Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cooperation is best. That’s what the Empire has always told Kallus. A Human officer can be the best and the brightest of them all, but they’re nothing without the friendly assistance of one of their allies, advising them and working with them to ensure the best possible outcome for the Empire.

Kallus got his first Yeerk when he was just eighteen. Voluntarily. That’s a point of pride among certain Human Imperials: that they, unlike the weak others who resist Yeerks at every turn, willingly allow a Yeerk – the Empire encourages Humans to think of Yeerks as fellow officers – into their head. There’s even a joke among some of them, when they are relaxing by the side of the Kandrona pool waiting for their Yeerks to be ready, that life is so much easier when you let someone else take control.

For Kallus’ part, he gladly works together with his Yeerk. He has certain plans and ideas in mind for his life: his Yeerk can help him to attain those goals. Often, that comes in the form of advice, ways of viewing things that Kallus has never noticed before; other times, it comes in the form of taking over his body, so that he is surprised at the incredible things he is capable of.

It was Isshi-774, at first. He is the one who accompanied Kallus on his very first mission to Onderon. He mostly stayed back, monitoring Kallus as he led his platoon. It’s common in the Empire that fresh-faced officers like Kallus was then are accompanied (that is the Empire-accepted term, accompanied, though people use the word infested all too often) by an older, more experienced Yeerk.

Neither Isshi-774 nor Kallus expected the bomb, or the Lasat that came afterwards slowly eviscerating their platoon. Isshi-774 tried to protect Kallus from the worst of the horrors, secreting calming chemicals. It did nothing to help when the Lasat loomed over them and tore Kallus’ flesh from shoulder to hip.

Still, Isshi-774 stayed with him, comforting Kallus even as he began to feel the effects of Kandrona starvation. When the Empire finally found Kallus, he was cradling the shrivelled body of Isshi-774 to his bloody chest, weeping quietly.

After that, it had been Addis-402. She – for she is one of the few Yeerks Kallus has met who clung firmly to the feminine pronoun – was uncomfortable in Kallus’ body, and Kallus was uncomfortable because she was uncomfortable. Nevertheless, the two of them made a good team. She understood his sometimes strange obsession with Lasats, and helped him research everything about the culture.

She was with him on Lasan. When the time came to pull the trigger, she calmed his vengeful thoughts into cold rationality; when he saw the effects the T-7s had on organics, she steeled his resolve. Even when he dropped the weapon and went back to his trusty blaster instead, she understood.

Addis-402 hadn’t agreed with him taking the bo-rifle. But she hadn’t stopped him either. She saw the look in the strange Lasat’s eyes as they handed the weapon over, felt the unnamable emotions rising in Kallus, and when their commanding officers criticised them, she stood up for him.

"A trophy," she lied in his voice. "Pulled from a corpse."

They didn't mention it to each other. Addis-402 helped him practice techniques to wield the weapon, helped him modify it to suit his weight and size and grip, but she never discussed it with him. She just did it. Two years later, they parted amicably: she going on to accompany another officer, a woman this time, and he to receive a higher ranking Yeerk.

That’s where I come in. Sub-Visser-021 – Silam-63, to my friends. Well, that’s not my real name or rank, just as Kallus isn’t his real name. We’re spies, or were spies. If I told you any of our real details, a lot of people would be in danger. I started to accompany Kallus almost as soon as Addis-402 left his head, and I think we’re fairly similar, personality-wise: we’re both very driven, prefer active duty to being stuck behind a desk, and extremely loyal. Perhaps that’s why we were put together. Perhaps that’s why the two of us stayed together.

It is I who accompanied him when the Lasat attacked us. I approved of the way Kallus took credit for the use of the T-7s to rile the Lasat up; I expertly combined keeping Kallus emotionally steady with helping him fight, the two of us working perfectly in sync. We raised the bo-rifle together, perfectly prepared to strike the final blow.

Both of us were shocked by the sudden feeling of impact throwing us away.

<The Force!> I was amazed. At the time, neither I nor Kallus had seen it often in action.

Impossible, replied Kallus, as I helped him struggle to his feet. The Jedi were wiped out long ago.

Apparently not. Because those same Jedi kept cropping up – the quick Kanan and his young apprentice Ezra – over and over again, accompanied by the same damn crew of malcontents who would probably call themselves plucky if they knew what that meant. After a year, Kallus and I knew the names and histories of each one: the pilot Hera Syndulla, the droid CH-10P, the Mandalorian Sabine Wren, and… the Lasat. Garazeb Orrelios.

Kallus could never quite wipe out that final stain of Lasan, no matter what plans we came up with. Even when we discovered other Lasats still living to exterminate, that stubborn beast managed to rescue them with the help of his little friends. Over and over again, we found ourselves beaten by either him or his crew.

Which brings us to this. The moment when the two of us find ourselves hurtling towards one of the moons of Geonosis, trapped with that very same Garazeb Orrelios, and neither of us is exactly sure who thinks <Oh fuck.>

Chapter Text

I wake first: I open Kallus’ eyes, administering a small shot of adrenalin so that Kallus does the mental equivalent of sitting straight up in bed with a gasp. Once he is conscious, we can both take stock of our surroundings: the crashed pod, the sparking electrics, the pain in Kallus’ leg which feels like a break.

Garazeb Orrelios looms over us, bo-rifle levelled at our throat. I stare back. He’s going to kill us, isn’t he? That’s how we got into the escape pod and onto wherever this is (cold, very cold, but that’s all I really register) in the first place – we were trying to kill him, and the effort was mutual. His eyes scan Kallus’ body briefly, and hesitate on the leg that’s giving us pain. Then, before either of us can react, he picks Kallus up bodily and drops us unceremoniously on the cold icy ground outside.

“I could kill ya, yannow,” he informs us, low and steady. “Both a ya. But Kallus, yer injured, an’ I ain’t about ta murder a guy when he’s down. The creep in yer head, maybe, but I can’t get at that slimy slug without hurtin’ ya. If the two of us ‘re gonna fight, it’s gonna be fair. Honourable.”

“The Empire will find us eventually,” I inform him, reassuring Kallus as well as myself. “And then you will be captured, and you will see the benefits of a Yeerk companion.”

“Nah,” he scowls, baring his teeth, “not gonna happen.”

With that, he disappears into the escape pod again; we can hear rummaging inside. I take a moment to try and figure out where, exactly we are. It’s some sort of ice cave: there’s a large hole in the ceiling where we crashed through, through which we can see Geonosis hanging huge and red in the night sky. The cold creeps up on us, too cold for a Human to survive for too long. Too cold for a Yeerk to survive for long – though if no one comes for us, I’ll starve anyway.

Come on, Silam-63, Kallus thinks, directing my attention down again to our more immediate surroundings. Please, don’t think about that. Focus on the present.

<Understood.> I steel myself: the cavern floor is littered with debris, and I search for – there! Kallus’ bo-rifle lies not too far away. I begin to drag us there, pulling us closer to it, but a massive foot descends on it before we can get there.

“Oh no ya don’t.” Orrelios looks almost disappointed in us; he picks up the bo-rifle and walks back towards where he’s collected a small pile of supplies salvaged from the wreckage. “I found a heater. And somethin’ else ya might be interested in, too.”

It looks like nothing more than a heating flask, the sort that might be used for soup, but scaled up to fit an adult Yeerk, with just enough swimming room to survive. We both recognise it immediately.

“An emergency portable Kandrona pool…” I stare at it: we last went to the nearest pool the day before yesterday. I’m usually confident enough in my ability to access the nearest pool – there’s one on every Star Destroyer in the Imperial Navy, for a start. Indeed, on one or two occasions, we’ve nearly left it too late through overconfidence and careless timing. Now, who knows how long we’ll be trapped here?

“Uh-huh,” agrees Orrelios calmly, beginning to fiddle with the heater. “I know it’s been a couple a days already. Now, ya gotta choice here. Ya can stay in that body till ya starve. Or ya can refresh yerself when ya need ta, and leave the real Kallus ta finally be outta yer control.”

I do not dignify that with an answer. “Just get that heater going.”

I won’t let you starve. I can’t. Not after -

<Shh. We’ve still got time.>

“Why?” Orrelios grins. “Scared a the dark?”

“Kark’s sake.” Our annoyance feeds off each other; I release a calming chemical, just a little, so that Kallus doesn’t get truly angry. “That thing’ll freeze eventually, you know.”

Orrelios goes back to rummaging in the wreckage. “Here’s me thinkin’ Geonosis was hot.”

This time, Kallus is the one to answer: “It is. That up there is Geonosis. This -” he hesitates, trying to pull up a memory of where exactly we are. I retrieve a holomap we were studying just this morning, while we were trying to determine what the Spectres’ plan would be. “This is Bahryn, one of its moons. You really beat me when you don’t even know -?”

A click of the tongue. “Yeerk-heads really don’t have a sense a humour, huh?”

We should have brought more weapons. A concealed blaster or a knife in our boot would have made this all a whole lot easier.

“Oh, now here’s somethin’ useful!” Orrelios exclaims, holding up a very dented transponder.

“Well, then,” I reply, “if we get that fixed, the Empire might even be able to find us before we freeze. Just -” There is a loud noise in the distance, on the edge of Kallus’ hearing. It could have just been the ice creaking. Kallus isn’t particularly convinced by that thought. “Or worse.”

“I’d rather freeze or get eaten here ‘n live out my life with a Yeerk in my head.” Orrelios sits down on the ground beside us, close to the heater, and begins to fiddle with the transponder. “Worse ‘n any prison the Empire could think of.”

He thinks cooperation is a prison? We shake our head. “That just shows how little you actually know about being accompanied by a Yeerk. If you work with us -”

“If I’m a good little slave, ya mean?”

“Hosts aren’t -” But before I can correct him on his misunderstanding, there is a much louder, much more obvious roar from deeper within the tunnel. “You’d better get on with it.”

“Hmph.” For an excruciatingly long few moments, Orrelios continues to repair the transponder with an intent focus. We watch, waiting, listening out for whatever may be coming for us from the cave. At last, he holds it up. “Think I got it working on a general frequency. Yer precious Empire might even hear it, who knows?”

“They might,” I agree. “But even if they don’t, and we die down here, the Empire will live on and continue to bring talented Rebels like yourself into the fold to be accompanied.”

“The word yer lookin’ for is infested.” Orrelios pulls the heater closer to himself. “And every day, more an’ more folks who ain’t infested see the truth a yer Empire and get fed up. Or escape the cages ya put ‘em in. Even summa the Yeerks ‘re sick a takin’ the minds of other folks.”

This long speech is punctuated by a flicker in the heater, a waver in the heat, before it shuts down completely in Orrelios’ hands.

We’re going to freeze to death. Kallus puts a hand up to his ear. Maybe you should just go into that emergency pool. At least you’ll be protected from – his mind conjures images of whatever creatures might be roaring in the distance.

<I’ll be here for you,> I reassure him. <I won’t leave you alone to be eaten.>

There is movement in front of us. Kriff, I’ve been so occupied with our internal world that I haven’t been paying attention to the outside world, where Orrelios holds out a glowing gold rock of some sort.

“Here,” he says. “It’s warm and throws light.”

“Some sort of meteorite?” I ask.

“Take it.” Orrelios tosses it in our direction: Kallus is the one with good reflexes, who catches it in both hands before I’ve even registered the movement. “I run warm in any case.” Then, with a grin: “Well, the transponder’s still workin’, so that’s somethin’, right?”

I glance dubiously at the thick ice overhead. “The signal won’t make it through the surface.”

“Karabast.” He takes the transponder, sticks Kallus’ bo-rifle in the snow. “Ya just had ta kriffin’ say it, didn’t ya?”

With that, he begins to climb: the curved walls of the cave are too steep for him, it’s obvious, and he soon falls. Kallus smugly shows me the solution that Orrelios is missing. I’ll take his word for it. He’s the one with a body.

“You’ll hurt yourself, you know.”

“Shut – up!” He gets a little farther this time, and then thumps to the ground.

Idiot. We snicker.

“I’d like ta see you kriffing try ta climb this karking ice wall, you -”

That’s when the gigantic creature bursts into our cave. It is not happy to see us, and especially not Orrelios, apparently: it charges towards him, so that he barely has a moment to pull out his bo-rifle and start shooting. Still, it backs him into the escape pod, away from us.

The bo-rifle!

<On it.> I drag us closer to Kallus’ bo-rifle and grab hold of it. Finally, a weapon. <You know, we could just… kill him. Or let the creature kill him.>

No. Kallus’ mind is certain. He’s our ticket out of here. Do you really think we could climb up there on our own with this broken leg? We don’t have a grappling hook, crampons, or anything except his claws.

<You have a point.> Together, we begin to shoot: not Orrelios, but the creature, aiming for whatever soft spots we can see. It recoils and roars, cringing away from the source of pain. Just keep shooting. I know Kallus can barely stand; the pain from the leg makes even me wince by proxy. But we keep going, focused: we hear Orrelios’ bo-rifle start up again, and together the three of us begin to push the monster back into the tunnel it came from.

At last, it’s gone. Kallus and Orrelios are both panting.

“It’ll be back,” I point out.

“Prob’ly,” agrees Orrelios. “And bring its friends, an’ all.”

I shrug Kallus’ shoulders. “That is the natural order of things. The strong survive. The weak perish, or are assimilated.”

“Is that what happened on Geonosis?” His look probes into our soul. “Or maybe the Yeerks just figured out those buggers don’t have a central whatsit, nervous system. Were they too hard ta control fer ya, huh?”

“We have no idea.” I’m honestly not sure what that has to do anything. “We never asked.”

“Yeah, I bet ya never did, Yeerk. Not when it’s yer precious Empire at risk of findin’ it’s hands dirty. Not when stayin’ in line benefits ya, huh? The Empire gets ya a body to control, so why ever question anythin’ it does?”

“Even if the Geonosians don’t have a central nervous system,” I retort, “that’s no reason to kill them all. Why would the Empire go to all that trouble?”

Orrelios raises his eyebrow. “Good questions. Seek the truth, maybe ya’ll find the answers.”

It’s Kallus’ turn to change the subject. “You’ll never get out of here without our help, you know. I know how to climb out of this cave.”

“Sure ya do.” He shoves the medpac into Kallus’ hands. “Fix yer body, an’ then we’ll talk.”

“You keep slipping.” I sit down and begin to treat Kallus’ leg, trying to determine the severity of the break. It’s not too bad, but I’d prefer it not to be broken at all. “Kallus has an idea for how to help you not to do that.”

This makes him frown a little; he hums and takes Kallus’ bo-rifle. “This’ll do fer a splint, don’tcha think? Keep it outta yer hands, anyway.” He inspects it thoughtfully. “Modified fer close-quarters combat. You did this, Yeerk?”

“Not me,” I clarify. “Kallus did it. Although his previous Yeerk helped.”

“Not bad.” He begins to bind it to Kallus’ leg. “Ya shouldn’t have it. Not a kriffin’ trophy.”

Let me speak to him. Let me tell him the truth.

<Very well.>

“I -” Kallus clears his throat. “That is, Addis-402 and I did not take it as a trophy. A Lasat guardsman gave it to us as they died. They fought honourably. Died well. She did not want me to accept the gift, but… I felt it would be rude.”

“It would’ve been, yeah,” frowns Orrelios. “There’s this thing, the Boosahn Keeraw, where if yer defeated by a superior opponent, yer supposed ta give up yer weapon. Very traditional.”

Kallus bows his head. “I was only doing my duty. As was she.”

“It’s over now.” Orrelios looks into our eyes. “I’ll never forget Lasan, but… it’s past.”

<Go on,> I prompt, when Kallus hesitates to share what he has to say. <Tell him.>

“We… we all have things we’ll never forget.” I can feel Kallus struggling; the memories threaten to overwhelm him. I keep them muted, so that their sharp edges cannot hurt Kallus again. “I – long ago, I was sent to Onderon. There was a bomb, and… When I woke up, there was a Lasat mercenary. I saw him through the smoke. He killed my comrades, one by one. Injured and able alike. But he left me to die. By the time I was rescued, my first Yeerk, Isshi-774, was dead. I’ve often wondered why that mercenary didn’t just kill us both when he had the chance.”

Orrelios’ ears twitch. “Karabast. Sorry that happened. But -” he frowns – “ya can’t judge all Lasats the same, yannow.”

“Does the same sentiment apply to Imperials?” I can’t help but ask. “Or Yeerks?”

“All the ones I know.” Orrelios looks down at the splint he’s made and takes a breath. “Right then. Come on, you two. Show me the way to go home, an’ all that.”

“We could hold your bo-rifle for you?”

Orrelios snorts. “Not a chance.” He takes aim at the top of the crater and throws his weapon clean out: next is the meteorite and the transponder. “You can carry the Kandrona thingy if ya wanna.”

