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The blaster bolts were fine - expected, actually, but she ducked and heard something hard karom off the bulkhead next to her. Then ping and ricochet twice more. One of them brought a slugthrower. Sure. Why not? She dogged the hatch behind her, hoping it would keep her pursuers delayed for at least a minute.

The next car in the skytrain was half-full, which she was sure was a net loss for the shipping company, but a net gain for her as she scrambled over the crates, putting quite a bit of metal and hopefully dense, blaster bolt absorbing products between her and those behind her. She was rapidly running out of train and she dropped to her haunches for a breather. And a bit of a rethink.

Following Corran Horn's discovery of Yuuzhan Vong remains on the remote world Bimmiel, there'd been a bit of a craze in hunting for other footprints of the invaders. It was like there was some infectious belief that if you could just understand the vong, you'd find the chromium quarrel to send them packing. Almost none bore fruit, sure, but Tash Arranda always had a preternatural sense for when the ground was hot and there were secrets just waiting to be delicately exhumed. A brush here, scoop of the trowel there; compressed air gusting dust away, and Tash would reveal some new piece of the complex puzzle that was the history of civilization in the Galaxy - or as it seemed now, two galaxies.

She hadn't even a chance to put down the brushed steel lockbox tucked under her arm before blaster bolts whickered over her head. Well, that hatch didn't keep them as long as she might've hoped. She vaguely aimed her holdout blaster over her head, poking past the durasteel crate she crouched behind. Tash squeezed off a few stun blasts, not expecting to hit a soul - and heard a hissing cry as a Verpine crumpled. Huh, she thought. Well then.

No more slugs were bouncing around, so double lucky.

Look - she was a xenoarchaeologist with a doctorate from the University of (New) Alderaan. She was a Jedi too, and a Fellow of the Obroan Institute, and a visiting lecturer at half a dozen academies besides. She even had tenure. It was entirely within her rights to spring a six hundred year old set of bones from a local collector here on Tymo II. The marks on the bones weren't embalming marks! They were from ritual scarification! It was obvious! This had to be just like Mongei Shai - another Yuuzhan Vong scout arriving way ahead of their main armada. And intel on the invaders aside, such an important find obviously shouldn't be stuck in a private collection, an artifact of such monumental, intergalactic importance belonged-

Another pair of blaster bolts cracked past and punched smoldering holes into the bulkhead across from her.

"Jedi!" one of the goons called across the cargo car.

"That's me!" she shouted back.

"Surrender! We've got gunships coming in at the mountain pass. You won't get off this train alive."

Thinking hard, Tash rapped nails against the case under her arm. The Force felt tense and she sensed the truth in the goon's words, but just because he believed she was trapped didn't make it a fact. An actual fact: she could draw her 'saber and go right through the side of the car. Sure, the drop was like a kilometer and the whole point of hopping this skytrain was to leave the (probably) private security in the dust, but maybe she'd be better off taking her chances in the wilderness between Tymo II's capital and its neighboring harbor city.

She wasn't really keen on testing her admittedly middling control of telekinesis on stopping a fall from this height at this speed, but…

Those blaster bolts looked nasty.

"One more time, Jedi!"

"Bite me!" she laughed, stuffing her holdout blaster back into its holster and yanking her lightsaber from her belt. Its azure blade snapped to life, drowning out profanities from the goons. Big talk when it was just a cornered Jedi, but a cornered Jedi with their lightsaber?

Tash grinned.

They'd be expecting her to rush them. Instead, she flicked her 'saber around her feet once, twice, thrice. And she dropped with a triangular patch of the cargo car's deck. Wind struck her in the face immediately and she tumbled. Sky, ground, train. Sky, ground, train. The last car passed by so close the pressure of its passage hit like a fist, knocking her into a fiercer spin.

She felt the ground of Tymo II far below, but rising rapidly. She kept a deathgrip on the case of old bones. If her grad students could see her right now…

Well, she supposed, if she didn't pull this off, it would be a really, really embarrassing way to go.

The patient was stable and breathing easy under sedation. Holograms fed him details on blood pressure, hormonal balance and brain activity. He stuck his bared hands and arms under a decon emitter, gritting his teeth as the cheap unit singed off the outermost layer of his epidermis. Then he rinsed the fine ash away, scrubbing well with antibacterial gel. He snapped on flexible gloves, hearing similar cracks at the other cleaning stations.

Shul Vaal's lekku were secured down his back, nicely out of his way. Turning back to his patient, the Twi'lek cleared his throat and glanced at his two assistants. Nairi Gem looked pale and anxious and he made note to sit her down after surgery. She was an excellent nurse, but she hadn't seen quite as much as he had and their patient appeared to be upsetting her. It wasn't a nice sight - swoop wrecks rarely were. The Bothan was missing half his fur from burns and duracrete abrasion and what was left of one leg was more of a tangle of bone and tendons.

Not the nicest sight. H'gol Lok wordlessly slid a tray of burnished, shining tools up next to the Bothan as Shul sighed behind his sanitary mask. This was going to be several hours, even with his best tricks and techniques he'd picked up from Masters like Cilghal and Milessa. There was no time like the present and he settled in with a rhythm and confidence born over years and years of work. Nairi hovered at his right, handing off requested tools when he voiced his need. H'gol Lok managed fluids and kept the poor Bothan comfortable and unconscious.

The Force guided his hands as much as his learning and experience did and he attacked the mangled mess of the Bothan's leg. The abrasions were the worst to look at, but the least life-threatening. In that twisted up leg were ruptured major arteries. All it took was one unnoticed for a little too long and Shul would feel the quiet departure of the Bothan's whole being. He'd felt that awful moment plenty of times. Master Skywalker said the Force was all, and all were in the Force and that returning to the Force was the fate of all beings, but Shul was a doctor. Fighting death was his calling and he waged his war in truer ways than any with a lightsaber.

He clamped another spurter shut, wincing as he gently massaged the tissue with the Force and encouraged rapid cellular growth. A tiny point-cauterizer stroked back and forth as Shul worked and he eyed the pinched off artery. He still had some of the bridgers in stock, even if they were hard to source. He could tie one in here, let the artery absorb it and regrow the connection…

He mentally shook his head. No telling if the limb was even salvageable. Might just need to come off.

Shul held out his hand, asking for a deep tissue scanner. He needed to get a look into the ball of bone and muscle that had been a Bothan's knee joint. His hand remained empty.

"Tissue scanner," he reiterated, glancing toward Gem.

She wasn't next to him.

'Boss-" H'gol Lok started and Shul felt his sudden shock in the Force get cut short, replaced by thoughtless dreaming.

Keeping his hands half-inside the Bothan's leg, Shul carefully twisted just enough to see Nairi standing over H'gol Lok's crumpled body, a touch-stunner in her trembling hand. In her other was a vibroscalpel, already active and buzzing.

"Hey, Nairi," Shul said, voice pitched low and soft.

"I'm not-" she gulped, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. "I don't - I don't work for them. I wouldn't ever. I swear."

"I believe you," he placated. Then he kept working.

"Shul! Stop. Stop."

"I can't, Nairi. He needs my care."

"Shul, you have to stop. There's going to be some - some people outside, okay? You have to go with them."

Shul nodded distractedly. Without the tissue scanner, he was mapping the Bothan's knee himself. It wasn't a pretty sight, but he was growing more and more confident he could save it. The road to recovery would be long, but given the Bothan had come by Shul's clinic, the Twi'lek bet the swoop rider didn't exactly have deep pockets for a prosthetic.

"Sure, Nairi. I just need to finish here."

Her distress was palpable. Her guilt was acrid. Her fear was almost overwhelming.

"I have to do this," she said, more to herself. "I have to. Shul, please. Don't make me."

"When I'm done," he repeated. "My patient needs me. He needs us, Nairi."

He felt her move closer, dared to hope that she was going to go back to the equipment tray and be his second pair of hands again. His hopes were dashed when buzzing grew in his ear and a trembling hand wrapped around one of his lekku.

"They promised," Nairi said again, her voice small and shattered. "They won't attack again if we can give them Jedi."

He'd seen the broadcast and heard the words again and again. It wasn't anything new to him. He heard the promise a thousand times. I promise, Doc. I'll lay off the stims. I promise, Doc. Patch me up, I won't get in a podracer again. I promise, Doc. I promise I won't relapse, I promise I'll change, I promise, I promise, I promise.

Putting an edge of durasteel into his voice, Shul shook his head as much as Nairi's grip on his lekku allowed.

"He'll lose his leg if I stop. So I won't. If you need to stop me…"

Nairi was an excellent nurse. She took to his lessons like a krakana to water. She knew where a body could be hurt and survive, knew where it couldn't bear the slightest punishment. With that vibroscalpel, Shul wouldn't even feel it when it came.

Bone fragments from the Bothan's burst knee had shredded down into his connective tissue. They were deep and embedded and would've been a hassle for even the best surgeons to extract. Shul drew gently on the Force, easing and prodding the first loose. It relinquished its newfound perch slowly and he took his time to avoid further inflammation or worse - more tearing.

He held out his hand.

"Forceps," he asked. Cool metal fell into his palm. He gently gripped the tip of the bone fragment, assisting his careful grip in the Force with a mundane one from the forceps. Nairi stood next to him, eyes cast away, tears still staining her cheeks.

I promise, I promise, I promise. Everyone promises to change.

Sometimes they just have a moment of weakness. Shul started on the next bone shard.

On the tidal bulwark, the mob tipped over its fulcrum. A few final droids skittered down the causeway, hooting and warbling in alarm. Aqualish shouted and screeched, hurling epithets and stones.All fell short, but others drew short blasters. Dorsk 82 lit his lightsaber, the orange blade flicking to life. He paced down the causeway that linked his landing pad to the tidal bulwark.

I am a Jedi, he thought. A Jedi knows no fear.

And he did not. Through his training with Master Skywalker, he had been hounded by bouts of panic, feelings of deep inadequacy and darker thoughts of deep boots that could never be filled. Dorsk was the eighty-second Khommite to bear the name, all cloned of the first Khommite to be gifted it. He'd grown up in a world that was satisfied with its own form of perfection, a world that rested on the accomplishments of its ancestors.

He'd followed in the path of the eighty-first Dorsk, the celebrated and mourned Dorsk 81, whose sacrifice had been a feat worthy of legend and who had offered his life with head held high and not a hint of uncertainty.

Long he had feared to never live up to the standard set by Dorsk 81, no matter how much others assured him it was not expected.

Now, though, he felt only gentle sorrow that the Aqualish had been driven to this. This was not how they were. The beings that ran down the causeway, they were fathers and mothers, they were workers and teachers and good, one and all. They feared the Yuuzhan Vong so much that it twisted them into something else. He pitied them, but he did not hate them.

The destruction of the droids began small, but in a few short days had become a planet-wide epidemic. The government of Ando - that which existed still - did not condemn nor condone the brutality. The police stood by. Dorsk was all these droids had. Too many others had no one at all.

The setting sun lit the sky into orange and crimson fire that melded with his lightsaber. Distant clouds that piled high into the sky were burnished bronze by the light. High above, the sky darkened from pale jade into darkening aquamarine. The lights in the city were coming on, winking to life in parody of the death brought by the Yuuzhan Vong.

Salt air buffeted him, lingered on his tongue. He took deep breaths, lungfuls of the astringent ocean air. Whitecaps rolled and crashed. The tide was coming in.

At long last, after all these years, Dorsk 82 felt he was doing what he dreamt of at last.

One Aqualish stepped forward from the mob. He was shorter than most, his tusks incised and etched in the local style. He wore the slicksuit of a tug worker. Dorsk saw a myriad of uniforms, including the painful ones of the local police.

"Move aside, Jedi," he demanded. "These droids aren't your business. And you're not ours. Don't make us change that."

"These droids are under my protection," Dorsk replied levelly.

"Their owners don't say that."

"Maybe not, but I still must disagree." Dorsk looked across the mob, meeting eyes with purpose. Some met him, some looked away. "I plead with you: see reason. Destroying these droids will not appease the Yuuzhan Vong. They are beyond appeasement."

"That's our business. Aqualish business. Didn't you hear? Duro's gone. Our world's next, not yours."

Dorsk felt a pang of loss at word of Duro. He placed it aside.

"I had not heard. It doesn't matter. Go back to your homes in peace. Don't let this be your legacy. If you need to fight, fight the invaders that come for your homes. Not these droids. I promise, you will never see them on Ando again."

An Aqualish deep in the mob lifted a blaster - Dorsk grasped it in the Force and tugged it away, pulling it to his left hand.

"Please," he asked.

A moment bred two more and a tense silence hung between the Jedi and the mob. Dorsk almost believed they might be wavering, until he heard the hum of an approaching speeder. It was marked in the colors of the local police, a badge declaring a constable of higher ranking. It coasted to a halt, interposing between Dorsk and the mob. He allowed himself a scrap of hope, that perhaps the government had come to their senses.

"What's all this, then?" the officer asked, climbing out of the speeder's driver's seat while troopers in yellow and white armor piled out of the rear. The mob snarled and growled, but backed off, corralled by the armored police.

"These people were intent on destroying a group of droids. I have placed them under my protection."

The officer eyed Dorsk's ship.

"That's your ship?"

"It is."

"Any Jedi aboard?"

"No-!" Dorsk's denial became a shout of dismay. Beams of light struck in, pinning the freighter through for a spare moment before it became a pillar of white-hot flame. Shards and scraps spun lazily, splashing down into the rising waters. It was all that remained of his ship, thirty-eight droids - and his pilot, Hhen.

Dorsk was still transfixed when the stun baton hit him.

He twitched and fell, landing on his back to stare dumbfounded up at his attackers. The officer stood there, face blank and eyes empty.

"Why?" Dorsk breathed.

"Stay down, Jedi."

"Why?"

"I suppose you haven't heard. The Vong proposed a peace. They'll stop at Duro and leave Ando as long as we turn Jedi over to them." Faint emotion crossed the officer's face. Regret. "They'll take you dead, but they'd rather have you alive."

Dorsk drew on the Force and it eagerly leapt to his side. He washed the pain and paralysis away, stood.

"Don't, Jedi."

Blasters came up. At least a dozen. Dorsk hooked his lightsaber to his belt.

"I will not fight you." His words rang with the gentle sadness that still held him.

"Fine. Then you'll come with us."

"I will not be coming with you," Dorsk stated, firm and with a wave of his hand.

"You won't be."

"Or with any of the rest of you."

Blasters sank down. One trooper remained, more strongly willed, his blaster held in shaking hands.

"Don't-" Dorsk pleaded. He lifted his hand-

The blaster bolt seared a hole through the Khommite's palm. The pain was sudden and the sound was surprising. The other troopers and the officer jolted from his suggestion.

The next bolt went through his thigh. Dorsk fell to his knees.

"No more tricks," the officer snarled.

Dorsk drew himself back to his feet. He took a step forward

I am a Jedi. A Jedi knows no fear.

The dusk lit with blasterfire.

He had a lot to juggle. In fact, he was successfully keeping so much in the air, he supposed he might be able to become a particularly favored entertainer for a Hutt crime lord. First there were the wrinkles around Jedi having their own internal divide over what role to take in the war. Then there were the cold facts that the Core was, as the Core ever did, prioritizing their own security over the more sparsely populated and less economically powerful Rim. Then you had the Senate's infighting, despite best attempts of mediators like Cal Omas and Viqi Shesh to head it off.

Then the Exiles showed up on the board, bringing a ferocious desire to fight and a brutal efficiency when they slipped their leash. Then was the surprise attack on Fondor, then the swiftly-famous battle on the surface, culminating in a one-walker stand against a phalanx of Yuuzhan Vong monsters. Then was the Guild of Starshipwrights, in agreement with Procopia, deciding to politely tell the NRDF that they didn't trust them anymore.

Markre Medjev had a lot to juggle. The Tapani Sector was casting the first vote of no-confidence against the New Republic and he was here to assure everyone that no, that was not in fact what was meant when the Tapani were saying that they'd rather beg at the feet of the Imperium Exsilius to protect them.

No, see: it was, ah, perhaps more of an agreement of circumstance. Elements of the Exile's fleet were already over Fondor, after all…the NRDF had many concerns and would likely welcome some slack being taken up…there has always been a great deal of leeway in how regional governments can conduct their own affairs…

He fenced with words where others dueled with 'sabers. Markre Medjev was Tapani himself, though (he hoped) a far cry from the fat and spoiled nobles that tarnished the otherwise sterling reputation of his home. If pushed, he might even agree with few reservations about the decision. Then he'd gently counter that the New Republic could use allies. Nothing herein said the Exiles were rivals at best or foes at worst. Just a friendly power, offering assistance.

He stressed this, over and over, exchanging contact details and holonet addresses, sipping at wines and sampling bites of meats and cheeses. He was never quite comfortable at galas like this, but he served where he needed to.

After all, Tapani was making waves and her sister sectors were sitting up to listen.

Banntan, in the Inner Rim, was making noises about potentially joining with the Tapani on at least a minor level. Agreements for refugee handling, some mutual defense aid, sharing intelligence on Yuuzhan Vong movements. Markre had leapt at the chance to serve his home just like all those brave and bold beings did down on Fondor-

A finger tapped on his shoulder and Markre turned, smile on his face.

And fell, ash in his heart and the crack of a blaster hanging in the air.

The Clone Wars came, went. The Galactic Civil war came, went. Even under Leonia Tavira's little kingdom, Yumfla stayed sleepy and quiet. For all the dramas of galactic destiny and cosmic heroes warring against monsters of myth, the simple fact was that an average galaxy bore a hundred billion stars. Certainly, most were barren and never birthed a living child, but if even a fraction of stars sheltered a world of water and air and life - that was a number of worlds beyond reasonable consideration.

The universe was a big, big place, and there were always corners and nooks for those who didn't wish to be part of any greater drama to settle themselves. Four hundred years and Susevfi remained a planet of wide savannahs and scrub forests, fierce seas and warm nights. Its exports were minor, its imports forgettable and that was that.

A fine world for the Jensaarai, a fine sanctuary away from the imagined sins of the Jedi Order and their perpetual theological war.

It seemed common knowledge that for the size of the universe and the vastness of the galaxy, that no matter which winds blew, a side didn't always need to be taken. That history could pass by these quiet places.

Flames crackled red and orange, tinted to white at the roots. Flames rose high and roaring, devouring, an entire block of Yumfla consumed. Emergency fire-suppression services stood by. They were there to prevent a spread, not stop the conflagration. A few lagging combustible cocktails lofted, arced, plunged down into the blaze.

Mei Taral, in her new-forged armor, crouched among shadows atop a squat mercantile building nearby. The cool seabreeze, sweeping in from the west, tugged at her mantle and tousled her loose hair. Her only hand clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed. She watched the Jensaarai safe-house burn to ashes, her rolling fury banked only by the comfort that none had been inside. Premonitions of danger had the entire sect on edge for the past several days, withdrawing younger members of the family back to the Temple.

Only trusted associates had been in the safe-house and they had escaped through a bolthole exist in the basement before the roof started to collapse.

Mei had returned home to recuperate. She'd come back to Susevfi to leave the bloody business of the war behind for a little while. Her body was still unbalanced, a space where her arm had been.

Susevfi was home, for all that the Jensaarai stayed more reclusive and cryptic.

The Warmaster's taloned reach was long, if it could hound her even here.

She turned away from the fire, lip curled and eyes narrowed. She itched to leap down and return the insult tenfold to the arsonists. They knew what they were doing. None of them were innocent. 'Give me the Jedi,' the Warmaster promised. Jensaarai weren't Jedi. They weren't Jedi. That was the point. That was the rift between her and her family; one that wasn't insurmountable, but one that was felt. It was the one that kept Grenmȃtre at arm's length and made some of her nieces and nephews wary of her.

Tavira could've punished the world if she wanted. The Jensaarai had sacrificed themselves on the altar of service they detested, for the good of every last man and woman on Susevfi.

This is how they're repaid? With betrayal? With arson? With attempts made on the lives of their children?

Telekinesis boosted Mei as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, a shadow in the night, out of sight and out of worry. Yumfla's streets were quiet, emptier than usual. All the excitement was over at the pyre. Suarbi loomed over the horizon, bringing with it reflected glow from the sun. In the sky above, tiny lights winked and blinked and traced across the heavenly dome, marking out lazy system traffic. Her chest felt tight. They'd come for the safehouses first. Was the Temple next?

It was supposed to be hidden. Only Jensaarai ever darkened its doors.

Was she really naive enough to believe that? Determination blended with fear was a potent tool. None of the Jensaarai had the talent or the training for mind-altering illusions like the Fallanassi had taught the Jedi. Ironic - that the sect whose fault it was the Jensaarai were threatened also would have given freely the tools to protect themselves.

The fault of the Jedi, she mused, working her way across the skyline toward the outskirts of the city. Open to a fault, trusting to a fault. She worried for friends, scattered across the stars. They didn't have the same caution and ingrained mistrust that Jensaarai did. If echoes of this betrayal rang across the galactic wheel, then many Jedi, dozens in fact, could be facing death and capture before they even knew what was coming.

The mental presence of all the other Jensaarai were wordless whispers in her mind. Grenmȃtre wished for none to be alone, so her cousin Nulko volunteered to be the nexus of a thoughtscape. Words were beyond his talent, but impressions and emotions could be shared, keeping Jensaarai who were abroad on the world aware and alert.

Another presence intruded on the thoughtscape. A foreign one, without the familial connections and understanding that Nulko manipulated. If Nulko's working was an assembly of whispers, the newcomer barged in, chatting at a volume just shy of a shout.

Mei winced, peering upward unbidden. A triangle hung over Yumfla, small as one joint of her little finger. It seemed to be painted red.

Her commlink popped.

"Mei? Is this channel still active?"

A smile touched her lips for the first time tonight.

"Master Horn," she replied, bring her comlink close. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Well, Booster took a while to convince. But I think it was the irony of the whole thing that got him going."

Above, more flecks of light like shooting stars whizzed from the crimson Errant Venture. Master Horn's presence in the Force bloomed above.

"We're being hunted," Mei related. She worked to keep the melancholy and anger from her voice, failed. The Jedi would sense it from her anyway. "Susevfi is no longer a sanctuary. The authorities aren't helping them, but they aren't stopping them either."

Corran didn't reply for a moment, static hissing from her comlink.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Truly, Mei. You've done good by your people. I hope you can find a way to forgive them for this, someday."

She bit out a harsh laugh, more a bark of despaired amusement.

"I'm being run out of my home," she shot back. "Let me survive this war and then we'll see."

Diplomatically, Master Horn shifted the subject.

"Booster is warning Yumfla not to interfere with us. We can spare shuttles to help move your people. Will…your great-aunt allow it?"

Grenmȃtre would be chiller than interstellar ice and twice as hard. She'd be raging on the inside, but severe and serious on the outside. But saving face and returning insults ranked far, far below the survival of the family. She would bend, though it would curdle her heart.

"Yes. And Corran?" Mei closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and wanting one last simple memory of the ocean air and Yumfla's complex melange of civilization and nature. "Thank you. We won't forget it."

The last time a lone Star Destroyer graced Susevfi, the Jensaarai had found themselves in bondage. Later, while Mei watched sullen and angry locals kept at bay by holotape and barricades manned by tense police, she saw the humor that convinced Booster Terrik. Leonia Tavira used the threat against their home to control them. Now, the threat that was their home forced their hand again. The Temple would be sealed and buried, left for recovery someday.

Jensaarai in robes, armor and civilian clothes shifted ident-sealed crates into gaily painted landers and shuttles, watched over by Terrik's private security in Venture marked fatigues.

Mei glared at the gawking crowd, daring them to consider the shaken and pale-faced children among her family.

Children. She traced fingertips through the mantle about her shoulders. Brackardian vraks were restful and wished for peace.

Until you threatened their home. Their family.

She'd had enough time to recover.

She was just another Zabrak. Plenty around. Her jumpsuit was stained with grease and lubricants. Just another rigjockey. Her horns were unpolished and dull. Down on her luck. She was huddled into herself, just like all the other sad denizens of the Flyrot Hopper. She sipped her lum ale and swirled the glass. She had eyes only for the slowly discovered bottom of it and nothing else. She didn't look around, she didn't meet any eyes or respond to knocks and nudges as spacers shoved through the bolt-hole cantina.

Just another Zabrak.

Her two stunsticks under her cloak were for personal protection. She was a loner on a fringer skyhook. Girl had to defend herself. The stunsticks worked just fine, if anyone asked.

How in the vaping voids the Peace Brigade were still on the tail of just some random Zabrak was beyond her capacity to fathom. She'd bounced six tramp freighters, changed clothes a dozen times and this was her third skyhook. And still there were squads of the turncoats swaggering down every corridor. Their disgusting little patches were worn open and proud. One hand, human, grasping another hand, scarred.

She busied herself with trying to imagine ways that the Peace Brigade could stay right on her heels despite pulling almost every trick in the book. It was much better to think that they had some kind of special 'screw-me-over-in-particular' power, and not that the damned Peace Brigade was so entrenched in this sector that every time she turned her head she saw more.

She didn't want to think that poorly of the folk of the Galaxy that they'd just let this happen.

Her next flight left in three hours. She kept checking the flickering chrono over the bar. Time moved like void-chilled bugsludge. They didn't know she was here. They couldn't. She was just another Zabrak, a nobody Zabrak, drowning a long and awful day in awful and watered down ale.

That crew over by the door had the hairs on her neck prickling. No handshake badges for them, but she felt their eyes burning a hole in the back of her head more than a few times. They all looked grim and grizzled. Enough scars across the lot of them to impress a Trandoshan. Telltale chunky lumps under long trenchcoats screamed 'blasters!' and kept a healthy bubble around them. Five humans. Four men and a woman.

She was just another Zabrak, just another Zabrak.

She repeated the mantra, over and over, until the Force hissed at her and she shrugged in time to avoid a meaty hand from clamping over her shoulder. The owner of that hand, unbalanced, staggered and she swept his leg, elbow finding the small of his back and the human's head bounced from the rim of the bar.

Now there was space around her. The man groaned and twitched and all along the bar hooded eyes glared at her. Those who had penned her in at the bar wisely found elsewhere to drown their sorrows.

Grabby hands had friends. Two more humans, a Rodian, an Ortolan in shabby armor. Handshake badges on four chests.

She snaked both hands under her cloak, grabbed for her stunsticks.

"Oi!" bellowed a deep voice. She paused, her fingers touching cool metal. The group from the table elbowed and shouldered their way through the cramped cantina, spreading out to face off against the Peace Brigaders. "What's your problem with the lady?"

Their leader had an accent that was alien, tinging his Basic oddly and he had a sharply peaked cap sitting askew on his head. His four looming compatriots were thin-lipped and tense, hands on blasters inside their long coats. His face was shiny with a rippled radburn that made her wince. In her head, she called him 'Burns'. They all looked rough and serious.

With their leader at her feet, the Peace Brigade held a quick election and the Rodian puffed himself up.

"She's under arrest," he sneered.

"What for, eh?"

"Not your business, spacer, unless you want to be in the cell next door."

The Peace Brigaders exuded malice and intention, but from the five humans?

Her brows drew together. She felt strange disgust that didn't seem to make much sense, but she also felt a weird indignation.

Burns looked to his fellows.

"Last I heard, Peace Brigade was a bunch of thugs and traitors." Burns spit the last word like acid, the other humans growling.

"Last I heard," the Rodian taunted. "I didn't care. Go and sit little humans. This is a new galaxy."

Burns rolled his head, cracking his neck.

"Surely is," he said, just as she felt sudden danger. She whipped her stunsticks out - the false emitters popping loose as one-two lightsabers lit with a buzzing snap-hiss.

She needn't have bothered.

Crackle-flashes of crimson light snapped between the human crew and the Brigaders. Ozone tinged the air and the cantina dissolved into chaos, every single patron struggling to flee. Burns and the other humans had chunky, simple looking guns out at their hips, like a quickdraw exhibition. She didn't know what in space they were - definitely not blasters by the sound - but all four Peace Brigade keeled over with crisp little scorched holes in their heads.

Not that she minded the assist, but their easy violence and immediate jump to killing meant her lightsabers were definitely staying out. The Flyrot Hopper rapidly emptied, revealing just how much of a dump the cantina was. She both sensed and heard the proprietor huddled under the bar, swearing in Bocce.

Burns holstered his gun, hard eyes flicking over her. He reached into an inner pocket, plucked out a credit chit, tossed it onto the counter.

"For the mess."

She didn't raise her 'sabers, nor lower them either. Just kept a careful guard, interposed.

"Well, thanks," she tried. "They've been after me for a while."

Burns raised half an eyebrow.

"Half the galaxy is after you, Jedi."

She nodded in agreement.

"Maybe it is. Are you?"

Burns didn't gesture, didn't make any motion at all, but his crew split up like they'd rehearsed. Two went to the front entrance of the Flyrot Hopper, peering out into the station's corridors. Another two prowled into the back.

"Might be, but not what you think."

Voices called from the cramped little kitchen in the back of the cantina.

"Clear, sir. Got an alternate exit."

She still felt the threat of violence thrumming in all five of them, but none of it seemed directed her way. None of that rancid duplicity that the Peace Brigade seemed to exude. Taking a chance, she cut off both sabers. Burns looked pleased and inclined his head.

"Looks like you could use a lift, Jedi." He tapped fingers to his peaked cap as if in salute. "We're with a private consortium. Neride Solutions."

She'd never heard of it. Said so. Burns didn't seem bothered.

"We're new here. How about we continue this somewhere a little less public?" Burns aimed a vicious kick at the Rodian's corpse. "With better company than these traitors."

Still no menace directed her way. She exhaled. Just another Zabrak. No one special, just another Zabrak taking on a new temp job.

"Kes Lo," she introduced herself, holding out her hand.

His hand enfolded hers, far larger and rough with old calluses.

"Captain Decimus."

Chapter Text

This is a day for Borsk Fey'lya. Before Coruscant's primary even hints above the horizon, he rises from his bed. His apartments are within the Palace itself - he has not set foot in his far more lush and sumptuous luxury accommodations in the Senate District in months. His datapad is already prepared with a brief. It covers the previous five hours, five hours in which he was dead to the world, five hours in which catastrophes and cataclysms might be conjured. While he takes his breakfast, delivered by an aide - some distaff member of his clan - he skims the reports. He absorbs the gist, discards the rest. The galaxy has survived another night. There is still a Republic.

He exhales, releasing a modicum of tension.

HoloNet news reports cycle in the background, nattering away. He has half an ear for it, judging the gentle waves of public opinion. He goes through a series of stretches and minor strength training, as prescribed by his exorbitantly priced personal trainer. An aide keeps him company, holding a towel while outlining the day's itinerary. If Borsk has any adjustments to make, his aide will handle it.

He spends five minutes, precisely, in the 'fresher. Sonic scrubbers speed the process, unpleasant though they might be.

Borsk is settling into his office, high in the former Imperial Palace. The name has never been shaken, despite attempt after attempt over the years. On paper - the Republic House. In truth: the Imperial Palace. The edifice will accept no other title. He fields holocom calls for most of the morning. Senators and corporate magnates, ministers and generals, members of his cabinet and High Command and the Advisory Council. Functionaries of his party and staff from his office.

A thousand demands on his time bombard him without respite. He passes off those less important to his surrogates. He delays meetings with assurances of value and sincerity. He scowls and ignores recorded messages.

There's an ambassador from Tapani who has been after a one-on-one for the past week. There's a group of petitioners from the Gordian Reach who have been giving his staff hell. Six aid bills are still pending his review and there's a full briefing on the latest moves of the war that High Command has been badgering him to schedule. NRI is getting louder and louder about a comprehensive Advisory Council session covering the growing threat of the Peace Brigade.

He also has several million personal messages. They have all arrived in the previous five hours, while he was asleep, and from what the droid tasked to manage it is telling him, most have to do with the Jedi.

It is approaching noon when Borsk takes a straight-line airspeeder to a luncheon.

Duro is all anyone will speak of. CorDuro's treason is on everyone's lips and the images of the burning orbital cities shredded and devoured by enormous worm-weapons are branded into their minds. Everyone wants reassurance. What is the Navy doing? How did this slip past NRI? With the losses at Fondor, can the fleets even protect the Core? What is being done to safeguard Coruscant?

He can tell them nothing and everything. He reassures, he pats hands and pats heads and repeats the party line. The rest of the Core is inviolate. Duro brought this downfall on themselves, rotted from within. Shipyards across the New Republic are already rolling off replacement for those lost in Admiral Brand's command.

They cannot know that Dac is having production delays. They cannot know that with the Tapani Sector calling on the 'Imperials' for protection, that rumblings across the Colonies and Mid Rim are causing projections for the next three years to practically collapse. Economic projections. Military projections. One sector alone causes this. One domino. They cannot know that the Hutts have basically become impossible to contact, their entire sector of space folding like cheap flimsy before the brutal and harrowing assault of the Yuuzhan Vong commander 'Nas Choka'.

He has to sit and listen and promise and deflect and consider the curse of knowledge. Naval reconnaissance has reported what appears to be an entire new worldship being…grown…in the ruins of Sernpidal. Entire armadas of vong ships continue to burst out of occupied regions. The probing attacks on the Imperial Remnant are stepping up. NRI has been cleaning house and discovering a frightful amount of moles.

He reassures and promises and then lunch is past and he sits in briefings and meetings, he is harangued in the halls and pressed by reporters.

There are demands to give up the Jedi. Questions about what makes a few dozen mystics worth the lives of trillions. There are petitions and proposed acts that would ban the Jedi Order from Republic space. Surely, Borsk Fey'lya, outspoken critic of Luke Skywalker, will see reason. Surely, he will understand the necessity.

He demurs and dances in couched terms and careful language.

He is not an idiot. He knows that the Yuuzhan Vong will never uphold the promise. The polished bones of Senator A'kla, the scorched cinder of Ithor, the slaughter over Duro - the list goes on.

Borsk Fey'lya knows appeasement is impossible. He is not an idiot, no matter what public opinion might sometimes say.

The afternoon passes with glacial slowness and frightful rapidity all at once. There are preparations to be made for the Senate session tomorrow. He has a dinner to attend that will eat two entire hours of his evening and night. There are innumerable other things that he could be doing, but present will be particular Senators from a half dozen Colonies sectors along with at least a hundred movers and shakers from across the Core and Coruscant itself. Lobbyists and officials from half the parties in the Senate, along with representatives of guild concerns that account for several quintillion credits per annum across half the galaxy.

He must smooth feathers and comb fur and soothe egos, he must be in control. He must project absolute, total confidence.

Borsk Fey'lya is the lynchpin that is holding the Galaxy together in a single Republic. He is blamed for abandoning the Outer Rim, he is accused of favoritism, he is damned by each planet lost and every ship of refugees struggling among the stars.

He attends the dinner. He watches as self-interest and blind greed promise to lay bare the galaxy before the swinging vibroaxe.

By the time he finally returns to his bed, slipping beneath the covers in his silken underclothes, it is past midnight. He sets his personal datapad aside to await the upload of tomorrow's brief, prepared to receive the next morning's brief. He lies on his back, fingers laced on his chest, staring blankly at the ceiling above. The Republic he has spent his life midwifing is fracturing. It is falling apart. His clawed nails ache from clinging to its tumbling pieces. His palms sting from being cut, again and again, on the sharp-glass edges of his life's work splintering around him.

He fears he will be the last Chief of State of the New Republic. He makes the same promise he does each night.

Not while he lives.

The next morning, he rises long before the sun.

Dimensions peel back like flimsiplast. Branes are punctured, the flesh of reality slit and pressed aside, curling open lips like a surgical incision, whose blood is multihued and dancing will o' wisps. There is no depth to the wound; there is nausea inducing vertigo. Far from any world of the Coruscant system, in a safe hollow of gravitic influence, the empyreal exhales into the staid physics of the materium and in that breath expels a rugged spar of adamantium. Samothrace returns to the universe attended by her handmaidens: the Exemplar-class destroyers Shroud of Antorine, Stonebeast and Stargilt. Birthed of the same Forge-world as the far grander battle-barge, the three Exemplar-class shape a precise triangle with their elder sister centered within.

A youthful five decades of age, Samothrace was birthed from the ancient dockyards above Anuari. She is Adytum-class, a derived design of the Anuari voidwrights, neither battleship nor grand cruiser. She is made to ferry the XIIIth Legion to worlds that beg for liberation, that sneer at compliance. Her service is short compared to the long rolls of monsters such as the Gloriana or the stately and ancient Fourth Honour.

Turetia Altuzer is only the fourth to hold the role of Shipmistress. She has held it for the longest, for eighteen years of Crusade and impeccable service to Ultramar and the Imperium. She hopes to hold it longer still, for decades and centuries more, so long as juvenat provides and the Primarch allows.

In her breast, her heart swells at the honour done to her and her command. Not once but twice has Samothrace acted as chariot for the Primarch. He has entrusted her to ferry him across half a galaxy, he has faith in her to deliver him to the throneworld of the Republic, so that the Primarch might forge a grand alliance.

A grand alliance.

A wild and nigh-incomprehensible concept. One that has some of her peers scoffing and sneering. One that has scattered ripples through the 4711th.

Turetia Altuzer has voiced no opinion, save that of what the Primarch wishes. She has her duty and she will see it executed.

As the Warp recoils, swirling back in upon itself and sealing away the bizarre unphysics of the space between spaces, Turetia Altuzer issues a single order. There has been preparation. There have been drills. There have been rehearsals.

Flight after flight of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds, Xiphons and Furies, Panthera and Apis and Corsair arrow from Samothrace's wide hangars. They glint like darts, they weave and dance and form a tapestry of glimmering threads of molten exhaust. They are guided by the best Astartes and Imperialis pilots. Squadrons assemble in chevron formation. Wings form jagged arrays of hulking, oceanic-blue attack craft.

Samothrace disgorges two hundred and eighty six attack craft from her skirts. All are burnished and spotless, every seam sealed and rivet polished, every gun barrel cleansed of carbon-scoring. Their engines purr, their canopies glint like diamond.

This is no combat patrol. Shipmistress Altuzer expects no hostility.

They do not settle into escort positions. They do not match velocity and coast. When the last of the craft has left the embrace of Samothrace, a dance begins. Squadrons split apart, scattering on every axis. Xiphon interceptors spin and scatter, dancing away in ones and twos. Thunderhawks swirl around their larger cousins, escorting doughty Stormbirds. They interweave, sliding past one another, becoming a churning ballet of frightful precision.

Bomber squadrons spin on their longitudinal axes, pirouetting while interceptors flash through their formations in mock attack runs. Distances of mere meters separate the craft as they whip past at combat speed.

This roiling, swirling display of synchronicity flows about Samothrace. The battle-barge's bow is aimed at the distant chip of light that is Coruscant, her escorting destroyers as unmoved by the ongoing display of piloting prowess. They are pelagic hunters, sleek sharks to the whirling bait-ball of darter-fish minnows that flicker silver and white and plasmic blue around them.

The display will continue to the very edges of Coruscant's atmosphere. As Malaghi Shesh, on loan to the New Republic Navy, ascends from her anchor to greet the incoming warships, the dance gains a visual accompaniment. Lascannon flare and pulse at lowest power, blinking out delicate crimson threads. Samothrace's squadron becomes a starburst of flickering light and color, a moving firework. From the surface of Coruscant, as the Imperial squadron approaches from the nightside, the display is visible as a tiny nebula. A winking star, waxing greater.

Thus: the Exiled Imperium comes to Coruscant.

Samothrace remains in low orbit, Malaghi Shesh accompanying. The three destroyers split from their escort formation: Stargilt pulls ahead to prograde. Stonebeast slides to aft. Shroud of Antorine ascends above. The weaving dance is over; now simple combat patrols fly side-by-side with X-Wing and A-Wing escorts. Holocorders capture the new arrivals from a thousand angles. Civilian vessels drift close to the cordon maintained by the Navy. Beings across the hemisphere of the world below stand on balconies and avenues, pointing with appendages and jostling shoulder and articulation joints. Samothrace, alongside the Mandator, is a ghostly shape distinctly visible at anchor above. Most beings have seen the recordings of a ship that appeared quite similar in design brutalizing the savage vong over Fondor.

It's a heartening sight to some. It's a worry to many others.

It is all too easy to consider that such power brought against the vong could be brought against them as well - and one extragalactic invader is enough.

Now from Samothrace falls a single transport. From each squadron of Xiphon, one interceptor peels away - thirteen in all. They are an honor guard, an echelon around the single Stormbird, which begins to blush a faint cherry-red from atmospheric heating.

Offers had been transmitted. Dozens of Senators made overtures to use their own private landing pads, promising lavish accommodations and the finest airspeeders for transport.

All have been declined. The Stormbird is up-armored, bulkier than others of its kind. It is freshly painted in Ultramarine blue and finely detailed in white and gold trim. The ivory Ultima shines proud from wing and fuselage. Pennants are flown, pennants that may only mark a single passenger. Capital Guard gunships rise from the district to meet the descending transport. They slide into gaps the Xiphon squadron has allowed open.

On the roofs of many starscrapers, turbolaser batteries maintain tracking locks - just in case.

The Stormbird arrows for the monolithic construction of the Imperial Palace. Inside, there is a moment of quiet amusement shared by the few passengers. They know of another location that claims the title. This Palace would be swallowed whole a million times over by that continental construct.

On soft and gentle repulsors, the Stormbird settles to unadorned tarmac. The landing pad is one of several for common Senatorial use. It is sometimes used for freight, it is sometimes used for petitioners and guest speakers. The Stormbird settles on thick tyres, with well-oiled hydraulics flexing and cradling the auramite and adamantium armored transport. A small escort of Senate security await at the edge of the landing pad. In other circumstances, it would be an insult. In other eyes, it would be a snub.

It is as requested.

The Stormbird sighs open its waist hatch. A man steps out, his sandaled feet treading down extended, corrugated ramp. Two bulk-armored shapes pace behind him, a stride and a half of distance - never more, never less. He approaches the Senate guards and with gentle smile and dipped head he returns stuttered and wide-eyed greeting.

The Senate awaits. The man is punctual. The guards gesture and direct him inside.

"This has happened more times than there are stars in the sky. Before this august body comes a nation: nascent or ancient, alien or familiar. They come to beg or bargain, to cajole or coerce. Twenty-five thousand years of such moments, until this galaxy itself, this grand river of stars and worlds, turns at the fulcrum that is this world. I see in you the inheritors of that legacy, not in mere name but in principle, in action. To stand here is an honour, to address: a pleasure. I bring glad tidings from worlds beyond the rim of the universe, from distances and times far and impossible and beyond naming. Once more, this ancient ground of Coruscant bears the tread of embassy. I say: may it ever be so.

I speak no flattery. Rather: fact. I am a man of logical things. I am a man of machines and mathematics, I am a man of reason and axioms. I am a man of theory and rationality; I am the man my Father shaped and I do not speak idle fantasy. When I speak, I select my words for truth, for the practical that I might describe the world as it is.

I laud you, Senators of this New Republic, for you have done such that I have not yet seen in the span of my life, nor that of my timeless Father. A galaxy of order. How many millenia? Twenty-five. Yes. I see hesitance. I am read of your wars, your dark ages. I am read of the slides toward barbarity and the sorrow of brother set against brother.

But I say this: for all these darker times, by my measure and by the solemn judgment of history, this Republic has yet maintained. In the times of Empire, in which this body was suborned and in which this galaxy was set to disorder - the guttering flame was held and kept safe, until in a short span of time, that ill-fated Empire, which was built to never last, did fall about the architects and tear them down besides. Now here you remain; this august body. This Senate of the Stars.

And I speak rightly: this is an honour.

I am Roboute Guilliman, son of Konor and of Tarasha, son of my Father, the Emperor of Terra. By some I am known as Thirteenth, by others I am Lord Macragge. By my sons, I am Father and by my people, I am Consul. I am not a man born. No woman birthed me: in truth, no man sired me. I am weapon and scholar. I am general and killer. I am architect and destroyer. I am an instrument; I am transhuman. I was made, by science and by forgotten wisdoms, and my purpose has been singular.

I am an implement of my Father, to fulfill what role He wills.

When He wills me to be statesman: I raise five hundred worlds in His honor. When He wills me to be brother, I seek counsel and comradely fraternity. When He wills me destroyer: I extinguish species. Of myself and my brothers, He has shaped Multitudes into Individuals.

I am come to speak for my people: my Exiled Imperium. I am come to broker for their survival; I am come to speak deal and debate, I am come with hand open and blade undrawn.

I am come as warning.

My Exiled Imperium has washed ashore in your Galaxy. We have passed beyond time and space and the way for our return is yet shrouded. We have left behind our home and thus must make anew here.

We are not alone. By cosmic coincidence, this galaxy of order, which this Senate stands astride, bears not one visitor from beyond the gulf of far void, but two.

Their name bears speaking.

Yuuzhan Vong.

Like my Exiled Imperium, they are adrift. Like my Exiled Imperium, they would build a place anew.

I am here to speak for my Exiled Imperium.

They have never deigned to darken the steps of these halls.

This is the warning I carry:

These Yuuzhan Vong are alien to you. In them you paint your fears. In their inscrutable advance, you flinch and founder. In their palaces of pain, in their worship of ruin, you are boggled and unmanned.

These Yuuzhan Vong are familiar to me. I have butchered my way across a hundred thousand lightyears. I have trod lightless worlds where the bodies and minds of innocents are consumed as morsels. I have burned parsecs clean of infestations that prey on the passage of time itself. I have condemned to oblivion monsters in whose shade the Yuuzhan Vong would quail.

This is the warning I carry.

There is a war that is coming and it is a war which you do not know. There is a war coming whose waves will crest above any other, whose high-water mark will swallow all lands. This is a war you do not know. Not in twenty-five millennia have you tasted it.

This is the warning I carry.

There will be no peace. There will be no embassy. There will be no decency, no honour, no quarter. There will be neither accord nor surrender.

Put these concepts aside. Cast them out. Harden your hearts.

I know this, for I am weapon. I am general. I am killer.

I am Roboute Guilliman, First Lord of Eboracum and the Exiled Imperium, Lord Consul of the Legiones Ultramarine.

I will make war upon the Yuuzhan Vong until their memory itself is burned from the stars.

This is the warning I carry.

I am a man of machines and mathematics, I am a man of reason and axioms. I am a man of theory and rationality; I am the man my Father shaped and I do not speak threat. I speak only fact. I describe the universe as it is, not as I wish it to be.

From my warning; my offer.

Use my knowledge. Use my experience. Use what I was made to be. I beg you. This galaxy is not mine, nor do I claim it. Yet I describe the universe as it is, not as I wish it to be. I am here. My sons are here. My people are here. So: I must act. It is as I was made, and I can only ever do thusly.

I ask that you stand with me. I ask that you heed my warnings, that you hearken to my teachings.

I have seen a galaxy fallen under millenia of silent, deathly night. I have carried the quiet candle that illuminated that haunted, grim darkness.

I do not wish to ever again.

Do not make me."

The silence is ringing. Finished with his pronouncement, Roboute Guilliman inclines his head fractionally, stepping a symbolic half-stride back from the podium of the speaker's platform. The podium is simple, yet adaptive, designed for any being that might range from diminutive Chadra-fan to towering Ho'din. Behind him, his Invictarii escorts are as still as carven statues.

He is clad in garments of state: toga picta and tunica palmata: spun by hand, dyed by lazulum and embroidered with gold. A ceramite brooch in the shape of the Ultima sits at his shoulder. Auramite threads glint in delicate and intricate embroidery that describe the zodiacal signs of Macragge. Crowning him, encircling his sandy blond hair sits an emerald wreathe, the gemstones cut and polished to mimic the cherished laurus ultima that grew only on the slopes of Hera's Crown. His skin is oiled and gleams in the light of the convocation chamber.

He takes in the chaotic chamber that is the Senate, filled with asymmetric tiers criss-crossed and interwoven with walkways and ladders, with senatorial boxes customized by each occupant and riotous in their diversity of design and construction. It is so utterly alien to the cool marble and mathematical lines of the chamber he had reached manhood in.

It is a metaphor for this galaxy.

The moment lengthens and the silence is invaded by the soft sound of beings shuffling themselves, of clothing and robes adjusted and shifted - there is a tension that grows, tautens, a tension that will be, must be broken by whomsoever would speak first, yet by unspoken challenge none are quite sure who that ought be.

"Pfah! Another Empire!" exclaims Gr'not Thann, Senator of the Kkanth Sector. "Just what we need right now!"

Guilliman's gaze shifts ever so slightly, flicking to the arthropoid being halfway up the chaotic tiers of the Senate.

It is as a dam has broken and the entire chamber erupts into shouts, jeers, questions and declarations. The din washes and rebounds, acoustics designed to aid voice projection now serving to only muddle a hundred Senators shouting over each other. Guilliman picks out each voice, each word. He stores them away, matching each to a being whose name he does not know, but will in time.

Mif Kumas rises from his haunches, the Sergeant at Arms braying out demands for order before his prehensile feathers flick auditory controls, slamming down privacy fields over the tiers and booths. The din ceases in an instant, though mouths and oral cavities continue to flap and work soundlessly.

"There is an agenda and I will abide it! We recognize-" Kumas declares, flicking another command. In the holotank, a Senator appears in treble size, catching the attention of those Senators who had not yet realized they were silenced.

"-Thank you, Sergeant Kumas." Viqi Shesh croons, her voice honey and silk. The Kuati is immaculate in her usual ensembles of robes, corset and skirts, but what draws attention is not her perfected sartorial taste, but rather a single livid line that traces across her temple into her hairline. Thin and red, it is laser-straight and instantly recognizable.

She adjusts her skirts, casting an imperious gaze over her peers. More than a few are still constantly glancing back to the patient form of the Primarch. It is with some effort of will that Viqi does not do so herself, instead addressing the chamber entire.

"We are honoured to welcome you, First Lord Guilliman. I especially am pleased to make your acquaintance in person once again. Kuat and the Family Shesh warmly greets you and hopes your stay on Coruscant will be both pleasant and fruitful."

The privacy barriers are dropped and the usual low-level din of the Senate returns. Borsk Fey'lya, seated with the rest of the Advisory Council, sans Shesh, watches with hooded eyes and chin resting in his palm, a single clawed finger curled over his lips. Cal Omas of Alderaan, to his left, wears a light frown and an unblinking stare aimed at Guilliman. Fyor Rodan, Commenor, leans close to Chelch Dravvad, Corellia, the two exchanging whispers.

In her own booth, eschewing her earned seat with the Advisory Council, Shesh raises her chin and by her hologram, the effect is as she gazes down at her peers.

"Kuat recognizes the warning you bring to the Senate. I, personally, will second the First Lord's condemnation of the Yuuzhan Vong. I am a politician at heart. I welcome the chance to speak to foreign counterparts. I cherish the ideals of republican discourse and diplomacy. These precious tenets of free society are what led me to extending my hand in friendship to the Exiled Imperium. And they took it. When have we, the Senate, not been willing to deal, even with our strangest of neighbors? We were open to the Yevetha, we tried to brook peace with the Ssi-ruuvi. One could count the Imperial Remnant as our greatest foes and truest opposites - but now we've found common ground and even friendship there!

The Yuuzhan Vong invaded our galaxy in search of a home - and a home we would've happily given them. Instead, they brought war and slaughter and infamy to these welcoming shores. Oh, I have heard the whispers from my peers in recent days. The so-called 'Warmaster' and his ill-conceived truce has been on the lips of every being."

Shesh's smile slid from her face.

"And yet, three days ago, they tried to kill me." She tapped manicured nail against pale skin just below the livid mark at her temple. "My very own Chief of Staff. A man I have known and trusted for my entire life, who has served my family dutifully and honourably drew a blaster and tried to put a bolt through my brain. Because the Yuuzhan Vong got to him. They filled him with lies and they promised him fruit of a poisoned tree. And the last request they made of him…" She pauses and shakes her head.

"An assassination attempt on a sitting Senator." The words are filled with as much venom and condemnation as she can muster.

About the chamber, the reaction is varied. The Kuati Senator's sudden absence from the public was noted and remarked on in gossip. Some had assumed she had sequestered herself in preparation for the arrival of the Exile delegation, as she had bound her political career in supporting them. Word from within her office was nonexistent and it had buttoned up tight, revealing nothing. Impersonal messages were all that had been received from queries sent by concerned staff of other Senators.

Senator Triebakk, for the Mytaranor Sector, appears irate. The Wookiee is rumbling, a constant low growl vibrating from his barrel chest. Voul Arastide, for the Ganthorine Sector, snorts and folds his arms, rolling dark eyes full of doubt.

"Those are bold accusations, Senator Shesh. Can they be proven?" Arastide calls, tone sardonic and bored. "It's utterly out of character for the Yuuzhan Vong."

"Out of character!" bellows Gron Marrab, for Dac. "Why, it was just the other day that the priestess Elan attempted to assassinate Luke Skywalker and a number of his Jedi!"

"A military target," Arastide remarks. "I don't like Skywalker, but you can't deny that his Jedi can be proficient killers when they want to be."

"I have extensive records connecting Pomt to Peace Brigade informants and masquered Yuuzhan Vong," Shesh counters, a sickly-sweet smile curling her lips. "After his charred corpse was removed from my office, it was easy enough to dig through his most personal files and contacts."

Arastide scowls but says no more.

"Victor Pomt failed in his treason, but I am woman enough to overlook the personal insult. What I cannot overlook, as a Senator and a proud daughter of Kuat, is the clear and present danger of the Yuuzhan Vong. It is taking us too long to wake up to their threat. We are reacting, instead of acting.

With that in mind, and to mark the First Lord Guilliman's visit to us today, I am pleased to announce on behalf of Kuat and the Ten Families the ratification of the Treaty of Fundamental Iron between the Ten Families of Kuat and the Mechanicum of Mars."

Another eruption of noise blossoms, but Shesh speaks louder, riding over the hubbub.

"Kuat has had enough of the Yuuzhan Vong. Effective immediately, the Ten Families are extending drastically subsidized contracts to the New Republic Navy-"

"Outrageous!" Pwoe, of the Calamari Sector, roars.

"-and the right to terminate, with prejudice, any and all contracts held by systems, polities, or corporations that decide to sit out this war or worse, throw in their lot with the invaders-"

"This is economic suicide!" shouts a hirsute Senator.

"-and that finally, Kuat Drive Yards will be announcing entirely new lines of vessels designed under the auspices of the Treaty of Fundamental Iron, which will be provided at-cost to the Exiled Imperium-"

The convocation chamber descends entirely into chaos. Guilliman's eyes flick to the Kuati - to her actual face, not the reprojected hologram of the woman. Viqi Shesh bears the focus of the Primarch primly, only a touch of red coloring her cheeks as she reclaims her seat, her piece said.

Security drones dart here and there, spitting stinger blasts to separate a brawl that erupted four tiers up. Jeers and pointed digits declare coward and traitor. A few senators and their staff are hounded out of the chamber by the drones. Borsk Fey'lya's projected voice is just shy of audible and even the activation of privacy barriers cannot overcome the din.

Guilliman observes it all, fascinated and disturbed at once. He has nothing more to say, not now, not during this initial session of the day. He has spoken and they have heard his words, and now he takes measure. In some ways, there is nostalgia in watching a fistfight erupt first between aides, and then sweep up senators in its spread. He has seen worse in the Curia Magna during his youth. As he aged, and most especially after the death of Konor, his presence began to buff out the more vitriolic and overt hostilities in the Macraggian Curiate, until when last he attended the grey-haired politicians had practically fawned over the Lord Macragge.

In some ways, he is impressed at how swiftly these beings overcame their initial surprise and captivation at his presence. The effect of a Primarch upon mortals is well-known, yet he supposes for any being to ascend to a position here, there necessitates a particular mulishness and resilience. His more ephemeral brothers might have found ways to turn the gifts his Father granted them in more subtle ways - he could well imagine Magnus spinning some 'enchantments' through his psykery or Sanguinius' achingly noble presence softening hearts.

He is Roboute Guilliman. He had spent a mortal's lifetime in the Curiate. His would be a way of words and nothing else. He added one final addendum, his booming tones enough to momentarily quieten the chamber.

"It should also be noted that the Exiled Imperium welcomes all Jedi of any age, species, and training, who find need of shelter from the infamy of betrayal."

Shortly thereafter, with the convocation chamber still in uproar, Borsk Fey'lya calls for recess.

There were dozens of private conference chambers seeded all around the Senate Convocation chamber, all outfitted with full privacy and security suites. It was common practice for the Advisory Council to randomly rotate between more than a dozen of these chambers – the paranoia leftover from Delta Source died hard. Today's conference room was pleasantly lush, with a small water feature in the corner and a variety of long creeping plants climbing trellises along the walls. Quite a few worlds sponsored chambers in the Senate building, donating art, furniture, flora and cultural decorations. A way to keep their interests on the mind during meetings, of course.

This one was one of Borsk's favored. The rest of the Advisory Council filtered in, conferring with each other and aides that were left at the door. He drummed his fingers on the wide, U shaped conference table, bent enough that those at either end could face each other. Viqi, to his left, exuded a powerful aura of satisfaction that infuriated Borsk to no end.

With Cal Omas the last in, claiming his seat at one end of the table, the Advisory Council was assembled. Fyor Rodan, Cal Omas, Chelch Dravvad, Niuk Niuv, Narik, Pwoe, Triebakk and Viqi Shesh. In practice, the Council had no real legislative or executive power, as it only recently came to be. A bit of goodwill from his last election, meant to act as a check on the Chief of State, humoring several of his opponents including the ever-present thorn of the Daysong party. Yet, despite its short existence, already the Council had gained a measure of prestige and expectation, with many of the public viewing it not as a lead weight around the neck of the executive, but rather as a way for the Chief of State to groom a successor. As such – the Advisory Council was now seen as a stepping stone, for all that it drove him to distraction.

Which was why he was saddled now with Viqi Shesh.

He respected her drive and her acumen, of course, as one player of the grand game to another, but in her he saw a dangerous mercenary sense. A junior senator, but already on the Advisory Council, already seated on CSI, already on NMROC, even tied to SELCORE. She was after his seat and the human woman had no idea the demands on the Chief of State. Borsk swore he'd not be the last Chief of State of the New Republic, but he'd also be damned before someone as green and as self-serving as Shesh rose to the office either.

"I'll give it to you, Viqi: you always keep things lively." Cal Omas said tiredly, the man looking haggard and careworn. His constituents, consisting of not only the Alderaanian Diaspora but also New Alderaan and the Ash Worlds, were dangerously threatened now by the Yuuzhan Vong campaign in Hutt space.

The Kuati scoffed.

"It's something we should've done months ago. A year ago. We shouldn't have let Sernpidal slide. Really – a whole world destroyed like that?" She levelled a glare at Borsk, who weathered it without concern. Tying up the official release about Sernpidal over demands to exclude any natural causes had been a decision he still stood by. It had kept half the Outer Rim from rioting immediately, for one, and for two, dragging his feet on Sernpidal had given time to model out public opinion based on how that story broke.

End result: Sernpidal was seen as a fluke and a measure of the danger of the Vong, but hadn't led to widespread outcry to raise the entire Navy to slap down the Vong at once.

<There were reasons, Shesh,> Triebakk interjected with a hooting growl, as if he sensed Borsk's own thoughts.

"Sernpidal aside, I'm surprised that Kuat is willing to agree to what you described," Borsk said mildly, running claws through his cream-colored fur. "I can only imagine the numbers if you intend to follow through on that threat. What would the losses be? Quadrillions of credits? And the hit to reputation…"

His heart wasn't much in it. Shesh's announcement might have caught the Senate off guard, but she had already forwarded the preliminaries to his desk the previous morning. Schmoozing up to him, no doubt, but looking over the discounts they were willing to throw toward the Navy…

Well, he still disliked Shesh and trusted her as much as a spice-addled skifter, but if KDY held to even half of that promise, then it was really no concern at all of his if they decided to pack up their reputation and fire it out of a torpedo tube.

His eyes had bugged a little when he read the section that mentioned spooling back up the yards capable of producing Executors…

"Our reputation is and will remain sterling, Borsk." She always used his first name, which wasn't strictly against protocol but the inflection always got under his fur a little. The last woman who said it that way he hadn't seen in a decade, after their divorce, and hearing that same intonation from the Kuati was unsettling. "Kuat and KDY have always prided ourselves on exemplary service and service to the galaxy."

Dravvad snorted, chuckling under his breath.

"Some service. Well, at least the Corellian Engineering Corporation will be known for keeping their word…."

"I'm sorry, Dravvad – I think I said service to the galaxy. Last I checked, the Vong aren't part of it. I don't see the issue."

"Nor are the Exiles, but you hopped into bed with them quickly enough." Rodan countered.

"I'm so terribly sorry – should we have let Fondor fall?" Shesh shot back, eyes flashing under manicured brows.

"It's nearly worthless as it is!" Pwoe warbled around his tendrils. "Not to mention, what remains of Fondor's industry is sworn to the very same Exiles! It's as good as lost to us."

"Enough," Borsk said, raising his voice a hair. At least here they listened to him, all quieting, though pointed glares still shot back and forth. He depressed a key on his datapad. "Go ahead and send him in," he ordered.

The door hissed open and Borsk braced himself. Not physically, but mentally.

Roboute Guilliman bowed his head and stepped inside. Just beyond, as the door slid shut again, the shapes of his massive bodyguards were visible, along with Senate security. Shesh had talked about the man's presence, as had Im'nel, and the effect had been noticeable even in the convocation chamber. A magnetic sort of attraction, like a spot of light that danced in the corner of his vision, enticing him to turn and look. To simply stare, to try to make sense of something that should already make sense.

A large chair was set out for the Primarch, easily suited to his stature – brought in by Triebakk, in fact, from the Wookiee delegation. Wroshyr wood and capable of withstanding the weight of an entire shuttle, in all likelihood. The Primarch settled into the chair, his draped robe seeming to fall just right about him, arranged like some old painting.

This close to the man, Borsk's fur prickled and ruffled, momentarily itchy and irritating. He found himself clenching his jaw and willed his muscles to loosen, briefly wetting his lips and composing his thoughts. Something of a buzz hummed around like tinnitus, making it just a little difficult to muster himself. Shesh had a tinge of color on her cheeks beyond her usual rouge and Borsk took a brief moment to glance to his compatriots.

Pwoe had a grey tint to his otherwise burnt umber complexion, his dangling tendrils bunched up tight. Cal Omas had a vein bulging at his temple and his fists clenched before him. Rodan and Dravvad both looked suspicious, arms folded in eerie synchronicity and leaning back in their couches as though to gain as much distance as possible. Narik was harder to read, but the Rodian was stiff-backed and erect. Triebakk seemed unphased, the Wookiee cocking his head left and right to take in the Primarch.

Clearing his throat, Borsk began.

"Welcome to Coruscant, First Lord Guilliman," he offered. It always stood to be polite, even if by all accounts the man was a chauvinist monster of perhaps the worst stripe. At least he could credit the humility to come nearly alone and without the ridiculous armor he apparently favored.

"It is an incredible world, Chief Fey'lya." Guilliman's voice was a rich, bassy rumble – though by no means impeded by his size and presence, each word was clear and precise with a curious accent that was quite foreign. "My gratitude for the invitation."

"Oh, it was the least we could do for the service you've done the New Republic," Shesh demurred.

Omas made to speak, paused, cleared his throat, coughed once, then tried again.

"Your speech was impressive, but concerning." Omas had an edge of strain to his voice, Borsk noted. "I'm…surprised you didn't hide your more, ah, martial past."

Guilliman considered the council arrayed before him, the enormous man poised and oddly still. Borsk blinked, and for a moment he appeared a painted, ancient marble statue, before he was man again.

