe Polla Organa was bad news. Carth still didn't like to think of her dead.

“You want to meet that girl with the weird head fur again, huh?” Mission sighed. “Bet she'd help me steal the hyper accelerator!”

“I'm sure she would.” Carth realized he was smiling and stopped, because… Telos. What the hell do I have to smile about after that? “Look… I'll… I'll be back, okay? I promise I’ll come back to check on you.”

“I'll tell Zaerdra you’re coming back!” Mission beamed up at him, suddenly placated. “You seem like an old geezer to me, but I think she likes you. I mean, she’s kinda with Gadon right now? But I think you’d really have a shot.”

“That’s… uh, nice. It’s good. Good.” Carth ducked his head and hightailed it to the door.

Xxx

The dead monsters were everywhere, chopped to pieces and fried on the sand.

That Sith. He did this. Davad. He said his name. Why was he acting like that? What was he doing to Beya—

“Freeze!”

Polla looked around to see who was yelling.

“Don't move!”

About twenty meters out on the plain she saw a flash of blue-white light stamped in that distinctive hexagonal shape that made identifying its origin a no-brainer. Shield barricade. Aratech Ninety-five plex. Will stand up to anything physical... but a decent plasma or disruptor could melt right through it.

Sith don’t have plasma disruptors. Are their laser swords plasma?

Polla waved her hand. “Hey! You! Help!” she ran toward the two Humans behind the shield. They hadn't shot yet, so maybe they weren't going to. Sith might be assholes, but they wouldn't be here to execute civilians….

Unless they’re like those crazy Dark Jedi Sith back there.

Close up, she saw the logo on their speeder: the Taris sun, bisected by its skyline. Phew. TarSec, they’re just Tarsec—

“I said, don't move!” The voice was male.

“Call in backup, Private,” the other one said. “See the black robes? How she’s coming at us? Do not fracking engage—”

“Hey!” Polla was on top of them now. “Hey! That gate over there! It's broken. You guys need to fix it!”

“Uh….” The one talking to her, had eyes like a partrigg, round and black. The other soldier was female, with a cap of reddish hair. She had on goggles, and a head piece and was signaling frantically at her companion. “Y-yes. Right away, my lady.”

“Uh….” The guy looked at the woman, looking like a trapped hessi himself. “This is out of my pay grade. Nessa?” He looked up at Polla still crouched behind his shield. “Sorry, my lord, but we need to call that in.”

“Sith here wants us to fix the gate,” Nessa muttered into her comm. She glanced back at Polla and then away fast. “No, I don’t know which one. But she’s got black robes and she just ran at us. You know how they run.”

“I’m n—” What the hell. “That’s right,” Polla hissed, doing her best impression of her now-evil cousin. “Fix the gate immediately, or I’ll chop you to pieces and then I’ll choke the pieces. With my Force magic.”

“Gate’s down? In the Outcast sector?” Whoever on the other end sounded horrified. “You know what kind of a mess it’ll be if the rakghouls get loose? Fix it!”

“Uh… you need to come back with us, my lady. It’s not safe here.” Nessa glanced up at Polla. Nessa still looked terrified.

My lady? Well, that's fracking fancy! “I can't.” That weird feeling. “Hey, I think there are these Sith Jedi after me? Can you… tell them I went that way?” She pointed at random, deciding at that moment to go in another direction.

Not opposite. That's too obvious.

Her boot kicked at something in the sand. She picked it up. Another piece of half-rusted durasteel. One end was kind of pointed. Almost like a spear.

Huh. Polla gave it a twirl to check the balance.

One of the security officers made a whimpering noise. The man.

“We're just TarSec,” the woman whispered. “We can’t—we don’t usually even s-speak to… you….”

Run.

That voice in her head. Polla felt like her nerves were on fire. For a moment, the plain seemed… brighter than before, the air thicker, as if everything was… there.

“Is there another lift out?” What were they so afraid of? Wasn't like she had one of those laser swords.

“W-west wall.” The man nodded. “About a klick.”

Polla’s eyes lit upon their speeder. “Look, I know this sounds nuts, but… you need to get that gate fixed now. Fast. Okay? I… command it. I order you.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” They looked as terrified as Polla felt.

Fools. The weak-minded are so easy to fool.

The TarSec guards left, taking off at a dead run toward the gate. Maybe they could… weld the pieces together. Or just guard it. Speaking of that, it was kind of fracked that here was this planet with this horrible mutating monster-virus, and no one was doing anything about it.

Taris is fracked. Run. You need to run.

Frack that, I need to drive.

There was another lift, another access point to the above—all Polla needed to do was find it. She started toward the TarSec land speeder, fingering a cred chip in her pocket—

Xxx

“Most of these Querith models have biometric keys.” Therion leaned against the speeder in question outside the seedy bar on the Smuggler’s Moon. He pulled out an all-kit spanner from the loop on his boot and set to jimmying open the steering column. “So, what you gotta do is hotwire the engine below the secfeeds. Give it some noise so it doesn't go into auto-shutdown, or trigger a silent alarm—”

Polla sighed, watching him work. “Where'd you learn this stuff?”

“Finishing school.” He winked, in that way she had once found so hot, and put a credchip on the top of the engine’s main battery relay. “Allusteel reacts with the lithoid salts, hitches up the current to the main motor. Stand back. She’s gonna spark —”

Xxx

Polla had no all-kit, but the metal bar she'd picked up worked okay to bash the whole column in. The plasteel around the column crumped up like paper, actually. Cheap, Querist piece of shit.

She shoved the credit on top of the ignition plate, praying to the Grass Priests for a miracle.

Engine kicked in fast—and then, hyperdrive. Or, at least a good click. Out and away—

Blasted speeder steers like a fat hessi, Polla thought, trying to steer the fracking thing.

Xxx

It was cozy in their hide-out in the ceiling above Javyar’s Cantina . No Hidden Beks. Definitely no Vulkars. Just the way Mission liked it.

The old guy who thought he was some kind of swoop ace had stormed off to go rescue the crazy bint. Mission and Big Z had trailed him far as their base and then split, because if a mark wants to get themselves killed, what's the point of playing?

But something about that whole deal was still bugging Mission, and it had only been like three minutes.

“If that loser really wants to win the race, he shoulda come with me to steal that accelerator,” she grumbled to Zee.

[“Mission, you need to store that stack of permacrete explosive you took from Gadon’s armory properly,”] her big pal groaned back. [“I should not have to remind you what happened to our last hide-out.”]

“Shhh.” The tell-tale chime of a TarSec alert pinged on their screens. Ding dong.

“Today’s All-Points Bulletin for Republic terrorists and enemies of the City-State has been issued. All citizens should be on the alert for the following individuals: Republic Captain Carth Onasi, Republic Captain Jo Imrao, Gang Leader Brezic Firkay, Gang Leader Gadon Thek, Gang Boss Calo Nord….”

The all-points went on really boring-like. Mission wasn't on their stupid list, so she was only half-paying attention. She only liked to watch to see if she’d see her face. HoloNet always kept the Top Ten up on views for a while.

[“Mission, look!”]

Seeing that Human’s face on the screen made her do a double-take: face-fur around his mouth, that badass glare. Mission couldn’t see why Zaerdra might think he was cute. But those ancients had to stick together.

“His whole name is Captain Carth Onasi?” Now she remembered! There was some kind of song about Captain Carth Onasi. Big on the Imperial Free Holobox they played in the cantina.

“Guess I should go warn him, Big Z? Bet he didn't get far. Those beggars in the Undercity don't let anyone past without a whole lot of talk. And begging. Stupid promise land story takes like, a year—”

[“No, Mission. You should not go after the wanted Republic Terrorist!”] Her pal put down his ronto haunch and bared his teeth in protest, but Mission knew the big guy was just kidding around.

“Relax!” she chided. “I've got the stealth belt and you, right? Who’s gonna mess with us?”

“Imperial Traitor Yok Ree, Alien Lo-Yano, Imperial Traitor Bendak Starkiller, Crime lord Davik Kang ...and Republic Scout Polla Organa,” the Bulletin whispered, still going down its roster; but Mission wasn’t paying attention. Once they got into the twenties it got boring anyway.

“Let's go!” Mission didn't bother to look back, just opened the duct panel and squeezed through the narrow bit above the ladies’ fresher, ignoring Zaalbar’s barks behind her. Big guy’d have to go around to the ladder, but he'd meet her down-ground. Just like always—

Xxx

“At least one of us needs to go to this cantina immediately.” Beya had moved past impatience, and was close to murderous rage. The braindead Revan could not have gotten far.

It looked like some TarSec grunts were trying to repair the blasted-open gate with the broken pieces of it. The locals had re-emerged from their hidey-holes and seemed to be trying to sell them supplies.

Fascinating, how sentient life was the same the galaxy over. But right now, she had no time.

“Malak told us both to go.” Arkan was poised, like a kath sniffing the air. Beya wondered if he could smell Revan. The man was full of tricks.

But tricks were fragile, she mused, watching the locals. So easily dispelled in light.

And sentient life ended so easily, the galaxy over. Beya watched as another burrower, some dank Human, scurried over to the builders and began jabbering away at them. A heavy visor covered half the man’s face, probably to hide some horrible disease. As she watched, the new Human waved his hands at the builders, and then went through the gates himself—no doubt in an attempt to feed a starving family or find hope of the pathetic Promised Land that these sentients were always going on and on about—

“It’s the Yu-Phaedra Gambit,” Davad said, squinting at the industrious Tarisian scum. “We can lose the sector or lose the entire system. No way to win.”

“Except by killing Malak,” she pointed out sweetly. The idea had seemed half a joke, an illusion, but the more Beya considered, the more weight it gained. “That's what Revan would say.”

“What she did say,” he muttered. “And then confided in you, not me.”

“We all make mistakes. May yours be less fatal.”

“The cantina,” he said. “And we should hurry. No doubt our Lord Malak already has some agent primed in waiting for us there.”

“Boo!” Beya hissed at a ragged little Twi’lek urchin.

The girl yelped and vanished, air rippling around the currents of her stealth generator, as she took off toward the gate, moving much too quickly for Beya to catch.

Arkan turned for a moment, nostrils flaring slightly. “Sensitive,” he remarked, but turned, walking the opposite way, toward the elevator.

Beya let him lead.

“So many of those wastrels are,” she noted. “The nulls rarely live long enough to grow. Are you recruiting Blades again?”

“Not that one.” He increased his pace. “She's not strong enough, even for culled.”

They reached the banks, nearly colliding with a three-meter high collection of tangled fur and fang. Seeing the beast, Davad made a low, rumbling noise in his throat.

Beya already had her saber out to dispatch it, but Davad’s hand slammed down hard on hers. “Hold,” he murmured. “Wookiees are excellent hunters. And immune to rakghoul poison.” He gave a series of harsh growls and barks, enough to give Beya a headache.

The Wookiee howled back, and Davad handed him a scrap of cloth.

The beast brought it to his lips and howled again.

Davad nodded. “And to you, Great Hunter.”

The walking carpet grasped the torn black cloth in his teeth, lumbering past, picking up impressive speed for a creature of its size.

“I haven't seen a Wookiee since Endor,” Beya mused. Wookiees were not common on this planet, but she had noted a few on her last survey. “He took compulsion quite well.”

“I did not need it.” Davad’s teeth were bared in a snarl that looked uncannily akin to the expression the beast had given them. She wondered if he realized. “That man was wise enough to recognize his master.”

“Man?” Beya scoffed.

Xxx

Monster.

As a cub, the mothers had told all the fur-balls in the creche many cautionary tales designed to keep them all safe and out of harm. The one that had always given Zaalbar and his blood-kin Chuuundaar nightmares was the one about the Hunt-King. Such a beast was said to have once been a man—whether Wookiee, Human, Rodian, or even 'Doshan was never clear. But the beast had once been a man and now was no more a man. On that the mothers agreed.

Because he had a man’s hungers, the Hunt-King hunted for sport. Because he had a beast’s needs, the Hunt-King devoured his prey. According to legend, such a beast-man could only be stopped by the King of Death, and since no Wookiee wanted to die, his Grace rarely came to their forests.

Zaalbar knew that the man he had just met was not a creature of legend, or a monster from childhood stories. But still, cold fear froze his blood like sap in winter, and he ran away quick as he could—

—away from the scent that the Hunt-King had bade him find.

Whoever this Polla Organa was, she was no match for the monster. The scent on the cloth was hers, there was no mistaking—the smell of smoke and rain mixed with sweet, and something bitter and strange that had made his hackles rise even before he had seen her break the necks of their attackers as if they were merely dinner— hers —and she barely more than a cub herself.

Zaalbar would not risk her to the Hunt-King, who might be following his own more pungent scent even now.

But his whimper was a whine too, because the smell of roast pomato and lemma, sugar and that wax Mission used on her skin went along the same path as Polla Organa had: and if the woman was truly trouble, he knew only too well that his own cub would soon be enmeshed in it up to her t-chin and t’chun.

XXX

Carth kept his head down and the visor on his face firmly secured. He'd had it off in the corridor near the cantina when he'd seen the public holoterm start publishing the “Republic’s Most Wanted” list—with his own name prominently featured. He hadn't waited around to hear more—just pulled the visor he'd bought before out of his jacket and put it back on, keeping his head down, and keeping on going, following the signs that said “Undercity, Public Access.”

The elevator had opened just as he got there, discharging a little bald kid with a nasty bite on his leg.

An alarm dinged and blue light flickered over them both. The kid froze when the light hit him, every muscle stiff and terrified.

“Negative scan,” a machine’s voice chimed. “No signs of infection.”

“Hey!” Carth called to him. “You okay?”

The kid stopped for a second, wide-eyed, and then dodged sideways, veering around Carth and taking off down the hall at a dead run.

“Okay, then.” Infection? That rakghoul thing? Carth frowned. He'd expected guards here, or something.

When the doors opened groundside, he began to see why the kid had looked so frightened. There were bodies everywhere. The unmistakable sign of lightsaber burns, and a boiled, electrical smell that suggested even worse.

None of them look like Polla.

He thought, at least. One in the corner was burned so badly, it was hard to tell.

Jedi. Dark Jedi did this. He had been a fool to leave her—you don't leave anyone behind, you never know if you’ll see them again when you do—

“—cantina—” a voice said sharply, from around the corner. Female voice.

“Malak told us both to go?” Another voice said. Male.The voice dipped to a low murmur.

Malak. Hate seethed in Carth’s chest. Malak can burn in all nine Corellian hells. Right along with Saul Karath.

When he rounded the corner, he saw two of them. Sith, wearing black robes.

The woman’s gaze flickered over him as if Carth didn't exist.

Polla said her cousin was down here? Is that her cousin? That monster? She said her cousin used to be a Jedi and they all—they were all Jedi. Once.

The man didn't react at all, but Carth caught the glimpse of yellow eyes, almost luminescent, peering out from under a dark hood.

Keep moving, Onasi. Past the black-robed, yellow-eyed monsters. Jedi once. They were heroes.

