Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sonder is a binary star system on the Corellian Trade Spine. Two blue giants and their twelve planets, arrayed in sprawling but unstable orbits.

Not the safest place to call home, Luthen muses, studying his consoles carefully as the Fondor exits hyperspace. 

'All scans nominals,' Auxi declares with his usual placidness. 'Imperial presence is as expected.'

The third planet out, a cerulean gas giant named Sonder III, blots out the entire cockpit's viewport. It feels almost like flying under a heavily clouded sky. A large storm spot looks down on Luthen like a singular, monstrous eye. There are white streaks all around it, the trails of mining streamer stations—the size of dust motes against the endless expanse of the planet—skimming the atmosphere for exotic ices and alkali metals.

Luthen angles the Fondor away, searching for his destination, those miners' homes.

Aptly named Sonderan is a small moon, nestled amid the rings of its parent planet. It's lush green, with three submoons of its own, guaranteeing tidal headaches and furious weather systems on the surface. Nobody comes to Sonderan for beach holidays. 

Nobody comes to Sonderan for much of anything. 

On paper—official, imperial paper—Sonderan is absolutely unremarkable. Its exports neither rare nor plentiful. Its economy is self-sustained out of necessity. The system's location on the Spine doesn't make it a particularly advantageous base of operations, offering nothing that neighbouring Bestine doesn't do better. Sonderan has some cultural value and is a local hub for artists and collectors, but doesn't come close to the influence of worlds like Duro or Alderaan.

Nothing, in short, can exonerate Sonderan for having dared to remain neutral during the Clone Wars. For the crime of selling to both Republic and Separatists. For its gall in maintaining diplomatic ties with Mandalore.

No system is too unstable, or too unremarkable, for the Empire to overlook such actions.

'Entering local traffic lane,' Auxi says. 'Corellian codes unchallenged. No pings from the star destroyers.'

'Good,' Luthen says, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the ships.

They're barely visible specks against the background of space. Out of sight, but not out of any range that matters. If the ground garrisons were to report any trouble, an in-system jump would have them burning off the top layer of Sonderan's atmosphere in less time than it'd take to utter a prayer for the dead.

'Bring us down,' Luthen orders, 'I'm going to get changed.'

This is a step he usually looks forward to, but this disguise sucks the joy right out of it.

Luthen can't help but be put off by how good the fit of his old uniform remains. A bit tight around the waist—he's not getting any younger—but the arms and shoulders move without stretch or bunching, and the reflection in the mirror is faultless.

It shows a stern naval officer, expression impassive, mouth thinned to a line, threatening to collapse into a frown at the slightest provocation. Maybe he's coming down the gravity well for some function he doesn't care to attend.

Just what Luthen could have become, if he'd stayed in the navy.

'Entering atmosphere over the capital,' Auxi calls out.

Luthen pulls on his cuffs and pats himself down. Finally satisfied, he opens his arms locker. If the Empire has been in no rush to redesign its uniforms, it has not wasted time in the weapons' department. The new RK-3 blaster is a bulky, ugly thing. Easy to manufacture and mostly soldier-proof. Luthen clips one to his holster, adds a dagger to each boot and small incendiary bombs under his belt, then makes his way back to the cockpit.

'Looking good,' Auxi remarks, swivelling his eye towards him.

'Don't make me dial down your personality settings.'

'Your uniform is up to standards,' Auxi rephrases carefully.

Luthen grunts and sits down, surveying the new view outside the cockpit. The moon is currently deep in the gas giant's shadow, a total eclipse that lasts three local days and nights, but the capital below is awash with lights, celebrations in full swing.

It's the one yearly event that attracts off-worlders: Amitya, the festival of the dead. 

'The landing pad just changed its pricing,' Auxi says, tone unusually snappish. 'Hidden fees. Five hundred credits.'

Luthen smiles thinly. 'Good on them. Now's the time to fleece tourists.'

'Should I land outside the city?'

