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Chapter Text

Hera surveyed the growing list of ship components in need of maintenance or repair with equal parts frustration and despair. Dedicating one's life to overthrowing a corrupt galactic empire was hardly profitable—it wasn't even in the same jumpspace. It was a cycle, really—of her and Kanan bleeding credits faster than they could replenish them, until they reached a tipping point and were forced to take on a purely mercenary job.

She hated it. Hated that helpless, desperate feeling of counting credits, trying to stretch them when she didn't know when their next payday would come. It struck home how powerless they were. It was even more painful when she dreamed about what they could accomplish with actual funding and resources.

"Got it," Kanan announced, joining her in the engine bay.

She set her datapad down eagerly. "A job?"

"Old contact of mine has done a few jobs for this guy on Omnalis. Calls him the 'Historian,' but his name's Elbrid Ambronn. He's a huge Republic enthusiast—the Clone War era, specifically." Kanan shrugged as if to say no accounting for taste. "He pays a premium for various items of significance from that period."

"Not bad," Hera said, and it was true. Kanan had shown a knack for finding ways to supplement their income without compromising their ideals. This kind of job sounded like it fell right in line. "He has a particular 'item of significance' in mind, I take it?"

"Sort of. Mind if I borrow that?" Kanan gestured at her datapad, and she handed it over. He took a seat on the floor beside her and his fingers flew across the datapad's surface. "Early in the Clone Wars, the Separatists had a Subjugator-class heavy cruiser, the Malevolence, that was outfitted with powerful prototype ion cannons. It was destroyed when it crashed into Antar 2, a moon in the Prindaar System."

Hera studied the Subjugator schematics he'd pulled up and whistled. "That was considered a heavy cruiser? You could fit three Star Destroyers in that thing with room to spare. They must have needed a lot of juice for those cannon prototypes."

Kanan nodded. "Big and hard to maneuver, apparently. The impact left a large collection of debris both on and around Antar 2. This Historian guy is hoping that we can find one of the ship's data cores intact. But he's willing to pay a smaller finder's fee for, and I quote, 'anything of historical significance'."

They'd done salvage runs before, though never with a debris cloud as immense as the Malevolence must have produced. "What does he want with the data core? Information on the prototype cannons?"

"No idea. Maybe he wants to see how the Separatists used the ship."

He brought up a map of the Prindaar system, and Hera leaned forward, arm brushing against Kanan's shoulder as she moved a finger across the star region, tracing hyperlanes by memory.

"We're only a jump from the Hydian Way. We can follow it to the Exodeen system, and then take the Nanth'ri Route to Prindaar."

"Long trip," Kanan remarked, handing her datapad back and rising to his feet. He stretched and then settled in a slouching lean against the wall.

"What's he offering for the data core?"

He sneaked a sideways glance at her. "50,000 credits, as long as it's at least partially intact."

Hera's eyes widened before she could work her expression under control. "50,000 credits. And he wants it for 'historical' reasons?"

"We can say no," Kanan said with another shrug. But at 50,000 creds, it would be very difficult, and he knew it. "I trust my contact. By all accounts, Ambronn truly is only interested in collecting pieces of Clone Wars history. Obsessed with it, even, but when you're that wealthy, I guess you can afford a few eccentric hobbies."

With 50,000 credits, she could clear her maintenance list easily, and finally get a new air scrubber for the Ghost's life support module. Their old unit did its lumbering best, but the acrid scent of ozone had only grown stronger over the last few months. And there would still be funds to spare.

Kanan smiled, as though following her thoughts. She still wasn't certain if that was possible; it was hard enough to get him to even discuss his Jedi past, much less request an inventory of his actual abilities. On the other hand, she hadn't exactly been subtle with her worries.

"I'm in favor of anything that means I can restock the kitchen with something more palatable than ration bars." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "How you survived on those things in the years before you met me, I don't even want to know."

Hera wasn't a particularly picky eater, but Kanan's ability to assemble surprisingly edible meals out of only a handful of semi-fresh ingredients had amazed her in the year she'd had him with her. And spoiled her, unfortunately. She'd asked him once if he picked up that skill while bar-tending, but apparently he'd spent time working in a handful of cafes and cantinas in the early months after the war.

"Okay, we'll do it. Salvage is about as low-risk an op as we could hope for, for this kind of payout."

Hera tried very hard not to be charmed by Kanan's delighted grin. "I knew it. It's the prospect of actual food that tipped the scales, wasn't it?"

The prospective payday was beginning to sink in now, and the accompanying relief left her almost giddy. An answering smile sprung to her lips, and she had to fight the sudden impulse to flatten Kanan against the wall and kiss him breathless. Professional, she reminded herself sternly, keep things professional.

Kanan flushed slightly, and now she really hoped he couldn't read her thoughts. Her own cheeks burned as she turned away, clipping her datapad to her belt. "I'll get our route plotted. We'll have plenty of time to figure out how we want to handle the salvage once we're in hyperspace."

"Sounds like a plan. It'll be a nice break, to have an op that doesn't involve any shooting for once."

Hera nodded in agreement. Just because something sounded almost too good to be true didn't mean it was. Surely they were due a few breaks.

"Wow," Hera muttered under her breath as Antar 2 crossed from behind the shadow of its gas giant into view. The debris had settled into a thin but visible field around the entire moon and a deep crater marred its surface at the presumed impact site. Antar 2 wasn't exactly small, for a moon. As big as the Malevolence had been, it would have taken an enormous amount of energy at impact to have left a crater visible from orbit.

The door glided open, and their view elicited a similar exclamation of surprise from Kanan as he took the co-pilot seat. "That must have been some crash."

Hera shook her head. "I was expecting something a bit more intact than…this." She studied the space wreckage more closely. The Ghost's sensors indicated a large concentration of metal and plastic in the debris, but not the faintest signal or electronic impulse. "I find it hard to believe Republic forces didn't comb through the debris themselves for intel on the cannon prototype."

"I'm sure they did. But like you said, it's a lot of debris. Easy to miss something." His eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to peer through the debris. "I think we'll have better luck on the surface. It's less accessible to salvagers."

"But a lot less intact, I'd guess," she remarked. "I'll see what the Ghost can pick up on the surface, but the Phantom's sensors will be more useful than mine once you get into close range. I'll search the debris field while you're checking the crash site."

"Divide and conquer," he said dryly, turning to leave. "Anything in particular I should look for?"

"Maybe." Intrigued by the giant cruiser, Hera had done some reading up on the Malevolence and other Confederate warships during their last jump, and had come across an interesting sidenote. "Silconium processing was still largely confined to the core worlds when the Confederates seceded, so they ran out quickly when they ramped up their warship manufacturing. The core circuitry for most ships built after the start of the war actually used silconium alloys instead, similar to what you'd find in droids produced later in the war."

Kanan raised an eyebrow, as if to say, fascinating history lesson, and…?

"Well, the Malevolence was clearly important to the Separatists—top of the line, cutting edge technology. I wonder if they might have splurged and used something pricier, like pallatium, in their alloy. It would have been incredibly expensive, but high-performance. And since it's so expensive, they would probably only use it for key components. Core processing and logic units."

Kanan nodded, looking intrigued. "Can the Phantom's sensors be tuned that finely?"

"They won't pinpoint a trace sample of silco-pallatium for you, but I think they're good enough to spot larger concentrations of it—like, oh, a data core. It's no guarantee, but it's better than relying on something catching our eyes."

"No, you're right. It's worth a shot." Kanan palmed the door open and waved at her with his datapad on his way out. "Send me the sensor settings I should use, and I'll see if anything sticks out in the crater."

The door slid shut. Hera switched to her comlink and tuned in to the broader band frequency they used for non-Imperial operations. "Be careful out there, Phantom."

It wasn't an empty warning. Antar's enormous mass exerted strong tidal forces on its second moon, enough to keep it tectonically active, and the Malevolence's crash had been significant enough to cause further instability along the crater. On as cold and dense a moon as Antar 2, quakes could be minutes long, rather than seconds.

Dwelling on Antar 2's seismic activity wasn't going to help find those data cores; Kanan wasn't as skilled a pilot as her, but he was better than anyone else she'd worked with. Hera turned her attention to tweaking the Ghost's sensors. It took a few minutes to get the spectral sampling right, then she transmitted the configuration to the Phantom.

With that, she flipped on her own sensors. A band search made the most sense, sweeping a spiral around the planet's debris field.

On a whim, she added another condition to the sensor filters for identifying humanoid shapes; the Confederacy famously favored droid combatants. Even if they couldn't find one of the ship's data cores, their employer might be interested in what a droid involved in the Malevolence's final battle could have stored in its memory banks.

Hera was hauling in her sixth droid when Kanan's voice crackled over her comm channel. "Ghost, I'm heading back. I did find one data core, pretty thoroughly melted. Good call on the silco-pallatium. I'm about ten minutes out. See you in a few—keep a ration bar warm for me. Phantom out."

She rolled her eyes as she finished dragging her latest droid to the pile she'd started in the rec room. When Kanan wasn't mothering her about her eating habits, he was complaining about their food situation in general.

While she waited for Kanan, Hera fetched her tool kit from the maintenance bay. Chopper rolled past her into the rec room, squawking indignantly about the sudden droid incursion. "Don't be melodramatic, Chopper. No one's replacing you. Especially not a bunch of broken-down combat droids."

She set the kit down and studied her pile. All six of her haul were B1 battle droids, the foot soldiers of the Confederacy's clone army, in various states of disrepair. She'd keep them intact for Ambronn, in case he happened to be interested in restoring any of them, but even today, it was not terribly hard to find a B1 battle droid on former Confederate strongholds, repurposed for security.

What she did intend, however, was to see if any of them held anything interesting in their memory modules.

"Phantom to Ghost, proceeding to dock. A little scuffed up on my starboard flap, but otherwise good."

Either Kanan had encountered some seismic activity, or he'd clipped it passing through the debris field; if the latter, he could plan on hearing it from her for the next week. "Smooth, Phantom. See you in the rec room, unless you need help transporting your salvage."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Meet you there. Phantom out."

Hera had to pull up some old schematics for the B1s, but she did eventually locate the hatch on the heat-blackened head of her first droid. She carefully loosened the small screws holding it in place, and then set the flap aside. She took a tiny flashlight from the kit and shined it into the head cavity. Beneath a quantity of dust—fragments of debris crushed to fine powder over the course of a decade—she could spot the electro-shielding panel that covered the slot for the memory core.

The door slid open, and Kanan entered, arms wrapped around a large metallic mass that likely once was cylindrical in shape. The ship's impact with the surface and the temperature of the ensuing explosion had warped even the ultra heat-tolerant casing. Hoping for anything beyond a partially intact data core was probably too optimistic, but she tossed Kanan a cutting torch nevertheless.

Kanan surveyed her collection of droids with an amused smile. "If you were feeling lonely, you could have just told me…"

"Maybe I missed the thrill of intelligent conversation," she retorted, and Kanan pressed a hand to his heart, acknowledging the hit. She bit down on a smile. "Make yourself useful and get that data core out. I've got a universal adapter we can hook up to any data modules we find, to see if we've got anything Ambronn might be interested in."

She teased the final fastening screw out of the shielding panel and popped her droid's memory core free. She was no electronics specialist, but it looked like it was in pretty good condition. Two of the connectors on her adapter were compatible with older Trade Federation sockets, so she picked one at random and attached it to the core. She connected the other end to the hologame table's hologram generator, wiping out the Dejarik game in progress.

"Convenient," Kanan said, straining as he pulled back a strip of warped, melted metal. "You were about ten moves from embarrassing defeat at my hands. Again."

"A necessary sacrifice," she replied, switching the table's data input to the core. The holoplane flickered into action—Kanan glanced up, but it was only a fuzzy projection of lines and specks. Digital noise. Looked like some tuning would be necessary. She connected her datapad to the adapter and scanned through the contents of the core. There was a data sector dedicated to audio-visual recording; nearly forty hours worth of it, in fact.

The most interesting period would be the last hours before the Malevolence's destruction. Hera moved the data buffer back a few minutes and then started up the holoprojector again.

Antar sprung into fuzzy blue being on the table, and the Malevolence was also in full view, venting atmosphere from thousands of tears in her hull from Republic fire, on a clear collision course with the planet's moon.

Kanan lowered his cutting torch. "Huh. The droid must have been separated from the ship during the bombardment."

The Malevolence, oddly, showed no sign of breaking or course correction. Instead, its massive engines burned hotter still, and the hull distorted with the familiar warping of a ship about to enter hyperspace.

"It's too close," she muttered under her breath. And in the next second, the ship met the surface in an explosion that lit up half the face of the moon. "Why didn't they try to stop? Or swerve? Something that massive and tail-heavy isn't going to be very maneuverable, but they didn't even try."

The view went dark—the ship's destruction must have initiated a shut-down protocol in the battle droid.

Kanan picked his torch up again, but his attention was still half on the holotable."Anything interesting from before that?"

She rewinded, letting the hologram play out in reverse, but their droid turned out to have been working in one of the many engine bays, and remained there until a GAR missile tore through the hull and the bay's occupants were ripped into the vacuum of space. There was a brief glimpse of three pursuing GAR Star Destroyers, but nothing more compelling than the Malevolence's destruction.

Blast.

"On a scale of one to historically significant, where would you say this falls?" she asked, disconnecting the core with a sigh.

"A three?" Kanan ventured. "I'm sure there is Republic footage of the destruction. It was probably even broadcast on the Holonet, since it was an impressive victory at the time. I remember hearing about it."

Hera dragged the droid into an empty corner of the room and hauled the next one over to her bench. "Fortunately, I've got five more of these to dig through."

They worked in companionable silence, broken by the occasional muttered curse from Kanan. Her next four droids were duds. One was too damaged, its memory core melted into slag. Two of them hadn't shut down after the ship's destruction, and had hours of footage of the wreckage up to the point where they lost power. Another, like their first, had worked in the confines of a single room before an explosion opened the bay to vacuum.

"Finally," Kanan said, setting aside the last strip of the third layer of warped shielding. The data core wasn't undamaged, but it looked like it could contain recoverable sectors of data, with the right equipment. They didn't have that kind of tech, but if he were a serious about his hobby as the 50,000 credits suggested, Ambronn likely would. "Mission accomplished. There were no stipulations about the contents of this sucker."

Hera pulled free the final droid's memory module. "Let's see if we can supplement that payout."

With a now-practiced hand, she set the buffer position at the beginning and spun up the holo generator. An expansive bridge flickered into being, topped by a dome of thick, reinforced transparisteel that provided a 360 degree view of space above the blinking controls of the ship's tactical command center. A synthetic sounding voice barked an order before coming to view, and there was a sharp intake of breath beside her.

"That's General Grievous."

The name was familiar, but the history of the Clone Wars had been sanitized in the years since, with much of the blame for its start and its excesses falling on the Jedi. Any successful battles led by the Jedi were downplayed or omitted entirely from history. For Hera, whose personal studies of history had focused more on the Republic itself rather than its wars, she would have been hard-pressed to name more than one or two major battles, and those at the war's close.