He’d met Jedi Knight Malak once. That bar on Reisu, the Althirian moon. The man had seemed normal. At first.

Ahead, Carth saw the main gate to this complex. Looked like it had been blasted open from the outside. More bodies were here too. And a pack of workers, scrambling round with the pieces of the gate.

Two security officers were trying to repair the damage. One was holding what looked like one of those all-purposing tools sec forces used across the galaxy. The other started directing the sents around them to hold the plates up while they used a blaster to melt them shut. The work looked shoddy and makeshift; Carth doubted it would hold up to whatever broke through those doors in the first place.

There was still no sign of Polla, but now that he was safely past the Dark Jedi, he thought to ask.

“Hey,” he muttered to one of the guys stacking broken pieces of gate. “Happen to see a woman around here? Black coat? Brown hair tied on top her head?” He raised his hand to his mouth. “About this tall?”

“The crazy Sith?” The man looked around, almost furtive, and then spat in the dirt. “Yeah. She told us to repair the gate and then she ran right out into the wilderness—” He pointed towards the flat ground beyond the gate. “Good riddance.”

The crazy Sith. If that's not confirmation, Onasi, I don't know what is. Carth's heart sank.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, wondering if he should turn back—or look a little longer.

The dead rakghouls fanned out in a ring around the gate. When Carth stepped through, he saw more—all cut into cauterized pieces. Carth had never seen a dark Jedi in action, but he'd been witness to their handiwork on Defalli and Rodia... and… and Telos, of course.

Xxx

The school was a smoldering ruin full of dead children. And every one of them looked like his son, any one of them could have been his son—

Xxx

If she’s Sith why am I looking for her?

But Carth’s feet set out across the sand anyway. Polla had been nothing like those monsters back there. Nothing at all. He—he had to believe that. He'd saved her, when so many others were gone. He had to at least look.

Look for what? This place is a wasteland, Onasi.

He moved toward the cover of the nearest wall, which stretched up as far as he could see: a tower of windowless, cracked duracrete and rusted metal. Something wet dribbled on his face and he wiped his eyes clear, trying hard not to think about what kind of effluent would be raining down from above. His boots scuffed on debris, and what looked like pieces of bone.

Telos died quick, I guess. This place is rotting from the inside out.

“Psst. Hey!” A high voice chirped and something that felt like an elbow jabbed his arm. “Psst! Captain Carth Onasi? You know it's crazy out here, right?”

His blaster was in his other hand almost instantly, but there was nothing to see except a slight blur, like a cheap stealth field flickering around a small, slight form.

“Kid?” He'd been so far in his head it took Carth a sec to remember her name. “Mission?”

“Sssshhh, not so loud.” Invisible fingers grabbed his arm, dragging him off along the curve of the wall, toward a long, stacked structure that looked like the base of another platform. “Don't want to advertise I'm hanging out with a wanted guy. Did you know you're wanted by TarSec? What'd you guys do?” She paused. “What’re you gonna do? You gonna fight them? You catch a load of those two ronto-turds as we came in? Ugly!” She made a snorting noise, suddenly shimmering into visibility again, cheeky and grinning up at him. She had a blaster on her hip, and a bandolier of what looked like explosives strapped around her chest.

Is that what kids are wearing these days? Carth felt sad—and angry.

“You know I'm Republic,” he admitted.

“Yeah, I heard you bragging to Gadon, but I didn't know you were the Captain Carth Onasi!” Mission’s teeth were pointed and small, which made her look younger when she smiled. “You know you're famous, right? That's probably why they all want you so bad. There's that song—”

“I know I—wait.” He frowned. “What song?”

“The one about Admiral Karath meeting his doom?”

“What?” He tamped down the automatic fury he always felt hearing Saul’s name.

She frowned at him. “You don't know it? Really?”

“I don't know it.” He pulled her into the shadow of the platform’s edge, out of sight of that gate—and anything else that might be lurking around. “Really.”

“It goes like this.” Mission started to hum. “‘La la di dah… something something…” Her blue brow ridge twitched expectantly. “No? Nothing?”

“No.”

“La, la, the Admiral told him, turn… la la. Join us now, and man the bow, our planet I must burn?”

Carth exhaled slowly. She’s a kid. She has no idea. Even in a rough place like this. It’s not… at least she’s alive.

Mission giggled. “Seriously? Nothing? Not even a flash? It's catchy.”

“No.” He would not react. There was no point, not even the satisfaction that Saul must have seen— someone must have seen those messages Carth had started carving in the walls, in the ground, on the sides of ships, anywhere he could find... on every planet where the Republic was forced to retreat.

I’M COMING FOR YOU, SAUL. FOR DUSTIL AND MORGANA.

Carth had never signed them. He’d never had to. It had been just… just an outlet.

Hells, when Dodonna first assigned Carth to the Jedi Fleet he'd thought she was just trying to get him away from all that.

Xxx

“This mission is vital, Captain.,” It wasn't like Forn to hold back, and it raised Carth’s suspicions, when she didn’t follow that up with why.

“Sure,” he'd joked, expecting to get a confidential report later, when they were in a room the Senate probably didn't bug. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don't need to know. Send me anywhere—”

“You’ll have to stop leaving messages for Saul,” she’d said, looking pointedly at him. One of her eyebrows raised. “You’ll be under direct Jedi command, reporting to Bastila Shan herself.”

This mission has something to do with Saul. She's trying to tell me.

That's what he'd thought at the time.

That was all he’d thought at the time, while Forn filled the next hour with facts that didn’t matter.

Accompany the Jedi to various sites of ancient ruins. Be a personal shuttle pilot and go groundside with Bastila Shan and her escort while the rest of the Jedi Fleet stays in orbit.

Go on archeological digs with the only Jedi to have Battle Meditation since Nomi Sunrider, instead of having her use it to help the Fleet win—

Send your crack pilot and the most important Jedi since Nomi Sunrider on a wild ronto chase… for what?

Xxx

Aside from the Sith pulling them out of hyperspace, Carth had no idea how this mission had anything to do with Saul—it hadn’t been Saul’s ship that was latched onto the Spire. Had been some modified Republic capital from the war called the Demon Moon . He’d never even heard of it, and he’d once prided himself on knowing the names of every ship above M-Class in the Fleet.

“Is it true you left a message for Admiral Karath on Dagiri Minor like twenty meters tall on a cliff-face?” The little Twi’lek was uncannily perceptive, dragging Carth back to the present, which is where he damn well needed to stay to keep them both alive.

“Yeah, I….” Carth turned to look at her, brain catching up with her words. “You're saying, there’s a song? About me in Sith space?”

“Well, yeah.” Mission shrugged. “Weren't you listening? Want another verse?”

“I'm nobody.” He had to laugh. “Just a grunt.”

“You're in the Top Ten Wanted on Taris!” The girl sounded like that was a badge of pride. “You've been on the planet like, a day and you edged out Calo Nord! That's humongous!”

“We’ve been here a week. Little more.” That brought him back. “Listen, have you seen Polla? Know where she went? I’m… worried.”

“About the crazy lady? Why?” Mission shrugged, bending down to pick up a rock and skim it across the sand. “She's not in the Top Ten. Not even sure she made the list!” She glanced back. The gate was far out of sight now. “Hey… you know what's weird? Big Z ain't caught up yet. He never lets me get this far out here on my own. Hope he didn't run into some kind of trouble at the gate.”

Carth glanced back. The gate was out of view now, lost in a haze of bad. “I'm sure he’ll be fine,” he lied.

XXX

The TarSec speeder steered like a two-legged ronto, but it was still faster than walking. Polla drove blindly, speeding past a few monsters that made gobbling sounds, but didn't chase her, thank frack.

There has to be another lift . Who the frack would make an underground with only one exit?

Social control, her mind whispered . Limit egress, control a population. By funneling the Outcasts through a single choke-point they can be monitored, contained—

That’s fracked up. The sand stung her eyes and she wished she hadn’t lost those goggles Carth had given her. And the blaster. And that ion rifle. The piece of rebar she'd picked up on the sand lay next to her, at least… so if she met a rakghoul she could… throw it at them.

What the frack am I even doing? She wanted to bury her head in her hands and scream.

Surviving. Collecting allies. She should have tried harder to get Captain Obvious to come with her. But he probably would have tried to shoot the Sith. She could try to find him again, or just move on, find someone less of a spanner-in-the-hyperdrive.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of weapons fire drew her attention up ahead. There—along the shadow of the wall, she saw another shield glimmer, and a few humanoid figures—light glinting off their weapons and armor, the bright fire of bolts flying clean as they the rakghoul charge down..

They’ll know a way out of this hell place. Polla accelerated the crappy speeder into a sharp burn, heading towards them, best she could in a vehicle that was moving like it only had one working hydro-lift.

“Hey!” she shouted, waving.

One of the taller hunters raised his rifle, as if in greeting. A red line sketched itself across the sand, and Polla heard a sharp ping ping, like a scope adjusting.

A blue bolt sparked, practically burning her retinas and then the world seemed to freeze.

I’m dead, she thought. That bastard just shot me! Except dead was the impact of rough sand in her face, the momentum of rolling across the ground, the whine of another bolt— can’t be the same one that would be impossible —speeding overhead. Her breath came back in a startled yelp.

“The frack?” Something hot scored the edge of her sleeve, and she yelled louder, flattening herself as much as possible. “Hey! Don't fracking shoot me! I’m friendly! Friendly!”

Sound of impact, as the still-moving speeder collided with some debris larger than it. A few burning pieces soared above her head.

What a messed-up planet.

Her hand, Polla realized suddenly, was holding the metal rebar in a death grip. Every muscle felt poised. Even if she couldn't see the assholes who were approaching her, she could hear them, muttering to themselves in a mixture of gutter Tarisian and Huttese.

They seemed to think she was TarSec. Polla didn’t know whether to be insulted or pissed.

Neither emotion will help now. These assholes, she reminded herself, will not be my death.

“Don't move,” rumbled a gravel voice. Two armored boots connected to thick armored legs… her eyes traveled up to a blank, visored helm. The armor was white and scuffed—and Polla could see several places where the man’s clan symbols had been scuffed out.

Dar’manda. Guess they all are Dar’Manda now. Being a smuggler, she ran into Mandalorians all the time, but most bragged about their clans like they were their dicks—especially after they’d lost their little war. The fact that this guy wasn’t showing his was weird.

The bore of an Aratech Systo Destroyer rifle jabbed her in the ribs. “You hurt?” the Mandalorian asked, gesturing with that fine, beautiful barrel of his, while kindly not shooting her.

Behind him, one of the others was making some sleazy comments. The Dar’manda held up one hand and the guy shut the frack up.

“You an asshole?” Polla snapped back. She spat out a mouthful of sand from her dirt nap and craned her neck up at the guy. “Mir’osik! Copaani mirshmure'cye! Why the frack were you shooting at me?” Osik. You shit-for-brains. Hu’tuun. Destroyer—you’re a frack-damned, thick-skulled sociopath—

Like all of his kind.

“We thought you were TarSec,” the man grunted. “This is Kang’s turf. Most of em know better.”

“Davik Kang?” A knot of tension in Polla’s gut eased. “You know, I’ve been looking for him….”

“You don't look like his type.”

Polla lifted her head up more cautiously, still holding onto that rebar. Her mind started to tally the impressive amounts of gorgeous guns the Mandalorian had strapped to his hips and thighs. That's a real Mandalorian repeater with self-targeting sights, a Czerka destroyer, looks like he's modified it. Nice. Aratech plasma blaster, self-charging….

“Nice weapons.” She pushed the rifle still pointed at her out of the way with her metal stick and scrambled to her feet. The Mando’ade was taller than she was, a bulk of beskar and explosives between her and his crew.

“Thanks,” he nodded. “Vor’e.”

Behind them, one of the others laughed. “You talking about his guns, lady—”

“Riek. Don't be rude.” The man in front of her didn't even look back, but his friend’s laugh stopped immediately. “Even barbarian women deserve the respect afforded to Clan.”

“At least the time in your mother’s tent taught you some manners.” Polla tapped her stick on the sand, swinging it back and forth experimentally.

“Ah.” The warrior slung the rifle back over his shoulder where it attached with a metallic click, and unsnapped his helm, lifting it off to reveal a square-jawed, stubbled face, with hair as iron as his voice. “Forgive me, little sister. I mistook you for troch.”

“Huh?” Troch. They use it to mean outsider. The metal stick wobbled when she tried to spin it, made it hard to compensate. Polla frowned.

What am I doing? She loosened her wrists, rocking it back and forth. Better.

“Bint speaks your lingo, Candy?” One of the others. There were four others clustered behind. One was wearing beskar too. The rest were dressed in the typical garish colors and cheap plate she’d come to expect from coreslime the galaxy over. “Thought your lot kept all your women locked up on a moon someplace.”

Lingo? It was then that Polla realized the man had been speaking Mandalorian, and that she'd answered in kind.

Well, yeah. I speak Mandalorian. I know languages.

“Doesn’t matter what you think, Koss.” Candy said. He sounded like he didn’t give a frack. “Are there others with you?” he asked Polla. His tone to her was entirely different with her, almost deferential.

“Huh? I'm not Mandalorian. I’m Polla Organa, From Deralia. I've never been to Manda in my life.”

“Malachor,” the man named Candy corrected. “The Malachor system was our home before—” He stepped forward, frowning. “Are you ill?”

He looked funny then, with his head tilted sideways.

“Rakghouls,” someone said in the background. “Wait’ll she turns, then we can shoot her.”

“No.” Don’t shoot me, you jari'eyc aro’e.*

… but maybe it was the entire planet tilting sideways, because the rest of his words turned to gibberish, nothing, compared to the roaring in Polla’s ears, the reflection of stars, superimposed above a planet made of ice—

This is the way the war ends , Polla thought nonsensically, before it all cut out like a light.

*jari'eyc aro’e - ruined or wrecked enemy

Xxx**Xxx

The man looked up from his empty glass and glared at Carth with cold, durasteel eyes. "Seat's taken," he said. The cantina was crowded and the bar stool next to the big man was the only empty seat left.

"Doesn't look taken to me." Carth grinned. "Let me buy you a drink, soldier." He was celebrating their minor victory off Reisu, one of Althir's moons. You had to celebrate what you could. Live and fight another day. In the morning he'd take stims to take care of the hangover he planned on having, and then they’d fight some more.

"I'm no soldier." The big man scowled at him, raising a heavy brow. "Can it be that you truly don't know who I am?" —Memory, Chapter 12

XXX

A/N

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I hope there’s enough humor in it—Brzenczyszczykiewicz, I thought a lot about our conversation… and I didn’t change much from that bit—it felt like something that couldn’t be glossed over. There are, however, many lighter moments.

Ty, Ether, as always, for your endless patience in my spinning of the idears. So much patience.

I know, the brackets… the language bracket thing I am still pondering.

And… this is the version with less typos!