I weigh up the emergency Kandrona container. I’ve lost track of time somewhat; now, I realise that I’m beginning to feel the need to bathe. It’s not immediately urgent, but if the Empire doesn’t rescue us in the next, oh, twelve hours or so – well, I’ll need the container, definitely. On the other hand, it’s just big and bulky enough that it’ll be difficult to carry with us.

Nevertheless. I think for a moment, then undo Kallus’ belt buckle and loop it through the handle at the top; by the time I’m done, it’s hanging slightly awkwardly from our waist. It’s heavy, uncomfortable, but it’ll keep me alive.

“Right,” I say. “Kallus says -” Oh, enough with that, you make it sound like a children’s game – “What you should do is climb the pillars, not the walls.” And then, when Orrelios looks doubtful: “They hold up the roof of this cave, and have done for who knows how long. They will hold us.”

A roar shakes the ground beneath us: we’re running out of time.

“If yer wrong about this,” Orrelios informs us, pulling us up to cling to his back, “I don’t care who suggested it, I’m feeding you both to that thing.”

“I suppose,” I reply, after conferring with Kallus, “that’s fair.”

The creatures – because kriff, now there are two of them – burst back into the cave just as Orrelios is starting to make progress. If we had Kallus’ bo-rifle – actually, no, then we wouldn’t be able to hold on. We’re barely able to hold on as it is, but as long as we don’t get jostled too much -

“Karabast!” Orrelios’ claws lose purchase, just for a moment, and I just barely keep Kallus from slipping to our doom.

“Karabast, karabast!” The stress hormones in Kallus’ brain, already high, spike; I put out what fires I can, but there’s not much I can do to quell Kallus’ panic. “What does that even mean?”

Orrelios grunts. “Right now it means you an’ that stupid kriffin’ Kandrona thingy are heavier than ya look!”

“I – aah!” One of the creatures snaps its jaws at us, and I know we’re lost. Neither I nor Kallus can keep our grip any longer. Gravity pulls us down – and then a massive hand grabs us by the very much broken leg, sending shocks of pain through the entire nervous system. There is a click as Orrelios activates the pike on the end of Kallus’ bo-rifle.

<What the hell is he - >

There is a disorienting moment of being swung, and then somehow we are hanging upside down from the roof of the ice cave, only a small sliver of metal keeping us from certain doom, leg screaming.

“I’m gonna… try somethin’,” calls Orrelios, still clinging for dear life to one of the pillars. “Don’t move.”

“We weren’t planning on it,” I reply. Both I and Kallus have a rather dry sense of humour; for me, it tends to only come out when I’m most stressed. Anyone would be. We’re about to fall into the jaws of a massive ravenous creature and die. Apart from anything else, Kallus is one of the best hosts I’ve had, and I really doesn’t want to lose him.

The feeling is mutual, thinks Kallus, with a slight hint of amusement. Apparently he’s not as worried about falling to his death as I am; he’s retreating into his head, letting me deal with the worst of the fallout.

<I’ll make you take control again,> I threaten uselessly. We both know I wouldn’t do that. <See how you like it.>

What the hells is he doing? asks Kallus, taking notice of something in our field of vision. Below them, Orrelios has landed on top of the nearest creature, hands flat against the surface of its nose as it bucks wildly to try and remove him. Then – it slows. The other one, obviously confused by this turn of events, hesitates too.

The creature that Orrelios is touching relaxes, eyelids drooping. It seems almost in a trance. Is this a Force thing? Or, wait -

<I’ve seen this before,> I realise, and share the memory with Kallus: a strange blue sentient with no mouth and two eye-stalks. A long time ago now. Before I met Kallus. <I thought… but that technology was destroyed, along with the species that created it. One of my former hosts and I made sure of it.>

And Addis-402 and I helped to exterminate Lasats, points out Kallus. You and I spent years after that hunting them down. And yet here one is.

<But - > Just before I can think too deeply about it, we both feel Kallus’ body begin to slip. Apparently hanging from an ice ceiling by just a bayonet isn’t particularly stable. Who knew?

The slight creaking, cracking noise of Kallus beginning to fall attracts Orrelios’ attention. He lets go of the gigantic creature, holding out his hands to catch Kallus – but, of course, this allows the creature to break out of the spell he’s put it under and begin to jerk its head around again. Kallus lands with a thump in his arms (warm, soft, strong; even if Kallus himself doesn’t notice the beginnings of attraction, I most certainly do) just before a particularly harsh swing.

Orrelios uses the momentum from the creature’s movement to throw Kallus up and over the lip of the cave. The body lands heavily in the snow – there is a blizzard, and I use every ounce of willpower to help Kallus ignore the bitter cold. For a brief moment, we simply catch our breath; then, we spot Orrelios’ bo-rifle, right beside the meteorite and the transponder.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

<We have all the power.>

We could just leave him. Kallus tries to stand, but his leg fails him; instead, he crawls towards the weapon and grabs it. I’m sure those beasts will take care of him, or the cold.

<But this is what you’ve been working for.> I watch as Kallus pulls himself closer to the lip of the cave again, arming the bo-rifle. <It wouldn’t be satisfying to just leave him to die.>

No, thinks Kallus. There are emotions swirling his head about honour and mercy: confusing, distressing. I watch them go by, sure that they are only the product of a stressful environment, that they will pass once we get back to the Empire. It wouldn’t.

Two clawed hands suddenly grip onto the ice nearby. Kallus and I crawl closer and peer over the edge. There, sure enough, is Orrelios, looking frankly terrified. We raise the bo-rifle together: the look of terror increases. Just one shot is all it would take. Kallus’ finger closes on the trigger.

Then, for the first time in all my time accompanying him, he resists my control. His hands jerk. He fires a shot not at Orrelios, but at the creature snapping at his feet.

Sorry, thinks Kallus blandly. Muscle spasm.

I’m so shocked I barely even notice Kallus offering Orrelios a hand up. We’ve never disagreed about something before. If I do something on his behalf, Kallus has always welcomed it, been grateful for the assistance. He has never, ever taken over control of the body against my will.

Until now, apparently.

“I saw that, yannow,” comments Zeb, once he’s safely up on the surface. “Ya were gonna shoot me. But Kallus resisted.”

<That won’t happen again… will it?>

We have always worked well together. Kallus is full of strange conflicting thoughts, though none of them quite turn into anything more than vague impressions and emotions. I hope we will continue to do so. I just… he saved our life back there. And he took care of my leg. It wouldn’t be right.

<The Empire wants him and his crew dead or captured.>

The Empire isn’t here right now. Besides, perhaps the Empire isn’t always -

“Shelter,” I say aloud, putting a tight lock on those thoughts. I pull back full control to search around for anything that will keep us out of the swirling storm around us. There are shapes in the distance that might be mountains, or maybe other, safer caves. It’s definitely too cold for us to stay out here for long.

The respectful, honourable thing would be to give Orrelios his bo-rifle back.

<He is still our enemy.>

Yes, and he has been helping us, Silam-63. Kallus gives me a vague, second-hand impression of the importance of the bo-rifle to Lasat culture. He will not hurt us.

<Fine.> I hand the weapon to Orrelios. “Kallus wanted you to have this back.”

“...Thanks.”

We head together deeper into the blizzard until at last we come across a hollow in the rock, which might have fit one of the creatures in it long ago, but now is void and empty. It’s enough, for now – not comfortable by any means, but we’re not exposed to the elements at least. Orrelios sets up the transponder.

“There’s no guarantee who will hear it,” I remark. “Or if anyone will.”

Orrelios shrugs. “The Spectres ‘ll be lookin’ fer me. We’ll just have to wait.”

“That thing you did,” I begin, slowly. “To calm the beast.”

“I…” Orrelios looks down at his hands. “I didn’t think I could still do that. I did it once, years ago, and I never un-did it, so I thought…”

This time both Kallus and I are lost. We decide to say nothing.

A strange look comes onto Orrelios’ face. “Hey, um… those creatures looked pretty comfy in this freezin’ cold, right?”

We shrug. “They seemed well adapted to their environment, although we weren’t particularly thinking about it on account of them trying to kill us.”

“Yeah,” agrees Orrelios vacantly. “Yeah. Um. Okay. Don’t freak out, ‘kay?”

“Why would we – oh my gods!”

Before our eyes, Orrelios is beginning to transform. The first thing that is immediately obvious is the growth, Orrelios’ body expanding and shifting. His flight suit melds into his disappearing fur; his claws lengthen; he falls to his knees, which shift positions on his legs as we stare. The most shocking is still to come. A tail, long and reptilian, sprouts from the end of his spine. His face, too, changes shape, chin lengthening, forehead warping into a long snout with a point jutting from the end.

It should be gruesome. I’ve seen it in action; my host found watching it repulsive, horrific. This, though, is graceful. This is beautiful and magical and terrifying, more natural than it should be. At last, it’s done, and an exact copy of one of the creatures that was about to eat us in that cave stands there. We can see the rise and fall of its chest, hear the soft rumbling as it takes a moment to get its bearings. Kallus draws our attention to Orrelios’ abandoned bo-rifle, and I tense.

<No. It’s…> I hesitate, and clear our throat. “Excuse me?”

<I can’t believe that actually worked.> Orrelios’ voice sounds different in thought-speak, devoid of any accent. The creature’s head turns to focus one dark eye on us. <I told you, don’t freak out.> And then: <These things are a lot smarter ‘n I thought they were.>

“We didn’t expect you to -” I shake our head. Kallus is definitely freaking out inside our head, but I keep us stable. I let him see a few of the memories I have from my old host, ones that might explain what’s going on, but if anything he gets more agitated. “You’re lucky I’ve seen things like this, long ago, or Kallus really would have shot you.”

<Sub-Visser 021,> thinks Orrelios, with the mental equivalent of a mocking bow. <Yeah, I’ve heard the rumours about you and your former host. Deschain, right? Wonder what happened to him?>

I keep Kallus perfectly still – or try. The shivers that run over our body from the biting cold ruin the effect a little; Kallus’ fingers are struggling to grip the warm meteorite properly.

<I’m going to...> Orrelios dips his head. <I’m big enough to surround you. Might shield you from the cold a little. Uh, for Kallus’ information, it’s still me. I’m just… a different shape for the next two hours. Keep track of time for me, will ya?>

With that, the creature’s massive body curls around us like a loth-cat around its toy; Orrelios settles down. He is, indeed, large enough to create a shelter much better than the little hollow we’ve found ourselves in.

<Sit,> he instructs. <We won’t be able to do anything for a while, so…>

I nod. With much less grace, I arrange Kallus’ body in the least painful way possible. He’s exhausted, but I don’t want to let us sleep. Not when Orrelios could still very much eat us whole if he wanted to.

<Hey, uh.> Orrelios’ tail twitches. <Can I talk to Kallus? The real Kallus, not the ugly slug in yer head.>

“I’ve been talking to you this whole time,” objects Kallus. “And I would thank you not to insult my partner like that.”

<”Partner”, that’s… I really don’t know where to start with that one.> Orrelios grunts, and the creature’s voice fills the little alcove we’ve found. <How do I know it’s the real Kallus talking, though? I mean, for all I know it’s still the Yeerk pressing the buttons.>

Thoughts race through our head, debating at the speed of light, until I make a decision: “Fine. Let me exit this body into that Kandrona. Then Kallus will be able to speak for himself.”

With that, we reach for the mini Kandrona container and unscrew the top. Carefully, we hold our ear over the opening, and I slither out. Ye gods, it really is cold out here. The liquid isn’t much better, but it’s enough to keep me going: the Kandrona rays are the equivalent of emergency rations, meant to keep me going until we’re rescued.

There is a pause, presumably while Kallus remembers how to use his own body again – he always says it’s like losing a sense – and screws the lid of the container back on securely.

<I see,> thinks Orrelios, deliberately broadcasted so that I can hear it. <You’re voluntary.>

I can neither confirm nor deny: I cannot thought-speak when I am out on my own. I assume that Kallus is acknowledging the truth on my behalf, but I don’t actually have any idea what they’re talking about. Orrelios doesn’t say anything else to me for a long time. The only indication of time passing is the slow ebb of Kandrona rays around me.

<Silam-63,> says Orrelios, in private thought-speak, <we’re gonna hunker down for a while. You’d best do the same.>

(I suppose Kallus told him my name. What are they talking about?)

And so, I sleep, there in that tiny Kandrona pool, or at least doze, waiting for rescue. Powerless, useless. A slug lost in a frozen expanse. Yeerks don’t often dream, but that night, I dream of sentients with four delicate hooves, galloping through the fields…

Chapter Text

I lose track of time in the emergency Kandrona pool. They could have left me to die on that moon, and I wouldn’t have known it. But Kallus is a faithful friend. It takes what feels like a very long time, but eventually I feel myself being poured out into a much larger Imperial Yeerk pool, where I can truly refresh myself. Even there, I’m not sure what happened – was I rescued alone? Did Kallus freeze to death? None of my pool-mates seem to know.

I’m almost relieved to be summoned to the dock. Kallus’ ear canal is the same as it’s ever been; his mind is comfortable to me now, like a favourite chair. The memories of what happened while I was out are fresh and ready for inspection: I decide to peruse them later, when he is asleep.

Hello again, old friend. Feeling better?

<Much. How’s the frostbite?> It’s a rhetorical question: I’ve already checked Kallus over to my satisfaction. It could be better, but then again it could be worse.

I had a pleasant nap in bacta. The two of us head towards our room; I can feel the lingering remains of a limp from the broken leg. I imagine that’s how you feel bathing in the Kandrona. Warm, and peaceful.

And plenty of time to think. I glance at Kallus’ recent memories and emotions, probing his feelings in a way that has never felt intrusive before. <Doing all right? Not just physically, but…>

Kallus shrugs. I suppose. He presses the touchpad to open his door. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve marked us sick. At least for today, and maybe tomorrow.

He’s avoiding the question. There is a warmth in his hand that I finally notice thanks to the way Kallus’ fingers tighten around the meteorite.

<You still have that thing.>

Kallus breathing picks up, just slightly. He puts the meteorite on the shelf next to our bed and then sits down, staring at the wall. He’s quite good at controlling his emotions, but of course nothing gets past me.

I’m going to bed, he thinks at last. I know you want to know what happened.

<Rest well.> A little melatonin, among other things, to help him sleep; most sentients are a mess of chemicals, tricky to balance at the best of times. Then, once I’m sure he won’t wake, I can begin to sift through the fresh memories, pulling me back to when -

When Kallus finishes screwing the top of the emergency Kandrona pool back on.

“It really was me talking about my past, you know,” he confesses, once he has full control of his faculties. “Everything I said about the Lasat who gave me my rifle, about Onderon, that was all me. I’m not one of those hosts who resists the help of the Yeerks.>

<You…> Orrelios takes this in for a moment. <I see. You’re voluntary.>

“I have been all my life.”

<And here was me feeling sorry for you trapped in your own head.> Orrelios’ huge head turns away in disgust. <You could’ve had an excuse for what you did on Lasan, but you can’t even say that a Yeerk made you do it.>

Kallus takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t meant to be a massacre. On Lasan. It should have just been a battle, and nothing more, but those weapons were a lot more powerful than anticipated. The – the Empire wanted to make an example of you.” A long pause. “It wasn’t personal. The truth is, neither I nor my Yeerk at the time gave that order.”

<You just followed it.> Orrelios turns his head back towards Kallus and focuses one small eye on him. <I’m not here to help you wash off the blood on your hands. But I – I’ve moved on. I’m moving on. It happened. That’s all.>

Kallus curls in on the meteorite; I can feel the guilt growing in around his heart like a weed. It’s been there for years, buried under the surface, and now it’s back, digging into every nook and cranny.

“I wasn’t controlled.” It’s low, as if he’s trying to reassure himself rather than Orrelios; the emotions he remembers are conflicting, unsure. Then, louder: “No, I wasn’t controlled. My Yeerks have never needed to force my hands as much as other hosts.”

<Low kriffin’ bar.>

“It’s true, though,” insists Kallus. “Some Yeerks dictate their host’s every move and word. For us, it’s more like… a partnership. Silam-63 makes up for my shortcomings.”

A huge snort; steam from Orrelios’ nostrils warms up the hollow, just a little. <Oh yeah? Who says they’re shortcomings, you or him?>

“Listen, I – I want him there, all right? Just like I wanted Isshi-774 and Addis-402.”

<You’re gonna put him back in your head, aren’t you?> Orrelios shuffles just a little closer to Kallus. <So you’re saying stuff that’ll keep him happy when he sees this memory.>

“If I am,” replies Kallus, “then he’ll know anyway. You can’t lie to a Yeerk. If I didn’t want him there, he’d have known that from the moment he entered my head.”