'No, no. Let the locals have their due. We'll attract less attention that way. Now remember, this is a single day mission. Stay ready for departure. If I'm not back by the end of eclipse, enter lockdown mode.'

'Affirmative.'

The landing pad's owner, a disgruntled Pantoran dressed in patchy overalls, offers Luthen a half-hearted discount at the sight of his uniform. 'Only two hundred credits for our imperial overlords,' she says tartly.

He pays her and heads out at a brisk pace. The streets are lively, even here, a few districts away from the city centre and its official celebrations. There's music spilling from stores, and people gathering to sing outside of them, beating a rhythm with their feet, a small mimicry of the traditional dances for the dead. Street vendors have come from all over the moon to turn a profit and yell high and loud to be heard over the singing.

There's food—from roasted fish whole on a stick to colourful candy drops—woven headbands mimicking the swirling colours of Sonder III, flower crowns for your speeder—good luck, no collisions, no fines!—hand-painted urns to send off your dead in style, and much more... It's a bustling, unofficial market sprawling over the entire city for the three days and nights of eclipse.

And Luthen cuts through it all like a ghost, an evil spirit everyone can see but nobody will look at. The empire has been hard at work here, and the tension is palpable. He's getting plenty of attention in the end, and none of it positive.

He's come to Sonderan twice before as an art dealer, and always for Amitya. The experience couldn't be more different: nobody approaches him with offers to drive him to the city galleries or the hotels. The street vendors ignore him as they hawk their wares, eyes glazing over if they even look in his direction. The singing falters when he approaches any of the impromptu choirs, then picks up again with a flair of defiance.

He can feel the locals' gazes raking across his back, following his every step. And he makes that step count: shoulders back, heels kicked forward, slight roll of the hips, like he owns the place. It's a confident stride, arrogant even, far from the soft shuffling of the art dealer or the quiet tread of the rebel.

Let people see the officer. Let them remember him, hate him. He'll be the one to take the blame when things go missing.

A shuttle slows down to a stop right ahead and Luthen hurries to jump on board. He's got places to be and the quiet hostility doesn't make him want to tarry. It's crowded, heading for the city centre and its celebrations. The closer they get, the brighter the streets are, but imperials, just like paper lanterns, become a more common sight.

As they approach the central public square where the dance competition takes place, Luthen notices barricades. Entire streets are blocked off, dark but for the public lights and the windows of private homes.

A new fear spreads sudden roots. Surely they aren't thinking of cancelling the festival without warning? Manufacturing riots just to put them down is an imperial specialty, but Luthen's understanding of the situation didn't account for such an adversarial move. Sure, there's been plenty of executions, and not all of them official, but the locals have mostly played along and tried to keep a low profile.

Reluctantly, Luthen turns to the old Human seated next to him. 'Do you know if the dances will still take place?' he asks her.

She gives him an unreadable look and a shrug. 'They were approved. I suppose we will see if they actually happen.'

Entirely at the empire's discretion, then. If the locals are anticipating interference in the principal Amitya celebration, then tensions are far worse than Luthen suspected. He doesn't dare ask. 'I've heard a lot of good things about the dances,' he says instead. 'I hope to be able to see them myself tonight.'

It mollifies the old woman a bit. She gives him a tight smile. 'None are more impressive than here. The dancers train and compete the whole year, you know?'

Oh, Luthen knows. The Amitya festival is a must-do for art dealers specialising in cultural artefacts like him.

Every year, the eccentric orbit of another one of Sonder III's moons, a small rock called Ama, brings it shooting past Sonderan. The fleeting event wouldn't be worth noticing if Ama weren't covered in a thick, uniform layer of bioluminescent fungal mold.

During the three days and nights Sonderan spends in eclipse, Ama hangs in the sky like a blind, milky eye, growing close enough on the second day to illuminate the streets with its wan, ghostly light. The locals believe that Ama is the home of Amit, the God of the Dead, and of all their ancestors and dead relatives.