Next chapter should be up pretty fast. It's mostly done. Thanks all, please R&R

Chapter Text

Oblivion

There were no mirrors in the room, but ships are made of metal, and there were some surfaces polished enough to hold a reflection. Revan sat for a long time staring at hers in the watery glow of the medical sensor's container module. Skin so white it looked gray, and yellow eyes that burned sadly out of a face mottled with the ravages of the dark side.

The face that drove armies, the face under the mask.

Her old face, back again like a bad ghost. Her eyes had been green when Carth first admired them on Taris, but they weren't now—they were yellow as suns. Someone had lopped off her topknot, and her hair grew in, uneven and matted. Grew in red, not black.

I dyed it, every time the roots grew in I dyed it, and I never thought about why.

—Memory, Chapter 1

Chapter 7 / Time After Time

The yellow blade flashed and spun; behind it, Polla saw the face of a woman barely more than a girl. The girl looked determined—but terrified too. The girl's fear felt incandescent—like a sun beating down on Polla's exposed skin. The yellow blade flared so brightly that it hurt her eyes, but instead of flinching, Polla felt her shoulders shrug.

Polla's hands closed on something cylindrical. Something metal and hard. "You can't win," she said. No fear. No doubt. No emotion at all, as cold as constellations.

"You cannot win," the girl echoed. Her face twisted with intent, power shining through her like a ray through the clouds. She took another step forward, leveling her weapon, a staff with two blades of humming, yellow light.

Behind the girl were two crumpled bodies, and behind them, onlookers, just standing there watching like this was a fracking duel. A few Humans. One Twi'lek. A Human man in a military uniform was whispering something in an old woman's ear. The arched ceilings and flashing consoles in the room demarcated a cavernous expanse. To Polla's left, a vast viewscreen of stars stretched—and approaching them like a leviathan purrgil, came another giant gray ship, triangular and massive, swelling until it filled their entire screen.

That ship's no Exchange tub. What the frack is it? Polla's head turned away from the girl, toward the seated man to her left—one in a row of technicians bent over screens; above them the viewscreen of her ship—and then she raised her hand—signaling to her commander—

My commander? My ship? That's not my ship! That's not my fracking ship!

Something slammed into her like a supernova and then the world dissolved.

I want my ship. I want my ship! Dancer’s Leap. Mine. My ship. Not this crazying fracking giant one—

Polla’s head jerked up and her eyes blinked. As if she’d summoned it, Dancer's console blurred into view. Her fingers ran across the keys of the board, flipping switches, listening to the ticking of the hyperdrive, safe and secure.

That was one hell of a dream.

"Polla?" A male voice spoke behind her. Too smug by half.

Therion. Loser was probably watching me drool in my sleep. Polla wiped her mouth with her sleeve and picked up the laser sword next to her. She stood up and turned around. "Yes, my love?"

Therion D'Cainen managed to make being tied to her Ma's kitchen table look comfortable, which he did with everything else too, so maybe this wasn’t such a surprise. Above him, lights flashed on and off, black and red, creating a strobe effect that was making Polla's head ache. "I have a bad feeling about this. What are you doing?"

"Nothing." She kicked his severed arm across the floor. It hit the wall with a meaty thunk . "I'm just… checking out the calibration on my saber before… before the fight." She switched off the laser sword, and took the pieces apart again, bending back down over her work. She spread the pieces out before her on the ground, placing them in order of re-assembly. "Lens. Focusing emitter. Power cell. Vortex conductor—"

"You can't use a saber." Therion sounded worried. "He said, blades or fists."

"I know. It’s a meditation technique I picked up from those hu’tuun. They do it with blasters. Helps me relax."

“Even when you meditate, you have to do something.” Her ex chuckled ruefully. “Oh, Pollie. Always reaching, always —”

“Winning.” She glanced back at him, or — she didn’t move, but somehow her thoughts were with him. “One victory and then the next.”

“You know that you can’t cheat. No sabers. No armor. You’re not even supposed to wear shoes.”

She chuckled softly. Sometimes Therion was such a fool. “I won’t need shoes to win.”

Polla closed her eyes, sinking to her haunches, and—probably because this was a dream and crazy fracking things happen all the time in dreams—the yellow crystal in front of her started floating next to the disc-like lens and metal ring. And, even more crazily, she could see the pieces. Even with her eyes closed.

A fracked up dream. What am I? A fracking Jedi?

"But you don't have to fight him at all." Therion's voice sounded funny, and she looked up. He gave her a tight, concerned smile from the top of his limbless torso, craning his head up from the table. "I'm the stronger duelist. I could stand in as your Second—"

"You have no right to challenge him. He can't refuse my claim." She blinked, and time was—time shifted. Ma's kitchen table was surrounded by sand. The sun beat down hard overhead. Therion was gone. Gone... and there was a blank space where he'd been. A row of robed figures had replaced him, but their faces were all blank too, like a negative holo-image. One figure was distinctly taller than the others—

Polla blinked, and the tallest one wasn't there at all.

What a fracked-up dream, she thought.

XXX

The walls were spattered red and green with blood, and the air stank. Davad and Beya had to step over a stack of bodies at the entrance to reach the black-robed man, seated on a barstool with Javyar's security feeds already disassembled in front of him, set to play on an endless loop, the motion slowed to a fraction of its original speed.

"Have you seen this?" Bandon said pleasantly, waving at their approach. “I suppose not, since I found no sign of you being here despite Lord Malak’s orders.”

The holo-image flickered as over and over, the woman with the Deralian top-knot dodged a blaster bolt at point blank range. Over and over, the bolt crashed harmlessly into the ceiling.

Watching it made Davad want to howl in triumph to the skies. She has the Force! There is still something left!

"Lord Bandon." Beya found her voice while Davad was still marveling at the recording. "It was kind of Darth Malak to send us an escort; but truly, Davad and I need no assistance." Her lips pursed, expressing her distaste. "You did not need to kill quite so many sentients. It will only cause civil unrest and waste Lord Malak's valuable resources."

"Your bartender thought leaving any alive might be ill-advised." Bandon nodded to the neatly bisected Ithorian, half of whose body was still propped against the bar; while the other half lay on top of it. "There's no telling what spies the Republic has on this world. He also claimed our former master called you cousin when she spoke to you via comm-link. I have a recording of that. Would you like to see?" The man stroked his beard like a holo-villain.

"Revan called me cousin?" Davad leaned against the cleanest wall he could find, deliberately misunderstanding.

"No." Bandon had never been the brightest of men, but now he just seemed confused. "Beya. She called Beya Organa her cousin, and she calls herself Polla Organa—"

"I'm flattered the Jedi modeled their false personality after me," Beya drawled. "Rev was going to invade Deralia. I'm Deralian. A certain poetic justice in that, don't you think?"

Davad was quickly growing tired of this game. Especially, since Revan had been last seen running out into the wasteland of the Undercity.

Unarmed. Helpless. Or… perhaps not so helpless. But no match for the beast I set on her trail. Wookiees are the apex predators of their world, and Kashyyyk is no tamed garden planet.

The old woman had wanted Revan, he remembered suddenly. It was strange that the old woman was not here. Or is she? If she is not, what if she thinks Revan is dead?

I could keep this from her. I could keep Revan for myself, keep her from her—

His gut roiled. Not as a mindwiped shell. That shell is not her, but some spark remains. For a moment, she resisted me—she dodged that blaster bolt. If she could be restored—if she could know me again and we could make the galaxy tremble. We could destroy the old woman. This foppish idiot boy. Malak. And Beya, her betrayer—

"Malak sent us here to meet with you?" Davad asked Bandon, gritting his teeth.

"He wants her death recorded," Bandon said, flipping a small cam out of his pocket and into the air. It hovered there, and it took Davad a moment longer than it should have to realize the device was a remote before he reached out and pocketed it. "Use this. Have you had any sightings?"

"In the rakghoul tunnels," Beya offered. "She fled into them. Are you going to look with us?"

"Lord Malak has not instructed me to do so." Bandon paused. "Yet."

"Then go." Davad waved a hand lazily. "I'm sure you have more bartenders to slaughter in another sector." His eyes lit on the dead waitress collapsed on the floor, her tray of baked moffa-wings scattered around her like stars. His gut rumbled, as he bent down to pick one up.

"Disgusting," Beya remarked, vaulting easily over the bar to select a bottle of corugin from the top shelf.

"And to think I once looked up to you." Bandon looked genuinely horrified. "Both of you. Sterling examples of Jedi knighthood."

"We were better knights than you will ever be." Davad shoved an entire wing in his mouth, crunching the meat to the bone.

Xxx

The wall that Carth and Mission followed through the wasteland of the old Taris Undercity had a series of circular holes spiked with some kind of silicate web set along its base. A vile mist seeped out of those holes and Carth struggled not to gag.

But Mission seemed entirely unaffected. In fact, now she was whistling what sounded suspiciously like the song she'd mentioned earlier, the one about Carth and Saul Karath.

"You… seem to know your way around." He kept trying to think of why a kid like her would come to this wasteland on purpose, but all the good reasons failed.

"Big Z taught me how to hunt and stuff down here," she said blithely. "Not like it's safe to practice on people."

"Well… yeah." He coughed, and not just because of the sewer gas seeping out of the wall. "Sounds pretty dangerous."

"That's why we use blasters! Sometimes the ghouls're still wearing some clothes and stuff? Once I found a cred chip worth three hundred fifty! Zaal and I ate for a month on that."

He suppressed a shudder. "How'd you two meet?"

"Zee used to do some stuff for Calo Nord? And my brother Griff knew him? But Zee got sick of taking orders, and Griff… well, he… he's away cause of this really important business thing. He asked Zaal to look after me til he got back. He should be back soon? But I like living with Zaalbar. He's got a real good perspective on life. That's rare."

She turned to him. "Don't you think that's rare?"

Her blue eyes were so wide and young that it hit him in the gut, again, what this fracked-up galaxy did to kids.

"I… I don't know."

"Trust me, it is." Mission paused, staring out at the plain in front of them. "Most sents get caught up in like, making creds, staying out of trouble, avoiding gang wars? But Zee and me, we don't need creds. And we don't get caught."

"You need to be careful," he warned her. It was no kind of life for a kid. "Just because you haven't been caught yet, doesn't mean you won't."

"Ugh, now you sound like Zaerdra. She's always trying to boss me around."

"Maybe she cares." Carth didn't want to ask what had happened to Mission's parents or what made her so sure her brother would come back. He'd run with the Jammers himself back on Telos because he was bored. His father had been stationed out on Rim patrol—cleaning up the aftermath of the Kun War. But Carth's mother had been a professor at the U. He'd come home every night to a droid-cooked dinner and a room with a star-covered ceiling. His swoop had been a nameday gift. And when Carth did get caught (they all got caught—he thought that was the end-game of all criminal behavior—everyone gets caught), his father had pulled rank and had Carth Onasi, the High Colonel's son, admitted to a Fleet Academy on Quesh within the week.

"Maybe Zaerdra cares?" Mission rolled her eyes at him. "Naw. She's just a busybody. Zee cares. He's the one who teaches me real stuff."

"Like how to hunt these… rakghouls." The wind smelled foul and rotting. The walls of the platforms above seemed to define the edges of a cage. They'd passed several bodies—Human and rakghoul, most stripped by scavengers, or time. None looked like Polla. "Is there another way out of here?"

"Course there is! Lots of ways. Nearest to here is the Exchange lift, but you don’t wanna mess with Kang's boys. They've even taken potshots at me!"

"Well, I don't know where Polla could be." Standing in the middle of this wasteland, thinking about how all of Telos looked like this now, made Carth feel way too far from home.   Even if there’s nothing left for me there. "I thought we'd have seen her by now."

"You know what's weird?" Mission rattled on. "Usually there's lots more rakghouls. Exchange must've cleared em recently. They do that. Kinda public service? When I grow up, Big Z and I were thinking of joining up—course, it's like a five-year contract, and then I'd be ancient—so I don't know…."

"I thought I'd just… see her." He'd been a fool, again. Polla Organa wasn't here. She was dead, maybe. Or joined the Sith. Again. Maybe never left.

XXX

"Eejit," Morgana whispered, dark eyes dancing, smiling because she didn't mean it. "Always jumping in with your heart, not your head—"

XXX

"Crazy lady?" Mission cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled. "Polla? Hey, Polla? Polla Organa?"

"Don't do that." Carth shook his head, but the Twi'lek was already pulling him to the side, to the wall again.

"Big Z will come if he hears," the little Blue said confidently. "Couldn't yell his name. Kang's Boys are onto us, you know? We raided them a lot."

"I need to get back to the surface," Carth said dully. "Get a few sets of Sith armor for that friend of yours, Gadon. See if I can rescue some of our men."

"Just the men?" Little Blue made a face.

"Of course not. It's an expression. We'll rescue everyone. Men… Women… or Durian, for that matter." Rescue Bastila Shan. If Malak turns her into one of those monsters, the war's over. She has to be the priority here—she's the one who could help us win the war—

Which was why it was so damned strange that the Jedi Fleet had been taking a tour of Rim planets that had no strategic value.

"Durian don't have legs so I dunno if they'd make good soldiers," Mission commented. "Learned that in school, back when Zaerdra made me go."

"Kids should be in school." Except when someone bombs their school. Except when someone drops a bomb on their school, and there are no survivors.

"Can you look less mopey?" Mission frowned. "Where the kriff is Zaalbar?"

Don't curse, Carth thought. Don't curse. Eat your veg. Stay in school. Do everything right, and a madman can still come and burn it all away.

"I don't know," Carth said. "But I promise I won't let anything happen to you." We lie. We lie to our kids all the time because we can't handle the truth—that a madman could come tomorrow and blow it all away— "Be careful," he added.

"The crazy lady was a lot more fun than you are," Mission commented. "I hope we find her too."

They walked another half kilometer in mostly silence before she stopped him again. "See?" Mission pulled him against a pile of rubble, activating her stealth belt. "Looks like TarSec raided the Exchange hunt. Wow, that's nuts!"

The remains of a speeder were crashed against one of the bases to a Taris platform, half into an extensive-looking set of Aratech shields, all flashing low power reserves as if the impact had drained them. The area was littered with rakghoul corpses too, most shot at close range, but a few were carved up, stippled with puncture wounds.

Among the dusty debris and half-ruined equipment, something caught Carth's eye—a fluttering, black thing—surprisingly clean for its surroundings. A pile of black cloth, half-covering the corpse of a dead rakghoul.

Imperial-grade, he thought numbly. Eridu. They grow it on Deralia.

Polla Organa had delivered an entire hour-long monologue on eridu-growing techniques over breakfast that very morning. For most of it, Carth had just been watching the way her eyes seemed to glow when she was happy, and not screaming in her sleep, or babbling about being a registered smuggler.

"Is—?" Mission ran towards it, stopping to frown at him as if she wasn't sure either.

"Polla's coat." He walked over and picked it up. She'd ripped one sleeve. Weight in the pocket made it true. One vial of yellow serum and a handful of credits. She’d had five vials before. She’d had more credits. "She… she stole it. From some fancy shop in the Upper City."

"Cool!" The Twi'lek kid at least had the decency to look abashed a millisecond later. "Hey, cheer up, okay? Maybe she just got captured by Kang's Boys."