<...Yeah, that don’t sound as voluntary to me as it does to you.> A deep sigh. <Whatever. Best get some sleep. Dunno how long it’s gonna take for… you know.>

Kallus nods.

<Name’s Zeb, by the way.>

“Short for Garazeb. Yes, I know.”

It’s quiet for a while; Kallus remembers dozing a little, and I can tell that he did fall asleep – he goes from supporting himself to leaning against the huge bulk of Orrelios in what feels like an instant. Then back into a drifting half-sleep. It is a sound that wakes him, a rumbling on the edge of hearing: he realises where he is and exactly who he is with, and scrambles away from Orrelios.

This wakes Orrelios, too: he picks his massive head up, and then tenses. <Karabast. How long ‘ve I been asleep?>

“I don’t -”

But Orrelios is already shrinking down: it’s a little less smooth this way, and the sound of his bones crunching together as he shrinks is enough to make Kallus feel nauseous. At last, the real Orrelios sprawls in front of him as purple and furry as ever, back in that tight orange flight suit.

“Someone’s comin’,” he says, picking himself off the ground. “I heard an engine.”

“I heard it too.” Kallus peers out into the blizzard: the shape of the ship coming down through the atmosphere is all too familiar. “The Ghost. You were right, the Spectres were looking for you.”

“We, uh.” Zeb hesitates, takes a breath, and starts again. “We have a li’l Kandrona pool on the Ghost, yannow.” He makes a few gestures with his hands. “About yea big. Not much, but… if ya came with us, we’d treat ya well. Both a ya.”

Kallus stares at him. “How – and why the hells do you have a -”

“It’s fer Idlo,” explains Zeb. “Uh. Sabine’s Yeerk. She had a number, but… she don’t use it these days. They left the Empire together cause Idlo didn’t like ta force Sabine inta doin’ stuff and, well, now she don’t gotta do that.”

Idlo. I make a mental note to follow that up. It’s not a name I’ve heard before, but I don’t know every Yeerk. I wasn’t even aware that we had anyone accompanying Mandalorians.

In Kallus’ memories, he’s tempted to go. It’s not difficult to feel the twinge of regret that hindsight gives him. Nevertheless, he stays strong.

“I’ll take my chances with the Empire.”

Zeb frowns, then turns away. Kallus watches him go: his comrades rush out to greet him, hugging him enthusiastically. It’s difficult to hear what they’re saying at this distance, but Kallus gets the gist. Concern, friendly teasing, a desire to get out of the cold. And then they’re gone, and Kallus is alone.

I skim through the rest, but there’s nothing there out of the ordinary: a trader picks Kallus and I up and brings him back to the Empire. Kallus brings me to the Yeerk pool on board the Chimaera, and then goes for medical attention. It’s fine. Normal. Dull, even.

By the time I’ve gone through everything again, it’s morning, and Kallus’ alarm is blaring. We forgot to turn it off last night. Kallus pulls himself upright, rubbing his eyes.

So. Your thoughts?

<It’s an interesting encounter, certainly. I noticed you left any mention of Orrelios out of your report. Even if knowing of his ability to transform into one of those creatures would help the Empire.>

Kallus tenses.

<Steady,> I soothe. <I’m only asking.>

I know. Kallus allows me to take a deep breath on his behalf, and I pour a comforting flood of stabilising chemicals into his brain. I shouldn’t allow a Yeerkless to get into my head like that, if you’ll pardon the pun.

<It’s no surprise you’re conflicted,> I reassure him. <The kindness he showed us was far beyond what I would expect from an enemy.>

Far beyond anything our own side have shown us. The thought is sudden, shocking, and Kallus shakes his head suddenly as if to try and forget it. No, that’s not true. It’s not.

Even so, a memory of the way Konstantine and Sub-Visser 43 looked at him on their return reappears of its own accord. Or rather, the lack of response. Because that was what was most notable. Orrelios, when he returned to his ship, was greeted with hugging and jokes and pats on the back. Kallus received the barest acknowledgement.

Perhaps you should take over for a while, Kallus thinks tiredly. Perhaps I have become… emotionally compromised.

I say nothing.

That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? asks Kallus. His thoughts are careful, slow, almost dull, but have the slightest twinge of bitterness to them. To watch for any potential… subversive thoughts.

<Yes.> There’s no use lying: Kallus will know it.

Then why did you let me help him?

<…I don’t know.> There is a long pause while we probe the contents of each other’s thoughts carefully: I have always been open with Kallus, trying to build trust, and vice versa. Yet now, there are walls where there were none before, thoughts that – even just at the subconscious level – Kallus is reluctant to let me see.

The problem with being inside someone’s head all day and all night, nearly every day, for years on end, is that it is nearly impossible not to empathise with them. There are safeguards in place, theoretically, to prevent Yeerks from bonding too deeply with their hosts, but the Empire prefers a Yeerk-Human relationship to be as smooth as possible. If that means the same Yeerk stays with the same Human for decades on end, well, that’s what happens.

<If that is how you truly feel…> I know it is. <Then what say I look up that Idlo for us?>

You’re putting stock in that obvious lie? There are undercurrents to that thought, one which fall in favour of Zeb not lying.

<I just want to make you feel better. To prove to you that you made the right decision.>

There is a pause, while I watch Kallus’ train of thought. Alright then.

I reach for our datapad, and delve into the archives. We have access to thousands of classified documents that the average Stormtrooper would not, thanks to our status as an ISB agent: there is much to trawl through. The first threads don’t start to appear for at least an hour.

There were Yeerks who accompanied Mandalorians. There still are, in fact. Many of them are loosely affiliated with Clan Wren. There are records of each accompaniment: Aplir-467, Demry-394… and Idlo-2390, who disappeared along with her host Sabine Wren several years ago.

The problem is, both of us are aware of dozens if not hundreds of illicit underground Yeerk pools around the Galaxy, where those Yeerks who are not strictly associated with the Empire may come for anonymous refreshment. Not all of them are high quality, admittedly, and some will even make a Yeerk sick. But there are enough of them that a canny Yeerk could survive for a very long time, with the right host.

That doesn’t prove anything, thinks Kallus, though I know he’s mostly trying to convince himself. Idlo could have died long ago. Maybe Wren killed her and boasted about it to her fellow Spectres.

I acknowledge the thought and keep going. The Ghost is a fairly standard modified light freighter, we know; it has been scanned dozens of times. It wouldn’t be too difficult to hide a Yeerk pool which is, if Orrelios is to be believed, about the size of Chopper. However, it would be a lot more difficult to cover up the theft of such a pool.

Account for the length of time Wren has been with the Spectres, and… there. Not long after she joined the Ghost crew. The Spectres carry out an attack on a Kandrona pool manufacturer, one which produces pools about the right size. Most of the pools were destroyed or damaged beyond repair, but there’s one that is simply marked as ‘Missing’.

If they did steal it for her – if he’s telling the truth -

<I know.>

What did happen on Geonosis, Silam-63? Come to that, what happened to Deschain?

<The first I can’t answer,> I confess. <I know as much as you know about that. As for Deschain… that was before I began to accompany you.>

It’s been a long time since I’ve thought of Deschain; nevertheless, I bring the memories of accompanying him to the surface. Like Kallus, we were involved in a battle that turned into a massacre; unlike Kallus, Deschain was unwilling to do what had to be done, forcing me to take over the body. From then on, I had to keep a tight hold on him as his thoughts became more and more anti-Imperial.

I was in the Yeerk pool when he died. I’m told it was by his own hand.

I see. Kallus’ fingers grip the datapad: part of him, I know, is wondering whether I will take over him in the same way; he recalls Orrelios talking about being “trapped in your own head”, and has the impulse to shudder. He’s seen others at the Yeerk pool who scream and struggle when their Yeerks leave them, who have to be restrained for their own safety – though the thought crosses his mind that it might not be their own safety, the Empire ensuring their puppets aren’t damaged -

<Listen to me.> I smooth back his hair. <Deschain was weak and foolish. You are neither of those things. You have always done your duty to the Empire, always worked well with your Yeerks. It’s natural to have doubts every now and again. But you remember why you joined the Empire.>

Because I wanted to make a difference, admits Kallus. I feel like I haven’t. Not like I wanted to. I’ve got blood on my hands and… Please, can we look up what happened on Geonosis? I just want to know, one way or another.

<All right. For you.> I let him have a little serotonin and dopamine: we’re not meant to do that too often, in case they get addicted, but it won’t hurt this once. Then, I move his hands once more, searching through the databases. It’s hard to know what to look for – there are so many mundane mentions of Geonosis even just in the last year that I despair of finding anything.

And yet we do. Hidden behind locks that only higher ranking officers can access, buried under endless meaningless reports, bits and pieces emerge. A shipment of a particular chemical. Records of trade and diplomacy with Geonosis that seem to dry up all at once. The why of the construction spheres, whose project is beyond even our power to reach.

It does look… suspicious.

One thing that has always been consistent about Kallus is that he tends to think in black and white. There is good, there is bad, and there is very little room in between for nuance or debate. I am there to catch the moment in Kallus’ mind when the Empire truly goes from good to bad. I see the thought that wonders if there’s been any moment since he was eighteen when he’s been truly alone, even while his companions were in the Yeerk pool – because they always come back, don’t they, and see everything I’ve been thinking.

I should have seen it coming, really. Or I did see it coming, but I wanted to comfort him with something that would reaffirm his place in the Empire. His conflict is palpable as I continue to move his hands so that we can continue scrolling through the data, trawling through even though Kallus already feels that his initial questions have been answered. Now he has other questions, ones about this mission or that assignment, but I can’t answer those.

<Would you really try and resist me? After all this time?>

Kallus’ mind swirls with an ugly mix of resentment, guilt, conflict, and doubt. No.

<You’ll continue to work with me, then, for the Empire?>

I have to. Don’t you think that’s wrong? They tell us we have a choice, but… either we cooperate, or our body does. Or we die.

I put the datapad down. <That’s not true. You can step down from your position in the Empire. Become a non-combatant.>

Oh? The tone of the thought is bitingly sarcastic. You’ll allow me to do that, will you? How very generous.

He probes the memory of Deschain I shared, gently pulling out elements that I hadn’t dwelt on. The begging. The screams inside his mind. The way he went quiet, towards the end, playing out wild fantasies of escaping the cage they put him in while I was in the Yeerk pool.

Somehow, Kallus tells me, with a pointedness that seems hardly fair, I doubt I will be afforded that mercy.

<I had to. The mission was vital to complete.>

You drove him to suicide.

<I - > If I had been Human, I’d have sat down heavily. As it is, we’re already seated, and the only reaction I have is inside his mind: shock, of course, and an instant instinct to deny it, but -

I’m right, aren’t I? You made him a prisoner in his own mind until the only escape he could see was… well, that.

<It’s not like there’s an alternative,> I say, though it sounds hollow even to me. <If I displease the Empire, then or now, the punishment is Kandrona starvation, or worse.>

Kallus remembers all too well the mental anguish of Isshi-774 slowly starving to death inside him, and flinches internally. Isshi-774 had tried to protect him from the worst of it, but Kallus has been having nightmares about it fairly regularly since I met him, mixed in with the other nightmares that haunt him.

Still, he thinks, after composing himself. Doesn’t that in itself say something about the way we – the Empire, I mean – operate? If what Zeb says is true, Idlo lives with them and – and they provide for her, they haven’t threatened to starve her even if they’re opposed to Yeerks -

<That’s a big assumption. All we know is Idlo defected, and the Spectres have a Yeerk pool. It doesn’t mean she's still alive. Maybe they take Imperial Yeerks captive, or - >

But they don’t starve them.

This, I have to admit, rings true. The Spectres wouldn’t have a Yeerk pool in the first place if their first reaction to Imperials is always to starve out the Yeerks.

Whereas, adds Kallus, finishing my thought, when a Yeerk or their host makes the slightest mistake in the Empire…

I remain silent, trying not to transmit what I’m thinking. Eventually, I touch Kallus’ face with his hand, trying to offer comfort and solidarity where I can.

<Maybe...> I begin, slowly, <maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s right.>

Kallus takes back partial control, enough to incline his head. So?

<So, what?>

A brief moment of calculation from Kallus, running through options for leaving, of asking me to make good on my suggestion to let him retire, and of imagining any number of other wildly unlikely options before discarding them all.

I don’t know. I suppose we shall just have to keep going as normal, for now. Keep up appearances. And we’ll figure the rest out as we go along.

I look back at the datapad. <Yes,> I decide, feeling exhausted from getting so involved. <I suppose we’ll have to.>

Chapter Text

It burns, this secret that we share. For the next few months, we go through the motions, making sure to appear as we always do. Having found one or two flaws with the Empire, moments they didn’t act as we would have hoped, it feels as though we stumble across them more and more – things we’ve always taken for granted, as well as new failures. The knowledge of another way, the hope for a better system, grows slowly like a weed through both our minds, tainting every interaction we have with the Empire until we can barely stand it.

Like feedings: every feeding, Kallus watches his fellow Humans getting dragged into cages from afar. As soon as we’re back together the memories replay for me, too, as vivid as if I was in his mind at the time. He thinks of himself as fortunate – as a known voluntary host, he is free to roam while we are apart.

They beg me to help them, he tells me. I already know: I have seen it. The enclosures for involuntary hosts are ray-shielded, large enough for a single Human, without even simple toilets as there might be in a prison. The thought is that the Humans will only be in there for at most an hour or two, and a responsible Yeerk should make sure their host’s needs are taken care of beforehand.

<Do not indicate you are becoming sympathetic,> I instruct once more. This is something we have discussed, often; even so, I can feel now his yearning to set them free. <Otherwise…>

He does not point out, as he has done once or twice, that there is no “becoming” about it. We both know by know that he is sympathetic, and can no longer make himself otherwise. For my part, I have slipped more slowly, reluctant to let go of the Empire whose hosts have been my home for all my life.

Understood.

I nod his head and turn our attention back to what we were doing – arranging a visit to Skystrike Academy to hunt for potential Rebel sympathisers. It is not the right decision. The image of teens Sabine’s age trapped in cages and begging for help floats to the surface of Kallus’ mind with a pang of pathos.

They’re too young for a fate like that, is the thought he vocalises to me.

<They could all be voluntary.>

His mouth tenses. You don’t believe that and neither do I. And even if they are, are they really old enough to make that kind of decision? Most of them aren’t past the age of majority.

I hesitate. I’m aware enough of Human cultural norms – I live in Kallus’ head, after all – but some of his hang-ups don’t have the same sort of impact on me as they do on him.

<Sabine Wren seems mature enough.>

She is Mandalorian. Most of these children – they’re just regular teens. His hand is already reaching for the datapad; I know what he is looking for. I take over to search for holo recordings of the Pool at the Academy. The Empire avoids cameras in the Pool rooms in general, but perhaps there is a helmet cam recording from a Stormtrooper, or – yes, there. A recording from the corridor outside the Academy’s pool.

The image of the teen is grainy, flickering in the blue holo light. There’s no sound, but we can see their mouth open in an unheard scream as they dash for the exit, chased by Stormtroopers twice their size. It doesn’t take long for the troopers to tackle them and drag them thrashing back towards the Pool room.

If there’s one that wants to leave, thinks Kallus, with a kind of glum certainty, I can guarantee there’s others. That was just the bravest – or the most stupid.

<Suppose we time our inspection just right,> I start. <How long do you think it will take the Rebels to plan a rescue?>

Kallus’ mind resounds with shock like the ringing of a mighty bell. Are you suggesting -? If you’re serious, we’ll need to act fast. If the Rebels even listen to -

<They won’t listen to us.> I draw up a memory of listening to intercepted messages from a mysterious figure that, despite our best efforts, we still haven’t been able to pin down. <But they might listen to… that person.>

And so we find ourselves perhaps a day or so later at one of the very less-than-reputable Yeerk pools that Sabine Wren and Idlo might have used, back in the day. The plan is for Kallus to send the message while I am luxuriating in the Kandrona rays, to give me a degree of plausible deniability. We have a cover story – not an interesting one, just following a few leads, and I just happen to need to feed while we’re planet-side.

The thought has crossed Kallus’ mind that he could just leave me here. I’m not entirely convinced he won’t. Nevertheless. If I can’t trust someone whose every thought is open to me like a book, who can I trust? I stride up to the front desk, trying to look less like an Imperial Yeerk and more like the kind of lowlife that relies on these establishments, and lay down a handful of credits.

“Two hours.”