Everyone knows it's mold, of course. You can fly to Ama and sample it—although there's a strong taboo against it. Folklore just has a thick skin. And where there is folklore, there is unique related art.

Every year in preparation for Ama's rapid fly-by, dancers craft elaborate masks and outfits. The goal is for people to pray so their dead can go up to join Amit, while the dancers ensure none come down to Sonderan—their fearsome dances scaring them away. Of course it's a competition, and the capital's great public square sees the best dancers face off. Then the public votes. There's drinks, food, fireworks, holo coverage. It's a big deal and a night-long affair.

The mask of the winner is bought by the state and displayed in the Amitya Gallery, which is home to the works of over five hundred winners. Luthen and his colleagues have the opportunity to buy the runner ups. An Amityan mask and full outfit can fetch upward of 50,000 credits with the right buyer.

If he could, Luthen would love nothing more than to stop and see what the year's top contenders have crafted, but he's not here to buy.

He glances up as he steps off the shuttle. Ama is there, already large as a fist in the portion of the sky not overtaken by the dark side of the gas giant. Luthen walks the rest of the way, taking a couple of detours to avoid a market and a barricade of stormtroopers. Finally, the building he's come all this way to break into stands before him, tall and forbidding.

The architecture is slick, without frills. There are no windows. The lettering is in burnished copper, shining from the bright street lights. Sonderan Civil Gallery. The largest museum on the moon, with extensive private collections on public display.

Well, not so public anymore: the front doors are shut, and the "closed until further notice" sign is painted right over them in a hurried and careless free hand. Paint has leaked and pooled down onto the steps.

Luthen circles around to the back, never slowing his step. He has to look like he belongs. No skulking. Luckily there's nobody guarding the back entrance and its collection of bins. He checks both sides of the alley to make sure he's alone, and finds that he isn't: just past the edge of the closest street light, a short, shadowy figure hugs the wall. Luthen can't make them out.

'Scram!' he says, barking the word like an order.

The figure advances, stepping into the light. It's a human child, a teenager in a black dress, Luthen realises with relief.

'Get lost, kid!' he yells.

Luthen has very little time to react. The figure takes two hurried steps before bolting forward. There's a glint of metal, and Luthen is saved by the sharp reflexes he's honed during his years of military service. He grabs their wrist and twists mercilessly. The knife clatters to the ground, and Luthen kicks it away.

The teenager—up close Luthen can see it's a girl, with her face painted and a heavy fringe almost covering dark eyes—yelps and immediately tries to free herself. When Luthen won't let her go, she hisses, baring her teeth like a feral Lothcat and pulling, digging her heels in.

'What's this?' he asks, tugging on her arm. 'What do you think you're doing?'

'Let me go!' she spits, all fury and outrage. She hits him with her free hand, balling her fist and slamming his shoulders—his face is thankfully out of reach. 'I'll kill you! Kriffing kill you all!'

Luthen represses a smile. Considering he looks every bit the part of an imperial officer, this is a very admirable thing to say and want.

'Me?' he asks, probing.

'Yes, you!' she snarls. 'You killed my parents!'

'I did no such thing,' Luthen says soberly.

'Yes, you did. You, the uniform! You, the empire! You came here and took everything. You killed my entire family, my parents, in front of me, so that I would remember. Well, I remember! And I'll make you pay if it's the last thing I do!'

The girl tries to twist away, and for a moment Luthen considers letting her go. Maybe she'd write this encounter off as a failed attempt, learn from her mistakes, try with some other officer and be successful. She certainly has the right idea, and the spunk. What else is there to do? He's not here to buy art, nor is he here to foster a rebellion. The empire does that well enough on its own.

He should let her go, chase her away... But then he notices it: the cut of the dress she's wearing, its embroideries and the too long sash tied around her slim waist. The fabric glimmers in the alley's low light, blue and silver threads interwoven to depict Sonder III's swirls, and black, for the eye of the storm. It's all tied by a plaited thread knotted around a large pearl, the traditional way to depict Ama. The robe is too large, the epaulettes look ridiculous on the girl's frame. None of it fits, but it was tailored and tucked around to stay in place. And then there's the make-up...

