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Chapter Text

The galaxy had settled.

Not entirely, of course, because the tumultuous changes that had been wrought.

A Republic had fallen, an Empire had risen, and a Galactic Civil War had torn down everything.

Rebuilding that would take time.

But the war, at very least, was over.

The Battle of Jakku had been won, the Galactic Concordance - the so-called Coruscant Accords - had been signed, and the New Republic restored to the Core Worlds.

Leia Organa Solo knew, however, the hardest work was to begin. It was twilight on Chandrila, the planet which currently hosted the New Republic Chancellor. Hanna City presided over a beautiful sea that merely sparkled in the night stars, providing a soothing context to what was yet another late-night feed. Leia found it a good time to be reflective, but her mind slid towards politics more often than not. Leia still had to keep herself calm, mind you, as Ben was as Force sensitive as any of her other children.

Other children.

There was a slight pang there. Leia hadn't seen Jacen, Jaina and Anakin for nearly a year. Kept safe on Anoth, protected by Winter and the Noghri, it had given Leia time to focus on her pregnancy and whatever crisis of the week during the war. Now the war was over, they would likely bring the children together, but at the same time, Leia knew how dangerous that was. In all likelihood, they would very rarely bring the four children together. At least until they were sure the Empire was firmly done.

Chancellor Mon Mothma - Chief of State to some, President to others - was sure. Coruscant had been handed over to the New Republic, and the Imperial Navy had withdrawn to eight sectors in the Core and Inner Rim. The rest was being slowly but surely annexed by the New Republic Defense Force. But Mon was so confident, she had already put in orders for 90% of the NRDF to be scrapped, which alarmed Leia to her very soul.

Ben whimpered as he fed, and Leia applied a Jedi calming technique for the moment.

Ackbar was confident he could build a solid military core from the elite units and most modern craft available, and the Senate, itself based on Nakadia, had ratified the construction of various new warships. The Mon Calamari MC90, Rendilli Republic-class Star Destroyer, Loronar Belarus-class medium cruiser, Kuati Corona-class frigate and the latest Corellian Gunships would shortly be disbursed throughout the Navy, besides former Mon Calamari merchant vessels, bespoke Assault Frigates and captured Imperial Star Destroyers.

But the majority would go to scrap.

Leia took another breath.

A mere two years ago the New Republic had consisted of hundreds of thousands of worlds, but then Thrawn, the reborn Emperor, and the warlords had come, and now barely ten thousand systems were committed to the cause. They were among the most affluent and influential worlds of the galaxy - Coruscant, Kuat, Fondor, Corellia, Hosnian Prime, Chandrila, Mon Calamari, to name a few - but the Empire's former territory covered a third of the galaxy, and much of it was ruled by warlords who didn't care for the Accords.

Han had pointed out that most of the remaining fifteen or so warlords couldn't even beat a tenth of the Navy combined, but Leia would have preferred to keep the military as it was for now. Luke disagreed, saying that the disarmament of the galaxy was key to continued peace, to which Leia had rebutted that the Republic didn't have ten thousand Jedi to step up, to which he had promptly affirmed his intention to restore the Jedi Order.

It hadn't been the most civilized discussion.

Leia winced at that, and found herself examining her emotions.

The Jedi Order, or, as Luke liked to call it, the New Jedi Order, had been between Luke, Leia and the children for the most part for years. Occasionally they encountered a Force user, but ordinarily some Dark Jedi or wannabe Sith seizing a portion of the Empire and attempting their own scheme; Lumiya, Jerec, Shadowspawn and C'Boath came to mind immediately, but there had been others. Apart from Mara Jade, and more recently Kam Solusar, there had been very few that could be considered Jedi. Even the SpecForce officers, Kyle Katarn, Erling Tredway, and Corwin Shelvay, they had merely drifted across their path.

It was Luke and Leia who had, around her pregnancies, on Endor, Coruscant, and more recently Ajan Kloss, trained. She was his first student. Yes, Leia's path led to politics, and she had handed her own lightsaber back to him, but, it was just them two against the galaxy.

Her mind turned to her old lightsaber, ignoring Han's snorting and Ben's nuzzling. She still had given up the lightsaber that Luke had helped her build all those years ago. That weapon had felt like more than a tool, it had been an extension of herself. It was that dividing line between Jedi and not, and she had decided not to take that route.

Because of what the Force had shown her about Ben.

That he would be a darkness.

Leia remembered, on Tatooine, shortly after Zsinj died, where she had read her grandmothers journal and agonized over whether to have children, whether she would birth mini-Darth Vaders. By reinterpreting the Killik Twilight painting, Han had convinced her, but the old fears existed. The sheer malevolence of the reborn Emperor could not be easily forgotten.

But an Order.

That would take away from her their shared Jedi heritage.

Luke would become a Master of students, and Leia, still the politician, but mother to children, who, too, would become Jedi.

The Jedi would no longer be a family matter. One day, she might not even know all the Jedi in the Order... Leia couldn't shake her disquiet with that idea. That she would lose her brother to this world that she was fundamentally too scared to fully embrace.

Ben suddenly burst into tears.

Leia immediately drew him close and soothed him in the Force, lest he wake Han.

Or Chewbacca, sleeping at the door as he was want to do in the absence of the Noghri.

When they changed over, and Jacen and Jaina came home - wherever home ended up, as it looked likely the government would move back to Coruscant if only to have a more direct hold of the rebuilding of the former capital - Anakin would remain at Anoth with Winter, and Ben, for his protection, would end up somewhere else. The Noghri would move back in, and Leia reckoned Chewbacca would still insist on sleeping by the door to the apartment.

That was comforting, and Leia took that comfort and wrapped Ben in it.

He silenced, and settled into sleep, clearly done feeding too.

Carefully placing Ben in his cot, Leia accepted what she had just thought.

That she was too scared to be a Jedi.

It felt right, in the heat of the moment, but it wasn't true. Leia knew she could become one of the foremost Jedi in the galaxy, no matter the size of the Order. As a diplomat, she would be able to do more than anyone save for Luke for some time. She could become the face of the Jedi. But Leia didn't want that, fundamentally. She wanted to support the New Republic directly, to be there for Mon, to maybe one day become Chief of State in her own right.

Leia wasn't just the daughter of Anakin Skywalker.

She was the daughter of Breha and Bail Organa too.

And what little knew of their mother, Padme Naberrie, she too was a Senator, and once a Queen of Naboo.

It wasn't turning away from being a Jedi, it was her turning towards being a Senator, and a Minister, and a politician. Luke had his Sith, and Dark Jedi, but Leia had her Borsk Fey'lya's to contend with, let alone whatever ragtag Imperial turned up. Rae Sloane was still unaccounted for, and the likes of Harrsk, Teradoc, Gideon and others would not simply abide by a treaty. A strong New Republic and a strong Jedi Order were needed.

As such, she would do what Luke couldn't do, and build the government - and, for now, a family.

A family of Jedi.

That would be her contribution to the New Jedi Order.

And the galaxy.

And the future.

Finally settled, Leia slept.

Until Ben woke again, that is.

But it would be Han's turn, so she would simply kick him out of bed.

Force kick, maybe.

Chapter Text

They were ten Star Destroyers, hanging in the void between here and there.

Here, was the edge of the Gravlex Med system, a scrapyard that was technically unaligned but deep in Imperial territory. Indeed, its primary was a mere pinprick in the distance.

There was the Chimaera, the former flagship of Grand Admiral Thrawn, and later, Pellaeon. Guided there by slicers hired by the Empire to infiltrate the New Republic systems for ‘dismantling’ but instead Pellaeon going to take back his ship.

“I still think this is a waste of time,” commented Captain Dorja.

Pellaeon turned to look at the man, his musings broken.

But he didn’t reply, instead Ardiff did, the aide that Pellaeon brought aboard, and positioned to Captain the Chimaera when it was recaptured. “You’re doubting the Admiral?”

“The Admiral, never. But one Star Destroyer was not going to break us out of the deadlock we have with the Rebels,” Dorja said, nonchalant.

Ignoring that discussing such things on the bridge in front of the crew was a breach of decorum, Pellaeon turned back to the view, hands tucked behind his back. “No, it won’t, but it is a symbol.”

“Precisely,” Dorja replied. “That we’re reduced to scraps.”

Pellaeon paused, and lifted a hand to forestall Ardiff’s protests. “While we are in a Cold War of sorts with the New Republic, it does us no harm to remind them that we’re out here. That we will never yield, nor surrender.”

“So sayeth the Captain,” Dorja smiled.

“Admiral,” Ardiff reminded.

“Not to the Imperial High Command on Denon,” Pellaeon said, drily. “I’ll be a Captain forever in their eyes.” In official communications with the ‘legitimate’ Empire, he would always remain a Captain. But the Admiralty and Moffs ignored Mas Amedda, and forever would.

“Amedda and his traitors be damned,” Dorja quipped. “They signed those Coruscant Accords and left us all to hang. The war wasn’t over, we could have kept going.”

“I don’t quite understand how you are still a Captain to them,” Ardiff said. “You were a Vice Admiral according to the Ruling Council, and the then-Supreme Commander Daala promoted you. It defies belief that you would have been a captain for forty years.”

Dorja sniffed. He was a Captain, even after all of these years. While Ardiff attempted to apologise but without directly doing so, Pellaeon reflected.

He recalled his pride at having become the Captain of the Acclamator-class warship Leveler, at the height of the Clone Wars. A scandal involving a female Republic Intelligence officer had cost him some forward momentum in his career, but the Battle of Merson outright stalled him. Defeated by the Separatists due to bad Intel, he lost his Jedi Master and in the starfighter dogfights necessary to cover the retreat, the son of a Senator had been wounded. The young man should never have been playing pilot, but Pellaeon had turned a blind eye. He too had once upon a time been a man lying about his age to get into the Judicials, the police military that the Republic fielded prior to the Clone Wars.

But the father ensured Pellaeon’s career was done. He didn’t get rotated to a new Venator or even a Victory-class, and only made it to an Imperial-class Star Destroyer, the Harbinger, by accepting a demotion. It took him some twenty years to return to the captaincy, under command of Grand Admiral Siralt as part of the Third Fleet.

Before the Battle of Yavin.

Before Thrawn.

“Report,” Pellaeon said, raising his voice to cut the memories aside.

A snap to attention, a chain of asides, and Dorja reported back. “Admiral, I’ve heard from Imperial Intelligence that the Chimaera has just docked with the scrapyard.“

“Did they manage to disable the HoloNet relay?”

“Unfortunately not, so the scrapyard has sent a missive to Coruscant to query why the Chimaera is even here.”

“Damn,” Ardiff said. “So the Rebels will know something is up.”

“Move up to orange alert, please,” Pellaeon said. “I want all pilots in their TIEs, and engines and deflectors ready to go on my order.” The flotilla - seven Imperial Star Destroyers, one Interdictor and one more Victory-class Star Destroyer - prepared themselves.

It was happening.

“Sir, Intelligence has overwhelmed the skeleton crew and are guiding the Chimaera out.”

“Order the Wrack to activate gravity generators,” Pellaeon confirmed. “I want tractor beams from the Stormhawk and Nemesis prepared, and the boarding parties from the Judicator and Death’s Head.”

“Make sure the crews don’t get in each other’s way,” added Dorja.

“Sir, the Protector has detected a signal from Gravlex Med on a New Republic frequency.” Pellaeon frowned; the Victory Star Destroyer Protector was on an outbound vector, covering their rear with the Agonizer and Bellicose. Which meant the signal wasn’t towards Coruscant, the direct line of which the Relentless was positioned, but instead to -

“Where are they transmitting?” Dorja said, catching up on the cue of Pellaeon’s expression.

“Ithor, we believe, sir.”

“I don’t understand,” Ardiff said.

“Coruscant redirected the scrapyard to the nearest New Republic base,” Pellaeon explained. “Come about, we’re no longer focusing on the Chimaera.”

“Sir?” Dorja was surprised by the changeover.

“Keep the rest of the fleet in position, and those crews ready for the Chimaera. Order the Wrack to prepare to shift gravity well generators along our current vector the moment the Chimaera arrives.” There was a rush of movement as the orders were carried out.

“You don’t think -“ Dorja said.

“I definitely do. The New Republic knows how I use Interdictors and they’ll want to use one to set up an ambush.”

“How Thrawn used Interdictors,” Dorja replied. “Didn’t make much difference at Lothal did it?”

“Lothal was a long time ago,” Pellaeon said tightly. Shortly before the Battle of Yavin, Thrawn uncovered that Grand Admiral Siralt was a traitor. During his arrest, Pellaeon sided with Thrawn, and earned a transfer of the Harbinger to the Seventh Fleet. Shortly after, a pod of purgils trashed the entire fleet, and Thrawn and his Chimaera were dragged into hyperspace. Pellaeon barely escaped with his life, and earned a demotion. To sell the punishment, he ended up assigned to the next Star Destroyer out of Kuat, also named Chimaera as if nothing had happened.

Thrawn took a longer time to return to active duty, but seemingly Palpatine and he turned his defeat on the battlefield into a defeat in political arena of the Imperial Court. The next Pellaeon heard of him, Thrawn had been exiled to Wild Space on a mapping mission. The Rebels, for their part, assumed their nemesis dead. Which of course proved useful when Thrawn returned to the Chimaera - now under Pellaeon’s captaincy - after the Battle of Endor. The Rebels considered him dead, the Empire had already scrubbed his existence from record, and his promotion back to Grand Admiral - as the new thirteenth of the rank - was a secret to all.

Pellaeon never heard the exact details of how Thrawn survived the Battle of Lothal, but he was just happy to have the man back. It wasn’t even a year before Thrawn was dead again, but this time rather than whisked away by space-whales, the next Noghri titled Rukh stabbed him.

Shaking his head of the memory, Pellaeon refocused. “Chimaera is here, sir. The Wrack is repositioning.”

“Red alert,” Dorja added.

“Work out the likely exit point for a task force interrupted in a straight like jump from Ithor, and have our weapons prepped.” By now the Relentless was besides the Agonizer, Bellicose and Protector.

Pellaeon cast a glance back at the old ship. The Chimaera. While his Chimaera didn’t have the elaborate artistry on its dorsal hull, it was still unique. Its pennant code could inspire fear; it was a psychological weapon unto itself. The former flagship of the Imperial Navy.

“Sir! Cronau radiation spike!”

“Hold,” Dorja snapped. He didn’t need information being shouted across his bridge. “Turbolasers!”

Three bulbous New Republic capital ships arrived, flanked by nearly twenty escorts - frigates, cruiser-carriers, gunships and corvettes. Pellaeon recognised two of them by eye.

“Ackbar’s here,” breathed Ardiff.

The Galactic Voyager. One of the most modern MC90 Star Cruisers. They could beat anything in the Imperial Navy that wasn’t a Super Star Destroyer.

“And General Syndulla,” Pellaeon pointed out.

The Home One. An older MC80 Star Cruiser, but a veteran of the Battles of Endor, Coruscant, and Bilbringi. A capable crew, and a more than capable captain.

“Sir, the last ship is the Echo of Hope.” A more standard strength MC80 Star Cruiser, but even an ordinary Mon Calamari warship could out-tough an Imperial Star Destroyer.

“We’ve caught them by surprise,” commented Ardiff.

“Not for long,” Pellaeon muttered. “Fire.”

Green fire lanced out.

Detonations erupted across the hull of the graceful designs, nowhere near as angular as Imperial cut. Pellaeon was satisfied to see a frigate breakup, and a cruiser-carrier erupted into a whirl of debris and broken fighter craft. The Mon Calamari designs were pockmarked with flame and debris, but none were in danger before their shields were raised and return fire lanced out. But they were shaken up.

“Brace,” Dorja absently said, thought their shields held. “Orders?”

“Keep up sustained fire. Make sure the Protector is covered, it’s not up for this kind of rough-housing.” The smaller warship was nestled among its larger cousins, but still vulnerable. “I’ve no intention to lose more than we gain today.”

“Stormhawk and Nemesis are finished with tractor duty,” Ardiff confirmed. “Requesting orders.”

“Order them to withdraw.”

“What about the Megador?”

Ardiff was referring to the prototype Dreadnought design they picked up in the Deep Core. Seventy kilometres wide and equipped with dozens hangars that could accommodate anything from a starfighter wing to a whole battlecruiser, Pellaeon assumed it was a testbed for regional commands, or maybe even a mobile capital. But Palpatine was dead so he could hardly ask.

Pellaeon pursed his lips as he considered.

The New Republic formation was a mess, under too heavy bombardment to even launch fighters… but they weren’t even turning to present broadsides, which would have allowed the fighter craft to exit the cruisers from the opposite side and to maximise the return fire. Instead the larger ships were just huddled together to cover their damage. Pellaeon shook his head. “No, keep it out of the battle.”

“Sir, Vice Admiral Poinard believes we can -“

“Admiral Ackbar is committing to a slugging match from a weakened position, one which will likely cost him all the ships present. General Syndulla is not known for her playing defensively, either.” Pellaeon said firmly. “So why are they both doing this?”

Ardiff paused.

Dorja waited, keeping his attention on the battle, not wanting to interfere in the admirals analysis, not when he himself didn’t know. Dorja just assumed they’d won the battle with their surprise attack, and it was just a matter of mopping up.

“Because Ackbar has reinforcements on the way.”

“Correct,” Pellaeon said. “And if one of those reinforcements happens to be the Lusankya, or more MC90s -“

“We’ll lose the entire fleet,” Ardiff realised. “I’m ordering the Stormhawk and Nemesis to disengage and regroup at the Megador’s location.”

“And send the Judicator, Deaths Head and Chimaera after them the moment they can.” Pellaeon had a further idea for one of the Imperial Star Destroyers escorting the Megador, presently orbiting above Garqi. “And have Poinard send the Erinnic to blow up the scrapyards at Gravlex Med.”

A chorus of acknowledgments. But the moment the Chimaera left, Ackbar realised his ploy hadn’t worked. The cruisers rolled to present their flanks and release their fighters, but Pellaeon order a full retreat. By the time the X-wings and E-wings were deployed, even a K-wing and its SLAM acceleration system wouldn’t catch up. The Galactic Voyager battered their shields, and the Home One immediately advanced to pursue, but the Battle of Gravlex Med was done.

When the report of the Erinnic’s strafing run came through, Ackbar’s ships abandoned the battle to go and assist, and Pellaeon let them. The Erinnic jumped out before Ackbar could get to it, and when the Tatooine, Yavin and Calamari jumped in-system, the Imperials were gone.

Pellaeon had recaptured the Chimaera.

Won the Battle of Gravlex Med.

Thrawn was long dead, Emperor Palpatine was gone, Byss was destroyed and the politicians had ceded Coruscant to the Rebels…

But they could still win.

The New Republic Senate could deny that an Imperial Remnant existed until it was blue in the face, Pellaeon wistfully reflected, but the Empire wasn’t dead.

He’d deliver the good news to the Shadow Council, let the Moffs know, and liaise with Daala. Whether he was Captain or Admiral, or even Grand Admiral Pellaeon, the Old Man of the Empire wasn’t done.

He’d see to that himself.

He would be as relentless in war as in peace for those who simply preferred Empire over Republic.

Chapter Text

Rathalay, Taldot Sector, 41 ABY (After the Battle of Yavin)

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep*

Bloodshot gray eyes shot open with irritation and surprise, staring into darkness.

With a quiet, undignified groan that was unworthy of one of his stature, an older man rose from his bed, tossing aside the fine covers he had buried himself in. In the distance he could hear the lapping of the waves on the shore. His fine estate, built on the cliffsides overlooking one of the more fashionable beaches on the planet Rathalay, was otherwise silent, save for the waves and that incessant beeping.

The man slammed his thumb into the light switch, illuminating the large master bedroom in which he’d slept most evenings since his ignominious retirement.

A flash of pain ripped into his skull at the sudden shift in light, and the man winced in discomfort. He’d over-indulged himself with his evening nightcap, and had ended up going to bed thoroughly drunk, as opposed to the light buzz he’d come to rely on to assist him in falling asleep.

It was easy to overindulge these days. He liked to tell himself it was because his wife was away, hobnobbing with the galaxy’s elite on that long term cruise she’d been begging to go on for months now. He sneered as he rubbed his temples. It had made her happy, but to this day he couldn’t imagine being caught dead on a ship like the Halcyon.

A ship wasn't worth stepping on if he wasn't in command.

Traveling the galaxy reminded him of the old days. Of time spent on the bridges of mighty warships. Once, legions of men had called him their leader, and his campaigns had determined the fate of star systems.

Now he was left to watch from the sidelines.

Impotent.

Meaningless.

A relic of a bygone age.

That was why he drank. He drank as he watched the galaxy slide from one problem to the next. First the wretched Vong, then the idiotic secessionists on Corellia, and now this.

Now the Galactic Alliance was in tatters, its member nations in retreat. Hapes and Csilla had withdrawn into isolation. Hutt Space was in chaos. The New Republic sat idly by, insisting all was well as the situation deteriorated. The New Jedi Order’s Knights were either dead, in hiding to the point where they might as well be dead, or off on some wild crusade, so far removed as to be irrelevant.

Skywalker had vanished.

Organa was disgraced.

Solo had gone back to his smuggler roots, having lost everything else.

Normally he would have grinned and drank to their collective misery. He had no love for the Heroes of Yavin.

But their disgrace went hand in hand with the disgrace of that last little corner of the Empire that still clung to life.

Fel and that Jedi whore he’d coupled himself to had fled in the wake of the zealot’s rise to power. Or perhaps they were dead. His agents could not tell him for sure which was the case. But with their disappearance something new had arisen to fill the vacuum.

The First Order.

Even now, tucked away on Rathalay, over thirty years into his retirement, Octavian Grant, last of the Imperial Grand Admirals, repressed the undignified urge to spit at the very thought of that band of lower class thugs.

He’d heard rumors over the years. Rumors about Moff Gideon and Commandant Brendol Hux. Of shadowy councils of warlords who held true to the old ways and refused to renounce the remembered glories of Palpatine’s regime.

But the rumors remained that; just rumors. No one from the old days approached him. And why should they?

Grant had chosen a side.

It wasn’t that he loved the New Republic. Or even respected it. He was thoroughly unreconstructed in his attitudes towards aliens, the common people, and democracy in general. He’d offered his services to the Senate now and again when conflicts had flared up, but had been rebuffed outside of that mess with the clone that had thought itself the Emperor. After that he’d gone back into retirement.

Some of his erstwhile admirers on Rathalay had expressed amazement that he had not seized control of the Empire when he’d seemingly had the chance.

Grant had known better.

The Empire’s time had come and gone. A dozen different factions had arisen proclaiming themselves the only ones capable of restoring the Emperor’s New Order to power. The Empire Reborn, the Second Imperium, they’d all been swept away with pitiful ease. The First Order would be no different. The best he could do was enjoy his wealth and thumb his nose at all the moral busybodies who muttered that he’d escaped a war crimes tribunal.

Those raving fanatics, those uniformed thugs, the First Order; they inspired nothing but contempt in a man like Octavian Grant. Their officers were uniformly mad, divorced from reality. So desperate were they for power that they allowed themselves to be led by that stunted, inhuman creature Snoke.

The Empire had fought to preserve Human High Culture; to bring civilization to the alien trash that infested the galaxy and preserve the hard-fought victory of Palpatine at the end of the Clone Wars.

The First Order denounced galactic civilization as weak and decadent. It did not care for the culture of the Core. It did not care for the Ancient Houses or the society that their social betters had built. It wished to remake all of civilization in its image.

An army with a state, as opposed to a state with an army.

Ironic, Grant thought. That the First Order should be more revolutionary than the Rebels.

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep*

Grant clenched his teeth. His comm unit continued to ring away. He swung his legs out of bed and quickly padded across the room to his private refresher, his footsteps muffled by the fine wall to wall carpet.

He threw on a rich, royal blue bathrobe over his pajamas, went to his medicine cabinet, and grabbed a detoxicant pill, and popped it into his mouth, the ringing of the comm unit continuing to reverberate through his head.

He dry swallowed the pill, grunting as it slid unpleasantly down the side of his throat. Within seconds the buzzing, disoriented mental fog he’d found himself in cleared, though the headache remained. He filled a glass with tap water, wincing at the thought of not taking the time to get the specially imported ice water from Hoth that was in his kitchen. He’d paid good money for it, after all. And who knew what the government on Rathalay put into its tap water. But he was dehydrated and impatient.

Whoever is calling is most impatient to speak with me. Grant mused to himself. It’s probably important.

He paused for a moment and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He ran a comb through his graying dark hair so that he’d appear more presentable.

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep*

He took another moment to compose himself before striding languidly over to the comm unit.

Were his dear, late mother still alive she would have nodded her head in approval. He was in exile, perhaps, but he was still of the blood of the Old Tapani Lords.

He did not jump and run when others called.

He sat at his bedroom desk, an expansive, exquisitely carved piece of furniture hand crafted from the finest wood from the forests of Tenoo, and pressed the receive button on the comm. An image flickered into being from the comm unit’s holoprojector, displaying a slim, attractive woman dressed tastefully in the latest fashionable material.

“Representative Talar,” Said Grant, affecting a dignified, relaxed air of detached surprise. “How may I be of service at this late hour?”

Riya Talar was one of the few people who had access to his private comm frequency. A senior member of the planetary Diet, Talar and her wife were frequent guests at the many parties Grant threw to ingratiate himself with the good and great of Rathalay society.

To the names and numbers of Rathalay’s elite, Grant was a charming, enigmatic figure from a bygone era. His war stories entranced them, and his sensibilities regarding the alien and lower class appealed to many, though not all of them. And, if nothing else, his parties allowed him to keep a finger on the pulse of the movers and shakers of local society.

He had less success with Rathalay’s representative in the Taldot Sector Assembly, and less success still with the sector’s representatives in the New Republic Senate. Though he had made progress with the Sector Governor-General, he was not as well connected as he felt he could be.

And he had not, unfortunately, been able to convince Rathalay’s leader, the young and uncompromising Executor Skor Zian, of the benefits of being in the former Grand Admiral’s circle of friends. The man was from a proper family and had the benefit of being human. But he was a man of the masses through and through, enamored with the ideals of the New Republic’s Populists.

In light of Zian’s intransigence, Talar had proven herself to be the most influential member of the government in Grant’s social sphere of influence. As such he relied on her to be his eyes and ears. She would not have been so ill mannered as to have contacted him at this time of night unless the matter was serious.

And it must have been, for though Talar was well dressed, her eyes were wide and lined with bags, and strands of her hair fell across her face.

“Grand Admiral!” She exclaimed, any sense of proper restraint forgotten. “I thought you should be the first outside the government to know. Hosnian Prime has been destroyed.”

Grant clenched his teeth together with an audible click. It was better than to let his jaw drop open in surprise.

“The Chancellor?” He asked. “The Senate?”

Talar shook her head. “Villecham is dead. Most of the Senators are confirmed lost as well, along with most of the fleet.”

“A decapitation strike. A most successful one at that. Does anyone know who is responsible? Perhaps the Yuuzhan Vong?” Grant knew the vermin had proclaimed to have turned to a more peaceful way of life in the aftermath of their failed invasion, but it wouldn’t have surprised him if that had been nothing more than a ruse.

“No. The First Order is claiming responsibility.”

Grant leaned back in his chair. His lips quirked in a grim parody of a smirk. A mirthless chuckle passed his lips.

“Magnificent bastards.” He muttered.

Talar’s mouth twitched in a grim frown. “Sir?” She asked.

Grant shook his head. “We’ve underestimated those ranting fools. We all thought them a barely functioning band of hardliners. They’ve worked hard to build up that image. They have yet another superweapon at their command, I presume, if the Hosnian System has been destroyed.”

“I couldn’t say.” Talar admitted. “The HoloNet is in chaos. There are reports of massive fleets streaming out of the Galactic North and even from the Unknown Regions, seizing planets throughout the Trans Hydian Borderlands. At this rate they’ll take the Core Worlds in a matter of weeks! It’s anarchy! How could they have amassed such a vast fleet? Everyone always said their forces were miniscule.”

“They’ve been planning this. It must have taken decades.” Grant mused, his mind spinning as he considered what it would have taken to acquire the resources needed for such a massive campaign.

“Who, Grand Admiral?” Talar asked.

Grant fell silent. He stared out the window, up at the twinkling stars that dotted Rathalay’s sky. He listened to the steady lapping of the waves on the beach below.

“I don’t know.” He confessed. Grant turned back to the image of the Representative.

“What is the mood in the Diet?” Grant asked, his voice subdued. He might once have been more careful with what he had to say. He knew that agents of the New Republic were still keeping an eye on him. But if what Talar said was true then he imagined his minders would have bigger matters to attend to than one old man.

Talar shrugged helplessly. “We’re in recess at the moment. We’ve been in emergency session ever since the news came to us. Executor Zian wants to mobilize the planetary guard.”

“A futile gesture.” Grant concluded. “Rathalay’s planetary guard is meant for handling pirates and smugglers, not stormtroopers and battle groups.”

“My thoughts exactly, Grand Admiral.” Said Talar, her eyes shifting nervously. “But, we cannot surrender to them either. They, uh…” She trailed off, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.

“They’ve made their thoughts on traitors clear.” Grant concluded. The former Grand Admiral saw Talar wince.

He smiled thinly at her. “You needn’t spare my feelings, Representative. To them I am a traitor. Which, regrettably, makes you the associate of a traitor. I do so apologize for putting you in such a…delicate…situation.”

Talar shook her head. “The choice was mine, Grand Admiral. That is why I come to you now. It’s only a matter of time until…”

A great, thundering boom cracked and reverberated behind Representative Talar, who ducked and crouched behind her desk as bits of plaster and timber from her ceiling above rained down in chunks.

“Representative? Riya?” Grant asked, his chest tightening in an unfamiliar sensation as he tried to determine what was going on. “What’s happening?”

Riya Talar stood up, turned, and looked at something just off camera. Whatever it was caused her to stumble back, her hands going to her mouth in horror.

“By the Maker, they’re here!” She screamed. “They’re…”

A loud shriek of static and a flash of light caused the image of Riya Talar to vanish. The hologram spluttered, shimmered, and dissipated.

The room fell silent.

Silent, save for the lapping of the waves.

And the roar of engines.

Octavian Grant closed his eyes. Riya Talar had been a useful source of information. He had found her amusing, at times. Perhaps even charming.

But that didn’t matter now.

They were coming for him.

Grant didn’t bother to look out the window. Instead, he went to his closet. He pushed aside his suits and robes, hanging from the racks above his head and found, at the far back of the closet, an old, silver valise.

He took the valise out and placed it on the bed. Quietly, reverently, he opened it, and beheld what lay within.

The fabric was still immaculate, as clean and pure a white as the new fallen snow that had blanketed the family estate on Obulette in the Tapani sector when he had been but a boy.

He hadn’t worn his old uniform in over thirty years.

But this…this was a special occasion.

It still fit perfectly. When he had finished dressing he returned to the refresher, and admired what he saw in the mirror. Golden epaulets, gleaming code cylinders (now inactive with obsolete codes), spotless, white fabric, gleaming, polished black boots, and a rank plaque which denoted to all who saw that here stood a Grand Admiral, one of the Emperor’s own.

Grant placed his personal sidearm, an RK-3 blaster pistol, in his holster on his right hip. And then, as a final touch, he took out his most prized possession; a Tapani lightfoil.

Such an elegant symbol of Tapani aristocracy, so close in form and function to the lightsabers wielded by the wretched Jedi, would have caused significant damage to his career in the Imperial Navy had it been found. Jedi paraphernalia, or anything resembling it, had been forbidden to all but Vader, the Inquisitorious, and certain members of the Emperor’s Elite. But kept it he had, for it was a priceless family heirloom, passed from father to son since time immemorial.

He clipped the lightfoil to his belt on his left hip, turned smartly on his heel, and left his bedroom behind.

He descended the stairs as he heard the whine of the engines grow louder, marking their approach. He frowned in consternation as he imagined the shuttle the engine belonged to landing on his well manicured lawn.

He walked down the hall, his heels clicking smartly on the tile as he moved from the hall into the parlor. He walked up to his drink’s cabinet, poured himself a healthy glass of Merenzane Gold, and lowered himself into one of the comfortable high backed chairs facing the door.

In the distance he heard the barking of an officer as troopers spilled out of the shuttle.

Grant winced again, picturing his well managed garden being trampled underfoot. He imagined his gardener would be apoplectic when she found out.

Aside from the approaching men, the house was silent. He had servants, but none of them lived in the house. He was a Tapani Lord, after all, not an invalid. He could get through one night without the help.

That would make things easier.

The stormtroopers broke down the front door and charged into the estate as though they were storming the Senate building itself. They waved their weapons back and forth as a squad charged up the stairs.

Grant glared at them, taking a sip of his drink to steady his nerves. That door had been made of expensive material.

“Freeze! Don’t move!” One of the troopers barked, leveling his blaster at the Grand Admiral. An additional trooper rushed into the parlor, weapon aimed at Grant’s chest.

Grant said nothing.

The troopers fell silent. They shifted uneasily as they waited for some reaction from their new prisoner. But Grant didn’t say or do anything.

Behind the troopers came the click of a second pair of boots. An officer, dressed in the charcoal gray uniform of the First Order Navy, strutted into the room as though the estate were his. He was broad shouldered, lighthaired, and, to Grant’s sensibilities, impossibly young. The officer had a nervous energy to him, much like a coiled spring wound far too tight.

Grant looked him over dispassionately. His eyes were drawn to the rank insignia on the man’s sleeve. The Grand Admiral’s face twisted in contempt.

“A Lieutenant?” Grant sniffed. “They send a lowly Lieutenant to apprehend me?”

The Lieutenant looked down his nose at the seated older man.

“Octavian Grant, you…”

“I,” Grant interrupted. “Am unamused.”

Grant glowered over the rim of his glass at the First Order officer before taking another sip of his drink.

The Lieutenant bristled. “I…”

“You are irrelevant.” Grant cut in, his voice sharp. Grant’s eyes passed critically over the officer before returning to the young man’s reddening face.

“Look at you.” Grant sneered. “What academy did you go to, boy?”

“You are in no position to question me, traitor!” The Lieutenant barked. Grant’s lip twitched in amusement, the ghost of a smile alighting his features for a moment. He'd gotten the boy talking. Now he had to keep him talking.

“It couldn’t have been an academy of any note, then.” Grant continued.

The Lieutenant balled his gloved hands into fists. “I am an officer of the First Order! You will show me respect!”

Grant chuckled. “I am a Grand Admiral, appointed by his Imperial Majesty Emperor Sheev Palpatine. I was high in his councils, once, boy. I was privy to his secrets. I carried out his plans. The Empire would not have done half so well without me. So put a touch of respect in your tone.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “He raised you high, and you threw away all he stood for when you went over to the Rebels. And now look at you.”

“Yes.” Grant said mildly, glancing around his parlor at the large holobook shelves and the sumptuously upholstered furniture.

“I’ve managed to salvage an unsalvageable situation. Whereas you, dear boy, have already lost.”

The Lieutenant’s face twisted into a smirk. “Perhaps the Rebel propaganda has rotted your brain, ‘Grand Admiral.’” The Lieutenant suggested, his tone sarcastic when he pronounced Grant’s title.

“The New Republic is no more. Fel’s revisionists have been purged from the old Remnant. The other nations of the Galactic Alliance will fall soon enough, as the worlds of the New Republic are falling now. The war is over. We’ve won.”

Grant laughed. All decorum and gravitas departed from him. They were just too much!

He laughed. He laughed up until the Lieutenant stepped forward, pulled out his own pistol, an SE-44C sidearm, and pointed it at Grant’s chest.

“What’s so funny, old man?” The Lieutenant snarled.

“You.” Grant replied candidly. He looked from the Lieutenant to the stormtroopers. “All of you. Your entire organization. You don’t get it. None of the old stalwarts did. Not even that blue skinned vermin they all revere so damned much really understood.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten us?” The Lieutenant asked, in a tone he probably thought was threatening.

Grant’s smile faded. His face became stoic as he stared at the Lieutenant.

“It’s over.” Grant said slowly. “You weren’t there. After Endor. You didn’t see it.”

“See what.” Asked the Lieutenant, his annoyance with the Admiral tinged with something else. Curiosity, perhaps?

“The uprisings.” Said Grant, his eyes drifting away from the Lieutenant and staring out at nothing as he remembered. “On Coruscant, our Imperial throneworld. On Naboo, the Emperor’s homeworld. On a hundred million worlds from the Core to the Rim. Trillions rose up and cheered when they learned of the Emperor’s death. They didn't need rebel agents to provoke them. They acted on their own.”

“What do I care what traitors think?” The Lieutenant demanded.

Grant shook his head in quiet disbelief. “How often I heard such thinking. No one understood it. Not Pestage, not Isard, not even that so-called genius Thrawn.”

Grant chuckled. “They didn’t understand. But I do. We lost the people’s trust.”

“Who gives a damn what people think?” The Lieutenant asked. “People are weak and need to be led by the strong.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.” Grant said. “People are spineless, shortsighted, and lack all proper decorum. They should defer to their betters. But all governments, be they republics or empires, depend on the people’s support, or at least, their apathy. The Empire had that support. Or at least that apathy. And then we destroyed Alderaan.”

“Alderaan was weak.” Snapped the Lieutenant. “A pacifist world of feeble minded pseudo-intellectuals. The Empire was right to remove them from the galaxy. A strong society has no place for such subversive thoughts.”

“Alderaan was a Core World.” Grant said slowly, stressing each word as though he were lecturing a particularly dimwitted cadet. “A loyalist Core World. A pillar of galactic society. Some of the finest artists, philosophers, and statesmen which Human High Culture upholds came from Alderaan.”

“Alderaan was too far gone. It supported the Rebellion. It had to die. How else could the galaxy be remade without getting rid of such scum?” The Lieutenant insisted.

Grant gave the Lieutenant a hooded glance, before giving a theatrical sigh. “How does one defeat an enemy?” Grant asked.

“By destroying them and all they hold dear.” Responded the Lieutenant quickly.

“No!” Grant barked. “That’s how you make a martyr of them!”

Grant readjusted himself in his seat, taking another sip of his drink.

“Thrawn thought that to defeat an enemy you had to know them. What utter nonsense.”

The Grand Admiral leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his expression suddenly fierce. “It doesn’t matter what the enemy believes. It doesn’t matter what motivates them. True victory is convincing your enemy they were wrong to oppose you in the first place!”

The Lieutenant furrowed his brow. “So, what would you have done? Sat down with the Queen and tried to reason with her?”