The receptionist, a Pantoran woman chewing on something, counts the money before turning her eyes towards us. We’re not in uniform – that would have been incredibly stupid – but in the ragged outfit of a pirate or bounty hunter. We’ve got a mask covering the lower half of Kallus’ face and particularly his recognisable facial hair, and a hat that shadows our eyes. Nothing she hasn’t seen before, most likely.

“Alright.” She glances towards the large Wookie and Trandoshan in the corner. “Is your host gonna need any accommodation, sir?”

“That won’t be necessary. He’s well trained.” I pause, and add: “If he’s not back by the time my two hours is up, go ahead and put up an arrest warrant.”

Really, Silam-63? I might be lying dead in a gutter somewhere.

<You? I’d like to see someone try.>

The Pantoran woman nods and hands us a ticket, then gestures to a receptacle embedded at around standard Human head-height in the wall. I’ll need to bend our head down awkwardly to position Kallus’ ear correctly, but never mind.

“All yours.”

<Ready?>

Go on.

I crawl out, into the receptacle which leads down into a rather dirty Yeerk pool, where for a tedious one hour and forty-eight minutes I take in the gossip that passes around on sonar waves. There’s nothing useful here, not to an Imperial nor to anyone else. When I’m called to the onboarding dock, I go as quickly as I can.

<So?> I ask, as soon as I meld back into Kallus’ brain.

It went fine, Kallus replies, and I see the memory flash through his mind: an anonymous holo-comm somewhere on the other side of town, a lot of encryption to disguise his voice and display the image he wanted, and at last a simple message, barely more than a sentence. The rest, before and after, is doing whatever a roaming bounty hunter might do on a day off: visiting a cantina, perusing the marketplace -

<Seriously? A brothel?>

I didn’t do anything. As you well know. What, are you jealous?

I raise his eyebrow. <Just surprised. If it covered your tracks, so be it.>

The message is sent now, in any case, he says. Now we shall simply have to see if they listen.

As it turns out, they do. We schedule our visit to Skystrike for a few weeks later; unfortunately, Yami-6507 decides to take Pryce to tag along, too. Pryce is another voluntary – many who reach higher ranks are – and the two of them are… unpleasant together. Unpleasant enough to attempt to torture Sabine Wren, who is not yet a legal adult.

Perhaps that’s why we help her get away, afterwards.

“Tell Garazeb Orrelios,” says Kallus, taking the initiative, “we’re even.”

For my part, I add: “And tell Idlo her secret is safe with us.”

Sabine’s face twitches, and we can see the switch. It’s obvious to any Yeerk or host what’s going on. We shouldn’t feel shocked: we know that her falsified documents do contain the record of a Yeerk with a false name, and that she has been to the Pool here. Still, it feels like the final confirmation – Orrelios was right. About everything.

“You know my name?” asks Idlo. And then, once the original Sabine regains control: “Never mind. We gotta go. Later.”

“Then go,” we say, in perfect agreement. We’ve done our part. The rest is up to the Rebels.

In a way, it’s a relief to become traitors. We’re no longer stuck in that strange limbo of having to ignore the injustices that seem to build up day by day, and there’s no potential for either of us to decide to forget everything we’ve learned and reassert ourselves as a truly loyal Imperial. We’re committed now. If either of us changes our mind – there are many suitable punishments the Empire will use. Kallus could easily claim that I was the mastermind; I could take over and use his mouth to tell the Empire that he is no longer to be trusted.

But we do not. Instead, we work: there is twice as much to do, keeping up our reputation while helping the Rebels under the table. The opportunities are fewer than we hope for. Just a few, here and there: planets like Mykapo, sometimes, but mostly food and fuel and medical transports. The TIE Defender factory, where we reveal ourselves to the Jedi. The Infiltrator droids – we’re glad not to be on that ship. More and more.

We never go through the same routine twice: often, there’s no time for such a complicated rigmarole as that first time. In fact, often there’s barely time to find a place to broadcast from at all. We’re always on the lookout – anywhere that is private, untracked, or at least somewhat away from the ever-present gaze of the Empire. We are, largely, successful at avoiding detection.

We should have known it wouldn’t last.

Chapter Text

As usual, I’m awake when Kallus wakes in the morning. Yeerks don’t need sleep, not in the same way that Humans do; I tend to nap a little while Kallus is deep in REM sleep, but my real rest and refreshment is in the Yeerk pool. Perhaps it’s a silly thing, but sometimes I entertain myself by watching the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of Kallus’ dreams – everything from the worst nightmares to the ones that confuse or arouse or delight.

We dress quickly and efficiently, as always. I wash Kallus’ face with his hands automatically. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s his face that stares back at me. I am only wearing it. There is no evidence of me from the outside, except to those familiar with the particular mannerisms of an accompanied host.

I move his hands, I feel them as if they were mine, but now more than ever I know that I am not him. I am unwelcome. For now, certainly, Kallus is willing to cooperate with me – if I help with his goals. But if ever we disagree on something, well, he could just charter a shuttle while I was in the Pool, and no one would stop him. No one would realise he was even gone until I was ready to rejoin my absent host, and by then it would be too late.

I’d like to think I could see it coming. I’ve known Kallus for long enough, and even if I hadn’t I know what he is about to think before he thinks it. The truth is, I’m not sure. I didn’t see Deschain’s death coming. If I had, he’d have been put in the even more protective host cages, watched more carefully, perhaps even given a sedative if it was necessary.

(And without Kallus, I wonder, what good am I? The Empire will not look kindly on a Yeerk that has lost both their hosts. Once is an accident, a tragedy; twice is the beginnings of a pattern. Without Kallus, I am a useless slug. Without Kallus, I will be relegated to the boredom of the Yeerk pool for the rest of my life. Without Kallus – it doesn’t bear thinking about. He most certainly does not need my help. I’ve always known this: Kallus would be more than capable of working on his own, without accompaniment. The myth of Human uselessness is just another of the lies the Empire tells.)

Still. We have work to do, a facade to keep up. I can’t let myself wallow. Indeed, Kallus has already taken over, bringing us through the corridors of the Star Destroyer. I reassert control so that I can keep Kallus’ body well-fuelled with a healthy breakfast; then, it’s to work. Today, a shuttle of troopers led by Lyste and his Yeerk is coming back from a brief mission, and we head to greet them.

There’s something different about Lyste. We can see his eyes under the brim of his uniform hat for once today, and a bright energetic expression that seems very unusual for him. He walks awkwardly, as if he’s afraid of losing his balance; he places too much emphasis on his heels, so that his feet flap.

“Hello, sir,” Lyste says with a salute as he comes off the shuttle.

I frown. “Virto-934, you seem a little off today. Are you all right? Is your host giving you trouble?”

Lyste blinks. “Oh, uh. Yeah. That’s right, Silam-63, sir. That’s exactly what it is. My host.”

“I see.” I make a gesture with Kallus’ head towards the nearest empty room – as it happens, a meeting room for the officers to discuss strategy. “Come with me.”

“Yessir.”

As soon as the door closes behind him, I pull out Kallus’ blaster and point it at Lyste. “Not only is the real Lyste’s Yeerk number 496, not 934, he would never address me as anything other than Sub-Visser 021. So, tell me, imposter, who the hells are you?”

“Whoa, whoa, watch where yer pointin’ that thing!” Not-Lyste holds up his hands quickly. “It’s me, Zeb. Yer transmission’s ‘re bein’ tapped, so we thought we’d come rescue ya.”

“Rescue… me?” I frown.

“Both a ya,” clarifies Zeb. “If ya both wanna come with, that is.” He checks a chrono on his wrist. “We need ta get goin’ though, I only got an hour and… thirty-three minutes.”

Kallus and I both stare at him; I shake our head. “Do you have a plan?”

Zeb nods. “Kanan an’ Rex ‘re on their way ta pick us up in an Imp shuttle. All we need ta do is wait fer them ta get here without anyone realisin’ I ain’t the real Lyste.”

“This is insane.” We could do it, though. If our lives are in danger from staying here, what’s the risk? “Well, come on then. Let’s get on with it.”

“Hey, uh… Yer pretty Yeerk-y today. Silam-63’s taken over a bit, right? ‘S obvious when ya see it.” Zeb-Lyste raps his knuckles gently against Kallus’ forehead. “Knock knock, Kallus, ya holdin’ up okay in there?”

Kallus frowns down at him. “Where is the real Lyste, exactly? Did you -”

“Gettin’ de-Yeerked,” grins Zeb. “Two days ta go.”

“Oh.” We’ve seen Lyste without a Yeerk: very quiet, often sitting limply in the corner of his cage. He doesn’t fight like some of the others do, but he’s certainly less voluntary than Kallus is. “He’ll be… better off that way, I think.”

And if this doesn’t work, adds Kallus mentally, he can be our scapegoat.

“I did get this off him.” Zeb pulls out a code cylinder. “Well, and the uniform, but this was kinda a bonus.”

Kallus hands out his own code cylinder. “Here. Swap you. Just in case you need ISB clearance. We know all the codes to get us in without it.”

<And so we can blame everything we do on him.>

Of course.

Zeb stares at the cylinder briefly, shrugs, and puts it in his pocket. “Right then. Let’s go.” We follow him out of the room: he frowns at the shuttle he came in on. “Hey, maybe instead of waiting fer Kanan an’ Rex…”

“No.” Of course, we could commandeer a shuttle, but… “All of those shuttles have tracking beacons. It would be too much of a risk.”

“But -”

“Sir!” It’s Somesh-9690 and Lieutenant al’Meara: they salute at Kallus and I, and barely acknowledge Zeb. That’s a fairly common reaction to Lyste – he and his Yeerk have never stood out as anything special, and many Imperials, officers and troopers alike, barely remember what he looks like. It must be incredibly convenient to be able to transform into him.

“What’s the matter?” asks Kallus.

Lieutenant al’Meara gulps. “You two have been summoned aboard the Chimaera with your hosts. Visser 39 and Grand Admiral Thrawn have invited you to a meeting. Now.”

Oh, karabast.

<Do you think he knows?>

You know what they say about Thrawn. He’s much too astute.

Surprisingly, Zeb seems to take it in stride: he salutes immediately, smarter and much more disciplined that either of us were expecting. But of course, he’s a former military man, isn’t he? At least, that’s the impression of the Honour Guard I get from Kallus’ memories. It makes sense he’d be able to fit in quickly, even if the salutes and protocol and values of the Honour Guard are worlds away from what the Empire does.

“Well?” he says. “Lead the way.”

al’Meara nods and turns on their heel; we follow reluctantly, frowning at Zeb.

“Why?” I ask, just out of al’Meara’s earshot.

Zeb looks up at us – in this form, he’s quite a bit shorter than Kallus, which is giving Kallus all sorts of whiplash. “I dunno what ya mean, Sub-Visser.”

“Didn’t you say -” Kallus searches for a memory which I am quick to provide – “that you only had a limited time before that important thing you had to do?”

“A loyal Imperial soldier should always make time for a Visser, shouldn’t they?” replies Zeb calmly. He checks his chrono. “I’ll have to tell – uh, let my Troopers know I’ve been delayed. An’ maybe use the fresher if the meeting goes on too long.”

He clears his throat and speaks softly into a comm: “Lyste to TK-420. I’ve been summoned to a meeting with Thrawn on the Chimaera. Kallus is with me. Bring me a jogan flavoured nutritional shake, I’m starving.”

“Jogan flavoured?” asks the crackling voice on the other end. “Not meiloorun?”

“What did I just say, Trooper?”

“…Yes, sir.”

With that, Zeb looks ahead again, as calm and in control as if he really were Lyste and he has nothing to worry about; we frown, but follow his example in silence all the way to the meeting room on the Chimaera.

Thrawn, Visser 39, is as chilling in person as we have heard. He stands at the holo table, perfectly still, not staring, but simply looking with blood-red eyes that almost glow in a way that seems to pierce us to our core and lay our deepest secrets bare. We are so impacted merely by his presence that we nearly do not notice Kallus’ former mentor, Admiral Yularen and Visser 17, standing beside Governor Pryce and Seto-432.

We salute, quick and efficient, professional, and Zeb follows our example.

“Ah, excellent.” Thrawn nods at al’Meara. “Thank you, Somesh-9690. I think you ought to stay here, too. We have a few things to discuss. Please close the door behind you.”

“Yessir.”

“Good. Now -” he calls up a hologram: the Fulcrum symbol, the one that all of us in the higher Imperial ranks are familiar with by now – “as you all know, there has long been a leak in our information stream. For a long time, we were not able to locate the source of this. However, after much investigation, we believe the Fulcrum persona may be being used by one of our own – or even a pair, a voluntary host and their Yeerk.”

Karabast.

I can’t help but agree. As much as we know that every host in this room, with the possible exception of al’Meara, is voluntary, if he’s this close to us already -

“Do you have any suspicions?” Kallus asks, as I flood his mind with calming chemicals. “It hardly seems possible that a traitor would spring up from within our own ranks.”

Thrawn raises an eyebrow. “No indeed. And yet, based on the content of their continued messages to the Rebellion, they are not only a soldier from the Lothal sector, but an officer. Their access to sensitive information is concerning, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“Most concerning,” agrees Yularen. “The reason we have summoned this particular group to meet with us today is that we believe this vile traitor may be standing with us in this very room. That is why Visser 39 and Grand Admiral Thrawn have called me in – they believe my experience with similar situations may be of value."

“Indeed.” Thrawn changes the holo again, this time to a projection of the many planets that he has been searching through for any sign of the Rebel base. “Their efforts have scuppered many of our plans. However, there is one pursuit that they have not been able to sabotage. As you all are also no doubt aware, Thrawn and I have been on the hunt for the Rebel base. Recently, we sent the Infiltrator droids, and managed to narrow the field significantly.”

About half of the planets turn red; the others disappear from the holo. Beside us, we hear Zeb-as-Lyste draw a sudden breath.

“Since then,” continues Thrawn, “our investigations have continued. We have excluded some planets from the list -” several planets disappear – “and found that some are more likely than others.”

A couple of dozen planets grow, apparently in relation to the likelihood of there being a Rebel base there. Zeb has stopped breathing altogether.

Thrawn shuts off the holo. “It is our belief that finding the traitor may be instrumental to our efforts to find the Rebel base. Either they know where the base is, or they can assist us in our investigations with whatever information they do know. I expect each one of you to be even more vigilant in order to close the net on this traitorous mole.”

“Understood,” nods Pryce, with a poisonous look at Kallus.

“That’s all.” Thrawn glances briefly at Yularen. “Dismissed.”

Both Pryce and al’Meara are quick to flee; Kallus, though feels the impulse to linger.

“Visser 17,” he begins. “It is good to see you again.”

Yularen looks up. “Ah, Kallus! Thrawn, Kallus used to be my star pupil at the Academy. It’s been so long. I hear you have a different Yeerk since I last saw you.”

I take over, masking Kallus’ wave of grief: though it has become easier over the years, the emotions of that awful time still impact him severely. “Isshi-774 passed away, sir. He was with Kallus until the very end. A truly brave and selfless Yeerk.” And then: “Kallus also had Addis-402, but -”

“Oh, my! Her!” Yularen beams. “I’ve heard she’s gone on to do great things with Sloane.”

“She has.” I put out Kallus’ hand for Yularen to shake. “Silam-63, sir. It’s an honour to meet you, Kallus’ memories speak of you most highly.” It’s not exactly a lie: before beginning to question his allegiance, Kallus did indeed have a very high opinion of Yularen. Now, his feelings are more mixed, and he wonders if Yularen knew about the indoctrination he was putting Kallus through.

“Do they? I’m glad to hear it.” Yularen pats us approvingly on the back. “Let’s catch up later, shall we? We’d be glad to treat you both to a drink. In the meantime, we have a lot of work to do to catch this traitor, so I’m afraid we’d better get going.”

“Yes, sir.” We watch him go, then catch sight of Zeb, looking distinctly anxious. “Come on, Lyste, didn’t you have something urgent to attend to?”

Zeb grimaces. “Yeah, I do actually. Let’s go. Thanks fer the debrief, Grand Admiral, we’ll, uh, keep an eye out.”

“Hm?” Thrawn looks up suddenly: he has been staring at the holo table in silence, apparently deep in thought. “Yes, do.” A slight narrowing of the eyes, and: “I trust your host is as compliant as ever, Virto-223, despite being involuntary.”

“It’s 496, actually, sir. Virto-496.” So he has been paying attention. “Yeah, all good. Think he’s finally comin’ around ta me bein’ here, actually, but – well, yannow, I better still keep him safe when I’m feeding, just in case. Anyway, uh, speakin’ of, I got an assignment at the Pool, so…”

“Of course.” Thrawn shows no outward signs of suspicion as we and Zeb leave, which itself is worrying. If it had been Kallus and I in Thrawn’s position – well, I suppose we know Lyste and his Yeerk a little better than Thrawn does. Most Imperial officers would at least scold Zeb-Lyste for his informal tone. Would Thrawn notice that, with Basic not his first language? Perhaps Chiss have different cultural expectations, but then again -

We walk with Zeb through the corridors in tense silence; as soon as we spot an empty room, we pull him in. As it happens, it’s a storage room – full of miscellaneous datapads, droid parts, everything the Empire has no current use for stuffed onto shelves and forgotten about. The space within is big enough to fit us and perhaps one or two others.