"To downplay the Crusade would be to imply shame. I have none: what was done had to be done. I neither apologize nor excuse who I am and what I am. That was another time, and another galaxy. What I have seen here, in this place, tells me that the necessities of my home are unnecessary."

Left unsaid was 'so far', which any fool could read. That was always the problem with authoritarians and imperials – they could be reasonable, but only so long as it suited their always-flexible principles. The Remnant was an ally for now, but Borsk knew that in a scenario that the vong and Republic beat each other to exhaustion that Gilad would be sailing Star Destroyers over Coruscant's skies within a fortnight.

"Aside from what you think needs to be done about the vong," Narik replied.

Guilliman inclined his massive head.

Really, though he had his doubts, learning that the 'Primarch' was some kind of tube-bred genetic monster really did make the most sense.

"Just so. The attack on my world is surely known to you. We have all seen the infamy at Duro, and I have read the so-called 'deal' to save Ithor. Honor and good faith only matters if they believe their counterpart is worthy of it. They will not honour this truce and they will not stop in their subjugation of this galaxy."

Triebakk huffed.

<They began their conquest with the wanton murder of a peaceful, innocent world. Your 'Imperium' concerns me, First Lord Guilliman, but it's a foolish hunter who turns down unexpected aid in the shadowlands.>

"In part, a reason for my honesty." Guilliman momentarily met Borsk's eyes and the Bothan stilled. Blue eyes, as normal as any other human's, but something unfurled behind them in that instant and his breath seized in his chest. Then Guilliman looked to Shesh. Skywalker and Im'nel claimed up and down that whatever phenomenon it was that the man exuded, it wasn't the Force.

He was…not so sure.

Guilliman continued. "The Imperium of my Father, as I have discussed with Master Skywalker, is one that would never treat with the New Republic. The circumstances of my home are too…fraught for such a risk. Yet as I have said – I am a man of reason and practicalities. The truth will always out, and so I will not hide it, so that you might understand what friction there may be between our peoples. And more – so that better trust can be forged. I will be frank, Senators, Chief: I may never warm to you or your people. It may be that my mind has already been shaped all too much by the Crusade I fought, or perhaps it is by my Father's will." The man adjusted himself, an aura of sincerity wrapping him as surely as the rich robe. "Be that as it may, friendship is not required for allyship."

"That was the implication of your speech. We haven't had a chance to look over the proposal you brought with you, though the rest of the Senate will be during this recess. What was your offer? "Use your knowledge"?" Niuk Niuv's glassy eyes narrowed.

"I propose a treaty that establishes the Exiled Imperium as an Allied Region."

Borsk's eyes widened and his expectations of the man adjusted on the fly. From his bombastic and martial speech, not to mention the overt and unsubtle actions at Obroa-skai and Fondor, he had assumed that Guilliman would primarily be after some form of military alliance, and that alone. Im'nel's brief about the tense xenophobia of the Exiles and their paranoid trauma around non-humans and even droids painted a grim picture for any peaceable or fruitful agreements outside of those that had to do with little more than killing.

But an Allied Region?

He mulled the concept over while Shesh and Narik butted heads, with Dravvad chipping in with irritation at the proposition. On paper, it would not work per se, as Allied Regions were, by definition, a part of the Old Republic and now the New Republic. The autonomy was notable and a highlight of being an Allied Region, but that autonomy was still beneath the auspices of the Republic itself. He should well know – Bothan Space was one of the few remaining Allied Regions.

If taken literally, the Exiled Imperium would need to be absorbed into the New Republic, with all that entailed. They could still govern themselves and would have a large amount of leeway, but Borsk knew that was a total non-starter. The arrogance and pride of how the Exiles comported themselves alone meant that any integration into the New Republic was dead on arrival. If Guilliman's word was to be taken as utter truth, they were also the scions of a galaxy-spanning superpower – and begrudgingly, if Borsk had been in their position, he'd not want the remains of the New Republic to be absorbed into some other power.

Yet, strictly speaking, an Allied Region did not have to be part of the New Republic. Borsk found himself nodding – it might work.

"You're aware then of the legal status of an Allied Region?" he said, speaking over Dravvad. The Corellian scowled, but quieted.

"I am." Guilliman confirmed. "We would not join the New Republic, but most of the requirements I find to be eminently reasonable and acceptable, with the benefits well worth the drawbacks. There will be further stipulations, which I shall warn are focused on limitations of expansion and armament, though I believe an agreement can be reached there as well."

In an ideal world, this 'Exiled Imperium' would be swallowed up as just another sector of the New Republic, with a token Senator to shout and rail and drum up drama in the Senate… Rather, in a truly ideal world, this 'Exiled Imperium' would not exist at all. He didn't need another headache on top of everything else nor a group of human supremacists of delusions of grandeur, not when he was starting to put out fires faster than they could crop up.

Though, the Jedi had oddly thrown in their lot with these Exiles, so if this ended in catastrophe, Borsk supposed it would be easy enough to finally be able to throw a lasso around Skywalker's order and finally bring them to heel.

"You've already charmed Shesh," Borsk said drily. "The New Republic is always open to allies. Your willingness to deal on our terms is unexpected. But welcome." He checked his chrono – the recess was coming to a close. "But I'm afraid that in our Republic, the final decision isn't up to me." He rose, the rest of the Council following. Guilliman moved from seated to looming over them all in a single motion that could not be followed and Borsk grit his teeth against a wave of strange vertigo as the very human appearing man towered above them.

"It's the Senate you'll need to convince."

"No Republic world should have to suffer being press-ganged!"

The words rang out, speaking over Guilliman yet again. Idly, he placed one of his less personable brothers in the same position and sardonically wondered what abattoir of horrors Kurze might have created here. Yet at the same time, he wished for the patience of the Angel, for though he was known for his coolheaded and level mien – there were trials that could yet try him. More than two hours had passed and he had outlined under a third of his proposal to the New Republic. Almost every point he made was interrupted. Interjections and brief shouted arguments sparked up with a regularity that a chron could be set to.

"Oh, shut up!" Senator K'farn shot back, leaping to his feet. "I've already seen what Guilliman means by a tithe! One of their warships made anchor over Ploo three weeks ago – and do you know what they asked for? Water! And foodstuffs! A pittance, and the vong scouts that had been creeping closer haven't been seen since!"

"It's a protection racket!" another senator groused. He still noted each name and sector, but had long since sequestered that fact-gathering to be unconscious. Most of them, he realized, were beyond unimportant. The true fulcrums of the Senate were those he had met and a few more besides – the Advisory Council, the Inner Council, those that sat on committees and those that represented the oldest, richest worlds.

A sort of twisted order was revealed to him bit by bit. He saw now that the Republic was ruled not by this Senate, but rather a strange oligarchy within it, that allowed for these thousand seats as a means of pressure release. So that the lesser could squabble and stir trouble and feel as though their tiny voices were heard, before bowing heads and voting as those that truly held the reins wished. Borsk Fey'lya might have said he would need to convince the Senate, but Guilliman knew he already had the ear of those that would do so for him.

"A protection racket doesn't bleed for those they 'bribe'," Kvarn Jia retorted. "Fondor would have fallen without them and they sent their very own soldiers to fight and die to protect Oridin."

On went the arguments, until the Sergeant at Arms gaveled for order and Guilliman had a chance to continue. Then, the cycle would repeat all over again.

"To reiterate, Senators, the 'tithe' as described is commensurate with the material expenditure of Exile support. Eboracum is self-sufficient and our alliance with Kuat-" he honored Shesh with a small nod - "provides a great deal more. I am also of the mind that direct contribution engenders a positive civic mindset when employed: it is a buy-in, if you will. Moreover, the tithe asked for would be negotiable with worlds that request Exile assistance."

He continued, moving to the next point and that which he knew would be most contentious.

"Finally, the Exiled Imperium would petition to retain all worlds liberated-" he pitched his voice fractionally louder, subtly adjusting both his throat and diaphragm, so that his booming tones overrode the latest eruption of indignation. "-from the Yuuzhan Vong. Of course, this would not include signatory worlds of the New Republic, which would instead be placed under stewardship until such a time that the New Republic armed forces would be able to complete a transition of defense. For worlds that are not signatory to the New Republic, the Exiled Imperium would provide order, reconstruction and security for the duration of this war. Upon the defeat of the Yuuzhan Vong-" again, he made subtle adjustment to drown out the rest of the chamber "-and a period of five years, Galactic Standard, the Exiled Imperium shall then conference with the New Republic for referenda on worlds claimed in this manner, such that each world might chose to remain with the Imperium or request transfer to Republican authority."

His piece said and final requirement outlined, Guilliman folded his arms, observing once more.

Should such an end come to pass, that the Vong were vanquished, the New Republic still stood and his Exiled Imperium had a swathe of worlds beneath its banner, he had little doubt that few, if any, would truly choose to return to the Republic. The duration of the war plus five years was more than sufficient time to make the Imperium indispensable and a cornerstone of existence for those beings, human or non, and secure a span of territory beneath the Ultima.

His heart twisted to consider the theoretical of spending decades, centuries…millennia here, yet he could not stand by and allow time and history to pass him by. The Yuuzhan Vong were a gift, delivered directly to him. In any other period, he suspected, he would face far greater challenges establishing the sanctuary of civilization his Exiled Imperium would be. He would not budge on this requirement. With Senator Shesh's backing, with Kvarm Jia and both Ploo and Plooriod Senators, with, he was certain, at least half of the Advisory Council, there would not be enough pushback to require significant concessions or edits.

This Senate was functional in its dysfunction, Guilliman decided. Its inefficiencies irked him and the constant, omnipresent lack of decorum was insulting to his sensibilities, but it was a ship he could steer, though the rudder might stick and scream and shout imprecations.

"Kuat approves," Shesh declared, the first to cast a vote. "I find Proposal 61.641 for the Recognition of the Exiled Imperium and the Eboracum Sector as an Allied Region to be well-thought out, fair, and overly beneficial to the New Republic. Kuat moves to advance the Proposal to a final vote in two weeks."

Kvarm Jia added his own voice, then K'farn, then Triebakk. Some abstained, some voted nay, but the tide was obvious. The rising stars were championing it, and thus, the hangers-on and lickspittles through frowns and performative concern found their minds changed and votes cast aye.

By the time Guilliman returned to his Stormbird to leave the ecumenopolis behind, Proposal 61.641 was scheduled for final vote, approved at a majority of four-fifths. Senator Shesh had intercepted him, offering her dainty, tiny hand which Guilliman had shaken with some amusement and delicate care. She offered congratulations, barely hiding avarice in her expression. He returned the words, wishing the best of luck with the Magi. Truly – the Mechanicum was invaluable and His father's wisdom in that alliance was unparalleled…but even Roboute could admit the mystics of Mars could be intractable. They spoke but briefly, the Kuati tilting and shifting her hips and shoulders minutely, peering up at him, two fingers tracing along her corset. Guilliman studied the blaster burn at her temple, noticing at closer regard the oddity of the necessary trajectory.

The Senate guard were not displeased to see the backs of his Invictarii, for all that their gauntlet combibolters were dry. The volkite cavitor, however, did not require ammunition. On gentle humming repulsors, the Stormbird took again to the skies. More and more of the gunships were seeing refit with the antigravity mechanisms, turning the already deceptively nimble transports even more fearsomely maneuverable. This one, in particular, bore retrofit shield generators as well. This galaxy bore further fruit.

With similar fanfare to arrival, Samothrace gathered her lesser sisters, discharged a sleeting sheet of low-powered ranging las in salute, then lit realspace extension drives for the long burn out into the doldrums of the system. Eryl Besa, in excited seclusion with Samothrace's Navigator, made ready for another heady and exciting trip. Borsk Fey'lya convinced himself he had not made a deal with the devil. Viqi Shesh privately toasted herself with a snifter of exquisitely aged, thousand year Shesh brandy. Tresk Im'nel, elsewhere, breathed a sigh of relief he had not been required to be present at all, shivering at the thought of facing the maelstrom that was the Primarch again. Tamirit Noskaur, along with his newfound cadre of the Imperial Legatus, remain to negotiate.

And behind convincing skin and facsimiles of faces, agents stroked away dedicated villips and passed secret word on, on and on, until the fringed ears of the Warmaster were filled with whispers.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Functional Dysfunction
Another Empire| The Lonely City | Safe and Terrible

The Great Temple, which they called the Praxeum, was not his home. In important ways, that title was now held by the Palace of the Woolamander and his quiet little garden within. His home, his true home, lay hundreds of years and galactic radii away, built over and buried under and unrecognizable. Ikrit missed the Jedi Temple of Coruscant - and the satellite Temples he had visited - but the ache was a mild one and muted one, tempered by his long somnolence and the strange, half-remembered dreams that buoyed him through the generations.

In fact, many days now would pass without Ikrit remembering or reflecting on what he had lost, but it returned to him now, with some intensity, as he padded the Massassi stone halls of the Great Temple. Master Skywalker's Jedi bustled about, carrying keepsakes and crates in hands and in the intangible grasp of the Force. The motorpool, on the ground floor, rumbled and whined and hummed as the small collection of shuttles were prepared and loaded. Younglings treated it as a game, playing games of hide-and-don't-squeak among the growing mountains of old containers and boxes made of cast-plast and stamped with weathered old symbols of the Rebel Alliance. The older Jedi were more solemn and Ikrit felt their melancholy, felt the way they paused as they entered chambers and took moments of quiet to take in what they feared they might not see again.

It was that ache that woke his own nostalgia and loss within him, that stirred memories of the vaulted, echoing spaces of the Coruscant Temple. Chambers whose ceilings vanished into the gloom, lit by gentle, bobbing lumes and forests of humming lightsabers as hundreds stepped through meditative martial forms. Archives and libraries, filled with hum of datastack and crinkle of flimsy as ancient and thoughtful lessons were reviewed. Gardens ten thousand years old with trees as ancient as the Republic and clear, babbling water that generation upon generation upon generation of Jedi meditated alongside.

Places where the Force sank so deeply and so richly into the bones of the Temple that all the millions of Jedi who came before Ikrit could be felt and smelt and heard in susurrus and pleased, proud presence at his shoulder.

All lost. As much as he mourned for his own home, he wept that these new Jedi could never experience such peaceful, wholesome wonders.

He hoped against hope that these Jedi would be able to return to the Great Temple again. So short a time, but already the character of Master Skywalker's Jedi steeped into the stone and sunk into the jungle, forging a refreshing and interesting melange of community and camaraderie and family that interwove and moderated and dare he say redeemed the longer, darker, colder histories of these Sith-raised temples.

Young Anakin was apart from his other half, working with his astromech to prepare his X-Wing for solo flight. Tahiri was with Sannah, the older girl working tirelessly to distract the young Melodie from her churning thoughts and stomach-twisting turmoil. Ikrit's heart went out to the younger girl, for no child should need to bear that manner of weight on her shoulders, that sort of knowledge. Were it Ikrit's decision, the rest of the Melodies would have been informed immediately, but he recognized Master Skywalker's far greater experience with Sith affairs than he.

He basked in the feel of the living Temple around him. The Masters Solusar - a marriage unheard of, in his own time, but clearly a positive influence - shepherding their charges. Master Katarn, with the foreign 'Astartes' Aeonid Thiel, practicing meditation-in-motion as they sparred. The anomalous and peculiar presence of the other Astartes, who arrived ahead of the coming starship that would whisk them all away from the moon.

Alebmos. Called a 'Lexicanium', a 'psyker', one of a tradition called a 'Librarius'. Alien words. Alien words in an alien tongue, never before spoken in this galaxy before.

Ikrit still doubted the truth of this 'Warp'. He had felt the children's memories, reopened and allowed to pour forth when they spoke with him of their trials on Yavin 8. He felt Anakin's surety of something unfamiliar, he sniffed around Tahiri's conviction of wrongness. A foul apparition, without question. A Sith spirit, clinging to unnatural life? Truly an atrocity.

Yet the Dark side was an avenue that led to many unnatural things and twisted creations beyond the imaginings of Jedi. Could any have dreamt that a Sith would conjure the Golden Globe and trap all the souls of young Massassi away in it? Could any have dreamt of the ancient Thought-bomb, which devastated Ruusan? Or the mysteries of ancient Sith, who burst stars and twisted life into obscene patterns?

So many traditions, for good or ill, in all the years of history in this galaxy. Who knew what wonders and terrors would be wrought by hands shaping the Force in another galaxy?

Ikrit had poked and probed around the strange wards erected by the Lexicanium when he quizzed the children about their trial. They were half-seen and slippery, oblique to his senses and flitted from Ikrit's attempts to peer at them. Not to pry or push, but just to observe them.

Even now, as Ikrit padded up the left-open ramp of the large Imperial shuttle - their Thunderhawk - his feel for the Librarian through the Force remained peculiar.

Alebmos felt muffled but strangely broadened, like afterimages flowed and echoed around the large human. For Aeonid Thiel, the Captain was sharp as broken transparisteel and as solid as durasteel, a steely presence that rebuffed even the gentlest observation and leaked out only highly processed, nearly tangible scraps and scads of feeling and thought and emotion. Thiel's mental discipline was fit for an old, trained Master…but for the clear disunity and disarray held nearly hidden behind those walls.

Alebmos felt like no mind at all. Ikrit watched the Librarian work, no doubt preparing for his coming trip to Yavin 8 and his further studies of the Sith temple there. Watching the Astartes move with his eyes was as interesting as with the Force. Alebmos was calm and confident and in contrast to Aeonid Thiel, remarkably comfortable with the Great Temple and the Jedi within. In the single day since arriving with Aeonid, Alebmos had introduced himself to each Master and even observed, at a remove, one of the morning classes for the younglings. He was polite and articulate and made all the more eerie for the fact that not a single scrap of intention, emotion or thought leaked from the man.

Ikrit had not met one of the Yuuzhan Vong yet, so only had the experiences of his young student recounted at remove to rely on. The Kushiban Master could not imagine what such a thing would be like to encounter: a living being, a thinking, feeling being that was as a blank spot in the Force. Anakin swore up and down that the Yuuzhan Vong weren't even a 'hole', in any sense, denying similarities to what Ikrit had experienced - that being the furry ysalamiri that young Luke kept on hand for particular lessons. The vong were invisible, which Ikrit just could not fathom.

Alebmos was how Ikrit imagined they might be. The Imperial Astartes spoke and his mouth moved, his weathered, leathery face morphed into recognizable expressions, but nothing existed behind that flesh. It was a skin-mask, a facade, and when Ikrit focused harder, he was almost convinced he saw ghost images of Alebmos just under the skin, saying other words and making other motions.

It made watching Alebmos inventory devices and avioid-stamped crates into something that in time, would stir a headache.

Instead, Ikrit tamped down on his sense of the Force, channeling instead into a mildly telekinetically fueled bound that delivered him atop one of the stacked crates. Alebmos dipped his head in welcome and in recognition, dark eyes piercing from where they sat in sun-weathered face.

"Ah, Master Ikrit. Are you here to ask after your pupils?"

Affecting nonchalance and leaning into expectations built around his species, Ikrit idly licked at the back of one paw, grooming the already silken fur yet further.

"You are a strange man and a new visitor and you spoke to them for some time," he said finally.

"On the allowance of Master Skywalker and Jedi Solo both."

Ikrit studied the Lexicanium as the Astartes straightened up, looming far above the already diminutive Kushiban despite his elevated perch.

"Young Luke does like to respect the experience of other traditions," Ikrit mused. "It's one of his great strengths. Sometimes - a great weakness."

"Every Legion of the Legiones Astartes approached the arts of the mind in their own way. It led to much learning…and some disputes." Alebmos agreed.

"No different than studies of the Force. Jensaarai, Fallanassi, Jedi…" Ikrit tensed, coiling up strength in his rear legs as he tugged on the Force again. Alebmos stiffened, reading the change in body language. He aimed well, alighting exactly on Alebmos' broad pauldron.

"I'm not convinced yet that your 'Warp' isn't an understanding that the Jedi haven't seen. The Yuuzhan Vong, the ysalamiri…even the spectres and spirits of the Sith here on this very moon; all things I could never have dreamt of in my youth. Could I have believed the Force could be perverted in so twisted a way that a thousand children's souls could be stolen away? I think many of the most learned Masters of the Order would not have believed it."

His head turned to watch Ikrit, now having to look up to meet the Kushiban's lambent green eyes, Alebmos' jaw muscles bunched.

"I will not speak on your Force, as you should not speak on the Warp."

"It threatens my students, Lexicanium, so I will speak however I wish."

It was young Luke's prerogative to invite the Exiles, it was his decision to have Aeonid Thiel trained and it was his choice to allow this 'Lexicanium' to examine the three youths for some metaphysical spoor. As ever, Ikrit offered guidance and he offered advice, but here kept his counsel close. He could feel young Skywalker's optimism. He could feel his interest.

He feared that in the wake of the unanswerable question of the vong, that Luke may have leapt at the first opportunity to embrace a problem he could solve - the salvation of the spirit of the Imperium.

Ikrit's brush-fluff tail flicked left, right, left again.

"Luke Skywalker trusts you. Anakin trusts me. He tells me everything, Lexicanium. He tells me of your promise of 'mercy' if the children had not met your standards."

Alebmos did not visibly react.

"It would have been my recommendation. Corruption from the warp is fate no being should suffer, let alone a child," Alebmos retorted, borrowing Ikrit's word.

Ikrit did not blink, boring his wide, yellow-green eyes into Alebmos'.

"A recommendation? Or a promise? If you had found…whatever you feared, would you have let them leave, Alebmos? Walk out of that chamber? If young Skywalker had told you he would stay his hand and work to save his nephew and his students from whatever…corruptive…force had hold of them, what then?"

The Astartes spoke precisely, his accented Basic clear and exact.

"That would be his decision."

Ikrit leaned closer, crouching lower, until less than half a meter separated their faces.

"A very safe and very terrible answer, Imperial."

Ikrit leapt away, the Force bouying him in a long and arcing jump that delivered him from Alebmos' shoulder to the stained duracrete of the hangar floor, right at the end of the Thunderhawk's open ramp. Alebmos seemed to flicker with potentials. A gauntleted hand raised a pistol, another grabbed at knife-hilt, another glowed violet and black. Alebmos merely stared down at the diminutive Jedi Master, impassive.

"Never underestimate the surety of a Jedi when the Force is their ally," Ikrit hissed, hackles raising for the first time in centuries. Too many facts stung at Ikrit. This 'psyker', here to 'test' the children. Here to tell them, to their very faces, that he would condemn them to death. The coming starship, fit to burn worlds. The 'investigation' they wished to launch into the Melodies and Yavin 8. The words of their bitter Primarch to the Senate, when he admitted to hands bathed in oceans of blood.

Ikrit trusted Luke. How could he not? He had faced challenges no Jedi had for millennium and held to the goodness of his spirit.

But no one was infallible.

Centuries ago, Ikrit had sealed himself away to save the souls of innocent children he had never met. He had failed them, with his work done by another. It stung even still, though his heart swelled with pride at everything Anakin had done. So young, but so bright and unbowed.

Alebmos' lip curled, slight.

"Never underestimate the resolve of the Imperium, either." he countered. Ikrit padded away without a backward glance.

Temerity was not a Legion vessel nor even a very large one. In fact, it was the smallest warship Zalthis had yet sailed aboard. The corridors were cramped and ill-suited to Astartesian proportions and none of the ratings were used to transhumans. The five of them remained in the areas around the embarkation deck, spending time maintaining their wargear, their Storm Eagle, sparring and training against each other. No practice cages, no Legion chambers - Zalthis admitted they were, perhaps, a little spoiled.

They were, all five of them, perhaps a little bored. Along with Solidian - for as his brother joked, they were as inseparable as a combibolter - their 'escort' squad also numbered Tercinax and Varien along with Amalius. Zalthis remembered the first two well from the lightning raid on the Yuuzhan Vong cruiser just before the action at Fondor. Tercinax was eldest of the demisquad, an old salt veteran of orkish waaughs and dozens of compliances. Deprecatingly, he called himself 'a leather-eater, through and through', claiming he never wanted for more than a boltgun and blade and a Sergeant to tell him what to do. Varien was younger, perhaps twice the age of Zalthis, with a propensity for blade work and in curious contrast, long-distance marksmanship.

The fifth, Amalius, Zalthis had only begun to know. In time, they would all be as firm brothers as he and Sol were - for this was their new squad.

Caedos Quintus was their Sergeant, though he had delegated authority to Tercinax for this mission. A hero of the Second Battle of the Honour, Zalthis was honored to serve under Sergeant Quintus, though they'd had only a brief moment to meet before Temerity was sent away.

His hearts beat faster each time Zalthis was reminded that his assignment was one of selection, hand-selection, picked out specifically by Aeonid Thiel himself. Captain Thiel. In his hands, Zalthis eyed his crimson painted helmet, polished bright with lenses dark. Mark IV, like the rest of his plate, in all other ways matching the noble colors of the XIIIth Legion. Only the helms of the First Adaptive Tactics Company marked them out as different. The other Battalions were choosing now their own schemes, beginning the divergence from the base form of Ultramarine. He'd read the Primarch's documents, the ones outlining the Battalions Founded and the alterations to Principia Belicosa that were demanded.

Zalthis understood the theoreticals, but secretly he was pleased that the First Adaptive would not be adopting new colors. All his young life he strived to wear the Ultramarine plate of the XIIIth and he was not sure he would bear altered colors and heraldry well.

Solidian thumped down beside Zalthis, clad in his plate from waist down, upper body encased only in his bodyglove. The small embarkation deck, scarcely large enough for perhaps two Stormbirds side-by-side, seemed larger with only their Storm Eagle and a few small navy lighters resting about. Tercinax and Amalius were sparring in fatigues while Varien watched and shouted insult and encouragement both.

Sol settled a large rotary cannon in his lap, nudging Zalthis' shoulder as he settled.

'Deep thoughts, Zal?' his brother asked, hands already moving to begin to fiddle with the rotary cannon. In general shape and form, it still resembled the Republican heavy blaster it started life as, though each day that slid by slowly aboard Temerity mutated it in subtle ways. Already, Sol had swapped out the energy cells with those of a hot-shot las, added mounting rails and a slab of ceramite as a gun shield.

A tiny name was etched into the bare metal grip.

'Thinking of Anakin.' He had not been, but the Jedi Knight did occasionally cross his mind. Sol grunted, brows furrowed as he focused on the rotary cannon.

'The boy left an impression on you.'

'He's of age with us, I think,' Zal retorted. Sol shrugged.

'Age isn't everything.' Sol screwed one of the long barrels of the cannon, gently setting it aside on oilcloth.

'Experience is,' Zalthis conceded. 'Which means Anakin might have us matched.'

Sol grimaced.

'Nothing can match Calth.'

'Nothing can match Calth.'

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, after Zalthis set aside his helm and picked up his right pauldron, adjusting his pot of lapping powder.

'Still!' Sol exclaimed. 'You've had your chance to spar with the boy - I'd like to cross blades with him as well. If he's even a tenth of the swordsman his uncle is…'

The duel between Captain Thiel and Master Skywalker had left an impression in all present. A mortal matching an Astartes, with ease.

'His style is interesting. Dynamic. Instinctual, I would say.'

Sol hummed, turning the rotary cannon over in his lap, peering at the partially dismantled weapon from other angles.

'Well, if you could beat him, I'm not so sure I'd find a challenge.'

Zal snorted.

'Truly? Our count is almost equal, Sol.'

'Almost only applies to krak grenades and nova bombs, Zal. Besides - I have the greater tally. Which means your almost is still my victory.'

They bickered back and forth, good natured. Tercinax and Amalius' spar drew to a close, with Amalius eking out a final point. The older marine swore and grumbled, wandering off to an ablutorium. Varien, his entertainment over, ambled over to the two of them.

'Ah, little brothers.'

'Varien,' Sol greeted. Zal inclined his head.

'I heard you speaking about the Jedi. You've fought with them, on that athenaeum world.'

'Obroa-skai,' Zalthis clarified.

Varien nodded.

'Yes, that's the one.'

Varien poked and prodded for their impressions. It was not as if the briefing had been unclear, but there was air to fill and time to slay, so Zalthis was all too willing to recount, again, the ambush on Obroa-skai. It grew, somehow, with each telling, though the facts never wavered. It was the distance, maybe, in time, that elevated that first mission. Their last as neophytes. The last for their Sergeant.

'They confuse me,' Sol admitted, some time later. The rotary cannon was now fully dismantled, each part laid out precisely and carefully. No manual or instruction had come with it, so Sol's main project had been learning each component and every function - from working to maintenance. 'Knight Solo turned on Zal for killing a mind-controlled slave. Used his 'Force' to crush him to his knees.'

Zalthis scowled, bearing down just a little too hard with his cloth on his plastron plate. The memory was as vivid as any other post ascension. He could still feel the way the air seemed to turn to thick sludge as invisible, irresistible force bore him down.

'The slaves were already dead,' Sol explained further. 'Dead on their feet and starving. Killing them was a mercy, if you asked me. The Jedi, though, it's as if they fear death. All the same, Knight Solo personally slew a dozen vong that I witnessed personally! Without hesitation!'

Solidian huffed a complicated blend of a sigh and a chuckle, shaking his head. Scars webbed across half his scalp, bereft of hair. The grutchins on Fondor had not quite managed to scalp his brother, but they had come close. A terrifically ugly looking wound, but in truth barely even cosmetic. Scalp injuries bled ferociously, but if Sol's skull - famously dense - hadn't been breached, then there was no possible lasting injury.

'Anakin explained some of their philosophy to me. As he described it, I believe that the Jedi almost follow a practical and theoretical framework as we do.'

Sol raised an eyebrow, while Varien leaned forward, intrigued.

'They say that they worship life.'

Sol nodded in agreement.

Zal shrugged. 'It's a noble enough idea. We've all read al Garuntz and Hagior.'

'And Guilliman,' Varien noted.

'And Guilliman,' Zal agreed with a smile. 'And others. Moral responsibilities always include some acceptance of an intrinsic value to life.'

'Though extending that beyond the human realm…' Varien trailed off. Sol shifted in place, a strange look crossing his brother's face.

'Anakin and I discussed that. I constructed the proper theoretical and practical and offered it to him. He seemed to agree.' Zalthis cast back, remembering when he and the Jedi debated the Order's philosophy, over a meal in one of Samothrace's many cafeteria.

'The theoretical is that all life is unique and precious. The practical is that life creates conflict, and conflict requires resolution that may require taking that life.'

It seemed a good summation and Anakin agreed, though said it lacked a lot of nuance. That was fine - the practical/theoretical paradigm was just to prepare an argument, not to conclude one.

Sol shifted again, eyes darting over his dissembled rotary cannon. Varien pursed his lips, eyes narrowing.

'It's a noble ideal,' Varien admitted. 'Naive. But noble.'

'I said similarly,' Zal said. The Primarch insisted on philosophy as a requirement for all Ultramarines, beginning even during their time as aspirants and neophytes. Ascratus, as much as he drilled them ferociously in blade and bolt, also required essays on social contract theory and ideal war.

Sol often japed that he should have been a Space Wolf, as he'd never have to study again. Being as he would be, of course, quite illiterate.

Zal cuffed him for that, but laughed all the same.

'That seems to summarize this galaxy,' Varien continued. 'Naive, but noble. Like the stories of before Old Night. During the Dark Age of Technology.'

All three paused a moment, the names of those grim ages bearing entirely different weights.

'The practical means that for all their idealism, the Jedi are fearfully dangerous.'

'A boy matched a veteran Sergeant for kills,' Sol agreed. 'Baseline humans should not move like Jedi do.'

Varien's eyes grew hooded.

'It's their Force,' the older Ultramarine spat. 'Their witchery.'

Uneasily, Zal and Sol glanced to each other. The grox in the room, the uncomfortable fact of the Jedi, impossible to ignore for all that the warriors were swiftly earning the admiration of at least some of the Ultramarines. The Edict was inculcated into all of them, the warning of the empyrean, the threat of the mind. Witchery, psykery, sorcery - whatever it was called. The Black Ships plied the stars for the blank women who could resist the powers of the Warp, the Edict chained back the Librarius and across the span of the galaxy, the Legiones themselves persecuted mutants and deviants with the greatest of zeal.

Old Night had been forged of many things. All grew from the same source.

The Warp.

Again, Zal felt the ghostly recollection of the power and oppressive weight of Anakin's regard as he went to his knees on Obroa-skai.

'Codicier Rubio doesn't believe the Warp and Force are the same.'

Zal looked to his brother, surprised. Sol had never defended the Jedi before.

Varien scoffed.

'Psykery is psykery. I'll be on my guard on that moon, you can be sure of it. You both should be as well.'

Sol rolled his broad shoulders.

'We're Ultramarine. When aren't we?'

Varien took his leave shortly after, apparently satisfied with what he'd learned. Sol produced a small chapbook and an ink pen, sketching out parts of the rotary cannon and in conjoined shorthand scrawled notes and instructions. Zalthis continued to work through the parts of his armor, leaving each gleaming and spotless, parade-ready. Varien's suspicions aside, they were representing the XIIIth and the Primarch. It wouldn't do to arrive in any other condition but spotless and perfect.

'You'll be a fine Sergeant, you know.'

Zalthis started, peering at his brother. Sol remained focused on his dismantled cannon, leaving his scarred face in profile.

'Pardon?'

'You're changing, Zal. This galaxy is changing you.'

Rather pointedly, he stared at the detached handle and the small etched name upon it. Solidian followed his gaze and sighed.

'This is different. This is a single act of honor, but it changes nothing. The gun would be a waste to leave behind, as well. It's effective.'

'I am not being changed, Sol.'

'You are, Zal. I can see it. I know you. It feels like we grew up together. We did.' Sol shook his head. 'You think too much and it's changing you.'

'All we are doing is following the Primarch's orders. Nothing else.'

'No, Zal. I'm following the Primarch's orders. You believe in them.'

Zal lowered his greave, slowly putting his burnishing cloth aside. Sol's words struck and struck hard. Did he believe? He'd thought of Anakin since Obroa-skai. The Jedi Knight made for interesting conversation and was a challenging opponent. He'd not balked at Lieutenant Optarch's decision to put him in command of the neophyte squad at Fondor, nor at working with the Fondorian natives. It was prudent. It was practical. It was what the Primarch ordered, or would have ordered.

'I do what I'm told. You're the thinker. Not me. That's why you'll make a fine Sergeant.'

Zalthis tried to imagine himself with the markings Ascratus did, that Quintus. An old dream of his, an image burned into his mind. It seemed so far away, even for the speed and constant change of the 4711th.

'I'm honored you imagine so…'

'The 4711th - no, the Thirteenth, is changing. We have Battalions now. They won't even look the same. We're fighting for and with aliens, Zal. Aliens! The Primarch is changing us. You're changing with it.' Sol shook his head. 'The future will need a Sergeant like you.'

'You'll have your own squad too, Sol,' Zal promised. It was an old promise - Sergeants Zalthis and Solidian, with their own squads, bringing the glorious fight of the Crusade to worlds near and far.

'Maybe.' Slowly, Sol began to reassemble the rotary cannon, returning often to add new notes and sketches. Zalthis did not resume buffing his armor, too caught up in thought and possibilities. He finally found what Sol's words felt like.

'You sound resigned.'

His brother nodded.

'We shouldn't need to change,' Sol said lowly. His hand rested on the handle of the cannon. 'The Emperor made us. We are Ultramarines. The galaxy should change for us.'

With eighteen Legions, with the Emperor, with the Primarchs and all the worlds of the Imperium, Solidian could never be more right. With the galaxy about them and the dwindling count of their brothers…the realization struck Zalthis like a Stormbird. His instinct, his reflex, was to argue against Solidian. To argue against the Imperial Truth.

This galaxy was too large, too vast, too full. They had to change. They had to adapt. The theoretical was obvious. The practical, concerning as it was, was clear.

Sol was openly studying him. Zalthis found he could not quite think of what to say.

'That's why you will be an excellent Sergeant,' Sol sighed. 'There's a place for you in this new world.'

The woman who sat across from him had dark rings under her eyes, almost perfectly concealed with cosmetics. Her tunic was just on the presentable side of ruffled and her hair was not quite as glossy as it ought to be. Still, there was solid durasteel in her spine and her brown eyes were as sharp as ever.

In short, Leia Organa Solo appeared much as she had for the past decade.

Some things changed, Borsk Feyl'ya considered, but many more stayed the same.

"Leia," he said by way of greeting. "I'm pleased we could make this meeting today."

"Borsk," she returned, because she never used his title save in the most public of times. "I appreciate you seeing me on short notice."

The Bothan lifted a brow, carefully folding his hands together atop his desk.

"Duro's fallen and CorDuro betrayed everyone. The vong Warmaster is proposing a ceasefire and it's because of your son. Pardon me for saying so, but I'd be a sithspawned idiot not to see you."

Leia grimaced, new wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth crinkling.

"I'll take responsibility. SELCORE should've investigated CorDuro. The amount of embezzlement that went on…" Leia shook her head, her braid waggling. "There isn't an excuse."

Ah, there was the martyr.

"No one else discovered it, not even NRI." He kept his tone assuring and gentle. It'd be best if Leia didn't try to throw herself on a vibroblade. For all her exit from 'politics', she still retained a great deal of influence and popularity in the Senate. SELCORE was her creature and truly what a creature it was, but the deal with the Exiled Imperium was beginning to show serious results. The relief valve of millions of refugees - human and near-human - being diverted and removed from the ever-swelling count of those fleeing the Rim and Mid Rim, was giving tangible results on stability across several sectors.

It was partially why Borsk decided to support the proposal for Allied Region status. Part of the stipulations that the Exiles wanted was the ability to expand their 'territory' into unclaimed systems or at the invite of non Republic worlds. And if the Exiles had more space, then they could take even more refugees in…

Some in the Senate were raising concerns about the Exiles suddenly gaining an ever growing base of workers, most of which were skilled. Fleeing worlds ahead of the invasion was not exactly cheap nor easy, making a plurality of the refugees those who had the means, money or access to starships and placing them into a higher echelon of skilled labor.

Borsk, in private discussions with some wavering on the bill, revealed NRI predictions on the long-term stability of the Exiled Imperium.

In short: it was bad.

Let them be an Allied Region, let them be a relief valve for a while, and then when they inevitably fold under the oppressive and xenophobic ideology they espoused, the New Republic could incorporate them right back in.

"Duro was a mistake but it wasn't yours." Borsk assured. Leia peered at him skeptically. Fair enough. They had never seen eye to eye. "It was still a catastrophe and I expect an inquest into how a known Yuuzhan Vong agent could, apparently, manage to masquerade as a chief geneticist for weeks. But I can't condemn SELCORE without condemning half of our intelligence apparati."

Leia blew out a sigh.

"What do you want, Borsk?"

He grinned, toothy. Another positive to working mostly against Leia for as long as he had - they understood each other.

"SELCORE has been underappreciated," he began. "Missteps aside, you've been handling the flood of refugees better than anyone could have expected." As a Bothan, lying came as easily as breathing. "Duro and Fondor are a wake-up call to the Colonies and the Core. I'm sure you see the same numbers that I do. The Warmaster's ceasefire isn't the breathing room everyone thinks it is."

Leia sneered.

"A relief at the cost of the Jedi," she retorted. "My brother's Jedi."

"A tragedy, each and every one," Borsk said blandly. It actually was, but if he had a credit for every time the Jedi faced a tragedy, he could buy several new battlecruisers. "But this lull in combat has emboldened an entirely new wave fleeing the threatened sectors. We'd be facing more, except that the Tapani Sector is actually showing a downturn in expat flight. We suspect it's the continued presence of the Imperial battlegroup over Fondor."

Borsk studied Leia closely as he mentioned the Exiles. Opinions on the brash newcomers was as varied and numerous as the stars in the sky. Some, like Shesh, were enthralled to the point of obsession. Others, like Gron Marrab or Chelch Dravvad, were on a scale from heavily suspicious to entirely uninterested. Luke Skywalker publicly met with their Primarch for a one-on-one while sending his own Jedi to escort Shesh.

Leia's lips thinned and her face darkened.

Ah. As he expected. Hoped.

"SELCORE has been underfunded and undersupported. I'm sure that's why you were willing to turn to the Exiles."

"It was prudent," Leia said, and Borsk internally applauded how professionally stoic her sabacc face was. They may have butted heads throughout the years, they might have different views on the New Republic and Leia might be a relic of a time better left in the past, but Borsk would choke before denying Leia Organa Solo's dedication to the concept of a republic. Willingly cutting deals with the Imperium had to chew at her. "The numbers speak for themselves. Even with CorDuro's embezzlement, Duro is an example of the extra resources we've been able to gather. Raltiir was willing to rethink their support, because SELCORE could field the cost of building a settlement."

"This is why I'm planning to propose a significant increase in SELCORE funding and support in the Senate."

Leia shifted, adjusting herself. Borsk could veritably smell the suspicion wafting from her.

"Every credit will save lives," she said.

"Absolutely. I want to triple SELCORE's budget and I'd like to support forming a second office that could begin to handle actually locating uninhabited worlds suitable for setting up camps and potential colonies."

Leia's eyes widened and she actually rocked back in her seat a little.

"What do you want for this? Do I need to marry Isoldur?" Her tone was wry, but Borsk could feel her hunger.

"Nothing like that. Which, as an aside - Leia, I do want to offer my sympathies for Han's injuries. I'm glad to hear he's projected to make a full recovery."

She nodded, as stoic as ever.

"He's on his way home now, with the twins and Mara. I'll let him know you were thinking of him."

Borsk chuckled.

"Perhaps not. I wouldn't want him to have a cardiac arrest on top of everything else."

Leia smiled blandly. Borsk cleared his throat. Returning to business.

"MCS and CEC are looking to sponsor a new fleet of passenger liners to be donated to SELCORE or a secondary office. I just had a meeting with Marrab and he's very vocal about how eager Dac is to step up to their patriotic duties. Corellia's settling down after the whole Centerpoint affair and I'd like to throw them a bone for the chaos that was not entirely not our fault."

"I can talk to Omas and Triebakk. Remember, Borsk. I'm done with the Senate. I served my time. SELCORE is my priority."

Borsk held up his hands.

"Leia, we both know neither of us want you back in the convocation chamber. A few words, that's all I ask. We have the potential to do good here, real good, and put aside some of our past disagreements."

Across from him, the former Chief of State and one of the founding members of the New Republic chewed it over. At her waist was the glinting silver cylinder of a lightsaber, the only real concession to her ancestry that Borsk ever saw. It was strange to see it on her, but he supposed it might be a sign of solidarity with the Jedi in the wake of the Warmaster's demands.

"I want SELCORE and whatever secondary office to remain entirely under nonpartisan oversight. SELCORE cannot be political."

He understood what she meant. Which meant she understood precisely what he meant, too.

"Of course. The Advisory Council, as much as any one Senator shouldn't have overdue control. You've done a fine job as Director, I see no reason why to change the committee structure. Any changes can be submitted to my office for review."

There was little else to say after that, just hammering down final specifics and a few further stipulations Leia had going forward. They would never see eye to eye, but they did know how to alloy against a common enemy. They'd done so before and the New Republic always benefit. Leia left his office to immediately get to work on her end, with SELCORE and with some of her associates before her children and injured husband returned to the capital. He really did sympathize about General Solo. She might be and remain a political foe of his, but one's mate was always something that had to stand apart from politics.

The coming funding bill was almost finalized. Shesh was going to be apoplectic. He imagined the look on her face, the way her mouth twisted up like she'd eaten something ferociously sour. It was an expression he'd seen less and less, to his disappointment. She'd had her win. Kuat was hers, from what the Spynet could tell. The events behind the scenes there must have been legendary, worthy of some political drama holo, as in the span of a month the upstart Senator blew through decades of agreements, deals and IOUs. She'd usurped her great-aunt, becoming the Shesh quietly and without fanfare.

That sort of influence needed to be curbed.

If Shesh was to be objective about it, she'd barely have an argument. The MC90 series, the Bothan Assault Cruisers, the Rejuvanators, the Viscount Star Guardians all had proven worth. They existed. Borsk would take proven hulls over ones yet to fly off the flimsiplast any day. Marrab already confirmed that the Mon Calamari Shipyards was willing to match the announced Kuati subsidy for the Navy.

She'd played her hand before the shifter hit. That was politics.

Besides, he had a galaxy to keep from falling into oblivion.

Chapter Text

Several days ago...
They looked a proper mess, all slumping down the ramp of Jade's Shadow. Corsucant and Duro weren't far, thankfully, though the first few hours had been tense, dodging expanding vong patrols. Droma had handled bringing the Falcon in and no one missed the significance of that, even if it passed unspoken. They were a spectrum of injury - Jacen was untouched and hale, burdened only by a haunted look in his eye. Mara was uninjured, but exhaustion clearly drug on the redhead, dark circles under her eyes and a slowness to her step, though she claimed it was only lack of sleep. Jaina was the example of healing - her short stubble growing back on the left side of her scalp, around the blinking oncocidal injector. Light radburns left only a faint blush across her face. And Han, surrounded by his family, was the picture of survival.

He hobbled, one arm begrudgingly over Jacen's shoulder. Jaina offered to get his other side, but wilted a little under her father's unimpressed glare. Han's left arm was swaddled in a thick cast, from bicep to club-like wrap around his fist. It hid from view the gut-wrenching stump of his hand, fingerless and mangled. Bandages peeked and poked out of his loose tunic and baggy trousers and his face was swollen and eyes ringed in sickly green and purple bruising.

But his mashed lips slipped into a lopsided grin that crinkled his eyes and he pushed away from his son, wobbling and hobbling down the rest of the ramp. If he noticed his children tense and barely restrain from grabbing at him, he gave nothing away.

Mara held out a hand, keeping the twins back.

Legs stiff and barely hiding a constant wince, Han stepped onto the landing pad with a deep exhale of satisfaction, carefully and slowly raising both his arms - as much as his cast-swaddled left could rise.

"Mostly in one piece," he said, words blurry around missing teeth. "Miss me, Princess?"

A single stride away and as tense as a Muun tax collector, Leia Organa Solo stood as still as chiseled ice and just as warm. Her arms were folded tight under ber breasts, shoulders hunched in, expression as hard and plain as durasteel. She wore her brown hair up in a loose bun, half-falling out to frame her face. Only her eyes moved, flickering over her husband from head to toe.

The last time they'd been in close proximity, Jacen recalled with uneasiness he shared with his twin, almost a physical presence in their bond, their parents had shared only shouted words.

"You are an idiotic and useless pirate," Leia pronounced.

Then she was in his arms and he in hers. No tears - the twins knew their mother too well for that, that it would be later she'd let it hit her more. Han clumsily returned the embrace with his injuries, unable to match his wife's intensity, but his relief and joy flooded through the Force. The two exchanged words in low tones, lost to time. Leia dug her fingers into Han's hair, grown longer.

Gently, Mara placed her arms around her niece and nephew, tugging them to her side.

"They'll be fine," she murmured, low. Jacen nodded and Jaina hummed in affirmation.

"I'll kill you myself," Leia swore, voice muffled with her face buried in Han's shoulder.

"Yeah, definitely," Jacen agreed.

Han had refused bacta. He didn't have time to marinate, he said, and besides - his hand was the worst and bacta wasn't going to do anything about that. He did, however, allow Luke to offer the services of the Jedi Headquarters and their small but expensive medcenter. Rillao, another healer - though one with a medical degree - looked him over, tutting and clucking under her breath as she unwound Mara and Droma's handiwork, leaving bloodstained bandages in bright painted hazardous waste incinerators. She worked quickly and efficiently while Leia watched and Mara and the twins waited outside for Luke.

Then the whole clan gathered together, all save the very youngest. In fresh new bandages and with a glove fitted over his cleaned and debrided hand, Han rested easy on a reclined bed with his family gathered all around. Leia sat beside him, leaning forward to hold his good right hand in both of hers. Mara leaned against Luke, both sitting on an unused bed to the left, while the twins stood sentinel on the other side of Han.

"Y'know, on the scale of Nil Spaar to Vader, that Tsavong managed to raise the bar."

Leia extracted one hand to swat at Han's shoulder.

"I'm serious! Spaar's rolling in his grave right now, I'm sure." Han frowned. "Hey, and Thracken too. Huh. Four times."

"It's your winning personality," Mara remarked, drier than Tattooine.

"Something like that." Han sobered, looked around at his family. "I'm…look, I haven't been the best. Father. Or husband." He exhaled roughly, blinking hard for a moment.

"Dad-" Jaina tried, but he shook his head.

"No, let me finish." He tightened his grip on Leia's hand. "I shouldn't have run away. It was selfish. I was selfish. All I could think of was Chewie-" his voice caught, turned hoarse.

"We miss him too, dad," Jacen murmured.

"I can still hear him, sometimes," Luke admitted.

"I won't do it again," Han said harshly, anger spiking - directed at himself, Luke could feel. "You're stuck with me."

"I accepted that a while ago," Leia sighed, before leaning in to gently press a kiss to his bruised and split lips. "You need to talk to Anakin."

Guilt swept the room, noxious and thick from Han's pained expression.

"I do. I will. When he's on Coruscant. It needs to be face-to-face."

Leia nodded. "That's probably for the best."

There was comfortable silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, processing how very close their small family had come to another incalculable loss. Jacen and Jaina shared their relief and their parents apparent reconciliation, though Jaina loaded her own sardonic amusement over Jacen's spectacular resumption of using the Force. His response was a mental shrug, a 'what-can-I-do'.

Your lightsaber… Jaina pushed to him, joined with memories of the weapon, the sound of its hum, the glow of the blade.

Worth it three times over.

Gently, Mara cleared her throat.

"I think now might be a good time," she said, leaning further on Luke, resting her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were half-lidded, her general exhaustion seeping from body language and Force presence both. Luke peered down at her, raising an eyebrow.

"You're sure?"

"I'm…pregnant," Mara announced, quiet, almost shy. Full of pride, full of anticipation, but tentative, like to say the words aloud, to say them to anyone else might snatch away the wonder of it all. Her smile, sleepy, was as bright as a main sequence star. "I thought some good news might be nice."

"Good news?" Jacen exclaimed. "Aunt Mara, Uncle Luke, that's - that's-"

"Amazing," Jaina finished for her twin. "Wow. That's. Wow."

They spoke over each other, Leia coming around Han's bed to embrace her brother, her sister-in-law. Han painfully adjusted himself to sit higher, beaming while the twins ran the idea of cousins through their head. Mara fielded questions - how are you, how are you, when, how long - and Luke laughed at Han's warnings to start saving up sleep now.

It was enough to cut the edges from Han's brush with death. Enough to forget, for a moment, the reasons to be in the medcenter, enough to overlook Jaina's own injuries and Leia's stress lines and the way Luke settled into a distant frown when the conversation lulled. Beating back death with new life - the cycle of the Force itself.

Now...
One more time, the Jedi came together. From across the Galaxy and right next door, they joined as flesh and blood or as half-height holograms, or disembodied voices over a comlink. Expensive, but the Jedi Headquarters had the funding and the space for it, and the facility had been built with an eye to the future. A future with Jedi spread all across the stars, answering the call of service and far from Coruscant. There'd need to be ways to conclave and consult, to teach and demonstrate, and the main amphitheatre in the HQ was made for it.

Luke waited at the center of the chamber, sitting with his palms flat on the raised dais. There in person were his niece and nephew; the twins together and off to the side, conversing in quiet tones. Lowbacca had made journey to Coruscant, wanting to check in with his injured friend, which Jaina outwardly huffed and scoffed at. All the same, she exuded an obvious pleasure at seeing the wookiee again. Kenth, of course, made time in his otherwise busy schedule with the Navy and Tresk Im'nel, looking harried, fidgeted where he sat halfway up the tiers. Kyp Durron, freshly from the massacre of Duro lurked in cowled shadow, clammed up tight as a Hutt's purse. Mara, looking tired but glowing, watched each new arrival.

Holos of Jedi flickered to life as they joined - Cilgal and the Solusars from Yavin, along with Ikrit and of course, Anakin. Tresina Lobi, Madurrin, Kirana Ti - there was Harlan Ysanna and Lyrret, with both of their images streaked and flickering with interference. Jaden Korr and Michel Diath, Raltharan and Fahjay, Eelysa and Berd Lin and Waxarn Kel.

Dozens of Jedi, from Knights to Masters, young and old.

Yet there was little joy to be found. Even in reunions between friends who hadn't seen one another for months, even years - a pall of grim purpose spread and bloomed in the Force until Luke finally exhaled a breath, pushing off from the dais and standing. His movement caught attention and the low-level hubbub faded, eyes physical and holographic turning to him.

"I wish this was a happier gathering," he admitted. Fifty Jedi, fifty, one of the largest gatherings of the Order since before the Fall. Only the convocations called at the start of the war surpassed this one. All of them his students, by degrees. Some he'd seen grow up, some he'd helped through the darkest times of their lives. Some he did not know as well as he wished he could, some he feared for because of how well he knew them.

"Wish in one hand…" muttered Ganner Rhysode.

"Ganner," Kyp spoke the younger Knight's name lowly, but with warning.

"No, let's talk about why this isn't so happy," Octa Ramis cut in. "Isn't it so great for the Jedi to have this nice get-together?" Physically present, the young woman swept her hand around, encompassing the amphitheatre built to hold several hundred. "Don't worry about all the empty spots, I'm sure they just couldn't make it today."

"Don't make their deaths into your weapon! Have a little humility!"

"Humility is what's got us into this mess," Ganner shot back, glaring at Fahjay's holo. "We're crippling ourselves with all of these debates and deliberations. We're wasting time meeting like this. Master Skywalker, you want to warn us? Consider us warned. We all saw the Warmaster and we've all felt the deaths. Unless there's a plan-"

"Have you ever known me to waste time?" Luke asked mildly.

A few of the more belligerent Jedi glanced away, but Octa Ramis's face twisted, an ugly combination of sorrow and anger.

"Yes. Yes we have. This whole war, you've just wasted time. You tell us to sit around and think and to hold back and to wait for your lead and now Daeshara'cor is dead, and Miko is dead, and so is Swilja and Dorsk and Markre and - and -" Octa let out a sob, ducking her head and burying her face in her hands.

Each name was a slice to his heart, because as much as Octa and others might blame him - Luke blamed himself just as much. The questions lurked, unanswered and unhealthy. He knew they were fruitless to consider, he knew it was better to put it out of his mind, that the best honour he could give his students is the respect they were owed as men and women, as adults, as beings that could be trusted to make their own decisions.

But it lingered. Did he teach them enough? Did he overlook some critical factor that might have changed their fate? Could he have done something different, so that they might never have been in that circumstance? In that fatal, final moment?

The problem with saving the galaxy was that it was very hard to put that back in the box.

Mara called it a complex.

She might have been right.

"The vong killed them," Kyp countered. "Every one of them. That's on the vong. That's on the Warmaster. Not on anyone here."

"So is it time to fight, then?" the question came tentative, from the delicate Bith musician Ulaha Kore.

"It always was," Ganner snapped back at her.

"Ganner," Kyp said again.

"What, Master Durron?"

"Stop acting like everyone here is your enemy. You're better than that. We're all better than that."

"If the Warmaster can seed divisions into our own Order, we've already lost," Luke agreed. It was strange that Kyp would caution calm and unity - but the other Master had been notable by his absence in the past couple of months. His Dozen, leaderless, had fallen under Ganner's command instead and there hadn't been hide or hair of the usually fiery Jedi Master until he surfaced again on Duro with Han.

Ganner visibly gathered himself, then inclined his head toward Ulaha.

"Sorry, Kore. I…sorry." The Bith nodded back.

"We all agree that the Jedi need to do more," Luke pushed forward, unwilling to let the stressed tensions in the chamber snap again. It could be cathartic, maybe, to lance that boil, but he feared that with there was much fear in the mix. Much. Luke took a deep breath and Mara reached out for him, bolstering his strength with her own. Reaffirming his resolve.

"No matter what we should do, the vong aren't going to be content to let us find that. Not after Elan and not after the Warmaster's decree. They've continually tried to make this war personal-"

Octa Ramis' shoulders shook again.

"-and they've succeeded. I can't ask anyone to put aside their fear for their friends. I can't give commands that I can't follow. I still worry for where this war will lead…but there are possibilities that worry me more."

Kyp descended down a tier, moving closer to the stage and lowering his cowl. The man looked older, years older, with tired eyes and lips pressed thin.

"You're afraid of the vong winning."

"That's ridiculous," Jaina retorted. "The vong? Winning?"

She glanced around, to her brothers, to her uncle, to the many Jedi, almost all older than she. Whatever she saw cracked through her surety.

"You can't be serious," she said again, quieter. "They aren't winning."

"They aren't losing," Anakin replied, voice modulated by holo and distance. "That's for sure."

"They're not," Kyp confirmed. "And you know more than any of us, Master Skywalker."

From Kenth, he was privy to the Navy's intelligence. Through Mara, he had access to Karrde and other information networks. Through Tresk, friendly ties with the Senate and diplomatic corps. Friends, allies, contacts, built through decades and the Rebellion.

"The picture isn't pretty. Most of the Outer Rim is effectively lost. If it's not under vong control, it's cut off from most of the rest of the Galaxy. The Hutts, last heard from, are besieged on Nal Hutta." He'd not felt uncertainty like this, true unease like this, since the Imperial Mutiny and the Reborn Emperor. A gut-deep feeling that everything might not be ok. That the end might really be staring back at him. He'd gone far, to stop Palpatine. Maybe too far.

He wasn't sure Palpatine was the greater threat, when compared to the vong. Not anymore.

"None of this is news…" Mei Taral drawled, joining in from Booster Terrik's flying casino, Errant Venture. "What's changed? It's the Imperials, isn't it?"

"The Exiles? We're not taking them seriously, are we? Those maniacs?"

That was Luxum, the Shard Jedi bleeding incensed indignation like a pulsar, despite Ken's firm grip on her synthflesh hand. Both had been ordered back to Coruscant in a degree of disgrace after their ill-informed attempt at 'infiltrating' the Exile world of Eboracum. Luxum's synthdroid body had been rebuilt, both severed arms replaced, but the Shard hadn't shown an ounce of contrition that her partner Ken had.

"The Exiles are quickly gaining favor in the military and government. There's a lot of respect for how they fought at Fondor and their willingness to work with the Senate, instead of against it." Kenth added his own thoughts, tapping finger against his lips. "Their influence is spreading."

"It is." Luke agreed.

"And that's bad?" Jaina narrowed her eyes, looking between her younger brother and uncle. "Anakin, Uncle Luke…and wait, Master Durron, you were all part of bringing them out of their corner."

"I was, and I regret it every day." Kyp sat heavily, almost slumped onto a chair. "As the Exile's influence grows, ours wanes. They'll be the marker to live up to. They'll be the ones the public looks to."

"If they're good at killing vong, I don't care."

"You should, Octa, because they're worse than the vong could ever be." Kyp exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Master Skywalker, I know that the Exiles offered safety and refuge for Jedi in their space, but I'm urging…no, I'm begging you to reject that."

Luxum's shouted 'they offered what' was drowned out by a sudden flurry of other voices while Ganner looked like he'd been struck between the eyes.

Neither he nor Mara had quite expected where Kyp would lean today, but from this…was close to Luke's read on the other Master. It was no coincidence he vanished out of public sight right after Senator Shesh's initial summit with the Exiles, nor was it one that he stopped commanding his Dozen or that when he did turn up, it was with Han and several tens of thousands of refugees.

Kyp had seen exactly what Luke had.

The Exiles could be just as bad, or even far worse than the vong. That potential was in them, all of them, nearly born. That same depth of brutal, callous disregard for life, zealous obsession and blind devotion slithered behind the professed tenets of the Exiles, ready and waiting to burst out as infamy.

Luke had seen that it wasn't yet. Kyp, he knew now for certainty, saw that it was inevitable.

Maybe it was naivete. Maybe Luke hadn't shaken that save-the-galaxy complex that Mara teased him about.

"I won't," Luke pronounced. Luxum burst to her feet and stomped out. Ken followed, apologetic, to calm her down. "We need allies, now more than ever. The Exiles, like the vong, are a fact now. They can't be ignored or avoided. The role that we, as Jedi need to take up, is not just one as defenders, as soldiers-" he nodded to Jaina, who sat a little straighter "-or as warriors. We need to be symbols again. We need to be what Jedi can be and should be. Something to strive for. Examples." Luke reached to Mara, who placed her hand in his and squeezed. "This war is going to test the galaxy and test all of us like we've never been tested before. The Jedi have to rise to this challenge and we must exceed it."

"For who? The people who stab us in the back and sell us out? The people we bleed and die for who sell us out to a monster? Jedi for Jedi, we should protect ourselves."

Jedi for Jedi. A more terrible slogan Luke couldn't invent. He remembered his vision, of the galaxy teetering on an axis, at the spread of inky darkness against the sputtering of the light. Tsavong didn't just strike a blow at the body of the Jedi - he stabbed into their soul. Octa's pain was shared by every Jedi and if that feeling propagated, that kind of insular, reactionary defensiveness spread, then all was already lost.

"The vong can't change who we are as Jedi. When this war is over, we need to make sure the galaxy that survives it is one that's worth saving."

Later, after the meeting had dispersed, after preliminary plans had been laid and more debates had sprung to life, flared, and been banked, Luke found his sister waiting for him in his study. Mara left to see Doctor Oolos, the Ho'Din concerned about possible complications between the pregnancy and her still-in-remission disease. The twins wandered off and the Jedi in the HQ were scattering back to the stars and their responsibilities.

She asked Luke about his surety in accepting the Exile's offer of sanctuary to Jedi. She nodded while he described the need for a 'great river', a means for Jedi in danger to escape and slip away to safety and how the Exiles could be a keystone in the galactic north for that.

She sat quietly while he laid out his own concerns over the newcomers, his impressions on their leader and his belief that they could be more than they are.

Leia listened and when Luke was done, she rose and mentioned that with SELCORE's expansion, there was a good chance they could liaise with the Jedi as part of this 'great river' initiative.

Then, before she left, she fixed her brother, her good, honest brother with her fullest attention, with the weight and intensity befitting a former Chief of State of a galaxy and asked him to do his very best to keep her children far, far away from those monsters from beyond the stars.

He knew she did not mean the Yuuzhan Vong.

For the first time in twenty five years, the slightly overgrown tarmac outside the Great Temple was filled with vehicles. Most of them were inter-system shuttles, for hops around the moon or to other moons. There were speeders, both land- and air- and a handful of hyperspace capable transports. The accumulation of time, as some were donated, some were brought and mothballed, some left by owners who passed away into the Force and still more that were true Rebellion vintage.

The vong were spreading out now, after their announced pause at Duro. More and more hyperlanes were cut in part or in full. It was getting dangerous to slip past the lines or even to pass near them, as dovin basal gravity mines were spread out further and further and patrols of rocky, yorik-coral craft became more regular. Anakin had his XJ and there were a few other fighters, but all the real career pilots of the Order were off-world and far away. The best chance was to slip away, not fight their way out.

It wasn't like Uncle Luke didn't have plans to evacuate the Praxeum, given Yavin's location - it was more that those plans went from 'soon' to 'needs to happen yesterday' without warning.

Thanks, Jacen, Anakin sighed. All the lectures from his brother, and then he goes and throws the vong Warmaster out of a window.

Did it say something about Anakin that when Jacen recounted the story for the rest of the family that his first thought was "He should have made sure the Warmaster was dead'?

Possibly.