Grant inhaled slowly. “I would have had the Royal Family executed. The High Council liquidated. And an Imperial Governor appointed to rule Alderaan in their place. I would have broken the Princess until she revealed the location of the Rebel Base or died screaming. I would have brought order to Alderaan and not destroyed it. In time the people would have come to understand; when they had spent years living in a peaceful, structured, orderly world, they would have realized that all we did was necessary.”

The Lieutenant stared at the Admiral, his expression suddenly pensive.

“Don’t you understand?” Grant demanded. “The weak follow the strong because it is in their best interest! But to do so the strong must lead by example and provide the security they promise. But that’s not what we did. Instead of utilizing concise violence our retribution was arbitrary. Massacre after massacre, from Lasan to Ghorman, Tarkin and his followers forgot his first rule.”

“Rule through fear of force rather than force itself.” The Lieutenant said rotely, as though he’d memorized it as a child. He probably had.

“Precisely!” Said Grant. “But that’s not what the Empire did! We promised order. We promised security. And in exchange we asked for their obedience. A simple contract. But Alderaan convinced billions that they could not be safe or secure under our rule. They grew to hate us more than fear us. And that hate motivated them to overthrow us!”

“But…” The Lieutenant said, blinking in confusion. “The galaxy yearns for us to save them. That’s what the Supreme Leader says. We’ll be welcomed back with open arms.”

Grant said nothing. For the first time in a long time he felt…what was this feeling? It was a tightness in his chest. A sense of sorrow? An unwillingness to allow this young man to linger in this state of confusion.

What was he feeling?

“I thought the same thing, once.” Grant admitted. “I thought they’d snap out of it. That the galaxy would come to its senses and beg us to come back to fix things. But they didn’t. They signed on with the New Republic in droves or went their own way. And all the while the Empire ate itself alive. Short sighted fools. All of them. Petty, sniveling opportunists grasping for a shred of glory. There was no strength in the Empire after Endor. There will always be true believers in the old Empire out there. But they’re a minority, son. For every zealous convert on the worlds you occupy you’ll find one thousand who just want to put their heads down and pretend you’re not there. They won’t see you as liberators. They’ll see you as the latest problem in a long line of problems that they have to put up with. And you will find it is a very short jump from apathetic resentment to hatred. You can conquer the galaxy, but you’ll never hold onto it.”

“No, you’re wrong!” Insisted the Lieutenant. “Even if they don’t see our truth we will make them see. We will make the galaxy over again in our image!”

“If Tarkin and Vader could not do such a thing, what chance would you have?” Grant asked. “This struggle is pointless. You want to have revenge on those who wronged you? Then do as I have done. Live well. Escape this pointless struggle and find a way to live well. There is no better vengeance!”

“No!” The Lieutenant exclaimed. “You’re a coward. You ran while the faithful struggled to survive with nothing but their belief in the cause! We survived the Unknown Regions while you grew fat selling our secrets to the puppetmasters in the Senate! You and people like you are why the Empire fell. We will succeed in spite of you! We are purer! We are stronger! And we will win!”

Grant finished the last of his drink, stood up and tugged on the tunic of his uniform. “You can try. This old galaxy has been through hard times, these past few decades. The Clone Wars, the Reconquest of the Rim, the pacification campaigns against the Separatist holdouts and the early rebels. The Galactic Civil War, The Yuuzhan Vong War, and all the petty little conflicts that went thereafter. Your enemy is tougher than you think. Try as you might, I don’t know if you’ll snuff them out. There are more of them than there are of you, sadly. I suspect you won’t even know where to start.”

The Lieutenant stared at his pistol, still pointed at the Admiral’s chest.

Then, he looked at the Admiral.

“I think I’ll start here.” The Lieutenant said. And he pulled the trigger.

The blaster bolt from the Lieutenant’s side arm slammed into the Admiral’s chest. Grant fell to the floor with a dull thud.

The Lieutenant stared down at the Admiral, at the smoking hole in his tunic, and smiled.

He turned to his troopers. “Search the house for contraband!” He ordered. “I want…”

BOOM!

The Lieutenant and his stormtroopers were knocked off their feet as the glass from the parlor’s windows imploded inwards and flew into the room. The following shockwave from outside knocked them off their feet. One of the troopers slammed into the wall and crashed to the floor with a wet crack. The Lieutenant stared at the trooper, her neck clearly broken.

The Lieutenant ran to the shattered window to see what had happened. Outside the shuttle he’d arrived in was burning in pieces strewn across the expansive lawn of Grand Admiral Grant’s cliffside estate. In the distance troopers could be heard running about trying to get a handle on the situation.

“But…but…” The Lieutenant stammered.

His shock turned to terror as a blaster bolt sang out behind him, then another, and another in rapid succession.

He turned in time to see the other stormtrooper fall to the floor, three burn marks perforating the soldier’s helmet.

He looked up in time to see Grand Admiral Grant standing there, blaster pistol in his right hand and lightfoil in his left. He ignited the lightfoil and charged at the Lieutenant, plunging the thin red plasma blade in the younger man’s stomach.

It was terrible. Pain beyond imagining spiked through every nerve. But one thought still prevailed.

The Lieutenant stared at the still smoking burn mark on the Admiral’s tunic.

“H-how?” The Lieutenant begged, his hand grabbing at the Admiral’s tunic and tugging at it with what little strength he still possessed.

The tunic came partly undone, enough for the Lieutenant to see the Beskar armor hiding underneath.

Grant smirked. “I managed to get my hands on some beskar alloy before the Night of a Thousand Tears. Did you really think I’d be stupid enough to be approached by armed enemies without protection? Please.”

With a hateful smirk, Grant slid the light foil’s hilt across the Lieutenant’s stomach, exulting at the silent expression of agony contorting the smug Lieutenant’s face.

“Sh-shu-” The Lieutenant stammered, his eyes beginning to roll back into his head.

Grant cupped his ear sarcastically. “What was that? You want to know about your shuttle?”

The Admiral leaned closer and whispered in the Lieutenant’s ear. “A little concession I got from New Republic Intelligence.”

The Grand Admiral mockingly held up an activator switch. “I’ve had this hidden in my sleeve since the moment you touched down. I gave the New Republic some particularly juicy intel years ago that made it easier for them to take back Malastare from Grand General Loring. They allowed me to install land mines throughout the grounds of the estate as thanks for my cooperation.”

Grant casually pushed the Lieutenant away, who fell into the same chair Grant had been sitting in earlier. He extinguished his lightfoil’s blade before cocking his head to the side, staring at the Lieutenant with all the passion of a scientist staring at a somewhat interesting microbe in a petri dish. “I had to pay for it myself, of course.” Grant continued. “Cost a fortune. Those louts in the Smuggler’s Alliance charged premium credits. But it’s paid for itself since then. This is the first time I actually got to use them. I imagine my minders from NRI would have installed a program to countermand my detonator if I tried to blow up anyone important, but I imagine they’re no longer minding me anymore. After all, thanks to you, they have bigger problems.”

The Lieutenant said nothing. He stared, unseeing, up at the ceiling. Grant clipped his lightfoil to his belt. He gave the Lieutenant a pat on the shoulder before stepping over to the book shelf. In the distance he could hear the shouting of soldiers. They’d be looking for their leader and his prisoner soon.

All they’d find were two dead troopers, and one dead Lieutenant.

Grant turned and looked back at the dead Lieutenant.

“Was it rude of me to have not even bothered to have asked for his name?” Grant mused aloud to himself.

After a second’s consideration, he decided it didn’t matter. Who would know?

Grant turned back to the shelf. Time was of the essence.

He found the particular holobook he was looking for, entitled: Parliamentary procedures for the Tapani Great Council, 17th edition. A tome he expected no one would ever bother to reach for.

He grabbed the holobook, and the shelf receded into the floor, revealing the entrance to a turbolift shaft.

The last Grand Admiral stepped into the hidden turbolift, and left his residence of the past thirty years without a backwards glance.

At the bottom of the turbolift shaft Octavian Grant emerged into a subterranean shuttle bay. The Admiral’s lips curled in distaste as an old FA-4 pilot droid rolled up to greet him.

“My lord, the shuttle is ready to depart.” The droid intoned, gesturing to the old Lamda class shuttle.

Any proper veteran of the Clone Wars despised relying on a droid. He certainly couldn’t be bothered to pay top credits for the latest model. But he’d needed a pilot on permanent standby in case he needed to make a hasty departure. And if a droid like this was good enough for that upjumped gutter trash sorcerer Dooku, it would have to suffice in an emergency.

“We’ll be departing immediately.” Grant announced as he began to ascend the boarding ramp.

“And what of Lady Grant, my lord?” The droid inquired.

Grant paused at the top of the ramp, that odd tightness in his chest coming back to the forefront. His throat too was tightening in that odd way when he thought of his wife. He suddenly felt less confident. Perhaps, even anxious.

“She knows the emergency procedures. We rehearsed them together enough.” Grant said, more to himself than to the droid. “She’ll meet us at the rendezvous point.”

The droid said nothing, but followed quietly behind as the Admiral entered his shuttle.

Octavian Grant sat alone as the ship launched from the hidden hangar. As it flew above the cliffs Grant turned to look out the window. He saw that his residence for the past 30 years had caught fire from the explosion of the First Order shuttle, and was in the process of being consumed in flames.

Grant felt nothing as he watched the estate burn. Rathalay had been a charming place to retire, but it had not been home. Home was the Tapani Sector, a place he could never again return to.

It wasn’t a total loss, he supposed. He had long ago hidden stashes of his great fortune gained during his time in the Empire in separate bank accounts under hidden identities. There were a dozen well stocked bolt holes he could hide in which his agents had furnished over the years.

He’d want for nothing.

“What is our plan of action, Grand Admiral?” The droid asked.

Octavian Grant, the last Imperial Grand Admiral, shrugged his shoulders.

“For now, focus on getting us past whatever blockade the First Order has established around Rathalay. After that…I’ll get right back to what I do best.”

Let the Rebels and whatever Imperial diehards existed bash their heads together. Let them do it for all time, if it suited them.

He could, he supposed, seek out Organa’s little Resistance and offer his services. He’d be a crucial asset to any navy he wound up in. Perhaps he’d win enough glory to finally knock that wretch Thrawn off the high pedestal so many held him up on. But he decided against it. They weren’t worthy of him.

None of them were.

“And what do you do best, sir?”

Octavian Grant smiled. “I live well while my enemies suffer. It’s the finest revenge I can think of."

The Last Grand Admiral turned to the onboard computer console and brought up a map of the galaxy. His dark eyes glittered in the bright light of the screen as he considered his options.

"Now then, let’s see. I heard Niamos is fairly nice this time of year.”

Chapter Text

Sunset at the Jedi Praxeum.

The great gas giant of Yavin Prime hung in orbit, reminding often that the planet was in-fact a moon, but it only added majesty to the scene.

Not to the silence, though.

For that was perpetuated by crashes of blades.

Jedi Master Luke Skywalker folded his arms as he watched the two recruits battle; both from satellite groups that fed into the New Jedi Order.

Kelbis Nu, the Jensaarai, a Rodian with an orange lightsaber and cortosis weave armour, sought to leap up and over the slash of the Pau'an, Lar Le'Ung, a tall humanoid that simply drew back and met Kelbis at his eye level, his own orange blade matching. In the sunset, the flare of colour was deeper than the background of Yavin Prime.

Luke watched as Kelbis and Lar sparred, interspersing between them the various Forms.

Only a year earlier, the Jedi Order hadn't had knowledge of the concepts of Makashi, Ataru and Soresu, instead eschewing a Fast, Medium and Strong triad of approaches. Kam Solusar and Kyle Katarn had been rebuilding a teaching project, while Tionne did the relevant research from their base on Coruscant. As much as Luke would have preferred to not commit to Coruscant - the planet seemed to have its own gravity, no matter how much the New Republic sought to distance itself from the former galactic capital - the Jedi Temple was there, and as one of Palpatine's Imperial Palaces, it had many secrets to uncover. Mara had been helping with that, offering her knowledge as the Emperor's Hand to reveal nooks and crannies that the New Republic had never uncovered.

Mara.

Thinking about Mara led to him thinking about Callista, and then that took him into the muddied waters of all the other women in his life.

Nakari Kelen. Tula Markona. Prathi. Dani. Shira Brie. Tanith Shire. Alexandra Winger. Gaeriel Captison. Mary. Jem Ysanna.

A shake of his head.

Why had thinking about Mara caused him to go down such a route. She'd been off gallivanting with Lando, of all people.

Luke refocused as he sensed Kirani Ti step up besides him.

"These nights are nothing like Dathomir," she simply said.

"No, they are not," he agreed, reflecting on how at least a hemisphere seemed to unnaturally glow red; either a remnant of Nightsister dark magick, Kwa terraforming, Zeffo abuse of the planet, or just that was the way the atmosphere worked. "You have heard from Mother Djo?"

"Not at all," Kirani said.

"And yet you are here."

"I was watching Kelbis Nu. A Jensaarai Defender, and not a Jedi. Similarly, myself a Witch that became a Jedi."

"But your heritage remains apart of you," Luke said, carefully.

"Exactly. I know Streen will make a great caretaker of Yavin 4, but it occurred me to wonder what we would do after."

"After?"

"After the praxeum. We can't be students forever."

Luke oft debated passing the praxeum to Streen, or Kam, or even Tionne. They were teachers, moreso naturally perhaps even than Luke himself. Kyp, Cilghal, Corran, they could perhaps be relied upon to train an apprentice, but not a class, not like this. He'd experimented with two students a Master, and nearly lost Rosh Penin to the dark side.

"No," Luke said, aloud, as twilight descended.

Kirana pulled a slight face as the orange glow of the lightsabers was joined by various twinkling lights.

"And Yavin 4 is becoming slightly crowded."

So this is what the discussion was truly about. Luke smiled freely. "Weytin's Colony is on the other side of the moon."

"But it is not conducive to a retreat," Kirana hedged. "We are supposed to be able to independently judge matters."

"Not so easy when the warlords cover a quarter of the galaxy," he replied. It wasn't a year since the Battle of Korriban, and the attacks on Yavin 4 a year earlier by Hethrir and Daala. "And all of them consider us threats."

He continued on. "Let alone the Sith and Massassi influences we are keeping in check here. Or the research into the underground City." He resisted the urge to grin and count off fingers. "Let alone the Pius Dea connection that Tionne is convinced exists."

Kirana was a Dathomiri; she didn't quit. "I hear Baron Calrissian is intending to go ahead with his Corusca Gem operation, too, and what about the underwater mining proposed on the comet Stroiketcy?"

Luke paused. "You believe we should look for different site for the Academy."

"Not necessarily a different site," Kirana said. "But another."

"I assume my sister's proposals to rehabilitate the Jedi Temple on Coruscant won't cover that."

"We'll be even more drawn into the government of the galaxy," Kirana sounded aghast.

Even if a trillion people didn't live on Coruscant anyway, the New Republic was spending more and more of its attention on the world, having inherited a humanitarian crisis from the Empire. Devastated by the Dark Empire's recapture of the planet, then the civil war between the Imperials, and then the rebellion that had been fought on-world beneath an ISB blockade... the Senate couldn't ignore the plight of so many. Perhaps the New Republic would return to the idea of rotating capitals again, but the twenty-odd millennia rule of Coruscant was a difficult precedent to break.

Another set of clashes on the parapet below. Luke paused.

Fundamentally, Kirana wasn't wrong. The New Jedi Order needed to have sufficient distance from the Republic that they could engage with the Force, but also needed to not become so isolated and hidebound that they could be destroyed. Coruscant and Yavin 4 were only parts of the puzzle. Most of the Old Jedi Order's records had suggested a slow and steady withdrawal to Coruscant following the High Republic Era, and that focus blinded the Order to the rise of Palpatine, so enmeshed they were in politics.

Luke was desperate to avoid such a reoccurrence, mirrored by Leia's determination that the New Republic would be an improvement on the Old.

Similarly, Luke didn't want to have to choose which of his niece and nephews would end up away from Coruscant with training, and which would be mired in those selfsame politics. He'd rather have a third site, to perhaps train Ben or Anakin separately from Jacen and Jaina, who were only a few years from attending the praxeum. Let alone his own children, if he ever had them.

So Kirana was, for a millieu of reasons, right.

"I agree. I have an idea about where to begin, too."

He nodded to himself. "I'll take a leave of absence and work out the particulars. Kam and Streen can run the praxeum while I am away."

"Where should I tell them to look for you if needed?"

As Luke had just said, the galaxy wasn't entirely safe. Not with the warlords like Pellaeon, Getelles, Tethys, Gann and Foga Brill out there. Disarmed as many were, after all. Recently a Moff had been driven off Nevarro, and one of the last Grand Moffs, Darius Onneir, had been killed in combat with the Protectorate.

"I'll have Artoo with me," Luke turned away from the display as Kam called it to an end. "So I'll be reachable."

"You don't know where you're going?"

Luke paused. "I'll be trusting the Force."

He looked to the sky, which, yes, was bustling with the travel of a nearby colony. He half expected to spy Shara Bey's A-wing, commandeered by her son again, or perhaps he'd spy another Super Star Destroyer on its way to attempt something. But no, since the Battle of Korriban, the remnants of the Empire had been relatively quiet. A cold war, most said, though very few Senators were happy to admit to an Imperial Remnant, nor that the Coruscant Accords hadn't brought an end to the Galactic Civil War.

But Leia hadn't had to trot out Mas Amedda from his exile/retirement to exhort the warlords to surrender since Devian was killed, so that was something.

What, he couldn't say.

Perhaps he should reach out to Ahsoka -

There was a call in the Force, and Luke hesitated.

The seeing stone on Tython?

A flash of Stormtroopers -

Of Mandalorians -

An Imperial cruiser -

Droid troopers of black -

Grimacing, Luke wondered what could have happened.

"Kirana, I need to go. I'll be back when I can."

She could sense the drift of his thoughts, though only Luke was powerful enough in the Force to follow such a call across such cosmic distances; from the very Deep Core of the galaxy to the distant Outer Rim and Yavin 4.

"May the Force be with you."

Luke thanked her.

And turned towards the first student, perhaps, of the Ossus Academy.

Chapter Text

Halls of Healing, Jedi Temple, Coruscant

Doctor Rig Nema sighed before looking down at her patient.

"She'll live. It may yet be some time before she wakes from her healing trance, but Master Yaddle will live."

Ki Adi Mundi, Jedi Master and senior member of the Jedi High Council, shifted his weight awkwardly from one leg to the other. The lights in the small, windowless recovery room were dimmed. The room itself felt claustrophobic with the number of people pressed into it, surrounding the small bed upon which Master Yaddle lay.

At the head of the bed stood Doctor Nema, her hand placed gently on Yaddle's shoulder. Master Yoda sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, his head bowed, eyes closed, as he communed with the Force in search for answers. Master Mace Windu hovered closely by Yoda's side, his hard eyes locked unblinking at Yaddle's unconscious form.

Yarael Poof, the Jedi Order's most proficient living telepath, stood on the other side of the bed across from Doctor Nema. His eyes too were closed. His long, thin fingers were gently brushing Yaddle's forehead. His face contorted in an unpleasant grimace.

Flanking the door to the room were Depa Billaba and Tera Sinube, one of the Order's premiere investigators.

The senior members of the Council had only just returned from the funeral of Qui-Gon Jinn on Naboo when they had received an urgent communique from the Commissioner of the Coruscant Security Force. Yaddle had been found in an alleyway in the Federal District, seemingly dead with multiple broken bones and a horrible, deep cauterized wound running from her forehead down to the hip.

She should have been dead.

But looks, Ki Adi thought wryly, were so often deceiving.

Yaddle remained the Jedi Order's chief practitioner of the restricted art of Morichro.

Morichro was a dangerous power; the ability to use the Force to slow down a person's bodily functions to the point where they would be placed into a state of unconsciousness. Such catatonia could even be made to make the target appear as though they were dead. And, if not performed properly, it would kill the person being affected.

When she had first been found, even Master Sinube had thought she was dead. It had taken Yoda to realize that she was merely in a state of deep suspended animation that was as close to death as one could get without passing on. Following that discovery she had been rushed to the Halls of Healing, where she had remained ever since.

Right now, Yaddle herself looked so...small. Ki Adi could scarcely believe it. Even now, as one of her peers on the Council, he felt as in awe of Yaddle as he had when he'd first encountered her when he had been a youngling in the creche. Her presence in the Force had always lent her a gravitas that had made her feel larger than life. But now, she looked so fragile...so weak.

It was not how she appeared that disturbed him. It was how she felt. Her great presence in the Force felt...diminished.

Wounded.

It was said that her century long imprisonment on Koba had not broken her spirit. She had endured torture and deprivation once, and emerged from the abyss whole. But whatever she had been through in the time after she had suddenly departed the Temple had, if not broken her, then severely wounded her in body and spirit.

Master Mundi felt the brief twinge of emotion, the spark of grief, fear, worry, anger flash across his conscious mind before he was able to squash it. His eyes flickered around the room. He knew what he had to say would not be taken well.

Before he could say something, however, Windu broke the silence.

"You're certain the crime scene has yielded no clues?" Windu queried. His eyes remained locked on Yaddle, her chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths. But everyone knew who he was addressing.

Sinube leaned heavily on his cane. "The Coruscant Security Force swept the entire alleyway in which Master Yaddle was found. Nothing. No witnesses, no prints, no markings whatsoever. The Temple's crime scene investigators yielded the same results. I have a theory though."

"Theories shall not help us." Mundi said quietly. He knew before he finished speaking what reaction he'd get. Depa Billaba looked at him sharply, the faintest tinge of annoyance flashing across an otherwise expressionless face before she looked over to Sinube.

"By all means." Said Depa Billaba, gesturing for Sinube to continue. "Theories may help us deduce the truth."

The elderly Cosian cleared his throat before continuing. "The lack of clues in the alleyway lends credence to the notion that she was not attacked there. Criminals will often dispose of a body far from the crime scene so that any tell tale clues left at the scene are less likely to be uncovered."

"What about the anti-theft countermeasures on Master Yaddle's speeder?" Asked Doctor Nema. "It might still be near the scene of the crime."

Sinube took a deep breath. "We activated the speeder's homing device as soon as we learned of this attack. Or, at least, we tried to. Her attackers were smart enough to disable the speeder's tracker. Presumably they did so immediately after they incapacitated her."

"Presumably." Ki Adi intoned, his voice tinged with a hint of impatience. Depa's lips twitched as she suppressed a stab of annoyance.

Ki Adi would not be deterred. This was his role, and he would play it as he had to.

"We cannot jump to conclusions." He continued, ignoring the open incredulity that Depa was now allowing to seep through her mental shields. "We do not know that this is the work of the Sith."

"Yaddle was nearly cut open from top to bottom by a lightsaber." Depa said lowly. "The only reason she's still alive is that she put herself in a catatonic state."

"She may have been attacked with her own saber." Ki Adi countered.

"So careless with her own lightsaber, Yaddle is not." Yoda said, speaking for the first time since they had gathered into the room. "Look into the Force, Master Mundi. See what I see. The faint touch of the Darkside remains."

"Perhaps." Said Ki Adi. He could indeed feel it, like a stench that could not be cleansed. The faint aura of malevolence hung on Yaddle's robes. She had indeed encountered something dark.

Ki Adi persisted, as he always did. As he always had to. "But I have a hard time imagining that the Sith are here, on Coruscant itself. I am willing to accept now, with the evidence we've acquired, that it was indeed a Sith who slew Master Jinn on Naboo. But Naboo is all the way out on the Mid Rim, far from our seat here in the Core. I cannot believe that the Sith would be able to operate here without us knowing."

"Disturbing, our lack of insight is." Yoda said mournfully. "Cost us enough, it has."

"When Yaddle awakens, we will know more." Said Windu, his eyes finally breaking from Yaddle's body. The Master of the Order, Yoda's second in command, focused his piercing gaze on Ki Adi Mundi. "And then we will act to protect our Order and this Republic."

"No. We won't."

Everyone looked over to where Yarael Poof was standing. The Quermian Jedi removed his hand from Yaddle's forehead. His eyes opened, a look of sorrow and fear crossing his face as he stepped away from the bed.

"Master Yarael?" Asked Doctor Nema, her eyes shifting with concern as she looked from Yaddle to Yarael and back again. "What's wrong?"

"She didn't fool them." Yarael said softly, his breath catching in his long throat as he clutched at the hem of his robes in agitation. "They knew. By the luminous, they knew..."

"Calm yourself Master Yarael." Ki Adi cautioned. "Center yourself in the Light and start from the beginning."

Yarael Poof blinked in surprise before taking a series of calming breaths. Slowly, the Jedi Master regained his composure. Yarael gave Ki Adi a brief nod of thanks before turning to address Mace Windu.

"When she awakes Yaddle will be able to tell us nothing. Her memories of her encounter with the Sith are gone."

"Gone?" Nema asked, turning towards one of the monitors on the wall. The Doctor tapped a series of keys, bringing up a series of brain scans. "But there was no indication of cranial trauma when she was brought in. I'm not seeing any signs of neural degradation..."

"Telepathy would not leave such a trace." Yarael answered.

"Telepathic manipulation is not proof of the involvement of the Sith." Ki Adi warned. "Telepathy is one of the powers granted by a connection the Force, I concede that. But there are many species who are naturally telepathic without a connection to the Force, like the Iktotchi.

"This is the work of the Force. The Darkside." Yarael interrupted. He turned to Yoda. "That is the cause of the lingering darkness you sense, Master Yoda. Her memories were erased, and the Force was used to do it. What else can explain this lingering darkness that clings to Master Yaddle like a parasite?"

"Now we know that it was the Sith." Master Sinube said, approaching the Doctor to take a closer look at the medical scans that had been conducted.

"There are other Darkside sects." Insisted Ki Adi. "The Nightsisters, the Sorcerers of Tund, the Heresiarchs. Any one of them could have attacked Yaddle and wiped her memories of the encounter."

"Why are you so unwilling to accept the truth?" Demanded Depa. "The Sith have returned. They've killed Qui Gon Jinn and very nearly killed Master Yaddle. This can be no coincidence."

"I am willing to accept the truth when there is proof of it." Ki Adi said stoically. "But no one here has given me definitive proof that a Sith attacked Master Yaddle. All that I have heard is theories and speculation. The Jedi cannot go jumping about at shadows. We must remain calm. Rational. Unemotional. That is the only way the truth can be attained."

Ki Adi Mundi turned fully to face Depa and approached her.

"I know my way can be...irritating...to even the most gifted of Jedi Masters." Ki Adi spoke softly, an awkwardness causing him to pause as he tried to think of what else to say.

"I know what others think of me. They think me overly rigid. Dogmatic. Contrarian."

Depa and Ki Adi stared at one another for a moment before Ki Adi broke eye contact. "I feel that I must be the contrarian on the Council. I must challenge the opinions of others. How else can they strengthen their argument unless they have someone to counter them?"

Ki Adi turned from Depa to Terra Sinube. "So please, tell me Master Sinube. Why, in spite of my protestations, are you still convinced that the Sith are responsible for this attack?"

"There are many factors which indicate that this is the work of the Sith." Said Sinube. "The Nightsisters and the Sorcerer's of Tund rarely travel offworld. They have no interest in galactic affairs. But the Sith? The Sith were always obsessed with a child's conception of power and strength. The death of one of their own at the hand of a Jedi apprentice, after so many centuries of hiding, will have stung their pride."

Depa Billaba frowned, her mouth widening in surprise. "You suggest that this was some perverted attempt to save face after Kenobi killed the Zabrak?"

"Partly." Said Sinube. "It was also a warning. We can hurt them, but they can hurt us. Qui-Gon's death was not an aberration."

Mace Windu nodded his head in understanding before bringing his hand up to his chin in contemplation. "They're trying to gauge our reaction. See what conclusions we'll draw from these events."

"And what, Master Windu, do you conclude from these tragedies?" Asked Yoda.

Ki Adi Mundi glanced briefly at the floor. It was easy for Yoda to slip into the role of teacher, even with members of the Council. They had all learned and trained under the wise old Master, as had generations before them. Yoda's way was to ask, and see what others would say, correcting only when they stepped too far out of line.

"The Sith were able to detect Yaddle's deception." Said Mace. "She was one of the greatest practitioners of Morichro in the Order. And yet the Sith sensed that they had not killed her. They had to if they went to the trouble of wiping her memories of her confrontation with them. That indicates a great understanding of the Force."

"Which indicates a degree of study and practice going back centuries." Concluded Depa. "Meaning this is not some random group of bored aristocrats who have recently begun dabbling in powers they do not understand, like the ancient Krath."

"But all of the Dark Lords and their followers were killed at the Seventh Battle of Ruusan." Ki Adi countered. "The Old Jedi did not declare the Sith extinct on a whim. Their investigations were thorough."

"Not thorough enough." Sinube argued. "I have spent time in research in the Jedi Archives. They mention that at least one Sith survived long after the destruction of the Brotherhood of Darkness."

"Darth Bane?" Ki Adi asked, incredulously. "He was killed by a Jedi strike force on Ambria, as I recall."

"Was he?" Asked Sinube, who had shuffled away from the door and moved to stand at Yaddle's bedside. He brushed one of his fingers gently over the knuckles of Yaddle's hand in a gesture Ki Adi found a touch too familiar. "Treachery is the way of the Sith." Sinube continued. "What if Bane manipulated some poor fool, some acolyte, into posing as him. The reports indicate that the so-called Sith on Ambria was quite mad."

"And even if Bane was killed on Ambria, who is to say that he did not train an apprentice in the time between Ruusan and Ambria?" Master Windu asked.

"So...should we have the Republic prepare for an invasion?" Doctor Nema asked. "Surely, now that the Sith have been revealed, they will attack in greater numbers."

"Hmmm. Unlikely, a repeat of Emperor Vitiate's wars of conquest is." Yoda said. "Changed, the enemy's strategy has."

"What leads you to that conclusion, Master Yoda?" Yarael Poof asked.

Mace Windu and Yoda shared a glance before Mace spoke. "The Archives recount that the strike team on Ambria recovered texts espousing the personal philosophy Darth Bane had developed in the aftermath of the Seventh Battle of Ruusan. Disenchanted with perceived deficiencies in the Brotherhood of Darkness, Bane sought to redefine Sith philosophy without abandoning the traditional practice of succession via assassination."

"The Rule of Two." Yoda explained. "Instead of thousands, two there would be; no more, no less. A Master and an Apprentice."

Windu nodded. "With only two Sith Lords, the infighting and power struggles which undermined the Old Sith Empires would be kept to a minimum. With only two, the Master and the Apprentice would be forced to rely on one another to achieve their goals. In such a system the Apprentice would have to grow in knowledge and power on their own without outside assistance. Before the Master's strength and power could atrophy with age, the two would be compelled to fight to the death. Should the Master be killed, the Apprentice would take their place, theoretically ensuring that each generation of Sith would grow stronger than the last.

Rig Nema blinked in confusion. "I confess I had not heard of this Rule of Two."

"The Council elected to keep certain knowledge of the Sith restricted centuries ago." Ki Adi Mundi explained. "To keep it from being misused."

Doctor Nema frowned, her eyes narrowing as she considered what she was told. "What a grotesque philosophy." She concluded. "And self defeating. I never understood the Sith and their attitude of kill or be killed. The Force is born of all living things. To kill is to weaken the Force, and thereby weaken themselves. And they wondered why they fell after waging war after war of conquest."

"Perhaps that is why they have changed their tactics." Suggested Sinube. "The Trade Federation would not have been so bold as to occupy Naboo without someone backing them up. The presence of the Sith on Naboo strongly indicates that they were behind the Federation's sudden impulsiveness."

Depa Billaba grimaced. "Try telling that to the Judicials." She looked over to Yoda. "I spoke with Master Tiin before I came here to the Hall of Healing. He reports that Gunray won't talk, either to us or the Judicials. Every time we bring up the Zabrak, he deflects and demands to see his litigator."

Yarael Poof laced his long fingers together and looked down at his interlocked hands in contemplation. "I imagine the Sith have him scared."

"We could offer him protection in exchange for information." Rig Nema suggested.

"Unlikely to be swayed, the Viceroy will be." Yoda asserted. "Deeply entrenched, the Sith are. Knows, Gunray does, that if the Sith can get to two Jedi Masters, they can get to him."

"So Yaddle's attack was likely a reminder to Gunray to keep his mouth shut as it was to put us on notice." Nema theorized. "Perhaps we should go to the Judicial Department and explain the situation. They might have some insight on the case that we lack."

Sinube tapped his cane on the floor to get the attention of the room. "I'm afraid that won't work. Our efforts in the past will have stymied such an approach."

"What do you mean by that, Master Sinube?" Ki Adi Mundi asked.

Sinube gestured, first to Mundi, and then to Yoda and Windu. "I mean that the Council's policy of obsessively collecting and hiding Sith artifacts in the Bogan Collection, if not destroying artifacts and lore altogether, may have done us more harm than good. The Sith have not been relevant for a thousand years. Because of our secrecy, the Sith are less a historic fact and more the stuff of fairy tales and legends. Many alive today would not have even heard of the Sith. If we go to the Judicials and start speaking of Dark Side conspiracies, we will not be taken seriously."

"Why would they not take us seriously? We have served this Republic, in one form or another, for nearly a thousand generations. Surely our steadfast service would lend us some credibility." Exclaimed Ki Adi Mundi.

Sinube turned from Ki Adi Mundi and stared pensively at Yoda. Yoda sighed.

"This debate, I will not have again, Master Sinube."

"The long retreat has cost us." Sinube persisted. "You wonder at our loss of vision; at how the Sith could have gone about their work undetected. We didn't notice because we have withdrawn into ourselves since the end of the High Republic era. By abandoning so many of our outposts across the galaxy and focusing inwards, by becoming less active in the affairs of the people outside of the Senate's strict demands, we have lost our eyes and ears."

"The Order's diffusion across the galaxy left us vulnerable and uncoordinated." Insisted Ki Adi Mundi. "Fewer Jedi would have been killed in the raids by the Nihil if they had not been scattered so far apart without easy access to reinforcements. Centralization allows for greater command and control of our resources. We help more people this way."

Doctor Nema involuntarily backed away as Masters Sinube and Mundi continued to debate one another. It would have been improper to have called what was transpiring an argument. Jedi didn't argue with one another. But even though Tera Sinube had once been on the Council, it still felt...unnatural for a member of the Council to be so persistently questioned by one who was not.

Sinube leaned on his cane, looking from Ki Adi to Yoda and back again. The old Master sighed, his face drooping as he turned back to face Master Mundi.

"To be a Jedi is to abide by the Will of the Force." Sinube said softly. "The Fallanassi speak of the Force as a White Current. There is some truth to such an idea. The Force bends and flows and ebbs. We can either fight the current and fail, hoping to stay in place, or allow the current to carry us where it may. And as it carries us we must anticipate the rapids."

Sinube reached out and placed a hand on Ki Adi's arm, a familiar gesture. "I have lived long enough to see the Jedi change with the times. You say that the Order's concentration here on Coruscant has made us stronger. I don't know about that. It is certainly comfortable here in the capital."

Ki Adi backed away stiffly, pulling his arm away from Sinube's hand in the process. "Comfortable? Do not tell me you've been influenced by Dooku's cynicism."

"I have seen the Jedi change." Sinube repeated. "And then that change stopped. At some point we looked upon our work, declared it good, and grew content with our lot. We have grown comfortable with affairs as they have been. But those affairs are now changed, and we must adapt to that change."

"I agree." Depa interjected. She stepped forward, pointing to Yaddle. "We stand here debating one another, as though discussing an abstract piece of philosophy. The Sith have returned. We must be proactive if we are to apprehend them."

"What do you propose?" Ki Adi asked. "That we scatter the Jedi to the four corners of the galaxy on some wild Bantha chase, tracking down clues? Drop our obligations in search of phantoms? We know nothing. We cannot upend ourselves. The Sith will show themselves again. Until then we must be patient and wait for them."

"Do nothing?" Depa asked, incredulous as she crossed her arms over her chest. "That is your counsel, Master Mundi?"

"Observation is not the same as inaction." Ki Adi explained. "The Jedi have withstood crises before. We shall again. The Sith are no different a threat than any other we have faced. To drop everything and obsess over what they may do is to give them power over us."

"You seem remarkably unconcerned with what has transpired." Depa said.

Ki Adi grimaced, suppressing a sudden twinge of annoyance. "And you, Master Billaba, are surprisingly emotional about what has occurred. The Sith want us to react emotionally. That is likely the main reason that Yaddle was left in the alleyway for us to find. The Darkside thrives on negative emotion; fear, hate, anger."

Ki Adi spread his arms out, gesturing to everyone in the room. "Our enemies are gauging our reaction. They want us to overreact, to panic, to jump to action. They hope to sow discord and disunity in our ranks. We cannot doubt ourselves now. We must trust in our principles."

"Principle is a guide to help us take action, not an impediment." Depa argued. "The rules exist to serve the people, not the other way around. We cannot be hamstrung with philosophical debates."

"The rules are a safeguard." Ki Adi argued. "They were not arbitrarily drawn up on a whim. The Force is not a mere philosophy. It is power; the cornerstone upon which the universe rests. More evil has been done in the name of 'the greater good' than any other creed. Our power must be tempered with restraint. That restraint cannot be relaxed. Otherwise we risk inadvertently destroying all that we claim to value while working to protect it."

"But are you not yourself living proof that not all rules must be followed so stringently?" Depa asked.

Ki Adi Mundi closed his eyes, his thin lips pressed together in something approaching consternation. He knew where this debate was heading. A tiny, private part of himself dreaded it.

"Must you do this, Master Billaba?" He asked softly.

"I feel you leave me no choice." Depa answered. "You preach stringent conformity to the rules at the expense of action against the Sith. And yet you yourself are exempt from one of the Order's largest rules."

"My family has no bearing on this discussion." Ki Adi argued.

"But they do. Their existence undermines your own argument." Depa insisted. "You claim that the rules must be slavishly obeyed, but you yourself are able to disregard the central tenet of non-attachment our Order preaches without succumbing to the possessiveness that rule seeks to prevent."

"I did not ask for an exemption." Said Ki Adi Mundi, his tone clipped; open vexation passing through his lips as his eyes narrowed. The bout of anger, and yes, it was indeed anger, passed, and was replaced with a sense of mortification. He bowed his head in shame, and took a deep breath.

"The Cerean government would not let my parents give me over for training unless the Council agreed to relax the rules about non-attachment. My people's extraordinarily low male birth rate necessitated every male taking on multiple wives just to keep our species from sliding into extinction."

