Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Order 66

"A savior's work is never done,

but neither is the tyrant's..."

--Jedi Master Oppo Rancisis

Maatsu

“Padawan Viz!” Master Jocasta Nu’s prim retort cut the boys’ giggling short. She whirled from her lecture. Her faded embroidered yellow-gold Jedi archivist robes shuffled over her sleight form, her tight bun of white hair quivering.

The training holocron, the cubic crystalline repository of Jedi knowledge that Maatsu Viz had been levitating around his classmate’s head, clattered to the table as he lost his focus. He met the head librarian’s accusatory gaze, mustering a cool and collected air.

Master Nu raised an eyebrow high. “Are you so confident in your command of the Force that you do not feel the need to avail yourself of your coursework today?”

Maatsu’s cerulean-blue face went pink, but not from shame, as the tight primping of Master Nu’s lips indicated she thought, but from his irritation. “Not really,” he mumbled, just loud enough for his fellows next to him to hear. He swept his hand through his neat pinkish-grey hair, making sure it was still in place.

“What was that?” Master Nu shot.

“Nothing, Master!” Maatsu said, setting his spine upright, blinking, showcasing innocence while he absently traced the white lines of the family crest tattoos on his cheeks. “I was merely showing Wek how to—”

“—Practical applications of your abilities will wait until the end of the lecture, Padawan Viz, and you are not to deviate from this curricula.”

“Of course, Master Nu.” Maatsu’s body slumped like a dropped marionette as the old woman spun back away from him, her tight bun threatening to come undone.

“Now then,” Master Nu continued, “As I was saying, Master Argant Friez’s viability experiments in cross-pollination between Caridean kudzu grass and Felucian red creeper vines were extraordinary in theory, but ultimately…”

Maatsu picked up the false holocron and leaned towards Brophy, who was studiously doodling in the margins of his datapad, avoiding eye contact. “Do you think she’d notice if I spun it under the table?” Maatsu asked.

Brophy smirked, scratching at the thin shadow of stubble on his light-skinned human cheeks. “Five credits says you can’t.”

“Hey!” Wek hissed from across the table, his vocabulator hiding the wheedling chirps of Jawa from beneath his brown robes.

Maatsu silently gestured ‘what?’ at the Jawa.

Wek made a slashing motion across his throat, and the yellow lamplit eyes peeking out from under his hooded robe glowed a little brighter, urging a significant look.

Maatsu and Brophy exchanged a look of their own. They smirked. Then, as Master Nu droned on in the background, they each braced a foot against Wek’s chair from under the table and shoved.

“Waaah!” Wek wailed as he toppled to the archive floor with a crash that shook the entirety of the Jedi library.

Master Nu sputtered as she spun on the boys, but stopped nearly as abruptly as Maatsu and Brophy’s laughter died. In fact, the few other Padawans and Knights milling around the Jedi Archive at this late hour all ceased, as the Force spoke to them.

From under the entryway doors to the great Jedi Archive, with its towering rows of twinkling holographic books, the Force had begun a dark trickle into the library; a portentous omen, tainted by the taste of… was that the Dark Side?

“What in the world…” Master Nu’s voice trailed off as she took a step towards the library door.

Boom.

A far-away sound reverberated through the Jedi Temple.

Maatsu sat up, his yellow Pantoran eyes searching Brophy’s dark human eyes for recognition. There was none to be found there, nor behind the yellow lamplit glow from Wek’s eyes as the diminutive Jawa clambered to his feet, crouching low behind the table.

Boom.

A second thud and reverberation. Maatsu strained his ears, and he swore now that he could feel, rather than hear, the sub-aural vibration of a lightsaber’s thrum. But why would there be any lightsaber’s activated in the temple?

“Stand up.” Master Nu’s voice cut sharply through the air. “Padawans, on your feet. Right now.”

The flinty spark in Master Nu’s voice bid the Padawans obey, but an undercurrent of fear cut through her tone, Maatsu was sure of it. He and the other Padawans scrambled to their feet and held, uncertain of what to do.

A third boom, this time heavy enough to shake the dust from the sconces and light fixtures lining the walls, shook the archive. Then, the unmistakable sound of a lightsaber whirling, followed by a shout. Then, most unnerving—was that a blaster shot?

In a flash, Master Nu’s lightsaber was in her hand and ignited, the crisp blue of a Guardian’s blade threw her wrinkly face into stark relief. “Padawans, stay behind me.” Her voice cracked but Maatsu watched as she slid effortlessly into the Soresu defender’s stance.

Another boom, much closer, more shouting, the sounds of lightsabers and blaster bolts, growing closer, and behind it all, Maatsu could swear he heard the assimilatory cadence of… was that the voice of a clone trooper shouting? What were they doing here? Clone troopers weren’t allowed onto Temple grounds, except on official business.

The door blew open.

“Run, children!” Master Nu shouted. “Run!”

Her arms became a blur as crimson bolts erupted through the hazy air swirling through the blown door. The old woman deflected as Maatsu and his friends remained frozen.

“RUN!” Jocasta Nu commanded, this time amplified with the Force.

Maatsu ran. Brophy came right behind him, but Wek remained frozen for a moment longer, gazing towards the doors to the temple.

What's happening? Maatsu wondered.

“Wek!” Brophy shouted, shaking their short friend from his frozen state. Wek turned and pelted after them.

Around the corner of the bookshelves leading to the Archive’s side door, Brophy and Maatsu paused for the Jawa to catch up.

“Come along!” Maatsu shouted.

A crimson blaster bolt zinged through the air, leaving the acrid smell of singed Tibanna gas in its wake. Maatsu looked for the source, his heart pounding. The source wasn’t hard to find. His mind reeled, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

Four clone troopers, their white plastoid armor striped a deep navy, had pushed through the blown Archive doors, firing indiscriminately. Master Nu’s lightsaber was a whirling spearpoint amidst five, then six, then ten other lightsabers that ignited in shades of blue and green and yellow. Sparks erupted from the shelves as deflected blaster bolts bounced all over the library. Two clones fell, then the survivors signaled and three more appeared through the fog, firing. A blistering array of bolts erupted from beyond the doors, and three of the Jedi in the library fell, their lightsabers going dark with them.

Maatsu’s skin felt cold. Blood pumped in his ears and he blinked hard. He felt Brophy’s strong hands pulling he and Wek from the corner, but he was glued to the carnage. Then two things happened at once, and he was able to break his gaze.

First, and more pressing, the doors at the far end of the cross-section of the library—opposite where the three of them were frozen—blew apart, and Maatsu could see the glint of particulate dust on plastoid clone trooper visors as they clomped through the doorway.

Second, and more lasting, just before Maatsu and Wek found their footing and spun away from the main library hall, before more blaster bolts erupted from down the hallway, they caught a glimpse as a figure stepped through the main Archive doors. A large figure, wearing brown Jedi robes with the hood up. A blue lightsaber blade, aimed at the floor, shimmered as the figure stepped over the ruined doors, highlighted as it was in the fierce neon blues and red highlights of the Archive.

Before Maatsu turned away, he saw a glimpse of the face beneath the hood, and from the intake of breath that Wek made at the same instant, Maatsu knew his friend had seen it too.

Master Skywalker?

It wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense. There was no time to parcel it out, though. Maatsu's mind blanked, and he felt a cold void blanket his senses as the roaring red tide of the Force erupted from the direction of the hooded figure. The Dark Side swirled in a vortex of fury and violence, and Maatsu only knew that he had to escape it. They had to get away from it, as far away from that figure as they possibly could.

“For the Father’s sake, we have to fucking GO!” Brophy’s utterance matched only the ferocity with which he had grabbed Maatsu’s and Wek’s robes.

As blaster bolts came streaking towards them from across the library, they ran. Maatsu didn’t know when he pulled his training lightfoil out, but he had. The long, thin dueling blade wasn’t meant for deflecting blasters with any accuracy, but it still operated on the same principles as other lightsabers—so long as he could deflect the shot, of course. But no bolts found him. Wek’s blue training lightsaber whirled, covering their retreat as their small friend created an impenetrable cage that sent bolts flying every which way. The Force surged around the three Padawans as they fled out the far door and into the hall, the visage of the hooded figure’s venomous yellow eyes seared into their minds.

The air stank of burning ozone and Tibanna, of vaporized duracrete, of sweat, of blood, and of fear. The wash of sickening scents almost made Maatsu gag, but Brophy pulled him along as Wek slammed the side doors to the Archive closed behind them. It rang and vibrated as the sounds of blasters from inside the library dimmed, and were almost immediately replaced by farther distant bolts. No signs of siege existed yet in the side hallway the Padawans currently occupied, but they could be heard towards the junction down the promenade hall and towards the grand hall at the entrance to the Temple. A cacophony of screams, shouts, and the pinging of bolts deflected off of Jedi weapons rang out everywhere.

“What’s happening?!” Maatsu finally gasped.

“I—I don’t know! I don’t know!” Brophy uttered, equally frenetic.

“We have to get out of here,” Wek said, his vocabulator dialing soft and reserved.

“How?” Maatsu begged. “How are we supposed to do that?”

Brophy was about to answer when a deep voice echoed from down the hall, full of basal gravel beneath powerful vocal chords. “Brophy! Ay-yoi!”

The three Padawans whirled, training lightsabers in hand at the sound, and they relaxed somewhat.

Three other figures came charging down the hall, each a vastly different being than the next, but all three had their training sabers out too.

“Draugmand! Kaarsk! Arca’dia! You’re alright!” Brophy said, relief pouring into his voice.

A proportionately impressive specimen of a Dowutin, Draugmand’s orange skin stretched tight over massive muscles. He stood a solid half-meter taller than everyone but Wek—who barely came up to Draugmand’s knees—and two-and-a-half times wider. Draugmand tucked his outward-curving chin horns and gripped Brophy behind the head as they embraced, knocking skulls. Draugmand growled a hello. “We’re alright,” he uttered.

Kaarsk approached Wek and took a knee, extending a darkly furred hand. The Jawa gripped it and they shook. Kaarsk’s pointed Bothan ears were plastered to the side of his head and he appeared to be having trouble hiding his sharp teeth in their long canine snout. The pheromonal musk emanating from the mottled brown-and-cream colored fur of the Bothan was impressive.

Arca’dia bowed to Maatsu, who returned it solemnly. “Where were you?” Maatsu asked.

The Miraluka pursed her pale thin lips, and the patterned opaque veil that hid the upper half of her eyeless face fluttered. “Walking. Along the Upper Western Mezzanine. I felt something was wrong and…” She turned away slightly.

Maatsu furrowed his brow. “…and, what, exactly?”

Arca’dia opened her mouth to answer, her hands wringing nervously in front of her, when an explosion shook them out of their brief reprieve.

“They’re everywhere,” Kaarsk noted.

“Why are they doing this?” Wek asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Maatsu.

Brophy nodded in agreement. “We have to get out of here.”

“How?” Draugmand boomed.

Brophy winced. “If…”

Another blaster bolt resounded, and the sound of an angrily twirling lightsaber could be heard around the corner to the Archive.

Brophy winced again. “We could…”

“Speak up, Brophy,” Kaarsk said, his voice clipped and angry. “Do you have a way we might leave? We’ve already witnessed the clones opening fire on Jedi in the gardens, this doesn’t appear to be isolated.”

Brophy heaved a sigh, but Arca’dia interrupted him. Maatsu felt the Force swirl around her, submerged as she always was within its depths. “The Horizon?”

Brophy nodded stiffly. “It… it was my Master’s ship but… if it’s still in the hangar maybe we could…”

“You’re choosing now to worry about your Master’s approval?” Maatsu scoffed. “I for one am in favor of vacating the premises immediately; ownership be-damned.”

As if to accentuate his point, a screeching crunch nearly deafened all of them from behind the side doors to the Archive, which they were still standing relatively close to. Maatsu could suddenly feel that same trickle of the Dark Side seeping under the doors, and he flashed on the yellow eyes of the figure looming in the entryway. He found himself staring into Wek’s eyes.

“We need to go.” Wek said, confirming Maatsu’s frightened gaze.

“Then to the hangars!” Draugmand confirmed. As a group, the Padawans took off back the way Draugmand, Kaarsk, and Arca’dia had come, away from the sounds of the unfolding tragedy.

Ξ

The six Padawans ran along the outer floors of the Temple, eyes and ears peeled, their Force senses outstretched, but the latter was of little use. The Force was in turmoil. All around the Temple, tides of the Dark Side crashed through the walls of the ancient bastion of the Jedi like a great pounding tsunami—implacable and uncaring. Whatever was happening to the balance of light and dark, the Light Side was in the process of being utterly overwhelmed; something dark and terrifying had been unleashed.

Twice, they narrowly avoided engagements with the blue-striped clones, twice they watched as their fellow Jedi were felled, and twice they ducked away from pursuit, either making their way into a turbolift or successfully extricating themselves around a corner before they were spotted.

Only a few words were spoken between the group beyond verbal directions and commands. They halted, they waited, they continued running, and all the while, the smog of smoke and fire grew ever-more oppressive. Presently, they alighted from the turbolift to the rooftop garages and hangars around the base of the northwest spire, that of the Tower of First Knowledge. Whether by luck or by the will of the Force, it seemed the clones had not yet reached this part of the temple.

Even as Maatsu silently voiced his gratitude amidst a still-thudding heart, the wind picked up in the brisk Coruscanti night air, and an ominous sound carried with it: A warbling repulsor assembly that all Padawans had come to know since the start of the Clone Wars, that of an LAAT gunship.

“Hurry!” Arca’dia urged as they scanned the light-polluted skyways. She was the first to spot them using her extraordinary Force sight. She pointed south.

There, just visible against the endless glimmering skyline of the galactic capital, were three LAATs on an intercept vector with the temple, their distinctive broad A-frame silhouettes unmistakable.

“Are they coming for us?” Wek chirped.

“If they get close enough to fire, we’re dead,” said Brophy.

“Let’s not find out,” Kaarsk added.

Brophy took the lead, rushing past a few diplomatic shuttles used by the Jedi, then a pair of private airspeeders. Maatsu lingered a sidelong glance at the red hotrod, but Draugmand’s oppressive footfalls behind him urged him onwards.

“There it is!” Brophy called.

Maatsu’s eyes snapped up as Draugmand whooped a loud affirmative.

The Horizon, it seemed to Maatsu’s eyes, was a big ugly ship, close to twice the size of most Corellian freighters. Its blocky flat frame reminded Maatsu of a closed-face sandwich, except that the durasteel panels were a hideous ruddy gold, with darkly polarized viewports visible running the length of the raised central spar. Two forward laser cannons jutted from beneath the dorsal fore-mounted cockpit like speared tusks, and those sat above an enormous ovoid deflector dish—currently dark. Maatsu had to admit that the ship looked to be in good condition, but there was simply no getting around the heinous visual mar that was the two enormous spherical arrays of unknown purpose, mounted symmetrically opposed at the port and starboard amidships. To Maatsu, his best guess was that they were deflector shield arrays, but they were disproportionately huge compared to the overall scale of the ship, and then what would be the point of having a large deflector dish? Regardless, they utterly ruined any aesthetic appeal of the ship’s design, and their appearance was, to put it politely, thoroughly vulgar to his eyes.

“We… we have to travel in that?” Maatsu uttered as they approached the vessel, still jogging briskly.

Brophy either didn’t hear him or deigned not to answer as he clambered onto the starboard landing strut, apparently feeling around inside for—“Aha!” the human quipped triumphantly. “Got it!”

“Just so,” said Maatsu as he eyed the ship ruefully.

Brophy hopped off the landing boot and clicked the remote activator he now held.

Atmosphere vented from the ship’s underside in a large rectangular section some five meters above them, and in short order, an outline of light indicated a descending platform from the belly of the ship. It came as no surprise then to Maatsu that their fortuitous lots were to continue thusly as, just as the cargo platform reached the garage floor, a klaxon started to blare from back towards the turbolift. The Padawans whirled as the sound of the approaching LAATs reached a fever pitch.

“Everybody on!” Brophy had to scream to be heard over the noise.

The six of them did so.

A moment later, the LAATs flashed by above the garage.

“They’re not for us!” Draugmand cried.

Kaarsk narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

The group gazed at the LAATs again. Just beyond the perimeter of the temple, the three dropships had begun a hard bank left as they came around.

Brophy slammed his fist into the lift controls. “C’mon, c’mon, ‘c’mon, c’mon…” he chattered under his breath as the pneumatics hissed and whined, and the heavy-duty platform began to rise slowly into the belly of the Horizon.

Draugmand growled as they rose, “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Maatsu caught Arca’dia proffer a thin smile. “It wouldn’t even matter if we lightened the load,” her voice had a thin note of playfulness in it.

At the Dowutin’s bemused expression, Wek piped up. “A load deck of this size has high torque for heavy cargo loads, but it isn’t meant for fast ascension. This is top speed.”

Draugmand’s nostrils flared in annoyance and Maatsu saw his hand drift towards the hilt of his training greatsaber for comfort.

Only a few seconds later, the LAATs—which were quickly completing their turnaround—disappeared from view as the Padawans rose into the ship. No sooner did the series of clanks and thuds echo that the ventral loading door seals were good did Brophy scramble off and pelt flat-out for the aft doors to the cargo bay they found themselves in.

“Come on!” Brophy called over his shoulder. The rest of them followed.

Maatsu gave a cursory glance to the cargo bay, but little stood out to him for the moment, a few lazily covered crates lay scattered around the large ventral space, and the walls were lined with crash webbing. Thoroughly unappealing, Maatsu thought as he raced after the others.

Brophy pelted out of the cargo bay, through an open hatchway, up a flight of stairs, then a turn and up two more. Up they went through the vessel, the rest of them breathing hard as they came up behind. Finally, Brophy ascended a final flight of stairs and clamored through another open hatch. A long, dimly lit chamber stretched out ahead with inset emergency lighting giving off a muted pale ambience. The grated deck plates stretched ahead amidst a handful of dark computer stations, and Maatsu noted four pilot’s ladders that descended along the starboard side below the floor into recessed hemispheric pods of some kind. He couldn’t even guess at their purpose.

Still, Brophy ran foredecks, the deck plates rattling under his Jedi boots, to the end of the long chamber and at last into a relatively spacious cockpit. A pair of flanking pilot and copilot seats with their attending stations sat aft. Between them, a three-step descent to a second pair of flanking support stations were situated at the cockpit’s fore. The Padawans arrived behind as Brophy dropped into the starboard pilot’s chair. Maatsu could feel all of their hearts racing, their collective fear and uncertainty filtering into the air, and into the Force. He watched Brophy tap a button on the armrest and the seat clicked to life, sliding along a rail and locking into place at the console. Then, Brophy froze.

“Brophy,” Arca’dia asked gently. “Do you know how to fly this thing?”

The young man bit his lip then nodded. “Sure. Sure, yeah. I can fly it.”

“You sound less than sure,” Kaarsk remarked dryly.

“No, I can do it.” Brophy took a deep breath. “I can do this.”

“Well, you better do it fast,” Maatsu said, and pointed through the huge domed transparisteel canopy.

The LAATs were back, and they were descending on the garage. Their side deployment doors were already pulled open, and the Padawans could see more clones lining the transports’ bays.

“Why are they doing this?!” Draugmand asked, the first tint of fear in his voice as Kaarsk, without a word, crawled into the copilot’s seat on the port side.

“I don’t know,” said Arca’dia, her veil seemed to hang low as she shook her head. “The Force is… so clouded…”

Maatsu squeezed himself into a corner as he had no worldly clue how to fly a ship like this, or any ship, for that matter.

A series of consoles came to life as Kaarsk and Brophy’s hands began to fly over their respective controls. Deep in the ship, they heard the engines come to life. The air warmed with the faint smell of recycled air. Outside the windows, the LAATs had deposited their troops and were rotating in the tight quarters around the other vessels in the garage. The clones had begun their approach towards the Horizon.

“Can’t we do something?!” Maatsu asked from his corner.

Kaarsk glared sidelong at him. “We’re doing it,” he growled.

“Well sure but—”

“Gunship, gunship—shoot the gunship!” Draugmand bellowed.

They looked up to see the pinched nose of the clone gunship training itself directly at them, they could almost feel the targeting arrays locking missiles on them.

“Brophy!”

“Hang on!” Brophy shouted. “Kaarsk?”

The Bothan grabbed the firing sticks and pulled the triggers.

The floor rocked as the forward cannons fired, the shots going wide. The wall of the garage exploded as the medium laser cannon blasts impacted. The LAAT veered to the side and Kaarsk fired again.

“Engines hot!” Brophy called.

“Take off, take off now!”

Kaarsk fired again as the LAAT went to ascend from the garage—and landed a hit. “Got it!” he cheered. The LAAT exploded in a shower of fire and metal, the shockwave throwing the last clones to exit the transport to the garage floor in a heap.

“Lifting off,” Brophy shouted. “Hold on!” He yanked the landing release.

There was a brief sensation of weightlessness as the Horizon pulled its bulky frame from the ground. It hovered for a moment just as the clones below opened fire. Crimson blaster bolts pelted off the underside of the vessel. Kaarsk fired the cannons again at the other two gunships as they maneuvered, trying to squeeze around the garage.

“We’re out of here!” said Brophy.

“Oh no…” said Arca’dia.

As the Horizon spun and began its ascension, they could all see, for but a moment, the Jedi Temple spread out below them. Fires had erupted on every floor and smoke billowed into the night sky. Off to the west, they could see what appeared to be a sidecar speeder fleeing the temple, chased by two more LAATs; almost certainly more Jedi making their escape. All told, the absence of red-and-blue emergency vehicle lights made the scene that much more ominous.

“They’re, they’re killing the Jedi…” Draugmand said, his voice somber. “All of us.”

“Not all of us,” Kaarsk muttered, his voice low, determined.

They fled. The ship climbed through the upper atmosphere of the galactic capital. Traffic alarms blared on the consoles, but Brophy slapped them off. “Where do we go?” he asked to the silent cockpit.

“I suppose,” said Wek, “it does not really matter, as long as it’s away from the clones, right?”

A long few minutes later, as law enforcement and clone interception teams began to rise after them in hot pursuit, Kaarsk input their decided coordinates into the navicomputer, and the Horizon leapt from the skies above Coruscant into hyperspace, bound for parts unknown.

Chapter Text

Three years later…

Amidst the countless colonized agriworlds in the Mid and Outer Rim Territories, Dantooine enjoyed the uniquely enviable position of being a reasonably temperate world on which a colonist might start a profitable new life in agricultural or horticultural pursuits, without any real fear of significant oversight from the Corporate Sector, nor interference from the Hutts or the major cartels, all owing to a pronounced lack of valuable resources on or below the planet’s drab olive-and-lavender rolling landscapes, be they technological, metallurgical , or otherwise. On the surface, Dantooine could be seen as a relatively idyllic place to settle, to farm, and to enjoy “the quiet life”, as it were.

Yet, to the end of its position, should a curious being go seeking deeper into Dantooine’s grassy lakeshore crust, or did a little digging on the HoloNet into the planet’s history, an intrepid investigator would likely stumble upon a wealth of historical anecdotes and artifacts dating as far back as 5,000 years, or as recently as the Clone Wars. Throughout its colonized history, Dantooine had played a not-insignificant supporting role in the shaping of galactic events, whether the local citizenry was aware of or cared about it or not.

Perhaps it should come as no surprise then that the exiled Padawans, survivors of Order 66, and the now-crew of the Alidade-class long-range survey ship, the Horizon, would choose just such a place for the unknowing start of their grand adventure. Perhaps they followed an unconscious imperative of the Cosmic Force to march them to the doorstep of what would become their incredible fates, or perhaps it was simple instinct that led them to the mid-sized settlement-city of Khoonda in the Matale Highlands near Dantooine’s sub-equatorial grasslands region. Whatever the reason, the weight of worlds far heavier than young shoulders should have to bear would nonetheless fall on those of the Padawan Exiles, and that weight would define them into figures etched in stone on the cosmic turning of the galactic history…

Ξ

The shrill howl of the yard whistle cut through the rhythmic cacophony pervading the floor of the TaggeCo. cargo landspeeder assembly factory. It was closing time. Workers of several species and assorted gender affiliation dropped what they were doing without finishing another thing and started to move, rousing themselves from the day’s toils and meandering towards the exits, lit by the cloudy evening’s light through the huge bay windows of the warehouse. A long line waited as union cards were punched at the entry/exit turnstiles, the tired but not unpleasant raucousness rising at the prospect of a mid-week shift done and over with as all pretense of workman’s etiquette dropped, and the bustling many trickled out of the voluminous warehouse.

Just outside the two-story warehouse doors, the tiered-sectional Ubrikkian Industries’ foreman’s assistant droid spun its many appendages, calling out through its loudspeaker mouthpiece and handing out flimsiplast fliers to whomever was in reach, “Do not forget,” it said in its affirmative neutral tone, “next Zhellday at 1800 GST, the Colony Trades’ Union is having its quarterly town hall, where workers may present complaints and other concerns without fear of repercussions…” The flimsiplast fliers were snatched up by laughing and tired men and women alike and just as quickly discarded, left to get trampled on the duracrete as they left their posts.

Just beyond the foreman’s assistant, the three food carts had spread out their wares, and the daily entrepreneurial hustle for the best Botoga tamales began in earnest. The savory wafts of stewed Nerf steak cubes, pulled Shaak brisket, and baked panza-rice cakes drifted towards the building on the cool favorable evening breeze, and any thoughts of union town halls were immediately forgotten. The first workers off the factory floor got the first take of daily tamales, as their stations were closest to the exits. The unfortunate workers who had stations at the back of the warehouse didn’t even bother getting in line at the carts; there were never enough for them anyway.

Cash tills sang and quick credits were exchanged as some bought a single Botoga for the commute home, or others purchased a dozen or more for their families for dinner. Kaarsk waited patiently mid-way down the line for the Shaak brisket Botogas, idly scratching his ear fur, his safety helmet cradled under the arm of his sweat-stained workman’s jumpsuit. The faint irritated flutters of the visible fur on his body, which revealed his true feelings at a long queue, was interpretable to no one present; no one here recognized the nuance of a Bothan’s wrendui—the way of the ‘Dance of Feeling Mane’. The anonymity continued to be a great asset to him in this life of hiding. His reverie was broken as he reached the head of the line.

“Heyyy, hey hey Sket, been awhile. Just for you or for the kids tonight, too?” the barrel-chested Klatooinian cart-proprietor garbled, his sagging brown cheeks ruddy from the heat of the fold-away kitchenette he was working, sitting open on the back of his old beater SoroSuub landspeeder.

Kaarsk gave his friendliest smile, no mean feat with his long and lean snout, sharp teeth, and fierce binocular eyes. “Whole clan tonight, Borvan. Thanks.”

Borvan clicked his tongs at the Bothan, laughing heartily around quivering jowls above a stubby canine face and visibly protruding underbite as he deftly snatched up a dozen Shaak brisket Botogas, wiping the juice from the steaks onto his stained apron as he did so.

“Ahh, sorry,” Kaarsk amended, “Half-and-half.”

Borvan shrugged, putting the tamale back on the warmer and instead reaching for the paper-wrapped panza-rice cakes, plucking them into the bulging paper bag. “Can’t let the little ones be picky, Sket. Can’t do it. Not when they’ve got a full belly and a papa who brings home the bacon.”

Kaarsk nodded along. “True. ‘Course I can always eat the extra myself.”

Borvan barked a laugh and shook his head. “Can do, can do!” He handed over the bag. “Sixteen,” and he held out a long-nailed, calloused hand.

Kaarsk clapped a twenty-credit chip into the Klatooinian’s palm. “Keep the change.”

Borvan met his eyes and tipped his tongs to him. “You’re a fine Bothan, sir, a damn good one. Enjoy!”

Kaarsk nodded and moved away, the bag of food stashed in his work helmet, the milling thrum of the daily exodus spilling out all around him. He marched away, pulling his hood up as it started to drizzle in Dantooine’s cool autumn air.

Ξ

 The streets of Khoonda bustled as much as they could for the end of second shift. As a safely mid-sized city at its densest, Khoonda didn’t experience real traffic congestion, and local ordnances prevented air traffic directly over the city, so it had none of the endless air traffic that could be found on Coruscant, Denon, or Brentaal IV. Instead, airspeeders and civilian speeder bikes moseyed along wide unplanned city streets, with the occasional transit bus making the rounds through hub stops.

Kaarsk adjusted his hood to keep his snout out of the autumn drizzle as he walked, head down, arm feeling the warmth of the tamales suffuse the plastoid of the cheap safety helmet he carried. He caught the bus and rode it to the lower-income end of town, only a handful of blocks from the warehouse, the faintest of satisfied grins poking out from under his hood as he did so. Always on time, he mused as he paid the bus fare and disembarked.

“Have a nice day,” the droid bus driver said as Kaarsk stepped off.

Kaarsk ignored the droid and walked on, the doors closing behind him with a hiss of pressurized air. The Bothan rounded the fenced corner of the developmentally-challenged high-rise construction zone and nearly froze. A pair of Imperial stormtroopers, their white plastoid armor dirtied by the drizzle, marched straight towards Kaarsk. His heartrate spiked, but he had the wherewithal not to slow down or display any reaction; reactions invited questions, and questions invited arrest.

Kaarsk’s ears flattened against his head beneath his hood, and he tightened his grip on his cradled helmet as he came abreast of them, head bent against the downpour. He spared a glance at their clean black E-11 blaster rifles, held casually pointed at the ground. His heart pounded in his ears at the perfectly in-tandem clomp, clomp, clomping of their plastoid boots approached, followed by heated voices that scratched through the helmet speakers.

“…disturbance was cleared out last month,” one of them was saying. “If you want to report new activity to the chief, be my guest.”

“You saw it, though,” the other insisted. “Those squatters know they’ll get the truck if we catch ‘em. I just need you to back me up when I make my report.”

“Are you saying you really want to go back and…”

They passed by Kaarsk without acknowledging him. He didn’t dare turn around. He focused on his breathing, and on keeping his pace steady. Just across the next intersection, the five-high apartment building stood, he was almost there. As the stormtroopers’ argument faded behind him, he stopped at the intersection, checking to make sure there were no more coming from any direction, then he hurried across the street, slipped his security chit into the entry door socket, waited for the click, and rushed inside.

On the fourth floor of the unremarkable apartment block, Kaarsk extricated himself from the leaky stairwell and marched down the hall to 4-C. He had to jam the key fob cylinder into the lock three times before it finally relented, uttering the pleasant beep that indicated the door was unlocked. Quickly, he pushed the door open, allowing just enough space for his relatively lithe frame to squeeze through, closed and locked the door behind him, and let out a ragged breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

A hurried silence met him in the apartment.

“Kaarsk?” Wek asked from down the hall, peeking out of his workshop closet. From the open entryway, Kaarsk could see Wek’s work lamp aglow through the folding slats of the closet doors, and the smell of solder, electrical smoke and unwashed Jawa told him the habitual creature likely hadn’t moved all day.

“I’ve got dinner,” Kaarsk called, steadying his voice and moving to the crude island counter that sat covered in assorted notices, possessions, trinkets, and datapads of the apartments’ six occupants. Unable to find a clear space to place the bag of tamales, he huffed and plopped the bag down on top of a pile of three haphazard datapads.

“Oh, okay,” said Wek, and his head vanished. A moment later, the bright flash of a welding torch lit the hallway from under his door.

Kaarsk shook his head as he removed his cloak, noting the muddy rugs on the hard floor. His lip twitched as he moved to grab the watering can.