Luthen yanks the girl forward and grabs her shoulder, pinning her in place. 'Child, whose funerary robe are you wearing?'

She grits her teeth and pins him with a stare. Her eyes are shining behind her fringe, ready to spill with hot, angry tears as she bites the words, 'My mother's. They wouldn't... wouldn't burn her in it! It's mine now.'

Luthen feels a shiver run down his back. This girl... She dressed herself to die. She never expected to survive the deeds of the night.

'Who are you?'

Luthen doesn't really expect an answer, but the girl puffs her chest, defiant, and exclaims, 'I am Kleya, of clan Marki! Last... curator... of this museum... And I will not let another one of you soil it with your imperial boots!'

She tries to wriggle free, but Luthen won't budge. 

'If you think I'm an imperial, why would you tell me the truth?'

That stops her for a second. She gives him a confused look. 'Aren't you an imperial?'

'Luckily for you, I'm not. But if I were, what would you gain by answering my questions? Here's a lesson for you, Kleya Marki: never tell the truth, not unless it does you some amazing favour no lie can surpass. The best manipulation is a mix of truths and lies, but that almost never applies to your name.'

'What does it matter if you know my name? Let... me... go! You can't do anything worse than you've already done.'

Luthen chuckles. 'You lack imagination.'

The girl lets out a strangled laugh, bordering on a mad cackle. 'You think I lack imagination? Me? I've seen how creative you can get!'

'I'm not an imperial,' Luthen repeats. He won't let her go now, so it's time for some truth of his own. 'I'm dressed as one, yes, but only to get into this building.'

Kleya gives him a dark look, mouth pinched. She'll need more to be convinced.

'You said your parents were the curators for this museum?' he asks.

Curatorships on Sonderan are hereditary titles, bestowed by the state to a clan, whose members are then expected to train their entire lives for the position. It also involves management and conservation. The museum is fully entrusted to them. The title isn't taken back unless someone fails spectacularly at their job. Luthen has definitely met members of clan Marki on his previous visits. Kleya's parents? Or her aunts and uncles, cousins? He can't say. They'd been perfectly polite, projecting a stern, tidy image. Without frills, just like their museum. He hadn't done business with them, but they'd toured him around some of the storage areas, hoping to interest him in a trade. 

'What do you care?' Kleya spits. 

'I'll explain why I care. It should also convince you I'm not a real imperial. Promise me not to run if I let you go.'

Kleya takes a moment to consider before giving him a stiff nod. She never stops glowering. When he releases her, she only takes a half step back, hands curling at her side like she's ready to go on the offensive again at the slightest provocation. Luthen already likes her.

'First...' He pulls his necklace from under his vest. The blue sky stone dangles heavily on the chain, captivating the girl's attention. 'Can you tell what it is?'

'Y-yes. It's a Kuati signet, isn't it?' She reaches a hand out, brushing her fingers against the stone. 'Blue kyber of this size... wow. It's rare and very old. A memento of the Rakatan defeat.'

Luthen can't hide his smile. 'From the old world, yes. Good.'

'Did I pass your test?' Kleya asks, her amazement quickly replaced by suspicion. 'What's it to me? It doesn't mean you're not an imperial. It doesn't explain anything.'

'It should help convince you that I'm an art dealer from Coruscant.' Luthen tells her. 'Most days, at least. I'm something else the rest of the time, and an imperial never. This—' he pulls on his collar, tucking the necklace back at the same time '—is solely to get inside this building unchallenged and confuse any security footage that might be checked by the time I'm done.'

Kleya frowns. 'Done with what?'

Luthen chuckles. 'I'm afraid I can't answer that question. Not to random people trying to stab me in back alleys.'

'How can I know you're speaking the truth?' Kleya asks, ignoring the jab. 