"What would they…?" Carth decided it was not a question for kids. His boot shoved the dead rakghoul under the coat experimentally. Was it Polla? Did it look like her? Did the mutation happen that fast?

An inhuman howl shattered his thoughts.

"Rakghoul," he muttered, eyeing those shields.

"Don't be dumb. Big Z!" Mission cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered. "Hey!! Hey! Over here!"

The Wookiee moved faster than Carth expected, hurtling toward them half on all fours, and half running, not at all weighed down by the bandolier and guns he had on his back.

"Yeeeouurrrrr!" He growled at Mission, sounding like he was scolding her too. "Tgrrrow, sssshyr, geeerrr."

"Relax, you old fur ball, I was fine! Just looking after this guy. What took you so long?"

Whatever it was took a lot more growls to explain, and by the end, Mission was frowning and glancing back between the both of them.

"Huh," she said finally, fingering a piece of black cloth the Wookiee had given her. It was, Carth realized, made of the same fabric as Polla's coat, and it looked like the piece missing from its sleeve. "Zaal here says this asshole Sith told him to hunt down Crazy Lady. Took him so long cause he circled round to throw em off our trail. So guess Polla's still alive?"

"Grrrowwwrrr," Big Z agreed. Or maybe it was agreement. The man was nodding his giant furry head at Carth like an exaggeration of the Human gesture.

"Yeah, he says she smells alive." Mission wrinkled her nose. "Gross."

The Wookiee barked.

"He says the most likely story is, Kang's Boy's took her. They're not usually slavers, so she's probably okay. Not like it was the Rusty Blades. Everyone says they like to eat soft-skins. But I bet that's just a rumor, you know? I knew this one Rusty Blade, once and he wasn't a bad guy, for a Gamorrean, just—"

"Aarryoo," the Wookiee interrupted.

"Big Z thinks we should scram. And I agree." Mission tugged at Carth’s arm. "Not safe to use the Exchange elevator—their automated defenses are real hard to crack—but there's a sewer entrance near here. Come on. We can climb back up."

Bastila Shan is important, Carth reminded himself. Not Polla. But his hand wouldn't let go of her ragged, stolen coat. She must be cold. He pulled away from Mission and folded it in half and tied the sleeves around his waist to keep his hands free. "Where would the Exchange take her?"

"Could be lots of places. They've got the lock on a bunch of wetwork biz—brothels, organ harvesting, dueling rings…." Mission shrugged. "What do you think, Zee?"

"Grrowwerr?" Zaalbar whined, following it up with a series of barks.

"You're right! Calo would know." Mission gestured to them both to start walking, heading toward a gap in the wall, where it looked like a crumbling platform wall had been newly buttressed by a replacement. "Davik's main guy is this loser, Calo Nord? He’s the boss of Kang’s Boys. And Nord hangs out at that high-class cantina in the Upper City. In Merchant East? The real name is Riik's cause the guy before Davik was named that? Or maybe it's short for Davik... there's no sign or nothing, so I dunno." She shrugged again. "Me and Big Z can't go there, but you can go and ask Calo. He’s a nice guy. For Exchange. Tell him I sent you. He’ll listen."

The Wookiee growled softly.

“Probably,” Mission amended.

She popped open a hatch in the side of the wall, extracting a slicer's probe from it with the deftness of long practice. The illuminated tube within revealed a ladder going down.

"Maintenance shaft. Has a ladder to the service elevator we take to the Lower City sometimes. You gotta watch out for Vulkars, but they keep it clear of rakghouls. From there, I'll show you my secret way to the Upper City—but you gotta promise not to tell anyone."

"Who would I tell?" Carth shrugged, smiling as he followed her down the ladder into what seemed to be a sewer. Zaalbar followed, closing the hatch behind them.

"Kaeroiwrrr…" the Wookiee rumbled.

"The Sith," Mission translated. "You might tell them if you got captured. Or Calo Nord if he threatens you? Don’t piss him off, okay? You might tell lots of people. Big Z says you might tell lots of people."

"I won't." He jumped the last meter off the ladder and immediately regretted it, landing in something that splashed and smelled horrible.

"Watch it! Ugh!" Mission made a disgusted face. "Keep your voice down. This is close to the Vulkar base."

The Vulkars who have Bastila. "Can you get me in there? Into their base?"

"You have a bag of rancor chow? Cause they have this big lizard thing guarding the entrance. Zee says it's a rancor?"

Zaalbar groaned an affirmative.

"I've… I've heard of them." He'd seen a dead one on Felucia. Very few things survived an Imperial strafing run, and the giant reptomammal had been no exception.

We came in to get the survivors, but Darth Revan's forces were too damn good at their jobs. Too damned good in their freakishly fast ships—

"We saw that one once? Lots of teeth. This guy Smik? Runs with the Vulkars? He named it ‘Fluffy.' Like a joke?" Mission made a face. "Fluffy has lots of teeth."

Zaalbar groaned and Mission growled back at him.

"Zee says you should get your mate before we take on the rancor."

"My what? Who?" Like he didn't know. "She's not—Polla's not my mate."

The Wookiee growled something that sounded like a question.

"But you've shared fleas?" Mission frowned, shrugging. "That doesn't really translate right. Germs? Spit?"

Zaalbar groaned, shaking his head.

"He says the Vulkars won't keep prisoners in their base anyway," the Twi'lek added. "Or… or I guess they might? That's where they keep their swoop accelerator, so…."

Zaalbar shook his head again and cuffed the girl lightly on the back. His enormous paw was surprisingly gentle.

"Okay, okay! Geez, Big Z! I mean, they might keep em there! Brejik's done dumber things!"

I have to try, Carth realized. If there's even a chance Bastila's in there—I need to try. Polla would only get in the way. She’s helpless. Or insane.

But I've seen what the Exchange does to helpless sents, too. Polla's half out of her head. Bastila's a trained warrior.

I should rescue Polla first. Maybe get this kid to watch her. Then scout the Vulkar base.

"Is there another way into the base? One without Fluffy?"

"How'd you and her meet anyway?" Mission wasn't even subtle about dodging his question, just steering him into what looked like an abandoned elevator shaft. When he and Zaalbar stepped on the slick duraplate floor, the entire thing lifted up with an agonized groan, proving it wasn’t as abandoned as it looked.

"We… we didn't. Not until our ship was attacked. Polla was one of the specialists assigned to guard Jedi Bastila Shan, and I…" Carth frowned again, suddenly reminded how little it made sense. "I was just one of the grunts helping out."

"Grunt? Is that like Captain in Republic-ese?" Mission glanced up at Zaalbar. "I don't really get your army-talk."

"Navy. Fleet, really—" he coughed.

"Right." The little Twi'lek sighed, as the lift lurched to a stop. "This is us, bud. You can keep riding it up to the top if you want. Big Z and me got things to do."

"Where are you going?"

Zaalbar whined, and the little Twi'lek elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't say that!" she snapped. "Seriously, Big Z! I'm not going anywhere!"

The Wookiee whined again, and the Twi'lek actually barked at him. After about five minutes of their cacophonous exchange, Carth started to feel restless. "I… I should be going," he ventured finally. "See you… see you back at the Bek base later?"

Mission broke off mid-growl, pasting a bright smile on her face that looked entirely artificial. "Yeah! Unless they move it. But you can always ask for us at Javyar's too. Zee does some bouncer work for them on the side and we… we have a base near there."

Zaalbar growled.

"Shut up! I didn't tell him where!" She shrugged at Carth. "Listen… told you already you were wanted, right? Keep that visor on. Most of the bio scanners are disabled, even the ones Uptown, but you don't want anyone to get a good look at your face. Fight the Power, right? Frack the Sith."

Don't say frack, kid. Carth managed a smile. "Yeah. Frack the Sith."

Xxx

"He was nice, right?" Big Z was being awful quiet, so Mission had to talk twice as fast just to fill in the spaces as they walked back to Javyar's. "I always thought Republic-types were more, like, preachy. Like those Mercy Corps cartoons?"

["Mission, I think you should stay with Zaerdra and Gadon for a few moons."]

"What?" Was he nuts? "One, Taris ain't ever had any moon that I can see. And two, no. You and me are a team! How can you even say that?"

["There is something new on this world. Darkness. The Hunt-King. He has my scent now, and it is not safe—"]

"You been drinking that fermented juma again? No!" Mission whipped her t'chin so hard to the side that it hurt. "Don't even talk like that. Don't even—"

Big Z's arm shot out, stopping her before she could say any more. ["Not a breath,"] he chuffed. ["Not even a twig-break."]

What? She signed with her head tails. But Mission felt something creepy too. Her hand went to her belt, and she blipped herself invis, just in case, backing into Zee. The belt wasn't really strong enough to cover her and all the big guy, but they were in a shadow now, both of them, looking at the entrance to Javyar's.

The sign blipped on and off, buzzing like it was broke. The music wasn't playing, and nobody was on bouncer duty, even though it was Eight-day, and the joint was always busy on Eight-day.

And the two front doors were… blasted open. It looked like somebody had exploded them open.

Just like the gate in the Undercity.

Cold, she signed, even if Zaalbar couldn't see.

It was. The air was real cold. Like the generators were down, but the lights were still on—

["Mission, stay here. I will check."] His growl was barely even a whisper. ["Find Zaerdra, if I do not come out."]

No, she shook her head. Even if he couldn't see. It was weird, but suddenly, Mission had a real bad feeling. Like really, really bad.

["If you cannot find the Beks, find that Human man. Carth."] The way Zaal pronounced his name sounded more like ‘arf,' but Mission knew who he meant. ["He is good, Mission. He will keep you safe. I will try and lead them away. Do not follow."]

"No," she whispered again. "Please, Zee. Come with me."

[“The Hunt-King has my scent. Better I lead him away, Mission. Make this my hunt, not his.”]

“No.” But it was cold, and Mission knew whatever was in there had to be worse than the Gamorrean packs in the sewers, if Zee was this serious.

["I will lose them in the sewers. Madclaw makes them stupid."] His muzzle brushed her forehead with a Wookiee's wet kiss. ["Look in the Land of Promise if I do not return and bring rope so that we can climb back up."]

"But—" the word escaped, except Mission realized that she really, really, really did not want to go in Javyar's. Not now and not never again. "Okay.”

From the way Big Z's nostrils flared he didn't wanna go either. Hair on his back was all ruffled up, like he was trying to make himself even bigger. He did that when he was scared—and she'd only seen him scared twice before this. Once, when she'd gotten that Cimarrion flu and started puking everywhere; and the other time when that asshole Trandoshan slaver had come into Javyar's wearing a cape of Wookiee fur.

"The cubs died badly," Zee had said then, with no more explaining than that, before he pulled her out of there.

Xxx

The Wookiee and the kid had left him on the creaking lift that went up another hundred meters or so before terminating in a tube-like tunnel with an escalator of a ladder jerking upward, lit by sullen, flickering little lights.

No way to go but up, Onasi.

Carth clambered onto the moving ladder and then rode it up with Polla's stolen robe tied around his waist. At the top, he had a devil of a time getting the latch open—finally had to shoot it—and then a bad case of vertigo as the hatch opened onto a narrow catwalk with the planet's surface lost in near-darkness at least a kilometer beneath him, and what he hoped were the sidewalks of Taris a few meters of duracrete above. At least he hadn't climbed the whole way, but Carth's arms still shook with exhaustion as he tried to figure out his next move.

He'd been climbing through a maintenance tube—and above he could see another hatch set in the ceiling. But to reach the hatch, he would have to leave the security of the tube he was in and balance on the narrow catwalk below the access hatch—exposed to Taris's open, fetid air.

A raw wind whipped across his face as Carth took his first cautious steps onto the catwalk.

Here ends my story, he thought blackly. I'd like to see the Sith make a kriffing song out of this. And then Carth Onasi plunged to his death on his ass—eey….

XXX

"I never loved you for the jokes," Morgana had said, laughing anyway, the first time he'd tried to rhyme Onasi and ‘assey.’

XXX

The tube he had just vacated closed behind him with a snap, leaving no way to open it again.

"Hells," Carth said out loud. "Blast. Stars." The wind whipped his words away. His feet slid on the catwalk, and he reached up, grabbing the handle of the round door above his head.

XXX

Bandon had left with the recording, no doubt scurrying back to Malak.

A search of the cantina had revealed nothing more than the petty detritus of a dozen squalid lives, now ended. Davad said nothing when Beya pocketed the box of gree spice, the vials of glitterstim under the bar. He was too busy pondering why the odor of mangy, damp kath had increased.

A scuffling noise from the cantina's entrance caught his attention—and provided explanation.

Hold, he motioned to Beya, coming closer to her, close enough to grasp her arm. Her free hand clasped her saber instantly, and he willed her not to be stupid; holding up his hand, tracing the sign for incoming they had learned so long ago before the wars even truly began on that Dxun moon.

Her eyes widened, and she nodded, ducking to a crouch behind the upturned table.

Davad wrapped himself in shadows as the old woman had taught—just in time to see a Wookiee slip past the hall facing them, darting towards what looked like a repair closet.

The same Wookiee he had tasked with finding Revan.

"You found us," he murmured, still from the shadows. "Did you find the woman? I tasked you to bring her to me."

The Wookiee whined softly, submissively. ["Follow,"] he said. ["I lead to her."]

"I said to bring her." Davad let himself be revealed, but the beast-man didn't turn around, just opened the closet door; reaching towards its ceiling and pulling down a utility hatch. With surprising deftness for his bulk, the creature leapt up, appearing to climb a ladder to a crawlspace above, furry legs vanishing—

"A Wookiee," Beya murmured, voice a whisper in the Force. "Your Wookiee, Davad. But it occurs to me... didn't she have a Wookiee too? Didn't Dia mention a Wookiee? Wasn't there a Wookiee on that recording Bandon just showed us?"

"And a Twi'lek—yes." Rage lashed in his guts for their stupidity, their blind arrogance—how many times had the old woman told him?

"Most Sith are their own enemies. Watch long enough, apprentice, and you will see them sow their own destruction—their own apocalypse of pride—"

"Your Wookiee is lying. He doesn't have her." Beya jumped over the upturned table with a tidy Force leap, landing beside Davad, just close enough for him to realize with a start that had her saber been ignited, she might have taken off his head. But instead, her gaze was focused on the comm link she wore on her wrist, staring at an outlined grid and a blinking light. "The tracker's showing dear Revvie's in the Upper City now."

"Good." He felt an almost feral growl build in his throat. "Then let's take care of her Wookiee quickly and go find her."

"Malak might accuse you of stalling for time," Beya murmured. "But that beast disobeyed you, and ending him won't take long." Her lip curled. "Race you for the kill—"

Xxx,

The cub is safe. The cub is safe.

Zaalbar let the growls keep time with his loping run, steering the hunters away from Mission still hidden in the hall (he hoped he hoped) and back down, through the twisted pipe that led down again into the waste-tunnels of Taris. There were traps and ghouls and places where a maddened beast—or two—might lose their steps there. He had to hope. He had to hope it was so.