The Warmaster putting a bounty on every single Jedi's head sort of proved that intrusive thought right. Murder was murder, but a military commander like that? Invading a world? Malik Carr almost died to Sergeant Ascratus and no one batted an eye there. Better than Tsavong Lah had died. At least then the vong would've been in turmoil over finding a new commander, instead of sitting comfortable behind their fleets and securing worlds they already took.

Anakin shook his head, self-conscious smirk on his lips. Sixteen and weighing big strategic questions for a galaxy-wide war. The trials of a Jedi Knight, right there.

"Fiver, you'll be alright?" His astromech tootled and whistled back. "Yeah, just run a randomization of my usual maneuvers. I trust you, buddy."

With luck, there'd be no need for Fiver to fly his XJ in any kind of combat. Anakin was planning to fly one of the shuttles up to the Exile's ship when it arrived, leaving Fiver to move not only the X-Wing, but also through remote links the handful of other fighters the Praxeum had in storage. The little astromech would have to cut them loose in case of danger, since it wasn't built as some kind of droid-remote-controller or anything, but for getting off the moon and into a hangar? Fiver could do that.

The shuttles were the priority. Not only were they carrying the next generation of Jedi, but also all the relics and databanks of Jedi lore recovered through all the painstaking work of archivists and archaeologists like Tionne and Tash Arranda. Tahiri had mentioned she was surprised that everyone was willing to entrust all this to these Imperials and Anakin mulled that over for a few days. She was sort of right - the Exiles were still brand new. Sure, Anakin felt he had a good read on those two Astartes, on Zalthis and Solidian, and Captain Thiel had been at the Praxeum for closing in on a month now, but that was three out of…a whole lot more.

He poked and prodded at it while they packed. Tahiri drew Sannah out of her funk some, though the younger girl was less chatty and more reactive. That was just fine, since Tahiri could talk enough for three people. They made a little team, just the three of them, bouncing around on tasks from Kam and Tionne. Ikrit helped them out at times too, managing to turn things into lessons. He made the three of them empty out an entire store room while wearing blindfolds and earplugs, which resulted in a couple of bumped noses and elbows but had Sannah laughing by the end of it.

Maybe Uncle Luke just trusted them that much? His Uncle had met, one-on-one, with the Primarch of the Exiles, and for several hours. Enough time to get a read on the man? Probably. It was Uncle Luke, after all, and his Uncle had a talent for seeing through to the deepest truth of a person. Master Durron would've had a very different fate, otherwise.

So that was an option - just trust that his Uncle trusted them that much and put it out of his mind.

That wasn't enough. They…hadn't always seen eye to eye, not in this war. Not at first. It had hurt, to feel like he was questioning Master Skywalker. Felt like he was siding with Kyp Durron and Ganner Rhysode and the more 'proactive' Jedi. It made his stomach twist when he felt, really felt like he was right and his Uncle just wasn't. It was like up was down and down was up, because Uncle Luke was never wrong about things and besides, Anakin was a kid and how could he possibly know better…

Except that he wasn't that much younger than his Uncle was when he'd set out from Tatooine and changed the whole galaxy.

This led to the question, then: did Anakin trust the Exiles? It was one thing to ride in their ships and fight with them on Obroa-Skai, because the only person who would be hurt, really, if they were treacherous was Anakin. His life was one he could risk, because it was his. That was fair.

Now there were thirty kids that he was going to be responsible for. Thirty kids. Master Horn's children, the Brizzit twins, Master Vaal's daughter… It was their lives that were at risk. Kids. Kids! Tahiri was definitely not part of that group as she'd never let him hear the end of it, but Sannah definitely was and she was one of the oldest at 13. Kids.

He trusted Zalthis with his own life, because that's something you don't just lose after running from rakamats and duelling vong warriors together. Trust him with the trainees?

Probably yes, actually. Zalthis understood when Anakin asked him to just disable the slaves on the library world. He seemed to understand when they talked, later, on Samothrace, about what it meant to be a Jedi, a little bit about what it meant to be Astartes.

And if he could trust Zalthis, he could trust Solidian too, since the two were a package deal. Captain Thiel wasn't that good at self-control that he could've kept dark thoughts away from the multiple Masters at the Praxeum either, so he passed too. Which meant that the new Astartes coming, under Aeonid's command, probably could be trusted too, and also Alebmos, and-

He finished preflight, going through it by rote, mind wandering.

A slightly more grim reason occurred to him, too. If the Exiles tried anything, they'd have several very angry Jedi Masters inside their own ship. That wasn't good for anyone involved.

Maybe he was letting Master Durron's words get to him, a little. The Jedi conference about the Warmaster's grudge and what to do going forward stuck with him. He hadn't said much, just listening in and watching his Uncle's holo. It was so strange to hear Kyp Durron preaching unity and moderation. And how much disgust flavored his tones when he talked about the Exiles!

Sure, they had a lot of problems. But Kyp made it sound like they were as deviously dark - or Dark - as Palpatine was.

Worse than the vong. Well. Maybe Kyp could let Anakin know when the Exiles blew up a couple planets and started throwing living beings into suns. Then they could compare notes about which was worse. Like Primarch Guilliman said to the Senate: he was willing to come and talk. The vong never cared to at all.

No - worse than that, when the vong pretended to want to talk, it turned out to be nothing more than a ploy to kill as many Jedi as possible.

Anakin ambled away from his XJ, pulling out his datapad and checking over his notes for what he needed to do for the day. Preflight on his X-Wing - done. Looking over two of the oldest shuttles to make sure they didn't have any chewed conduits and that the ion engines were responsive - check. Loading up the Gallofree with landspeeders and swoop bikes - check. Today was 'vehicle' day and he caught sight of Tahiri's cloud of blonde hair across the tarmac as she and Sannah and the other trainees brought down their luggage. Temerity was already in-system and coming fast, meaning tomorrow was probably it. The last day.

But to the whole 'trusting the Exiles with the whole future of the Jedi' problem - the last point was the uncomfortable 'who else'. The New Republic Navy couldn't spare a squadron to run the line and make it here. And if they did, there was a good chance the vong could track them right to Yavin anyway. Talon Karrde and his organization didn't have the centralized fleet that they used to and could pose a similar problem.

Yavin's strength was that it was, basically, unknown. The Empire had removed it from their maps shortly after the Battle of Yavin and no one had really noticed a nowhere, nothing system quietly erased from the Ministry's navicomputer updates. The local sector was quiet and sleepy and while the name 'Yavin' was pretty famous for being where the first Death Star blew up, no one really cared about the place as much as the event.

Daala found the Praxeum because she had inherited all the secret documents of the Empire. Which meant the Remnant knew where Yavin was, like the New Republic did, but it still stayed off common maps.

A lot of people thought of his Uncle as being naive, but Anakin knew that Luke had never once forgotten the tragedy of the Fall.

So for the 'who else' question. The Exiles were total unknowns. There was practically no way the vong had any infiltrators with them, at least none deep enough to matter. Their ships and their crazy 'warp' engines didn't care a single bit about hyperspace mass shadows, rendering all those cut hyperlanes totally moot.

And, when he thought about it, in a way, the Exile's own xenophobia sort of played into them being more reliable. Sure, they'd curl their lips and sneer at all the beings at the Praxeum, but they'd sooner die than work with the vong. And from the way Zalthis had seemed mortally offended at the thought of any kind of betrayal, it really showed how seriously their culture held to keeping their word.

Ironic, then, that the Exile's dislike of aliens actually kept other nonhumans safer.

"Wow, you're lightyears away," Tahiri said suddenly, right into his ear. Anakin jumped, whirling and she rocked back, beaming.

"Sorry, I was thinking." he replied, automatically.

"Well, don't. I'm the brains here. You're just the muscle."

He scratched at his head.

"Didn't you almost get eaten like, a week ago?"

"All part of a plan, obviously. What were you thinking about? Trying to think about, I mean."

Anakin nodded toward Aeonid's Thunderhawk, sitting off to the side and looking entirely conspicuous in comparison to the other, much more normal shapes of shuttles and small freighters.

"The Exiles, mostly. It seems…well, we're packing up the whole Temple and putting it up on one of their ships."

Tahiri's fuzzing energy faded a little, replaced by smoother seriousness. She pursed her lips, narrowing her green eyes and hummed.

"Yeah. That is something to think about."

Serious Tahiri was a rare thing, but it was a good look for her. It made her look older, less like a girl and more like, like a Knight. Although. She didn't entirely need to drop the toothy grin and bouncing energy to do that. Like him, she was in a jumpsuit, though sans the boots he wore. Jumpsuits were sort of just the thing they always wore, usually the matching orange or tan ones. Comfortable, durable, loaded with pockets, they were kind of the unofficial uniform of a Jedi trainee.

His fit different now. Tighter in the chest even after going up a size and he didn't have to cuff the ankles once. Tahiri's fit different too. It was a little distracting - he'd glance over at her and there'd be a different person where she was standing. Then it would click - oh right, Tahiri.

Emerald eyes flicked to ice blue.

"What?"

Oddly warm, Anakin looked back over to the Thunderhawk. "Nothing."

"Right. Anyway, Master Skywalker said it'll be fine, so - it'll be fine! Stop frowning. Your face will get stuck like that and then I'm gonna have to look at it all the time."

Anakin laughed. It was that easy. Master Skywalker says so, so it is.

The gunship was…cute? It landed next to Aeonid's Thunderhawk on hissing plumes of steam and exhaust, a far cry from smooth and silent repulsorlifts. It looked rather like someone took Thunderhawk and put it in a trash compactor, until it mashed the wings in, the fuselage down and all that pressure made it stumpy and fat. Storm Eagle, Aeonid called it, and it launched in advance of Temerity, arrowing down to Yavin 4 with two presences that Anakin recognized.

The mid-morning of Yavin 4 was humid, but with a cool breeze from the north that belied the jungle around. It had rained last night, after Anakin finished preparing Fiver and his XJ along with the other starfighters, leaving a tinge of ozone and petrichor in the air. Temerity entered the Yavin system late last night, while he'd been asleep, and even now was thundering ever-closer from almost halfway across the system.

Certainly a downside to those 'warp' drives. Anakin imagined having to sit in his XJ's cockpit for hours on end, just to get from planet to planet within the same system. Then he imagined Jaina and figured that if anything would make his sister go Dark, it might just be that.

He couldn't keep a smile from his face as the waist hatch slid open and the now familiar shapes of Astartes in full armor tromped out. The first three Anakin didn't recognize - new faces across a span of ages. Then came Zalthis, bigger than Anakin remembered - probably because of the armor. And behind him Solidian and Anakin sucked in a breath at the nasty, vivid webbing of scars that crawled across half of Solidian's bare scalp.

The first three Astartes made for Aeonid, who waited nearby in Jedi robes. Kam Solusar waited to welcome them as well, but otherwise everyone else was well occupied with final packing and preparations. Tionne had the children playing a game of combing through the Temple for any last things that might have been forgotten.

Zalthis and Solidian, though, made straight for Anakin. Beside him, Tahiri tensed a little.

Not quite sure how to greet them, Anakin was about to give a shallow bow when Zalthis thrust forward his gauntlet, hand open. Ah, that - Anakin reached to shake, but Zalthis skipped past Anakin's extended hand and grasped his forearm in a strange grip.

"Anakin," Zalthis growled, voice much deeper than he recalled. "It's good to see you again, my friend."

Belatedly, Anakin returned the gesture, clasping Zalthis' enormously armoured forearm in return. Sol inclined his head and Anakin noticed with interest the distinctly blaster shape of a cannon slung over Sol's shoulder.

"Shee-eesh," Tahiri whistled. "So it's not just Aeonid who's gigantic."

Zalthis released Anakin's arm and turned to Tahiri, peering down at the blonde who stared right back up at him.

"Tahiri, this is Zalthis. And Solidian. Zal, Sol, this is Tahiri, my best friend."

Sol inclined his head again, but Zalthis actually bowed at the waist.

"Tahiri. Anakin spoke of you."

Her emerald eyes narrowed.

"So you're the one who got to go on adventures with my best friend."

Zalthis blinked.

"That…may be an apt description?" he ventured. Solidian snorted.

Tahiri rolled her eyes.

"Well, you're here now, so that means you better get used to me. Package deal, get it? Me, him. Both of us. Got it?"

Was that actual anger in her voice? Anakin reached for her and Tahiri rebuffed him. Rebuffed him. Her presence was like a rubber wall and his gentle probe rebounded and all he felt from her was exasperation. Privacy, please, it said.

"Very well. Any friend of Anakin should be a friend of mine."

Solidian muttered something in the Exile's language, Zal snapping back a reply that caused the other Astartes to look chastened. Pushing past it, Zalthis gestured toward Aeonid and the other Astartes.

"I should introduce you to the others. Our squad, in fact."

The pride brimming from both of the Astartes was so bright Anakin half expected them to glow. A few topics of their conversations came back to him and Anakin sucked in a breath.

"You're actually Astartes now, aren't you?"

Zal's smile was not like Alebmos', where it suited the weathered old Lexicanium through incongruity. When Zalthis smiled, Anakin saw the boy behind the muscle and armor.

"We are. Captain Thiel approved us right after Obroa-skai."

He remembered Zalthis describing the process, in general terms at least. All the surgeries and implantations, all the things done to take a boy and turn them into a genetic supersoldier. Honestly, it all sounded fairly barbaric and tortuous, but the way Zalthis talked about it, it was clearly the greatest possible honor he could imagine. There was a timeline to it as well, as an initiate - trainee? - no, neophyte - moved through the process. The last step Anakin couldn't quite recall, but it was the one that let them where the full armor that Ascratus and Aeonid wore, not the cut-down and slim armor that he'd first seen Zal and Sol in.

"Wow! Congratulations, both of you. That's like becoming a Knight, isn't it?"

Zal nodded.

"As we discussed, very nearly so. Sol and I are part of Captain Thiel's company now. First Adaptive Tactics Company, Second Squad."

They joined Aeonid and Solusar and the other Astartes. Zalthis introduced each in turn, matching names to faces. The oldest looking and most weathered, who looked somewhat like he had fallen face-first into a bucket of vibroblades was named Tercinax. A blonde with tight curls and what seemed to be a perpetual sneer was Varien and the third, complected similarly to Solidian was Amalius.

"I requested Second Squad as insurance," Aeonid was saying. "There is no reason to suspect the Yuuzhan Vong, but Alebmos is an important asset."

"You're all welcome here at the Praxeum," Kam Solusar replied. "We're already in your debt for helping us on such short notice and for putting one of your ships at risk."

"No debts, Master Solusar," Aeonid denied. "You took me into your halls and offered me training without reservation. The Primarch wishes to be fast friends with the Jedi - this is acting as allies should."

Kam reached out - and up - and rested his hand on Aeonid's shoulder.

"You're helping protect our children. That's a debt, no matter what."

Tahiri muttered something under her breath. Annoyingly, she was still blocking him off so Anakin couldn't even guess at it.

"Captain, if I might be allowed, I should like time to spar with Knight Solo."

Was that amusement on Aeonid's face? Couldn't be - the Astartes never wore anything but a mask of indifference, interest and intensity.

"Granted. Second Squad, you have your orders. I trust them to be enacted without my oversight."

Varien, nominally in command, saluted with the strange interlinked thumb gesture over his chest.

"Yes, Captain. Amalius, Tercinax, with me. Little brothers, go and play with the Jedi."

Solidian bristled but Zalthis laughed.

"You haven't seen a Jedi's bladework," Zal returned. "Call it play once you do, Varien."

Later that afternoon, Aeonid sparred with Master Katarn. Anakin, sweating like a Corellian between spice and sabaac, sucked down at least half a liter of water and glared at Zalthis. The Astartes looked enervated, not even slightly worn down. Supersoldier, transhuman, bred for war, geneforged - all those silly terms Zalthis used ran through Anakin's head and for a moment, he hated each and every single one of them.

"You've improved," Zal commended.

"It's been a month," Anakin groused.

"Still, compared to the last time…" Zal trailed off.

"'Course he did," Tahiri called from outside the ring. The jungles around the Temple were dotted with spaces like this, where the undergrowth was kept at bay and open, mossy clearings were kept for sparring practice. A thin wire boundary outlined the space, a handsbreadth off the ground, not enough to trip but enough to mark where an opponent was pushed out of bounds. The limitations pushed creativity, Master Katarn assured.

"It's Anakin, of course he's better."

She'd been shouting encouragement through each of his and Zalthis' bouts. At first Anakin had been pleased, but then she started to get..strange. Not so much complimenting Anakin or encouraging him but firing shots at the Astartes. Laughing when Anakin managed to tag Zal or jeering when Anakin evaded a particularly complex gambit.

It started to feel…mean spirited.

Which wasn't the Tahiri that Anakin knew. She didn't have a cruel bone in her body. She'd never teased anyone - other than him, of course - at the Praxeum. She made friends as easy as breathing.

Retrieving a towel and mopping his face, he watched Tahiri as she watched Zal and Sol gesture and demonstrate moves off to the side with her eyes narrowed and a frown pulling at her mouth.

Everyone was changing. Everyone was getting older and like he'd realized - he'd never really been a kid. Neither had Tahiri. Like how his jumpsuit didn't fit quite the same anymore, did the Tahiri he knew…not quite fit the young woman she was becoming? He swallowed hard, pushing the nauseating idea down. No. Tahiri was Tahiri. This was…she was just supporting a friend. A best friend. There was nothing else to read into here.

Sol was next into the ring, chest bare and fatigue trousers rolled to his knees. Sannah, shirking off helping Tionne, watched with odd focus. For a change of pace, Kam Solusar had allowed them to use training 'sabers, the kind that could only do a nasty sting if it struck you. Zalthis was fascinated by the weapon and how odd it felt in his hands and it was proper payback for how brutal their very first spar had been on Samothrace, when Anakin had been totally thrown off by the all-wrong weight and feel of a practice sword.

What goes around comes around, and he'd thrashed Zalthis the first round without breaking a sweat, leaving the Astartes adopting an exaggerated glower and with rapidly fading red marks criss-crossing his body.

Sol tossed the training lightsaber from hand to hand, the pale white blade flipping and wobbling in the air.

"This feels entirely peculiar," he announced. "I can scarcely believe this is a functional weapon."

Wordlessly, Anakin gestured to the neighboring ring where Aeonid and Master Katarn were a barely visible whirlwind. Sol barked a laugh.

They eased into their spar, Anakin taking pity on Sol and not going for the 'kill' immediately. Like Zal, the weight difference confused the Astartes and for all his size and uncanny speed, he was clumsy in adapting. Even half again as tall as Anakin, Zal and Sol weren't that much taller than Lowie. He hadn't paired off against the Wookiee all that much, but Lowie wasn't the only taller-than-average Jedi in the Order. What set the Astartes apart was their speed, which still sort of took Anakin's breath away. They moved as fast as a Jedi but without a hint of the Force. No one that tall and that bulky should be that nimble.

They were just settling into a smooth back-and-forth, Anakin giving pointers and tips to Sol on proper handling of a lightsaber when a sudden burst of alarm rippled from all three Astartes. Sol paused in the middle of a strike, unnaturally quick. Anakin stumbled, off-balance and expecting to make contact.

"Zal!" Sol cried, reaching up to tap a tiny, embedded earpiece.

"I heard it, Sol," Zalthis called back. "Captain!"

Aeonid, breathing hard, shut off his training 'saber, tossing it to Master Katarn.

"Vong," the Captain hissed. "Temerity reports a squadron decanted moments ago. Just beyond the gravity influence of Yavin."

"How long until Temerity makes orbit?" Master Katarn asked.

"Half a day. Perhaps slightly more. Varien barely outpaced in the Storm Eagle."

Anakin clenched his fists.

"Then we fight," he promised.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The Measure of a Man
We Fight | Something New | True Night​

Alebmos had no time to prepare as he would like. Ideally, he could prefer similar to the chamber prepared when questioning the Jedi youths. Time and preparation were maximal for success in greater workings of the Sea of Storms and the less of each currency he could grasp in his hands raised ever greater hazards. A quiet word to Captain Thiel kept the attention of Amalius on him, Varien also, while Alebmos paced out a square within the Audience Chamber at the apex of the temple. He placed booted heel to armored toe, spanning out his chosen space in the center of the chamber. The space was airy and vast, ceiling climbing high and tall, narrow slots served as windows as tall as a battle titan. The last, glimmering lights of Yavin's primary threw withering golden bars against the eastern walls and bits of the ceiling.

History here pressed heavy. History that Alebmos knew, made certain to know, had questioned Anakin the Knight and Katarn the Master and Tionne the Historitor. Recent history of betrayal, recent history of jubilation and victory, recent history of fear and relief.

All useful emotions. Useful memories, useful moments. Time was a suggestion in the endless Sea, where passions of people long extinct could cloud the future of peoples yet to be born. Alebmos would need the right string here, the correct story to pull upon.

Yavin was ever a sanctuary for the misbegotten and downtrodden. From the ancient Sith, fleeing persecution - rightfully earned or otherwise - to the warpspawned Melodies in their hidden caverns, to the Rebel Alliance facing down a worldkiller. This was a through-line that rang loudly in the ethereal channels of the sea. The holdout, the last stand, the redoubt before the hungering horde.

It rang in him too, it stirred breezes down long and orderly city streets as Alebmos sank into meditation and Khotta opened his eyes.

In stories, when the heroes are hard-pressed, with backs pressed to the wall and the pendulum swing of fate comes down, as night draws darkness like a shroud and the light of the sun passes away, there are worn grooves into the shape of stories for what will follow.

The Fall is a potent one. The light is gone and day is done and night will reign for ever. It is a mythic end that has potent meaning indeed, especially in the turbulent waters of the Sea that Khotta was trained in. The Galaxy had felt the cut of this story as a lash swung ten and ten thousand times as human worlds foundered and vanished, foundered and vanished, as a trillion trillion lives watched the dying of the light across the span of mankind's lost empires.

Rumor had it that older cycles of the Fall rang through long aeons past, before mankind had even left Terra, before mankind had even risen from the dust. Some say this had worn the first marks of the groove that would one day catch the wheel's of humanity's ambitions. That the path of Old Night was but another turn after greater empires had bloomed and withered.

Another shape is The Stalemate. When the heroes watch and wait wary, from high walls and high tension. Where the barbarians and the foeman that swarmed in beneath the stygian gloom of coming night surround the bastions and bulwarks and keep their own peace. A tension, a pause - this is a story of fate delayed, not denied nor delivered. A story without result, whose worn track is only a means to join to a greater tale.

There is The Flight. The heroes abandon their tall walls and through craft of cunning avoid the hungry eyes of their pursuers, where they take to themselves the umbra of unknowing, where they remake the meaning of darkness into a shroud, rather than a mark of doom. The dying of the light is reimagined, from the loss of hope to the birth of opportunity, where the end of one day is the beginning of another and the drawn skirts of darkness chuckle in conspiracy with the canny makings of the heroes.

The Jedi are too bright. They weigh too heavily and their press on the fabric of the story punches through shallower, rarer chances like The Flight. Khotta's sharp eyes peer to the horizon, across flats of waving green grass in perilous midnight sun as the Soundless Sea roils above. No, with a single Jedi, perhaps his shaping could take the track of The Flight, but with so many, the story recoils and rears away. They are too many and they are too bright, they are too noble and it leaves only one possible answer.

Khotta, even if he had other Stormseers, those with greater power and deeper souls, could not turn the shape of the story to The Triumph. The Yuuzhan Vong are too many and their silent darkness is too unknown for such an end - which leaves but one path left to tread, the path he knew would be their only option when he offered his service, when he spoke of the monsoon beyond the horizon.

The Trial.

The fields beyond his walls stir in sudden breeze. Rippling grasses swirl and whip. Cheek-biting wind moans past marble-faced towers, snapping and grasping at his simple toga. Behind are the tall gates, seasoned oak, armored in bronze.

Yes, The Trial. Yavin would have no other. This world had never seen The Flight, had never tasted The Stalemate, would never suffer The Triumph. It was a moon of old death and cold hope: The Fall and the Trial were only ever his options.

So be it.

A procession emerged from the swirling plainsgrasses beyond the Lonely City. They were pilgrims, bearing entreaty on their lips. Khotta lifted a cup with three handles, shaped of ceramic. The outside is glossy and smooth, the inside lined with gold.

The first cowled figure stops before Khotta. Road-dust clings to its robe. The breeze that ripples grasses to either side of the winding, packed dirt path tug not it its clothes. Claw-tipped red fingers emerged from voluminous sleeves, grasped at its lowered cowl and tugged back the hood.

'I am MASSASSI,' spoke the fanged mouth, in a visage of crimson. Its eyes were silver mirrors. 'I came to this moon in bondage and raised tall temples below the stars.'

'You did,' Khotta agreed. The Massassi held out a hand and clenched its fist. A single drop of blood fell, smoking, catching on the edge of the cup and sliding down. The Massassi squeezed tighter, more blood welled. Khotta gently placed his free hand over the mouth of the cup. The creature scowled, stepping back, tugging up its hood once more. Then it faded back, into the approaching line of supplicants.

The next took its place and reached for concealing hood.

The monsoon was two hundred kilometers away, but only ten minutes after Alebmos excused himself for the peak of the Temple, the first growls of thunder rolled in the distance. Clouds already packed the horizon, cutting off the last light from the setting sun and eating up the starfield above. The hangar lights were cut off too, aside from some dark red hazards much deeper in around the turbolift. Everything had a bloody-tinge in the darkness. Tahiri was a dark outline, limned in red. Master Katarn was a sketchy shape in silhouette. Ikrit's reflective eyes flickered flashes of bright crimson when the angle was just right. Even the Astartes - Aeonid, Tercinax, Zal and Sol - were barely visible with their glowing eye lenses shut off and minimal status lights blinking dully. Anakin dropped his goggles back down, throwing the world into sharp-edged shapes of grey-green. Tahiri waved, her own face half hidden behind her pair of insectile, buggy lenses.

"I've contacted Streen," Kyle announced, having rejoined the rest in the hangar. "He said he'll try his best to help the storm along."

Anakin blinked - right! He'd honestly forgotten the older Master had a knack for working the weather, something he didn't use nearly as much since leaving Bespin for Yavin. Master Streen kept up his communion with animals and taught it as well. How to placate the beasts in the jungle, to divert a predator or soothe a fearful grazer. Jacen and Streen got along pretty well, that was for sure.

"The Temple's sensors are showing it's definitely on the move. Whatever Alebmos is doing up there, it's potent stuff. The first bands of rain should be here soon, and then the serious stuff will start in about an hour."

So far, the Vong seemed to be deciding on their next move. The charred corpses of the reptoids Alebmos killed steamed out on the tarmac and lumps of other dead, cut down by blasters or bolters were featureless outlines in the dark. Without the goggles, he'd be almost blind, he was sure. Smeary streaks of false color moved in the jungle but at the distance from the hangar to the edge, Anakin couldn't tell if it was Vong, scared runyips, or just the underbrush starting to move from the wind.

"Tarantula?" Aeonid asked.

"Ready. Two hundred bolts, hot and eager. Krak charges are set, to your command, Captain."

Aeonid nodded.

Anakin hated waiting. He hated sitting around, letting the Vong decide how things would go. Waiting around got people killed.

"Amalius? Varien? Any word?"

"The psyk's in his trance," came Varien's terse reply, vox-channels synched up with the Jedi's own comlinks. "There's movement, but the jungle is too dense."

"Fliers? Vehicles?"

"Nothing so far, Captain."

Anakin reached out again for the song of the jungle, reminded by the mention of Streen. He could feel the alarm of crepuscular and nocturnal critters, waking up to find strange smells and sounds in their territories. He felt a family of stintarils hissing from the upper branches of a tall Massassi tree, bobbing threat displays to interlopers. The jungle was irritated, but he didn't feel anything grander. No pockets of blind animal panic.

"I don't sense anything either. It must still all just be warriors and reptoids."

Aeonid's helmet shifted, the Astartes rotating slightly at the waist to peer out of the hangar.

"The vessels Temerity's long range auspex detected entering the atmosphere were large enough for their vehicle-analogues." The Force-sensitive Astartes growled. "They may be in reserve, not present at all, or deemed too dangerous. The Vong clearly want you all alive. Perhaps their creatures cannot be trusted to be so delicate."

Anakin thought of coming face-to-face with a Rakamat on Obroa-skai. Yeah, he could definitely agree with that.

"Captain, there were nonlethal options that Sol and I saw on Fondor…" Zalthis offered.

"Go on."

"Gunship-analogues. The locals called them 'delts', or 'deltas'. We did not encounter them directly, but Lieutenant Optarch said that in one area, they covered an entire arterial in webbing that could pin down a Russ."

Kyle's concern resounded in the Force.

"They could web up the whole Temple like that."

"Then we leave through the caves and blow the charges," Tercinax grunted.

"What about the freighters?" Tahiri cut in. She sidled up closer to Anakin, hand slipping into his. "Do you think they could catch one of those and pull it down?"

Zalthis and Solidian's helmets turned toward each other.

"Possible enough," Solidian allowed. "It's a threat, at the least."

Unpleasant memories of purella on Yavin, creatures on Dagobah and Tatooine rose in his thoughts. Tahiri was thinking the same, shared recollections reinforcing each other. It's always webs and spiders, he sighed. Next to him, Tahiri bit back a quiet little giggle.

"That'll be priority for any of your big guns," Kyle said. "Although…the monsoon that Alebmos is bringing it, that should keep any fliers grounded, shouldn't it?"

Given how the distant thunder was now almost a permanent, rolling and bassy growl to the east, Anakin certainly didn't want to imagine chancing that kind of weather in anything that weighed less than a few thousand tons. Even Jaina wouldn't want to risk that kind of turbulence, and that was before counting the lightning.

"Finally - your ship? Any news?"

"Vox is still clear and at last check in, Temerity's arrival remains the same. They are at full realspace extension drive, as fast as they can allow and still be able to slow in time to make orbit."

Master Katarn nodded toward Aeonid.

"Then let's all have one last bite to eat. We'll need the energy. It's going to be a long night."

Anakin hurriedly stuffed the foil wrap of his ration bar into a spare pocket, leaping to his feet before the echoing thump-crack of a mass reactive faded. Simultaneously, all their comms lit.

"Movement, chazrach. Warriors sighted, just within the treeline."

Another thump-crack, then another. Amalius and Varien were making their snipers talk, up on top of the Temple. A heavy, hard weight thumped into Anakin's shoulder and almost unstrung his knees. Zalthis helped him keep his feet, the Astartes' chagrin making Anakin smile.

"Ah, apologies-"

Anakin rolled his shoulder, shaking out the limb.

"Just hit the Vong as hard," he joked.

"You've my word. Before the night's over, we'll fight side by side again."

"Wish we didn't have to. But it's probably gonna be soon."

The muted Force presence of the chazrach, even without the two Astartes watching from above, would've warned Anakin and the others regardless. He could feel their staticky souls on the move. Their minds felt a bit clearer than he remembered of the chazrach on Obroa-skai. Less muffled and a little sharper, enough so that he could actually get a vague sense of primal excitement and anticipation building.

Scrambling up the makeshift barricade of leftover supply crates, shuttles and other sundries, some dating back to the Rebel Alliance, Anakin elbow crawled closer to Tahiri, already up there. She'd passed on Master Katarn's recommendation to have a ration bar or two. Through their connection, he could feel her nerves almost overpowering her. She was breathing a cycle, a simple box technique they learned as very young trainees. Zalthis resumed his post on top an old Lambda shuttle's fuselage, the shuttle itself mostly just a stripped hull these days.

Green-grey outlines of chazrach scuttled around, rangefinder on the goggles saying they were way too far away for Anakin's middling aim with a blaster. Great, they had more of those clamshell shaped shields to hide behind. They formed up into groups, chattering and snapping at each other occasionally, before arranging into tight clusters, vanishing behind the broad barricades. Each was about the height of a Vong warrior and just as wide and looked for all the world like a seashell from the coral reefs of Dac.

"Krak grenades, Captain?" Tercinax asked over comm.

"Hold for now."

"Affirmative."

Each squad inched closer, lifting, carrying their shells, then plopping them back down after a few meters. They were so slow. It couldn't be a serious attempt to get into the Temple, could it? He could sense dozens, maybe hundreds of the reptoids out there, but once they got into range of the Exile's Tarantula they would be scythed down like bramblewheat by an ag droid.

"This cannot be serious," Aeonid voiced, mimicking Anakin's thoughts.

Ikrit, keeping close to Anakin and Tahiri, narrowed lambent eyes. "Any of us Jedi might use those seashells as plows to push the chazrach away. Surely they must know this?"

Anakin imagined catching one of those shell-barricades with a fist of telekinetically driven air, or maybe a torn-up shard of duracrete tarmac. Ikrit was right, the reptoids were so tightly packed up behind each that they could crush or at the least hurl back entire squads at a time.

"Still no fliers. Auspex remains clear of vehicle-mass movement."

Everyone felt tense. Anakin chewed on his lip.

Not even any bugs yet. Or warriors, but up top Amalius and Varien were keeping an eye out for the same trick of flanking around the Temple.

The dull red hazard lights flickered. Thunder cracked and boomed closer, lightning close enough now to shock out sudden shadows and white light outside the hangar. Each lightning flash briefly whited out Anakin's goggles, reducing them to a sleet of static before they refreshed. The jungle was moving, trees starting to creak back and forth as the wind picked up.

The Force felt curdled - not rotten but thick, strangely flowing. Up above, where Alebmos worked his talents, a cold pressure bloomed in Anakin's senses.

"Hm?" he asked, glancing to Tahiri. She raised an eyebrow, shaking her head. He thought he heard her whisper something.

More chazrach squads moved and arranged themselves, overlapping their seashells. They were easily in range for the Astartes, but none moved for their bolters yet. Maybe a third of the way across the tarmac outside. Something creaked, deep in the Temple, like the roots of the old construct groaned.

"This is unpleasant," Ikrit muttered, quietly enough Anakin figured it wasn't meant for anyone else to hear.

"Master Katarn? Should I trigger the droids?" Anakin asked.

"Might as well."

Anakin retrieved his jury-rigged control device from a pocket, found the toggle and flipped it.

Immediately, from their spots on the upper tiers of the Temple, ASP droids with hastily rigged up blasters attached along with old sentry turrets opened fire with prejudice. Red darts ripped down and the chazrach dropped their shells and hunkered back. At least the goggles had some good quality compensators - the bright blaster bolts were heavily filtered so Anakin wasn't blinded by the sudden blitz. Little scorched craters punched into the tarmac, pinged off the seashell barricades.

Solidian joined in with a shout, raking his rotary blaster left, right, left. Bright blue hyphens joined the stuttering crimson ones and Solidian's heavier blaster punched craters and holes into the seashells. Chazrach started to get injured. Die. Their little, flickering candle presences winked out.

The red hazard lights behind them flickered again. Was the Temple losing power? The monsoon wasn't even hear yet, still just the outer bands of it. Maybe the wiring was having trouble. Anakin patted Tahiri on the back, pushing the warmest, surest confidence he could imagine toward her, then slid back down to land, lightly, on his feet.

Behind them, at the far back end of the hangar, the turbolift doors were open. The access point down into the caves beneath the Temple, where Master Cilghal had been recovering and Jedi often liked to meditate or relax in the warm, geothermal waters.

For a long moment he was uncomprehending. He reached up and yanked off his goggles. They were still there. A dozen. Two dozen. More. Tall, rangy, muscular. Rounded armor.

Yuuzhan Vong.

Behind them.

He didn't have to say a word. Master Katarn, Ikrit and Aeonid Thiel - not to mention Tahiri - felt his abject shock.

One of the tall warriors moved - right past one of the wide hazard lights, momentarily blocking out the dull red glow.

The moment hung - frozen and paused.

"Jeedai!" one of them - Anakin couldn't tell which - bellowed. "Surrender!"

"You'll never have our children," Ikrit hissed back. The little Kushiban surged in the Force and a short lightsaber hissed to life, hanging in the air before him. Anakin had never seen his Master use his lightsaber, not once.

"Reoriented," Tercinax murmured over comms.

"Kill them," Aeonid commanded.

The Tarantula, deafening, roared. The Yuuzhan Vong howled. Anakin found his 'saber in his hand, azure and spitting, and he flung himself at the Vong.

Bolts ripped overhead, spitting out from the Tarantula, from Zalthis, from Aeonid and Tercinax.

Vong were struck over and over, juddering and dancing and ripping apart under the barrage. Solidian's blaster joined in. Blaster shots reflected off vonduun armor.

Anakin ducked, a thudbug whickering past his head. He batted down two razorbugs.

A warrior loomed up, backlit in red. Anakin slashed, crosswise. His 'saber didn't penetrate, but smoked a line across his vonduun armor. His Force-augmented strength staggered the Vong backward, then his head vanished in a welter of gore. Anakin was turning already. Four paws thumped off his side and Ikrit flashed past, just a glimpse of ruddy-brown and black-tipped fur, leading with short-bladed green lightsaber.

Master Katarn waded in against three Vong, his lightsaber a spinning net of energy that batted away hissing amphistaves, boiled venom into acrid smoke and put one on the ground immediately, arms truncated at the elbow.

Another warrior was flung back, the Force shouting around Aeonid as the Astartes thrust a ceramite palm outward. Anakin's trick of using the Force indirectly, to manipulate air instead was spreading.

The last of them, Zal finished with a precise shot to the throat. Vong bodies were strewn around the turbolift: scorched and chopped and dismembered. Black blood steamed, drooling into wide pools.

He felt Tahiri's nausea.

She'd been too slow in reacting. Too slow in joining in and now she came over on wobbly legs, eyes wide and mouth open.

"How did they know? How'd they know?"

Aeonid heaved a sigh.

"The blame is mine. Malik Carr's assault on Macragge's Honour demonstrated numerous biots. Many are being categorized still, but there were suspicions that several acted as living auspex. As sensors, to peer through hull…or stone. I should have remembered from the prepared brief."

Master Katarn shook his head in negation.

"No, I gambled too hard on it too. It's not just on you, Aeonid. We keep underestimating the Vong and it keeps costing us. I'll warn Kam - if the Vong are in the caves, they might make it far enough to find the transports, even if they're miles from here."

Aeonid gestured, waving Tercinax over. The open doors of the turbolift - and the Vong were willing to use a turbolift to get up from the caves - yawned ominously.

"I can detonate the charges and drop the car to the depths."

"This is your Temple, Master Katarn. Your order."

Kyle grimaced. "I hate to do it, since that was our out…but they know about it now. The monsoon will have to give us enough cover to move through the jungle to another entrance. The Blueleaf Temple?"

Aeonid pressed fingers to the side of his helm.

"Varien? Status on Alebmos?"

"An icicle, Captain. Hasn't moved at all."

"Very well. As soon as he returns to himself, tell him to contact me. We cannot relocate until his…ritual is over."

Varien's reply was wordless but Anakin felt, even through the Temple, the Astartes' disgust. They retreated back from the turbolift. Master Katarn and Ikrit drew on the Force, shaping barriers of telekinetic energy like blast shields. Tercinax flipped the cover of a small, handheld trigger system off, then clicked. The report was loud, but not as loud as Anakin expected. Tahiri yelped and they all listened as several tonnes of metal, cut loose, rattled and crashed and banged down the turbolift shaft.

Their second gambit failed, the Vong took another moment to collect themselves. The chazrach kept their gains, behind overlapping seashell barricades. Blaster bolts still flicked down from higher up the Temple as the simple-brained ASPs and PKs caught movement and ineffectually tried to snipe it down. To Anakin's eye, it was pretty convincing the kind of 'clumsy' aiming a bunch of Jedi kids would have.

The storm worsened faster than anything Anakin had ever seen. Rain went from a few drops to a drizzle to a downpour to a deluge. Hail rattled and bounced across the landing field. Wind howled and he heard branches creaking and snapping off in the jungle. The nocturnal life of Yavin 4 buried themselves deep in burrows and trembled in terror.

"And we're supposed to go out in that?" Tahiri lay with her face cupped in her hands, propped up on her elbows. Her feet kicked in the air behind her.

She was still shaken by the slaughter by the turbolift. She couldn't hide that, not from him.

As soon as she said it, a massive, hundred foot Massassi tree by the edge of the jungle gave way. Wood burst and groaned, louder than the endless thunder as it majestically, terribly toppled.

"Oh. Awesome." she muttered.

It wasn't a storm anymore. It was the fury of nature itself, riled to hostile life and lashing out at anything and everything. The chazrach had to retreat off the open landing field or else risk getting very literally blown away by the shrieking winds. Zalthis claimed his auspex read them as a hundred kilometer an hour, at least. Rain fell in sheets that blinded them to everything beyond the hangar.

Which was flooding, slowly.

"This…was not what I was expecting, you know," Kyle offered, conversationally.

Aeonid shrugged.

"I've little experience with psykery. But Alebmos comes well-recommended from Codicier Rubio and his service is longer than most others."

"I mean..no one can fight in that. Couldn't we just wait out the night in the Temple?"

No one was sure about that.

The answer to Tahiri's question was, in a word: no.

"Biots, of some sort." Amalius gave the first warning.

"Size?"

"I cannot tell, Captain. The storm is eroding all auspex clarity. Large. Not 'rakamat' class, but significant."

Aeonid and Kyle fell into debate on the next steps. Aeonid felt that the initial attacks were from outriders, here to secure the Temple and prevent the Jedi from escaping while heavier forces caught up. Kyle argued that regardless of the biots, the Vong were putting in effort to capture Jedi, not kill them, so they didn't need to worry about plasma bombardments or anything like that. But the new presence underneath them had both the blademaster and the Captain uneasy. The Vong seemed to pull new biots out of thin air whenever they needed them.

Everyone kept looking to the still-smoking doors of the turbolift. There could be monsters down there, chewing their way right up and they'd never know it until the Vong were right on top of them, again.

The Temple was feeling less and less like a fortress and more and more like a trap.

"Master Ikrit? What do you think?"

"I think that the time is coming when we must act, and not react."

That was the problem on every level of the war, wasn't it? Reacting, never acting. The Vong attacked Sernpidal - they reacted by trying to evacuate. The Vong attacked Dantooine, they reacted by retreating. The Vong attacked Obroa-skai and Ithor and Fondor and Duro and all the others, and the New Republic reacted, reacted, reacted. Reacted by retreating, reacted by coming up with plans for counterattacks that relied on the Vong acting first. Reacted by withdrawing from whole sectors, reacted by arguing in the Senate, reacted by standing by and watching Jedi be sold out.

Even the Exiles were only reacting. Their world got attacked, and they just reacted by defending it and finally deciding to make a real treaty with the Senate.

No one was acting. No one was being proactive. The Vong had all the momentum. They got to decide where the fights were. They got to decide who died, who lived.

Master Ikrit's words were heavy in a way that Anakin felt meant more than just about the next thirty minutes, hour, day. His Master meant more than the immediate and it settled like a stone in Anakin's gut.

Even he had just been reactive. Shutting down Centerpoint. Reacting to the danger.

Right now. Evacuating the Temple, they were still letting the Yuuzhan Vong decide it all. The Praxeum was in danger, so all they could do was run away. No one even considered - "What if we could defend Yavin?"

Anakin cleared his throat, tapped his comm.

"What if we…went on the offensive?"

"In that?" Tahiri exclaimed.

"Well, we have them focused on the Temple like we wanted, but now we know they're down in the caves too. They've got biots coming and who knows what those are going to be, but maybe we shouldn't just wait around for them? Zal, on Fondor - you were telling me earlier that you and Solidian went after the Vong commander. And it worked, didn't it?"

"It did. Their captain, Tshek Ulm was leading a killteam after the very shields of Fondor. Had we not…the battle might have ended very differently."

"So let's go after them. Master Katarn, we can do a battle meld - like Jacen and Jaina and I did at Dubrillion."

Growing more sure, Anakin outlined the idea. Aeonid was probably the best of all the Jedi - Force-sensitives - present at telepathy, which meant he could definitely act like the anchor the way Jacen had. Aeonid was able to share words, clear words right into other being's minds. That was something that even Anakin and Tahiri couldn't reliably do, for all they had their own bond. The Astartes' mind was like a holocomm broadcaster. With Aeonid as the anchor, Anakin's experience with his siblings and Master Ikrit and Katarn's experience, they could forge a meld for everyone here. Astartes' auspex was blinded by the storm? They could share senses. Comms go down? They could share thoughts.

It would work. And they could make it across the plateau to the branch caves where the rest of the Praxeum waited, get aboard, and blast right off when morning broke.

"I hate the idea of going out in the middle of the night," Kyle admitted. "It's an awful situation. But the storm will stop them from using any bugs, it'll destroy their cohesion, and with a battle meld, we'll have a huge edge." He rubbed at his neck. "And as much as I hate the idea of tramping around the jungle in the middle of the night - in a monsoon - I hate the idea of getting pinned between Vong coming up from underneath us and coming from outside too."

"I will not have another in my head!" Solidian retorted, sounding more surprised than disgusted. Then he started, entire body stiffening as his helm snapped around toward Aeonid. Anakin bit back a laugh - he'd felt the ripple of Force as Aeonid spoke directly to Sol.

"You'll do as I command, if you're to serve in my Company. Adaptive Tactics, Solidian. Remark 101.x."

"'What wins the fight is what wins the fight.'"

"It should be emblazoned on our pauldrons," Aeonid said drily. "Perhaps I'll petition the Praetorium to accept it as our emblem. Varien? Amalius? You have heard it all?"

"Yes, Captain," Varien replied, voice tight. "I will obey your commands. The psyker, also, wakes."

"The 'psyker' does," Alebmos' rich voice joined in. "I will continue to shape the storm, but I have done all I can from here."

"Join us, then. We are quitting the Temple. We cannot bank on the 'mercy' of the Vong or their inclination toward capture instead of kill. Anakin has the right of it. They are off-balance. Practical: we keep them off-balance."

+By your guidance, Knight Solo+

Anakin closed his eyes, took a deep breath and sank into memories. The way Jacen and Jaina had reached out to him, pulling him into their existing twin bond. Seeing through their eyes, seeing his own TIE from Jacen's view while at the same time watching Jaina with his own eyes. Moving as one, across three bodies. Seeing an asteroid tumbling in from Jaina's eyes, moving Jacen's hands on the stick to move out of the way for Anakin to fire a burst of laser fire and shatter the rock.

He dredged up the sensation and shared it. Aeonid's regard was firm, like a teacher peering over his shoulder, looking at his notes.

One by one, presences lit in the meld. Tahiri burst in, golden fire. Kyle slotted into place with a wink over durasteel discipline. Ikrit was silver warmth. Zalthis joined most readily of the others, something like wide-eyed surprise as the Force touched him. Then Amalius, who felt as calm as a lazy river. Tercinax, with a sensation like wry amusement. Solidian, an embodiment of exasperation. Varien prickled, thorny, barely tangible at all. And Alebmos -

+Better that I remain without.+ the Lexicanium spoke as a whisper, not in the mind, but at each of their ears. +I will speak through the wind and continue to shape the Storm.+

Aeonid didn't argue, so Anakin trusted it was probably for the best. Given the churning, grumbling knot of Force around the psyker, he couldn't say he really wanted a sense of what was going on in there.

Especially once the three Astartes joined the rest in the hangar, descending down the secondary turbolift.

The psyker was encrusted in frost, caking his armor in creaking and cracking sheets of ice. His eyes were glowing white-hot with actual little licking tendrils of flames at the corners. Around his neck, his torc was the dull red of hot metal.

Definitely for the best to not have whatever was going on in there in the meld.

Tahiri agreed and Tercinax shaped out the gravelly equivalent of an Astartesian chuckle at Anakin's unspoken thought.

Oh. Right. Meld.

After a minute, Anakin was soaked. His jumpsuit clung to him, bunching up uncomfortably under his arms and at his crotch, his boots filled with water. The rain wasn't coming down in drops, it was coming down in sheets. Waves! After three minutes, he threw his goggles away. The lenses were fogging, the seal at his forehead wasn't enough to keep them from filling with water and he couldn't even see his own feet. He drew on the Force, taking a deep breath and focusing it behind his eyes, like the trick Daeshara'cor had taught him. The Twi'lek said it could make all the difference in deep caves like on Ryloth or in smoky, dark alleys where recognizing the shadow of a blaster was the difference between life and death.

The jungle took on some more definition - more grayscale, color draining away.

Somehow, the hurricane winds moved around each of them. The howling noise wasn't any less, but falling branches fell to the sides. Trees that uprooted swung away. Hail crashed down everywhere they weren't. It was cold, it was wet, it was awful, but the storm welcomed them into it.

Blades lit. Green, blue. Power fields crackled.

Beneath a monsoon's swirling clouds, true night settled in full.

Even with the storm favoring them, visibility was minimal at best. They moved by sense of each other, spread out through the jungle. It was impossible to stick together completely, even with the meld. Constant lightning showed snapshots every few seconds. The Astartes were better off with their helmets and Anakin wondered who he had to bribe to get a suit of that armor for himself.

But a Jedi had far greater senses than just their eyes. Ikrit shared his connection with the flora and fauna. Where vines released chemical markers as they were cut. Where a soggy den of marsupials felt sudden fear as heavy feet trod overhead. And Daeshara'cor's trick worked well enough.

Lightning flashed. Anakin gasped, ducking. A hulking Yuuzhan Vong stumbled past, overreaching, and the amphistaff that should've taken the top six inches of Anakin's head instead slashed clean through a young sapling. The warrior hissed and recovered, amphistaff spinning around to an easy guard.

"Jeedai," he shouted, over the din of the storm.

"Me," Anakin agreed grimly. They came together, flashing blue blade and dark, rainslick amphistaff. Water flashed to vapor. The living blade lashed, suddenly serpentine and loose. He hooked it with his lightsaber, snapping the whip wide and to the left. Fangs flashed, inches from his nose. Before it could stiffen again, Anakin braced, kicked out at Yavin as he thrust out his hand at the Vong. Air compressed by telekinesis stumbled the tall alien, arms whirling wide - another blade, blue like his, jabbed up into vulnerable armpit. The warrior fell without a sound.

Tahiri heaved in deep breaths, her lightsabre outstretched. Anakin squinted against the deluge. Puffs of steam hissed from both their lightsabers.

Her distress was physical, muddied with elation and horror and his friend didn't have to shout the words over the storm.

She'd never killed anyone before.

He cut his own blade out. Tahiri's 'sabre stayed lit, throwing hard shadows across her blank expression. Her jumpsuit was as soaked as his, her hair matted down in tangled, ropey strings across her cheeks and neck. Common sense would say to tie it up and back, but Tahiri…was Tahiri.

Gently, he held out his hand. Her cold, small fingers wedged between his.

It's okay.

Another hiss-crack and the jungle was dark shapes over darker shapes again. Anakin pulled her close, close enough that she pressed against him, faces inches apart.

"We have to keep moving!"

Water ramped off her nose, spraying out like a faucet from her chin. It was torrential. Tahiri nodded.

"Master Katarn is calling us that way!" He pointed, jerking his head westward. Though the meld was far less rich in feeling than what he and Tahiri shared, every day, it was enough for clear impressions and strong, strong senses of direction. He could feel Ikrit and Kyle like bright bonfires, just like he could feel Aeonid Thiel and Zal and the other Astartes. They were muted and managed by Aeonid, but as they moved through the jungle, they could keep track even in the suffocating underbrush and roaring storm.

Anakin pulled Tahiri along and she let him, trusting him to lead. She'd follow.

Time didn't make sense. Everything was now. Everything is now. He feels the impact jolt up Master Katarn's arm as he drives his lightsaber through the abdominal plates of a warrior. The sensations from the Astartes are confusing and give him headaches. They move too fast, their eyes dart around so quickly that all the Jedi decided, almost immediately, not to try sharing senses. They group up unconsciously. Kyle and Aeonid, Master and sort-of-apprentice, along with Tercinax. Alebmos, Varien and Amalius. Zalthis and Solidian, who try to keep up with Anakin, Tahiri and Ikrit.

Alebmos can't fight as much; he's keeping his focus on the storm. It's not an accident that everything works. He didn't just pull the monsoon. He tells them - he is riding the storm. He is the storm and it answers to him. The winds that shriek along as fast as a landspeeder divert around them because Alebmos wills it. Hail avoids them, lightning strikes unerringly to disorient only their foes, because the storm knows them. It calls them friend.

Alebmos is the conduit, but Yavin fights for the Jedi.

The years that Luke built his Praxeum, so short against the scale of all space and time, left indelible imprints. Purging Exar Kun's evil, breaking the chains of the Massassi children's souls. Banishing the slivilith monster, excavating and removing Sith artifacts.

Filling the Great Temple with laughter and children's voices.

Alebmos only had to ask.

Yavin fights with them.

The Jeedai sorcery makes the air thick. He pants through his mouth, grateful to the blessings of the Shapers for his enclosing armor. Rain sluices from thick and redoubtable plates, most of his body blessedly dry under the embrace of his bonded vonduun. Its muscles are his muscles, its sinews his sinews - its life, his life. Ulvuarg Qesh lopes through a storm he has never believed could be such a thing, a storm like ancient tales that the priests weave. The last turning, he lived within the yorik coral spaces of Cool Deeps and before that, the stale ways of Ulnurem Raas.

To step beneath a wide open sky unmanned him. He took a moment to muster himself before surreptitiously letting blood from his palm in entreaty to the Slayer to overlook his moment of weakness. There was so much space! So much overwhelming and endless space. Life filled his lungs, the seductive scent of living…everything.

Then the Jeedai worked their sorceries. He saw chazrach boil and burst beneath cruel and evil lightning, before the world itself was perverted and subjugated by conjurations. This storm could be no natural thing, for all Ulvuarg had no experience with such things.

The wind screamed his name, over and over. The rain fell at angles that drove it, always, at the nictitating lenses of his helm, to blind him over and again. Hailstones left his back sore and bruised beneath his plate, his vonduun shifting in irritation.

And true lightning struck like lashes of amphistaff. One of his very brothers wailed in agony, caught aflame and slain. Calamitous noise defeaned Ulvuarg for a time, muting the fury of the storm.

The Jeedai have done this. They have taken a beautiful world and cursed it. Will it always be this way? He thinks it cannot. Jeedai cannot have that power. They cannot have broken a world so thoroughly. Yet it feels like the end, like the ground might heave and split and cast him away into the hungry void which is so close.

He slashes vines aside, he shoulders through brambles and thorns scratch without mark on his vonduun. Perhaps, he thinks - perhaps this is not the Jeedai. Perhaps this is the punishment of the Gods themselves, for the Jeedai's own defiance against the willing and appropriate submission offered by Commander Harmae. Yes - this rings truer. The Gods know the Chosen People can withstand these trials with ease, so they make the living world itself groan and resent the heresies of the Jeedai that taint its skin so.

Yes, Ulvuarg thinks, it is the Gods' will.

He's not sure who is more surprised. Him, Tahiri, or the five warriors they literally tripped over. Anakin rebounded hard off something unmoving and expected a tree, only for a flash of lightning to snatch silver light over the rounded shape of armor he knew and hated all too well.

Tahiri fights with him, back-to-back. Within the meld, their connection is more than it has ever been. He sees through her eyes. A warrior with amphistaff in double handed grip strikes downward, to cleave her from head to toe. She isn't strong enough to parry - Anakin knows this and so does she, because Anakin has tested his strength against warriors and Tahiri hasn't, so she borrows his experience. Her lightsaber flicks and diverts, not deflects, using leverage and the motion of the warrior to shift his center.

And Anakin is there, tip of his own 'saber punching between chestplate and helm.

Through his eyes, Tahiri sees a warrior rip bugs from a bandolier. Anakin doesn't - he's focused on the dying warrior impaled through the throat. She catches the razor bug, then the thud bug.

Thanks. You're welcome. Any time.

They must have run into a larger patrol. Five warriors cut down to three, but then make more friends. Chazrach too. They feel them, at least, the little reptoids shivering and freezing. The hail has gotten worse, the rain turning into sleet. It's going to wreak havoc on the jungle. Anakin has never seen a storm like this, not in all his time on Yavin. Sleet! Hail!

Behind you.

In front of you.

I see.

Watch it-

Close!

Tahiri's stomach jumps and twists each time a chazrach dies. She's killing people. Beings. They want to kill her, but they're beings. She's killed things, never beings.

It still hurts her.

Anakin hopes it never stops hurting her.

Ikrit sees what they see. His Master is there, looking through Anakin's eyes. He sees warriors and he sees the razorbug that slices across Anakin's cheek.

It's shallow, just a cut. Blood mixes with rain.

Anakin! Tahiri!

+Hold,+ Aeonid commands. Commands.

He rips down a half-shattered Massassi. The upper half is gone, splintered away from a lightning strike. Anakin uproots it, because Tahiri has already taken its weight. She spins it, like a top. Anakin provides the fulcrum. Warriors shout as they are knocked aside, bruised but unbroken. That's okay. A warrior struggling back to his feet receives the root-ball, face first, at several dozen kilometers per hour.

Tahiri grabs hail from the air. Anakin aims for her as she whirls them in orbit around them both. Warriors circle them. The clash has left a clearing. Monoedged amphistaves and sputtering lightsabers leave nothing in their wake.

Anakin has fought a hundred warriors or more. Obroa-skai was a gauntlet. A few, each time, with Ascratus and Uncle Luke and Face and Zal and the others.

He has Tahiri. There are a dozen warriors.

Is it enough?

Do you need anyone besides me?

Do you need someone beside you?

Always. Back to back. Side to side.

Green and blue. Blue and green.

"Jeedai," spits a warrior. "You fight well. You are honor. Submit. Submit!"

His Basic is atrocious. Tahiri laughs. Even now, especially now, it makes him smile. It's that easy.

Taloned hands stroke bandoliers of bugs. They can't fly far in this insane wind and rain. They don't need to. The warriors are just outside reach of their 'sabers. Close enough.

"Tahiri, they keep asking us to surrender," Anakin says. He hears her words through her ears.

"That's not fair," she agrees.

"Hey, you guys," she speaks Anakin's words. "Maybe you should submit."

The warriors don't like that.

Anakin doesn't care. Neither does Tahiri.

The Force sings in them both. Green light takes a head. Blue light pins through an armpit. Amphitaves whip, whirl, weave, wrack. Fangs flash. Tahiri gries out, red line crossing her collarbone. He feels it. Anakin winces, tip of a stave punching through the meat of his outer thigh. A razorbug, blown off course, evades his 'saber. It takes the tip of his ear. Tahiri gasps at the pain of it.

Fangs flash. He sees them coming, he hooks an arm around her and twists her aside. Two sharp pinches. Fever-fire rushes into his bicep, ripping into the muscle - Tahiri wraps him in the Force and he aims. Blood spurts as if the amphistaff struck an artery. The venom squirts out with it.

The burn lingers, damage already done to tissues. His arm trembles.

This won't be it.

Because Anakin sees himself, he sees Tahiri. He sees them both, because he looks through his Master's gold-red eyes.

Ikrit springs into the clearing, twisting his body mid-flight. All four paws strike a Yuuzhan Vong at the back of his helm. Ikrit's 'saber, held unerring in the Force, spikes through the same warrior's eye. Before he falls, Ikrit uncoils into a leap that propels him up, past a thud bug, another. He redirects against the bole of a Massassi tree as large around as an airspeeder. Anakin's Master is a blur of soaked, matted green-black fur. His ears are pinned back, cutting teeth bared. Another warrior falls.

Every surface is a springboard. Ikrit is never not in motion. The Jedi Master karoms as if gravity is a suggestion. Kushiban are not hunters, naturally, in their ancient state. Given option, Kushiban prefer a state of peace and quiet. Anakin knows all this. He knows because Ikrit has told him of his kind.

But they are small beings in a large, large world. There were always predators. And Kushiban always defended their own.

Through Anakin's eyes, through Tahiri's eyes, Ikrit aims each leap. His back legs, powerful and enough to boost even a non-Jedi Kushiban to the height of a tall human, ring with the Force.

A warrior leaps for Tahiri, hand outstretched. She doesn't react. Anakin sees him coming, but stays focused on his current duel. Ikrit bowls the warrior over. They feel momentary pain from the Master as he strikes the far larger being far harder than he should. It's enough, knocking the warrior aside. The warrior doesn't rise as Ikrit springs away again.

Of course it was enough. They are Jedi. They have each other. They're Jedi.

Anakin laughs. Tahiri laughs. Is this what it's like? Is this what it was like? For heroes like Nomi Sunrider and Obi-Wan?

How everything works. Why do they need to worry about sensing the Vong, when they can see everything?

The Force sings in him. In Tahiri. In Ikrit.

Kyle's surprise is palpable. The trainees - Anakin senses them too. He gives a nod to Kam and Tionne Solusar. To Master Cilghal and Streen, who is outside the caves, head upturned to the storm. He's the one calling the lightning, Anakin realizes. He's helping Alebmos.

It's beautiful. It's-

Ikrit rebounds. A warrior hurls his amphistaff like a spear, to impale Anakin. Tahiri sees it and knocks it spinning aside, where the biot relaxes, serpentine, and vanishes in the underbrush. Ikrit pulls his lightsaber to him, aimed like a jouster-

The warrior catches Ikrit by the neck.

Anakin stumbles.

Tahiri flails, off balance.

Black, taloned fingers wrap around fur that shimmers silver. Wide blue eyes look up at the blank vonduun mask. Anakin can feel his windpipe collapse. He can feel the strain on his vertebrae. Tahiri gags, hands flying to her neck.

Master-

Boom.

The warrior tumbles, missing most of his chest.

+Not yet,+ Alebmos whispers into all their ears.

Zalthis lowers his bolt pistol.

"I heard," the young Astartes offers, as greeting.

Ikrit rises to unsteady feet.

The music is gone. Anakin is soaked and gasping, panting hard for breath. Warriors litter the forest floor around them. Tahiri doesn't realize she's crying. The tears mix with rain on her cheeks. She presses a hand to her collarbone, where blood still leaks from a cut. They're aching. His bicep is throbbing from venom. He has bruises all over.

Ikrit looks lost.

"How long?" The Kushiban manages to ask, voice trembling.

"It'll be dawn soon enough. Captain Thiel says the eye will be overhead soon."

Dawn. Soon. Time trickled back into motion.

Zal's words sounded true. The wind was lessening. The rain was getting lighter. They would be in the eye, soon.

Ulvuarg Qesh sneers down at piled corpses. A clearing was ripped into the jungle, full of cut vines and shredded undergrowth. Warriors are left where they lie, armor scorched and charred and seared. Jeedai weapons, like the one the Warmaster broke.

If this was the fury of the Gods, why did the Jeedai benefit so greatly?

They had to look a real sight. Master Katarn had a compression wrap around his chest, courtesy of Aeonid's medical supply. The glow in Alebmos' eyes had guttered down to a dull flame and his torc was more of a dull crimson instead of cherry red. Ikrit perched on Anakin's shoulder, like old times, but the Kushiban looked…well, like a drowned Kushiban, with how soaked he was. Tahiri clawed her tangled hair back into a ragged mane that fell down her back. All of the Astartes bore some kind of battle-damage, from plates with pieces missing from keen-edged amphistaves to chipped divots carved out by denser thudbugs. In Varien's case, one pauldron was bare silver metal, a near-miss from a Vong hand-held plasma searing away the paint.

But no one died. No one was even really injured: Master Katarn had suffered two cracked ribs and was the worst.

Ikrit cleared his bruised throat again.

Still, compared to the Solusars in their clean jumpsuits and Cilghal in her tunic, they had to look a serious mess. Soaked and bloody, most of it ichor from Vong. At least for the Astartes, their armor washed off easy.

There were some serious unmentionables stuck to Anakin's jumpsuit. Bolters were not clean kills.

Tionne broke down crying, pressing her hands to her mouth.