'Did your parents ever mention deals with a Coruscanti art dealer? Luthen Rael? I've dealt with your clan before.'

Kleya's face pinches in concentration, but there's no spark of recognition. She's trying though. She wants to believe him.

'That's you? Luthen Rael?'

'One of my names, yes.'

'So what? Are you some sort of rebel?'

Luthen smiles. 'That's a broad term, but it's the idea. I oppose the empire, in my own way.'

'What do you want from the museum? Are you here to plunder it because it's closed and my parents are dead?'

Luthen shakes his head. 'Not at all.'

'So what?'

'Are you still the curator for this place?'

The question has a remarkable effect. The girl seems to deflate. Her shoulders slump, her chin drops. Her fringe covers her eyes completely and Luthen can't tell if she's looking at him or at her feet. She seems several years younger. Truly just a child dressed in her mother's clothes and playing pretend. A very dangerous game of pretend.

'It's the first thing they did, when the new governor decided to crack down. After the protests, did you see them?' She waves her own question away when Luthen says he didn't. 'It was just politics. The museum hosted an anti-imperialist exhibit. Katulshan and Mesa Kreegyr were there to speak about their pieces. It was in the news. But that's like... normal. We did controversial exhibits all the time! That's what the contemporary side gallery is for, r-right? S-speak truth to power, all that.'

Luthen nods along. Kleya is a well raised child, prepared for her position. She understands the rules the museum and the state of Sonderan play by. She was never expected to deal with the empire's far trickier rules, especially if Sonderanians believed their bid for neutrality would hold. Luthen can already tell what's coming.

The empire doesn't tolerate any truth to be spoken but its own.

'They made the museum closure into some sort of public event, paraded us all out,' Kleya continues. She's looking up now, face wet with tears and mouth pulled in an angry rictus. 'The governor had the board divest us of our title first, so that it would hurt. So my parents would know that even if I was left to live, I'd have nothing. They stripped them of their legacy before killing them.'

Luthen grimaces. This is pretty efficient, terror wise. The empire must have a real evil genius on their payroll here.

'So no, I'm not a curator any more. I'll... never be one. But I don't care what they say, it's still my museum! And I won't let just anyone walk in and—'

'I get it, it's all right,' Luthen says, trying to soothe her. 'I'm not here to pillage the place. I promise.'

Kleya lets out a heavy sob. She's bent in half by it, crossing her arms over her chest, like she's hugging her robe, maybe hugging her mother through it. Luthen watches, a lump in his throat. He's not here to buy art, get involved in politics, or even to save children.

He surprises himself by reaching out. It feels like his hand moves of its own volition, landing on Kleya's shoulder, rubbing a tentative circle over her back. She shivers at the touch, but is too busy crying her heart out to shift away or protest. Even when he embraces her, she lets herself be held.

They stay like that for untold minutes, Ama staring down at them. Luthen, fearful of other, less friendly eyes possibly watching them, eventually pulls Kleya into the recess of the museum's back door.

'Listen, you might not be a curator any more, but I've got a job for you, if you're willing.' Luthen pats her head, her shoulders, and gives her time to collect herself before continuing. He can't believe he's about to make this offer, but a rapid inventory of his options, and of his own morals, tells him it's the right thing to do. 'It involves sacrificing your life, but on the longer term. Take down the empire at the root. Not a single officer left to bleed in a dark street, but the whole system, from the Emperor to the last stormtrooper. I take it you don't mind sacrificing yourself, do you? It would be less flashy, a lot more tedious, but just as dangerous. You'd have to follow me back to Coruscant. I know it's asking a lot.'

Kleya sniffs and looks up at him. 'A job?'

'I think you'd be ideally suited to help run my art gallery, among other things.'

She frowns. 'You want to take down the empire with an art gallery?'

Luthen bends down, their foreheads almost touching, and whispers, 'An art gallery is a great front for shadier business.'

'...You're not talking about bad art provenance, are you?' she whispers back.

'No.'