“Was that the door?” Maatsu’s voice called from deeper in the apartment.

Wek didn’t answer, and neither did Kaarsk as he stepped towards the large rectangular transparisteel window. He unlocked the latch and lifted the window outward, causing a slurry of rainwater to splatter off the awning above.

“Kaarsk?” Maatsu called, emerging from down the hall.

“Here,” the Bothan answered as he began watering the plants in the green box. The drizzling pitter-patter of raindrops on the raised window was an utterly relaxing sound that Kaarsk allowed himself a solitary moment to enjoy.

“You know its raining, right?” Maatsu said, his voice edged with snide superiority as ever.

“I know,” said Kaarsk, his moment shattered. “But the rainwater doesn’t have a grower’s formula; formulated nutrients for healthy plants.”

“They’re plants, they like fresh rainwater,” Maatsu responded. “Oh good, you got tamales. Did you pick up my panza—”

“—They’re in there,” Kaarsk interrupted. He turned as he came back from the window, locking it, and stopped. “What are you wearing?”

Maatsu looked up from the bag of food, the rich yellow of his Pantoran eyes glinted with genuine curiosity. “What?”

Kaarsk indicated the soft, shimmery purple shirt that ballooned just-so over Maatsu’s well-fitted pants and hard-topped slippers.

Maatsu raised his arms, looking at himself as if Kaarsk had indicated he stepped in something. “What about it?”

Kaarsk set the watering can back on its perch near the door under the vaporator spigot. “It looks new.”

Grasping Kaarsk’s implication, the debonair smirk returned to the Pantoran’s tattooed face. “I got it on sale, I think it’s excellent!” His eyes glittered. “Don’t you think so?”

Kaarsk set his jaw. “Expensive sales are still expensive. How’d you pay for it?”

Maatsu pursed his lips and immediately went back to digging in the food bag. “I… had some surplus,” he replied.

Kaarsk took a step towards the kitchenette as Maatsu emerged from the bag, two panza-rice tamales gripped between his soft fingers. “From where?”

A shrewd smile tugged at the corner’s of Maatsu’s mouth. “Wek.”

“Wek?” Kaarsk’s voice was dubious at best.

“Wek.” Maatsu affirmed.

Kaarsk whirled and began marching down the hall towards the Jawa’s closet.

“He said he didn’t need them!” Maatsu called after him.

Kaarsk knocked on Wek’s closed folding closet door, perhaps a little too hard as he heard the Jawa yelp inside. “Wek!”

He heard the Jawa scrambling around. Then the folding slats slid open, and the diminutive creature emerged, flipping up a pair of welding goggles as he did.

“Hi Kaarsk,” Wek said pleasantly. “Everything okay?”

Kaarsk crossed his arms. “Did you give Maatsu money?”

Wek’s hood dropped as he lowered his head. “…No?”

“Wek,” Kaarsk urged.

“Maybe.”

Kaarsk took a deep breath.

“It’s alright! I had a buyer come in looking for some extra exhaust manifolds this week. Fancy fella, looked like he was from the Core. Said he wanted all of his swoops outfitted with aftermarket parts! Did you hear that, Kaarsk? ‘ALL’ of his swoops! Sounds like he has a whole fleet of them. Must be nice, having that many parts to play with. You know, there’s an Aratech rep near Market Square that I think I could sell my designs for—”

“—Wek!”

“And Draug?”

“Overnight again at the club.”

Kaarsk met Maatsu’s gaze. “He knows he can’t get into another brawl, right? Because we can’t—”

Maatsu held up a hand as he picked through his rice, “—He knows.”

Kaarsk took a massive bite out of his tamale, letting the warm meaty juices suffuse his mouth, excellently seasoned, with just a hint of heat. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy it.

“I’d be more worried about the caves,” Maatsu mused.

Kaarsk nodded, and he watched as bits of Botoga disappeared into the dark void of Wek’s hood. The Jawa’s legs dangled from the bench and he made little happy Jawa sounds as he ate.

Sensing the scrutiny, Wek looked up and held up his tamale. “Thank-you, Kaarsk!”

Kaarsk tightened his lips and nodded. Then he looked back to Maatsu. “The caves are too vast to survey properly.”

Maatsu finished his tamale and scrunched up the wrapping. “Nothing we can do about it tonight. Want to watch anything?”

Kaarsk thought about it. “No. I’m just going to have a wash and go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

Maatsu shrugged. “Suit yourself,” and he snatched the HoloNet remote from the messy table, plopping himself firmly on the couch.

Ξ

 Kaarsk allowed himself to use the refresher a solid three minutes longer than the household’s agreed-upon allotment. He let the hot water stream through his fur, watching it swirl and turn a sludgy brackish color as it circled the drain. He sighed with gravitas.

When he dropped onto his bunk in his shared room with Draugmand, he found himself spinning to look out of the poorly ventilated window. The outside world was steamed over by the moisture in the air both outside and within the apartment, the condensation fogging the cheap transparisteel window. He didn’t bother wiping it away. The view gazed up the street towards the Imperial Security Bureau’s local agency office; impossible to miss, what with the extravagant Imperial heraldry draped over its edifice and the constant cycle of monochromatic uniformed lackeys milling about the entrance.

The proximity of the ISB building hadn’t been a problem when they arrived in Khoonda, but every few months, new notices about Imperial expansion trickled out from Coruscant. New worlds fell under the heel of the relentless march of the new stormtrooper corps boots at a steady rate, and any pockets or talk of dissent dribbled away as quickly as they were formulated.

Kaarsk produced a small pin from his breast pocket and gazed at it, twisting it between his fingers so it caught the light. The pin showed a complex, seven-sided spiraling fractal emerald-green knot pattern, which sat on vertically split fields of white and yellow. Gripping the mounting needle for the pin, he spun it idly like a top between his fingertips, giving the knot pattern the illusion of smooth animation. Back and forth he spun it while he lay on his cot, staring at the streetlights outside the window. In his mind, the click of magnacuffs echoed with each clockwise spin, then the report of a blaster and a scream on the counterclockwise return. Click then blast, click then scream.

He drifted off with the needle between his fingers, the face of the pin pressed firmly to his chest, his jaw tightly clenched.

Chapter Text

Brophy took a steadying breath, the cool moist air carrying scents of old creature musk and clay. “You’re sure there’s nothing in here?” he plied.

For not having eyes, Arca’dia could certainly deliver a poignant raised eyebrow with the tilt of her head. “I said there’s nothing large enough to be of concern,” she corrected.

Brophy sighed in exasperation. “That’s not the same thing.”

“I’m aware of that, but there is no cause for concern. Unfortunately, I also believe there is no cause for excitement, either.”

Brophy shrugged. “This is the first cave I’ve found that isn’t on any of the local topographical surveys. I think it’s worth checking out, right?”

Arca’dia nodded. “Indeed, that sounds like a reasonable conclusion to make. And, based on the relative isolation of this location, it seems not unreasonable to assume just such an answer.”

Brophy uttered a low groan. “You know, a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is real simple? It gets old sometimes—the cryptic thing.” He held out a hand as Arca’dia scrambled over the boulders blocking the entrance to the cave.

Taking Brophy’s firm grip, Arca’dia slid down the boulder blocking the entrance to his level. “I apologize. I find it… difficult, to communicate definitives, when so much of the outcome of ones’ situation is determined by ones’ choices, modified by the efficacy of relevant information one has been provided with.”

Brophy grunted as he descended to the next boulder inward and repeated the process of helping the Miraluka down. “Uh huh.”

Arca’dia sounded genuinely apologetic. “I don’t mean to make your choices difficult, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Brophy wobbled his head. “Not exactly. Guess I’m not really sure what I’m getting at.”

He caught her smiling at him. “You talk when you’re nervous.”

Brophy mustered a cold, dead stare her way. “I’m not nervous.”

“Of course not.”

They lapsed into silence as they made their way deeper beyond the cave mouth. Brophy knew that the Horizon’s extraordinary surveyor suite could map this entire cave system in a matter of minutes, but he wasn’t willing to accept the risk of having to explain to any Imperials as to why a survey ship was mapping a known commodity like Dantooine’s grassland cave networks; such places had long been deemed bereft of any value.

The air grew drier as they descended. Brophy unrolled a pack of glow rod pitons and began hammering them into the limestone walls at intervals, marking their way. The sound of each impact split his ears and raised his anxiety, but he did it all the same.

“No sign of kinrath,” Brophy commented after nearly an hour and half his pitons.”

Arca’dia hummed in agreement. “I smell no traces of them, or any other significant lifeforms, for that matter. Isn’t that odd?”

“Very. It’s the right temperature, more than deep enough, obviously well cut off from the outside. It’d be perfect for spiders.”

“And yet,” Arca’dia concluded.

“And yet…” Brophy agreed, trailing off. He unhooked his blaster holster, just in case.

They pressed onward, and Brophy couldn’t help a growing sense of unease at this place. Far from a sense of threat or any indicators of danger for which he was used to finding on his foraging expeditions across the grasslands, this network held… absolutely nothing. No indicators of insectoid or arachnid lifeforms, nor any larger mammalian predators or prey, yet, to his eyes, it seemed like a perfect sanctuary for the native fauna. The lack of any droppings or any other telltale signs was… unnerving.

As if in answer to his latent musings on their steady descent into Dantooine’s crust, Arca’dia spoke into the void. “The Force feels… strange here.”

“How so?” Brophy asked, bracing a hand over a low-hanging lump in the particularly shallow tunnel they occupied, so that she wouldn’t hit her head.

“It feels as if—thank-you—as if we’re descending in elevation yet climbing upriver. The Force feels as if it is not naturally being drawn into the vicinity, but I can feel it pulling faintly along this cave network all the same.

Brophy frowned. His connection to the Force had never been particularly virulent, so he trusted Arca’dia implicitly in this. “Does that mean it feels as if… as if the Force was purposefully diverted here?”

“I’m uncertain. I can’t say if such an action were possible, but neither could I say if it were impossible, either.”

Brophy took a steadying breath. “And if you had to hazard a guess?”

She paused for a moment. “Maybe… What if, what if its similar to unclogging the recycler drain?”

Rocks clinked underfoot as they made their way around another bend in the tunnel system.

“How so?” Brophy asked.

“Well,” Arca’dia spoke slowly, as if she was working out her answer as she delivered it. “Consider how a drain is generally blocked by constructed action—someone either chooses to block the drain, or does so as a byproduct of organic function. Dirty hair and detritus, bodily excrement or fluids, and so on.”

Brophy made a sarcastic show of scrunching up his nose and mumbled, “Mm hmm.”

Arca’dia continued. “If enough backup occurs in the drain, it interrupts the flow of water to the lowest point of elevation. Currents are disrupted, and any smooth sense of flow is erased. Unpredictable eddies and whorls form, and pressure builds at other potential escape points.”

They continued along the tunnel, keeping within a few feet of each other. “Are you implying that there’s a kind of Force blockage nearby?” Brophy asked.

Arca’dia stumbled, then righted herself. “I’m positing hypotheses based on the current information available to me.” She paused. “But to your question, that certainly seems possible, if not even plausible.”

Brophy continuously swept his compact stylus glow rod in a search pattern across the tunnel. “Well, I’d say that’s more interesting than nothing.”

“True,” Arca’dia agreed. “I’ll keep you updated on the currents.” She reached out and grasped the strap of his pack and allowed him to lead her forward while she concentrated beyond the mantle of the corporeal and into the ethereal currents of the Living Force.

Deeper they went, stopping at intersections both vertical and horizontal, whereupon they waited for Arca’dia to feel her way through the currents of the Force, choose a path, then stop just a few meters within in order for Brophy to hammer in another of his near-depleted supply of glow rod pitons. Then, as the hours ticked into the oppressive silence of the morning, Brophy froze abruptly, causing Arca’dia to nearly run into him.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Do you feel anything?” he replied, his voice hushed.

She went quiet for a moment, then he heard her faint intake of breath. “I do. Is there an imminent danger?"

Brophy dropped his center of mass, preparing to move quickly if necessary. Then he slowly began to sway his neck left, and then right, focusing on the apparent end of the tunnel, which had just been illuminated by his glow rod, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“What is it?” Arca’dia repeated.

“I…” Brophy trailed off. “I see a pattern in the rock…”

He could hear the frown in Arca’dia’s voice. “What sort of pattern?”

He couldn’t help letting out a chortle as he said, “A visual one.”

Her low frustrated growl made him crack a smirk.

It’s like—it’s like the layers in a shadow box. Have you ever seen one of those?”

Her silence clarified his error.

“Right. Umm…” He took a step forward, pistol now in-hand and sighted above the glow rod in his off hand. “Picture a static frame. It isn’t moving, it will never move, and it isn’t intended to move. Yet, the purpose of the image in the frame is designed to trick your eyes into thinking that it’ll move through the use of multiple layered partial images. When you align them correctly, or design them the right way, they can trick the human eye into thinking they’re animated. It’s called an ‘optical illusion’.”

“Interesting,” Arca’dia said, although Brophy detected a hint of masked unease beneath her cool voice. “And that is what’s ahead of us?”

Brophy took another step, his head still slowly swaying left to right and back. “It… sure seems like it.”

Arca’dia cocked her head and squeezed his backpack straps a little tighter. “Do these ‘optical illusions’ work only on human eyes?”

Brophy paused, frowning. “I hadn’t thought of that before. I guess it could have something to do with the way in which we process information, but it might be interpreted differently by another species, like a Duros or an Ithorian or—”

“—Maybe a Jawa? Or a Bothan?” she finished his train of thought.

Brophy turned back to her, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Or a Pantoran?” He looked back towards the narrowing apparent end of the cave system, and couldn’t describe the thorough sense of unease he felt at approaching it any closer, but the thought of having the rest of the Padawans present gave him tangible comfort. “Let’s put a marker down, then,” he said. “We can all come back together tomorrow.

“Agreed,” Arca’dia nodded, then turned a swift about-face as Brophy lead her back up the tunnel.

Ξ

Despite protestations—particularly from Maatsu—the Padawans returned the following evening, trailing behind Brophy and Arca’dia deep into the seemingly innocuous tunnel network. The tiebreaker decision of whether or not to explore as a group ultimately came from Wek, who, more absently than anything, had commented that the sheer intriguing upset to the daily monotony that had become their lives was worth investigating, if nothing else.

With Maatsu and Kaarsk outvoted, the Padawans had set out after dusk the following day, renting three Aratech speeder bikes for the trek out over the Dantooine grasses.

“Can you feel it,” Brophy asked from a point some fifty meters away from the shadow box end of the tunnel. “That… resistance?”

Draugmand’s lip twitched as he took another great step towards the strange formation of stalactites and stalagmites that formed a stony field at the end of their glow rod’s beams. The Dowutin grunted, “Ahh, it—my chest… it feels like its being squeezed…” Draugmand was still long strides away from the tunnels’ end, but his progress had slowed noticeably.

“I don’t feel any active or malicious response in the Force,” Arca’dia commented. “There… there doesn’t appear to be anything actively keeping you out.”

“Well I feel it,” Draugmand said through gritted teeth. His hand went to his chest, as if to steady himself.

Brophy crouched on an outcropped boulder near Kaarsk, Wek, and Maatsu. “Is it getting more intense as you get closer?”

Draugmand glanced over his shoulder and nodded vigorously. “Like opposing magnets,” he said. “But it hurts,” his big hand flexed over the center of his chest.

Brophy frowned and glanced down the tunnel. The illusion of the shadow box rock formation was ruined with Draugmand’s bulk blocking most of the view. From this angle, it looked like rows of sharp teeth as seen from the inside of a long, predatory mouth.

“So it’s a Force repellant cavern, what of it?” Maatsu bemoaned, absently pushing a pebble around with his soft-toed boot. “Did we have to come all the way out here to find that?”

Brophy was about to turn and snap at Maatsu’s whining, but something caught his eye, a reflective flicker in his peripheral vision. “Everyone, stop.”

All five of the other Padawans did so, detecting the surety of his tone.

Brophy leaned back, trying to find the point of reflection he had just seen. It only took a moment. There, the faintest twinkle from the end of the tunnel. Brophy turned his head ever-so-slowly so he could look at it directly.

“What’s wrong?” Kaarsk asked.

“Draug,” Brophy said in answer, “Don’t move.”

“O-okay,” said Draugmand.

Keeping his head perfectly still, Brophy clambered off the boulder, maintaining the position of the fleeting flicker as close to the center of his gaze as he could. He stepped carefully around Draugmand’s frozen form, grasping him firmly on the forearm without looking.

“Brophy?” Arca’dia asked. “What do you see?”

Brophy didn’t answer. He continued a slow, steady move towards the shadow box. Each foot he planted in front of the next, tested the weight, then did so again.

Through the delicately carved stalactites and stalagmites that made up the odd framing of the so-called shadow box, Brophy could see the reflected glint of his glow rod off of something behind it—a metallic seam, hidden behind the rock. He took another step—and came into immediate contact with a thickness in the air. He gasped, and planted his feet to steady himself; the walls were too far away to reach.

“You alright?” Draugmand asked, his deep voice carrying even in a low tone.

“Yeah,” Brophy said, nodding. “It’s…” he too, instinctively reached for his chest, feeling as if his heart was being constricted. It was a sensation of angry pins and needles. Like searing meat in a pan, but around his heart. “I feel it now. I’m—oh wow, I’m not sure I can move up.” Even as he said it, he tested himself by leaning forward, and with every centimeter gained, the hot tightness in his chest grew. He let out a hard gasp and pulled back. The pressure lessened.

“Well, try a lateral step then,” came Maatsu’s almost bored voice from behind.

The Padawans all fell silent and turned to look at their Pantoran friend.  

Maatsu was tracing an absent line along the house tattoos on his high cheekbones, gazing down the tunnel towards Draugmand and Brophy. Noticing the rest of the party’s gazes, he dropped his hand and shrugged. “What? The pattern’s a maze.”  

Brophy’s eyes went wide, and he met Draugmand’s identical look as the Dowutin turned back to look at him. Eyeing his footing, he took a step to the right. The pressure on his chest didn’t lessen, but it didn’t increase either. “Okay,” he muttered, then spoke up. “Okay Maatsu, I can see the lines in the stone now, but the pattern is already ruined from up here. Draug—”

Draugmand was already turning around. “Yup, I’ll go back.”

“Maatsu, Kaarsk?” Brophy asked once Draugmand had stepped back.

Another glow rod came on, highlighting the end of the tunnel, and now from the right half of the tunnel, Brophy could see another glint of metallic seam at the end around the central formation that made the “backing” of the shadow box. There was definitely something back there.

“Alright,” Kaarsk spoke up. “Take another step forwards.”

“You’re sure?”

“Think so,” Maatsu added.

Brophy took a long slow breath, then began to inch deeper towards the end of the tunnel. There was no change in the pressure on his chest. “Arca’dia, you can’t feel anything?”

“I can’t,” she answered. “At least, not beyond what I’ve already described.”  

“I… I think I can feel something.” Wek’s voice was small and tentative. Brophy turned his head carefully, and could see the Jawa had his hand held out, reaching out with the Force.

“What do you sense?” Kaarsk asked, coming to rest at Wek’s side.

“It feels like there’s emitters built beneath the tunnel floor—built into the rock beneath us,” the Jawa replied.

“Emitters?” Kaarsk sounded puzzled. “Of what sort? What field are they producing?”

Brophy felt that faint buzz of discovery growing within him, that intangible excitement that preceded finding something worthwhile on one of his delves. He hadn’t felt that sensation since his time with his Master. He pushed those thoughts away and tuned back in to Wek, who was struggling to describe what he sensed.

“—Repulsors couldn’t create a stable vertical field like this without a significant containment unit, and there’s nothing like that here... It does feel Force-ful, I’m just not sure how.” Wek trailed off, hand still outstretched.

“Is there a pattern?” Brophy asked, waving his arms around where he was standing, indicating possible invisible walls of a maze. Even as he did so, he could feel the strange pressure in the air wax and wane as he moved his hands around, like transitioning between air and water, except with each waxing of the pressure, he could feel the blood in his hands start to warm. He wasn’t terribly interested in exploring that sensation further.

Wek was quiet for a moment as Maatsu and Kaarsk whispered urgently, pointing past Brophy towards the shadow box. “I think there’s a pattern, yes,” said Wek. He looked at Brophy.

Brophy met his gaze. “Okay, go then. All three of you!” Wek jumped and moved over to Maatsu and Kaarsk. A long moment later, Maatsu said, “Forward another step,” and Brophy did so.

“Now left two paces,” Kaarsk said.

And on they went.

The pattern was complex, to say the least. It folded around itself like a proper maze, leaving no space unoccupied. The tunnel was easily fifty meters long, and the decoder’s voices rose steadily as Brophy moved away from them. They had one incident as he approached the end of the tunnel, and he took a confident step backwards, only to have a flood of heat and pain explode in his chest. He cried out and fell forward, the sensation of a hot vibroknife plunging directly into his heart caused him to see stars. He fell to his knees, gasping and breathing fast for a long moment while the other Padawans remained where they were, unable to rush forward for fear of suffering the same fate or worse.

“Are you alright?” Arca’dia called out.

Brophy spat on the floor and was shocked to find no blood. “I’m okay, just be more careful!”

“Sorry,” Wek answered, sounding worried.

“I told you it was left,” Maatsu chided.

“Shut up.” Kaarsk snapped. “It’s alright,” he added.

“So, it’s left, then?” Brophy spoke up.

“Yes!” The three of them called as one.

Swallowing, Brophy got to his feet and did as he was told—albeit with a speed reduced to the cautious rate it had been when they started.

A handful of steps later, and he was standing in front of the central formation. A comingling structure of stalagmite columns that had grown into a lumpy support structure with a third stalactite. The resulting growth gave the impression of a dead end, but now, standing up close, with the strange maze-etchings now visible on the formation, he could see there was space to either side of the central column, and a passage that ran behind it. The cool air wafted slowly, indicating some form of airflow beyond. Now that he was through the strange maze, that sense of uncertainty and foreboding returned, and he reached for the C-10 Dragoneye Reaper strapped to his waist and unhooked her, but didn’t draw.

“Okay,” Brophy said. “I’m going in.”

Without waiting to hear the rise of confused voices behind him, he stepped around the central formation, and into the space beyond.

Chapter Text

 Arca’dia knew it was fruitless to try and explain to her compatriots just how she saw the world. The Force acted as her eyes at all times, after all. She existed in a perpetual state of floating along its winding currents, subject to the wafts and eddies that took its course and altered the corporeal lives of those around her. The Padawans, and some of the Masters back at the Temple—When there was still a Temple, she thought—had tried to explain to her the sensation of using only their eyes to see the world around them, but it was something that only experience could provide, and that was something that would be forever out of her reach.

Not to say that Arca’dia regretted being born without eyes. On the contrary, she was quite proud of her heritage as a Miraluka. In truth, she had been chastised more than once by the Masters for implying that her vision was superior. Despite learning not to bring that truth to the other Jedis' attention became force of habit, but in her heart of hearts, she knew she was right. Seeing the world through the lens of the Force was something no being could impart in description to another; it had to be experienced, and only once it was experienced could one know that it was, without a doubt, the better way to see. Every day, she learned so much simply by watching the way the Force interacted around any given person on any given day.

Take Brophy for example. Brophy was, like most beings, a product of his upbringing. Arca’dia saw evidence of nurture in each of his actions throughout their days of isolation in Khoonda—an existence that Brophy seemed to thrive in, in direct contradiction to the other Jedi-in-hiding that made up their group of survivors. Brophy could sometimes be aloof, distracted, even stubborn, but his caring awareness of those he deemed important knew no bounds. He could sense danger before any other member of their little troupe. He knew when something wasn’t right, and he barely wielded the Force consciously with such instincts. Truly, the breadth of his danger sense was, in a word, breathtaking. But what made it such a privilege to be near, was watching Brophy’s innate effect on the Force around him. In his presence, Arca’dia could sense spears of cascading motes of golden light arc out from him as his attention shifted within new surroundings; always calculating, always examining the angles of safety and danger in his immediate vicinity. She might describe watching Brophy work as akin to watching a hunter creeping through the underbrush, not as a conquering death-dealer in a foreign land, but as a symbiotic predator, effortlessly drifting through its native terrain to unerringly find its prey, utilizing the environment around him to his best tactical and strategic advantage.  She could sense the interactions of his observations with the Living Force as it coursed through all things near and around what he, in turn, observed, and it was undeniably beautiful.

Yet, it was just such an awareness that gave her a wave of anxiety as Brophy, with nothing but a step at the far end of the Dantooine tunnel with the strange maze-like deterrence, disappeared from her blind sight. Such an innocuous thing was so sudden and jarring because Arca’dia’s ‘vision’ was based not on physical line-of-sight, but on a sense of mental focus within her immediate proximity, not unlike a case of panoramic nearsightedness; things in her direct focus and nearby were sharp, things in her periphery were visible but blurry, and things far away faded into blankness. She watched, in her proverbial way, as Brophy—who was well-within her usual proximity of able focus—evaporated, as if snapped out of existence. It was as if he had stepped beyond the Force, simply ceasing to be. The presences of the rest of her found family were still at her sides, pulsing, ululating beings of golden light, forms that shifted and changed as the Force reacted to their behaviors and their actions, but Brophy had disappeared.

She let out an involuntary gasp, and she felt the rest of her compatriots turn to her in concern. “Brophy?" she called.

His voice echoed down the tunnel and back to her.

Just like that, she could sense him again as he stepped back around the corner. She swallowed the rise of fear in her throat. “I—there’s—there’s a void. There’s a void where you just were.”

To her left in the cramped tunnel, she felt Draugmand’s gaze drift over her with a raised eyebrow towards Kaarsk, who met it dubiously.

“Arca’dia, are you alright?” Wek asked, placing a small, warm hand at her hip.

She shook her head, creating the faintest whisper of cloth on skin as her veil shifted over the top half of her face. “Be careful,” she said loud enough for Brophy to hear, forcing her tone to remain steady. “Something is not right with the Force here.”

The Force around Brophy blossomed with colors of gratitude and care. She felt his nod and wry smile. “Just like everywhere we explore,” he said, and he stepped back over the threshold.  

Maatsu was at her side then. “What do you feel?” he asked, the pretense of his cool indifference dropped into her space like a datapad.

She indicated down the tunnel. “It's as if the Force does not pass beyond the end of the tunnel. I’ve never felt anything like it.” Even as she said it, a chill crept across her body. “It feels like a… a total absence of the Force.”

Maatsu glanced down the tunnel, “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Arca’dia let out a soft laugh and held her arm out, indicating the end of the tunnel. “And yet.”

Maatsu closed his eyes, and she felt his conscious awareness of the Force expand around them. She had to admit, for a failed Padawan who had resisted every attempt at formal training, Maatsu’s innate gifts had remarkable potential. She witnessed as the scope of Maatsu’s senses crept deeper along the underground space, crawling over the invisible barriers that had impeded Brophy’s progress, and then freezing at the edge of the voided space. She watched Maatsu’s senses recoil as he touched the void, as if burned. “Do you sense it?” she asked.

Maatsu’s face pinched and he winced. “I do.” He pondered for a moment. “I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I,” Arca’dia agreed.

Draugmand, arms crossed, came abreast of them. “Well, we can’t go running through those barriers. I’d guess they’re lethal if you charge right through ‘em.”

“I agree,” said Kaarsk.

“Wek,” Arca’dia asked, turning to him. “You said you could feel a contraption of sorts beneath the tunnel floor, yes?”

Wek quirked his hooded head. “Yes, but…”

“Could you sense how to turn them off?”

Wek wrung his hands. “I would’ve already tried that if I thought I could. Manipulating the Force within manufactured materials is,” he paused, turning his lamplit eyes towards where Brophy had vanished. “It’s a new skill to me.” The apology in his voice was palpable.

Arca’dia smiled gently and took Wek’s hand in hers. “It is an impressive skill, one I couldn’t replicate.” She let go of his hand, and resisted the urge to call back down the tunnel.

Fortunately, Kaarsk was up to the task instead. “Brophy!” the Bothan called.

In defiance to the ethereal danger she sensed down the tunnel, Brophy answered, his voice rising with excitement. “Still here!”

“What’s back there?” Kaarsk called.

Brophy’s answer was more hesitant. “I think it’s a door!”

Arca’dia cocked her head as she felt waves of confusion roll off of herself and her companions.

“A door?” Wek queried.

“Or maybe a seal of some kind.” Brophy stepped back around the column, returning from the void. “This isn’t my area of expertise. Someone who’s senses are, well, better attuned, would probably be more useful looking at this.”

Arca’dia examined Brophy’s life force closely, a sudden, irrational thought drifting into her mind. What if something had happened to Brophy? What if this wasn’t really him? What if this void had somehow eaten the real Brophy, and this was merely a copy, a negative, of him? What if this void — “Do you feel any different standing near the door?” She interrupted her own train of thought, shutting it down.

Brophy shrugged. “Other than the low ambient temperature you’d expect from this depth? No, not really.”

Arca’dia swallowed. “Then perhaps we should all make our way through the maze.”

She heard Maatsu stifle a groan, but the Force swirling around him revealed a hint of genuine curiosity, betraying his true feelings.

He will have to learn to hide that better, she thought, a soft smile touching her lips.

The others assented with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Arca’dia proceeded to make her way through the maze in the middle of the group order, not wanting to be the first through the breach, but neither did she feel safe as the last.

For the better part of an hour, they worked as a methodical unit, escorting one person at a time, one after the other, through the invisible barriers, avoiding the pitfalls which had slowed Brophy’s progress, and slowly speeding up their clocked time with each successive passage. By the end of the ordeal, exhaustion and mental fatigue were setting in. Arca’dia’s head pounded, and she gratefully accepted a fruity nutrient bar from Brophy as he moved to each of them, doling out canteens and food on the far end of the invisible maze.

“Y’all need to get out more,” Brophy said as he posted up on the rock near where Maatsu had slumped against the tunnel wall.

Maatsu heaved amidst eating his bar. “Has… nothing to do… with physical exertion… you smug… shithead.”

Brophy’s smile quivered as he tried to keep it contained. “Absolutely so, pretty boy,” and he clapped Maatsu’s shoulder.

Wek was the first to finish his snack and hop back up. “Can we go look now?” he asked towards Brophy.

Brophy shrugged. “I’m not stopping anyone.”  

Wek gave a little yip of excitement and moved excitedly around the column, his short countenance making him bob over the rocks. Again, Arca’dia felt as the little Jawa moved beyond her sight, ceasing to be. She said nothing, but the spidery fingers of nerves continued to rattle through her body. She focused on chewing.

Barely a minute passed before they heard a rising chatter of excited Jawaese. Brophy and Draugmand were on their feet and around the corner first, while Maatsu, Arca’dia, and Kaarsk stood with more caution.

“I got it!” Wek chattered. “I did it, it’s opening!”

Arca’dia couldn’t see Brophy through the void ahead of her, but she could hear his heavy sigh. The Jawa had figured it out in mere seconds.

“Nicely done, Wek,” Draugmand’s voice carried around the pillar.

A low rumble grew to fill the air, and Arca’dia felt her heartbeat quicken. She stood mere feet from the edge of the void now, and suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she could step through it. What if something happened to her senses? What if she couldn’t find her way out of it? So many possibilities raced through her mind.

“Arca’dia?” Maatsu’s voice was curious, lightly concerned. She felt his hand on her shoulder. “Shall we?”

She nodded, her voice suddenly strangled.