"He was one of Count Dooku's most trusted generals," Kanan elaborated. "I think he lasted until the very end of the war."

She increased playback speed to double, and Kanan joined her at the holotable. The first few hours were largely concentrated on the bridge, where activity increased as the Malevolence prepared an assault on what looked to be a medical convoy. The ships were disabled and destroyed easily with the ship's ion cannon.

The Malevolence then set course for a Republic medical facility in the Prindaar System. Both of them watched in anticipation as the ship left hyperspace. Several medical frigates were disengaging from the facility to escape the oncoming attack, and the Malevolence rolled into position to fire on them.

A large squadron of starfighters launched from the facility's defending Star Destroyers, which remained behind. It made sense, Hera mused. Starfighters were nimble and maneuverable enough that they at least had a chance of dodging the Malevolence's ion beam.

Grievous barked orders, and the ion cannons fired. A few of the starfighters disappeared from the bridge's radar, but the giant warship was soon wracked with explosions. Damage reports poured in from various droids on the bridge—the ion cannons had been disabled, and the hyperdrive was severely damaged.

For all the Malevolence's might, without its ion cannons or hyperdrive, the ship was essentially target practice. As it limped along in retreat on its lumbering sublight engines, the Republic Destroyers finally moved to pursue, firing their own powerful arsenals at the fleeing ship.

There was a curious interlude, amid all the chaos, where Grievous took a holotransmission—Dooku had intelligence that an important senator would be arriving in the system within minutes. True to word, a small diplomatic vessel appeared almost directly in front of the fleeing ship, and Grievous immediately ordered the tractor beams engaged.

"Senator Amidala? I don't recognize the name," Hera said when Grievous stalked out of the control room to retrieve her. "She must have been important, for the Republic to call off their attack."

Kanan frowned. "The name sounds familiar. I can't say I knew too many politicians when I was on Coruscant, but a few did visit the Temple on occasion."

Life went on, on the bridge, while she and Kanan waited impatiently for Grievous to return. One of the droids monitoring the engineering diagnostics hailed the general over his comm with an update on the hyperdrive damage, which was not as severe as they'd feared. Shortly after, Grievous arrived back on the bridge, empty-handed, slapping a droid out of the way in apparent frustration.

The intrigue grew when one of the comms droids picked up an unauthorized transmission, though not in time to monitor it.

"Extraction team?" Hera wondered aloud. It was oddly compelling, watching these echoes of history play out. "She really must have been important."

Hyperdrive repairs seemed to be progressing smoothly, outside of scattered combat reports through engineering and transport bays. The Confederates were ready this time, however, for the next transmission.

"Anakin, I got separated from your droid," a voice said. Male, with a Coruscanti accent.

Kanan went still.

The next voice—Anakin, presumably—spoke with a more familiar Outer Rims cadence. "Ugh. I'll take care of it. We'll meet you back at the Twilight."

"No, we can't leave yet," said a third voice, female. The senator, she'd guess. "I overheard Grievous earlier. Their hyperdrive is almost repaired."

"I'm already headed in that direction—I'll make certain that hyperdrive stays offline."

Grievous chuckled to himself on the bridge. "We'll see about that, Jedi."

Hera's head whipped from the hologram to Kanan, who remained frozen as he stared at the hologram. "Jedi?"

This time, Grievous waved for backup, and their droid joined the small contingent, which immediately headed to the hyperdrive maintenance bay. Grievous barked a few orders over his comm to fortify the room. It would take them at least a few minutes to reach it. She knew she could speed the playback, but…

"Kanan? You recognized him, the Jedi."

He broke his stare and glanced at her, then back down at his knuckles, which were white from his grip on the table. "I—yes. Both of them. Generals Kenobi and Skywalker. They were—incredible. The best of us. I believe the senator was a friend of theirs from before the war."

"Kenobi and Skywalker," she repeated, turning those names over in her mind, but she'd only been a child when the Clone Wars finally ended and the Empire was born. "I'm surprised I've never heard of them."

Kanan laughed with an edge that surprised her—sharp, bitter.

"I don't think the Temple had stopped burning before they began scrubbing the Holonet." His knuckles went paler still until he forced himself to release the table. Kanan crossed his arms instead, tight against his chest. "To justify killing us, they had to vilify us. And villains can't be Clone War heroes, no matter how famous."

There was one final turbolift, and then Grievous's contingent finally reached the hyperdrive station. Grievous palmed the door open, revealing a long, raised passageway with a center platform at its end. The platform split off into a long, perpendicular passage, with entry doors at either end.

The Jedi, Kenobi, was already at the center platform when the trap was sprung. Battle droids poured from all sides, with B2s leading the way. Three droidekas sprung out from behind the center control console, blasters raised behind shimmering shields.

It seemed like the most ridiculous of overkill to Hera, and indeed, Grievous gave a nasty chuckle as he launched himself onto the middle corridor. "Hello there, General Kenobi. Did you really think I would leave the hyperdrive unguarded?"

"Anything is possible," Kenobi drawled, stroking his bearded chin lightly. For someone surrounded, outnumbered and outgunned fifty to one, he was absurdly calm. "You haven't exactly impressed me today."

Hera resisted the urge to glance over at Kanan again, whose love of witty one-liners in the face of danger had gained sudden context.

Apparently tiring of the banter, Grievous lifted his metal arm in the Jedi's direction. "Kill him," he ordered.

As the giant, cavernous chamber echoed with the sound of over four dozen blasters arming and taking aim, Kenobi smirked—and then vaulted high into the air. He landed behind the droidekas, taking cover behind their shields. A loud buzz vibrated in the air, and a long, blue column of light emerged from the hilt he was suddenly holding in his hand.

Hera stared with unabashed awe. A lightsaber.

What followed was even more spectacular. Kenobi parried the hail of blaster fire easily and thrust a hand towards one of the droidekas. Some sort of invisible shock wave emanated from the motion, sending the spherical droid spinning down one corridor. It crashed through the tightly packed formation of droids, spilling them off the high passageway.

Kenobi leaped over the center droideka and pushed the other one with the same hand motion, with a similar result. Five seconds, forty droids neutralized.

Grievous stalked forward, attempting to catch the Jedi off guard with a stream of blaster fire, but Kenobi stepped back behind the shielded droideka, letting the shots bounce harmlessly off it. He tried the same trick with the final droideka, only for Grievous to halt its wild spin with a powerful kick of his cybernetic leg.

Wasting no time, Kenobi gave a jaunty wave as he sprinted down one of the emptied corridors to the door, while Grievous and his droids—their silent observer included—fired after him. The Jedi blocked one bolt behind his back with his lightsaber, almost lazily.

"That was impressive," said the tinny voice of a brave B1 battle droid. He was only speaking what was on Hera's mind, what must have been going through all their processing units, but Grievous shoved him off the platform for his lip and ordered their droid to remain with the rest to guard the hyperdrive.

She increased playback speed by a factor of five, but nothing else exciting happened until their droid was ripped from the ship through an opening blasted by the chasing Republic fleet's bombardment. Like their first droid, this one shut down almost immediately after the battle, systems going dark and cold as it waited for a retrieval that never came.

The final recorded footage, before the hologram dimmed, was of the approaching Republic fleet. Hera closed her eyes, replaying the arcs of blue energy sweeping through the air, blindingly fast. The effortless way Kenobi had thrown the droidekas aside, his inhuman grace and speed as he'd dived and leapt.

When she opened them, her eyes were drawn to Kanan, who was still looking at the dark holotable, arms crossed and shoulders tight. She'd seen him use the Force only once, when he'd suspended a descending avalanche of debris on Vidian's ship mid-air, saving her life. Was this what he could do? Could have done, if the Jedi had survived?

It was even more clear now, why Emperor Palpatine had decided that his first act must be to destroy the Jedi. Even one had been capable of so much. She found herself baffled anew at how Kanan could have gone so many years drifting from planet to planet, content merely with surviving, purposeless. To have this kind of power, and to have so much reason to defy the Empire…

"Before my master chose me for her padawan," Kanan spoke, unprompted, "all I knew about the Clone Wars was what I saw on the HoloNet, or overheard the knights and masters discussing. I was so eager to join them, to become a great knight like Master Kenobi and save the Republic from Dooku and the Separatists."

He dragged his stare away from the table, to the broken mess of droids littering the floor of the rec room. "As I got older, it became harder to glorify the war. We lost five hundred Jedi in the first year, and nearly a thousand the next. Knights were promoted earlier and earlier. Padawans taken younger and deployed on the front lines. The Temple became so much quieter."

Kanan picked up her wrench, discarded on the bench between them, and turned it over in his hand. "I think Palpatine was thinning us out even then."

He rose to his feet, looking as weary and closed-off as she'd ever seen him. "Let's get these droids patched back together, and go get paid. We can sell off the parts from the other four."

"I'll plot a course to Omnalis once we've cleaned up here," Hera said, swallowing her urge to pepper Kanan with questions on a subject that clearly was a painful one for him. "Do you—I can make a copy of the footage. If you'd like."

"I—" Kanan's hand went to the back of his neck for a moment. He lowered it hurriedly. "No. It's over. Just a relic of history, now."

He turned away, from her and the holotable, and dug a screwdriver out of her toolkit. He went to the first droid and sat down in front of it, cross-legged. After a moment, she unhooked the memory core from the adapter, setting it aside carefully, and settled beside him on the floor.

And together they worked, in silence.

Chapter Text

Omnalis, like many formerly unsettled Outer Rim worlds, was not far removed from its colony days. The planet, which was heavily mountainous, consisted of three main population centers spread across its two continents. The planet's only spaceport was located in Brislac, the original colony site. Brislac had since grown to the size of a small city of several million, but outside of Omnalis's three cities, the rest of the population was spread sparsely throughout the continents.

Aside from a nascent mining industry, the planet's only other draw was through tourism: its hunting resorts were famed throughout the sector for large game and generous hunting licenses. The low population and lack of a manufacturing core had made for a hands-off central government consisting of three loosely affiliated provinces, each led by an elected governor.

The Empire's limited interest in the planet, combined with the system's proximity to Thalassia, was apparent in the rampant corruption they encountered when trying to land. It took three separate bribes to three separate officials to get the Ghost on the ground, and Hera still felt uneasy leaving her at the spaceport.

Ambronn had better reimburse them, Hera thought to herself. She wished she'd checked on Omnalis before taking the mission; any person with means who preferred to live moderately free of the Empire's meddling usually ended up in the Outer Rim territories, but she questioned the motives of anyone who chose to live so close to a slaving hub when there were alternatives.

Ambronn wasn't from Omnalis originally—he was minor nobility from Varlinaar, benefactor of his family's timely investment in hyperwave transceiver technology a century before. With the HoloNet's rapid rise, the family had made a fortune. So Ambronn had definitely had alternatives.

She double-checked the cargo with Kanan over his comm, and then eased the Phantom into flight. After a few moments, Kanan joined her up front, settling into the seat beside her. It would be a moderately long ride at the strictly enforced, planet-wide speed limit for atmospheric craft—meant to protect hunters, a port official had explained. Ambronn owned an estate the size of a small country, twelve hundred clicks northwest of Brislac, named Tiernest Point.

"It's certainly private," she muttered.

"Yeah, but that describes most of the planet." Kanan shrugged. "Given what we recovered, I'm sure he'll be happy to reimburse our transportation costs."

They were hailed when they drew closer, gaining a small escort of two armored speeders. Private security. Hera made a face, but reminded herself that it was better than working with pirates. The speeders led them to a spacious landing bay, and she set the Phantom down gently.

Kanan retreated into the back to retrieve the droid and data core, already neatly packaged in a hovercrate. Their air escort had turned into a ground escort, six lightly armored men. She tensed initially, because their armor was almost identical to stormtrooper gear, sans helmet. When they moved closer, she could see different colored splashes and patterns of paint breaking up the white.

She actually didn't notice that they were clones until Kanan flinched beside her, one foot pausing just slightly ahead of the other before he resumed walking, hand on his empty belt.

One of the clones, bearing blue markings and a blond, cropped haircut, held up his palm, halting them. "I'm afraid you'll need to leave any weapons aboard your transport."

His words were firm, but not unfriendly. Hera nodded politely. "We have. The only thing we're carrying is your employer's merchandise."

"I'll need to confirm that," he said, waving two of the other clones forward. Their commander, then.

Hera was more accustomed than she ever wanted to be with vigorous "frisking," so it was a pleasant surprise that the clones were quick and professional about it. They nodded to the commander, who waved them forward, leading them in the direction the largest building in the estate, a towering stone structure carved into the craggy hills that looked half fortress, half modern military base.

The clones were unexpected. Despite playing a huge role in the appropriately-named Clone Wars, very few clones remained from that time. Many had been casualties of that very war. Others had been killed for rebelling with the Jedi. As the Empire had turned to its abundant non-clone population to replenish their ranks, the clones had seemingly been phased out. Hera wracked her memory, but she couldn't recall having ever encountered a clone stormtrooper. Tough to tell, when they wore helmets.

"If you don't mind my asking…commander? What brought you here? To Omnalis?" she asked.

"Captain is fine. As you might have heard," the captain gestured at the hovercrate Kanan was pushing, "our employer likes collecting dusty old relics from the Clone Wars."

Kanan, who had yet to relax since the clone's arrival, stared at his back, eyes roving over the colored markings. "Where did you serve?"

"It was a war, kid. Lots of places." They reached the entrance, and the captain keyed the door open. "Lord Ambronn is waiting in the cataloging chamber—he's still processing his last shipment. I'll take you to him."

Hera could tell that Kanan wanted to press the issue, but she delivered a not-so-subtle elbow into his side, steering the conversation to a less touchy subject. "I realize Lord Ambronn is a wealthy man, but this is a lot of security. Is it for the Empire, or the pirates?"

"If the Empire decides to do something about Lord Ambronn, all the security in the world won't help. No, the danger we care about is pirates and criminals. Or any opportunistic slavers who might start poking around the area. A lot of the staff live outside the main complex."

That explained the roads and buildings she'd noticed during their descent. The captain halted in front of a large, heavy-looking door that looked like it would slow even an experienced slicer down. "Here we are." He pressed and held a button beside the door. "Captain Syndulla and her cargo, sir."

"Ah, of course. Thank you, captain."

The door slid open, revealing an enormous chamber filled with countless rows of crates. The one open area not occupied by boxes was littered by half a dozen workbenches, and items ranging from half-restored speeders to partially assembled blaster rifles to scattered data modules.

Lord Embrid Ambronn looked up from one of those workbenches, setting aside a cutting torch and flashing a welcoming smile. He was a slightly older man, late thirties to early forties, black hair already going to gray. He had a soldier's physique—sturdy and conditioned—which surprised her a little. For someone nicknamed "the Historian," she'd expected a thin, reedish man with spectacles.

His pale gray eyes fell on the hovercrate and lit up. "That will be the data core from the Malevolence, correct?"