She blinks, and a single tear falls from her lashes, disappearing into the wet tracks along her cheeks. She gives him a wry smile. Suddenly she looks old beyond her years. Someone who's seen too much, suffered too much. A child of the empire.

'You're really part of the rebellion then? It's real? I heard things from Mesa Kreegyr when she visited, but I didn't believe her.'

Luthen sighs. He has to be honest with the girl if she's to make the call, but it's a strange—and rather uncomfortable—feeling to speak the words aloud. 'I'm working on building a network. Alone, we might not succeed.' He waves to her discarded knife to illustrate the point. 'But together, as a supportive network... A single failure will be meaningless. We would be everywhere. So I talk. I meet people. I move credits where it can help. I put people in contact. I recruit people to the cause.'

'Is that what you're here for?'

Luthen lets out a breathy chuckle. 'This—' he points to her and back at him '—isn't what I had planned, no. I really hadn't accounted for a local rebel to jump me.'

Kleya makes a face. 'But it's what you're doing now.'

More of that spunk, that dogged determination to get her answers. Luthen can already tell she'll fit right in. He finds himself hoping she'll accept his offer, despite how terrifying the prospect also is. Kleya might be grown up, knowledgeable, dedicated, and ready to start working in his gallery tomorrow... But she remains a slight girl-child, someone he held in check with one hand. He'll have to protect her, teach her. She'll have to move in with him over the gallery, learn to use Auxi and the Fondor.

Luthen is basically staring down at an unofficial adoption, and he'd really not planned for that.

Inviting a child in his bachelor's life, now, when he's so busy building his network and barely manages to keep the facade running? If he were really pragmatic, he'd have lied, chased her away and left her to fend for herself.

And how terrifying must this be, from her perspective? She's offered a second shot at life, yes, but by a forbidding stranger dressed as an imperial officer. Someone she just tried to kill.

It speaks volume of her desperation—or her trust, though Luthen has done little to earn it—that Kleya quickly nods and says, 'I'll come with you. I don't have anyone here. Not anymore... If I can't work for the museum, then... If you're serious...?'

'Deadly so.'

'All right.' She squares her shoulders as she takes a step back. She mimics Luthen's earlier gesture, fetching a pendant from a hidden necklace. 'I still have this. It can help.' It's a small keypass, flat and grey, without any markings giving its use away. 'What are you looking for?'

Luthen smiles and steps aside, gesturing for Kleya to do the honours. 'The new governor has set up offices on the top floor, including ISB offices,' he explains. 'They're using the museum vaults, since they offer some of the best security on Sonderan.'

'I don't have the codes for the vaults,' Kleya says as she opens the door with a simple tap of her pass.

'No need. Thank you. This already saves me a lot of effort. Now, let me go first. I have good intel that nobody will be in here during the Amitya celebrations, but we can't be too careful.'

He palms his blaster and steps into a dark hallway. An opening on the left side leads to the loading bay. There's an unusual amount of speeders in there, but nothing of interest.

'Do you want me to turn the lights on?' Kleya asks. 'Nobody can see from outside, you know.'

'Leave it. Second lesson for the day. Assume the worst and plan for it. Optimism is a bad habit that'll get you killed. Let's just expect a full garrison of stormtroopers playing cards somewhere in there. Then we'll be happy to be proven wrong.'

Kleya nods and follows him silently, though she sometimes helps with directions. Navigating the staff areas in the dark is proving more complicated than expected, even having studied the layout. Luthen used to be a pilot, not a spy, or even an architect. The girl's help is most welcome.

'This must be it,' she murmurs, jerking her chin towards a door labelled "Teaching Rooms".

Luthen nods and takes the keypass from her, opening the door himself and entering blaster first.

It's dark and empty. The room has been set up with data banks and holo projectors. The original tables and furniture have been pushed against the walls to make space for them. There are also the ever ubiquitous file cabinets, and Luthen breathes a sigh of relief.

This is what he came here for.