Xx

The final hatch opened easily, exposing a circle of real night sky above. Not far away, Carth could hear people shouting, music playing. This planet’s excuse for fresh air gusted across his face, filtered and chilled. Finally. Civilization, he thought.

Carth jumped up, forcing his tired arms to keep holding his weight as he pulled his body through, rolling across the clean duracrete of Taris's uppermost neighborhood.

"Phew!" He could have kissed that ground. Was certainly clean enough. Carth’s eyes had time to register the platform stretching for dozens of meters around him, the overlights hovering above, the air suddenly clean and scented—

"Hold!" A patrol of Sith coming toward him faceless in reflective armor—two of them—followed by a buzzing drone. “Maintenance hatches are sealed outside of business hours, Citizen. Don’t move.”

Figures.

"I… I was stuck!" Carth called out, dropping one hand back down to his blaster and his belt. "Rest of the team left me here? Was scrubbing the… plates when… they just left."

"Janitors work alone," the taller guard said. His hand was already on his gun, but Carth got the shot off, before diving back down the hatch like it was base in a trench war. He landed in a roll sideways on the narrow ledge, one arm locking around one of the catwalk struts, while his blaster hand took steady aim in the direction of the hatch and waited—

The other guard spent some time firing blindly down the hatch while Carth counted his shots; hoping that the guy wasn't using recharging shells. (Probably not, they cost too much, and civ guards shouldn't need more than fifty blasts at a time… at least on most worlds.) When Carth got to fifty, and noted the tell-tale pause of a man reloading, he ducked back under the hatch and shot straight up.

The guard fell down the hole, perfectly dead. The drone buzzed around the hatch until Carth shot it too, hoping the transmission it was undoubtedly taking didn't get a look at his face, even with the visor.

Armor, he thought. They have it, and I need it if I’m going to get the Beks to help me. But even as he thought, Carth realized there was no time, not if that drone had tripped an alarm, or if blaster fire was the kind of thing that warranted investigations in this part of town.

Instead of stripping the bodies, Carth pulled the second one to the hatch and shoved him down; then broke into the fastest walk he thought didn't look suspicious, heading for the cantina to check with the guy Mission had told him to look up.

XXX

"Calo Nord? What’s he like? He's a real asshole," the kid had said. "Short guy. Never takes off his goggles, you know? And if he starts counting, you need to run."

Xxx

Waking up was like clawing her way out of a nest of eridu—like pulling herself out of a soft cocoon into a world that ebbed away the more she tried to grasp it. Everything was white and soft and warm—and stifling. Polla felt her head turn, and a wave of dull pain again, splitting her skull.

"She's coming round. Probably just that old concussion. Told you I treated her before."

"Sure it was her?" That voice. Granite.

"You think I get a lot of Human refs in the Under Levels? Trust me; it was her. She was with some soldier type. Kept asking all sorts of questions. Republic spies?"

"Maybe that whole Endar Spire crash was just the Republic trying to land some spies here." A young voice, excited.

"Think the Republic's making a move on Taris?" Granite, again. "Didn't think they still had the stones."

The world resolved into a world of white. A white room, and a round, circular bed.

"Babe?" Someone tapped her shoulder, and Polla nearly jumped out of her skin. Where the frack did the table go? Where am I? Ma’s kitchen table was gone, and yet, here was Therion, who'd somehow managed to untie himself and reattach the arms she kept slicing off his torso.

Here he was, mouth like a knife and shirtless, grinning at her. "Babe? I've got a lead on a new run if you want in. Spice from Kessel to Biscayne."

"Where?" Therion and his runs. He was just jealous he didn't have a ship as good as Dancer's Leap.

"——-," he said. “From Kessel to -———.”

"Where?" She frowned. His voice kept cutting in and out, like this wasn’t real. Like a bad holo-recording.

"Nau'ur laam," he said.

"Nau'ur kad." Her voice felt muffed. Light it up. Wake up. Ignite— "Where did you say the run was at? Which system?"

"——-," he said again, voice softer. His brown eyes looked gray in the cold, white light. "Are you sure you want to do this? There's no coming back. Not from this. Are you sure?”

“No,” Polla whispered. Fracking stupid idea in the first place, and the spice had mites.

"Did you hear that?" A man's voice. Tenor. From somewhere outside the room. The young guy again. "I think her arm just moved. What did she say? Nau'ur kad?"

"I heard. Shukoy gar nuhuy." Therion's hand brushed Polla's shoulder. His voice was surprisingly deep. Like Granite. "Wake up."

Wake up. Break your sleep. Shukoy gar mirci —break your prison, your bonds, your chains—

Another fracking dream. I’m so stupid!

Polla cracked her eyes open. An alarm promptly chimed from some machine that seemed to attached to her arm, so she stopped trying to fake it out and tried to sit up, ripping her arm free. The alarm chimed louder, and the three men in the room stared back at her. Unlike Therion, their limbs all seemed well-attached.

Polla was lying on a cot in what looked like a bordello with an owner who was way too fond of a purple color scheme. Her head felt like it was still wrapped in eridu wool—and there was a row of trank patches on her arm that explained why.

The frack? Are they trying to drug me?

The patches made a satisfying crunch when she crushed them between her fingers, blinking at the three guys: a smarmy-looking medix (he had the sigil emblazed conspicuously on his coat like he thought no one would buy him being a medix otherwise), and the two Mando'ade she'd met earlier. Granite-voice and the boy.

"You're awake!" the boy sounded happy about it. Maybe he didn't like unconscious girls. "You passed out down there before. Do you remember me? I’m Riek."

"Sure." Polla glared at him and was a little surprised at how quickly the kid dropped his gaze. Is he… blushing? Is this another dream? "Guess I still… hit my head a few… days ago. A week, or—"

Canyon wall. But I hit my head again, Carth said. Captain Obvious. Where the frack is he?

You walked out on him, remember? Ran off to play with the Sith.

["Uh… what tent gave you life, Mother-of-Warriors-To-Be?"] Kid seemed to be finding his courage again, addressing Polla in High Mandalorian, the archaic form they only used in ceremonies. For oath-taking, or to assess hierarchy.

I know that. I know that because I— for a second, she had no fracking clue, but then the answer came, like a soothing echo. I know that because I know a lot of languages.

"Huh? I'm nobody's mom, kid. And I hate camping. Where…." Where's Carth? She was about to ask when she realized they would have no idea.

"Riek." The man shook his head, and the boy flushed and retreated to the corner of the room. ["Her business is her own."]

"Hi," Polla told him warily. The medix was standing too close to her, and she nodded to him too. "Hello." There was a smell of kolto that was making her dizzy and a little nauseous. Too familiar, that bitter taste, the antiseptic smell.

Kolto. Blue. Blue light—

Polla blinked. The room was purple and tacky as hell, but the lights were normal.

["I am Canderous,"] the man told her in colloquial Mandalorian. ["Your business is your own."]

"Damn right it is!"

"Doc Gurney," the other guy said in Basic. "We actually met before, but you were always unconscious. Saw you three times last week. The guy you were with was worried you were gonna die."

Doc Gurney's leer reminded her of that asshole Steyhin on Kessel, who always tried to cop a feel, but she guessed he had maybe saved her life. Maybe even twice.

"And I'm Polla Organa. Know where that guy I was with is now?" she asked the asshole. "Carth Onasi?"

"Haven't seen him, but he made the Top Ten." Gurney shrugged. "So, if he's smart he'll stay low."

"Top Ten?" She didn't get it.

"He was just on Taris's Most Wanted," Gurney said. "So were you—but a lot farther on down the food chain."

"You gonna report me?" Lots of planets had lists. Polla had never been big-time enough to make one before. Weird she had now because she hadn't fracking done anything—

"Hey, we're all on the same list. Not Top Ten, but the same list." Gurney shrugged. "Nobody reports anybody on Taris. Not if they want to keep breathing."

"Smart." Polla sat up completely, swinging her legs back and forth. Her head seemed to clear almost instantly when she focused. "So… this is Exchange turf? Think one of you gents could introduce me to Davik Kang?"

"Davik only hires women for one thing," Riek told her. "It would dishonor you for us to—"

"Riek!" Canderous glared at the kid. "Your business is your own, Polla Organa. But Davik is not here. He spends most of his time on his estate. What is it you want from him?"

Polla shrugged. "Me and that guy I was with? We're Republic spies," Polla did her best to sell it. "Like you guys said when I was unconscious? You guessed right. We're… spies. For the Republic."

And you lot are Exchange thugs. On every planet, anywhere, Exchange are on the wrong side of the law, and if the Sith are the law here and I say we're Republic—

Hopefully, that makes us friends. The enemy of my enemy….

"If you were unconscious, how'd you hear me?" The boy frowned.

Not the brightest. Could be useful.

"Riek!" Canderous snapped at the kid before Polla could muster a hair toss. "Republic coming here, then?" He sounded unconcerned, which Polla thought meant she'd been right.

"Sure." Why not? "The Republic are mounting an invasion against Taris. We're just the vanguard. Here to figure out the chinks in the Empire's armor? You know? The trattok'or." Trattok'or. Point of collapse. Positions to crack the shell. Shatter the whole—

"Find any trattok'or yet?" When Canderous lifted an eyebrow, Polla saw it was bisected by an old scar. Kid was easy, but she couldn't get a read on the older guy's face. Faded blue eyes, almost gray. Hard to read nuance with the stubble.

"Lots. So many weak points! What I need now is to find my partner-in-spying, and then we'll work out a way to break the blockade? Maybe… get us a new ship? I met some Mando'ade last night, promised to help… with the cause? Hey! Maybe you know them. Quarg? Jaxim? Prolerius?"

"Dar'manda," Canderous corrected her with a scowl. "They are clanless."

They had clan symbols. You two don't.

"Hey!" The kid sounded excited. " That's who you are. Jaxim said you recited the wedding vows with him last night! In the Chancey Cocktail Lounge?"

"Have you decided to marry Jaxim?" For some reason, Canderous was glaring at her. Like he had a right to say who she was gonna marry?

Which one was Jaxim again? The blonde?

"Of course, a woman marries her choice, but Jaxim is Dar'Manda," Canderous continued. "He has no right to wear his clan's sigil. Clan Tirga died with Lin. And Jaxim was never blooded in stars."

"He said he was homesick," Polla snapped. "He said he missed women's songs. I sang the only one I-I know. Must've seen it on a vid. I don't give a frack about your blood… stuff."

And you're Dar'Manda too, Mister Canderous No-Clan.

But something held her back from mentioning that.

Whatever Dar'Manda fracking is. They are all exiles now. Wanderers. Mercenaries. The clans are broken—

Polla felt dizzy and wondered if she'd been too fast, taking off those derms.

"Of course." Canderous shrugged. ["As I said, it is your business."] He pulled out a credchip and flicked it at Doc Gurney.

"Thanks." The medix shrugged. "See y'all around." He turned and walked to the door, a little fast, as if they made him nervous.

"Yeah." Polla swung her legs over the edge of the seat and sat up, flicking her topknot. "Guess I should get moving too. Thanks for… for bringing me here." She looked around for her coat, but it was nowhere to be found—and with it all of her credits. Fracking hell! Did they steal them? "Where's here?"

"My employer owns the club downstairs," Canderous said. "We're in the Upper City, at a cantina called Riik's. [Do you wear your blades openly?"] There was a weight in his words that Polla didn't get at all. For a second, she looked up into his hard gray eyes and thought—

Gray eyes. Gray. Gray eyes are—

She couldn't remember what gray eyes were supposed to be, but Polla's eyes were watering. She pulled the officer’s cap out of her vest and wiped them, shoving it on her head.

"No." Not gonna ask these types for credits. You want the Exchange owing you, not the other way round. If these assholes stole them, I'll get revenge, soon as I get situated. "I am good. This the place where they do duels, right? For credits? This guy mentioned it to me… um, Bendak? Bendak Starkiller?"

"Nayc ijaa." Canderous spat on the floor. "Is that how you would fight for your Republic? With meaningless deathmatches?"

That hadn’t been Polla’s first thought—her first thought was more like, cadge a drink from some sap, then see if Captain Obvious had made it back to their hotel; but this guy being so rude kinda pissed her off.

Nayc Ijaa means honorless. Frack that. It's not my Republic, so why should I care?

For a second the world blurred, and a sharp pain sliced through her guts. "U’cah alla y nik alin’aknoth," she snapped. My enemies are diseased man whores, not even warriors enough to sell their swords.

"Brave words for a troch," Canderous said. ["The Starkiller is as damned as the star's fire he fled."]

"Whatever. I'm a brave troch. Hey, where's the dueling ring? Might try my luck. It pays, right?" I lost my blaster. I'll have to find one. "Downstairs, right? Thanks, by the way."

"Yes," Riek said. "If you call those honorless parades of false weapons and fixed fights duels…."

"Show her the exit. It leads to the ring." Whatever curiosity had been in the older Mandalorian's face, it was gone now.

Frack you too, di'kut, Polla thought.

Xxx

"What will we do if the Republic comes?" Riek asked. Cub sounded worried as if the Republic's wars against the Sith had anything to do with them.

Maybe in another generation. Maybe in another century.

"See if they pay more than Davik," Canderous cracked his knuckles, bending to stretch his aching knees. Easy to get soft on this world. Too easy.

That woman had reminded him too much of home: the soft burr of her Mandalorian insults, the fire in her eyes. Canderous wondered absently if her words as a warrior were all bravado. If she sought out Starkiller or Kang as opponents... or bedmates.

She's too young for you, dar'ri'duur. Although, Aemelie had been younger than this Polla Organa when she staked her claim on his soul. You were younger then too. And Polla Organa is troch. The way the woman had ignored his offer to prove her worth showed that.

No woman of the clan would have turned down a chance to school a man in their arts.

"Davik Kang hasn't paid us in months," Riek pointed out.

"Don't tell the Republic that," Canderous pulled out his repeater to check the gage. "Would lower our price."

XXX

Mandalorians hadn't lied. The dueling ring was through the double doors at the bottom of the stairs, opening into a vast room ringed with seats and a center pit. The pit floor was ferraglass—lined with circuits, and had a set of hovering holo-cams that beamed their empty light on the space between two portable blast-shields.

"Fancy," Polla muttered, shoving the hat down over her eyes. If they give me a decent blaster, how hard can this be? Easy credits.

Therion had dueled on hot sand beneath a sullen sky. Polla could still taste the ash in her mouth, hear the cheers of the crowd in the Nar Sublevels, close in and dank, everything rusted and dropping—

No, it was sand, endless sand. The sun was bright overhead. There was a man—a masked man, and the weight of the blade in her hand was off, unfamiliar for all that she'd practiced—

Sand on Nar? No. It was fracking dark. Something was dripping on me! And I wasn’t dueling. It was all Therion. I was just watching but it didn’t look hard. It can’t be hard. I’ll show that Mandalorian hu’tuun what it means to fear the edge of my blades—

My blaster. I mean my blaster—how hard can it be? You just hide behind those shields and line up your target. And then it ends. I will crush the Mando’ade scourge—

—And then, they’ll pay me. They fracking took everything. All of my credits.