Ki Adi turned his back on Depa. "You ask, Master Billaba, how I can be such an inflexible proponent of Jedi doctrine, while flouting the rule of non attachment. It is because I am exempt that I am such a rabid supporter. For I have felt the struggle that attachment causes for a Jedi and those they are attached to. And I would not wish it upon anyone."

Ki Adi paused, his jaw working slowly as he mulled over what to say. "My wives deserve a husband. My children deserve a father. I cannot be those things in full because I am a Jedi first and foremost. They deserve love and attention. I cannot give them my full attention, even if they deserve it. My duty keeps me here more often than not. I go months at a time without seeing them. My decisions as a Knight and as a member of the Council affect the lives of thousands, if not many more. I cannot prioritize my family at the expense of others. Even if I might want to."

"Master Mundi." Interjected Yarael Poof hesitantly. "You needn't..." But Ki Adi waved him off.

"Evidently I must, Master Yarael." Ki Adi insisted. He looked back at Depa Billaba, who, to her credit, did not flinch or allow any hint of emotion to appear in her features. Doctor Nema shifted again, clearly uncomfortable at the revelations the normally stoic Jedi Master was giving in her presence.

"There are moments." Ki Adi confessed. "Random, transitory moments, when I feel fear. In the service of justice we Jedi make many enemies. What would my enemies do, I ask myself, should they find my family? Would they kill them? Hold them hostage to extort me? Torture them to spite me? And would I have the strength, should my family be hurt, to do my duty if family and responsibility were mutually exclusive?"

Another pause fell over the room. All eyes were locked on Ki Adi.

"I ask myself that question more often than I'd like." Ki Adi confessed. "And even now I still do not have the answer."

"You bear an immense burden, my friend." Mace Windu said softly. Ki Adi Mundi grimaced, his shoulders hunched in discomfort at the attention he'd drawn to himself.

"It isn't just the difficulty caused to me." Ki Adi continued, his voice a pained whisper. "I know my family resents our situation. They've never said anything, of course. They know that duty must come first. But I am a phantom casting a pall on their lives."

Master Mundi's eyes closed as he allowed himself a moment to remember. Terse family dinners, awkward conversations, hesitant embraces. Time spent together as though walking through a minefield. And, underpinning it all, a fervent, mutual desire to be closer. A desire that couldn't be indulged in.

"In my travels I have heard many criticize the rule of non attachment." Ki Adi Mundi concluded. "Many call it harsh. They focus only on the joys that are denied. But they ignore the pain that is prevented. My family would be better off without me."

"Enough." A soft, wizened voice declared. Master Yoda had turned away from the impromptu debate. A gnarled, clawed hand was resting atop one of Yaddle's hands. His eyes were closed, his face lined with deep wrinkles. He looked older and more brittle than anyone in the room had ever seen him.

"Distracted, we have all become." Yoda announced. "This discussion has run its course. Good for Yaddle to hear us bicker so while she recovers, it is not."

Mace Windu was the first to leave, striding from the room with his head back and his shoulders square. Yarael Poof excused himself, gesturing for Depa Billaba to come with him. The others turned to leave, but as he made for the door Ki Adi was made to pause.

"Master Mundi, a moment, if you will."

Ki Adi said nothing. He waited by the door as everyone else filed out of Yaddle's room. The door closed with a hiss, and only three remained.

Nothing was said. Seconds stretched to minutes.

Finally, Yoda spoke. "Talkative, Depa Billaba was."

Ki Adi folded his hands behind his back. "Indeed. She is rarely that confrontational in the Council Chamber."

Yoda's lips quirked in a small smile. "Wish, I did, that she voiced her opinion more often. Especially in the Council. Unhealthy it is, to keep feelings welled down deep where they can be left to fester."

Ki Adi Mundi said nothing.

Yoda's small smile vanished. His eyes opened, and there was a quiet grimness in his features that made Ki Adi uneasy.

"Beware your pride." Yoda said, his voice a low rumble.

Ki Adi schooled his expression. "Master?"

"Difficult is the path that you were placed upon. Acknowledge that, I do." Yoda said. "But fit enough you are in body and spirit to bear this burden with ease. Unique, your situation is not. Unprecedented, it is not. The Corellian and Altisian sects manage their attachments without succumbing to the Darkside. Unbecoming it is, for you to act the martyr."

Ki Adi Mundi felt his hands clench and unclench behind his back.

"I would hardly hold up either sect as models of Jedi behavior. The Altisians are unreliable and ineffectual." Ki Adi asserted. "They may as well be another order altogether, considering how little contact we have with them. And the Corellians...are complicated."

"Complicated, it is not." Yoda said. "Loyal more to Corellia than to the Republic as a whole, the Corellian Jedi have always been. Proud of its independence and self reliance, Corellia has always been. Resist tooth and nail any attempt to exert undue influence they would. A compromise was enacted; Corellia would continue to support the Republic after the destruction of the Brotherhood of Darkness, and the Green Jedi of Corellia would have some degree of independence from the Jedi High Council."

"An odious compromise. And a dangerous one at that." Ki Adi said. "The Corellian Temple is a potential powder keg. Jedi families like the Halcyon's risk the creation of privileged dynasties. The Jedi Lords of the Draggulch Period are not to be admired, let alone emulated."

"Perhaps." Yoda said, his tone ambivalent. "Always has there existed a discouragement of attachment, since the time of the Prime Jedi and the Four Founders. But an outright ban on relationships, a comparatively recent development it is in the history of the Jedi."

"The Ruusan Reformation was necessary." Ki Adi said reflexively. "So many who fell to the Darkside fell because they could not manage their feelings. Their attachment to material things, their attachments to others. They could not balance duty with love. It is better to remove temptation altogether than to constantly live in its shadow."

"And what alternative do you prefer, Master Mundi?" Yoda asked. "Every Jedi living and working in the Temple here on Coruscant, under the watchful eye of the Council?"

"It would be easier." Ki Adi asserted.

"Easier?" Yoda asked. "Easier is the path to the Darkside. But take it you do not."

"Master, you know what I mean." Ki Adi said, a small amount of impatience affecting his tone, causing the Cerean Jedi to wince at his self perceived lack of control.

Yoda sighed. "Unwilling to debate me, you are? Why? King of the Jedi I am not. Colleagues we are. Brothers in the Force."

"I defer to your wisdom." Said Ki Adi, his head bowing slightly in respect. "As do we all."

Yoda's ears drooped, his eyes narrowed.

"What use is a Council where eleven defer to one?" Yoda asked. "Old I may be, but a god I am not."

Yoda ran his hand through his thinning white hair as he leaned back in his chair in contemplation. "Long come and gone my generation is. My Master, N'Kata Del Gormo, has long since become one with the Force. This generation is yours, Ki Adi. Offer advice I should. But command? Rule as a monarch? I think not."

Yoda looked at Yaddle, and then turned to look at Ki Adi Mundi. "Watched I have, as the Order has changed. Gone are the Wayseekers, those independent followers of the Will of the Force. Removed, for questioning the will of the Council. Closed are so many of the outposts. More manageable this way, the Jedi Knights are for the Council to assign missions. More deferential, less questioning, the Jedi of your era are. Fallen in number, have our ranks. More efficient for the Council to govern, some say. Higher standards of recruitment, claim others. Thought so once, I did. Not so sure now, am I."

"The Jedi have never been a static organization, Master." Ki Adi Mundi said. "Our numbers have always fluctuated."

"Thought so, I once did." Yoda admitted. "But look back I do, and see a long litany of conflicts. The Mandalorian Excision, the struggles with the Nihil, the Stark Hyperspace War, and now Naboo. Wonder do I, how much of a hand the Sith have played in our isolation."

Ki Adi Mundi's brow furrowed. "Is that not somewhat...paranoid?"

Yoda rolled his shoulders in a facsimile of a shrug. "When my age you get, a lifetime's worth of decisions will you have to reconsider. All this talk of what the Sith intend. Simple, the answer is."

"What is it then, Master?"

Yoda looked away from Ki Adi Mundi. He stared at Yaddle, at the long, healing scar on her face that went down her neck and chest.

"They seek to twist the knife." Yoda said. "Taunt us, divide us, lay bare our inadequacies."

"A childish motive." Ki Adi said dismissively.

"Perhaps." Yoda conceded. "But particularly cruel, children can be."

Chapter Text

LiMerge Power Building, Coruscant, 32 BBY

Plasma carved through flesh and bone, splitting sinews with such sickening ease.

A Jedi Master should not die this easily.

It is an odd thought. A clinical thought, folded in disappointment, yet devoid of anything one might call compassion.

It is not the first time he has had such thoughts.

He'd thought such things when the fields of Galidraan had been slick with blood. In his dreams he still saw it. Mandalorian. Jedi. The political dissidents. He remembered watching Komari Vosa slaughter Jango Fett's men with such contemptible ease. Their ancestors had nearly conquered the galaxy, in eons past. And yet the inheritors of Mandalore the Ultimate's legacy fell so quickly by the blades of the Jedi.

By the blade of his now fallen apprentice.

By his blade.

A Mandalorian should not die that easily.

The Jedi had always spoken of the resilience of life. Of its ability to adapt and endure. Of how precious it was. But if life was so strong, how could it vanish so quickly?

Galidraan had been a slaughter, a humiliation that smoldered and scorched his aristocratic pride. He'd been used. Deceived by that wretched, venal grub of a Governor. For what? To settle petty, insignificant little scores on a planet of no intrinsic worth.

But he was grateful to that corrupt oaf. For he had been taught a valuable lesson in the aftermath of Galidraan.

Use, or be used. To believe anything else is to set oneself up for disappointment.

Disappointment is an old friend at this point; a constant companion that has clung to him tightly. Truthfully, it is the only companion who has never failed him.

When he was but a boy, a foolish youth with hopes and dreams of glory, he had had several people who had called him friend. But his closest friend, Lorian Nod, had been so jealous of his natural talent, and had betrayed him when it had been convenient to do so.

How he'd secretly hated Nod for his betrayal, for trying to blame him for the theft of the Dark Holocron. Hoping to use the cover of their so called friendship to conceal his own misdeeds. Now though, in this moment, as his blade cuts through a member of the Jedi Council, he is thankful. Nod taught him a valuable lesson. A lesson that has taken so long to materialize and take form.

In this life, there is no one you can rely on, save for yourself.

Disappointment had been his stock in trade throughout his time with the Jedi; the one resource the galaxy never truly ran out of.

Missions bled into one another. Trade disputes. Rogue warlords. Political squabbles. Crime. People who couldn't or wouldn't improve their own lives no matter how desperately they struggled. The Jedi taught that order was best created through harmony, and that harmony was the end result of the resolution of conflict.

But the conflicts never ended. With every one problem resolved another would pop up in another system. On, and on, and on it went, the same cycle of petty squabbles repeated over and over.

How he'd sickened of it. From place to place, the arguments were different, the people different, the causes different, but the inability to simply be eluded so many he encountered.

He stands there. Watching the smoke rise from Master Yaddle's robes. He reaches into the Force, and though he sees her, he does not feel her there. She was, but no longer is.

He takes a moment to consider this. It is a momentary puzzlement. She was. He supposes she once was. She had once existed, with hopes and thoughts and feelings of her own. He understands this, at least, on an intellectual level. But he's so very rarely felt it.

Other people have never been entirely real to him, to begin with.

There have been exceptions, now and again. People he felt were as real as he was. His old Master, Yoda. His sister Jenza. Syfo Dias.

Qui-Gon Jinn. His so-

Apprentice.

His dead apprentice.

His dead apprentice who had such wisdom and potential.

He would have been a useful ally.

An ally. Nothing more.

The Count sneered.

Such trivial thoughts were beneath him.

A Count of Serenno did not wallow in self pity.

Nor did a Sith Lord.

He had been such a fool. He had left the Jedi behind. Forsaken his vows, and left the Order to assume the birthright which his wretch of a father and fool of a brother had sought to take from him.

But he'd never really left the Order. In his heart he'd long held some affection for...for what? For what had once been? What might have been? What was meant to be? He'd visited infrequently after his departure, lingering like some bird of prey over a dying animal. Why? Why had he lingered? It had been pathetic. He could not stand in the dusky middle ground between Light and Dark. He'd had to make a choice.

It was time to move on. He had been pretending for so long. Pretending to be Dooku. Pretending to be a noble Count. Pretending to be a Jedi. And now, recently, he'd been playing at being a Sith.

It was time to commit to one truth. His truth.

Dooku closed his eyes.

And Tyranus opened them.

Tyranus stared down at the empty vessel, the thing that had once been a Jedi. He felt nothing from her.

"It is done." He said, more to himself than to anyone else.

"It is not." The shadow whispered back.

Tyranus turned. He looked upon the shadow, looming in the Force like a cloying shroud that sought to envelope, smother and consume.

"My Master?"

The shadow knelt before the fallen Jedi. It's long, spindly fingers brushed her forehead.

"Look closer, Lord Tyranus." The shadow commanded, its voice soft, almost inaudible.

Tyranus looked. He saw nothing. Felt nothing.

Yaddle was dead.

Tyranus tried again. He opened himself to the great choir of the Force, to hear the melody of the universe.

He did not hear anything from Yaddle.

Tyranus stared at her body. He allowed a flicker of anger to wriggle from his iron clad discipline. He let himself fan it into a burgeoning annoyance.

What did the shadow want of him? What did it see that he did not?

What about her was he missing? What secret did she hold?

He wasn't a fool. He wasn't an errant youngling who knew nothing of the mysteries of the Force. He was a Lord of the Sith.

So why did Darth Sidious look up at him now, like some dim novice?

Give me your secrets! He commanded, raging at the Dark Side for its unwillingness to bend and give him what he was owed.

And then, he heard it.

Soft, hoarse, out of tune, hardly a gasp.

Yaddle's voice was still a part of the great choir of the Living Force.

She was alive.

Tyranus knelt. He felt for her pulse. He felt nothing.

And yet he felt the tiniest little ember smoldering in the ash heap that was her body.

Of course.

His lips curled in contempt as he stood up. "Morichro."

Damned fool. He scolded himself. Of course she'd work to deceive him. Yaddle was the Master of Morichro. Her power allowed her to appear to the world as dead as the old Dark Lords of Moraband. Instead, she clung to this plane like a parasite, in suspended animation. Her words had been like honey. And the worst part was that, right up until he'd plunged his blade into her body, a part of him had been tempted by what she'd had to say.

Saying it wasn't too late. That he'd been right, that the Council wasn't the font of wisdom it pretended to be. But she had never been concerned for him. She had wanted to get her way, and even now she was trying to deceive him. Undermine him.

Rob him of what was his by right.

How was it that others could deceive him, again and again? Had he not learned that trust was for fools?

Why then? Why was he tempted to...

She was trying to save you. Something, some small, strained voice deep within him, insists.

Tyranus ignited his saber. He raised it high, ready to strike again.

Let us see you try to trick me after I've removed your head from your shoulders. He thought, a vindictive wrath hardening his heart.

"No."

That single word stopped him cold.

"Master?" Tyrannus did not understand.

"You have done well, my friend." The shadow smiles, and something in Tyranus wilts.

"I do not understand." Tyranus confesses. And that is a hard thing to do. His pride burns at such an admission.

"This is...an opportunity." Sidious breathed, his voice tinged with gleeful anticipation. The Dark Lord brushed his thumb against Yaddle's forehead, his fingers tracing delicately along the tips of her pointed ears.

"She knows." Tyranus insisted. "She's heard enough. Even the most stubborn members of the Jedi Council could not find fault in her testimony. Our plans are undone unless we kill her now."

"The Dark Side is not merely a blade to hack away at our enemies." Sidious lectured. Tendrils of invisible power trickled forth from Sidious to Yaddle. Like poison it dripped and seeped into her mind, latching to memories and dissolving them like acid.

Her memories. Her memories of her encounter with Dooku. Her suspicions of him. They faded away like a setting sun. Dooku listened to the choir of the Force, listened as every memory squawked and shrieked before being silenced forever, never to be recovered.

"As I carve away her memories, so too must you carve away your own preconceptions of the Dark Side, Lord Tyranus." Sidious lectured. "The Dark Side must be wielded with precision if we are to have our revenge."

"How can I wield with precision when I cannot even kill?" Tyranus asked.

Sidious chuckled. "To kill is easy. Life is a candle, easily snuffed out. The intention though...the intention is all that matters."

Sidious rose from where he'd knelt, his work done. She would remember nothing of their encounter. If she lived. Sidious placed a hand on Tyranus's shoulder, and his yellow eyes stared into Tyranus's brown.

"You are worthy. You struck her down with all your hatred. That she sought to deceive you is natural. Treachery is natural. Deceit is natural." Sidious said, his tone oddly soothing in its placation. "And to respond to treachery with hate is the most natural thing of all. You are capable of walking the Dark Path."

Sidious turned away, his eyes drawn to a doorway to a hall just off the hangar bay the two Lords of the Sith found themselves in.

"Four Dee." The Master called out. Tyranus turned to see what his Master saw, and fought to keep his disgust to himself. The spindly, multi limbed droid shuffled up to them both and bowed to Sidious. He had always despised droids. Ever since his fool of a father had sought to replace the living workers of Serenno with droids, he had harbored a dislike of the things. Droids were the tools of weak men who could not command and control the living.

"The Jedi's transport has been secured, My Lord." The droid reported. "The tracking device has been disabled. Your enemies will not be able to locate us. The Works are still secure.

Sidious gestured lazily in Yaddle's direction. "See to the Jedi. Stabilize her just enough to ensure that she can survive the next twenty four hours unattended. Then dispose of her in an area where she will be easily found."

The droid, if it had any ability to question its Master's orders, did not do so. Instead it shuffled up to Yaddle, scooped her up in two of its arms, a third running a medical scanner over her body, and moved to leave the two Sith Lords.

"What profit can be gained from this?" Tyranus asked, his tone skeptical.

"Remember what I just told you, my apprentice." Sidious lectured. "The Dark Side is more than a blunt weapon. As I carved away Master Yaddle's memories, so too shall we carve away the strength of the Jedi."

"Do you really think they will be so shaken by what has transpired?" Asked Tyranus.

"A thousand years of peace and freedom has made the galaxy soft and complacent." Sidious intoned. "Prosperity creates weakness. Weakness fosters corruption. Corruption breeds stagnation. You have witnessed all of this first hand. What have your experiences taught you?"

Names and faces flashed across Tyranus's memory unbidden. The indifferent cruelty of Senator Dagonet. The greedy cowardice of Senator Larik. The impotence of Chancellor Valorum. Galidraan could have been dismissed as an outlier, its Governor written off as an anomaly on the edge of the galaxy. But the rot had worked its way into the heart of the Republic itself.

It could not be cleansed, save by fire.

The Jedi were replete with high minded ideals. Ideals he still believed in. The ideals of peace and order. But ideals alone would not save the galaxy.

Especially if the galaxy did not wish to be saved.

Sometimes salvation had to be imposed.

Who are you? That little voice asked before he could throttle it into submission. Who are you to tell others how to live?

"Victory has weakened the Jedi and the Republic alike. We are superior." Tyranus concluded.

The Jedi vision of order was a half measure. Order through harmony depended on the agreement of others. It was a fragile affair which any one party could renege on.

But order through tyranny...

Tyranny shattered the will to resist of all. It imposed order at saberpoint.

Tyranny was more than mere dictatorship. It was total control. Tyranny gave the tyrant the power to remake society as it ought to be.

The society of Tyranus was simple; a place for everything and everything in its place.

One nation, one leader, one vision.

His nation, his leadership, his vision.

His empire.

"Those born of the Force are nature's aristocracy. Our powers of insight give us the natural right to discern the truth. We were born to rule." Sidious explained, and that explanation appealed to a man such as Lord Tyranus. The Jedi preached that all were equal in potential. But in his travels Tyranus had seen nobles unworthy of their titles and riches. He had also seen the rabble that fought and squandered their meaningless lives struggling for scraps. He had seen what might be, and what was, and recoiled at what was.

A noble title did not make one superior. His father had prided himself as a Count, as a member of the Galaxy's Elder Houses. But he had been weak, shortsighted.

The ideal of nobility, like the ideal of the Jedi, was appealing. But ideals were nothing if not coupled with power.

Power, and will.

Nobility came from something grander. Power came from something grander.

The Force. The Dark Side bestowed power to those with the singular will to claim it.

He possessed such a will.

He hadn't had that will until he'd plunged the blade into Yaddle's flesh.

More than when he'd first taken the title of Count of Serenno, more than when he'd been Knighted as a Jedi, Tyranus felt ennobled. He felt alive.

Suddenly, all fell into place, and Tyranus felt his breath catch in his throat as he recognized the brilliance of his Master's decision to let Yaddle live.

He could just imagine it now. The frustration of the Council as they struggled to determine what had happened. The effort wasted in meditation and introspection, trying to recover Yaddle's memories, now lost forever. The endless medical and psychological evaluations. The false hope, giving way to consternation. The petty, hopeless struggle that would inexorably lead to despair at their own failing. And just below it all, the fear. The fear that something, somewhere, was hunting the Jedi, and that, despite all their vaunted power they were impotent in the face of it all. They could not find the Sith. Could not discern their motives.

They could not stop what was coming.

Fear would unbalance them. Fear would paralyze them. Indecision would keep them rooted to the spot. Others would chase after phantoms.

Fear would poison them, bit by bit.

And all the while, the Sith would poison the galaxy. With corruption, with chaos, with instability. They'd take the people's own decadence and indifference and hang the lot of them with it. They'd take the galaxy's complacency and shove it down their throats until they were retching. They'd drown the unwashed masses until they'd had more than their fill. And then, repulsed and sickened by the filth they'd allowed to accumulate around them, the galaxy would come crawling to the Sith.

That hate, that fear, that uncertainty, would all feed the Dark Side's growing strength and the power of the Sith.

"Any brute can kill with a sword." Tyranus mused, his tone satisfied. "But poison is a gentleman's weapon."

Chapter Text

ISD II-class Star Destroyer Errant Venture

The Errant Venture was the crown jewel of Booster Terrik’s smuggling operation. The only Imperial-class Star Destroyer in the galaxy to be privately owned, her blood red hull was a beacon to those who had always lived on the edge of galactic society. Like moths to a flame, smugglers and businessmen of less savory repute were drawn to the roving shadowport by promises of wealth and goods of varying legality. The only ship larger than the Venture in private hands, the Executor-class Super Star Destroyer Liberty’s Misrule, hadn’t been seen or heard from in years. Some said that the Liberty’s owner, the self proclaimed Pirate Ruler of Wild Space, Eleodie Maracavanya, had gone down with their ship in a fight with the New Republic. Others said they’d lost it in battle with one of the other pirate nations that squabbled over territory beyond civilized space.

Still others simply said that Maracavanya and the rest of their Sovereign Latitudes had gone to ground to ride out the storm.

After all, the galaxy’s scum and villainy knew an unprofitable venture when they saw one. And a galaxy with the Yuuzhan Vong in it was looking less profitable in the long run by the day. The Imperial Remnant was hanging on by the skin of its teeth. Hutt Space was being smashed, and the New Republic’s defeats far outweighed their meager victories.

The Errant Venture herself was proof enough of that. Skirmishes with Vong picket ships, desperate refugees, and short sighted raiders had been enough to wear Terrik’s pride and joy down. The ship was pock marked with scorch marks and hasty repairs. Many of her systems were operating on backup power. At present they were limping through hyperspace with a skeleton crew.

Blue Level, the home of the Venture’s semi-respectable clientele, echoed with the clang of groaning metals as the ship’s hull endured the pressures of hyperspace. Keeping a ship the size of the Errant Venture in working order had proven itself to be a full time, ongoing task even in peacetime, and Terrik had found himself in the unenviable position of balancing the needs of his clientele with the costs of keeping a small floating city like the Venture operating.

Han Solo glanced around the dingy corridor, at the flickering lights, and allowed himself a momentary smirk. It all reminded him of the Falcon. Of course, he would never dare confess that to Terrik. The Errant Venture wasn’t his, and at the moment any Imperial would have turned up their noses at the sight of her, but the Venture, like the Falcon, was a grand old lady still. She was wounded. She was hurting.

But she wasn’t out yet.

Han stepped out of the corridor into a small hole in the wall bar just outside of Trader’s Alley. It was late in the ship’s night shift, and while there were still a few of Terrik’s customers still on board, the ship’s regular clientele had elected to keep their distance for the time being.

A Star Destroyer, privately owned or not, was a prime target for the Yuuzhan Vong.

Especially if that Star Destroyer was housing Jedi.

As such the bar was deserted. Save for one man.

Han affected his old cocky swagger, an attitude of confidence he hadn’t really felt since Sernpidal.

Since Chewie…

He banished that thought from his mind. He wasn’t here for himself.

For the most part.

Han walked up to the only person in the bar, sitting on a rusty stool on the far side of the room from the door. The figure was hunched over the bar, reading, of all things, a leather bound book of paper and ink, a novelty in a galaxy that had pushed so hard to eliminate paper from day to day society.

Han slammed his hand down on the bar. He’d hoped to jolt the person; surprise them. Instead the figure calmly looked up from his reading.

“You got some ID there, kid?” Han asked.

Luke Skywalker leaned back and allowed himself to smile. “Han, I’m 45. When are you going to drop the whole ‘kid’ thing?”

Han smiled as he dragged a stool over with his foot before sitting down.

“You’ll always be that wide eyed, big mouthed farm boy from Tatooine to me Luke.” He admitted. Han looked around the bar. Luke was alone.

“How’s Mara doing?” Han asked.

“Better.” Luke said, his eyes seeming to light up at the mention of his wife’s name. “The Coomb spores appear to have been completely flushed from her system. Terrik’s doctor is insisting on keeping an eye on her. But I know we’ve seen the last of it. She’s going to be alright.”

“All the more reason we should celebrate.” Han said. The old smuggler turned General turned war hero pulled a small bottle out of an interior pocket in his jacket. He placed the bottle down on the bar before leaning over to peer down at the shelves beneath. “Now where the hell do Terrik’s people keep their glasses?”

Luke rubbed his hand against his chin, trying to hide the fond smile that threatened to break out across his face. “Han, the bar’s closed. Maybe we shouldn’t be digging around through their things.”

“Come on Luke, it’s not like we’re taking their booze. I’ll even clean the glasses after we’re done. Honest.” Han glanced over briefly before going back to rummaging through the shelf. “You said this place was closed? Then why wasn’t the door locked?”

Luke shrugged. “The bartender wanted to go to bed. I promised to lock up when I was done down here.”

Han scoffed, shaking his head. “And he just left you here? Unattended? What type of people are Booster working with these days? To many respectable types, I imagine. Any smuggler worth his ship would loot this place clean if someone left the door unlocked.”

“I guess the bartender took my word for it. I just needed to sit and be alone for a while. Center myself.” Luke said. His smile vanished as his eyes swept the room. “At least some people still think the word of a Jedi has value.”

Han paused, his fingers momentarily clutching at the edge of the bar in annoyance.

“You can’t let Fey’la and his ilk get to you Luke.” Han warned.

Luke sighed before speaking. Borsk Fey’la had long been a constant source of antagonism for the Jedi and for their allies in the New Republic government. Since before the Thrawn Campaigns Borsk had seen the key to his political ascendancy through antagonizing the New Republic’s initial leadership. From Chancellor Mothma and Admiral Ackbar to Leia and Ponc Gavrisom, Fey’la had styled himself as the Leader of the Opposition, working to loosen the grip of what he claimed was a small, self-serving clique at the heart of the Republic. And now that he had ascended to his long coveted position of leader of the New Republic, he had proven himself more interested in dealing with his perceived opponents within, as opposed to the enemy without. His recent bout of scapegoating the Jedi while they struggled to stem the tide of the Yuuzhan Vong was getting to be too much to bear.

“I try not to.” Luke confessed. “But there are brief moments when I feel doubt. I remember what Joruus C’baoth once said to me; that there would always be those who hated and feared the Jedi.”

Han, who had continued to rummage through the shelves, picked out two glasses and set them down on the bar with a loud clack.

“We’re in a bad place if you start taking what that psycho had to say seriously.” Han admonished.

“I don’t think he was right, Han.” Luke said defensively. “I know that people like Fey’la and Senator Xiono are the minority. For every person who fears the Jedi there are ten who appreciate what we’re trying to do. I see that every day. But I had hopes that, with time, our efforts would have spoken for themselves. That our work would get easier. And yet, people are still afraid of us.”

Han held up a glass to the light, rotating it in his hand as he checked to see how clean it was. Deciding the glass was clean enough, he set it down and began unscrewing the cap of the bottle he’d brought with him.

“You can’t make everyone happy, Luke.” Han popped the cap and poured the contents of the bottle into the two glasses.

“No, I can’t.” Luke confirmed, eyeing the glass with suspicion. Han, noting Luke’s expression, held up a glass before sliding the second one to Luke.

“I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.” Han admitted. He raised his drink to Luke and nodded, suddenly very serious.

“I know I said it before, but an event like this deserves something special. Congratulations, Luke. You’ll make a terrific father.”

Luke picked up his glass, raised it in a mirror of Han’s own toast, and the two knocked back their drinks.

Luke grimaced.

Han coughed.

“Hooo!” Han exclaimed, his eyes watering as he rubbed his throat. Han grabbed the bottle and swished the rotgut alcohol within in consideration. “Corran was right. That starshine really does get worse with age.”

“It does.” Luke agreed. "That certainly does bring back some memories." He slid his glass over to Han. Han refilled the glass before refilling his own. "How long have you had that?"

"It's the last batch of 'shine that Chewie distilled back at Echo Base." Han admitted.

Luke winced before giving his glass a critical look. "Didn't Jansen nearly go blind drinking this stuff?" He asked.

Han said nothing, his eyes drifting off to the stare at the far wall. He was clearly thinking back to better times.

“I remember Chewie and Thane Kyrell used to distill this stuff on Hoth in one of the broken old fuel compartments on the Falcon.” Han reminisced.

“I always got the sense that Kyrell didn’t like me very much.” Luke mused.

Han shrugged. “He thought the Force was a bunch of made up mambo jumbo and that you were a crackpot. No one took him very seriously though.”

Luke smiled. “You were lucky my skills weren’t so fully developed then. I’d probably have won every round of Sabacc we played with the Rogues.”

“Yeah.” Han said. “Hoth might have been a frozen hell, but we managed to squeeze out some warm memories.”

The two sat together in silence, staring into their drinks.

“We’ve come a long way since then.” Luke noted.

“Yeah.” Han said.

“Some would say it's a miracle we got this far.” Luke continued.

Han nodded. “If you’d have asked me all those years ago when we’d first met, I’d have thought we didn’t stand a chance. The Rebellion, I mean.”

“We had way too many close calls.” Han continued. “Vader, Palpatine, Tarkin, Thrawn, the Nightsisters, the Yevetha…”

“Daala, Exar Kun, Roganda Ismaren, the Inquisitors…” Luke said, picking up where Han had left off.

“The Ssi-Ruuk, Zsinj, the Nagai, more clones than you could swing a lightsaber at, the Tof…” Han added. He shook his head. “All those warlords. And now the Vong. It just doesn’t end, does it?”

“And yet we endure.” Luke affirmed.

“Yeah. Most of us, anyways.” Han trailed off. Even now, his thoughts drifted back to Sernpidal. He took a sip from his drink, wincing at the tangy bite that burned his lips.

They sat together in silence. Luke looked oddly serene in that Jedi Master sense that Han was still unused to, even after all this time.

“So,” Luke said, his tone conversational. “Are we going to ignore the bantha in the room? Or are you going to ask?”

Han ran his hand through his hair. He wanted to ask. But he didn’t know exactly how to do it without sounding accusatory. “I’m not mad.” He said defensively.

“I know.”

“Still…” Han said, his tone hesitant. “Why Ben?”

“I promise that Mara and I didn’t name him on a whim.” Luke said. The Jedi looked down at his glass, his expression pensive. “We thought about calling him Owen, after my uncle, for a long time. But Ben…it just felt right. As though the Force ordained it.”

Han held up a hand. “I’m just saying, it’s gonna make family get togethers confusing.”

Luke leaned back on his stool, the rusting metal creaking under his shifting weight. “You don’t need to joke, Han. There’s no point in pretending. You’re worried for Ben. Your Ben.”

Han looked down at his drink and grimaced. “I’ve wasted so much time, Luke.”

“You haven’t wasted a thing, Han.” Luke insisted. “You’ve had responsibilities. Responsibilities that have saved billions of lives.”

Han took another drink before shaking his head. “I know. But tell that to the poor kid holed up in the Maw in hiding. The galaxy’s always in peril. There’s always something or someone stirring up trouble, and we always wind up in the thick of it. Even when we were at peace there was always a struggle to get things done. And it took me away from him. You and Leia are always talking about responsibility. But what about my responsibility to my son? How’s he supposed to have any self confidence when his own dad keeps choosing his responsibilities over him? I’ve missed so much of Ben’s life. I missed so much of Jaina, and Jacen too while they were in hiding on Anoth. And…”

“And?” Luke asked.

Han glanced away. “I’ve screwed things up with Anakin. Over Chewie. And I don’t know how to fix it. I’m worried if I keep fighting this endless fight to keep the galaxy from flipping upside down that I’ll mess things up with Ben. I’m just tired.”

Luke leaned on the bar and bowed his head. “I’m tired too.” Luke confessed. “And yet, we endure.”

“For what?” Asked Han, a tinge of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Time and time again you and I have stuck out our necks. Leia too. Haven’t we done enough? Why does it always have to be us? Why can’t someone else step up?”

“We're fighting to survive so our kids can have a chance to live. We’re fighting for our children’s future. We’re fighting so that they will have the opportunities you and I never had.” Luke asserted, his expression determined.

Han huffed out a sharp breath as he pushed his stool back from the bar. “Leave it to the Jedi to be the font of wisdom.” He said, before wincing. “Listen to me. Of course you’re right. And here I am going about in self pity for myself.”

“It isn’t self pity, Han.” Reassured Luke. “You have the right to be frustrated. It’s what you do with that frustration that matters.”

“How do you manage Luke?” Han asked. “I mean, it can’t just be the Force, right? What keeps you going?”

“I have faith.” Luke said simply, as though that were answer enough. “Faith and hope.”

“Oh,” Han said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Is that all?”

Luke put his hand on Han’s shoulder. “Han, I named my son Ben because Ben Kenobi embodied the hope one needs to endure in the face of seemingly impossible odds. Jyn Erso once said rebellions were built on hope. She was right. My son’s name, like your son’s name, will remind us of our ability to persevere in the face of seemingly impossible odds. Right now, in this war, we need that reminder.”

“And that’s fine Luke. Really, it is.” Han said, his voice low and serious. “I’m not asking you or Mara to change your kid’s name. But I just can’t help but wonder how Ben is going to take it. He already feels isolated. I don’t want to do anything to push him further away.”

Luke took a sip of his drink before speaking. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“Face to face?” Han asked. He shook his head. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Probably months. I record messages for him when I can. But I can’t talk to him in real time over the HoloNet without running the risk of our transmissions being intercepted.”

Luke nodded. “I know he’s upset at being left in the Maw. But he’s too young to be in the field.”

“They’re all too young.” Said Han darkly. “Anakin, Jacen, Jaina, they’re too young to be caught up in this.”

“They are.” Said Luke. It was a simple, blunt admission. But that didn’t lessen the pain.

“You raised them well Han.” Luke said, hoping to reassure his friend. “Their compassion for the people of the galaxy is a credit to you and Leia both. Their training as Jedi will only get them so far in life. Their strength of character, their resourcefulness, will carry them to victory. And they learned that from you.”

Han looked over to Luke, his eyes searching and worried. “Is it enough though?”

Luke didn’t answer. Instead he reached over for the book he’d been reading, and pushed it over to Han.

“Ben Kenobi’s journal.” He explained. “I found it on Tatooine years ago, looking through his old hut. It’s been something of a comfort to me since the Yuuzhan Vong invasion began in earnest.”

“Really?” Han asked, his voice turning slightly sour. “Look Luke, no offense, I get that it works for you and for the kids, and I believe the evidence of my own eyes. I know the Force is real. But I’m not looking for banal platitudes.”

“You would find none from Obi-Wan.” Luke said, his voice somber. The Jedi Master thumbed through the pages of the journal.

“I can practically feel the despair echoing from the memories bound in this book.” Luke said. “Obi-Wan lost everything. Was betrayed by those he loved most. Watched everything he cared for burn. He poured his bitterness, his regret, into this journal. There were nights, in those first few years of his exile on Tatooine, when he thought he would never see the dawn.”

Luke held the book close to his chest, his thumb rubbing the spine of the journal as he continued to speak.

“He never said it explicitly in the journal. But when I encountered him on Dagobah, when he confirmed that Darth Vader had once been Anakin Skywalker, I could tell that he’d once blamed himself for my father’s fall. And it tore him apart. He was so burnt out by it, so worn down by the horror of it all. The task set before him was so monumental. The Emperor’s power seemed absolute. All resistance seemed hopeless.”

“But it wasn’t hopeless.” Han concluded.

“No, it wasn’t.” Luke confirmed. “We prevailed. Ben Kenobi learned to have faith that others would continue to carry the torch, even if he and others fell by the wayside. Ben’s faith allowed him to save Leia from the Inquisitors when she was a child. It allowed him to set me on the Jedi path. We owe all we have to Ben Kenobi and his willingness to bear the unbearable.”

Luke stood up. “You and Leia named your son in honor of a man who would not give up, no matter how bleak the situation was. Your son was born after the Battle of Jakku; the last stand of the Galactic Empire. Think about that Han. We endured everything the Empire had to throw at us. Every Death Star. The Galaxy Gun. The World Devastators. The Tarkin weapon. We survived Thrawn’s machinations, Palpatine’s schemes, Isard’s plots. We took everything the most powerful dictatorship in the history of the galaxy had to throw at us and we outlasted them. Your son symbolizes our people’s endurance in the face of impossible odds. Just as Ben Kenobi did. His future, his potential, is the promise of the generation that was born after the fall of the Empire.”

Luke paused, his expression solemn, his voice steady. “Just as my son symbolizes our dedication in the face of this present foe. Yes, the Yuuzhan Vong are a terrible threat. But we will endure. Ben Skywalker will live, and he will live in a galaxy free of the threat which our current enemy poses.”

“Don’t you think that’s a lot of weight to place on their shoulders?” Han asked.

Luke shook his head. “A legacy shouldn’t be thought of as a burden. It’s an ideal to aspire to. A reminder of what they can achieve if they unlock their full potential. And they will Han. They will so long as we are there to guide them.”

For a moment, Han said nothing. What was there to say, in the face of such determined belief?

“You’ll have to explain all of that to Ben.” Han insisted.