He smiles down at Kleya. 'No stormtroopers after all.'

'And no cameras in this room,' she says. 'Want me to put the lights on now?'

'Sure. I need to do some digging, you'll have to give me some time.'

'Won't you tell me what you're looking for? Maybe I can help?'

'Oh, it's terribly boring,' Luthen says, opening the first file cabinet. 'You see, everywhere the empire goes, they take the ISB with them. And where the ISB goes, its agents analyse, comb the local data, hunt down any dissidents, even just the shadow of them. The slightest potential is dissected, catalogued, and then... here, stored, put away until it's relevant.'

'Were my parents...' She waves a helpless hand.

'No, no. Your parents weren't that sort of dissidents. They were public figures, openly outspoken in their criticism of the empire. Not the type of people the ISB worries about.'

Kleya nods thoughtfully, taking it all in.

'What we have in here is the new ISB cell's impression on the entire system. Sonderan, the mining belt communities around Sonder IV and V, the hyperlane refuelling station and its staff, everyone who's anyone within 20 parsecs.' He taps the metal cabinet with a knuckle. 'All in here. It won't be digitised for a while. This is just a forward camp. They haven't made themselves comfortable yet.'

'They won't,' Kleya growls. 'We won't let them.'

'They will,' Luthen says sternly. 'It's already too late. They're rooted now. Kleya, they killed your family in front of holonews crews, and nothing happened? What would it take now for an uprising? Cancelling the Amitya? Blowing Ama out of the sky? They'll do it all without blinking if they think it'll break your spirit. They'll destroy your culture and annihilate your people and use you as a pit stop and mining colony if it's the least costly option to them. They've already done it elsewhere. This system will fall. It's not even valuable enough to keep alive if it doesn't comply.'

The girl sways on her feet, shoulders hunched, like his words are battering her. But she doesn't protest. Doesn't say a thing. She turns around, leaving Luthen to his file digging. He lets her go. She's strong, he's certain of that now. Strong enough to hear the truth and digest it.

Luthen sets a timer on his chrono and starts browsing. He goes fast, tossing files in his bag at the slightest hint they might interest him. Union leaders, journalists, droid maintenance and AI specialists, refinery staff, literally anyone who threw real red flags for the ISB goes in the bag. When they realise they have files missing, it'll take them time to figure out just who or what, and Luthen will have already reached out to people, or put them in contact with each other.

He's not looking for recruits—not yet. It's too early for that here, but it's never too early to make contacts. And if the empire doubles down, people approached today will be that much keener to work with him tomorrow.

When his chrono chimes, Luthen's bag is pleasantly full and he's reached the final drawer. He gets up and leaves the room, hesitating only for a moment in the doorway. He has incendiary devices tucked under his belt. He'd planned to rescue a couple of artefacts and set fire to the place, not just to cover his theft, but to set them back and trigger a response. But now, with the girl here...

'Luthen, I got you something!'

He closes the door, leaving the room as he found it, and hurrieds down the stairs to rejoin Kleya. She's holding out a wooden handle to him.

'You can have it,' she says. 'It wasn't archived yet.'

'What is it?'

He accepts the object gingerly, concerned that he's been handed a lightsaber made of wroshyr wood. There's a clear grip, and a metal section in the middle of the wood has a couple of trigger buttons.

'It's an electro-staff. It was made out of wroshyr wood by a shadow man who befriended a clan of Wookies during the Old Republic!'

'A shadow man? An Umbaran?'

'Yes. It's telescopic, look.'

She presses a button and a hidden metal blade snaps out, its segments falling seamlessly to a lethal point. Kleya presses the second button, and the staff comes to life. The purple current arcs along the blade, making it hum and the handle vibrate softly.

This is rare, beautiful technology. Most likely one of a kind. Luthen's certainly never seen anything like it before.

'You say I can have it?' he asks, turning the power off and retracting the blade with simple brushes of his thumb over the switches. 'Thank you.'