"The data core, yes. And something I think you may find more interesting," Hera said. Kanan guided the crate down, and she removed the lid. "The data core is only partially intact—we retrieved it from the impact site. I'm not sure how much you will recover."

Kanan maneuvered it out of the crate and raised a questioning eyebrow to Ambronn. "Yes, on the table will be fine. It's reinforced."

Kanan carried it over, moving carefully under the weight. There was an odd, intricately detailed cube on one corner of the workbench that Kanan stared at for a moment before shaking himself and placing the damaged core as gently as he could manage in the center of the table and stepping back.

Ambronn pursed his lips when he got a closer look at the core. "This could be tricky. Still, you say you retrieved this from the surface?"

"We think it was spared the worst of the heat from the explosion due to the Malevolence attempting to enter hyperspace. The partial shift may have actually reduced the force of the impact."

Ambronn turned a curious gaze on her. "What makes you think they tried to enter hyperspace?"

"That would be this—" She bent over and dragged the B1 battle droid out of the crate, then retrieved the memory module she'd packaged separately. Hera tossed it to Kanan, who set it down on the table.

"The droid's memory module?"

"It contains recorded footage of both the destruction of the Malevolence—and of General Grievous's actions on the bridge and elsewhere that day. Including an encounter with a pair of Jedi."

"Truly?" Ambronn picked up the memory module reverently and cradled it in his palm, gazing upon it with almost uncomfortable intensity. "Jedi. Remarkable. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find any trace that the Jedi ever existed? Even footage. Especially footage."

Hera's gaze flickered, for just a moment, to Kanan, who suddenly looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but here. "What are you willing to offer for it?"

"Double the core's fee. 100,000 credits," he said instantly. He finally looked up from the module, at her. "I admit to some surprise that you were willing to deal it to me at all, given the Empire's standing offer to double any fee or bounty for all things Jedi."

Kanan's gloved fingers flexed at his sides, earning him a sharp glance from the clone captain. That certainly explained Ambronn's bemoaning at the difficulties of finding Jedi-related artifacts. An offer to match any fee, any bounty, for a Jedi or Jedi relic…nearly any mercenary, even one with no fondness for the Empire, would have to consider that kind of offer.

"I wasn't aware of it," Hera confessed, "but we don't go out of our way to help the Empire."

"It's a true tragedy. So much knowledge, so much culture—gone. Destroyed. From the Jedi themselves down to the smallest Temple record. Even security footage from planets visited decades ago has been confiscated, though I have had some luck with more distant worlds. Other than that, all I have is my own personal footage taken from HoloNet reports, and that only survived because I archived it myself, on my personal servers."

"But other than that, only trinkets." Ambronn gestured at the cube on the table. "Like this blasted thing, which I've spent years trying to open."

After nearly a year spent skirting around the Jedi subject, seeing Kanan bombarded on all sides with it at once was uncomfortable. "If that's all, we can provide you with our account information so you can transmit the payment."

"Ah, certainly." Ambronn sounded like he himself was eager to close out the transaction—either to preempt them changing their minds, or so he could begin immediate study.

Hera pulled her datapad out to send him her payment information while Ambronn hunted for his own datapad among the piles of miscellaneous artifacts. When he finally spotted it, his elbow brushed a stack of holodiscs, which toppled over and knocked the strange cube off the worktable.

Kanan, still standing beside the workbench, caught it mid-air with typical cat-like reflexes, and then several things happened at once.

The cube glowed slightly, a pulsating blue, and floated into the air above Kanan's open palm. The corners twisted off and separated, and another layer began to pull away from the center, while everyone in the room looked on in astonishment.

A hologram appeared above the central part of the cube mechanism, a familiar-looking man in Jedi robes, arms folded. "This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi—"

Kanan stepped back, snatching his hand away like it had been burned, and the hologram disappeared. The pieces of the cube contracted back into place, and the cube fell to the floor, silent. Ambronn was staring now at Kanan in astonishment.

"How did—?" He clapped a hand down on the desk, and the noise startled them both. "You're a Jedi. Of course."

There was something painfully raw and open on Kanan's face as he looked at the fallen cube. "I—" He bit his lip and then, as though flipping a switch, the uncertainty was gone, replaced by a disarming smile. "That would be something, wouldn't it? Sorry to disappoint. I was just a kid when they were wiped out. I watched the reports on the HoloNet news, like everyone else."

Ambronn weaved around the worktable and stooped to retrieve the cube. "I have spent the last two years, on and off, trying to unlock the secrets of this cube. It was found among the possessions of a Jedi who escaped the initial wave of killings. He was killed later, but the Empire was unable to locate his storage unit before scavengers did. I paid a hefty sum for it."

Ambronn, not three feet away now, swept Kanan up and down with a considering expression, while Kanan held his ground, smile turning forced. Hera glanced back at the room's exit, where the clone captain was still staring at the now-silent cube, looking shaken. Interesting, but not particularly useful right now.

If they needed to make a fast escape, it would be difficult without weapons. Ambronn had every reason not to report Kanan to the authorities, but she would feel a lot better if they could convince him that Kanan was no one of interest.

"You do appear too young to have been a Jedi Knight," Ambronn admitted, leaning in even closer.

Kanan stuck his hand out, pushing him back to an arm's distance. "I'm sorry. You've only paid for our standard delivery service. Poking and prodding costs extra."

"How much?" Ambronn asked, intrigued, and Kanan and Hera exchanged incredulous looks.

Hera cleared her throat and waggled her datapad at Ambronn. "Lord Ambronn, we've had a long couple of days. This salvage wasn't easy. Right now, I'd like to get paid and get back to my ship. If you wouldn't mind…?"

"Oh, I wouldn't hear of it! The guest wing is quite empty now that hunting season is over, and my personal chef is a wizard, truly. You must stay the night, especially after bringing me—" He glanced back at the nearly forgotten memory module on the table. "—such extraordinary footage."

Hera actually found herself slightly tempted, but Kanan was shaking his head firmly. She replaced the lid on the hovercrate and rested her hand there. "That's very generous of you, but we have another commission to attend to."

Ambronn glanced from her to Kanan and back, then he laughed ruefully. "I've scared you off, have I? You must forgive me. I do become so overly excited with all things Jedi." He tapped at his datapad. "150,000 credits, done."

Hera held back a relieved sigh—and then the payment amount sunk in. 150,000 credits. It was an enormous sum of money, more than enough to fund them for an entire year. Enough, even, to support others who shared their ideals. This was the missing element in their movement—financial support, some kind of backer or patron…

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and she could tell the instant Kanan figured out what she was thinking, because he crossed his arms, mouth turned downward. This entire salvage must have been extremely uncomfortable for him, but a day or two in this man's company weighed against the promise of future backing, or at least repeated business…

She flashed a warm smile at Ambronn. "You know, it has been a long day. And it's rather late to be heading back to the city."

Ambronn dips his waist in a courtly bow. "Say no more, my dear." He waved the clone forward. "The captain here can show you to the guest wing. Please, choose whichever suite appeals to you, and feel free to wander about. My head of house, Mistress Trepali, can provide a more guided tour, if you would like. Dinner is another two hours from now. You can ask any of the household to show you the way."

"Wonderful," she said, re-activating the hover controls on the crate and grabbing Kanan by the elbow. "We'll see you then. In the meantime, best of luck with your research."

"Bad idea," Kanan muttered to her as the clone led them out of the room.

Kanan waited until she'd selected a suite—two adjoining bedrooms, complete with fireplace, plush carpeting, and warm gold and scarlet hues—and the clone had left before unloading.

"What were you thinking? Do you think he's just going to leave it at that?" He raked at his hair with his fingers, leaving it as frazzled as his expression.

"I was thinking that he could have kept us here regardless of what we decided in that room," she said calmly. "But he paid us, and was prepared to let us leave. 150,000 credits, Kanan—do you know what we can do with that? What we could do with more, if we could secure him as an ally?"

"An ally? Hera, he looked like he couldn't decide if he wanted to dissect me, preserve me in carbonite, or fuck me on his workbench back there, and I'm not even sure which of those disturbs me the most."

What had been more than a little uncomfortable at the time was becoming much funnier in retrospect. "At least he was willing to pay for the privilege." She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a smile. "Don't worry, I'll protect your virtue."

"Hilarious," Kanan grumbled, giving his hair one final, vigorous tug.

It looked ridiculous now, with little tufts sticking up all over. Hera took him by either arm and steered him to the bed. "You're a mess. Sit."

He obeyed with a heaviness that spoke to a deeper fatigue than she'd expected, and she rummaged through the handsomely carved wooden dresser by the window until she came up with a comb. She'd planned to just hand it to him, but now she hesitated.

Impulse won out. Hera climbed onto the bed, settling in behind him, and loosened his messy ponytail.

She set the hair band aside and began brushing out Kanan's hair. She'd never touched his hair, though she'd thought about it before, and her heart beat a little faster. It was not the first time she'd played with human hair, but it was as strange and remarkable every time. Kanan's long, dark strands were thick and smooth, with a heaviness that surprised her, and she tilted a handful to watch the way they caught the sun and then let it drop.

She pulled the comb through his hair slowly, running her fingers through the brushed strands, marveling at the softness of those thousands of individual fibers. Most of the tension in his shoulders was gone now, she noticed.

Kanan sighed. "I know you're just trying to distract me."

"Oh, yeah?" She tried to gather his hair into the neat bundle he wore it in, but it looked bumpy. She let it drop and started over. "Is it working?"

His breath caught. "Yeah. It's a dirty tactic, though."

Her hands stilled in his hair, and she frowned. She knew Kanan had strong feelings for her; he'd made that abundantly clear the first time they'd met, and although he hardly mentioned it anymore, even in jest, she was aware he still felt that way.

That wasn't the problem. The problem was that the more time she spent with Kanan, the harder it became to ignore her own growing attraction. Her decision to play with his hair had had very little to do with any conscious attempt at manipulating him and much more to do with her own feelings. "I'm sorry. I'll stop."

"Wait." He twisted, pulling his legs up on the bed, to look at her. He looked so different with his hair framing his face—less guarded, somehow. The impulse to lean forward and kiss him now was even stronger than before, back on the ship.

Her hands moved forward, almost of their own volition, to sweep the hair back from his face. The cold, clinical part of her that could perform tactical assessments mid-battle was compiling a bulleted list of all the reasons this was a bad idea.

But this wasn't battle, this was Kanan, and this was her heart at a thousand kilometers per hour with no time for course correction. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his face to hers, brushing her lips against his. Kanan froze, as if afraid to move, and then his lips parted. Her hands moved to his shoulders, and she pressed him back into the mattress, head tails dangling as she pulled a leg around to straddle him.

Kanan gazed up at her, eyes dilated so that they were the deepest green she'd seen, and beneath that desire was a warmth that was somehow doubly arousing. Hera kissed him harder, laughing softly into his mouth at the strange sensation of his beard against her chin.

A knock at the door nearly sent her toppling off the bed, but Kanan's arm was there in an instant, and she braced herself against it, startled and oddly furious at the interruption.

"What—" She swallowed, willing her heart rate back to normal, and climbed off Kanan. Almost immediately, she missed the heat of his body against hers. "What is it?"

"Mistress Trepali, my dear," called a voice outside the door. "I've a few things for your stay. Lord Ambronn wanted me to bring you something more comfortable for supper as well."

Hera glanced down at her pilot's jumpsuit. More comfortable, in this case, likely meant more formal, but they hadn't exactly planned for an overnight stay. "That's…very kind. Just a moment."

She hopped off the bed, not daring to glance back at Kanan, and went to the door, undoing the old-fashioned lock—it wasn't until you ventured further into the complex that the security grew more modern—to reveal a friendly-faced human in her mid-fifties carrying a neat bundle of clothing. Sleep attire had been included, she was pleasantly surprised to note.

"You just let me know if any of the sizes are wrong. Lord Ambronn mentioned you might want a tour?"

Hera remembered the clone captain's odd reaction to the events in the cataloging chamber and hesitated. "Actually, I was hoping I could trouble the captain for a tour, if he's not busy, Mistress—is it Mistress Trepali?"

"Or Elise, if you prefer. Certainly, I'll let him know." Elise flashed a knowing smile. "You and your young man enjoy your stay."

"I—thank you, Elise," Hera said, resisting the urge to check her clothing for any tell-tale wrinkling. She closed the door and carried the bundle of clothing to the dresser, setting it down. She could feel Kanan's eyes on her the entire way.

She regretted her impulsive move now—mostly because all she wanted to do was pick up right where they'd left off, and she needed to keep her head clear. She counted down slowly from ten, and refocused her thoughts.

Someone like Ambronn—wealthy and already predisposed to opposing the Empire, by virtue of owning illegal contraband if nothing else, to say nothing of his Jedi sympathies—didn't drop into her lap every day.

Hera preferred working with people who truly wanted to fight back against the Empire's growing chokehold, but it was an unfortunate reality that the very wealthy were seldom inspired to activism. Money was power, and the powerful weren't often victims. An eccentric scholar of the Clone Wars era, motivated more by nostalgia than anything else, was one of the more promising leads she's encountered.

"I just lost you, didn't I?" Kanan's voice jolted her out of her thoughts.

He was still on the bed, though he was sitting up now, both feet on the ground. At some point during her conversation with Elise, he had fixed his hair—not a single strand was out of place. Hera found herself uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

"Kanan—"

He hopped to his feet. "What's the plan? You've got that look."

It was an open invitation to pretend that she hadn't just kissed him, and she accepted it eagerly. "I was thinking the clone who heads Ambronn's security might be a good barometer for how he might respond to any overtures."

Kanan didn't give her a chance to regret her word choice. He crossed his arms, expression shuttering. "I don't know why Ambronn has an all-clone security force, but if you think they're loyal to anything but the Empire—"

Hera was embarrassed how long it had taken her to place the source of Kanan's hostility—both now and earlier—towards the clones. The forces responsible for carrying out the Jedi purge would undoubtedly have been clone troopers. So many Jedi, spread thinly across the galaxy, surrounded by the clone battalions they'd served with—

And where were you, Kanan, she wondered, not for the first time.

She had her own theory. Kanan had shared dozens of colorful stories of all the planets he'd visited over the years, and after a time she'd noticed a pattern: they all began deep in the Core, and slowly worked their way out.

"Ambronn owns at least one storeroom full of illegal contraband from the Clone Wars," she pointed out gently. "The Empire could have arrested him years ago. They're not after the suppliers, either, or your contact wouldn't have been around to point us to him."

"Maybe they were waiting for something bigger," Kanan countered. Like a Jedi, he left unsaid. "You don't find his sudden eagerness to keep us here at all suspicious?"

Hera thought back to Ambronn's reaction in the storeroom. The delight could have been that of a man about to field a large payday, but he was already obscenely wealthy, and she didn't think his enthusiasm about their holo-footage had been faked. Kanan might have joked about it earlier, but the way Ambronn had looked at him—it had been like a man who'd just set eyes upon a precious relic he'd spent his life chasing.