The rumbling grew louder. Then, a loud scraping filled the air. The clicking of weapons being drawn echoed through the tunnel—but no lightsaber activations. They had hidden their training sabers in the bowels of the Horizon when they first arrived on Dantooine, and the ever-growing reach of the Empire had assured them that the danger of being caught with one far outweighed the value of carrying the legendarily identifiable weapons, especially since they were non-lethal trainers. Brophy had hoped that there might still be kyber crystals to be harvested in Dantooine’s ancient caverns, but aside from the occasional artifact scavenge during their time here, he had yet to find anything of particular interest. Instead, they carried a motley assortment of vibroswords and light blaster pistols—the kind that are easy to get a license for on a world like Dantooine, where practical blaster ownership was common, and a few shots were more than enough to scare off any wayward pest, or end the rare encounter with a raider gang. Their weapons were far from military-grade gear, but the Empire’s expanding list of punishable offenses had made the group wary of anything that could get them arrested and questioned.

“Arca’dia,” Maatsu urged. “Come on.” He gently pulled her forwards, right up to the edge of the void space around the column. Her heart had begun to race. She couldn’t see anything beyond it. She couldn’t sense what she could only imagine was some sort of ancient door grinding open. The smell of dust and dry dirt filled the air, but she still couldn’t see. Her heart raced, and she gripped Maatsu’s hand on her upper arm tightly for support.

She stepped through the edge of the void.

Then she screamed.

Chapter Text

Arca’dia’s scream split the silence at the end of the tunnel. Wek Pekim, who had been submerged in the Force, admiring the internal locking mechanism of the hidden door, whirled to see her gripping her veil while Maatsu held her from falling to the rough floor.

Maatsu and Brophy were at her side in an instant.

“Arca’dia?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What happened?”

“I ca-can’t… I can’t—who’s there?!”

Maatsu had a firm grip on her shoulder. “It’s just us! It’s just us!”

Brophy hovered in front of her. “Can you hear me? Arca’dia it’s alright! Describe what you feel. Talk to us, talk to me.”

Draugmand, Wek, and Kaarsk stood uncertainly, weapons drawn for security.

Arca’dia stood frozen just around this side of the column. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Wek observed as she tried to get her breath under control, turning it deep and raggedy. “I—I can’t feel anything.”

Brophy’s face lit up with alarm, but his voice remained calm. “Can’t feel anything? How so? Is it physical? Does something hurt?”

She shook her head and gestured wildly in front of her face. “No, no no no no, no, I can’t—grrph—I can’t feel anything!”

Maatsu picked up the thread. “I can feel you right here, you’re right here with us, alright? Is it not physical?”

Arca’dia nodded, wincing, then indicated her face again.

“Is it in the Force?” Maatsu pressed.

She nodded vigorously.

Maatsu and Brophy shared looks of concern. “What can’t you feel in the Force? Arca’dia, come on. What can’t you feel?”

Her breathing continued to slow.  Her voice dropped to barely a breath and she said, “Anything.”

Wek stood a little straighter as a chill went down his spine. That wasn’t possible. The Force was in everything! It could be found in all places, in all things. It surrounded everything in every place that exists. There was no such thing as the absence of the Force.

Maatsu had taken a knee in front of her as she hunched in the cave. “Did you feel something? Did something happen?”

Arca’dia shook her head. She swallowed, finding her voice amidst audible heavy breathing. “N—no its… I just stepped around the corner and…”

“Go on,” Brophy urged, his voice gentle.

She took another breath. “There’s nothing here.”

Wek could see now she was trembling.

“I’ve… I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s…” Her voice was draped with uncertainty, but Wek thought maybe the faintest hint of excitement? Or was that curiosity? “…I’m completely blind. Here, right now. This moment, in this exact spot. I can’t feel anything in the Force. It’s…” she trailed off. Then she stiffened. With crisp movements she stood, turned around, and retraced her steps back around the pillar—and cried out, tripping over the rough floor.

“Whoa!” Brophy and Maatsu shouted in unison as they dove to catch her.

A sharp crack echoed through the tunnel as she bounced her knee off the stone. It reminded Wek of the sound of a hydrospanner snapping at the handle. It was, to put it mildly, his least-favorite sound in the galaxy. He winced under his hood, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Her breathing came in heavy gasps, but not, Wek thought, from the pain of an injured appendage.

“It’s still here!” Relief cracked Arca’dia’s voice. “The Force, it’s—it’s still here!”

The side of Brophy’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Well sure, it didn’t go anywhere.”

She whirled on him. “That isn’t what I mean,” she insisted. “None of you noticed the change around this pillar?”

They traded uncertain looks, but Maatsu, rather than reply, stepped boldly back across the invisible threshold, eyes closed. His sharp intake of breath was confirmation enough. "Oh my," Maatsu breathed.

Brophy’s brow furrowed and he turned to Wek. “Then how did you open the door?”

Wek turned around, gazing into the beckoning dark beyond the circular doorway, longing to press deeper into this buried and ancient space. He took a step towards the door. “I can still feel the Force here.”

The others looked at him, confused.

“Wait, it’s,” Arca’dia rose, wincing as she favored her uninjured knee. “You’re saying its… only a perimeter?"

Wek closed his eyes and immersed himself in the Force. He startled himself off-kilter as his friends disappeared before him beyond the pillar. He should definitely be able to sense them, they were only a few paces away. From where he stood in the mouth of the doorway, he was at the center of a half-circular cylinder. From where he stood, he could feel the Force, its universal energy, its binding potential, drifting like cosmic motes through the air and the stone. But he could feel a hard boundary, just nearer to him than where his friends were, just at the edges of the pillar--not unlike standing at the edge of a balcony before a precipice. Beyond that boundary there was… nothing. The sensation of reaching out, only to feel not just a lack of something, but a true absence, an utter vacuum of sensation, of light, of life—it was not pleasant to touch. Something about it felt almost… almost hungry, like it was beckoning. Like the absence itself was resolved to be unnatural.

Finding his nerves rising at the sensation, Wek opened his eyes, letting his Force sensitivity fade into the background. His friends were still standing there, watching him. “I feel it too,” he said. “I don’t think its dangerous. Or…” he cocked his head. “Maybe just non-lethal,” he amended. He decided that if Arca’dia didn’t notice the frightening sensation he had just felt, it was best not to bring it to her attention.

The others exchanged looks. Wek struggled to read the humanoid expressions. So many of the humanoid bipedal species of the galaxy emoted with their facial musculature, but Jawas, with their moisture-trapping robes and eyes hidden behind woven yellow lenses in their hoods, communicated in a complex combination of vocal, sharp olfactory, and visible cues from the brightness and dimness of their lenses. Wek found the language of machines and droids to be generally much preferable to the complex and often contradictory words of humans and other aliens.

“I think it’s alright,” Wek said, hoping he sounded certain. He held out a gloved hand, beckoning Arca’dia and the others.

Arca’dia hesitated, then approached, buoyed as she was between Brophy and Maatsu. If Wek had reached out again with the Force, he wouldn’t have been able to see the far side of the barrier. As it was, he didn’t need to. It was entirely visible when Arca’dia came upon it, and when she crossed it. Her shoulders tensed, Wek watched as a flush crept over her pale lavender skin, her breath caught in her throat, and she gripped Brophy’s and Maatsu’s helping hands a little tighter.

Then they were through. Wek held out a hand to her, and Draugmand and Kaarsk followed close behind. From the corner of his eye, Wek noticed Kaarsk’s fur bristle and his ears twitch upon crossing the strange void barrier, and Draugmand shivered, but there was no response beyond that.

Wek had no ready explanation for the cause of the barrier, nor its purpose, but he was already hard at work taking mental measurements of its’ dimensions, and the sensation of touching an absence such as that. All would be put into his journals later. For now, with the entirety of the party across the proverbial bridge, Wek was eager to explore deeper in the tunnels, beyond the acute mechanisms of the strange door.

Leading the way, Wek was struck with a strange impression as the tunnel wove deeper into Dantooine’s crust. Why put such an elaborate barrier halfway along a tunnel on the way to… somewhere? Was it merely a deterrent? Were greater dangers lurking just beyond the range of their glow rod’s beams of light? Maybe it was Wek’s imagination, but as his mind wandered just as the tunnel deepened, he swore he felt a ripple in the Force ahead. It was as if he was crouched on the edge of a still pond, and someone or something had tapped the water on the far side, sending a singular ripple into Wek’s range of senses. More stalactites and stalagmites lined the walls of the tunnel, but the passage itself remained almost completely unimpeded, and Wek felt the noted silence of his companions as they pressed onward. 

In short order, the ground sloped upward and ascended for five, ten, twenty meters. Wek detected faint changes in the atmospheric pressure, and an incrementally growing acoustic decibel with every step. The scuffling echo of boots on stone in a tunnel gave way to—Wek furrowed his brow in confusion—sound-absorption. Their passage grew more muffled, the smell of the air became less earthy and more metallic, but cleaner, almost as if it had passed through a recycler. Again, Wek sensed those ripples in the Force up ahead—much closer now. Not active, per se, but not inactive either. He was certain that something awaited them, though he couldn’t say how he knew that.

“Ahp!” Brophy hissed, raising a gloved fist.

The group stopped.

Brophy’s glow rod beam had alighted upon a spherical protrusion that was entirely too uniform to be natural. It jutted out from the rock ahead and gave a faint translucent refraction as Brophy’s light hit it.

Wek recognized it almost immediately, but he didn’t have time to say “lamp”, before the device began to glow with a dim yellow light. Indeed, the lamp—likely activated by their motion—must have produced spectacularly low lumens indeed, for it did not blind them in the total darkness beyond their artificial beams of light.

“Look!” Wek pointed excitedly beyond the rocky overhang at a narrowing point in the tunnel.

Another lamp had come to life a meter or so beyond the first, then two more beyond that as the tunnel narrowed, and then they stopped, beckoning a dark space beyond, which swallowed the light from their glow rods.

“Well,” Maatsu whispered, “Wek, why’d you stop? Keep going.”

Wek did so. Through the gaping hole and into a space of cool musty air he went. His eyes flickered back and forth, trying to glean any reflection of light in the dark space. The party came through behind him, stumbling one-by-one with varying degrees of stealth aptitude (Maatsu stumbled over Draugmand’s foot, causing them both to curse audibly).

A low thrum rose into the air.

Wek froze, reaching for his homemade vibroshoto—a poor substitute for a lightsaber, but a viable alternative, nonetheless, and certainly better than nothing. At least the short sword was to his size, by design of course. “Do you hear that?” he murmured.

The thrum grew in intensity. It wasn’t a noise, exactly, more a low, nearly sub aural frequency, vibrating the air and causing Wek to hunch his shoulders involuntarily.

“There!” Kaarsk pointed, punctuating his choice with the glow rod.

A faint light crept up the far wall of the chamber in which they stood, a slow roil of pale amber chewed through the shrouded darkness of the space. The light grew to highlight what appeared to be an alcove at the far end of the chamber. Within the alcove stood something, perhaps a statue. Wek was unable to tell what it was, but as he pulled his focus back out to the greater space, he watched as several other alcoves alit with the amber glow.

Running fast geometry in his head, Wek estimated they were in a semi-circular—no, hexagonal—no again, heptagonal—chamber, roughly twenty meters in diameter. As the light extended to recessed alcoves all along the perimeter of the room, the space became highlighted along its hard edges. Seven sides, with a stepped ceiling ascending to a domed cupola, still hidden in shadow. The floor was also stepped, descending gently towards a broad central space. As the lights filled in the hard angles of the space, a raised dais came to light in the very center of the room.

Wek tensed, and through the Force, he felt subtle shifts in the stances of his compatriots as they all lay eyes on the form upon the dais. A large figure stood unmoving upon it. No, Wek thought, not just a figure, a droid. He spotted rivets and the faint sheen of old durasteel plating, and something else as well, was that a glossy sheen of striated black on the armor? He couldn’t be certain, but his mechanic's brain immediately felt an itch to examine it up close.

“Fan out,” Kaarsk commanded, already moving to flank left, as Brophy moved to flank right.

“What is it?” Draugmand asked.

“Not sure,” Brophy answered.

Uncertain where he should move, Wek stayed put. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t entirely certain how to tactically position themselves, as Maatsu angled off to the left of the dais, looking uncomfortable as he pulled out a light blaster pistol from a pocket, and Draugmand stayed behind Wek, gripping an enormous double-edged vibroblade in both hands.

“Is it still active?” Arca’dia’s voice was close to Wek’s ear.

Wek closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force. He felt the simple components in the group’s active glow rods, he detected the high-quality inner workings of Brophy’s Dragoneye Reaper pistol, from its proprietary Czerka C-10 XCiter to its Corellian galven coils, and he searched around the outer shell of the droid on the pedestal. He did his best to shut out the input from their assorted gadgets and gear, and tried to focus instead only on the statuesque droid. As he honed in, he could immediately feel how old it was. An aged but thick coating of preservative oils had been applied to the droids’ entire frame, from chassis to feet and back. Yet even a coating of oil couldn’t hide rust oxidation from an extremely long timeframe. It had to be at least—

—The droid’s servos whirred to life.

All six of them tensed, pinpointing the source of the noise. Wek's concentration shattered. In a matter of seconds, long-dormant servomotors and pinions whizzed and spun. A white status light flickered to life in the droids’ chassis, and it stood, unfolding its arms as it did so, revealing its firm grip on a long weapon resembling a bo staff, but made of the same material as the droid itself, right down to a striated glossy black sheen.

The droid’s blocky inverted ‘t’ shaped head twitched. A single large photoreceptor blinked to life along its vertical spar, and the droid made a low warble as it gripped its bo staff, taking in the fanned intruders.

One by one, the exiles traded uncertain looks. Confusion, uncertainty, and blossoming fear shone on their faces.

The droid warbled again, almost in an insistent way, but incomprehensible. With a shower of rust, it creaked and took a firm step from the dais. Its feet were textured and plus-shaped, giving it a wide footprint and firm footing as it clamored off its platform. The bo staff caught the glimmer of amber light in the chamber, and Wek spotted the intricacy of the waveform, almost topographical striations, faintly highlighted along the shaft of the weapon. He cocked his head in confusion as, unbidden and unwanted, a distinct memory swam to the surface of his mind; a memory of friends in the Jedi Temple, of Padawans laughing… and then of faces cleaved in two, blood pooling from their mouths, screaming, and then, the hooded Jedi with the blue lightsaber and a familiar face…  

Wek couldn’t help himself. He uttered a muffled whimper of terror.  

Kaarsk’s uttered warning came at the same time as the droid warbled. The droid turned squarely towards Wek and charged, staff held high.

Draugmand, standing high above and behind the Jawa, was the first to respond. He brought his vibrosword up to meet the descending blow of the droid’s staff, grunting with the force of the impact. Wek ducked, covering his mouth as his pheromones turned the color of shame, and combat was engaged.

The proceeding eruption of chaos was so consuming, so fierce, that Wek could not bring sense or order to his thoughts. He was back in the temple, fighting for his life, running with his friends, watching so many others cut down by the blue clone commandos. He stood in the Archive again, watching Master Jocasta’s elegant blue lightsaber barrier deflect bolt after bolt away from him and his fellows. His breathing tripled and he felt his head go fuzzy. Then Brophy was at his side—not in his memories, but for real, in this moment—yanking him out of the way of the raging droid, and of his terrible reverie. Brophy was shouting something at him, but he couldn’t hear it. He only uttered a weak Jawaese word of fright, and squeezed his eyes shut. Brophy embraced him, shielding his body and yanking him out of the way of the droid’s whistling bo staff. Then Kaarsk was there, defending them both, then Draugmand. And then, Wek heard Arca’dia’s voice, a wash of soothing balm across his memories.

It's alright, she urged, reaching out to all of them. We’re together. Keep your thoughts focused. Keep your courage about you. We can do this.

The words themselves weren’t what helped Wek focus, it was her tone. The soft assuredness of the Miraluka’s Force amplified voice washed over Wek’s thoughts, like the cool wash of nest blankets beneath Tatooine’s twin suns.

Wek opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and gave himself over to the Force. Brophy moved away from him to help Maatsu with a vicious parry from the droid, and Wek reached for his short vibroweapon, recalling his training. His ears thrummed and his hands rang—or was that backwards? He still wasn’t entirely focused—as the droid engaged him. His companions moved to protect him and each other, vibroweapons whirling as they engaged the droid with all the finesse of a drunken bantha. For every lesson with Master Yoda or Master Plo that the Padawans had tried to retain in their time away from the Temple, three more techniques and bits of knowledge had been lost; replaced with practical applicable skills for surviving under the Empire.

In short order, Wek concluded that they were hilariously outmatched.

They ducked, dodged, parried, feinted, and pirouetted as they each did their best to engage the droid in turn as it met them with a ferocity of unknown source and purpose. It quickly became clear that they would be worn down through attrition, even as their blades sparked and shrieked as the Padawans landed an occasional hit, scratching the droid's chassis and frame. For every hit they landed, it struck two to three blunt taps to their side in turn. Draugmand took a solid wallop on the cheek, Maatsu crumpled as his calf was stung, and Brophy fought to overcome seizing pain as his side was given a fierce impact. All the while, the droid continued to warble in an unknown dialect at them, causing further frustration and confusion as to what it could be implying. More than once, Brophy attempted to draw his Dragoneye and each time, the droid put on a burst of incredible speed, closing the distance to the young man before he could bring a deadly weapon to bear.

An idea hit Wek then, a curious and wild thought, but one that he knew must be examined before acting upon it. He had to know if his theory was correct, and that required he remove himself from the fight.

In a matter of furious seconds, Wek moved towards the outer ring of the stepped dueling chamber as Draugmand and Kaarsk rushed the droid, driving a furious two-pronged assault. Carefully repositioning himself a few meters to its left flank, Wek lowered his vibroshoto and began to formulate a theory at the speed of combat.

He saw as Draugmand went for a barbaric wide chest-high swing, which was parried most expertly by the droid as it repositioned its footing, weighting its rear foot so as not to take the brunt of such a strong attack. Wek saw as it fluidly adjusted its grip on the staff to offer enough length with which to counter Kaarsk’s speedy lunge from beneath its field of view. That action was interrupted by Maatsu boldly stepping in with a dueling thrust. Both attacks overlapped and consequently, missed. He saw as his friends danced with the droid, a clumsy and uncoordinated bunch. Thus, the droid was having an easy time parrying, countering, and feinting its way through the engagement. But more importantly…

Much more importantly, Wek watched as the droid engaged and whirled away, only to reset and produce the same effect. Wek cocked his head and realized that the droid was intentionally failing to land attacks. Even as the five of them moseyed in and out of the fray, accumulating bruises and cuts between them and—yes, there, a missed opportunity. If the droid had made a small adjustment to its footing, it could have given itself enough space to not only duck beneath Maatsu’s follow-up swipe, but it could have countered his riposte with what could have been a killing blow, but it didn’t. And there, again, it feinted away when it could have driven a shattering impact to Draugmand’s spine.

Wek briefly reengaged with the droid, distracted by his observations, unable to ignore the fact that, even as his attacks came lacking, so too did the droid’s reciprocal defensive footing. It seemed almost as if—

—And then it connected, he understood.

Wek sidestepped around Arca’dia and passed far beneath Draugmand’s enormous arms to stand directly in front of the dueling droid, and, following a sudden instinct, genuflected before it.

Immediately, the droid stopped. Wek’s friends stopped. The whole chamber ceased to move at the Jawa’s action.

Wek held up his vibroshoto in supplication, blade flat and outward facing. He could hear the droid’s memory banks whirring, churning through its programming.

“I do not wish to fight you,” Wek said, his voice a panicked squeak in the chamber. He raised his head just enough to spot the droid’s thick frame towering over him. “We were only curious… only exploring,” he said, tumbling the words out.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Kaarsk and Brophy trade an immutable look. The droid remained frozen.

“We come seeking… answers,” Wek continued, then added, almost as a prayer. “We don’t want to fight. We just want to live.”

The droid warbled something. A query? The tension rose and fell with the pitch of the droid’s servomotors. Wek looked up. The droid’s head was cocked, evoking curiosity. Wek’s heart railed against his breastbone, trying desperately to free itself and run away.

The droid warbled again, and Wek detected—or maybe simply implied—the hint of a question about its tone. At the very least, it sounded like the same sequence of tonal warbles. He repeated his statement, meeting its gaze this time and holding out his shoto.

The droid stepped back. It paused for a long moment. Then it mirrored his movement, and held its bo staff flat in one hand towards him, waiting.

Wek didn’t dare breathe. He continued along this path: he lowered himself to the floor and lay down his sword.

A long, bated breath passed between the exiles. Then the droid did the same. It lay down its staff, and the single large rectangular photoreceptor in its head blinked twice, slowly.

“What.” Maatsu uttered; a statement.

Wek kept his head bowed low for a long moment, then rose. The droid followed him. His friends continued to watch, breathing heavily, weapons still held at the ready.

With less pomp but as much circumstance as a herald announcing nobility, the droid took a definitive step backwards, about-faced, and stepped aside, assuming a position befitting the visible bodyguard of a royal retinue. Just like that, the exiles gave a collective gasp. Behind the droid, from the darkened alcove at the back of the room, a bluish haze had split the air. Wek and the others watched as it drifted towards them on lazy curls of mist. The haze resolved slowly into the visage of a humanoid figure, approaching them steadily from a place where before there had been nothing. The haze coalesced further, first into a rough masculine shape, then into a more defined entity clad in flowing brown robes, and at last, into the form of a humanoid male of dark brown skin, his head adorned with a crown of small, sharp horns; a Zabrak of Iridonia.

The Zabrak Jedi—for that was what Wek immediately assumed he was, from his garb—planted his hands on his hips and cocked his head, studying Wek intently with dark, searching eyes.

A long silence followed, with Wek meeting the man’s gaze, unflinching, even if only because curiosity had overloaded his fear. The droid stood at attention at the Zabrak’s left shoulder.

“You do not wish to fight,” the ghost finally spoke, his smooth basal voice belying the confidence of wisdom, “Yet you reek of daily fear. It seeps into your clothes and pollutes your mind, young Padawan.”

Wek finally blinked, taken aback. “Fighting is hard when you know it will hurt those you care about,” he said after a long pause.

The Zabrak raised an eyebrow. “And yet is that not your duty as a Jedi?”

Wek averted his gaze. To his eternal gratitude, Maatsu approached.

“The Jedi are gone,” Maatsu said, stepping forward and addressing the Force ghost, his chin held high. “For all we know, we’re all that’s left, and that’s hardly what one would consider an ‘Order’.”

“The Sith are an order of two,” the Zabrak countered. “Yet you imply that they have defeated you.”

“They have,” Brophy spoke up. “Pretty thoroughly.”

The Zabrak spent a long moment examining each of them, then said, “And so, what brings a family of exiles and runaways into the depths of places they should not explore, if they consider it so dangerous?”

“Curiosity,” Brophy said immediately.

“The search for knowledge,” Arca’dia spoke up.

“Bored,” Wek interjected before he could stop himself, quieting the others and feeling a sudden simultaneous surge of conviction and shame. “Life in hiding is boring, and we need new lightsabers. We’ve been exploring.”

The others fell silent, and the Zabrak returned his gaze to Wek. “An honest answer,” said the ghost. “Who are you afraid of?”

The exiles shared uneasy glances. “The Empire,” said Draugmand. “The Galactic Empire.”

The Zabrak cocked his head. “So, the Sith have succeeded again. Onwards, the cycle spins…” He turned away from them, the hazy outlines of his form wavering with the motion. “You know not where your feet now tread, do you, young Jedi?”

Wek shook his head. “We don’t.”

The Zabrak fingered his chin in thought. “This is a… safehouse, you could say. A concealed repository for a most precious artifact from eons past.” He turned, and guided their gaze to the alcove at the rearmost wall, which had warmed with amber light. Within its confines rested a statuesque depiction of the very Zabrak who stood before them, but he was positioned in supplication, arms held aloft, grasping towards the sky. The statue depicted the man standing before them nearly identically, save for an ornate gauntlet adorning his left forearm. Upon taking in the statue Wek absently noted that the domed cupola above them had come to dim midnight blue light--it was a painted starfield, almost certainly bespoke, and almost certainly significant, but he was more interested in the strange piece of armor.

Wek honed in on the piece, unable to stop himself. It was beautiful, and certainly not made of the same material as the statue which, he estimated at a glance, was Durosian marble. The texture of the gauntlet’s unknown metallic surface reflected a satin sheen of the subtlest rose-gold, with filigreed highlights of genuine inset and imperfect emerald. Wek tilted his head to change the light refraction off the piece, and for just a moment, he swore he could see a purplish fuzz around the edges of the rose-gold metal. He couldn’t be sure though.

The piece could be worn up to the elbow, and from the rounded finger plates to the long, sweeping forearm, the gauntlet evoked a bulwark; the countenance of a stalwart defender, given to stand strong in a howling wind. It was a gauntlet of defenders, of guardians, of protectors; of that Wek was certain.

“Wek!” Brophy’s voice cut through Wek’s waxing poetic thoughts.

Wek blinked. Without realizing it, he had moseyed past the ghost and approached the statue, completely ignoring all else. His fingers were mere centimeters from the gauntlet. He turned, blinking, towards his compatriots, who were braced uncomfortably somewhere between defensive and primed to strike at the ghost, who had moved to the side and was examining Wek from a distance. The glimmering of colored crystals twinkled in the painted starfield above. 

“Do you know,” the Zabrak spoke into the tense air, “that there are mysteries in this galaxy beyond even the reach of the Force?” He narrowed his eyes at Wek, and they flashed with tempting knowledge. “Yes,” the Zabrak continued. “It would seem the Gauntlet calls to you, little one. Or perhaps, perhaps a force no greater than self-determinism does, and a displaced mind driven by curiosity and, boredom, I believe you said, is enough to awaken the artifact which I have been kept here protecting for so very long.” He shrugged and took them in with a wry smile. “Either way, the stars of fate speak conveniently so that you always follow their designs, do they not?”

He laughed over Wek’s shoulder as Wek’s attention turned slowly back towards the strange artifact, which seemed to be giving off a faint thrum; a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pulsation in his ears. He could feel the air behind him grow sour. He felt his friends growing anxiety, but that tide fell short of where Wek stood, at the foot of the statue, bathed in a warm glow that emanated from a place unseen, from the gauntlet itself, perhaps? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he wanted to reach out for the piece. He knew it with certainty, though a thoroughly subdued rational part of his mind bid caution.

“Wek.” Brophy’s stern warning reached his ears, but the meaning, the earnestness behind it, fell far short beneath the thrum of the gauntlet before him.

It was made for me, Wek thought, in an unfamiliar voice.

“Go on,” the Zabrak’s tone had gone smooth and sibilant. “If you desire it, it’s yours. Claim your fate, young Jedi. Allow the Temperance to rest."

"Wek, stop,” said Arca’dia, but Wek had stopped listening. The cracked and imperfect emerald had shimmered before him, and Wek knew, he felt it in his bones, that he needed to understand this item. It was important.  

He reached out for the gauntlet.

“Wek, don’t!” Someone called, but it was too late. He took hold of the gauntlet.

Chapter Text

VI

Draugmand in Khoonda

Draugmand leaned in the corner of the Horizon’s cargo hold, thick arms crossed and chewing a stimstick as the others argued at frenzied volume, gesticulating wildly in the predawn hours. He watched, listened, and mulled his thoughts regarding the events of the previous night.

“I don’t give a gizka’s fart what you think about it, Arca’dia.” Kaarsk snapped. “Sticking our necks out for—for,” he spluttered, trying to find the words, “for grave robbing, isn’t lying low, now is it?” The Bothan’s ears were plastered flat against his skull and his nostrils flared dangerously. Draugmand knew those danger signs well, but the fact that he couldn’t smell Kaarsk’s pungent pheromones told him the situation had gone beyond cognitive defense; Kaarsk wasn’t just angry, he was terrified. So terrified in fact, that his body had clamped down into panic mode, and his musky glands had crimped themselves off for protection.

Then again, why wouldn’t he be? After Wek took hold of the strange gauntlet, a wave of vertigo had swept through the chamber, almost causing Draugmand to topple it was so intense. Then he had felt the Force ghost spread its presence to fill the chamber, touching their minds with its thoughts. A jumbled mess of sensations and memories had followed: Flashes of battle on the ground and in the sky; faces that, while unfamiliar to Draugmand, in context had filled him with emotions that weren’t his, joy, comradery, disgust; pieces of a single set of armor worn by six individuals, wielded independently and together; flashes of green fire, streaks of it baking the sky of an unknown world. And at the end of it, much clearer, had been a glittering map of the galaxy matching the one on the painted cupola of the chamber. A handful—maybe twenty—star systems had been glowing brightly, but without astrogational charts or points of reference, it was impossible to know what systems they referenced. Then the vertigo faded away, and Draugmand had been left with a profound sense of dread.

When he had righted himself alongside his allies, they had found Wek lying on the floor cradling the strange gauntlet. Even from meters away, Draugmand had felt a lulled pulse in the Force; a contented rhythmic breathing, the rise and fall of one’s lungs replaced by a soothing warmth in the air. The Force ghost had stood off to one side, arms stuffed into the opposite sleeves of his translucent robes, eyes fixed on Wek with an unexpected spark of life.

“He is quite alright,” the Zabrak had stated simply. “The Gauntlet of Temperance is a beacon to those who seek to defend others.”

Draugmand had reached down to shake Wek awake. The Jawa’s yellow lamplit eyes had slowly come to glow, as if he were coming out of a deep and restful slumber.

“…Draug?” Wek had said, his voice small and curious.

“You okay?” Draugmand had asked.

Wek had looked around, appearing disoriented. “I had a curious dream,” he had said. “A living suit of armor, crowned in light and then divided in dark… It was worn by… many beings in one. They were, they…”

“They each chose to stand firm against a great gathering dark,” the Zabrak had interjected. “We stood against the dark, my brethren and I.” He held up his left fist, and it was adorned in a simulacrum of the same gauntlet as the one wrapped around Wek’s forearm, where before it had been bare. “For the safety and sanity of those who came after,” he had said, “what I remember has been stripped down to its frame. I am here to present the Gauntlet to a worthy successor,” he had looked pointedly towards Wek. “I am to offer this,” he indicated the star map written above, “and I am to warn those who begin down this path that sacrifice, true sacrifice, where one gives willingly of that which they cherish, is not idly done,” he had eyed each of them in turn, “and those who walk the path of the martyr need to be aware of such consequences from the outset, lest ignorance poison their purpose.”

Draugmand had felt a chill run down his spine at that, but he had said nothing.

“My curse was to be the watcher,” the Force ghost had continued, “the one who witnessed the passing of ages alone. So, in addition to these small gifts that might set you on a path to a grand design, I know how long it has been.” He had shrugged then, a sad, small gesture. “Perhaps it will help.”

The Zabrak had sighed then, and Draugmand had felt a surge of pity for the man. He could feel the weight of loneliness and isolation in that single breath, and it had stung. “By the galactic calendar, I have been charged to keep this chamber safe for very nearly 8,000 galactic standard years. 8,000 years, and the cycle repeats itself, just as it did before.” His grave eyes had born into them then, as a group. “I do not envy you, the road you’ve stumbled upon. But only the great and terrible choose to walk it. Only the great have the strength to do so. I hope you are great.” And without further preamble, the ghost had whispered away with nothing more than a whiff of wind, and Draugmand swore he saw the faintest curve of a relieved smile on the man’s face as it faded away.

Draugmand was pulled from his reverie as the argument in the Horizon’s cargo bay continued in earnest.