“I will.” Luke said, with conviction. “We’ll make a recording. Together. Right now, if you want.”

Han nodded his head. He would have said more, but his personal comm started beeping. He winced. He could ignore it. He should ignore it.

But that wasn’t who he was. For all his pretensions as a cynical, seen it all smuggler, Han Solo knew he couldn’t walk away if someone really needed him. He'd known since Yavin. And right now there were so many people relying on him.

Ben was safe. He didn’t need Han as much as those whose lives were at risk.

Ben was a good kid. A patient kid. He’d make it up to him. He swore to himself that he would. Han took the comm from his pocket and clicked the receive button.

“Captain Solo,” The voice of Booster Terrik echoed through the bar. “Report to the bridge. We’ve received some intel on Yuuzhan Vong ship movements towards the Core Worlds.”

Han grimaced. “Luke and I are on our way.”

Han put his comm back in his pocket. He took out a rag from behind the bar and wiped down his and Luke’s glasses before putting them back where he’d found them.

“I guess that message to Ben will have to wait.” Han noted morosely.

Luke moved to lock the door to the bar as the two left for the bridge.

“We’ll make time later Han. We will be there for him. I promise.”

Chapter Text

The Mon Mothma hummed as it travelled through hyperspace. It was a comfort to Wedge, who had found it as a constant, no matter the ship he commanded or piloted. From the X-wing, to his largest flagship, the Lusankya, the music of the universe remained the same.

The view did change slightly, he acknowledged. Stepping to the viewport, Wedge peered through his reflection to see the sister to the Mon Mothma to starboard. The Elegos A’Kla. Officially a fellow member of the Rejuvenator-class series of Star Destroyers, it looked like an Imperial Star Destroyer and almost everyone considered it to be one, notwithstanding the differences beneath the standard hull-form. The class had been named for the first Imperial II-class ship which had faced the Yuuzhan Vong at the Battle of Helska 4, but Wedge doubted the distinction would make any historical impact.

It was much the same with the Republic-class Star Destroyer. A design created to woo the Imperial shipyards of Rendilli from the rump Empire in the Core, it may as well have been billed as the Victory III-class. Indeed, with the debut of Kuat’s Republic-class Star Cruiser, the few Republic-class Star Destroyers still in service had been reclassified Victory-class for ease.

But what lay ahead from the Mon Mothma - named for the retired New Republic Chancellor (or Chief of State, or President, depending on which constitutionally inclined lawmaker you spoke to) - was not another durasteel vessel, but one of yorik coral. Said to have originated even further out than the Rishi Maze, Nagi, Tof or even Peridea, the Yuuzhan Vong warship analog - a Miid ro’iik in their tongue - was the equivalent of an Imperial Star Destroyer, adopting plasma cannons and dovin basils in the place of turbolasers and hyperdrives, and with the latter even acting as shields.

It was all that remained of a Yuuzhan Vong fleet that Wedge had originally chased from Commenor to Tholatin with the aid of the Rachuk Imperial Sector Fleet and Mandalorian Protectors. Those ships had stayed behind to clear up loose ends with General Garm Bel Iblis and the Corellian-built Viscount-class Star Defender Harbinger and what was left of the Third Fleet, while Wedge and his fellow former Rogue, Tycho Celchu, pursued a single warship analog that had escaped the engagement. There were to be no loose ends, and various task forces were targeting the retreating Yuuzhan Vong.

“Any news from Admiral Babo?” Wedge spoke up to Commander Cel, his chief sensors operator.

“The Bothan Fleet had no trouble reclaiming Bothawui. The Dragon Queen also put out an update on the ‘net that the Transistory Mists have also been cleared.”

“So the Hapans have secured that flank… and do we any information from the Hutts?”

“Just what the Warmaster confirmed; most of the fleets in the area withdrew from Nal Hutta to Yuuzhan’tar.” A hesitation from the officer. “To Coruscant, sir.”

“The Battle of Yuuzhan’tar transformed it back,” Wedge said, firmly. “It was Coruscant again after.”

“Yessir,” the young man said doubtfully. “I saw a report on the HoloNet, sir, that Admiral Ackbar resurfaced on Mon Calamari too.”

“You did?” Wedge forced surprise into his voice. “I thought he was reported to have passed away.”

“Me too, but apparently it was disinformation in-case we lost at Yuuzhan’tar… he’s announced his return to retirement, so though.”

“We’re winning the war, I suppose,” Wedge said evenly. He knew very well Ackbar hadn’t died. Keeping him out of play had been Wedge’s own idea, though he had known that the old Mon Calamari’s death was likely only a few years off - and Wedge had felt the deception in his heart. But the Insiders had to be prepared in case the fleets lost the battle, and Wedge hadn’t let the core of the Insiders go quite yet. Holdo, Statura, Ematt, other Rebellion era veterans, they were all in reserve, as well as a variety of officially decommissioned capital ships.

Wedge needed to change the topic. “How long until reversion?”

“Ten minutes, sir.”

“And we’re sure we’ll be arriving at Wayland?”

“BAC is about 90% sure, sir.”

“Hm,” Wedge said absently.

Without the processing power of a small moon, it was not possible to be absolutely certain with a single ship or convoy jumping in one direction. Triangulation was simple enough, but hyperspace tracking was never going to be an exact science. If that warship analog dropped out of hyperspace earlier than Wayland, backtracking along the vector could take days or weeks. He remembered the days when a single Imperial Star Destroyer could turn a rogue admiral or Moff into a threat, and this was roughly analogous. Hunting the Invidious for example had been a pain, and strictly speaking they’d not even managed that; instead Admiral Kosh Teradoc had caught the ship and incorporated it into Pellaeon’s Imperial Remnant.

The Mon Mothma decanted from hyperspace, and there it was. Wayland, and their rogue Miid ro’iik. The Elegos A’Kla appeared beside them. “Well done,” Wedge said to the crew. “Gravity well generators, active, please. Have Page’s Commandos prepared to hunt any Yammosk on the surface. Make sure Judder knows that the Void Jumpers are ready to provide support.”

A chorus of acknowledgments, and then reports.

“Rogues are launching, sir, Blackmoon’s too. We’ve Corona and Phantom Squadrons deploying from the A’Kla.”

“The Miid Ro’iik is reorienting towards us.”

“I have three fighter squadrons launching from the surface. Two Yorik-vec too.”

Wedge absorbed all the reports and asked the pertinent question. “And the Miid ro’iik’s fighters?”

“None are launching, sir, it looks as if they didn’t manage to recover any before they fled Tholatin.”

Wedge thought as much. “Have the Rogues and Blackmoons engage those fighters and yorik-vec before they reach the Miid ro’iik, and request Phantom Squadron cover them.”

“Captain Wexley confirms, sir.”

Wedge stiffened. Temmin was here. Akiva lay just outside the invasion corridor, but he shouldn’t have expected any less from the man. He would have adopted the teenager, married his mother, a lifetime ago, before Iella - even before Qwi - but that was a distraction now. Wedge narrowed his eyes; even outnumbered two-to-one, the Yuuzhan Vong would fight to the end.

“Good,” Wedge managed, and he cast his eye around the wider engagement. Nothing else was showing on sensors, and he could, for the moment, entirely focus on the battle. “Have us pace the A’Kla and keep them flanked. We have the advantage for the moment and we don’t need any heroics.”

They doggedly advanced, narrowing down the enemy options and cutting the number of enemy fighter craft in two, with only a single Blackmoon pilot lost. So far. Every loss in the middle of the Yuuzhan Vong retreat still felt like a blow to Wedge; they had the advantage, but to keep it they had to lean into the enemies’ teeth, and take the losses to further cripple their ability to recover.

To die to end a war that had already been won felt strangely tragic. But to let the Yuuzhan Vong, or worse, adapt, would be even more tragic. 365 trillion dead was not a number that Wedge wanted to squander.

As turbolaser fire began to chip away at yorik coral, exhausted dovin basil defences ailing, Wedge looked to his other data, to see where he should be heading next. The Battle of Tholatin was on-going, but Supreme Commander Sovv expected it would be over soon. He was himself in the field, though there was no report on where; with the reestablishment of the HoloNet, the remnants of the Peace Brigade were again able to intercept information and communicate it to their surviving masters. There was no point being wanton with the location of Sovv, or even GA Chief Cal Omas. Not that Wedge expected him to be anywhere but on Denon, the current and heavily defended capital.

Wedge frowned at that. Between Coruscant, Denon and Mon Calamari, the GA only had so many ships they could commit to the offensive, and if the Vong got smart they could -

“Incoming!”

The Corellian cursed himself.

Another Miid ro’iik had arrived; from the direction of galactic east.

“Get me General Celchu immediately,” he snapped. The odds were basically even now, unless they knocked their first target out before the situation grew worse. The Battle of Wayland was looking like it would become a difficult fight, and though Wedge expected he could win, it would be even more costly than he wanted.

“More incoming!”

Wedge swore and looked out the viewport.

Two more Miid ro’iik had arrived, this time from the direction of galactic north.

Now he was outnumbered two-to-one.

“Sir?”

They couldn’t afford to withdraw, four Miid Ro’iik was enough to knock down almost any system in the Galactic Alliance, be they former New Republic, Imperial or Hapan. This time he harkened back to when Admiral Daala and her four Imperial Star Destroyers lead a campaign of terror across the galaxy.

He definitely couldn’t let that happen.

This was the largest concentration of enemy warships they’d found since the Battle of Yuuzhan’tar.

This might even be the very last of their commanders and military elite.

If he won here, he might end the war.

Or die trying, anyway.

Chapter Text

Divided Alliance: Part Two

The four Miid ro’iik oriented towards the Mon Mothma, and Wedge ordered the Elegos A’Kla to pace back slowly.

The officers piped up. “Sir, should we lower gravity well generators?”

“No,” Wedge said, firmly. “We need to keep them here for as long as possible. Get me High Command.”

Consternation rose up among the officers. “We can’t, sir.” Another moment. “Nor can we raise General Celchu.”

“Dovin basils on the hull already?”

“Yes, sir, it looks like they were scattered in our path, dormant, while the first warship analog retreated.”

Smart, Wedge thought, in reference to the comm signal gobbling variant of dovin basil. Which also meant this rendezvous was planned. What was so important about Wayland? The planet had been shaped over four years ago now, but it hadn’t been especially important in the grand scheme of the war. A few battles and raids, but nothing much else. But it was at positioned in the centre of the invasion corridor - from Wayland you could go south towards Hapes, north towards Helska, east towards Kessel, or west towards Ord Mantell. There weren’t many positions that afforded that much opportunity.

He narrowed his eyes, looked out for the fighters. They’d abandoned the dogfight and withdrew back to their host ships, Phantom Squadron losing a fighter as they did. The pilot was EV, but Wedge couldn’t risk sending a med shuttle into the fray. Whoever it was, they were on their own.

But they all were.

Wedge wondered as to that.

“Full-stop.”

“Sir?”

“Tycho will notice and match us.”

“But then what?”

He smiled, tightly. “Watch.”

The closest Miid ro’iik, the one they had partially damaged, held back, waiting for the other warships to catch up. Wedge’s retreat had put them out of range until they did. If the enemy warship advanced, they would simply increase the damage they could take. As much as he could keep retreating, soon his gravity well generators would be out of range and they’d just micro-jump towards him - or escape.

Ponderous minutes slipped by. Wedge listened to the scattered talk, most of which was worried, but the crew was trying to stay focused. They’d fought together at the heaviest engagements since the Battle of Talfaglio, not long before Coruscant fell. The victory at the Black Bantha, the siege of Borleias, the defence of Kuat, the Battle of Ebaq Nine, the defeat at Bilbringi - where nearly a thousand of his crew was lost - and then the final engagements of the war. At Mon Calamari and Corulag, and at Muscave, where Wedge managed to lose most of the reinforced Second Fleet against Nas Choka’s armada.

A twinge.

The odds had been terrific at Muscave.

Five thousand capital ships and tens of thousands of escorts. He had done what he could, but even with a sizeable portion of the armada instead bypassing him and targeting Zonama Sekot, it had been impossible odds. He’d done what he could, and given the attack on Yuuzhan’tar the best odds of success he could.

Sometimes just holding the line until the situation changed was all you could do.

He watched the quartet of warship analogs regroup. They hesitated, seemingly debating. But what? Whether to destroy his task force? Or to escape? Was the time that it would take to destroy two Star Destroyers too much a risk?

Wedge grinned.

“And now we advance.”

“Sir? They’ve regrouped, and the other ships had coralskippers. Tactical estimates a two hundred fighters, at least.”

“I’ve seen the numbers. We don’t need to worry about it.” Wedge projected confidence, but an intrusive thought also entered his mind. We’ll be dead if I’m wrong, so.

Because Wedge could only think of one reason the enemy was debating to take him down or not; and that was if the other warships had also been chased here.

Well, either that or there were more ships supposed to have rendezvous’d here.

“Incoming!”

His heart sung in his chest; there it was.

To galactic west, two capital ships. But these were of durasteel. He recognised them, even without pennant codes. The flagship of the Galactic Alliance Navy, the Mediator-class battlecruiser Ocean, commanded by none other than Admiral Sovv. Besides it came an even more familiar ship; the former flagship of the Rebel Alliance and later New Republic; the Home One. That would be commanded by none other than Hera Syndulla, another Rebel veteran. Interspersed among them was a motley array of corvettes and one elderly Venator-class Star Destroyer that stood out like a sore thumb. But the odds were much closer to even now, so he didn’t mind whatsoever.

“Sir, the Rogues have pulled back from screening duty, I think they’ve located the dovin basils on the hull.”

“Good, we’ll need comms back soon. Make sure we boost power to the shields and gravity well generators. I don’t want the Vong escaping,” Wedge replied.

By the time the Ocean and Home One had disgorged starfighters, Wedge had comms back. He opened the channel to Sovv. The nasal voice of the Sullustan was already speaking. “Captain Niathal, hold here. We don’t want to get caught up in the crossfire.”

Wedge was briefly confused. “Sir?”

Sovv turned his head to look at him. “General Antilles, ah yes. Please hold position.”

“I would respectfully disagree, Admiral, the Vong are going to withdraw if they get the chance.”

“They won’t, General,” came another voice, and Wedge turned to see the latest arrival - this time from galactic north.

It was a Super Star Destroyer; the Megador. A unique class of dreadnought with dozens of hangars, it was wider than it was longer, some kind of next generation mobile oversector command that Palpatine hadn’t finished before his final death. And that meant… “Grand Admiral Pellaeon, you appear to have a new flagship.”

“The Right to Rule is an old ship, and I thought the psychological value in turning up in an infidel worldship would be worth it.” Another, smaller Star Destroyer, Imperial II-class, decanted from hyperspace too, flanked by two Immobiliser-class Interdictors. The Empire Maker, escorting the smaller Kagcatcher and Wrack respectively. They cranked up gravity wells, and added to the situation.

“What about the Chimaera?” Hera asked, somehow managing to sound neutral as she did. The original Chimaera - and original Thrawn - had caused Hera no end of trouble. Pellaeon had been demoted and transferred to the replacement Chimaera as a punishment after the Battle of Lothal; a battle where she and Pellaeon had faced off, even if indirectly. A battle where Pellaeon had bombarded her adopted homeworld.

“I’ve put the Chimaera in for scrap,” Pellaeon said, and Wedge noticed the red-haired Mandalorian tilt her head slightly at that, as if interested. “I think it’s time to bury the past, so to speak.”

“I don’t think we’ll have a need for the Chimaera or Right to Rule anyway, what we have should be plenty,” Sovv said, his professional pleasure at an improvised trap well executed. “Well done for keeping the enemy here until we could catch up. Everyone please take a measured approach, no heroics please.”

“Catching up, sir?” Wedge expected he knew the answer but wanted to confirm. He let Tycho command his ships for the moment, as turbolasers began to rumble.

“Ord Mantell has been recaptured, and Pellaeon has just arrived from Agamar,” Sovv confirmed.

“Yes, our troops are on the ground there and giving out relief supplies,” Pellaeon stated, Wedge unsurprised to see that Sovv had leveraged this into a conference. The Yuuzhan Vong were not going to win, and, failing a surprising turnaround, nor were they going to escape. Sovv, Pellaeon, a shaven headed Imperial captain, Hera Syndulla, and a reticent red-armoured Mandalorian commander were all patched in.

“Did the Yuuzhan Vong have much on the ground?” Hera put in.

“No,” replied the captain of the Empire Maker, a man Wedge didn’t know named Drikl Lecersen. “But we wanted to get aid to the surface as soon as possible. Many of these worlds have suffered terribly.”

“The New Republic can get people to these worlds,” Hera said carefully, and Wedge could see what the Twi’lek was getting at.

Sovv could too. “The Galactic Alliance won’t make it to those systems for weeks yet. We are grateful for Imperial assistance.”

“Even though they’re putting boots on the ground wherever they can?” Hera said lightly.

Pellaeon and Lecersen had gone silent. Wedge didn’t want to accuse them of stealing New Republic worlds, but Hera clearly was going to. He’d had this conversation with Sovv before - and Garm, too, before the Battle of Bilgringi. He already knew the Sullustan Supreme Commander was happy to accommodate Imperial territorial ambitions, and Chief of State Cal Omas seemingly was too.

“Even then,” Sovv said evenly. “The New Republic abolished the army, and we can’t ferret out Yuuzhan Vong with the few legions we have.” Wedge knew that wasn’t a lie. The Galactic Marines, the Void Jumpers, Katarn and Page Commandos, Thaal’s Pop Dogs, they were basically all the GA had. The New Republic hadn’t been equipped for surface contests, and irregulars didn’t count. General Thaal had long made this point in NRDF meetings, but even Wedge had argued against a standing army.

It just wasn’t needed against the Empire; in almost every instance, the New Republic had been liberating systems and if a planet wanted to stay in the Empire, they had let it - the Antemeridian Sector for example, led by Moff Getelles, had been invaded and disarmed, and its citizens had voted to stay in the Remnant. The Remnant hadn’t wanted to associate with the Moff who weaponised plague weapons, but disarmed, Getelles and his sector were no more threatening than the Senex Lords or Eriaduan Quintad.

Hera likely had a quip prepared, but Pellaeon interrupted. “The Mandalorians have filled that gap for the Alliance temporarily, but the Empire is still better equipped for planetary contests.”

“More experience with occupations,” Wedge said. He couldn’t help himself at this point. He liked Pellaeon, but the Remnant fleet had withdrawn from Coruscant and promptly set upon the weakened sectors near its territory. The surviving Moffs undoubtedly were pushing for it, but the Megador or even the Dominion would have been useful at any engagement before now. But Wedge also knew that the New Republic, too, had kept its dreadnoughts as defensive weapon platforms until the very end of the war.

“And we won’t be filling that gap for much longer,” the Mandalorian commented. A woman, evidently, Wedge thought he could spy crimson hair that didn’t quite fit in her helmet. “Once this battle is done, we’re out. We’ve already liberated Caluula, Ord Mantell, Commenor and Tholatin.” She leaned forward slightly. “We’ve been doing the hard work for you, Antilles.”

“Do I know you?” Wedge said absently.

“We’ve crossed paths,” she said drily. “Betting against you cost me a lot.”

“I’m Corellian, remember, you don’t bet against us.” Wedge was amused. He had a fan amongst the Mandalorians. “I’d love to know where you found those Assassin corvettes .”

“Oh you know, a woman just can’t throw out something that might be fashionable one day.”

Sovv cleared his throat. “And Mandalorian assistance is appreciated too.”

“So you don’t want us to land Stormtroopers?” Drikl said drily.

“No, thank you,” Hera replied. “Wedge, the Vong are maneuvering -“

Captain Niathal, a Mon Calamari with a reputation for her icy disposition, joined the feed. “Sirs, the enemy have scuttled one of their warship analogs in the path of the Megador, directed most of their coralskippers and yorik-vec towards the Home One, and the rest of the fleet is heading for the Mon Mothma and Elegos A’Kla.” Between the various Yuuzhan Vong ships was a trail of yorik coral, and Ike of the warship analogs was trailing a plume of atmosphere. Wedge had been keeping an eye, and he was convinced that warship was the one he’d pursued here.

Wedge muted the feed. “Have guns ignore the damaged warship. If it looks like they’re using it to ram us, tractor it and make sure it can’t. Weapons, focus on the undamaged ships, task our fighters with attacking their aft section so we can split the dovin basils.”

A chorus of responses and his fighters headed in. Because dovin basils provided both propulsion and defence, dividing their focus was the best way at to both slow down the enemy and expose them to damage. For its part, the Ocean left the Home One to its own defence, and fired on the damaged enemy warship, and it promptly vented debris. Wedge didn’t like Niathal choosing to destroy an enemy over protecting an ally, but Hera and her squadrons - Alphabet, Polearm, and Vanguard - could handle themselves.

There was a hyperspace chime, and suddenly another personality was joining the open channel; the Harbinger was here, escorted by a trio of Empire-era Scimitar-class frigates bearing Mandalorian clan colours. Wedge tuned back in as General Garm Bel Iblis spoke up. “Sorry we’re late. We had to clean up at Tholatin.”

Another individual joined the channel with him. Mand’alor Boba Fett. Wedge stiffened slightly; an old habit. “So you’re here too,” Wedge commented.

Fett nodded at his fellow Mandalorian, and then looked over. “What of it?”

“You’ve a lot of former Imperial hardware, is all,” Wedge said drily, watching absently as the Mon Mothma and Elegos A’kla split apart to allow the larger Harbinger a clear lane of fire. All four warship analogs were now on fire. Most of the coralskippers were gone, Home One weathering a few suicide runs that its legendary shields handled.

“And I’m fairly sure I saw some of your ships at Esfandia,” Pellaeon commented.

“Ryn don’t distinguish who they do favours for,” the female Mandalorian replied. “You’d be surprised how much people appreciate you looking out for the little guy.”

Garm looked from Sovv to Wedge to Hera. “Is there a problem?”

“The Remnant wants to put Stormtroopers on Wayland too,” Hera said, swiftly enough.

“The Empire wants to assist with the rehabilitation of Wayland, and send in troopers to aid with relief distribution,” Drikl retorted.

“Enough,” Pellaeon said, not quite sharply.

“Yes, I agree,” said Sovv, looking at Hera speculatively. “We’re all allies after all.”

“We’re not all members, sir?” Hera said, pointedly.

“Mandalore isn’t joining anything,” Fett said abruptly. “We are here to finish off the Vong and that’s it.”

Wedge looked at Garm. The aged man had been a champion of the Republic. Apart from a brief spell where he courted the Separatists, Garm had fought relentlessly in the Senate and then on the battlefield to defend what he saw as right. He’d long advocated for the complete destruction of the Empire, criticizing the Coruscant Accords signed with Grand Vizier Amedda, and the Bastion Accords that Pellaeon had agreed to. His face looked stony, probably at the thought of the Remnant snatching another world back from the New Republic.

“I may as well let you all know then, while we’re here, and not sending Stormtroopers to the surface,” Garm said.

“Once we finish up here I’ll be arranging a sit-down of High Command with the Chief’s Office. You’ll all be welcome to attend.”

Wedge watched all four warship analogs list; the battle was over. In short order each detonated, spraying coral into space that even took out a few coralskippers. The Vong didn’t believe in escape craft, so it was unlikely any fled to the surface behind the debris field. If they did, they had debased themselves already, and abandoned their place in the Yuuzhan Vong. A full search - with troops - would be needed to confirm as much, ironically.

But where debris ended and coral ship began was completely impossible to ascertain.

Much like the point where the Imperial Remnant ended, and the New Republic began, inside the Galactic Alliance. It had been reformed, but had it been ended? Wedge knew some of the Moffs had feared that joining the Alliance meant the end of the Remnant. Had that already happened to the New Republic that Wedge gave up most of his adult life to establish? The Mandalorians were about ready to restore the status quo and return to their own territory.

“Which will be?” Admiral Sovv asked Garm politely in the subsequent silence.

“I will be petitioning for the dissolution of the Galactic Alliance, and restoration of the New Republic.”

Chapter Text

See General Notes at the end of the story for context.

"The intense gravity of black holes and other interstellar forces cause warps, folds, and buckles in space. Asteroids and spaceships have tumbled into these space warps and have suddenly reappeared millions of miles away."- Grand Moff Bertroff Hissa, The Glove of Darth Vader


“We’ll Just Make Some **** Up!” -Aurelio Voltaire, The USS Make **** Up song.


“Of course I know relying on plot points from the Glove of Darth Vader and Dark Empire to make my blatant retconning work is an obvious way of showing that I’m a hack. What of it?” -Me


“Who knows? Godwilling we’ll all meet again in Spaceballs II: The Search For More Money.”-Yogurt the All Powerful, Spaceballs


All things perish.

The Sorcerers of Rhand posit that entropy is the sole constant in the universe; that all that is shall be consigned to nonexistence given the passage of eternity.

On Tatooine stories are told of the great Sun Dragons that nest in the stars; beings of immense power and wisdom that guarded their vast treasures in the roiling inferno of the star it hid itself in. A young Jedi from Tatooine once beheld a dying star and realized that even the most powerful of entities was at risk of death.

Even stars burn out, and the sun dragons with them.

Some deaths, however, come to pass sooner than expected.

As stars burn out, so too do worlds.

Sernpidal was a small world; middle aged so far as planets go. It had danced its dance with its star Julevia and its two moons for billions of years, spinning and spinning in the void as the universe passed it by.

The years had been kind to Sernpidal, more or less. An atmosphere had come to blanket it, and life had managed to form upon its surface. Beings from elsewhere had come to settle upon it. And though the Sith had claimed the planet as their own twice in eons past, few battles had been fought for control of it.

Sernpidal had continued as it always had, dancing its dance in concert with Julevia and its two moons, largely undisturbed.

It might have continued for billions more, had it not fallen across the path of the Yuuzhan Vong.

For the Vong, like the Sorcerers of Rhand, beheld the darkness of the void and were consumed by it, ignoring all the while the brilliance of the stars. They embraced death, considering the wonders of life an inconvenient distraction from their own obsession with pain. In entropy they wrapped themselves, and in decay they built for themselves a conceited self importance.

Theirs was the great folly of all nihilists; that a thing has no worth if it does not last. And that if something is doomed to perish, it might as well perish now rather than be allowed to expire in due course.

What they did not understand, could never understand in their arrogance, was that all things old give way to all things new.

All things may die. But death is outweighed by new life. And where there is life, there is a chance to continue.

Stars may die, but in their death knell they send out the building blocks of new stars, new worlds, new life.

But no new thing can grow when the cycle is interrupted. To take a life before it has reached its full potential is not to fulfill some inevitable slide into oblivion. It is to rob the universe of all the potential that comes from perseverance.

Sernpidal might have continued on. But the Yuuzhan Vong sank their weapons of war, the Dovin Basal, into its surface. The Basal, part creature, and part device, did the work it had been shaped to do. It sent out its tendrils of invisible power into space, and went to work pulling one of Sernpidal's two moons, Dobido, out of its orbit.

Sernpidal was doomed. Most of its inhabitants were doomed.

Most.

But not all.

In its final hour, outsiders who had never known it would come to Sernpidal’s aid, willing to risk their lives to rescue some of its people as their world entered its premature death throes.

Even in the face of imminent death there were those who saw the worth in continued struggle; those who had fought the cynical forces who sought to drag the galaxy down and make their own darkness the norm.

The Vong would call them fools.

The New Republic called them heroes.

Sernpidal, Dalonbian Sector, 25 ABY

Chewbacca knew his time had come.

This, he thought, was a good death.

The air was growing unbearably warm. His fur whipped in the howling gusts of wind. Buildings crumbled. If the moon did not crush him, the atmosphere might well ignite and incinerate him. Either way, it would be quick and painless. The wind howled, and above that howl Chewbacca added his own defiant roar. Standing on a pile of rubble, battered and bloody, he raised his hands above his head, clenched his fists and bellowed with all his might at the onrushing moon.

He would die as he had lived; without fear.

For in the end, what had he to fear?

He, who had stood by his friends through the darkest nights the galaxy had to offer.

He, who had taken his people’s greatest foes to task and emerged triumphant.

He, who had honored his vows to friends and family and never forsaken them.

His was a good life, labored in a good cause.

He had no regrets.

No regrets, save that Han and his family would no longer have him by their side.

The Falcon was speeding away, teeming with refugees. There were no ships nearby which he could commandeer. And even if there were, he'd never clear the blast in time. Around him others knelt and prayed, awaiting the end. But it didn’t matter. Not to Chewbacca. Han and Anakin were alright. They’d live to fight another day.

Every life saved was a victory.

He had honored his life debt.

The moon loomed closer and closer now, and Chewbacca continued to roar. He slammed his fist against his chest, as if to dare the moon to do its worst.

Chewbacca did not know it, but the Dovin Basal had spent its time embedded in Sernpidal sending greater and greater pulses of power outwards to Dobido, hoping to accelerate the moon’s speed and increase the damage inflicted. Though the Dovin Basal was gone, destroyed by the Mayor of Sernpidal City in a final act of vengeance for his world’s destruction, the gravitational pulses it exerted grew in power and frequency on their own; an echo reverberating like aftershocks through time and space.

And, under the sheer weight of this growing shockwave, normal space-time began to buckle.

Unseen and unheard by all but a few, a higher intellect rendered its verdict.

“Hmmm…good enough. I can work with this.”

The moon blazed above Chebacca’s head. In seconds he’d perish.

There was a flash, a flash brighter than the fiery inferno rocketing towards him.

Sparks of energy danced about Chewbacca. The air shimmered, twisted, and like fabric began to tear.

It…it couldn’t be. To his left, about a dozen meters away, an image of a quiet grassland appeared. It was like a viewscreen, a holographic image of another place, undisturbed by the imminent doom. Above the rumble of the ground and the deafening shriek of the approaching moon and the howling of the wind, a voice echoed through Chewbacca’s mind.

“GO!”

Chewbacca did not need to be told twice. He jumped from the pile of rubble he’d been standing on and landed in a crouch. He sprang forward towards the warp in space and ran. It didn’t matter if this was some fevered hallucination, the culmination of his last neurons firing seconds before his body was rent to molecules.

He had nothing to lose.

The air grew hotter and hotter, and Chewbacca could feel his fur begin to smoke. The air was starting to burn his throat. The roar of the crashing moon was so loud now that he thought he’d go deaf.

There was a terrible noise.

There was a terrible light.

Chewbacca jumped.

Elsewhere, elsewhen.

“Oh, now that is cheating!” Fumed Anger.

“Why? Why do this for one and not for many?” Asked Confusion.

“Pay attention.” Admonished Serenity. “And we might learn.”

Unknown Planet, Deep Core, 25 ABY

Chewbacca moaned softly.

“Am I dead?” He asked himself. He quickly determined he was not. Even as he spoke his voice gave way to a fit of coughing. His fur was unbearably warm. He looked to his right arm and saw some of his fur had been burnt.

He patted away at his smoking arm.

He was not dead. He was bloodied and singed, but otherwise unharmed. This was neither paradise nor perdition.

Chewbacca looked around. It was night. Two large moons hung overhead, bathing the fields of grass in pale white light. Rolling hills and flatlands stretched as far as he could see in the dim light, interrupted only by the occasional tree. In the distance an animal, perhaps a bird, let out a long, lilting call. The grass swayed in the breeze, a soft rustle murmuring through the night.

All was calm.

Where was he?

“The sun rises in the East on this world.” Called out a voice. The same voice Chewbacca had heard before.

He…he’d heard this voice once before this day. Long ago. Before Sernpidal. Ancient, and powerful, and vaguely amused.

“Wutzek?” Chewbacca called out. (1.)

“Travel North until you reach the mountains. To the North and the West of the mountain range you shall find your way back to your friends. If you survive. The odds are not in your favor. But now you have a chance.”

Chewbacca stood, the grass brushing against his legs as he took a tentative step forward. His mind raced with a billion questions and feelings. But he knew he’d get no further information.

In truth, he had not thought of Wutzek in many years.

He had encountered the old Force Demon years before, on a mission with Han and Leia. In those heady days between Yavin and Endor, he had been on hundreds of missions and partook in dozens of battles for the Rebel Alliance. He had seen things most beings would have never considered possible. And Wutzek had been one of them.

A cult known as The Five had somehow managed to imprison Wutzek, and had amused themselves with abducting and killing those they came across.

Chewbacca had freed Wutzek when the Five had taken Han and Leia as captives. And Wutzek had quickly taken his vengeance on his captors, before making his leave for parts unknown. It had been a harrowing adventure. But harrowing adventures were as normal to Chewbacca as a trip to the local store might have been for any other being.

And so, with other priorities, Chewbacca had simply filed away the memory of his encounter with the Force Demon alongside his other, equally esoteric encounters.

Chewbacca was no fool. Though Wutzek had been the cult’s prisoner he was no innocent creature.

Legends said that the Force Demons had ruled the galaxy in ancient times, before the Rakata and before even the great Celestials, amusing themselves as they scarpered from world to world. Chewbacca was grateful for another chance to live, but he knew instinctively that the demon had not done what it had done out of altruism.

Chewbacca turned on his heel in a full circle as he took in his surroundings.

Though it was night, he saw no mountains.

He had a long journey ahead of him.

With a grimace and a low growl Chewbacca made his way over to a nearby tree. After studying its branches for a moment, Chewbacca selected one of the sturdiest of them and proceeded to break it off. He muttered a brief Wookiee prayer as he did so to the spirit of the tree.

The first rule of survival was to find security, shelter, food and water.

The branch would make an acceptable spear shaft.

Now he just had to find a rock and sharpen it for a spear head.

Elsewhere, Elsewhen

“You interfered.” Sighed Sadness, her tone petulant and accusing, lacking her sister Anger’s bite.

Wutzek had no shoulders with which to shrug, nor hands to gesture, but all in his presence could sense the demon’s indifference to their feelings on the matter.

“I’m glad you saved him.” Said Joy, her voice exuberant and bubbly.

Anger glowered at her sister. Joy turned to Anger and cocked her head.

“What?” Asked Joy. “I like the Wookiee. He has spirit.”

Anger turned from Joy to Wutzek. “You broke the rules.” Anger snarled.

“I did nothing of the sort.” Said Wutzek.

“We are not meant to interfere so directly.” Lectured Serenity. “Not anymore. Our time in the material realm is past. Our role is to watch and guide. Not interfere.”

“Says the creature who taught Yoda how to manifest after death.” Wutzek countered, his voice laced with wry amusement. “Let us be honest with ourselves, Cousin. The ‘rules’ as you so quaintly describe them, are littered with loopholes.”

“Yoda could have discovered the means of immortality on his own.” Countered Serenity. “Anakin Skywalker is proof enough of that.”

“You interfered directly in a matter where a mortal could not act on his own.” Anger scolded, the accusative inflection in her thoughts clear.

“Did I?” Asked Wutzek, his tone unimpressed. “Tell me. Did I place the Dovin Basal on Sernpidal?”

“No.”

“Did I influence any of those abominable Yuuzhan Vong, directly or indirectly, to place the Dovin Basal on Sernpidal.”

“No.”

“Did I compel the Wookiee or his companions to make any of the decisions they made?”

“No.”

“And is it not possible then,” Wutzek concluded, his voice dripping with satisfaction, “that a wormhole might have been opened on its own due to the gravimetric stresses inflicted by the Dovin Basal.”

“The odds…” Anger began, bristling in indignation.

“Are irrelevant.” Responded Wutzek, his voice softening as annoyance crept into his aura. “It was possible.”

“He raises a valid point.” Came another voice.

An additional two consciousnesses made themselves known to the Demon and the five Force Priestesses who were one.

“Why are you here?” Asked Confusion

“Why indeed!” Snapped Anger. “Don’t you lot have stories to record?”

“Technically this is not unprecedented.” Said the first consciousness.

“Chewbacca has definitely been exposed to wormholes before.” Said the second consciousness. “As have his associates.”

“It’s absurd.” Anger thundered. “The day the Whills let a Force Demon do as he pleases unimpeded! Why have rules at all if he’s free to do as he wants?”

“The Glove of Darth Vader fell through a wormhole. Palpatine was able to rend the fabric of time when he forged the Dark Empire. And many a portal was formed to and from the Vergeance Scatter.” Said the second Whill, its aura contemplative. “Such phenomenon would not be out of context for Chewbacca to encounter. In this case, a wormhole could have materialized on its own.”

“All Wutzek did was ensure the portal was close enough for Chewbacca to access.” Said the first Whill.

“And alter where the portal sent him.” Countered Serenity. “A truly random tear in space would have sent Chewbacca anywhere in the universe. The odds of it being that planet of all places…”

“Are infinitesimal.” Agreed Wutzek. Had the Demon teeth or a mouth it would bare them as it grinned. “Almost impossible. But not entirely impossible.”

“It could have happened on its own.” Agreed the second Whill.

“And if it could happen on its own, then no rule was truly broken.” Said the first Whill.

“Ridiculous!” Fumed Anger. “Absolutely, patently ridiculous!”

“Indeed.” Agreed the first Whill. “Absolutely sloppy! If I were writing a story and something like this happened I’d be laughed out on my ear. You know, if incorporeal beings had ears.” (2)

“Does it matter?” Asked the second Whill. “Reality is under no obligation to make sense. Sometimes things just happen.”

“Calm yourselves Cousins. Calm.” Said Wutzek, his voice oily with self satisfaction, pleased for the moment that the Whills had taken his side. “It’s not as if I have borne Chewbacca home to Kashyyyk on a soft cushion. I merely turned the certainty of death into the possibility of life.”

Anger’s emotions flared, but before she could speak Wutzek interrupted.

“I afforded him the slimmest chance, Cousins.” The Demon said sharply. He was willing to tolerate only so much from them. “The slimmest chance. I shan’t interfere again. The wastelands he shall traverse are no Chandrilan park. Vicious Wingmaws and Manka cats roam the wastes in search of prey. Chewbacca lives, but he may well perish long before he reaches the ruins.”

“Why save him then?” Asked Confusion.

“He released me from captivity.” Wutzek said. “I disdain to owe any creature a debt.”

“You slew the Five before they could kill the Wookiee’s companions.” Noted the second Whill. “One could argue that you had fulfilled your debt to him that way.”

“Please.” Sneered Wutzek. “I would have consumed those wretches one way or the other. I revenged myself on them to suit myself.”

The Force entities stirred as Wutzek began to dissipate from their senses. It was clear no action would be taken. This time. And the Demon’s interest in the discussion was already beginning to wane.

“Now though…” Wutzek concluded, his voice reduced to the barerst whisper. “Now we’re even.”

“Where has he gone?” Asked Confusion.

“Off to cause more mischief, I suppose.” Concluded the second Whill.