“We’re in trouble,” says Kallus, and that’s an understatement.

“I know,” moans Zeb. He checks his chrono. “There’s no cameras in this room, right? I gotta demorph fer a sec. We can talk strategy. Uh, but I’mma have ta… undress.” Lyste’s pale face flushes. “Otherwise I’ll rip the uniform.”

We stare at him, uncomprehending. “Got to… what?”

“Yannow. The thing where I become me again?”

“Oh.” Kallus turns away, facing the nearest shelves; we can hear Zeb begin to take off the uniform. The images that float to the surface of Kallus’ mind are – confusing, to say the least, for both of us. He’s never been attracted to Lyste, but the situation we’re in, that feels like the sort of cheesy plot-line you’d find in a steamy parody holo, is stirring up some very strange feelings.

Something behind us makes a subtly disgusting sklurp sound, which is enough to pull Kallus back into rather nauseated focus. I try to keep him from listening to the quiet crunching and grinding noises that seem amplified in this small space, but it doesn’t help much: we’re both probably more relieved than Zeb is when it seems to end.

“Right,” he says, and his voice is as deep and gravelly as we remember. Not like Lyste, who sounds… well, pretty average for a Human, inoffensive, so that he can easily fade into the background. Zeb is more or less the opposite of that. “I’m decent.”

I turn Kallus around. Zeb is back in his usual body, wearing the same orange jumpsuit as always: the uniform lies crumpled in a grey heap on the floor. We’ve both forgotten how much he towers overs us in this form. Kallus is quite tall for a Human, and broad-shouldered with it, but Zeb is bigger still, and barely fits under the ceiling of this little junk room. I feel Kallus flush with unexpected want; his adrenalin spikes, and his thoughts scatter into less… professional areas.

<Focus.> Out loud, I clear his throat. “We need to prevent Thrawn from finding your base.”

“And stop him finding you out,” agrees Zeb. “The sooner ya both get off this damn Destroyer, the better. The others need some new clearance codes afore they can land, but they ain’t gonna get here fer a bit, so…”

Kallus takes the body back and nods. “I – Silam-63 and I can go and erase the planet, if -”

“Ya can’t know where it is. I’ll come with an’ do it.” He cracks all the knuckles in one large, powerful fist. “I got yer code cylinder, so you two just gotta find a way ta cover for me. Yannow, figure out if Thrawn’s actually in there an’ stuff, and get him ta come out.”

“Hmm.” I pull as much information about Thrawn as possible to the front of Kallus’ mind: there’s not going to be a lot of options. “I hear he has a thing for -”

But Kallus can see where I am going with this. I refuse to try and seduce him. Just because he’s supposedly into Human males…

<You’ve never had any qualms with it before.> Then, it clicks: <Ah. Zeb is here. That’s why.>

Shut up.

“A thing for art,” Kallus finishes firmly.

“That ain’t gonna be much help, but -” Zeb shrugs. “Ah well. Ya can figure somethin’ out between the two a ya, right?” And then: “Okay, I’mma morph Lyste again. Uh, can ya…?”

I’m the one to figure out what he means, and turn us away. Once again, there are those awful crunching noises; then, the sounds of rustling clothing as Zeb puts the uniform back on.

“Okay,” he grunts, at last. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” gasps Kallus, following him towards the door. “Isn’t there more of a plan?”

Zeb-as-Lyste turns his head to raises his eyebrow at us. “The plan is, don’t get caught.”

Before either of us can object, he’s opened the door again, striding confidently down the corridor back towards Thrawn’s office. There’s a Stormtrooper stationed there who straightens up at our approach.

“Is Grand Admiral Thrawn in, trooper?” asks Zeb, blunt as ever.

“No sir. Went down to the cells, sir.”

Well, that does make things slightly easier.

“I left my…” Zeb looks at us and hesitates. “Datapad. I left it in there. Let us in and we’ll have a quick look fer it, yeah?”

The stormtrooper nods and steps aside.

“Now, Lieutenant -” I start, making sure we have Zeb’s attention for a moment – “you might need to get a few of the datapads in there, in case they’ve been mixed up. It might throw you off the scent of the correct one.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Understood. And ya’ll wait here, because it’s beneath yer dignity ta help me when it was my stupid fault in the first place, right?”

“You read our minds.”

He snorts and ducks into the room – he doesn’t need to duck, not at Lyste’s average Human height, but perhaps a lifetime of being too big for Human sized ships has instilled the habit in him. Kallus and I wait, completely ignoring the Stormtrooper, for several uncomfortable minutes, tensing at every echo of boots on the shining floors.

At last, Zeb exits again, shaking his head. “Nothin’,” he declares, for the benefit of the Stormtrooper. “Maybe I left it somewhere else.”

Kallus folds his arms. “You need to be more careful with your possessions, Lieutenant. Come on, let’s go, we have work to do, datapad or no datapad.”

“You got it, Agent.” He follows us out and away, until we’re well out of earshot of the Stormtrooper. “Man, feels weird fer everythin’ ta go right fer once. I took off our planet an’ a few others, added some in… Think we might be able ta get away with it.”

“We haven’t gotten away yet,” I murmur. “Where exactly are your friends going to meet you?”

“They’ll be in a shuttle. Five, ten minutes max.”

We frown: still, perhaps it’s best to go along with it.

“Well,” we decide, as we enter into the bustling hangar, “perhaps we should split up for those minutes. If we hang around together for too long -”

Thrawn and Yularen are up on the balcony, chatting. They haven’t spotted us yet. I duck Kallus out of their field of vision on instinct, though I know we have as much of a right to be here as anyone else. Now that Kallus and I look, really look – which we should have been from the start, if we hadn’t been paying so much attention to Zeb – they’re not the only ones. Pryce is snooping around at the other end of the hangar, completely oblivious to the number of troopers that avoid her. And there, too, is al’Meara, chatting to all the troopers that Pryce scared away.

Then, there’s Zeb. He clearly doesn’t fit, even in the body of Lyste; he’s not quite put his uniform on straight, and everything seems to have gotten rumpled. Impressive, given how all our uniforms are starched to within an inch of their lives. His posture, the way he walks, even the particular light in his eyes that makes Kallus’ stomach flutter – none of it is Imperial in the slightest.

He seems to notice our eyes on him, slows, and turns his head to raise and eyebrow at us. I flick Kallus’ eyes towards the balcony. A look of understanding crosses his face: he strolls casually away, as if it’s just a coincidence that he happens to be in the same area as us, nodding at troopers as he passes.

His friends aren’t here yet. Ten minutes is a long time to hang around here without anything to do: we decide to head in the opposite direction, as if we’re going to spend some time accessing one of the Imperial databases that are on this level. It wouldn’t be out of character for us to be doing research. It’s one of the foundation blocks of good field work – one that Thrawn, too, espouses. As long as we stop every now and again to speak to a pilot or trooper, as if we’re investigating the traitor, so that we actually don’t leave the area.

It takes slightly longer than ten minutes of this for the shuttle to arrive. Thrawn and Yularen have not moved, though Kallus and I know they can see both us and Zeb: their attention turns to the new craft with a strange intensity of focus. They don’t have much evidence… do they?

(They have our transmissions, and their contents. That’s already too much.)

The stormtroopers who appear out of the shuttle look… well, almost as wrong as Zeb in Lyste’s body. Kallus and I watch them out of the corner of our eye, watch the way Pryce advances on them with her typical air of superiority, watch the way Zeb tenses and puts a hand to where his bo-rifle would be, if he was wearing it. When he realises it isn’t there, he reaches for the blaster that all Imperial officers are required to carry.

It all happens at once after that. There is a shout from Pryce. We turn back, rush in, hands already clutching our blaster, but Zeb has already stunned Pryce and loped towards the ship. His companions have blasters drawn, too, and their craft is already lifting back off the ground. Shouts come in from all directions, and one or two blaster shots.

Zeb jumps onto the little craft and looks back at us. But Thrawn’s eyes are on us, and Yularen’s too, and we have more work to do. If we try, but fail, to capture ‘Fulcrum’, if we fake it – there is only one ‘choice’. We make it together. A moment passes while we check in with each other, confirming what we both know must happen, and then we tighten our grip on our blaster.

“There!” we shout. Zeb’s look of shock and betrayal is nearly enough to make us reconsider. “That’s the traitor! Quick, he’s getting away!”

Our shots are aimed just slightly wide, enough to – hopefully – clue Zeb in that we don’t intend to actually hurt him.

“But -” he begins.

“We need to capture Fulcrum!” I insist, over the many noises filling Kallus’ ears. “They may have information on the Rebels!”

Yes, thinks Kallus. We need to stay. For them. For him. Thrawn’s too close now. We need to do everything in our power to keep an eye on him.

Still, Zeb looks hurt: the last thing we see of him as the shuttle door closes is Lyste’s face, slowly growing purple fur, eyes bugging green, full of disappointment.

Chapter Text

We should have gone with them.

<We’re still needed here.>

We could have been of use there, too.

<You agreed with me at the time.>

I don’t know any more. Kallus checks over the mouse droid we’ve altered one more time, as if he could find a single fault after we’ve both scoured every inch of it for flaws. I just… don’t you get tired of it? Constantly sneaking around, not having anyone to rely on…?

There’s something quite fantastic about Human brains. They can think about multiple things at once, ideas layered over one another. For Kallus, some of his thoughts are put into words for me to “hear”; others are more like images, vague, a strange blend of literal and symbolic. Others still don’t quite fit into either category, only evident in the way his neurons behave.

Right now, his subconscious tends to put Zeb in the category of people we could rely on, but the visual memory of that disappointed look layers itself over that, tainting every thought and emotion about Zeb that crosses his mind. His conscious mind focuses, now, on the mouse droid that skitters away from us into the vents. I don’t comment on anything going on under the surface.

<We could have entered that shuttle,> I admit, instead. <We didn’t have to stay here. It would have been… one hell of a public defection.>

Kallus remembers just how many eyes were on us at the time, eyes that expected us to act a certain way, eyes that believed that no voluntary host could possibly be a traitor. Lyste was an easy scapegoat, in that respect: no one would have denied he was out of sorts before he got on that shuttle, even if they couldn’t pinpoint a time recently when he had been out of the Empire’s gaze for anywhere near as long as three days. Yularen, at least, found it plausible enough that he could have lost his Yeerk somehow.

Spectacular indeed. But perhaps better than this. Kallus fiddles with the small controller. It’s beginning to pick up muffled sounds, Thrawn’s cool measured tones and Pryce’s nasal whine. He turns up the volume just enough so that we can hear it.

“…still have a traitor in our midst,” Thrawn is saying. “Hence the precautions. We cannot allow the information I have to fall into the wrong hands.”

<Do you know what these are?> I ask, holding up Kallus’ hands. <The wrong hands.>

Stop it. This is important .

“…planning an attack in, I would estimate, the next few weeks.”

There, see? We missed something.

<He said it was the Phoenix cell,> I reply smugly. Kallus rolls his eyes, but takes note: if it’s true, the Spectres are at risk of being found out. We haven’t heard of any attack, but then we are kept as much in the dark as possible.

Another voice speaks up, one that we’ve heard every now and again in particularly important meetings: Grand Moff Tarkin. We’re not quite sure where he is on the hierarchy of Vissers: there are rumours he’s only just lower than the Emperor.

“And what, exactly,” he asks, “do you believe they have their eyes on, Grand Admiral?”

“The TIE defender factory.” A pause: as if Thrawn is waiting for everyone to fully take his meaning, before: “We know that General Dodonna is on his way to meet Commander Sato and Captain Syndulla as we speak, hoping to catch us by surprise. They will not do so.”

A grunt from Tarkin. “Where are they meeting?”

“That, unfortunately, we do not know as yet. However, it is only a matter of time.”

“Multiple Rebel cells, grouping together -” Pryce’s voice is nervous, though not enough for our tastes. “It’s unprecedented.”

“Indeed.” Thrawn, as usual, is calm and in control. “And yet I have been waiting for an opportunity to wipe them all out at once for quite some time. This, I believe, will give us that opening…”

Fuck.

<We need to warn them.>

Wait. There could be more.

“…need to take the Rebel leadership captive,” Tarkin is saying.

Thrawn hums. “That may not be possible in such a battle.”

“Well,” replies Tarkin, “I’m confident that an officer of your calibre can pull it off. We need to make examples of these… riff-raff.” And then: “Come, gentlemen, lady, we have work to do.”

That’s our cue. Kallus ducks us away, through the corridors of the Imperial Dome. Thrawn may only have come to Lothal today, but we have been working here for years: we know exactly where to go.

The tower on the prairie has been empty for a while. Once, it was one of the comm towers in control of air traffic in the region; then, it seems, it was inhabited by Ezra Bridger for several years. We have been here once or twice since he left it – before turning spy, we thought that we might gain more information about Bridger or the Spectres by going through the junk that had been abandoned there.

Now, we are returning it to its original use. The old comm device is dilapidated, but a few months ago we had the opportunity to come down here and fix it. We haven’t used it since then, saving it for just such an emergency as this. We flick on the transmitter, adjust the settings as always to disguise our identity, and begin.

“This is an urgent message to the Rebellion. Thrawn knows about -”

<Our signal! It’s being blocked!>

There is a polite cough from the doorway. “By the light of Lothal’s moons.” Of course, it’s Thrawn. We should have seen the trap being set, and yet – “That is the phrase you use, is it not, Agent? Or perhaps you would prefer to be addressed as Fulcrum.” He holds up a jamming device. “I’m afraid your Rebel friends won’t be receiving your warning.”

There is only one thought in Kallus’ head, which I am all too happy to indulge: fight. Kallus and I have always worked to keep his body at peak physical condition, especially in the last few months, so that when Kallus throws himself at Thrawn he does so with power and intent. We even land a few hits, before it becomes clear that Thrawn is leagues above us. He knocks us down as easily as swatting away a fly.

“You put up a good fight,” he remarks. “But I’m afraid Imperial training has its limitations. You -”

He doesn’t see it coming. Truthfully, I barely know what it is until Kallus lays his hand on it and throws it full force at Thrawn: a helmet, just the standard issue Stormtrooper fare, but enough. Kallus isn’t thinking much at all, now, just acting on instinct. He knocks the distracted Thrawn to the floor and rips the device from his hands, destroying it in the instants between one breath and the next. After that, it’s a flurry of punches from both sides, a few kicks if we can get them in, until -

It’s the same leg as before. It had healed decently, thanks to the wonder of bacta and a bone-knitter, but there’s still a little weakness there which Thrawn uses to his full advantage. We fall – collapse – onto the balcony outside: there are already Death Troopers outside, ready to put us in cuffs, to grasp us with strength no longer fully Human.

“And here you are, a voluntary Controller,” comments Thrawn, strolling out of the tower, adjusting his cuffs. “How fascinating. In theory, your loyalty to the Empire should be twice as fervent as that of an involuntary. Even if your host began to doubt, Silam-63, I wonder how you were convinced to join him?”

I could have induced a seizure, a brain aneurysm perhaps. I could have made Kallus completely useless to any interrogation, put him into a coma, cut his mind off from his body altogether. But Kallus doesn’t need such assistance. He’s well trained to resist any torture or taunting without my help. He scowls at Thrawn and says nothing.

“Admirable indeed,” nods Thrawn. “One of you, certainly, has the heart of a Rebel. The other… well, we shall have to see.” With that, he snaps his fingers, and the Death Troopers drag us back inside and use the cuffs to dangle Kallus uncomfortably from a ceiling beam. Thrawn follows, and lays a small holo projector on the floor for us to watch.

“Your transmission,” he tells us, “has given me the final piece of a puzzle that has been troubling me for some time.” The holo lights up, showing two lines intersecting on a star chart. “There, you see, is the trajectory of Dodonna’s fleet. And this is what was just sent out. Taken separately, they mean nothing. However -”

“There’s nothing there,” I try. Zeb removed it, after all.

“Not on an Imperial map, no.” Thrawn turns to us, scanning Kallus’ face as if for understanding. “Clearly both of you have neglected to study art. Most remiss of you, I must say. You see, I happened to be looking through over some ancient Lothali star charts, and what do you think I should notice? This supposedly non-existent system. Over and over again, until it could no longer be classed as an error. It is known, Agent, as Atollon. Therefore…”

He clicks a button on the holo projector, no doubt sending the coordinates on to where they will be useful. “We have a target. Konstantine, prepare our attack. Fulcrum and I will be along shortly.”