Kaarsk jabbed a long-nailed finger at Brophy. “How do you even know this woman is trustworthy? How do you know she won’t rat us out?”

Brophy took a slow breath. “I don’t,” he admitted after a long pause. “But,” his voice rose to overcome Kaark’s sharp inhalation. “She’s… made pretty clear that she has no love for the Empire when we’ve traded, and her shop has too many… things from too many places to be a total sham.”

Kaarsk snorted. “Bullshit. That could just mean she’s a dedicated scam artist.”

Brophy’s face pinched. “I don’t think so. I mean she could be,” he admitted, “but if she is she’s good, and I’d be okay getting scammed out by a master like that.”

“At the cost of our security, or our lives?” Kaarsk retorted.

Brophy shrugged. “I don’t hear you offering any alternatives.”

Kaarsk’s nostrils flared. “That’s because I don’t have any. We’re talking about active participation, not… intentional passivity.”

Arca’dia’s voice drifted up from where she sat at the dusty workbench in the corner. “At what point does passivity become complacency?”

Draugmand snorted, and they looked his way. “She’s right,” he offered. “We continue to do nothing useful as we are. We’re just surviving. Barely that, even.” He looked over at Maatsu, who was examining Wek and the gauntlet which now ensconced his left forearm. “This… this could be something interesting, a distraction, if nothing else. Maybe just a distraction for a bit, and I don’t think I need to tell you that I’m gordamn bored doing club security for a bunch of Mid-Rim farmers. They get rowdy too early and sick too late.”

The hint of a smirk graced the corners of Arca’dia’s mouth, but she said nothing.

“What makes you think this tradeswoman will know any more about this,” Maatsu put in, gesturing to the gauntlet, he said it’s 8,000 years old. What would a trader know about something like that?”

Brophy looked as if he was mulling something over before he spoke. “She’s an antiquities dealer.” He pursed his lips. “I’m sorry, I thought I made that clear.”

Kaarsk rolled his eyes at Maatsu. “We’re talking about trying to track down verifiable evidence. This is just a kaevik egg hunt based on nothing but the words of a Force hallucination.”

Maatsu squared off with the Bothan. “Isn’t that what we were learning to do as Jedi? Engage with things like that?”

“We were training to exhibit mindfulness and rational action,” Arca’dia’s voice of reason put in.

“That’s what I said. Isn’t that what this could be?”

“In a perfect world, maybe,” Kaarsk argued, “but we have lives to maintain here, do we not?”

“Empty lives,” Maatsu retorted. “Lives in hiding, with no purpose, no goals, no meaning. Draugmand even said it earlier. He’s bored, and so am I. We were meant to be arbiters and adjudicators, not mindless cogs in a backwater economy.”

Kaarsk folded his arms and took a deep breath. “So you think snatching at the first straw of adventure will fix your distraction?”

Maatsu adopted an equally cross stance. “It’s not the first possible adventure that’s come up.”

“What other ones were there?” Kaarsk snapped. Draugmand pinched his lips to keep from grinning as Kaarsk took the Pantoran’s bait.

Maatsu started counting elaborately on his fingers. “There was the Devaronian smuggler who came through last year with that protection racket, that could’ve been fun to explore.” Kaarsk jutted his lower jaw forward—a sign of dismissiveness for a Bothan—but Maatsu pressed on. “Or there was those Corellians who needed a flight crew to take them into Herglic space. Or those weird surveyors who practically oozed about the Horizon because she’s an ‘Alidade-class surveyor’ and they’re ‘long off the market’…” He continued with more exhibits.

To each successive example, Kaark’s eyes grew colder and colder, eventually growing utterly still. Finally, he scoffed with a dismissive gesture. “Point made. That doesn’t qualify this situation as a worthwhile endeavor.”

A sparkle had come to Maatsu’s yellow eyes. “Oh, but I think it does. Don’t you think so, Arca’dia? Brophy? Wek? Draug?”

Brophy’s response, as ever, came quick. “Like I said, the Madame’s an interesting woman. There’s no harm in visiting for a consult.”

Kaarsk took a steadying breath. “As I keep trying to say: yes, there is. There could be. Harm, I mean.”

Brophy shrugged.

Arca’dia, pensive as ever, steepled her fingers and pressed them to her lips in thought. “Kaarsk, I respect your concerns, but Maatsu makes good points. Just because we are living in hiding does not mean we should forsake all duties of the Order. We are trained to intercept injustice where prudent. Perhaps the… ghost, the… Temperance? Perhaps he spoke from a place of delusion brought on by extreme longevity in that place, or perhaps the Force speaks without the weight of time, and he was fully cognizant of his own faculties. If the latter is true, then there is at least a kernel of reason to suggest he could be correct, and that a great danger looms beyond the scope of the Empire. If that is the case, then are we not sworn by oath, duty, and principle to intercede?”

“I agree,” Wek spoke up. His voice drifting somewhere uncertainty and conviction, but it had the desired effect, as he’d been all but mute since they left the tunnel.

Kaarsk’s lip twitched towards Maatsu as he wrung the crash handle on the wall where he stood. “Damn you.” He sighed. “Fine. But when this bites us in the ass you better believe I’ll hold it against you later.

Arca’dia smiled a soft smile as Maatsu let out a hoot of glee. “I would expect nothing less.” 

Ξ

The local combination club, cantina, and flophouse where Draugmand worked and whittled away the monotonous hours was called the Lavender Layaway. The catchy alliteration of its name was about as far as the imagination of the cantankerous Dug owner, Boorlap Duce, could stretch. The place was utilitarian to the extreme, pushing the limits of what one might consider a reasonable stopover for even a relative backwater like Dantooine, let alone an entertaining one. The drinks on offer consisted not of individual cocktails, but of categories like ‘malt’, ‘sweetrum’, or ‘fyregut’; maybe one could get away with ordering an ‘Eye of Aldhani’ cocktail if one was feeling fancy, but that was the breadth of options. The booths in the main room were unadorned tables rounded with unadorned and cracked leather cushioned benches, and the unadorned bartender was a Serv-O-Droid hospitality model with barely any autonomy programming installed, who insisted on being addressed by his full designation ‘M-18GK’, rather than any more comfortable nickname. In protest of the droid’s utter lack of social aplomb, patrons had taken to addressing M-18GK as “Magick” because they thought they were clever and the droid’s consternated utterances were a total gas.

At night, wreckpunk, scrak, and droid pop were keyed through the speakers, and the Layaway became a bit more lively. Twi’lek, human, and Theelin dancers came out from behind the cheap curtains and steadily removed their scant costumes for the tired patrons who usually came like clockwork for their favorite stool, ordered their usual series of drinks, and proceeded to burn a consistent sum of credits on the curvaceous gyrating girls, then usually went home at closing with similar regularity to their tired husbands and wives.

Such was the working life of Khoonda, and Draugmand, though he would never outwardly admit it, despised it. Oh he wouldn’t complain openly, not when he and the rest of the Jedi exiles were strapped for credits and the slow paychecks kept them sheltered and fed and under the radar in a low-income project, but he despised it all the same. Or maybe ‘despised’ wasn’t the right word. It’s not that he begrudged the working men and women of Khoonda, who likely had never known anything other than farming or rearing livestock, no. No, Draugmand couldn’t help but be offended by the repetition of it all. It broke his triple aortic heart to watch what were clearly hardworking, loyal, local community folk run day in and day out through the same few paces, all under the promises of the failing Republic that they would be rewarded and taken care of in old age; or at the very least, left to their own devices. Now, with the fist of ‘security’ and ‘stability’ that the Empire purported, the locals chafed just as much as before the Clone Wars—perhaps more, it was hard to be sure without being a native. But the locals had never known anything else, had never been shown any other choices in life, no opportunities to escape, and so, they continued in their diligent work and hoped not to be noticed, save maybe for a raise or the unlikely annual bonus from the local arm of their galactic employers, and Draugmand couldn’t fathom why. He wanted to, but he knew that he could never truly understand the way of life as an outsider. He would have to plant roots to become fluent, and he had no intention of doing so.

Draugmand recognized the irony that he and his fellow former Jedi were living that life of monotony now, but with the added anxiety of their status as Force-sensitive fugitives thrown into the mix. He saw how dangerous a behavioral stupor was, and he railed against it every day as he intervened at the Layaway with handsy customers, knowing how futile it all was, but he did it just the same. After all, what else could they do?

It was that very question, however, that made the night after their excursion into the strange vault-tomb such an interesting and unpleasant one.

“It’ll be the usual warnings tonight,” Boorlap Duce growled to his bouncers in Huttese, chewing through the billowing mouthful of smoke sucked from his cigarillo. “Let the staff handle hands. Make your presence known if it turns to more, but don’t scare ‘em off.” He glared at Draugmand as he remarked on the last bit with dry menace.

Draugmand offered his practiced indifference. “Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.”

Neviin, the human male gym-monkey and Draugmand’s counterpoint bouncer at the Layaway, grunted. His black chest-hair gleamed with sweat through his low-cut shirt, and his swollen muscles looked like they were ready to burst through the tight fabric, no matter how the man stood. "What about the marriage sendoff party? They’re bound to get rowdy.” The shirt squealed in stretched agony as he shifted his feet.

Duce stroked the fleshy tendrils dangling from his snout while he lorded himself over them from behind his oversized knockoff wroshyyr wood desk. “They’re paid up already, aren’t they?”

Neviin looked to Draugmand, who nodded. “In full.”

Duce shrugged. “Then I’m not worried.”

Draugmand stood silent for a moment, then set his jaw. “Selor said there’s a son of a city council member in the party. He’s got a reputation.”

“What kind?” Duce asked.

Draugmand crossed his wrists in front of him. “The kind that ends with unpaid tabs and injured dancers.”

Duce’s snout twitched and he took a long drag from his cigarillo before responding. “Fine,” he spat at last, releasing another thick cloud of smoke. “Draugmand, you post up near the party once they get a few rounds deep. Make sure they know the line.”

Draugmand nodded solemnly, but the tight breath he let out was too quiet for either of the others to notice. “Can do.”

“You,” Duce jabbed his cigarillo towards Neviin. “Make the rounds until his party gets drunk enough where they’re not a problem, then set up at the balcony doors, and Draugmand can round the ground floor.

“Aye, cap’n,” Neviin said, saluting with two fingers. He nodded to Draugmand and marched out of the office.

Duce raised a lazy eyebrow at Draugmand. “You’re still here.”

Draugmand lifted his chin, careful to keep his face neutral. “Aye.”

The Dug’s beady eyes narrowed in suspicion. “For…?”

“Just wondering if you got my back pay sorted out yet.”

Duce leaned back in his plush mauve chair. “Oh. Yeah, there was a problem with the transfer, see? I had to resubmit the request.”

“That’s the third time you’ve had to do that.”

“I know it is.” Duce threw up his bangled upper limbs in a good approximation of genuine frustration. “I told them it’s no good; told them that I can’t run a business with my employees going hungry, but, thems the breaks.”

 The smug gravel of the sniveling creature’s voice grated Draugmand’s ears, and he closed his eyes to take a deep breath. “So, when should I check back?”

A nasty little grin split Duce’s snout. “Try again next week. Now get to work, Neviin can’t handle it by himself out there,” and he added a little shooing motion, sending ash at the end of his cigarillo flying over the papers on his desk. The Dug didn’t seem to notice.

Draugmand managed to nod one side of his head—the tense muscles in his neck wouldn’t allow more—and he said, “Boss,” just loud enough for the Dug to hear, and he left, making sure to close the door firmly on the way out.

Out in the hall, the rush of blood erupted in his temples, and he had to take a few long breaths to calm his thundering heart. He heard the faintest drip and looked down to see something glistening on his boot. Opening his hand, Draugmand saw blood seeping from four little gouges in his palm where he had been clenching his fist. He chided himself mentally.

He’s not worth it, he insisted.

He took another breath, reveling in the muted pounding of the wreckpunk downstairs as it bounced around the cheap wood paneling and heavy carpet. For a moment, the indistinct reverb drowned out his rising ire, and he let himself lower the mask of indifference he kept so firmly on his face. He took a look in the hallway mirror, noting the tired bags under his eyes, the furrow of his brow, and he noted that his tusks needed to be trimmed. Then he straightened, nodded to his reflection, and plodded through the thick carpet and down to the club.

Ξ

“Tetsu!” they cried, cheering as glasses clinked together and their top-shelf pauscha went splattering across the table, the booths, and into the laps of the farm boys clustered there.

It was before midnight, and Draugmand was planted peripherally near the private party that the young men had rented for the evening for their friend with pending nuptials. Thus far they had proven to be surprisingly civil in their revelry, but he still had to make sure his biceps and scowling gaze were visible, so that the implicated price for grabbing at the girls who’s perfumed teasing they had paid for was well understood. Even so, they were only a couple of rounds in with a veritable feast of shareables, and that meant they’d be able to handle considerably more booze than a group who went hard on empty stomachs. Draugmand didn’t trust them.

One of the Twi’lek serving girls, Lesh, came sauntering out from the kitchen, another tray of drinks expertly held above her head as she swished back and forth along the thoroughfare and towards the party, her decorated lekku swaying with her body. The lights of the club danced off of her rich orange skin, turning her into a dancing rainbow of color. She caught Draugmand staring and winked at him. He started and looked away before he could stop himself, and a flush crept up his neck. A long minute of fawning and ogling with the farm boys later and she came back past him, her tray replete with empty glasses.

“You’re cute to blush,” she said with a smile as she sped past, bound for the kitchen doors, her smile much more genuine on the way back to the safety of the other employees.

Draugmand stole another quick glance as her legs disappeared through the doors to the kitchen, and just for a moment, he swore she gave a little shimmy as their eyes met again for a flash. He swallowed hard and returned to scanning the club. So far so good, but it was early yet. Most of the regulars were in their usual spots. A trio of rugged older farmhands were griefing M-18GK at the bar. The familiar eight-person main table in the pit by the stage was filling up as D’petriah prepared to start her nightly deflowering dance, and smoke drifted out of Duce’s office window on the second floor across the club from Draugmand. He could just see the shadow of the Dug moving about the office amidst the kaleidoscopic light show. The dull buzz of another night continued to grow, seemingly with calm intentions, until a commotion near the entrance caught his attention.

Six or seven young Imperial officers, their lapel wraps as off-duty as they were, had entered the Layaway and were demanding service. Another Twi’lek serving girls, Yarva, scurried to greet them, her assets drawing their collective gazes long before she reached them with a melting smile and a pop of her barely contained hips. A few words were exchanged, the obvious leader of the group immediately sidled closer to Yarva as Draugmand watched her mime flattery, then giggle. A spike of wariness gripped him then, as one of the other men—a slightly older fellow with already thinning hair but who only had as many rank plaques on his uniform as the rest of the lads—seemed to cut in, then slid a hand around Yarva’s waist. He made some obviously ribald joke, the other men laughed, and Yarva, to her credit, laughed right along as she carefully extricated herself from the man’s arm and led the officers to a table at the far end of the club. On the second floor, Draugmand caught a glimpse of Duce peeking through a cloud of smoke and scanning the club with materialistic precision.  

As if the Force had read his mind and acted, Draugmand watched Duce summon his aide and gestured towards the officers’ group. Mere minutes later, and no sooner had the officers removed their jackets and settled at the table, two more serving girls manifested bearing neon cocktails and little else, and the night was underway.

Fucking skaag, Draugmand thought about the boss, grateful as he often was that he was paid to look disgusted and angry.

Unfortunately, the proceeding two hours came at the expected deteriorating pace as Draugmand anticipated. He made his rounds, opting to allow the farmboys their privacy when they turned out to be more polite and restrained than he expected in their belligerence, and made his muscular presence known around the club. He watched the regulars flash credits for their favorite girls and boys, felt the air grow heady with the stupor of the drunken musical buzz, stepped in to deal with the occasional newcomer or repeat offender, and kept a close tab on the table of Imperials, who quickly showed their righteous, authority-addled colors only a couple of rounds deep into the midnight hours.

It started with the usual hand on their waitress’s leg; Domina, this time, which she removed with a smile and a tut-tut of the finger. That was the first warning, but not an uncommon one. Oftentimes, Draugmand had seen, a drunken patron would have to be warned four or five times, but always for minor infractions that the boss wouldn’t condone kicking them out for, not when their tabs were open and they clearly had the credits. It was at the second or third stage when the bouncers would take notice: a girl or a boy pulled into a lap, a visible spank, or a clear grope. That’s when Draugmand or Neviin were brought in to give stern looks and warnings. Any further escalation and the patron would be removed—despite Duce’s ever-more-elaborate excuses on behalf of the offending bastard. But tonight, oh, tonight the Empire was enjoying their time, and no amount of polite words from the serving girls, visible placement of Draugmand or Neviin, or a final warning from the floor manager would slow them down with their wretched assaults.

It was the older man with thinning hair who did it. He was uncounted rounds deep in the late hours, had been warned repeatedly not to grab Yarva’s or the other girls’ asses or breasts, and had made firm eye contact with Neviin with the promise of retaliatory action. But he had just scoffed, made a bold statement along the lines of “serving the Empire,” and continued, unhindered.

But then he said something about “making her gag,” and proceeded to stick a thick, hairy finger in Yarva’s mouth as she bent over to deliver them all another round, and that was about when Draugmand lost it.

Yarva choked and pulled back, showing her skill with drinks that she kept the half-full tray in-hand without spilling, and she snapped at the officer, all trace of flattery replaced with cold disgust, “That’s it pal. You’re out of here,” and she whistled.”

The officers and his buddies—all of whom had laughed and laughed and laughed with the same stupid righteous abandon at every attempt to calm them down—became deadly fake serious, staring at the thin-haired offending officer and Yarva, and then they burst out laughing again, their sticky hands spilling their sticky sweet drinks as they cackled at full tilt, and their antics finally took over the whole club, quieting the other patrons beneath the pounding beat and light show.

Draugmand, who had been watching from near the side door as this happened, wasn’t quite sure of what he was doing. In a few long strides, he was at the table. In an instant, he had both of the thin-haired officer’s wrists pinned together in his massive palm, and the man was lifted bodily from the booth to dangle. The table rattled and glasses were knocked over, eliciting outraged cries from the other officers as the man’s watery eyes shrank and he tried to make sense of what had ahold of him. Draugmand felt eyes on him: Yarva, other patrons, the thin-haired officer, and probably Duce somewhere above and behind him, but he didn’t care. He could feel months of pent up rage boiling suddenly over in an instant, and none of his lax Temple training could stop it.

“You don’t treat people that way,” Draugmand growled, and, without a drop of concern or remorse, he whipped the man around by the wrists and threw him across the club.

The officer’s pathetic yelp as he crunched through a barback’s cart of glasses turned into a squeal of pain, and he disappeared over the railing with a loud crunch onto the table in the pit level.

Draugmand saw red, and he could hear a warning voice in the back of his head, telling him to let it go and to just eject the guy, but another voice, the voice that told him he was a Jedi, and he couldn’t just let this behavior go, took over. As the music kept playing but the patrons froze to watch the spectacle, Draugmand stomped down the steps to find the man trying to right himself, stuffed down between a just-now vacated booth, covered in creamy leftover desserts.

“Come here.” Draugmand reached across the table and yanked the officer up, crumpled and bloody, by the jacket.

“Augh!” the man squawked, “You fucking xeno, do you know who we are?!”

Draugmand couldn’t help himself. He grinned with vengeful abandon. “No, who are you?”

The man’s lip twitched. “We’re the fucking saviors of the fucking galaxy, meathead.” He gripped at his lapel for air. “We’re the ones who saved all of you from the fucking droids. The clones were fucking humans, and all you fucking aliens think you have a right to what we saved for you? No, no it was the humans who stopped all of you aliens, and the droids, and the Separatists. WE saved you. You should be licking my fucking boots now, filth. That’s who we are.” It seemed with his little tirade that he’d pulled up something akin to courage, and he looked Draugmand in the eye to say his last words before that courage crumpled. “So, do you know who we are?! How much trouble you’re in?!”

Draugmand pulled the man’s bloodied face close to his curved chin-tusks, and he knew he shouldn’t, but he relished the flicker of fear deep in the pudgy officer’s eyes. “Sure do,” Draugmand said, only loud enough for the man to hear. “You’re officers of the Empire.” Then he grabbed the man with both hands. “And you’re the reason the galaxy fell apart.”

Draugmand threw him through the glass partition with all his might, aided, by accident, by the Force. He heard a snap as something important broke.

Chapter Text

VII

Maatsu in the Market

Khoonda’s quaint Old Town Market District couldn’t reliably be called a tourist trap. Dantooine would require a booming tourist industry for that. There was a time when the Market District catered to farmers’ markets and wholesale outlets for the locals, but since the arrival of automated mercantile services some fifty years ago—courtesy of the Czerka Corporation—the process had been streamlined, and the outlets’ independent profits had dribbled away. The margins for operating a legitimate business became razor thin, and Khoonda’s trade chafed.

Perhaps, in another part of the galaxy, such an economic crunch would have caused a robust black market to bloom, but Dantooine wasn’t really much of anything on the way to anywhere. Gravlex Med, Lah’mu, or perhaps even nearby Shusugaunt could represent the Raioballo sector better in the galactic economy, but Dantooine’s position in the Outer Rim held no great tactical or economic significance. No famous diplomats or artists were cultivated on the grassy plains, there were no major powers in the stellar neighborhood, and every export industry the planet dabbled in could be found elsewhere under better auspices with higher value and greater yields. The people of Dantooine simply didn’t do anything better than anyone else, and that left them mostly unremarkable.

In short, while the planet had the potential for ripe underhanded dealings, there just wasn’t enough demand, nor was there enough profit potential to warrant attention by any big corporate entities. Thus, Dantooine’s small cities, like Khoonda, kept mostly to themselves, living within the margins and being content. But the steady march of the Empire’s relentless machine was changing that, one arrogant citation at a time.

As Maatsu followed Brophy, Arca’dia, and Wek into Old Town, where the streets were narrower and more winding, he noticed the impact of some of those changes. Imperial recruitment posters, proudly proclaiming the glory of enlistment, could be seen on every block. Huddled on the ground in front of some of those posters, were growing populations of displaced persons; huddled shapes in ragged cloaks, twitching and moaning through the backend of whatever flavor their most recent spice fantasy came in. Infrequent stormtrooper patrols marched past, often haranguing the loiterers and removing them, to which no one said a word. 

As they passed a shadowed alley, Maatsu caught a glimpse of three figures huddled over an open speeder trunk. Maatsu stumbled on an empty can, causing a resounding racket down the alley. The three looked up in twitchy panic. As they whirled to see what made the noise, he spied the chromium glint of blaster barrels in the trunk of the speeder. He waved lamely and sped onward. He was almost immediately knocked back as an office door opened in his face. A burly Ithorian stepped out in decent business robes, followed by a watery-eyed Klatooinian in a cheap suit. Maatsu sidled around the door as the pair concluded whatever business they’d been attending to. Through their handshake, Maatsu spied the flash of credits exchanging palms—from the Ithorian’s to the Klatooinian’s. Credits moved hands, and the Ithorian moved away, sparing only a brief glare in Maatsu’s direction as their walking paths crossed. Maatsu glanced back towards the Klatooinian, who was glaring at him. Maatsu pursed his lips and glared back, noting the distinctive reverse-speared “C” badge of the Czerka Corporation on his lapel.

“Keep up, Maatsu!” Brophy called from ahead as he turned a corner. Maatsu hurried to do so.

Some ways off Market Street, Brophy led the group to a dumpy one-way road lined with knick-knack shops and pawnbrokers. Ornamental painted clearplast lanterns were strung back and forth over the second and third-story apartment balconies, giving off an almost claustrophobic warmth to the denizens below. White and yellow and dull orange bulbs filled the street in pools of warmly colored light, and the background drizzle of autumn rain kept everyone’s hoods up and heads low. Perfect for a meeting with a potential fence for the strange artifact.

It was late morning, and the ramen shops were preparing for the lunch rush while the occasional window-shopper wandered by. The Exiles were the largest group, moving with purpose and at an unfamiliar speed. Brophy had assured them that Imperial patrols in the area were well-announced by locals, so they didn’t have to creep like unwanted bugs just to avoid a street-stop by stormtroopers. They had picked up the pace for little more reason than because they had the freedom to do so for this singularly long walk.

“How much further?” Maatsu asked, somewhat absently, as he let his imagination run free about the Czerka rep and the Ithorian. Maybe just a simple transaction? Or could it be something illicit and interesting?

Brophy answered without turning. “Just across the block. What, don’t like walking?”

Maatsu could hear the smirk in Brophy’s voice. “Walking is fine,” he said. “I just don’t know why I had to carry the sack.”

Arca’dia laughed lightly, her voice ever a flutter of life and wisdom. “You said you wanted to be useful.”

Maatsu rolled his shoulders in an attempt to adjust the heavy backpack. Something deep within it was poking into his lower ribs and it had started to smart. “I meant with the negotiations.”

It was Brophy’s turn to laugh. “Oh, you mean the negotiations with the Madame whom you’ve never met and have scoffed at meeting every time I offered for you to come and see? Those negotiations?” 

“Of course, those. I make a spectacular first impression.”

Brophy glanced over his shoulder just enough for Maatsu to see his incredulous eyebrow. “Well, now’s your chance,” and he palmed the door panel to the shop they had just reached. The sign above the door read, “ODDITIES BAZAAR” in Aurabesh, the Galactic common language.

Through the sliding door the group went. Just over the threshold, Brophy’s open palm stopped Maatsu short.

“What’s the—” Maatsu started.

“—Move carefully in here,” Brophy warned.

He was right. Barely a meter beyond the doorway, a tall shelf absolutely stuffed with items and trinkets brimmed. Had Maatsu taken another bold step within, he would have rumbled into it.

“Slowly,” Brophy said, lowering his hood and splattering water on the cheap tiled floor. The shop was dim in the dull glow of the street lanterns, almost completely dark beyond.

Maatsu made a dismissive face and moved beyond Brophy’s reach. That was where, just beyond the draft from the outside, the smell hit him.

The shop smelled like a thousand years of incense. It smelled rich and musty and sleepy, like a nap in a sunny nook, or an oven after the bread has been taken out. Maatsu was transported, for a single moment, to a vivid memory of sitting on his grappa’s lap at the family’s mountain villa back on Pantora, bouncing on the old man’s knee with laughter and cool tea to still the mind from the summer heat. Maatsu blinked and took a deep breath to clear his head. It didn’t work. The smell was utterly overpowering, overcompensating, and wonderful. He turned from the others as they filed in carefully, and spied, just around the corner at the end of the shelf, a flash of movement. He narrowed his eyes.

“Brophy,” he hissed.

“Hmm?” Brophy answered as he moved in the opposite direction, towards the counter the far end of the shop.

“We’re not alone.” Even as he said it, he knew it sounded stupid. The other three looked at him (Arca’dia of course didn’t, but her head turned in his direction) quizzically.

“It’s a shop,” Brophy said. “It’s probably just—”

“Bee-rophy!” A winky, shrieky voice called.

“See!” Brophy answered, and there was a scuffle of movement.

As Maatsu approached, a short, furry, Chadra-fan extricated themselves from Brophy’s waist-high embrace. Large bat-like ears protruded from a brown-furred head, and enormous black eyes gazed out with a surprisingly vivid twinkle of joy and familiarity.

“You back!” the Chadra-fan exclaimed.

Brophy winked. “Told you I would.”

“You said not for standard week or two?”

Brophy shrugged. “Something came up,” he indicated absently towards Wek, who held the bundled Gauntlet in his arms, concealed with copious wrappings.

The Chadra-fan glanced his way. “You want to see her?”

Brophy nodded. “Yes, me, and my friends, if she’s free?”

The young fellow squeaked happily. “I’ll check-see. Maybe she busy now, but said she not.” The Chadra-fan scuttled away through the towering edifices of a knick-knack empire, dipping and dodging without touching a thing, then he was gone.

“Old friends?” Maatsu asked, his voice dripping with incredulity.

Brophy rolled his eyes and unzipped his jacket, splattering the floor with rainwater. “What, with Sethis? No, he just runs the shop for the Madame. He’s good company.”

“Seems high energy,” Maatsu grumbled, mostly to himself. But at Arca’dia’s pinch he breathed, “What?”

Arca’dia cocked her head with a smile and said nothing.

“I’ll be polite,” Maatsu promised.

Absently waiting, Maatsu and the others drifted through the shop, the thick clouds of old incense seeping into their clothes. Maatsu allowed himself a small smile as he scanned the shelves. Many things were labeled; most were not. The place was in dire need of some clerical work. But, Maatsu mused, maybe that’s part of the charm. He reached out and absently picked up a hunk of rock whose label read

“ALZOC III PEARL ORE – 400 CREDITS”

Maatsu rolled the rough rock in his hands, unable to determine if it was authentic or not, and mildly frustrated at the awareness that he lacked the knowledge to make such a call.

“Brophyy!” the Chadra-fan, Sethis’, voice called from somewhere in the depths of the shop.

“Here! See!”

Sethis appeared from the shadows of the store. “She not busy! She see all now!” He indicated the group.

Brophy smirked. “Shall we?”

Ξ

The back room of the Oddities Bazaar was much the same as the front: floor-to-ceiling shelves bursting with knick-knacks, touristy keepsakes, and likely the occasional item of real value. The difference from the front of the store was that the shelves stayed along the walls of the low room, rather than crowding in like a maze. Instead, the center had been filled with floor cushions and pillows that lay over a beautifully woven rug that Maatsu immediately recognized as being of Ghorman make—a fine choice in décor anywhere. The pillows and cushions sat in a wide ring around a low center table, upon which three hookahs hissed, their coals burning flavored t’bac and giving off a pleasant aroma for smoking.

Dragging from the end of one of those hookahs, her creased fingers curling around the smoking hose like it was an extension of her arm, was an ancient human woman. The weight of ages hung from her like the bawdy earrings that tugged her earlobes towards her neck. A jeweled embroidered sari of deep forested green hung from her shoulders and pooled around her crossed, bare, leathery feet. As the Exiles moved to fill the cozy space at the back of the shop, the old woman looked up from the small item in her hands, and Maatsu was struck by the sharpness of her gaze as she swept over the group, one by one.

“Brophy,” the old woman hummed, a wide-lipped smile stretching across her face that deepened the wrinkles of a life long-lived. She blew a massive cloud of smoke at the ceiling as she spread her arms. Brophy, not hesitating, moved to embrace her warmly.

“Madame,” Brophy said to her solemnly. “I’d like you to meet my friends. This is Arca’dia, Wek, and Maatsu. My friends, this is Madame Ooloora.”

“Pah,” Ooloora scoffed, her voice was scraping and scratchy, but full, like the plucking of waxy strings, or the stirring of honeyed wine. “I’m no Madame to you, boy. You’re too handsome for that.” She winked at him and gave a playful smirk.

Brophy turned scarlet and he averted his eyes.

Madame Ooloora’s gaze swept over them again. “You’re a ragged little family, aren’t you?” She stopped her sweep on Wek. “But cunning,” her eyes shifted to Maatsu, “and crafty, I think.” She moved to Arca’dia. “In need of a little peace, I think, hmm? What brings you to the Bazaar? Handsome Brophy tells me he’s kept you away for my sake, ha!”

Brophy opened his mouth to retort, but fell silent as she glared at him with utter seriousness. “I say it’s because he’s a greedy boy who wants me all to himself, heh heh heh.” Her cackle was full of mischief and wit. “Well sit down already!” She hawked. “Tea?”

Maatsu, already settling onto one of the cushions, received the cup she offered. “Yes, thank-you Madame.”