"You're all okay! We could feel you fighting all night. All of you…" she trailed off.

"And we weren't followed," Kyle assured them.

Aeonid agreed. "With the eye overhead and the storm calmed, auspex confirmed no motion tracks behind us. We are clear, for now."

Kam's gaze was sharp as he took in each one of them.

"Temerity? Are we clear to launch?"

Aeonid shook his head.

"Not quite yet. Vox is out from the storm - I will need to relay through the Thunderhawk. At last communication, the shipmaster told me he plans an initial pass to draw attention and attrit the Vong squadron. He will loop the moon, drawing away as many vessels in pursuit as possible. That will be our window: after the initial pass. We will meet Temerity as it passes overhead again."

"And how long?"

"An hour. Based on last communication. I will be more sure once I've re-established vox."

Aeonid left to do just that, with Varien and Tercinax. Amalius volunteered, with Solidian, to run pre-flight checks on Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle. Zalthis trailed after Anakin and Tahiri, after Ikrit bade his farewell and a desire to 'feel less like he'd been dragged through Dac's oceans.'

Tahiri tensed a little as Zalthis fell in beside them. The Astartes stood a head and more taller than Anakin in his armor, putting him far above Tahiri.

"Zalthis, right?"

The Astartes doffed his helmet, revealing blue eyes and tight, curly dark hair.

Tahiri sucked in a deep breath, visibly bracing herself.

"Thanks for saving Master Ikrit's life I thought he was going to die right there and I couldn't do anything but you killed that warrior and saved him and I wasn't being fair before and now I feel really bad about that-"

Anakin gently put an arm around her shoulders, feeling her shivering from the cold.

"Sentences, Tahiri," he said. Their old joke.

"Right. Thank you for saving Master Ikrit. And I want to say sorry for being kind of mean to you since you showed up but you came here to help all of us and…that wasn't fair." She ducked her head, scuffing her boot - boot, because Anakin had forced her to put on boots before they left the Temple - against the rough stone of the cavern.

Zalthis confusion was palpable.

"That is…fine? I accept your apology."

"I want to say thanks, too," Anakin added. "That was-" a knot caught the rest of his words. Tahiri's small hand rubbed against the small of his back and he swallowed. "That was close. Thank you."

Zalthis dipped his head.

"We came to help the Jedi," the Astartes said, looking abashed. "It would be a very poor performance if we failed at that."

In a change of clothes with adhesive bandages taped over the various slices and cuts he'd accumulated, Anakin felt a lot more like a real human being. There hadn't been much to do besides take a moment to clean up, suck down some water and put on dry clothes. All the trainees stayed shut up and belted in, just in case as the other freighters were powering up and coming online.

Lady Starstorm was an ugly old monster, but as the biggest, it was sure to draw the most attention. He slouched in the pilot's seat, shoulders hunched as he slowly punched through preflight. Thunderbolt and Celestial Dancer were already active, ready to go. Celador Sash and Dalliance were just about set too. The two Exile ships, Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle were ready and loaded up. Everyone was set.

Tahiri ambled in, sinking into the copilot's seat with a groan and a huff.

"I'm going to be black and blue over like, every single inch of me."

"Tell me about it," he replied idly, running tests on each repulsor. Lady Starstorm was an old YV-100, the main fuselage taking the shape of a fat, half disk with four big engines set into the flat part of the truncated disk. The cockpit occupied the end of a stubby neck that projected forward. All in all, it had the distinctive saucer design language Corellian Engineering was known for, but none of the later refinements in not being a hunk of junk.

Still, she'd fly, and she had laser cannons Anakin slaved to the pilot's controls. YVs could take a beating, lose three of the four engines and still limp along. The first four freighters would launch, escorted by Thunderhawk and Storm Eagle, since those were gunships. Fiver stood ready to cover with Anakin's XJ and the slaved flight of Z-95s, though they'd be more just there to soak up plasma than do any real damage.

Anakin would take up the end and just in case, Lady Starstorm had escape pods primed. If they had to sacrifice it, so be it, and Temerity would grab up the escape pods with him, Ikrit and Tahiri in them.

He'd tried to convince Tahiri to go with Kam and Tionne.

By tried, Anakin opened his mouth, saw the look on her face, and wisely closed it again.

Ikrit joined them, padding in. His ears hung loose and dragging on the floor and his Master seemed strangely subdued. Tahiri must not have noticed - or did - because she scooped up the Kushiban in a hug, returning to the copilot's seat. Ikrit snuggled against the girl, fur shading into a green that wasn't far off from Tahiri's eyes.

"I was-" her voice broke and Anakin pretended to be busy. She buried her face in Ikrit's fur.

"It's okay to fear, Tahiri," the Master said gently. "As much as death is a part of the Force as life, it's a rare being that doesn't face it without some trepidation. Zalthis was very timely."

All four engines checked out, just like yesterday. Repulsorlifts were green. Everything was good.

"I haven't stopped being afraid either," Anakin admitted. "I feel like I should, but…even with the battle meld and having you all with me, I was still almost as afraid as when I was alone on Dantooine."

"Fear is how life knows to be cautious. Never let it drive you, or own you, but respect the feelings that life provides. The Force lives in those - when danger threatens, do you feel love through the Force? Of course not! You feel a moment of fear when the Force whispers danger. It is drowning in those negative emotions that gives them true power."

Tahiri knuckled at her eyes, sucking in a shivering breath, blowing it out more steadily.

"Were you afraid?"

Ikrit winked.

"I was defending my students. Of course I was!"

Anakin took the lie as it was.

"Temerity is beginning their pass. Watch!"

Anakin craned his neck, peering up through the freighter's canopy. The cavern they'd all chosen was probably more accurately a ravine, with a narrow slice open to the sky above. It was how all the ships had made it in, carefully navigating through the slot down into the broad, open cavern it led into. Then again, stalagmites meant 'cave', so maybe cavern was right. The eye of the monsoon was overhead, revealing pale, pale blue skies of morning.

He wasn't as exhausted as Obroa-skai, but even drawing on the Force to infuse him, Anakin was imagining the bunk in the back of Lady Starstorm, once all this was passed. Maybe Zal could source them some chambers like on Samothrace. Those beds had been luxurious.

Threads of light flickered in that thin slice of blue sky. Faint, barely visible shapes moved.

"Temerity is engaging. Hold-" Aeonid's voice cut out for a second, the comms hissing. "One miid-roic has sustained damage. Non-critical, but significant. It is moving to a higher orbit. The second…is turning to follow Temerity."

Sithspawn. They had hoped to kill or outright cripple one of the cruiser-analogues, then draw off the other. Then they could have launched and gone straight for hyperspace to a rendezvous point just outside the Yavin system while Temerity shook pursuit.

But even with one damaged and in a higher orbit, it was still way too much of a risk to try running that blockade.

"Temerity will orbit the moon in thirteen minutes. I am transmitting synchronization for the operation. Mark."

Kam, Kyle, Streen and Cilghal all responded affirmative. Anakin saw the countdown appear, confirmed for himself.

Almost out. Almost out.

He hoped the Vong would leave Yavin alone once they knew the Jedi were gone. There wasn't anything else here for them. Over on Yavin 8, Suz Tanwa had taken down her outpost, hiding all the technology in the Melodie's caves. They could go underground and the Vong surely wouldn't notice them there.

Sannah had ranted about how they had to evacuate her people, but Anakin knew there was no way in the galaxy the Elders would agree to it. Besides, they could only hope to take away the younger Melodies. How could they evacuate all those who had Changed? They would need specialized starships with water tanks, or air-breathing systems for their gills. The Melodies had managed to stay hidden for thousands of years - the best they could hope for was for that luck to continue.

They didn't have a choice.

Minutes ticked by, tense. Anakin drummed his fingers against his thigh. Tahiri stared straight ahead, eyes wide, lost in thought. He kept distance, giving her space. Ikrit kept his own silence.

The timer ticked further.

"Mark."

Thunderbolt rose first. Celador Sash right behind. Anakin blew out a breath, thought of Jaina, and took the stick.

The holodisplay in the cockpit showed two tracks. Temerity, and the shuttle flight. Where they came together was where they had to be.

Coralskippers vectored in, as expected. Fiver broke off with a cheerful whistle, leading the clumsily synchronized Z95s after him. Storm Eagle pulled some distance with Amalius at the controls. Aeonid kept Thunderhawk leading the pack.

After the storm - which Anakin gaped at as they rose up into the enormous eye - it seemed so simple. Temerity had a single flight of Thunderbolts - a funny coincidence, given the freighter Cilghal was at the helm of - and they were tangling with 'skips already. The destroyer's nasty guns had swatted a squadron during its hard orbit pass, clearing the sky more. The cruiser-analogue chasing was slinging plasma and magma missiles, some of which were striking armor, but flashes of hot plasma and physical shells slammed back at the Vong warship, slowing it each time dovin basals tried to eat the incoming fire.

Lady Starstorm was a bantha to handle and she waddled up into the sky, grumbling as Anakin piled on altitude, rising up the massive walls of the storm's eye.

"Don't storms move faster than this?" Kam asked.

"I am retaining it for the time being," Alebmos returned, sounding way too smug.

Lightning flickered and crackled in the eye wall.

Tahiri smirked, leaning forward and flicking on the comm.

"Hey, tell Sannah that she's lucky she didn't go out in that mess. She'd've Changed, just from how soaked we were!"

Kam laughed and Anakin could picture the Master shaking his head.

"Sannah is over with Cilghal, but I'll pass it along."

The first flight of 'skips was getting close, but Amalius broke off Storm Eagle completely, arrowing right for them. Anakin kept an eye on the contacts winking on the sensor board.

"With me? No, Sannah is with Kyle."

One of the coralskippers vanished as Storm Eagle slashed in, Fiver riding wingmate.

"Uh, Sannah's not here…"

It was the tone of Master Katarn's voice that caught Anakin's attention.

The words ran through his head, clicked.

"Wait, what!?"

"Sannah boarded Thunderbolt!"

"She's not here."

"I saw her on Celador Sash-"

Oh, no. No. No no no. Anakin locked autopilot for a moment, eyeing the nearest coralskippers, then sunk into the Force. Tahiri bloomed next to him, a golden bonfire he always knew. Ikrit felt strangely diminished in her lap. Then he felt Master Katarn, Cilghal. The Solusars. Aeonid. Each of the trainees.

He felt overpowering guilt rolling off of Valin Horn.

And he didn't sense Sannah at all.

Stomach churning so much he tasted bile, Anakin refocused reaching down toward the Temple-

Maybe. Maybe a hint.

"Ask Valin," he gasped out, hands shaking.

Moments later, words Anakin wouldn't repeat filled the comm.

"He helped her hide! His father's sithspawned illusions - Sannah wanted to stay and help her people. She's at the Temple. She hid in her room."

Lyric could do that. She could muffle her presence in the Force. It was something that was innate, it seemed, to Melodie Jedi. Something of their upbringing with all the predators, made it second nature for a Melodie to go still and silent and pass out of notice. Lyric could do it and Anakin had forgotten Sannah did too. She hadn't, not since Anakin had been back, but he remembered her pulling off the trick in games of hide-and-don't-squeek. Everyone agreed it was super unfair.

"Anakin."

She was down there, in the Temple. She'd been there through the whole storm. All the fighting. What in Corellian hells was her plan? What was her stupid plan? What was she thinking? That she could just grab one of the leftover shuttles and hop over to Yavin 8? Fight all the Vong herself? Save the day?

"Anakin!"

They were going to find her and - the Vong wanted the Jedi alive. Why? What were they going to do? Sacrifice? Torture? Sannah - little Sannah. He gave her wokling rides and she taught them how to swim.

"Anakin!" Tahiri's scream jolted him - and his hands on the stick. Lady Starstorm wobbled. "Anakin, we can't leave her!"

They were the last freighter in the flight. All the others had the kids. It was just him, Tahiri and Ikrit.

He couldn't leave Sannah.

He couldn't risk Tahiri.

"Send Storm Eagle-"

"We cannot! Amalius must keep coralskippers off us."

More contacts lit the sensor board. Four squadrons total. It was going to be close as it was. It might not even be enough to get out already.

"Anakin! Don't you dare! We can't leave her! Anakin!"

Ikrit's eyes were blue, ice-blue. The Kushiban peered into Anakin from his perch in Tahiri's lap.

"The time comes to act," he said, cryptically.

"I'll get her," Anakin called over the comm. "Master Ikrit and Tahiri can take an escape pod-"

"LIKE HELL!"

"No, Anakin, there's too many 'skips to keep off unshielded pods."

He hadn't consciously done it, but Lady Starstorm was already nosing down. He knew where the Temple was. He'd always know.

"I am releasing the storm. Go with winds at your back, Knight Solo."

Lady Starstorm didn't so much land on the muddy, cratered tarmac outside the Temple so much as slam down so hard the landing gear collapsed. The freighter skidded into a half-spin but Anakin was already up and unbuckled, only the Force keeping him upright as he dashed down the corridors. One more orbit. Temerity could do one more loop. He had ten minutes. Ten minutes to get Sannah, get back to Lady Starstorm and get to orbit.

Ten minutes.

As the monsoon dissolved and the energies finally unbound from the psyker, he watched the other freighters, one by one, make it to the destroyer. Storm Eagle and Fiver managed to bag five coralskippers, while the Thunderbolt flight smashed in and knocked down six more. All the Z95s flamed out. Celador Sash and Dalliance lost shields and took hits, but nothing that made it through the hull or threatened flight.

The rest of the Praxeum were safe.

They'd made it.

Anakin pelted down the still-lowering ramp, leaping down and absorbing the landing with the Force.

Fear warred with anger. Sannah put him in danger - Ikrit and Tahiri too.

Tahiri mutely bolstered him and Anakin grabbed the Force with both hands, wrenching it into place. He peered through walls and Massassi stone and found the shadowy little whisper. Sannah.

He leapt. Twenty meters, straight up. He struck the Temple facing, leapt up again, pulling his lightsaber from his belt. Curtain stones had been lowered to seal off the opening between each tier - Anakin went through them. He raced down the halls, feeling Sannah's rising panic. She knew he was here. She knew. She knew they were here.

He blew the door of her room off the hinges with a brush of the Force. She huddled on her bed, curled up in a ball. He smelled something bitter.

Anakin grabbed her, the Melodie went limp as soon as he yanked her off the bed and slung her none too gently over one shoulder.

He couldn't even form words. How much time was left?

Lady Starstorm beckoned. The ramp was only half open, wedged against the landing pad. Anakin raced up it, pausing only long enough to fling Sannah into one of the passenger cabins and yank the door shut. He crushed the lock.

Hurling himself back into the pilot's seat, Anakin slammed thrust to full and the Lady lurched forward on hot ion trails, skipping and skidding. Metal shrieked and screamed as they bounced once, twice, then were airborne.

"You smell like…" Tahiri trailed off, nose wrinkling.

The chron said he had two minutes. Two minutes. Temerity was already clearing the horizon. The Thunderbolt flight was vectoring in. Rain hammered against the cockpit. Everything outside was grey as the monsoon ripped itself to pieces. The eye was collapsing. Get high enough, get out of the storm.

Contacts squiggled and squirmed on sensors, impossible to confirm. There could be a Super Star Destroyer flying formation with him in this murk and he'd never know.

Lady Starstorm groaned at the stresses of hurricane-force winds and engines slammed to maximum far too fast for her aging frame. She'd hold together. Anakin wouldn't allow anything else. He wouldn't.

Burbled words tried to make sense through comms.

The altimeter ticked higher. Higher. How much farther? This storm couldn't reach-

Just like that, they were out. The sun burst bright and searing. Tahiri cried out in surprise. The sensor board cleared.

They were surrounded.

A mass of yorik coral as big as a moon crashed down from above -

-Anakin blinked, back to himself a second later. Klaxons screamed, all the boards in the cockpit awash in bright red. Tahiri struggled with the webbing holding her in place. Ikrit was barking something, but with the wind, Anakin couldn't hear. Wind? How-

The canopy was cracked through, missing a chunk right near the top.

"Anakin? Anakin! That was one of their transports, it's grabbed onto the freighter! You need to get-"

Master Katarn's voice cut off abruptly, paired with a shriek of metal from somewhere aft.

"Escape pods!" he shouted. If Tahiri didn't hear him, she'd get the impression. Anakin struggled to undo his own buckles, yanking the straps away and freeing himself from the pilot's seat, just in time for the Lady to go into a spin. Gentle pressure surrounded him, kept him on his feet. Ikrit nodded his head, bobbing his ears.

Anakin and Tahiri stumbled down the neck of Lady Starstorm, Ikrit just behind. The freighter rattled and shook like it was coming apart - and probably was.

"Escape pods, starboard side!"

Eyes wide, Tahiri nodded.

"I have to get Sannah!"

Lady Starstorm ripped in half. The corridor twisted as it sheared, sunlight blooming in. Wind snatched away his cry of shock. He grabbed Tahiri's hand in vice grip. He didn't see Ikrit. The entire rear of the ship with the engines and cargobay dropped away, torturing his ears with a scream of metal parting like leaves.

A monster held what was left in its grasp. An ovoid of yorik coral, twice the size of Lady Starstorm with its entire ventral surface peeled open like lips, extruding a dozen muscled, scaled tentacles. Most were wrapped around the freighter, holding it in place. More slithered out of the Vong craft, grabbing onto the hull of the freighter and peeling it back more.

Lady Starstorm just ended barely two meters down the corridor. It just ended in a tangle of torn durasteel. The cabin he'd thrown Sannah into was thankfully just behind him. Yavin 4 sprawled out below him, the monsoon stretching from horizon to horizon. Above them was a Vong transport. Who knew how many warriors?

Numb shock was all he got from his connection to Tahiri.

Numb shock was all he felt.

There comes a time to act.

Even as half a ship, Lady Starstorm had repulsorlifts. There were still escape pods on the other side. They could get to the pods. They could break away from the Vong ship and land on repulsors.

A wilder thought - he and Tahiri and their falling trick. Would it work from this high? It couldn't - but the Force knew no limits.

He took a breath.

Zalthis stormed down the ramp of the Storm Eagle. He hurled his helm to the side. It clattered and bounced away across Temerity's extremely cramped embarkation deck. The destroyer had two, on either flank, primarily for receiving supply. Not for cramming in multiple Republican freighters, a Thunderhawk and a Storm Eagle.

Solidian chased him, but he had eyes only for the Captain's Thunderhawk. He leapt up on the ramp as it lowered, storming up to the cockpit hatch and wrenching it open.

Aeonid Thiel did not seem surprised, even with his helmet hiding his expression.

'Zalthis,' the Captain said.

'Why did you recall us? Captain? Why?'

Aeonid calmly unhooked his harness, rising from the Thunderhawk's throne, casting a sidelong glance at the embedded support servitor. Though of height, the Captain in his red-painted and crested helm gave Zalthis pause and he stepped back, letting Aeonid out of the cockpit.

'You wanted to return for Knight Solo.'

Captain Thiel did not mention the other two Jedi and did not need to.

'It is our duty. We were charged to evacuate the Jedi, all the Jedi!'

'Circumstances change. I am bitterly disappointed to make the order, brother. Knight Solo…Anakin…is resourceful and cunning. His Master is with him, and I am sure they will survive on the moon.'

Zalthis chewed on words, swallowed them. None were enough. His Captain had made up his mind. He had given his order, and as an Astartes should, Amalius accepted it, even as Zalthis argued.

He had nothing to say. Zalthis stiffly made sign of the aquila, stormed away. Still silent, Solidian followed. Captain Thiel descended the Thunderhawk's ramp, making for the Jedi Masters as they exited their own ships. Zalthis had no stomach to face the Republic Jedi, not while four of their own remained on the moon. Just beside the Thunderhawk, he cast about for his helm, didn't see it. Gritting his teeth, he keyed on his gorget vox, listening in.

He listened as the Lady Starstorm was reported dropping into the clouds and out of contact. He listened in as Temerity's command cadre calmly updated on the atmospherics report over the Temple Complex as Alebmos' wrathful storm expended its fury without the psyker's leash. He listened to the Thunderbolt flight as they kept coralskippers at bay. He felt dull thumps through his boots as the destroyer snapped jaws back at the Vong and as alien munitions bit into her flanks.

He listened as the Lady Starstorm burst out of the storm again - and then in horror as a Vong transport grappled hold of it. So close.

And he listened as Captain Thiel uttered the damning words, as half of Lady Starstorm was torn away. Temerity was to break orbit. Mainline extension drive to full. Make for the Mandeville.

Abandon Anakin.

Another tendril lashed out, snapping for Anakin's ankle.

"No!" Tahiri's 'sabre lopped off half a meter's worth, leaving the rest to whip back out of the bisected freighter. More nosed in. Muffled by the cabin door, Sannah screamed long and loud, wordless. Ikrit flattened himself to the deck, narrowly avoiding a tendril as big as the Kushiban as it lashed past.

Anakin felt, rather than heard a click at his belt. There was another lightsaber there, one much smaller than his own.

He understood too late.

Like in the jungle, Ikrit coiled his legs and leapt. Reflected from the far wall, then a capture tendril, then the ceiling.

"-Master!"

Ikrit alighted on the tendril Tahiri had just severed, digging claws into the scaly flesh and riding it as it retreated.

Bludgeoning another tendril out of the way, lightsaber cleaving halfway through the hardened appendage, Anakin skidded to the end of the truncated corridor.

Ikrit, impossibly, clung onto the Vong biot through his claws and the power of the Force. Even as it lashed, trying to unseat him, he set his wide blue eyes on the hulking Vong transport craft. Like prying fingers away from a prize, first one of the thickest grasping tentacles twisted and tore away from Lady Starstorm. Then another.

Anakin's Master was pulled deep on the Force. He could not touch the constructs of the Yuuzhan Vong, so he made do in other ways. He ripped durasteel sheets from the freighter's hull and wrapped them around the capture tentacles, using them to wrench them away. He tore sparking conduits loose and tied them like nooses yank away other tendrils.

The Vong craft trembled, as if in anger.

The Lady shook with another tentacle ripped off. Almost free.

Anakin couldn't believe it.

But even if Ikrit pulled them free, they could just grab the transport again. As if reading his mind, one of Lady's main structural spars peeled back like a hangnail, tipping back to point straight at the opened guts of the Vong transport. The wet, fleshy orifice that disgorged all the capture tentacles.

The Force pulsed.

The structural spar accelerated like a bowcaster bolt.

Ichor spewed and half the tentacles dropped slack.

Enough that Lady wasn't held anymore. And the freighter was missing half her repulsors.

It dropped like a stone.

Tentacles snapped, overstressed. Those inside the freighter were ripped out - with a wild shriek of terror. One tendril had wrapped twice around Tahiri's waist. He reached - her fingers - they touched -

Tahiri was gone, screaming.

He couldn't breathe. He felt the coarse scales wrapped around her waist. He felt the thin air snatch away her breath. Her terror was his. Her shock was his. His guilt was hers. His horror was hers.

Lady Starstorm tumbled away. The Vong craft shuddered, it's surviving tentacles lashing and writhing.

Master Ikrit was there. Tahiri wasn't alone-

Remember. Together.

Anakin felt Master Ikrit's life go out.

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. Wind ripped tears from his eyes before they could fall. Sannah was still wailing, lost to panic so deep he couldn't even feel any thoughts from the girl. The freighter started to tumble, reaching the thicker atmosphere.

He felt Tahiri. He felt her. She was alive. She was alive and she was alive even as the Vong transport shrank to the size of his fist, then smaller.

Weightless in free-fall, Anakin grabbed his body in a fist of the Force. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up toward Sannah's cabin. The door ripped away at a glance. He grabbed the girl the same as he did himself, yanking her out. The escape pods. Other side of the ship.

Tahiri's terror shifted. He couldn't - if she - like Ikrit -

Anakin would die. He knew it.

Her terror shifted. To anger. To rage.

He laughed through tears. If Tahiri was angry, she was alright.

One escape pod was gone. The other…

The hatch irised open. He slung Sannah in, climbed in after her. The pod smelled like ammonia.

His fist hit the big red launch button. The hatch irised shut. The escape pod launched with a thump. It wouldn't fly, but it would land. He eyed the button again. Balled up his fist and hit it again. Again. Again.

I'll be back Tahiri. I'll be back and when I am - they'll pay. All of them.

Zalthis settled into the throne with nervous energy jangling through his nerves. He had the hypnoconditioning, but he'd never had the opportunity for hands-on. He relaxed as much as he was able and let his hands make their own motions. The ramp made the fuselage shudder as it sealed. The vox crackled to life. Words were meaningless. He ignored it. Taking the oversized controls, made distant through the interface of ceramite clad-digits, Zalthis centered himself.

Courage. And honour. And honour.

'We'd better go,' Solidian sardonically remarked and Zalthis nearly crashed the Thunderhawk into the ceiling of the embarkation deck.

'Sol!'

His brother eyed the embedded servitor and elected to stand, gripping an overhead bar.

'Me. We'll be damned together, brother.'

Zalthis swallowed.

The Thunderhawk rose before the disbelieving eyes of Aeonid Thiel, Kam Solusar and Kyle Katarn. It performed a textbook rotation about its vertical axis, then blasted into the void of space beyond the dim containment field so rapidly the backwash made both Jedi stumble.

Aeonid watched it go, denying a request to intercept.

He searched for what he felt.

Pride, he decided.

Chapter Text

The damutek ships settled with stately grace between the alien trees. A soft sussurus of gravitational shears rippled leaves and limbs as the enormous craft delicately made landfall. Countless tonnes of coral, flesh and hungry biot shifted and spread outward as each ship gently, slowly unfurled. Nen Yim watched with rare awe. To be inside the living ships was natural - to see them from without, to see the fullness of their majesty - was something else entirely.

And the world the ships nibbled at! Nen Yim turned in place, arms lifted just slightly, enough for propriety but far from the widespread embrace that she wanted to wrap around the world. A moon, maybe, but a world, a live world, a living world .

The air was sharp and pungent, filled with such a melange that even her sinusal implants couldn’t catalogue them all. She scented irregular sesquiterpenoids, loamy and aromatic. Hints of dimethyl sulfides that were rounded and chewy and spoke of brine-water. Anaerobic-birthed hydrogen sulfides, sharp lipid-decay. She inhaled deeply, eyes heavy-lidded as living scents washed through her senses in wave after wave.

She had names for them all, spooled out into her forebrain from the microscopic tasting polyps of the keryid norosh that crouched behind her nose. But she had no words for them. There was a whiff on the breeze that reminded her of the bitter outflow beneath the mernip breeding pools. Here was a hint of the loamy exhalations of the maw luur - the only breeze Nen Yim had ever known until today. She sloppily applied the dull, colorless sensations of life in a worldship and all of them were hollow.

A world!

A living world!

She knelt gently, her robe pooling between her bare feet. She scraped a handful of muddy, saturated soil between her fingers. Kneading it. Feeling it. It was slick and threaded with tendrils of plantlife, it was imprecise and teeming with pointless bacteria and it was unguided and it was beautiful . Behind her impassive face, Nen Yim shrieked with glee. She swallowed bubbling laughter and kept solidly in mind the demeanour expected of an Adept of her station.

But this was the rawness of creation! Yun-Yuuzhan’s gift, wonderful and myriad and as wildly unkempt as the moments after the Father clove apart his body to create all cosmos. Rawness untouched by the gardening hand of the Yuuzhan Vong, impregnated with potential so thick she could taste it as saccharides dissolving on the tongue.

“Ah, this would be your first time on a true world.”

Nen Yim rose, expecting another of the adepts daring to intrude on her moment of revelation, a biting retort sharpening her tongue-

To be held, as she curled the tendrils of her headdress into genuflection and cast her eyes away from her master, Mezhaan Kwaad.

Nen Yim prostrated, secretly pleased to dirty her robe in the mud.

“You may rise, Adept, and turn your eyes to me.” There was mirth in Mezhan Kwaad’s tone.

Her Master was a female past the final edge of youth, but barely. Lean and whip-thin, but bearing still the shape of a mature female despite her elevation. It would not last, of course - affectations of sex were quite beyond the Masters, for whom the last and greatest form of Shaping were forever forbidden. Instead, Mezhaan Kwaad’s form spoke to the rapidity of her ascension and the keenness of her mind. To be a Master at such an age and with so few marks of elevation proved that Nen Yim’s Master was a rare specimen indeed.

Her broad and high cheekboned face bore symmetrical tattoos of concentric, spoked circles, interwoven with organic swirls of crimson and azure. Her forehead bore the three ridged scars of Kwaad, the only visible scars on the Master. Like all Shapers, like Nen Yim, Mezhaan Kwaad bore the marks of her sacrifices more subtly and discreet. Only her hand, eight-fingered, mattered as evidence to the eyes. The hand of a Master could not be mistaken.

“And confirm my suspicions, Adept. Rare is it that a Master makes observation without reason.”

“Yes, Master. I have never been graced to know a world beyond our worldships.”

Mezhaan hummed approvingly, gliding closer and peering out to the horizon and the settling damuteks.

“Tell me your impressions, then.”

Nen Yim inhaled a deep, delicious breath.

“This storm was unnatural,” she began, gesturing toward splintered boles and heaps of shattered branches, toward glaring gaps in the jungle canopy where ancient and towering trees had toppled. Toward the sounds of a seething, roaring river that swelled far beyond its banks. “If weather patterns of this intensity commonly struck, there would be evidence of flooding and the canopy would be lower and less dense. Few trees would be able to reach the heights we see.”

Mezhaan did not interrupt.

“Which speaks to me of the strangeness of this world. I am used to our own worldships, which are planned. Everything has a purpose, Master. The maw luur, the endocrine clusters, the retcham forceps and rikyam. Everything is apportioned out for our journey. This…this would be a disaster. This would be like a spasm of the axial musculature that ruptures a tendril of a worldship. But here, this is a living world . A storm is…just a storm. Life goes on. It’s so wild and so undirected!”

“True enough. You overthink things, Adept. We are atop a high plateau. The elevation would never allow a monsoon’s presence, not at full strength. You need not study the jungle nor the patterns of rivers when a single, simple observation suffices. Still. I do not punish thoroughness. The wildness of this world is remarkable indeed.”

“None of it serves us-”

Mezhaan clicked her teeth and cut Nen Yim off.

“Incorrect. All things serve the Yuuzhan Vong. You know this.”

Nen Yim cast her eyes down, curling her headdress tendrils tight.

“Yes, Master. I misspoke. I mean only - we have not shaped it.”

“Better. All life and all space serves the Yuuzhan Vong. There is merely that which we have touched and that which we have not yet been guided to by the Gods. Remember this, Adept. The Gods hide nothing, but only delay us to the timetable of their choosing.”

“As you say, Master.”

“Come along. Survey our home with me.”

Mezhaan Kwaad led Nen Yim along, the Master a pace ahead, as was appropriate. She spoke of many things, telling Nen Yim of the processes of the damutek in much greater depth than the teachings of an Adept might know. The deep-digging roots would plunge deep, exuding fierce acids to render bedrock into sludge. Burrowing solk-wath sought out aquifers to nurse from. Each damutek was to have a purpose and Mezhaan Kwaad indicated the one that would be their laboratory.

Warriors moved this way and that in small groups, mindbent at their heels. Cadres of slaves, overseen by bare-chested Workers broke ground with stiffened spade-rays. Tsik-vai drifted overhead and a small nursery field for coralskippers spread around one of the damuteks.

A tall warrior loped toward them. He was rangy and tall, corded with muscle and wore vonduun bred in the colors of Carr.

“Master Shaper,” he spoke, once he was near enough.

“Commander Harmae.”

Without his helmet, Harmae’s dark eyes were piercing, long hair pulled up into a tall stalk and plume that waved in the breeze. Mezhaan Kwaad folded her arms, lifting her chin. Nen Yim shrank a little closer to her Master, to borrow a measure of security.

“Where is my test subject?”

Harmae sneered, pulling at tattooed lips. Nen Yim caught the shape of a single long fang of coral.

“Restrained. Know you are fortunate, Shaper, that my loyalty to my Supreme Commander is unwavering. Had it been your order to take Jeedai alive, I would have kindly reminded you of your place.”

“Your devotion does you credit,” Mezhan Kwaad retorted and Nen Yim blushed at how baldly fake her Master’s tone was. One did not speak to a Warrior in such a way!

Yet, she was an Adept. An Adept to a Master - beyond reproach from even an elevated of most other castes. It would take time to remember that.

Harmae snorted.

“This Jeedai slew two of my warriors despite being enwrapped by a capture tendril. She blinded a third. Jeedai are not to be trifled with, as even the Warmaster advises.”

“Then I will sacrifice to the Slayer in thanks for the bravery of your warriors. How is the Jeedai restrained?”

Mezhan Kwaad gestured to Nen Yim, continuing her walk. Harmae fell in beside the Master Shaper, his bulk at odds with the Master’s lithe shape.

“By the blessing of senselessness. The Jeedai dreams the poison dream.”

“My subject is to be unharmed .”

The warrior laughed.

“Inform the Jeedai of your demands. The infidel will live with broken ribs. You have your prize, Master Shaper. The Gods sneer at the greedy. Expect delivery to your damutek by nightfall.”

Having said his piece, Commander Harmae split away, barking orders out to a nearby cluster of Warriors who snapped to attention. Mezhan Kwaad watching the commander go, her headdress knotting and writhing.

“Observe, Adept, the vaunted unity of the Chosen. We came to a world with three dozen Jeedai and they deliver but one. A child that would barely be from the creche. And they claim that to demand the minimum of success is greed .” Mezhan Kwaad sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Be glad you are a Shaper, Nen Yim. We do not suffer fools in our Caste.”

“As you say, Master,” Nen Yim agreed. For different reasons, but all the same, she thanked Yun-ne’Shel daily for her blessing. She looked down at her hand, turning over the flesh and blood she was born with. If she just focused, a little, she imagined eight fingers instead of five and the means to change the world at her fingertips. Nen Yim smiled a private smile, behind her Master, as she followed her through the high jungle plateau of Yavin 4.

From Guilliman’s own chambers, they watched the arrivals flicker into reality. Roboute had seen ‘hyperspace’ jumps before, both arrival and departure, but the difference between the smearing flicker of pseudomotion that resolved into a languidly cruising starship was stark indeed compared to the wrathful emergence from the Warp he knew better. Beside him, in newly repainted plate, stood Phratus Auguston, arms folded across his broad chest and perpetual scowl twisting his blunt features. Marius Gage, to the Primarch’s right, bore the solid gold right pauldron of the Praetorium. Ever present, the Primarch’s shadow loomed massive and implacable in flawless Cataphractii.

Together they witnessed the first arrival: a pale white-grey triangle that whickered into existence, settling into a smooth cruiser on ion efflux, matching the pace of Macragge’s Honour . Another flicked into existence, then a third, then a fourth. He knew not which was which, but knew the names of all four. Superior, Right to Rule, Relentless and Master Stroke . Imperial Star Destroyers, a more ironic name he could not imagine.

The four coasted in distant formation with the Honour for a long few seconds, showcasing a glaringly obvious hole in their formation.

Filled in by the immense arrowhead shape of the final arrival. Blue-grey in tone, darker than the bright Star Destroyers, Dominion ate a chunk of the starfield with its mass. The rather prosaically titled ‘Super’ Star Destroyer was not unimpressive.

Phratus grunted. His armor was newly daubed in the colors of the Astartes Aggressor, First Battalion Founded of the Legiones Ultramarine. His plastron was bisected, the right side classic Ultramarine blue, the left side a steely blue. Likewise, his crested helmet, mag-clamped to his hip, bore the same bisected color. Each gauntlet to the elbow was pure black. His right pauldron bore an Ultramarine blue field, but the rest of his plate was the same steel-blue as his bisected plastron and helm. The chosen mark of the First Battalion shone crisp and white: an Ultima grasped in the center by a gauntleted fist.

Changes were afoot in the 4711th and not all were pleased by them.

‘I submit again that we are better served capturing the dreadnought and being done with it.’

Guilliman made a noise deep in his throat that was neither agreement nor negation. This was not a new debate.

‘The Remnant wastes its waning strength. They have no friends and fewer allies. Unleash the First, my Primarch, and we’ll deliver this ‘ Dominion’ for better use.’

‘An aptly chosen name for your Battalion,’ Gage observed.

Phratus’ scowl deepend and he turned on the Master Primus.

Guilliman raised a hand.

‘Peace. Marius, please try not to bait Phratus. And Phratus, you need not always bite.’ Amusement rolled from the Chapter Master.

The Imperial Remnant had reached out, first tentatively and unofficially, and then with a strong and formal overture. The action at Fondor, the destruction of Yadraig and then the Senate address and Treaty of Fundamental Iron had been an avalanche that couldn’t be held back. Whatever internal politics that had led to the Remnant dragging their feet over welcoming a new ‘neighbor’, it must have evaporated in short order. From Gilad Pellaeon himself, a request and desire for discourse, offered at the convenience of the Exiled Imperium. With the gracious best wishes to the Lord Consul.

There was no theoretical to rejecting the offer. At best, an ally in a strategically beneficial location of the galaxy. At worst, alienating a rump state with little, if anything, to offer. Macragge’s Honour had not translated since the flight from Calth and her warp engines were due for a cycle. The reopened scars in her flanks, torn anew by Vong biot and plasma, once again sported unpainted sheets of adamantium. Internally, the aliens had wreaked considerable damage to internal spaces, but the limits of their incursion had not pressed too deeply into the more sensitive and critical locales.

All the same, Honour was still wounded, never having recovered even originally from Calth. Now, some biots still lurked in her bilges, diligently sought by hunter-killer servictors and CATs. Teams of armsmen carrying stubbers chased bounties, awarded for each every reptoid or slithering biot recovered and presented. Even today, Magi worked to restore corridors, rebuild bulkheads and certify systems as operable and placated. Though Roboute’s schedule remained as overflowing as ever, the installed holonet suites allowed realtime remote availability for any potential issue. More besides, showing the Honour beyond the orbit of Eboracum was a powerful statement after the breaking of the moon and the boarding action ordered by Malik Carr.

Once again: the devices were worth their weight in auramite, even if some of the Magi grumbled and ground metallic teeth.

Pellaeon offered to host aboard Dominion - a statement of several meanings. To host is a particular position of power and authority, but to accept and go willingly into the fastness of another is a statement of strength. Guilliman accepted without equivocation. He had not been aboard a warship of this Galaxy, despite several now serving with the 4711th. He had not the time.

Drakus Gorod, ever his shadow, followed Guilliman to his armored Stormbird, accompanied as well by Auguston. Gage remained behind, in command of the Honour . Aides and scribes of the newly formed Adaptus Legatus filled in, each suitably cowed by the transhuman presence of a Primarch and his Astartes. Noskaur remained on Coruscant, continuing legal discussion over the status of Eboracum. Even should the old Iterator been present, Guilliman still would have opted to conduct this conference in person.

Call it indulgent, but stepping before the Republican Senate had stirred old nostalgia in him.

From the bridge of Dominion , they watched and waited for the Primarch’s shuttle. Magnified and expanded for easy viewing, the counterpart star dreadnought dominated the bridge display. Macragge’s Honour , it was called, and it was a monster. Pellaeon remembered Eclipse , and even the bulk of that ship was ah, eclipsed , by the sheer mass and presence of this leviathan. Twenty-six kilometers in length, larger than any dreadnought Gilad knew of. Even the Mon Calamari Viscount class could fit three or four of their mass into that monster.

The length of it was painted, painted, a rich oceanic blue and liberally gilt with gold. Ornamentation was everywhere Gilad looked. It was a gaudy piece of art as much as a battleship and he reflexively disliked it. Already he had reservations about dreadnoughts, remembering the bitter lesson of Executor at Endor when the ill-fated ship took down countless brilliant officers with her. They reminded him of the worst aspects of the Empire, under Palpatine, even if their role had been proven before and would be again.

He couldn’t very well forget the Battle of Orinda.

“Incredible,” Sarreti breathed. “That’s the ship that destroyed their moon.”

“Potent,” Miat Temm agreed. She and Arat Nalgol made the fourth of their small group. Temm was his aide of some years, a professional and efficient woman, contrasting to Nalgol’s subtle insouciance.

“And for all that, they’ve still been squatting in that same star system.” Nalgol drawled.

“Their faster-than-light works differently than hyperspace. Their task force made it to Fondor without issue, all the same.”

Nalgol acknowledged Sarreti’s point with a dip of his shoulder.

“I’ve heard the Jedi are to thank for that.”

“Maybe so,” Temm countered, “but they’re still getting around.”

It was useful to keep in mind the surprising friendship already forged between the Jedi and the Exiles. The New Republic seemed to originally wish to hold them at arm’s length, but Skywalker’s Jedi had leapt in with both feet. Not all was sunshine in the land of the Jedi, according to rumors, yet that wouldn’t shift the import of the leader of the Order going on missions and entrusting his nephew to the Imperials.

For the New Republic itself, they made a solid case, Gilad had to admit, as to why they were worth working with. Why it would be a problem for the Exiles if the Republic collapsed. No matter Gilad’s feeling about the government on Coruscant, he was realistic enough to know that if the New Republic fell, the rest of the galaxy would shortly thereafter.

Not for any grand strength of the New Republic, granted. But merely because by virtue of being the only polity that could truly tangle up the Yuuzhan Vong for any period. As long as the New Republic stood, even as plagued by infighting and inefficiencies as it was, it was impossible for the Vong to ignore.

And it served as a shield for those smaller polities, the ones that had teeth enough to pain the Vong, but not enough to stop them. By Gilad’s estimation, the only reason the Vong only poked and prodded at the Remnant was because they knew to take it would bleed them of useful resources needed to encircle and besiege the Core. If the force that hit Fondor was any indicator of the average Vong armada…

Intel analysis indicated it wasn’t likely the case. Fondor was considered to represent several task forces brought together for the assault and that it wasn’t as if the Vong could produce another half dozen flotillas of the same size at whim. A small peace of mind, but not one to entirely trust.

Nalgol eyed the distant dreadnought. A veteran officer, part of the whole Caamasi Affair, he was also a representative for the Kuati expat world of Jaemus. He had an eye for starships as much as any other from that world.

“Kuat’s making ships for them now.”

“And others,” Sarreti reminded. “Part of Shesh’s speech was that they’d also sell to interested buyers who would fight the Vong.”

“Jaemus isn’t any closer, but Jaemus also doesn’t have to play the games of the Families. I wonder how ironclad that ‘Treaty’ is.”

“We don’t have the wording, but it appears extensive.” Miat Temm shrugged. “Shesh is Kuati, it’s probably solid.” Nalgol sneered, but didn’t correct her.

“It’s joint operations we’re hoping for,” Pellaeon chided.

“Like Ithor,” Nalgol muttered.

“Yes, Arat. Like Ithor. Ithor was tragic but Ithor also saw the head of a Vong Domain killed, for all that might matter, and a grand cruiser destroyed.”

“The Exiles killed one over Fondor without burning a world.”

Pellaeon fixed Nalgol with a flat stare until the man held up his hands.

“Fine, fine.”

“You’re only supporting the benefits of joint operations. Dominion is barely out of refits. This is a shakedown cruise as much as anything else.” Sarreti gestured toward the massive vessel in the distance. “If that thing is pound-for-pound equivalent to the battleships at Fondor, you’re looking at the firepower of half a dozen Dominions and the durability of that many Viscounts .”

“And they’d throw it at the Vong for us…”

“They’re warlords without an empire.” Gilad put his back to the transparisteel, looking over the three. Sarreti had been pushing to reach out to the Exiles almost from the moment they appeared on the scene. Nalgol was a perennial negative voice, but it was a role that Nalgol seemed to purposely lean into. Temm was balanced, practical and logical, backed by her ‘intuitions’ that struck at opportune times. “The Exiles defended Eboracum because they had nowhere else to go. We’ve listened to the address to the Senate on Coruscant. They’re here to fight a war and they’ve found one.”

Such stark phrasing. He’d wanted to applaud, simply for the sheer honesty behind the shocking words, if not the meaning. It was a wonder the New Republic stomached what Roboute Guilliman brought before them and laid out bare for all to see.

“If and when Eboracum falls, the Exiles’ war will not end, but their focus might change. Who will invite them in? Not proud Kuat, not Corellia. Nowhere in the Core will welcome them, but out here? I daresay the frontier of space that the Remnant was forced to brings a new opportunity.”

Nalgol, for once, didn’t argue.

“And the old cueballs do love to moan about the lack of human recruits, these days…”

Pellaeon smiled. It was pleasant to be surrounded by competence.

In his formal dress uniform, Roboute found Supreme Commander Gilad Pellaeon to be neat and professional. It was spotless white, bereft of much decoration or ornamentation at all aside from a small rectangular rank marker at his breast and gold tasseled epaulettes. Embarrassingly simplistic for a man of similar rank in the Imperialis Armada, but there was a tastefully martial simplicity to the uniform, he had to admit. Flanking him were the flesh-and-blood and holographic forms of the Moff Council of the Imperial Remnant. Another benefit to accepting Pellaeon’s invitation aboard Dominion - Honour had no such suite with which to make this meeting function.

Each Moff and their sphere of influence flitted through Guilliman’s memory. Ephin Sarreti, of Braxant Sector. Youthful, idealistic, but a capable political operator. Perhaps an equivalent to Viqi Shesh. Wellon Bemos, of Obtrexta. Aging, old-guard, but flexible and adaptive. Quillan Freyborn, Dynali. Vigorous, but waning in political influence. Ellsibeth Vered, Carrion. A relic of the old Republic with the entrenched capital to show for it. Sander D’Asta, Clacis. Distaff member of a broadly influential and rich family - likely nepotistic appointment. Edan Crowal, Perrin. Reclusive and reticent, jealous of her isolated sector’s relative security. Dominus Hort, Velcar. Crippled by the economic powers within his own sphere; a figurehead. Kurlen Flennic, Prefsbelt: often considered second in power and influence behind Pellaeon.

All but Sarreti and Flennic attended via hologram. All wore similar uniforms to Pellaeon, though in grey wool. Some affected a cap. It certainly made for a united front.

The scribes of the Adeptus Legatus were already settled, servo-skulls hovering over shoulders, dataslates prepared and mnemoquills poised. Phratus Auguston awaited, standing poised and at attention. As was his right, Guilliman entered last, escorted, as ever, by Gorod a stride behind and to his left.

The chamber rose to darkened heights, lumens suspended just above the circular conference table. The effect was to cast the table and the occupants in bright illumination and render the rest of the chamber darkened, such that aides and servants might come and go without notice and without obstructing the attention and focus of those at conference. Matching the sensibilities of this galaxy, the chamber was spartan in decoration. The table a bare, polished durasteel, the lumes simple and unadorned. Asceticism seemed to be a virtue.

Pellaeon claimed the center of the table, with Sarreti to his right and Flennic to his left. Behind Pellaeon stood a man and woman, cast half in shadow.

Gilad Palleaon, like his compatriots in the New Republic, only paled a little. His throat worked once, subtly, before he smoothly rose to his feet to greet the Primarch. Flennic’s frown carved deeper into his brow, but the broad man only blinked rapidly. Sarreti’s cheek twitched and his eyes glazed over for a moment, the young man actually shaking his head once as if to clear it.

The other Moffs, remote, had no reaction.

The woman behind Pellaeon was messily sick.

Gilad suppressed a wince as Miat Temm’s lunch impacted the decking, hearing her muttered apology around rapid, sucking breaths. Roboute Guilliman’s effect on average beings was known, as was his particularly potent effect on Jedi . If his aide’s particular talents were not already known, he suspected they would be common knowledge among the Moff Council now.

He felt it. The Primarch entered the chamber and Gilad suddenly found it difficult to draw breath. The man was too large. Not grossly disproportionate like some sithspawned monster, but huge in the way that bent perspective. Like a trick of the eyes, the man’s head brushed the already tall frame of the hatch, but everything about the Primarch still spoke of an incredibly well-muscled and broad, but recognizably human, man.

Just far, far too large. And moving too smoothly, too swiftly, too easily. He moved like a man half his height and fraction his size. It was like an AT-AT dancing.

In the presence of the reborn Palpatine Gilad had felt similar. A presence of power. An all-encompassing sort of authority.

Reflexively, he hated it.

“It’s quite alright, Miat. Take a breather and find a ‘fresher.”

“Again, I’m sorry, sir.”

“Think nothing of it. Go on.” Gilad waved her out,

Roboute Guilliman cleared his throat, expression schooled into something like chagrin, or maybe sympathy.

“My apologies. My presence does not always sit well with some.”

Some, indeed. Pellaeon took the apology for what it was worth.

“Miss Temm was already feeling under the weather. Let’s hope we’ve gotten the worst out of the way here at the beginning.”

A few chuckles, mostly forced, from the Moffs sold Pellaeon’s levity.

“Let’s,” Guilliman affirmed.

“Then allow me to welcome you aboard Dominion , flagship of the Galactic Empire.”

“Honoured, Supreme Commander.”

And then introductions began and continued for some time. One Phratus Auguston, Centurion of something called the First Batallion, who stood quietly to the Primarch’s left. Drakus Gorod, Captain of the Invictus Suzerain, almost a match to Guilliman in size and bulk in his armor. Several ‘Iterators’, now Ambassadors, who apparently were of some fame.

The flow of authority was abundantly clear.

He had only to look between the Primarch, the Astartes standing guard and the humans arrayed with Guilliman, made tiny by comparison.

This was an Empire ruled by brute strength. The size and design of their flagship: screaming to all with eyes that might makes right. Their leader: a massive, overmuscled being pretending at being human. His lieutenants, the rumored genetic clones of him. A dynasty of brutish warriors.

And he prepared to offer up the Remnant’s rarest treasures to them.

Roboute steepled his fingers, observing the Moffs, both in the flesh and in the holo. Some appeared irritated, some seemed sanguine.

‘Supplying Eboracum with further transports and establishing a joint office for emigration.’ Roboute reiterated. ‘Wherein the Remnant would accept aliens and ‘near-humans’ that do not match the requirements of the Imperium, along with a nominal fifteen percent of human refugees.’

‘We expect that the attraction of Eboracum, even after the whole moon incident, is very probably to begin stretching your supplies very soon, if it hasn’t already,’ Sander D’asta declared. ‘Not to doubt your capabilities, of course, but the Remnant has far more than just one world , as it happens. This way, we alleviate some pressure and prove the Remnant is an excellent location for those fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong to settle.’

This was not something Guilliman hadn’t pondered on. The refugee crisis sweeping the Galaxy was a foremost issue of policy and economics and the near universal reaction had befuddled him. Throwing wide Eboracum’s doors to all humans had yielded incredible short-term returns and the long-term remained positive. There were teething issues, to be sure - the education programme swung in popularity and the efforts to naturalize humans of this Galaxy into functioning members of a properly Imperial culture were ongoing. Centurion Foltrus, with the Primarch’s blessing, had enacted a decree that only natural-born Imperial citizens were to be considered for ranking positions of sufficient influence.

From a meritocratic standpoint, it was unfortunate, but the various corruptive influences of this Galaxy were potentially issuesome enough that Roboute was willing to overlook it. In time, in a few generations, this rule could be repealed, as those born under the Imperial banner grew to adulthood properly.

That there was resource strain was true, but only so true as that if one hoped to maintain a standard of living equivalent to the consumerist ideals of this Galaxy. No Imperial citizen wanted for food, water, medicine or living space. There was work to be had for all, education provided and all necessities accounted for. Luxuries were sparse, but luxuries were self-describingly frivolous .

Again, in time, such things would change.

Centurion Foltrus’ additional edict encouraging trueborn Imperials to begin families was accepted as well.

To return to the issues of refugees, once issues of culture were put aside - as culture could be amended, adjusted and if necessary, stamped out - accepting refugees allowed for significant increases in available manpower for industry. Those with high education would provide experiential capital, enriching the advanced industries. This was why the Imperium welcomed any and all human worlds that chose to join with their brothers from Terra. No matter what, there was something the Imperium stood to gain.

That the Remnant had decided to abstain from this rich source of labor was curious, though now it seemed they were coming to their senses.

‘There are some who have emigrated and have not settled well into Imperial life,’ Roboute admitted. ‘Perhaps as a modification, the Remnant would be an alternative for those who come to Eboracum, should they prove incompatible with our ways.’

‘That would complicate logistics, you know,’ Dominus Hort retorted. ‘It’s easier if we just have them come straight to Remnant space.’

‘At worst, there is lost time.’ Roboute waved away the argument. Compared to warp travel, hyperspace ran on sunlight and water. Essentially free. Giving leave for the Remnant to poach any percentage of the SELCORE-directed refugees and he was certain they would hand-select the professionals and specialists. Eboracum and the Exiled Imperium needed those of all walks. There was always work to be done.

The discussion spun on.

As per the demands on his position, Roboute had set aside but one singular day to meet physically. After, he would return to Macragge’s Honour and thence to Eboracum, attending via holo to further meetings, but otherwise the Adeptus Legatus would take over the minutia.

As the session spun down, the most glaring fact continued to be danced around. The fact that led to why, Roboute suspected, Gilad Pellaeon sailed out in Dominion .

The fact that the Imperial Remnant had little to nothing to truly offer the Exiled Imperium. Jaemus was a fringe branch of Kuat: the Treaty of Fundamental Iron put Kuat itself in the Imperium’s court. SELCORE managed the masses of refugees - the Remnant could only entreat with them as well. The New Republic outnumbered the Remnant several times over, in terms of sheer naval tonnage, with that gulf increasing every day. The Remnant had wealth, but the New Republic had more. The Remnant was relatively near, in a galactic sense, but the New Republic bordered the Imperium.

Roboute knew they wished for a strong and responsive ally, to no longer stand alone against the Yuuzhan Vong. Though Supreme Commander Malik Carr had only poked gently at the Remnant, all knew the time was coming when they would be the next in line. The Hutts lasted as long as Nas Choka looked aside, and now they foundered before the Yuuzhan Vong.

He could even see the practical utility of allying with the Remnant, as an attempt to describe an arc of resistance in the galactic north, yet could the Remnant truly hold up their end of the bargain?

Flennic was bored of the entire affair. He was easy to read and though newly a Moff, his political history was long and deep and provided a breadth of analysis on the man. Temm also helped to confirm some particular theories. Flennic hated Palpatine through and through and Gilad suspected that Flennic saw Roboute as ‘yet another sorcerer-king’. Sarreti was taken in, that much was clear, the young Moff of Bastion hanging onto Roboute’s rolling-thunder voice. The other Moffs varied. Bemos and D’Asta, being as their sectors were right up against the Yuuzhan Vong advance were the most invested, though D’Asta seemed untowardly critical.

There was hemming and hawing and the lack of interest from the Exiles was growing ever more clear.

Jaemus couldn’t offer what Kuat could. The coffers of the Remnant were a fraction of the New Republic. Even Hapes was likely richer. Technologically, the Exiles appeared to hold the upper hand. Even the bait of refugee assistance was partially parried.

That had been a contentious topic at the previous Council meeting. Sarreti had upbraided the other Moffs for how obvious the Exile’s tactic had been and how utterly boneheaded the Moffs had been to close their borders to any fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong. The Imperial Remnant was supposed to be the alternative! Proof against the New Republic, an example of how the fundamental truths of the Empire were right , even if they had been lost along the way!

The Empire could have thrown wide their doors. The influx of wealth, experience, people would’ve breathed new life into the flagging nation. They could’ve shown the hypocrisy of the New Republic, willing to let their own people, their own citizens burn while they discussed in committee. Decisive action! That was the Remnant! The Empire!

Gilad was of two minds. On the one hand, Sarreti wasn’t wrong in that they had passed up a supreme chance to smear egg on the face of the New Republic. On the other - the Pentastar Alignment, the substrate of the Remnant, was an insular and isolated sort of culture. The ramifications of unchecked immigration in such a way could not be predicted.

But a tempered approach, bringing in the best and brightest and a necessary helping of the rest for appearance’s sake, that would likely have been ideal.

The Exiles beat them to the punch.

As the New Republic had beaten them to the Exiles. At best, at best , Pellaeon suspected they could agree on sharing intelligence and perhaps some degree of trade. A defensive pact would be shocking.

Save for one factor.

“I’m sorry to shift the topic, but I’ve had a thought, Lord Guilliman.”

Roboute raised a blonde eyebrow, curious.

“Your joint raid on Obroa-skai is well known, but the goal is, of course, highly classified.” Not that Pellaeon hadn’t read the official NRI report, of course. “Would it be too far if I inquired?”

“Not at all,” the Primarch rumbled. “The primary purpose was shrouded to deny the enemy time to prepare or destroy our prize, but that matters little now. No, it would not harm operations to say that we had hoped to acquire further data from the databanks of the Obroan Institute. As is rumored,” the Primarch managed, somehow, a shadow of a self-deprecating smile, “we are not from around here. Professors of the Obroan Institute intimated that there might be records that could assist in our finding a way…home.”

Pellaeon nodded, keeping a careful look of interest on his face.

“Records…such as?”

The Primarch idly waved a massive hand.

“Astrographical charts, xenoarchaeological records, myths, rumors. The concrete and the ephemeral, Admiral. The Warp is quite unknown here, though doubtful it has always been so.”

“Ah,” Gilad said. He leaned forward, just slightly. A careful cast, but he felt sure to hook. “If this is an interest to the Exiles, then it’s no secret that Grand Admiral Thrawn compiled a rare collection of extensive information on the Unknown Regions. Maps, notes, historical records… none of which have yet made it into public circulation. All kept secure on Bastion, you know.”

There was a beat, and then he felt the fury of the Moffs as a physical weight.

The Primarch, for the first time, actually appeared interested .

The remotely attending Moffs vanished, one after another. Kurlen stretched when he stood. Sarreti cornered a few Legatus adepts. Gilad Pellaeon came around the table, offering a hand to Roboute. Amused, he took it, careful around the elder mortal’s grip.

‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Consul Guilliman. I appreciate your accepting this meeting. I think this is the beginning of a fruitful friendship between the Empire and the Imperium .’

‘And yours, Grand Admiral. Your reputation well precedes you. Send my apologies and well wishes to Madam Temm.’

‘I will. I’m sure she will appreciate it as much as she regrets her absence.’

Auguston attended them, armor hissing smoothly as he planted himself, hands clasped behind his back.

‘Admiral, a reintroduction. Phratus Auguston, Centurion of First Battalion. Phratus, Supreme Commander Pellaeon of the Imperial Remnant.’

Auguston inclined his head slightly, matched by Pellaeon.

‘First Battalion is the speartip for the Legiones Ultramarine. In the future, when our nations take the field, like as not it will be Auguston’s Battalion.’

Pellaeon surveyed the Astartes.

‘I’m sure we’ll have much to learn from each other.’

‘Likely,’ Phratus replied.

‘He was an admirer of this ship,’ Roboute continued. ‘Quite vocally.’

Auguston glowered.

‘ Chimaera will stay my first love, but Dominion does have a presence all her own. Lord Consul, one final matter. Before we depart, there’ll be one final arrival. Brazen Grasp is an Interdictor-class cruiser. Jaemus is offering it as a gift. Word is that your ‘Warp’ technology has interesting interactions with mass shadows.’

Uncommonly surprised, Roboute bowed his head.

‘I will accept it with pride on behalf of the Imperium. A notable gift. Jaemus has the regard, and the attention, of the Exiles Imperium.’

Pellaeon smiled a thin smile.

‘I believe that was their goal. We’ll speak again, surely, Lord Consul.’

‘My aides will share my private holocom codes. Safe travels, Grand Admiral.’

Though the Remnant easily lived up to the name, the trip was not wasted. Macragge’s Honour flew admirably, though the trip to this abandoned system just Rimward of Eboracum was simple and quick. Gilad Pellaeon, though he ruled over a dying rump state, one undone quite comprehensively by the New Republic - and such a condemnation that was, considering his judgments of general Republican mettle - seemed an honest and direct man. Beneficially, as the unmatched leader of the Remnant, Pellaeon had the right and the will to do whatever he pleased, as best Guilliman could determine. The dangling of Grand Admiral Thrawn’s maps and intelligence had incensed not a few of the Moffs. They had argued, but not recused or threatened. Gilad Pellaeon held the reins, not the Moff Council.

Pellaeon’s reticence had been a constant undercurrent, balanced by Sarreti’s interest and few of the other Moff’s polite attention. One would never hope to win over all, but given Pellaeon’s position, he need only secure the one; any others would be benefit. He made note to mention the particular reaction of Miat Temm to Master Skywalker, either through Aeonid or otherwise. Only those claiming Force-sensitivity reacted so explosively in his presence.

A direct line to Borsk Feyl’ya he judged to bear little value. One to the Grand Admiral; that was another matter entirely.

The Exiled Imperium would find use for the Imperial Remnant regardless, without a doubt.

Flennic was fairly apoplectic at Gilad’s ‘subterfuge’. The other Moffs reacted with similar hostility, namely at the fear of giving up so powerful a bargaining chip. The memory of Thrawn still loomed large and if nothing else, the Empire could still pride itself on intelligence that was second to none. Every bit doled out to the Exiles would, they argued, make its way to the grubby hands of NRI and outward, until the whole galaxy knew.

Data analysts had only scratched the surface of Thrawn’s inheritance, and who knew what treasures might be squandered away.

His retort was that he would be glad to live to see ‘treasures’ squandered away, as that would mean the Empire, and the Galaxy, had survived the Vong.

Sarreti, ever supportive, had added that for all that Thrawn and the Chiss explored the Unknown Regions, they still remained the Unknown Regions and had there been grand wonders locked away for the taking, surely the Chiss would have beaten any others there, and there would be some sign of it.

Poor Temm recovered enough to brief him on what she had experienced, which the woman struggled to place into words. In private, she admitted she had been sure she could handle it and that the statements from the Jedi were overstated.

It was unfortunate to be public. There was little doubt that all the Moffs suspected Temm’s position in his staff and her particular talents, though there was a difference between suspecting and knowing. Her rather spectacular outing would curtain her previous roles, but she was nothing if not a trustworthy and capable woman and knowing about her did not make them any less relevant.

Jaemus’ overture had been delivered, the Dominion showed the flag and a secure line to the Exile’s Primarch was promised.

He did not share Sarreti’s relish for the newcomers, but Gilad was ever a pragmatist. Ithor had been an essential action, even if the Moffs castigated him for it. The writing on the wall was growing clearer day by day and star by star. The Vong were coming, and the bloodlust of the Exiles would be his shield against the darkness.

Chapter Text

Imperial Entanglements
Rarest Treasures | No More Color | TBA

Once upon a time, the ghostly blue-grey shape of a Super Star Destroyer was a mark of immediate terror. Beings upon the surface of a world would look up and quake in fear at the sight of its behemoth size filling the sky like the shadow of intent. Arrowhead shaped, spear-tip shaped, it was a naked blade only sheathed when sated by the blood of malcontents and those the Empire turned its implacable gaze towards.

Irony of ironies, then, that the bulk of Guardian lived up to her name, coasting high over Coruscant and filling each and every being on the capital world below with a swell of comfort each time they turned eyes toward the sky. Returned to the heart of the New Republic after her deployment along the southern front of the Yuuzhan Vong advance, Guardian rubbed shoulders with her long-lost cousin Malaghi Shesh , surrounded by entire squadrons of Imperial Star Destroyers, rubbing shoulders with MC90s and Bothan Assault Cruisers. Nebula Star Destroyers, Corona Frigates, Belarus cruisers, and Endurance Fleet Carriers stacked in squadrons. Fleet tenders nosed alongside capital ships like remoras, Prowler recon vessels ranged out wide keeping tabs on the endless and bustling local space around the capital. 