I’m gonna take them back.

Upon asking, a nervous-looking Human directed Polla to the control room off the main stage, where a pimple-skinned Hutt held a mockery of a court.

In three seconds, Polla knew she preferred Zax downstairs if she had to choose between Hutts. This guy was a pompous gasbag, tongue practically hanging out of his mouth as he took her in.

["Tell the bed-woman it is a great honor, with the usual pandering to her beauty, her greatness, and our working relationship. If you cause any offense, Klistack, I will take it out of your hide."]

His translator, a slimy-looking, red-eyed Duros she had an irrational urge to throttle, started in with all of those Hutt greetings and banthashit… but when Polla lifted her hand, he fell silent.

["I will speak for myself. Surely, the magnificent Lord wishes to see the best shot in the Rim defeat whatever trash he has competing. A Mando'ade named Bendak Starkiller invited me to your shit-dwelling."]

The Duros made a startled 'eep' noise and retreated.

["Are you here to duel? You?"] Purple, stim-slitted eyes fluttered excitedly, as if Polla Organa was queen of Naboo.

You think I can't? ["Yes. I'm here to duel. I'm Polla Or—"]

The Hutt cut her words off with a thump of his flipper. ["Certainly, you are… whoever you wish to be. But you'll need some kind of handle… in your time at Riik's. And I don't care what he told you—Starkiller isn't on the circuit. Bastard only does death matches. You're too pretty to die that messy. Too upsetting. Maybe… start out slow. Have you tried dancing? We could make a match between you and one of the other ladies. Tasteful. Clothed, of course. Nothing that would offend your patron…."]

Patron? Fracking Hutts. "I thought of dancing," Polla said coolly, switching to Basic. "But then I thought I'd rather fracking take over the galaxy instead. Right? I mean, dream big. That's what my da always said."

["Ho, ho. Of course. Already so far on your path to greatness. What about ‘Mysterious Stranger?’ It has a certain… cadence, does it not?"]

"Whatever. I just want a shot." If she turned around, she was afraid the red-eyed Duros might be still staring. "Need a gun though, left mine back at my… uh, space yacht. Know how it is?"

["Of course. Of course!!"] Was the creep drooling? ["We will provide the weapons. Only the best weapons. And the… most secure opponents. No way to lose!"]

"You're gonna have your guy throw the match for me?" Polla should be touched, not insulted, but she was both.

["Deadeye Duncan is an honorable opponent!"] The Hutt objected. ["If you fight him in your singlet I'll throw in an extra fifty."]

Extra fifty. I had thousands this morning.

"Make it five hundred," she said flatly. "Five hundred a match."

["Oh, ho."] Ajuur chuckled. She hated his fracking guts. ["The lady would break me? I cannot. Do you prefer blasters or vibroblades?"]

Fifty’s at least enough for a drink and hovercab back to the hotel. Are we… did we check out of the hotel? For a dizzying moment, Polla couldn’t remember the name of the place. "Blasters. I… uh, I don't have one." I did, but I lost it.

["We provide the weapons. That way, no cheating. The containment field kicks in when you or your opponent is near death, and then we supply the kolto to heal you."]

"Death? Actual death?" On Nar or Kesh, they used health meters. Not that she'd ever dueled. Just what she'd heard.

Not that I've ever dueled. But now I am. Therion dueled once or twice. I thought it was hot. I was such a kid back then. Stupid….

As opposed to now, when you're gambling your life for the price of a night's lodging. Fool.

["Kolto is included. No charge."] Asshole Hutt waved a flipper. ["It is not in the interest of my illustrious House to let a beauty as rare and as precious as your ladyship die. Your expiration would be terrible for our business!"]

"So, you want me to almost kill someone for credits." Polla smiled. "Sounds okay."

Xxx

"Selven, come here! You have to see!"

"Can't right now, Gerlon. Finishing my drink." The reports of her latest assignment were scrolling across Selven's retina, overlaying the cantina in a haze of blue and red Aurebesh, diagrams, and mugshots. This was tricky work, comparing one employer's intel against the other, and while the cantina's hive of activity provided a welcome cover, she should have begun the review in her apartment. Selven saw that now. But her Sith master had requested a meet in this place—

The green Twi’lek was late. And it was not at all like Vikor Tio to be late. Perhaps this quest for Bastila Shan was all-consuming.

He should trust us to help. Then again, she reflected, there were good reasons not to trust the GenoHaradan in any matters that fell outside of the strict constraints of one’s contract.

"Seriously, Selven?"

"Fine." She sighed, blinking to clear her eyes of the feed. It had been a mistake agreeing to sponsor Gerlon the maimed duelist, but she had assumed he would lose a few more matches and then give up, allowing someone more easily swayed to take his place in the rotation. Who knew the man had so much determination?

"What is it?" she asked, as he led her to the ring.

"Look." There was a big crowd, but most were booing.

Projected above the action itself, the two images of the duelists appeared closer than they were.

Which made the fact that they were both just standing there, firing blasters and missing, even more darkly hilarious.

"Is this a joke?" The haptic connection to her overlay took that moment to buzz, and Selven blinked, as her periphery lit up like a Harvestday Tree, burning bright as payday.

Facial Recognition: Match(es) Found.

Current Alias: Polla Organa, Smuggler, Deralia

Match Found: Sheris Darkstar, consort to Darth Malak

"Isn't that Darth Malak's… girlfriend?" Gerlon's voice was a vague buzz in her ears now because the overlay was still flashing.

Match Found: Revan Starfire D'Reev, Sith, Dark Lord of. (Deceased)

ERROR: Refer to: Sheris Darkstar, identical genetic copy of Revan Starfire D'Reev

It was none of Selven's concern how Padawan Sheris Loran had been altered to mimic Revan so closely that their signatures were bioidentical; but she still wondered, not for the first time, if it had been some kind of Force sorcery or science that had reworked the former padawan's body to its very mitochondria.

However, as far as she was aware, neither Force sorcery nor science was capable of resurrecting a woman over a year dead.

Alert: Senate House D'Reev

Alert: Jedi Council

Alert: Darth Malak

Alert: Darth Arkan

Alert: Jedi Master Korr

Alert: Jedi Master Vrook

Alert: High Admiral Forn Dodonna

Query: Proceed with which Alerts....? AND/OR/ALL?

Hold, Selven blinked.

"Selven?" Hapless Gerlon nudged her ribs, and she resisted the urge to take out his eyes. One of the first oaths of her organization: No unnecessary casualties. They cause too many questions.

"Yes, Gerlon." She pasted a smile on her face. "Who knew the Darkstar was such a terrible shot?" She softened her voice. "Get me a drink at the bar, would you?"

The odd thing about the duel was not that the two duelists kept missing each other. Selven had seen enough sick Sith games not to question that. No doubt there was a reason well above any of her pay grades. Nor was the odd thing that Sheris Darkstar, consort of Darth Malak, had changed her red hair to brown at some clumsy attempt at disguise.

No. The odd thing was why Darth Malak, the Republic Senate, and several Jedi masters seemed suddenly interested enough to contact the GenoHaradan regarding a woman who was not lost.

Selven had seen footage of Darkstar (still with red hair) from yesterday in the Taris dress shop where her sadistic friend had murdered the hapless Citizen Shikira Oplee. Indeed, smoothing over that incident with the local authorities had been one of the tasks Vik had assigned to her. (As with all things, credits worked wonders.)

Query: Current location of Sheris Darkstar? She blinked, pinging C6-V, who was stationed in the room next to hers, his broadcast beam on wide receive, ready to decrypt all that was found.

Location Confirmed by ZX-8. Sheris Darkstar is currently aboard the Grave Bright.

Footage followed of the woman's departure from Taris the day before. There was no record of her re-entry. Could the woman have evaded their sensors? And was there a reason Sheris Darkstar, consort of the Dark Lord of the Sith, could be slumming it as a cut-rate duelist named Polla Organa?

But even if so, why would the High Admiral of the Republic Fleet care? Members of the Jedi Council?

Gerlon pressed a bulb of something cold and damp into her hand. Selven smiled to thank him.

"They're just shooting at each other over and over again—and missing!" Gerlon cackled, entirely missing the point.

"Yes, but you're so right, Gerlon," Selven murmured. "It's quite interesting." She wondered what her partner would think….

Xxx

Riik's was packed, but there was a space around the short man with goggles at the bar that made it easy for Carth to spot him. As Carth approached, he pushed the visor up, revealing his face. He could see from the set of the man's mouth that the recognition was mutual, even before he sat down at one of the five empty stools surrounding the Exchange thug in the crowded cantina.

"I'm Calo Nord." Davik Kang's second was short, really short for a Human. And something about him raised Carth's hackles in a way only a Mandalorian could, although his accent was bland, generic Core. "And you're Carth Onasi. Heard there was someone in the Top Ten lookin for me."

"The Top Ten?" Carth frowned and didn't take a sip of the drink Nord pushed in front of him.

"Ten Most Wanted on Taris. Don't know what you did to get numbered, but congratulations. Some of us worked our asses off… but you just waltzed on in…." Nord laughed like it was all a joke to him.

"So, you know who I am."

"I've heard the song." Nord's eyes were invisible under those goggles, and so were Carth's under the visor he shoved back down covering half his face. "It true?"

"Haven't heard it myself so I couldn't say." Carth forced himself to stay calm. "Listen, I was told you could help me. I'm looking for someone. A woman."

"Whatever you heard, I don't deal in women." Calo shrugged. "And my boss don't lend out his stable."

"No! It's not like that! I… lost someone in the Undercity near your turf. This kid said you might know—said your people might have grabbed her."

"Grabbed… who?" The man's goggles hid any reaction. "Which kid said this?"

"You know a blue Twi'lek? Mission Vao? She runs around with a Wookiee?"

"Sure." The man took a sip of his drink. "Cheeky one with the hairball muscle. If she lives long enough, way I figure, we'll all end up working for her."

"Uh, yeah…." Carth wasn't sure if that was a compliment. Or how much to tell this ass. "We… I'm pretty sure my… my partner got grabbed by some Exchange muscle. Deralian smuggler? Brown hair? You—you haven't heard anything?"

Calo tilted his head. Those goggles just reflected Carth's own face back at him. "I've heard some things. Heard you're the one with that song. Heard about the massacre down in Javyar's. A few hours ago, but bad news travels fast."

"Javyar's… the cantina?" Massacre? His gut sank. Mission. Zaalbar.

Nord nodded. "Ugly business. When they go feral, smart money gets the frack outta Dathomir. Lotta Bek money was tied up in that business. All on the lam now, if they have half a brain."

"Mission." Carth felt like he'd been gut-punched. "That kid—do you know if she—"

"Haven't done the body count myself, and the Sith don't always leave pieces big enough for a tally, but she's not on the known casualty lists." Calo tapped his goggles, and Carth realized they were tied into a live feed… of something. "I'm fond of that bint myself. Be a shame if something happened to her before she got old enough to—"

"Don't." Carth eased his blaster out of the holster while raising his other hand like he might throw a punch if the man continued.

Nord chuckled. "—was gonna say, qualify for the swoop championships. Kid's not half-bad."

From behind them, the crowd suddenly cheered at something projected on the screen. "You see that? She closed her eyes!"

"Twenty kriffing minutes they were plugging at each other! She closes her eyes and makes the shot?"

"One in a million, folks, let's hear it for the Mysterious Stranger! Won over Deadeye Duncan, with a perfect headshot, right between the eyes!"

"Twenty minutes?" Nord glanced up at the screen. "Huh. That's gotta be some record for bad. Duncan's half-blind."

Carth followed his gaze. The holo-screen had flashing lights and ads surrounding it, promises of an unimpeded live view in the back room of the cantina, with lurid, red arrows pointing in that direction; but the images were still clear, even with the advertisements for Juma-Jolt and Taris Hop Ale superimposed above them.

A familiar top-knotted woman, holding a Sith officer's cap in her hand as if she'd just taken it off. As Carth watched, she nearly swept the floor, in an elaborate, almost courtly bow.

Graceful, he thought. So graceful when she moves. Like a jryyysh snake in the grass. But alive. She's alive.

He found himself relieved. Course you are, you spent a week watching her scream, expecting her to die—

"Holy kriffing Mandalore's… balls!" Calo Nord choked. "The hell is she doing?"

"You've met Polla?" Of course. He works for a crime lord. She knows everyone on this fracked planet. That TarSec guard called her the Crazy Sith.

The relief he felt at seeing her alive was fading pretty damned fast at seeing the expression on Nord's face.

"Polla?" Nord didn't even glance at him. "Yeah. Sure. Sure I have. Nice girl." He turned his head toward the door. "Selven? Hey! Selven!"

A slinky blonde walked toward them like she owned the place. "Guess I don't have to ask," she said, gaze flickering over Carth like he was invisible.

The two of them just stared at each other after that, long enough that Carth felt like his whole skin was itching.

"Excuse us," the blonde said finally, frowning at him.

"See you," Carth muttered, and went toward the back to find his recalcitrant smuggler.

Xxx

Now that she was fifty credits richer, Polla figured she should have fracking fought in her skivs and made it a hundred.

Of course, the asshole Hutt had his minions pay her with a credchip, and not a stack of credits. She eyed the square piece of plasticore dubiously again, wondering if there was really anything on it at all.

"How much is a Tarisian ale?" She waved, trying to get the bartender's attention; but when the yellow-haired Human finally bothered, he just sat a flask of frozen-looking wine on the table next to her and backed away slowly—apparently distracted by the floor or the fracking half a day it seemed to have taken her to shoot Deadeye Duncan in the head.

“Interesting," a voice murmured in her ear. The accent was almost familiar, but the face wasn't: just another Twi'lek guy with goggles, green skin, wearing gloves, and some plain banthahide robes. "You let Duncan think he might win."

"I know you, bud?" She drained the too-sweet wine too fast, scanning the crowd. The bar was crowded, but there was a lot of space around them all suddenly.

"Apparently not." The Twi'lek sounded amused. "Are you going to try another duel?"

"I might die of old age first." She raised her glass to Deadeye Duncan, who had a kolto pack on his skull where her bolt had taken him down. He looked confused like he didn't see her. This close, she noticed his eyes didn't really focus.

Was I fighting a fracking blind guy? With some kind of rigged gun that couldn't aim?

Frack this planet.

"Dance with me?" The Twi'lek pressed closer than Polla liked.

"Sorry, chum." She flashed him a smile to get him to back off. "I dance alone, these days."

"You’re not alone now… are you? I’d say you have the eyes of everyone here after your victory." The man was about her height, with goggles over his eyes, and lekku that looked a little too polished to be coreslime. His arm slid around her waist as his head bent toward her ear.

"Many eyes are dangerous," he breathed, so light that it was barely a warning.

Polla started to pull away, but his foot slid behind hers, and for a moment, the air seemed… thick, like her legs were frozen, her arms locked to his. "The frack?"