In a way, she understood. On Gorse, staring up at the thousands of tons of death hurtling down on her, only for it to hang suspended in the air, held in place by Kanan's force of will alone…it had been like a glimpse into a forgotten era where legends lived. The stories her uncle had told of the Jedi and troopers who'd saved Ryloth from starvation, come to life.

She only remembered flashes from then: gnawing hunger, her mother's hushed voice, being carried over a craggy mountain path while the ground shook around them. Nothing of the Jedi. Oh, she'd thought as those deadly tons were swatted aside like an annoying insect. This was what he'd meant.

"Given the role the Jedi played in the Clone Wars, I don't think it's so surprising," she said. "The Jedi were supposedly wiped out, but here you are. He's a historian, Kanan—"

"He's a collector," Kanan said heatedly. "You saw his cataloging chamber."

A knock at the door cut the argument short. "Captain Syndulla?"

It was the clone captain. "I'll be out in just a moment." She checked around her for her datapad, finding it on the floor beside the bed. She was already halfway to the door when she realized Kanan hadn't moved. "You're staying here?"

He was looking past her, eyes narrowed at the closed door. "Yeah." He dragged his gaze from the door and summoned a smile from somewhere. "Gotta pretty myself up for our dinner."

She sighed, then smiled back. "Just remember, the violet dress is mine."

Kanan held his hands up. "All yours. I'm more of a green guy."

The captain was waiting in the hall, inputting something to his datapad. He glanced up when she exited and fastened it to a belt clip. "Elise said you requested me for your tour. I think you hurt her feelings."

"I had a few questions I thought might be better answered by someone with a military background. And I'm sure you have an interesting perspective on this place—it must be quite different from what you're used to."

"Because I'm a clone trooper?" he said, not bothering to dance around the issue. "We didn't spend all our time on a ship. Not that we spent much time at remote luxury estates, either."

The captain kept their pace slow and even, and he pointed out the various rooms and features like he was reading terrain details off a map, but most importantly, he didn't linger, to Hera's relief. Her motivation was to learn a little more about Ambronn; the tour was just an excuse to speak to the trooper.

They passed through a sitting room decorated in pelts and stuffed and mounted creatures. An elaborate chandelier constructed of various horns, antlers, and fangs hung from the high, arched ceiling. But despite the obvious effort that has gone into the room's decor, it looked as though it was hardly used. Ambronn didn't strike her as a hunting enthusiast—not of the creature variety, in any case.

"Does Ambronn really rent these rooms out during hunting season? I assumed he'd prefer his privacy."

"Maybe, but it never hurts to make nice with the locals. Or the ones who can afford it, anyway."

That part of the puzzle clicked. It wouldn't surprise her to learn Ambronn lodged Omnalis's wealthy and influential free of charge, given the level of corruption they'd encountered so far. "How did you end up in Ambronn's employ? I'd heard clone troopers don't really retire."

"The Empire does its best to kill us off before we reach that point," the captain said, matter-of-factly. "Unwelcome reminder of a time they'd prefer die out."

Like the Jedi. It didn't escape Hera's notice that he hadn't answered the question. "Did you retire, then?"

"Deserted." The captain's hand went briefly to his chest, just above the heart, as though remembering an old pain. "Senator Organa's Clone Reintegration Act was five years too late for me."

Perhaps it was her cynicism, but Hera was surprised the Senate had even bothered concerning itself about what happened to the clones after the war. There had been several court-martials in the months after its end. Most involved clones who had allowed their Jedi commanders to escape; others had been related to the Jedi massacre on Coruscant, though she didn't remember the details.

Asking the captain why he'd deserted felt too personal, so Hera moved on to another point of curiosity. "The rest of the security I've seen here have been clones as well. Did they follow you, when you deserted?"

"No, I found them later." He paused at the door to what looked like a large garden and gestured for her to go first. "Some deserted. Others retired after the bill passed. Either way, adjusting to civvie life is…difficult. We were raised from birth to fight and die for the Republic. We were never intended for anything else. Maybe we were, once, but not after the Republic became the Empire."

Perhaps the most terrifying thing about the Republic's rebirth as the Empire had been the swiftness of the transition. Overnight, the HoloNet had come under strict government control, and the Senate had found itself trapped by the war powers it had granted then-Supreme Chancellor Palpatine. Increased surveillance, strategically-placed troops and warships that ultimately fell under the chancellor's direct command—perhaps it had only seemed swift because Palpatine had been emperor in all but name by the war's end.

If there had been any hope of the clones being treated like war veterans rather than government property, it had surely died with the Jedi and the Senate's ability to effectively legislate anything more meaningful than a HoloNet expansion bill. That Organa had managed to pass any bill at all to benefit the clones likely had more to do with the Empire's incredible success at recruiting stormtroopers from its vast population, rendering clone troopers obsolete.

She ducked around the vines hanging from a stone archway and circled back to her original question. "So how did you end up working for Ambronn?"

"Knew some people, from the war. One of them knew Ambronn. Seemed to make sense—he gets to order around clone troopers. We get the familiar structure of a security force, but with decent hours and minimal risk. The rest of our time, we're free to use as we please. Some of my men even have families here."

That less than flattering description of Ambronn made him sound like a kid playing with toy soldiers. "You don't sound all that impressed by your employer."

The captain shrugged. "I'm grateful. Most people don't trust clones. Outside of working for pirates, slavers, or Hutts, we don't have a lot of options for employment, especially the deserters. Ambronn provides one. He pays well and takes care of my men."

A willingness to take in the clones was a plus, but 'he pays well' wasn't exactly the ringing endorsement she'd been hoping to hear. "So he's the lesser of evils?"

He frowned. "No, that's not it. Just different standards, I guess. I served under a great man—two great men—during the war. I knew many other good people like them—brothers. War took the best of us." Something dark flashed across his face—anger? Disgust? "The Empire took the rest."

"General Kenobi?" she asked. "The Jedi?"

The clone looked away, something tired creeping into his voice. "I knew the general, yes."

She'd guessed as much by his reaction to the the Historian's cube. Her next question was a far more remote shot in the dark, but the halls were growing more familiar. They were almost back at the guest suite. "Did you know Kanan?"

"Your friend, the not-Jedi? I don't think so. I don't recognize him, anyway. We had teenage Jedi on the frontlines, but I doubt he would have been old enough for that."

One final question dangles on the end of her tongue. I think he was on Coruscant, when the Jedi were killed. Where were you? But as they rounded the corner, the door to their room came into view, and she didn't know this clone well enough to share that particular theory of hers. Kanan guarded his past so fiercely, it felt wrong to do any less.

She found herself reaching into her own past instead.

"I was on Ryloth, when the Confederate forces had us blockaded. One of your clone battalions saved us—bought time for us to escape, and for the supply ships to arrive. I was too young at the time to really understand, and I never got a chance to thank any of them."

"That would have been difficult. They died, to a man." She'd already known that, but it had felt worth saying. The clone offered a worn smile. "We did good, once. It's worth remembering sometimes. Thank you."

Hera thanked him for the tour, pausing in the doorway. She was surprised to find that she'd come out of it feeling like the captain presented a better recruitment opportunity than his employer, if money were taken out of the equation. If only it were that simple.

It wasn't until she'd closed the door behind her that she realized, with a faint burn of shame, she'd never thought to ask him his name.

Chapter Text

Hera tested her range of motion in the violet dress Elise had brought for her. The fabric was heavy but flexible—seasonally appropriate, given the cool spring temperatures at Tiernest Point. Even better, the dress was free-flowing past the waist and the sleeves were short, leaving both arms and legs free of restriction. If she'd had her mini-blaster and its thigh-holster with her, she could easily have worn them with none the wiser. The shoes weren't a perfect fit, but they were only modestly raised at the heel.

She didn't necessarily mind dresses; they were a uniform of a different arena of combat, and she knew how to take advantage of them. But the kinds of missions that called for them tended be her least favorite. Having Kanan around to play off of actually made them more bearable than in the past. Tonight, fortunately, was more a matter of business, or diplomacy, than intrigue.

She glanced over at Kanan, who was smoothing out his coat beside her, frowning intensely at his reflection in the mirror. "I look ridiculous."

Kanan had been forced to ditch his combat pants and lightly armored vest for something very different. His garment consisted of a long, open coat of deep green with fine golden embroidering along the neck and cuffs, cinched at his waist with a braided cord over a fine, cream-colored shimmersilk shirt. The pants were a thick, stretchy fabric she couldn't immediately identify—Rivulian flexi-leather perhaps—that tapered into his boots.

With his hair pulled neatly back once more, he looked—strange. It was more than the clothing. He moved differently, stood differently—as if uncertain of his identity when out of his armor, and reverting back to something older, familiar. Jedi, perhaps.

"I'm not exactly the fancy dress type, but do I look ridiculous?" she asked, and he quickly shook his head. "Neither do you. It's a flattering cut, actually."

It was the coat, she realized finally, its length vaguely reminiscent of a Jedi's flowing robes. That had to be what was throwing Kanan off. She wondered if it had been intentional on Ambronn's part.

"I prefer disguises that come with blasters," he muttered, patting the place at his hip where his holster would be.

"Technically, these aren't disguises," she pointed out.

He looked unimpressed. "We're disguised as respectable company. It counts."

She caught his hand before he could fiddle with his cinch again. "Let's go. We're going to be late."

Before she could open the door, however, he reached an arm across to bar it. Although his bearing was outwardly confident, an unease lurked in the dip of his frown. "Hera—do we really want this guy as our bankroller? Once you start taking money from someone, they'll eventually expect something back."

He wasn't entirely wrong. She understood that even someone truly invested in opposing the Empire's evil would want input in how their money was being used, or at least semi-regular reports on it. And there was no guarantee that Lord Ambronn, who would presumably be drawn in by his nostalgia for the last days of the Republic—and Kanan's Jedi past—would be satisfied with just that.

Everything they did was one long succession of calculated risks; she didn't intend to enter into any fool's bargain with Ambronn, where they were barely more than a mobile mercenary force for him on permanent retainer. But that was what tonight was for—to figure out whether they could work out something with him.

"150,000 credits is already a lot," Kanan continued, eyes earnest as they locked onto hers. "We can do a lot with that."

"We could do a lot more with more," she said, which was the crux of the problem.

She had an idea where Kanan was coming from. He'd spent so long on the run that she suspected his time with her was the longest he'd stayed with anyone. That alone was a huge change to process. The notion of adding another tie, to someone with as much wealth and influence as Ambronn, had to be anathema to him.

The two of them alone weren't going to change the galaxy, though.

"Back on Orinda, we freed one transport, but we didn't have the resources to liberate the entire camp," she said, the frustration she felt as they flew over the labor camp still fresh in her mind. "And even if we had, where could the prisoners have gone? One transport is small enough that the Empire can write it off. If it's an entire camp, they'd have to come after the prisoners. Most of them would just end up recaptured or killed as an example."

Kanan gave a defensive shrug. "And what good would a few extra thousand credits have done?"

"Gotten them off the planet, somewhere they could find their feet." She gestured in the direction of the security barracks. "Do you know where Ambronn's clones come from? They were scattered, deserters. Some on the run, with nowhere to go until their captain found them and secured jobs for them here.."

Kanan didn't look particularly sympathetic to the plight of the clones, so she skipped to the point.

"Bottom line, Ambronn has both money and, crucially, connections. Contacts who might need a displaced farmer, or an outlaw mechanic. And if some of the people we save want to help us, the Ghost won't be enough forever. It can't be, if we ultimately want to change anything."

"Securing his backing doesn't guarantee any of that."

"Of course it doesn't! But we're stuck, Kanan. We're stalled at creating these—" she flailed her hands in frustration, "—these minor annoyances for the Empire. We're showering the galaxy with sparks, hoping a few of them will catch fire. But they're just sparks, scattered and isolated. Against something as suffocating as the Empire, we need to be bigger than that. Something visible, for people to organize and rally behind."

"Rebellion," he summarized.

"Rebellion," she repeated. "And if it takes sweet-talking Ambronn to have a chance at being something more, I'll take that over chasing down contraband for pirates just to stay afloat any day."

He sighed, and Hera knew she'd won. She put a hand on his arm, and he lowered it without resistance. "Okay. I still don't like it, but you have a point. Recruitment is your area of expertise, not mine. What did you have in mind?"

"We play to our strengths." She smiled and patted him on the cheek. "I do the talking. You sit and look pretty."

"I quite agree, Hera. We witness even here in the Outer Rim how the Empire treats the peoples it deems inferior: clones, non-humans, even near-humans. It is troubling. I've done my best to provide a haven for clones on my security team, but I can only help so many." He took a sip of wine and regarded her. "You are…activists, then? Freedom fighters?"

Supper was going surprisingly smoothly. After getting the initial greetings and pleasantries out of the way—and shooting a warning glance at Kanan when several expensive wines were brought out—Hera had expected to spend at least a few minutes testing the waters before working her way up to dropping a few subtle hints. But Ambronn had seemed to pick up on the direction of her thoughts almost immediately.

"I suppose that's as accurate as anything," she said. "Kanan and I have carried out a number of small, tactical strikes against certain Imperial facilities and prison camps. Ultimately, I'd like to do more than just inconvenience the Empire, but we're limited by our resources, so we're forced to choose our targets and opportunities carefully."

"Remarkable—I suspected you were more than mere mercenaries when you delivered my data core. I have had…mixed results, shall we say, with the contractors I hire. But you were both honest and resourceful, qualities that are, alas, quite rare." He glanced at Kanan for a moment. "You were between missions, then? Replenishing your funds?"

Hera glanced down at her plate, feigning embarrassment. "Is it that obvious? Yes, working against the Empire is not cheap. We take mercenary work between missions, when necessary. I'm glad you were pleased with our results—I hope you'll think of us if you need another tough retrieval."

Ambronn delicately sliced off a piece from the stalk of Essarian asparoot on his plate and chewed it, expression thoughtful. Kanan had already demolished his serving, and she couldn't blame him. It was served in a rich cream sauce that had a mildly spicy kick to it; Ambronn certainly hadn't been lying about his chef. Even with all the talking she'd done so far, she was beginning to have doubts about her ability to last until dessert.

"Have you considered making contact with planetary governments that have reason to share your sympathies?" Ambronn asked once he'd finished chewing. "Surely some would be willing to listen, and the financial security would undoubtedly help."

If only it were that simple. Hera had considered it before; many worlds, including some very influential Core planets, had been less than thrilled with the Republic's collapse and their greatly reduced power under the Empire's dictatorship. But she and Kanan were only two people—and young by almost any standard.

Figuring out who they could trust and gaining an audience to begin with would be difficult enough. Securing the trust of a governing official both in their sincerity and their competence was even more daunting.

"We've done good work, but we have a lot more to prove for a government to consider us worth the investment." A planetary leader placing her trust in the wrong movement risked bringing the Empire's wrath down on her entire planet. Hera would be the first to admit that she and Kanan alone weren't impressive enough to be worth that level of risk. Not yet. "And trust works both ways. We can't assume every planet hostile towards the Empire doesn't have an agenda, or won't simply turn us in."