She never broke his gaze as she poured. “White torba root,” she said. “Soothes the throat and the nerves. Also makes for a fine paralytic if concentrated.”

Maatsu blinked as she sent a meaningful glance his way as he sipped. Then she burst out laughing. “That’s your freebie for the day.”

“My what?” Maatsu asked.

“Nuggets of knowledge,” Brophy answered when Madame Ooloora remained mum.

When the group was settled and the tea poured, Ooloora leaned back on her cushion with a loud sigh and the audible creaking of old joints. “Now, what brings you here so urgently, hmm? I expect you’ve brought payment for my valuable services? You see how much in-demand I am.” She gestured broadly to the stuffed shelves.  

Brophy nodded. He reached over to grab the pack Maatsu had been carrying and began removing items from it. As he did, Sethis swept forward from the shadows on silent feet, scooping up the exposed items and depositing them on the cushions at Ooloora’s side. Each item the old woman unwrapped, appraised, and set to the side, occasionally hemming or hawing. Maatsu watched her closely, recalling similar mannerisms displayed at courtly gatherings on Pantora or high-society functions on Coruscant to guess that either she was an utter charlatan and was making a show of examining paraphernalia about which she knew nothing, or she was an expert in the field of items-of-varying-value; he suspected the latter.

“How familiar are you with… ancient artifacts?” Brophy asked, chewing each word as she neared the end of the pile.

Ooloora took a long drag of her hookah, sipped her tea, and steepled her fingers. “Ancient artifacts, hmmm, such a broad subject, terribly non-descript, no references to whom these artifacts may have belonged to, where they come from, or when they might have existed? Brophy, sweet boy, I don’t think you could offer a less useful question if you tried. Be more specific.”

Brophy pursed his lips. “That’s sort of the problem,” he admitted. “We don’t really have those answers.”

A wicked smile slipped over the Madame’s face. “Then is that why you’ve brought me such a rich haul?” She indicated the pile of scavenged goods lying next to her.

Brophy shrugged. “‘The value of information for the value of items traded’,” he said with dry riposte.

From the slyly pleased look that spread over the Madame’s face, Maatsu guessed he was quoting the old woman’s words.

“Smart boy,” she said, wagging a finger at Brophy. “Well come on then, let’s see what you have.”

Maatsu shared a look of surprise with Wek. “…We haven’t told you we brought—”

“—That you brought anything?” Ooloora interrupted. “My time is valuable, child, and Brophy knows better than to waste it. I knew you were coming, and I knew it was important. My mind is young yet.” She tapped the side of her head knowingly with the tip of the hookah hose.

Wek looked to Brophy, who gave a slight nod, but a thought had struck Maatsu. On a sudden hunch, he pulled carefully back from the corporeal and dipped his toes into the Force. Gently, carefully, so as not to cause alarm or get her attention, Maatsu reached out towards the old woman. The room lit up with the familiar presence of his compatriots, but as he sent a tendril of feeling weaving towards her—

—A wall blocked his path.

Maatsu recoiled by what he felt. His consciousness brushed against a wall of polished glass. The glass felt sturdy, constructed by a firm hand. It encapsulated the thoughts of the Madame, and his touch sent ripples through its utterly opaque face. He touched it again, and his touch sent more ripples out and away from him in this ethereal space. Fear, uncertainty, and suspicion gripped him. The knowledge needed to build a mental block of such strength needed—no, demanded—a deep connection to the Force. It required that terrible taboo in the current political climate: Force sensitivity.

In the distance, Maatsu could hear and see Wek unrolling the strange gauntlet they had recovered, as if from another room. He could hear Brophy and Wek stuttering their way through the events in the Temperance’s tomb. Ignoring them, Maatsu steeled himself to push harder against the wall, but before he could it… opened? A seam appeared, and in his mind’s eye, he felt the Madame’s presence pushing him back at him with a firm hand.

It's rude to go poking around someone’s mind without permission, young man.

The voice jangled around Maatsu’s psyche. His probing fell backwards in shock and confusion. He burst out of his connection to the Force like a drowning man gasping for air, and he snapped back to himself.

He blinked.

The room was silent. Everyone was staring at him, but he could only look towards the Madame. Her face was neutral but her eyes were hard, a flicker of flint whipped through them as she looked his way. She held his gaze for a long beat, unblinking. Maatsu tried to still his riotous heartrate without breaking her gaze. He failed, and averted his gaze. He stared at his hands. They were shaking.

“Sweet Brophy,” said Madame Ooloora, her voice soft, “you’ve been keeping secrets from an old woman.” Maatsu could still feel her gaze on him.

Brophy took a long moment to respond. The tremor in his voice when he spoke was small, but audible. “Everyone’s allowed their secrets.”

The air in the storeroom thickened. Maatsu felt his breath catch in his throat.

“That depends on the nature of the secret,” said Ooloora. Her tone remained pleasant, but it had gained a low edge.

“What sort of secrets are those?” asked Wek. Maatsu couldn’t tell if the childish clarity of the question was genuine, or if the young Jawa was playing an angle.

Ooloora smiled and the edge drifted out of her voice. “The sort that brings the Empire knocking, little one.

Wek nodded sagely. Maatsu knew the young Jawa enough to know he almost certainly did not know what she meant. Sometimes Maatsu envied Wek’s unfettered wonderment.

“You’re…” Brophy trailed off, eyes locked on the Madame.

Ooloora heaved a long sigh. “My boy, are you interested in hearing about my connection to the Force, or do you want to hear about this gauntlet?” she indicated the rose-gold piece of armor in Wek’s arms. “Your purchase does not give you time for both today.”

They all stirred on their cushions, processing.

“The gauntlet, if you would.” Arca’dia’s voice cut through the thick air.

Ooloora inclined her head towards Arca’dia and, without missing a beat, started to speak. As she did so, she directed Sethis to retrieve the artifact from Wek and deliver it to her arms. “Well, for good and glorious starters, this, I believe, is the genuine article,” she nodded in Sethis’ direction as he handed her the gauntlet. She began to inspect it. “There are no visible forger’s marks,” she continued. “The alloy is unfamiliar to me, which makes it a rarity, as alloys go. I’ll wager you haven’t had time to examine it in a proper lab yet? You’ve just been carrying it around in a sack?”

The group collectively shifted apologetically, but no one said anything.

Ooloora made an affirmative, if somewhat disgusted, grunt. “You younglings have no idea just how flooded the antiquities’ markets have become since the Clone Wars broke out. Whenever one of those clone carriers crashed, or one of the Trade Fed battle-spheres went down, and the battlefield cooled? Oh, the scavengers descended like a Vidiian Plague! Every twisted bit of metal was the discovery of a lifetime, every ruined bulkhead could have been scorched in ages past, and every two-bit junker swore up and down the hyperlanes that ‘my special find is the real deal. Treasures never-before seen!’ Bah.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Lost artifacts of the Infinite Empire, or the old Hutt Empire, or Xim the Despot’s Empire! Too many empires to count, too many genocides to pull out your hankies for.”

Ooloora produced a small case from her pocket and unclasped it, revealing what appeared to be a fine set of appraiser’s tools. One by one, she subjected the strange piece of armor to a speedy battery of tests. “The thing most junkers don’t realize about their ‘precious finds,’” she continued, “is that all that volume of forgeries makes for a lovely little database to compare notes against.” She smirked, and the laugh-lines around her eyes deepened. “A mountain of evidence—for any nerf-bucket who knows what to look for—that you can’t ignore. Forensic archaeology. That makes it easy to find what this old lady would like to call…” she trailed off as she finished her tests, “a full pot.”

Maatsu took a long, slow breath, his mind still racing at the thought that this eccentric old lady was an undiscovered Force user, but he held his tongue.

Ooloora finished with her appraiser’s tools and snapped the case closed with finality. “I’ve got plenty of opinions on this little find, sweet Brophy and friends,” she leaned forward conspiratorially, “but you still haven’t asked me a question with any value about it. So,” she leaned back on her cushion, “what do you really want to know?”

Maatsu winced at the dumb silence that followed. Brophy looked to Wek, who looked to Arca’dia, who cocked her head and turned to Maatsu, who looked back to Wek, who looked back to Brophy. In the upper-crusted halls of Pantoran society, such an absentee response would be seen as social weakness—a harbinger of a family ripe for the public stock exchange, unprepared for the rigors of a cutthroat social economy—and the proverbial gundarks would descend on the scent of blood.

The visions the Temperance had imparted to the Exiles, the cryptic portents he had offered, and the strange star map, all accompanied by feelings of despair and loss, and the gauntlet itself, supposedly one of six artifacts that made up…

“Have you ever heard of the Balancing Mantle?” Maatsu blurted into the silence. The words were out before he could stop them, and he felt a flush creep up his cheeks, but in his chest he knew it was the right question.

He knew it, because Ooloora went still on her cushion. “I’m sorry dear, the what?”

Maatsu steeled himself. “The Balancing Mantle,” he repeated. “What is it?”

Ooloora folded her hands carefully in front of her. “That’s… a terribly broad question.”

“No it isn’t,” Maatsu insisted. All three of his companions were stone still and watching him. “Brophy said you know about artifacts. That seems like a pretty specific set of artifacts.”

Ooloora made a slightly pouty face. “That can be as true as demanding rain from the sky during the rainy season. You might know it’s coming, but that doesn’t change the way of the weather.” She shifted in her seat. “Do you know how many named sets of genuinely lost antiquities exist in the galaxy?” She waved her hand over her head. “Countless. Truly countless.”

“You’re dodging the question,” Maatsu said.

“Only because I deal in quality rumors, not superstitious drivel.”

“Which means the name isn’t unfamiliar to you.”

“I admitted nothing of the sort.”

Maatsu couldn’t help it, he felt his curiosity rising. “Superstitious drivel has infinitely more substance than nothing."

"That doesn’t mean it’s worth a lick to the likes of you.”

“And what do you know about the likes of us?” Maatsu pressed.

“More than you’ve paid for today.”

“But we have paid today, and this is clearly an article of interest to you.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t?” Maatsu’s noble heritage flared its penchant for getting its way, latching onto the slightest inflection in the old woman’s words.

The Madame knew she’d stumbled. Maatsu could see it. Maybe it wasn’t as obvious to Brophy or the others, but it was visible for a flash in the casual way she averted her eyes, the recrossing of her legs. To her credit, her next words made Maatsu respect her awareness all the more.

“Wasn’t,” she repeated, enunciating clearly. “It wasn’t my hobby, it was my husband’s.” A smile quirked the corners of her mouth, and her eyes drifted somewhere else, somewhere far away. “I’ve heard of the Balancing Mantle, but only in circles of lunatics and fanatics; societies of outcasts. You casually bring me a find like this and demand I crack open my husband’s journals because you sweet young Jedi think you need an adventure.” There were no question in her words, only statements.

“We…” Arca’dia started, then stopped as everyone turned to look at her. She hesitated, then pressed on. “We were told it was connected to a dangerous calamity.”

Madame Ooloora snorted. “So are most people’s next bowel movement, but you don’t hear them complaining about it.” When no one laughed, she huffed and turned to Arca’dia with softer eyes. “Your secret is safe with me, but I know what longing hearts you Jedi had. Have? You always have to stick your robes in everyone’s business because it’s the ‘right thing to do’.” She indicated the gauntlet. “This is the sort of thread that you’re better off not pulling on.” Ooloora adopted a contemptable face. “It’s liable to unspool.”

An uncertain silence followed. Maatsu had to admit, he could see why Brophy had been so cautious in introducing them to this woman. Her seeming forthrightness was expertly paired with social repartee, and she was skilled in the art of deflection—especially if her mental barriers were any indicator. But Maatsu had been raised in a political family. Fishing true meaning from the depths of airy conversation was his finest honed skill, far outstripping his martial prowess with dueling. Madame Ooloora might be sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, but Maatsu was confident in his handiness with such duels.

While the others chewed on the Madame’s words, Maatsu sat up straighter. “What happened to your husband?” He asked.

In Maatsu’s periphery, he saw Brophy’s eyes go wide with alarm, but he was focused on Ooloora. To her credit, he only caught the faintest upturning at the corners of her mouth. So, brazen is good, he thought, satisfied.

Ooloora turned a playful shoulder his way, her voice going honey-sweet again. “You’re a little more forward than most suitors,” she said. “And you’re definitely less than half the average caller’s age, but I’d let you buy me dinner.”

Maatsu flushed a little but pressed onward. “I’d be happy to. I just would want to make sure I’m not treading on another man’s toes.”

Ooloora raised an eyebrow and let a little dancing playfulness cross her face. “Oh? Chivalrous and forthright. How fortunate am I!”

Maatsu waited for her to elaborate. When instead she tilted her head and settled deeper into her cushion, he hesitated.

“So…” he trailed off.

“Ah, of course, silly me,” she said, slapping her knees jovially. “The mind wanders sometimes, what was your question?”

“I…” Maatsu stumbled again. Suddenly he couldn’t tell if she was being intentionally thick, or if she was actually a little absentminded. “…Where is your husband?” He finally asked again, knowing as he said it that it sounded far more deflated than he’d intended.

“Off and away,” Ooloora answered with such readiness that he didn’t catch her expression, distracted as he was. “And I only really have time for serious transactional affairs, the sort of which you, sweet boy, are nowhere near ready for.” She gave a smile that was half loth-cat, half kath hound, and all wit. She rounded on the rest of the group. “And that seems to be all the time you’ve paid for today! Time to shove off now, ta ta!” At her words, Sethis swooped through the seating area, collecting teacups whether they were in hand or halfway to the mouth (the latter, in Brophy’s case).

“B-but—” Brophy tried to interject but was cut off as Sethis swept the teacup from his grip, mid-sip.

“—We’re all slaves to time, my dear,” said Ooloora, “and it seems that yours has run out for the day. You’ve brought a most interesting piece, but if you wish to know more about it, you’ll have to make another appointment for another day. In fact…”

Like a distant roll of thunder, a tremor reached Maatsu in the Force. From the way Madame Ooloora trailed off, and the sudden rising static in the room, he knew the others had felt it too. It hadn’t been subtle.

Ooloora looked around her little shop, her eyes focused somewhere far distant, beyond whatever Maatsu might be able to see. To Maatsu’s eyes, the shop looked the same as when they had entered: all the bits and bobs, odds and ends were on their shelves, the cushions were slowly depressing without the weight of assorted bodies on them. Still, he knew something was off. He could feel it.

“Yes. It’s definitely time for you to go.” Ooloora pulled herself out of her cushion faster than her aged countenance suggested was reasonable and swept round her table. “Trouble’s coming.” She pressed the gauntlet into Wek’s arms and approached Brophy, her sari glittering behind her. “You’ll need this,” she said, and Maatsu saw her press something into Brophy’s hands. “Now out with you.” She moved to shoo them back into the showroom, herding them like bantha.

Another tremulous rumble rolled through the Force as they crowded back into the shop. Somewhere in the corporeal, Maatsu became aware of another sound: the whine of repulsorlifts. It was almost as if the Force tremor accompanied the downdraft of an airspeeder nearby…

As the wide storefront window came into view around the shelves, Maatsu’s tongue caught in his throat, and his chest went cold. The street had been cleared of pedestrians in the fading twilight, and the shadows deepened as some—but not all—of the streetlights and lamps had come on. Debarking from a speeder truck in front of the store was a squad of white armored figures with black rifles.

Stormtroopers.

“Side door,” Ooloora hissed from behind them, and the group moved their awkward mass towards the semi-concealed door she indicated behind the counter. They were too slow. As the door to the side-room and—presumably—a bolt hole slid open, Maatsu looked back up at the hiss of the front door sliding open simultaneously, and the air went out of the room.

Outside, the dirtied and worn armor of the stormtrooper escort was a visual menace aplenty, but the figures who stepped into the shop were in a different class altogether. The first to enter was a human man, pale skinned, with a thin, sallow face and slightly sunken eyes that made him look half starved, and hungry. His uniform and cap were pressed, crisp, and whiter than Pantoran snow. His boots, conversely, were black, buffed, and glossy. He carried an air of utter authority about him, as if he had just entered his country for the first time as king and was awaiting an inventory of all that he possessed.

The second figure was shorter by a head, and an utterly more imposing presence altogether, even with less stature. Her black armor was well-fitted, but could not hide the hint of a feminine frame. Her helmet was patterned in a mix of satin and glossy finish that served to highlight the glowing crimson visor slit. Two menacing fins tapered down and back from the cheek plates, giving it an almost inverted wings look. Her thigh-length black half-cloak rustled as she stepped over the threshold, displaying a bright crimson inner lining as she moved. In the few seconds Maatsu had to take in her details, he saw the glint of a black-and-silver cylinder on her utility belt, a shape he could never mistake for anything else; a lightsaber.

All were frozen but for the darting of eyes. The only indication that the black-armored woman was paying them any mind was the faint movement of her helmet. Maatsu had every belief that she was taking in their faces, each in turn.

Before anyone could say a word, Sethis took the opportunity to climb steps behind the shop counter, bringing him eye-to-eye with those in the store. The Chadra-fan exuded the air of a warm and competent proprietor and squeaked in his native language, “Welcome to the Oddities Shop off Market Street, sir and miss! How might we assist you today? Looking for some local samples? We have all sorts, from corded Onderonian filus fiber, to dried Manaan kelpweed!”

Sethis reached overhead to a hanging cabinet—with slow, deliberate movement—as he spoke and pulled down a misshapen hunk of something. “Or perhaps are you in for some exotic artifacts to take home with you? A bit of rubble from Taris could—”

The woman held up a black gloved hand. “—Are you implying that we should go home?” Her voice was sharp and biting through the helmet speaker, under which a thin layer of vocabulator static enhanced her crisp consonants. Maatsu couldn’t quite place her accent, but it sounded Core.

Sethis faltered, his huge batty ears flaring out. “N-no, o-of course not, miss. I only—”

“—She is not a ‘miss’, and I am not a ‘sir’, to you, clerk.” The officer snapped, his voice held as much sour disdain as his face. “We are your protectors, emissaries of the Empire, here to keep the peace.”

Sethis remained frozen, his eyes wide and unblinking.

“I am Agent Braul, you may address her as ‘Sister’. Do you understand?”

Maatsu felt the faintest rustle of cloth behind him, and he dared to turn his head to see Brophy edging towards the open side door, shrouded in the shadows at the back of the shop. Perhaps the two hadn’t seen him? Unlikely.

“It seems we’ve caught you in the midst of a sale,” said the Sister in a projecting, lazily obvious tone.

Maatsu winced.

“Oh, it-it’s no trouble,” Sethis stammered. He had cradled the piece of Taris rubble to his vest protectively. “The lady of the shop was—is—is in a meeting.”

Agent Braul rubbed a bit of dirt between his gloved fingers. “Hmm. That won’t do. You see we are here to have a talk with the lady of the shop. I believe,” he pulled out a datapad, “yes. Yes, I believe one ‘Miss Ooloora’ is who we are searching for. You say she’s the owner here? Her name came up on a troubling report, which is why we are here.”

Ooloora pushed past the exiles, leaning heavily on her cane. “Oh dear, ‘troubling’? That just won’t do.”

Maatsu nearly jumped out of his skin as someone tapped his shoulder. He kept from crying out and whirling on the assailant. Barely. Arca’dia was gesturing towards the side-door just as Brophy disappeared from view.

Maatsu nodded, but turned back despite himself. Ooloora blocked the view of the Sister in black armor, but he could see the scowl on Agent Braul’s face.

“Quite the party you’ve brought,” Ooloora said pleasantly, indicating the dual rows of stormtroopers lining the street. It was starting to rain.

“Miss Ooloora, you’re going to have to—”

“—Madame, dear.” Ooloora interrupted.

Agent Braul blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Maatsu could see the old woman raise her chin, could feel her defiance, even without looking into the Force.

“I’m not a ‘miss’, either, Agent. I’m a Madame.”

Before the man could open his mouth to speak, Ooloora waved him off.

“It’s alright. Wisdom before beauty, as they say, and you may be focusing on the latter first, but the light of those datapad screens is no excuse for your complexion.”

Agent Braul’s eyes went wide. “How dare you—”

Ooloora pressed on, “—How dare I? I believe it’s you who was just about to say that I need to come in for some questions? Oh I think not. My documents are well in order, my licenses are all up to date, so why don’t we save the precious time and stow the pretense, hmm? Oppressors don’t get to hide behind manners when those manners are false.”

Agent Braul’s face had gone scarlet, but the Sister had gone very still. “Our questions are concerning a warning we received about seditious and banned behaviors on the premises.”

Ooloora tapped her cane. “Is that so? And what sort might that be?”

“Force usage,” the sister said simply, and there was no denying the dangerous undercurrent in her voice.

It happened fast.

The Sister’s hand formed the shape of a claw as she reached for the Madame. Before she could direct her power at Madame Ooloora, a bundle of fur and bat ears descended on Ooloora from the counter. The Sister’s Force field that gathered where the Madame had been for a moment gathered instead around Sethis. Ooloora was flung out of the way. Sethis was held suspended in the air, his feet dangling. The piece of Taris rubble tumbled from his grip to the floor. Then, the Sister yanked him towards her. At the same time, the snap-hiss of a lightsaber activation cut through the store. The store flashed a brilliant crimson for a moment, returned to normal as the blade pierced the Chadra-fan’s heart, and went crimson again as it erupted out of his back, bathing the shop in brilliant red light. Sethis whimpered once, and went limp, suspended on the Sister’s red blade.

“That didn’t have to happen,” the Sister said, as calmly as if she were commenting on the morning forecast. She let Sethis’ body crumple to the floor. Agent Braul half sidestepped away from the crimson blade.

In an equally conversational voice, but laden with labored breathing as she righted herself, Madame Ooloora spat, “You made that choice.” Then she held out her hands, fingers splayed wide, and Maatsu felt the air sucked out of his lungs as the Force unleashed from the old woman in a maelstrom. Caught quite unprepared, Agent Braul and the Sister both were ripped from the floor and tossed through the store’s bay window like toys. Transparisteel and bodies and shelves of oddities erupted out into the street like a hurricane. The storm struck the waiting stormtroopers and speeder truck like standing white pins and scattered them every which way. Sparks erupted from the streetlights, and the roaring impacts were horrendous.

Find me. Ooloora’s voice echoed through Maatsu’s head, and from Wek and Arca’dia’s shocked head swivels, he guessed they had heard it too. I will help you, but go now. Get to your ship. Go.

The last Maatsu saw was the old woman in a tattered green sari, her face as set as stone as she rushed to pick up the little body of Sethis, then a breaker tripped and the lights in the street went out, and Maatsu bolted with the other Exiles.

Chapter Text

VIII

Brophy Escaping Khoonda

The four exiles practically tumbled out of Madame Ooloora’s shop in a damp alley. Thankfully, it was unoccupied except for the frightened squeal of a wamp rat as it bolted in abject terror, bouncing off a nearby dumpster in its haste. One by one, they clambered through the narrow alley tunnel as the sounds of sirens and confused shouting could be heard on the next block.

“We’re compromised,” Brophy said matter-of-factly when they had all gathered. “We have to leave the planet.”

Wek wrung his hands, gazing through the puddle near his feet. “That woman, she… The shopkeep…”

“I know, but mourn later,” Brophy cut him off and held up the datachit the Madame had given him. “At least we have somewhere we can go.”

Maatsu winced. “That’s quite the gamble.”

“No worse than hoping on the generosity of strangers,” Arca’dia offered.

“She is a stranger.” Maatsu pointed out.

“Not to me,” said Brophy. “We can make a firm choice when we’re together on the ship. Come on, we have to move,” he made sure to get a firm hand on Wek as he urged the four of them out of the alley and onto the street. “This way.”

They exited onto another street full of shops and stalls and low-hanging canopies laden with evening lanterns. A few meandering window shoppers were idly ogling the sounds of commotion in the next street, but otherwise the traffic was unremarkable.

“Move," Brophy urged, and they followed, heading in the opposite direction. He kept a firm grip on Wek’s cloak, steering him.

Arca’dia let out a hurried breath as she caught up. “We should call the others.”

Brophy nodded and dug deep into one of the many pockets on his vest. He produced a comlink with what appeared to be a heavy cap on its bottom.

“What is that?” Maatsu asked.

“Remember that officer you swiped a comlink off of a few months back? When Wek was shopping for some scrap and almost got picked up by a patrol?”

Maatsu brightened with pride. “I do.” He furrowed his brow. “It didn’t look like that.”

Brophy jerked his head towards Wek. “Wek cannibalized it. It’s not the most secure channel, and it’s not subtle. They’ll definitely pick up a local encrypted transmission, but if we’re lucky we can be out of here before they unscramble it.” His finger hovered over the call button as they wove onto a busier thoroughfare. “If we’re really lucky, maybe they won’t even be listening.” The last bit he murmured more to himself. He wasn’t sure the others had heard, and that was fine.

Maatsu crossed his arms and gave his most condescending head tilt. “Do you know anything about military encryption?”

Brophy hesitated. “Not really, why?”

Maatsu threw up his hands. “I don’t either. That’s the point. Wek,” he hurried to the front, trying to catch Wek’s eye. The Jawa’s lamplit eyes were dim as they hurried along. “How do you know it’s safe to use?”

When Wek didn’t answer, Maatsu leaned closer, trying to get the Jawa’s attention. Arca’dia placed a calming hand on Maatsu’s shoulder. “There’s no time, we have to let them know.”

Maatsu screwed up his face and huffed. “I just want to go on record and say I don’t like this.”

“Duly noted,” said Brophy, and he hit the call button.

The comlink gave a faint whine then beeped once, twice, again. A man and a vendor both looked up at them curiously as they passed.

They waited for an agonizing moment, then a double beep sounded.

“Brophy?” Kaarsk’s voice came tinny through the tiny speaker. “Finally. We’ve been calling!”

Confused, Brophy pulled out his personal comlink and was dismayed to see one of the lights blinking rapidly. It meant he had multiple missed calls. “Sorry, we were occupied. What’s up?”

“Draug’s in trouble. Something at the club. He just got back, said he’s been dodging law enforcement all day. We need to get out of here.”

Brophy couldn’t help but quirk a wry grin at the terrible irony. “Fun fact: no argument on our part either. We’re blown. We need our bugout bags.” He turned away from the comlink and rapid-fire asked where the other’s bags were.

“Apartment,” said Maatsu.

“Apartment,” Arca’dia seconded.

“Mine’s on the ship.” Brophy risked stopping under a storefront awning to take a knee at Wek’s level. “Buddy, look at me.”

Slowly, Wek’s lamps grew brighter and he met Brophy’s gaze. “The shopkeep, Sethis,” the Jawa said softly, “he was just helping the Madame…”

“I know.” Brophy said, perhaps a little more sharply than he’d intended. It wasn’t Wek’s fault. “But listen buddy, we have to get out of town. The response teams will be here in minutes, and we need to be on our way to the ship by then. Where’s your bugout bag?”

Wek scratched his head. “My good tools are on the ship, but…”

Kaarsk’s voice echoed through the encrypted comlink. “Brophy? What’s going on? What—”

“—In a minute!” Brophy hissed into the device.

Wek wrung his hands. “There’s a project at the apartment… I don’t want to—I mean I’m trying to keep… It’s something I was working on. I don’t want to lose it.”

The three of them exchanged quick looks. Maatsu’s head was on a swivel, looking up and down the street for any sign of Imperials.  

“How big is it?” Brophy asked.

Wek made a rough guesstimate with his little arms. “About this big.” Brophy guessed it to be about the size of a large personal luggage case.

Brophy looked at Arca’dia, who cocked her head to indicate she was listening. She nodded.

Brophy thumbed the comlink again. “Still there?”

“Still here,” Kaarsk growled.

“Alright,” Brophy said, whirling to his feet and urging Wek forward. “Arca’dia and Maatsu’s bags are at the apartment, mine and Wek’s are on the ship, but Wek has a… a project. Can Draug grab it?”

A pause. “How big is it?”

Wek pulled Brophy’s comlink hand down to him. “It’s in my closet,” he said into the microphone. “Sitting on the table. Don’t worry about the tools, just the body. Oh, and the right leg is still detached! Don’t forget that! And don’t hit the nose button!”

The sound of angry huffing came through the device.

In the distance, Brophy heard the first whines of law enforcement sirens. He traded a grim look with Maatsu, and they set off a little faster.

“What the hell is this?” Kaarsk sounded deeply incredulous.

“It’s my project!” Wek said brightly, his melancholy fading, at least for the moment.

“Fine, Draug can carry it.”

“Good, we’re headed for the ship,” Brophy concluded. “Meet us there in an hour.”

“See you there.” The link died.

As if to punctuate the end of their time on Dantooine, a few streets later Brophy became aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere. He couldn’t allow the party to slow down, not after what had just happened in the shop, but he felt something change. It wasn’t in the Force either—he knew better than to try to immerse himself in the cosmic currents while a predator like the woman in black armor was nearby—it felt like a barometric pressure drop. It felt like that intangible calm before a thunderstorm came rolling over the grassy highlands.

He wasn’t alone in the sensation. Presently, as they approached the edge of downtown Khoonda and found their way through one of the busier plazas, hushed whispering and urgent mutterings spread through the locals. It was then he caught arms pointing up, and he turned his gaze skyward just in time to see it.

Descending through the thickening grey canopy of afternoon clouds, a shadow made itself known on the sky. At first it was a great shapeless blob, then it sharpened into what looked like… a great triangle? A moment later, the ship broke the canopy, revealing a vast grey wedge, falling towards the planet on a lazy, predatory trajectory, utterly silent at such a great distance, but no less menacing for it.

Brophy’s blood ran cold. He’d seen the newsfeeds. He knew the Empire had been proudly retiring the old Venator-class battleships from the Clone Wars in favor of a new weapon of terror, but this was the first he had seen of them. From what the feeds and the local rumor mills had said, this was a brand-new Imperial Star Destroyer. If the propaganda was to be believed, a single Star Destroyer could blockade a planet like this with ease. He couldn’t deny the sense of ominous dread that the great wedge left in his mouth as he urged the group across the plaza. He directed them to move as nonchalantly as they could, but as fast as they could without drawing attention. It was definitely time to leave Dantooine.

Ξ

Through the outskirts of Khoonda, Brophy led the exiles. The growing wail of sirens behind spurred them onwards without looking back, but they could not keep from eyeing the sky as the wedge of the Star Destroyer descended towards them. They detoured only once to avoid a patrol. After a quarter hour, they came to the edge of town, to a speeder bike rental shop Brophy had scouted months earlier for just such an occasion. He charged through the doors while the others waited in the yard looking utterly clueless, just as he’d requested. He summoned the owner with an air of entitled arrogance he did not feel, and uttered a preprepared story about wanting to take his rich off-world friends sightseeing. He added a little embellishment about his friends being thrill seekers who wanted to catch a Dantooine highlands stormfront, to which the owner—whom Brophy had confirmed during his early scouting was an avid storm chaser—eagerly agreed. Brophy presented his prepaid credit chits for the use of two quality Aratech 74-Y civilian speeder bikes for the evening, to be returned by midnight. Paperwork was signed, Brophy’s false identichit was scanned, deposits that Brophy fully intended to forfeit were exchanged, and the starter codes were handed over. He was pleased when the entire affair took less than fifteen minutes.

Five minutes later, the wind had picked up, and the evening had turned a stormy grey. The warmth continued to trickle out of the air, forecast of a savage autumn thunderstorm brewing. As Brophy and Maatsu set up Arca’dia and Wek behind them, respectively, on the speeder bikes, Brophy found himself fervently hoping that they could get out of here before the storm hit, but he had a bad feeling that their luck wouldn’t be so generous.