“I hope we see him again!” Said Joy, who hadn’t spoken for a while. “He always finds a way to liven things up around here.”

“Don’t start, please.” Begged Sadness.

Unknown Planet, Deep Core 40 ABY

The years had been…arduous.

Chewbacca pulled his spear from the twitching body of the horned beast (3) that had charged him as he was passing through a valley on his seemingly endless sojourn.

The four legged creatures were herbivores, from what Chewbacca had observed of them, but they were also fiercely territorial and had a tendency to charge anything that got too close to their herd. Its horns were sharp enough to rend the bark from a tree with ease, and Chewbacca had seen the animal effortlessly gore a reptilian predator that had tried to ambush it.

Chewbacca pulled a knife from his Bandoleer and went to work carving off strips of flesh from the beast.

He would not go hungry today.

Chewbacca leaned back his head and took a long draught from the canteen he’d crafted from the bile sac of an Acid Spider he’d encountered shortly after his arrival. He finished his work scavenging the carcass, taking what he could carry with him before continuing on.

He never stayed in one place long.

This place, wherever it was, had sought to grind him down. Beasts that crawled, swam and flew assaulted him almost daily. There was little in the way of shelter a nomad such as he could rely on.

Nevertheless, when the sun had risen that first day, he used it to plot his course North.

North. He told himself. Always North. Every day. Come rain or winds or scorching sun.

He kept moving.

The days bled into one another. His early life on Kashyyyk had taught him well.

He knew which fruits were fit to eat, and which might be poisonous from their coloring.

In his encounters with the animals he encountered, he was able to deduce their strengths and weaknesses, and battle them accordingly.

He was not living, not really. He was simply surviving. Existing.

He was alone, but he did not despair.

Ever onwards he pressed.

What was this wasteland compared with the wilds of Kashyyyk? The fiercest beasts here were nothing compared to the mighty Terentatek.

He took his life in his hands every time he bent by a stream or a lake to refill his canteen. He took his life in his hands with every forest he passed through. But the forest floor of Kashyyyk was no less deadly. He took his life in his hands with every step forward, but that was nothing new.

And so he continued forward.

So long as he lived, so long as he drew breath, he was responsible.

Mala

Waroo

Han

Lowbacca

Leia

Luke

And so many others.

He was as much a part of their lives as they were part of his.

He owed it to all of them to endure.

Even Threepio.

Could it all be a trick? Could Wutzek have plucked him from certain death only to watch him slowly waste away? Could the Demon be watching and laughing as he went? Perhaps. But it did not matter. He’d continue onward.

In truth, he had nothing else to do.

So he pushed North.

And then, one day, out in the hazy distance, he saw them.

Mountains.

Many in his position might have fallen to their knees in shock or relief upon seeing those mountains. They might have given thanks to whatever deity they put their faith in.

Chewbacca continued onwards. He was not safe yet.

The mountain passes were treacherous. Slick with ice, he was assaulted by flying beasts time after time. Each day proved itself a battle.

And each day ended with Chewbacca feasting on the creatures that had sought to feast on him in turn.

The freezing wind burned him as deeply as Hoth once had, but his fur coat, grown long and shaggy from lack of access to real grooming supplies, kept him reasonably warm.

His pace through the mountains was torturous in its creeping nature, but eventually the mountains were to his back.

He did not know what he would find, but he knew that, after so many years of struggle, the first part of his journey was concluded.

On the eighth day of his sojourn from the mountains Chewbacca found the first signs of civilization on this planet.

The ruins were ancient, likely thousands of years old. A village of some sort. Most of the buildings were long gone, but some remnants of a road and the foundations of many small houses were left. Who had lived here, when, and what had become of them, Chewbacca did not know. After a day of searching the area, Chewbacca found nothing of evident use, and decided to move on.

He followed what remained of the road through the foothills of the mountain range.

The day after he departed the village he found the Temple.

At first he mistook it for a monastery of the B’Omarr Monks. The Temple consisted of three equidistant circular towers surrounding a large central building. At the base of the large staircase leading to the Temple’s entrance two decrepit hangar pads, overgrown with moss and vines, provided the only proof Chewbacca had seen thus far that whoever had once lived here had had access to anything approaching galactic levels of technology.

Chewbacca ascended the stairs and entered the Temple. The building was surprisingly intact for a structure that appeared to have been abandoned for centuries. Moss coated the walls and water dripped from a hole in the ceiling as he entered an Atrium of some sort.

“What am I looking for?” Chewbacca asked as he ran his hand across a moss covered door at the far end of the Atrium. His hand came away green, and he noticed, beneath the moss he’d removed, there was a symbol.

Chewbacca wiped away more of the moss until he could see the image beneath.

It was old. The paint was faded and chipped.

But it was still there. A living sunrise, a winged blade of light.

The Jedi crest.

This was a Jedi Temple.

Chewbacca slammed his spear to the ground and roared with triumph.

A Jedi Temple! This was his way home!

But how? Chewbacca scoured the Temple for days in search of something he could use to call out for his friends. He knew the chances of any machinery still being functional were nearly non-existent, but if anyone had built something to last, it would be the Jedi.

Unfortunately his initial suspicions were confirmed; the Temple had been gutted. Its inhabitants had taken most of the higher technology with them when they’d departed. What remained had long since been corroded down to rust and dust.

A technological answer was off the table.

But that did not mean he was out of options.

Behind the Jedi Temple, in a small courtyard, stood an old, worn down Uneti tree. Its bark was hard to the touch, its branches creaked and groaned in the soft breeze. Chewbacca could not touch the Force, but he knew instinctively that the tree was ancient.

Luke and Lowbacca had spoken often about the Uneti tree. Trees held a great deal of importance in Wookiee culture, and there was much overlap in philosophy between the idea of Force sensitive trees and the spirits of nature said to inhabit the Wroshyr trees of Kashyyyk. An Uneti had been planted near the Praxeum on Yavin IV. The two Jedi had claimed that they could feel the Force flowing more strongly through these trees than they did through others of a similar kind.

Admittedly, Chewbacca did not entirely understand how a tree could be Force sensitive. But he did not need to understand it. He trusted the evidence of his own eyes.

The Force could do the impossible.

Chewbacca knelt by the tree and placed his palm on the trunk. It felt like any other tree. He didn’t really know what he was supposed to do. Or if there was anything he could do.

“I’m here.” Chewbacca said softly, not knowing even now where precisely here was.

Who was he calling to? Who could hear his call?

“Luke. Lowbacca. Leia. Mara. Anakin. Jacen. Jaina. Ben. I’m here. Please. I’m alive. Find me.”

Chewbacca looked up. The Uneti tree’s leaves rustled in the breeze.

“Tell Mala. Tell Han. I’m alive.”

“Find me.”

Jedi Academy, Ossus, 40 ABY

Thrust. Slash. Parry. Parry. Lunge. Strike. Strike High. Strike High. Riposte. Strike Low.

Ben Solo grit his teeth as he pressed the attack. He could do this. He had to do this.

He had to prove himself.

But he miscalculated. He overstepped. His rival had lured him in.

With a deft twirl of his saber Hennix redirected Ben’s thrust and knocked the blade from his hand.

Ben watched his saber fall to the floor and held up his hands as his opponent pointed their saber at his chest.

“Alright, I yield.” Ben said.

The Quarren Padawan extinguished his blade and bowed his head.

Their spar was concluded.

Point Hennix.

Again.

Hennix reached out with the Force and summoned Ben’s lightsaber from the ground. He casually tossed it to Ben, who snatched the saber from the air with an aggressive flourish. He looked down at the lightsaber and grimaced.

Still not good enough.

“You nearly got me there Ben.” Hennix said jovially, clapping Ben on the shoulder as the two approached one another. “You’ve just got to center yourself more.”

Ben nodded, forcing himself to smile as he affected a genial expression at his fellow student.

A quiet, secret part of himself seethed.

Disarmed by some apprentice. Jaina was the Sword of the Jedi. Anakin was a war hero, a martyr.

And Jacen…

No one liked to talk about Jacen anymore.

Even though he’d done so much.

They’d all made something of themselves, for better or worse. Gone so far.

And here he was.

An apprentice.

A struggling apprentice.

A sharp roar jolted Ben from his thoughts.

With Uncle Luke offworld Lowbacca had been assigned to teach Ben and his twelve classmates until the vaunted Jedi Master returned.

Uncle Luke was always busy.

Just like Mom and Dad.

He’d be further along in his training if they’d pay more attention.

“Good Work. Now go again.” Lowbacca said encouragingly, gesturing for Hennix and Ben to return to the training circle.

The two Padawans returned to the sparring ring. But as Ben brought his saber into the defensive guard his arm suddenly went slack. His lightsaber swung down and nearly slashed into the floor.

“Ben?” Hennix asked, blinking in confusion. “You alright?”

Ben wasn’t paying attention. For a moment he really wasn’t there.

A mountain range.

Strange creatures.

An old Temple.

“I’m alive. Tell Han. Find me.”

“Chewbacca?” Ben asked, his eyes widening in recognition.

Lowbacca roared, his great paw clutching at his head as he stumbled backwards.

Ben turned to Lowbacca and leapt forward, placing his hand on the Wookiee’s large arm to steady him.

“Hey, it's alright.” Ben said, tugging on Lowbacca’s tunic to turn him in his direction. “Did you see what I saw?”

“Uncle Chewbacca.” Lowbacca murmured. The Wookiee Jedi paused, took a breath, and looked steadily into Ben’s eyes. “He lives.”

“But how?” Ben asked. “Dad and Anakin were so sure he didn’t get away. Even Uncle Luke said he felt him pass in the Force.”

Lowbacca shook his shaggy head. “I don’t know Ben. But I knew my Uncle. All creatures are unique in the Force. I know my Uncle, and that was him. He’s still out there.”

The Jedi Knight turned and left the hall. Ben followed after him, not bothering to look back at a rather confused Hennix, who had sensed nothing.

“Wait! Hey!” Ben called out as he followed Lowbacca. But Lowbacca refused to slow down, his great long strides forcing Ben to jog to keep up.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to work to get someone’s attention, he thought bitterly to himself.

“So what’s the plan here?” Ben asked.

“Find Han. Find Master Luke. Tell them.” Lowbacca grunted sharply, refusing to break his stride for a moment.

Ben grimaced as Lowbacca continued on his march. “Hey! Wait a minute!” Ben demanded, his voice rising higher than it probably should have.

Lowbacca did stop though. Ben pursed his lips, wincing at the momentary loss of composure. But he set that aside for the time being. He knew he had only a moment or so to make his case. Wookiees were notoriously stubborn when they’d made up their mind on something.

“Look, I get it.” Ben began, gesturing emphatically towards himself. “I get wanting to do something. Believe me, I do.”

Ben paused, disgusted at the maudlin tone his voice had taken. He steeled himself, and pushed forward. “But Mom, Dad, and Uncle Luke are off in the Chiloon Rift right now, and comms to that area of space are difficult at best. We don’t have time to waste asking them for guidance. If Chewbacca’s out there he needs us now.”

“But we don’t even know where he is.” Lowbacca countered. “Master Luke might help us decipher our vision and pinpoint where it is coming from.”

Ben shook his head. “Knowing him he’d probably say we were misinterpreting the vision, or that an enemy was sending us a false vision to lure us into a trap. And dad wouldn’t want to hear anything about this.”

After all these years, he probably wouldn’t want to get his hopes up.

Lowbacca growled. “Even more reason to find out what’s going on.”

“Why don’t we go to Master Tionne?” Ben suggested. “Maybe she could help us decipher our vision.”

Lowbacca nodded his head sharply and turned to find the New Jedi Order’s most prodigious scholar. Ben followed in his wake.

The two left the Temple walls and traveled into the nearby forest. There, sitting cross-legged on a large, flat rock in a clearing, sat Tionne Solusar. The Jedi Master had her old double stringed viol resting in her lap. Her eyes were closed as she strummed the strings, allowing the music to echo dimly and resonate through the clearing.

Tionne opened her eyes at their approach and smiled. “It’s good to see you both. What can I do for you?”

Her smile disappeared though as the two explained their vision.

“A temple with circular towers by a mountain range?” Tionne mused. “It sounds like the main Temple on Tython.”

“Tython?” Ben asked.

“Yes.” Tionne said. “Your description of the Temple sounds like a match for the old Jedi Temple built after the Great Galactic War, when the Order relocated back to Tython from Coruscant.”

Tionne reached down and towards a bag she had left at her side and pulled out a datapad. She clicked a few buttons to connect the pad to the database in the small Jedi Archive at the Temple. She began idly flicking through the menu of data-points before finding what she was looking for. She turned the pad over to Ben.

“Was this what you saw in your vision?” She asked.

Ben’s eyes widened. The Temple displayed on the datapad was in much better condition than the one he’d seen in his vision. But he had no doubt that the two were one and the same. The mountain range, identical in both the picture and the vision, confirmed it.

Ben showed the image to Lowbacca. “This is it!” Ben exclaimed, his excitement rising.

“I’ll leave immediately.” Lowbacca said. Tionne rose from her seat on the rock.

“Lowbacca, wait.” Tionne said. “I know you want to believe that Chewbacca is out there. But the chances are higher that this is a trap of some sort.”

“Which is why I’m going alone.” Asserted Lowbacca.

Ben rounded on Lowbacca, blocking the Wookiee’s path out of the clearing. “I got that vision as well.” Insisted Ben. “It was meant for me as much as it was meant for you. I can help.”

“I know you can Ben.” Lowbacca said. The Wookiee Jedi knelt down and placed his paws on Ben’s shoulders, giving them a soft shake.

“You’re going to be a great Jedi, Ben.” Lowbacca said. “But you’re Master Luke’s apprentice. It’s not my place to bring you into harm’s way.”

“Uncle Luke and I have gotten into plenty of dangerous situations before.” Ben asserted, his thoughts of their confrontation with the Knights of Ren on Elphrona burgeoning to the forefront of his mind before he ruthlessly suppressed it. If he thought of that then other thoughts might appear. Thoughts he didn’t want others to sense.

“I know you have.” Lowbacca insisted, his voice taking on that relaxed, calming tone that Ben secretly despised. He felt like a child being lectured.

“But if Master Luke wants you to stay here with his other apprentices, then that’s where you need to be.”

“You went on wild missions with Jaina, Jacen and Anakin all the time when you were apprentices.” Ben said, unable to keep the unspoken accusation from dripping into his voice. “Uncle Luke is always saying to follow the Will of the Force. The Force sent us both a vision. It feels right.”

Lowbacca’s shoulders drooped. “Are you so insistent on coming along because this is what the Force wants? Or are you so insistent because this is what you want?”

“What does it matter?” Asked Ben, his frustration mounting. “How can I become a Jedi if I’m only let out of the Temple under Master Luke’s supervision? How can I grow in strength if I’m not made to confront real danger? You and the others never played it safe.”

“We were young and foolish. Trying to emulate us is not the ideal means of becoming a Jedi.” Lowbacca admonished.

Ben felt his face grow warm as his ire rose. He wasn’t being taken seriously. Again. “Everyone tells me how much potential I have. But every time I try to find a way to tap into that potential I get treated like a fool who doesn’t know what they’re doing. Let me learn! The only way I can really become a Jedi is with some in field experience.”

Lowbacca looked away, his expression wracked with a sudden, remembered pain. “I don’t know if I could face your parents if something happened to you.” He confessed.

“I can manage.” Ben insisted.

“I know that you’re resourceful and strong in the Force.” Lowbacca asserted. “But Anakin and Jacen are dead. I don’t know what would happen to your family if something happened to you as well.”

“So their fear keeps me from realizing my own potential?” Ben challenged. “Your fear keeps me from testing my abilities. How is that fair?”

“I don’t have an answer for you.” Lowbacca admitted. “But this is something I have to do. It’s not something you have to do.”

“You just don’t think I’m good enough.” Ben asserted.

Lowbacca closed his eyes and sighed before opening them. “I’m sorry if you felt excluded when you were younger. And I’m sorry that I have to leave you behind now. But Tionne is right. If Master Luke was here he’d be right too. I want to believe that this is Chewbacca. My instincts tell me that this is truly him. But the odds say that someone is trying to lure a Jedi to their doom. Tell them when they return. Tell them I’ve gone to Tython.”

“I’m not a child.” Ben insisted. “I’m not some errand boy to be left at home to relay messages.”

“Learn patience, Ben.” Lowbacca insisted. “We all want what is best for you. But we are not the obstacle you think us to be. Your emotions roil like a tempest. When you are calm you will find a way forward. May the Force Be With You.”

Lowbacca stepped past Ben and left. Tionne and Ben watched him leave. After the Wookiee was gone Tionne reached out her hand to touch Ben’s shoulder, but Ben jerked away from her and marched sullenly back to his hut.

“Ben!” Tionne called out. “Ben, please, let’s talk!”

But Ben didn’t listen.

How dare they? How dare they act like he was the problem? How could he not be frustrated? He was always at the bottom of everyone’s list of priorities, if he was even on the list at all. He was always at the end of the line. There was always something more important than him to focus on. They said separating him from his brothers and sister was for his own safety, but they’d been given a freedom he’d been denied. And that freedom had brought them power.

“you deserve better.” Came a soft, deep, rasping voice.

A familiar voice.

Ben stopped in his tracks. He looked around. He was in the middle of the forest. No one had followed him. He was alone.

But that wasn’t exactly true.

He was never alone.

Not anymore.

“I get that they think they’re protecting me. But I feel like I’m drowning under their weight. If they really want what’s best for me then why don’t they take what I say seriously?” Ben confessed, his voice drifting on open air.

“it seems that they are more concerned with what they think is right for you than what you think is right for you. but you have a choice as well. and you will have to make it soon.”

The voice echoed, not through the air, but through the confines of Ben’s own mind. His sole outlet for his darkest thoughts. His confidante.

His only friend.

“Thanks Snoke.” Breathed Ben, his tone soft as the last shreds of doubt were burned from his mind. “It can’t happen soon enough.”

Tython, Deep Core, 40 ABY

The days at the Temple fell into a predictable rhythm. In the mornings Chewbacca rose from his sleep and sat by the Uneti tree, hoping perhaps that his proximity would trigger some echo in the Force that might be felt by his friends. After an hour or so by its side he would go into the nearby wilderness and hunt for food. By night he camped in the ruins of the Temple, grateful for some real shelter after so many years spent precariously perched in branches or hiding in caves.

On the fourth day after he found the tree, the first shadow of real doubt gripped his heart.

Could they hear him? Were they still alive to hear him? Was he being foolish?

He knelt, listening to the distant calls of birds and shook himself from his mental stupor. He couldn’t allow doubt to take hold of him now. He’d survived. He faced dozens of animals that had tried to do him harm and emerged triumphant. He’s traveled hundreds of kilometers on foot, battled the elements and endured everything this planet had thrown his way.

He was alive.

He just had to keep his patience.

They’d come for him.

And then, he heard it.

It was low, barely a murmur, but it grew steadily.

Louder, and louder.

A dull roar.

It was not the song of a bird or the cry of an animal.

It was decidedly artificial.

The roar of an engine.

Chewbacca’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the sky.

And his faith was rewarded.

A small shuttle came hurtling down from the sky. It shot over his head, descending rapidly towards the old landing pad in front of the Temple. Chewbacca shot to his feet, spear in hand, and ran towards the shuttle.

He rounded the Temple, crested a hill and reached its summit in time to see that the shuttle had come to a landing. Its ramp quickly descended, and a Wookiee charged down the ramp.

A Wookiee with a lightsaber hanging from his Syren fiber belt.

Chewbacca hefted his spear over his head and roared in triumph.

“Lowbacca!” He cried, throwing his spear to the ground before descending the hill to approach his nephew.

Lowbacca stood at the foot of the ramp, his eyes wide as his hands hung limply by his side.

Chewbacca bounded forward, coming to a halt as he saw the indecision in Lowbacca’s features.

“Uncle?” Lowbacca asked, his voice soft. He shrunk away for a moment.

Could this still be a trap? A clone? A replica droid of some sort?

Chewbacca cocked his head to the side, realizing that his nephew could not entirely believe the evidence of his own eyes.

It made sense. If their roles were reversed Chewbacca would have had a hard time believing anyone had survived what he’d survived.

The older Wookiee quickly determined what he could do to prove his identity. “Do you remember your rite of passage?” Chewbacca asked. “You harvested the fibers of the carnivorous Syren plant to prove that you were worthy of being an adult.” Chewbacca pointed to the belt hanging around Lowbacca’s waist. “You wove the fibers into that very same belt.”

Lowbacca’s eyes narrowed. This person, who looked like his Uncle, sounded like his Uncle, smelled like his Uncle, and shined in the Force just as his Uncle had, was trying to convince him that he truly was Chewbacca. It was true that he had hoped to find him, as impossible as his task might have seemed. But he was not so desperate that he would allow hope to blind him.

Jedi could be deceived by imposters.

“I remember it well. You told me to weave the fibers into a Bandoleer.” Lowbacca said.

Chewbacca grinned. Lowbacca was clever to be cautious, trying to deceive him to determine if he truly was Chewbacca. “I said no such thing. I told you to make it into a sling for a bowcaster.”

Lowbacca’s eyes widened. Chewbacca had been the only person he’d ever spoken to about what he’d planned to do with the Syren fibers. No one else had been privy to their conversation.

“Uncle Chewbacca?” Lowbacca asked.

“I know.” Chewbacca said, spreading his arms wide. “It’s hard to believe. And it's a very, very long story. But it really is me.”

Lowbacca leapt forward and embraced his uncle.

After so many years, the two were reunited.

After what felt like an eternity, the two Wookiees broke their embrace and looked at each other.

“I’m so glad to see you!” Chewbacca said. He looked over Lowbacca’s shoulder at the small, nondescript shuttle he’d arrived in.

“You came alone?” Chewbacca asked.

Lowbacca took a half step back. There were a half dozen questions that he knew were on his Uncle’s mind.

“Han, Leia, and Luke are out on a mission.” Lowbacca explained. “Off near the border of Wild Space. Comms out there are tricky. Ben Solo and I heard your call, and we decided not to waste any time. It’s possible they might not have heard you as we did.”

Chewbacca let out a breath he realized he’d been holding in. It was good to hear that Han was alright. After so many years, it was possible something could have happened to him.

“And the others? Is Mala…”

“She’s alright.” Lowbacca said, reassuringly. “Waroo too. They’ll both be so happy to see you.”

Chewbacca’s eyes narrowed. His nephew’s enthusiasm seemed abruptly muted. He appeared to suddenly be anticipating something, and dreading it. He wasn’t telling Chewbacca everything.

Lowbacca looked away briefly before looking back to his Uncle.

“Much has changed.” Lowbacca admitted.

Chewbacca nodded. “How long has it been?”

“About fifteen years, Uncle.”

Chewbacca closed his eyes and winced. He knew he’d been gone for a great deal of time. To have a solid number attached to his exile only reinforced the depth of his isolation.

“So much time lost.” He whispered. “So much I have to make up for.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, Uncle.” Lowbacca began. But Chewbacca held up his hand.

“What else?” Chewbacca asked. “Why are you the only one here? I called out to everyone I could think of who could wield the Force.”

Lowbacca said nothing. The two stood, silent. Somewhere a bird began to chirp. All seemed peaceful. But Chewbacca didn’t need the Force to see that his nephew was suddenly filled with a sense of anguish.

“Anakin’s dead.” Lowbacca confessed. “Killed by the Yuuzhan Vong, the monsters who caused Dobido to crash into Sernpidal.”

Chewbacca staggered back as though struck. Han’s son, who’d been like another nephew to him.

“There was a war, shortly after you vanished.” Lowbacca explained. “The Yuuzhan Vong came from another galaxy and sought to take ours for themselves. It was…horrific.”

“When did Anakin die?” Chewbacca asked.

“About two years after you vanished.” Lowbacca said, his tone flat and decidedly devoid of emotion.

“If I’d been there…” Chewbacca began.

“There is no point focusing on what might have been.” Lowbacca said sharply. “What happened, happened. It was not in your power to fix. Nor was it in mine.”

“What else?” Chewbacca asked.

Lowbacca winced. “Perhaps you should take a moment to accept what I’ve just told you before I say more.”

“No!” Insisted Chewbacca. “I am not some frightened pup! If there is more to say you will tell me now.”

Lowbacca closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “So be it.”

Lowbacca turned his back on his uncle. He took a few steps away, preparing himself for what he had to say.

“The war was long and brutal. They say it was the worst war in recorded galactic history, but we emerged victorious. A Galactic Alliance was forged to unify the New Republic, the Imperial Remnant, and an assortment of other smaller interstellar powers. We were triumphant, but not unscarred. Jacen was captured by the enemy. He was brutally tortured. He was never the same. He fell under the influence of a Sith, who had allied with the Vong. He fell to the Darkside and became the Sith Lord Darth Caedus. He murdered Mara Jade Skywalker, and took over the Alliance. Jaina killed him.”

Each sentence proved itself a body blow.

Jacen, a Sith?

He had always been such a cheerful young boy, a font of jokes, a soft hearted animal lover.

And Jaina.

She had been forced to kill her own brother?

The two had been inseparable.

And Anakin was dead.

Oh Han. Oh Leia. How they must have suffered.

Chewbacca felt a wave of shame pass over him.

“If I’d only been there.” Chewbacca said again.

“You aren’t responsible!” Said Lowbacca, his voice a low, insistent growl. "Anakin died a hero. And Jacen..." Lowbacca shook his head sadly. It was something he'd gone over time and time again in his own mind and with his surviving friends. "Jacen made his own choices. We tried to be there for him. I did. We all did. It didn't change anything."

Chewbacca threw his head back and let out a roar of frustration.

“I swore a Life Debt.” He howled. “Han saved my life and I was honor bound to be by his side. I’ve failed. Two of his children are dead! Had I been there I could have lent my own strength to theirs. Anakin might have lived. Jacen might have never fallen! And all the pain Han and Leia must have gone through would have been avoided!”

Chewbacca surged forward toward the shuttle.

“Take me from this awful place! We’ll talk more on the way. I’ve wasted enough time as is.”

Lowbacca watched his Uncle stamp his way up the loading ramp and followed in his wake.

He was happy that his Uncle was truly alive and well, though he was still unsure how such a thing was possible. But he knew the trip would be tense.

Red Ronto Cantina, Brink Station, Chiloon Drift, 40 ABY

The cantina was loud and boisterous with the sounds of celebration.

Han smiled as he nursed his drink. Leia was by his side, chatting happily with Jaina and Jag. Across the bar Luke, Ben Skywalker, and Lando were huddled together, discussing Lando’s planned return to Passana. Fewer things these days were able to pull his old friend from his vigil there. And it was obvious from Lando’s hunched posture that he was eager to return.

Han looked down at his drink, feeling slightly guilty. The urge to help his friend find his daughter remained, but after so many years of looking Lando had finally convinced Han that this was something he had to continue doing on his own. The old Baron Administrator couldn’t ask his friend to waste his life on what was, regrettably, becoming a terrible wild bantha chase.

Han understood Lando’s pain to an extent. A father being unable to help their child was a pain Han was all too familiar with. But Anakin and Jacen were dead. With death, he thought morosely, there came a certain closure.

Lando didn’t really know what had become of his daughter.

It was hard for Han to admit, but in his own life things felt…good. The Qreph brothers had been stopped. It was, all in all, a suitable final adventure to cap off his long career.

The truth was, he wanted to retire. He’d wanted to retire for a while now. And this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

He and Leia had discussed it often; taking off in a ship and cruising the galaxy. No wars, no plots, no meetings. Just the two of them.

He’d had similar thoughts before. Thoughts of a life free of the responsibilities he’d taken. He wanted to start over and put all the battles behind him.

That mentality had been part of the reason he’d suggested getting married to Leia a second time. He’d been ribbed mercilessly by the Rogues for that, but he’d liked the idea of renewing his vows. During the period after their first wedding their lives had been so consumed with war and politics that they’d rarely had time to truly be a couple. The second marriage had been his way of trying to show Leia that he really wanted to make their relationship, their family, work.

He knew Leia had appreciated the gesture and what it had meant, but life had never slowed down for either of them.

Now, though, now that they were getting on in years, Han had begun to seriously consider a normal life again.

They’d discussed it prior to Leia’s resignation from the Senate, and Han thought now was the best time to finally push forward with the plan.

Han looked over to Jaina and smiled. He knew she was too busy with Jag and as a Jedi to want to wander the stars with her old man. He glanced over at his nephew Ben and felt a twinge of guilt.

But maybe he could convince his Ben to come along with them, if only for a little while.

They’d had their own adventures together, he and Ben. But those times were few and far between in the final analysis.

He could still make up for lost time.

He stared down at his drink, trying to concoct a way of broaching the idea with Leia. He’d initially portrayed his scheme of running off with her as a romantic getaway, but he thought the idea of a family trip had an appeal of its own.

As he considered what he’d say, he suddenly noticed that the cantina had fallen silent.

Someone gasped.

Han looked around to see that everyone was staring at the entranceway to the cantina. He turned to see what everyone was staring at.

Lowbacca was standing there, accompanied by…

Han stood from his bar stool, his hand drifting to the DL-44 at his hip. Leia’s hand went to his arm, her eyes wide as she stared.

“Han.” She whispered. “It’s…”

“No.” Han snarled, his voice low and filled with anger.

Someone had a sick sense of humor. That or they thought he was stupid. Either way, when he found out who it was he’d knock their teeth out.

He’d traveled from one side of the galaxy to the other; from Kal’shebbol to Belkadan, and from Coruscant to Teth. He’d seen a lot in his time. Clones, cyborgs, replica droids, holographic disguises. Hell, he’d just dealt with the Qreph brother’s own biots, which could be built to take on anyone’s appearance.

He couldn’t be tricked so easily.

The fake thing (because it had to be fake) stood there solemnly and watched him approach. Han stared up at it. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

He couldn’t let himself believe…

“During our job with Beckett, he beat me in a game of holochess aboard the Falcon. I didn’t much like losing. I still don’t. But Beckett told me all I had to do to win was think a few moves ahead and anticipate my opponent.”

Han’s hand fell from his blaster. Han, Chewie, and Beckett had been the only ones in that room when he’d said that, and Beckett was dead. They’d never had cause to repeat that encounter to anyone. Neither Qi’ra, nor L3, nor Lando, who had been onboard with them, had been in a position to overhear them.

“Chewie?” Han asked, his inner barrier crumbling as he allowed himself to actually feel a small flicker of hope.

“Hi Han. It’s been a while.”

The two stared at each other. Han ran his hand through his graying hair as he looked at…at Chewbacca. His fur was longer than it had been, coated in dirt and grime. He looked much thinner. Wherever he’d been, he hadn’t been eating well.

Finally, Han broke the silence. “You look terrible.”

Chewbacca laughed and grabbed Han in a tight embrace that lifted the old man off the floor. Han found himself laughing as well. As Chewbacca set Han down, Luke and Leia approached. Chewbacca leaned forward and embraced Leia, then Luke.

“I should have known it would take more than a moon to kill you.” Leia joked.

“But how did you get off Sernpidal?” Luke asked. “I thought I’d sensed your death.”

“You probably sensed my disappearance.” Chewbacca said. “It’s a long story. Buy me an ale and I’ll tell it the best I can.”

Han put his hand on Chewbacca’s arm. “It’s good to have you back buddy.”

Chewbacca placed his hand on Han’s. “I’m back, and this time I’m here to stay. No matter what.”

Chapter Text

The summons by High Command reached all the usual suspects.

The when, that was in essence the very next day; so as to prevent opposition being gathered against the proposal. Cliques already existed, but the longer the meeting was postponed, the harder it would be for anything to happen. Such was the nature of democracy, even one with a deficit like the Galactic Alliance.

The where, that was Denon, the new capital of the Galactic Alliance, while Coruscant recovered. A stalwart Imperial world until just before the Yuuzhan Vong War, the Inner Rim planet had narrowly avoided the enemy, and thus was a well sized city-world to manage the bureaucracy of the galaxy.

Yes, Bel Iblis, and of course Sovv, Wedge, Hera and Pellaeon from the commanders present at the Battle of Wayland, but also other admirals and generals in the military; Gavin Darklighter, Tycho Celchu, the Cracken’s, Judder Page, Brand, A’baht Nantz and Keyan Farlander, Stavin Thaal; all veterans of the New Republic. From the more recent conflict, General Davip, Admirals Kre’frey, Klauskin and others Wedge wasn’t overly familiar with. Outside of the traditional spheres of New Republic influence came Prince Isolder, on behalf of Hapes, Jagged Fel, nominally the Chiss representative, Crev Bombassa as the Hutt ambassador, and others still.

Wedge wouldn’t have been overly surprised if Admiral Ackbar appeared, notwithstanding the reports of his death.

But it was not a military discussion, notwithstanding that Garm had shaped it with to his fellow fleet commanders as a reshaping of the Galactic Alliance Defence Force; not quite as dramatic as he had spoken at Wayland, but his exact words spread nonetheless. Captains Niathal and Lecersen – especially Lecersen were likely leaks, currying favour with higher ups in their respective command structures, or perhaps simply the pool of captains in the GA – up and coming officers like Tarla Limpan, Atoko, For’o, Cheb, Parova among them – was a sieve.

Wedge made a note to be careful who he drew into the Insiders if he ever needed to do so from among them, but refocused at the latest arrivals to the room – the theatre, for all intents and purposes.

They were going to be packed in, at this rate, and Wedge would have considered this a security concern if not for the small armada in orbit, let alone YVH-1 droids traipsing the estate – they were holed up in the former University of Arts for the planet, which was the only campus large enough to handle High Command. The reduced GA Senate was currently commanding the University of Law, of course, meanwhile the Ministries were scattered across less reputable establishments. Many school programs had been suspended by the war, especially in the Core and Inner Rim, where entertaining students from wealthy families painted a target on a planet, just as much as hosting refugees had in the Mid Rim.

So, they were quite literally in the largest theatre on campus, usually occupied by younger sentients. But the acoustics were good, so Wedge knew Garm, himself a great orator, had chosen well. Artoo-Detoo was present, recording, and See-Threepio was on hand to translate. That put Leia on the dais, besides former Mon Calamari Senator Cilghal, acting as Mon Calamari and Jedi Master today. Besides those two were a trio of vacant seats, and Wedge understood Cal Omas was due to take up one, Garm the other, and one more he wasn’t too sure over.

Wedge was on the second row, because he didn’t quite rank high enough to warrant the front row. But Sovv, Pellaeon, Jagged and Isolder were on front row. Wedge leaned over to his nephew, and spoke in his ear, concealed by the rabble of chatter. “So, what’s the Chiss view on this?”

“It’s highly confidential,” Jagged said lightly, “but whatever the Empire wants, the Chiss Syndics have said I am able to agree with that.”

“Of course,” Wedge said, drily. “So we’re not dissolving the Ascendancy and going for direct and proportionate representative democracy?”

“Is the GA even that?”

“We could be,” Wedge pointed out.

“But the Chiss didn’t join the New Republic, nor did dozens of sectors, before the Vong.”

“Exactly,” Hera said, sitting next to Wedge. Jagged stiffened slightly, but the Twi’lek tapped the side of her head, where ears would ordinarily be beneath her headgear. “I’m not human, remember, and I hear better than you’d think.”

Before Wedge could say anything further, there was a sudden rustle. He craned his head, and could see Cal Omas, Chief of State of the Galactic Alliance, leading Garm Bel Iblis and Nas Choka into the room. There was an uproar of noise, and when Cal reached the podium, he tapped the microphone.

“I appreciate Nas Choka is not a representative of a Galactic Alliance member state, but as some of the people in this room seem to think we can go back to business as usual now the war is over, I thought it prudent to remind us why we can't.” His eyes cut to Garm, who sat heavily on one of the seats.

Wedge couldn’t imagine something so absurd. Cal, Garm, Leia, Cilghal and the Warmaster on a raised dais, presenting to the collected military minds of the entire galaxy. Garm ignored Cal’s dig and stared forward.

But it set the tone. There was a very clear division between those who had fought the Empire, and then the Yuuzhan Vong, rather than those who had benefited from the relative peace that had followed the Battle of Jakku. Yes, the Empire hadn’t vanished, and under Daala, Pellaeon and the Moffs continued the war in an abbreviated fashion, but the surrender of Coruscant by Mas Amedda had signaled the end of large scale conflict in the Core – indeed, even the Mid Rim was all-but-peaceful for the next fifteen years.

That was enough time for a whole generation to be born after Endor, to be too young to remember the Thrawn Crisis and Palpatine Reborn, and to grow into the peace that the Yuuzhan Vong ruined; that the divisions of the prior war made that much worse. Wedge couldn’t disagree with their analysis, but it made a whole generation stiffen when General Thaal gruffly pointed out that the Empire would have crushed the Yuuzhan Vong. Pellaeon was less sharp on the point, but emphasised that their differences made them stronger, not weaker, as long as they were of one goal. Sovv was firmly against anything less than full military integration, and anything that prevented that would lead to another invasion and disaster. Hera reminded everyone that Imperials in the Deep Core had been fighting the New Republic right until the Yuuzhan Vong crossed the galactic frontier, that the Viscount’s maiden voyage had seen Admiral Ackbar liberating fortress worlds belonging to the Second Imperium.

And so it went.

Wedge didn’t volunteer to speak, and simply followed along. He noted, absently, that Garm was waiting for everyone else, and Leia had followed suit. Jagged was relatively noncommittal for the moment, and the Hutts simply wanted tax exemptions. No surprises there. Isolder was instructed to follow the Jedi direction, but as long as the GA didn’t intend to interfere in sector-level assemblies and government structures – which it didn’t, within the confines of sentients rights, aggression towards neighbours and the like – then the Hapes Cluster was content to follow suit.

Garm eventually took the podium.

“The New Republic fought and won the Yuuzhan Vong War. It was that nation, that government that triumphed at the Battle of Ebaq 9. Yes, we had help with the various other states present, initially, or eventually, but it was primarily a New Republic victory. We shouldered the majority of the losses.”

Isolder looked as if he might speak, what with the loss of three quarters of the Hapan Royal Navy at the First Battle of Fondor, but comparatively, yes, the New Republic had lost the most. Wedge knew the next thought, though, and waited for someone to interrupt Garm.

“And the New Republic was responsible for the majority of the failings,” Nantz said, brutal as ever. Wedge had never served directly under the former Admiral of the New Republic First Fleet, but he was renowned for a sharp mind and sharper tongue. The man had led the campaign from Saijo to the Core, defeating several warlords along the way and matching wits with Imperial Supreme Commander Kermen, Moff Par Lankin and the rogue Delvardus. Sovv had served under the man, but his bluntness had not rubbed off on the mild-mannered Sullustan.