The assembled fleet dwarfed the forces pulled together for the catastrophic ‘Corellian Gambit’. Fifth Fleet, mauled at Fondor, even with the Battle Groups on loan would’ve matched perhaps half of the assembled armada. 

First Fleet, pride of the New Republic Navy, made rendezvous in bold, public sight.

Deep within Guardian gathered the best and brightest of the New Republic Defense Force. General Etahn A’baht, advisor to Supreme Commander Sien Sovv, both attending in the flesh. Admiral Turk Brand, remotely attending from where he kept peaceful but watchful eyes on Fondor and the Tapani Sector alongside the Exiles. Ayddar Nylykerka, the Director of Fleet Intelligence, with arms crossed and air sacs trembling. Admiral Kre’fey, his pure-white fur pristine and shining, rocking back and forth with scarcely repressed energy. General Wedge Antilles, seated already at the conference table, leaning forward with shoulders hunched and elbows planted on the durasteel surface. Admiral Suskafoo, head of Technology Section fiddled with one antenna, speaking in low tones with Admiral Ragab, Chief of Staff of Fleet Command while Admiral Horton Salm of Starfighter Command gestured with a datapad.

Within Guardian ’s flag conference chamber, at least a square acre in size, were perhaps the most powerful beings in the known Galaxy. Veterans of the Galactic Civil War, the Black Fleet Crisis, campaigns against warlords and fringe recalcitrants, of the Reborn Emperor’s depredations, they served at the pleasure of the Chief of State and the Senate of the New Republic; yet it was ultimately their commands, their tactics, their strategy that could save or condemn a thousand worlds.

Which meant: no pressure.

“I appreciate all of your attendance,” Sien Sovv began, black eyes scanning over the chamber. “It’s an understatement to say that the last month has been…eventful.” Murmurs and a few grim chuckles rippled through the officers, more than a few glances cast toward Turk Brand’s hologram. 

The Sullustan paced back and forth at the head of the conference table, a blank hologram humming pale and blue behind him, covering most of a wall. Projection screens recreated the starscape and planet beyond as if the chamber were high up in one of Guardian ’s many dorsal towers, recreating the incredible vista of nearspace around Coruscant. The capital hung half in shadow, the entire globe glowing with permanent golden light. Traffic bands stacked high past Guardian and well out to geosynchronous orbit and beyond, filled with freighters and bulk haulers, civilian liners and industrial galleons. A sleek Nebula slid past Guardian , toylike against the sprawling cityscape of the Super Star Destroyer. 

The itinerary was obvious enough. The Battle of Fondor, the fall of Duro, Ando, Kalarba, a dozen others. The attack on the Exile world of Eboracum, the Vong Warmaster’s ‘ceasefire’. 

Admiral Brand gave an abbreviated breakdown of the mood in Tapani and Fondor itself, now that the dust had quite literally settled. The Exiles were there to stay, comfortably invited in by the Guildmasters of Fondor and by the populace of Tapani itself. They were digging fingers into every area they could, ‘leasing’ entire sectors of Fondor’s surviving factories and running patrols out to neighboring systems with their cruisers. Their dreadnought stayed on station over Fondor, likely as a deterrence, Brand suspected, and their Admiral had been more than willing to handle continued joint coverage of Fondor while Fifth Fleet’s crippled vessels were restored. 

The Exiles had even offered assistance on those repairs, though politely declined.

After Brand, Wedge Antilles and Traest Kre’fey broke down what it had been like constantly engaging the Yuuzhan Vong along the southern and Rimward front. Elements of every Fleet had been active from Bestine in the Inner Rim to Svivren in the Outer Rim; from Mimban and Manaan to Contruum, skirmishes and sudden clashes kept the NRDF running nonstop across tens of thousands of lightyears. 

Kre’fey explained how the greatest struggle against the Vong wasn’t their biotechnology, but the total unpredictability and true alien nature of their target selection. They might skip past a dozen settled worlds to crash into a one a hundred lightyears towards the Core, but then spread out and secure a sphere of territory well ahead of the ‘lines’. They attacked in metastasizing fits and starts, following a method known only to their madness.

Nylykerka agreed. The Fleet Intelligence spooks were driving themselves insane and climbing the walls trying to create a comprehensive dossier of Yuuzhan Vong tactical and strategic thought. 

Suskafoo presented the latest findings from Technology, about, obviously, Technology. Or: Biotechnology. After so many battles in the void and in the dirt, there was a true glut of Yuuzhan Vong biots, alive and dead, ripe and ready for examination. Yorik coral’s properties were basically as well known as durasteel now; the mineral make-up of Vonduun armor’s crystalline inner layer had an official name. Yet for all that, some remained beyond the understanding of even the best technologists and geneticists. 

Yammosks, for example, were a complete and total mystery. Few had ever been killed, and even fewer even seen . Their sign was everywhere, marked out by the eerie coordination of the Vong in each engagement, but the fleshy ‘War Coordinators’ were guarded so jealously and so preciously that when the Wraiths had attempted to isolate and board a ship suspected to be carrying a yammosk, the Vong had been willing to collapse an entire flank of the raid over Molavar just to defend the miid-roic cruiser. As Colonel Loran put it: “Well, at least we could say we did find one.”

Captured villips were still inscrutable as ever, leaving the uncomfortable reality being that the Vong could broadcast into the holonet, but the New Republic were still quite locked out from the Vong’s own communication systems. In fact; it wasn’t even known exactly the manner of communication among villips - were they a distributed nodal network, like comms? Were they linked, one to another, like an entanglement system? Could any villip call any other? Theories, but no answers.

And lastly, Ragab and Salm declared that Fleet-wide doctrinal changes were paying dividends. Stutterfire and shield pairs among the starfighter corps were slowing the bleed of talent and expertise as starfighter jockeys lived longer. Adjustments of inertial compensators were having a marked difference in preventing dovin basals from snatching shields. Quite simply, the bloody tolls and slanted ratio of losses from the earlier war were stabilizing and starting to tip. 

“The demonization of the Jedi is unfortunate, but the Warmaster’s ceasefire couldn’t have come at a better time.” Sien Sovv reclaimed the floor, quite some time later. “We’ve been struggling to get our feet under ourselves since essentially Dantooine. The blows kept coming and all of us here know how stretched the Navy has been.” The Sullustan huffed a sigh, rubbing at his broad forehead. “The only reason we can all be here, right now, is because the biggest of all surprises is that Tsavong Lah apparently wasn’t bluffing. Attacks and advances have completely stopped. The Vong are consolidating their positions, but they aren’t moving a micron except in Hutt space.”

“Let them bleed in there,” Admiral Firmus Nantz, First Fleet, sniffed. “The Hutts are triple dealing; this is a reckoning that has been a long time coming.”

Sien Sovv nodded.

“And they are bleeding. Supreme Commander Nas Choka is tied up in the depths of Hutt territory and from sources high in the Kajidics we know that the Vong are poking at the Bootana.”

“How high?” Admiral Thaneespi, Second Fleet, asked, giving a wall-eyed Mon Calamari stare.

Nylykerka cut in.

“Very high. We’ve been getting nearly real-time intelligence out of the Besadii Kajidic from a source that has to be within at least Borga’s inner circle - whatever is left of it. Nal Hutta fell almost immediately along with Nar Shadaa and Nas Choka rampaged across most of Hutt space before the Kajidics managed to get over themselves and push back. Everything says it’s only a matter of time until the Vong crack the Bootana and finish up the sweep, but until then, they are bleeding and they are distracted.”

“Hutts aside,” Sovv cleared his throat wetly, “Supreme Commander Malik Carr in the galactic north seems to be respecting the Warmaster’s declaration.”

Wedge Antilles frowned.

“Didn’t Yavin 4 just get hit? Last night?”

Word of the attack swept through the higher echelons of the Navy, especially in the starfighter corps. More than a few Admirals and Commodores had requested clearance to take a squadron or two for support when the news broke. General Antilles and Admiral Kre’fey had been among them.

“Yavin 4 isn’t New Republic territory, or even any territory claimed at all. The Jedi are, for better or worse, kept to their own. Given the Warmaster’s demand for Jedi in return for the continued ceasefire…I’m sorry to say it, but it was a given, sooner or later.”

“ Children ,” one of the Admirals growled.

“Yes, children,” Firmus Nantz echoed. “How many millions of children now, across the galaxy? Tens of millions? If the Jedi had integrated into the New Republic better, we could’ve been there. They didn’t; we weren’t.”

“That’s unfair, Nantz,” Thaneespi countered.

“It’s honest. I told Calrissian the same years ago. I respect Luke Skywalker and I’ll admire him until the day I die, but our hands are tied. Be glad the Exiles weren’t as hamstrung.”

“A fine enough segue, thank you.” Sien Sovv nodded to an aide who tapped away at a datapad, replacing the previous hologram showing a general breakdown of all five Fleets with one displaying a double-headed avian symbol, along with a terrestrial world and large, baroque warships. “The Exiles. If the Yuuzhan Vong are a black box, the Exiles are the complete opposite. They’re shouting to everyone around them what they want and what they’re going to do.”

“Kill Vong, kill Vong, and I believe when they’re done with that: kill Vong.” Kre’fey said drily. The Bothan cocked a fluffy brow, nose twitching once. “They’ve done damned well at that so far.”

“On top of subverting democratic and republican principles, shoving out New Republic influence in key sectors of the Galaxy and getting into bed with Kuat, but yes, that.” Wedge Antilles spoke low, but heat filled his voice. A’baht tugged at his fleshy, aubergine lip and nodded emphatically. 

“Pellaeon came crawling out of the Remnant to them, hat in hand. Imperials snuggling up to Imperials.”

Sovv cut off a rising buzz with both hands, waving down his subordinates.

“Let’s put the politics aside for a moment. Suskafoo, Aydar? What does Fleet Intelligence and Technology have to say about them?”

Nylykerka spoke first, expelling air from his sacs with a low whistle. 

“We’ve been working with NRI. The Exiles are proving hard to get any real levels of penetration into. It’s simplicity itself to get agents into Eboracum or onto crews of some of the Exile-owned freighters, but upwards? We run into duranium walls left and right. NRI has different priorities than we do, of course, but we can both agree that the Exiles don’t seem to be hiding much. There’s a peculiar kind of pride they wrap themselves up in. They don’t want to keep secrets.”

Nantz huffed a laugh.

“I could’ve saved you all the time and pay. Just watch their ‘Primarch’ proudly tell the New Republic Senate that he’s comfortable with exterminating whole species. I daresay that’s a bit of a bellwether for the amount of shame they can feel.”

“Yes, well, besides that, we’ve had time to do a full analysis of the Fondor action report and recordings from Eboracum’s stations and surface during the attack there.”

Nylykerka projected holos of his own over the conference table: detailed wireframes of Exile warships, starfighters alongside stills of each in action.

“The Exile’s naval doctrine focuses on raw tonnage over anything else. The smallest warships we’ve seen them field are roughly the size of an Imperial Star Destroyer, while the largest would’ve eaten Eclipse . We’re confident that this is a technological limitation-” Suskafoo nodded emphatically in support. “-given that there’s undeniable benefits to escort classes for capitals.”

“A technological limitation? I was given to believe that the Exile’s technology was flat better than ours.”

Suskafoo fielded the question from Admiral Ragab.

“Not as such. Exile technological base is different , very radically so. In some ways, it is better. In some ways, worse. They cannot use reliable FTL here and must rely on either Jedi or painstaking scouting as if it was the earliest days of expansion down the hyperlanes. That alone is a tremendous flaw. They also cannot hide their avarice for holocomm technology; one of Eboracum’s leading imports are holocomm transceivers and components.”

Suskafoo paused, peering around the conference table, seeing generally uncomprehending faces.

“You don’t see? They did not have faster-than-light communications! .”

That got a reaction. A ripple of surprise; shock.

“You can confirm this?”

Nylykerka nodded. “NRI supports this too. The Exiles are too overt in what they’ve wanted, especially from Kuat. They’re treating hyperdrives and holocomms like they’re corusca gems.”

“This is my meaning,” Suskafoo continued. “In some ways: better. In some ways: almost primitive.”

“Primitive or not, their dreadnought battled two Vong grand cruisers to a standstill.” Brand countered.

Suskafoo waggled a chitinous hand.

“Analysts suggest that the Vong could have destroyed the Exile warship, if they had concentrated on it.” The Verpine cycled to another holo, zooming in on a succession of magma missiles slamming into an Exile cruiser in a stroboscopic ripple of blinding detonations. At the same time, plasma splashed harmlessly against crackling bolts of violet lightning.

“Their shields are not like our own. They are strong, very strong, but they do not stop slower moving projectiles at all. At Fondor, coralskippers were able to strafe at close quarters and magma missiles proved slow enough to bypass their protections.”

“Like they only have ray shields…”

“Instead of unified deflector arrays, yes.” Suskafoo nodded sharply. “This is a tremendous weakness. General Antilles, I am told you have had Rogue Squadron running sims against our programs?”

Antilles drummed knuckles on the table.

“Colonel Darklighter and Colonel Fel both, yes, along with the other three squadrons on Ralroost . Gavin’s said that the first few rounds gave the Rogues a sobering shellacking, not too different from the first sims against ‘skips. Since then, they’re getting the Exile’s number. That latest update with the shield bypass…”

That had been a full wargame on Ralroost , looping in the starfighter wing and the command crew, Kre’fey himself indulging in participating and commanding droid-run capitals as part of a squadron. A cunning Thrawn pincer brought Ralroost and several Nebulas in at point-blank range with Opolor’s Vow , dumping out their wings practically under the Exile dreadnought’s guns. Concussion missiles and proton torpedoes slipped right through the Exile’s shields as if they didn’t exist and the tiny, agile missiles proved hard for the sim to track and shoot down.

“The sim managed a full accounting of all the ships at Fondor.” Antilles seemed perversely pleased about it, sitting back with a small smile.

“It’s good to know we can fight them, but that won’t be a concern.” Nantz steepled his fingers, thick black eyebrows drawn down over his deep eyes. “If we know this, the Vong know it. And I hate to give the scarheads credit, but they adapt fast. The Exiles have Malik Carr tied up in the north and giving us breathing room all along Hydian up there. I’d hate to see the Vong pull another attack and go for the kill. Don’t much like the Exiles' ideas about some things, but so far, they’re not painting their ships with blood.”

“That’s the critical issue, in fact,” Sien Sovv agreed. “The Senate, or at least Senator Shesh’s faction, is enamoured with the Exiles.” The Sullustan’s broad lips narrowed. “So: our final item on the itinerary.”

From the edge of the chamber, where aides and junior officers attended the Admirals and Generals, a particularly recognizable Bothan rose to his feet. He waved a hand immediately, stopping several from rising to their feet to salute.

Borsk Fey’lya joined Sovv at the head of the table.

“I’d like the room, please,” the Chief of State of the New Republic asked amicably. 

The chamber emptied of all but flag officers in surprised silence broken only by booted feet on decking and rustling of uniforms.

The last out sealed the chamber. 

Borsk Fey’lya wore an unmarked formal Navy uniform without any rank tabs. As ever, his fur was impeccably groomed and carefully brushed and he made sure to meet each Admiral or General’s eyes, even those in holo.

“Right now,” Borsk began, “I’m not here. This meeting hasn’t happened.”

Sovv quietly took a step to the side, giving the Chief of State the full floor.

“Tsavong Lah has given us breathing room. All he’s done is given us rope to hang ourselves. Jedi are being hunted up and down the Galaxy. Local governments are capitulating out of terror. We saw it on Ando. The Ploo and Plooriod sectors are considering petitioning Coruscant to be released under the Exiles. The Hutts are collapsing. Hapes plans to lock their doors. The Remnant has a half-refit Super Star Destroyer and a Moff Council that thinks the Vong are scared of the ghost of a memory of an Empire. 

I have one order for you all.”

For a moment, Borsk Fey’lya slumped. Age suddenly piled onto the Bothan, exhaustion etching into his face and expression and he seemed humbled. Then it was past and he pulled himself together, the consummate statesman again.

“Admirals, Generals. Give me a victory. Anywhere. Anyway. Find a world, find a Vong fleet, and crush it .”

Mouths, oral orifices gaped in surprise. 

“If you think we can retake Obroa-skai? Do it. If you think we can retake Duro? Do it. Tynna? Belderone? If you have to sail into Hutt space and stab Nas Choka from behind while he’s tripping over Borga the Hutt’s entrails, do it .”

“Sir…that will be breaking the ceasefire.”

Fey’lya pinned General Rand Talor, Marine Command, with a glare.

“Tsavong Lah is going to break that ceasefire as soon as he wants to. When he’s ready and when he’s got his next target lined up, he’ll do it himself. This ceasefire is a farce . These are your orders. Admiral Sovv, find me a victory. General Antilles? I’ve doubted you in the past, and you have an irritating habit of proving me wrong in embarrassing ways. Do it again.”

“They’ll string you up by your guts in the Senate,” Nantz observed without rancor.

“If there’s a Senate to string me up in, I’ll take it as the victory it is. You have your orders. They don’t leave this room. You don’t talk about it except over a secure holocomm connection to those you’ve personally vetted . I don’t need to remind you about all the moles NRI is winkling out.”

Borsk Fey’lya again stared down each and every Admiral and General, eye-to-eye, demanding any argue. None did. The surprise was too complete.

“Oh, and one final requirement. Don’t bring in the Exiles. The New Republic needs a win, gentlebeings. That will be all.”

It was easy to forget how big the plateau was where the Great Temple stood. Ersham Ridge was a spine of the local range, flattened out and spread out over more than a thousand square kilometers of rolling hills, sharp ravines, meandering rivers, oxbow lakes and hidden waterfalls, all buried under ancient jungle. Temples and ruins poked up almost everywhere you looked. The Great Temple, of course, was the fulcrum of it all, in the center of the entire Temple complex, proudly ruling over the rest. He never thought much about the scale of it all, always coming or going on a ship with his mind elsewhere. Thinking on the past, or the future. And when he was there, he had other things to occupy his attention. He was dragged off on adventures or working through lessons or taking the small moments of quiet to himself.

Anakin perched on the rear of the capsule shaped escape pod, right leg drawn up and hugged to his chest. Cool, brisk wind bit at his cheeks, matching wispy and thin clouds that scudded swiftly along in a deep blue sky above. Yavin was a sliver across the horizon, still hiding away after the true night. The air smelled of petrichor and fresh sap. 

The escape pod had cratered down into a muddy flat that had been a small meadow once, punching most of its mass deep into the soaked soil and spraying out a slump-sided crater. They stayed inside while the storm collapsed without the tether of Alebmos, listening as hail and rain hammered the pod and the howling wind slowly died out. It took the better part of the day, time passing by in the red-lit emergency lights and acrid smell of sweat and urine. 

It had still been drizzling lightly when Anakin chanced popping the hatch, relishing in the fresh air swirling in. Sunlight fell easily through breaking clouds, unimpeded by branch-stripped Massassi trees - where the trees still stood. 

Anakin perched on the rear of the capsule with leg drawn up, boot pressed to the durasteel skin to keep from sliding and he looked out over raw devastation. As far as he could see, one in five ancient trees were shattered and tumbled down. Gigantic rents in the canopy let sunlight down to emerald depths that hadn’t suffered the glare of Yavin’s primary in centuries. Bushes were shredded to bits of twigs and leaves. Water pooled, trickled, streamed. 

The jungle looked like an ag thresher had ripped right through it, sparing nothing. Anakin stared off into the middle distance without seeing much at all. 

Sannah’s presence burned in his mind. He tracked her every single second. She was just out of sight, down at one of the many brand-new creeks and streams, stripping down to clean her reeking jumpsuit. The inside of the escape pod aired out a little so they could pull out the emergency supplies.

Anakin sat on the rear of the escape pod and very carefully poked at…what, he could not define.

Master Ikrit was dead.

His Master was dead.

When he first saw Ikrit, Anakin thought he was just an animal. A precocious and intelligent one, but an animal. He thought of his brother, thought of what Jacen would do. He’d take in the little critter, who bounded around with bright eyes and bushy fur and cried ‘Ikrit! Ikrit!’. He and Tahiri adopted the little rascal and smuggled him back into the Praxeum like it was some great adventure, having a secret pet. 

He’d blushed for days after Ikrit revealed the truth. Years later, his cheeks still heated thinking how he’d tried to teach a Jedi Master how to do tricks.

Master Ikrit had loved the deception. He let Anakin in on a little more of his reasoning, just before the Vong arrived. He’d wanted to see what sort of person Anakin was. Helping an old Jedi Master? Well, that was an easy question to answer. Who wouldn’t? Helping a helpless and silly little animal? Now, that was a better question.

And, Ikrit had shared with a wink, he’d had quite a bit of fun for the first time in a great many years, bounding around and squeaking out his name. 

Uncle Luke was Anakin’s true Master, in basically all ways. Uncle Luke taught Anakin the basics of lightsaber styles, he led Anakin on meditations, he guided him through his early steps with the Force. Master Katarn was more of a Master than Ikrit in ways of the lightsaber. Master Tionne gave Anakin the meanings of what it was to be a Jedi through her ballads and her lessons on the ancient Jedi of the past. Master Solusar instilled in Anakin greater concepts of balance and calm, how to feel his emotions but to let them pass.

Compared to them, Master Ikrit wasn’t much of a Master. He taught no lessons. He told no tales of the old Order.

But he was Anakin’s Master, all the same. He listened when Anakin had words. He curled up and demanded no words when Anakin had none. He gave quiet advice that never told Anakin what to do; but instead, how to consider his actions. To find what he needed, instead of telling Anakin what he needed.

And Master Ikrit was dead.

He supposed he should be sad. He could feel Tahiri’s grief through their bond, though muted. His friend had thrown up a wall between them, balling herself up and curling away from him in a way that worried Anakin. 

In this quiet contemplation, in the stillness of the savaged jungle as fauna emerged blinking and shocked from burrows and drenched nests, Anakin poked at the wound in his heart and found not sorrow but anger.

At first he tried to see if he could have changed anything. Done anything. 

Yes: he could have been more careful with Sannah. She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. She wouldn’t even face him. He could have made sure she was on board a ship.

He could’ve been faster, returning to the Praxeum. A little more speed. He could’ve been more careful ascending again, he could’ve flown in the storm a little longer. The difference of half a kilometer - that’s all it would have taken.

He could’ve done what Ikrit did. Why didn’t he think of it? Why didn’t the Force guide his hand to peel away that Vong transport and free the Lady ?

At the end of his ruminating, of rerunning it all again and again, Anakin came face-first up against the undeniable.

Master Ikrit was dead, and Master Ikrit had planned for it .

He’d sensed only peace from the Kushiban when he clung to the capture tendril as it swept out of the Lady’ s ragged corridor. He’d sensed only pride in the last words of his Master. He’d sensed only determination before Ikrit’s life went out.

Anakin only felt surprise during the night, when the Vong warrior had caught Ikrit by the throat.

His Master had planned to die. 

Master Ikrit had known. And he’d chosen to let it happen.

Anakin couldn’t find sorrow, but he could find anger.

Sannah waited outside the escape pod, her jumpsuit soaked and hanging on her petite frame. Anakin rifled through the emergency supplies, the pod’s hatch thrown wide. He kept a sense of the Force wide and open, ready for surprise, fear, fury from creatures at interlopers into their territory. For the static-laced, muted presence of chazrach. He didn’t expect Vong, not with the storm only just passed, but the universe never cared about what Anakin Solo expected.

Lady Starstorm had her escape pods maintained, at least, since she was one of the active freighters that the Praxeum used on missions. He drew out a small vaporator, still in its case and the factory seal unbroken. A medpac, a small holdout stun blaster. He didn’t need that, not with two lightsabers, but he tucked it into a pocket all the same. Magnesium flares, condensed rations. 

Lady Starstorm had two escape pods and an expected crew of twelve; there was supplies enough for six in here. 

“Sannah,” he said. The girl flinched, sidling closer. Her brown hair, undone from her normal braids, fell over her face and she kept her head turned to the side. That was fine. There was nothing to say. He held out cast-plast boxes of rations; she took them silently. There was a bundled up hard-wearing synthweave pack and webbing for it. Anakin shrugged on the webbing, clipped the pack on his back.

“Load it,” he said, turning to present it to Sannah. One by one, the ration boxes dropped in. Then a small tent, the vaporator. Flares went to his belt. One medpac into the pack, the other in a smaller pack for Sannah to wear. It was smart for each of them to have one.

Anakin checked the interior of the pod one last time. Nothing else. 

No reason to stay.

“Let’s go,” he said. Sannah mutely followed behind him, their boots squelching in the mud.

In the sky, in the far distance, just barely above the horizon, Anakin could see moving craft. Alien shapes that didn’t belong on Yavin rose like stubbed spires. They were on one of the shallow rises in the plateau, high enough that from the ground and through gaps in the canopy he could see out. Normally, there’d be not a single view of anything but dense green, but - storm. A tornado might have passed through here, leaving a huge slash across the crown of the hill. He had macrobinoculars in his pack. Anakin didn’t bother going for them.

It was the Vong, obviously. Temerity was leaving with them on board or not. 

Besides, he sensed Tahiri in that direction.

He wasn’t sure quite where on the plateau they were. All bearings had been lost tumbling through the storm, hammered and buffeted every which way by the hundred-kilometer-an-hour winds. The pod had decent repulsorlifts, which saved them from an unpleasant return to the surface, but it wasn’t exactly meant to be flown. 

Going by Yavin’s sliver on the horizon and the rising sun, Anakin could lead Sannah east, toward the downward side of the plateau that led toward the sea. North or south led into the rougher parts of the range where the plateau gave way to true mountains. West went toward the Vong. Toward Tahiri.

It was the hardest decision of his life to turn his back and walk the wrong direction down the hill.

Night fell. Anakin shrugged off his pack, pulled out the tent. It popped up on its own, once the ties were released. Camouflage colored, thankfully. Not some stark, bright, neon rescue color. He wasn’t sure why a tent in an escape pod would make it easier to not be seen. He set the vaporator up, flipping it on. The little device hummed quietly, immediately dripping fresh, clean water from Yavin’s returning humidity. The cool wind from earlier had passed on by, Yavin’s warmth returning just in time for night to fall. 

While they hiked, Anakin made sure to eat. His stomach was hollow and he didn’t feel an ounce of hunger, but he ate mechanically, bite after bite of tasteless ration bar. He made Sannah eat too. The Melodie silently took the wrapped ration bars from him with just the tips of her fingers, like she was afraid to touch him.

They both needed the energy. Neither of them had eaten in the day they rode out the rest of the storm in the pod.

Anakin gestured with the Force, sinking stakes deep into the mud. Aunt Mara at his shoulder muttered something about never hearing the Force if he was always shouting. He ignored the memory of another time camping.

“You take the tent,” Anakin said. “I’ll keep watch.”

Sannah didn’t argue, vanishing into the flap and sealing it behind her. 

There wasn’t much need to sleep, not with the Force within him.

Somewhere across the plateau, Tahiri sobbed in pain and held herself away from him. 

And Anakin sat with his back to the tent, eyes open and staring at the broken jungle around him.

They passed the Temple of the Broken Arches on the fourth day after the storm. 

They had a routine. Hike. Eat. Drink. Sleep.

Hike. Eat. Drink. Sleep.

The plateau and the Temple Complex wasn’t safe. The Vong had to know they were down here and they wouldn’t ever stop if they thought there were Jedi out and about. Two cruiser-analogues could carry a lot of warriors. They had reaped a toll during the storm, but there could still be hundreds left. Plus biots, plus fliers. The second day he saw contrails high above. Coralskippers on patrol.

They had to get off the plateau, then find a place where Anakin could leave Sannah. That was ironic: all this because Sannah was left behind. Now he was going to do it again, on purpose. Between the vaporator and the rations, Sannah could easily last a month or two on her own, as long as she didn’t do anything idiotic again.

He didn’t notice Sannah shiver beside him.

Then he could go back for Tahiri. Then he could go back.

The Temple of Broken Arches was a good sign; it was one of the most far-flung temples in the whole Complex, close to the downward roll of the plateau to where it led into the Ersham Escarpment that fell about five hundred meters to the coastal plains.

The jungle woke up as the days passed. Stintarils capered around, runyips lowed and wallowed in massive new mud holes. Spined pucs croaked and groaned and leaped into new formed ponds with long skreees when they passed. Woolamanders barked and howled, flashing color through the canopy. It was a nice reminder - for as artificial as the monsoon was that Alebmos wrestled control over, weather was just weather. A once in a millennium storm still happened uncountable times across the geological lifespan of a world. The world bounced back.

A day past the Temple of Broken Arches and Anakin reckoned another and they’d hit the Escarpment. They didn’t cover a lot of distance each day. Their boots were caked in mud and heavy, their jumpsuits sweat-stained with rings of salt around the underarms. His hair, for once, he swept back from his eyes and corralled with a billed cap out of the emergency supplies. Sannah tied her hair back with a length of stretchy cord. Mud, fallen trees, brambled undergrowth; they were lucky to make ten kilometers per day. 

He kept his sense of the Force spread out, eyes half-lidded as he trudged along by rote. The only offended creatures were those they passed; nothing to indicate pursuers. No chazrach minds.

For Tahiri, Anakin left all walls, all barriers down. He left himself open, entirely open, almost begging.

Tahiri, please. Let me be there for you.

She stayed curled up, just a dull aura of vague emotion.

So caught up in the feel of the jungle and the depths of his thoughts, he didn’t notice the small, white shape until Sannah gasped - the first noise she made in days.

“Sannah,” Anakin said. He found his voice sounded alien. Old and tired. He sounded like his father. “Please go and find a spot for the night.” She was behind him; she had stopped when she gasped and he’d taken another step or two. Anakin waited for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. He kept his eyes on the shape, his back to Sannah, until he heard the sucking and squelching of her boots as she moved away. He kept a mental eye on her all the while, but had only eyes for what was in front of him.

There were a trio of Massassi trees that had grown up together. Their trunks were melded together until some five meters above the ground - it might have all been a single tree with three codominant stems. They were wrapped tight in vines, encrusted in moss on the shadowed side. Branches were missing and broken, but the damage had been steadily diminishing the farther from the Praxeum they went. Alebmos must have focused the fury of the monsoon there - given how devastating it had been, the Astartes must have compressed a lot of the energy to make that happen. 

Storms were never this bad, even on the coasts.

Enough limbs had fallen, though, that shafts of sunlight still speared through the emerald roof. The triple tree shone in one particular beam, hazy motes dancing in the bright sunlight that fell across its tangle of roots and gnarled, joined boles. 

At the base, in a little basin shaped by twisting roots, rested a small and colorless form.

Anakin marveled at the stillness in his chest as he climbed over a cracked log, ducked under a tangle of hanging vines. He searched for his feelings and found them fled.

Beneath the triple bole of the ancient Massassi, Anakin knelt down beside the body of his Master.

Ikrit looked like he was sleeping. The Kushiban was curled, one paw laying across his chest. His fur was damp, but not sodden. His coat was a color Anakin had never seen before. Pure white, silver, black, red, swirled green and yellow - every color in the rainbow could smooth and spread across Ikrit’s expressive fluff. But this - this was colorless. Translucent. He’d never seen Ikrit’s fur like that.

Anakin knelt at his Master’s side for a long time, still as a carven statue. 

Under the Golden Globe beneath the Palace of the Woolamander, he’d found Ikrit sleeping. Slumbering away the centuries until someone could come and solve the curse he was never fated for. What kind of faith, was that, in the Force? He left everything behind, everything he ever knew. His own Master, his whole Order. The Republic that he knew and loved and protected.

Did Ikrit have anyone, then? Anakin knew the old Order frowned on marriage and families like Uncle Luke and Aunt Mara had, but did Ikrit have a family still on Kushibah? What friends had he left behind, what other Knights and Masters? 

All because the Force guided him to lost souls that needed rest. 

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Anakin whispered. “I don’t know if I can trust.”

Ikrit never said a word if he did, or if he didn’t. 

Anakin realized, then, as the knees of his jumpsuit grew damp, that he never really knew his Master. Ikrit sacrificed everything he had. All of himself, all he could have been. What other fate had been in store for Ikrit of Kushibah? What Apprentices could he have trained? What lives could he have changed?

The Force asked something else of him and Anakin’s Master answered.

Anakin reached out and placed a trembling hand on his Master’s side. His fur was cool. His body was still. There would not be color again.

Alone, Anakin wept.

He dug the grave himself. Sannah found a dry clearing a hundred meters or so east. He left her his pack, the tent, the vaporator, the rations.

Maybe there would have been meaning in doing it by hand. Maybe he could have found a fallen log and cut it into shape, into a spade to turn the soil.

Ikrit had lived and died for the Force. All Anakin could do was honor that.

Among the roots of the triple Massassi tree, Anakin took a deep, trembling breath and cupped his hand. Soil parted. Water wrung from the loam, left it turned and soft. 

Ikrit did not need a large space.

Jedi burned their dead. Tradition said that after they returned to the Force, that burning the body returned the form to energy that all life came from, no different from the Force itself. The end of one cycle, the beginning of another. After Desann’s attack on Yavin 4 and after Korriban, there had been pyres on the cleared grounds outside the Praxeum. Mei’s own brother had his own. The Memorial Grove bore their ashes in buried urns. 

On Endor, Uncle Luke burned the body of Darth Vader - or Anakin Skywalker, from another point of view. A Jedi funeral for a Jedi.

They couldn’t risk any fires. No smoke for the Vong to see, no light for them to follow. 

Anakin sat beside the grave, holding Ikrit in his arms. Bandages from a medkit wrapped the Kushiban and he felt so very light. There was nothing to say. There shouldn’t be anything to say. 

“I’m sorry. It should’ve been in your garden. In the Palace of the Woolamander.”

It should have been a pyre. 

Gently, by hand, Anakin interred Ikrit. The soil closed. A smooth stone, moss and lichen brushed aside, settled over top. 

Anakin stood. His mouth worked, his throat bobbed. He had no words to say.

Another day and they reached the Escarpment. The plateau fell away in sharp drops and slides, the jungle drawn in a sharp line. Landslips here and there showed in shrugged off trees and topsoil slid down the bare stone. It would be tougher going; there were no trails or paths to follow. 

Sannah, still mute and silent, waited next to him. 

Anakin reached for Tahiri - felt the same walls. Pain leaked out. Fear. Worry.

I’m here. I’m still here.

He didn’t know if she heard him, sensed his message. He kept sending it anyway. Wave after wave.

The Escarpment showed a cross-section of the plateau. Striated rock made up cliffs, sandwiched sets of darker bands and lighter bands. Erosion over millenia piled up mounds of scree and deposition that sometimes climbed halfway up the tall Escarpment. Seams, cracks, eroded cuts and gulleys textured the face of the cliff. Anakin led Sannah to the nearest weathered ravine, some old river or creek bed. Together they picked down the sharp slope, bracing with coiling vines or against spindly young trees springing up and clinging stubbornly to life among planes of rock and tumbled granite monoliths. The ground was still muddy, but the days of sun dried out much; trying to pick their way down on slippery rocks would be a quick ticket to twisted ankles or broken bones.

If Tahiri was here, they could have done their falling trick, right down the cliff itself-

He helped Sannah down a few of the steeper parts, reaching up with his hands and the Force to ease her down to the next flatter area. She tensed each time he caught her hand or guided her shoulder. 

They followed the ravine until it opened up and ended at the cliffside and Anakin nodded. They’d bought about fifty meters of height, here. Below, when water once flowed, a winding, snaking path of erosion and weathering had left scars and a narrow trail they could follow.

“We’re Jedi,” he told Sannah. “It’s just a cliff.”

They picked their way down over the next few hours. More than once, he or Sannah drew on the Force to arrest a slip or correct a misplanted step. They switched back again and again, wending downward toward the coastal plain. The canopy of the jungle below crept closer. More than once, impatience told him to grab Sannah and jump. Catch himself. Every minute they took, every day that passed, Tahiri was alone with the Vong.

She kept blocking him out. Sometimes, at night - and he had not slept for more than a few hours each night - he could feel her lose focus. There would be moments when she was there , with him, like they had been and he would reach for her - and she would slam the walls back up again.

She was blocking him out. Guilt pooled in his gut. She was blocking him out like he blocked her out, when he was hurting. Because he didn’t want to hurt her. To worry her.

Sithspawn, Tahiri, it wasn’t the same! This wasn’t being sad about Chewbacca, this was - she was captured! Held by the worst monsters the Galaxy had ever seen! The things they could be doing, the torture -

He wished Jacen hadn’t told him about Belkadan. Anakin fervently wished Danni never had shared what happened to Miko Reglia on Helska. He didn’t need to imagine Tahiri in the Embrace of Pain. He didn’t need the vivid images of those scuttling coral-implanters crawling all over his friend’s body. Or a yammosk-

A yammosk had broken Miko Reglia in a day. Shattered the Jedi Knight so thoroughly that Reglia chose to stay behind and die on Helska. If they had a yammosk here, if they let a yammosk do that to Tahiri…

They never had time to try to find out just how Anakin killed the yammosk on Obroa-skai. If the sithspawned Vong had one here, Anakin would find that answer. He didn’t sense one, but neither he nor Uncle Luke or Mei had sensed one on Obroa-skai. If they dared, if the Vong dared-

Was this what it had been like, for the other Anakin? Had he been afraid of losing everyone he loved so desperately and so much that in his madness and his confusion, he decided that there was no cost too high? Uncle Luke never spoke about why Anakin’s grandfather had fallen, but he knew what had brought his grandfather back. Love for his son; the redemption of Anakin Skywalker. Love for his family still lingered there after decades and all the horrible things Darth Vader did.

Did he drive away Obi-wan Kenobi so that he wouldn’t have to feel the pain of Obi-wan’s death?

Did he know how hollow he would feel? Did he fear the pain of his friends and their suffering that he couldn’t do anything about?

All of his young life, Anakin Solo measured himself against Anakin Skywalker. The namesake he had never asked for, the gift given by a mother who could spare one act of forgiveness for the father that had tormented her. Anakin Skywalker was everything he would not and could not ever be. 

He eased Sannah down the last stretch of the Escarpment with a careful grip in the Force, lessening her weight while she scrabbled down finger- and toe-holds and he realized that instead of denying anything and everything that Anakin Skywalker had been; he felt for once an uneasy understanding for his infamous grandfather.

Camp, again. In the shadow of the tall Ersham Escarpment, another night spent dozing outside Sannah’s tent, mind on the Force, ears sharp and lightsaber at hand. Ikrit’s lightsaber hung from his belt on the right side, opposite where he carried his own. The sounds of the jungle at night wrapped him up, the half-night of Yavinglow spreading warm, dim crimson light across the moon. 

He dozed, senses mingling with dreams. Sannah slept and her nightmares were sharp-edged and loud, enough that he pushed away the girl from his senses. She was two feet from him; he’d know if she needed anything through more mundane means. Now and then stones slipped and skittered down the cliffside, a new note in the orchestra of nighttime Yavin that Anakin now knew intimately. 

Strange, to live much of his life here, but never spend quite so much time in the world. Always he returned to the Praxeum for dinner and comfortable sleep in his quarters. 

A rustle of greenery. Distant, a Woolamander hooted. Quiet wings flapped leather-snap from tree to tree. Underbrush snapped as a sleepy herd of grazers adjusted themselves. 

If his sense of the jungle was a dim constellation, drawing subtle impressions from the complex ecosystem that thrummed around him, a sudden new arrival was as a new star blooming in the sky, nearly drowning out all others. Anakin jolted in shock, wide awake like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. It wasn’t a new arrival - he knew that presence. He’d known it in the past, knew it now all the better because Anakin had been in the damned man’s head a week ago!

Zalthis! And… Solidian?

He was on his feet, stumbling on half-asleep limbs.

“Sannah!” he hissed, poking her ungently through the side of the tent. The Melodie squawked and flailed, choking down a shriek behind her hands. “Zalthis and Solidian are here! Stay still, stay quiet, I’ll lead them back.”

He set off at the fastest pace he could manage without sprinting. Zalthis and Solidian’s minds were bright and sharp, only a few hundred meters away and moving fast. They ate up the distance at double Anakin’s own pace, the two Astartes unerringly moving straight for him. Anakin sucked in shallow breaths, almost hyperventilating. How were they here? No - how did they find him? He and Sannah were all the way off the plateau! The two Astartes were coming from the east, up from the coastal plain, how were they here?

His chest ached. He didn’t notice wetness in his eyes.

Unmistakeable.

Anakin skidded to a halt, two huge shapes of men cloaked in shadow slowing as well from a long, loping stride. They were caught by crimson highlights on pauldron rim, on Ultima, on thick plates of armor at chest and knee. Their lenses were out, but Anakin knew they could glow with ferocious red to put Yavinglow to shame.

Zalthis stepped closer. His friend was helmetless, his dark hair longer but still just as curly. Solidian had his helmet. Both were in their full plate armor. They had bolters locked to their thighs. Long-bladed powerswords holstered at their hips. 

Anakin barked a disbelieving laugh that rang out in the jungle, joining the calls and cries of nocturnal life.

“Zal? Sol? I’m not going insane, right? How are you two here?”

Zal thrust out his arm, palm up. Anakin took it and they embraced, clumsy as it might be with one in Astartesian plate and the other a mortal teen. 

“We made a promise, Anakin,” Zalthis said softly. “I’m loathe to break it.”

Solidian carefully unlatched his helmet with a quiet clack of ceramite. The darker skinned Astartes, his scarred scalp catching the planetlight, radiated a sense of general exasperation mixed quite liberally with pride.

“What Zal means is that we’re here against orders. Captain Thiel is likely going to have us shot.”

Anakin snapped his head, feeling the matter-of-fact seriousness in Sol’s demeanour.

“Ah…?” He couldn’t find the right response to that.

“Ignore Sol; my brother is reassessing his choices. Where is Sannah? Where is Tahiri and Master Ikrit?”

The names punched Anakin in the gut and Zalthis must have noticed. He leaned closer, gently placing a broad gauntlet on Anakin’s shoulder.

“Sannah is back at the camp. Tahiri was captured. Master Ikrit…”

Anakin swallowed, fighting the knot and pressure in his chest. Zalthis and Solidian exchanged looks.

“Ah.” Zalthis slowly nodded. “I am sorry. For Master Ikrit, for Tahiri.”

Subtly, so subtly Anakin might not have noticed but for the irritation that washed through Zal’s emotion, the Astartes elbowed Solidian.

“As am I,” Sol added.

“Is Tahiri well? Does she live?”

Anakin nodded, sharp enough his neck twinged.

“ Yes . I can feel her. She’s hurting, she’s scared, she’s angry, but she’s alive. They wanted Jedi alive .”

Zalthis made a gesture of some sort to Solidian, who inclined his head, unclamped his bolter and stalked away.

“Let’s return to Sannah. You have a camp?”

Anakin clung to the questions.

“A tent, a water vaporator. Rations as well, and some medkits.”

“Excellent. Sol and I came down on the Thunderhawk .”

“You stole it?”

“Appropriated. We will return it to Captain Thiel. There is more supply there and it’s well hidden.”

Solidian circled them, alert and on patrol while Anakin led Zalthis back toward where he felt Sannah. The Melodie was tense still, but she surely could feel his pure relief. It felt unreal. Both Zalthis and Solidian here. The Thunderhawk , the one with the hyperdrive. Friends. Allies. A way off the moon.

“How did you find us? You were coming straight for me.”

Zalthis tapped at Anakin’s comlink, still clipped to his jumpsuit.

“We all linked into vox. You are still connected. The auspex can trace the signal; we have been able to track you since three days previous when you entered our range.”

His commlink . Anakin had considered leaving it behind. No one knew if the Vong could track comms, if they could hack them. The Warmaster managed to broadcast on the HoloNet and the Vong had a bad habit of coming up with things that shouldn’t be possible. He’d thought to chuck it into the escape pod and leave it because who was he going to talk to? He’d forgotten it, focused on the essentials like food and water. Such a little thing. Such a little difference. 

Alright, Master.

Alright .

Sannah met them, blinking in wide-eyed surprise. Solidian confirmed what Anakin knew - no Vong around at all. His handheld ‘auspex’, just like they’d used on Obroa-skai, picked up a great deal of beings, but none it would categorize as moving with any intelligent purpose. Anakin showed Zal the pack he had, the vaporator set up, the ration boxes. Zalthis nodded as he took in each.

“Take a rest, Anakin,” Zalthis said finally, voice pitched low. Other Astartes had voices that suited their stature; rumbling and bassy, gravelly and coarse. Zalthis and Solidian sounded young. “We will take the watch tonight.”

The Astartes stood over him until Anakin relented, taking out the second sleeping bag for the first time. He watched as Anakin shook it out, watched as Anakin climbed in.

Zalthis nodded then, melting away into the nighttime jungle with Solidian, moving far too quietly for being so large.

Anakin slept.

Chapter Text

Slippery, lymphic fluid sluiced from Nen Yim as she rose from the steaming surface of the ceremonial bath. The liquid held no purchase on her, running in slithering tracks off her body, carrying away with it all impurities. Delicate incense tickled at her nose and filled the cavities of her sinuses with tingling coolness. Dangling from a spindly thicket of limbs waited a darkly toned oozhith, the living robe twitching and trembling toward her. She brushed her fingers along the surface of the biot and it rippled forward, wrapping firmly about her and sinking cilia into her pores with sparks of tingling pain. She shut her eyes, breathing deep the dizzying chemicals wafting in the bath's steam and the spiced emissions of squat amphibians that lurked in the shadows of the chamber.

She allowed the oozhith to settle fully about her slender frame, the robe a shortened version that left her arms and much of her legs bare. Carefully, she slicked back her short, dark hair and gathered it with the pinching clasp of a hook-wyrm. Steadying, she inhaled, exhaled and gently ran fingers over the back, the palm of her right hand.

Her pulse hammered deep in her chest, firm enough she imagined she visibly trembled with each thudding strike of her heart. Opening her eyes, she looked at her hand with the fascination of a newborn investigating strange appendages for the very first time. She turned her hand over, tracing faint scars that ran along the backside, a hitch just before the first knuckle of her third finger where it had snapped in her youth. It felt detached from her, as Nen Yim flexed her fingers and watched her knuckles whiten, watched tendons shift and flex.

The entire grotto itself pulsed faintly around her, muscular and wet, in time with her own heartbeat. Beyond the bath the grotto narrowed, puckering, until a single massive knot of muscle bulged where the ceiling met the floor. The center was a black hole, an empty socket that gazed deep at Nen Yim.

Her Master entered - if Nen Yim had not been ready, she would not have been ready. It was not her Master's role to chaperone her Adept; it was the role of the Adept to follow the steps as laid out in times long since forgotten to the microsecond.

Mezhan Kwaad nodded approvingly.

No words were to be spoken. Her Master would observe.

Carefully, Nen Yim knelt before the hole in the grotto. The very mouth of the biot, which was the room, and the room was it. The Grotto of Yun-ne'Shel, a most ancient and holy touchstone of her caste, the place in which ascension and ruination were forged in equal measure. Relative to the yammosk, though removed so far as to barely be cousin, the Grotto felt what the supplicant felt and fed it back, twice again.

Nen Yim reached out and placed her hand within the mouth of the Grotto. Gently, the lips closed about her wrist, soft and welcoming as a lover's, suckingly but gently to seal firmly about her purified skin. For a long, twisting moment, she felt only the flesh of the lips about her wrist. The Grotto bore down on her, magnifying the anxiety that she attempted to set aside; brewing deeper the anticipation.

Eight points poked at her skin, equidistant around her wrist.

Nen Yim braced herself.

Glacially slow, geologically sluggish, cosmically sedate, the octet of fangs sank into Nen Yim's flesh. Skin parted first, then thin fat layers beneath. She knew each and every facet of the body, honed through vivisections, dissections and long study on qahsa. She could visualize the pace of the slicing teeth as they ever-so-slowly cut deeper. She felt tendons snap.

Her breath grew ragged and choppy. Darkness vied with strange, floating white on the edges of her vision. Agony lanced up her arm, her body screaming in refusal.

Pain taught. All shied from pain, for pain was the lash. Pain was the lash, truth was the reward. Knowledge was the morsel teased from the conjunction of agony and truth.

She tried to cycle her breathing. Muscles parted. Nerves clipped and shrieked white-fire into her skull.

The Grotto's lips suckled and drew away the blood, obscuring her view.

Nen Yim bred pain and the Grotto fed, then returned it with interest.

The teeth met in the middle with a snick that she could feel, bone-deep.

The mouth rotated ninety degrees in the blink of an eye, the entire muscle knot squelching as it flexed. Her arm followed no more than a degree, even less. She slumped back, staring dumbfounded at the perfect, cleanly sheared stump of her right arm. Thick, glutinous saliva coated the anatomical cross-section of her wrist, mixed liberally with dark, nearly black blood. Only the thinnest trickle escaped the congealed blob.

The Grotto gulped.

Shakily, Nen Yim rose to numb feet. A shallow pool beside the ceremonial bath rippled and sloshed, occupants scenting blood in the air and growing ever more agitated. Beside the pool she knelt, watching dark shapes dart and skitter within the brackish water. Drip, drop fell her blood and the shapes scuttled with ever greater fervor. She dipped her stump into the pool.

Clasping limbs grasped at her wrist and Nen Yim felt the grind as corkscrew tooth tore into the marrow of her bones.

She thought she had known pain.

Her vision flashed, the world grew distant. The Grotto hungrily suckled on her agony and poured it back.

Nen Yim-

SHUN

An adolescent Yuuzhan Vong girl skips down age-worn grottos.

NO

Die, die.

A flower come to maturity under the warmth of loving sun bursts. A cloud of downy seeds scattered into the wind. The seeds are spiraled and they whirl and ride the currents. They will spread far and wide, until rich soil welcomes them.

The plant which birthed the flower dies, all nutrients consumed in the ripening of the grand fruit.

SHUN

Alien skies. A red world rises. Jungle storms. Look!

Alien skies. A red moon rises. Electrical storms. Look!

Alien skies. A peirastic Prince wails. Fire storms. Look!

NO

Metal towers, unliving constructs claw at bruised purple sky. Wind howls. Stars slide. Limositic lampreys nibble and gnaw. SHE STEPS ASIDE.

SHUN

VOICES CALL.

ONE VOICE CALLS.

ONE VOICE CRIES.

She follows the cry. She follows the wail. A Yuuzhan Vong girl skips, barefoot, down tired grottos. Old lambent lights flicker. Bioluminescent lichens sag. She follows the wail. Talons tangle in heavy curtains. IS THIS WORTH THE PAIN?

NO

One drawn name.

The Red Moon Rises.

Look!

SHUN

IN THE DEPTHS, THERE IS A CEPHALOPOD. IN HERMAPHRODITIC FORM, IT PASSES THE YEARS OF ITS SESSILE LIFE. IN FEMALE, IT BIRTHS A THOUSAND YOUNG. LINKED TO THE MOTHER, THE YOUNG DERIVE SUSTENANCE IN SYMBIOSIS, UMBILICAL TRADING NUTRIENT FOUND BY NUTRIENT GIFTED.

IN MALE, IT REELS IN TENDER MORSELS, IT SUPS OF ITS SPAWN. THOSE STRONG ENOUGH TEAR FREE IN BLOOMS OF BLOOD SNAPPED CORDS.

THUS: LIFE SPAWNS LIFE. DEATH CULLS LIFE. LIFE STRUGGLES. SURVIVES.

NO

Nen Yim started awake, tears of shame already welling in her eyes. Her wrist ached, but it was a distant and dulled ache. The nerves were dampened; pain was a teacher, but so too was pain a tool. No tool ought be used overoften.

Mezhan Kwaad knelt beside Nen Yim, primly perched and perfect, her robe arrayed about her long-limbed body.

"No shame is borne. No one has ever braved the Grotto without a lapse, the first time. You are strengthened for it, and when the time comes for your Master's hand, you will be ready and you will laugh at this memory."

"Master," Nen Yim mumbled, her voice soft and hoarse. She wondered; had she screamed?

"On your own, Adept," Mezhan Kwaad gestured for her to rise. Shakily, off-balance with her new-bonded right hand tucked to her chest, Nen Yim managed to make her feet. Then she allowed herself to look.

The biot was still seating itself, shifting a little with little twitches and jerks that raised hair along her arms and involuntary shivers down her spine. She could feel the anchors bored deep into her bones, feel the complex chelicerae within the hand's mouth teasing apart her tendons and muscles to digest and seal to itself. Dulled pain, no worse than a broken finger or two, accompanied, but Nen Yim could easily bear it.

Four fingered, just like her birth-hand, with two thumbs on either side of the palm. A thin but flexible carapace served as the top of her hand; many smaller and interlocking plates made up her palm. Each finger, she knew, bore retractable claws, pincers, and more in the complicated final joint. Sensor divots and knobs roughened her fingers.

She tried to wiggle her fingers, knowing nothing would result.

"It will be some days for the connections to seat themselves wholly. Your hand has taken well already." Mezhan Kwaad gestured at the thick, green-grey secretion already solidifying into a rock-like solidity between the mouth of the biot and her truncated wrist. "A few days after that and your brain will become used to the motions. A day of rejoicing, Nen Yim. You are an Adept in full, and I accept you as mine own. Together, we will shape Jeedai, glory, and our caste - and the future of the Yuuzhan Vong."

The vivarium held a single occupant, curled into a ball on the bare nacre floor. The subject wrapped its arms around its head, fingers digging into the tough, leathery hide of the provoker spineray that clasped the nape of the subject's neck and crown of its head. The biot's long tail trailed downward, hooked by thread-thin tendrils into the subject's spinal column until it projected from just above the tailbone like an actual tail, running across the vivarium's floor and into a socket. The subject was hairless, the follicles extraneous and a potential interface problem for the spineray and other necessary biots. Szon-kalik tenders, relative to the implanter-beasts used for Warrior ascensions, plucked eyelash, eyebrow and hair. The subject appeared to find this greatly distressing, for all that the irritation should have been minor. Her Master took note of that, just as she took note of every little thing the Jeedai subject did.

When the spineray was first affixed, the subject had been sedated. Spinerays were fragile things before bonding, and the delicate process of interfacing with the subject's nerves could have outright killed both the subject and the spineray had it been interrupted.

The subject had objected to the spineray most vociferously, as Mezhan Kwaad had called it.

After the first grand mal seizure caused by the spineray defending itself, the subject learned not to attempt to remove it. It seemed to find a measure of relief by constantly scraping fingertips over the spineray's thick hide. It wouldn't harm the biot, so Nen Yim was of the mind of leaving it be. Mezhan Kwaad hadn't attempted to stop it either.

The subject was allowed a simple robeskin, similar to the ooglith masquer, though of different clade entire, to preserve modesty and simplify management of waste.

"Hm," Mezhan Kwaad hummed, delicately manipulating a nerve cluster in her hands. The subject twitched, huddling tighter and pressing their forehead to drawn up knees. "See that, Adept?"

Nen Yim nodded.

"Tell me."

Clearing her throat and resisting the urge to fiddle and pick at the healing seam of her Shaper's hand, Nen Yim straightened her shoulders and studied the subject.

"In a Yuuzhan Vong, stimulation of that cluster would have caused debilitating dizziness."

"Does the subject appear to be suffering similarly?"

"No, Master."

"Interesting. Like the previous cluster, which had caused pain no Yuuzhan Vong would have felt, this one maps to a different stimulus entirely."

She chose her words carefully; Master Mezhan had kept Nen Yim attending her from the very next day after the Grotto, uncaring that her hand was still seating itself. "Your mind does not need a hand to function," Mezhan Kwaad had said. Still, she wanted to show only her best to her Master, especially after granting her a hand! She had thought it would be years still.

"It this related to the problems with surge-coral?"

"Quite!" Mezhan favored Nen Yim with a close-lipped smile. She swelled with pride. "The surge-coral could not map properly onto the many species of this galaxy; the results were insufficient and worse, wasteful."

"But the protocols were followed…"

"You have accessed to the Third Cortex, Adept. Have you encountered mention of 'Human', 'Twi'lek' or 'Rodian?'"

"I have not, Master."

Mezhan Kwaad stimulated another cluster on the nerve-bundle. Inside the vivarium, the subject screamed and snapped rigid so quickly Nen Yim feared for permanent damage. Back arching, face locked in a rictus and fingers curled into claws, the Jeedai screamed, soundless behind the transparent vivarium curtain.

"Another unique reaction. The protocols, Adept, are the wisdom of the Gods, of course. How would we map the Jeedai's brain without the spineray? All the same, I believe you understand well the occasional shortcomings."

She swallowed. Even more carefully, Nen Yim weighed her words. The Master could not possibly know.

"Master? I am not sure-"

"Don't prevaricate, Adept. It puts my teeth on edge. I saw your work on Baanu Kor."

Nen Yim knotted her headdress into a humble bundle atop her head, cringing away from the Master. Schooling herself, she offered a short but meaningful bow.

"I did not know, Master. I am honored you reviewed my work-"

"It was optimal."

A tension she was not aware of released.

"Many would have stopped with the molding of tii, which would have been entirely ineffective. You applied the Vul Ag protocol, which has not been used in an endocrine cluster before."

"I thought it might make the outer osmotic membranes more efficiently transpire…"

"And it did so. The Vul Ag protocol does so quite optimally, though never in that circumstance. But why should it not? Merely because it had not been done before? This clearly occurred to you."

"It was logical, Master." She felt just slightly out of body, wrongfooted by the direction the conversation had taken. Mezhan Kwaad knew what Nen Yim had done, but praised it? Accepted it?

More shockingly - understood it?

Surely not. No, surely not. There must be a greater protocol beyond Nen Yim's bare knowledge and dipped toes in the Cortexes. There must be an analogue to what she had done, in the greater Cortexes where only Masters could swim. Mezhan Kwaad would tell her she was precocious, considering things revealed to her betters. That would be it.

She had just managed to convince herself when Mezhan continued, speaking almost offhand, still watching the subject as their limbs slackened and drool dripped from slack mouth.

"Logical. Because if a protocol causes a result, then that result might be used elsewhere, when relevant? Yes? That was the logic? It was well thought. Tradition and propriety are important, of course, but constant immersion in such qualities leads to hidebounding thinking. An Adept of mine must be agile and resourceful, capable of making those leaps of logic with which to use the sacred, unchanging knowledge-"

Nen Yim's heart hammered. The next three words burned into her mind.

"-in new ways."

If Mezan Kwaad knew that Nen Yim had dabbled in heresy, she would never have been promoted. She would not have a hand, she would not be here in this most secret and important of shapings. She would be already digested, nameless and forgotten and cast into a maw luur like so much waste. No Master would accept her.

But no Master would ever dare say such a thing as new ways of Shaping.

"I agree, Master," Nen Yim said in a small, awed voice.

"Good. Continue to do so and you - and I - will go far. Your Master's hand awaits in a pool in a day that draws ever-nearer. Help me to solve the mysteries of this new galaxy, and that distant day will speed to you indeed."

Sun warmed his face and lit his eyelids red. In a rush of sluiced-away dreams and resurgent memory, the previous night - and all the nights before - returned and Anakin knuckled away sleep grit, untangling himself from his twisted sleeping bag. Unlike his foggy dreams which left only impressions in the jungle's morning sun, the impossible reality of two Ultramarines did not vanish on waking up.

There was Sannah's tent, the Melodie girl still sleeping inside. There was Solidian, perched on a fallen log and fiddling with his auspex. There was Zalthis, out of sight but easily in sense.

Even with Tahiri's muted pain throbbing in the corner of his mind, Anakin pulled himself to his feet with something approximating hope for the first time since true night abandoned the moon.

"Ah. Sleep well?"

Anakin interlinked fingers behind his back and thrust them out, groaning and coughing as he stretched aching shoulders and his back protested the roots and rocks last night's sleep inflicted. Shaking out the last of his sleep, stomping feet back into boots he didn't even remember shucking off, Anakin ran fingers through lank, greasy hair and swept it back from his eyes again. More gently, he prodded at Sannah through the Force, nudging at her toward awakening. Her mind shifted.

"Better than I thought I would. Anything happen?"

Sol shook his head, putting aside the scanner. His helmet was removed, as was one of his pauldrons, both resting against the log beside him. His chunky gun, his bolter, was easily at hand.

"Just a few curious creatures. Zal saw them off. You slept like the dead."

"Yeah, I still kind of feel like it too." He smacked his lips, mouth dry. Sol offered a canteen wordlessly. His mouth was foul, result of ration bars and rationing water and no time for anything hygienic. He could probably kill a Vong with his breath alone. Cold water tasting a little of metal woke him the rest of the way, blowing the cobwebs out from behind his eyes.

Nothing changed - Tahiri was still being - was still held by the Vong. He and Sannah were barely off the Ershasm Ridge, they were both exhausted from long days hiking through unforgiving jungle. He was covered in cuts, scrapes, bruises from bad footing and thick underbrush. He barely had the sketches, outlines of a plan.

Also, everything had changed. It wasn't just a Jedi-and-a-half against an entire Vong garrison; it was a Jedi-and-a-half and two Ultramarines. They had a way off world and a way out-system. Their entire ability to kill Vong had tripled. There was a real, actual place to leave Sannah at that would be safe. Anakin wasn't going it alone now.

So with nothing and everything different in the new morning, he took another slug of water from the canteen, swished it around his mouth and spat it into the leaf litter. A little bit better. His teeth felt less furry and his mouth less like a woolamander had done something unmentionable in it.

"How far is the Thunderhawk?" There'd been no real time to talk last night. He worried that they'd landed far, far away considering how fast he knew Astartes could cover ground. Leaving Sannah with the ship was the best choice, but if that added another full week or so just to get there, then another week or two to get back…

"It is up the coast. One hundred and nine kilometers, by my reckoning."

Alright. Not as bad. Still far, but not far far. Still, a hundred more kilometers in the jungle. Sighing, Anakin pulled on the Force, cycling it through his already aching feet and tight muscles of his calves, thighs while he fell into breathing exercises.

"We moved slowly," Sol continued, as if guessing Anakin's curiosity. "There was no way to know the auspex would link to your comm. We feared we would need visual contact, and your pod might have landed anywhere."

"Right." Lady Starstorm had been just above the clouds when it broke apart, the escape pod would've dropped off sensors almost immediately. And then, in the winds of the storm, it could've been blown dozens or hundreds of kilometers off course. That it came down still on the plateau, Anakin realized, was already beyond lucky. They could've ended up in the Ersham sea. "I think we'll have to go there, first. Sannah has to be somewhere safe-" and speaking of the Melodie, he felt her muzzy awareness pulse through the Force along with faint rustling in the tent "-and that's as good a place as any."

"Ah," From Solidian, Anakin got a passing sensation of chagrin. "There is another reason, as well."

Ultramarines rations were different. The survival ones from Lady Starstorm were bland, chewy and made with an attempt at being palatable to a wide range of beings, which left them mostly just a little unsettling in texture and consistency. In contrast, the thick, rubbery sealed wafers that Zalthis offered as 'something different' were utterly flavorless and something like hyper dense bread. Neutronium dough. But it was different, at least, and after days of the same crap, over and over, Anakin gnawed on the corner of one of the bricks and stared, flat and unamused, at the two Astartes. Solidian worked a grey paste into chips and slashes that decorated his pauldron with a grinding, gritty scraping noise. Zalthis, done with his own wafer, having nearly inhaled the thing, stood with arms folded over his chest, lips sucked in and mouth in a line.

"It can't fly."

"It can, I am sure of it."

"You were shot down."

"There is plasma damage-"

"You were shot down and now you can't even turn it back on."

"Anakin, I assure you, the Thunderhawk is mostly undamaged, but neither Sol nor I have techmarine training. I can operate it, but I cannot fix it."