He and Maatsu walked the bikes to the gates of the rental shop, beyond which lay the gently rolling lavender slopes of the Matale Highlands, broken only by low buttes and plateaus and the occasional towering blba tree, bulbously grasping for the heavens through a sea of grass. Above, the grey wedge of the Star Destroyer had stopped its descent and was hanging rigid in the sky, looming. Brophy changed his mind. Maybe the storm would hit soon and they could sneak away under its cover.

“You know I’ve never driven one of these before?” Maatsu called, raising his voice consummately with the rising wind.

Brophy pulled his goggles down and indicated Maatsu should do the same. “I know, but the controls are meant for amateurs, that’s why I picked this model!” He moved to check the straps on Wek’s helmet, and had to suppress a grin at the poor Jawa, who’s hood wouldn’t allow for proper goggles, so he had had to stuff his head in a riding helmet, and now looked like an upside-down fishbowl with a brown napkin flowing from the bottom. But the Jawa looked pleased, even excited, so Brophy said nothing. Better to let Wek enjoy the ride in the face of the trip they had to now make.

He moved away from Wek and saluted to Maatsu, who was muttering the startup sequence under his breath. He rounded his bike to check on Arca’dia, who had a helmet with the blast shield down to protect her face and her veil. “All set?” he asked, leaning close to make sure she heard.

Arca’dia gave a winning smile and two thumbs up, which was uncharacteristically upbeat for her, but Brophy didn’t want to question it just now either. If she’s nervous, she’s hiding it well, he thought.

“Good.” Brophy moved around her and mounted their bike. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.” He fired up the bike, enjoying the rush as the reliable W318 Scoris repulsorlift engine thrummed to life with a rising coo. He felt Arca’dia wrap her hands around his waist and rest her head on his shoulder. He patted her hand reassuringly. Then they were off, and he hoped Maatsu and Wek were close behind.

The journey to the Horizon’s hiding place was barely thirty minutes by speeder bike, but time was of the essence, and they had lost more than enough dodging their way through the streets of Khoonda to push their luck. The only consolation was that there were no sirens riding up behind them, no Imperial fighters bearing down on them, and that could only mean that they were ahead of the curve on escaping the Sister’s clutches. There was only the dull distant rumble of thunder and the promise of rain, likely closing fast on them.

Though the path they rode was trackless, Brophy had spent much of the past three years exploring the Matale Highlands around Khoonda, and it had become warmly, almost homely familiar over that time. The grassy knolls and hills hid many secrets for those willing to take the time to find them, and he had done so from the moment they arrived.

Brophy hand-signaled to Maatsu that they would be turning soon, and he had to trust that the Pantoran would follow his lead—at least he had done so thus far.

Approaching a rocky creek bed, Brophy slowed and curved gently from the ‘trail’ they’d been following. Chasing the rising howl of the speeder bikes, Brophy accelerated, spattering creek water behind him and Arca’dia as they rushed upriver. The grassland banks quickly gave way to brambly underbrush, and in short order, they rode up through a natural brush tunnel over the river. The underbrush was thick and full of dry spines, and the steady whine of the bikes closed in on them, almost to the point of claustrophobia, until, all at once, they burst from the underbrush to a broad hollow ringed by hills and capped by a grove of gnarled blba trees.

Brophy felt a tight knot of tension trickle away from his gut as he caught sight of their ship, shadowed and well-hidden beneath the fading light. His stomach loosened further when he saw the running lights for the ventral cargo lift were already alight. Kaarsk and Draugmand had already made it and were inside.

Brophy stopped the bike and dismounted near the loading ramp.

“We’re leaving the bikes?” came Maatsu’s raspy windswept call from behind him.

Brophy frowned, turning. “Well, yeah, we don’t need them, do we?”

Maatsu pulled his goggles from his face, leaving a perfect dirt-free imprint around his eyes. “The owner’s never going to find them here. Seems a terrible waste…”

Brophy hesitated. The odds of anyone finding this little hideaway were slim, which had been by design, and the bikes didn’t have any sort of locator beacon—hence the hefty deposit on the rentals. The isolation was why the Exiles had decided to stash the Horizon here in the first place: they wouldn’t have to pay long-term parking fees for the ship, and they wouldn’t have to answer any inquiries about their questionable ownership of it, should any nosy law enforcement officers come knocking.

“You’re right,” Brophy relented. “Let’s load ‘em up.” He still felt a twinge of guilt in his gut at the notion of stealing, but there wasn’t time to wrestle with the punitive morality of doing so.

Maatsu gave a self-satisfied grin and walked his bike to the ramp. Wek was still strapped to the rear seat and was waiting patiently to be released. Brophy helped Arca’dia off the rear saddle seat before doing the same for the Jawa.

In short order, the group rode the lift into the belly of the Horizon, strapped the bikes into some cargo webbing, and Brophy marched up through the lower decks towards the cockpit. As he came up the switchback past the galley and the rear cargo bay hall to the survey deck, he heard a wheedling shriek as R3-ED came bouncing aft towards him, the crimson astromech’s three wheeled struts rumbling over the deck plates.

“Reed! Hey buddy,” Brophy dashed past the droid, rubbing his hemispheric dome as he rushed by. “Can’t talk, we’ve gotta launch. Did Kaarsk have you do the preflight already?”

R3-ED tweedled indignantly as he spun to give chase.

Brophy zipped past the Horizon’s sunken survey sensor stations and climbed through the bulkhead beyond onto the crew deck. “I do have faith in you,” he called back to the droid, “but we’re in a rush and I needed to be sure. You’ve been running passive scans of the sky, yeah?”

R3-ED beep-booped, as if the question affronted him.

“Good. Has that Star Destroyer sent out any ships?”

The droid fired off a complex string of whistles, beeps, and whirs in response as they passed the huge holo-survey table on the way to the cockpit.

Brophy stopped. “Just a shuttle? Before they entered atmosphere?”

R3-ED gave an affirmative bweep.

“That was hours ago, that was before we even went to see…” Brophy heaved an alarmed breath.

“Oi, Brophy?!” Draugmand called from up ahead. “Hurry up, we’re warming up the reactor!”

Brophy gave R3-ED a grave look of mutual warning and moved to meet the Dowutin.

Inside the cockpit, dashboards blinked a veritable rainbow of color, from warm blinking status lights to cooly steady white arrays displaying their readiness. To Brophy’s right, Kaarsk had already locked the rails for the pilot’s seat at the console and his furred hands were a blur as he woke up the dormant vessel. Brophy moved to the left, where the co-pilot’s station flanked the center aisle and sat unoccupied.

“Hey, hey! What!?” Kaarsk barked as Brophy’s ass touched the chair.

“What?” Brophy asked.

Kaarsk reached down and yanked the release lever for the pilot’s seat. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Brophy tensed his shoulders apologetically. “You were already settled in, so I thought—”

“—You thought something ridiculous,” Kaarsk said, already unstrapping himself. “Switch. You’re flying.”

Obliging, Brophy rose from the co-pilot’s seat and swapped with Kaarsk just as Maatsu and Arca’dia entered the cockpit.

“Where’s Wek?” Draugmand asked, looming near the door.

“Reactor room,” Maatsu said. “He said he wanted to make sure nothing ‘split open’ before launch.

Kaarsk looked to Brophy with an arched eyebrow. Brophy shrugged.

Nothing better go wrong with this, Brophy pleaded.

From beyond the cockpit door, R3-ED chirped loudly.

Continuing the preflight startup, Brophy called, “Say that again, buddy? What sort of signatures?”

The droid trilled and honked in response.

Brophy’s heartrate continued to climb. “Fighter profiles?” He glanced at Kaarsk who was setting up his controls and bringing the navicomputer online. “Destination? Where are they headed?”

R3-ED whirred and blipped in the negative.

“Well go get plugged in then! Draug, you go with him!” Brophy shook his head as the two retreated and he finished the reactor startup. Decks below them, the heart of the Horizon came to life, and the whole frame hummed.  “I hate how familiar this feels, running like this…”

“What about me?” Maatsu’s voice climbed over the din from the back of the cockpit.

“You? Get strapped in. I don’t want to have to clean your brains off the floor if we get in a dogfight.”

“I can shoot!” Maatsu protested. “I can use the autocannon!”

“No, you can’t.” Kaarsk snapped.

“I can, I’ve been doing some datapad sims—”

“—Now’s not the time to find out,” Brophy interrupted. “Reed can do it if we have to. But I’m not risking us getting ID’d or shot down by those new Imperial fighters because you couldn’t line up a shot in time.”

Maatsu sounded as if he was going to protest, then seemed to think better of it and settled into one of the passenger seats aft in the cockpit.

“You ready?” Brophy turned to Kaarsk.

Kaarsk nodded. “Where are we headed?”

Brophy cursed and fished in his pocket for Ooloora’s datachit. He yanked it out and tossed it to Kaarsk. “Input those coordinates.”

“Where is it?”

“No idea.”

To the Bothan’s credit, Kaarsk only gave Brophy a quick incredulous look before spinning to the navicomputer and inserting the datachit. Meanwhile, Brophy punched in the final startup sequence, and the Horizon roared as it rose off its heavy landing struts.

As they ascended, the first curtain of rain pelted the hemispheric, multi-piece canopy and lightning flashed somewhere in the clouds, rattling the transparisteel. The wind howled and the deck rumbled, but the Horizon was a good ship. She’d belonged to Brophy’s Master and had flown the two of them to far-flung worlds for years before the Clone Wars broke out. Finding Master Kolo was still Brophy’s dearest wish, but such thoughts had no place here, on the outskirts of Khoonda. Maybe later there’d be time…

R3-ED shrieked again.

Kaarsk replied, “You’re the best gunner available! I have to fly with Brophy! Go!”

Brophy pulled away from his short reverie before Kaarsk noticed and scanned the readouts. He saw the trouble: A flight of three of those new Imperial TIE fighters had pinged the Horizon’s highly visible short-range planetary scanners and had changed course to intercept. They were closing at alarming speed. The comm system blinked furiously as the pilots tried to hail them.

Instinctively, Brophy reached for the comm.

“Don’t!” Kaarsk practically shrieked.

Brophy froze. “Why not? Isn’t delaying them better than a cold shoulder?”

Kaarsk set his gaze. “No. It’ll take longer for them to receive fire-clear authorization if they can’t reach us than if we try to bluff our way out.” He glanced back down at the co-pilot’s station. “And you’re a terrible liar.”

Brophy cocked his head. “And you’re proud to be a good one?”

“Is that really what you want to talk about right now?”

Brophy pulled his hand back as they approached the stratosphere. “Fine.” He muted the incessant comm beeping. “How far are they?”

“Uhh,” Kaarsk read the scanners and wrinkled his snout. “Doesn’t matter, they’re closing fast.” Kaarsk turned in his chair and shouted back to the survey deck, “Reed! Get to the autocannon! NOW!”

There was an audible huff from Maatsu.

The droid trilled an alarmed response from the survey deck, then blew a loud raspberry and the sound of his wheels vibrating over the deck plates shrank as he raced aft.

Almost in unison, Brophy and Kaarsk pulled their safety harnesses over their shoulders and strapped themselves in tight. “Ready to shoot down some TIE fighters?” Kaarsk growled, a vision of cool confidence.

Brophy winced with tragic irony. “Really not what I was planning to do today.”  

It took barely two minutes for the TIE fighter wing to close the distance between them. Brophy had seen the vids of the distinct spherical cockpit H-frame fighters being paraded over Coruscant, Alderaan, Chandrila, all the major Core worlds over the past eighteen months or so, but he hadn’t heard just how damn fast they were. That didn’t change the simple survival calculus they now had to apply, however. Reed called up through their personal headsets that he was plugged into the starboard ventral autocannon and was ready to fire.

Sadly, the Horizon wasn’t exactly brimming with guns. She was a long-range survey ship, after all, meant for leisurely orbital geo-mapping on potentially habitable worlds. All she had was the turret-mounted autocannon and a pair of medium laser cannons that ran parallel to the central spar pointed directly forward. In short: her coverage in a dogfight was laughable, and while she could hit something directly ahead if it didn’t move too much, she handled more like a drunken mynock in a hurricane than anything remotely tactical. Brophy had never really been in a situation that tested the ship’s capabilities such as this.

First time for everything, he mused.

A yowling alarm blared from Kaarsk’s station, repeating fast.

“What’s that?!” Brophy called over the sudden noise.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kaarsk look uncharacteristically uncertain of himself as the Bothan hesitated.

“Well?” Brophy snapped.

“I, uh…” Kaarsk’s hands were frozen in front of him. “It’s,” he took a deep breath. “It’s probably the radar.”

Brophy waited for him to elaborate. “And?”

Kaarsk’s ears curled flat, making his head look abject and pious. “It’s a… it’s a tactical readout. It looks like,” he paused, frantically trying to read the console. “It looks like a radar of some kind. Here—here! It’s definitely the radar.”

Brophy’s heartrate spiked and he rested his grip on the manual yoke, ready to yank them to the side should their calculated ascent fail. “Okay? And they’re coming from…?”

Kaarsk spluttered, “Ahh—b-b-behind and a-above us! They’re coming to the port—port, right? Left side is ‘port’? —They’re coming from the port side and above us! Closing… fast?”

Just then, far and above the harmonic trills of the ship’s systems, beyond the deep thrumming of the reactor, beyond the rolling thunder of the storm as they ascended, came another sound. At first it seemed to be more background noise, but in a matter of seconds, it rose to the forefront of Brophy’s hearing. It started like a distant, high-pitched sighing, long and drawn out. But steadily it rose, growing louder, angrier, more menacing. Then, all at once, it reached a pitch, and the Horizon’s proximity alarms screamed to match. The canopy flashed with green laser fire, and the whole ship shook. A fraction of a second passed. Then a single black-and-grey TIE fighter flashed across the canopy, the roar of its passing drowning out all else. It fired its laser cannons again: warning shots. Then it banked away and out of sight, but it was still plenty visible on Brophy’s readouts.

Brophy’s headset came alive as R3-ED wailed and shrieked in his ear.

“NO!” Brophy snapped. “No! Reed! Do NOT fire back! Not yet!”

“Are you crazy?!” Maatsu—whom Brophy had very nearly forgotten was strapped in behind him—cried. “They shot at us; it’s us or them! We have to get out here!”

Kaarsk piled on. “He’s right, we can deal with ID’s later.”

Brophy shook his head. “We have… I swear we have a jamming suite on this bucket of bolts,” he scanned the cockpit, trying to separate one massive switchboard from the next. He could handle basic piloting, but Master Kolo had never gotten around to showing him all of the ship’s myriad systems. Giving a surreptitious sidelong glance at his copilot, he took a shot on a hunch. “Kaarsk… jam its transmissions, would you?”

Kaarsk bared his teeth with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “I can do that,” and his hands leapt away from the tactical radar console to another one, flying across the knobs and dials as if they were born to them. Brophy offered a silent thanks. Of course the Bothan knew how to operate a standard jamming suite, espionage was part of their DNA.

The sky grew darker as they ascended into the storm. Rain pelted the canopy and the clouds flashed with lightning. Two bursts of green laser fire lit the sky around the Horizon, one after another.

“That’ll be their final warning,” Kaarsk said as he whizzed over the controls for the comm jammers.

Brophy took a steadying breath. “Reed, open fire. We just need to reach minimum safe distance before we can make the jump to lightspeed.” He held a finger up at Kaarsk.

Kaarsk nodded, hovering above the activation for the signal jammer.

R3-ED twilled an uncertain hoot through the comlink.

Brophy hesitated, then answered, “Yes, do it.” He made a fist.

The droid beeped an affirmative. Kaarsk hit the switch. The Horizon rattled as the autocannon started to fire. A burst of static erupted through the headset, and Brophy took manual control.

A breath of calm. Then the ship rumbled and shook as the TIEs fired back, lancing the Horizon’s shields in a strafing run.

“Comms are jammed,” Kaarsk said calmly. “They aren’t calling for help. Can’t say whether they’ve grabbed our transponder or not, though.”

“Well let’s not wait around to find out.” Brophy yanked back on the yoke and the Horizon leapt nearly vertical up into the heart of the storm. The sensors screamed about high-energy bursts where they had just been, a near miss.

The ship reverberated again as R3-ED continued to fire the autocannon. Then the headset crackled with R3-ED’s ecstatic tweedling.

“One down, great job buddy!”

Another rumbling as the fighters connected their shots, a wailing alarm rang out as the aft deflector shield strength plummeted.  

“Two remaining,” Kaarsk noted.

“Shouldn’t we just shoot for an exit?” Brophy asked.

Kaarsk wrinkled his snout but didn’t answer.

“Do you think they tagged us?” Maatsu asked from his chair.

Brophy gritted his teeth. “Couldn’t say.”

“Well… shouldn’t we shoot them all down, just in case?”

Feeling a sudden urging from the Force, Brophy banked right. A split second later, green bolts flashed through the clouds as laser fire zipped past them. “This girl isn’t built for combat.”

“You seem to be doing just fine,” Kaarsk pointed out, the faintest hint of appreciation in his voice.

Brophy grimaced. “Just luck.”

Another exchange of fire between their astromech and the TIE pilots, and Brophy curved back towards orbit. “This isn’t a Corellian freighter,” he said to the general assembly. “She’s bigger, heavier, and we have the sensor spheres adding a few fat banthas of tonnage. I’m pushing for orbit.”

“But if they pulled our transponder—”

“—We don’t know if they did. And every second we stay is a second longer for that Star Destroyer to pick up laser fire over this way and give us its attention, or for either of those TIEs to break through the jammer signal.”

“He’s not wrong,” Kaarsk added.

Brophy spared Kaarsk a quick glance. “That’s not an endorsement.”

Kaarsk shrugged. “I’m not one for half-measures.”

Brophy had to agree with him there, at least in principle. Then he flashed to seeing the woman in black armor, the ‘Sister’, as she casually speared poor Sethis without a whiff of care or uncertainty. Whether by the will of the Force or cosmic coincidence, they were certainly on that woman’s radar now. He had to assume that she wouldn’t go for half-measures either.

Brophy checked the stabilizers and took a firm grip on the flight yoke. “Nope,” he shook his head and tightened his straps. “We’re leaving.” He accelerated through Dantooine’s atmosphere.

A moment later, R3-ED shrieked again as he shot down another TIE fighter. Kaarsk offered congratulations. Brophy gritted his teeth. Half-measures indeed.

While the single remaining TIE could absolutely keep pace with them, Brophy managed to dodge most of its fire as they burst through the roof of the storm and climbed, climbed, climbed above Dantooine’s mottled purplish-olive surface. No ships were on the immediate scopes aside from the TIE fighter, still keeping lazy—if dodgy—pace with them. Kaarsk kept the signal jammer on for the final seconds before they reached a safe orbit to jump to lightspeed. No one said anything about leaving the last fighter behind, but Brophy knew it was on their minds.  

In the last moments before the jump, an ocean of calm enveloped Brophy and, he hoped, the Horizon. The vacuum of space wrapped its blanket of nothingness around their spacefaring vessel. The reflected glimmer of Dantooine’s surface haloed the ship’s canopy, and Brophy felt a twinge of sadness at leaving the mild planet. Their small family had exhibited little energy by way of home-making on the out-of-the-way world, but it had sheltered them nonetheless. A few extant Jed Padawans, adrift in a hostile galaxy, and Dantooine had been kind to them, for all of its simplicity. A nagging feeling in the back of Brophy’s mind told him he would never see the world again. A larger part of him said that that was okay, but it didn’t mean that such a goodbye didn’t hurt, at least a little.

Steeling himself for whatever came next, Brophy punched the hyperdrive. He felt a momentary sense of vertigo, as he always did. The stars streaked out and away behind them like pale blue streamers reaching for eternity, and the Horizon and her crew leapt away, leaving a single TIE fighter in fruitless pursuit.

Chapter Text

IX

Arca’dia in Hyperspace

The Horizon was a well-built ship. Arca’dia could feel it. Sitting alone on her bunk, in her private quarters on the crew deck, she reached out slowly, gently, feeling the currents and eddies of the Force as it raced past them through hyperspace. She felt it curl around the bulkheads and panels, the conduits and electrical systems, the plasma inducers and the reactor core, all the way out to the enormous sensor spheres flanking the ship’s body, cocooned as they were with advanced, technical survey equipment. She could feel it: whoever had poured their talented time into constructing this ship had loved what they did. She could feel care and effort poured into the alloys and rivets, distant whispers of presences long-gone. It was an ephemeral sensation, and Arca’dia couldn’t help but wish that she could bask in it longer, but even imprints of strong emotions on objects were fleeting, like catching strings in the wind. Inanimate objects could only carry so much of the emotional fancies of those who interacted with them, after all.

Arca’dia pulled away from the deeper sensations of the ship around her and focused on the corporeal elements. She felt the mildly scratchy friction of fabrics beneath her on her small bunk. She felt the steady pumping of water through the wall to her outdated, but oh so welcome, water-based refresher. She could feel the tremulous flood of coolant and other shipborne fluids as they were carried through the pipes beneath the floor, and then there was the constant hum of EM, radio, and other frequencies as they were carried on invisible signals from the datapads and through the other ship systems nearby. Those were the loudest and most objectionable to her peace, by far. The nature of hyperspace travel forbade true silence, as such transportation required the use of a livable, flyable steel shell, and that shell made noise, no matter how much you dampened it.

Sometimes, the glut of worldly information overwhelmed her. The creations of sentients so often felt rigid and emotionless, designs made with a singular purpose in mind and nothing else. Such things left her often feeling empty, as if her spirit had been bleached and left out to bake in the sun. It was moments like that where she abhorred the presence of others and preferred instead to immerse herself in a place devoid of sentient life.

Sometimes, in her deepest moments of thinking, she could admit to herself, if only for a fleeting moment, that she desired the sensation of deep space, unguarded. She wanted to know the true silence of vacuum without the shell of starships or space suits, nor the sounds of atmospheric scrubbers or screaming reactors blotting out her senses. Sometimes, she wanted to know what the untouchable felt like. 

But such gripes were selfish and uncaring, and such desires were senseless and unproductive, she knew that. The Jedi had taught her that such things were part of a personal fantasy that placed the well-being of oneself above the well-being of the Force and those around you, and therefore had no place in one’s mind. Still, the thoughts trickled in, dreams of personal ascension and a life lived in total isolation. But Arca’dia knew all too well that even indulging in such thoughts would lead to profound loneliness, for what good was spiritual ascension if you had no one to share it with?

Arca’dia uncrossed her legs and rose from her bunk barefoot, absently straightening her veil as she did so. The Force could give her many things, grant her insight into the deepest workings of the galaxy, show her sights beyond what mortal sentients could unscramble… but sometimes? Sometimes, she just wanted the Force to lead her to the galley for a late-night snack, and thus, on this late night, she intended to follow the Force’s will.

The door to her bunkroom slid open with a smooth hiss. She appreciated the well-oiled mechanisms onboard the Horizon, and she gave silent thanks to Brophy’s master for keeping it maintained before its ownership fell to them. The crew deck was quiet. She could feel Maatsu’s, Kaarsk’s, and Draugmand’s sleeping selves in their respective rooms up and down the crew deck. Brophy was nowhere nearby.

As she walked barefoot over the cold smooth deck plates, she felt the presence of Wek ahead in the galley. She almost recoiled and returned to her room for want of solitude, but a flickered urging in the Force told her not to, so she complied.

Entering the galley, she felt Wek sitting at one of the communal tables, his feet dangling off the bench as he spooned what appeared to be a bowl of cereal into his hood.

“Wek,” she acknowledged as she entered, making her way to the refrigeration unit.

Wek didn’t answer. Only the faint clink of cheap steel on ceramic as he dipped his spoon into blue milk.

The cooling unit was well-stocked. Fresh greens peeked out from drawers, nerf butter and cream, assorted drinks and a handful of loud snack containers blared up at her, each giving off their own flavor in the Force. She smiled as she noticed a small package near the back, crying out for her attention. She grabbed it and moved to sit at Wek’s table.

“May I join you?” she asked.

Wek hesitated, then nodded.

Arca’dia nodded her thanks then sat next to him, unwrapping the frosted durlaberry-flavored treats and proceeded to bite one in half. She hummed happily as the sugary concoction burst sweet flavor in her mouth, and she savored the cold jelly crunch in the center.

For a long moment, the two of them sat, and Arca’dia listened to the crunch of snacks at the table. She felt the ever-present vibration of the ship around them as they zipped through space.

“I had a nightmare.” Wek’s voice was small, but firm. Full of conviction, but also full of discovery, as if it were the first time he’d ever said the words out loud—a frightful discovery, then. She knew what that was like.

“Oh?” She kept her voice casual.

Wek nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

A long pause, then a faint nod.

Arca’dia nodded gently. “You can talk about it to me if you want.”

Wek swirled his spoon around in the bowl, stirring the blue milk. “It was about the Temple.”

“Alright.”

“I… dreamed we were back there.”

Arca’dia set down her snack, wincing at the crinkle of the wrapping in the thickening air between them. “On any particular day, or…?”

Wek shook his head. “On that night.”

That night. The only night that mattered, in retrospect. The worst night of their lives, the last day of the Clone Wars, the first day of the Empire. “Alright. What about it?”

“I was alone in the Archives.”

Arca’dia folded her hands on the table and tilted her head.

Wek looked up at her expectantly, then, shoulders hunched, pressed onward. “It was the same as that night, except… it was just me. The doors to the Archive came down. The blasters shot. The air was really hot, it felt… it felt angry.” He paused again, waiting expectantly for Arca’dia’s response. When one wasn’t forthcoming, he kept going. “The-the blue clones came in, and I was fighting them off. Then I saw everyone behind me… and I was protecting them. But then… then… then Draugmand was shot. I saw him fall. Then more clones came, and I couldn’t stop them. Then everyone started to…. to… fall. Then I saw… I saw him. He… he came through the door. I saw his eyes. They were… yellow, and angry and sad. He didn’t want to do what he was doing but he did it anyway and… and then Sethis was there. He pushed me out of the way and he killed him. But then… then it wasn’t… it wasn’t him, it was the Sister, with the black armor. We were back in the shop and I was on the floor, and… and Sethis still got stabbed.” Wek raised his gaze and looked Arca’dia square in the face. “Why did he push her out of the way?”

Arca’dia swallowed carefully before answering. “Why did Sethis push the Madame?”

Wek nodded, his yellow lamplit eyes glowing, begging, pleading for an answer.

Arca’dia took a long, deep, slow breath, considering the many ways in which she might respond to the young Jawa. “Wek,” she said at last, carefully sampling each word. “There is no limit to the things we might do for those we love. Self-sacrifice has no bounds. Its… devotion like that is rare and precious. It can be easily misused but,” she paused again, considering. “But, I didn’t get the sense that Sethis did what he did because his devotion was misplaced.”

Wek cocked his head. “So he did the right thing?”

Arca’dia winced. “That’s not exactly what I’m saying.” The last thing she wanted to do was give the boy the seeds of an aggressive martyr complex. “Devotion is complicated. Sethis made a quick choice in the heat of the moment—a very difficult moment. If he’d had more time to think about it, maybe he would have made a different choice. But maybe he wouldn’t have, and he chose to protect the Lady Ooloora because he wanted to. That doesn’t necessarily make it ‘right’, it simply makes it his choice. We all have that choice to make, every day. Choosing to protect each other is a choice we make for each other.” She smiled and leaned across the table. “I know that you make those kinds of choices for all of us every day.”

A momentary wave of affronted confusion radiated out from Wek before he took control of it. “It’s the right thing to do. We’re Jedi. We protect each other, and we protect people who need our help.”

Her smile broadened. “That’s a wonderful, applaudable instinct to have. But I want you to think about the nature of raw devotion. Protecting someone is a noble action on your part, but…” she paused, molding her words. “The duty of a Jedi was often to look beyond the actions on the surface, to see things aided by the Force for what they really are. It was—is—our job to know who was worthy of protection, and who needed… clarification.”

“You mean judgment.”

Arca’dia winced. He was sharper than she sometimes gave him credit for. He was still so young. “Yes,” she admitted. “I mean judgment.”

“You’re saying some people deserve to be judged.”

She sighed. “Yes, and no. We… the Jedi… the Order spent millennia acting as self-appointed arbiters of justice. We acted as judge, jury, and executioner, even though the execution was rarely literal. We executed a sentence, nonetheless. The Force was our guide, and we—the Order—knew our actions were right…”

“…Until they weren’t.” Wek picked up the trailing end of her thought before she could capture it.

She nodded solemnly. “Until they weren’t. Or at the very least, until they were too blind to see the end coming.”

There was a long pause. The air scrubbers whirred in the background, and the enshrouding thrum of hyperspace surrounded them beyond.

“Are we still Jedi?” Wek’s voice had a tremulous candor to it.

Arca’dia found herself considering the question harder than she anticipated. “I…believe that we are.”

Wek chased her answers with youthful relentlessness. “Then why didn’t we try to save Sethis? If we’re Jedi… why don’t we act like it?”

Arca’dia sighed and reached out to take his little hand in hers. “Sometimes, survival forces us to do things that we don’t believe in. It doesn’t negate who we are on the inside, it only hides it for a little while.”

Wek held her grip. “Are we done hiding?”

Arca’dia’s heart ached with the sadness that she couldn’t keep out of her smile. “I hope so, Wek. I hope so.” But in her heart, she felt the lie.

Ξ

During their time on Dantooine, the Exiles had infrequently found themselves coming to the Horizon. The trip was long and required diverted attention, and every visit required careful planning to see that they weren’t followed by anyone, including local farmers. Because of that, Arca’dia had spent little to no time on the vessel in their three years in hiding. Brophy had communicated to everyone that the trip to Madame Ooloora’s mysterious coordinates would take around fourteen hours and multiple hyperspace jumps. Brophy thought the extra jumps were for safety, such as to avoid catastrophic anomalies like supernovas or mass shadows. Kaarsk thought they were for obfuscation to make any pursuit increasingly difficult. Arca’dia, from her brief interlude with the Madame thought it was almost certainly both, but she had deigned to keep that opinion to herself.

So, she wandered the halls of the surprisingly spacious survey vessel in the late hours of their day-night cycle. Regulating a consistent circadian rhythm for a starship crew was entirely arbitrary, as different sentient species required vastly different daily rhythms, but it had only taken a brief conversation for the crew of the Horizon to decide that, for now at least, they should keep to the cycles they had maintained on Dantooine. That meant that they had technically fled from the planet in the evening and only an hour or two later, it was bedtime. But Arca’dia couldn’t sleep. Her conversation with Wek had her mind running laps, and she needed solitude to think. So, she walked.

The top deck was easy. Brophy was asleep in the cockpit. She found a thermal blanket in a locker and tucked him into the pilot’s seat, pleased that the movement didn’t disturb him. Aft of the cockpit was the survey deck, where she imagined crews of other Alidade-class survey ships would gather in flight suits and grimy work overalls, holding cups of steaming hot caf, and they could make ribald jokes about the promiscuity of the captain’s mother.

Arca’dia smiled a little as she let the fantasy play out.