This tip of his lekku brushed against her neck, tracing a symbol there—and then three more. Ryl. Everyone. Owns. Eyes. Here. Danger. A pause. I can help.

Ryl has three dialects: spoken, seen and touched. Polla knew that. Polla knew that because she knew a lot of languages.

"Do you understand?" he murmured, again, breathing in her ear.

“Eyes?” Polla couldn’t see his. She didn’t like it. “If you’re gonna talk about eyes, show me yours.”

“Of course.” He pushed the goggles back to his head. Beneath, his eyes were the color of lemmas. He raised his voice. "I have a hotel room in the Lower City. The Sunset, room five-three-eight, if you're interested in a dalliance."

No hotel. Upper. Droid Store. The lekku tickled when they traced numbers on her neck, almost too fast for her to follow.

Eight. Nine. Five. Three Thousand. Fracking gibberish?

No. Coordinates. He’s giving you coordinates. You need to find a map, triangulate the location. You're being watched—he said you’re being watched. He said he’d help.

Frack him. I should give him something to watch!

"Bud, I think you need to lay off the spice!" Polla leaned closer, her hands reaching to check for a usable weapon on his belt—and came up empty, her hand closing on a metal loop like she thought she'd find something there.

The Twi'lek chuckled softly. "In my boot. A habit I picked up years ago."

"Bully for you…." Polla's voice trailed off. A Human man was pushing his way through the crowd. He looked a little ridiculous with that visor like a welder's mask, but there was no mistaking that fine-cut jaw, or the orange jacket—now with a newly-melted patch on one of the sleeves.

Thank frack, she thought. Never thought I'd be so thrilled to see Captain Obvious.

"I think my brother's coming to save me," she murmured sweetly to Mister Green. "Took him long enough."

Xxx

Her cheeks were flushed from wine and she wasn’t dead. Didn’t even look injured. In fact, Polla Organa looked pretty good for a woman who'd somehow made it back to the Upper City from the Under, with no weapons and no credits, with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Carth was happier to see her than he’d expected, after the fight that had ended with both of them storming off and him vowing never to have anything to do with Deralian smugglers ever again.

He’d come to rescue her, but she didn’t look like she needed rescuing. He'd come here to meet with Calo Nord, and find out if the Exchange knew anything about the woman last seen heading to the Undercity to meet with Dark Jedi—

But here she was. Not dead or in danger.

She was still wearing that damnable Sith hat (or had gotten another one), dancing close with some scuzzy Twi'lek. Carth couldn't help but notice the possessive way the guy held onto her hip, her arm, the way she pressed into him—

"May I claim this dance?" A dark-haired woman smiled softly at him. "I remember you… from the bar, before? Yesterday?"

"Yeah, I-I remember you too," he muttered. Hard to forget, when the dark-haired woman had looked so much like—like Morgana. He could barely remember his wife’s face, but this woman had the same dark hair, loose over her shoulders, the same glint of dark eyes. It was hard to look at her, so his eyes skipped back to the smuggler, dancing with some other guy like they were the only two people in the galaxy. "Sure, we can dance if you want."

Might show the smuggler that he wasn’t here for her. That he hadn’t come to this place for her. Even if that was a lie, she might believe it.

"Looks like I'm not your first choice." The dark-haired woman’s voice was light.

He'd forgotten his own wife's face. He didn't have anything to remind him. Oh, he'd salvaged an old album, and there were the vids and snaps they'd stored in the wires… but Carth had locked the album away in a bank vault on Byss with the small pile of things he'd salvaged from his son's room.

Looking at this woman would hurt, so he didn’t. "I'm sorry," he told the dark-eyed woman, already walking past, pushing his visor up so she’d know him.

"Excuse me," he said to the asshole with her. "She's with me, bud. She's my crazy sister."

"Frack off, brother." Crazy Sis had a warning light in her eye. "Don't want me to tell these nice Sith officers about your contraband biz, do you?"

"Depends," he muttered. "Do you want me to tell them about your contraband business?"

"I offered a discount." She shrugged, casually, and the guy she'd been dancing with just kind of… melted off her. Stepping away like she'd shrugged him off like a bad cape. She raised her voice. "My rates are better than my brother's here."

There were too many Imperials in the room; every instinct Carth had said to run.

But then Polla Organa, the crazy smuggler, tensed on her feet and did a backflip onto the top of the bar, coming down with a perfect arch of her back, and standing again, suddenly towering over them all.

Strangely, one guy near the back let out a startled yelp and ran out.

The music abruptly changed tempo, became something slow, a little sad. But with a steady beat. And then, she began to dance.

At the time, he hadn't understood, hadn't known. Hell, half the sents in the room didn't look like they got it either. A few more left—left fast. Some in a corner were whispering. But Carth suddenly couldn't tear his eyes away—

Polla Organa danced like she walked backward through crowds. She danced like she was boneless, like she was walking on air. Her eyes were half closed, and her hips moved slowly—

"Sheer-reesss!" A lone whistle from somewhere in the back of the crowd. "Woooo hoo! Take it off, babe!!! Do it like we're M—" The drunken catcaller stopped so abruptly he might have been snapped—words cutting out with a startled yelp.

Polla didn't react, she just kept moving, her head shifting, and those eyes half closed, green, and half-lidded. Staring straight at Carth with that lazy, smug smile.

"Polla," Carth whispered. His mouth was suddenly dry. He raised his voice. “Polla!”

“Mmm?” She looked down at him, then bent into a crouch so they were nearly eye-level. Her lips were pursed in a flirtatious smirk, but her eyes were startlingly direct, staring into his without a hint of artifice. “You sorry for leaving me?”

We need to get out of here. The room was suddenly dead quiet. Faint scuffling noise behind them, like something was being dragged. Nothing important. "I-I like your eyes."

"You like my… eyes?"

That smirk on that wide mouth made him irrationally stupid. Carth knew… he knew that. "Uh." He didn't like how quiet it had got—the music had stopped. It brought him back to reality like a cold fresher seat. Bastila. That poor Twi’lek kid. Something happened at Jayvar’s, Calo said. And everyone’s watching us. "We… we should really go."

"Okay." Polla… flipped off the bar, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. There was suddenly a lot of space around her. There were fewer sents here than there had been, but over by the door, Carth noted his old pal Calo again and that blonde. Across the room, the brunette who'd approached him, and that guy who had been hanging off of Polla were staring at them. As he watched, the brunette grabbed the Twi’ek’s arm, scowling. It was too far away to hear what she was saying—

"I'll be back tomorrow!" Polla called out to the room. "If anyone wants to see the Mysterious Stranger in action! Put your orders in then—soon as we get official permission from your authorities to break your blockade, we'll be in business! Stop by tomorrow!"

"I-I don't know if that's such a good idea—" Those green eyes met his again like a shot of hyperdrive, and Carth's words died in his throat. Play along, Onasi. Just get out of here.

She took Carth's arm like she owned it, ducking her head close to his. Her voice shifted to a whisper. "Grass Priests, am I glad to see you! I lost all of my credits. These Mandalorians brought me here—I just made another fifty, and the bartender comped my drink, but I didn’t know what the hell I was gonna do next.”

"I have them," he muttered. "I have your credits." Of course, there were Mandalorians. Calo Nord's men are Mandalorians. Of course they are. And, of course, the Mandalorians brought you here. "I have your coat too." He pulled it off from around his waist and helped her into it, trying to keep them moving toward the door. There was… something in the air. Carth couldn't explain it. Pilot's intuition. You learn to check the sensors for an ambush. You learn to check the dark corners of spaceside bars; you learn to wait for the other shoe to drop—

"Thanks." She scanned his face. Hers was eager and open, but there were shadows under her eyes and he suddenly wondered how much of this was the act, if maybe even sucking up to him was part of the act. "I think you might be right about this planet. It's giving me the creeps too—"

"Dad? Dad! It's me! Bluebell!" Something wrapped around his midsection with the tenacity of a mynock. Arms. When he looked down, the empty space blurred, became Twi'lek-shaped.

Carth's heart stopped. Dad. No one's called me that since Telos. His hand brushed the bare skin of Mission Vao’s arm.

A green-skinned tusked sent barreled into the room, swinging a large, spiked club that didn't look like it was just for show.

"Hey! Vao! You know we can see you on the scanner, right? Get outta here and stop bugging the customers—she's not allowed in here—" the Gamorrean bouncer froze at the sight of them. "Oh." His snout twitched, and his ears slammed back, gaze swinging from Carth to Polla and then back to Carth. "I'm sorry. I did not know." He waved a clawed hand at them. "I'm gonna… gotta… go. Fresher. Uh…."

He was worse at walking backward than Polla was, crashing into two tables and a chair before making his exit.

"Huh?" Polla frowned. "Kid?"

A millisecond later, a blue Twi'lek kid popped into existence, her arms already wrapped around Carth's chest, sobbing as if her heart was broken.

"Kid? Mission, right?" Polla was next to him, half hugging, half pulling the little Twi'lek away from him—but the Twi'lek hung tight. Polla looked up at him and then back at Mission. Her expression was so genuinely concerned that Carth felt like a heel for all of his earlier suspicions. "It's okay," Polla patted the girl's back. "What happened? You can tell us."

"They're all dead. All dead. The Sith. They killed them! They're all dead! Everyone at Javyar's! Even Katrona and she were only the bus girl! She wasn't mixed up with nothin! And… and the Beks…."

Oh, no, Carth thought. What have we done? Did we do this? Does helping us put those people at risk?

"The Beks?" Polla frowned. "Your gang? They're dead too?"

"They… they moved, I bet. Stuff must be crazy-bad if they'd just move. That was our turf! Gadon and Zaerdra had it all fixed up nice! And my place, me and Zee's…. Those Sith trashed it. Blew it all up! When… when I knew Big Z had led them off, I went to see… everybody was dead!"

"Where is your Wookiee friend?" Polla blinked. "Zaalbar? Where is he? Did they—"

"N-no! But he told me to find you, Captain Carth! Zee was talking crazy! He said the Hunt-King was after him and it wasn't safe for me no more! H-he ran off to lead them away, I think. He-he said I should find you…. If anything happened and I couldn't find the Beks—"

Mission’s blue eyes were like daggers in Carth's heart. But then he looked around long enough to see two figures fade back into the shadows of the suddenly near-deserted bar. Two more figures he could have sworn hadn't been there a second ago.

"I don't like this," he muttered. "Any of this. Polla? If you know anything at all—"

"I know that if the Sith killed your friends, we'll get payback," the Deralian vowed to Mission, shooting Carth a glare as if he didn't have the right to be suspicious.

"They did! I just told you they did!"

"Then they're gonna pay." Polla straightened up like she was suddenly in a full-dress military parade. "Come on," she barked at them. "Let's go figure this out."

XXX

The dark-haired woman dug her fingers harder into Vikor Tio’s arm. “You were dancing?” she hissed. “Dancing?”

“Yes,” he smiled back. Blocking Xaset’s peculiar gift was taking a great deal of Vikor’s concentration—although he suspected the lack of a true heart’s desire worked in his favor. “And now, she’s leaving the bar. Did Beya order you to follow her? Or did Malak command it directly?”

Across the bar, Selven nodded at him. He’d intended to set her on the woman’s trail as well, but that plan seemed foolhardy now, if Organa’s network was also involved.

All of this excitement over a woman who was, in Vik’s assessment, entirely useless; helpless as an ekk larva, blank as an empty plate, and only good for one thing.

I wonder if she will make the rendez-vous. If she even understood those coordinates.

His expectations were low.

“If you must know, Beya sent me here, but I sent my recordings directly to Malak. But what are you doing, Vik?” Xaset Terep still held Vikor Tio’s arm in a grip hard enough to bruise. Her (currently) black eyes narrowed, glaring at him, and the bad Telosian accent she’d affected when talking to the Republic captain, dissolved like mist, revealing her normal Corellian tones. “You know Lord Malak will see. Do you want to lose your head like Davad Arkan?”

“Last I checked, Davad still had his head,” Vikor drawled. Sometimes he got so tired of these people; these warped shadows of their former selves who used to be his friends. His hand tangled in the strands of hair he’d plucked from the presumed Starfire’s head and he fed them into the pocket-sized bioscanner he’d acquired for just this purpose. It buzzed three times under his fingers, confirming what he already knew. Genetic match, not that it means anything. I know it’s her. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“Morgana Onasi.” Xaset shrugged, the dark eyes fading, yellow bubbling to the surface as she let the illusion drop. “Or, enough for a passing resemblance. Beya suggested I shouldn’t mimic the dead man’s wife exactly. He’s the suspicious type.”

“Organa’s losing it too,” Vikor shrugged. It was true.

Quite helpful for him.

The mindwiped, Force-blinded former Lord of the Sith was only good for one thing... but that one thing held the galaxy. That one thing was the only thing stopping the Sith Empire from victory.

Unlike the rest of the mad Sith around him, Vikor knew about the Force bond between Revan and Bastila Shan. Unlike the rest of his former friends, Vik had seen the Republic Fleet’s medical records from the Ascendant, which documented a near-parasitic link between Bastila and the Dark Lord she’d saved. And while it seemed possible (maybe) that Bastila, with her years of training, might survive the death of Revan; Vikor was quite sure the same could not be said for the woman who called herself Polla Organa, were Bastila herself to die.

Therefore, Bastila Shan is alive. And I have to find her before Malak’s insane lackeys do.

But Davad and Beya had reported Bastila dead. Either Davad and Beya were conspiring against Malak… or they were, as so often happened to mad Sith, just plain wrong.

Either way, Vikor’s true master needed to know immediately.

Soft hair brushed his fingers and Xaset chuckled. “Oh, Vik. Could you be any more predictable?”

Vikor blinked. For a moment, Xaset’s eyes seemed to lighten, turn almost blue. Her lean figure swelled generous breasts, her hair shone a rich, chestnut brown, twisted in braids—

“Really, Vikor?” Xaset sighed, glancing down at herself. “You too?”

XXX

“What was the meaning of your little stunt back there?” Carth had refused to let Polla or Mission descend into the hatch where he’d apparently stored two sets of Sith armor; but from the piecemeal way he was handing segments of it up, Polla was pretty sure he was stripping the pieces off bodies. “Dueling? Dancing? Do the words ‘lay low’ mean nothing to you?”

Almost like the galaxy wanted to prove Polla right, the next piece of armor plate that Carth handed her had blaster char on its surface. Alluplate was gorgeous stuff—seamless when linked together. If you liked looking like a giant silver dong, Polla thought wearing it would be the way to go… but then again, all that seamlessness hadn’t seen to have done the poor slobs wearing it here any good.

That is one sweet blaster that man carries. I need another look at it.

“Didn’t know if I’d see you again, Flyboy.” Her hand still felt warm—a little—from where he’d grabbed it, dragging her away from the perfectly decent-looking weapons emporium in the merchant quarter to this deserted platform on the edge of noplace, where, apparently, he stored his kills. “I needed credits. Guess Canderous and Riek forgot to take my coat after I passed out.” Now, the credits were a reassuring weight in her pocket, and Captain Obvious was once again a weight around her neck.