Ambronn set his fork down, tilting his head at her. "I'm surprised you were so quick to trust me."

"It's easier when dealing with someone who also has secrets from the Empire." His Clone Wars contraband, she'd meant, but his eyes narrowed, something in his gaze turning dangerous. She managed a light laugh, but her nerves ratcheted up. "I'm sorry, that sounded sinister, didn't it? I just meant that it's clear you have no great love for the Empire, either."

Ambronn leaned back in his chair, relaxing. Disaster averted. "No, that makes perfect sense. I apologize. I have been forced to handle attempts at blackmail in the past, so I am perhaps overly sensitive."

"No apology needed." The seed had been planted; a little flattery now couldn't hurt, especially if it bought her a few extra days to work on Ambronn. "You've been very gracious, in fact. I'm a pilot at heart, but it's refreshing to take a break planetside sometimes, and Omnalis—and your home—are beautiful."

Ambronn smiled, looking pleased. "Thank you, I am quite fond of my small corner of the planet. In fact, if you wish to extend your stay…?"

Hera made a show of hesitation while Kanan grimaced and took a long sip of wine. "Oh, we couldn't impose—"

"Not at all, my dear. It would be my pleasure. This is a quiet time of the year for us, and Ollipha complains when I don't challenge her culinary talents sufficiently."

Kanan swallowed another generous sip, already well into his fifth glass—she'd counted. Hera narrowed her eyes at him, and he lifted one shoulder in a minute shrug. Ambronn had made a few careful attempts at engaging him in conversation, throwing in the occasional reference to Jedi and then closely watching for Kanan's reaction, while Hera had done her best to steer the conversation back to safer topics.

Kanan had a complex relationship with alcohol. Since joining her, he was mostly careful—especially on a job, he never drank then—but sometimes, when they had downtime planetside, he'd stagger back to the Ghost, drunk and bloody, and she had the suspicion that used to be the norm for him rather than the exception. It had happened with decreasing frequency these past few months, but sometimes, after a tough mission, he'd slip up.

It was clear that his Jedi history had Kanan on edge tonight. It seemed to take more alcohol for him to be affected than the average human, but he would be at least partially buzzed by now. It didn't help that Ambronn had been plenty generous about offering to refill his glass. She guessed he was hoping that Kanan would be more amenable to conversation—or more likely to slip up.

She turned her attention back to Ambronn, straightening her knife and fork atop her empty plate. "In that case, we'd be delighted to spend a few extra days here."

"Excellent!" He raised his glass in a silent toast to her and then to Kanan. "I confess, my motivations aren't entirely selfless. I enjoy a good opportunity to showcase my modest shrine to history. My hunting guests tend to be more interested in their sport than everything we've lost under the Empire."

Hera nodded sympathetically and sipped at her wine, quietly satisfied with the evening's result. Ambronn had recognized their need for a patron, even if he hadn't offered himself, and with more time to work on him and feel out his own political leanings and sympathies, she thought they had at least a chance of convincing him to help them. Even if he weren't willing to outright fund them, his contact network could be very useful.

She certainly didn't expect him to trust them with any of that after knowing them for all of a few hours; the next few days would be crucial.

"More wine?" Ambronn said solicitously, waving to Kanan's empty glass.

Kanan ignored her warning frown, and flashed that charming smile that seemed so effortless for him. She suspected it was as much directed at her as Ambronn. "Yes, thank you. It's been years since I've had a Jhantorian vintage, especially one this nice."

Ambronn eagerly refilled Kanan's glass, looking thrilled to have gotten an actual response. "Ah, a discerning palate. A business associate of mine on Jhantoria sends me the occasional shipment."

They were interrupted by the arrival of dessert, a crumbly pastry served with a mousse so light and airy it seemed to dissolve on her tongue. If they ultimately achieved nothing but their original payday and a few days of this caliber of cooking, she would almost consider it to have been worth it. She glanced over to see how Kanan was enjoying the dessert, but he appeared distracted, poking at his barely-touched plate.

Ambronn set his fork down and leaned forward. "Ollipha works wonders in the kitchen, but I would be remiss to neglect our other attractions. Aside from my own collection, we have a full-service spa on the premises, a heated garden, and several well-maintained trails in the nearby hills and forests. Hunting season is mostly behind us by now, but if you'd like to make an excursion, you need only speak with the captain. He can arrange to show you more of the grounds, as well."

Kanan tensed and looked up from his plate at the mention of Ambronn's clone captain, and Hera bit back a sigh, silently willing him to keep things civil until dinner was over. "That would be wonderful. I enjoyed speaking with him earlier."

"I'm pleased you found his company so delightful," Ambronn said, pushing his finished plate aside. "My clones hail from a great variety of backgrounds, but the captain was a particularly interesting find. Many battalions served under Jedi during the war, but none so infamous as the 501st."

Kanan flinched—actually flinched—before regaining control of his expression. He set his wine glass down, breathing calm and even. Very even. Ambronn glanced at him curiously. He had been treating Kanan like a puzzle box all night, changing and discarding tactics all night as he tried to crack his secrets, and this was the first visible crack in Kanan's composure.

Hera wasn't familiar with the 501st—her study had always been Republic history, not its final war, when she wasn't side-tracked by guides to Republic-era spacecrafts—but going by Kanan's reaction, it couldn't be anything good. Hera touched her napkin to her lips, trying to figure out how to diplomatically call the dinner to a close. Unfortunately, that was more Ambronn's prerogative than hers, and she had the sinking feeling he wasn't going to stop pushing.

"I understand he was the commander of it at one time, in fact," Ambronn continued, watching Kanan carefully. "I've asked him about the attack on the Temple before, but he prefers not to discuss it, understandably."

Whatever Kanan had been doing to calm himself was failing. Every glass at the table began to rattle. Kanan reached out to steady his glass, quiet panic written over his face, but the glass retreated from his touch as though flung, shattering against the far wall. Kanan froze, hand still outstretched.

The door cracked open and a clone stuck his head through. "Everything all right in there, my lord?"

Kanan's attention snapped to the clone, and Hera recognized in that moment that he was teetering on the edge of something dangerous. She desperately missed the reassuring weight of her blaster at her side.

"Perfectly, thank you. Just a mishap with a wine glass," Ambronn said. His voice was unruffled, but he stared at the shattered fragments of glass with the same fascination he'd shown back in the cataloging chamber.

He'd been trying to provoke Kanan into exactly that. That much was obvious now; Hera was torn between an irrational anger and reluctant sympathy. Discovering that Kanan was a Jedi had undeniably factored into her decision to trust him as a member of her crew. But he was her crew, and watching Ambronn scrape over those raw wounds with the clinical efficiency of a mechanic running a diagnostic on an uncooperative engine raised her hackles.

Kanan watched the clone until he'd left, then he stood, throwing his napkin down at his plate. His tension had gone with the clone, and now he just looked nauseated. "Excuse me."

Hera set her own napkin down as he all but fled, torn between offering an apology and a reprimand.

Ambronn preempted either, holding one hand over his heart as he offered a seated bow. "I apologize, Hera. I was just so curious—I had to know. You cannot imagine what it means to me, knowing that there is still one Jedi living. As you stated yourself, I have many secrets from the Empire. I can keep yours as well."

He had just ensured he had as much damaging information about them as they did against him, but she somehow doubted it was as simple as that.

"How did you guess he was on Coruscant?" she asked, the thought crossing her mind that perhaps she'd let something slip and the clone captain had relayed their conversation to his employer.

This certainly wasn't how she'd wanted her own suspicions confirmed.

"Was he? I merely assumed the 501st and the Temple's fall would be a difficult subject for any Jedi." The surprise on Ambronn's face appeared genuine, and he steepled his fingers, surprise turning to intrigue. "How could he possibly have survived? Especially so young. The emperor had it locked down for months."

She ignored propriety and stood. "I'm going to go check on him." She softened her glare and managed a polite smile. "The meal was wonderful, as advertised. Thank you. I'm sure we'll speak in the morning."

"Of course, please extend my apologies to Kanan as well. Good night, my dear." Ambronn's farewells were distracted, his attention back on the ruined wine glass.

Pleasantries taken care of, Hera waited until the door closed behind her to trot after Kanan, her pace hampered by her heels. She caught up almost as he reached their suite. As soon as the door closed behind them, he slammed his palm against the bedpost.

"Stupid," he gritted out. "I haven't lost control like that since before I was a padawan."

"He provoked you. He was hoping for a reaction, so he could confirm that you actually are a Jedi."

Kanan's aversion to the clones hadn't exactly been hard to pick up on, whether or not the captain had reported it, so Ambronn hadn't lacked for ammunition. Revealing that the captain had belonged to the trooper battalion that had likely been responsible for killing Kanan's master, his friends— That had been the heavy artillery, and he hadn't even realized it.

"And now he knows." There was real fear in Kanan's voice, just as there had been back at the table. They'd been shot at, pinned down, and nearly blasted out of space in the year since they'd teamed up, but this was the first time she'd seen him so shaken.

He collapsed onto the recliner by the fireplace, which had been kindled sometime between when they'd left for supper and their return. He tugged at the laces of his borrowed boots and kicked them into one corner of the room. Another flick of his wrist, and the corded belt joined them.

"It was manipulative, but I don't think he was being malicious." She could only guess that Kanan's unease came from someone else knowing his secret. "I also don't think there's any danger of him reporting you to the Empire."

He looked at her, light from the fire flickering in his eyes. "Do you know how many people knew that I was a Jedi before I met you, after the Empire came to power?"

She shook her head.

"One. The person who helped me hide for those first few months. In all the years between that and you, no one. Now, in the space of only a year, two more people know." His hands curled around his knees. "Forget upsetting mining operations and staging a few extractions from detainment camps. If you want swift and immediate Imperial reprisal, let people know you're harboring a Jedi. Maybe he tells someone, maybe he doesn't. But it's not like before, when I was the only person who could betray me."

Hera removed her own shoes and massaged at the soreness in the balls of her feet. The heels, more reasonable than most, had still been higher than she was accustomed to, and half a size too small, and running in them hadn't helped. "You can't live like that forever. You have to trust someone eventually."

"I trust you. That's it."

He said it without hesitation, and with such certainty that she didn't know how to respond. It wasn't exactly a surprise, but it was different, somehow, to hear it spoken aloud—

She studied him: face half shadowed by the fire, shoulders tense once more. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She didn't specify, but it wasn't hard to figure out what she meant. Kanan pulled his legs onto the chair and hunched forward, resting his chin on his crossed arms as he turned his gaze to the flames curling and twisting in the fireplace. "I've encountered clone stormtroopers since then, since Coruscant, but a clone, here, from the 501st—"

His arms tightened around his legs. A small wooden trinket atop the fireplace mantle, carved in the shape of an antlered beast, began rattling. Kanan closed his eyes and slowly the rattling stopped.

"I'm not good at this anymore," he muttered, "if I ever was. Calming myself. Centering myself. Thinking about any of it."

Hera hesitated. They'd helped survivors of tragedy together, and she'd witnessed the aftermath of Imperial punishment before, but Kanan's pain was personal, and her own helplessness in the face of it frustrated her. "I'm not sure living with those memories is something anyone would be 'good' at."

"I should be. I could have been—it doesn't matter, I guess." He opened his eyes and his stare returned to the fire, distant. "I thought I might be able to forget some of it after enough time passed, but it's still there. All of it." He tapped at his temple with two fingers. "Clear as a hologram."

He didn't say anything for a long while, lost in the fire.

"We were in one of the training rooms that day, my master and I, sparring. Two hours before the kitchens opened for dinner; that was our tradition, working up a sweat beforehand. She was teaching me a new guard stance. I was growing too quickly, and the old one was meant for someone with a higher center of gravity."

His hands curled into loose fists, one atop the other, slightly angled—as if holding a lightsaber. "I was frustrating her, I could tell. I kept dropping my right elbow."

Kanan lowered his hands and folded them back over his knees, knuckles tightening. "There wasn't any warning—I don't know how they disabled the alarms. Maybe no one ever made it to them."

Hera winced. Given how closely the Jedi had worked with their clone troopers, perhaps they'd let them in willingly, unaware of the slaughter to come.

"There weren't many knights or masters left; they were all on the front lines, even Master Yoda. Master Billaba was one of only six at the Temple. Knight Skywalker was on Coruscant as well. The 501st was his battalion." His mouth tightened. "I think they must have killed him first. Otherwise, he would have been there, at the Temple."

Hera recalled the clone captain's reaction to seeing the hologram of General Kenobi, who had been close with Skywalker. Between that, and his obvious loyalty to his fellow clone troopers who had been scarred by the war, it was difficult to fathom him turning on someone he'd described as a "great man." There had been, after all, clone troopers who'd famously disobeyed the order to kill their Jedi allies.

But those troopers had paid dearly for it, while the captain had lived to desert.

Kanan released a deep breath and got to his feet. "Sorry. I'm just—I don't really feel like talking about it. It happened. It's over." He stepped over to the corner where his discarded boots had landed and carried them to the door, setting them down. Finally, he looked her way again. "What's the plan for tomorrow?"

"Stop by the Ghost and grab a few things. We'll also need to arrange for an extended stay, which probably means more bribes." Hera met his gaze and steeled herself. "Talk more with the clone captain; I want a good feel for what kind of a partner Ambronn would make. And maybe we can earn more goodwill by taking another look at his cube."

Kanan didn't look happy, but he gave a weary nod—more in resignation than agreement. "Yeah. Okay. Bait the hook, sure."

He grabbed a set of nightclothes from the bundle that Elise had brought for them and headed for the door to the adjoining bedroom. "I'm going to catch some sleep, I guess." He hesitated in the doorway. "Hera?"

She didn't know why her heart chose to stutter just then. "Hm?"

"I—" Kanan seemed to struggle for a moment with something, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Never mind. It's nothing. Good night."

One thing she'd learned since Kanan joined her was that beneath that glib charm was an intense desire to connect, whether in friendship or love. And at the same time, he was terrified of it. She imagined that was at least partly why he kept moving all those years, from planet to planet.

None of that had been a factor at first when he'd joined up with her. Her upfront policy about no relationships had been a matter of practicality; yes, she found Kanan attractive, but he was hardly the first intelligent, attractive person she'd worked with.

Theory was a lot different than practice, however. Their lives this past year had been long bouts of downtime between jumps, interspersed with brief periods of action. They talked and bantered at mealtimes, in the rec room, in the cockpit. Their fiercely competitive Dejarik matches for bragging rights were a staple of long jumps. Kanan would sulk for hours when she won, and it was glorious.

She'd learned that Kanan loved thunder and wilderness, taking in every forested planet they visited with fresh wonder. He enjoyed cooking, especially when she was there to watch, easily holding a conversation while he sliced, so incredibly precise with the knife. He hated ice planets, holodramas, and Zeltron pop-peppers—even going so far as to scrub down the kitchen one time when he'd learned she'd bought a bundle.