“So,” Kallus snarls, “you don’t intend to kill us.”

Thrawn makes a gesture with his head; the Death Troopers unhook us from the ceiling beam and drag us with them towards the lift.

“Kill you? Why ever would I do that?” His eyes bore into us, burning red. “No, you are still useful to us. For the next few days, at least.” Then, to the Death Troopers: “Starve them both.”

Chapter Text

- don’t starve, don’t do that to me again, don’t make me lose another Yeerk like that, I can’t do it, please, he was in so much pain -

<Kallus. We were at the Pool yesterday. It’s going to take a lot longer than that to starve me.>

-I saw so many of his memories, he didn’t deserve -

<Kallus.> I’ve been trying to counteract his spiral with calming chemicals all day: with his history, having had Isshi-774 slowly dying inside his head for three days, it’s not easy. I’ve seen the memories. They’re horrifying, even second-hand; I know from them what it will be like for him, if I am to starve. I know what it will be like for me, too, as the barrier between Isshi-774’s mind and Kallus’ slowly degraded until they could no longer tell who was the Yeerk and who was the Human. In a way, Kallus still is Isshi-774. The thing that was expelled from his head, the remains, was a shell, with barely enough individuality to die.

- can’t – don’t let us starve – don’t let him starve -

I try to soothe where I can. <Do you want me to leave your head before that point?>

No! Then they’d put another Yeerk in me. I’d be trapped working for the Empire again, and – but can’t starve, anything but starvation, need to escape, need to find a Pool, too many variables -

<We will find a way. I promise.> I flex his fists, pressing his nails gently but firmly into his hands to give him something to focus on. I’ve been the one keeping his face impassive and neutral as Kallus breaks down internally: not just about the near-certainty of starvation, but about the Rebels, about us accidentally leading Thrawn straight to them. So far, it’s working: neither Thrawn nor anyone else has noticed anything amiss from us, apart from the obvious.

Currently, we’re in the bridge of the Chimaera, cuffed, with Death Troopers holding us in their iron grip. Thrawn wants us to be humiliated, wants to see the hope die in Kallus’ eyes as he crushes the Rebels. Nobody – apart from the Death Troopers – is paying much attention to us now, though: all preparing for the battle. Ahead, Thrawn goes over strategy and forces, poring over a map as Pryce looks on making inane comments. The stars whirl by in blue streaks above.

... Why haven’t you killed me yet? I’m just going to be a liability, you know.

<What? I’m not going to – are you out of your mind?>

You could do it, though. You know you can. They’d… they might be merciful to you.

<They’d step on me soon as I left your head. Besides, I’m not killing you when there’s still a chance that we could - >

Survive this? Escape? Need I remind you we are being guarded by Death Troopers? The only escape we’re going to have is if the Rebels blow this ship out of the sky with us in it.

I bring up the memory of Zeb’s words: “Imperials. So quick to give up hope.”

I’m not giving up. I’m just… being realistic.

<Realistic?> I play a quick montage of all the times we’ve witnessed these Rebels winning against apparently insurmountable odds. <When they have this sort of track record?>

Kallus considers this for a while. No, he decides at last. Perhaps you are right. I suppose we shall have to see how this battle plays out.

Right on cue, the Chimaera comes out of hyperspace, the stars jolting into fixed positions once more as we enter into what is already an active battlefield. Even as we arrive, a Rebel ship explodes catastrophically beside us. I may have imagined the way the Chimaera’s floor tremors slightly beneath us with the shock-waves.

“Blowing up one of their ships?” frowns Pryce, at a volume just loud enough for us to hear above the chaos. “Tarkin wants their leaders alive.”

We can’t see the expression on Thrawn’s face, yet we can feel his arrogance even from here. “Dodonna is courageous,” he counters. “He will not have been the first to flee. Thus, that ship’s crew will have been irrelevant.”

None of them are irrelevant you absolute arse -

<Shush. Don’t let him rile you up.>

He can’t hear my thoughts, points out Kallus, though there’s a little doubt in that statement. Nobody is sure exactly what Chiss are or aren’t capable of. I don’t bother to comment.

Thrawn leans forward and flicks on his holo. “For those in charge of this… paltry fleet, you must know that you are quite outnumbered. Your power will not hold up to the Empire. This is the day that the Rebellion ends.”

A translucent blue version of Captain Syndulla appears, looking stressed but determined: there’s a fierceness in her eyes, one we’ve seen in all of the Spectres, that we both have long admired, even before turning traitor. The sight stirs that fading spark of hope in Kallus, infects him with the strength and determination to carry on living, carry on looking.

“We won’t surrender,” she tells him. “We will fight until out last breath.”

“Ah, Syndulla.” Thrawn inclines his head. “Your defiance is admirable, but I’m afraid I am not accepting surrender at this time. I will have you all know failure, complete and utter defeat, and I will have it known that it is by my hand. That is all.”

With that, he shuts off the holo. We watch him take command, smooth and considered: he makes very few actual orders, relying on the plan that he must have already set up and the abilities of his subordinates to follow it. As much as we both dislike him and the Empire in general, I can’t help but admire his leadership. It’s not easy to have that much confidence.

Well – is it confidence, really? Thrawn flicks open the comms to order Konstantine to stay put, but the firmness of his voice, the decisiveness with which he makes his order, is undercut by the slightest nearly imperceptible flicker of his red eyes – towards us. Whether it’s that he doesn’t entirely trust Konstantine, or whether he or his Yeerk are second-guessing their plan, or any number of other factors, there is a weakness there… that we can exploit.

You can’t seriously be considering playing mind games with Thrawn, thinks Kallus, who has been following my train of thought. I haven’t exactly been keeping it private from him. The more we know each other’s thoughts, especially after turning traitor, the better.

<It’s worth a try. Anything is.>

“Holding back, Grand Admiral?” Konstantine ask, with a distinctively sarcastic tone. “I thought you wanted to crush them completely.”

“Oh, I will, have no fear.” Thrawn puts his hands behind his back. “But I have long studied these Rebel’s battle tactics. They have a penchant for the unexpected, as I’m sure you are aware, Konstantine.”

Konstantine frowns, looking dissatisfied, but says nothing. We know him much better than Thrawn does: he and his Yeerk are of the opinion that he has much greater experience and expertise that Thrawn, despite Thrawn’s many victories. Those he sees mostly as flukes, or perhaps propaganda to make Thrawn seem more talented than he actually is.

I wish you wouldn’t use my body to make the taunts you’re thinking of, is all, Kallus tells me. Though, at this point, I suppose neither of us really have a choice in that matter.

I hesitate. Now that I am no longer of the Empire, I recognise the part that I and many other Yeerks have played all too often: ignoring our host’s body autonomy to ensure the Empire’s success over any other consideration. That’s why there are so many cages at an Imperial Yeerk pool. If I had not been convinced, if our research had brought us each to a different conclusion, I would have kept Kallus enslaved, listening to him scream fruitlessly in his own mind. There would have been no Fulcrum activity for him.

How many Rebel missions would have failed by now, if I were not at least a little sympathetic? None of those failures would have been Kallus’ fault. He would have wanted to help, and been powerless to stop me continuing the Empire’s cause with his hands.

<Keep quiet and they’ll forget about us, you mean?> I ask, quietly.

Kallus thinks of the Lasats, who we well know did not actually do anything to the Empire, apart from being too friendly with Wookiees. They did not take a side in the Republic-Seperatist conflict, so could not be drawn into the war for the Empire to step in and easily take control; they were capable of speaking Basic, so not useful as beasts of burden in the same way as Wookiees; yet they were too physically superior to the average Human to be forced into the kind of work most slaves get. In short, they were inconvenient. And so they were massacred.

But annoying Thrawn could mean he does even worse to the Rebels.

<It could also mean he makes a stupid mistake.>

...Fine. But I get to choose what we do next time.

“I didn’t take you for a petty glory-hunter, Grand Admiral,” I say aloud, mentally acknowledging the deal. “Ambitious?”

Thrawn turns his piercing red eyes on us for just a moment. “I am only interested in getting results for my Emperor. The one you betrayed.”

Then, he turns away again, focusing back on the chaos of the battle unfolding before us. Both Kallus and I can easily see the tactic: blocking any possible escape from the planet, keeping the Rebels exactly where they are. Of course, Tarkin wants the Rebel leaders captured, doesn’t he? It’ll be a mean feat, even with Thrawn’s tactical skills. But the Empire has the Interdictors, and -

One of the Rebel ships, Sato’s, begins to move. Konstantine’s Interdictor shifts too, as if to intercept. It plays out painfully slowly: even as Thrawn commands Konstantine to stand down, though, we both know there’s no stopping him. Konstantine doesn’t stand a chance. They crash together like planets colliding, inevitable, exploding in a blossom of fire to leave a significant gap in the Empire’s defences. Then, a blink of pseudomotion. Someone has got away.

Just one. Just a single tiny ship. Is it enough? Perhaps not. It’s not difficult for Thrawn to compensate, and soon he has the Rebels on the retreat again, back to the planet below. Slow, persistent, deadly. The orbital bombardment, perhaps a little delayed by the destruction of the Interdictor, still begins much too soon and lasts for far too long. And yet -

“I’ve been in just this situation before,” Kallus says, bypassing any discussion between us completely. “These Rebels know well how to pull a victory from the jaws of defeat.”

“Perhaps.” Thrawn gestures to his Death Troopers to join him, preparing for a trip to the ground. “But I am much different than you, Fulcrum. As these Rebels are soon to discover.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving Pryce at the helm.

This is our chance, thinks Kallus, with the shape of a plan already forming in his head. You know what Pryce is like. Much less… intelligent than Thrawn.

<What? You can’t be serious - > I read the shape of his thoughts, understand his plan, and eventually concede: <Very well. But we must wait until the right moment.>

Kallus already knows this; still, he acknowledges the truth. So we wait.

Wait. Easier said than done when we know the Rebels are dying around us, when Thrawn is most likely gaining ground on the little base below. Neither of us is as confident in the Rebels as we’ve pretended: we know Thrawn’s record. Not a single loss. Or, if there have been losses, he has turned them into victories. The Rebels would need -

Reinforcements. The Mandalorians. They blink in ready to fight: Pryce reacts slowly, though perhaps not as slowly as we’d hoped. I’m not surprised to see the way the Mandalorians make quick work of the TIES that scream in to intercept them or the Jumptroopers that tackle their space-walking soldiers. I am surprised when, at last, they finally manage to destroy the second Interdictor.

The Rebels might actually have a chance.

“You’ve made quite the mess of Thrawn’s Seventh Fleet, Pryce,” smirks Kallus, right on cue.

Pryce snarls. “I know what I’m doing, traitor.” Then: “Throw them both out of the airlock.”

Stormtroopers, thinks Kallus victoriously, as they drag us towards the lift. Pryce didn’t quite think that through, did she? Thrawn should have left his Death Troopers with us.

<Yes, yes - > I help him knock out the troopers and wriggle our hands out of the cuffs. <You can be smug once we’ve gotten to safety.>

Right. Of course. Without further ado, we duck into the nearest escape pod and hit the release button. Kallus and I both share the same thought, the comparison to how we ended up on Bahryn in the first place. Now, without Zeb, without anyone but each other, we’ve escaped the Empire and crossed the line at last to the Rebellion. Even if they don’t rescue us, even if we get shot down or just abandoned here to die – well. Our fate has been tied together for so long it almost feels right to die together now. We’d die in the knowledge that we no longer are following a regime like the Empire.

We might really have died, if our distress signal on Rebel frequencies didn’t find its target. Through the debris, in between the TIEs that still zip through the vacuum, comes the Ghost. We hear the seal connect above us, feel the pressure and oxygen equalise, and then the Rebels appear above us through the airlock, offering their hands to pull us up into a new life.

There is a small crowd of them: we both recognise Dodonna, of course. The rest are mostly strangers. Except – there, shouldering his way between pilots is Zeb himself, smiling at Kallus. Immediately, I feel Kallus’ own brain producing heightened dopamine, serotonin, even oxytocin. I was under the impression that last one could only be produced when in physical contact with someone else.

But then, of course, the rationalisation begins. The guilt. Everything stabilises, and I don’t even have to do anything. Kallus begins thinking through next steps and what might happen to the two of us: he looks up at Zeb and holds a hand to his right ear, where I normally come in and out.

“You have a Yeerk pool, correct?”

No offence, Silam-63, but… I’d like to talk to him in private.

<I understand.> Much more than he will ever know, I understand.

Zeb raises his eyebrows and gestures. “Right this way.”

Through one corridor, and Zeb knocks on a door covered in paintings. “’Bine? Got a guest fer Idlo!”

“Oh?” The door slides open, and Sabine blinks at us. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Right this way.”

She beckons us in to a room full of artwork from standard canvases to graffiti to small pieces of digital artwork displayed via holo. There’s also a few pieces of machinery and what look like data drives – Kallus’s brain lights up, enthusiastically wondering what she does with all those – as well as a thick grey cylinder. This must be their Yeerk pool: about the size of C1-10P, with space for perhaps a dozen healthy Yeerks.

Sabine opens the lid. “Idlo’s in here, plus a few others. You’ll be safe here, Silam-63. You have my word on that. I dunno what the Rebel leaders are gonna do with you, but -”

“I heard there’s a bigger Yeerk pool where we’re goin’,” agrees Zeb. “They’ll be good ta ya there, too. Gonna do their best ta help ya.” He pats Kallus on the shoulder. “Both a ya.”

It’s a nice thought, Kallus thinks. But they no doubt will find a way to punish us for – well, Lasan in my case, and – his brain conjures a series of images depicting a whole list of horrible things that we did together in service of the Empire.

“Will -” I begin, and stumble over my words. “Will Kallus and I be able to – interact again? Even if I’m not in his head, I – we want to know about each other’s welfare.”

Sabine and Zeb share a look, and Sabine takes a deep breath. “We’ll see what we can do.”

<They’ve picked us up,> I decide at last. “Already they have treated us with incredible kindness above and beyond what we would expect of them.>

Yes, agrees Kallus. So I suppose this isn’t goodbye. Just… See you later.

I bring his body to kneel beside the little Yeerk pool and bend his head down, gently, over the swirling leaden liquid. <See you later.>

With that, I’m out. For the first time in his entire adult life, Kallus will be without a Yeerk for, well, perhaps forever. And I – I am alone.

Chapter Text

<Oh, Silam-63. You and Kallus got out after all.>

<We did indeed. Thanks to your crew.>

Idlo acknowledges this with the thought-speak equivalent of a nod. <We like to help people in need, what can I say?>

<So I’ve noticed.> I feel the Pool’s gentle rippling whirls around me, comforting even though it’s a little more cramped than usual. There must be more Imperial defector Yeerks than I thought. They all seem to be engaged in thought-speak conversations of their own: that leaves me with the only Yeerk Spectre. <I’ve been wondering, do you have your own call sign?>

Idlo’s palps buzz with amusement. <Sure. Usually when I’m out with her I just identify myself as Spectre 5 like Sabine, but if we really need to make a distinction between us, she’s Spectre 5a and I’m 5b.>

I’m not sure if she’s entirely serious or not, so I change the subject. <Has Zeb always been able to do that transformation thing? I encountered a technology which allowed such abilities long ago, but, well, I thought it had been wiped from existence.>

<…Morphing? I’m not sure if I ought to be telling you that.> Idlo pauses, considers, and at last relents. <Well, you’ve got this far as one half of our Fulcrum, so I guess you’ve already had plenty of access to classified information. As a matter of fact, I don’t know. I know he definitely couldn’t do it when Sabine and I first met him, it would have really come in useful a few times. He said he used to be able to do it a long time ago. But after your little rendezvous on that ice moon, all of a sudden…>

How strange. <So how -?>

Idlo waves her palps indecisively. <He said something about an Ellimist, but we thought he was hallucinating from hypothermia.>

<I see.> Now I’m just as lost as Idlo. Was that what the morphing technology was called? No, it was a something-or-other Cube, wasn’t it? <Perhaps I’ll ask him myself, if I ever get the chance.>

<We’re not gonna guarantee you get to accompany Kallus again,> replies Idlo, radiating seriousness. <Even if he was a voluntary Controller in the Empire, that doesn’t mean he’ll be willing to let you in his head again now that he has complete freedom of choice. Some former hosts actually get body modifications to cover over their ear canal without losing their hearing, to stop themselves getting accompanied.>

<They’d go that far?> I think of the condition Deschain was in towards the end, praying that I would get starved out somehow, or that he’d be able to escape. He used to dream of moving to a little forested planet somewhere with ear defenders and little caps for his ear canal. I suppose, if he had escaped, he would have gone that far, or at least investigated the possibilities.