It wasn't like he worried that he couldn't do it. Two or so months ago, he'd told a gigantic machine beyond the comprehension of any technician or scientist in the whole galaxy to 'go to sleep' and it did. He could cobble together a convincing amphistaff proxy from some servos, synthirope and omnisocket gaskets. When he'd barely been able to form long-term memories, he'd turned the planetary repulsor on Drall on and pushed through a forcefield by understanding, intuitively, how it functioned.

So some battered up gunship? Sure. He could do that. Jaina made things; Anakin made them work. Sometimes, he wondered what he and his sister could do, together, if the universe ever felt like giving them a day off.

It was mostly the whole principle of the thing. They waited to tell him until the morning. And now Zalthis was looking like one of the trainees who got caught sneaking into the kitchens. A giant, mutated Human supersoldier wearing enough armor for a hovertank, and Zalthis looked embarrassed.

"By visual inspection, the engines are unscathed and the airframe is solid."

Anakin exhaled.

"I'll look at it. You couldn't have told me last night?'

Zalthis cast his eyes down. Not for the first time, Anakin wondered exactly how old his friend was. On Samothrace, after Obroa-skai, Zalthis had only said he wasn't sure what the conversion of time would be, that he was 'near' in age to Anakin. Right then, Zalthis looked it.

"You needed rest."

'We'll rest when Tahiri is safe and we're off Yavin. It's fine, Zal, I don't blame you. We need to drop by there anyway so Sannah'll be safe, so it's not like we have to change anything up."

The Ultramarine nodded slowly, then firmly.

"There is further supply; Sol and I took only enough for reconnaissance. There are heavier weapons aboard."

Anakin perked up. Sol was missing his big repeating blaster, so that sort of explained that. There had to be a story about how he had it in the first place: Sol hadn't had it on Obroa-skai, but Anakin recognized it as Merr-Sonn, probably a Z-something. He grew up around Jedi who had been special agents or special forces or just outright soldiers. He sort of knew guns. Well, there would be plenty of time between now and the Thunderhawk to ask about it.

Sannah ate her ration quietly, eyes still downcast.

They packed up quickly, Sol helping yank up the stakes to the tent while Zalthis jogged off to refill canteens at a nearby creek. He said Astartes could drink even the most polluted waters, so he would leave the vaporator-made stuff for Anakin and Sannah. He and Sol had just been drinking out of creeks and streams this whole time.

A small snag presented itself when the four of them, finally, set out. Sol had his auspex sensor out again to guide them back toward the Thunderhawk, but they'd only gone a few paces when the problem reared its head.

Sannah.

She was just as tired as Anakin was, her legs and feet killing her even though she soldiered on. He could feel her determination just like he could see the way she set her jaw and grit her teeth, even though she swallowed down winces with each step.

Her feet were blistered and worse - blistered, burst, blistered again and peeling. Anakin rocked back on his haunches, his friend looking away and off into the jungle. He didn't know she'd been keeping her boots on the whole time. They'd been soaked, dried, soaked again, then she slept with them on.

Because Sannah didn't really know any better. Melodies on Yavin 8 lived mostly around the caves and never wandered far. They wore sandals. At the Praxeum, at most, Sannah would've gone on day hikes with other trainees, always ending up back at the Temple for a jump through the 'fresher and a hot meal.

She's not Tahiri. She didn't grow up in the dunes of Tatooine where any mistake was desiccated death. She didn't go down to Vjun with him, she didn't brave the storms of Yavin and the rapids of rivers with him, she -

She wasn't Tahiri.

Sannah sniffled.

Anakin didn't decide to, he didn't even think. Sannah sucked in another shaky breath and he hugged her, pulling her much smaller body tight to him and wrapping his arms around her thin shoulders. Her little hands clutched at his filthy jumpsuit, the Melodie curling into his embrace. She broke down. Sobbing. Words tried to escape, words that sounded like apologies and sorries and can-you-ever-forgive-me and i-wasn't-strong-enough. Anakin just rested his chin in her dark hair and stared off, unseeing, into the jungle.

She wasn't Tahiri, but she was Sannah. His friend. She was why he came back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, but he was sure she didn't hear it. Zal drifted nearby, glancing toward them both, toward Sol who kept his distance, back. Their unease and uncertainty was palpable. Sannah cried herself out, until her sobs became hiccups, until those became quiet sniffs. His jumpsuit was damp, his thighs cramping from crouching like this. It didn't bother him at all.

He rubbed circles on her back, like his mom did for him when he was a kid. When things got overwhelming, when the world pressed in hard and he just couldn't understand it. It wasn't often, it was just a few times - between her work, his own nannies - but he remembered each time.

"It's okay," he murmured.

"No it's not Master Ikrit is dead and Tahiri is - Tahiri is - and it's all my fault and now I can't even walk and you have to leave me behind and you've gotta - Anakin you've gotta - just leave me here and you have to save Tahiri-"

Anakin took her shoulders, pulling back and catching her brown eyes with his own blue.

"Sannah. We came back for you. Master Ikrit-" he swallowed the lump in his throat, ignored the soft, gentle weight that would never rest on his chest again "-knew what could happen. We couldn't leave you. I won't leave you now, either."

Sannah broke down again. Heavy footsteps thumped them both. Sol loomed over them, blocking out the sun.

"It occurs to me," the Ultramarine offered. "That you are very small." He knelt down. Even kneeling, he was a head taller than Anakin. Were she standing, Sannah would have reached just about his waist. Sol held out an arm. "Climb up."

With Sannah riding in the crook of Sol's arm - the Ultramarine only had to keep his arm across his chest and the girl could perch easily on his forearm, they made surprising time. Anakin's everything ached, but he kept a steady draw of the Force that reinvigorated him, burned lactic acid from his muscles and made his steps light. Zal and Sol were machines, the former leading the way and blazing through the underbrush. Sannah dozed, her head lolling against Sol's pauldron where she leaned against it. They could get her into a healing trance, at the Thunderhawk.

At the end of the second day, Anakin could hear the sea.

And on the third, the hulking shape of the Thunderhawk revealed itself, buried under a remarkably thorough blanket of heaped branches and brambles.

Sannah was in a trance, Solidian was sorting through weapons in the large central compartment of the Thunderhawk, Zalthis was patrolling and Anakin was realizing perhaps he spoke a little too soon. The electronic displays in the cockpit lit and received power, which was a good sign, but whatever logic the ship ran on was raising a sardonic eyebrow and eying him warily. The lump of metal like a coffin with a faint, blurry sense of life inside it didn't help with his concentration, nor how it conspicuously took up where a copilot might sit.

He allowed the Force to guide him, trance-like as he unfocused his eyes and let his fingers slide over controls, over consoles, over forests of strangely marked buttons, switches and toggles.

On Drall, the planetary repulsor spoke to him. It lit up before his eyes, with shining conduits of energy ghostlike in his vision. Everything was intuitive and understandable, like following a children's guide to a datapad. Step by step, welcoming him. His not-Vong combat droids, back at the Jedi Headquarters on Coruscant, they were more like a puzzle. Each part obviously was meant to fit to another, but there were so many and they had so many spots and places that they could join that nothing was absolutely clear. Jaina could probably juggle them and built a hyperdrive in her sleep, but each addition to the dueling droids was arduous.

The Thunderhawk, returning to his first thought, truly did feel like it was frowning at him. Asking: who are you? Why are you here? What are you hoping to accomplish? He felt the flows of power that rippled from battery banks, lighting the cockpit up and illuminating the compartment Sol worked in. He could feel blockages, like clots or sclerotic build-ups that stymied the energy. He flipped clicking switches, feeling how power draw switched from one conduit to another, running through the thick, armored airframe. What's this for, the Thunderhawk seemed to ask.

I'm fixing you, Anakin idly thought back. Threepio was talkative when he enjoyed a warm oil bath and Artoo blatted and tweetled about everything under the stars - and like his Uncle, Anakin spoke enough binary to follow along. The dueling droids kept quiet under his ministrations and other things just went along with Anakin's guidance.

Manual controls, apparently supplemented fly-by-wire systems in Imperial ships; half the reason they'd managed to pancake the Thunderhawk into a skidding landing during the storm instead of a nose-down plunge into ruin. They were sluggish, of course. He worked the stick left, right, feeling the way the ailerons grudgingly accommodated. Power assisted and managed by complex load-reducing systems - oh, there, there and there - but working. Alright.

He barely noticed the slow slide of light across the cockpit, as it crept up to his face, dappled and scattered by the sparser canopy this close to the sea. Hours passed in moving meditation.

There. No. There. Plasma dug into the hull, cut lines here, and there and over there too. The Thunderhawk felt like it watched him, perched on his shoulder, or just behind. Leaning close and second-guessing each reflexive diagnostic. Zal came back, swapped with Sol. Sannah stayed in a trance. Their mental presences moved and Anakin barely noticed.

The internal engine - which was a flaring, hungry fusion core - was unscathed. All shielding, all containment normal. A strong, firm heart. The problem was in the hits to the aft, which chewed up the rear fuselage something awful and let plasma spatter into internal machine spaces. Conduits were torched through, several important capacitors and transformers slagged. All the same, there were others. The gunship was almost ridiculously overengineered. Redundancies for redundancies, but none of them listened. Turn on here. Switch. Redirect. Why not? What was he doing wrong?

Anakin slumped back, dwarfed by the massive pilot seat. Scaled for an Astartes, in armor, he felt like a child in their parent's chair. Red diodes winked across half the controls. The answer was right there. The Thunderhawk could be fixed, but it was like it didn't want to.

"C'mon," Anakin growled. "Why won't you…" he trailed off, completing the sentence silently. Why won't you let me help?

[You aren't known.]

The words weren't words, and they weren't spoken in colloquial Basic, but Anakin almost dropped a spanner all the same.

"Sithspawn!"

[You aren't known.]

They carried weird emotions, intonation that sat close to meaning without quite touching it. A desire to recognize; a flash of warning. Caution.

"I'm Anakin?" he tried.

[You aren't known.]

"I'm here with Zal and Sol. They asked me to fix…you?"

It wouldn't exactly be the first time that a machine talked back, but it definitely was claiming the record for most direct. He always got impressions from things he fixed - maybe an eagerness to reveal its systems, sometimes a sluggish recalcitrance to power on. But nothing that ever had the texture of true words.

[Zal, known. Sol, known. You aren't known.]

"Right, I know. But they asked me to help fix you up, and I can, so…will you let me?"

The voice was a whisper and an intuition, brushing around his ear, tickling against the edges of the Force. He pushed back, focusing on how serious he was about repairing the gunship, on his concern over the 'mission', about the honesty he felt when he told the two Ultramarines that he could do what he claimed. He heard Zalthis clattering around in the troop bay behind the cockpit, felt Sannah's deep, dreamless slumber. The Thunderhawk, and he was pretty sure he was talking to the Thunderhawk, held its 'tongue' for a moment.

[Priority is mission. Zal is known. Sol is known. Authenticating for temporary permissions. In further communion; recommend clearer phrasing.]

Anakin huffed a surprise laugh - the thing had chided him on his accent.

Suddenly, at his will and his touch, everything just worked, just the way it should. He diverted to secondary backup systems, deactivating primary lines and cutting off blown transformers. The Thunderhawk worked with him, this time. His smile grew as the familiar, friendly sensation swelled through the Force. The way ghostly afterimages caught his eye, directed his darting fingertips, demanded a press or a flick or a spin of a dial.

Deep in the guts of the Thunderhawk, the satisfyingly familiar grumble of a repulsorlift engaging made the whole gunship quiver. He felt the engines cycle once, a low-power maintenance check, like clearing a throat.

His stomach growled. Outside was twilight.

"Wow. That took a minute." Affectionately, because he'd grown up around ships like the Falcon and the Jade Something or Another, Anakin patted the console on a bare patch of metal. "Thanks, Thunderhawk."

[Designation Five Five Nine Zero One Slash A. Thunderhawk is chassis generic.]

Anakin blinked.

"You're not called Thunderhawk?"

[Designation Five Five Nine Zero One Slash A.]

"Oh. Sorry."

That might have been the most surprising reveal of the entire day.

"Zal!" he called. The Astartes immediately leaned into the cockpit, glancing around at the fully lit controls and pure green status lamps; only a few marked out yellow or orange.

"I felt the ignition. Is it functional?"

"About seventy percent power, but she'll fly again. Also - why did you never correct me?"

Zalthis raised an eyebrow.

"It's not called Thunderhawk!"

The Astartes barked a laugh, climbing fully into the cockpit, filling the narrow space between the pilot seat and the coffin-filled copilot station.

"Thunderhawks rarely have names, only designations. Most don't last long enough to warrant bothering."

Something about that felt terribly wrong, especially with how verbose Thunder- no, how verbose 55901/a was. Even a mind-wiped astromech deserved a decent name. They'd have to fix that.

Feeling entirely lighter, Anakin spun the pilot's chair, grinning up at Zalthis. They had a ship. They had a hyperdrive. They had a way up and out. Sannah was safe, she was healing. Finally, there was nothing left between him and Tahiri.

"We've got some plans to make," Anakin declared.

Colonel Darklighter waved Jaina into his office, returning her parade-perfect salute with a quick gesture.

"Colonel, sir."

"Welcome back, Sticks."

His easy use of her callsign - her callsign, given by the Rogues - warmed her chest and Jaina let a tiny grin loose. She didn't mind: it was good to be back. The Ralroost had a smell she'd gotten used to, a blend of generic detergents for uniforms, a hint of ozone that every pilot brought back from the void, some kind of simple citrus probably inserted into the 'cyclers to keep the processed air from getting stale. It smelled like battle, it smelled like service, and it smelled like the Rogues. Gavin's office also had a constant, lowlying bite of old caf to the nose that mixed in distinct ways with the 'Roost's own scent. His desk was in disarray, scattered with datapads and 'cubes. Jaina had once wondered why she saw her father with multiple, when he still was General Solo. Why not just use one, she'd thought, until she learned about things like operational security and physical segregation of sensitive materials. His wall safe, where sensitive orders were kept on fingerprint biometric datachips was hinged open, revealing its interior bare.

"Take a seat if you like, Jaina, but this'll be quick. Sorry we don't have the time to welcome you back the right way, but - well, you saw the muster on the way up."

Did she. Everyone on Coruscant had. Guardian, surrounded by an absolute swarm of First Fleet, so much so that it covered half the sky each time the formation swept by overhead. Seeing a Super Star Destroyer in person, up close like this, had been surprisingly impactful. It wasn't the first dreadnought she'd seen, but there was something about the presence of the massive Star Destroyer that struck her, eying the steely blue hull and massive crimson firebirds on the flanks.

This was the kind of ship that her parents had fought against, the kind of ship that had been the terror of the Rebel Alliance that her family, in a lot of ways, had been the staunchest guardians and champions of.

It wasn't her first dreadnought, but Guardian managed to steal her attention until Ralroost was almost on top of her shuttle.

The Bothan Assault Cruiser was tucked in with the whole pack, in a slot near the MC90 Avaratraima and the ISD In Absence. Combat air patrols flew fast and thick and she wondered which squadron, which wing was out today; realized she'd probably not recognize them even if she knew.

So: yes, Jaina most certainly had seen the muster on the way up.

"I did, sir. I'm glad I could be back in time for…" she trailed off, gesturing sort of helplessly around. Something was up; First Fleet didn't roll up like this just to put on a show. Fleet tenders were nosing around and partnering up with cap ships as far as the eye could see. She could feel the energy in the air, the way the Force itself hummed with so many beings all thinking the same thoughts:

What's going on? What's the news? Where are we going?

And under it:

Will I die, this time?

Gavin laughed, mirroring her gesture.

"For 'that'. There's some new orders that came down from the powers that be. Classified, of course, but lucky for you, someone remembered just why we call you Sticks."

Jaina raised an eyebrow as Gavin gently hefted a small datapad in one hand, then underhand tossed it toward her, right over his desk. Surprised, she snatched it from the air by reflex alone, a little proud she didn't dip into the Force.

"It's keyed to touch and your serial number. Don't share it around, you know the drill."

A thought occurred. A rude one, an intrusive one that clenched her stomach.

"Ah, Colonel? I'm…I'm not being pulled off the Rogues, am I?"

She felt his surprise, then chagrin.

"No, not at all! You've still got that head plug-"

Jaina touched the cool metal of the oncocidal injector over her ear, realized, quickly brought her hand back down.

"-so you can't fly quite yet. I know, it's just another week. There's more in your orders, but gist of it is - High Comm wants the lid on all this shut. You know our new neighbors, the ones who don't make any noise?"

Don't make any - oh. Oh.

"Keep an eye out. An 'inner eye', I think Colonel Loran said. You've got contacts with your orders on who to go to. It's not me." Gavin held up his hands. "I'm just a fighter jock."

One who'd helped liberate Coruscant and had more than his share of blasterfights, but just a 'jock'.

"And when the head plug's out, you're back on the roster. It's all hands, Jaina."

The Colonel grew serious, even grave. He leaned forward, planting both palms on his high desk. She forced herself to meet his eyes.

"I know about Yavin."

Jaina did not flinch and did not look away.

"I'm sorry. I can imagine what you're feeling right now. I know. I can't say anything that will help."

Her tongue feeling thick and unwieldy, Jaina managed to speak.

"Anakin can take care of himself."

Aside from the almost crystal-clear spike of abject anguish that had yanked Jaina awake just a day ago and left her shaking in bed, soaked in sweat and tasting tears on her lips. She could still feel the gentle weight in both her hands and smell rotting leaves and freshly churned soil. Her little brother was strong, as strong as their Uncle. He second-guessed himself, but Anakin could do things Jaina never imagined. He'd had his trials, just like her and Jacen, and he'd grown up into a young man that still surprised her. He would be fine; there wasn't any other conceivable option.

"He's a Solo," Gavin said, like that was all that needed to be said. "But he's still your kid brother."

Jaina swallowed.

"I was surprised you put in to return early. You still had four days on convalescence."

"I need to do something, sir."

Gavin nodded.

"You need to not think."

Not think about her little brother left behind on Yavin for days now, not think about the home she secretly cared more about than Coruscant overrun by the damned scarheads, not think about how she wasn't there to fly cover. Not think about how Uncle Luke had helplessly hung his head and Aunt Mara had looked grim and severe, or even how her own mother had just taken the news in stride. Not think about how no matter how much she ached, she ached to burn ions and burn scarheads and fly like even General Antilles never could, that she'd be dead the second a dovin basal mine yanked her out far from the jungle moon.

Jaina spoke none what she'd mostly kept under wraps. Instead, she clenched her jaw and gave a tiny nod.

Gavin straightened up, rubbing at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. She felt his sympathy and didn't need it.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant Solo. Go read over your new orders. Briefing tomorrow, 0740."

She snapped another parade-perfect salute.

Older than his years, Gavin Darklighter returned it.

Chapter Text

The Thunderhawk was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving but rustling gusts of iron-tasting backdraft in the cramped embarkation deck. One of the Jedi's shuttles rocked on its legs and several ratings stumbled. Kyle Katarn and Kam Solusar braced themselves. The atmospheric envelope crackled and popped at the interchange pressure. Only stars glowed through the filmy, flickering field. At speed, the Thunderhawk would already be kilometers away and accelerating. Zalthis may not have had practical training on such a vessel, but Aeonid had no doubt as to the efficacy of hypnomat. His vox bead in his gorget buzzed and voices cried out in confusion. He waved away the shipmaster's confusion and directed to continue the pre-established flight plan. There was no need to pause nor to offer support to the Thunderhawk.

Aeonid was Astartes and he was Ultramarine. The shipmaster did not question.

In this embarkation deck and the one opposite Temerity, he felt the Jedi begin to cautiously unbuckle crash webbing and murmur to one another. He felt grief and shock, he felt confusion and fear. Kam and Kyle, who had gathered with Aeonid to discuss what came next, shared a meaningful look and took their leave, returning to their charges. There were accommodations already set aside and trained handlers brought aboard from Eboracum to interface between the Jedi and the ship's crew.

Aeonid remained, watching the distant stars as Temerity rumbled underfoot, her realspace impeller drive spooling to maximum output for the long run to the Mandeville. He listened to quiet reports fed through his voxbead about the Yuuzhan Vong warships staying their hand, content to watch Temerity flee. Ikrit's death hung over the Jedi as a pall while they mustered, organized, counted heads for a third time, and then exited for the suite of chambers they would stay in. The youngest sniffled and burned like live wires of sorrow, the elders uneasy and concerned.

One mind stayed firmly in Aeonid's attention as it passed from the bridge to the ventral arterial, worked through several decks into an express lift and descended rapidly toward the embarkation deck. Aeonid turned just as the lift door's rolled aside in a clatter, revealing a hulking Astartes walking with purpose and speed. Striding, perhaps. Or stalking.

The new arrival bore recoloured plate, though it still gave Aeonid pause each time to see familiar shapes in unfamiliar colours. An ill-omened pause, a pause that brought memories of other, newly recoloured plate, in an unfamiliar scheme.

This Astartes came to a halt before Aeonid, giving neither salute nor greeting.

'Aeonid,' Sentatus Plianus, Second Captain of IV Astra, made his name sound like an epithet.

'Captain Plianus.'

Where Aeonid's plate remained the long-honoured colours of Ultramar (for his Battalion had not finalized their new heraldry), Plianus wore a coat so fresh it gleamed in the deck's high and harsh lights. A blue so dark it was nearly black shimmered, glossy, across plastron, greaves and arms. Each pauldron bore a darkened gold field, trimmed by white. The emblem of the Astra, a blue Ultima that contained within its arc four white stars emblazoned the right pauldron; the left bore the mark of Plianus' command. Of the rich blue of Ultramar, only the helmet and gauntlets bore the color, enough to mark Plianus still as one of Guilliman's sons.

'Pray tell me - what is the meaning of this? A launch? Unauthorized?'

Plianus went helmed. Aeonid did not. He met the blazing lenses of his fellow captain unflinching.

'A last minute command from me, Captain Plianus.'

'A last - for the love of the Throne, Aeonid-'

'Captain Thiel,' Aeonid corrected. Plianus stiffened visibly. Anger swirled in the other man's mix, leavened by frustration and a few less honorable emotions.

'I do not know how our Primarch expects cooperation with your Company, Captain Thiel, if this is how you mean to conduct yourself.'

He spared a final thought for his two youngest brothers, far beyond his reach. A simple well-wish.

'Operational command is mind to do with as I see fit.'

'Space is my domain. I have been commanding void war since before you even knew what a Black Carapace was. Unauthorized launches bring confusion, they bring disorder, they bring lassitude in discipline. I should have been consulted.'

The anger was the anger of a professional and personal insult. The frustration reared ugly head around Aeonid's relative youth. The other Captain was as open as a book. A different Aeonid would have set his heels and locked horns in return. He would have argued. He would have wielded his authority as a cudgel or as a blade, to batter or slash through whatever he needed to get the job done. He had done so before, at Calth, speaking with the Primarch's authority when he had none. He had done so as a Sergeant, which had earned him the red helm before.

'I agree.'

Plianus paused, wrongfooted.

'Your expertise supersedes mine here; I can only explain that the window of opportunity was small and the decision had to be made rapidly. I hope, in the future, you can educate me on better theoreticals.' He gestured for the lift, Plianus reluctantly falling in step as they made to leave the embarkation deck behind. 'We have a week of travel ahead of us, at minimum. Perhaps joint exercises, between my Company and yours? I am sure Tercinax, Varien and Amalius would welcome the chance.'

Anger remained, but resentment was punctured before it could bloom.

'This should have been done before arrival at the moon,' Plianus insisted.

'It should have. That was my oversight. I am corrected and I will remember this.'

Plianus grunted as they fit into the lift together. Aeonid depressed a rune.

'See that you do, Captain.'

For three days Aeonid allowed himself the excuse of wargaming with the handful of IV Astra assigned to Temerity. Plianus was slated for a position aboard Opolor's Vow, at the Fondor front, but had attended as an initial shakedown of the IV in action. He brought two squads - one his command, fitted with breaching shields and volkite serpenta in case of boarding and a second squad for rapid reaction. The Ultramarines Astra were an answer to the assault on the Honour not long ago, a recognition of the Yuuzhan Vong's potential to unleash havoc on unprepared warships. Their wargear was myriad and adaptable, their plate reinforced and up-armoured to the fore. Breachers and true marines, the Astra were to be assigned to every Exile warship likely to encounter the alien foe.

Most notably - and most rarely - the Fifth Company of the IVth, under a Proximo Dido, were to be portioned out at squad and demisquad strength as combat strikecraft pilots. Astartes in piloting positions were vastly uncommon to the Ultramarines - likely only a few thousand had true, practical experience in the cockpit of a craft like the Xiphon. Most theoreticals found the usage of transhumans in such a role to be at best ineffectual and at worst, detrimental. In the cataclysmic warfare of the void, the posthuman biology of an Astartes mattered much less when faced by continent-searing firepower and battleships that could crack moons.

Yet Plianus, with Centurion Empion's support, argued his point to the Primarch, who had eventually accepted. Survivors of several wings after the crazed battle over Calth were alloyed together into new squads, new squadrons, and even now, Aeonid knew, the Mechanicum pondered similar questions to what had resulted in his now 'stolen' Thunderhawk.

How might the technologies, if sanctioned, of this galaxy better serve the Ultramarines?

Plianus himself was a master pilot, survivor of a hundred and more clashes through the Crusade and, Aeonid could admit, a far better strategist at void combat than he ever could be. The other Captain's short temper did not settle, but the edges were kept sanded at bay as his pilots and boarders brutalized Aeonid's own squad's attempted strategies. There was an amusement among the 'Space Marines' at the 'groundpounders' being humbled by the complexities of three dimensional and occasionally relativistic combat across millions of miles. Varien scowled, Amalius studied and Tercinax bore each trouncing with phlegmatic amusement.

It was good for his men. As much as they learned, Aeonid did as well. As much as Amalius took notes, Aeonid took more. Adaptive Combat Tactics meant only as much as he had a box of useful tools to draw upon, and he intended to fill that box to overflowing.

So he allowed three days to pass aboard ship. In the first day Temerity made translation, cutting off holonet contact with the outside galaxy - a notable peculiarity of warp travel compared to hyperspace. The Jedi settled into their given spaces and the shuttles and freighters that bore them up were secured. The second and third days he sparred with Plianus in hololith-filled strategium and over broad map-boards of mnemo-plast glassine.

Until, at last, when Aeonid couldn't keep his mind from the thought any longer, and in predictable coincidence, he met Master Solusar lingering outside of the Jedi spaces. He made no overture when he left his private chambers behind nor had he cast his mind abroad - yet there she was, nevertheless. The minds of Katarn, Solusar, Streen and Cilghal remained bright points, but with attention elsewhere. Tionne looked tired and drawn, mustering a thin smile in greeting, her silver hair pulled simply back in a tie.

'Aeonid', she welcomed, her voice as soft as ever. 'What brings you here?'

A kindness, to pretend that she did not likely know better than he why he came.

'Master Solusar,' he offered a shallow bow. The Jedi had no real proper forms of address or formality, but she was a Master of their art and deserved nothing less. 'I…have been thinking.'

'Most beings do,' she chided, a little playfulness beating back the lingering grief around her.

'I'd not speak ill of my brothers, but I know of some that would put lie to that.'

Her eyes widened and she laughed. It was a good sound.

'Aeonid! That's awful!'

He shrugged, rolling broad shoulders beneath his homespun robes. Strangely, after several weeks at the Praxeum, his armor sat almost strangely when he bore it again. Tionne sobered, glancing down and fiddling her fingers.

'Is it about Ikrit?'

He opened his mouth - closed it. Opened it again - shut it once more. Within him, built over days, the pressure looked for an outlet but he could find none of the words that matched. Every one he tried in hours of meditation between different wargames felt jagged and ill-shaped. Prickling and wrong, dissonant even in the privacy of his mind. In each meditation he blocked out all others - a task which came harder and harder - until his sense of the world was only of his body.

'He died.' Aeonid regretted the starkness of the words as soon as they left his lips. Tionne nodded solemnly.

''There is no death, only the Force.''

'What I meant was…' again his voice faltered. Gently, Tionne lay a hand on his chest, over his heart.

'Just speak, Aeonid.'

'I am trying to-' He growled, shaking his head.

Nothing was right. He had no practical. He could ask none of his brothers. He could not even go to his father, because for all that his father was, he was not this. One among hundreds of thousands, one among thousands, surfeit with brothers, Aeonid felt achingly alone.

How could he say that Kyle Katarn had moved and fought and acted like few warriors Aeonid had ever known or even seen? How could he say that the oneness of the 'meld' Anakin introduced had sunken deep into his gut and could not be extracted? How could he say that at the end, that there was still connection, a connection that showed him not fear, not pain; but rather peace. Rightness. A deeper emotion, one that twitched at his heart and twisted his stomach, one that he could name but had never understood - never believed he could understand, for all that it was spoken freely and openly and without thought, as much a part of the mortal life of humanity as everything else he had given up.

Love. Deep, abiding love. A little xeno creature, like some Rogue Trader's pet, swelling with nothing but love before the sudden silence came -

Love for young Anakin and Tahiri, for Sannah the Melodie and all the other Jedi on the fleeing ships; not just the youths but the elder Jedi too.

And for him.

Aeonid.

His mouth twisted and he wished as he had a hundred times before that this Force had not chosen him. Like many times now, the wish was hollow.

Weight drew him down, down to one knee, until he was level with Tionne Solusar. It bowed his head, it drooped his shoulders and Aeonid could not pack it away as he had in constant distraction of wargame and theoretical and review.

In the chambers given to the Jedi they mourned Ikrit, they feared for their three lost children and they loved Aeonid for what he had done.

'Could you tell me of the Jedi?' he asked, quiet and intense.

Tionne's small hands cupped Aeonid's face, drawing his gaze to her silver eyes.

'Which ones?'

Aeonid Thiel inhaled. 'All of them.'

'I was hoping you would ask,' she said.

"And still no spoor to follow," Supreme Commander Malik Carr sneered. The villip conveyed his displeasure most accurately and the shape of his master's derision sent shivers down Harmae's spine.

"None, Potent Lord. We have seeded wide trackers, but this moon is rife with hostile life. Many predators have found our netting-beetles and syk-ragk tunnelers to be palatable and the Shapers claim they hunt them with much pleasure."

The made-thing vessel that had fallen free of the captured Jeedai starship had been found only two days previous, after close to four days and nights by the moon's own time. It had been ransacked and left abandoned, all supply torn from within. Tracker-beasts ranged out and sniffed for scents, but where misled by pheromone trails of whooping simians and chattering marsupials that swung among the jungle's canopy branches. Worse, much flooding had soaked the soil, creating churned mud from the passage of entire herds of prey-beasts. Any sign of the Jeedai was lost, but that did not concern Harmae the most.

That lie with the Aistarteez vessel that had evaded pursuit, receiving only some damage, before slipping into the churning storm clouds and, like the Jeedai, vanishing. The jungle's ancient trees bore minerals within their trunks that frustrated orbital scryers that peered down from Harmae's two miid-roic. Thermal backshimmer and hot radiation boiling from the bloated gas giant clouded great lenses and gave a thousand false returns.

Not only Jeedai were on this moon but Aistarteez too, and an unknown quantity.

"Execute the least of the yorik-et squadron that failed to destroy the Aistarteez transport." Harmae nodded, not correcting the Supreme Commander that he had already done so. The Paring of the Fat, a favored means of punishment among Domain Carr and a chastisement Harmae knew personally. Other fools like Shai might slay the leader for failure, but to take the least is to encourage only greater service in the eyes of the Gods, so that they might not find themselves judged wanting when the time comes.

"I can spare no more for you, Commander." Harmae remained on one knee, chewing at his tattooed lip. His own countenance would not be repeated - his face was not to be seen in his current shame. "The Warmaster's plans are strict and they are thorough. Already the shortage in yammosks has slowed deployment and mustering. To match His Brutality's timetable, we cannot slip even a day."

"I understand, Potent Lord."

"I gave you four hundred warriors of Carr," Malik Carr admonished. "Fine warriors, all of them. How many were slain in the storm? No, do not speak - my ears rings still."

"The storm…"

"The Jeedai continue to showcase new powers. For this alone, my wroth with you is lessened. But I have grown accustomed to success, Commander. Do not make me doubt your ascension. Do not make me doubt my trust in you again."

"By Yammka himself, never."

"Offer blood to seal this. Do not call on me again until the Jeedai are captured and the Aistarteez slain. Master Qesh offers a bounty for those who deliver an Aistarteez alive, but I will not risk my warriors. Now do my will."

"Belek tiu, Supreme Commander."

The villip schlorped back within its casing, leaving Harmae kneeling before the villip choir. Dozens of villips, all silent and waiting, tied to partners across broad spans of the galaxy. Malik Carr's was the foremost and finest, hide shimmering like oiled leather, slick to the touch and taut.

A storm. The Jeedai conjured a storm, the first storm Harmae Carr had ever felt, smelt or touched. A storm to break his warriors and a storm to befuddle the senses and again they spat in the eyes of the Gods and the Gods seemed to let them. What had the Chosen People done to deserve these insults? What test was this meant to be, as these Jeedai produced trick after trick from their cowardly arsenal.

Master Kwaad was obsessed and when the Supreme Commander had tasked him as her guard and warden, he had sneered at the thought of the infidel sorcerers.

Now, he shared a modicum of the Shaper's interest. She was convincing, in her spiels of how this 'Force' was meant to be a gift to the Yuuzhan Vong. That the Jeedai were the challenge to ensure they were worthy. Pretty words, but they did not salve the ache in his hands. No lives had been claimed by his amphistaff in that long, harrowing night.

The instruction was to capture the Jeedai, but Harmae could be forgiven if one chose to fight to the death. Yes, no one would question that. For all their heathen nature, the Jeedai were known to be warriors and some had made final stands. He'd wet his amphistaff, carve back his honor in blood. Harmae found himself within Yammka's Grotto, the small shrine set aside for the Many Tentacled Lord of War. His feet had delivered him while he mused.

Before the snarling statue in yorik coral, Harmae knelt once more and drew his tsaisi. The small baton of rank stiffened in his grasp and he ran its edge across his densely-scarred palms. Rich lifeblood welled and he beseeched his God, stroking at tentacle and bulbous body, streaking blood across already black-stained coral. Yun-Yammka leered back and the statue's mica eyes caught the luminescent light just right to glimmer. A thrill of superstitious dread quivered through Harmae. He made the promise in his heart with the promise made in blood: a Jeedai would die one last time on this cursed moon.

Bells rung. Censers swung. Hymnals raised to the very rafters of the grand manufactorum droned and vibrated bones and adamantium skeleton alike. Cantic binhary stuttered and shrieked. Skitarii masters stalked on telescoped legs, rad-rifles left aside for burnished archaeotech pistols and humming flash-rapiers. Magi in every shape and form grouped in clusters. Hunched backs sprouted knotted tangles of mechadendrites; tall Magi called in fleshvoice; wheels clicked and treads ground; white-trimmed robes rustled and swept; optics in every shade of the rainbow recorded and analyzed and peered across spectra.

Archmagos Veneratus Explorator-Biologis Orichi-Mu, Fabricator-General [Default] of Eboracum remained far afield and, as the saying went, when the Archmagos was away, the cyberape would play.

The Calth Muster was the greatest conjunction of the Eastern expanse in living memory. Two entire Legions challenged even some of the mightiest Crusade formations like those that struck at Ullanor or at the Rangda, and, ever-dutiful, the Mechanicum of Red Mars stood by to offer aid. Calth was a jewel-world, a new-born treasure, soon to slot into the tetrarchy of Saramanth, Konor, Occluda and Iax. As much as it was a world of Ultramar and beloved of Primarch Guilliman, so too was it blessed in the eyes of the Omnissiah and given unceasing industry by the Motive Force. Veridia Forge was the home of the Mechanicum, as Calth was the home of the Ultramarines. The great orbitals of the world were commanded and infested by the red-robed Magi, tending to the great cogitator brains that handled the masterpiece defense grid. Hulls were laid, alloys smelted, superheavies cast and a trillion bolts for a trillion bolters churned by tireless assembly line.

The insult given by the cursed and bastard Lorgar was driven not just at the heart of Ultramarines, but also spat upon the arid and long-memoried face of Red Mars.

The Mechanicum remembered.

The Mechanicum remembered long after all others had forgotten.

The Ultramarines had been lucky to escape with an estimated third to half of their Legion. Calth managed to evacuate millions, even despite the turmoil. Those that remained had the arcologies to flee to.

Veridia Forge was slaughtered like a grox. The orbital yards burned.

Of the masterful Adepts of Veridia: but three hundred and seventy-four escaped with the 4711th. Three hundred and seventy-four. Extrapolation indicated the total survivability of Veridia Forge Magi to be below one hundred thousand, off-world.

Out of tens of millions.

This Aldovv Brane-Ugoln maintained within her active memory coil, branded into the very wafers that managed her blessed processing. Three hundred and seventy-four. Magi, trained Magi, those beyond the base novitiate, were the great minority of the Mechanicum, should the count include menials, tech-serfs, servitors, Skitarii and other sundry servants and chattel of Mars. This was as should be: not all minds and not all bodies were suited to the perilous and precious ascension of knowledge.

Yet for so few…

Brane-Ugoln raised her tetrad hands, simultaneously with blurt-cast across the local noosphere. All attention snapped to her. Unlike the fleshbound mortals, she needed to wait no time at all for cessation of conversation or the slow adjustment of focus. All who mattered here were Magi or Skitarii-enhanced.

+The Machine God bears us to a newfound Galaxy, which spills over with secrets undreamt of+

-This Galaxy is filled with the Alien and the Abominable Intelligence-

+We bring the Comprehension of Mars, which is beyond the scrabbling creatures of this place+

-We number few, and fewer still as war comes to us-

She held her charge at neutral, savoring the chemical gradient flow. All gathered, whether they directed optics toward her upon the manufactorum's primary assembly line or not, tuned to the subtle signal markets in her blurt-cant.

+The Primarch values the Mechanicum+

-The Primarch commands the Mechanicum-

+Our study is unrestricted-

-Our study is unrestricted-

Beside her, the hulking and bullish form of Sarbok Tan-Krato, relayed her words in Skitarii battle-cant, inflecting each phrase eloquently to appeal to the martial minded.

+The Seventh Law is that Comprehension is the Key to all Things+

Motion subtly rippled through those assembled in the manufactorum chamber.

-The Eighth Warning is that to Break with Ritual is to Break with Faith-

A pulsed command through noospheric link commanded forward servitors who drew a flatbedded cart between them. Within, crippled beyond motion but given the unearned gift of continued function, a dozen droids warbled and cried in alarm. A ripple of disgust swept through the assembled Magi and Skitarii, a tangible wave that rustled robes. Brane-Ugoln pointed with four hands at the cart, at the dismembered torso of a silvered mockery of the human form that bleated nonsense in alien tongue.

+Orichi-Mu is most ancient among us+

-Orichi-Mu abdicates responsibility-

+Orichi-Mu acts according to his station: Explorator+

-Orichi-Mu acts contrary to his station as Fabricator-General [Default]-

Queries for clarification pinged across Brane-Ugoln's awareness. Of the seventy-two Magi who attended, at least half stood within Mu's camp. That was well. Spirited theological debate was the blood and mortar of the Mechanicum.

+An explorator is needed in this galaxy. Orichi-Mu is an Explorator of great renown.+

-None save the Omnissiah can bear the weight of too many roles-

+There are other candidates to optimally serve the role of Fabricator-General, such that the tag [Default] might be retired.+

Though her innards strained at maintaining a positive Lorentz gradient, Brane-Ugoln spoke no further. The imbalance showed humility and a positive gradient gave honor to the Mysteries, to offset her preaching of the Warnings.

In the noosphere, as milliseconds passed, discourse flew fierce and hot. Packages were prepared and blurted, unpackaged and consumed and processed and rebroadcast, tagged and categorized. Life-stories were appended, exhaustive with minutia of discovery and faithful cataloging. Magos from across sphere and discipline declared candidacy, argued support of Orichi-Mu, cast doubt and plaudits both at her feet. Nine seconds after she ceased her speech, the first proposal for Aldovv Brane-Ugoln, Veridia Forge, High Magistrix Cybernetica as Suitable Candidate for Fabricator-General [Suitable] for Eboracum flashed through the noosphere.

Another title was added then: Oratratix of the Tenets Cautionary.

She allowed a simulative process to approximate pleasure. It suited her. Her diametric opposition to the Veneratus was one of doctrinal position, not personal. That would be inefficient, after all.

For the third time, Thunderhawk 5590/a rumbled to life, rocked on her repulsorlifts, cleared her engines for startup and settled again into her nest of heaping bushes, branches and brambles. Anakin leaned back, clapping his hands together though not a speck of dust sat on them. Through the canopy, Zalthis caught his eye and sharply nodded, then stomped back up the opened bow ramp. That was the last of the checks. The hyperdrive was talking to the Thunderhawk again, the repulsorlifts hadn't cut out halfway through startup, power was getting from the reactor to everywhere it needed to go. He couldn't do anything for the physical damage, which meant the ride was going to be bumpy and clumsy until they hit space. Ailerons were shredded, which meant it would be repulsorlifts and reaction control thrusters to manhandle through maneuvering, but from the feeling he got from the transport, they could also just make like a rocket and blast straight up without any issue.

"You're going to need a name," Anakin observed idly, patting the console one more time. He climbed out of the oversized pilot's seat - he would not miss long hours in that giant thing - and stretched.

[Designation Five Five Nine Zero One Slash A.]

"Yeah, but that's a mouthful. I'll think of something."

Zalthis poked his head into the cockpit.

"You're talking to the ship again," the Astartes commented.

"It's not my fault she talks back." He followed Zal back into the main hold of the Thunderhawk where his and Sannah's sleeping bags were set up on some unrolled cushions the Astartes had produced from somewhere. Supplied were stacked off to one side, the vaporator sitting up on the Thunderhawk's dorsal surface to keep sucking in and purifying water. Rations were there, an ammunition crate for the big bolt pistols was there, a bag for their dirty clothes was there - in two days, it had become a little domestic.

Every hour that blurred by stabbed him in the heart. He hated getting lost in the work, because getting lost in it made time fly, time that Tahiri was in their hands. It didn't make sense and it didn't have to make sense. He wasn't going to fly and shoot lasers in his eyes and this had to be done, but each time he checked the chrono and saw another handful of hours had slipped through his fingers like sand, his stomach twisted and he had to take long, deep breaths.

It was done. The Thunderhawk was ready to go.

"I don't get why we can't just fly it to wherever Tahiri is," Sannah said, again, while they broke out rations for dinner. "Vape the vong with the giant gun on top, bust her out, and then burn ions, right?"

She still didn't like to look Anakin the eye, but at least she was talking again. Small victories, he thought grimly.

"Zal's said it already. There's way too many 'skips around here, they'd just shoot us right back down again."

"What if-"

"Sannah."

She looked away, glumly and mechanically chewing on another bite of a ration bar.

"It's alright. I wish we could just go in blasting too, but…we can't help Tahiri if we're dead."

"Anakin is right," Zal agreed. "This is the best theoretical we have. The vong are surely searching for us, which means the Thunderhawk cannot be left unguarded. Either Sol or I have to stay here."

"And I've volunteered," Sol added.

"And Sol has. Anakin and I can cover distances very quickly and we can be back to the Temple Complex in only a few days."

"Then it's a matter of finding where they have Tahiri and getting her out."

Sannah put a wrapper aside in a waste bag, curling up on her sleeping bag. She clutched at her knees, legs to her chest.

"But how will you know?"

"I can still feel her, Sannah."

Sol drummed fingers against the crate he sat on.

"Or perhaps you could take a Vong and force them to speak. A slave, even, if there are some."

The Astartes said it so blithely and blandly that Anakin took another deep, long breath, let it out before speaking.

"As I've said, that's a last resort."

"I do not see why. There are a number of useful techniques to apply pressure-"

"I'm not going to discuss the ethics of torture again, Sol."

The large Astartes shrugged, unbothered either way.

"It's an option, but not one I relish either," Zalthis added.

"It'll work. I know it will."

The rest of their 'meal' was passed in silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Sannah was lost in thought, Zalthis clearly running through a checklist of what gear to bring and Solidian was toying with his auspex. Not for the first time, Anakin pictured where they might be without the two Ultramarines. Probably in some cave somewhere, dripped on by salactites and trying to figure out how in the hell they were going to get off the moon if -when- he rescued Tahiri. Sannah would probably be basically unable to move from those blisters - looking a lot better after the Astartes had shared some salves that seemed about as effective as a good bacta-patch - and as for what he might be thinking…

He imagined doing this alone. Just himself, his lightsaber, against a battalion of vong warriors and Shapers and who knew what other biots.

Together. Ikrit had meant him and Tahiri, but since when did words only have one meaning?

He let the thought go. He wasn't alone. And soon enough, Tahiri wouldn't be either.

Without Sannah, with a clear goal and with an Ultramarine loping along at his side, Anakin was shocked at how close the Escarpment was. He sank into the Force to keep pace with Zalthis, passing hours in a quiet meditative fugue while they moved south and west, back toward the Great Temple. After assessing the terrain, given where the Thunderhawk came down and how the vong had probably found Lady Starstorm's escape pod, Zalthis pointed out it might be a good idea to move into the rougher and more mountainous northern stretch of the plateau, then work southward, hopefully avoiding vong patrols that would be focusing on the eastern area, where the pod came down.

The terrain would be harsh, but he could handle it. It wasn't an option to think otherwise.

Zalthis wore a stripped down version of his armor, much like the suit he wore when Anakin first met him. They worried about if vong creatures could sense electronics, which was why they tested the Thunderhawk only in short bursts, minimizing any flaring heat or radiation. The massive reactor backpacks of Astartes armor might well be a huge flare drawing the vong to them - it may have just been by chance that they hadn't noticed Solidian and Zalthis on their way down to link up with Anakin and Tahiri.

So Zal ditched the reactor, stripping down his armor to only what he could still physically move in without the augmentations of the suit. Sol had worked on that for him, while he and Anakin finished up with the Thunderhawk. The Ultramarine had a bolter with a long barrel and bullpup grip, several magazines, a brace of grenades and a massive power sword. Even with all that, several times, Zalthis reached out a hand and helped lift Anakin right up a cliff like he weighed nothing at all.

Weigh nothing at all Anakin definitely did not.

Sol almost fussed over Anakin before they left, pushing a bolt pistol into his hands along with magazines, his own sling of fat grenades and even offered another power sword. He'd turned that down - all he needed there was his lightsaber. Armor fitted for a normal human was in a crate in the Thunderhawk as well; when Aeonid was using it as a shuttle to the Praxeum, he had obviously thought ahead to maybe needing a little bit extra, just in case. When Anakin had pointed that out, wondering what Aeonid had been expecting, or even if the Captain had expected a vong attack, Sol huffed a laugh.

"We're Ultramarines," he said, amused. "Planning for anything is sort of the point of us."

Wearing the lightweight but surprisingly durable chestplate, rounded pauldrons and bracers, Anakin was glad for it. It wouldn't stop an amphistaff, but some of those bugs? He'd had enough bruises and slashes to last the rest of his life.

They drove deeper into the rougher northern span of the plateau, areas Anakin had never been. The Escarpment here was steeper and taller. Zal scrambled up it almost as fast as he could cover flat ground, simply gouging his own handholds into the shale and stone. Anakin followed behind, using the new-forged holds and a measure of the Force.

Like that night in the jungle, during the storm, the Force felt clearer and closer than ever before. Stronger, more vibrant, more alive than he could ever remember. The first night Zalthis had offered to stop, but Anakin felt as awake and energized as when he'd just woken up.

He had a goal, he had a mission and he had his best friend curled up and sobbing in the back of his head, keeping him away with iron bars and spikes that tore at him each time he tried to reach for her.

He was one purpose, one man, one purpose, one aim and one unerring direction and the Force embraced him.

Ravines, canyons, sinkholes, lush valleys - all slid past in a blur. Later, Anakin would remember almost none of it. No landmarks, no features. No biots harried them. No vong found them.

His existence narrowed to Zalthis and his unflagging pace, to Tahiri. To the rise and fall of his feet.

They crested one final peak late in the evening. Zalthis paused, going still. Like waking, Anakin blinked and the world fell back into focus. The sun was sinking down, throwing rainbows of violets and indigos and crimsons across the western sky. Yavin glowed on the horizon. He saw what Zalthis had.

They'd reached the Complex proper, the span of the plateau where either geological erosion or ancient Massassi labor had smoothed out hundreds of square kilometers as the perfect stage for Naga Sadow's personal vanity project. Behind them, the northern badlands and crags; before them the jungle. Anakin squinted, peering southward, across the rolling green canopy. Here and there, the old stone of temples poked up, sometimes choked out and sometimes in broad clearings. Whole spans of the canopy were open, testament to the power of Alebmos' monsoon and the lasting damage that would take centuries to heal.

Something was out of place.

Anakin shaded his eyes with one hand, raking his eyes left, right. There was that one temple he never remembered the name of, that smudge off to the west. He was pretty sure from the height they were at that he could see the shape of the Temple of the Blueleaf Cluster too. The lake where Exar Kun's temple once was glimmered in the far distance.

In the middle of the complex were five spacious compounds, each shaped like a many-rayed star. The number of rays varied, from five to nine, and the encircling walls were tall and thick - probably thick enough for rooms and chambers. From their vantage point, Anakin could make out open courtyards inside the walls, surrounding a sort of stumpy, tree-trunk like structure in the center that rose at least half as tall as the Great Temple itself.

Vong 'buildings', or whatever creatures they used as the equivalent. They were huge.

But something wasn't right. The vong buildings were all right at the bend of the Unnh River, right where it meandered…

"Oh," Anakin breathed. Tears stung at his eyes. "Oh."

The Great Temple, built of ancient stone by the labor of enslaved Massassi, which had stood for thousands upon thousands of years and watched the history of the galaxy turn by, was gone. Not even a trace remained. The old halls, walked by the darkest and most brilliant of Sith, by the noblest and finest of Jedi, were gone. The Grand Audience Chamber, which had seen sacrifices by monsters and sacrifices by heroes, was gone. The labyrinthine rooms, filled with old Rebel Alliance tech and drawings by trainees and cozy corners to meditate or read or practice forms: gone. The caves beneath, a place of exploration and mystery for him and Tahiri and a place to feel the size of the universe for others: lost.

"Those bastards," Anakin swore.

He could feel Tahiri, tenuous as it was. Her knot of anguish was there, in the center of the largest compound, the one that had so cruelly replaced the Great Temple.

They'd taken her home.

Chapter Text

Being so near to the Vong compound that he could see the invaders going about their business was a special sort of torment. Tahiri was there, she was right there, she was so close he could almost feel her in his arms. Anakin found himself touching the lightsaber at his belt, kept finding himself about to get to his feet. The pull was physical. The ache was overwhelming.

Zalthis, next to him, lay flat on mossy shale, elbows propped up and a clicking, blocky set of goggles held up to his eyes. The Ultramarine forced them to stop here, just at the last set of foothills that rolled up into the taller peaks of the Ersham range. Right where they could get a solid vantage over the entire plateau, see the whole Massassi site sprawled out before them. Right where Anakin could see, minute after minute, hour after hour, where his best friend was being tortured and having who knew what else done to her.

The way she felt more and more distant, more and more muffled as the days went by had his stomach twisting in knots.

Between Anakin's own macrobinoculars and Zal's own complicated magnifiers, they had perfect vision on the Vong compound miles away. Macrobinoculars zoomed in and he could see the individual tattoos on warriors stalking along in squads. Zal's set had a bunch of settings, showing thermal blooms, weird wire-frame ghosting images and false-color contrasts that picked up on exotic radiation and gravity effects.

The practical, as Zalthis put it, was that they had a very nebulous theoretical.

"It's like this," the Ultramarine had explained patiently, voice pitched low as they crouched under bushes and undergrowth. "In the Thirteenth, the Primarch teaches us a simple exercise. Determine a theoretical, construct a practical. Theoretical: we need to exfiltrate Tahiri from the Vong compound. Practical: as a Jedi, Tahiri is a valuable prisoner. Practical: we do not know the strength of the Yuuzhan Vong on the moon. Practical-"

"I get it," Anakin sighed. "We need a plan."

"No," Zalthis corrected. "We need more than a plan, we need actionable data." The Ultramarine had appeared regretful for a moment, before exhaling. "We did not have enough data on Obroa-skai and it cost the Sergeant and Lieutenant their lives."

When Anakin had asked just how exactly they could get that data, it had led to them here, and now. Laying belly-down on uncomfortable and cracked stone, shot through with lichen and stubborn moss, shadowed by a squatter, hardier subspecies of Massassi tree that preferred the growing elevation of the range. Zalthis had a datapad out, a big and chunky thing that held only general resemblance to the sleek tablets Anakin was used to, tapping away with a stylus without once putting down his macrobinoculars. The Ultramarine was noting down every unique patrol and Vong he saw. Anakin's job was a little more ephemeral.

Readjusting himself, Anakin closed his eyes, probing out with the Force. Zalthis could analyze what was seen - it was Anakin's job to work with the unseen. The sensations of the jungle could tell a lot. Fearful runyips ahead of a curiously quiet bubble - an unseen Vong patrol that was spooking the native life away from them. Woolamanders hooting and howling at interlopers that Anakin just couldn't sense - another group. The primitive and instinctual fear that emanated from a school of fish, held packed together in close confines with a great deal of other aquatic life - some kind of catch, or trawler?

Jacen, he figured, would be able to tell a whole lot more. Maybe even be able to soothe some of the creatures enough to get some to help out, or even act as lookouts. Woolamanders that would bark a certain tone only when Vong were around; yes, Jacen could probably do that.

Anakin never had the greatest talent for it, but he felt like the edge of a knife. Stripped clean and simple, refined to a point, obsidian-sharp and focused.

When Zalthis was comfortable with what they both had noted down, he broke it down again. Night had fallen, the nocturnal jungle just as alive as the diurnal. Anakin didn't feel tired. He hadn't felt much of anything either, in the hike here: not hunger, not thirst, not fatigue. Just sharp. Pointed.

Zal flipped his datapad around, offering it to Anakin.

"I have it memorized," he said simply. The datapad was heavy and durable, with buttons that were large and recessed. Large enough, he realized, for armor-clad fingers to be able to press them. Anakin snorted with something adjacent to humor at the thought. Displayed in ghostly sketches and lines, in crimson and emerald and bright gold, the general map of the center of the plateau, the bend of the Unnh river; everything. Along one side scrolled a list of observed squad strengths and compositions, as well as simple timing annotations.

It was almost overwhelming. There was so much everything there, along with shorthand he didn't know, icons that didn't ring any bells and color coding that didn't follow a logical sense. Zal seemed to expect this.

"Today, I observed nineteen unique patrols. I counted one hundred and seventeen individual warriors, which I distinguished by implant, scar patterns and tattoos."

Anakin nodded along, the twist in his stomach tightening.

"There is a full squadron of coralskippers landed in that field there, a likely shuttle or lander analogue here and I recognize that formation of buildings as troop habitation from Fondor." Zal reached out, tapping the datapad to punctuate each point.

"I felt more patrols too. I think maybe even some fliers, like landspeeders, or airspeeders," Anakin admitted. "I think they're doing search patterns."

"It would make sense. Even if they believed that you and Sannah had perished, they would have found the salvation pod by now. Besides that, I have no doubt they would believe the Thunderhawk truly shot down."

"Then they're ready for us."

Against one warrior? Anakin would take that head on, any day. Against two? Not a problem. Three? Doable. Four? Tougher. Five? He'd be pressed. Six? Seven? Ten? Two hundred?

Anakin of a year ago would be open mouthed and shocked at Anakin of now measuring how many trained, adult warriors he could kill in pitched combat. It wasn't arrogance either. After Dantooine, after Ithor, after Obroa-skai and now Yavin, it was, as Zalthis would put it, a practical. He hadn't yet met a Vong warrior that had truly, truly threatened him, one-on-one. Oh, sure, he had taken injuries here and there, but individually?

When there were more, that was when it was dicey. There were a lot down there, around the Vong buildings. They didn't have a monsoon to give them cover and they didn't have half a squad of other Ultramarines and one of the finest Jedi duellists alive to help them. Just Anakin, just Zalthis, and just a few hundred Vong and whatever biots were lingering around.

Maybe Sannah had been right. Maybe they should've taken the Thunderhawk - which still needed a name - and rammed it right down the throat of the Vong.

"I think it is more appropriate to say they are expecting us." Zalthis showed a rare smile; just a slight grin. "A Jedi and an Ultramarine - I don't believe any theoretical can ever make them ready for us."

"We can't go in the front door, we don't know enough to sneak in and we can't just fight through all of them. Maybe they're not ready, but I don't know if that really makes a difference."

Zal beckoned for the datapad. Anakin handed it back. A few tapped buttons, a flick of a stubby stylus, then Zal spun the datapad back around to reveal a looped recording.

"Did you notice these Vong?"

Anakin squinted, leaned closer. It was a little strange to view a flat, two dimensional recording without a matching holo, but he recognized the scrolling text and reticle of Zal's macrobinoculars in the vid. A group of beings that, at first glance, looked Human, toiled alongside the Unnh River, right on the bank. They flung out handfuls of something that trailed long, thin lines of gossamer. Bugs, probably, since the specks moved and arched and then darted down, into the water. The gossamer lines snapped taut, and then the fishermen - because it couldn't be anything else - hauled in catches hand-over-hand. Silver-scaled, flopping fish were dragged out of the water before each bug released their catch, tossed underhand back out into the shallows to repeat.

They looked Human, at first glance, but Zal hadn't been wrong. They had the same elongated skull and flattened forehead that was so dreadfully familiar. Their hair was universally black, done in various styles from simple buns to complex braids. Their robes clung too organically to their muscular frames.

What gave it away the most were the darkened sacs under each eye.

They looked bizarre.

Not a single tattoo or scar among them. They looked so unsettlingly normal.

"I didn't see them," he said, unable to look away from the mundane activity as it looped, over and over. Just some Vong. Fishing.

"I would wager they are the servant caste we have predicted, but never seen. No tattoos, no implants? If both are the measure of ascension, then these are the lowest of the low."

NRI - common sense, really - speculated on the various castes of the Vong. It was an important topic, since the invaders had such a rigid social structure. Theory was that there were orders of magnitude more non-combat, 'civilian' Vong out there that did the actual day-to-day stuff needed to make an interstellar civilization work. They couldn't all be ferocious warriors, cunning spies and priests; they had to have workers and supervisors, laborers and artisans.

"I also saw several overseeing groups of slaves."

"I sensed the slaves, too," Anakin added.

"Of course. Theoretical: slaves are overseen by the workers, who in turn are below all other castes. The practical, then, is we take one of these workers for interrogation."

Anakin rocked back on his heels.

Talking to a Vong was kind of the grand prize for half the intelligence agencies. They had a penchant for dying in 'glorious combat' or killing themselves before being taken alive. Even the one that Aunt Mara and his siblings had scooped up on Coruscant died to a sneaky biot that had replaced their tongue.

Those had all been Warriors, though. None of them ever seemed to care even a little about their own lives. A worker? Huh. He could see it. Surely, not all the Vong were so violently self-destructive. And a Warrior would be noticed, but maybe a simple worker could go missing for a while? Then they could ask anything about the place. Where was the Jedi held? Passcodes, or phrases? Patrols? Strength? You name it.

Although, ask meant-

"Wait, but how can we talk to them?"

Zalthis truly smiled this time, broadly.

"Ekgt dag't et-zil ibi'yun."

He knew that rolling intonation, that blend of melodic and sharp anywhere.

"How in the hells do you speak Vong?"

Zalthis scratched at his cheek.

"By the grace of the Throne," he said, evasively.

Anakin chewed on his lip.

Well. Now this was a plan.

Ralroost was, to use the cliche, a veritable hive of activity. No one knew just what was on the books; no one knew quite when, where, or how, or even entirely who, but everyone knew that something was afoot. High Command didn't just reel in most of the elements of First Fleet to Coruscant for no reason and the amount of tenders and resupply going on was fit to match some of the musters during the Galactic Civil War. Jaina could feel the same sort of unreality that permeated a lot of the other pilots and sailors, as they took glances out of transparisteel at the thousands of glinting hulls sprawling across the anchorage. The unreality of: how can we lose? What could possibly stand against this?

All the Rogues were cycling through Combat Air Patrol. All the Rogues were in the cockpit and doing checks and simming it up and begging, bartering and bickering to get last minute tune-ups and tweaks on their snubfighters.

All the Rogues except Jaina.

They set her up in an office that overlooked the 'Roost's starboard hangar. She had all the basics for a junior officer's space and she didn't need to use any of it. All she had to do was sit on her ass for hours on end and listen to the Force. The space used to be probably for a Chief or something, with a big transparisteel pane that let her see out into the bustling hangar. It was slightly tinted, making it reflective from the other side.

For hours, she sat and watched as shuttles and transports cycled in and out, bringing resupply and rotating crew. She watched as beings of all sizes and stripes embarked and disembarked and she looked for the ones that had nothing behind their faces. She listened, alert and sharp and bored out of her skull, for smug duplicity, for fearful subterfuge, for anything that raised the hairs on her neck.

Jaina had a panic button that would call down marines in seconds.

Days had passed and she hadn't used it once.

Everyone was nervous. Everyone was anxious. Everyone was tense and eager and a little fearful. Everyone had secrets.

So far, not a single masquer'd Vong had tried to come aboard. So far, she hadn't caught a whiff of prickling danger in the Force. On the other side of Ralroost, Alexandra Winger was doing the same job and Jaina could pick up on the older woman's similar low-burning frustration.

Apparently, Captain Winger had been pulled from her own command, the cruiser Webley, just like Jaina had been pulled off the Rogues. The other woman buried her boredom under a hard layer of professionalism in a way that Jaina felt faintly envious of. She should be prouder, probably, because this was a request to Colonel Darklighter from Admiral Kre'fey…but all the same, couldn't someone else do this? Anyone else? Kenth Hamner was on board too, he could do this. Or another Jedi. There were still like a dozen down in the HQ on the surface. The Navy couldn't tap any of them?

At least they let her bring up stuff to tinker with. She turned the graviscoop antenna unconsciously in her hands, moving on autopilot as she tweaked and twiddled with the extremely fragile, high-precision sensor. Her toolkit was spread out on the desk beside her, every spanner and plier neatly set out, ready to use.

Another shuttle slid into the hangar, passing through the containment shield with a ripple. Usual kind of activity: hangovers, regrets after shore leave, some anger over some slight or another, excitement. Jaina glanced up, eying each being to slouch down the ramp, feeling a mind behind each face until the ramp hissed shut again.

Catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she reached for a microspanner and a tiny wafer-chip the size of her smallest fingernail. Well, at least when she was back on duty with the Rogues for the op - whatever it ended up being - she'd have her XJ dancing cleaner and faster than any other starfighter in the sky.

She spared a moment to nudge toward Jacen - distant, across the galaxy and deep in meditation - and then a moment for her little brother. Anakin never had quite the same connection to the twins as they did with each other, but it'd be a cold day that she couldn't sense the kid. As ever - cold, hard determination. Fixated intensity. Anger that churned deep, deep underneath it. He could do it. He'd be okay. Like how in the cockpit of a fighter was where Jaina belonged, if anyone could pull off a harebrained rescue right under the noses of the Vong, it'd be Anakin.