Another crew might meet here, spread out across the deck, maybe in varying states of wakefulness. They would argue about the relevance of a deposit of… say, trinitite, on the surface of a supposedly uninhabited world. Trinitite was a beautiful ghostly greenish crystalline mineral that formed in the wake of a fusion weapon detonation—in the wake of big bombs going off. Perhaps they would get into it over such a mineral on an empty world. ‘How did it get there?’ They’d ask. They would argue. They would reach an impasse. The captain would appear, regal and gentle and thoughtful and… handsome, why not. The captain would have an off-hand joke with profound philosophical implications that would make the crew laugh, dispelling any building tension. The crew would mock apologize to each other for an offense that didn’t need it, then the crew would return to discussing their surveys of the continent below and table the argument about trinitite for another day. They would continue their work and…

Arca’dia blinked.

She was alone, staring blankly at the large survey table that currently displayed nothing. By herself, with solitude, uninterrupted, just like she wanted. She frowned. She swallowed, quelling the rising whispers of doubt. She continued her wanderings, bound aft.

Arca’dia made her way down the port aft half-stairs to the upper cargo bay hallway. Brophy had mentioned an empty suite back there, something that could be modified into a useful space at some later date. For now, it was spare storage. She didn’t feel the need to examine the storage space.

Deeper and broader she went through the ship. Below the crew galley the ship opened up into the port and starboard sections. It struck her how new the Horizon felt. The escape pod seals were unbroken on the port mid-deck, the cargo webbing along the hallway in the port amidships was taught and still even smelled a little like a factory, the mats in the starboard dojo, where Brophy’s Master had trained him, were stiff and uncrinkled. Even the buttons on the survey sphere maintenance station consoles were stiff and barely used. Of course, the only reason she really knew where she was, was because she could feel the convergence of power conduits and coolant piping running en masse through the sphere’s outer casing. Whatever instruments were packaged within the Horizon’s assets required an enormous power draw.

Somewhere near the reactor room, Arca’dia slowed. She was decks below the nearest living soul, bulkheads and bulkheads beyond anyone’s range of hearing. Even R3-ED’s charging nook was three decks above her and hidden by a small privacy latch.

Finally, Arca’dia allowed herself to sink to her knees, the solitude crashing over her all at once for the first time since before she could remember. Since before that night at the Temple even. She had no tears, for she had no tear ducts with which to produce them. Even in this solitude, she only allowed herself a single, fervent wail, stopped just as quickly. The loss, the weight, the stress—particularly of the previous night in the void—it all overtook her, sweeping her away in a frenzied waltz, unable to be contained any longer.

She let herself sob. Quietly, privately, in the best solitude she could muster. It wasn’t spacewalking without a helmet, but the deep basal thrums of the reactor helped hide her away, and that was close enough as the moment demanded.

Ξ

“We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace in a few minutes, everybody.” Brophy’s voice chirped through Arca’dia’s personal comlink. “Would you all mind coming up to the cockpit, please? Figure we should all have an opinion once we see… wherever we are.”

Arca’dia took a deep breath. She was back in her bunkroom. It was midday, by the ship’s chronometer. She dressed quickly and, judging by the lack of noise from down the hall, guessed she was the only one still in her room. Composing herself, Arca’dia made her way out to the galley, and was pleasantly surprised to smell the roasting smell of fresh caf drifting from the counter. She poured herself a mug and proceeded upstairs.

“…In case this is a trap?” Kaarsk’s voice reached her as she passed the dormant sensor stations, his tone matter-of-fact and taut as per usual. “There’s no tactical reason not to be ready to defend ourselves.”

Arca’dia entered the survey deck. She noted she was the last to arrive, but only Wek seemed to notice her, his head lifted an extra centimeter in what Arca’dia had come to understand was a pleased greeting. He held what appeared to be half of a large hard-boiled egg, and was spooning the dry yolk into his hood. She went to stand by him, propped against a nearby console. Wek looked up at her and she could feel the glow of his lamps warming at her presence. She smiled and patted his shoulder.

Brophy pushed off from the survey table, which displayed the local Raioballo sector. Their many jumps bounced back and forth on a path away from Dantooine and into deep space, far away from any star systems. “If there’s someone waiting for us, I don’t want to show up guns out and threatening.”

Kaarsk rolled his eyes and scoffed. “If your ‘Madame’ set us up, the only way we get out of a trap is with guns blazing.”

Brophy glared at the Bothan. “You think we’d get out of a pirate trap with these guns?” He gestured in the general direction of the ship around them.

Kaarsk threw up his hands. “No. But that’s exactly my point. Some resistance is better than none!”

Now it was Brophy’s turn to scoff. “Sure, some. As if assuming that everyone you meet wants to kill you is a better way to live.”

“It IS a better way to live!” Kaarsk stressed, his voice rising. “It’s safer for all of us!”

 “We’re not. Getting. Ambushed!” Brophy clapped back.

Arca’dia recoiled a little, and she felt Wek do the same beside her. Brophy’s gentle, thoughtful demeanor rarely showed signs of true strain, but Arca’dia watched just then as the Force around their friend surged, filling the survey deck beyond conversational tension. He always talked about how his connection to the Force was weak, but Arca’dia had repeatedly witnessed contradictory evidence to that claim.

A blessed, blissful, timely alarm sounded from the cockpit, and Brophy stormed away to find it without another word.

Scanning the room, Arca’dia noted that Maatsu was giving off an aura of smug contemplativeness, and Draugmand felt bored and distracted. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts. She decided it was a good time to mosey her way up to the cockpit.

“He’s just being cautious,” she said as she entered, cradling her warm mug in both hands.

Brophy huffed as he worked the pilot’s console. “Not right now.”

She offered a placating gesture. “Alright, just saying.”

Beyond the canopy, the wynorrific tunnel of hyperspace raced past; a burrowing kaleidoscope of starlight as they blasted their way across the galaxy.

“What do you think we’re going to find?”

Brophy looked back at her as he rested his hand on the hyperspace levers. “Hopefully not an ambush.” The navicomputer gave an insistent repetitive tone. He gave her a thin pained expression and pushed the lever.

The tunnel of hyperspace collapsed. A million billion comet tails coalesced into streaking star lines, shrank to uncountable motes of light, and the Horizon dropped into realspace. Despite the fact that Arca’dia knew the ship’s hyperdrive was one of the slowest primary models available—capable of an abysmal 2.5 past lightspeed—she had to admit, she barely felt the transition to realspace while aboard, and that at least spoke to the quality of the drive itself. She blew on her caf and sipped.

“Anything interesting out there?” Draugmand asked, lumbering into the cockpit.

Brophy didn’t look up from the many readouts across his station. “No…” He frowned. “Like, really not.”

Draugmand moved to look over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Brophy gestured at the console, one hand rubbing the stubble on his face. “I mean there’s nothing here.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Kaarsk asked, poking his head in.

Brophy huffed with mild indignation. “Yes, but—”

“—But nothing,” Kaarsk cut him off. “It’s a good thing. I’m happy we’re alone. I’ll tell Reed to stand down.” Kaarsk turned to leave.

Brophy furrowed his brow. “Wait, ‘stand down’? From what?”

Kaarsk shrugged. “From the autocannon.”

Arca’dia glanced between them. On a morning when she had had more sleep, she might have already intervened, but the truth was, she didn’t have the energy right now.

Rage, indignation, confusion, all crossed Brophy’s face in an instant. Then whatever momentary internal struggle he was fighting collapsed, and he deflated. “Okay.” He turned back to his readouts.

Kaarsk made a sound as if he was already preparing a defensive comment, then, when the duel was abandoned. He deflated too, then turned around and left without another word.

Draugmand marched beyond the pilot and copilot consoles to the foredeck, where the flanking technical stations sat recessed on the central aisle below the pilot stations. He stood silent and turned away from them, gazing up and out of the star-filled expanse of space beyond the canopy.

Arca’dia sipped her caf. “So, what’s out there?”

Brophy hummed as he scanned the passive and active sensors that Arca’dia would never be able to interpret. “I meant it,” he said finally. “A whole lotta nothing.”

“Are we supposed to wait?” Draugmand’s voice bounced back to them from the foredeck.  

Arca’dia could hear the uncertainty in Brophy’s voice. “I would assume so.”

“Fow how long?” Draugmand turned back to them.

“As long as we’d need to, I imagine.”

“But how long is that?”

“She didn’t say so I’d imagine—”

“—We need a plan of action, Brophy.” Draugmand glanced over his shoulder.

Color rose to Brophy’s face. He set his chin and the Force around him flooded with a burst of rage. “Longer than five minutes!!”he bellowed. The shout echoed down the hall.

Draugmand stopped.

Taking a deep breath, Arca’dia set down her caf and moved to Brophy’s side. “It’s a valid question,” she said gently. “And I don’t think Draug was trying to be difficult.”

She felt a radiating wave of apology from the Dowutin as he hung his head. “I wasn’t,” he said, his voice low. “You’re just…” he faltered. “You just always seem to know the next step.”

“Well, I don’t.” Brophy’s voice was flat and emotionless as the Force cooled around him into the color of shame.

The three of them stood in silent contemplation for a long moment. The Horizon whirred and thrummed and buzzed and beeped, forming a rhythmic cocoon of gentle sounds.

Finally, Arca’dia spoke up. “If… even if that last TIE grabbed our transponder, is there any way for them to find us?”

She felt the irritation in Brophy, but it didn’t reflect in his voice nearly as badly when he answered. “Of course they could. But we’re talking about a magnitude of exponential bad luck for that to happen.”

“Why?” she asked.

Brophy rose from the pilot’s seat and began pacing the cockpit, gesturing as he spoke. “We made multiple jumps in multiple directions. That’s more than enough to fool 99% of pursuers. Even if they did accurately predict our first jump, the odds of them following the one after that, and the one after that, its… we should be fine. That’s not to say anything about passing patrols or shipping convoys or anything like that, but there’s nothing here. Ooloora knows what she was doing with where she sent us. And it’s not as if she rattled off coordinates for us to take. She had the datachit in her pocket. This was a—a contingency or, or something. But see, she’s Force-sensitive. I guess she’s been in hiding for years, probably? I don’t know, I thought I knew her pretty well and now…”

Draugmand stood uncomfortably silent.

Arca’dia smiled at Brophy. “There’s no ambush. If she was taking a similar route here and it took her a similar length of time to escape Dantooine, then… well then she should be right behind us, right?”

Brophy nodded along. “Okay… so, we should hang around for awhile?”

Arca’dia nodded encouragingly. “Its not as if we’re hurting on supplies or fuel.” She smirked and gestured to the stars outside. “We’re fugitives! We have no timetable, no agenda. Technically, we could go anywhere, or nowhere!” She came back and wrapped them both in one-armed embraces. “We’ve got this.”

Chapter Text

X

Wek in Deep Space

Wek needed better tools. The throbbing, biting cut on his hand told him so as he rolled up off the floor, cursing in a string of Jawaese that would make… well, it would make someone who had a foul mouth blush. Maybe Brophy on a bad day.

True, he had accumulated a hodge podge assortment of handheld implements on Dantooine, glibly collecting the right tool for the job one hydrospanner at a time, but the Horizon demanded a kit. He needed industrial-grade supplies, from repair equipment to maintenance liquids of all viscosities and purpose, to spare cabling, filters, rivets, and plates to make certain their drifting pan-galactic home stayed in pristine shape. That’s not to say the Horizon was in bad shape, per se. It was a stock surveyor vessel that had yet to see practically any use under its purpose. The plating was adequate, the reactor was reasonable (the same could not be said for the hyperdrive), the load-bearing hydraulics in the landing gear were well pressurized, but outside of the spectacular sensor package crammed into the drag-inducing sensor spheres, there was nothing particularly extraordinary about the vessel.

Wek aimed to change that.

…Just as soon as he was able to get his hands on a top-shelf toolkit. No, wrong priorities. Just as soon as he was able to bandage his bleeding hand, then he could get back to work. There was only so much he could accomplish with hand tools. Also, he couldn’t reach the top shelf of anything. His unaided height would need to change too. One more thing on the list, and the list already ran the length of his cloak.

Wek huffed as he fumbled open the med-patch kit and hastily bandaged his hand.

He was in the ventral cargo bay taking apart their newly acquired Aratech speeders. The poor things hadn’t seen any real maintenance in months at that rental shop and were in desperate need of a tune-up. Four days had already elapsed since they arrived at Madame Ooloora’s coordinates, and Wek had grown bored and antsy within the first hour. Now he was just antsy with a to-do list.

Of course, a to-do list was only as good as the number of things on that list that could be accomplished. As things stood, he could only tinker toil with low-priority projects, such as the speeder bikes. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to work on his Khoonda project either. Something didn’t feel right about assembling the droid just yet, as if giving it life outside of the work closet where he’d welded it together was disrespectful. For now, the crate hid beneath Wek’s workspace in the cargo bay, peeking out from the dark under the workbench.  

He finished bandaging his hand and put away the patch kit. He had just settled back down with the engine block for the first speeder when his comlink beeped. He froze, hydrospanner in hand, glaring numbly out at the cargo deck. Maybe if he ignored it, it would stop.

The comlink beeped again.

He held firm. Two ignored calls could mean anything. Maybe he was in the refresher? What if he was elbow deep in hyperdrive lubricant? Speaking of the hyperdrive, he needed to—

—The comlink complained a third time.

He whipped it off his tool belt and aspired to his most civil tone. “Yes?” He almost managed it.

“Stop dodging my calls,” came Kaarsk’s grimacing reply, “Something just came out of hyperspace. It’s too small and too far away for our passives so Brophy thinks we should try the sensor spheres, and since no one knows how to use them, we figured you should be here to learn too.”

“But I’m working on—”

“—It’ll still be there later to work on. Get up here.” The call dropped.

Wek stared at the comlink for a moment, affronted, insulted, and thoroughly incensed. The moment passed as quickly as it came. Kaarsk was right.

 Setting his hydrospanner down with perhaps an extra ounce of apologetic reverence than was necessary, Wek briefly considered rolling up the parallel rows of bolts, plates, and screws that made up a wonderfully neat and geometrically pleasing display on the floor surrounding the gutted 74-Y, but he had been ignoring Kaarsk for the last couple of days, and he didn’t think something so small and so far away that the passive scanners couldn’t pick it up would be cause for concern, right? His tools would be safe as they were?

Wek rationalized and cajoled and convinced himself he was right all the way to the double-wide freight exit from the cargo bay. He didn’t need to put his tools or his hardware away, they would be safe for the what, twenty minutes needed to run up and get a crash course on the sensor spheres, right?

A proximity alarm blazed through the corridors. The ship lurched.

Wek grabbed the safety handle next to the door as the orchestrated ruin of his field of mechanical perfection fell upon him. The sound of a thousand bits of hardware bouncing off the deck filled his ears. Carefully lined ratchet heads, industrial mounting bolts grouped by size and then by purpose, none were safe; all went tumbling. His body went rigid as the hardware bounced away across the cargo bay. His carefully laid out makeshift maintenance kingdom vanished in an instant.

The ship righted itself. The banging and clanging continued, then slowed, then stopped. Wek dared to breath into the pregnant silence. A final distant tink sounded somewhere in the bay, as if baiting him to respond, daring him to say something. His gaze went unfocused, his mind racing in the empty canyon of his situation. Questions, calculations, estimations for cleanup, demands required if he couldn’t find the missing pieces, all raced through his mind as he held his body steady, carefully maintaining composure.

His comlink beeped again.

Keeping every other part of his body dead still, Wek unclipped the comlink and answered the call.

“Are you okay?” Draugmand’s voice was strained. Reed tweedled frantically in the background.

Wek surveyed the constellation of chaos that had come to his workspace and forced his muscles to unclench before he answered. “I’m okay. What happened?”

Draugmand made an obscene noise. “Dunno. The passives picked up a tiny object and the ship decided to bank hard to avoid a collision. We’re powering up the scanners now. Come on up, would ya? We need your eyes.”

Wek carefully clicked off the comlink, lowered it to his belt, and hooked it firmly on his person. One long, slow, deliberate breath, he allotted himself. He catalogued the location of every bit of hardware he could see from the doorway. Then slowly, carefully, Wek put one foot in front of the other and exited the cargo bay.

Ξ

“—I don’t know, maybe try the power switch.” Kaarsk’s sardonic drawl drifted down the corridor as Wek ascended the spiraling galley stairs to the survey deck.

The lightly offended cadence of Maatsu’s voice responded, but Wek was still too far away to hear.

“That’s not helping, Maatsu.” Brophy rebuked.

Wek entered the survey deck to find his friends all crowded around the robust main sensor control station along the starboard wall. The control station appeared to be in a state of limbo, somewhere between consciousness and slumber.

“It’s not unreasonable to assume that there’s schematics or a manual available on the HoloNet for a specialized console such as this.” Maatsu said, the mild frustration in his voice leaked from every syllable.

“Master Kolo had to keep a manual lying around,” Brophy said, tapping his chin in thought.

“Do you know where it is?” Kaarsk asked.

Brophy pursed his lips and shrugged. “Not so much, no.”

Kaarsk snorted. “Well, as much as I don’t anticipate the Empire developing any sort of jump-capable weapon, whatever just fell out of hyperspace isn’t much larger than your average proton torpedo, so I for one would like to get eyes on it before it sticks its nose in us.”

“I second that,” Draugmand offered.

“Sure,” said Brophy, “well then why don’t you show us exactly how to start this geological survey system up. No, no, don’t let me slow you down!” Brophy’s sarcastic bow as he backed away from the console drew a small laugh from Wek.

The rest of the exiles looked his way, half surprised, half expectant.

Wek approached the massive console. “I can give it a go, but I won’t promise anything.” He paused, considering. “But… shouldn’t we check for incoming transmissions first?”

Brophy furrowed his brow. “What, from the object?”

Wek pointed up the hall towards the cockpit, where the incessant blinking of an incoming call had just turned on, plainly visible.  

Turning to see what Wek was pointing at, Brophy did a double-take, frowned back at Wek as if he meant to ask how he knew, and instead turned and marched up to the cockpit to check the system.

The others followed, but Wek came up short as R3-ED rolled up to block him.

The droid chirped with rigorous definition.

“What’s wrong?” Wek asked the astromech.

R3-ED warbled, chirped, and spun his hemispheric head pointedly towards the sensor console.

Wek looked past the droid towards the cockpit, where Brophy was clamoring into the pilot’s seat and reaching for the comm system. “What if its important?” He asked the droid.

The droid chortled and gave a bwoo that sounded like a shrug.

Wek considered it, but only for a moment. He hoisted himself into the control seat, which was much too high, reached for the central panel controls, which were much too far, and began assessing the control board, which was much too large, but he managed.

Indistinct voices rose from the cockpit as Wek followed his instincts. He couldn’t make out any useful words, so he ignored them. Reed waddled indignantly at his side, giving the occasional beep of encouragement.

With only a few hiccups, Wek quickly came to a directory of sorts, with blank readouts awaiting input from the sensor spheres. Four distinct categories grabbed for his attention: “GEOLOGICAL”, “BIOLOGICAL”, “E.M.F.”, “TIGHT-BEAM”. Four sensor packages, four sensor stations on the deck directly aft from him, Wek pondered at the distant ranges they could scour. A sudden excitement trickled down his spine. It was the excitement of possibility, of discovery. The kind of intangible inception of a marvelous concept, not-yet fully formed, needing less than a delicate breath to shatter its soft structure. Wek sat back in the chair and gazed far away as his mind raced. The discovery of new worlds was a worthy cause… it could be a wonderful undertaking for a few nascent Jedi, couldn’t it?

R3-ED offered a gentle inquiring beep.

Wek blinked, rescuing the delicate structure of a budding idea and filing it away for a later time. He patted the droid on the chassis. “I think it’s… very beautiful. I don’t know if we’ll be able to use it much.”

The voices rose again in the cockpit, and Wek detected the distinct pop of a transmission coming to life. Learning the intricate workings of the sensor package would have to wait. He moved to join the others.

His compatriots were huddled around Brophy’s comm station, blocking the view of whomever the transmission was from. Wek squeezed his way between Draugmand and Arca’dia to get a better view.

“...would politely ask them to eat their blasters for trying to sell me a class-14 backup, but it’s the only thing small enough to fit on an emergency jump pod like this,” Madame Ooloora’s aged face was spouting. Incandescent outrage poured from her mouth as if she had been cheated at sabacc. “My knees creak during long jumps, and don’t get me started on the fake transponder! Apparently I’m some off-market Hoersch-Kessel freighter bound for Brentaal on a scrap run!”  She shifted in what Wek thought appeared to be a very cramped space. “As if my valuable services would sink to fly aboard a subpar Separatist corporation’s garbage freighter. Bah.” She let out an explosive huff.  “I assure you, young Jedi, the wait was worth my arrival, delays and all. I’ve already summoned my ship, so if you’d be so good as to pick me the hell up, then I can stretch these poor old bones and we can talk freely.” The transmission cut out.

Wek, uncertain of what to do, looked to the others for their reactions. Brophy leaned back in his chair and let out a long pensive breath. Kaarsk leaned over the pilot’s console, a bewildered resignation playing across his snout.   

“So, we’re gonna pick her up?” Draugmand asked.

Brophy scratched his chin. “I think I can figure out how to get the ships to talk to each other. Then our autopilots could drop the pod in the aft shuttle bay. We don’t have a tractor beam, and I don’t want to eyeball a landing.”

Kaarsk nodded and crossed to the co-pilot’s seat, all business.

“Wek?”

Wek snapped back from memorizing the sequences of buttons Kaarsk was pushing. “Hmm?”

Brophy leaned low in his chair to meet Wek at eye-level. He always appreciated when they did that; showing the effort to acknowledge the fact that he was barely over a meter tall. “Would you, Draug, and Maatsu mind clearing a space for her in the shuttle bay?”

“Absolutely.” Electrified by the request, Wek practically leapt forward, gave a crisp salute, turned, and marched out of the cockpit, grabbing at Draugmand’s pant leg as he went. “C’mon Draug, we’ve got some space to clear!”

Draugmand followed with a shrug.

“Take Reed with you, he might be of some help.” Brophy added.

Wek waved over his shoulder in acknowledgement. This was one more task on his long list, but he was happy to do it. He relished opportunities to be good and helpful in a practical, applicable way. This was one of those times, he was sure of it.  

Ξ

A few busy hours later, Ooloora’s recovery and deposit into the Horizon’s aft shuttle bay went off without a hitch. Kaarsk and Brophy were able to slave circuit Ooloora’s jump pod to the Horizon’s systems, allowing them to automate a docking maneuver that would’ve been far too dangerous an attempt in their inexperienced hands. The Horizon guided the tiny pod into the bay and landed it with nary a bump. The large space Wek, Draugmand, and Maatsu had cleared more than accommodated the small craft. Crates of supplies and spare ship parts were shoved out of the way and piled against two walls of the bay, crammed together in the unused space. Wek had plans to reorganize the bay anyway, as up until now, it acted as a storage bastion, and no shuttles nor ships were to be seen gracing its confines.

Wek couldn’t say why it felt natural for the Padawans to form a greeting line on the deck as the obtuse conical pod touched down and the Horizon’s aft bay doors drew closed. It wasn’t even an argument for them to do so, which was unusual in and of itself. Pressurized venting hissed into the cavernous two-story space as Ooloora’s pod equalized with the Horizon’s atmosphere. A loud wheedling squeal split the air as the seals on the pod cracked, and the short landing ramp lowered to the deck. Wek and the others stood a little straighter, but even aware as he was at the strange instinct to rise to attention, he couldn’t explain why.

A slow rhythmic clacking came from inside the pod, followed by a series of frustrated grunts and curse-laden sputtering. White steam billowed from the pod’s vents, obscuring the interior, but a shape moved in the cloud. Madame Ooloora, replete in a deep maroon robe and a crimson shawl with glinting cerulean earrings, coalesced through the steam. She swatted the foggy air and grumbled as her cane made firm clacks down the ramp and onto the deck.

“pCHA!” Ooloora spat as she approached. “Oh, what in all the damnable blazes is this?! Get off attention! At ease! Stand to! Whatever it is you rank-and-file-types like to do when you’re told to relax. You’ll make an old woman strain herself trying to reach the arrogance of your foreheads if you keep that up.”

Wek allowed his shoulders to slump ever-so-slightly. He caught Brophy and Kaarsk sharing incredulous glances out of the corner of his eye.

Ooloora took in the bay and pursed her lips appreciatively. “So,” she eyed Brophy. “This is the Horizon you’ve told me so much about.”

Brophy nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“She’s nice. Squeaky clean with no stains on the apron.” Ooloora smirked as she approached. “I bet the leather on those flight seats still crinkles when you sit, eh?” She cackled and helicoptered her hand at them. “Show me to a comfortable chair, little Jedi troupe, and then we can talk.” She took Brophy’s arm and marched him to the lead as the party fell in. “Whichever way has the least stairs.”

“Then we’d best go this way,” Brophy amended, and he steered her towards the cargo lift at the back of the bay.

“Good boy,” Ooloora said, linking her arm with his as she let herself be steered.

As the lift brought them up to the gangway level that horseshoed the upper walls of the bay, Ooloora said, "Any chance we're going to where I can brew up some tea?" She produced a wooden box from the depths of her robe.

“Galley?” Wek offered.

Brophy smiled a wry smile. “Already headed that way.”

Wek allowed himself to straighten with pride as they exited the upper level.

“Madame,” Kaarsk started, “we really need to—”

“—Nah nah,” Ooloora cut him off. “Tea first. My ship won’t be here until the morning anyways. And if you had a fascist tail they’d have caught you already and had you drawn and quartered. There’s no reason to rush… Oh this’ll do nicely!” She trailed off as they entered the galley. Without preamble, the old woman tottered over to the boilerplate and put some water on.

The rest of the Padawans uneasily settled themselves around the galley, trading silent looks. Wek moved to their non-perishables cabinet and retrieved a medium-sized bin. Reaching just above his eyeline, he set the bin on the counter next to Ooloora.

She stopped humming and looked at the bin, then at Wek. “What’s this?”

“More tea,” Wek said brightly, then he took a seat.

Ooloora examined the contents with an appreciative hum, then her eyes crinkled towards him. “You have a Jedi’s heart, all right, little Jawa. Don’t lose it.”

“Okay ma’am.”

The autumnal, crunchy scent of steeping bitter leaves filled the galley, and the Padawans waited. Finally, Ooloora came to sit at the table with what appeared to be a plate of scones balanced atop her teacup. Wek had no idea where they had come from, but they smelled warm and fresh, with hints of berry and honey. The Madame popped a scone in her mouth and took a sip of the piping hot tea.

“Well,” she said, “eat, they’re for you young ones!”

One by one, the Padawans grabbed a scone or two, and they all ate in silence. When the plate was empty, Kaarsk was the first to speak. “Madame Ooloora?”

The Madame released a contented sigh as she brought herself back from a far-thought place. “That’s much better.” She shifted to face Kaarsk. “What is it, O Insistent One?”

Kaarsk clasped his furred hands on the table. “Why did you help us?”

A faint smile crept across the aged woman’s face, drawing countless creases. It reminded Wek of watching the sun bake the stony bluffs of the Jundland Wastes on Tatooine—cracks flaking over an implacable desert landscape, crisscrossing the endless parched expanse. “Straight to it then, is it?”

Kaarsk’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “We’ve risked a lot by trusting you.”

“And you’re the only one who’s done so?” she countered. “Risked something?”

“We didn’t ask you to.”

“No, you only entered my shop with a strange artifact and chose to exist in a galaxy that’s actively hunting you.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “Careless actions are requests without words.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Every person you come into contact with puts them at risk. From what sweet Brophy’s told me, you’ve been in hiding since the end of the war, is that true?”

Assorted nods and grunts.

She leaned back, addressing them all. “Then you have no idea of the danger it is to associate with your kind.”

“Our kind?” Draugmand asked, a hint of reproach in his voice.

“Jedi,” she said.

“What about Force users in general?” Maatsu piped up, picking up Draugmand’s thread.

That wry smile came over her again as she looked at him. “Force users have always been persecuted or revered, depending on who you ask, and where you’re born.”

“So which were you?” Maatsu pressed.

Ooloora laughed a harsh note. “Bold of you to assume past tense.”

Wek noted Maatsu’s struggle to contain an eye roll. “Are, then.”

Ooloora grew pensive. “…I believe I just told you.”

Maatsu frowned.

When he didn’t produce an answer fast enough, Ooloora threw up her hands, exasperated. “Oh you plodding boy! Jedi! The Jedi were the lucky ones! Revered and elevated to mythical status behind the walls of that great Temple of yours! Legends, built on the foundation of trillions without the power to work the world with their minds!” She sighed. “The Jedi were sought out for answers.” Gripping her cane with both hands, the warmth in her eyes evaporated. “Force-sensitives are the pariahs who weren’t lucky enough to be found.”

The cooling unit clicked on in the silence that followed, layering another faint hum over the constant background noise of the ship’s reactor.

“Children aren’t responsible for the sins of their parents,” Ooloora said finally. “The same is true of students whose cups haven’t yet been filled by the ways of their teachers—those become responsible when they adopt the teacher’s teachings. But younglings? Children? Children aren’t to blame for being born how they are, and children shouldn’t be hunted by frightened and superstitious warmongers.” The Madame’s face turned sharp, bitter, and sad. “That’s why I’m helping.” She leaned back in her chair. “Now, It’s been a long journey. Is there any chance an old woman could get some kip for a cycle or two? Anyone who says hyperspace doesn’t wear on you doesn’t travel much.”

Ξ

Wek couldn’t sleep that night. The Madame’s words rolled over and over in his mind like noodles in a wok while he tracked down the scattered parts of the speeder bikes and his tools in the ventral cargo bay. Was she saying that the Jedi were to blame for what happened at the Temple? That couldn’t be right. The Jedi had always been the protectors, the sentinels of peace, guardians of justice. The Jedi Council knew what the right answers were. The wisdom of Master Yoda and the other Masters had steered not just the Jedi, not just Coruscant, but the whole galaxy, through the darkness time and time again over the millennia. Was this nice old woman saying that that wasn’t true?

But then she wasn’t very nice, was she? Kind, perhaps? That didn’t feel quite right either. She was prickly, and she was funny. Wek found himself liking her, but somewhere inside, he thought he could sense some kind of weight in her. Some sort of sadness had taken up residence inside the Madame’s breast, and it was strangling her. Or maybe that wasn’t right either, he struggled sometimes to sense the whims of living beings. Maybe that weight was the real her, on the inside. Was it possible to be kindly and funny on the outside but be something else on the inside? Wek wasn’t sure. Most—if not all—of the people he’d known in his few short years had pretty much shown themselves on the outside to be the same as on the inside.

Or what if that was just his perception?

And on and on his mind went, wrangling, reeling, picking apart, and analyzing. Deep through the quiet hours of the Horizon’s night cycle, Wek worked, and thought, and pondered, and yet answers eluded him. At least, answers on the whiffs and whims of organics. Machines on the other hand, the workings of machines was a language fit to his talents. Putting machines together brought sense and order to nonsense and chaos. Maybe, Wek mused as he finished reassembling the 74-Ys, maybe the body of a machine spoke enough about its purpose that the actual question didn’t matter anymore.

But then he thought about droids that had their memory core wiped and were repurposed, about R2 and R3 units developing personalities beyond their programming, and his argument fell apart.

It was a long night, and Wek was only able to fall asleep in the corner of the bay when all of his thoughts had run themselves out.

Chapter Text

XI

Wek Aboard the Far Green Country

Wek awoke to a reverberating clang. Before he was fully conscious, his Force senses were already reaching out, not yet hindered by the barriers consciousness demanded of his mind. The entire deck had rippled ever-so-slightly, too little to be noticed without instruments or his special senses, nowhere near enough to be cause for concern, but the deck had rippled, nonetheless.