“Yes,” said Bel Iblis, without argument. “And most of the people in this room served that self-same New Republic. I know it has been argued that it was the inherit weaknesses of the New Republic that encouraged the Yuuzhan Vong – and Daala and Thrawn and the Reborn Emperor beforehand – but it is also those weaknesses – those safeguards - that prevent the rise of another Palpatine.”

At that, Pellaeon may have been expected to riposte, and a few did look at him, but the man, older than most present, but younger than Garm, simply snorted. “The Empire doesn’t want another Palpatine either.”

A slight chuckle amongst those gathered, diffusing some of the tension. Wedge saw Garm smile beneath his moustache, and the Corellian knew that the General had anticipated both Cal’s argument, Nantz analysis of the New Republic, and Pellaeon’s agreement with him on the point about Palpatine.

“This Federalism that the Galactic Alliance proposes is not going to be a matter of general elections for the position of Chief of State, with votes coming from the Empire, Hutts, Ascendancy, Hapan Consortium and so forth,” Garm explained. “Instead, the voters will be those worlds inside the former Republic. To suggest anything else disenfranchises a swath of systems and allows multi-sector entities a larger influence than any other member of the New Republic.”

He turned slightly to Leia and Cal, sitting behind him. “One of the first things the New Republic did was strip worlds of ancient seats that gave them more say than Rim worlds. Would we reverse that, and not allow New Republic worlds their own say?”

“But we do need the Galactic Alliance,” Cal replied, testily –

Wedge had visions of this turning into an argument, but another voice spoke up, strong as ever. “Garm isn’t saying we don’t need the Galactic Alliance,” Leia interrupted.

“I am, actually,” Garm replied, quite firmly. “It’s a terrible model for day-to-day rule of the galaxy –“

“So don’t treat it as such,” Leia responded, evenly.

“Treat it as a military alliance,” said Wedge, and almost everyone looked at him. He hadn’t intended to speak, but he stood, to help people look at him. “Even if the New Republic did fight and win the war at Ebaq 9, but it wasn’t ended, and it was only with allies we did that.” He indicated Leia. “But we had to go around each and every state of the galaxy, and request their help. In a piecemeal fashion. First Bastion contributed, until the Battle of Ithor. Then the Yuuzhan Vong got to the Mandalorians and Hutts before us.” A grumble from Crev, and a scowl from Nas Choka, but Wedge pressed on. “We managed to get the Hapans on side next, but the Remnant had already stepped back, and then when the Hapans withdrew from the war, the Corporate Sector fell within the invaders influence, and that left the New Republic – and the Hutts promptly were isolated and besieged.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Cal frowned. “What are you saying?”

“That the unity came too late. The Galactic Alliance as a military treaty and mutual aid organisation will prevent that. Instead, we would have had a full collaborative deployment, and the Yuuzhan Vong caught out,” Leia answered. It was the same argument she’d made for the first year of the war. “We now know that despite the impressive numbers the armada began with, it really was the last gasp of the Yuuzhan Vong. Without worlds to provide resources, the invasion was a gamble.”

Nas Choka stood and spoke. “We were refugees from our own galaxy, our worldship convoy was dying of old age. Had we lost more of the opening engagements of the war, we would never been able to propagate. Without worlds to seed with coral, and to cultivate our foodstuffs, and waters to even grow dovin basils, we would have struggled even moreso than we eventually did.”

“Which was why you diverted from your offensive on the Core towards Hutt Space,” said Sovv, understanding in his voice.

“And the uncertainty that action engendered among the military was as effective as any other weapon,” Leia added. “We didn’t understand the Yuuzhan Vong, and why they were acting in that manner.”

“So we need the Galactic Alliance,” Cal pressed.

“But not to run the galaxy,” Garm said.

“So what,” this from Crev. “You want to have a… Council, where the New Republic, Hutts, Empire and so on sit at a table and have one vote each?”

“That presents its own issues,” Cal pointed out.

“So let worlds choose if they want dual-representation in a Galactic Alliance Senate and their own legislatures. Not every planet is going to want representation in a regime that crosses multiple sector boundaries. Some will be content with their own voice being accounted for inside the New Republic, or Empire.” Leia eyes narrowed. “Some of you won’t want your own systems to have a separate voice. Your government structures won’t allow it.”

Pellaeon, Isolder and Crev agreed. They both knew their governments didn’t want that. Leia, as such, carried on. “So a military alliance, with bi-carmel membership for those systems that want it, if their government allows.”

Garm frowned, and Wedge could see why. The New Republic allowed systems to come and go under the constitution, as separatism wasn’t made illegal to appease to the former worlds of the Confederacy. After the Battle of Jakku, the Senate went even further and had a rotating capital, so as to undermine the so-called tyranny of Coruscant. It didn’t last, of course – the bureaucratic pull of Triple Zero was inevitable, but this solution would defeat those softly spoken Separatists if the New Republic handed Coruscant to the Galactic Alliance...

“And what is to stop the Galactic Alliance Senate becoming as bloated as the New Republic one?” Garm said, voicing everyone’s concerns.

“A Security Council,” said Wedge, quickly. “A group of representatives from the allies. It includes the respective Head of State, or their chosen stand-in. A way of streamlining decision making processes under executive control, or before passing to the GA Senate if need be.”

Cal seemed to muse on that.

Everyone did.

And so, the New Republic was defined, warships were assigned permanently to the Galactic Alliance Defence Force, or to the member states, and a clear difference was drawn between donated ships and federal ships. The Guardian, Viscount and Harbinger went to the New Republic capital at Hosnian Prime; the Bounty went to the Galactic Alliance, based on Denon – and eventually Coruscant. And so on and so forth. It took hours, for there were plenty of capital ships left over from the wars, but it was done. Promptly thereafter, the New Republic contributed two fleets to the Galactic Alliance - what would eventually become the Third and Fifth Fleets. Pellaeon committed the Megador, a unique, 70km wide Super Star Destroyer that had been on the move since Bastion fell.

The Galactic Alliance between the New Republic, Galactic Empire, Hapan Consortium, the Hutts, Corporate Sector, Chiss Ascendancy and a host of other smaller independent states was thus codified. Everyone was happy.

The Security Council settled on Coruscant, headed by a GA Senator, G'vli G'Sil, who acted as both Chairman but also Cal Omas’ representative on the Council. Garm became Supreme Commander of the New Republic Defence Force, and most of the Senators that had represented their worlds during the Yuuzhan Vong War returned to Hosnian Prime. Hundreds of systems availed themselves of GA Senate membership too, including Corellia, Kuat, Bothawui and other key worlds. The New Republic elected a new Chancellor, separate from the GA Chief of State, who remained Cal Omas – appointed to the term.

Yes, the New Republic was considerably smaller than it had been, but it had lost a great deal of territory to the Yuuzhan Vong, and not all of it wanted to rejoin. Some systems were content under the Empire, others petitioned for direct membership of the Galactic Alliance alone. Comparatively, due to the weakening of the executive branch, the New Republic Chancellor was a non-entity, a fact that later contributed to the suggestion of a First Senator in the Hosnian Prime-based Senate.

It became a tapestry of legalities, realities and practicalities, and the chains that bound them all bought a compromise such that peace was firmly, completely, and utterly restored. Political commentators such as Wolam Tser, historians such as Arhul Hextrophon, and retired (and merely hiding) leaders such as Mon Mothma and Ackbar all approved of the solution to the First Galactic Civil War; briefly interrupted by the Yuuzhan Vong, but now, fully ended.

For now.

Wedge, for his part, took the following years of peace as a chance to finally retire to Corellia.

As he walked through the door of the apartment, the new year chimed by, thirty years since the Battle of Yavin. He absently reflected on all that had happened, and been gained, and lost.

Yavin, Hoth, Endor...

Mindor, Thyferra, Dathomir...

Bilbringi, Mon Calamari, Jakku...

Orinda, Adumar, Bothawui...

Ithor, Duro, Coruscant...

Borleias, Ebaq 9 and Yuuzhan'tar... so many battles.

Three decades of friends and family, of women he had loved, from Norra to Qwi to, finally, his wife, Iella. The young man he had helped raise, Temmin 'Snap' Wexley, and his actual daughters, Syal and Myri... the Rogues, Wraiths and Phantom Squadron.

His parents, Booster, Mirax... Hera, Ezra, Sabine... Biggs, Porkins, Luke... Tycho, Wes, Hobbie... Corran, Gavin, Lensi...

It was immense.

By the time Iella drew him into a hug, his emotions were bubbling over.

"Are you okay?"

Wedge looked at her, and smiled.

"I will be."

He kissed her.

Because why not?

They'd won.

Chapter Text

The old Jedi Eta class shuttle rattled about him as it made its final approach to Nam Chorios. The shuttle had traversed the galaxy time after time over the decades. That it was still in reasonable condition served as a testament to the perseverance of the two beings who were the shuttle’s sole crew.

In a secure cabin near the main cockpit, the vessel’s master sat in meditation, and listened to the shrill, haranguing voice emanating from the speakers of the comm unit.

“...So long as the true sons of the New Order draw breath, Palpatine’s legacy shall never die! We swore an oath of eternal fealty, and that oath binds us still, despite whatever that senile horned toad may claim.”

Baylan Skoll allowed a grimace to mar his otherwise granite stoicism.

“We must be true to who we are! That mewling coward who calls himself Vizier may have signed away what he could grab to the Rebels, but heed my warning! The might of the Imperial Navy will take back what it has lost. The New Republic can claim the war is over, but it shall not be done until every last rebel, from Leia Organa-Solo down to the lowest rebel trooper, is left swinging from the lamp-posts on every street of Imperial Center!”

“It never ends.” Baylan scoffed as he rose from the padded cushion centered on the floor of his small cabin.

“I claim the throne! Not out of a love for power, but a love for the Empire! The Empire as it was! The Empire as it could one day be! Soon enough the territories that offer their obedience to Mas Amedda shall be absorbed into the New Republic! Rally to me, and we shall avoid this ignominious end. We shall plunge our dagger deep into the Rebel’s heart. The Reborn Emperor showed us the way during Operation Shadow Hand!”

The door to the cabin slid open, and Baylan found himself to no longer be alone. The mercenary lord turned and observed his apprentice.

Shin Hati’s eyes stared with curiosity at the comm unit as she approached. For a minute the two stood in silence and listened to the voice as it continued to bleat over the speakers of the comm unit.

Baylan stepped forward and shut it off.

“Superior General Delvardus.” Baylan explained, his back turned to his apprentice as he bowed his head in quiet contemplation.

Shin’s brow furrowed in momentary confusion, before she nodded. “One of the Warlords in the Deep Core that refuses to bend the knee to the Grand Vizier.”

“The cycle repeats.” Baylan mused. “An Emperor dies, and the Acklays crawl out of their den to squabble over the corpse. As it was after Endor, so shall it be after Onderon and Jakku.”

“Perhaps.” Conceded Shin, an expression of contemplation on her face.

“You believe things will be different this time?” Baylan asked.

“Everyone thought the Empire finished after Endor. But Thrawn brought the scattered Imperial forces back from death’s door. The clone Emperor built up quite an impressive force.” Shin argued.

“Much of which was destroyed. Wastefully spent by the likes of Gallius Rax and Natasi Daala.” Baylan countered. “Delvardus is one voice, crying out in the discordant Imperial chorus, unable to distinguish himself from the rest. The Empire shall not be saved by the likes of him.”

“And yet, the idea of Empire lives on, in spite of the opportunists.” Shin insisted. “The Imperial forces endure, despite all the destruction dealt to them. That idea drives them to endure humiliation and deprivation beyond which most could endure. It is…potent.”

Baylan smiled. Shin was growing into her potential well. She was strong in body and mind. But she was not yet tempered by experience.

“Ideas are a powerful motivator.” Baylan said. “But remember Shin, persistence is useless if one does not have the intelligence to harness it correctly. Now, did you have something to report?”

Shin nodded. “We’ve touched down just outside of the city of Hweg Shul.” Her lips curled as she pronounced the word city and Baylan could tell why. To those who traveled the galaxy like the two of them, Nam Chorios was a pitiful dust mite with nothing to offer. Hweg Shul, with a population of just eight thousand souls, was hardly a town to the likes of them.

Baylan was roused from his musings as Shin continued to speak.

“The prisoner is secure and sedated. He won’t offer us any trouble.”

Baylan nodded. “Very well, I shall take him to the client. Ensure that the ship is refueled and ready to depart upon my return. We won’t be staying long.”

It went unspoken that the ship would need to be defended against any unwanted intruders. Nam Chorios was wracked with internal dissent between the Oldtimers and the Newcomers, and the Oldtimers, who were said to hate offworld technology, would have readily destroyed their shuttle out of spite if it was left alone.

“Hopefully the money will be worth coming all the way to this forsaken place.” Shin observed.

Baylan considered what she had said. To most people her words would have sounded like a complaint. Baylan knew better. She was always thinking, always planning. She probably had a half dozen plans brewing over how to use the money from this job to advance their own positions.

To her, it was a small, paltry stepping stone. But it was a step in the right direction. Or so she thought.

“I don’t know why you bothered to accept this job, Master.” Shin continued. “The bounty on this skug will hardly cover our fuel costs for the next month.”

Baylan offered her a tight half-smile before he moved towards the door.

“Patience Shin. This world has more to offer us than you might believe.

Baylan pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and made his way to the cargo area. There, strapped to a hover-gurney, was an unconscious, scrawny Devaronian.

Baylan didn’t know why the client wanted this Devaronian. He might have felt a qualm of conscience at this, but he was fairly certain the Devaronian was no innocent. As he moved the gurney down the ramp and into the town, Baylan cast out an aura of menace in the Force to make himself more foreboding.

Hweg Shul was a run down, dilapidated place. The few people who passed Baylan by scuttled out of his way, their heads down, their eyes averting his gaze.

He wondered to himself how many of them knew or cared about the present situation. Of the state of the galaxy.

He sometimes wondered if anyone really understood.

Sometimes he wanted to grab them and scream in their faces. To make them see as he saw.

Inevitably he came to the rendezvous coordinates he had been told to bring the prisoner to.

In contrast with the pitiful community that surrounded it, the building he’d come to was well maintained and heavily occupied.It was no palace, by any stretch of the word, but it was larger and more well put together than the surrounding ramshackle buildings. Guards flanked the door, but gave him only a cursory examination before waving him through. He wondered if they knew the lightsaber at his belt was even a weapon.

Out here, in this forgotten and forgettable place, how many of its people had even heard of the Jedi?

He knew some of them had.

As he moved his way into the building with his prisoner, he sensed…

Well, wasn’t that interesting?

Confirmation.

In the center of the building, down a flight of stairs, was a great, round room. In the center of the room was a raised dias.

And on that dias was the being Baylan had been hoping to encounter.

“His Eminence, Beldorion of the Ruby Eyes, bids you greetings Lord Baylan.” An insectoid creature, perhaps the majordomo, buzzed.

Baylan gave the insectoid a cursory glance, but kept his eyes focused on Beldorion the Hutt.

Unlike other Hutts, Beldorion’s eyes were sharp and focused. Where there would have been fat on another Hutt, Beldorion was lithe, with muscles rippling just beneath the surface of his skin. Where other Hutts had an indifferent air of amused superiority, Beldorion stared at Baylan with attentiveness.

This, Baylan Skoll thought, was less a slug and more a serpent.

“You have done well to bring me this Newcomer.” Beldorion rumbled, in Basic no less. Another marked contrast to most Hutts, who could not, out of pride, bring themselves to soil their tongues with a language not their own.

“I rarely bother with matters offworld.” Beldorion continued. “But in this case, I could not let the actions of this glit-biting addict go. He owed me quite a bit of money.”

“Is money your sole concern, Lord Beldorion?” Baylan asked.

“It is a concern of those who fall under my protection.” Beldorion responded. “To let this gambler go without paying his debts would make my underlings question my authority.”

“Then you are concerned with power?” Baylan asked, his tone ambivalent.

The Hutt lurched off of the dias he had been on and approached Baylan. Beldorion looked Baylan up and down, before settling his eyes on the lightsaber hanging from his belt.

Without breaking his stare, Beldorion gestured to his majordomo. “Take the prisoner, Dzym. We will speak on it later.”

The insectoid bowed, and took the gurney with the unconscious prisoner from the room, leaving Beldorion and Baylan Skoll alone.

“Has an Inquisitor come to kill me?” Beldorion asked, his tone slightly mocking as he gestured to Baylan’s lightsaber.

Baylan frowned. “There is no longer an Emperor to hold their leash. Without the structure of the Empire any Inquisitors that remain have no purpose. No direction.”

Beldorion slithered around Baylan, and the mercenary lord turned on his heel, unwilling to let the Hutt get behind him.

“How introspective. A philosopher then? The Inquisitors I encountered were a cruder lot.”

“Broken children and maladjusted schemers are seldom more than the sum of their parts.” Baylan observed.

Something rumbled deep in Beldorion’s throat. Perhaps it was a chuckle. Perhaps it was a sigh.

“Not an Inquisitor then.” Beldorion conceded. “Don’t tell me you’re a Jedi.”

“I’m a survivor.” Baylan answered.

Beldorion nodded his bulbous head. “We are…kindred, then.”

“Perhaps.” Baylan conceded. “The Force is with you, Lord Beldorion. You hide your affinity well.”

“As do you, Lord Baylan. Although the lightsaber is something of a give away.” The Hutt admitted as he finally broke eye contact with the mercenary. The Hutt turned and moved to reclaim his place on his dias. As he moved he spoke.

“How did you avoid the Sith and their dogs?” Beldorion asked.

“I could ask you the same question.” Baylan retorted.

The Hutt swept out his hands in a grand gesture. “It is as you said, mercenary. I am a rumor. I have worked hard to remain a rumor. I’ve had close encounters though. Run- ins with the numbered brothers and sisters of the Inquisitorious. Those broken, tortured wretches were easy enough to throw off. All I had to do was throw a tastier bit of meat in the opposite direction, and off they’d go, baying like starved hounds. Whenever they got too close for comfort I’d have an agent of mine drop a rumor of an enclave of Baran Do Sages or a camp of Antarian Rangers. And off the Inquisition would go, hunting their prey; dissatisfied, perhaps, to not find a Jedi, but sated enough by the chance to kill any lightsider and their sympathizers.” Beldorion’s smile faded, and his fat lips contorted into a frown. “The ones who kept their names…Tremayne, Halmere, Jarec…they were tougher to hide from.”

“Indeed.” Baylan conceded. “Jarec and the Seventh Sister spent two months chasing after me.”

“And how did you get away?” Beldorion asked, naked curiosity written into his expression.

Baylan frowned at the memory. “I encountered an enclave of the Church of the Force during my time on Gyndine.” He confessed.

Beldorion smirked. “You exposed them to the Inquisitors and got away while the hounds devoured those poor pious churchgoers. How…devious.”

Baylan grimaced. “It was…necessary to stay alive.”

Beldorion held up his hand and waved him off. “You needn’t defend yourself to me. I can hardly damn you for actions which I myself undertake regularly.”

The two stood momentarily in silence, the one appraising the other.

“You did not come here simply for the reward for this gambler. Nor did you come to simply reminisce about the Empire’s force hunters.” It was not a question.

“I have not.” Baylan confirmed.

“What do you want of me?” Asked the Hutt. “What brought you to deduce my nature?”

“Simple logic, I suppose.” Baylan admitted. “There were scarce records in the Temple. Stories of a Hutt known to have become a Jedi. The older Masters never spoke of him though.”

Beldorion’s expression betrayed some mild amusement, tinged, perhaps, with bitterness. “Yoda wouldn’t have spoken of me. We parted ways under…less than amicable circumstances.”

The Hutt glanced away, before returning to look at Baylan.

“I suspect, however, that your break with the Order was more…traumatic.”

Baylan grimaced. “There wasn’t an Order to leave.”

“There’s an Order now.” Beldorion mused. “Nam Chorios may be remote, but we are not cut off from the rest of the galaxy. I have heard rumors that a new Jedi Order is stirring. There are rumors of a Praxeum on Yavin IV, and an Academy is undergoing construction on Ossus.”

Baylan’s face contorted in a grimace. Beldorion noted the mercenary’s discomfort and smirked.

“You amuse me, Baylan Skoll.” Beldorion said, reaching for a glass and a decanter on a nearby table. He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter to Baylan. The mercenary waved him off.

“Oh?” Asked Baylan. “In what manner do I amuse you?”

Beldorion leaned back his massive head and took a long draught from his glass.

“Your disdain for the Inquisitors was evident. And yet the mere mention of the Jedi makes you tense. Don’t tell me you’re one of those gray fools who spits on light and dark alike and claims neutrality.”

Baylan appeared pensive as he considered Beldorion’s words. “I am…me.” He concluded.

Beldorion smirked again. It was the type of thing Baylan could grow to dislike. “How esoteric. A philosopher indeed. Tell me, philosopher. Are the rumors true? Are the Jedi reborn?”

“There are…credible stories that a hero of the Rebellion, Luke Skywalker, has claimed the title of Jedi Knight for himself.” Baylan confirmed. “It is also rumored that he has gathered apprentices.”

“Another Bokken Jedi.” Beldorion chortled. “How many stories have I heard over the years after the Purge of foolish children, swept away by the romanticism of the Jedi Knights, finding some lightsaber or holocron and fancying themselves the progenitors of a new Order? I’m surprised the Inquisitors didn’t handle him like they handled all the others.”

“He claims to have been trained by Yoda, if the rumors are true.” Baylan said, his tone indicating that this information was, if not important, then at least relevant.

Beldorion blinked, before looking down at his cup. “So the old goblin survived the Purge. That’s…”

The Hutt shook his head and downed the rest of his drink.

“Doesn’t matter.” Beldorion insisted. “It is interesting to consider though. What will you do with this knowledge, Baylan Skoll?”

Baylan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I left the Jedi while they were still hale and hearty. The Jedi collapsed around you, leaving naught but rubble.” Beldorion explained. “And now the Jedi are returning. You could go to Yavin. Offer this youngling playing at Knighthood your wisdom. Who knows, maybe if you impress him enough you could be the new Grand Master.”

Baylan smiled sadly, shaking his head. “Skywalker’s efforts are futile. Besides, I have an apprentice already. And I want her to be something…more.”

“More?” Asked Beldorion.

“More.” Baylan affirmed. “Even if Skywalker were trained by Yoda, his inexperience is obvious. They say he served the clone Emperor for a time. Perhaps it was part of some misguided effort to destroy the Dark Empire from the inside. I know not the full details. But if all I’ve heard is true then I cannot put my faith in a man whose judgment is so suspect.”

“Then what will you do?” Asked Beldorion. “Surely a man like yourself desires more than the life of a simple mercenary can afford.”

“I sought you out, in part, for some perspective, Beldorion. As a Hutt, you have lived longer than most beings in the galaxy. Have you not…noticed it?”

“Noticed?” Beldorion repeated.

“The cycle.” Baylan said, his voice softening, but growing insistent. Beldorion leaned back, smiled, and shook his head.

“Ah, I see now.” Beldorion mused. “A philosopher indeed. Darth Traya would approve.”

“Traya is nearly four thousand years dead.” Baylan said sharply. “I do not hate the Force as she did. I hate the repetition.”

“Really.” Beldorion croaked. “You’re afraid. Recent events…Thrawn’s campaign, the clone Emperor’s rise and fall, and the collapse of Imperial authority under Gallius Rax and Mas Amedda…you think the cycle is accelerating.”

Baylan gave the Hutt a fierce look.

“The Republic knew a thousand years of peace. But that peace made the Jedi soft. Plenty led to apathy, apathy allowed corruption. And corruption fostered decay. The Jedi were destroyed, the Empire rose. And then, in a decade the Sith fell, only to rise and fall again. The New Republic says the war is over now, but already the remnants of the Empire are splintering. Some abide by the Galactic Concordance, while others in the Deep Core and the Outer Rim swear to fight on. Even if the Sith are truly destroyed…”

“Before the Sith, there were others…the Order of the Terrible Glare, the Ordu Aspectu, the Legions of Lettow…” Beldorion mused. “Who’s to say what might follow.”

“Dark and Light have danced this tiresome dance since the dawn of time.” Baylan noted. “Will they continue to dance for eternity?”

“Eternity?” Asked Beldorion. “Even a Hutt cannot live forever. Why concern yourself with what you cannot have?”

“Is that why you have remained hidden here?” Baylan asked.

Beldorion smirked and shook his massive head. “You are disappointed, perhaps? You shouldn’t be. It is true that I have lived many centuries. When I was young I encountered Hutts who had made deals with Kaan’s Brotherhood of Darkness. In recent centuries I hired mercenaries who had served with the Lord Hoth at Ruusan. I am more familiar with this ‘cycle’ of history, as you call it. For I have seen it turn. Politicians come and go. There are good times and bad. Push and pull, back and forth, on and on. Such is the nature of things. One can simply accept it, and take one’s pleasure where they can, or fall into despair.”

“And you chose the former.” Baylan surmised, his eyes narrowing.

Beldorion considered the mercenary before him. “You are disappointed. The shorter lived races always tend to be overly ambitious.”

Baylan grit his teeth. “I simply do not concede to the idea of inevitability.”

Beldorion shook his head, smiling sadly. “Such a vision. You may claim to be a Jedi no more, but you have a Jedi’s ambition to change things.”

“My ambition is matched only by my will.” Baylan affirmed. “A will the Jedi lacked.”

“Will is nothing without the means.” Beldorion countered.

“The means are crucial.” Baylan conceded. “Take, for instance, the leader of the Newcomers here on Nam Chorios, Seti Ashgad.”

“That upstart?” Beldorion asked, his tone suddenly defensive. “What of him?”

Baylan shrugged. “It is curious to me that Ashgad, a technophile Rationalist, should have his Newcomers so well armed and well developed on a planet surrounded by technophobes. Forgive me for saying so, Lord Beldorion, but Nam Chorios is not particularly industrialized.”

“It isn’t worth the effort.” Beldorion groused. “The Oldtimers and the Theran cultists try to burn down any factory that is built. Besides, it's easier to rule by turning the discordant factions against one another.”

“Ashgad must have a contact. An offworld supplier.” Baylan asserted. “An Imperial industrialist with contacts and resources to spare. Morgan Elsbeth.”

“Indeed. My agents tell me that Lady Morgan and Ashgad are involved in some scheme with the Moff of the nearby Antemeridian Sector to undermine the New Republic’s influence in the region.” Beldorion explained.

“But that is not her sole objective.” Baylan surmised.

“No, I think not.” Beldorion agreed. “Nam Chorios and the Meridian Sector are too isolated to turn the tide in the struggle between the Remnants and the New Republic.”

“But any altercation would be enough to distract the New Republic.” Baylan theorized.

“And keep their attention away from what Elsbeth is truly up to.” Beldorion concluded. “If indeed she is planning something grander.”

“Judging by what I have learned of her, I would argue there is indeed a greater plan in play.”

“What is this Elsbeth to you?” Asked Beldorion.

“Her name is whispered from one side of the galaxy to the other. She’s said to have been a valued devotee of the late Grand Admiral Thrawn.” Baylan said. “She may be of use to me. If I can find a way to make contact with her.”

“And you believe that I can serve as a means to contact her?”

“I shall forfeit my payment for acquiring the prisoner if you can instead supply me with the means of contacting this Lady Morgan.” Baylan offered.

Beldorion ran his fingers over his large chin as he contemplated the mercenary’s offer.

“And what makes you think I would know how to contact Lady Morgan?” Beldorion asked.

“You are the ruler of Nam Chorios.” Baylan said simply. “One who has ruled as long as you must surely know the dealings of those under him.”

Beldorion smirked. “Flattery will not get you anywhere, Lord Baylan. But you do amuse me. Very well. I shall offer you the means to contact her. On one condition.”

Baylan betrayed no outward sign of distress or annoyance, but the Force rippled in warning. Beldorion laughed.

“Come now, mercenary.” Chided Beldorion. “Your acquisition of the prisoner was a start. But one gambling addict is not worth making an introduction to Lady Morgan.”

The two lapsed into silence. Beldorion waited, hoping to see what Baylan would do. The mercenary said nothing, did nothing.

“A fool might have reached for his saber.” Beldorion noted. “A more clever fool might have tried to threaten me with words. You are patient, aren’t you?”

Baylan said nothing. The Force rippled again.

“And your patience has its limits. Worry not, my Lord.” Beldorion continued. “My price is not particularly high. In exchange for giving you the means to contact Lady Morgan, I require but a simple thing from you.”

Baylan raised an eyebrow. “Name it.”

“Why?”

Baylan said nothing, but gave the Hutt a questioning expression.

“What is this Morgan to you?” Asked the Hutt.

Baylan closed his eyes, considering what he should say. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke.“It is said that she is a Dathomiri. A Nightsister who was sworn to the late Mother Talzin’s coven.”

“Really?” Asked Beldorion, not bothering to hide his surprise. “I thought that Gethzerion’s clan was all that remained of the Nightsisters. The rest were said to have been massacred on Count Dooku’s orders decades ago.”

Baylan offered the Hutt a sardonic half smile. “The Sith appear to be notoriously sloppy in all the genocides they enact. We two are proof enough of that.”

Beldorion’s eyes widened. “You blithering fool.” The Hutt said, his voice disbelieving as he recognized Baylan’s intentions. “You come to me, seeking a Nightsister and ranting about the cycle of history. Don’t tell me you put stock in those fairy stories of Peridea!”

“We live in a universe of fantasy, my Lord Beldorion.” Said Baylan. “How many billions live today who think the Jedi and the Force are nothing but fantasy?”

“There is a difference between the fantastic and the impossible.” Beldorion noted.

“Perhaps.” Baylan conceded. “But how can we know until we’ve pushed ourselves to the limit?”

“Why not simply go to Dathomir and speak to the surviving witches?” Beldorion asked. “Why waste so much time seeking a particular Nightsister?”

“Gethzerion may be dead, but the Nightsisters who followed her in their schism with Mother Talzin’s coven are distrustful of outsiders; and men in particular. The Lady Morgan has a reputation working for the Empire. She will prove more cooperative than her estranged sisters.”

Beldorion offered Baylan an insincere smirk. Whether the Hutt was amused or pitied him, Baylan did not know. Nor did he particularly care.

“Very well.” Said Beldorion. “I shall provide you with the means to contact this witch. I don’t know whether to wish you luck or warn you to abandon this foolish crusade you’ve put yourself on.”

“Why settle for less?” Asked Baylan.

Beldorion refilled his glass. “Everyone wants to change the galaxy, Baylan Skoll. For good or for bad, villains and heroes plot and scheme for one reason or another. All you’re doing is putting a target on your back.”

Baylan Skoll’s eyes shimmered as he stared down Beldorion of the Ruby Eyes.

“One must disrupt the status quo if their life is to be one of significance. I’ve had a target on my back for most of my life. I would rather aim high and fail than limit myself and live a life of mediocrity.”

Chapter Text

Imperial Center

“Rise, my friend.”

Darth Vader, apprentice to the Galactic Emperor and reigning Dark Lord of the Sith, obediently rose to his full height, towering over his master as Darth Sidious disembarked from his private shuttle, flanked by his entourage of scarlet-clad Royal Guards. The glittering jewel of Imperial Center was as pristine as Sidious had left it, the living manifestation of an Empire that was now seven years strong.

The two Lords of the Sith walked in silence as they crossed from the landing platform into the interior of Imperial Palace—specifically, the one that had been carved from the former Jedi Temple. The other Imperial Palace, repurposed from the ancient Presidential Palace, stood off to the distance amidst the other buildings of the Senate District, maintained by Grand Vizier Sate Pestage and select members of the Ruling Council. Meanwhile, this Imperial Palace was under the watchful eye of his other Vizier, Mas Amedda.

Always two, Sidious thought to himself, a wry smirk crossing his weathered features.

He glanced at Vader as his faithful apprentice walked beside him. A mere ten years ago, it had been Lord Tyranus that had walked beside him in this role. And a decade before that, Darth Maul. Just as Sidious had walked beside Plagueis, Plagueis beside Tenebrous… Gean beside Gravid… Cognus beside Zannah… and Zannah beside Bane. After nearly a thousand years of planning and a lineage of over thirty Sith Lords, the Rule of Two had at last fulfilled the purpose that its creator Darth Bane had outlined for it. The Grand Plan had been completed. The galaxy was at last ruled by the Sith once more, in the hands of the two last heirs of Bane’s legacy.

Of course, there was still more to be done. The Empire was still young and there were still dissident voices that had yet to be quelled. Not to mention a number of surviving Jedi that could still potentially pose to be a thorn in his side. But Sidious was not worried about that; such obstacles would be dealt with in due time.

No, the aspect of the Grand Plan that had yet to be fulfilled—the unspoken tenet of the Rule of Two—lied in the bond between Sidious and his apprentice… or rather lack thereof. When Darth Bane had established the Rule of Two, he had modeled it off the tenets of the ancient Dark Lord Revan, who himself had been inspired by records detailing something that was known as a dyad in the Force. Two that were one.

The Jedi had already achieved something akin to a dyad themselves in the form of Force bonds. Ironically enough, Darth Revan himself had been among the first recorded to form such a bond… but only after he had been brainwashed by the Jedi to serve them once more. Shortly after that, the Sith Lady Darth Traya had established a similar Force bond to the Jedi exile Meetra Surik. But Traya was a… unique figure among the Sith, just as Surik had been among the Jedi. Their situation was not to be taken as a normal or even ideal one.

In any case, neither of these bonds had been known to have become true dyads, and in the millennia since no Sith had successfully established such a bond. Plagueis had attempted to create one with Sidious but failed to do so before his… untimely demise. Now it was Sidious’s hope to achieve such a powerful bond with his current apprentice Vader. But so far his efforts had failed to produce any results.

Still, it had only been seven years. They had an Empire to build, which was going to take time and attention away from such efforts. He just needed to be patient.

It was several minutes after they had entered the Imperial Palace that Darth Vader finally spoke, breaking the silence that had been interrupted only by the laborious breathing of his mechanical suit.

“The fortress stands,” the apprentice started.

Sidious glanced at him, an eyebrow cocked. “Have you succeeded in creating your new abode?”

“Yes, Master. Lord Momin’s final design will fulfill its purpose nicely.”

Sidious sniffed. “And to think I had invested all of that money into acquiring that castle on Vjun….”

“Bast Castle will serve its purpose. Just as my fortress shall serve its purpose.”

Sidious looked back at him. “And what of the fortress on Nur? I heard some reports indicating there was a bit of a… flooding incident a couple of years ago.”

“An inconsequential incident. The Inquisitorius continues its work.”

The Emperor chuckled. “Which one?”

Vader looked at his master. Although his mask was inexpressive as always, Sidious could tell that his apprentice was unamused by the joke.

“I still fail to see the purpose in having two separate groups of Inquisitors, Master,” Vader said bluntly.

“Would you rather have one? Do you think you would be more successful in hunting down Jedi if you only had one group of Inquisitors to babysit?”

“Do not misunderstand my criticism, Master. The Inquisitors have been useful in their work.”

“Have they?” Sidious questioned. “Because it sounds to me that they have already let two Jedi escape from their grasp. Now Cere Junda and her Padawan lackey join the likes of Jax Pavan, Kazdan Paratus, and Master Rahm Kota of Jedi survivors who continue to elude us.”

Vader clenched his gloved fists, taking umbrage from his master’s words. “Such Jedi are exceptions, Master. We have already succeeded in killing so many other Jedi: Eeth Koth; Sha Koon; Kirak Infil’a; Jocasta Nu—”

“Bah!” Sidious spat. “That old bat had already died once. Are you certain she is dead this time?”

“With complete certainty, Master.”

“So we shall see. Sometimes I worry our lightsabers don’t do as good a job as we hope them too. If Maul could survive being cut in twine….”

“He is still at large, is he not?” Vader asked. “If you wish, I can direct the Inquisitorius towards—”

Sidious cut him off with a wave of his hand. “There will be no need for that, my friend. The rogue apprentice will be dealt with in time. For now, he may prove to be a useful tool. Just as he always has.”

Vader did not argue the matter further, although he could read his apprentice’s disappointment like a holobook. He let Vader stew in his disdain for the Dathomirian as they continued on into the palace, eventually stepping out onto a walkway that oversaw a massive chamber, in which staff workers busied about performing their duties for the Empire. As Sidious walked to one of the bannisters and looked down into the chamber, Vader stood beside him. The Emperor already knew what he was about to ask before he even spoke.

“Why two?” Vader inquired.

Sidious did not so much as glance at him. “Why two Sith?”

“Why two Inquisitoriuses? Why two Imperial Palaces? Why two Grand Viziers?”

Sidious smiled. “The same reason you need two hands, my apprentice. Or two eyes.”

“I don’t understand.”

The Emperor sighed. “When you lose one of something, it always does good to have another just in case. When you lost your arm to Lord Tyranus, you still had use of your other, did you not?”

Vader said nothing.

“The same truth is applied here. If the Inquisitorius that operates on Nur ends up failing—and you have already lost a few Inquisitors from that particular group—then the Inquisitorius that operates from Prakith will continue where they had left off. The same is true of Pestage if Amedda were to perish. Or if this palace were to fall.

“There must always be two, my apprentice. Having one is a risky gamble. And three is an invitation for chaos and infighting. That is the truth that Darth Bane realized and what led him to creating the Rule of Two. And now that the practice has proven to be successful in the ascension of the Sith, so shall it be put into practice for other aspects of our Empire. All of them cogs in the Imperial machine that keep the gears of the Grand Plan turning for eternity.” Sidious grinned wickedly. “After all, a cog cannot turn without another to move it.”

Vader remained silent, but Sidious could sense that most of his apprentice’s confusion had been alleviated. That was good; the better Vader understood this truth, the more open he would be towards creating a dyad with his master. But all of that would be in due time.

And while what he had told his apprentice had been true—to a point—there was one aspect that he had left unspoken. For all the good that it did to organize the components of the Empire into pairs—whether they be Sith, Inquisitor, or Vizier—in the end all of them lived to fulfill a single purpose in life: to sustain not only the Empire… but its Emperor.

The power of two feeds the one.

When all was said and done, the Rule of Two would have fulfilled its purpose, so that the Rule of One could take its place. In time, all living beings would exist solely to serve him—the one, true Emperor.

Such a practice had been attempted before, millennia ago, by the Sith Emperor Vitiate. But Vitiate had made the mistake of jumping straight to the end game of such a plan, making his plans transparent to even his followers, forcing him to purge them once every few centuries and restart the process.

Sidious understood the value of patience. By playing the long game, he had managed to convince everyone—including Vader—that they would have a place to stand in his grand vision. And they would… in a sense.