“Did you want to see me again?” Carth wasn’t flirting. She’d thought he’d been flirting in the cantina; when her own nerves had kicked into overdrive; but he’d had the timing of a cracked accelerator chain back there.

“Yeah.” Preferably on Zeltros in a bubble bath, maybe gagged if you’re going to keep yelling... but even so. Yeah. Polla started to lay out the pieces that Mission had stacked, assembling the chestplate and vambraces on the pavement. “In fact, I did. I-I was going to look for you at the hotel, after I scored some credits.”

Why did I take that duel? Because that Mando’ade di’kut looked at me like I was osik on his boot. Why did I dance on that bar? Because that asshole Twi’lek said everyone was watching me and I wanted to make sure they got a fracking good look.

It still pissed her off, but Polla thought she knew what was going on. In fact, she was proud of herself for figuring it out.

The Sith want Bastila Shan, right? They know we’re Republic and they know we’re looking for her. So they want to keep us in their targeting reticule and have us find her for them.

Lazy kriffing Sith.

“Did you kill these guys?” Mission asked Flyboy, taking what looked like two pieces of a boot from him. “Yourself?”

“I—yes.” With just his head and a shoulder sticking out of the hatch, Carth should have looked comical, but there was nothing funny about his expression, or his grim tone.

“Good.” The kid spat on the ground. “I hate the Sith.”

“We all do,” Carth said, but he was staring at Polla.

“Hey, I hate them too! They killed Mission’s friends and they’re kriffing lazy murderers.” Polla spat on the ground too. “Lazy kriffing murdering losers.”

XXX

The Grave Bright nestled in the Leviathan's largest docking bay like a child tucked in a cradle. There were times when the Lord Malak's protection made Sheris feel safe.

This was not one of them.

XXX

"Depart immediately," Malak had told her. "Go to the estate on Thule. I need you to supervise the rebuilding of our palace. There is no one else I trust with the task."

Palace. More like a fortress. Sheris could no longer stand the sight of it; the ruin of her careful plans.

"Come with me," she begged. "The war is going well enough that you can leave for a time."

"I cannot." He squeezed her hand, and she leaned against him, both of them watching Taris below. "If I need to burn this world, I want you well clear."

Was it kindness, that her lover wanted to spare her the feeling of another dying planet? Or fear that she might lose the healing gift that made her so useful to him? Was there a difference?

"If I go, give me Beya," she said. "I am tired of talking to servants and slaves."

She felt all of Malak's muscles tense. "For what purpose? Do you prefer her company to mine?"

"Only at the ryss table." It was true. But playing ryss with Beya Organa would be more amusing than watching the lightning storms from the window of the rebuilt tower on Thule where Malak wanted to keep her. "Let me go to Manaan instead. Or Korriban."

"You hate wearing a mask." Affection colored his metallic voice. "And I would not have you be confused for some Revan pretender or holo-vid actress—"

"Beya would protect my honor on Manaan." She kissed his hand. "My Lord."

"She does seem more loyal to you than to me," Malak mused. "Perhaps I will send her to you when her current assignment is complete."

"I can keep her loyalty." She planted another soft kiss on his bare chest. Then another, and another. "To us. Let me help."

"You have. You do." He brought her hand to the place where his mouth should be. "I could not win this war without you." She felt his breath through the vents beneath the prosthesis, hissing in and out. “I suppose there would be no harm in Manaan.”

Or, you could let me stay, she thought. But out loud she said nothing. For in all truth, Sheris did not want to feel another world die either.

XXX

"My lady?"

Now, on the bridge of the Bright, Sheris could not tear her eyes from the planet spinning beneath them. Something about it made her flesh crawl, which was strange because she had always enjoyed Taris before.

"Set a course for Manaan, Captain Ivo," she sighed. "By Darth Malak's command."

XXX

The giant man had been quiet once, wearing a gray mask and robes, just like any other man, like any other Jedi in the Republic Fleet. The giant man had seemed unassuming then—next to the fire of his wife—but that, Saul thought, had been the true lie.

All the lies were gone now, and the giant man loomed over Saul's desk in Saul's personal quarters, dressed in red cortosis and wearing a black cape, like a mockery of the uniform that had once been the birthright of the man's Senatorial House. His skull was bare, striped with lines that had some mystic significance Saul didn't want to know. His eyes were yellow. And his mouth was gone—replaced with a metal cuff that extended from his nose to what should have been a chin. The man's voice was metallic now, forced through a voder inset in his neck beneath the prosthesis that constantly pumped kolto into the man's rotting flesh, in an attempt to stop any further decay.

"Admiral Karath," the man rasped. "Reports came in this morning from our fledgling Academy. I thought you would enjoy seeing yours in person." His gloved hand extended, holding two sheets of plimsi.

Saul read the first print out, careful to keep his face completely expressionless.

Acolyte Karath is a promising young student with excellent potential. She is an avid reader of military histories and shows a sound grasp of strategy. Her spatial reasoning and mastery of abstract cognitive concepts rank her intellectual function among the top quartile of her class—

"I thought this would please you." Lord Malak had thought nothing of the kind. Saul might have once been the son of a Telosian farmer, but he'd paid his dues in the Core. He knew how the sausage was made.

"I am pleased." It was a lie.

Malak made a wheezing sound through the prosthesis that could have been a dry laugh, in times past. "Your daughter has your gifts. Children are not the only legacy we leave behind, but they are the most… personal." His breath hissed, and the flesh around his yellow-stained eyes crinkled, as if he was trying to smile.

"Selene is my daughter. I am proud of her." She had an early acceptance to Fleet Academy the year you lost your mind, my lord. I sacrificed my own planet to stop a war—

—and it didn't even work.

His eyes fell again to the other sheet of plimsi.

Acolyte Onasi is prodigiously strong in the Force. One of the prime contenders for an apprenticeship, if he continues to live up to his potential.

... excellent marks in saber combat.

... well-rounded. A natural leader.

It was difficult to know what was true and what was not, but Saul couldn't help but compare the two. Which, he had to assume, was the true purpose of Malak's unexpected visit to his personal quarters.

My daughter was rejected for Jedi training when she was five. They said she had a minor affinity for the Force. The Onasi boy was never tested. Garrett told me that, years ago, when our children played at the same park. Morgana didn't believe in mystics, and Carth was as focused on his career as I was. My husband and Onasi's wife gossiped under the odabink trees, and our children grew as friends—

To think I once told Selene to keep Dustil safe on Korriban.

I know the attrition rates at the Dreshdae Academy. I've seen the undoctored reports. Intelligence is nothing in a place like that. Revan proposed brute techniques to accelerate training of the Dark Jedi we needed for the war effort. But in the last year, Malak has only given commands to brutish louts like Bandon Agare. Malak wants an army of mad Sith, as mad as he is—and my daughter will never be brutish enough—or strong enough—

"Admiral?" Malak's hand tapped on the table as if summoning Saul's attention back.

"How is your own protege?" Saul countered. "Mekel... Jin, was it? Doing well, I hope?"

"Not all Sith are meant for greatness." Malak raised a brow ridge. "If they were, we would be hard-pressed to accomplish our goals. Mekel Jin is strong, at least. He will make an excellent warrior."

"Of course." Saul had a sudden memory of Malak smiling with a mouth—both of them sharing tactical reports over a bottle of Corellian wine and a hot meal. Now, Saul kept his office free of such pleasures, because the temptation to drown in them—to drown in anything at all—was far too great.

Garrett Karath had not been on Telos when it was bombed. He'd been on Coruscant. His suicide two days later was a blip in time. One Telosian dying so far from home as not to be counted in the war. Saul had thought Selene was with him on Coru—but she had stayed behind: stayed with friends on Telos at the last instant, instead of attending what was supposed to be Admiral Karath's surrender—along with Dodonna and Sand and all of the other traitors who had followed Revan and Malak to the hell of Malachor itself before turning back.

Dodonna and Sand and the rest had slithered back to the Senate on their knees.

But Saul had not surrendered. Saul had chosen to stay and fight. He had thought at the time he was making a choice that might cost him Garrett’s love.

He had not expected it to cost the man’s life. Sometimes Saul wondered if he could have let the bombs fall if he'd known it could mean losing Garrett and their adopted daughter both.

Still hope, he reminded himself. You haven't lost her yet.

But that was war. The Fleet hardened its soldiers too. Taught them the virtue of sacrifice when the cause was just. Breaking the corrupt hold the Senate had on the planets of the Outer Rim, fighting for the freedom of planets like Telos was—was necessary.

The sacrifice of Telos had to be worth something.

Saul's eyes went to the message he'd written to himself the night before. The message was scribbled in handwriting that barely looked like his. Ever since the months after Malachor, Saul had trouble sleeping. Sometimes, he found himself awake at his desk instead of his bed. Sometimes, even with the coordinates of the Infinite Fleet mapped out before him, scribbled notations regarding his next commands—as if his unconscious mind held its own opinions.

And sometimes just pablum. Positive affirmations.

Have courage, good man, this last message had said. Our cause is righteous.

Lord Malak cleared his throat—a wet and muted, rattling sound coming out of the voder's speaker—and Saul realized he had been silent too long, staring at the reports from the Dreshdae Academy, like the worth of two half-grown children held any meaning in this galaxy.

"Apologies." He crumpled the two pieces of plimsi in his hand, balling them together before dumping them in the vaporizer he kept for confidential documents next to his chair. "Thank you for showing me. Is there anything else?" Saul raised his head to stare directly into Malak's insane yellow eyes and realized there was—because the man had one more piece of plimsi in his hand; this one thicker, with rounded edges, like a printed holo-still.

"Just this. Revan Starfire is alive. The Endar Spire held more than just Bastila Shan. The Jedi destroyed my wife's mind and implanted one of their false personalities in its place." Before Saul had time to react to that, Malak continued, driving the metal words through the speakers of his prosthesis like shock bolts.

"And she is not alone on Taris." Malak placed the holo-still in front of Saul.

The holo-still was double-sided and featured what seemed to be a close-up of the Upper City cantina Riik's, with a woman dancing on the bar and a man watching from below. The woman took a blink to recognize. The dark cap of hair suited her, Saul thought, even as his hand holding the plimsi trembled.

Dark hair suits her. So does a lack of Sith corruption. He had forgotten how beautiful she was—how beautiful she and Malak both had been. Beautiful, vital, charismatic—and brilliant. Revan Starfire had been wasted in the Jedi. If she had learned the real art of war, of command; if she had learned true strategy instead of Jedi tricks….

She’s alive. For a moment, Saul’s world felt untethered from orbit. The possibilities of what could be done with the Infinite Fleet and her brilliant, tactical mind… nearly equal to his own….

Malak preferred to muck about on, sowing terror, stretching Republic supply lines thin. But with Revan’s gifts, they could easily strike along the Nexus route, blazing a swift path to the Core. With Revan commanding half the Fleet instead of Armon Wu, they could grasp the Core in a pincer grip; cradling its very heart.

For a brief time, Saul had mentored Revan. For a brief time, she had allowed it; seeming to absorb every tactic, every technical detail Saul had shared about the movements of ships and men—seeming to heed one of the primary lessons of war: conservation of resources.

Conservation of lives. But then that changed. Oh, how it had changed.

“Well, Admiral?” Malak's hoarse breath made Saul realize it was past time for him to say something.

"What reason could the Jedi have for keeping her alive, my lord?" Alive, but implanted with one of their Jedi brains. Without her mind? Without her own mind, Revan was nothing.

Saul had witnessed her gift, as the Jedi called it—her ability to block a Force-user's natural empathy in battle—although he had his doubts about its long-term efficacy. In the end, they all had gone mad, even her. But he had seen Revan’s prodigious use of Force—once even seen Revan and Malak fall from the burning skies of Althir onto a Mandalorian basilisk and steer the thing, unaided by engines, into atmosphere and a safe landing.

But the Force was a brute instrument compared to the keen subtlety of the Starfire's mind.

What a waste. Another thing the Jedi Order has destroyed.

Darth Malak said nothing. Merely stared at Saul, those damned eyes of his lit like fires from their Force. Saul had seen the man debark covered in gore from his massacre at Telos and Saul had only thought of Garrett and Selene, only thought them safe on Coruscant. Perhaps that had been the moment when Saul himself had crossed the line—from conserving resources to letting them all burn. He had once had a dream of peace, but now he knew the real truth: war was the engine that drove the galaxy, and as its marshall, it was Saul's job to keep the combines fueled and churning: lives were merely more fuel to further their expansion.

"A trap for you?" he ventured finally. "If you would like me to send a squad down to capture her—

"Revan is not your concern." Malak's heavy hand tapped the holo-image again, and Saul glanced down once more, noticing, like an aftershock, the man in the holo looking up at Revan.

Of course. Saul had known this moment would come—that the man would come for him. The galaxy had a sense of irony, bringing those two together: Onasi and Starfire, both products of his mentorship.

Both disappointments in the end.

The man's face was in profile and as inevitable as fallout on Endor. New lines there, as if some time between Telos and now, the pilot had become a man who knew the meaning of sacrifice.

"Carth Onasi." He gave the Sith his steadiest stare, willing himself not to react any more than that. "Did Forn assign him to Revan? Why?"

For Carth had become Forn's creature after Telos—passed over for command of anything larger than a squadron; vanishing entirely from military ranks for a time. Even from the other side of the galaxy, other side of the war, Saul had heard rumors of a breakdown—and then, of course, the man had reemerged, and the messages had begun: burned into the listik grass on Endor, the cliff on Duros, the side of a blasted building on Bothawui—

"Why, indeed? As a test of loyalty?" Malak folded his hands into a spire, tapping his fingers together. "Or… perhaps… faith?"

"Faith." Saul only had faith in one thing now, and that was the Star Forge's black heart. The most beautiful fleet the galaxy has ever seen—if we only had the crews to man them properly, but Malak has promised me men. Malak has promised, and so I must have patience.

"What would you do with him?" Malak asked. "Your former protege?"

Revan was my protege too. Malak himself had been too hidebound, too seeped in the Senate's games, the rarefied military theories they taught the aristocrats to make a good commander.

Ironically, his Force-spawned madness made him more effective now than he had ever been as a Jedi knight. The man Malak once was had been too prudent to take risks, too focused on preserving life. The man he was now—

He sacrificed her to win. He would sacrifice me as well. All of us, even himself, we are only pieces of the whole—

We are but pieces of the One, good man. Be a good piece.

That nonsensical phrase had been repeated in Saul's dream-writing for over a week after Revan's demise, like a declaration of his loyalty to their cause.

He'd paused too long. "I would show Captain Onasi his son," Saul said. "Show him the man that he and I made."

"And would that break him?" Even without a mouth, the sneer was plain.

Saul knew Malak was looking at the wall behind Saul's desk: at each of the neatly-arranged frames, holo-stills he had ordered taken of every scribbled oath. Words repeated, over and over, written by Carth. Dustil and Morgana—but in his head, Garrett's name was there too.

"It might make him stop scribbling threats to me on the sides of cliff walls."