The Unnh River wended and wound through the Massassi Complex, spilling down from north in cataracts down toward the plateau, before settling into a placid, tranquil and meandering flow. Southward it worked, throwing off oxbow lakes and tranquil pools until it reached the escarpment, tumbling down as a feathery, ethereal waterfall a hundred meters wide.

It teemed with life, just like the rest of the moon, and the Yuuzhan Vong made good on that bounty. The biot they'd found (because even fishing trawlers had to be giant living monsters) made its way upstream with long, languid strokes of a wide, lobed tail. Most of it was submerged, revealing only a humped and muscular back above water and the occasional breach of its tail and fins as it adjusted itself. At least twenty meters long and shaped like an inverted triangle, it gaped open a giant mouth that spanned the width of its flat, broad head, sucking up crustaceans, fish and even amphibious mammals too. It felt so bizarre: he could feel the panic of the growing mass of catch, but not the huge creature that sucked them up.

It just felt like a weird, compressed ball of prey instincts going haywire, moving against the river's current.

The Vong could make anything unsettling.

They weren't here to learn about the fishing traditions of the Yuuzhan Vong. No, the biot had an entirely more important cargo, and that was the Yuuzhan Vong guiding the creature from a strange, fleshy sort of hollow at the peak of its spine. He seemed fixated on his task, arms folded across a broad and robe-clad chest, hair drawn back into a tail and a deep scowl twisting grotesque creatures.

Yuuzhan Vong were ugly, but this one took the cake. He looked rotted. Part of his lip was missing, revealing stained teeth. His nose was a crater that leaked, his eyes were bloodshot and rheumy. Hanks of hair were missing from his scalp and two fingers on one hand were gone, the stumps stained black.

He didn't look like the clean-skinned and un-marked workers that Zalthis had noted, but neither did he look like the grotesque but purposeful mutilations of warriors.

If he was doing scutwork like driving a living fishing trawler up a river, he couldn't be anyone important. Better yet, he was totally alone. No slaves, no other workers, no even any warriors or patrols nearby, so far as they could tell.

"Definitely this one," Anakin said.

"I concur. Isolated and unarmed."

The plan was simple. Anakin would remain on the shoreline, tracking any disturbances in the local wildlife. Zalthis, able to hold his breath for a shocking amount of time, would swim to the biot and ambush the Vong, incapacitate him, and then drag him back to shore. Then they'd get some answers.

For the trillionth time since it all began, Anakin wished he could just pluck the Vong from the saddle with the Force and haul him right over. Not even his trick with crushing the air could work here - that was brute force and he didn't quite trust his control to not just smush the prisoner they were hoping for. Against a warrior, unexpected crunching was perfectly fine. Here, they might not get another golden opportunity.

Zal left his armor behind, shucked down to just his thick black bodyglove. Delicately, he placed down his power sword and pistol, along with his other gear, out of sight of the river behind a broad treetrunk.

"I'll keep an eye on it," Anakin swore.

"I will hold you to that," Zal returned. The biot was downriver, just around a bend and still out of sight. The Astartes slipped into the water, barely a ripple disturbed despite his bulk. He took a long, deep inhale that didn't seem to end, then sunk down and was gone. The Unnh river flowed on without a care. The trawler biot cruised languidly into view. Long minutes passed, the trawler growing closer and closer. The Vong riding it still seemed just as bored and unattentive as they saw earlier, slouched atop the biot. He felt Zal slip closer, closer, closer.

The Ultramarine erupted out of the river like some sort of water monster, breaching meters into the air and landing right behind the Vong. There wasn't even a scuffle. The Vong seemed shocked, stunned into stillness, allowing Zalthis to rip him out of the biot's 'cockpit'. The Ultramarine tensed and leapt again, kicking off from the biot with enough force the whole thing shuddered.

Reflexively, Anakin reached out, easing his friend's trajectory, buoying as he soared meters above the surface of the river. He almost waited for Tahiri to join in and give Zalthis an extra push.

Zal landed easily on bent knees. The trawler lazily swam along, utterly uncaring that its driver had been stolen. Anakin left his hide behind, jogging along the open riverbank.

Up close, the Vong wasn't just a mess, but reeked too. He coughed, covering his mouth with one hand. Zalthis had the Vong's arms twisted behind his back, one outsized fist wrapped around the man's wrists, the other holding tight to one shoulder. Dark eyes ringed in bruises flicked to Anakin, down to the lightsaber at his belt. The lightsabers.

"Jeedai," murmured the Vong.

"Yeah," Anakin agreed. "Jedi."

Admiral Traest Kre'fey never failed to wrongfoot Jaina. She'd known Bothans all her life - after all, her mother's on-again, off-again feuds with Borsk Fey'lya were legendary across half the galaxy. To the last, they were usually fairly serious, focused and formally professional. Maybe that was biased, given that her life was filled with politicians and soldiers, but when Jaina thought 'Bothan', she pictured tailored suits, perfectly combed fur and doublespeak.

Admiral Kre'fey welcomed her into his office by bouncing to his feet, snapping off a return salute with a big and toothy grin.

"Lieutenant Solo!"

The Bothan wore an unmarked and insignia free flight suit, unzipped to just above his navel, showing a wide triangle of cream white fur. Kre'fey was shorter than Jaina, but as he came around his desk, holding out a hand, he seemed to fill the entire room.

"Colonel Darklighter's had only glowing reports on your time in the Rogues. Bit late, but congratulations on qualifying. I had a laugh at Gavin when he argued you were too young - imagine the irony! When a young woman knows what she wants in life, and that's serving the state? Protecting the Republic? Well, I'd never turn that down."

"Thank…you sir?" she stammered. The Bothan firmly shaking her hand was her superior by about…five grades at least. And he was shaking her hand like she was the important one in the room.

"No, the Navy should be thanking you. You're a real icon, you know that, Lieutenant? Following in your uncle's footsteps, joining up with the Starfighter Corps? I hope more Jedi follow your example." The Admiral gestured toward one of several ejection couches arrayed in front of his desk. "Take a load off. We'll be quick, but there's no reason to stand around."

She couldn't think of anything else to say besides 'Yessir'. Kre'fey, for himself, perched on the edge of his desk.

"So I hear you've been keeping an eye on people coming aboard my ship."

"Yessir," she repeated.

"And none of those scarheads have tried to slip through."

"Nossir."

"And no hint of Peace Brigade."

"Hard to say for sure, sir, but I don't think so."

Kre'fey rattled his nails off his desk, smoothing the fur of his chin with his other hand. His office had a hologram set up, displaying the exterior of Ralroost and exposing the whole anchorage spread out around the Bothan Assault Cruiser.

"Good, good. Very good. I hope you understand how important this job is that you're doing. I bet you're itching to get back in the cockpit, but we all have to play our strengths."

To her strengths as a Jedi, Jaina sighed internally. She'd proven her skill at the stick, racking up 'skips and even going toe to toe with Colonel Fel - he still had the lead on her, but not for long. She'd earned her place in the Rogues through sweat and tears. They trusted her and her wingmates needed her when the furball hit again. But still, the Admiral looked at her and saw a Jedi.

She said instead: "Yessir."

Kre'fey frowned at her.

"Lieutenant, this isn't a lecture. At ease."

"Yes-" Jaina cleared her throat. "Okay." She felt the Admiral's mood brighten a little, amusement shooting through his thoughts.

"This isn't just a pat-on-the-back either. This is a serious job. Jaina - mind if I call you Jaina?"

She nodded.

"I pulled Alex off of Webley and requested Kenth just like I had Gavin tap you as well. The details are classified, but NRI is still having trouble seeing through those Vong masquers. Until they can, Jedi are the best bet against Vong infiltrators. It's been an oversight. A bad one. We got complacent, which is why Shesh is on the warpath right now. Do you know what we learned on Fondor and from the Exiles? Those gravity biots the Vong use? They can make tiny ones that could be smuggled on a body. You can imagine what it would look like if a singularity opened up inside the 'Roost."

A few months ago, during a small skirmish over some moon she couldn't even remember the name of, a Vong frigate had been bullied hard by the 'Roost and a Nebulon-B. It's dovin basals were sucking up everything and the ship was dead in space, hunkering down under its singularities when something had obviously gone wrong. After action speculated that one of the basals had something like a stroke, because there was a spike in gravity waves that had alarms blaring across half the fleet and the frigate smeared and swirled into a single, tiny point. A heartbeat, and then there was a wash of radiation and a cloud of gauzy, expanding plasma like a new-born nebula.

Jaina had a vivid image of the 'Roost twisting like that and goosebumps prickled her neck. Suddenly, the boredom of the past few days felt a lot easier to handle.

"Saboteurs aren't the only thing we're watching out for. Don't spread it around, but our girl here is carrying the flag for the 'completely secret operation' around the corner. Ralroost will be leading the battlegroups from First Fleet, which makes her security even more important."

Kre'fey sobered a little, leaning forward with his hands gripping the sides of his desk.

"There are going to be staff conferences through the end of this week. 'Roost is hosting them. We'll have members of High Command on board. I want you sitting in the room. Kenth will be there too. Everyone has to be vetted. Don't even trust me. We haven't seen a masquer that can hope to match the beauty of a Bothan, but the Vong like their surprises."

She'd have almost laughed off the idea - her, sitting in on High Command's own top-secret meetings? Even her own father hadn't ever been high enough rank to, even if he wanted to, have access to those closed door mysteries. Sure, her mother had been Chief of State, but the NRDF liked to keep its distance from the civilian leadership, and vice versa. Stay in their lanes, and all that.

The amount of trust the Admiral was laying out caught her breath in her chest. Kenth Hamner was a Colonel and a career soldier to boot.

And yet - it was because she was a Jedi. Not a pilot, not a member of the Navy. But like the Admiral said, they all had their strengths to play into.

"I'm not sure what to say, sir," she managed.

"It's not an order. Something like this is sensitive. Kenth can handle it on his own, if you feel like you're better off continuing to cover embarking with Alex. I'm asking, Jaina, not telling. Think it over. Let Gavin know your decision by 0900 tomorrow."

She left the Admiral's office deep in thought. She ate robotically in the mess with a few of the Rogues who were off-duty - Major Varth was there - but they gave her space, clearly noticing her mood. They talked about the next patrols and who was slated for flights tomorrow and it hurt a little that she knew her name wasn't up on the wall of the ready room. Kre'fey's trust in her balanced it some: whatever operation was planned, everyone agreed it would be huge. Sithspawn, but she'd get to find out about it before almost everyone else, if she agreed to sit in with Kenth. Idly, she fingered the sore spot over her ear, where her hair was stubby and prickly, growing back. The oncocidal injector was gone and she hadn't had a single bout of dizziness since, but regs, she supposed, were regs. That was the bright spot: Jedi or not, Colonel Darklighter couldn't have let her back into active flight yet.

But to be so close, all the time…

Well, if the Admiral had that much faith in her, how could she not do her duty as a Jedi and as a servicewoman in the NRDF? It wasn't like she wouldn't be back in the cockpit for the big op. And, she considered, eying the laughing Rogues around her, she could lord her secret knowledge over them a little too. It would definitely drive Liav crazy.

The Vong and Zalthis snapped back and forth at each other, clear fury writ across the face of the former as Zalthis interrogated him in the Vong's own native tongue. Anakin couldn't follow even a scrap of it; it was all Jawa to him. The Vong's hands were bound now, in front of him, and his ankles too. Zalthis had shoved him to the ground against the trunk of a tree, hemming in the Vong who, strangely, didn't seem to be at all interested in escaping. He wasn't glancing around or tense, just laying there like he didn't care in the slightest about being bound up.

A real far cry from the crazy warriors that had been captured, that was for sure. The Vong gesticulated with bound hands, gesturing toward lumpy and disgustingly fleshy pouches that gripped onto his robe, over his hip. Zalthis snapped back and crouched, roughly tugging one open with a wet sort of sucking noise. Anakin watched, rather disgusted, as Zalthis drew out a thick wad of some sort of green-grey material, balled up, and then pinched between two fingers, a horrible, wriggingly worm-thing of some kind.

It was a little gross that Anakin recognized it.

"That's a tizowyrm," he said.

"I'm aware," Zal growled, scowling at the thick, grublike biot. It flexed and squirmed a little, small between Zal's thumb and forefinger. "The Vong told me what it does."

"It was in Danni's briefing about the Vong that infiltrated her science outpost." Anakin narrowed his eyes, looking over the tormented looking Vong. Close up, not only were the oozing scabs and inflamed scars all the more disturbing, but the Vong's stench was overpowering. He smelled like rot and sick and Anakin did his best not to breathe through his nose. His eyes were surrounded by bruise, hanks of hair missing and on the knuckles of his bound hands, where Anakin had seen implanted talons were pus-dripping sockets.

He had to be in unbelievable pain. The Force should have been redolent with it, this close to the Vong.

As ever: nothing.

"Why's he have it?"

Zalthis straightened up to his full height, looming over Anakin. He turned the tizowyrm over, flicked it gently and watched it recoil.

"He hasn't said. He's being uncooperative. He says he wishes to speak to us both."

Both eyebrows raised skyward. A talkative Vong? Next, there'd be a altruistic Hutt.

"Might as well let him," Anakin said with a shrug. "A worm in his ear isn't going to be any danger, right?"

Zalthis was long in replying.

"I…suppose." He spat words back at the Vong, who obligingly shifted, cocking his head to the side and exposing a raw-looking ear, missing its lobe. Zalthis crouched down and Anakin winced, glancing away as the Astartes fed the worm into the Vong's ear. He could still hear a quiet grunt of something between pain and pleasure, along with a meaty squelch.

"Ah," the Vong grunted out. "You hear sense. The jeedai convinces you. I am in debt; how awful."

His accent was atrocious and his Basic halting, but understandable enough.

"You're welcome," Anakin retorted. A trickle of blood leaked down from the implanted ear, but the Vong paid no attention.

"You have your translator. Now speak, creature."

The vitriol in Zal's tone matched the disgust radiating from the Astartes like heat-shimmer from duracrete tarmac. His normally level-headed friend sounded more like Solidian, or maybe that other Astartes, Varien. The Vong turned his head and spat.

"I pollute my tongue with your speech; but you will not ohffend my ear with insult to ibi'Yun. I am Vua Rapuung. You are Jeedai and Aistarteez. I will help you."

Zal's surprise surely matched his own. Open mouthed, both he and the Ultramarine looked at each other simultaneously.

"Huh," Anakin said eloquently.

"What?" Zal echoed.

"Does the tizowyrm fail? I say: I will help you."

Anakin shook his head.

"No, no, I heard that - I just - why?"

His first thought was the obvious: a trap. Elan, the monster that she was, had pretended to be a conscientious objector right up until she had his Uncle and a dozen other Jedi in her sights, then killed herself just to try and wipe them all out. She'd died and had been ready to kill her friend, or pet, or whatever Vergere had been, just out of pure spite to strike at the Jedi. Almost none of the Jedi that went to meet her had even fought the Vong in the first place! Then there were the Peace Brigade, and Nom Anor subverting the Duro, and the attempt on Viqi Shesh's life, then the dark promises of the Warmaster.

Honestly, it was easier to count the times the Yuuzhan Vong hadn't been duplicitous instead. They didn't respect truces: Senator A'kla learned that, fatally. They didn't care about surrender: the slaves proved that. They didn't care about humanitarian protections, or rules of war, or anything decent beings did.

So when a Vong looked up at Anakin and said 'I will help you', his first thought was to immediately scan their surroundings, again, scouring hard for any pockets of disturbed jungle life, expecting Vong fliers to be bearing down on them immediately, tipped off somehow.

"Help us with what?"

Zalthis kept quiet, eyes narrowed and a hand on his recovered sword, returned to his hip. He'd reclaimed his armor too, what there was of it, replacing it all and triple-checking each piece.

"You come to Shaper compound from far away. You return to this world, when you might have escaped. Why? Hm? I will guess: the Jeedai captive."

Anger pulsed in him - the Vong dared to even mention Tahiri - but he fought it down.

"That's right. We're going to rescue her."

The Vong hacked something that might've been a laugh, or a way to clear out a lung.

"Pitiful. What a pitiful goal. How pitiful. All this, to save a life."

No emotion: there is peace.

"I didn't ask for your opinion. Spit out why you want to help us, or Zal here can make sure there's one less Vong in the galaxy." His friend frowned, eying Anakin, but didn't contradict him.

"You seek the Shaper compound, as do I. Our goals are one. I know much; you know nothing. Your enemies will be my enemies; my enemies will be yours. We will fight back to back until glory or Yun-Yuuzhan calls us."

Zalthis nudged the Vong's thigh with his boot, catching the alien's attention.

"Why do you need help to enter this 'Shaper' compound? Are you not already part of this garrison?"

The Vong sneered.

"Only Shaper and Warrior can enter the damutek. Do not mock me! Look at me! I must enter, and it will be in blood. You see: our goals are one."

"You didn't answer his question. Okay, you can't get in, but why do you want to?"

The Vong - Vua, apparently - bared misaligned and stained teeth.

"Revenge! Purest revenge. Revenge, and proof before the Gods - no. I do not need to explain to you, Jeedai. Or you, Aistarteez. Know that Vua Rapuung will hold his oath before Yun-Yammka, or the Slayer may eat my soul if I break faith."

Speaking low, Anakin stepped closer to Zalthis, jerking his head to the side.

"Let's talk," he muttered. Zalthis nodded, keeping his eyes on the Vong. From his hip holster, he pulled his pistol, the barrel aimed unerringly at the Vong while they stepped a dozen meters away. For his part, though bound up, the Vong stayed still.

Parsing the unexpected, Anakin gathered his thoughts.

Coincidence? Zalthis had been moaning about not having enough intel on the Vong compounds and who might be inside. They'd barely talked to this Vong and already he'd given them new tidbits: it was something called a 'Shaper' compound, and only those 'Shapers' and Warriors were allowed in. Shapers had to be another caste, and he could guess what they were by name alone. Warriors he knew, but no one had ever seen a Shaper. What kind of tricks did they have up their no doubt living sleeves? Were they just as deadly as a Warrior? More so?

Zalthis spoke up first.

"I did not tell you how I learned the Vong language."

"Not really, no."

Zalthis spoke evenly, still focused on the supine Vong, still holding his pistol out and trained, finger just outside the trigger guard.

"Astartes bear more than a dozen implants. Each performs some vital function. One allows us to learn from the…remains of another."

He could sense the quiet disgust that underlay the clinical terms.

"You eat them?"

"Only…" Zalthis sighed. "Only parts of their brains."

Anakin turned away, scrubbing his hands over his face.

A Vong wanted to help him rescue Tahiri and now he knew that his friend ate brains.

"When they're dead?" He asked without thinking.

Zalthis shrugged broad shoulders. "If they were not already before getting to the brain, they…would be."

"Emperor's black bones," Anakin groaned. "Zal, I really didn't need to know this."

The Astartes had the presence of mind to at least appear chastened, shifting his weight a little.

"It's not often spoken of. We are…not unaware of how it appears. But the Emperor, in His wisdom, did give us all the tools we need for the most terrible of times. Anakin, I don't like it either. I know of no Astartes who considers it with relish. Understand: it is not simple knowledge like reading from a book. It is memories, with the sensation and emotion that follow."

"You know, I think that's actually worse."

"It is. I have memories of Yuuzhan Vong warriors. I have memories of dying to my own blade. It is unpleasant at best. But I will do whatever I must do to complete the mission. I wanted you to know. There are other alternatives. We do not need to trust the Vong."

Anakin slumped, craning his neck to exasperatedly stare up into the blue skies above.

"Because you could just eat his brain."

"Because I could eat his brain."

"Sithspawn, Zal, is there anything else I should know?"

It was truly unsettling that the Ultramarine actually paused to think about it, before shaking his head.

"No."

"Fine. Let's try something before breaking open some skulls, alright?"

"That, I can agree with."

Vua Rapuung eyed them both. Anakin squatted down next to the Vong, Zalthis stayed looming over them both, bolt pistol still out, though pointed down and clear.

"Are you finished? Do you need more time to spin slander and cast vile aspersions on my character?"

"Not really what we were doing, you know."

"I know nothing of your infidel ways. You worship perversions of the machine. What other infamy might you spin?"

Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose, before massaging his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Bright lights burst and spun behind his eyelids, illuminating the darkness as he fought the edge of a headache.

"All we were talking about is if we could trust you. Can you offer anything that could, I don't know, assure us?"

"I gave my word as bond, by Yun-Yammka. If you do not believe, cut me down or cut me free. You are Jeedai and Aistarteez. I hear the rumor: I will die before you if I am false. Why are you so filled with fear? Disgusting. Pitiful. I worry the rumors are lies, the Jeedai and Aistarteez are timid brenzlits."

"Sure thing. How about you tell us what a Shaper is? Give us something to trust you on."

The Vong closed his eyes, mouth working silently.

"Your ignorance is - a Shaper is of the caste nearest to the great god Yun-Yuuzhan, through his handmaiden Yun-ne'Shel. It was He who Shaped all the Universe, and it is She who teaches them his ways. It is they who know the ways of life and bend it to our needs."

"Bioengineers," Zalthis grunted. "Scientists? Like the Magi."

Vua's eyes narrowed.

"The words do not translate. I suspect they are obscene."

"Never mind that. Why would these 'Shapers' have Tahiri? You said it's a Shaper compound, but why wouldn't the Warriors have her? Another Jedi, Miko Reglia, was captured at Helska and they tried to break him with a yammosk."

He was sure he would sense one of the battle-coordinator brains if it was on Yavin, though he couldn't be sure. After Obroa-skai, and whatever he did in that strange mind-place, he was confident that he could pick up the lingering, strange influences of a yammosk if it was present. It sent a shiver down his spine to consider them doing to Tahiri what Jacen said was done to Miko; the Jedi had been a shell of a person at the end, choosing to stay behind and die on Helska to delay the Vong enough for Jacen and Danni to escape.

What he felt from where Tahiri had balled herself away in a corner didn't really feel like what he imagined that would be like, but then again, how could he know for sure?

"Pfah," Vua spat. "Breaking is not Shaping. It is a parody. It is a child's aping of it. I knew of a Shaper who scoffed at Warriors who thought they could do as they did. The Shapers have your Jeedai because your Jeedai will not be broken. She will be remade. This is as I said. Pitiful. You fight to save her life. She is dead and gone. If you fear what the Shapers will make, you would fight to kill your Jeedai friend."

Anakin leaned down, close enough for Vua's rancid breath to make his eyes water. Ice-cold blue pinned algal green-black and the Vong's eyes bulged.

"Don't ever talk about Tahiri like that. I'm going to save her."

"Anakin," Zalthis called. "Let him go."

He prised open the hand he hadn't realized he'd put around Vua's throat. The Vong coughed wetly.

"Ah, fury. I see the warrior spirit of the Jeedai is not a tale."

"Shut up unless I ask a question."

Vua glared, but held his tongue.

He could be lying. He could absolutely be lying. Why not? Anything he said they had to take at face value. Maybe there were no such things as Shapers at all, even though logic would say that of course the organic technology needed someone to make and maintain it all. Maybe there were Shapers, but they were totally different from what this Vua was saying. Maybe Tahiri was, as he had been expecting, strung up in an Embrace of Pain just like Jacen.

Just the word remake almost made him sick.

He saw the Man in Horns again. Right there again, right in front of him, just as clear and sharp and horrible as back on Yavin 8. The memory hadn't faded, not a single bit. He could still recall every single feature of the Man. The cloak that fell from hooks in his shoulders, the organic and scalloped armor, that looked painfully like vonduun. Pale skin, dark brown hair, worn long and woven with bone and totem. Tripartite horns that burned with radiation light.

And the voice that was all Anakin's.

And what Tahiri had mentioned too, what she had seen at the end, when they had lit their 'sabers and driven the Man away. Anakin hadn't seen it, but she had said she saw herself, but older, with tattoos and scars and wearing vonduun armor too. She didn't say much more about it, only that this other-her had smiled a grim and cruel smile and said nothing else.

Remake. And why wouldn't Vua be right? Everyone already knew the Vong wanted to remake the galaxy in their image. They wanted to burn down everything that wasn't theirs and they wanted to take their horrible, twisted religion and force it on everyone. Enslave every last being that didn't bow down. Kill the rest.

Why wouldn't they have an equally horrifying plan to twist the Jedi into some kind of monsters they could control?

Anakin wanted to accuse Vua of lying. He couldn't. It made too much sense.

And if this was all some elaborate trap, why use a Vong who looked sicker than a poisoned gundark to tell them weird lies and not have any Warriors lying in wait?

No.

Tahiri, he pushed out toward the sense of his best friend. Tahiri, please hold on.

"Okay. So if they want to 'Shape' Tahiri, then she's in…what did you call them?"

"Damuteks. The sacred compounds of the Shapers."

"Right. How many Shapers?"

"I do not know for certain. I am not a Shaper. Around twelve in each damutek, if initiates are counted."

"And the warriors," Zalthis added.

"The Shapers do holy work. They are always protected."

"How many?"

Vua sneered.

"I cannot say. You slew many. I do not know how many. No more than three hundreds. More, and the miid-ro'ik will be undermanned. Likely less."

Zalthis hummed, nodding.

"Close enough to my theoretical."

"What about workers? The Vong we saw without scars or-"

Vua barked something in his own tongue, recoiling. For once, he didn't appear angry or brooding, but genuinely shocked.

"How can you be so ignorant? Or do you mean to insult?"

"Workers? What-"

"No! You say - do not ever refer to us in such a way."

"Vong?" he asked, befuddled. Vua shuddered again.

"Yes! To use the word Vong alone is an insult. It says the one addressed so is abandoned by favor and kinship with the Gods and family alike."

"Oh. I didn't know."

"Now you do. Such ignorance." Vua sighed. "For workers, there will be many hundreds. No one cares to count. I do not know. They will not fight; it is not their nature."

It was enough for Anakin. Vua was unstable and disturbed, and the culture barrier probably meant the Vong would try to kill one or both of them over some imagined slight, but just at a glance, whatever infections and sickness the man had running through him would make him a lot less of a threat. Besides, he hadn't woken up planning to execute an unarmed prisoner. They couldn't turn him loose, and he couldn't stomach murder. Not even to a Vong. He hoped he never would.

"Alright, Vua. I'm Anakin. That's Zalthis."

The Vong scoffed.

"I do not need your names."

"Too bad. Zal, let's get him up and get back to our camp. I think we've got those practicals you wanted."

The Ultramarine stooped down, hooking a hand under the Vong's underarm and hoisting him up almost effortlessly. The Vong muttered something that was probably a profanity, eying Zal.

"You are quite monstrous," Vua said.

"I'll fetch you a mirror," Zal muttered.

It was going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

This moon, so named 'Yavin' by the original inhabitants, stupefied and awed Nen Yim in ways that never ceased. If it was not the sounds of the humming, calling, droning nightlife; it was the sight of swirling murmurations of avians blotting out whole portions of the sky. If it was not the scent of clean rain as it fell in straight, soft lines; it was the feel of cool wind on her cheek and arms as she stood on the walls of the damutek compound in the morning. If it was not the rich violets, crimson and pinks of the sunset; it was the great bloat of the gas giant glowing and gleaming and pressing down on the world.

Now was another full night, and the stars overhead twinkled. She had seen stars, yes, Nen Yim knew stars well. She knew nebulas and she knew sprawls of accretion disks, she knew cometary tails and she knew the look of a glowing stellar nursery. All seen through clear, crisp ocular membranes, held at arm's length remove by the thick corneal lens of a worldship.

She had never seen a night sky spread above, from horizon to horizon, from bruised indigo at the edges to deep, impossible velvet black above. She had never seen the trailing hints and faintest gauzes of clouds, stripped and striped and slipping easily across the celestial dome. The ways stars winked and blinked and glimmered, a trillion distractions, a billion diamonds, all catching and drawing her eye from here, to there; hither and thither, until tears welled in the corners of dry eyes and she remembered that she must blink, for all that she did not wish to, to spare even a millisecond without the sight.

Already, Nen Yim was naming constellations.

The moon had turned a dozen and a half times since the damuteks settled. Such a short time, yet for the constant wonders offered by the moon, in some ways Nen Yim felt as if she had always lived here, with her bare feet in the rich loam, with breezes tickling and teasing the tendrils of her headdress. Trying to imagine living in the cramped, stale confines of a worldship again brought actual nausea to her stomach. Smelling air cycled through the guts of the maw luur, tasting water made dull by a thousand cycles. Living by flickering glowmoss and dying lambents.

She was partially through her nighttime walk, when she stumbled across her Master. Each day was a whirlwind of activity, from early rise until Mezhan Kwaad released her Adepts for evening meal and personal time. Nen Yim cultured ganglia, she catalogued synapse patterns, she employed her now-seated and functioning hand to braid protein strings. Even turned loose in the evenings, the Master expected her Adepts to engage in complementary projects of their own. Self-driven study. Her nighttime strolls gave Nen Yim a time to decompress and order her thoughts; sometimes envious of more senior Adepts and their qah-nol implants. To be able to simply sequester an entire day's memories aside for later review, in perfect clarity…ah, even with a Shaper's hand at so young an age, still she fell to the sin of envy.

She made a mental note to excruciate a finger on her non-dominant hand as penance.

Master Mezhan lounged beside the waters of the succession pool: the heart, lungs and liver of the damutek. The waters were drawn from deep within the soil, brought forth with rich minerals and circulated through the thirsty minshals and grashals of the damutek, satiating the living domiciles before surging through the pneumatic capillaries of the damutek structure proper, cleansing away toxins and waste to circulate into the soil itself, enriching it with phosphates and nitrogen and potassium salts. Mezhan delicately swirled her fingers in the calm waters of the succession pool, long Shaper digits tracing ripples that trembled reflected stars above.

"Master," Nen Yim greeted, genuflecting. Mezhan Kwaad lazily waved away the formality with a flick of her birth-hand.

"We meet by the succession pool, Nen Yim. There is no hierarchy by the replenishing waters. Sit."

No hierarchy, but the invitation - or command - of her Master was not to be ignored. Nen Yim gathered her robe and sank into a cross-legged repose beside Mezhan Kwaad's boneless sprawl. The Master seemed even more lithe and tall laid on her side, propped up on one elbow with her head tilted and peering into the trackless depths of the pool as if seeking some hidden secrets. A drip of ink caught starlight and winked for a moment, splashing soundless into the pool.

Nen Yim started to see a single track of dark liquid trickling from Mezhan Kwaad's nostril, beading on her lip.

"My vaa-tumor matures," the Master murmured. "The pool brings some respite."

"I see."

"Do you?"

She considered, while silence drew between them.

"Forgive me my interruption," Nen Yim offered. "I will leave you-"

"The pain is educational. You will not amplify it. Stay, Nen Yim. Tell me; you had your first vaa-tumor implanted two days previous, yes?"

Implanted was a strong word - the seed of the tumor was but a fleck against the nail of her smallest finger, introduced through the nasal cavity in a few short minutes. The pain was, indeed, educational as the implantor punched through the sinus bone. She had seen a very different sort of stars, then.

"Yes, Ma- yes, Mezhan."

Speaking her Master's name sent a thrill of wonder up her spine, the syllables illicit on her tongue.

"This is a dialogue, not an interrogation," Mezhan noted, her tone dry enough to dessicate the succession pool.

"Yes, Ma-" Nen Yim snapped her mouth shut, flushing. "I don't yet feel it," she confided.

"You would not. The vaa-tumor grows slowly, but comprehensively. Ah, but it is a wonder of our caste. You know what it does, of course?"

"It prepares us," she recited. "The vaa-tumor is a fragment of Yun-ne'Shel, most ancient and first of Her gifts."

"Rote, but correct," Mezhan drawled. "I'm envious. This is my fourth tumor. The first is an experience like none other, and though I welcome each new ascension…you can never quite match the first."

"I will cherish it then."

"Mmm," Mezhan hummed, then winced and her face contorted in sudden agony. A fresh surge of blood trickled from her nostril - nostrils both, this time. "Ah, the pain is always sublime. It cuts away, brings us closer to perfection. It will change you, Nen Yim. It will change your thinking; it will change you."

"We are Shaped, as much as we Shape," she replied.

Mezhan snorted. A glob of congealed mucus and blood splattered into the succession pool.

"Spare me, Nen Yim. Beside the pool, there are no secrets either. If I wished for lauding of the Shaper, I would seek a priest. Now, I would prefer to speak with my Adept."

Nen Yim dipped her head, not as an Adept to a Master, but as a youth to a respected elder.

"How fares our subject?"

The Master had been in seclusion for the previous two days; in meditation and preparation for the removal of her vaa-tumor. To Nen Yim's great surprise, it had been she who was left in charge with the Master's authority, and not one of the older Adepts. A few begrudged the privilege, and in scowls and curled lips made their displeasure clear. Nen Yim bore them no mind, of course; walking light and proud with her Master's trust in her.

"Well!" Nen Yim exclaimed, then winced as Mezhan's eyes narrowed at the noised. "I mean - well! I have finished mapping the subject's nervous system and brain structure. I have stored the pattern in your secured qahsa."

"This is good news, and very commendable."

Nen Yim preened.

"Tell me then, how would you proceed from here?"

In her short time with the Master, there was one most evident preference that she held dear: do not speak without thinking. If Mezhan Kwaad asked a question, she would prefer an Adept spend minutes in silence, contemplating and considering before offering an answer. The obvious reply would be to begin the process of installing restraint implants; yet that would not have required such a comprehensive study.

"I believe…that it would depend on our goal."

Mezhan's half-lidded eyes sparkled.

"What would that goal be?"

She took a deep breath, and voiced the theory that had been building since the first time the subject was revealed within the vivarium.

"We have mapped the subject's brain structure," Nen Yim ticked off one finger. "We have traced the shape of her nervous system, from brainstem to the end of the spinal column." Another finger. "We have cultured hybrid cells from cloned neurons of the subject." A third finger. "We have not bred or even begun to breed any restraint organisms," a fourth finger, "and we have retrained from any invasive examinations of the subject."

Mezhan idly waved her birth-hand for Nen Yim to continue.

"There are no protocols for what we are doing," she admitted in a rush. "We have used many, yes, but there is no master pattern for this study…"

"There is not." Mezhan confirmed. "So, hypothetically: what goal might we be pursuing?"

Nen Yim felt as if she were standing just above the digestive villi of an active maw luur. Her toes hung over the edge and her balance teetered. She could almost smell the distinctive, sour smell of the digestors. She recalled her first true conversation with Mezhan Kwaad, when the Master had praised her inventive repair of the endocrine cluster of Baanu Kor. There had been enough uncertainty there for Nen Yim to put the implications from her mind or rather, to explain them away as being some prerogative of a Master Shaper that she was not privy to. For surely, no Master would ever, ever countenance even the whiff of heretical invention.

Yet-

Yet!

"We are going to remake the subject. Not as a slave or as a tool, but as a comprehensive being. We are going to Shape the Jeedai. To do this, I would modify the provoker spineray. It has been efficient. But there are too many differences between the subject's physiology and what the spineray can adapt to. I would modify it to fit our expectations of the subject's nervous system, to give us fine control."

Mezhan Kwaad said nothing, the dark pools of her eyes boring into Nen Yim.

"All we have are educated guesses. The protocol we followed gave us the beginning, but we need to decide the end. We cannot map knowns onto unknowns. Our only knowns are for the Yuuzhan Vong basal form, not the Human one."

"So the ancient protocols are meaningless."

"Not meaningless, but only a start. It asserts things, and some are true, but some are false. We must now test those assertions, so that we can complete our understanding of the subject."

When Mezhan spoke, her voice was whisper-soft, but wrapped about a core of purest yorik coral.

"In other words: question the Gods."

"Yes, Master."

Mezhan Kwaad did not correct the honorific.

"And you understand this is heresy of the highest order?"

"Yes, Master."

Silence hung taut between them, with only the distant cacophony of nocturnal life in the jungle intruding. The succession pool burbled. Her Master's eyes were dark and oily pools, revealing nothing. Nen Yim held her gaze without flinching, back straight and shoulders set.

"I have searched long for an apprentice like you," Mezhan Kwaad said at last. "Understand: you profit nothing if you are not what you appear to be. You will not gain from any betrayal."

Not once had Nen Yim considered her Master might be afraid of her instead.

"I would never. I am your Adept! My life is in your thirteen fingers."

"It is well placed then, Adept. Proceed as you have described. I will attend our subject with you on the morrow, before the vaa-tumor has truly reached its peak. Speak to no one of our intention. Not even the other Adepts. If our results are to the liking of our masters, none will look too closely at the methods. Discretion is our shield. And never forget this: what we do, though some might call it heresy, we do for our people."

Even laying beside the pool in a most undignified position, with pain etching tension in her features and blood dribbling from her nose, Mezhan Kwaad was the most impressive creature Nen Yim had ever seen. She bowed her head low, then genuflected fully, rocking forward onto her knees, her forehead to the ground.

"Don't kowtow," Mezhan Kwaad chastised, but with humor in her words. "Rise instead, and retire to sleep. There is much to be done."

The subject watched them warily from behind the clear membrane of the vivarium. Awake and alert, the subject, at first glance, might seem otherwise untouched from their stay. Only the snaking tail of the provoker spineray, creeping from behind the subject toward the far wall of the vivarium betrayed the efforts of Nen Yim, her Master, and other Adepts. That, and the hairless scalp of the subject, cradled by the upper appendages of the spineray like splayed fingers about an egg. The subject was motionless, crosslegged, and only their green eyes tracked them closely, wary like a beast seeking the throat of another.

"I would refrain from using your Jeedai powers to attack us," Mezhan Kwaad told her. "The spineray has been told to stimulate you to great agonies should we become afflicted in any way. You seem to dislike pain at the moment, though in time you will come to appreciate its truth again."

The subject bared their teeth in a snarl.

"I'll figure something out."

"Perhaps you will," Mezhan Kwaad allowed. "I would be very proud if you did."

Nen Yim saw confusion blossom on the subject.

"Why would - you know what? I don't care. You're all freaks and…"

Confusion gave way to something approaching terror. Mezhan Kwaad smirked, a rare genuine expression of amusement and leaned closer to Nen Yim.

"She realized swiftly," the Master muttered. "Harmae had the luck of a devil catching this one."

"I understand you? I'm - what am I speaking?" The subject actually touched fingers to their lips as they spoke, feeling the shape of the letters and sounds. Green eyes widened all the more, now shining with unshead tears.

"Our language, of course," Mezhan Kwaad replied. "Restored to you, for if you are to be one of us again, you must speak the sacred tongue."

"One of you? One of you!" The subject hissed and curled in on themselves, from a crosslegged repose to clutching their knees to their chest. "I'd rather be slime under a Hutt."

"That is because you still perceive yourself an infidel. The Jeedai's manipulations were thorough, but are nothing before the grace of the Gods. Already, we have restored some of your memories."

Nen Yim could see the precise moment that the subject understood - understood - what Mezhan Kwaad meant. Already pale, their skin blanched to grey. Their pupils contracted. Sweat broke across their scalp.

"M-memories - is that why -"

Mezhan Kwaad spoke over the subject.

"In time, we will excise the false memories the Jeedai implanted. We will restore all that they stole from you and repair the grotesque modifications they made to your body. You will be who you always were, before you were stolen from us."

The subject was hyperventilating now, digging fingernails into their bare scalp.

"Do not be afraid, Riina of Domain Kwaad. You are among your people again."

The subject wailed, high and broken, loud enough that a ragged edge slashed into their voice. For the first time Nen Yim heard her voice true despair.

Days passed and the Jedi girl came back to life. Zalthis was the one for this; his brother had the head for talking and understanding. Once again, he sent scathing thoughts toward wherever Zal might be, seasoned liberally with inventive invectives picked up from Army soldiers. Because as the Jedi girl came around, she started talking. And talking, and talking, and talking. He had his tasks, each and every day. The Thunderhawk required further mechanical maintenance, which he could do. He was no techpriest or techmarine, but one didn't need an education from Mars to understand how to clean carbon scoring from aileron joints or scrape patching paste over punctures in the cabin skin.

Then he worked through the small armory aboard. There was no such thing as too much maintenance of weapons, especially in the humid environment of Yavin 4. He checked off stocks of supplies, as they slowly dwindled, he topped off fresh water stores from the vaporator.

Housekeeping.

Solidian was an Astartes, for Throne's sake, and now he played nursemaid to a Jedi girl.

She still had distant look in her eyes sometimes, but unfortunately, Sannah seemed to be coping with separation from her friends by asking about each and every imaginable thing she could. And pestering him to take her and go after Zal and Anakin.

It didn't help that he kept the same desire buried, but not so deep as to forget about it.

'What's this?' she'd ask. 'What's this?' she'd ask again.

'There is no universe where you could handle a bolter,' he retorted, lifting the rifle that was roughly half as large as she was from the girl's hands. Captain Thiel kept the Thunderhawk stocked with a basic assortment of gear: three bolters, five bolt pistols, two chainswords and a selection of krak and fragmentation grenades, along with ammunition, replacement parts and cleaning accoutrements. Sannah had a habit of ambushing him while he was maintaining the weapons.

'Just point and pull, right?' she said, miming holding a much smaller rifle and pulling a trigger.

'Then the recoil shatters every bone in your tiny body,' Sol shot back. Sannah stuck her tongue out.

'What if I used the Force to hold it?'

Something itched between his shoulderblades.

'I wouldn't pretend to understand your witchery.'

And so it went.

En route to Eboracum, shortly after True Night

During his stay at the Praxeum, which sometimes felt brief as a blink and sometimes as long as an entire Crusade deployment, Aeonid Thiel had attended the lessons of each Master that taught. Kam Solusar taught ethical foundations as well as basic bladework - a combination of violence and the theory of violence that strangely appealed to his Ultramarian sensibilities. Ciglhal, in recovery, taught healing and concepts of a 'living' Force, which was so much esoteria. Kyle Katarn, when he returned, handled the most mature and older students in deeper principles of bladework, combined as well with an interesting and unexpected angle into paramilitary applications. Luke Skywalker taught a myriad of subjects, across the breadth of the 'curricula', such as it was.

And Tionne Solusar taught of the history of the Jedi. He could admit; the time he attended a lesson of Tionne's, he had been more focused on analyzing the reactions and interest of the other trainees than on the content of the woman's lesson. It had not helped that she had chosen to relay the tale in the form of sung poetry, a form of iambic heptameter.

Those who shun the lessons of history are fated to repeat them: this was a truism that had roots in the sprawled cultures of humanity, implying either an easily understood universal truth, or that the idea had spread wide before Old Night. The Primarch stressed this fact often and heavily, it formed, after all, a core component of critical analysis. Practicals could be shaped from what had gone before, and theoreticals informed by experience.

It spoke well to the Jedi that they aimed to remember and preserve their histories, but it had not held the greatest of his interest at the time.

A terrible oversight.

Though aboard for only a few days, the Jedi made themselves comfortable. The chambers given over them were spartan, little more than an armsman barracks near the embarkation deck on Temerity, but the Jedi adorned the cramped spaces with shimmering holograms above compact silvery cubes, with hand-painted canvases and not a few potted plants, saved from the gardens of the Temple. Only a few days, but already a strangely homely feeling that Aeonid could sense the reverberating peace from, in the minds of the youths.

Bunks were shared without argument; indeed, he sensed the ease that the trainees felt in such close proximity to one another. To be able to reach out grasper and hand and feel a friend in the bunk below or above. Footlockers with keepsakes and personal property were stacked here and there, some left open to show changes of clothes, carefully folded. No doubt under the watchful eye of the Jedi Masters; Aeonid did not remember his own youth with any clarity, but he understood from cultural osmosis that the young had a tendency toward untidiness.

Tionne Solusar claimed one of the smaller chamber, one normally used for officers, with four bunks of larger and more luxurious style. There was a pressed metal table with wireframe chairs, lockers along one wall and a small ablutorium adjacent. This was the one claimed by the Solusars; there were enough spaces for the Masters to have some privacy.

Prosaically, Tionne Solusar did not invite Aeonid in to a candlelit chamber, nor invoke ethereal strangeness with incantations: after regaining her composure, she ushered him out of the corridor, offering one of the chairs - he declined, kneeling instead by the table - and taking one herself.

Thus they sat - and knelt - two beings of utterly different character. He imagined the image might be faintly ridiculous, seen from outside. Tionne Soluar was a willowy woman, not overly tall, with slightly overlarge eyes and unnaturally silver hair. She was expressive and emotive: he imagined even without his 'gifts' of the Force, she would be easy to read indeed. Her Jedi robes were charcoal grey, with a silver tabard overtop, soft-looking and likely some manner of silk equivalent. A nymph, perhaps, of Macraggian myth, one of the Myrianos who lingered in the tall forests of Illyria, who strummed on harp and played the triple pipes as they lured the unsuspecting to trances in the deep woods.

She sipped at a cup of caf, streaming between her fingers.

And there he knelt; a transhuman warrior of Ultramar. A soldier shaped by genescience beyond the imaginings of any in this lost galaxy, instilled with purpose by the Emperor, Beloved by All, given purpose to prosecute the enemies of Man, to corral the recalcitrant, to condemn the witch and mutant, to make war across the stars. He wore the roughspun version of the same robes Tionne Solusar wore, in brown and tan, tent-like on any other, but fit well to him despite his frame. They could not hide the lethality of his limbs, the exaggerated proportions of his physiology.

Yet…

She spoke of Jedi and ages long past. Of a tradition spanning twenty-five thousand years and more, since before the founding of the Republic. Of an Order that spanned race and kind, whose heroes and celebrated figures were human and alien alike. United by intention, guided by the same purpose, who held in cupped hands the gentle light of peace and security against the encroaching dark.

Intellectually, Aeonid knew this all. He had read the briefings; he was Ultramarine. The Jedi were not a mystery. The Holonet alone provided ample resources and the questioning of Pirvien natives shed further light. The prosecutions of Palpatine's Empire could not stamp out all truth and in the years since the Sith's death, with the rise of Skywalker's Order and the ascendancy of the New Republic, the forbidden lore was public once more.

All the same, there was understanding a sterile briefing, and there was being bathed in the fascination and wonder that exuded from Tionne Solusar as she spoke earnestly. And what she knew, what she could speak of, went far beyond any basic practicals drawn from news reports and compiled intelligence packets.

'It is basic group dynamics," Aeonid argued. "The practical is that Jedi as an Order create a cohesive culture that rewards reinforcing and maintaining it.'

'Oh, of course Jedi care about each other. But, Aeonid, if it was just about who was part of the group, then why would the Jedi dedicate their lives to serving those who aren't Jedi?'

'The self-identification of a Jedi is one of martyrdom and public service. One could argue the idea of self-sacrifice is necessary to benefit from the social security of being member to the Order.'

'That's a cold way to see it," Solusar returned, not unkindly. "But isn't that how Astartes are? Kyle's told me that you'll never retire or settle down. What makes a life of service as a Jedi so different from a life of service as Astartes?'

An easy comparison, one he had considered at length.

'There is nothing moral, as a foundation, to being Astartes.' Aeonid tapped at his chest. 'Our enhancements are simply biological augmentations. They can't be measured by an ethical code. You mean instead, what makes a life of service as a Jedi different to a life of service as an Ultramarine. That is a better question, I think.'

Solusar nodded.

'Yes, that's right. There are different - what are they - Legions? Of Astartes.'

'Eighteen,' Aeonid confirmed. 'Each is different; some drastically, some less so.' He rubbed at his chin, returning to the original point. In some ways, Jedi were not dissimilar to the tenets laid out by Guilliman in particular. They would bear little similarity indeed to the likes of Angron's horde or Russ' brawlers, but the concept of a sworn order upholding civilization against encroachments of savages, barbarians and twisted despots? There was a kinship there, but it was one that shared shy glances, not shaken hands.

'Service to Ultramar is defined," Aeonid decided. "We follow Guilliman, who is both our sire and our ultimate authority. Our principles are codified. The Primarch has worked on notes toward such since he was found. There are practicals for most theoreticals. There are laws that we abide by and there are expectations that are as good as carven in stone.

If there is a single feature to the Jedi that I have seen, it is that you are not so organized. Dissent is rife within Master Skywalker's Order. There is debate and even argument. There is bad blood and there is even insubordination. You have guiding concepts, but you have no discipline. It is well and good to say 'violence is wrong' or 'life is worth preserving', but each member of your Order disagrees on the meaning, or even the choice of words.'

'Would you be surprised if I said you weren't the first one to voice those kinds of things?" Solusar smiled easily, and often, and did so then. "Corran argued with Luke when he came to the Praxeum and said that the Jedi should be more like soldiers, or maybe cops. He wanted Luke to have a harder line about what was and wasn't done."

'Surety breeds replicability. Clear guidelines prevent misunderstanding.'

The irony of speaking those words was not lost on him.

'If the Jedi had a big book of What is Bad, you might be more comfortable?' Solusar teased.

'I think I would,' Aeonid admitted. ''Trust in the Force' is unsatisfying. Every being is a moral actor, which means every being will translate that 'will' differently.' The silver-haired Jedi peered down at her caf, tapping at her lower lip for a moment. He felt it as her mind shifted and her expression brightened.

'Sometimes you have to give yourself over to that guidance. Sometimes - there's actions that in any other world, would be horrible. Unbelievable! But maybe they could be necessary, even as painful as they are, and the Force guides us to what is right.'

'If an ethical boundary is permeable, it ceases to be a boundary,' Aeonid retorted.

'What if it was killing a brother?' Solusar countered.

Now…

Vua Rapuung poked at the oozing hole that was his ear, scowling and wincing.

"I don't know that word: shantee. You speak of where the Workers and slaves and Shamed ones live."

"Sure." Anakin had asked about the smaller sprawl of living buildings around the big ones, the ones Vua called 'damuteks'. Apparently, 'shantytown' wasn't something the weird worm in the Vong's ear could make out.

"A support colony," Zal said, managing more than a monosyllabic sentence for once. From the river, and catching the Vong, the Astartes had clammed up, radiating a powerful sense of mistrust and hostility toward the Vong while they walked him back to their 'camp'. It was too generous a word for a small depression mostly hidden under tall brushes, but there was enough space for a bedroom for Anakin and to drop some of their supplies while doing recon.

"If the tizowyrm translates rightly, yes."

"Workers and slaves I know - but what's a Shamed One?"

Vua snarled.

"They are cursed by the Gods. They work as if slaves. They are not worth speaking of."

"Cursed how?"

The Vong twitched his shoulders, like he had many times so far. If he was a betting man, Anakin would wager it was an urge to violence, given just how often Vua scowled and spit and glared at both of them. For someone who claimed to want to be an ally, he sure was showing it in the strangest ways. With his wrists bound in front of him, that urge would stay just that: an urge.

"When I say they are not worth speaking of, how do my words confuse you?"

Zalthis shoved the Vong forward rather unnecessarily.

"Answer."

And back to the one word retorts. The Vong let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Pointless frivolities. Do these questions put amphistaff in our hands and blades to the necks of our enemies? No?"

"Information is victory," Zal shot back.

"How droll. How simple. Are you a machine? I hear tell of many perversions."

"Enough," Anakin interjected. Not for the first time. "Vua, we're trying to learn about your people so we can make a plan."

"A waste of time. I have a plan."

Anakin could feel Zalthis' eyes roll.

"Alright Vua, what is it?"

The Vong stopped, turning to face both Anakin and Zalthis. Idly, he twisted his wrists against Zal's efficient bindings. His rheumy, dark eyes flicked between Jedi and Astartes, then into the far distance, toward where the Vong base was.

"It is simplicity itself. You, Jeedai, will pretend to be a slave. I will say that I found you wandering. We will infiltrate the Shaper compound until we can find where the Jeedai girl is kept. Then you will use your dark Jeedai magics to call to the Astartes. From within and without, we sow chaos. You kill the Jeedai, and I claim my revenge."

"For the fourth time, I'm not here to kill Tahiri."

Vua cocked his head.

"She will not be Tayhir'ai, but that is your decision."

"Anyway, you keep saying revenge, but you still haven't told us what that is."

Vua scowled, if possible, even harder. Anakin wasn't sure that it wasn't simply how his face just was.

"Do you truly not see? Either of you? Never mind. My revenge is my own. Your mission is your own. They align, which is enough."

"Return to Anakin posing as a slave," Zalthis interjected. "Why? What possible purpose could that hold?"

"I do not know the damuteks. I cannot access them. A slave can, because a slave is meaningless. A tool. A slave goes where commanded, and they have tasks everywhere. A slave may find where the Jeedai captive is held, where I cannot."

"I merely find it convenient that when the Vong-" Vua visibly bristled and Anakin rubbed at his forehead "-seek Jedi, you think it wise to walk Anakin right into the compound."

"I find it convenient that the Gods did not bless you with brains," Vua retorted. "No Warrior would suspect a Jeedai willing to humble themselves as a slave. A Warrior is proud and the Jeedai have killed many. They will believe Jeedai bear the same pride as a warrior should. Their eyes will pass over him as though he is a meat maggot."

"And if you tell them?"

"Then may the Gods slay me for stupidity!" Vua roared. "This is exhausting! Jeedai, I pray that you are in command! The Aistarteez fills me with wonder for how thoughtless he is!"

Anakin gestured for Vua to get moving again - daylight was burning and his stomach was grumbling. The three fell back into step again, picking through the jungle.

"You have to understand our side here, Vua."

"I pray I never will. Your infidel perversions-"

"-are bad and evil yes, I mean that you have to understand how suspicious this all is. A friendly V- Yuuzhan Vong shows up-" he shot a glare at Zal, daring the Ultramarine to comment on the choice of the word 'friendly' "-who promises us just what we need to get in and get to Tahiri. Sorry, but we Jedi haven't exactly had the best experiences with a Yuuzhan Vong's word, you know?"

"I am Vua Rapuung," Vua declared, as if that was all the answer that mattered. He spat to the side, but the spittle was tinged with dark blood: clearing his mouth, not insulting, Anakin figured. Vua was very straightforward at being insulting. "Fine, then. Ask whatever you wish, if it will banish your irksome timidity."

It was somewhat incredible how much they learned, just in the time from the river to their small camp. Months - almost a year - the Yuuzhan Vong had been in the Galaxy, waging war, conquering worlds, and then an afternoon with a grumpy, crotchety Yuuzhan Vong and Anakin knew he'd have enough to make NRI faint with envy for the opportunity.

He told them about the castes - theorized, but never sure. How, 'ideally', all the castes save Worker were equal. Shapers and Warriors and Indentants and Priests, in simple words. 'Mystics of the Shaper', 'Adherents of the Slayer', 'Tendons of the People' and 'Those Humbled Before the Gods', if you were feeling fancy. All the castes worked in unison, equal but separate, with authorities that overlapped or superceded each other depending on the situation. In the compound, which Vua revealed was ruled by Shapers, Warriors were subordinate. They could advise, but couldn't command. Whoever the 'Master Shaper' was, their word was law in their little fiefdom.

Warriors were a caste everyone knew. They were the ones in the crab armor slinging bugs and amphistaves and killing people. Shapers were, like Zalthis had said, like scientists or engineers. They made and maintained all the biotech - and Vua visibly restrained himself from attacking Zalthis at that word - of the Vong.

Intendents were a caste Anakin hadn't considered, but made sense. They were sort of like the grease of the Vong. They were sort of like administrators, ministers, lawyers and diplomats, all rolled into one. They were go-betweens for the various castes and they handled the logistics of the whole culture. Once, his dad had joked about how until he'd become a General, he never quite grasped how nine-tenths of fighting a war was just getting everything in the right place; this made the Intendents maybe the most important caste, just for how they kept everything moving.

Then the Priests, which had been rumored plenty from captured worlds. They ministered to the populace, interpreted for the Gods, read portents; all the usual priestly things.

Workers, as Vua framed it, were sort of a casteless caste. They had most of the same rights as any other Yuuzhan Vong, but they hadn't risen into any of other four. They could, he'd said, if they showed skill and cunning for it. Workers could be taken in as Shaper initiatives, or Warrior aspirants, or Intendant apprentices.

Zalthis made a comment about myths of social mobility being essential to empires, which Vua hadn't bothered to reply to.

Vua refused to say more about Shamed Ones, only that they were the lowest of the low and even the Workers spat on them. As for slaves? He had not been exaggerating to call them tools. If a Shamed One was at the bottom rung, a slave didn't even merit a position on the ladder. They were property, tools, worth nothing and given nothing. Working them to death was common. Killing them for sport was not infrequent. Punishments were many and various. Slaves did not belong to any one Yuuzhan Vong; more like a shared resource.

And Vua wanted him to pretend to be one.

Carefully hidden at their camp, the Vong reclined against a large, mossy stone.

"I can place a false coral node on your forehead. It is stunted and cannot sprout. At worst; it will tingle. Then, you will act as my slave until I may send you on an errand into the damuteks. Then, no doubt, one of the Shapers will command you, and you will serve them instead."

"I'm still not getting where Zalthis or you fall into this, really," Anakin admitted. "If you can get me into the 'damutek', then I can just break Tahiri out and we can run."

"Do you never listen? Or does the wyrm mistranslate? You may enter the damutek, but you will die before you can 'free' the Jeedai girl. The Shapers are jealous and Warriors are many. I may open hidden ways that I know, while the brainless Aistarteez distracts and draws many guards away. I may quiet the siren-beasts and calm the alarm reflexes for a time."

Zal, laying out bolt rounds for his pistol, raised his head to narrow his eyes at the Vong.

"You can do that? You've spoken of revenge of some sort, but you would raise your hand against other Vong, even sabotage their alarms?"

"What is revenge without bloodshed? My belly is not so weak as yours. All those who stand between me and my vengeance will die. Their blood will baptise my righteousness."

Zal's mood went suddenly hard and fragile as obsidian. Anakin looked to the Ultramarine in surprise, seeing a sudden mask of cold calm.

"Other Warriors?"

Vua scoffed.

"Warriors, Shapers, slaves or Priests. The Slayer guides me."

Zalthis unfurled to his feet with a rapidity that continually wrongfooted Anakin. Even after running across half a mountain range with the Ultramarine and across the capital of Obroa-skai, the way Astartes could snap into motion still surprised him.

"Anakin. We need to speak…privately."

Ultimately, unwilling to leave Vua unsupervised, Anakin talked the Vong into removing the tizowyrm from his ear. Zal guided Anakin by the elbow just far enough from the camp that they could still see the Vong, but far enough that a low whisper would still be out of earshot, should the Vong be lying about needing the biot to translate.

"We have humored him long enough. I can kill him and consume his memories. If he is telling the truth, then I may be able to learn what he knows about preventing alarms. If he was lying, then we have lost nothing at all."

"Zal! We're not killing a defenseless prisoner-"

"He is a Vong, he is definitionally not defenseless-"

"-and the brains thing?"

"He is lying to us and he will betray you-"

"Why would the Vong send someone like him if they knew we were around here-"

"Their thinking is alien, it is a mistake to assume-"

"Your thinking is alien, Zal, you want to eat a brain-"

"We've come this far-"

"Zal, stop." Anakin finally snapped, with more heat than he meant. His friend's mouth clicked shut. "What is this about? I don't really trust Vua either, but you're chasing Sith ghosts here."

The Ultramarine took a deep inhale, flicking his eyes between Anakin and Vua.

"If he is willing to kill his own people, to fight alongside the hated 'Jeedai' and 'Aistarteez', if he is willing to kill anyone just to chase whatever mad 'revenge' he has in that rotting head, then there is no boundary he will not cross. Anakin, what if he is offered a chance at that revenge, for the price of selling you out?"

"It's a possibility-"

"It's a certainty!"

But there was agitation beneath Zal's measured words. Nothing the Ultramarine said was wrong, and in fact, the angle of Vua being bribed with whatever his revenge was to give up Anakin hadn't crosses his mind. Put that way, he could see the prickly Vong flipping instantly on his word. Whatever he was after, he was single-minded about it.

He'd been in Zal's head though, just two weeks ago. He knew his friend all the better now and Zal was not good at hiding things. There was something else. Something that had him entirely on edge and almost violent toward Vua in a way he hadn't been, even when ambushing the Vong on the river.

"Zal," Anakin murmured. "What's this about? Really about?"

"I don't know what you mean-"

"I think you do. Vua said something that set you off. What's going on?"

The Ultramarine's fists flexed at his side.

Was that…fear deep in the depths of Zalthis' cocktail of emotion?

"You can never trust a traitor," Zal bit out. A traitor. Treason. The way Zal said it stirred Anakin's memories, but he couldn't place it.

"But if it's us that he's turning traitor to help…"

"You cannot break one oath." If looks could kill, Vua would be blasted down by bolts from Zal's eyes. "Cut one, and you cut them all. We shouldn't have even listened to him for a moment."

"Zal," Anakin repeated. "What's going on?" He brushed only a touch of the Force against his friend, trying to ease his sudden tension. Zalthis tensed, every muscle.

"Are you-"

Then…

'-in my head?' Aeonid demanded, rising and leaning forward, gripping the edges of the metal table. Solusar blinked, cocking her head.

'I'm sorry?'

''Killing a brother'?' Aeonid echoed, adrenaline trickling into his veins. Sorot Tchure, reeling back, clutching at his face-

'It's the story of Cay and Ulic Qel-Droma,' Solusar said. 'It's as famous as it is tragic.'

Aeonid settled back down.

'Apologies,' he managed. 'Continue.' Solusar cast him an odd look and he felt her concern and confusion. Let her be unsure; he had overreacted.

'Many thousands of years ago…'

Solusar had a way with words that would find her many friends among the Remembrancers. She spun a tale of the Old Republic, millenia ago, enjoying a period of relative peace after the Sith had been put down many centuries ago. Conflict happened, here and there, as would be expected. A small series of skirmishes on an out-of-the-way world drew the attention of the Jedi, who sought to settle differences and resolve the situation peacefully. The Jedi could not know that this was but the tip of a grander iceberg: tinder to spark off the next great galactic conflict as the Sith resurgent waged brutal war against the Republic.

She spoke of names with a weight that was tangible. Exar Kun, once a Jedi Knight, who turned to the dark side under mentorship of some dread Sith named Freedon Nadd. Of Vodo-Siosk Bass, his wise master, cut down in a moment of awful betrayal. Of the brothers Cay and Ulic Qel-Droma, Jedi Knights both; adventurous and boisterous, daring and cunning. How spirits of the Sith corrupted and drew away Jedi from the Order, whispering of arcane secrets and masterful powers, luring once-noble beings from the Force and into perversion.

Solusar lapsed into song, occasionally, though Aeonid scarcely noticed. She sang a ballad, restored from fragments and scraps, that was a paean to Cay Qel-Droma. It spoke of the love between the brothers, their long friendship, how it twisted until it snapped during that savage war. How they came to blows, how they clashed, how Cay begged his brother to turn aside, to return to righteousness, to cast out the dark that filled his heart.

He listened, rapt, as Tionne recounted the profound tragedy enacted by Exar Kun, when dozens of Jedi Apprentices, twisted and controlled by his powers, turned on their unsuspecting Masters. How Jedi died at the hands of their most trusted, beloved and promising Padawans in a rain of butchery and blood. Of Exar Kun's delight at the breaking of those sacred bonds, of how he gloated as he turned brother against brother, sister against sister, Master against Apprentice.

And the end of it all, when Cay Qel-Droma faced his brother, he fought with all that he had - and not enough. Cay could not strike down Ulic, who he still loved too much. And Cay died to the lightsaber of his own brother, cut down in the rain on the world of Ossus.

This, Tionne said, was enough to shock Ulic from his convictions, leaving him vulnerable to Nomi Sunrider, another Jedi. She severed him from the Force - an admission that shocked Aeonid and he made note to speak of it again, at a later time - yet still later fought with Ulic to slay the architect of it all, Exar Kun.