Idlo, suspended in the Pool just as I am, can’t shrug: she makes a sort of hum in thought-speak, acknowledging what I said. <What we do to them, even when we mean well… isn’t always the best for them. Most of them are afraid of what we do.>

I know this well. The fact that voluntary Controllers are less common than involuntary ones even with all the Empire’s “encouragement” speaks volumes. Still, on a certain level, if they willingly submit to control, as Kallus did for most of his life… doesn’t that make at least voluntary Controllers acceptable?

<Voluntary controllers are the exception that proves the rule.> It’s Idlo, who seems to be following my train of thought. <Voluntaries are the ones who stand by, who prop up a system where they get both an accompanying helper and freedom to roam while their fellow sentients suffer.>

<But Kallus - >

<Is different. Has learned compassion. I know. But have you learned anything, Silam-63?>

I spend a few hours – or perhaps days, I’m not sure – in that tank. Idlo is friendly enough to me after her initial lecture, though we never have any particularly long conversations. The rest of the Yeerks in there seem to be more temporary inhabitants, so aren’t in the habit of making casual conversation: one after the other, they leave and don’t come back. Then, it’s time for me, too, to move – though not into anyone’s head just yet. Instead, I am transferred into what I am told is a Yeerk pool on the Rebel’s new base.

This pool is not so much a single pool as multiple, interlinked with a complex system of gated channels. There is a pool for imprisoned Imperial Yeerks, one for loyal Rebel Yeerks, and several others whose purpose is not explained to me. I am directed to the pool for Yeerks whose allegiance is still unclear, one of the ones where there are guarding Rebel Yeerks keeping an eye on us. Even guarded, it’s a relatively nice space, though once again the company is less than chatty.

(It’s not that much different to Imperial Yeerk pools in that respect. Have we – have I really abandoned one unfeeling system for another? I hope not, though now I do not have the comfort of Kallus as moral support.)

Sooner than I expect, I’m called to present myself: I find the ear canal by feel and crawl in, relieved to be reunited with -

Except it’s not Kallus.

Hello, Silam-63, thinks Kanan Jarrus. It’s nice to meet you properly. Well, we both knew each other before, but you know what I mean.

<I thought...> I probe his mind, trying to access the motor controls or the memories, and find myself inexplicably blocked. Of course, in Kanan’s head I expect to not be able to see, but… I try to do something, anything, move Kanan’s finger. It’s impossible. <This – your mind is a prison. How are you doing this?>

One of the Force abilities I’ve discovered in the last few years. Kanan inhales slowly, deliberately, and stands. I’ve done it before, for Idlo and a few others. You won’t be able to move my body or access my memories without my consent, but I’ve allowed you access to my senses. Well, um. As many of them as I still possess.

Indeed, there is touch, and taste, and smell. There are sounds. When I tap into the sight centres, though, I can only barely tell the difference between open and closed eyes: I can see the difference between light and dark, and the rest is clouded. It’s almost worse than being in the Pool. At least there, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Blindness on a Human is not a state of being that I have experienced before, and it’s… unsettling.

It was unsettling to me at first, too. There is an almost amused tone to Kanan’s thoughts. It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m going to take you to meet with Kallus. We have to keep you out of his head for a while, though. Just so we know you two aren’t influencing each other too much.

<Is that all?>

I’ll be probing your mind a little throughout the next couple of days. He thinks it casually, as if this is normal for him. I’m sorry to put you under so much suspicion, but the Rebellion needs to make sure neither of you is a double agent and, well. The only way to know that for sure is to get in your head, so to speak.

I consider this. <...Does that mean Kallus…?>

Will have another Yeerk in his head, yes. A known Rebel Yeerk whose job it is to kill him if he starts to get Imperial. And then: Why, are you jealous?

<I’m concerned for my host.>

Kanan’s thoughts take on a distinctively disappointed tone, which is almost worse than outright hatred. See, this concept that he’s your host exclusively, that’s the sort of thing we discourage around here, okay? He belongs to himself. Not to you.

I don’t know how to respond to that. <Do you do this to every defecting Yeerk, then? That must keep you very busy.>

No, of course not. Just a few. There are other ways to test a formerly imperial Yeerk.

He does not elaborate, and his impenetrable wall of a mind does not provide any elucidation.

“How are you feeling?” asks a voice outside, one which I recognise as Hera Syndulla.

“Like I have a slug in my head,” jokes Kanan, without my input.

“What about, uh… him?”

I’ll let you answer that one.

“I, um…” I scrabble to work the mouth-parts and the voice-parts: it’s unfamiliar on Kanan, in the same way that flying someone else’s ship would be. All the controls are slightly off from Kallus’. When I finally do speak, the ingrained Coruscant accent that I am familiar with using comes out. “Fine. Good. Where is Kallus?”

“...Stars, that’s weird. You sounded almost exactly like Kallus.” There is a gentle pat on Kanan’s arm. “We’ll take you to him now.”

“Thh… ank you.”

Kanan gently but firmly establishes his control over his speech again.

<So how do you keep me from moving your body?> I ask, as Kanan moves through the Rebel base with deceptive ease of movement. <Even Force sensitive beings can be accompanied, after all. The Inquisitors, for example, are unable to resist their Yeerks.>

It’s a difficult technique that requires a lot of preparation and meditation. Kanan shrugs. I would imagine that the Inquisitors don’t exactly have much time to clear their heads while they’re at a Yeerk pool in Force cuffs.

<…Right.>

He raises a hand to a door control panel. Here we are.

Beyond, the room sounds and feels a little small: Kanan can hear the slight buzz of a force field to his right, and feels the presence of several beings beyond it, observing us in silence. I’m sure he recognises them, but if he does he doesn’t communicate that with me. Presumably they’re Rebel leadership.

In front of us, he knows there is a table. He senses Kallus sitting at the other side, and reaches out for the empty chair. It’s exactly where he expected it to be. He sits carefully.

“Hello, Kallus,” he says. “Silam-63 is with me. He’ll be taking over my speech in just a moment.”

“All right.” Kallus sounds fine. Normal. A little tired, but that is to be expected.

I move Kanan’s mouth experimentally, licking his lips, and then: “Are you all right?”

“Well.” The slightest hint of a smile in his voice. “The Rebels are treating me well. And you?”

“…Well,” I agree. “Though I – I feel as though they ought to put us both on trial for – you know.”

A hum. “I felt that too. I’ve been speaking to certain members of Rebel leadership. For now, we’re not being imprisoned. They may want to interview you as well.”

“I’ll give whatever help I can.” It’s an honest statement: I do want to help. I do want to make up for – for Deschain, for those beings with the beautiful slender blue-furred bodies and the deadly lightning-fast tails, for… everything, really. “To be honest, I thought that might be what this was.”

“Oh, no.” Kallus hesitates. “Well, I don’t think so. There is a certain amount of appraisal going on, but the long and short of it is that we are being vetted, old friend. Not put on trial. At least not yet.”

I bite Kanan’s lip. “I’m not sure there is a very big difference between those two things.”

“…Perhaps not,” Kallus sighs.

For a moment, neither of us know what to say to each other: there is much we could discuss, but I’m not sure who is listening, or what they’re listening for. If they want to interrogate me, they can do it, but they’d better leave Kallus out of it.

<I want to see him,> I tell Kanan, eventually.

All right. I think I can help with that.

“Kallus,” I say with Kanan’s mouth, once I understand his intent, “Kanan says he has a way for me to see your face. Using his hands.”

“Oh, here.” He takes Kanan’s hands and guides them to his face. It feels almost the same as it usually does, thought I have to remember the sensations are mirrored since I’m coming at it from a different angle. There is a little stubble growing in on the bare patch on his chin; his mutton chops feel messy and untrimmed. His eye is still swollen.

“They’re going to keep us apart for a while,” Kallus says, waiting patiently while I explore his face. “Once Imesh here has investigated my brain to his and the Rebellion’s satisfaction. They want to see how well I do without a Yeerk.”

<And how well I do without my host,> I think privately. Out loud, I ask: “How long?”

“That depends entirely on the contents of my thoughts, I suppose.”

“Will I be able to see you again? So to speak?”

Kanan takes back control and answers for me: “You’ll be accompanying Ezra and I. It’ll be good training for him, if you’re willing to help in that regard, and we’ll be able to keep tabs on you. So, while we’re all on the same planet, yes. But the kids -” here his mind fills in the context for me by recalling surprisingly clear images of Ezra and Sabine – “and I will be going to Mandalore for a few months very soon, and I’m considering bringing you with us.”

We – the we there, according to the memories that light up in Kanan’s mind, is the greater Rebel leadership as well as Kanan and Hera themselves – think it might be best to split you two up for a while.

Kallus’ face twitches slightly beneath Kanan’s fingers: I feel the conflicting emotions as muscle movements, passing in brief and subtle waves across his face. Kanan also has his own way of gleaning emotions – he feels the echo of what Kallus feels through the Force, and I can glean those emotions second-hand even though there’s no part of his brain that specifically corresponds to using the Force.

Yeerks are well known to have no Force sensitive individuals. We are capable of tapping into the abilities of others, but something about our physiology means that we are prevented from using it on our own merit. I imagine that if I were to have full control of Kanan, I’d be able to make him levitate things or whatever else I wanted, just as I could raise his hands or move his legs. But of course, I do not have arms or legs of my own, and I do not have any control over what Kanan does without permission. I am nothing but a mind, observing the outside world from this distant space inside his head.

(I notice, with a sudden feeling like standing between two mirrors, that I also get some information about myself from Kanan: as he admitted earlier, he is probing my emotions in the background, unsettlingly detailed, turning the Yeerk-host relationship back on itself. It’s unnerving to realise that I didn’t notice it before, yet I can feel that Kanan has been doing it since I entered his head. I don’t even know how I know that. It’s just information that’s there, as if he’s telling me somehow by allowing me a small amount of access.)

“I see,” Kallus replies, eventually. “You’ll keep me updated, I hope?”

“Of course,” reply Kanan’s lips. “I’ll make sure of it.”

That, it seems, is enough. Kallus nods, then removes his face from Kanan’s touch. “Imesh would like to relay the information that our time is up. I’ll… see you around, Silam-63.”

“I most likely won’t,” I reply, in a lame attempt at humour. Kallus doesn’t laugh. With nothing left to say, Kanan gets up.

Why? asks Kanan, as we leave the room. Why did you need to see his face?

<I just…> I hesitate. <I’ve known him better than anyone. I’ve seen his memories, everything that happened to him before I began to accompany him. I’ve seen every moment of joy, every doubt, every wet dream, every instant of hatred. I… feel responsible for him, I suppose.>

...Did not need to know the wet dream part.

Chapter Text

It’s hard to separate myself from Kallus. I don’t just mean the physical sense – of course I slithered right out of his brain with no problems, that’s what Yeerks are designed to do – but the mental. As I told Kanan, I’ve been privy to everything he’s thought and seen and felt over the past decade or so; I understand his personality perhaps better even than he himself does.

I have been him. Humans say, to really understand a person, you ought to walk a mile in their shoes. I’ve gone further than that. Yeerks go further than that. I’ve been around the galaxy and back with Kallus. He got new boots a year ago: I know exactly where they pinch. I’ve used his voice to speak. I’ve attended to the fragile chemistry of his brain. I’ve felt every pain in his muscles after a hard day’s work, and I’ve acted his part as loyal Imperial soldier. Effectively, I was him.

And now I’m not. I don’t know who I am without him. Just a Yeerk, I suppose. It’s hard to have a personality of your own when you’re always acting out someone else’s part. I was his caretaker, to a certain extent – but even that, it’s all about him, isn’t it? I took care of him; that was my job and my entire reason for being.

There was a Human philosopher, I’ve heard, that once said “I think, therefore I am”. The problem is, all I do is think after I “see” him. I’ve had a brief moment in the sun with Kanan – after meeting Kallus, I was called in for an interview the Rebel leadership to tell my version of events and explain my motivations for leaving the Empire – and now I’m relegated to the Pool to contemplate. If I don’t do something, if I don’t have a tangible impact on the Galaxy around me, am I really anything more than the useless blob I evolved to be?

And what about Kallus? I’m thinking of myself, wallowing in self-pity, but what about how Kallus feels about all this? Does he feel similar, devoid of my presence? Or is he finally letting himself express a personality that even I have only caught glimpses of? The truth is, I have no idea.

Until, that is, I get called up again to help with Ezra’s “training”.

His mind is different from Kallus’ again, and almost the opposite of Kanan’s composed calm: quick and scattered, though with the slight undercurrent of focus that tells me he can get serious if he needs to. I knew quite a lot about his personality already, but from the inside, it’s – intense. He has one extra sense, too, and it takes me a second to adjust to visual input again.

Weird, thinks Ezra, as I’m still adjusting. You feel… goopy. He taps the side of his head with one hand a couple of times, as if trying to get water out of his ears. I’ve never had a Yeerk in my head before.

He’s been preparing for this for the last week or so, and meditating intensely for the past four hours. He thinks he’s ready, and I can feel the barriers in his mind – clumsier and weaker than Kanan’s, certainly, but the attempt has been made. We’re at the Rebel Yeerk pool, or one of its tributaries: Kanan stands there, arms folded, and though his eyes are hidden and unseeing Ezra still irrationally feels as though he’s staring.

“All right, you two, we all know why we’re here.” Kanan folds his arms. “Silam-63, you will do everything in your power to take over Ezra’s body and make him do things he doesn’t want to do. You know, like chores.”

“Oh my gods, Kanan, I’m gonna do ‘em!”

“Meanwhile, Ezra,” continues Kanan, ignoring this protest, “you will resist him with the Force at all costs. Even relatively harmless things.”

“Understood, sir.” I pull Ezra’s body into a straight-backed parade rest; for the moment, Kanan is my commanding officer, my Visser. Decades of training and experience with Kallus and my former hosts has made my responses almost automatic. Kanan and I have discussed this, while I was in his head, and he thinks I might even be a good influence on Ezra. It’s a strange thing for him to say about someone he doesn’t entirely trust just yet.

Kanan tips his head. “You know, I like the Yeerk version of you better already. Have fun.”

A twinge of anger. I’m such a bad student I need to be mind controlled?

<Ezra,> I warn, and balance the anger with calmness. <Come on, we’d best get started.>

I turn sharply and march Ezra towards the Ghost: sorting through his memories, I can already see several unpleasant tasks that I can help him do.

...You know, thinks Ezra, passing through calm and into a sort of cheerful maliciousness, this is actually really useful. It’s almost like someone else is doing the chores for me.

<The whole point of this exercise is not to succumb to my control, you know.>

Yeah, but – Suddenly, he resists me with much more power than I expected: the loose nets trapping me become steel walls, cutting me off from his body abruptly. He brings himself to a stop and turns his head deliberately. Hey, look, it’s your friend!

I absorb the visual information. There, sparring near the air field, are Kallus and Zeb. Even from this distance, it’s easy to hear the clack of staves, along with what must be friendly taunts that reach Ezra’s ears as only vague impressions of speech.

Let’s go see!

<Leave them.> If I could just regain control, I could march us out of here and – but Ezra’s mind is firmly locked to me, even if the security wavers slightly at the edges. Every time I think I’ve found a way in, Ezra rebuffs me. He sneaks up towards the sparring area, keeping himself hidden behind crates and ships and droids, until at last he is in a position to watch Kallus and Zeb up close.

Their staves have stopped their quick back-and-forth now; the two of them are talking in low voices as they stretch. The way Kallus looks at Zeb, open and trusting and comfortable – this isn’t him. Or this wasn’t him, perhaps, while he was still in the Empire. While I still occupied his mind.

<I’ve… never seen him so happy.>

What, never?

<Not like this.> He had a few happy moments in his childhood and teenage years, and then – every Yeerk he’s ever had has found him serious, restrained, professional. The way he looks right now is none of those things. He looks at Zeb as though he’s the moon and the stars.

It hurts to realise that I wasn’t anything like that to him. I was the watchdog, the censor, the gatekeeper of his mind. Now I’m gone from his life and he’s never been happier.

Maybe you’re right, thinks Ezra, with a sudden attack of introspection. It’s not my influence – his mind is still walled off against me. We should leave them alone.

He doesn’t always look so happy. Ezra’s mind tends to perceive him as blunt and emotionless since I relinquished control; over the next few days, I notice the way Kallus doesn’t quite make eye contact with anyone. Did he ever before? I can’t remember. I remember myself making eye contact. It had almost been a reflex, pulling on his muscles incrementally, so that he barely even felt anything. Is the way he acts now him, or is it the current Yeerk? Neither I nor Ezra even know if the Yeerk that was accompanying him when last I saw him is still there, and I’m not sure I want to know.