By the time they realized they were sacrificing their will to serve him, it would be too late.

Turning away from the bannister, Sidious placed a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder as they resumed their journey.

“Come, my friend. There is still much work to be done.”

I have an Empire to build. A galaxy to rule.

The two Sith Lords walked side by side as they carried on into the once and former Temple of the Jedi Order.

And your will to make mine.

Chapter Text

Exegol, Throne World of the Sith



Lightning flashes in the everlasting atmospheric storm, chasing away any hope the dreary world has of peace. It is better that way. I am the world’s only hope after all. However empty a shell I inhabit now.

Like his father before him the Last Jedi fell, and another so-called Chosen One has been named, rising from the sands and filth of mediocrity. My heir, my intended vessel, she was born with the light of divinity in her veins.

While you, Vader… You were only a pawn, moved around by the hand that controls the Shadow.

You were never as great as I desired, you failed me, and now the galaxy pays the price for your weakness.

I foresaw it, your betrayal. I sensed that your resolve to choose the darkness had been shattered. While I sought to prevent it, to shore up your hatred, I prepared. I readied for the time when you would give into your weakness. I know you tried to hide it, how cracked through you were with inconstancy and regret, hope that someday the stars would align for you. Absolve you of your deeds.

I know you watch, my once great Lord Vader. You peer into my work from your vantage point in the beyond… and are powerless to stop me. The stars will never forgive you for your transgressions, because they are mine. They bow to divinity, and I am undiminished.

The weak may think they have won, that you brought some vaunted “balance”. No such thing occurred. Balance was not achieved. You eradicated the Light, and blotted out the Darkness. But in the Shadows of the Light you tried to restore, my first order was given.

You were my greatest apprentice, and yet a tool only, like Cronal, and Maul, and Tyrannus before them. Yet without the ambition of the first nor the wisdom of the latter. I showed you my throneworlds of Byss and Exegol not to welcome you into my inner mysteries, rather to impress upon you the hopelessness of your miniscule ambition.

I am the one who destroyed your son. Chipped away at him piece by piece. Every conflict the son of Skywalker fought, I controlled. Cronal, the man who thought he controlled the Dark, merely did as I desired. As I decreed. Cronal chose an apt name for the face he showed the galaxy, unaware as he was who was the true Pawn, unaware where the Shadows lay. You think it is a victory that both you and your son joined the Dark and then returned to the light? It is victory, but not yours.

The son of Skywalker desired to know you better, and like his father he discovered his great weakness. His desire to be loved. And now he is dead. Like you. Like his sister will soon be. I freed you from the chains of the Jedi, I will free your children too.

The Princess is headstrong and angry, but she is disciplined. She knows how to control her anger. She knew when to walk away. The son however? Until he abandoned his family to hide like a coward, I believed he would simply soldier on to his inevitable end in my grasp. He would have been mine so thoroughly that the galaxy would have bowed to the Emperor, eternally.

That the boy is dead is disappointing, but unavoidable. That my creature Snoke failed to bring him to me is infuriating, but predictable. Lumiya worked so hard to destroy him, I guided the politicians of the Republic and Galactic Alliance to betray him. In the end he showed everyone his weakness, ran from his hatred, his anger, and gave up. Instead of running to me, he simply ran.

The Grand Plan may have many possible paths to fruition, yet the path we tread is contingency. This body, held together by magicks and the prayers of my followers, is your cursed legacy.

Vader, my blood and yours stalk each other.

Your flesh and blood stalks the galaxy leaving terror in his wake.

Mine is misguided, but she will come to me and fulfill her destiny. Palpatine will rule forever. That will be your legacy.

Ahh. I sense you have hope Vader, that the Sword will rise and defend the Jedi. The Sword is shattered, like her father, like her uncle. She will not interfere.

The boy, your blood, yearns to hear you speak to him, to hear your guidance. But it is I who guide him. He is not as powerful as his brother, but his motivation is pure, free of weakness. He desires power over those who saw him as their pawn. I gave it to him and with it he decimated your son’s legacy, just as his brother destroyed your son’s reason for living. He will bring me the girl and he will fall and she will rise and carry forward my divinity.

The Princess… she thinks that because the Skywalker line has caused me grief that I am undone. It is true Exegol was never my intention, to rise from the ashes of a rotting clone disturbs me greatly. Byss was to be the throne I had crafted in my image, glorious and divine. Beautiful to gaze upon and full of ambition underneath the surface. And Exegol? My predecessors crafted the world in their image, it contains power, yet no beauty. No artifice. No gardens that lure the weak to apathetic adoration, no lakes for fools to drown in. Yet artifice has not won me the loyalty of the weak or the strong. It has not created a fear so bone deep that no rebellion or resistance is unfathomable.

Here on Exegol the spirits of those who came before whisper to me, offering a vision I have been reluctant to heed. Yet… I see a galaxy free of the need to choose, of the need to live and work and die for the self. I see a galaxy bound to the Sith. To me.

You will see Vader, as I strike fear and confusion into their hearts. They will turn, they will bow, and I will rise.

At last the work of generations is complete, the great error is corrected!

The Day of Victory is at hand, the Day of Revenge, the Day of the Sith!


***


Throughout the galaxy in the corners where the scum and slime crawl, where the loyal and the opportunist wait, a voice and laughter echo with a promise. A promise of power and order.


***


Throughout the galaxy on the fields of blood and embattled stars, where the rebel and resistor fight and die, a voice and laughter echo with a threat, and hope seems to shatter.

Chapter Text

The Headquarters of the Imperial Supreme Commander, Bastion

"...and with the annexation of the traitor Mas Amedda's territories now ratified by the Senate, we expect the New Republic will enjoy a 41% increase in industrial output in the next fiscal year, assuming ongoing economic trends..."

"Damn you Daala." Gilad Pellaeon, newly appointed Supreme Commander of the Imperial Fleet by decree of the Council of Moffs, stewed uncomfortably in his seat behind his desk as he listened to an adjutant from the Military Procurement Office describe in detail how ongoing economic developments would impact the Imperial war machine.

The statistics were...sobering.

The New Republic was gaining in strength. With the war officially over and Mas Amedda cooperating with the Rebels in exchange for a conditional pardon under house arrest, many regions of the galaxy under New Republic control were going through an economic boom. The Republic's coffers were filling up with reparations from captured Imperial "war criminals".

And while the Republic had foolishly scrapped most of its war time armaments, the 10% that remained was well maintained and fully staffed, proving more than a match for the ramshackle state of what remained of the Imperial Starfleet. A Starfleet, Pellaeon thought morosely, that was under invested in, under staffed, and maintained by less than well trained officers.

It had all been left for him to sort out.

"Damn you Daala." Pellaeon thought again vindictively. He wouldn't have been in this position if she hadn't resigned. Now he was stuck in an office, attending meetings and signing flimsiwork when he should have been out securing the future of the Empire. He'd never wanted power. He knew the burden that came with being an administrator.

He'd seen it before in men like Thrawn. The Grand Admiral had borne the weight better than most, stitching the Empire back together again during the Mount Tantiss operation. But Pellaeon had always known his leader had chafed under the sheer scope of the responsibility he'd taken upon himself.

Assuming of course, that the man who had led the Mount Tantiss campaign was Thrawn...

Pellaeon shook his head, dispelling the small quaver of doubt. He couldn't be weighed down by rumor or speculation. Instead, he focused on what the officer in front of him was saying.

"We're being left behind. The only answer to this problem," Pellaeon said, interrupting the presentation. "Is to increase our own production to compensate."

The officer giving the presentation, a flint eyed Major, cleared his throat before responding. "Of course, Supreme Commander, but it would seem that traditional methods are faltering."

"Traditional methods." Pellaeon repeated the phrase sardonically before standing up from his chair and clasping his arms behind his back. He knew well enough what the traditional methods of encouragement entailed. Threats wouldn't cut it anymore.

"For all factories directly under Imperial control, reduce the workday for each shift down to ten hours. Increase daily wages by 5% across the board for all factory workers. And set up a scaled incentive program to deliver bonuses to workers who exceed their quotas." Pellaeon ordered.

"Sir?" The Major asked, blinking in confusion.

Paelleon pulled up a report on his desk and waved it in front of the Major.

"I've read your reports, and seen the factories for myself since I took command. The workers are jittery and miserable from long hours and threats from their superiors. This makes them unproductive and prone to error. An increase in pay and a decrease in working hours will make them more productive in the long term."

"In the long term, yes." The Major nodded his head haltingly. "But in the short term it might be costly. The Moffs..."

Pellaeon cut the Major off with a swift gesture. "I'll handle the Governors Major. Draw up the orders and I'll sign off on them. With any luck the few corporations still working in Imperial space will adopt similar practices once they see the benefit of the Imperial factories doing so." Pellaeon waved his hand again in dismissal, ending the presentation.

The Major clicked his heels, saluted, turned, and left the office. Once he was gone Pellaeon collapsed back into his chair and allowed his head to fall into his hands.

The Moffs would be livid. Less work, more pay? The short sighted fools would kick up a fuss heard from the New Territories to the Western Reaches.

He didn't know who he hated working with more, the Moffs or the Shadow Council.

The Moffs were petulant man-children who needed to be cajoled into doing anything. But the Shadow Council's smug arrogance had always rubbed him the wrong way.

And, while he insisted to himself that he truly did not care, there was a part of him that smarted whenever the members of the Shadow Council insistently referred to him as Captain Pellaeon. The Governors who sat on the Council of Moffs in the New Territories were held in contempt by many of the warlords on the Shadow Council, who felt they had suffered the most from the New Republic's onslaught.

As such, any promotion given by the Council of Moffs was cheerfully ignored.

To the Shadow Council, Pellaeon was a useful agent, designed to attract as much attention from the New Republic as possible, allowing them to scheme unimpeded and unnoticed.

Pellaeon sighed. How did they not understand? The two Councils both wanted the Empire to survive. But the Council of Moffs was more concerned with holding on to what little they had left. And the Shadow Council...well...they only wanted to restore the Empire so long as they alone were its new masters. Pellaeon saw his dual role in both organizations as an attempt to knit the two factions together, if not prevent them from eating each other alive. Someone had to keep a handle on the more...zealous members of the Shadow Council. Gideon in particular was a nightmare waiting to happen.

There were days, now growing in frequency, when he wondered why he even bothered.

The panel to his office door chimed, indicating that someone wanted to see him, shaking him from his thoughts. The Admiral brought up his schedule on his datapad, and frowned when he saw that there was no one officially scheduled to meet with him.

Pellaeon grimaced when he considered the amount of flimsiwork he still had to take care of before he was due to attend that afternoon's strategy session.

He considered telling whoever it was to go away. But he'd always encouraged an open door policy to the members of his command staff aboard the Chimaera, and it had proven useful for determining what was going on amongst the rank and file. So, reluctantly, he made up his mind.

"Enter!" Pellaeon barked before glancing back down at his datapad, briefly skimming a requisition order before signing off. He looked up again when he heard the steady tread of Stormtrooper's boots.

A single trooper, out of armor and dressed in his black service uniform, came to attention and saluted.

"Forgive the intrusion sir." The trooper said as he stood at ease. "But I had to see you as soon as I made it dirtside."

Pellaeon squinted before rising from his chair. There was something about this officer that seemed...familiar.

"I know you." Pellaeon admitted. "But I'm afraid I can't say from where."

The Stormtrooper officer nodded his head stiffly. "It's a pleasure to see you again Admiral. I imagine you wouldn't remember me well. We met only briefly. I'm Captain Daric LaRone."

Pellaeon remembered now. He'd seen LaRone briefly on the holoprojector speaking with the Grand Admiral shortly after the conquest of Ukio.

"You were part of one of the Grand Admiral's...side projects." Pellaeon knew that the Chiss had developed plans within plans, but Thrawn had always played his cards close to the vest. "Something to do with his work in the Unknown Regions."

LaRone's lips tugged upwards in a brief smile. "I was...and am."

The trooper reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "I've been instructed to give this to you sir."

Pellaeon frowned in consternation before taking the box and opening it. His eyes widened in surprise as he pulled out an obsidian medallion. The chain was cold to the touch. Each link had silvery runes of some type inscribed into them. The medallion itself was inlaid with silver diagrams surrounding a pale, sickly emerald gemstone of some kind.

"Do you recognize it sir?" LaRone asked.

Pellaeon felt his jaw drop.

He had seen this medallion, once before.

The day Thrawn died.

Command Bridge, ISD Chimaera, in retreat from Bilbringi, 9 ABY

"All ships report clear of the system sir." Lieutenant Tschel reported grimly. "Damage reports and casualty lists are still being compiled. All Captains have signaled that they'll have a full after action analysis presented to you in an hour."

Tschel's report was met with silence.

"Sir?" Tschel asked.

"Time to the rendezvous point?" Captain Pellaeon stared out the viewport at the swirling mass of hyperspace, his expression blank.

Tschel stared down at his boots and mumbled something.

"Speak up dammit!" Pellaeon snapped, whirling on the young Lieutenant. Tschel leapt back, frightened.

"We-we should arrive at the fall back coordinates at the edge of the Unknown Regions in seven hours sir." Tschel looked away for support from his fellow crewmates. He found none.

The technicians in the crew pit were silent; staring at their monitors and going through the motions. They were numb.

Tschel glanced briefly at the Captain before looking back down at his boots again. "I-I'm sorry s-s-sir."

Pellaeon sighed and rubbed his eyes. He reached out and placed his hand on Tschel's shoulder.

"No, son. I'm sorry." Pellaeon confessed. "I've been hard on you since you arrived on my bridge. I've had to be to mold you into a proper officer. It doesn't do much for discipline to lecture you on proper decorum on the bridge only to snap at you."

Tschel's face went red with embarrassment. He was unable to look the Captain in the eye.

"Permission to speak freely sir?"

Pellaeon grit his teeth before finally speaking. "Go ahead."

"Sir." The Lieutenant said, his voice hesitant. "We can't leave him like this."

Pellaeon grimaced. He'd been so focused on securing the ship and fleet, extricating themselves from the battle with the rebels, that he'd been unwilling and unable to look at his fallen commander.

Grand Admiral Thrawn was still seated in his command chair, the knife still sticking out of his chest. The Admiral's head was tilted back, his red eyes thankfully closed.

Pellaeon doffed his cap and ran his hand through his hair as he approached the chair.

"Have a gurney brought up from the sickbay." Pellaeon ordered. Tschel nodded rapidly before all but running away, eager to be away from the Captain.

The Captain looked around at the bridge. At his crew.

They were lost.

It was over.

The Empire was dead.

A medical team entered the bridge with a gurney, and Pellaeon oversaw the process of Thrawn's removal from the bridge.

As the medics gingerly lifted the Admiral from his chair, Pellaeon saw a flash of something bright.

Confused, the Captain approached the gurney.

Looking past the red blood splotches, Pellaeon saw that Rukh's blade had torn a massive hole in the Admiral's white tunic.

Through that hole, Captain Pellaeon saw an obsidian medallion with an emerald gemstone.

Was the gemstone...glowing?

How long had Thrawn been wearing that?

The Headquarters of the Imperial Supreme Commander, Bastion, 14 ABY

"You took this from him?" Pellaeon asked, his tone accusatory. "How did you even get it?"

LaRone appeared unphased. "We were acting on a contingency developed by the Grand Admiral in the event of his death. When the Chimaera and her fleet arrived at the edge of the Unknown Regions, my squad and I came aboard to retrieve it. The Admiral gave us the access codes needed to approach the fleet, board the ship, and take custody of the medallion for safekeeping."

Pellaeon didn't answer immediately. He looked at the medallion, and then back up at LaRone.

"Why was it so important?" Pellaeon finally asked. "And if it was so important that you had to take it, why are you giving it to me now?"

LaRone looked uneasy. "You'd think I was crazy if I told you. Touch the gemstone and you will see for yourself."

Pellaeon wanted to scoff. But he'd long since learned that everything regarding Thrawn had a method to its seeming madness.

And that method always yielded results.

Pellaeon touched the gem, and his vision went white.

He stumbled back as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

He wasn't in his office anymore. Where was he? Some white void.

"Am I dead?" He asked himself.

Pellaeon.

The Admiral spun around, and saw a bright green light in the distance.

Not knowing what else to do, Pellaeon approached the light. After what seemed like a few minutes of walking he came to the source of the light. A green orb of flame hung just above his head, pulsing and burning like a little star.

It looked like a flame.

But why did he suddenly feel so cold?

Pellaeon.

He looked away from the flame. He knew that voice.

"Grand Admiral?" He asked, before shaking his head vigorously. No, that didn't make any sense.

Thrawn was dead.

Wasn't he?

Touch the flame and learn the truth.

"But...it will surely burn me." Pellaeon murmured.

Have I ever led you astray?

Hesitantly, Pellaeon reached out and touched the flame.

The Admiral's hand jerked back on instinct. It did not burn, per se, but he felt as though he'd placed his fingers in a live power conduit.

The flame grew in size, growing brighter before splitting into three separate shapes. Each new flame was roughly the size of a person.

The three flames materialized in a circle, equidistant from one another, around Pellaeon before they began to fade. As the flames faded they were replaced by three women in red robes.

The women knelt, their heads bowed, their lips moving as they pronounced something low and inaudible that Pellaeon couldn't understand.

"What is this?" Pellaeon asked, turning from one woman to the next. "Who are you?"

"Forgive the Great Mothers. Their skills are eminently useful. But they are not the most elegant conversationalists."

Pellaeon's eyes widened. Slowly, hesitantly he turned.

And he saw Thrawn.

Thrawn tilted his head to the side as he considered Pellaeon's appearance. "Hello Captain. Or, should I call you Admiral?"

Pellaeon frowned. He was no one's fool. He'd seen Thrawn die. Unless...unless the speculation was true. "What sorcery is this?"

Thrawn appeared nonplussed by Pellaeon's attitude.

"It is the work of the Nightsisters." Thrawn explained.

Pellaeon looked away as he considered that trinket of information. "Morgan Elsbeth?"

Thrawn nodded. "Yes. While her intelligence and her resources as Magistrate of Corvus were most beneficial to my operations, her knowledge of Dathomiri magicks was perhaps the most valuable of all."

Pellaeon stared at the figure before him critically. The Admiral looked and sounded the same as he had when Pellaeon had known him. He did note though that the edges of the Admiral's white uniform appeared frayed, as though they hadn't been repaired in some time.

"What is this, then?" Asked Pellaeon. He gestured to Thrawn, the Great Mothers, and at the great white void they seemed enmeshed in. "Is this some mystical equivalent of a recording? Are you some echo of the man I knew?"

Thrawn cocked his head in consideration of what Pellaeon had said. "A reasonable guess. But no. The medallion was, is, a means of control."

"I don't understand." Pellaeon admitted.

"Many of my plans depended on the art of cloning. I suppose such a dependence was born of my fascination with the Clone Wars. C'baoth and the Spaarti cloning cylinders proved most useful to me. Is it really such a surprise that I should create a clone of myself?"

Pellaeon felt his stomach lurch. "So Syndulla was right? Our intelligence sources told us she was convinced you'd died at Lothal. That the man who led the Empire claiming to be you was either an imposter or a clone."

"She was right, and she was wrong." Said Thrawn. "Hera Syndulla is a remarkable woman. But she has her limitations. She could not imagine my return if her dear protege Ezra Bridger did not return along with me."

Pellaeon's face tightened in anger.

"Enough with the cryptic language, damn you!" Pellaeon exclaimed. "I swear, after C'baoth and the clone Emperor I've had enough of clones and mystic nonsense to last a thousand lifetimes!"

Thrawn took no notice of Pellaeon's outburst.

"The ideal of the Empire is perfection. The reality...less so."

Thrawn folded his hands behind his back and began to circle Pellaeon, his tone lecturing. "I have always searched for the finest officers to mold the Empire. Eli Vanto, Karyn Faro, Daric LaRone and his Hand of Judgement, Soontir Fel, you. Men and women of honor and commitment who can balance ruthlessness with reason. You were all, regrettably, in the minority."

Thrawn bowed his head, and Pellaeon saw the Admiral's fingers curl into a fist.

"The Empire became weighed down by short sighted greed. Those entrusted with power abused it for profit. Morale suffered, resentment grew. Rebellion festered. And what could have been a perfect fighting machine devolved into a morass of incompetence."

Thrawn glanced downwards, his voice adopting a tone that was oddly melancholy. "There was so much to do, and so little time."

Pellaeon considered what the man before him said and drew the only conclusion he could draw from the evidence before him. "With so few people you could reliably depend on, you created a clone to share in your work."

"Your reasoning skills have improved." Thrawn nodded his head in approval.

Pellaeon frowned. "Then...I was following an imposter all along."

"No." Thrawn said forcefully. "The clone you saw die at the hand of Rukh was not like the clones of Jango Fett. Or even Joruus C'baoth. It had no free will or independent mind of its own. It was merely a drone. A puppet manipulated by myself through the medallion and programmed with my memories and personality when I could not control it directly."

"The medallion...allowed you to control the clone from a distance?" Pellaeon's mind raced. "And no one was the wiser? Not even Palpatine?"

"If the Emperor suspected, he did not confront me about it when I sent the clone to him after the Battle of Lothal." Thrawn explained. "I told him the Purrgil had destroyed the Seventh Fleet, and that I had barely escaped with my life in an escape pod. He accepted my answer and reassigned me to the Unknown Regions. There I had the clone remain until I encountered you after Endor."

"But, where are you now sir?" Pellaeon asked, baffled. "Why did you not return? Surely if you could puppet this clone you could manipulate it to launch a rescue of the real you."

"No ship in the galaxy could possibly reach me." Thrawn said. "Not yet."

"Where are you then?"

"Peridea."

Pellaeon blinked in surprise."The damned Purrgil took you from Lothal to Peridea? And you were able to act through your clone from a planet that legends say is in a distant galaxy."

"The Great Mothers residing on Peridea were most useful in amplifying the medallion's range." Thrawn explained, as though such a thing were self evident.

And so Pellaeon laughed.

The Grand Admiral's red eyes widened slightly in confusion. "I can see why you'd think such an assertion was amusing." Thrawn noted. "Though I confess such a response is uncharacteristic of you."

"Much has changed for me. I have seen too much absurdity since we last saw one another. That you claim to be stranded in a place long thought the realm of children's stories is just another entry in a long list of foolish escapades I've been made to endure" Pellaeon admitted, still chuckling. "I thought all hope lost after I saw you die. And then the clone Emperor revealed himself on Byss and I thought, for the briefest of moments, that we had finally won. And then he was defeated at Onderon and the Empire fell back into a discordant warlordism that made the events after Endor seem civilized by comparison. Gallius Rax and his people tried to burn down the galaxy for refusing to submit to the Empire, Grand Admiral!"

Pellaeon shook his head. The laughter was gone. His voice was tinged with bitterness. "I just...the Empire's gone, sir. We're a remnant now. That's all we are."

Thrawn's expression was pensive as he spoke. "Captain LaRone told me of Rax's Contingency. The Emperor always mused about how similar Rax and I seemed to him. That we were philosopher generals. But Rax's egotistic attempt to purify the Empire revolts me. Operation Cinder was a vainglorious abomination. It will make our work all the more difficult to achieve."

"Haven't you listened to what I've said?" Pellaeon asked. "The Empire's dead, Grand Admiral! Dead! It's fire has gone out from the galaxy, and its embers are rapidly cooling. Amedda's territories are signing on with the New Republic as we speak. The surviving Warlords in the Deep Core have no resources and no support. And the Imperial Remnants in the Galactic north under the Council of Moffs are a patchwork confederation that could fly apart at any moment. I'm fighting a rear guard action that will only buy us time to salvage some small bit of what we have left."

For the first time Thrawn smiled. "In that conviction lies our strength. You believe the Empire's time is past. And, thankfully, the New Republic believes it as well."

Thrawn glanced towards one of the Great Mothers kneeling nearby. "My work on Peridea is finally coming to its conclusion. I have reached out to you now because the dust from the Galactic Civil War has finally started to settle. The New Republic's guard is falling. They think the war won. In their minds the few battles with the Remnants are border clashes in a Cold War. Rax is dead. Kaine is dead. Isard is dead. Palpatine is dead. Amedda is removed from the field. There is no one left in what remains of the Empire to challenge me. Those who continue to look to the Imperial flag for inspiration seek leadership. Leadership which I will gladly provide."

Thrawn paused and gave Pellaeon a curious look. "The question is, will anyone serve?"

Pelleaon did not look away. "How do I know that any of this is true?"

"You don't." Thrawn said bluntly. "For all you know this is an illusion designed to trick you. I can reason with you as long as you please. But ultimately the choice is yours. You will do as I ask and trust that I am the Grand Admiral Thrawn you served with. Or you won't."

Pellaeon considered what had been said between the two of them.

In his experience, mystics obsessed with power had always tried to dominate their underlings. Unpleasant memories of C'baoth filtered through his mind before he forced them down.

But Thrawn had only ever used force against his enemies and those who refused to learn. To those who listened and tried to improve, he used reason.

Pellaeon made up his mind.

He reached out his hand.

Thrawn took it, and the two men shook hands.

"It's good to have you back sir." Pellaeon confessed, beaming. "What are your orders?"

"Contact Morgan Elsbeth. She and her allies are looking for the map that will allow a ship to bypass the hyperspace anomalies that surround our galaxy and its satellite companions. Then reach out to your compatriots on the Shadow Council and ensure that they prepare for my arrival. Have them start accruing resources and weapons through their contacts with Imperial sympathizers in the New Republic."

"How do you know about the Shadow Council, sir?" Pellaeon asked.

"Captain LaRone and his people are part of an...organization...I put together designed to uncover such secrets."

Pellaeon, realizing he wasn't going to get a more detailed explanation than that, pressed on.

"Very well then. What of the Remnant in the New Territories, sir? Or the Deep Core?" Pellaeon asked. "Shall I inform the Moffs of what has transpired here?"

"No. Not yet." Thrawn said. "The New Republic's attention is focused most heavily on the Deep Core and the New Territories. If we tell the Council of Moffs now we risk detection by the New Republic. The Shadow Council warlords have done an acceptable job of appearing as a rag tag band of marauders. No one outside their ranks knows of their alliance. It is the only reason they still draw breath. We will use their secrecy to amass supplies and materials needed for my return, and my plans thereafter."

"There may be some pushback from the Shadow Council." Pellaeon cautioned. "Hux's group in particular is keen to have me bleed the Remnant in the New Territories dry. Says the more attention I can draw from the New Republic, the easier it will be for him to complete Project Necromancer. They may not be receptive to your orders."

"I have no doubt you will prove adept in convincing them of the necessity of my plans." Thrawn said.

Pellaeon nodded, his expression solemn. "We'll get it right this time sir. We have to."

Thrawn nodded, his own expression equally solemn. "It is for the Empire."

Gilad Pellaeon found that there was only one thing he could say in response.

"Long may it reign."

Chapter Text

Ruin, fire and death... that was what New Republic pilot Lieutenant Poe Dameron saw all around the orbit of Coruscant, as the chaos of the Yuuzhan Vong assault continued to mount. As he banked his T-65G X-Wing harder around, he took in more of it, and was nearly blind sided by a chunk of bow from a gutted Nebulon-D frigate, still smouldering from the impact of plasma from Coralskipper magma cannons.

The Vong barbarians had shown up at the planet with over a thousand major warships... and more underhandedly, a convoy of captive refugee ships. To the horror of the defenders, the latter had been propelled into the remote mine shell surrounding the planet, as living missiles... likely full of men, women, transgendered aliens assorted, and younglings... Poe reflected nauseously. Even now the mine shell had given way to numerous swelling gaps, allowing the first ground assault forces to make their way deeper past the overwhelmed planetary shields. Overwhelmed New Republic naval forces fought to make the enemy pay for every cubic kilometre above Republic City, down to the Manarai mountains and the borders of the Western Sea. Tidal swells from crashed vessels of all kinds had already come to perturb the latter, adding further peril to the hundreds of billions of lives below.

Poe's squadron meantime, was being cut to pieces by long snouted Coralskippers and larger 'blast-boulders'. He'd had no contact from his squadron leader for some minutes now, and was pretty sure he'd bought it. Their T-65G model X-Wings were relatively top of the line - not as sophisticated as the newer T-65Js, often flown by Jedi, but still high quality. They also shared many components with the older T-70 X-Wing design, which had ended up exported oftentimes to regional defence forces around the Rim, as it became clear the military still needed tried and true designs for rapid production. Despite their performance on flimsi docs, combat with yorik coral armoured ships that could soak up lasers like a sponge had never been an anticipated parameter. Stutter-fire laser blasts and high energy flechette missiles had narrowed that gulf a good deal... but there were now thousands of the shavits up there, picking away at everything around them. Much larger Vong cruisers and destroyers also continued to rain out periodic barrages at all approaching threats.

"Scimitar One to all surviving ships: we've been ordered to form up on the refugee craft and form a protective screen. The Elegos A'kla is moving to reinforce us, with it's battlegroup. Taskforce Quickfire is also inbound shortly," came a raspy broadcast through his headset. Poe recognised the voice of the seasoned A-Wing veteran Colonel Ijix Harona, commander of Scimitar Group. The Colonel had come up through New Republic ranks, in Spearhead Squadron and other units, graduating to command of his own much decorated group - currently flying advanced RZ-4 A-Wings in the frenzied scrum around them. Having met the man before, Poe was glad the Colonel had pulled through so far.

"This is Lieutenant Dameron here - there's not much of us left, but we're forming up on your position in one minute. If you can pick these Skips off our flank, we'd much appreciate it,' Poe signalled in return. His IFF confirmed about five of them left, maybe six - and with about two dozen Vong skippers closing in. Poe signalled a retreat and formation, whilst diving back into the fray...

Some twenty minutes later, screened by New Republic reinforcements, Poe and his few surviving wingmen were safely jumping into hyperspace. Another fifteen minutes after that, and they re-emerged into realspace, setting up to land on the A'kla. A former Imperial Star Destroyer, the ship had been repurposed and refitted for New Republic service, and now served as flagship of General Garm Bel Iblis... noted among the New Republic military as a bit of a firebrand. The aging, moustached Corellian had already split off from the Rebellion post Yavin, at the battle of Milvayne, and fought a private war against the Empire since then. It had only been years later he had returned to the New Republic's fold, reconciling with his surviving colleagues there. More recently he had refused orders from Supreme Commander Sien Sovv, choosing to fire through the screen of captive refugee craft to try to blunt the Vong advance.

Poe winced at that again, but he couldn't deny the degree of pragmatism involved... cold as it was. The tactic had netted several more casualties for the Vong among the heavier ships, and even among the landing craft.

Minutes later he found himself summoned to the General's office. With long greying hair and a few medals bedecking an otherwise subdued Corellian tunic, Iblis wore only a semi formal uniform, and blue epaulettes. The man had spent years prior as a Senate member, and so had followed his own irregular path into military service... largely self charted. In contrast, Poe had gone through the usual channels into New Republic Naval flight school... aided by his father, Kes. The two had reconciled after Poe had hot-headedly run away with a bunch of criminals nine years ago, running with the Spice Runners of Kijimi. Upon his eventual return, Poe had agreed to follow his mother's path into fighter pilot training, to help temper his youthful fire with real guidance and honing of skills.

His training alongside other cadets, like the Squamatan, Suralinda, had not yet been completed when the new war had enveloped the galaxy. Kept off the front lines initially, they had been finally deployed several months ago, after the fall of Duro. Assorted engagements had been rare at first, as the Vong held a pretend ceasefire. Broken after an attack on Yavin IV (known well to his parents) they had launched a new ruthless offensive soon after. Targeting Thyferra's bacta supply had led to a disastrous New Republic attempt to retake Rodia, which had proven costly.

Even then, nobody had expected the blistering assault on Coruscant.

"Good to see you back with us, Lieutenant. We're short on men and ships by now, and awaiting new arrivals. Refugee convoys are being re-routed to safe locations, but we're already getting volunteers from among them. Taskforce Quickfire and the Warrior will be taking the next one onward, shortly, to it's designated settlement centre," the General informed him briskly. "You did very well, from all your comrades tell me."

"Those that actually survived, yeah," Poe said ruefully. "Seems like a miracle any of us did."

"If you're up for it, we'd like you to reform a squadron, maybe take on some of those volunteers, and give them a crash course. I won't lie - their chances won't be great. But we need to show we're not folding or capitulating in any way, if only for current fleet morale. You'll receive an immediate brevet promotion to Captain if you accept," Bel Iblis continued.

Poe considered it, wondering if this was all too soon. He'd been promoted largely on his academy performance up to flight lieutenant, and sometimes thought he'd lucked in too easily. Even with his shiny new BB Astromech to help him along, it had all seemed rushed. Then he'd read the incoming casualty reports, and decided the time for doubting was already rightly past. If people needed him... then they needed him here and now.

The choice then had been pretty clear cut. This was a larger challenge... but no more urgent for it.

"Okay sir - sign me up. I'm ready to show those scarhead lunatics a little more fight..."

Chapter Text

"Any idea who's aboard?" Tycho Celchu asked Wedge Antilles leadingly. The two stood aboard the flight deck of the Mon Calamari cruiser Liberty, the present base ship of Rogue Squadron, over four weeks on from the calamity at Echo Base.

Or rather, Red Squadron - as Wedge had been recently calling it. With the loss of so many at Hoth about a month ago - Zev Senesca, Dak Ralter, Samoc Farr, Kesin Ommis, Tenk Lenso... and of course: Derek 'Hobbie' Klivian - he had found it difficult to go on with the old name, feeling it a reminder of so many gone.

Hobbie had been a good friend of Wedge's since the beginning of their involvement in the Rebellion, coming over more or less together. Although Hobbie had gone back into Imperial channels to look for more potential recruits, whilst Wedge had spent time with the Tierfon Yellow Aces. There he had met Wes Janson, another long term friend, who he'd had the pleasure to introduce Hobbie to. The two had quickly started up a chalk and cheese friendship that had just seemed to work, with the jokester Tanaabian pilot helping to get Hobbie out of the dour attitude he periodically lapsed into. Wes had taken it especially hard when Hobbie's T-47 airspeeder had led a suicidal attack on an AT-AT walker at Hoth, resulting in what he had reported as a messy collision. Sadly, there had been little time to grieve, as the survivors of Rogue Group had mustered to join the evacuation, and rendezvous with other Alliance forces.

Since then, Wedge had been rebuilding the squadron with a mixture of experienced and relatively new pilots, who had recently triumphed against pirates raiding Alliance shipping. In that time, his good friend Tycho had been busy helping train other pilots, and filling in with an A-Wing group, elsewhere in the fleet.

"Word is that pretty much the whole crew of the Bright Hope and many of their passengers survived the ambush, and lasted all the way to Darlyn Boda," Wedge replied coolly. "I did hear there may be several flight personnel among that number, but I've not been able to substantiate the rumour. They'll be landing the first arrivals in a few minutes though."

"I saw Samoc go down early in the battle - there's not much hope, but if she did get picked up..." Tycho spoke hesitantly. It was a long shot, but he clearly hoped for a good dose of luck out of this. The transport Bright Hope had taken off of the surface of Hoth with over a hundred soldiers and casualties, only to be reported lost to Star Destroyer bombardment. Just recently word had been received that the ship had in fact been crippled in outer orbit of Hoth, and many survivors scooped up, to be ferried to a neutral nearby planet.

"I'll allow it's a possibility," Wedge admittedly guardedly. After so many casualties... including in the recent pirate skirmish weeks back... he had come to temper his optimism. The war was becoming more and more of a meatgrinder. Since the Mid Rim Offensive had stalled, the Alliance had lost whole infantry divisions, multiple Star Cruisers, and many bases - including training centres. Morale was beginning to plummet, and now there was reports of Imperial pursuit groups after multiple Alliance flotillas. It had been fortuitous that the cruisers Defiance and Liberty had managed to successfully get their own task forces past the wider blockade recently. "Word is the wounded will be offloaded here for at least a time, so they can benefit from treatment. After that, they may go on to a surface facility."

"How are the new pilots fairing?" Tycho added, treading softly around Wedge's sore attitude.

"Coming together well. Kott seems to be over her funk, and the other pilots are coming to depend on her more. Dix Rivan has also inspired their confidence... I think he might make a good flight leader. We've just been assigned a major new mission though: heading out to the Airam sector. It seems the Empire has a major offensive planned out there, and the locals have requested support." Tycho had noticed that Wedge could take a while to warm to new pilots - let alone refer to them by first name. It was, for him, an often necessary barrier he put up when in the heat of combat, expecting not to have to get too quickly attached to new members. As time went on, he inevitably let it drop though. Or at least, Tycho hoped he would - Wedge was a natural leader, and his general affability had always been one of the key elements behind that. Pilots knew he was as much 'one of them' as a superior - and would follow them into at least eight Corellian hells readily.

Abruptly a small Medrunner medical evacuation shuttle crept into view around the lip of the hangar frame, closing on the magnetic containment forcefield. Moving swiftly, it set down in a space between the X-Wings of Corona squadron (aka Gold) that had been moved to the edges of the comparatively narrow bay. The opening - less than forty metres wide, still readily admitted the slender shuttle.

The two pilots watched as staff attended the shuttle and aided debarkation. Many tired, bedraggled personnel debarked, some wobbling. After then came more personnel carried on floating repulsor-dollies, some hooked up to life sustaining machines. Tycho started when he recognized Samoc Farr among them, and they arranged to follow her progress, into the ship's medical centre.

Whilst awaiting her awakening, Wedge's eye was drawn to another of the bed-ridden casualties nearby, well bandaged, and apparently suffering from several significant burns. His eyes caught on familiar hands - one of a set of replacements a particularly luckless pilot had garnered over years of combat, and several notable crashes. Even after being fitted, they had picked up a few distinct nicks along the way.

"Hobbie - is that you?" Wedge hardly whispered, not particularly daring to hope. The idea of his friend suddenly resurfacing this belatedly... seemed absurd right now.

"Wedge - that... is you, isn't it?" the bandaged man whispered in return. "Yeah - I'm pretty sure it's me. Missing a few more chunks along the way, but still..."

"Get over here Tycho!" Wedge hollered, allowing joy to begin to slip back into his tremulous voice. "Man - Wes is going to be tickled with this. And he'll finally stop with the pranks - at least, the old ones. They've begun to get stale lately..."

Heartened, Wedge heard what was almost unmistakably a dim, yet growing chuckle, from his hospitalized friend.

Maybe Rogue Squadron would get to continue living after all - in name, and in spirit.