'And the question is…should Cay have killed Ulic?' Tionne wondered, resting her chin on one palm. Her eyes shimmered with some wetness, unshed. The Master felt, deeply, driven to sorrows and joys just from recounting the tale. "Killing a brother is unimaginable, but what Ulic was doing was evil. Cay fought Ulic to defend himself and if Ulic hadn't struck that blow, would Cay have been the brother wracked with guilt instead?"

'Yes,' Aeonid declared. 'Cay should have. He could not have known his sacrifice would shake Ulic's certainty, or that Nomi Sunrider could bind Qel-Droma's sense of the Force. For all that Cay knew, his death at Ulic's hands would be yet another Jedi slain. Sunrider might have been next and the war could have continued.'

'But Ulic helped to kill Exar Kun and he revealed the way to Yavin 4 to the Jedi.'

Aeonid waved it away. 'Again, Cay could not have known that. He had to work with what was, not what could have been.'

'Then it would have been right to kill his brother.'

'Yes.'

Her small hands sought his own. He found himself leaning on the table, palms planted. Her fingers were cool, and very small.

'Who did you kill, Aeonid?'

He raised an eyebrow.

'Many.'

'What brother, Aeonid?'

'They were not-'

"-brothers, to us." Zalthis related, his tone flat and affectless. "The Seventeenth and the Thirteenth were not close. For all our differences, we were still Astartes. You have to understand, Anakin. The Crusade is everything. It is our triumph, over Old Night. It's reunification. It's security. It's…" Zalthis trailed off.

"The world was called Calth," Zal pronounced the name, funereal.

'They came to repair old rivalries. Lorgar swore it would be a new beginning for both Legions. Bury our differences and come out stronger for it. We invited them in.'

Solusar had one hand to her mouth, the other still placed over one his own.

'Oh, Aeonid…'

His hands balled into fists.

'We thought it was a mistake. Guilliman thought it was a mistake. The first message he sent, when vox was restored, was a plea. He begged Lorgar to stop. He promised that we hadn't attacked. He swore it was a mistake. My father pleaded with those motherless bastards.'

For so large of a man, Zal managed to seem small. Contracted in on himself. Unsure.

"They did not kill us. They butchered us. Entire companies, murdered where they stood. They bombed cities that were welcoming them. When we ran to them, thinking this was some attack from the greenskins, ready to rally with our brothers, they laughed and gunned us down. We invited them to Calth and they burned the world. A whole world of Ultramar and a hundred thousand Ultramarines. Billions of innocent citizens."

Sernpidal ran vivid through Anakin's mind's eye. The only world he had ever seen die with his own two eyes. The way the atmosphere lit on fire as the moon, Dobido, arced downward. The earthquakes that heaved and surged and cracked the crust, the tidal waves that could be seen from the Falcon as they flew away, that raced ahead of the shattering world.

All the same, it was impersonal. The moon itself came down, but the Vong weren't there. They killed Sernpidal in a single, shocking exclamation point, but what Zal described…

Hours of confusion and horror as trusted allies killed everyone they saw. And so senseless. For all the evils of the Yuuzhan Vong, Anakin felt he sort of understood them. Tried not to hate them, stood against them, but there was a twisted logic to them. They were here to conquer the Galaxy and they were fighting a religious war too. It was monstrous and their crimes could fill a whole holocube - but what Zal spoke of was utterly senseless.

Their Imperium had conquered their galaxy, or just about. He talked about how they had a million worlds living prosperously and safely. Their Legions, their Astartes and Primarchs, were basically heroes and legends in their own right. What could possibly drive someone to do such an awful thing, when they already had it all?

The dark side, he thought bitterly. After all, hadn't Anakin Skywalker had it all too?

"Zal, I'm…sithspawn, I don't know what to say to that."

"What is there to say? We were betrayed. I don't even know why. If the Primarch knows, he has not seen fit to share."

"Still…I'm sorry. That's horrible."

"I…thank you, Anakin."

He fiddled with the lightsaber at his belt, glancing sidelong at Zal and his brooding frown. So much, so much now clicked into place about the Exiles. Like a puzzle that suddenly he'd found all the right pieces for, slotting right in and the picture just jumped out. Now he got why they were so twitchy, why they had such a big thing about honour, and even why they'd stayed hidden for months on Eboracum. And he could place where he remembered Zal raising his hackles of the idea of treason again. Obroa-skai, talking about Anakin's father and the Rebellion's history with the Empire.

How Zal had been surprised - and even agitated - to learn that the whole Rebellion, basically, was just made up of former Imperials of some stripe or another. Which, well, when fighting a civil war, that was sort of unavoidable, wasn't it?

"It's not the same," Anakin said at last. "Vua…isn't like them."

"Isn't he?" Through the whole telling, Zal had stared fixed at the Vong, who was now either asleep, or pretending to be. Finally, he snapped his gaze to Anakin, folding his arms tight across his chest. "He feels wronged by some slight, real or imagined. He pride is wounded and he is furious. He demands revenge, but will not speak of it. He will betray his own people, his own caste, to get what he wants. He'll kill, he'll lie, and he'll allow an enemy into their midst. Isn't he?"

"Zal, you said yourself that no one is sure why the…the other Legion did what they did-"

"The Word Bearers always had a grudge against us. For forty years, they held that grudge. Whatever their reason, I am sure that they delighted in a chance to repay that, no matter what other reasons they had. If they had reasons at all." he said bitterly.

"Maybe. Maybe that's true, but Vua is one person. He's just one Vong and look at him, he's half dead." Anakin chewed on his lip. "His people, they make a point about honor, right? Corran - Master Horn - used that against Shedao Shai. Even though he killed Senator A'kla, Shedao Shai still sent his bones back because of his twisted beliefs about what was honorable. Maybe…maybe this is normal? Maybe this just is part of Vong culture. If you get wronged, you have to repay it."

"If honor demands that, then-"

'-anything can be rationalized.'

'Of course it can,' Solusar, he was finding, for all her more ethereal mien, was far from uneducated in philosophy. Aeonid would never claim any great talent at it, but in his decades of service, he had dutifully read, memorized, and applied what the Primarch ordered. Von Clauswitz, Adh Agentoch, Guilliman of course, Sigilite, Sokratis and others, all lived in his near perfect memory. 'This is why the Force is what guides us, ultimately. Calth? The Seventeenth Legion? What they did was dark, no argument. It was evil and I'm sure the Force screamed in horror at it.'

'All the same, the Force still grants power to those you term dark, like the Sith. Like Ulic Qel-Droma himself, or Exar Kun. If the Force held some greater truth, should it not act accordingly? Withdraw its touch from those that act against it? Sunrider should not have needed to sever Qel-Droma, correct?'

'You're talking about free will. The Force guides us, but we have the blessing to act and make our own choices. Exar Kun, Naga Sadow, Freedon Nadd…Palpatine, Vader, were all masters of the dark side and truly evil, but they were countered by Cay and Nomi and Luke and all the other Jedi. This is why we are servants of the Force. Not slaves, but servants.'

'Then, because the Jedi have succeeded over the Sith, this means you are right? I have heard this argument before, Master Solusar. To consider yourself right simply because you are mighty is not a valid epistemological stance.'

'Because the Force can be felt, Aeonid.' Her tone leaned toward chiding. She wiped at an unshed tear, drawn by his tale of Calth, but Solusar was anything but unfocused. Her bright eyes held conviction, held steel. 'I don't need to explain that to you of all people. You felt Ikrit pass?'

'I did.'

'So did we, but I don't think as closely as you did. It hurt, but wasn't part of it beautiful, Aeonid? How peaceful he was and how proud? When you meditated on Yavin, didn't you feel the life all around you? How beautiful it was? Like a song! Or the sound of the younglings at breakfast, or how gentle Cilghal draws on the Force when she heals. Isn't that a truth?'

Or how he could feel the other Masters, in the other chambers. All the younglings and their blend of excitement over a new 'adventure', their worry over Anakin and the two girls, their sadness over Master Ikrit. Solusar was not wrong - she was the farthest from wrong she could be, and that was what unsettled him so. It was easy. He did feel the vibrancy of the moon. He did feel how closely even the most alien of the younglings was to the human ones. He did feel Ikrit's love, burning for Anakin and Tahiri. He felt it all, as clear and as passionate and as deep as his own emotions, burned right into his mind.

The Nephilim, exterminated by the Blood Angels, could induce entheogenic raptures into their slaves. The marauding Eldar breed could manipulate chemical reactions in the brain to induce agony beyond comparison or euphoria that could kill. The Anhedonites farmed stocks of specially bred humans, just to siphon their emotions as substitutes to their own. Even simple chemicals could induce hallucination, alter mental states - even those produced naturally by the body!

'I know what you're thinking. If it's in your head, how can you trust it?'

'So says the Jedi Master, as she reads my own mind.'

'You're shouting it, Aeonid. I don't need to listen hard.'

'It's not an answer!' He shook aside Solusar's hand, levering himself up and pacing, back and forth. She watched him, open and attentive. 'There needs to be some foundation. Some truth. It is the Uthyphrik challenge. The Iterators use it to tear down religion where they find it. 'Is this right because the gods favor it, or do the gods favor it because it is right?' There must be a baseline, some - measurable truth.'

'Because anything else is faith.'

'Faith! Faith and mendacity. Humans are driven by social demands; our morality is from evolution. The tribe survives as a unit. That is fact; but what of a species that evolved as a solitary hunter? What 'morals' might be built into their instincts? Would they be wrong? If what was just and true to them was to selfishly and jealously steal and kill and hoard, can we point at that and say they are incorrect? To them, they are right. To us, we are right. This, at least, is provable. This can be that foundation.'

Guilliman burdened him with this. Guilliman sent him out, away from his burgeoning company, to rub shoulders with mystics and philosophers and aliens. He could be arranging wargames, inducting neophytes, running theoreticals on Vong tactics and targets. He could have bolter and blade in hand, where things were simple.

'The Sith believed that the strong deserve everything,' Solusar observed in agreement. 'They fully believed this, with all their hearts. They built their culture on it. But - it was wrong. The Jedi stood against it, and always will. The Yevetha hated anyone who wasn't their species, the Ssi-ruuvi wanted to entech all the 'infidels' of the galaxy.'

'And the Republic made war on them all.'

'And the Republic will also defend them. As would the Jedi. If I saw a Yevetha being beaten on the street, I would stop those thugs. If I saw a Ssi-ruuvi being stolen from, I would return their credit chit.'

'And, in doing, impose your own belief on them.'

'Yes.'

Aeonid laughed. He laughed rarely, but it burst from him then.

'So easily.'

'So easily,' she echoed. 'Aeonid, I'm worried we're going to stray into solipsism. Are you afraid because what you feel matches what your cold logic tells you…or because it doesn't?'

He had shared Calth with Solusar. The Primarch had forbidden dissemination of any greater facts, not just to the Republic, but even among the Army. The duplicity of Lorgar and his Legion were to be kept quiet, because of all the madness Lorgar claimed. The line was that there had been corruption, potentially xeno, that caused the violence. Few who even saw the Word Bearers turn lived in the first place.

She was worryingly easy to speak with.

'Because it does both,' Aeonid admitted. 'And there is where I cannot see the path.'

Anakin sympathized. He really did. It was probably like his mom having to work with Imperials in the Remnant, knowing everything that they stood by and allowed. All the same -

"We're going to do Vua's plan," Anakin watched as Zal heard, as he processed the words. Watched as disbelief spread across his face. "Zal, those are good points. But I think you're…I'm sorry, but I think you're letting that cloud your judgement." He held up a hand, cutting off the Ultramarine. "Sorry, but let me finish. You were talking about how much you hate the Word Bearers for what they did to your Legion and to Calth. Zal, the Vong killed Chewbacca right in front of my eyes. They tortured my brother, they tried to kill my aunt and uncle. They almost tortured my dad to death.

I can't hate them. I can't let myself. I want to. I want to. I look at Vua, and all I see are the dead Jedi because of their sithspawned Warmaster."

"All examples of their treachery-"

"And all reasons that you better believe I'm going to be on guard. But we can't throw out something this good. Zal, Tahiri is…I'm losing her, I think. She's fading away and I don't know why and we don't have time anymore. We have to get in there and we have to get her back or maybe Vua will be right and she won't be there to save. He can do that. If they see us coming, they might just kill Tahiri anyway."

His friend studied him. His lips thinned, his brow furrowed, but Zal shook his head, not in negation, but in exasperation.

"I'll follow your lead," he said. "But I still think this is a mistake."

Anakin exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd held. The last thing he needed was for Zal to refuse or leave. He wasn't sure he could do it alone.

"Sometimes," he sighed, "you have to have a little faith."

Chapter Text

Ralroost led the pack, pushing up its slot in the capital's lower orbits on shimmering pillars of ionic efflux. First Fleet, present en masse, did not all follow the Bothan Assault Cruiser. Famous shapes of Imperial Star Destroyers, Mon Calamari Cruisers kept pace with the newer lines of the New Class: Nebulas and Majestics, Hajen and Sacheens. Starfighter patrols reeled back in, alighting into busy hangar bays. Last minute shuttles tucked in and scuttled aboard like beetles, fleet tenders broke off and rolled away from their charges. Guardian, monolithic, watched its smaller sisters go. The dreadnought had one purpose, and that purpose could only be fulfilled in the tracks of Coruscant's endless orbits.

Jaina's job was done. Anyone coming aboard was aboard and so far, neither she, nor Captain Winger, nor Colonel Hamner, had caught an inkling of an empty space where a being pretended to be, or a premonition of danger otherwise. Captain Winger flagged a duty crew, which had resulted in a small alcohol still being found in one of the machine spaces. But no Peace Brigaders. No Vong.

Any nausea from the lingering oncocidals was past. Her hair, buzzed to the skin over her ear, was long enough now to be bristly and itchy as it filled back in. She'd keep the new style, she had decided: the buzzed side and chin-length rest of it suited, when she looked in the mirror. She looked like a fighter jock. She didn't look like anyone else.

She looked like Jaina.

Any time now, Colonel Darklighter would ping her comm and she'd be back in the ready room. No one else was coming aboard. She'd done the job of a Jedi - all that was left was that of a pilot.

An earlier time, aboard Temerity

Tionne prepared two mugs of a hot, spiced and aromatic drink of steeped leaves - a sort of tea, he judged. If Aeonid had learned nothing else in his time among the Jedi, it was that there was a bewildering yet comprehensive array of beverages that the Masters, Knights and trainees found comforting and steadying. Master Skywalker, for example, had a sweetened and rich concoction that seemed more a dessert than anything else. Caf, of course, flowed easily, and Master Katarn carried a metal container of the stuff in their early morning lessons. Then there were teas, lactose suspensions, fruit juices and flavored waters.

Idly, he turned a thick, utilitarian mug stamped with an Imperial aquila back and forth atop the table. It was small enough to be engulfed by one palm; suited to the Navy sailors normally utilizing these spaces. Tionne sipped slowly, both hands wrapped around her own, her silver eyes watching him carefully through faint wisps of steam.

'You put a lot of stock on loyalty…' she began - or teased, rather, like she was coaxing a lagomorph from a burrow.

Aeonid glanced up, relaxing his grip on his mug.

'And the Jedi do not? And most beings do not?' He borrowed the word, avoiding 'xeno'.

'Did you know, among almost every being, one of the first real moral systems is guest rights and host responsibilities?'

'I did not,' Aeonid answered, though he could well believe it. Moral philosophy was an encouraged study, but his own education had not plumbed often into what might be considered the origins of such things. No; Macraggian discourse trended toward the dialectic.

'Different beings dress up these ideas in their own way, but they really all end up the same at their core. The host offers food and shelter, and the guest offers peace. You can work in much there, such as repayment or some kind of service, but at its core, it's about being gracious to others giving you aid.'

Aeonid hummed, having little to add. Tionne was in a more didactic mood, and he was curious where she was building towards.

'Like when Senator Shesh was invited to your planet, Eboracum. I understand why you reacted so poorly when the Ploo - or was it Plooriod? - task force interjected. That broke those codes. You gave the Senator safe passage, and even if it wasn't her fault, the New Republic overstepped.' Tionne paused, tapped at her chin. 'And you even fed them too. Which makes it break more levels of this contract.'

'I trust you are leading someplace?' Aeonid asked mildly, taking a small sip of his own tea. It was powerful and slightly bitter. He suspected for a baseline human, it might clear the sinuses. Tionne merely smiled.

'I am, of course. When all that happened, the Imperium chose to overlook the insult, even if one wasn't intended, and Senator Shesh made sure to make amends. That's part of the agreement; you break guest rights, or host obligations, and you have to pay it back.'

'Mm,' Aeonid hummed again.

'Have there been 'enemies' in your Great Crusade that tried to backstab the Imperium? Maybe they agreed to a deal, but then backed out? Or attacked from an ambush?'

'Many. Too many to count, I should imagine. From my own experience - there was Fifty-Two One Hundred and Six. A human world, which had pretended to accept compliance. You must understand. Nine times out of ten - ninety-five times out of one hundred, we were met with overwhelming joy, relief and welcome. Fifty-Two One-naught-six accepted Imperial rule and even welcomed Army and Astartes elements to the surface. They claimed that there were xeno outriders causing issues in their hinterlands. As it was, it was an artifice to confound our focus and draw down our forces to strike at our backs.'

Tionne winced, chewing at her lower lip.

'It was a slaughter. Not ours.' Aeonid concluded, succinctly.

'And they were human,' Tionne clarified.

'Well within deviation.'

The Jedi Master seemed to ponder this and Aeonid allowed her. After he concluded his recounting - limited though it was - of Calth, she had begged a moment to gather her thoughts again. As ever, Aeonid could sense strongly the impressions and feelings redolent about her. Not her thoughts; no, a Master was far too schooled and orderly for that. But he felt her sorrow, her horror, even her anger and indignation as he spoke of the treacheries of the XVIIth. It matched so closely what the ballad of Cay Qel-Droma had stirred within her that Aeonid had been moved, a little, that Tionne could extend the same charity and empathy to a world she had never known, a people she had never met; an empire she would surely stand against.

Ah, the crux of the Jedi problem.

She marshalled herself. Aeonid caught a glimpse - and raised one hand, stalling Tionne.

'Let me preempt you. I understand the parallels between humans acting with duplicity toward the Imperium and other beings doing so. I do. The Imperium is young, but it is not that young. This refers to my earlier point: humanity may understand humanity. You wished to avoid solipsism, but I would say instead that it is mirror-theory. We can peer at one another and know, with some empirical certainty, that the experience within the human we face bears out to the experience of our own.'

'Humans think like humans; aliens think like aliens.'

'Is that so difficult a concept? I don't wish to spin back to ground already trod, but this may be a gulf we cannot bridge.'

'I'm not sure, Aeonid. I've had a good look at the crew here on Temerity. Do you know what I have seen? I have seen every sort of type of human I can think of, and even more on top of that. All different heights and colors and shapes.'

'Race,' Aeonid bemoaned. 'A failing that has been noted on backslid worlds. Artificial divisions within the human gene-tree.'

'But take Zalthis and Solidian. They look different. Are they from different worlds?'

'I believe so. Macragge and…Parmenio, I should think. Prandium, perhaps.'

'Won't that mean they think differently? They already act differently.'

Old arguments, dead arguments. Ones long since plowed under by the empiricism of Enlightenment. Genetics spoke the deeper truth, and as the Emperor had proven, gene-expression of the human gene-tree could vary quite broadly while still remaining verifiably and justifiably human. The tone of skin, color of eye, type of hair - paled in comparison to drastic alterations of body-form and organ-plan.

'There is always variation. Evolutionarily, there must be variation.'

Tionne hunched forward, interlacing her fingers around her mug. She looked up at him, though kneeling he was again.

'You can understand why a human would do something like betraying another. You can't understand that for a 'xeno', because you can't - or won't - pretend to understand how they think.'

Aeonid exhaled a breath. Finally, she grasped it.

'Yes. Yes, that exactly. I cannot and will not attempt to rationalize the mind of a xeno. They may think precisely as I do - they may operate on abstruse thought-patterns that no human being could ever trace. I would term it chauvinism to even attempt to map our own experience onward. The only actionable practical, then, is to place human flourishing as a paramount imperative.'

'So the Imperium is being logically consistent in persecution of aliens, because of intellectual humility?' Tionne seemed to be holding back laughter; Aeonid bristled. 'Emphasize the 'alien' part of 'alien', no matter how like you they act? Come now, Aeonid. You're wiser than that. Isn't this…' Tionne frowned and cocked her head. 'I heard Danni talking about this idea, she was explaining some physics thing to - I think it was to - no, it doesn't matter. I remember because it stuck out to me, because I might not be a scientist, but it's something we deal with in history. That was it! Isn't this a hidden variable? You're looking at something walking like a hawkbat, squawking like a hawkbat, looking like a hawkbat, but saying that since you haven't sequenced its genes yet, you can't say it's a hawkbat. No - that it might be a droid pretending to be a hawkbat!'

'The point is to understand the universe, not to make assumptions-'

'Everyone makes assumptions at some point! We can't know everything. How do I truly know that Cay Qel-Droma lived, that Nomi Sunrider lived, that Exar Kun lived? I wasn't there. No one I know was there, and perhaps the holocrons and records were fakes. Aeonid, this is solipsism again. There's intellectual humility, and then there's being obstinate.'

'I am unsure a lecture on the investigative rigor of the Great Crusade is taking us anywhere,' Aeonid offered dryly.

'I think it is,' Tionne replied. 'You've said Astartes don't experience fear anymore, and that a great deal of other original emotions and urges are stifled or even removed.'

'This is so.'

'Then Aeonid, by your own standards, how can you assume anything you say or do is right, or even makes sense? You read philosophy, but human beings wrote those words, did they not? And you are not a human being anymore. You've changed so much that you might just be as alien to a human as a Wookiee is. How do you know how a human thinks anymore? Can they know how you think?'

Aeonid opened his mouth - closed it. This was ridiculous, he-

'I remember before my ascension,' he said softly.

'Memories,' Tionne said, narrowing her eyes. Sudden flashes burst into his mind: slender arms and a wildly different proprioception confused him, the 'saber in slender hands was unfamiliar, the dusty holocron that opened up - a twist of will, like slamming shut a hatch, and the memories vanished. He ground his teeth and scowled. 'Memories can be fickle.'

'Do not invade my mind again.' He spoke without much rancor; more frustration than anything coloring his words.

Tionne judged the threat in his voice and bobbed her head once.

'I'm sorry. But it was important. I'm a woman. Is my life the same as an Astartes? I'm a Jedi. Is my life the same? I am a wife too. And I am a teacher. Aeonid…Aeonid, what do we have in common in any way? How can you know that the words I say, that I mean what you understand? We are not even from the same galaxy. Am I not as alien as Cilghal is?'

The Imperial Truth said otherwise. Proof. Facts. Empirical evidence.

Yet he could not say so with confidence. What did Aeonid know, of any of what Tionne spoke of? He was Astartes - he did not even truly understand the life of a human man of comparable age, let alone a human woman. The rest? He was no teacher, nor instructor. He had been a Sergeant, yes, but not one such as Ascratus, who reared the neophytes. The complexities of human bonding rituals eluded him, outside of the sterile facts. Gently, he unfurled a fist, peering at his fingers. Scars laced them, from training and combat, from a crushed gauntlet some handful and a half of years ago.

As if invited, Tionne slid her hand into his. He marvelled at the discrepancy between his darker, more tanned and weathered skin, roughened and hardened, and her milk-pale digits, tiny enough that even together, they might not quite match one of his own.

'There are distances,' he eventually tried. 'And then there are chasms.'

'And I think those chasms are illusions. Mirages in the desert. I think we do understand each other, because we really are not so different in the end.'

'Make up your mind! Am I an alien creature divorced from my humanity, or a man as relatable as some six-legged creature from another star! We are moving in circles.'

She withdrew her hand, running her thumb over her fingers, then fiddling lightly with the sleeve of her robe.

'When the first Jedi turned away from the Order and found the Sith, becoming the first Lords of the Sith, they stewed in anger and bile until they couldn't help but return to war against the Republic and their former comrades. Kyp was seduced by Exar Kun and used to commit atrocities, and Luke was willing to dance along the line between the darkness and the light to stop the reborn Emperor. I stand against everything a Sith stands for and I stand against the Yuuzhan Vong, like I do against all conquerors and despots. All the same, Aeonid, I understand them. I have listened to their voices and I replayed their holocrons and it makes me weep to know the sorrows and the pain that drove them to betraying all that they were.'

Her silver eyes flicked up, catching his.

'That's why I have to ask: when the Word Bearers betrayed the Great Crusade, the Imperium, and the Ultramarines…do you understand why? Do you understand them?'

Now, on Yavin...

Fortunately, Vua accepted restraints without making a hassle of himself. Unfortunately, because of the biot squirming in his ear, the Vong could very easily let the both of them know exactly how he felt about it. Which he did so. Relentlessly. Unceasingly. Eloquently.

"Be silent," Zal groused, for the umpteenth time.

"I made no oaths of silence," the Vong retorted. "I made oaths of vengeance and oaths of blood, but you may take my tongue before I am silenced. I am Vua Rapuung, and I will speak as I see fit, and only the Gods may judge!"

"I think Zal is worried about us being overheard," Anakin suggested.

"Overheard? For my speech? Surely you jest, Jeedai? Between you and the Aistarteez, you are as drunk quednaks, stumbling about. A mewling child in the creche could track your clumsy steps."

"Yes, yes, you're the expert here. It's not like I've known this moon all my life."

"But you have? Why do you deny that you should show far greater stealth, in a place you are familiar with? Do you lie to me?"

"It's - never mind."

With Vua's fishing trawler lost down the river, he said the story he would spin was that he fell overboard - which wasn't wrong - because of an attack from some water beast - still wasn't wrong - and that he stumbled across Anakin in the jungle, wandering directionless. Not quite wrong. He hadn't let Vua put the damaged coral seed on his forehead yet, but Zal had been right that it had to be done before the three of them split up. That way, in case Vua was laying some kind of deep trap, Zal would still be on hand to put the Vong down and restrain Anakin.

The Praxeum was still a few days away on foot, through patrolled jungle, and they decided it would be best if they got as close as they could before Zalthis would go to ground and wait for Anakin's signal. The Astartes could bunker down somewhere and practically hibernate, hopefully avoiding any Vong and keeping close and ready for the jailbreak.

Maybe Vua did have a point about keeping his wrists tied, given that they were going with his plan and were going to trust him to, you know, not immediately shout 'Jeedai!' as soon as they were in the Vong compound. There was a difference though between trusting him then and having a Vong with his hands free around him when he slept. Even if Zal didn't sleep at all.

"Tsst!" Vua hissed through clenched teeth, throwing his hands up. "Stop! Stillness!"

Anakin froze, wobbling a little on one leg. He'd just been taking a step. Zal went as motionless as a carven stone. He strained to hear anything besides the usual ruckus of the jungle. The Force fed him the general aura of life all around them, but nothing too out of the ordinary…

"Tsik-vai," Vua hissed, almost inaudible.

"What?" Anakin mouthed back.

"Tsik-vai! Flier!"

Zal's hand crept down toward the bolter clamped to his hip. Anakin slightly shook his head, a little to either side. Those guns weren't loud, they were defeaning. Everyone on this side of the Unnh River would know they were there the second Zal pulled the trigger. To his relief, the Ultramarine drew back from the stock.

Vua cocked his head, screwing up his face with an ear to the sky. Still, Anakin heard nothing.

The Vong relaxed.

"It is passed. Hrn. Lav-peq hunt pattern. Chri-esh sweep? Or Bulgiln." His fringed lips peeled back from bloodstained teeth. "It matters little. A tsik-vai hunts us. Free my hands so that when we are caught, I may die with honor."

"When we're caught, huh?" Anakin rolled his eyes. "That's really optimistic of you."

"Are you stupid? Why is being caught good? We must pray to the Gods that they grant us their luck."

Zalthis, fingers tapping the butt of his bolter, swept the sky with eyes narrowed, his auspex in his other hand.

"I have no readings," he said. "What is a tsik-vai, and what makes you so sure it will catch us?"

Vua hissed.

"It is inevitable. The tsik-vai weave a lav peq search pattern. The lav peq will weave their cords in the trees, until we are surrounded. Then it will know where we are, and we will be captured."

"What's a lav peq?"

Vua muttered under his breath, glaring vibroblades at them both. "To be saddled with such ignorant allies. The Gods laugh at me. Lav peq are weaver-insects. Tsik-vai release them and they spin sticky cords between structures, until all a space is beneath their net."

Anakin thought of something he'd said to Tahiri, before all this mess. It brought a smile that melted away like snow in a furnace. Her corner of his mind was growing stiller and quieter. He'd lamented how everything seemed to be spiders. She'd laugh at this, now, proving him right.

"And let me guess, those cords are sticky enough that even Zal would get caught."

Vua judged the Astartes from foot to crown.

"Easily. If he was not, his struggles would alert the lav peq and they would gather. They would wave more cords, until he was bound. They would use a little of his flesh. It would not be fatal."

Anakin shivered. Did the Vong have a single creature that wasn't straight out of a horror holo?

They carried on, this time with Zal keeping his auspex scanner out and held aloft. Mercifully, Vua cut his quibbling and sniping in half, which was still one hundred percent too much. He must not've feared that 'tsik-vai' all that much, Anakin groused, if he still managed to keep up a running grumble under his breath. He was starting to fear the next step of this plan. Not because he truly expected Vua to turn traitor, but because the idea of being around the crazy Vong even longer filled him with despair.

Colonel Hamner called a meeting. Just the three of them, which meant Jedi business. He'd taken a small conference chamber, waiting right outside with his arms folded across his uniform. Kenth Hamner was a Jedi, but he was a career soldier first, and his rank pins and stern demeanour kept sailors moving with only a glance and salute. Jaina beat Captain Winger there first, offering her own smart salute.

"Lieutenant Solo," he said, as serious as ever. She was pretty sure Kenth Hamner's smile was a state secret.

"Colonel," she returned.

"If you like, you can head on in. There's some pastries and refreshments. Captain Winger should be here shortly."

She did so, finding the conference chamber to be one of those cramped holocom ones, meant for just a few people and an outbound connection. The transceiver was silent and switched off, the small desk set with a jug of caf and a few Bothan style pastries. Ralroost was a Bothan ship, after all, and she'd picked up a bit of a taste for them. A good blend of savory and sweet, since Bothans liked to mix meat into just about everything.

It didn't take too long until she sensed Winger outside, then the other two Jedi stepped in and the hatch sealed with a hermetic thump.

"Colonel."

"Lieutenant."

"Captain."

Winger smiled. "Jedi at every level," she laughed, shaking her head. "Just need a flag officer."

"Not me," Kenth demurred, raising both hands. "I'm back in for war and nothing beyond."

"Sure, Colonel. You keep saying that."

They settled into chairs; but nothing formal. The space wasn't really for that. They ended up facing each other, Jaina settled in with one leg tossed over the other, foot bouncing. She still hadn't heard from Colonnel Darklighter. The task force was in hyperspace, Coruscant well behind them, and still her datapad hadn't had the usual alert for morning briefing. She'd go tomorrow regardless, she decided, then and there. Maybe the Colonel was just assuming that when her detached service was over, that she would automatically just slip back into-

"So we have one more job," Hamner started, without any preamble. Winger raised an eyebrow, but Jaina's hovertrain derailed in a flaming pile.

"We what?"

"We have one more job," Hamner repeated. "The last one we had? Basically declassified, for how secret this one is. This is word-of-mouth only. It's not written down anywhere. This comes from Director Scaur and Master Skywalker, directly."

Her mouth was dry. She tried to imagine - a strike team? Is that what they needed her, and maybe Rogue Squadron for? Run interference to get the Colonel and Captain onto a Vong ship, maybe, like the Exiles did? Were they going for a decapitation - or a capture?

Winger sat forward, elbows on her knees.

"There's not a lot of time before we reach our target."

"Which is…? Sir?"

"Still under wraps, Alex."

"Damn," the Captain muttered.

"It's an important one, so don't worry about that. High Command set their sights lofty for this one, but I think we can pull it off. That's where we come in. The three of us."

Hamner reached into his breast pocket and produced two datacubes.

"Biocoded. There's some intel there that'll help cover things. We're going krakana hunting, ladies."

Jaina felt the same confusion from Winger that she herself felt.

"Yammosks," Hamner clarified, looking a little chagrined.

She frowned. Yammosks were the prize, anyone could tell you that. Those war coordinators were a force multiplier in every action. The way they made the Vong move like a perfect hivemind gave the Navy absolute fits and pilots like her knew all too well the nasty way that 'skips could vector in on threats halfway across the battlespace without any advance warning. So far, and it was a brutal fact, there were only two known yammosk kills. Once at Helska, and once on Obroa Skai. Both times it had been - ah. Hamner caught the blossom of understanding and nodded toward her.

"That's right, Jaina. The Navy has been trying to pinpoint the beasts, and you know there haven't been results. However they communicate with all the ships, we haven't been able to detect it. One died on Helska, but that was collateral when the planet froze. NRI and Director Scaur basically picked Master Skywalker's brain about Obroa Skai."

The one Anakin killed. Her little brother tried to explain it, after, but he'd grown more and more frustrated as he couldn't find the words for it. Somehow, their Uncle had managed to find and pin down the biot, allowing for Anakin to do something or another that killed the thing outright, all without either of them even laying eyes on it.

"But they didn't know how." she blurted out.

Hamner took it in stride.

"No, but we know it can be done. None of us are Master Skywalker, but I reckon you're a match for your brother, isn't that right Jaina?"

"Yessir," she said automatically.

"The three of us will form a meld when the battle starts. Our objective, our only objective, is to locate the yammosk. Kill it, if we can, like Anakin did. If we can't, we pass along to Admiral Kre'fey what ship it's on so the Navy can kill it."

She wasn't flying with the Rogues.

The first big operation of the war, the first counterstrike, and she wasn't flying with the Rogues. Fondor was supposed to be the start of a new operation, before that went belly up, which gave her a chance to be here. Now! Right now! At the start of the pushback, when they could kick the Vong right in their teeth and again in their tattooed groins. The Rogues would be out there. Major Forge, Major Varth, Colonel Darklighter - she should be there with them. Covering their six.

"Do you need me?"

She flushed. She'd just questioned a direct order from a Colonel. It didn't matter that she knew Kenth, because he'd been by their apartment more than a few times throughout her youth. It didn't matter that he'd been Master Hamner to her more than anything else. That Navy uniform, the rank pins -

"Never mind, sir, I'm-"

"It's fine. Jaina, right now we're all Jedi. It was a request from NRI, but your Uncle approved it. And you know what? Maybe we don't." Kenth's long face didn't give much away, but she felt a sense of sympathy from him. "I'm sorry this comes between you and the Rogues. Let's not make this an order. Jaina, you can back out if you wish. Think hard on it, before you do. Can you really do more good for the Rogues in a cockpit…or killing a yammosk?"

She wanted to grab the out with both hands. Of course it was better if she was in the cockpit. She could dance a snubfighter like nobody's business. She'd be vaping Vong by the dozens - all while a hundred more swirled in a kicked over strib ant hive. Moving like tendrils of a single beast, sleeting out plasma fit to blot out the stars themselves, until every Rogue had a dozen or more on their tails…

"No," she said, in a small voice. "You've got me, Colonel."

Damn her. And damn that little voice of Jacen's, in her ear. About how their power mattered.

The tsik-vai coasted by overhead, out of sight but apparently not out of hearing for Vua, even though Zal denied hearing anything at all. The Vong was annoyingly haughty about that.

In lower tones, Zal and Anakin spoke while Vua led them along. He claimed to know the best routes to avoid patrols, not to mention a better 'understanding' of the patterns the other warriors might be using. It could all be complete voidspoil, but short of going in guns blazing…again, Anakin had to admit that Vua at least had more of a plan than they did.

"I don't know if I can do it justice," Zal sighed. "What it feels like. To know that all of mankind is behind you. The galaxy itself. The homeworld, the Emperor…there is a hand of history at our backs. Eighteen Legions of Astartes. Can you imagine that, Anakin?"

He really couldn't. It was hard to imagine a thousand of Zalthis all in the same place. Sithspawn, but it was hard to imagine a hundred. That kind of army might even make the Mandalorian Wars seem small.

"There was a triumph, before I became a neophyte. Seven years ago, at the turn of the millenia. As M31 began, the Emperor gathered all His Legions…"

Vua was listening. They could tell. His grousing and griping faded and the Vong tarried a little closer to them.

Well, Anakin couldn't blame him. It was some tale. A whole world given over just to be a stage for a celebration. Hundreds of thousands of Astartes, tens of millions of the Army. Hundreds of those giant Titan walkers, like the one on Fondor. And the startling thing too: more Primarchs. Anakin assumed there were more, because Zal had hinted at it and he'd mentioned the one who led the Word Bearers, but Zalthis rattled off more names, then. Horus, Sanguinius, Mortarion, Magnus, Angron, Jaghatai Khan, Lorgar, Rogal Dorn, Fulgrim. Fantastical and strange names, and all of them Zal said were brothers to Roboute Guilliman.

He remembered the sensation, that moment of broken-crystal clarity when the Ultramarines Primarch entered the conference chamber. What would that many look like, all together like that? What would the Force look like? And if Zal was serious, they were all just children compared to the Imperium's Emperor.

Zal had a faraway look when he talked about it. Wistful. He didn't need the Force to sense the yearning.

"We were saving the galaxy," his friend said sadly. "We were saving the human race."

"Until Calth," Anakin said.

Zal licked his lips, drumming fingers on the stock of his bolter again.

"I don't understand. I don't understand."

Aeonid carefully set aside his mug. His spine straight, back erect, palms flat on the table, he willed Tionne to not just understand, but to comprehend what he spoke.

'We were to lead mankind out of the night, into the future. We were made to be loyal. We were made to be brothers and sons. Two hundred years of Crusade and no Astartes had slain another. No Astartes had drawn in anger on another.'

A white lie. A small one. The bout between Angron and his berserker horde and Russ' savages was infamous. But that had been a letting of blood and beating the World Eaters back into line. It had been like a bout to extremis. Angron hadn't been disloyal. It hadn't been rebellion.

'You don't understand.'

Aeonid could have paced, he could have ranted and raved. Energy tensed his limbs. His very being rebelled against the idea.

'It is not for us to understand. Everything that happened on Calth was wrong. It was - it was travesty. If I had a better word, I would use it, but I borrow this instead; it was sin. Understanding what caused the Word Bearers to break so thoroughly from every standard of decency could be poisonous. It could be ruinous. Do you understand?'

"Why would they do that?" Zal asked. Rhetorical as his tone was hollow, but Anakin knew that bereft kind of confusion.

"The dark side is seductive."

"This isn't your - the Force."

"Does it have to be? People fall to the dark side because they want more. Or they need more. More…power, or maybe security, or just some way of feeling like they have control."

Vua snorted. It sounded like a ronto hawking up phlegm. Anakin chose to diplomatically ignore it.

"Astartes are not made to want more. Duty is enough!"

Being a Jedi was supposed to be enough. Except that for far too many famous names, it wasn't.

"Maybe the Word Bearers found out that it wasn't."

Tension plucked out the tendons in his neck, his shoulders, his legs. Aeonid tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. His hearts thumped louder. Tionne's gentle expression took on almost a mocking tilt to it.

'Aeonid! Please. Can't you see that we're finally asking the right questions? Aeonid! This is why you came looking for me.'

He gripped the edge of the table, hard enough that the metal warped.

'I have to draw a line somewhere,' he snapped, curt and hard. Entertaining moral debates around the worthiness of xeno lives, about the purpose or futility of some sort of personal abrogation of responsibility for a prosthetic morality granted by an ephemeral power; that was one matter. This - Aeonid did not wish to know why the Seventeenth did what they did. He had seen it. He had lived it. That way lay madness. The Emperor entreated to seek clarity and truth, but the Emperor, in His greatest, grandest wisdom, sealed away the study of the Warp.

He felt the phantom slash of glassy, venom-tipped fangs. He felt the thunderous, rolling booms of sinuous and oilslick flesh against doughty corridors. The stink of weird dreams that clogged the nose, the reek of fyceline, the wailing shriek as reality itself bent and bowed inward.

'I cannot understand them,' he repeated.

'You cannot, or you will not?'

'Either!' he snapped. 'The Seventeenth Legion does not need to be understood, they need to be expunged. Like my father said: Excommunicate Traitoris. Every last one hunted down to the ends of the stars until they are forgotten from all memory. There is nothing to understand, this is nothing like your Sith and your wars of dark versus light. This is right and this is wrong.'

Tionne had an unfamiliar expression of frustration across her elfin face. Her silver brows beetled and her lips drew tense and thin.

'If you do not study history, you will repeat it. Please, just think! What if the Word Bearers found something that terrified them so much that they tried to stamp it out, and just by doing that, they became what you saw? There can be a thousand reasons why they did what they did. Understanding is not agreement!'

The sun was sinking, sealing the fate of another day. Another day without Tahiri. Another day that felt no closer. Another day of words and talking and walking. Anakin could scream, but that would just call down their ever-present friend in the sky. He could rage, but that would feed the dark. Zal - Zal kept him sane. His friend was talking more than he ever had, even on Samothrace. He could feel the Ultramarine's hidden embarrassment, but also the growing calm that diffused outward in his thoughts.

"Did you ever learn the history of my name?" Anakin threw into a moment of quiet.

"Of 'Anakin'? I don't recall anything."

Well, it wasn't a secret. It just wasn't something he liked to talk about. To anyone. Including himself.

"My grandfather," he said. Credit where it was due, but Zalthis was quick. He felt the flash of realization.

"Which, as Master Skywalker is your uncle, would be the Sith 'Darth Vader'."

"The Jeedai is named for a Sith?" Vua called back. He had frustratingly good hearing. "I have heard rumors the Sith are great foes of the Jeedai. Were you named as an insult?"

Anakin barked out a laugh that hurt his chest. Yeah, it did feel like an insult sometimes.

"No, it was because Anakin was what Darth Vader's real name was, before he fell. Anakin Skywalker, once a hero of the Jedi."

"And this Darth Vayder, he was a potent warrior?"

"A monster and a butcher."

Vua gurgled what passed for laughter.

"A good name."

Anakin ignored him.

Zal eyed him strangely.

"Your parents had great respect for the Jedi he was."

That drew another laugh, this one more because of how truly ridiculous that idea was.

"He tortured my mom and blew up her homeworld. Tortured my dad too, and then sold him to a Hutt. They both kind of hate him."

Anakin paused, which made Zal pause too. Vua went on for several more strides, cursed, then turned back to rejoin them. Deep breath.

"Darth Vader was terrified. Of…well, everything. Losing people, probably. He was afraid, so afraid. That's what Uncle Luke said, at the end. He was afraid of the Emperor, he was afraid of death, he was afraid of himself. The dark side let him forget that under all that anger and rage. Uncle Luke said that when he died, that Anakin Skywalker felt relieved."

The Ultramarine, a head and half taller than Anakin, twice as broad, shifted his weight from foot to foot. Went to speak, stopped. Anakin felt his friend's earnest need to help. Somehow.

"It's fine, Zal. I've had a lot of time to think about it. But…get it? My mom and dad hated Darth Vader, but naming me Anakin…it was kind of saying they got it. Darth Vader was what Anakin let himself become, but Anakin wasn't just Darth Vader. Right? Anakin was a Jedi and he was a good man too and he loved someone, because mom and Uncle Luke are here. So he can't be all bad. No one can be."

Silence answered him. Zalthis, as he had in times past, simply rested his hand on Anakin's shoulder, a light pressure. His friend wasn't great with words, but he did know actions. Vua scratched at a suppurating scab at his cheek. His dark eyes, circled by bruise and sunken by ink-blue bags, held something in them Anakin didn't quite understand. For once, the Vong wasn't sneering or scowling or scoffing.

Of course - that was when the thud bug struck Anakin between the shoulderblades.

In her quarters, Jaina turned the datacube over and over again between her fingers. Little blinking status lights indicated it had already read her fingerprint and her serial number and that it was unlocked. All she had to do was plug it into a reader. NRI analyses of yammosks from combat operations across the galaxy, theories about how yammosks might be communicating, even a detailed write-up from her Uncle that she'd never read. It was hoped that it was enough to give them the edge they needed.

Do or do not, she thought wryly, and got up from her bunk before she could stop herself. The shared bunkroom was empty, the other Rogues out on patrol. Where she should be. The datacube slotted into the reader, her datapad hardwired in. There was a moment, then the flashing symbol of New Republic Intelligence, a quick scroll of the classification levels.

Then the documents revealed themselves. And, prominently, the one that leapt out and got her by the throat.

'Analysis of Yammosk Presence within the Boundaries of Hutt Space'.

A smile slowly curled her lips.

Feel that, little brother? Payback time.

With the armor plate Sol had tossed to him, the thudbug staggered Anakin forward, but didn't wind him. His lightsaber was already in his hand, lit, while Zal tore his bolter from his hip. Vua shouted something that wasn't anything intelligible. Whick whick went two razor bugs, snipped clean from the air.

"Patrol! May the Slayer torment the Trickster for a thousand eons! Misfortune and rot, free me you fools, you idiots-"

Yuuzhan Vong warriors, four in all, loped through the trees, just flashes and glimpses. Four, against an Astartes and a Jedi? It said a lot about the past few months that Anakin could say he honestly liked those odds.

"Don't shoot them," he warned. "They might not have called us in."

Zal grimaced, slamming his bolter back and ripping his power sword out. It lit with a humming crackle, lightning spattering up the blade. Vong shouts broke through the air, accompanied by bugs. They were so much faster than they used to be. He missed the comparatively lazy razorbugs at the start of the war. Now they were blurs, so fast that he drew on every scrap of training, honed by stingbolts and stunners slung out by darting drones.

Ceramite shrieked as Zal blurred forward, moving to close the gap. Anakin held back - Vua wasn't in a place to fight, and Vua was sort of the hinge to this whole plan. Plan B of 'go loud' seemed like it would be a lot more of a suicide mission by now.

"Blood of the Gods! Jeedai, do not compound stupidity with death!" Vua waved his bound hands and Anakin shoved him back.

"It's just a handful-"

"A patrol is twelve, idiot! Ghesh alg'n reg tuk!"

This time, the thudbug that hit Anakin laid him flat out. He thumbed off his lightsaber by reflex and avoided decapitation as he fell. For a moment he flailed sucking wind as he shuddered on his back in a tangle of limbs. It felt like a landspeeder had hit his chest, or maybe a bantha had kicked him. A dark shape flashed over him as he struggled to sit up. The chest of his armor was a crater. Cracked chitin and ichor dribbled down. He couldn't breathe. His lungs twitched and seized - he grabbed the Force and sucked in a breath.

And coughed, doubling over and wheezing. There were Vong, more Vong! Vua said twelve, he'd seen four already - Zal could take four, almost certainly, but Zal wasn't in his full armor -

The Force rang through his muscles. He'd seen Master Katarn do it before, use his own momentum…Anakin kicked into a spin, whirling back up to his feet. The galaxy-famous snap hiss doubled, almost overlapping. One long blue blade, like frozen ice. One short, green as grass.

Three Vong hemmed him in, spread across a hundred degrees in an arc. All three bore stocky tubes that swelled at the rear almost like the stock of a carbine. They'd shot him, he realized. They'd shot him with a bug. One scowled and barked out words, raising their carbine.

Not this time.

He'd sparred with Zal and been in the mind of Astartes during the long night. He'd never have their strength, but the Force was his ally. The barrel of the Vong's carbine was black, an eye of the void peering at him. It came up to the warrior's shoulder. His head cocked, aiming. Ten meters. Violence rang out in all its symphony around him. Zal was somewhere spreading death; the hiss-crackle of a power weapon carbonizing blood and rending flesh was familiar now. He heard Vua's voice, howling something and full of anger, but he had no time for that.

Tahiri would reduce the weight of something, and Anakin would move it with the Force. They were a team, synchronized, a rope-and-pulley and always greater than being alone.

Tahiri wasn't here. She would be. She would be again. So he did the trick alone. The other two Vong raised their own carbines.

Anakin crossed ten meters in less than a second. The first Vong toppled, armor smoking. The world swam around him and his pulse pounded. A headache pinched between his eyes, but he was there now. He was among them. The two Vong dropped their carbines, went for amphistaves that leapt for their master's hands.

Anakin was faster.

They fell. It was that simple.

Back where he'd been, Vua shoved himself off of a prone warrior, rising to his feet with blood caked up to his elbows. He shook himself out, wrists freed, and made a show of stretching. Zal loped back, flicking black blood from his blade.

"Anakin! You're uninjured?"

He grimaced, touched the crater in his chest plate.

"Probably going to bruise like you wouldn't believe, but I'm fine."

Vua joined them, walking - no, sauntering, over. Slowly, he licked dark blood from one of his remaining talons.

"It is as I said. Between you both, a mewling child could track us."

The warrior Vua had tackled lay still in death.

"You killed him, then."

Vua cocked his head.

"When I say my vengeance is in blood, what part is mistranslated? He was Iruysh, he was a fool anyway. Only a fool would attack a Jeedai and Aistarteez so blithely. And without a full patrol! Idiot. He leapt without looking. He laid no traps. Idiot. Had I his Warriors, you both would be dead on the ground."

Vua thrust out one blood-soaked hand. Toward Anakin. He eyed it suspiciously. Those fingers could be biots, ready to…do whatever horrible things the Vong thought up.

"Now we are blooded," Vua declared. "We have taken lives; we are warriors of a band. And you! Jeedai Anaykin, you seek redemption from Shame as well. The Gods do smile on me. I never doubted."

His hand was absolutely filthy. Anakin took it anyway.

"Now we make haste!" the Vong declared. "Iruysh was a fool, but an obedient one. He will have informed Harmae by villip. Tonight, you will sleep among the slaves."

The Vong patrol cooled behind them. Vua led them at a lope, crashing on through the underbrush, stealth forgotten. Zal and Anakin kept close. Dark blood dried on Anakin's palm. In that corner of his mind that was all Tahiri's, he pushed harder than he had since the Lady Starstorm fell.

Hold on Tahiri. We're almost there.

And from that place, one word:

Hurry.

Chapter Text

Anakin knew the jungle now. He recognized landmarks. He knew the trails they crossed. The Blueleaf Temple would be farthest south - if it still existed. The Uunh river was to their left. Had they been on the other bank, they might well run into the Palace of the Woolamader in enough time. Tsik vai gunships passed overhead as they crashed through the underbrush. He'd left the bits of armor Sol had leant him, including the cracked breastplate, behind as they made for the temple. It wouldn't help now. A slave could get away with a sweatstained jumpsuit - not body armor.

"We will spin tale of pursuit! The Jeedai and Aistarteez hunt in the jungle, and so we seek shelter among the grashal!" Vua shouted. The dead patrol was well behind them, but they had to have roused an alarm before Vua strangled their leader and Anakin and Zal put the others down. "Your light blades! Give me them!"

"What? No!"

"They will not search me! But a slave; you will have no property. Give them to me, now!"

Swearing under his breath, Anakin unhooked his 'saber and tossed it to Vua. The Vong caught it easily, tucking it into one of the fleshy, living pouches at his hip. But Ikrit's 'saber, Anakin tossed underhand to Zal. The Astartes nodded in understanding and the small hilt went to his belt.

"Aistarteez, you must split away from us. Forge a new trail! Evade pursuit, and then hide! Like the plan!"

They were supposed to have more time. Another day, just about, to creep closer and make final preparations. Vua hadn't even applied the dead coral to Anakin's forehead yet. Bad luck. Bad luck to run smack into a patrol, bad luck to have the fliers out here spinning nets to hem them in. Bad luck that Tahiri got caught, bad luck that the Vong found them at all, bad luck, bad luck, bad luck…

Zalthis slowed to a stop and Anakin did too. Vua eased to a jog, finding a toppled tree and leaping nimbly up its craggy side to get a better vantage point.

"We'll meet again," Zal assured him. "Call, when you are ready."

Anakin pushed a sense of urgency toward Zal, saw when the Astartes was torn between a wince and a grin.

"It's still strange, every time." Zal offered a hand. "Luck of Terra be with you, Anakin."

"Thanks. You too, Zal. Keep your head down."

"If you are finished," Vua called from ahead.

"Go and get Tahiri. I shall bring the fury of Ultramar." Zal pulled his bolt pistol from his belt and fired off two shots, the mass reactives blasting thunder through the jungle. Birds took to the air. "Go!"

Anakin went.

In the vivarium was where Nen Yim discovered her Master, after word had come that her vaa tumor removal was complete. She expected Mezhan to spend another day in seclusion and recovery, and her stride hitched a moment as the hatch-sphincter irised open to reveal the Master Shaper kneeling beside their subject. If her Master was here, then she had proper business, so Nen Yim did not intrude or disturb her. Instead, she made her usual rounds: replacing a borrowed qahsa, checking the health of the vivarium, replenishing the feeds to the saline-pools that held tissue samples. She busied herself with the work of an Adept, one ear to the quiet words her Master spoke.

Mezhan's usual supercilious tone was gone, replaced by a soft and gentle murmur as she stroked Shaping fingers over the subject's scalp. The subject hunched over, hands in her lap, eyes downcast.

"There is no great hurry," Mezhan said. "Take your time."

"They hurt," whispered the subject, voice broken and small. "I can't think of them. I can't remember. They hurt so much."

"It's a byproduct of their magics. The Jedi powers they used, they twisted you so terribly. Your mind was not meant to bear such torment; but you are a child of Kwaad. You were strong to survive it. That pain was a pain you felt every single waking moment, then. But they had tricked you that it was normal."

"Can't you take it all away?" The subject sniffed, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. "All the memories? Then they won't hurt. I won't - I won't be confused."

"Pain is a teacher." Mezhan pricked her palm with a sharpened finger-blade, showing the subject a bead of black blood. "It instructs us, as the Gods ordain. The Jedi didn't understand this. They made you hurt for every moment you were among them, for fear that you would one day be saved and return to your people. They don't wish for you to remember, for if you remember the teachings they so foolishly shared with you, then you could turn their Force against them. To the aid of the Chosen People." Mezhan hummed a simple creche-tune and leaned closer to the subject. "Do try, Riina."

Nen Yim turned aside from her tasks, placing full attention on the vivarium. The results of the modified - and invented - protocols were already showing incredible progress. The implanted neurons carried rich and comprehensive experiential memory that already integrated almost seamlessly with the subject. Her mastery of ibi'yun easily proved this, but it was these moments, when the Riina personality seemed almost seamless, that Nen Yim felt almost religious awe at what she and her Master were accomplishing.

This was Shaping as it should be, as it could be. A being never recorded by any Shaper, already understood and now almost remade. Yun-ne'Shel - for Nen Yim did believe - had to love them for this.

The subject gingerly raised a shaking hand from her lap, hairless brows furrowing in concentration and bracing for expected pain. A small stone, smooth and plucked from the river, trembled on the floor of the vivarium. Smoothly, it raised without interruption, as if lifted by an invisible hand. The subject's brow cleared and her eyes grew brighter.

"It…it doesn't hurt!" she breathed. Her thin lips twitched as if too frightened to dare a smile and green-gold eyes remained fixed on the stone. As did Mezhan Kwaad's delighted gaze, as did Nen Yim's own wonderment. The Force, demonstrated baldly. The thing many warriors feared and other Shapers jealously sought.

"You are without fear. When you have no fear, pain has no purchase, for the Gods smile on you."

Nen Yim glanced to the spineray's adjustor, seeing that all the settings had been switched off. The 'Gods' indeed did smile, when the organism buried into the meat of the subject's brain was told not to excruciate her when her 'false' memories were accessed.

"If I don't fear…" the subject echoed, a strange look twisting her face. To Nen Yim's left, flashes of light flickered across a facsimile of the subject's brain, rendered by an everted stul-villip. The semi-transparent gelatin wobbled as it matched what the spineray sensed. Neural activity was increasing. Long term memory was stirring.

"She's remembering more," Nen Yim muttered, watching the stul-villip display closely.

Within the vivarium the subject lowered the stone down again and exhaled a shaky breath.

"I did it."

"You did. Wonderful, Riina. Most wonderful." Mezhan stroked the subject's scalp again, then stood. From the corner of her eye, Nen Yim caught the subject's expression as her Master rose to her feet. There was a moment when Mezhan could not see the subject's face. A moment when the Human's eyes flashed with hate, when her lip curled and hands tensed into claws.

Then it was gone again, so fast that Nen Yim might have only imagined it. The subject watched Mezhan open the vivarium membrane and step through, sealing it again behind her with a look that approached loss and loneliness. There were no flickers across the amygdala.

"Ah, my apprentice. Another cycle of Shaping awaits us. Our Holy duties never end."

"Yes, Master," Nen Yim agreed.

They went from the jungle to sudden cleared spaces. The underbrush and trees simply stopped, truncated sharply as though some enormous gardener had gone along and plucked them up like weeds. Anakin almost stumbled in surprise, but kept up with Vua's steady jog.

"These are the working fields," Vua told him. "Where Shamed and slaves labor." The fields ran far and wide, pushing back the jungle around the tall coral walls of the Vong compound. The damuteks, as Vua called them. Each one was a sort of citadel-town all in one. Again, the world felt upended and wrong. It wasn't just the waist-high grains and other strange plants that threw him off - though they were bizarre to see so rapidly cover what had just been lawns and training spaces when last he'd seen them - but again, the heart-aching gap in the evening sky where the Temple should be.

The setting sun caught along the coral walls, throwing long and dark shadows that stretched out into the fields like fingers. Figures moved in the distance, already clustering around small, domed structures near the damutek. Another distant boom of a bolt shell echoed out behind them. Zal was continuing to make a ruckus and on the horizon, a small, dark shape scooted across the sky, heading out into the jungle.

Vua slowed his pace, until they were walking swiftly through the grain. He peeled open a pouch, rooting around inside it, before producing a small bead of coral.

"Here," the Vong pressed it into Anakin's hand and he studied it. It was pale and looked dry, like a bone that had been left out in the sun. Peering close, the small fleck of coral didn't have the sheen that caught the setting sun like the damutek had. It was a dome about the size of his smallest fingernail with a tiny spike projecting from the flat side. "Place it on your temple."

"Why do you even have a dead slave seed?"

"I have live surge seeds to restrain new slaves. This one has expired. Life ends. You ask pointless questions."

"I'm asking because this is my butt on the line." He turned the seed over in his palm. Memories of the knurled, knobbly growths on the Obroan slaves rose painfully. Vomar, asking to be remembered, before he spent his life against the warriors. He wanted to remind Vua that if this was all an elaborate and deranged trap, that Zal would kill him if Anakin didn't. Distantly, he supposed he should probably have more of a problem with threatening death on people.

It didn't seem that important right now.

He pressed the coral to his forehead. There was a brief prick of pain, like a needle, then a pinch. He tugged at it - it pulled on his skin, already attached.

"So how would I even know if this was alive?"

"It would bore through your skull. The pain would be exquisite."

Anakin shuddered.

"Uh. Sure."

A few figures, far distant, stopped, then began to make their way through the fields toward them.

"I think we've been noticed."

Vua nodded slowly.

"Good. If the coral prickles, pretend pain. If it causes actual pain, pretend to die."

"Wait, it still works?"

"It was not Shaped by children. It retains some function. You will need to know when you are commanded, idiot."

Then Vua slapped him across the face. There was no warning; the Vong simply moved in one fluid motion. Anakin stumbled back, tasting iron in his mouth. His hand went to his belt - where there was no lightsaber. His cheek, numb, flared hot.

"Sithspawn! What the hell was that for!"

Vua glared at him.

"Are you a slave, or a Jeedai? When a slave is struck, he cowers. A Jeedai fights back."

Deep breath in, deep breath out. This was what he'd agreed to. This was the best way to get in to find Tahiri. He needed Vua. Anakin repeated those like a mantra.

"Anything else I should know?" he asked dryly.

"Do not speak back. Avert your eyes. Do as commanded as soon as commanded. You have no name and you are of no importance. Do not be noticed."

"That's great. How are we supposed to meet up again?"

Vua extended a hand high - not quite waving, but clearly signaling. The distant figures began to lope towards them.

"I will seek you out. Now be silent. Look simple. I will say that you are damaged by your implant. These things happen. It will deflect attention further."

When the coming figures were close enough to make out as two warriors and a third Vong wearing a simple loincloth, Vua muttered under his breath something Anakin didn't follow, then shoved him to the ground. Anakin let him, going to his knees, surrounding by rustling, shifting grain. It was just short enough to reach his chin as he knelt, some of it smashed down by their passage. The Vong, when they were close enough, shouted some sort of greeting. Vua responded.

Anakin didn't understand a word of it.

He kept his eyes downcast, but tensed. Vua and the others spoke back and forth, quick sentences bit out in their own tongue. At least the tone was evident. The welcoming party sounded almost bored. Vua had the same sour, sneering tone he always had. The warriors stopped a few strides away and Anakin fought down the spike of adrenaline. He'd never been so close to a warrior before in a situation that wasn't life or death. It felt alien. Wrong, to be so close to the vonduun-clad Vong and their amphistaves and beetles without his lightsaber in hand or a blaster at the ready.

"You! Slave! Stand!"

Anakin scrambled to his feet, trying to look uncoordinated. The two warriors were still speaking with Vua, punctuated by gestures toward the jungle. Their amphistaves remained curled around their exposed biceps - both warriors wore a strange sort of armor that Anakin hadn't seen before. It looked cut down, covering only their torsos to leave arms and legs bare. A dress-down armor, maybe? Some other type? The Vong who addressed him, though, was like those he'd seen fishing. No scars or tattoos to be seen anywhere. He looked frighteningly Human, aside from the eye sacs, elongated head and rangier build.

"This one will oversee your tasking. Follow." The Vong spun on their heel and stalked off. Anakin hesitated - glancing toward Vua, whose attention was entirely on the two warriors he was speaking with.

"Slave!" repeated the unadorned Vong. "Follow!"

One of the warriors laughed as Anakin stumbled forward. Vua said something else and he felt three pairs of eyes watch him.

"Vua Rapuung said you were damaged. Do not delay my tasking, slave, or I will kill you here and now." Anakin kept a step back from the Vong. Should a slave follow behind? Or walk in front? The hells was the etiquette? He chanced a glance back, saw that one of the warriors had decided to continue on toward the edge of the jungle, fingering a now-alert amphistaff. Vua and other still spoke, punctuated with gestures by the former, the latter listening with arms crossed. No violence so far. No alarms. He couldn't imagine the Vong, at any level, being comfortable letting a Jedi walk around like this.

He let himself feel a dash of optimism. Maybe it could work.

"I am Varuud Kwaad. Do not dirty your mouth with my name. I will take you to the executor, who will assign you. Wander away from your tasking again, slave, and you will die. Vua Rapuung said you are of the latest stock. Ignorance is not an excuse. The True Gods demand rightful obedience. Do you understand?"

The coral at his forehead prickled and he saw the Vong, saw 'Varuud Kwaad' fiddle with something in his hand. The prickle was uncomfortable, like a muscle spasm, but it didn't hurt. Anakin let out a groan and trembled, stumbling for a moment until the prickle went away. Varuud seemed satisfied.

The Vong led Anakin right up to the mouth of the damutek. The coral walls, several stories tall, loomed overhead. Some sort of organic membrane bunched up around the rim of the circular opening, like lips peeled back. The sun hung on the edge of the horizon. Bored warriors flanked the entrance as other Workers and slaves filtered through. Varuud led him in. Just like that, Anakin entered the domain of the Shapers.