(We see Lyste, too, sometimes. He is happy. He has a large group of Rebel friends now: without the cap constantly over his face we can see the brightness in his eyes, the hope. He is outgoing, personable: we can tell Kallus is trying, but we can also tell that it comes naturally to Lyste.)

Nevertheless. Soon I am distracted from thinking about Kallus altogether: I am asked to join Kanan, Ezra, and Sabine on their mission to Mandalore. It’s the first and longest time that I’ve been separated from Kallus; more than that, it’s my first mission as a true Rebel. There’s not a whole lot for me to do, outside of my role as a training exercise for Ezra: my knowledge of Imperial systems and codes can only go so far even with the Empire encroaching on Mandalorian territory every day. We carry out guerrilla attacks much more often than the type of espionage that is mine and Kallus’ speciality.

Still, I accompany Ezra, teaching him to resist me from within. I hadn’t even realised that it was a possibility before Kanan did it, but now from Ezra’s slight sloppiness I have a much greater understanding of every step of the process and can suggest ways to improve. A Yeerk teaching their host to resist their control – ha! If I’d told myself a year ago that this would be happening, I’d have thought I was crazy.

I’m also there as a safeguard. If, by some unlucky disaster, Ezra is captured and interrogated – well, I shall be there to seal up his mouth, to block off his important memories, to do everything in my power to prevent him from spilling the Rebellion’s secrets. He knows not to resist me in such a situation – if he can tell that what I am doing is for his own good, he will relinquish control. Hopefully. It’s an unpleasant thought. The Rebels, I know, would never attempt to torture anyone, especially not a minor, and they didn’t even torture Kallus or I. The Empire is not nearly as merciful.

We are not captured or interrogated, thankfully. We fight, or Ezra does: I am mostly just along for the ride. The weapon – the Duchess – is destroyed, without a single Rebel casualty.

<They – I used her,> transmits Idlo later, when we are back in the Pool together. <I used the knowledge in her beautiful mind to create horrible, terrible things. The Empire used us, our creativity, to…>

Idlo’s palps transmit a feeling of horror and disgust so strong that I recoil.

<They manipulated her – both of us.> She pauses. <She was young, she had no idea that her theoretical work would be used for – but I knew. I knew from the start. When she realised what she had done, what I had made her do… It broke us apart. I could feel every inch of her betrayal, her hurt, and – I realised that I was wrong. I understood everything. And so I helped her leave.>

I absorb this knowledge sombrely, thinking of the similarities and differences between her and I, between Sabine and Kallus. It doesn’t explain why Idlo is still here, when she could have been abandoned by the roadside years ago, but I think I understand, too, a little more of Sabine.

By the time I and the others return to Yavin, then, Kallus has graduated from regular Yeerk supervision to acting on his own full-time, and I can tell immediately. I’m accompanying Ezra when we spot him in the tapcafe, eating a plateful of something hot and staring at a datapad. We both notice the way Kallus’ hands tap incessantly on the table. It’s not quite frustration. It looks… compulsive.

He never had compulsions like that while I was with him. Or did he? As a Yeerk, one of our jobs is to keep our host appearing as close as possible to how they would normally be, but we’re trained with a very generalised view of humanity. If he had felt the impulse to do something like that, before, I would just have blocked the relevant neuron signal.

Imma go talk to him!

<Wait, Ezra - >

But Ezra is already sliding into the seat opposite Kallus with a grin. “Hey, Kallus. Miss us?”

“It’s been remarkably quiet without your presence,” replies Kallus, without looking up from his datapad. “How was Mandalore?”

“It was a lotta fun.” Ezra leans his elbows on the table, but before he can say something else I manage to wrestle back control. He’s getting better at not losing focus, but I’m experienced enough to take advantage of even the slightest lapse.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll get Ezra to leave you alone if he’s bothering you.”

Kallus huffs slightly. A moment passes, and he blinks and looks up at us. “Oh! Silam-63?”

“Kriff!” It takes a lot of effort for Ezra to put me back in the passenger seat; he takes a breath. “Yeah, that was him.”

“I see training is going well.” His tone is only a little sarcastic. “Nice to, er, see you, as it were.”

“He’s happy to see you, too,” nods Ezra. And then: “You don’t have one any more, do you?”

“No Yeerk,” confirms Kallus. “Head empty.”

Ezra blinks at him. Part of him is conscious that that doesn’t sound like something the Kallus he knows would normally say; but then, he knows that the Kallus he knows was at least partly me. For my part, I know for a fact that the Kallus I knew wouldn’t have said something like that, even inside his own head. He’s changed. He’s… not himself, and definitely not me any more.

Just as Ezra is considering what to say to this, Rex arrives with his meal, sliding in next to Ezra.

“Hey, Ezra. Hi, Kallus.”

“Hello, Rex.” Kallus hesitates, squints, and then asks: “Aren’t you meant to be on a mission to somewhere in the mid-rim?”

Rex freezes. Then, he laughs. “Ah, ya caught me.”

All at once, he transforms: his beard turns purple, his ears grow, and his four fingers merge into three. If it weren’t for the unpleasant sounds, it would be very impressive.

(Ezra can’t quite prevent me of seeing his memory for the first time Zeb used these powers in front of the Spectres. It had only been after Bahryn; Zeb had changed himself into a Loth-cat without being able to quite explain how, or why he could do it now and not before. Ezra is still a little jealous of the ability, though he knows his Force talents make up for it.)

“I wanted ta try a clone morph,” explains Zeb, once he’s back to normal. “Wanted ta see, if I acquired one clone, can I morph inta all of ‘em? It’s kinda based on genetics, after all.”

I’m not familiar with the terms he uses, though Kallus seems to be nodding along as if Zeb has filled him in on all this already. It’s not too difficult to figure out based on context: he acquires an animal or sentient in order to morph them. Strange words, ones that I wouldn’t have expected Zeb to know in Basic. Or perhaps that is my bias showing.

“So?” asks Kallus, focused now entirely on Zeb. “Can you?”

Instead of answering, Zeb begins to shrink again, beard disappearing. Before our eyes, he becomes Gregor. The face is the same, they’ve both aged in the same way, and yet the difference is obvious.

“Cool, right?” grins Gregor-Zeb. “Long as they don’t have any particular scars or tattoos or anythin’, I can be whatever clone I like.”

“Damn.” Ezra whistles. “That’ll come in handy.”

Kallus, for his part, looks very thoughtful. “If you acquired a Force sensitive person…”

Zeb becomes himself again – crunch, crack, schlorp – and frowns. “Huh. Never tried. In theory, right? I wouldn’t have the trainin’ fer it, but – yeah, if I morphed Ezra here or Kanan, I could probably – karabast, that’s a weird idea. Just like if Silam-63 accompanied them.”

“That has been tried,” I say. Ezra left one of his defences open for long enough for me to get a word in. “And yes. There are no Force sensitive Yeerks, but there are many who take advantage of their host’s abilities. The Inquisitors, in particular.”

“Hm.” Zeb reaches out, hand hovering over Ezra’s arm. “Hey, Ezra…”

Ezra puts me back in my place and takes control again. “Absolutely not.”

“Ah, well. Worth a try, I guess…”

Chapter Text

<They’ll need us soon,> Idlo tells me. <They’re not doing long-term infiltration, but they are planning to do an attack on the Dome.>

<I see. And Kanan -?>

I’ve only just got to Lothal. I’ve heard rumours and murmurings of what’s going on here: now, I finally get the chance to hear it from someone who’s been here the whole time.

<Yes. I was accompanying Sabine when it happened.> Yeerks can’t cry, but we show emotions through the movement of our palps, through releasing pheromones, as well as through our words. Idlo’s grief over the man who took her and her host in is almost overpowering even second-hand.

<We kind of took it out on some assassin that was chasing us,> she adds. <Zeb and us.>

<Understandable,> I agree. I didn’t know Kanan very well, of course. Even the time I spent inside his head was heavily restricted. But I did spend time in his head. I heard his thoughts. To think that no one will ever hear those thoughts again, that his voice has been snuffed out for good – that is tragedy enough to give me pause. <He… will be missed.>

<He will.>

The signal comes for Idlo to present herself: she pauses a moment, letting the emotions of our conversation dissipate before she leaves. After a few minutes, I get the call, too. I head obediently up towards the surface: I’m expecting Ezra again. Or perhaps a different Rebel – the Rebel leadership have decided that I am not a threat, that my defection is as honest as it can be, so they’re willing to let me accompany whoever will have me.

Instead, I get:

Hello again, Silam-63.

<Kallus!>

The mind I once knew is so much different than I remember: within a few seconds, I’ve absorbed all the memories that have built up since the Battle of Atollon. There’s… a lot. I feel the twinge of jealousy start as I experience second-hand the other Yeerk, who monitored Kallus for the first month or so; it gets worse, though, seeing the memories of him set free from his own perspective. He has been so happy. So unrestricted. With me here, he feels that he can only think or do or say things that I would agree with. Now, I am a costume, like the grey uniform that Kallus finds so much more choking-tight than his comfortable Rebel clothing.

There is Zeb, looking at us with an odd expression. He has been a constant support for Kallus in my absence, a steadfast friend. Kallus yearns for him more intensely than ever: spending more time with him has only deepened the unfamiliar feelings.

(Suddenly, the temptation presents itself: to take over Kallus completely and have Kallus all to myself. To be the only being he relies on, to monopolise his time and attention. He couldn’t resist as the Jedi have. But – no. I have learned to place much more importance on the bodily autonomy and consent of my hosts. Having a voluntary host has helped me in that area, since Kallus and I have always been equal teammates in everything. I recall what Kanan said: I no longer legally own Kallus as I did in the Empire. He owns himself.)

“Let’s go,” he says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “This Dome won’t blow itself up.”

Zeb frowns. “Ya sure yer both okay with this?”

“We’ll survive,” we say, as one.

“Okay.” The doubt is clear to see: nevertheless, Zeb pats us on the shoulder. “Good luck, Alex. And you, Silam-63.”

<...Alex?> I bristle. <You never let me call you Alex.>

Oh, for stars’ sake. You could have, if you’d asked. He straightens up. Come on, let’s go.

My briefing on the plan comes from a brief scan of Kallus’ memories. Ezra had come up with the bulk of it, pacing one of the many cool caves that the Rebels have been using as an impromptu base. A few other people came up with suggestions, details, contingencies. Kallus himself contributed a little. Now, he is determined to follow the plan until the end – no matter what.

There are thoughts layered underneath his main objective, ones whose complex emotions haven’t been completely put to words. The concept of self-sacrifice contrasts with the feeling of generalised guilt over his Imperial actions; at some level, perhaps, Kallus believes he ought to die to make up for his crimes.

I dig a little deeper, trying to figure out whether he thinks the same of me, but apparently not. He’s not sure what my fate should be. There are parts of his brain even now working on how to get me to leave just in case he is about to die. The nebulous idea of justice hangs around all these thoughts: ethics, mercy, balance.

But there are more important things to focus on. Kallus turns his attention to the Dome. We have come in Imperial disguise – Zeb has become Lyste again – and when the time is right, we abandon all pretence to begin our attack. It doesn’t take much to get to the control room, so by the time we’ve issued Protocol 13 we’re feeling pretty confident.

Of course, that is exactly when Thrawn shows up. We should have known. Doesn’t he always? It’s hard not to feel hopeless: doubly so for me. I’m only really here for my knowledge of Imperial codes that are restricted to everyone but Yeerks, the ones that we were told to wipe from our host’s memory even as we direct their fingers to enter them. I might as well be a sentient code cylinder. I can only watch from behind Kallus’ eyes as the Rebels discuss – or argue about – their plans.

Neither Kallus nor I notice Ezra leaving. I suppose no one else did, either. Nevertheless, it gives us something to work with, time bought. I try not to think about what will happen to Ezra. I’ve grown quite fond of him in the last few months. His thoughts are so much different than Kallus’. Younger, of course, less secretive. Ezra always says exactly what he means; Kallus is still learning that kind of honesty. Whatever happens, I hope I’ll be able to accompany Ezra again.

In the meantime, there’s work to do, fights to be fought. Kallus’ anxiety is rising. By now, Zeb has settled back into his usual form: Kallus keeps an eye on him as much as possible as we make our way through the corridors of the Dome. His ears, his stripes, even the particular purple shade of his fur – all this Kallus uses to ground himself, to remind himself why he even joined the Rebel side in the first place.

This is all disrupted by the appearance of the grey being. Zeb stiffens immediately when he sees the creature below us, ears flat against his head. For a moment, Kallus is so focused on why Zeb is like that, he barely hears the shouts around us – for something to be done, for something drastic to happen.

“I’m on it,” growls Zeb. He cracks his knuckles and jumps put into the pit, powerful legs stretching out. He seems to shrink as he falls: his limbs get skinnier and shorter, but somehow more lanky, and his fur disappears, and -

<How the hells did he acquire that grey creature? He hasn’t even touched it yet!>

Kallus, distressed, barely acknowledges me. There a small relevant memory of Zeb telling him about the same assassin Idlo mentioned, one with grey skin and strange eyes. That explains a lot. It certainly explains why there are two identical grey creatures fighting below us.

We have a job to do. I take over while Kallus is still staring down at Zeb: I move his hands, his eyes, shooting in tandem with Gregor. When Gregor falls, I am the one to turn, and when he tells us to leave him so that we can finish what we’re doing I am the one to obey.

“Zeb!” shouts Kallus, taking back his mouth. “Come on, get out of there!”

“Don’t wait fer me!” shouts one of the grey beings, from below. “Just do it!”

- idiot sacrificing himself, I’m supposed to be the one that -

<Kallus. Focus.> I put his hand on the switch. <Come on. You know it’s the only way.>

Together, then. 1, 2, 3 -

There is a distinct sizzling noise. The power conduit buzzes to life all at once; we can feel the thrum of it beneath our feet. And then there is one grey being. They climb up out of the pit on spidery legs, focusing on us in particular. Kallus and I both stare, tense and ready to fight. Is Zeb…?

“It’s me.” The creature begins to grow suddenly, purple fur and stripes rippling over him in an elegant display. Before our eyes, the ugly grey assassin becomes the Zeb that we know and – and that Kallus loves. That is obvious from inside his head, though Kallus has not quite been able to put those emotions into words until this moment. He loves him.

And I – I am in the way. I’m in between him and every shade of love that Kallus is discovering within himself. The part of him that laughs at Zeb’s stupid jokes. The part of him that feels butterflies when they’re so much as in the same room. Even the part of him that doesn’t feel worthy of looking at Zeb, the part of him that cannot bear the weight of Zeb’s kindness and near-incomprehensible forgiveness.

He yearns, too, to explore the sexuality that has gone neglected for so long – he’s fantasised about Zeb a lot since joining the Rebellion (since Bahryn, if I’m honest), about discovering the beauty of physical intimacy with him free from… well, the phrase Kallus’ mind conjures up is mental voyeur. The idea that I or another Yeerk could take him over at a pivotal moment and make him do things that neither he nor Zeb would agree to makes him shudder with disgust.

I realise all this more or less at the same time that Kallus subconsciously acknowledges his own feelings. It’s awful, but it’s true: I am the one getting in between the two of them. I am the one that just isn’t necessary in this equation. I was never the one he was going to choose.

But I want Kallus to be happy. I want Kallus to have a good life, free of Yeerk interference, free to love Zeb on his own terms. I want him to have that mental privacy that he spent so many decades without, to have dignity in his own mind. And if all that means leaving his head for good – well, I’ll do it.

So, once the Dome has exploded, once the Empire is off Lothal, that is exactly what I do. I leave Kallus. I find someone else. Every now and again, I see Kallus again, see how happy he is with Zeb, see the ways their hands link and their eyes turn to one another, and know that I have done the right thing. No matter what he was told – what the Empire told him – he really is better alone. We can both continue the fight in our own individual ways.

I hear he and Zeb are planning to go somewhere far away once the war is over. To find a place where no Yeerk can touch them ever again. I’m… happy for them. I’ll work to make sure they both get to see that future.

That’s why I can’t tell you my real name, or Kallus’, or Zeb’s. I can’t tell you which individual(s) I’m accompanying. If the Empire finds us, any of us, our lives could all be in danger. You’ll never know who I really am. I could be in your cantina or on your ship; I could be your mother or your partner or your commander; I could be on the Death Star itself. But I can tell you one thing: we are Rebels. We will win the fight against the Empire, just as Ezra and Kanan always wanted.

And maybe, when we’ve done that, we’ll be able to create a society where Yeerks can live in harmony with the other beings of the Galaxy, free of coercion and control…