He shared her sarcastic sense of humor, grounded in fond insults and clever banter, but was willing to plumb the lowest depths of humor to coax a laugh out of her when she was brooding over a rough mission. He moved like water, fluid but with a surface tension that hinted at something held in check.

Every so often when they were planetside, she'd catch him watching the sunset with a quiet melancholy.

When he looked at her sometimes, it wasn't that hormone-addled cockiness from Gorse. It was softer, warmer—edged in wistfulness.

Those first few weeks, that would have suited her just fine. But it'd been getting harder—a lot harder. Convincing herself that ignoring her own feelings for Kanan was the best course of action had become nearly a full-time exercise. And that was before she'd kissed him, swept up in her own desperate longing as she pressed him into her mattress, and—

Even if Hera weren't talented at reading people—a must, when trusting the wrong person could land you in an Imperial holding cell—she could read Kanan right now, clear as a holobook. He wanted reassurance, but didn't dare ask.

And she was too paralyzed by her own fears of what might happen if she offered.

The door closed, and she sat down on her bed with a heavy sigh. "Good night."

Hera woke slowly, confused for a few seconds before she remembered where she was. The bed was incredibly comfortable, and so expansive she felt an bizarre guilt over taking up the entire space herself. She was almost certain it was larger than some actual rooms on the Ghost.

Despite her churning thoughts last night, she had managed almost a full night's sleep. Sunlight was peeking through the window and she blinked against the brightness.

It could be a sign she'd spent too much time on her ship when waking up somewhere with an actual day/night cycle was disorienting. She needed to remember that she and Kanan weren't droids—she sometimes overlooked how important downtime could be.

Hera checked the chrono on her comlink. 0900 local time. Ambronn hadn't set any particular agenda, of course; their stay here was nominally a vacation. She could swing by the dining room to see if she could catch him in time for breakfast, but her personal inclination was to head straight to the port in Brislac and take care of the Ghost.

Hera sat up finally, letting the blankets fall. It was chilly in the room; the fire had burned out sometime during the night, and this region of the planet was in the early stages of spring. A hot shower was incredibly tempting right now—the Ghost only had basic water recycling capabilities, which barely provided enough non-drinking water for the occasional short rinse.

Kanan's door was still closed, which she took to mean that he was still sleeping; hopefully that was a good sign. Temptation won out, and she grabbed her jumpsuit and hit the shower.

Like everything else in Ambronn's estate, the bathroom was spacious and extravagant. There were two dozen different colored vials of pleasant-smelling cleansers and soaps; she smelled a few, then picked one and soaked in the heat and steam as the water pounded down.

The door to the adjoining bedroom was still closed when she finished. She felt incredibly refreshed, for no other discernible reason than a few hours of sleep and the sunlight streaming into the room. Just one more quirk of day/night cycles.

She was uneasy about leaving Kanan alone to seek out Ambronn or the clone captain without speaking with him first, so she gave his door a gentle rap.

Nothing.

"Kanan?" she called, concern rising.

No reply. She tested the door—unlocked. She turned the knob and pushed it open to find Kanan sitting cross-legged atop his bed, dressed only in a loose set of pants. His eyes opened when she entered, and there was a small furrow on his brow.

"Hera? I was just—" He glanced toward the window, looking puzzled by the sunlight spilling in. "Meditating. Sorry, I lost track of time."

That uneasy tension from last night was gone, or at least muted. She stuck a hand on her hip, smile twitching at her lips. "Is shirtless meditation a Jedi specialty?"

Kanan blinked, then looked down at his bare chest and reddened slightly. "I woke up, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I thought I'd try—it's been a long time. But, uh, no, shirtless meditation usually means something…very different."

Somehow, Kanan's room was even colder than hers. "How are you not freezing?"

"I was meditating. There wasn't room for distractions," he said, and it was eerie how Jedi that sounded. Then he hopped to his feet, wobbling for a second, and broke the illusion. "Now that you mention it, though..."

"The showers here are nice. Really nice." She stuck a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. "I figured I'd head down the the spaceport and settle things with the port officials while you freshen up. I trust you can find some way to entertain yourself while I'm away?"

Kanan hesitated, then leveled a somber stare at her that set off alarm bells in her head. "There's something you should know. I didn't realize at the time, because I was so startled, but—Ambronn's puzzle box isn't just a hologram in a fancy casing, Hera. It's a holocron."

He seemed to expect some kind of reaction, but the term wasn't familiar. "And a holocron is…?"

Kanan hesitated, seeming to wrestle with the question for a moment. "It's a Jedi thing—sort of a miniaturized holoprojector plus data storage unit that can only be accessed by a Jedi. They hold vast amounts of data. What would take dozens of enormous data cores like the one we salvaged to store, you could fit it into a holocron with room to spare."

It was hard to believe that the Jedi could have sat on a technology that allowed for that magnitude of miniaturization, but maybe it was something only a Jedi could make. "What kind of information are you expecting this one to have?"

Kenobi had been both a general and a Jedi, so it could be anything, really. Locations of old Republic and Confederate bases would be most useful; abandoned sites could offer a potential haven and there could even be old supplies, ranging from military rations to munitions.

"I'm not sure," he said with a frown, "but—think about it. If you were General Kenobi, and the Jedi Order was falling around you, wouldn't you try to preserve every last bit of knowledge you could? You heard what Ambronn said; the Empire specifically targeted Jedi history and artifacts." He crossed his arms. "This could be all that's left, just sitting in a dusty storeroom."

All that's left—it snapped into focus, then, what this likely meant to Kanan, who had lost everything else that tied him to the Jedi. She couldn't imagine having nothing left of Ryloth, of her family, but nightmares.

"Do you think Ambronn knows?" she asked. If he were as much a Jedi enthusiast as he appeared, it was the kind of thing he might be aware of.

"I don't think so. He's been trying to open it himself for years, and he seems to think I can just activate it, and that's it. But that's not how holocrons work. Yes, a Jedi can activate one, but it will eventually shut down when the Force connection is severed. As soon as I left, he'd be right where he started."

"He might be willing to sell it, if he knew only a Jedi could use it," she suggested, but Kanan looked about as convinced as she felt. "At the very least, I'm sure he'd be delighted to study it with you."

"Normally, I'd be thrilled to play bait," Kanan said with an expression that suggested the opposite, "but we don't know what Master Kenobi says in the holorecording." He glanced away, worrying slightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe some Jedi did escape, and the holocron holds information that could lead us to them. And—and if not, there could be other information worth having."

Survivors, of course. She hadn't even considered that possibility, and even Kanan's body language, shoulders slumped—hesitant, defensive—suggested that he was afraid to entertain more than a faint hope.

Hera hesitated, and then crossed the room, joining him by the window. She laid a hand on his bare arm, startled by how cold it felt, and he tensed for a moment. Then he relaxed, turning his gaze to the view out the window.

Take away the clones, and Ambronn's intrusive curiosity, and Omnalis was the kind of planet she knew he'd otherwise love: lush and green with vast expanses of land void of civilization. As different from Coruscant as you could get.

Even at this latitude, just turning from winter to spring, the hills and surrounding mountains were covered in coniferous trees and other hardy underbrush. The nights were cold, but by afternoon, it would be mild enough to walk outside with only a light extra layer of clothing. During yesterday's tour, they'd passed a painting of the view from Ambronn's estate overlooking the valleys of Tiernest Point in late spring, hills streaked purple and yellow with wildflowers.

She renewed her resolve to plan for some real leave once they finished on Omnalis.

"All the more reason to learn what you can," she said finally.

"Maybe. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking." Kanan covered her hand with his briefly, and then broke her grip. "If Kenobi were still alive, we'd know. He wasn't the kind of Jedi to run and hide while the Empire hunted the rest of us down. And whatever information is in the holocron didn't save the last Jedi who had it."

"You think pretending it doesn't exist is better than knowing?"

He met her gaze with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "What's so bad about pretending? I'm pretty good at it, by now."

For a second, she felt like she was watching Kanan back on Gorse, wearing his apathy like a shield against instincts long since tread into the ground by years on the run.

But it was only a shield, and she knew she could dismantle it with only a few words. "You're right. We might not find anything on there to lead us to Jedi who can help us. Or there could be Jedi that need our help. Maybe we were drawn here, to this job, for a reason."

That dissembling smile vanished, and Kanan sighed. "I reserve the right to punch fate or destiny or whoever in the face, then, when this all goes south." He turned away from the window and grabbed his comlink from the bedside table. "Fine. I'll give it a try, once I've regained feeling in my toes."

"A shower will help," she said. "Use the turquoise bottle."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because it smells nice, and I couldn't use it because it's for you humans, with your high-maintenance hair." She made for the door, giving his ponytail a flick as she passed him. "I'll check in from the Ghost; you can let me know what you want me to bring back."

"Blasters?" he called to her retreating back.

He was mostly joking. She hoped.

Chapter Text

Kanan had forgotten how taxing meditating could be, from a sheer physical perspective. Mental, sure. Last time he'd deliberately meditated with the intention of calming his thoughts and reaching out to the Force, he'd been fifteen. If anything, though, the mental gymnastics had proved easier, whereas maintaining his cross-legged pose for several hours in his frigid room had left his toes numb and his legs impossibly stiff.

The hot water Hera had mentioned sounded really nice right about now, and on a whim, he decided to forgo the shower in favor of the monstrous tub. The Temple had kept bathing practical; the dorms and living quarters came equipped with compact shower stalls. His life since hadn't exactly afforded itself the opportunity, between the grimy bars and cramped ships he'd called home.

It was probably more his lingering fatigue than inexperience that found him realizing, midway through soaping up his leg, that the dispenser he'd assumed was soap also included some sort of bubble generating compound. He rinsed his hands in the water immediately, but it was too late. The suds that had already spilled into the water continued frothing and bubbling and multiplying until he found himself surrounded by hundreds of glittering bubbles of all sizes.

After such a grim start to the morning, the sheer absurdity of the moment almost made him laugh. Then Kanan thought about Hera walking through the door to find him like this and smiled in spite of himself.

He sank deeper into the water, bringing himself nearly eye level with the bubbles on its surface. Since his early morning meditation—and his outburst last night—the Force had felt nearer. Usually, that only happened when he began to grow complacent. He used to treat it as a signal that he needed to move on to another planet.

It had only taken a few months in Hera's company for it to begin intruding on him again, moments when he would feel tendrils of that connection, dangling close enough to touch, if he would only reach out. And every time, he'd stubbornly held himself back.

Meditating had been a bad idea. Not only had it strengthened that connection, it had reminded him of a lot of things he'd invested a lot of time and effort into forgetting.

Kanan hesitated. The impulse to push itched at him as he watched the bubbles swim and float around him. He could almost hear Master Yoda's gruff voice in his mind, intoning, "An ally, the Force is, not some frivolous plaything."

He reached out tentatively, and there it was, that hum of connection, of being submerged in something much more encompassing than the water around him. As he concentrated, one bubble lifted from the surface of the water, then another, until they began to take shape.

He was halfway through spelling Hera's name with bubbles when he realized that was in fact what he was doing. He slashed a hand through the floating letters and closed his eyes, banging his head lightly against the back of the tub.

Gratuitous use of the Force and hopeless infatuation. He was one bad encounter with a clone away from completing some kind of failed Jedi trifecta.

At least it would be difficult to do much worse than last night, where he'd spent the entire time essentially being a liability for Hera's mission. If he couldn't handle someone just mentioning clones and the Temple in the same sentence without flashing back to that day, then he needed to do a better job at locking those memories down.

His hands were starting to prune, so he grabbed the turquoise bottle Hera had told him to try and gave his hair a quick wash. At some point, Ambronn's head of household had dropped off a fresh set of clothing, more casual than last night's overly fancy outfit, but with similar lines that recalled Jedi robes. He'd sooner kiss a Hutt than willingly wear something wrought with that many unpleasant mental associations, so he slipped back into his own clothing.

He'd lost his appetite midway through last night's meal, though the food had been excellent, so he sought out the kitchens next. It was well past any reasonable expectation of breakfast, so his plan was to throw something together himself. The kitchens were larger, and much better equipped than any he had worked in, but the morning crew had mostly filed out.

The only person left was a woman, leaning against one of the counters as she toweled her hands dry. She was, like everyone he had seen at Ambronn's estate, human. Early thirties, he thought, and tall, with olive skin and long black hair pulled into braids and pinned up. She recognized him as one of Ambronn's guests and introduced herself as Ollipha Merale—Ambronn's chef.

She'd just finished supervising breakfast for the rest of the estate; he had caught her about to cook up something for herself. Kanan thought about how large the clone contingent alone was and volunteered to handle cooking duties. She smiled at the offer, and accepted readily.

His cooking repertoire skewed heavily comfort-food, courtesy of the diners and cantinas he'd worked at prior to making it off Coruscant, so he kept it simple and used the cooking time to chat Ollipha up. It was part habit, part recon. Her story was similar to that of the clones—she'd been in some trouble, and Ambronn had been able to help her out.

In Ollipha's case, she'd been a rising star at a popular restaurant on Coruscant when she first met Ambronn. It had been love at first bite, apparently. He tried to hire her on the spot, but she'd declined. Her ambition had been to eventually start her own restaurant and become a name among the wealthy and influential on Coruscant.

Those plans had been derailed a few months later, when her fiance—a retired mercenary turned mechanic—tried to help out an old friend from the war, and found himself an unwitting accomplice in a plot to assassinate a popular finance minister. He'd ended up at an Imperial detention facility on Castell, and shortly after, Ollipha had been contacted by a detention officer. In exchange for a monthly fee—half again what the restaurant was paying her—he would ensure that her fiance wasn't transferred to work in any of the Empire's numerous spice mines.

The lifespan of a spice miner was often measured in months, so Ollipha dipped into her savings for a time. Finally, she remembered the wealthy gentleman who'd offered her a job on his backwater planet.

"He actually increased his salary offer, once I told him what had happened," Ollipha finished. She took a bite of her omelet and shook her head. "I still can't believe that. I don't know what I would have done, otherwise. There's enough left over that I can still save a little, and Tele has only two years left on his sentence."

Personally, Kanan suspected any Imperial detention officer making that many credits on the side each month would find a way of ensuring that sentence was extended, but he kept that thought to himself.

Part of his motivation for talking to Ollipha had been for more insight into Ambronn, but he remained just as hard to pin down as before. Maybe he deserved credit for helping Ollipha, but that seemed to be a pattern for him: hiring overqualified people whose options were limited by financial hardship.

It didn't escape his notice that he and Hera nearly fit that pattern. Would have fit it perfectly, prior to being paid. And while their mission here was to secure funding without hiring themselves out as permanent mercenaries, Kanan hadn't seen anything so far to indicate Ambronn was altruistic so much as he was opportunistic.