Kleya shrugs. 'I'm also taking this.' She shows him a necklace, its pendant looking a lot like a whistle. 'It came with. They hadn't been catalogued yet when they shut us down and... And I found them collecting dust in their crate under a table in the conservation room.'

'What does this one do?' Luthen asks, pointing at the pendant.

'Blows out most people's eardrums, apparently.' Kleya answers deadpan.

'Excellent, keep it.'

Luthen pockets the wroshyr handle too. Just like the girl, he's already fond of it. This is proving to be a most valuable trip. He shoulders his bag and nudges Kleya back towards the exit.

'Come on. We have to get back to my ship. Do you need anything from your home?'

Kleya shakes her head and gives him a sheepish look. 'I... I burnt it. I didn't want them to have it after I... If I didn't survive.'

'Which, considering your outfit, you weren't planning on.' She grimaces, hands bunched into her robe. 'All right, let's go then, the sooner we're out of here, the better.'

Kleya nods and trots along behind him as they make their way back to the closest thoroughfare. The dances have started—the music can be heard over the brouhaha of the crowds—and they've emptied the streets. Even with fewer people about, Luthen immediately notices a change in the quality of the gazes that follow him. Now he's an imperial dragging a local around. He hails a droid taxi, unwilling to handle a possible confrontation.

Kleya stares back during their drive, to the fireworks over the great square. She looks up to Ama too, and Luthen thinks she might say something. Change her mind, or ask to be dropped somewhere. There's so much longing in her gaze. But the girl stays silent. When they arrive at the landing pads, she keeps her gaze forward. She heads for the Fondor without hesitation.

The Pantoran gives her a worried look, probably taking in the funeral robe, but stays mercifully silent. Luthen pays her the rest of her dues and climbs aboard.

'Prepare for take-off, keep the same codes and get us home the long way around.'

The Fondor hums to life, doors shutting with a hiss of steam and sealing for space travel. Luthen finds Kleya standing in the cockpit.

'This is Auxi,' he says, poiting at the AI's eye stalk. 'Auxi, this is Kleya Marki.'

'Pleasure,' Kleya says.

'A new person?' Auxi asks, audibly confused.

'Just be nice,' Luthen says. 'Here, let me pass. There's no real co-pilot seat because Auxi does the co-piloting for me.'

'Fondor haulcrafts aren't designed to need a co-pilot,' Auxi supplies helpfully. 'But this ship has been augmented.'

'So where do I sit?' Kleya asks.

'Just there,' he says, pointing at the jumpseat on the right. 'But you can stand while we take off. We'll do a fly-by of Ama before we go.'

The moon is much smaller than Sonderan. It's a glorified captured asteroid with just enough atmosphere to host its bioluminescent mold. Yet it's now large enough to encompass most of the cockpit.

'Minimum distance reached,' Auxi says.

Luthen glances at Kleya. Her face looks alien in Ama's greenish light. It washes into the ship, casting pale shadows. Otherworldly, all right. Kleya's eyes are far away, her mouth open by a silent litany.

Auxi swivels from her to Luthen and back. 'Hyperspace calibration complete,' he says.

Kleya sighs. She rubs away fresh tears and goes to sit without a word, strapping herself carefully.

Luthen second guesses himself as he pilots the ship away from the moon and past the shadow of the gas giant. Bright, blue tinted sunlight pours back into the cockpit.

'Are you sure you want to come with me?' he asks. 'It's not too late for—'

'For what?' Kleya cuts him off. 'I want this. Create a rebellion? Take down the empire? Work with artefacts again? Isn't it better than what I had planned?' She looks past him, to the slowly retreating planet and its moons, the only home she must have known. 'The empire made sure I'd have nothing left here.'

'You could have family in another system,' Luthen insists.

She shrugs. 'Not that I know of.'

'So... To Coruscant?'

Kleya nods. 'Please. I want to help.'

Luthen smiles at her. Brave child, so bold and strong. 'I know you will.'

He pulls the lever, and they jump to hyperspace.