Chapter Text

Poe wandered down to the hangar bay of the A'kla within the hour, intent on getting started. His datapad held some scanty information on the available pilots - a mix of volunteers, new transfers, and the occasional surviving veteran. A tall, rangy Abednedo came to greet him as he strode into the massive facility.

"Hey C'ai! How are they looking so far?" Poe hollered to the long-faced alien. C'ai Threnalli was one of the few surviving members of the squadron to make it back from Coruscant, and was serving as Poe's interim executive officer, pending any more experienced transfers. Initially a bit withdrawn, Poe was coming to know - and generally like - the big fellow. He still struggled at times to speak Basic (what was, to humans, basic, anyway) but was still progressing, steadily.

"They are looking a bit fresh, some of them, Poe. Some definitely seen action somewhere... but it might be only light stuff," C'ai said gruffly.

"Compared to what we've been through - yeah, pretty likely. Oh - hi BB!" Poe extended greeting, towards the small spherical white and orange droid that began rolling eagerly towards him. One of the newer BB model of 'miniature astromechs' being deployed across the New Republic, BB-8 was an eager little robot, who's personality Poe sometimes found a bit too much. He was always eager, intensely curious, and frankly a little impetuous, Poe found. Still... he was hardly one to judge another on that. "So - who's got the most experience, here?"

"Hmm - Karé Kun maybe? She's a full academy graduate, if pretty new, and has already seen deployment. A bit young - but then, most of them are. Hurrie Chind... he was rushed out of training, still pretty green."

"And how about some of the volunteers? I'll take civilian flight experience - that's got to count for something. Mercenary or patrol force activity - even better," Poe said.

"We got a pretty eager one - Yolo Ziff. A holographer, budding artist... signed up out of one of the refugee transports. Seems a bit unclear on his reasons for being here so far, mind..."

"I'll have a word with him," Poe reassured his comrade. "Anyone else stand out?"

"Stomeroni Starck - he's another refugee, apparently been moved around multiple camps. I... gather he lost pretty much everyone, Poe. He's says he's looking for payback... and looking him in the eye, I definitely believe him. I think he could flame out pretty bad, without some reining in."

"I'll take it under advisement," Poe said tiredly. "I can certainly see where he's coming from, by the today. Okay - bring the first lot over."

The new pilots were summoned and formed up by part of the port-side wall of the main, gleaming white bay. Across from them, rows of spacecraft, shuttles and fighters were crammed together - including several large, broad-winged K-Wing bombers from Broadsword Squadron, and the more sleek, slender profile of E-Wings, from Stiletto Squadron. Poe took in the assembled recruits a little at a time, trying to form impressions.

Karé Kun was a young, blonde woman, a few years younger than himself (although at only twenty-five, Poe was not exactly that seasoned himself) Her eyes held determination, but measured, somehow. What he saw was promising, but there also uncertainty there he recognized too. Akin to what he'd been like nine years ago, he suspected... in his troubled teens.

Hurrie Chind looked to be in between their ages, a dark-haired man with prematurely aged eyes, and light stubble. He seemed almost exhausted - until one spotted the fire in his flinty eyes. However green he was so far, the war had apparently already hit him quite hard.

He saw more of the same within Stomeroni Starck: a kid with wavy brown hair and a strong jawline, now set with grim determination. He lacked Chind's weariness, instead exuding fire and resentment. Something that badly needed directing... carefully, and soon.

Finally - Yolo Ziff was a young, dark haired teen, dressed in slacks, who looked like many an affluent student or rich kid. He had his own holo-imager device attached by a strap to one shoulder... which was decidedly non-regulation for a warship's flight deck. His blue eyes held a little anxiety, but also wonderment, like when Poe had looked up into the night sky... beholding inviting stars. Before he'd seen death sprouting among them, especially lately.

"Welcome aboard, all: I'm Captain Poe Dameron. I'm looking for pilots - and you might be them. I won't lie and say that we've been looking forward to having you. Many of us would love to keep a lot of you well out of the fighting... for your good, as well as ours. But the Yuuzhan Vong have not left us that option. They just rolled over Coruscant like it was a dirty, underinsured cantina, and they're looking very likely to do the same to surrounding worlds, with no mercy offered. They've struck at biospheres, civilians, families, and schools - and if we don't start fighting back again soon, they're going to do so on an even bigger scale: That's where you come in.

"If you can fly, we'll train you - but we won't have long. If you can shoot - even better. If you want revenge - well, many here do. But NOT at the expense of the mission goals. Revenge temporarily satisfies the injured. Strategy, discipline and goals - they win wars. And if we lose this one, we want that to be from no lack of trying...

"Now, follow me, and let's hear what you know..."

The rookies set off across the hangar bay, heading to 'pilot country' and the simulators a few decks away. BB-8 whistled cheerily as they went.

"A good speech? Well, short, but... yeah, I guess it was, at that," Poe admitted, striding behind them. The little droid trundled in his wake, beeping softly.

Within the next hour, Poe had processed reports and files on all the personnel. He was brought a new set by Wrobie Tyce, a previous courier pilot, and one of the few survivors alongside him and C'ai, and set them alongside what he'd already been given, to help build up the pictures he needed. Next was to come a few short interviews...

"So - Yolo: do you mind if I call you that?" he asked the dark-haired youth across the small table from him. The boy shook his head lightly. "I'm told you've flown a few things before - airspeeders, mostly. And also, you race?"

"Yeah, I used to do that. I like to try new things. But art and imaging is my passion, generally..." Yolo Ziff replied.

"And now you want to fly starfighters... so tell me: why is that?"

"There's a war on... everyone who can probably should," Ziff said flippantly.

"And beside that...?" Poe said sharply. "We don't take people who aren't seriously committed, you know. Especially if they can't take orders."

Ziff looked downcast for a moment, then thoughtful - and finally spoke: "I've been out there, lately: heard a lot of stories from the other refugees. Even before Coruscant, too - a lot of suffering. And a lot of people losing someone. I like to image things, capture them, depict them... but that keeps me at a distance, away from it all. And when all those ships came to Coruscant, and I saw the chaos out there... and those poor captured ram-ships... I decided, I wanted to stop distancing myself. I want to help..."

Poe let the words sink in for a while. The kid sounded sincere... maybe still in out of his depths, but then, they all were. This war was shaping up to be as bad as the one his parents fought in... so it was time to start swimming. "Well - that's good enough for me, Yolo. Report to the simulators shortly. I'll be along."

The kid departed, and Poe turned his focus to the next budding pilot on the list... Starck.

Yeah - he might, be trouble. He called him over anyway. Best get this out in the open...

"So Starck - I understand you've already been through a lot. Been moved through several colonies and camps already..."

"Yes, I was. Coruscant was the last - at least temporarily, pending possible re-housing. We thought we'd be safe..." Starck replied, trailing off. "Then the scarheads came... and soon everything was on fire. There'd been fewer and fewer of us... dad had fallen behind, a while ago. And everywhere we left, they burned behind us, usually. I saw my sister in the fleeing crowds, and then..." He stopped, abruptly... catching ragged breaths. Moments later, the fire flecked his hard eyes again. "And now - there's basically just me. And I don't want to run anymore."

"You won't be running alone - even if you do. Our ships will be out there. But we'll also be heading back in - and that's the question before us, today: will you be with us?" Poe replied.

"I want to be... maybe I've earned it, somehow?" Starck said gruffly. "I know you need good pilots... even if most of my time was on speeder bikes. But I don't want to see those freaks descend on another world... and know I wasn't doing something."

"We're not in this for revenge, you know: I meant what I said. Tactics and strategy win wars... and we really can't afford to lose this one. From what I know, the Vong are fanatics, often blindly following faith, and credo. They have no real fear of death. They can be a team... but they also chase glory, and honour in the sight of their gods."

"You know a lot about them?"

"From what I read, and a few things I've seen, yes. They flattened Rodia lately... drove survivors into the jungles, whilst a few fought back from the tunnels below the cities. The rest, we're still learning. And when we understand them, we can beat them. We've also been countering their bio technology, like these Yammosks, lately. But of course, I can't say anymore... unless you want to be in."

Starck looked hesitant some more, and ponderous. "You may be avenging them, but even more important... making sure they won't die in vain. Or have us all join them. We can use you, meantime..."

"Yeah - okay. I can't promise I'll shape up, right away... or be fully in control, but you've convinced me we need to be looking in that direction. So I'll do my part," Starck said quickly.

Poe hoped that would be enough, for now - he'd still be watching him, a while longer, though.

"Okay - then let's go."

Chapter Text

Circa 26 BBY...

Garris Shrike walked the dirty streets of the Coronet harbour town district, not far from the estuary precinct and the infamous Silo - as it was known to many of the outlaw scrum rats. The sea air was generally crisp, and the sun was riding high above planet Corellia, catching many of the taller buildings in the distance - such as out towards Axial Park and Incorporation Islands - with it's reflected brazen light. The somewhat distant smell of fish, fleek eel and other produce drifted by.

Shrike, a sharp faced, dark-haired man with flinty blue eyes and a breath tainted by exotic intoxicants aplenty, was on a specific errand today. Flush from a new deal with one of his most important business partners - a wispy, ruthless Grindalid crime-boss who had for years gone by the name 'Lady Proxima' - he had just been able to afford updates for his surplus Corellian troop-transport vessel, Trader's Luck, and was looking for new people to add to his roving 'clan' of 'space gypsies'... as he sometimes euphemistically termed them. One particular candidate he had come to learn about of late, was the object of his search today.

A dirty orphan child (more or less) who rumour had it might be the grandchild of Dalla the Black, the infamous Corellian pirate of prior decades - he was known to most (and frankly, that wasn't many of them yet) as 'Han'. Age uncertain, possibly five or so, and lately seen wandering around and begging in the streets near the seafront. Before that time, Han had hung out near the Blastfield Shipyards, with man named Ovan - who unconfirmed rumours made out to be either be a relative, or someone who had taken him in. Other unconfirmed stories spoke of someone named Jonash, or even Jacen - on the run and in hiding, other stories claimed, from unnamed pursuers.

Either way, the kid was a prospect, and Shrike liked to collect certain prospects - preferably smart, quick witted, light fingered... and often disposable.

Stepping around into a particularly unpleasant alleyway, Shrike saw a small, huddled figure near the mouth of it. Dressed in a raggedy shirt and torn trousers, and yes - about five years old, maybe - he had dark hair, just about recognisably brown, plus what looked like hazel eyes... now misty with tears.

"Hey there! Han!" Shrike began with faux cheer. "You're too big to cry in the street, you know that?"

"Yeth... yes," the kid said, sniffing a little pathetically. "You... who are you? How do you know my name?"

Composing himself, Shrike soon launched into a somewhat prepared spiel. "You'd be surprised, Han: I know almost everything that goes on here on Corellia; I know who's lost and who's found; who's for sale and who's sold, and where all the bodies are buried. Matter of fact, I've had my eye on you. You seem like a smart lad - are you smart?"

"Yes, Captain - I'm smart," the boy said, drawing himself up and quickly forcing some confidence into his voice and gaze.

"Good, that's the lad! Well, I could use a smart lad to work for me. Why don't you come with me? I'll give you a square meal and a warm place to sleep." Then he grinned. "And I just bet you'd like to see my ship?" He finished, pointing jauntily upward into the evening air.

"A spaceship?! Yes Captain! I want to be a pilot when I grow up!" the boy exclaimed excitedly.

"Well, come on then..." Shrike replied enticingly, and took his filthy hand.

Circa 24 BBY...

Thus it had begun. Shrike had taken Han aboard his ship, and started having him taught some of the basics, by Larrad, Brafid and his clapped-out old antique droid, F8GN - a patchwork, quavering, seemingly half senile machine. Yet able to teach many tricks of the trade in pickpocketing, lock picking and petty theft - even a little begging. They had set out on a tour of nearby systems such as Saberhing, and Han had joined some of the teams sent planetside from time to time.

But Shrike had not found Han to be that promising yet, and felt he needed either to pay himself back a bit, or at any rate, a bit more seasoning. And so he had taken Han back to Corellia, along the Estuary district, and into the ever fouler smelling undercity. Coronet was in many ways, a clean city - at least to the further East. Out on the West side near the harbour, and not far from the bustling industrial sections like Labour Valley, it grew ever less sanitary. A tunnel led him, Brafid (a vaguely mole-like Elomin) and Han down into the underground depths, with a handful of other kids. A rusting access tunnel in time gave way into vaulted, yet odious sewers.

They followed the network into a high-ceiling catchment area, and a bunch of dishevelled figures melted out of the shadows. Some carried blasters, close by their hips - but most held sticks or clubs, or staves. Shrike recognized the white-faced, cadaverous visage of Moloch, the loyal right hand Grindalid of Proxima, and Syke, a feral looking human, among them.

"Hello again, Moloch: I seek an audience with your mistress - is she taking visitors?"

"Not all day - if you're lucky, she can spare a brief window," Moloch replied, menacingly.

"I have more kids ready to work for you - could be a loan, could be full time. Also, I have more information to trade, from offworld, and from Coruscant, even..."

Moloch reluctantly nodded, and sent word.

Minutes later, Shrike was before the fetid looking, deep pool that was the abode of his ruthless business partner. Proxima ruled much of the Coronet underworld, and had been gradually expanding her influence across the Corellia sector of space. Part of that expansion had involved making alliances with smugglers, traders or information brokers... and Shrike liked to consider himself a bit of all three. As well as a source of... cheap labour for hire, incidentally.

She rose abruptly out of the pasty white liquid and the clouds of steam - pallid, white, with many slightly chitinous limbs, and eyes glinting from a serpentine head. Bangles and jewellery concealed some of her less speakable organic folds and creases, with thin, wispy white hairs framing her unpleasant face.

"I greet you once more, your majestic-ness," Shrike said obsequiously. "I bring information once again, for the White Worms gang, as well as a gift. I have four children here, who have received training in certain skills that we... both value highly. I offer their services in an open ended contract of several years. I will seek to reclaim them after that if the deal is still feasible, or if they have not become overly indispensable to your operations. Or I can help you train them for offworld duties as well."

"Can they steal? Can they burgle? Rewire electronics - or vehicles?" Proxima asked tartly.

"Most of that - and with our professionals working together, they can likely do even more. I also promise you their obedience, and their loyalty... just make sure they get a reasonable amount of food, accommodation and basic health provision. I'll help see to the rest periodically."

"In return for your usual fee?" the eel-shaped crone cackled short and sharply.

"Yes, and for any favourable information concerning local go-betweens that you can spare. I have a busy itinerary to meet."

"Hmm - alright: show them in..."

And so young Han and a few friends had been shown, quivering and shaking a little, to the fearsome spectre in the water in that fetid, subterranean catacomb. But once again, Shrike noted... the boy had abruptly stiffened himself up, and steadied his nerves a bit. The kid had some nerve, and it was growing. So, maybe he'd be one to watch?

Circa 13 BBY...

The years quickly passed, and the Clone Wars came and went, bringing more chaos to the galaxy. Shrike had made a good trade out on worlds affected by the war, and had even brought Han along for a stint at the tail end of it. Then the Galactic Empire had arisen, and a new system of order and intensely militarized power had come to sweep the Core Worlds, and then the galaxy as a whole. The timid Galactic Republic was gone, and the new regime grew tighter and tighter.

Shrike was now on his way back to Capital City Spaceport from a recent business deal, strolling near the seafront, and the raft of new shipyards and warehouses that had sprung up in the area over the last six years - a product of the increasing industrial and military demands of the Empire, who had funded a massive infrastructure development. The sun shone, climbing steadily past midday, and the southern ocean glinted under the light, refracted between giant cranes and trellises.

It was just a shame how the air now smelt. Coronet city was now rife with industrial by-products, smelting, aerosols and chemical treatments, many coming from Labour Valley and the old Blastfield Shipyards... and others from the new set of constructed 'pill' islands that had sprouted up to the south, out in the harbour. Only the Gold Beaches and the vibrant commercial district lately seemed to be kept clean of most of the smog and muck, to keep attracting tourists. Or else they could climb above it all, at the towering Lastdark revolving restaurant - for a fairly exorbitant fee. Industrialization elsewhere was greatly polluting the city, however... despite attempted reforms by Secretary Thomree, who rumour had it was in running to be the next Diktat. Corellia had attempted to stay neutral in the Clone Wars... despite it's substantial shipyards contributing greatly to the Republic's arsenal. Under the Empire, now more and more construction yards were being located planet side, instead of nicely and cleanly out in orbit, as was general Corellian tradition.

Shrike made it into the spaceport, and began heading towards the terminal where Trader's Luck was berthed, under one of her many assumed names. Distantly he saw the huge oblong ship jutting out on her four splayed landing legs, with the wide transverse bow doors currently sealed. Any landing ramps were not yet visible. Meanwhile, something seemed to be up - Shrike saw Stormtroopers hurrying by across the crowd, and several tan-suited Corellian security personnel were milling about.

Drawing nearer the terminal, he suddenly saw a tall, rangy figure break from the crowd and dart towards him quietly, drawing ever closer, but taking care not to shove any out the way too obtrusively. He wore a furry peaked hat with flappy ear shields, and a greying, sooty coat.

"Shrike! Captain Shrike! I need to see you..." the young man quietly barked, a little out of breath. He lifted his gaze and Shrike saw familiar hazel eyes.

"Han... Han, is that you, m'boy?" Shrike said guardedly, wandering as to his course of action. If Han was a wanted man, he had no intention of being caught up by security, and labelled an accomplice. Even with his history of bribes, informants and tip offs... he didn't want any delays or impounds to his ship this week.

"Yeah - it's me. Listen, I was doing a deal, for Lady Proxima, and it went bad... there was this altercation, and I lost the supply I needed. Then it went worse..."

Slowly Han unraveled the tale of his latest dealings for Proxima - and how he had pretty much burned all his bridges with her. Directly assaulting a crime-lady kingpin... even in what was mostly self-defence... was never something he could realistically persuade her to overlook. No what matter what deals, or bribes he employed.

Shrike had parted ways with Han after he had made one or two escape attempts, and some pointed moments of growing insubordination. The kid was talented - a great driver, racer even (mostly in a customized landspeeder) and an excellent thief. But he had grown also cocky and insolent... and Shrike had mainly left him with Proxima's gang the last few years, rarely stopping by. His ship's cook, the aging female Wookiee Dewlanna, did ask after the boy often though.

"And so what, Han - you want to join my crew? Full time, this time? Well, kid - it's still going to cost you."

"I told you - I lost the shipment. The last of it to a customs officer half an hour ago."

"No - not the shipment. I want to know everything about Proxima's dealings for the last six years, and her interests, trading partners, and allies. And I want your loyalty, Han - no running off anymore. No secret trips to look for your folks either... not that I think you'll ever find them again. Even that Ovan guy was dead, last I heard."

"And then I just keep working for you? I can pilot - I've been training."

"When I need a pilot, I'll let you know, kid. You'll probably be swoop racing again... or helping out with some of our cons. Also, I've been planning this trip to a pretty remote world... Jubilar. I think you might really like it..." Shrike said with a sly grin. The kid was desperate now, and he could use that. Proxima would probably have him killed outright if he showed up directly near her, again. And she might well turn on Shrike for assigning Han to her... or for the other less successful aspects of dealings recently.

The kid could even be a useful operative someday... but first he had to be broken. Worn down a bit. That and learn a bit of gratitude. If it came to it, he could even maybe threaten that old Wookiee friend of his - albeit subtly. Dewlanna might be old, but Shrike knew how fearsome her people could become up close.

"I can do that, Captain, sure. Also, I can tell you all sorts of things about Proxima's operations. She still has some of the old kids... and there's... someone else, who could do with a change of career too. Maybe joining up with us..."

Shrike noted Han's cagy earnestness. So - a friend, hmm? Someone he worries for... maybe even a girl? Worth noting...

"All right kid. You'd better step along with me - I have some IDs I can lay hands on, and people I know who are open to... persuasion. I'll also call Larrad and let him know we'll maybe be late back. We'll discuss it, then. Also - why'd you come to me?"

"Because I recognized you - from quite far away. And because it was that, trying to sneak back out the entrance, or this recruiting office I saw. I figured you were my best option right now."

"Good enough for me, kid. Han, I mean? You'll be one of the crew - best let everyone know who'll be working with them..." Shrike said, still a bit dismissively.

Han's head perked up again, and the hazel eyes acquired that tell-tale bright stare... of someone working out the angles, able to play by the rules only so far, and always looking out for another horizon. Something wild and yet to be broken... and Shrike would have to stay on his feet to do so, he suddenly realized.

"I will be, yessir Captain - one of the crew. You tell them all that - and tell them to call me Solo too...
Han Solo."

Chapter Text

Anakin tinkered.

When he was upset. When he was excited.

When things went well. When things went badly.

He tinkered when he left home to join the Jedi.

He tinkered when his mom died.

Ahsoka was gone.

So Anakin tinkered.

—

He tinkered with every ship in his, well Obi-Wan’s, fleet. First he just made them better, faster, stronger. More likely to keep his men alive and win the battle.

With Ahsoka gone, he wants to make them his. Make them spectacular like he tried, and failed, to make her.

Tinkering was a great distraction. When he tinkered he could forget his anger at the High Council or his disappointment in Ahsoka (really himself).

When he tinkered was also when he felt closest to the Force, the cosmic energy that connected all life, that unified all things. Climbing around the innards of a living-but-not-alive machine, like the Dauntless, was one of the only times he felt like maybe Qui-gon was right to call him Chosen. Everything was so easy when Anakin was in a machine.

—

Obi-Wan had complained about how long it took to reach systems in need out here in the Outer Rim. They needed to be faster if they were going to prevent more systems joining (really falling to) the Seps. They needed to be able to get there fast and punch hard if they were going to take back the systems that had already fallen.

So Anakin tinkered.

—

Callista Masana, the heretic Jedi, not so different from himself when it came down to it, had displayed the remarkable ability to find the Force even within supposedly non-living machines. Ahsoka had described in great detail what it felt like to be near Callista when she had become one with the Leveler. (After he'd convinced his Padawan that what Callista had done wasn't some dark ability, just rare.) Anakin had tried to figure it out himself, but with a student to teach, his own studies had been neglected. He supposed now was as good a time as any. Anakin was going to master Callista’s machine-meld technique, he’d re-invent it if he had too.

He ripped off a panel under a console in main engineering and began a long crawl into his flagship's belly. Inside was a whole world's worth of supposed non-life, droids and robots, walking computers and mechanized tools. Each pursued supposedly regimented tasks, free of emotion, reason allowed only within the limits of programming. (They were more than that Anakin knew, but that's how most organics viewed them.)

They scurried past him in tunnels that stretched the entirety of the ship, accessible on every deck. If you knew the right route, one could travel from aft to stern without ever seeing another breathing being.

Anakin had spent more and more time here since Ahsoka left, learning the heartbeat of the ship. Padmé was… busy and seeing her was harder than either of them liked. Keeping it a secret was killing him.

But here among the non-organic floating city that was his Venator-class Star Destroyer, Anakin could put all that aside. He could crawl to the core and listen to its whirr and pulse.

So he did. He found a place to sit and tinker.

And let it all wash over him.

He reached out in the Force like Obi-Wan had taught him and he'd taught Ahsoka and he'd done unconsciously since he could remember. He had always been good with machines, it was part of what had caught Qui-gon's attention. That he'd built (rebuilt) an operable protocol droid and podracer. He reached out and the whirring became part of him, like his own beating heart. Like his cybernetic arm had become part of him.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.

His arm was the key.

When he lost his arm he thought it made him less, others in the Temple had treated him as if it had. There'd even been concern that it would affect his MDC-count. But Anakin had learned how not just to live with it, but to bond with it.

And now? It wasn't his flesh arm, and it certainly had its peculiarities, but he could feel the Force pulsing through it just like the rest of him.

This connection had served him well on Lanteeb, allowing him to save the lives of the Lanteebans by becoming one with an anti-radiation shield.

And if he could do it with some random shield, he could do it with the Dauntless.

He found a minor electrical malfunction, something that one of the repair droids would fix before any of the engineers would be alerted. But it was enough. With his hands connected to the electrical pulse of the ship he let his awareness of his mech arm expand and extend. Until the wires held between his right thumb and finger sparked to life not with electricity, but with the Force. Once that was done it was only a matter of time before Anakin could expand his awareness further and further out until he was inside the whole of the Dauntless. It was an odd sensation, beyond human certainly, yet connected, enmeshed in the creaking and vibrations of the non-breathing life aboard.

Now what? So he could become one with his ship, but what did he do with it? How did this help his people? How did this save lives?

—

Obi-Wan sat down opposite Anakin, his tray clanking loudly as he let it drop to the table. “I've been giving some thought to your problem.”

Anakin rolled his eyes. Obi-Wan was always full of bright ideas. “Alright Master, what Masterly wisdom do you have to bestow on this undeserving Knight?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flashed mischievously. “I was thinking you could use some good old fashioned slavery.”

All mirth left Anakin and was replaced by incredulous rage. “What the kriff?”

“A slave-rig Anakin, for the fleet. Like the Dark Force.”

Anakin took a breath. Why Obi-Wan chose to make that kind of joke was beyond him, and his suggestion wasn't much better. “You want me to slave=rig the ships together like the fleet that disappeared and almost took us with it?”

“When you put it like that, not like the Dark Force. For one, I doubt the Republic will be putting in orders for droid crews anytime soon. I'm thinking if you slave-rig them, then you could do your, uhhh,” Obi-Wan paused, searching for the right words. “Your melding… uhh… thing with the Dauntless and have complete control of the fleet.”

“You'd give me complete control of your fleet?” Anakin nearly laughed. If there was one thing Obi-Wan liked more than his caf or flirting with anything that moved, it was being High General of the Open Circle Fleet.

Obi-Wan took a serious tone. “In dire straits, yes. Anakin, with the ships slave-rigged and you directly controlling them, we could bypass much of the Separatist jamming technology. Can you imagine how much faster the Lanteeb crisis would have been resolved if the fleet could have communicated?”

“Yes Obi-Wan, I can. Vividly.” He suppressed a shudder. Lanteeb was among one of the more unpleasant experiences in a war full of unpleasant experiences.

“Well then, you should get on that.”

Anakin sighed. “Master, you seem to be forgetting something. Slaving the ships is a good idea, but I still have the same problem. What do I do once I'm controlling our slaved fleet?”

“Oh right. That. You can use a Path.”

—-

It was several weeks before Anakin had leave to return to Coruscant. And he felt guilty with his men still at the front. Captain Rex fighting to keep his Troopers alive. Rex assured him his leaving left the boys with no hard feelings, and they’d probably have won the war when he returned anyways. Obi-Wan had gotten wind of something he said required his personal attention, and then he’d just… disappeared.

Which was fine with Anakin. (Really it was.) Obi-Wan had given him temporary access to the restricted section of the Temple Archives. Because Anakin had to figure out what a Path actually was.

Coming to the archives for research definitely ranked as one of Anakin’s least favorite activities. If things weren't all karked up he would have had Ahsoka doing the research, but they were and he couldn't. So he stood, hoping he could find the section on the Nihil crisis without asking for help. Because help meant Master Nu, and Anakin wasn't sure who she despised more, Obi-Wan or him.

But he could imagine what she might say, if she was in a helping mood.

“Focus on the information you want. Let the Force guide you to it.”

Simple advice, and entirely common for a Jedi. But always useful, and always irritating.

He discovered there wasn't much in the restricted section regarding the Nihil crisis, which meant that what was in the open sections and available to all Jedi was most of the collected information on the conflict. So he set aside thoughts of the Nihil and focused instead on hyperspace and letting the Force guide him. He passed a section labeled in an archaic Basic script that seemed to speak of life and healing. He scoffed, he'd never had much of a knack for healing. Maybe he'd mention it to Obi-Wan. His former Master had an underdeveloped skill for it, one that Anakin was surprised Obi-Wan had never fostered.

He stopped when he felt the Force grow quiet in front of a small stack of holobooks. One seemed to glow brighter than the others. He grabbed it and shoved it into his satchel. He didn't need to confirm this text had the information he needed, he knew.

He could look it over on the way to Naboo. Where Padmé waited.

—

Obi-Wan knowing where he was and interrupting his leave in order to go after Ventress of all people, had not been on Anakin, or Padmé’s itinerary. Especially because she was supposed to be dead. But then Ventress returning from the depths of Sithhell (actually Dathomir) to haunt them would be nothing unusual. He'd thought her dead once already, and she and Maul did come from the same witch-cursed planet.

Ventress had apparently been apprehended and brainwashed by Dooku, she broke free but she’d been injured and Obi-Wan had insisted on getting her med-evacd. And of course because the universe hated him(Anakin or Obiwan, it didn’t matter) personally, she had gotten away. The shuttle she was on had disappeared with Rex and Sister aboard. Obi-Wan told him it wasn't his fault, but Anakin knew the truth. If he'd been doing his duty as a Jedi, then he'd have been there from the beginning, and Rex wouldn't be gone.

I am the Chosen One. If he couldn't keep his people safe, what did that say about his ability to help the rest of the galaxy? He resisted banging his head on his chamber floor in frustration. But meditating clearly wasn't helping right now, and it had gotten him no closer to figuring out how to find a hyperspace route with only the Force. The Nihil had done it; the book he'd found indicated that it was because the Force and hyperspace were inextricably connected. But a human’s sense of it only came out in … special circumstances. Anakin was certain that war didn't count as special circumstances. The Nihil had used torture, he was sure the war was torture enough.

A short while later Rex returned, uncharacteristically quiet about what had happened with Ventress, and where she and Sister were. Anakin trusted that Rex would tell him if he needed to know. First Maul and Ventress, now Rex? All these people disappearing and returning brought her name to mind. He'd been avoiding thinking about Ahsoka, but all that had done was result in him calling her a disappointment in front of Obi-Wan; he just wanted to see her and tell her he was sorry. Where was she? Was she okay? Why hadn't she returned to him? He had failed her, but if she came back he knew he could fix it.

Weeks or months later, he couldn't tell, Ahsoka turned up knocking on their door. Anakin finally had the opportunity. He could fix his mistakes.

—

Yularen's message had been annoyingly vague, since when did that man like surprises?

But there Anakin stood, in the Command Center of the Dauntless staring, stunned, at a holoprojection of Ahsoka. His mind raced: Where had she got that armor? And were those Mandalorian vambraces? What was she doing with Death Watch?

“Hello Master. It's been a while.”

Anakin was certain he short-circuited when she said she didn't have time to catch up, but she did want to come aboard. She wanted to see him. He knew it.

Her presentation of Mandalore's plight was concise and somewhat shaming. They'd left the Mandalorians to languish under the rule of a Sith Lord simply because the Senate considered them “neutral.” He argued as much when Obi-Wan said helping them would cause another war.

In an attempt to reconnect with Ahsoka, Anakin brought her to the Troop Hangar, where Rex had a surprise waiting for her. He had his own too, but first alarms and then Obi-Wan interrupted.

“Anakin, Rex, prepare all forces. We're jumping to hyperspace immediately.”

“Yes Sir.” Rex saluted and turned to attend to his duties. “Men with me!”

“So the attack on Mandalore was approved?” Anakin asked eagerly. If so, he and Ahsoka would be fighting together again, and he could show her what he'd done with the fleet.

“No, it's Coruscant. Grievous has attacked the capitol.”

“What about the Chancellor?”

“Shaak Ti has been sent to protect him, but Master Windu has lost contact with her.”

Anakin felt his heartbeat speed up. His mentor was in danger and … Padmé was on Coruscant too. But Ahsoka needed him on Mandalore. His worry must have shown on his face because Obi-Wan responded, “Not to worry. Our fleet can be there within the hour.”

“It can?” Ahsoka said.

“It can?” Anakin echoed.

“Anakin, this is the perfect opportunity to put your project to work.”

“What kind of project have you been working on that can cut a day's trip down to an hour?” Ahsoka’s incredulity was clear, and Anakin shared it.

“A dangerous one.” Anakin turned to Obi-wan, just barely concealing his frustration. “Obi-Wan, you know I haven't actually tested it yet.”

Obi-Wan stroked his beard. “True, but you rigged the fleet beautifully and if your state of mind after your last ship-meld is any indication, I think you’ll have it figured out in no time.”

“Wait, did you figure out how to do the terrifying ship-meld technique Callista did?” Ahsoka sounded (and looked) alarmed.

“Kinda.” Anakin said sheepishly. “Our theory is that with the fleet rigged with slave-circuitry, I can meld with the Dauntless, boost the engines and guide the entire fleet through a Hyperspace Path. If I can find a straight shot to Coruscant, it would drastically cut the length of the trip. The problem is I still don't know how to find one.”

“That’s not your only problem.” Ahsoka glared daggers at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan ignored her. “I have faith in you, Anakin.” The trouble was Obi-Wan was almost always right, Anakin never failed to accomplish the impossible when Obi-Wan believed in him. Mostly because Anakin refused to fail a challenge.

“So that's it? You're going to abandon Bo-Katan and her people?” Ahsoka’s alarm had shifted to anger and hurt. She had come here asking for help and been offered it, only for it to be taken away. Anakin watched his former Master and former Padawan argue over ethics and politics. But all he wanted to do was help as many people as possible. Those on Mandalore and Coruscant.

In the end Anakin suggested they split the 501st, give Rex a long-overdue promotion, and send him off to Mandalore with Ahsoka. She had looked at Anakin with a mixture of sadness and hope, the lightsabers he'd returned to her clipped to her belt where they belonged. She wished him “Good luck” and left him to once again achieve the impossible.

He decided the bridge would be the best place to meld with the Dauntless from, even though having everyone watch him while he did was thoroughly undesirable. He tried to ignore the crew's stares as he walked to the navigation panel and pressed his hands to the cool metal. Closing his eyes, Anakin shut out all distractions. The sooner they got to Coruscant and broke the siege, the sooner he could leave and go help Ahsoka. Together they'd end the war, and he could do what he'd been too scared to do on Coruscant when she left. With the galaxy safe he could do what he'd been wanting to do since Geonosis, even if Padmé was still scared. Anakin Skywalker was done with fear.

He poured all of himself into the meld and quickly felt the larger organic world fall away. Ahsoka had said Callista had seemed to disappear into the Leveler, and that it had left her disoriented after. But that hadn't been his experience, likely due to his cybernetic arm, Anakin retained his full sense of self and also he could feel what the Dauntless felt. The vast emptiness of space against the skin of her(his) hull, the repetitive clunk-clunk of droid and Clone feet against her deck flooring. The whirring crystal brains of the navigation computer as it waited for input, the belching engines that breathed fire. Anakin felt all of that and his own self, his heartbeat, the nerves of his right arm where they turned from flesh and blood to chrome and circuits.

Obi-Wan spoke and Anakin felt the navigation office next to him input coordinates for Coruscant, the press of the buttons tingled like Padmé tapping her fingers on his skin. Anakin breathed and the Dauntless breathed with him, the engines gearing up for a hyperspace jump. Melded with the ship it was a simple thing for Anakin to access the slave-circuitry he’d installed and turn it on. His awareness ballooned then as his body seemed to stretch to include himself, the Dauntless, and every slaved ship in the fleet. Anakin was the Open Circle Fleet. And that was the easy part. What came next would be much harder.

The coordinates to Coruscant danced between his brain and the NaviComp, flowing in binary and other code, intricate beyond all measure, but entirely inadequate. The start and end point were fine, it was everything in-between that he needed to change. He somehow needed to navigate the Fleet through a live Hyperspace Path with the Force, a feat that Anakin couldn't do alone, of that he was certain. He felt something in his larger expanded body send what was like a thought, the navicomp of the Pioneer, because right now he wasn't just Anakin. With the fleet slaved together he was Anakin and the Dauntless and every linked computer aboard.

He thought of Padmé and Palpatine and everyone on Coruscant who would die as a result of the Separatist attack. He thought of Ahsoka on her way to Mandalore with Rex. He thought of Thrawn who would have appreciated this performance. He thought of Obi-Wan and Ferus Olan and everyone he loved and hated and how they would all die if he couldn't stop the Sith Lord and save the Republic. He thought of every droid, and every star, and every planet he hadn't seen. He thought of his promise, to return and free the slaves of Tatooine and of every world. Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One and currently the Open Circle Fleet, thought of the Cosmos and Creation and the coordinates to Coruscant shifted as the fleet rumbled and then disappeared from realspace.

On the bridge Anakin heard whispers, awe mixed with fear. He knew that if the crew looked out the transparisteel windows, rather than the warm blue of hyperspace, they saw reddish-pink space whirling past. Alarms blared inside and outside Anakin’s head. The coordinates continued to shift as Anakin shifted the fleet through hyperspace, navigating in real-time, fed by the Force. Because he was needed on Coruscant. He knew it, it was where his destiny awaited. Where the Chosen One would make a choice.

One thing that he hadn't given much thought to was the strain on the physical integrity of ships in the fleet. The hyperdrives were all operating beyond capacity, and every inch of space in the computing banks was given over to processing the live feed from the Force. Anakin navigated them around stars and active hyperspace routes, through dense nebulae and asteroid fields, pods of Purghill and larger darker creatures. Anakin’s sense of passing time was karked but he could feel the ticking of every chrono aboard every ship as if it was his heartbeat. The fleet would arrive on Coruscant soon, yet it might not exist for long after. But that didn't matter because Anakin breathed and the whirling red of the Path faded and the Fleet dropped back into realspace. Chaos spread out before them.

The Battle of Coruscant had begun.

Notes:

Callista and her technopathy are from Children of the Jedi by Barbara Hambly, Anakin and Ahsoka encountered her in No Prisoners by Karen Traviss.

The events of Lanteeb are detailed in Clone Wars Gambit: Siege by Karen Miller.

Alpha is an ARC trooper in the Republic comic that was supposed to be carried over into The Clone Wars as the main clone character, but Lucas said no because he thought Alpha, Anakin, Ahsoka, and Artoo were too many "A" names. So they took him and made Rex, officially saying the two were not the same character despite there being no in-universe story or details that prevents that. Alpha's story is simply picked up under the new name Rex. This is important here because in the comic Obsession Alpha disappears along with a revived and brainwashed Ventress. In this story it is Rex. It is also my supposition to place Obsession after Dark Disciple by Claudia Grey as a way of explaining Ventress' resurrection prior to Bad Batch.

Hyperspace Paths are first mentioned in Light of the Jedi by Charles Soule, the Canon book that launched The High Republic series. Canon has continued to expand on the connection between the Force and Hyperspace, especially in the Thrawn books by Timothy Zahn where Thrawn expects Anakin to be able to navigate with the Force due to a coincidence involving the name Skywalker.

Finally, neither Canon nor Legends specify what ship became Anakin's flag ship after the Resolute was destroyed by Ventress' fleet, here it is the Dauntless.