Ollipha talked a little longer; he got the impression that she was lonely on Omnalis, which was almost the polar opposite of Coruscant: rustic, isolated, underdeveloped, and barely populated. Kanan knew he should probably get moving—Hera would hardly be impressed if he spent his entire day listening to the chef's problems—but his reluctance to deal with either Ambronn or the clones kept him in his seat, and his bar-tending past let him nod sympathetically at the right places.

She finally excused herself to begin planning for tonight's dinner, and Kanan braved the halls, trying to work up his nerve to find his way back to the cataloging chamber. He took a few wrong turns before reaching a more familiar area of the estate, but then he caught sight of blue on white armor rounding a corner and ducked back. It was the captain, moving with a purpose; Kanan suspected he was looking for him.

He braced a hand against the wall, eyes closed, and slowed his breathing as his master's death flashed in his mind again, a dull ache now compared to the wrenching guilt that had haunted him those first few years. His hand curled into a fist.

He pounded the wall, once, then straightened.

No. He wasn't dealing with this right now. Kanan wheeled around and picked his way through corridors, uncertain just where he wanted to go, until he bumped into Mistress Trepali. She greeted him with a friendly smile, though her face fell as she took in his appearance.

"Oh, they didn't fit?" she asked.

"What?" It took him a moment to realize what she meant—the clothing. "Oh. No. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do today, and my own clothing is more…multipurpose."

"Of course," she said with a faint note of disapproval. "Did you want any suggestions? There's plenty to do, both here, in town, and in the surrounding wilderness."

Truth was, he needed some air. The mere sight of that familiar blue on white of the clone captain's armor had thrown him so badly off balance, he would probably end up punching Ambronn over something only mildly intrusive if he tracked him down right now.

A walk would be nice; maybe a run, to expend some of that restless energy. The Ghost had a small room with a makeshift conveyor belt Hera had rigged for running in place, but it couldn't simulate terrain and it definitely got dull after a while.

"Ambronn mentioned there are some nature trails nearby?" he said hesitantly.

Trepali brightened and gave him directions to three separate trails. He picked the one that sounded the most remote. As he set off, he tried to convince himself he wasn't running away, exactly. He just needed to clear his head.

The Brislac spaceport handled a disproportionate amount of atmospheric craft compared to ports on more established worlds, thanks to a tourism industry predicated largely on hunting and other outdoor recreational activities, and had two entire wings dedicated to the smaller craft. Even that was barely enough. Three other crafts jockeyed for an open hangar bay, but Hera easily outmaneuvered them for a nearby vacancy.

A stream of angry expletives lit up the local traffic broadcast frequencies, and she leaned back with a satisfied smile. The day was looking up already. Hera eased the Phantom down, but the promising start didn't last. Two port security guards were waiting for her when she exited, though they eased off slightly once they had a good look at her.

"Something the matter?" she asked casually, handing over the false identicard she'd used when they had first landed on Omnalis.

The guard scanning it, an older woman in her mid-forties, waited a moment for the device to flash green, then she handed it back. "Nothing to worry about, just a few extra precautions." She nodded at her counterpart to move on to the craft that was just landing two platforms over and turned back to Hera. "Reason for visit and point of origin?"

"Recreation," she said easily. "I'm staying at Tiernest Point, and decided to extend my vacation a few more days. I'm just here to grab a few things and pay for another week of docking for my ship."

The guard nodded, and Hera was free to enter the long walkway connecting the hangar wing to the main body of the port. She checked the nearest terminal to see if she could avoid the lines and extend her docking permit remotely. No luck. She would have to brave the crowds.

The security delay hadn't been isolated to her wing, apparently. It resulted in irritated visitors and longer lines at the service hub. After securing a position in the queue, Hera found a seat and settled in for the wait.

It had been like this a lot the year before she met Kanan—working solo, that was, not waiting in lines. She'd already grown accustomed to having Kanan around to fill those long periods of waiting, to the point where she found herself bringing her mouth up to her wrist comm to remark on a particularly flustered patron before remembering he was well out of radio range.

When the dashboard finally lit with her name and number, she sprang to her feet. This time, only one bribe on top of the docking fee was necessary, to ensure she could keep her current hangar. She'd expressly chosen it for its location at the end of one of the spacecraft wings because it provided a cleaner lane for a quick retreat.

Hera paid for a full week, though she hoped they wouldn't need all that time. As soon the new access codes were uploaded to her datapad, she made for the Ghost. There was further evidence of an increased security presence: nearly half again as many port security guards compared to when they had landed yesterday, visually scanning the bustling crowds.

There was no sign of any Imperial presence—she didn't see any stormtroopers—so she wasn't particularly concerned, but it was noteworthy.

Once she reached the Ghost, she tried raising Kanan through one of the spaceport's dedicated comm channels, but there was no response. Well, that simplified her mission. Hera gathered up a few changes of clothing for both her and Kanan and tucked them into a canvas pack, along with a few toiletries.

Her hand came to rest over the compartment where she stored her blaster, and she hesitated. Now that they'd established themselves as guests, she suspected Ambronn wouldn't object if she brought back a blaster, but it could be interpreted as a lack of trust on her own part.

Okay, no. She was bringing the blasters. Hera slipped it into her holster and tucked her holdout blaster into the pack. That should do it. She slung the pack over her shoulder.

Hera weaved her way through the throng of new arrivals, glad that she'd landed in one of the more remote light craft hangars. It meant a longer walk, but once she made it past the central hub, the crowd thinned out quickly. Hera carded into the hangar and moved quickly toward the Phantom. She was half afraid to see what Kanan had gotten himself into during her absence, and between the round trip and her layover at the port, at least five hours would have passed by the time she made it back.

She released the Phantom's security lock and secured her pack in one of the slim compartments in the cargo hold, just below the collapsible passenger seats. As she straightened, the barest shifting of shadows in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

Hera ducked and pivoted, spinning to her feet with her elbow angled up. There was a crunch as it connected with her attacker's face. He staggered back and she followed through with a sharp kick to his ribs, sending him tumbling down the landing ramp.

She grabbed her blaster and sent a warning shot flying over his head. Outside the dim pre-flight lighting, she had a better look at her attacker. Mirialan, most likely, with close-cropped, black hair and dark blue eyes. His skin tone was on the greener side of the spectrum for his species, and blood dripped from his nose. He was dressed like a spacer, but he'd moved like someone familiar with combat, rolling into a defensive crouch and reaching for his own weapon.

"You'll be dead before you fire," she said calmly. She discharged her blaster twice more into the ground, mere centimeters from each leg.

His hand crept away from his blaster, and he watched her warily.

She didn't lower her blaster, but she eased off the trigger. "Good choice. Now start talking. Who are you, and why did you attack me?"

Her impromptu questioning session was cut short before he could say anything by the hangar doors opening. A six-man squad of port security ran into the room, heading straight for the Phantom. Her attacker lunged to his feet and took off in the opposite direction. Hera could see guards streaming through the other entrance further down the hangar, which left only the two-dozen ceiling bay doors overhead as a point of exit.

She stayed put as the guards took chase; she doubted her assistance would be welcome, though she watched their efforts with a critical eye. In a place as laden with obstructions as a hangar nearly full of light craft, they would be better off fanning out and herding him into a corner. Instead, they kept to their tightly grouped squads while he darted between ships.

The sound of an approaching ship caused Hera to glance up and seconds later, one of the bay doors began to creak open. Through the opening, she could see a light luxury craft with a purely cosmetic camouflage paint job. Hunters, returning from their trip, entirely unaware of the chaos below.

The Mirialan vaulted onto a fuel cannister and from there, onto the hovering craft trying to land. He stumbled, but landed on his feet, hands wheeling as he tried to regain his balance, managing just in time to dodge a bolt of blaster fire. He braced himself, then leapt for the edge of the bay door. His legs kicked, and this time, one of the guards managed to clip him, but then he levered himself the rest of the way up.

Another guard shouted into her comm, presumably to call for backup on the rooftop. Hera tucked her blaster away, and waited. Once the chaos had died down, one of the remaining guards started toward her, pulling out his datapad.

More paperwork, she thought, groaning inwardly. She mentally added an extra hour to her expected arrival time back at Tiernest Point. Force willing, now that Ambronn had confirmed that Kanan was a Jedi, he wouldn't push him so hard. She wasn't certain who to be more worried for, if not.

But there was nothing she could do about that right now. In the meantime, maybe she could find some answers from the guard. The spaceport's heightened security and her subsequent attack didn't feel like a coincidence.

She turned the full force of her smile on the port guard. "Hello there, officer."

Kanan took a brief shower after his run, and then was faced with the dilemma of putting his grimy, sweaty clothing back on or changing into the pants and tunic Trepali had brought earlier. Reluctantly, he opted for the later and set off for the cataloging chamber.

The door to the room wasn't locked, which surprised him; it opened when he touched the door controls. Ambronn was standing at the far end of the room, in the middle of a conversation over holoscreen with what he assumed was one of his suppliers.

Ambronn, who had turned at the sound of the door opening, seemed flustered by Kanan's sudden appearance, and the man on the holoscreen picked up on it as well, glancing curiously at Kanan. He was difficult to see from back at the door, but he had a prominent patch of scarring blooming out from his left cheekbone. Some kind of plasma burn, perhaps.

"Terms of payment will be as discussed," Ambronn said to the man. "Please excuse me, I have other business to attend to."

"I'll contact you when I have an update. Nice doing business with you." The man sounded almost amused. "We should do it again, sometime."

Ambronn, considerably less so, cut the transmission without any further pleasantries. He took a moment to compose himself before turning to Kanan with a welcoming smile. "Good afternoon. I wondered if you might find your way over here today. I hope I didn't ruin the rest of your evening; that certainly wasn't my intention."

Multiple uncontrolled Force outbursts, an abortive attempt to tell Hera about that night, and nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat—if that was unintentional, he didn't even want to consider what Ambronn was capable of when he tried. Some of that must have shown on his face, because Ambronn lifted his palms apologetically.

"If there's anything I can do, let me know. I do wish for you to enjoy your stay here."

No real chance of that, and Kanan couldn't think of anything that wouldn't jeopardize the mission, so he just shook his head. "It's fine. I'll just steer clear of clones while I'm here."

"I'll tell them to keep to the north and west wings," Ambronn said, much to his surprise. He spoke into a wrist comlink and relayed the orders to a clone on the other end. When he was finished, he waved Kanan over. "Please, come in."

Kanan, who had been hovering at the door, reluctantly stepped inside. If this was merely where he cataloged and stored items he had yet to investigate, Kanan wondered what his showroom looked like. If he even had one. Maybe he simply boxed things up when he was finished, content to keep them preserved for when he felt the need to revisit a particular piece of history.

Many of the artifacts in view were hauntingly familiar. A partially restored Jedi starfighter stood in one corner, with scorch marks that suggested it had seen battle damage in its final days. A partially-melted lightsaber was clamped in place on one of the worktables—it hadn't been there yesterday, so he assumed its presence now wasn't an accident.

His feet moved of their own accord to the worktable with the lightsaber. That kind of damage was consistent with plasma-based blasters—like the GAR had used. He wondered, with morbid curiosity, where Ambronn's supplier had salvaged it from.

Not Coruscant. The Temple had been quarantined for weeks while they combed through it, though he had been able to tell through faint shivers in the Force that they'd stopped finding and executing survivors after the first week.

He'd already been serving tables by then, entrenched in his new identity as an orphan from the Separatist assault on Coruscant, trying desperately to maintain his composure while his hands shook with too many emotions to process. Numb grief at another Jedi lost. Fear that it was only a matter of time before they hunted him down too. Relief, that it hadn't been him. And guilt—for being relieved, for being the one that survived, for doing nothing and having the power to do nothing.

Several other Jedi died on Coruscant in the months after that, ripples in an increasingly silent Force. Those had been the clever ones—perhaps even a few knights—who'd evaded detection and waited for the right opportunity to test the Empire's net. None of them had made it out.

The secret to how Kanan had survived was very simple: he'd been too paralyzed to do anything but hide. He spent two years on Coruscant after the purge less than ten kilometers from its epicenter, the ruined Temple in the skyline a daily reminder of everything he'd lost. When the Empire began the construction of the Imperial Palace on the bones of the Jedi Temple, he'd felt a shameful relief, because at least then, he didn't have to look at it anymore.

When he turned sixteen, he met the captain of a mercenary crew that specialized in commercial vessel escort. He'd lost a few men, and Kanan managed to convince him, both by lying about his age and embellishing his piloting skills, that he would make a good recruit. Three days later, Coruscant was a rapidly receding orb of black webbed with gold in the ship's viewport, and he caught his breath for the first time in two years.

"What do you think?" Ambronn asked, mercifully interrupting his thoughts to gesture at the lightsaber. "A supplier of mine recovered it on Agamar. It appeared broken beyond hope of repair, but I bought it anyway."

Agamar. It had been a Separatist world, that was all Kanan knew of the planet. He walked over to the worktable and detached the lightsaber carefully from its grip. "May I?"

"Please," Ambronn said, joining him at the table.

Kanan turned it over in his hands, faintly relieved that he didn't recognize the hilt, though the odds would have been slim. Much of the casing was warped, but— He located a laser scalpel in one of the table compartments and cut through the complex wiring in the damaged modulation circuits, exposing the energy channel. He carefully worked the energizer coils free before slicing off the emptied channel. The damage appeared to be isolated to the area housing the controls.

He could see the focusing crystals now, and he removed them, setting them gently aside. There, small but glowing faintly, was the kyber crystal. He paused, reluctant to risk his fingers to the potentially unstable power cell that lay just below. He put his tools aside and concentrated, tapping into the Force once more to maneuver the crystal free of the casing.

Now free, the crystal floated above his open palm for a second. Then, he released his connection with the Force, and it dropped.

"What is it?" Ambronn said, staring raptly at the glowing crystal. He'd mounted a brief protest when Kanan first pulled out the laser scalpel, but any disappointment over the hilt's destruction seemed entirely forgotten.

"The one component necessary to build a lightsaber," he said, deliberately vague. "The lightsaber wasn't repairable, but the crystal is still intact."

It was a mild miracle that the crystal had survived the plasma damage. The damage to the modulation circuits should have overloaded the energy channel, and the backlash would have burnt out both the focusing crystals and the kyber crystal.

Ambronn was sizing him up again, and Kanan knew the question before he asked it. "Could you build a new lightsaber using the crystal?"

Truth was, if he didn't have his own lightsaber safely tucked away back on the Ghost, he would have been incredibly tempted. Even now, there was always the possibility he might lose or damage his own lightsaber, and kyber crystals were nearly impossible to get anymore with the heavy Imperial presence on Ilum.

"I could," he admitted, setting the crystal down on the table. Ambronn picked it up and held it close to his face, studying its facets. "But what would the point be? You can't display it, and I couldn't use one without instantly alerting the Empire to my existence."

He could tell that Ambronn desperately wanted to pursue the matter, but somehow, he exercised a modicum of restraint. He found a small, fancy box that looked like it was designed to hold jewelry and placed the crystal inside of it, and then tucked it into one of the table's drawers.

"When do the Jedi teach their apprentices—padawans—how to construct a lightsaber?" he asked.

"It varies," Kanan said curtly. If Ambronn was hoping for insights into Jedi culture and customs, he could stick to his old holofootage. "Let's take a look at your holocron."

"Holocron…?" Ambronn's brow furrowed, then understanding lit across his features. "You believe the box is a holocron?"

"You would have been able to access it, otherwise," he explained. "Most holocrons can only be accessed by a Jedi, and the design is similar to other holocrons I've seen before. I'm almost certain of it."

Ambronn fetched the holocron from the other worktable and brought it over. He traced a finger along the geometric patterns inscribed on each face of the cube, shaking his head. "I never considered the possibility. I've heard of holocrons, of course, but—I've very little knowledge of what they look like, or how they work. Here."

Kanan took the holocron and steeled himself. It felt stupid to be terrified of a harmless repository of data, and he knew that Hera hadn't understood this morning just why he'd gone from elated to reluctant in a dozen heartbeats. Ignorance could be a shield. There were too many things he would sleep easier at night not knowing.

The Force responded almost instantly to his touch, and he directed his focus to the box in his hand. Slowly, it rose, twisting and separating as it had yesterday to reveal the holoprojector at its center. Master Kenobi flickered into existence once more.

"This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi: trust in the Force. Do not return to the Temple. That time has passed, and our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged—our trust, our faith, our friendships—but we must persevere, and in time, a new hope will emerge. May the Force be with you, always."

Then the holoprojector went dark, though it remaining floating in place—that was the end of the pre-recorded message.

Master Kenobi regretted to report… The message couldn't have been recorded too long after the Empire's bloody birth. It hadn't been news for very long—even the Rim territories had known within a few days. And any Jedi outside of Coruscant travelling with clones, which had been practically all of them, had probably figured something was wrong in the split seconds before they were cut down.

Trust in the Force. Persevere. A new hope would emerge. Kanan's throat tightened. This message had been meant for someone else. Someone who hadn't spent nearly a decade running from both the Empire and the Force.

The Force certainly hadn't been with the last Jedi who'd listened to Kenobi's message.

What hope could Kenobi possibly have imagined? That eventually the people of the galaxy would rise and put an end to the Empire? He'd joined Hera to help accomplish just that, and even he didn't entertain more than a slim hope that they'd achieve anything before the Empire caught up with them. And destroying the Empire certainly wouldn't bring the Jedi back.

Take out the flowery language, and what was left? The Jedi were fucked, everything was terrible, be strong, trust in the Force, everything would work out eventually. Nothing about other survivors. No indication where Kenobi had gone, or what he'd been planning. Whatever hope he might have been referring to, if it had ever been something tangible, had likely died with him.

Disappointment, and something darker, clawed within his chest as he stared at the floating holocron. His hand curled into a fist as he fought against the urge to hurl it at the nearest wall.

"Hm," Ambronn mused beside him, breaking through that strange reverie. "Somewhat vague and cryptic."

The observation was so painfully accurate, Kanan couldn't help himself—he laughed. He heard the holocron drop as the Force connection broke, but he was still doubled over, caught midway between bitter amusement and pure hysteria. He wasn't sure how long it lasted—it felt like forever, but was probably only a few seconds.

There were no other survivors to be rescued. He'd known that, deep down. And there was no help waiting in the wings. That's the one thing Kenobi had gotten right: that time had passed.

"I'm sorry," he said once he'd caught his breath, because Ambronn actually looked perturbed. "It's just—that's an understatement."

Ambronn waited a moment, then picked the holocron up, setting it back on the table. "How disappointing. All that, for a simple message."

"No, there's more," Kanan said. He hadn't maintained his concentration long enough to check, but there had been a sense of waiting after the recording had finishing. "I just—don't really feel like exploring it right now."

"Of course." Ambronn nodded in understanding. "If you go, could you unlock it again? I'd be interested in studying it myself."

"I don't know. I can try, but it depends on the holocron." Reluctantly, he extended his senses to the holocron again. With a little concentration, he was able to skip the opening recording. Instead, Kenobi stood silently above the center of the holoprojector with an air of watchfulness.

Of course. Kenobi had patterned the gatekeeper after himself. Kanan slowly withdrew, but as soon as he pulled his presence completely, the cube retracted again.

He shook his head. "I think it's powered by the Force. Breaking that connection acts like removing the battery."

There was a quiet pause while Ambronn digested this. Kanan was too drained to care when he felt that calculating gaze turn to him again. He had a pretty good idea of one way Hera could get all the funding she wanted—volunteer him as a part-time consultant on Omnalis.

"Perhaps we can revisit the holocron later," Ambronn said finally. He offered a hand to help Kanan to his feet. "I'll see you at dinner?"

The only thing appealing about dinner was the prospect of alcohol, because right now, the only thing he wanted was a stiff drink. Several. Enough that he could stop thinking, and stop feeling, and just—stop. Failing that, a fight might work, but Ambronn had already ordered the clones away. And he knew that either would upset Hera, and she was the only person in the universe he actually cared about disappointing.

"Sure," he said hollowly. "Yeah. I'll see you then."

Hera was running late. It was roughly a three-hour round trip between Tiernest Point and Brislac, and even factoring for unexpected traffic at the spaceport, her stop there shouldn't have taken more than two hours. Instead, it was creeping up on six hours since she'd left, and Kanan's nerves wound tighter still.

Their room actually faced the south-east approach, so Kanan had fled there from the cataloging chamber. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed again—not meditating, exactly, just…trying to clear his thoughts.

Kanan's method for dealing with memories of the Empire's early days was very simple: he shoved them behind a wall in his mind labelled "avoid at all costs" and they ceased to exist. Any time a troublesome memory tried to surface, he slammed the wall back up, reminding himself firmly that the past was just that: the past.

But the past was also a mass grave light-years wide and nightmares deep, and the constant effort of patching the crumbling barrier that stood between that and his sanity was slowly wearing him down. Drinking, fighting, flirting, taking the most dangerous jobs he could find—his life before Hera had been a sustained attempt at self-distraction. And as long as he had been able to convince himself he didn't care anymore, it had worked.

But care too little, and things like what had almost happened to Gorse happened. Care too much, and it was crippling. He felt like a pebble trapped between two opposing currents, tugged and dashed against stones far bigger than him.

Trust in the Force. Sure.

There was no one left to help him, and no one left to save, only now he knew for certain, thanks to the holocron. There was no ignorance, there was knowledge, right? But hey, that was fine, because there was no death, there was only the Force. He was sure all the Jedi who'd died had found that very comforting. Is that what the creche master had whispered to her charges as the sound of boots drew closer?

What had Ambronn's captain told himself that night?

Kanan struggled to pull his breathing back under control. He wanted to break something. He didn't care what. The Force didn't feel comforting right now; it felt coiled, dangerous.

He stood and paced off that uneasy energy, halting finally in front of the window. A glint of metal caught his eye in the distance and he leaned closer. He recognized the familiar lines of the Phantom, making a slow descent toward the landing bay. He relaxed just a little, and wondered, halfway to the door, how desperate it would look for him to meet Hera at the ship.

Kanan reached the blindingly swift conclusion that he didn't care, and if she was surprised by his presence there, she didn't show it. Instead, she wordlessly tossed him a bulging canvas pack, which he slung over one shoulder.

"Hello to you, too," he said dryly, once she'd emerged again from the Phantom.

Hera keyed the door shut and let out a long sigh. "I hope your day was less eventful than mine."

Some of his sudden good cheer faded just as swiftly. Kanan re-adjusted the strap on his shoulder and shrugged after a moment. "Probably. Mostly just recon, and playing nice with Ambronn."

"Glad to hear it," she said. She looked around the shuttle bay with an air of distaste. "I've had my fill of ports and shuttles today. Let's talk in the gardens."

That was one place he hadn't made it yet, so he followed Hera. They cut almost entirely through the southern wing; the gardens were a partially ceilinged expanse close to the center of the whole complex. Heating panels lined the walls; it had actually been mildly warm when he'd had his run earlier in the day, but the sun was crawling toward the horizon, and in the shade, it was cool enough for the heat radiating from the panels to be comfortable.

"We might have a problem," Hera said, once they'd found a pair of benches and settled down. "I was attacked today, at the spaceport."

Kanan forced himself to remain seated. He gave her a sharp glance, but he knew from experience that Hera was plenty capable in a fight, and she didn't appear injured. "Attacked? By who?"

"I don't know," she said, frustration palpable in her voice. She slung a leg up on her bench to face him. "He snuck up on me when I headed back to the Phantom. I don't know if he was targeting me specifically or just wanted to steal a shuttle. I subdued him, but the port security showed up before I could ask him anything, and he got away."

"Any idea who he was? Bounty hunter? Criminal?"

Hera shook her head. "I don't think he was a bounty hunter. They're licensed, and he ran as soon as security showed up. He wasn't a slaver, either." Her expression darkened. "I'd recognize a slaver. Criminal, maybe. Or someone's bounty."

Criminal or not, the fact that he'd targeted Hera was a little too coincidental for Kanan's liking. "You think he was after the Phantom?"

"I've had a long flight to think about it," she said, "and that made the most sense. He had a blaster, and my back was to him for a few seconds before I noticed him. He could have shot me then."

"Or he didn't have a clear shot," he pointed out. He was beginning to feel antsy again. "Or he wanted your credits. We had to file a flight plan with the port before we left for Tiernest Point. Ambronn does a lot of business with contractors and salvagers, and he apparently pays well. If someone knew that, and was waiting…"

"Maybe," Hera said, but she didn't sound convinced. "Security was definitely heightened when I landed today, and they responded quickly. Could be that he's a fugitive from the local government. I wasn't able to get much from the security official who took my statement."

Tangling with any authorities, even local, made Kanan uneasy. "Do you expect any fallout?"

"I don't know." Hera's eyes narrowed in thought, and her fingers tapped absently against her thigh. "There's an ISB satellite office on Omnalis. It's in Brislac, even. I didn't see any stormtroopers at the spaceport, though. If it's just a local matter, I think we're fine."

"If it's not?"

Hera appeared to notice the tapping and stopped, folding her hands atop her bent knee. "Then we hope the ISB doesn't take any interest in the case. My identichip should hold up against any scans the local authorities do, but if the ISB decides to run a more thorough check, they'll have questions."

There was a very simple way around the problem: leave Omnalis and forget about trying to win Ambronn's support. He didn't voice the thought, because he already knew what Hera's answer would be.

"With any luck, they find the guy, and that's the end of it." Hera pinched the bridge of her nose for a few seconds, then studied him. "You look as tired as I feel. I take it you had a more productive day than I did?"

Tired was one way of putting it. He assumed Hera wouldn't be particularly interested in his run, or the life story of Ambronn's chef, so he skipped straight to the lightsaber and their interaction with the holocron. Hera's eyes lit when he mentioned the lightsaber; he hadn't told her yet that he still had his, weirdly reluctant to divulge its existence. It wasn't a matter of trust, exactly.

A lightsaber was the one thing that people equated with Jedi. He hated being reduced to that single characteristic. In the eyes of the Empire, that he was a Jedi was the only thing that mattered. To Ambronn, they'd been only a pair of mercenaries until Kanan had slipped up.

He knew Hera saw him as more than that now—or less than that, maybe, given how she seemed to venerate the Jedi and how pale an imitation of a Jedi he was—but he still wondered sometimes if she would have let him join up if he hadn't revealed himself as a Jedi on Vidian's ship.

He faltered when he reached the holocron, because Hera's eyes were bright now with concern—not over the contents of the holocron, but for him. The knot in his chest twisted; everyone who'd ever looked at him like that was dead.

For a dizzy moment, past and present and future tangled in his mind, a mingling of memory and something else—something imminent. He threw up a hasty shield between himself and the Force, silencing those whispers, and pushed back the tide of memory with all his remaining resolve, heart pounding.

When he could trust himself to speak again, he continued his report. "There was—nothing helpful. Kenobi must have recorded it shortly after the end of the war. He didn't share any secret Jedi hideouts, just a warning. There might be more in the holocron's databanks, but I don't expect to find anything about surviving Jedi."

"I'm sorry," Hera said quietly.

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything," he said, but she looked about as convinced as he sounded.

They both started at the sudden hum of the door closest to them whirring open. Ambronn stepped into the garden and scanned area briefly before his eyes fell on them. He strode over, brow furrowed. "Pardon the intrusion, I just heard about the incident at the spaceport. Are you all right, Hera?"

It didn't surprise Kanan that Ambronn had contacts at the port, given how many suppliers he must work with. He was surprised that he cared enough to raise the matter. Concerned that they might be spooked before he could learn more from the holocron, perhaps.

Hera waved off his concern. "I'm fine. I've handled much worse odds than that."

"What happened? Did he say anything about why he attacked you?"

Hera's flat expression conveyed just how thrilled she was to go over these events for what Kanan conservatively guessed was at least the fourth time. "No, I didn't have a chance to question him. I think he might have just been after a shuttle."

"Well." Ambronn frowned. "As long as you're unharmed. I've spoken with the director at the port, and he assures me they are working with the Brislac authorities to ensure he is apprehended him. And of course, my own security is well-trained."

If the ISB did end up involving itself, and Hera still wanted to stay, at least Ambronn might have some pull. Kanan didn't like the idea of owing him any favors, but that was better than the alternative, and Ambronn had his own reasons to avoid ISB attention.

"You can tell me all the details over supper, which—" Ambronn checked his chrono, "will be a half hour from now, if you'd like to freshen up at all. Casual attire is welcome, of course. I shall look forward to seeing you then."

His departure was almost as abrupt as his arrival, and Hera watched his retreating back with slightly narrowed eyes.

"He's hiding something," she said once the door had closed.

Kanan reviewed the conversation, but nothing jumped out at him. "What makes you say that?"

"You're the first person I've told about the attack outside of Brislac. It's certainly possible that port security contacts him whenever anything happens to people who are staying with him. Tiernest Point is on our flight plan. But he could have waited until dinner to ask about it. Instead, he tracked me down."

"You think he was involved in the attack?" He couldn't think of any obvious motive.

"Maybe. Or maybe he just knows more about why I was attacked. This could have nothing to do with us, and everything to do with him."

Kanan recalled the conversation he'd interrupted earlier in the afternoon; Ambronn had ended it quickly once he'd noticed Kanan. Wanting to keep his business private certainly wasn't a crime, but if Hera's suspicions were correct, perhaps there had been more at play.

"How do you want to handle this?" he asked.

Hera thought for a few seconds. "See if I can rattle him into revealing something. If he does have a problem, that could give us an opportunity to demonstrate what we're capable of, beyond a talent for salvage. "

"And if it's something else?"

Hera freed her blaster from its holster and tossed it to him. He caught it in his right hand, comforted by the familiar heft. Hera patted her leg, revealing the outline of a smaller holster.

"Then it's a good thing I brought extra firepower."