His eyes remained closed as he catalogued possibilities, mentally tested theories and hypothesis about a viable, logical cause, and discarded them one by one as they didn’t meet his standards of evidence. Then, he found the answer. He knew it to be the answer, but he wasn’t done guessing, so he held it, and held it against every idea that came after, trying and testing the reasoning as to why, why had the ship just rippled like water at a microscopic level?

The answer, depending on how it was framed, was simple and harmless or simple and terrifying. Wek knew enough about ship construction to know which it was, but he allowed his mind to construct a scenario where it was the latter: The ripple was from an impact. Something had hit the ship. In the latter scenario, it could have been anything from a meteor as large as himself or bigger—but not so large as to destroy it outright. It could have been stray cosmic life—although that was a stretch when considering the astronomical scale of space and the plausibility of organically colliding trajectories, but it was a non-zero possibility. Whatever it theoretically could have been, a large dangerous impact could mean a hull breach. That meant that alarms would be going off, that meant sealed compartments, emergency repairs, everything in the compartment getting sucked through the breach or, if the hole was too small, suffocated and/or subjected to the awful hostility of space.

Luckily, it was the former.

There were no alarms, his comlink wasn’t screaming, the ship wasn’t popping at the constant strain of total vacuum ripping the Horizon apart from the outside. The former, simple and harmless explanation, was the truth. An impact had struck the ship, but gently, carefully, softly. Wek’s senses told him that the ripple had originated from somewhere abovedecks, and somewhere gently starboard of his sleeping pad on the floor under the workbench. He guessed it was also somewhere forward of his position. The ventral cargo bay was large and crossed the X and Z horizontal axis of the ship, giving him an excellent reference point of direction. He was also at the bottom of the vessel, which meant there was no significant input to his senses beneath his feet, further narrowing his mental triangulation. So that left the question: what part of the ship could account for such a reverberating impact—not of a dangerous quality—and where did it come from?

All of this raced through Wek’s mind in a matter of seconds, and when he opened his eyes with an answer, he knew where to go and what was happening: The Madame’s ship had docked, and the clang was from her ship’s boarding tube mating with the Horizon’s docking collar. The two spaceships were locked together, and both had rippled faintly with the effort. It was time to meet the Madame’s people, and maybe get some clarity from the past week.

Ξ

“Wek!” Kaarsk called from behind. “I was just about to call you, where’ve you been all night?” The Bothan trotted to catch up as Wek wound his way up to the docking hatch on the starboard forward quarter amidships.

Wek shrugged as he tore a strip of spicy shaak jerky that he’d grabbed from the galley on his way up. “Fell asleep downstairs,” he answered.

He could feel Kaarsk’s frown above him. “You have a room, bud,” he said gently. “You should sleep in a bunk.”

Wek made smacking noises as he worked the jerky in his mouth, shivering at the delicious heat. “The bunk’s too soft, and its far away from where I work.”

Kaarsk puffed helplessly as they came to the docking corridor. The others were already waiting, including Madame Ooloora. As Maatsu and Draugmand opened the circle they had formed, Wek’s heart sank, and the warmth of the jerky was forgotten in his mouth.

The others were standing around a small coffin, oblong and roughly pill-shaped, just large enough to contain a child, or someone of about Wek’s size.

Sethis, Wek realized as he came abreast. The coffin must have been stored inside Ooloora’s jump pod.

The coffin floated at Wek’s eye level, so he couldn’t tell if there was a viewing window. He guessed there wasn’t. It was of standard issue, plain durasteel painted silver, the kind found on billions upon billions of ships that cross the galaxy every day. They came with cooling units to preserve a body and were vacuum-sealed and shaped to fit a standard ejection tube, for those buried adrift.

Wek looked to the Madame. Her eyes were stony and set, devoid of the warmth he had seen the night before. Both of her hands gripped her gnarled wood cane firmly, and she stood eerily still.

The panel at the airlock door beeped.

“That’ll be my crew,” said Ooloora, directing the words towards Brophy.

Brophy nodded solemnly and keyed the panel. The inner airlock door slid open, beckoning the large holding space beyond. Draugmand and Maatsu took positions astride the coffin and gently floated it into the airlock. The rest of the Padawans and Madame Ooloora followed silently behind.

Once inside, the airlock sealed behind them, and Brophy keyed the com panel that fed through the outer door to the connected ship on the other side. “This is the crew of the Horizon, requesting permission to board your vessel.”

The com panel crackled and popped. Then a tinny, high-pitched voice squeaked through. “This is the crew of the Far Green Country. You have permission to board our vessel.” The panel beeped, and the mated airlock doors of the two ships began a dance of atmospheres as they prepared a transference of bodies.

Over the hiss of seals and the venting of pressure, Ooloora placed one hand on the coffin, splaying leathery, bony hands laden with rings and a wrist jangling with precious bangles. “They don’t know what happened yet,” she said. “Please, allow me to tell them myself.”

A ripple of uncertainty shot through Wek and the others. Looks were traded quickly, but there was no time to formulate a response. The outer airlock doors slid open, revealing a lone figure standing in the airlock beyond:

Another Chadra-fan, wearing a faded blue poncho with sunny yellow stitching and a pair of battered brown civilian flight boots, stood expectantly in the outer airlock of Ooloora’s ship, the Far Green Country. Her large ears were smaller and more rounded than Sethis’, and her fur was a mottling of rich autumn browns and reds, but her large black eyes and sharp, upturned nose looked painfully familiar to the Chadra-fan who had manned Ooloora’s shop in Khoonda. She looked younger than Sethis to Wek’s eyes, but undeniably familiar to the clerk. Wek would never forget the sequence of emotions that rippled over the girl’s features in those first few seconds of meeting her.

The Chadra-fan squealed with delight at seeing Ooloora. She scanned the Padawans with confusion, a hint of mistrust, and a pleading uncertainty that was mitigated as she met the Madame’s gaze. Then her eyes moved to the old woman’s hand, and to the coffin on which it rested. Her head cocked in confusion, then denial danced through her eyes. She looked to the rest of them, searching, looking for someone, and then they landed back on the coffin. Her eyes made quick understanding, and then they welled up with a fury that felt like a physical shove, and the tiny word that escaped her lips shattered Wek’s heart.

“No…” she pleaded. “No… don’t—don’t say it. Sethis, no… no nononoNOO!” The girl sank to her knees.

Ooloora’s eyes were wet as she swooped to the girl. “Oh. You poor, brilliant girl. Oh sweet thing, I’m so sorry Titha. I don’t have words, I—Oh I’m so sorry....” Titha vanished in the vast embrace of Ooloora’s grandmotherly robes, and all that could be heard was the dam of grief breaking and uncontrollable sobs as the girl’s world broke before Wek’s eyes.

The rest of the Padawans stood stone still, neither talking nor moving, waiting in the airlock as Titha wailed into Ooloora’s arms.

“Wh-wha-what h-happened?” the girl sobbed, emerging from the Madame’s embrace.

Ooloora ran a gentle hand over Titha’s furred head, and her voice caught as she tried to speak. “Someone—the shop… Your brother…” Ooloora took a steadying breath. “A lot’s happened, sweet girl.” She shifted so Titha could see Wek and the others. “These are some drifting souls, and they’re our new friends. They…” Ooloora’s voice cracked as she looked at Sethis’ coffin. “They helped us escape.”

Tears poured from Titha’s eyes, but she managed to get a good look at each of the Padawans in turn. Wek wrung his hands and waved lamely as she looked at him, and he felt his whole body freeze up, uncertain of what to do. He wanted to help her, this girl who was his size and who had just lost her sibling, but he didn’t have any idea of what to do or say. For the first time, Wek was overcome by helplessness, and he instantly decided that he hated the feeling.

Ooloora held Titha for a long few minutes while the Padawans waited. Eventually, the girl’s sobs slowed, and she brought her head out of the Madame’s embrace. Her eyes were ringed red. “I dribbled on your robe…” she rubbed her nose.

Ooloora tittered. “Don’t worry about it, sweet girl. Now,” she cupped Titha’s face in her hands, “this is very important. Did you send out the calls that I asked?”

Titha nodded weakly.

“Good girl.” With a monumental groan and a huff and leaning heavily on her cane, Ooloora brought herself up off her knees.

Instantly, Brophy moved to her side, but she swatted him away.

“Back off boy. The day I can’t stand on my own is the day I need to be taken out to the shed and put down. Leave me be.” Her words were harsh but there was an ease to them that took Wek by surprise.

Brophy retreated, chastened.

Titha took Ooloora’s hand, sparing a quick glare for the rest of them. “Where are we taking him?” she asked.

Straightening with an impressive crackling of joints, Ooloora sighed with relief before answering. “That’s a conversation between you and me. He’ll be safe for now. I’m going to have PT put him in storage and strap him in, alright?”

For a moment, tears welled up in the girl’s eyes again, then, through apparent force of will, she forced them down and nodded, collecting herself. “That makes sense.”

“Good.” Ooloora addressed the Padawans over her shoulder. “Come with me, Jedi. Now that we can breathe without the Empire’s stench, we can have a real conversation. She took off at a brisk pace. Wek and the others followed into corridors of her ship.

Ξ

Clomping through the long, well-lit hallways of the Far Green Country, Wek’s first impressions was that of being inside a commuter tram subway tunnel, but if it were cleaned regularly. During occasional class outings from the Temple, he had ridden one or two of the trams just below the upper crust of Coruscant. He shivered to remember the unkempt standard to which those mechanicals were upheld. These long, open-deck halls aboard Ooloora’s ship were an entirely different and altogether more pleasant construction: Well-lit, with barely a cable visible, and with neatly bolted paneling up and down the hall that gave the vessel a finished feeling. Even Wek had to admit he was impressed. Even the Horizon, relatively new as she was, had oodles of exposed cabling and guts to be found in her many snaking corridors. This ship was well-maintained by someone, that much was clear.

“Here we are,” Ooloora said as they arrived at an unlabeled access door. She turned to Titha. “Would you like these young men to wait with Sethis while I fetch PT? Or are you alright if he stays by himself for a moment?”

Titha glanced at Draugmand and Maatsu, the pallbearers flanking the casket. “He can stay. Mother already collected his takh vh’kah. This,” she indicated the coffin, “is… is just his shell now.”

Ooloora nodded sagely. “Of course, dear.” She collected the pallbearers in her gaze and indicated they should release the coffin. They did without delay. “Alright then,” said Ooloora. “Let’s get our friends safe and fed and we’ll get PT to collect him, alright?”

Titha’s numb nod made Wek want to rush to her side and comfort her.

Ooloora led the troupe through the access door.

Within was the mess, smaller than the one on the Horizon, and currently unoccupied save for a humanoid droid visible behind a curtain of steam in the corner kitchenette. Wek instantly recognized the droid as being an RA-7 model of protocol droid—an uncommon find in the civilian markets, on account of them developing notoriously unpleasant personalities, and they were often put to work as agents of espionage.

“PT!” Ooloora called.

The droid’s bulbous head leaned around the billowing steam, its large, insectoid photoreceptors reflecting a faintly disconcerting compound hexagonal pattern. The droid jerked upon recognition. “Ahh, Madame! You’ve returned!” The droid’s vocalizer was smooth, warm and cultured, with a strong refined masculine Core accent. “Titha informed me that we should be receiving you this morning. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some pteradax eggs and bantha bacon. It’ll kill you if you choke on it.” The droid brought his arms up in what an organic would call an apologetic shrug, but the limitations of his rotator joint assembly prevented such movement. “I was going to defrost that Felucian poñala, but I wasn’t certain if your sweet tooth would be currently active, so instead I—”

Ooloora gripped the droid’s upper arm. “—That’s alright, PT. I’m not hungry, but our guests may very well be. Could you whip up some more eggs and bacon for them? And mind that caf.”

The droid deftly removed the billowing, boiling kettle from the burner before glancing at Wek and the others. “Unannounced guests. Hmm. It will use up the rest of our stores…”

Ooloora’s smile was tight across her face. “And that is what we do for guests, without complaint.”

The droid bowed its head. “Of course, Madame, you silly old woman.”

Wek’s eyes went wide at the insubordinate comment, and he was certain he felt his companions tense, but Ooloora didn’t even seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care.

“Thank-you, PT,” said Ooloora. She looked to the Padawans. “This is our droid, PT-99, but you may call him ‘PT’. He’s good, reliable help, and a valued member of the Country’s crew.”

The droid rolled his head in what a humanoid might consider an eye roll. “I live to serve,” he said, but the intonation was rather dry. He proceeded to dance a nakiri knife around his fingertips before expertly dicing some vegetables—presumably to put in with the eggs.

Ooloora smiled like poisoned honey. “PT, you’ll behave yourself in the company of guests, and I have something important for you to do.”

The droid stiffened. “It is… Sethis, isn’t it?”

For some reason, the droid’s casual deduction seemed to be the first thing to catch Ooloora off guard, and she hesitated, jangling her bangles and gripping her cane while she composed herself. “Yes, it is. He…” she glanced at Titha, who had settled herself on the booth bench running along the wall. “He was killed, in the shop.”

The droid’s voice grew somber. “His absence is most visible, as was Titha’s pronounced distress upon entering the mess.” PT-99 paused. “Is it relevant how he died?” He returned to the kitchenette to tend to burning bacon.

Ooloora nodded. “Its relevant as to why we have guests. Not so relevant at the current moment, not without Untuhwhum.”

“I see,” said the droid.” He considered for a moment. “Did you bring his corpse aboard?”

Ooloora winced but skimmed the abrasive word choice. “He’s just outside. We need to cold-store him until we can decide—"

“—I will take care of it, Lady Ooloora,” said PT, setting down his cooking utensils and moving around the kitchenette towards the Padawans and the door.

“No, PT, wait!” the Madame called.

The droid stopped.

“Sethis isn’t going anywhere. Don’t waste fresh food on a body that won’t enjoy it. Finish those pteradax eggs and feed Titha and our guests. Then you can put Sethis in cold storage, and then I want you to fetch Untuhwhum. Where is he?”

PT cocked his head at her as he acquiesced, returning to the kitchenette. “In Bay 2, testing the temperature sensors on the crawlers. He has been unable to rectify an electrical problem.”

“Hmm,” Ooloora hummed. “When you get him, mention that that problem needs to be solved quickly, it turns out we may have found a use for the tanks before we return them.” Her sharp gaze swept the Padawans in an all-too significant manner, and she started, as if she had forgotten they were there. “Well what the hell are you all still doing standing?! Sit down! Make yourselves comfortable! No one’s going to hurt you here.”

At her sharp urging, Maatsu and Arca’dia were the first to move, sidling over to one of the four bolted cafeteria-style tables and pulling out chairs to sit. Wek, unable to shake the desire to comfort the grieving Chadra-fan, moved to Titha’s table.

“Can I sit here?” he asked from below the height of the table as the others founds seats around the mess.

Titha’s response was delayed and drawn out. The wrangling of her thoughts sounded as if they were coming like a cold soup, thick and noncompliant. “That’s okay,” she said, her voice soft and breakable.

“Thank you,” said Wek as he clambered up into the chair. He folded his hands on the table while his feet dangled. The low murmur of conversation filled the mess as his friends began conversation while waiting for a meal, or some clarity to their situation. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said, trying to get her attention.

“Thank you,” she said, but her voice was empty.

“He was… very helpful,” Wek said, knowing how lame it sounded.

“Did you come to the shop often?” she asked, turning her darkly furred head ever so slightly his way.

Wek shook his head. “No… the other day was the first time I met him, but… I liked him.”

Titha nodded, as if she knew. “Sethis liked people. He knew the people he… he knew the people he would like.”

Wek clasped and unclasped his fingers, unsure of what to say. “I… I liked him. He stood up for the Madame, and she seems okay.”

A sudden sharp defensiveness came to Titha’s body, and she finally looked Wek full in the face. “She is. She knows how to keep us safe.”

The force of her defensiveness took Wek off-guard, and he spluttered a little. “I—oh—I wasn’t saying that she—she seems like she knows a lot, I mean, very smart.” He sighed, frustrated. “I don’t know her either,” he said finally.

The assuredness in Titha’s chin carried her head high, prideful and certain. “If you’re here, it means she knows how to help you.”

Wek sagged. “I don’t know what we need.”

“But I do.”

Wek nearly leapt out of his cloak as Ooloora’s voice, right behind and above, washed over him. He spun to see her kindly, wrinkled old face ogling down at him with a cocked eyebrow and a disarming grin.

“I know what you’re missing,” she said in a conspiratorial undertone.

The low conversations with the other exiles died slowly as PT emerged from the kitchenette, laden with mottled orange pteradax eggs and long, hearty strips of bantha bacon, crispy and carbonized, just like Wek liked best.

The droid delivered laden food trays to each table, the fat still sizzling on the thin cuts of bantha meat. Wek noted Brophy looking up expectantly, uncertain if he should start first. 

Ooloora pulled a chair up to Wek and Titha's table and, with due disregard for the sanctity of ceremony, dug in, apparently hungry after all. 

Wek took the opportunity to pay attention to PT-99 as he moved around the mess. He listened to the faint whirring of the droid's servomotors in its elbows and knees, shoulders and hips. He took note of the deftness with which it delivered the food to the tables, the sharpness of its nods of acquiescent gratitude at Draugmand's, Kaarsk's, and the others' thanks. Something about the droid seemed… more.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about the droid alluded to being considerably more than a simple protocol droid. It merited later inspection, or questioning.

The faint tinkling of flatware brought Wek’s focus back, and he grabbed a fork like a shovel and dove into the huge, runny eggs like a proper desert carnivore. 

"So," said Madame Ooloora. "We're onboard my ship, in a secure environment. No recording devices or secret agents of loyalty to be found for a few light years at least," she hummed into her bacon. "I want to know just what you Jedi think about your lives in hiding. What keeps you going when you’re all on the ‘Most Wanted’ lists from the Core to the Outer Rim? What—maybe most important of all—is it that could bring your mythical lives into focus, outside of an artifact-hunting adventure, of course," she gave Wek a sly wink. 

The other Padawans were silent for a long moment, filled with the muted crunch of food and the clink of utensils on trays. Finally, Draugmand spoke up, his voice slow and plodding, as if he were discovering the answers as he delivered them. "We're just trying to survive but... but," and he brought Wek into his purview, "it seems like whatever we found in that tomb is something worth, well, worth not just what your average person would handle. It sounds like the kind of thing Jedi in… in another age would be sent out to deal with."

"Mm," said Ooloora. "The operative word being 'in another age', is that what you're saying?" 

Draugmand shrank, uncertain. "I guess."

Ooloora wielded her bacon like a baton, conducting her way through a train of thought that she had clearly predetermined. "So," she said to them all. "You think it would behoove the galaxy for you righteous Jedi to confront the existential threat posed to you by a ghost. A ghost in a gauntlet, is that about true?"

The Padawans shifted around sheepishly, but Arca'dia spoke up. "Yes, that's about it."

Ooloora nodded her acknowledgment towards the Miraluka. "And in order to do that,” she continued, “would you say your grand quest would be better, or worse prepared were you wholly mated to the artifacts that people think of when they think of Jedi?”

Wek furrowed his brow under his hood, confused. Then it dawned on him. "Yes, it is," he said, turning to face the old woman. “It would be better.”

A twinkle danced in Ooloora's eyes. "I thought you might be the first to guess, little Jawa." She addressed the rest of them. "Any others? Thoughts?"

The rest of the Padawans looked at each other uncertainly, except for Arca'dia, who had tilted her head and bore a carefully blank expression. 

"Lightsabers," said Wek. "We need lightsabers." 

A genuine smile spread across the Madame’s face. “Lightsabers, indeed. But how to get them? I’ve only seen them in the ‘vids, myself. Now I may just be an old grifter, but I know ‘down on my luck’ when I see it. You little Jedi are running on a credit deficit—and I’m not just talking about actual credits, though I’m wagering you don’t have any of those, either. I’m talking about reputation. It’s not easy to get around when the good name of ‘Jedi’ has been dragged through the muck and plastered on every bounty puck from Bonadan to Eriadu. You can’t exactly show up at a crisis center, announce yourself, and be welcomed with open arms, not in this galactic climate.”

“‘Climate’ hardly encompasses it,” Maatsu muttered.

Ooloora raised an eyebrow in Maatsu’s direction but pushed on. “You’d be arrested on sight, detained, convicted, and your sentence would be carried out to a cheering crowd—no matter your actual intentions, or culpability for that matter.”

Kaarsk had folded his hands on the table and his eyes were fixed on the far wall. “What’s your point, Madame?”

Ooloora straightened the folds of her cloak into a more regal tumbledown shape. “If you’re in danger of being arrested on sight for the crime of existing, you might as well be fully equipped for the occasion, yes?”

Kaarsk’s shoulders sagged with contempt. “Of course we’d rather be equipped, but acquiring lightsabers isn’t an easy task. They’re the weapon of our Order, our symbol. I’ve seen active bounty rewards for tips against citizens who have even seen one, let alone ‘has on hand.’”

Maatsu piped in. “It’s not as if they’re available in any-old open markets, Madame.”

Kaarsk matched Maatsu’s deferment, continuing, “It’s safe to say the Emperor had all of the Order’s lightsabers destroyed or locked in a vault somewhere…” His tone shifted as a thought seemed to occur to him. “…I wouldn’t even be surprised if the Emperor had all of the Jedi lightsabers sealed in the Temple vaults… That would be a fitting victory for the Empire to flaunt…”

Ooloora puckered her lips and cocked her head in mock innocence. “But where do the Jedi get their lightsabers from in the first place? Don’t you, oh, haven’t I heard that you construct them? The secret word’s always been that a lightsaber hilt is made from basic components, but it’s the heart of the weapon that fuels those brilliant beams. Is that true?”

Wek couldn’t tell if the old woman was leading them to an answer or if she was genuinely asking. Either way, he felt a little shiver go down his spine as he realized what she was getting it. From the faint rustling of cloth-on-synthleather around the mess, he gathered the others had come to the same conclusion.

“It’s true,” Arca’dia confirmed, “but there’s only one place to retrieve the heart of a lightsaber…”

“Oh?” Ooloora exclaimed, her mock tone still obfuscating whether she held genuine surprise or not. “And, where might that be?”

The Padawans exchanged long glances, suddenly uncertain of whether to answer. The secrecy and anonymity of the Jedi’s secret source of mighty kyber crystals was sacrosanct to the order, Wek knew. Maintaining that anonymity was one of the first lessons instilled in Jedi younglings brought to the Temple. Even Maatsu, who infamously flaunted the decrees of the Masters, looked uncomfortable at the prospect. That is, until Wek saw a shift in his Pantoran friend, and Maatsu made the decision for them.

“It’s on the planet Ilum,” said Maatsu, his voice bold, defiant even. “It’s very cold, and very sacred to the Jedi Order.”

Ooloora closed her eyes and nodded, betraying no indication if ‘Ilum’ was a name she already knew. “Of course it is. Ilum, I see. Well, one might call that fortuitous circumstances, but I do believe I can help you acquire some hearts for new lightsabers, little Jedi. What fortune that you came across me when you did!” She tapped her cane and adopted an expression of deep self-satisfaction.

Wek was about to chime in to the rising bids of concern from the others, when the door to the mess slid open and PT-99 returned. Wek hadn’t even noticed the droid had left.

“I found him, Madame,” said the droid. “But he was in the middle of a diagnostic and didn’t take too kindly to being summoned at—”

—The door slid open again, and the streaming cloud of furious expletives that stomped into the mess made such a scene that Wek instinctively grabbed for a fork to defend himself.

“…Two fuckin’ weeks o’ work, careful blasted calibrations and eighteen fuckin’ scram bolts to get to the ruttin’ batteries and suddenly SHE’S back with her bleedin’ agenda and reckless fuckin’ holier-than-thou generosity, tryin’ to make a gordamn martyr outta every pathetic fuckin’ sob story this side of Corellia! Fuckin’ hell!”

The character who conducted such a symphony of sardonics was an older Duros fellow, sea-foam colored skin that was fading a milky tint with age. Wrinkles enwebbed his enormous oblong red eyes in his slightly ballooned, hairless skull, but his frame was of the shape that only comes from a life of taxing physical labor: corded, ropy muscles, a dollop of a gut that would only grow with time and poor nutrition, all covered in a tattered work shirt that could once have been colored, beneath perpetually stained workman’s overalls. The Duros marched into the mess spewing an almost continuous tirade, seemingly directed at no one, until he stopped mere feet from Ooloora, massive wrench pointed at her head, and he took in the scene of the young Padawans arrayed around the room.

“Jedi,” said Ooloora, “this is my ship’s mechanic, Untuwhum U’Ganda. Untuwhum, these are our new Jedi friends.”

The Duros’ red eyes blazed around the mess, then landed back at Ooloora, beholding her behind a wall of barely contained laborer’s rage, and a vein seemed determined to explode near his temple. “I don’t fuckin’ care if they’re the gordamn Genoharadan! They’re a bunch of children! These are the helpless sprites you wanted us to pick up?”

“Not quite helpless,” said Ooloora, her eyes narrowing at her mechanic. “They helped me escape Dantooine from an ISB inquest, and…” she reached beyond the wrench to Untuwhum’s forearm, “they allowed me to bring Sethis home, to bury.”

The fury extinguished from the mechanic’s eyes in an instant, replaced by sudden, stark confusion. “Bury? What…?” He looked over at Titha, whose eyes had turned wet again. “Well that can’t be right,” he said. “What the hell happened?”

Ooloora waved him off. “A story for later. For now, I need to know how fast you can get the crawlers up to working order?”

Untuwhum fluttered, flabbergasted at the whiplash in conversation. “Hold on now, why’re you worried about the damn tanks? It’s not like we’re headed anywhere cold, and even if we were, how’d’ya expect to outfit them with proper pilots, eh? And don’t deflect about our boy Sethis! What, in the hells, happened?!” Untuwhum stomped over to Titha and wrapped a strong arm over the girl’s shoulder as she began to sob again.

Ooloora sighed, directing her words at Wek and the other exiles. “I’d ask if you minded if I had a private conversation with my crew regarding the past few days, but on matters of family, I don’t really give a damn what anyone thinks, so you’ll have to be okay with it.”

Wek thought that sounded perfectly reasonable, but Kaarsk’s nose twitched as if he wanted to object. The manner of Ooloora’s statement gave no implication that it was a question, however, and so the Bothan stayed silent.

“That’s good,” said Ooloora when no one spoke up. We have much to discuss. But in the meantime, I want you to understand that I am not helping you entirely out of the goodness of my heart, if that’ll help you to trust me at all.” Her eyes darted to Untuwhum as she said it. “I have a healthy list of selfish reasons. That said, unselfish reasons are not mutually exclusive for the purposes of our budding relationship. The Empire’s said—loudly and clearly—that all Jedi are betrayers and fiends, who orchestrated a coup against the Senate in a bid to—”

—Her voice was drowned out by a rising tide of protests from the Padawans. Denouncements and outrage filled the mess, and Wek caught the tall mechanic’s eye across the table as a wry half-smile graced his hard face. He enjoys the discourse, Wek realized, a fact he mentally filed for later.

“Oi!” Untuwhum barked, and the sharp rap of his durasteel wrench on the durasteel-framed bench brought the shouting to a sudden halt.

Ooloora blinked in magnanimous serenity as the cries died down. “I can see you don’t agree with the ‘official’ diagnosis, but… have any of you ever actually watched the speech?”

“What speech?” Brophy asked.

“The speech,” Ooloora repeated. “THE speech, Palpatine’s ‘Proclamation of the New Order’ speech? The one he gave the following day after the supposed coup attempt?”

Wek and the others stared blankly. It wasn’t a topic that any of them had actively sought out in their exile.

“Oh blast,” she said. “Untuwhum, could you—”

“—Already on it,” said the mechanic, retrieving a remote from one of the cabinets near the kitchenette. He clicked on the vidscreen along the far wall and handed the remote off to the Madame, who proceeded to do a quick HoloNet search. “Its one of the most approved pieces of viewing material for any citizen of the Empire, so it shouldn’t be hard to find through the censors. They play it uncut every year on Empire Day. Ah, here we are.”

The vidscreen scrambled to life, showing what, at first glance, appeared to be rows of distantly lit circular holes in a featureless gray wall. Then the holocam panned, revealing it to be the curving walls of the immense, mushroom-shaped Rotunda housing the Galactic Senate of the Republic. Circle upon concentric circle of docked repulsorpods housed senators from every inducted star system across the galaxy, the rings rising from the base of the enormous building to its conical cap, shrouded far above in shadow. Standing in the center of that great vacuous space was a regal podium, elevated as it was on a single thin pillar. The podium made for an unavoidable centerpiece, grandstanding its way to the heart of that ponderous chamber. On that podium were three figures: on the right stood a pale white humanoid in a stiff, high-collared white shadowcloak; on the left, a blue Chagrian with tall horns, wielding a scepter and clad in fastidious senatorial robes topped with even more elaborate epaulettes; and in the center stood a shrouded, hooded human figure in robes of the deepest crimson.

Chancelor Palpatine.

The holocam racked its lenses and zoomed in for a powerful upward angle of the Chancelor as he began to speak, a deep, guttural croak spilling forth from the revered statesman’s mouth. “Citizens of the civilized galaxy, on this day we mark a transition,” he began, each word delivered with expertly crafted inflection and tonal shifts—the voice of a master orator. “For a thousand years, the Republic stood as the crowning achievement of civilized beings. But there were those who would set us against one another, and we took up arms to defend our way of life against the Separatists. In so doing, we never suspected that the greatest threat came from within…” and off he went.

Wek watched, dumbstruck, as the Chancellor launched into a manufactured tale of how the Jedi Order had plotted to overthrow the Senate with ‘the hatred in their hearts’ and with hopes to ‘unleash their destructive power against the Republic’.

“They… the galaxy didn’t believe this, did they?” Maatsu’s question echoed hollowly through the mess.

“…The remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated!” Palpatine declared into the silence.

“Of course they did,” answered the Madame. “He was our Chancelor for almost fifteen years, since that Naboo crisis with the Trade Federation, before any of your times.”

“But,” Draugmand added, his voice equally strangled, “the Jedi Order weren’t planning any sort of coup… We were there. The clones attacked us!”

“…In order to ensure our security and continuing stability…”

“I believe you,” Ooloora said softly.

“…the Republic,” continued Palpatine, “will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire!” And he was forced to pause as the new Emperor raised his arms to the thunderous applause, deafening any chance of continuing for a long, long while.

Ooloora kept the entire speech running, and no one protested. Wek sat in a state of numb impact, as if he’d been struck, and he suspected his fellow Exiles felt similarly, as the speech rolled on. Palpatine elaborated on how the new Empire’s most cherished beliefs must be safeguarded. He mentioned how difficult the task of enforcing the New Order would be, how the people of the Empire were ready for the challenge. He spoke of how the clone troopers were now proudly wearing the name of Imperial stormtroopers, and how Imperial citizens would do well to follow their devoted, dying examples. And he spoke about how ‘the New Order of peace has triumphed over the shadowy secrecy of shameful magicians’, before closing his slung codices of vitriol and propaganda. And he was celebrated, again and again, Palpatine had to stop speaking from the torrent of applause and championed outcry.

Wek didn’t know what to do with it.

Blessedly, finally, it ended, and Ooloora let the vidscreen freeze on the new Emperor’s yellow eyes, wretched sallow skin, and monstrous fatherly smile. She let the silence hang in the air for a long, long moment. At last, with similarly deft oratory skill, the Madame spoke up. “I don’t believe the Jedi tried to overthrow the Republic. I believe the Jedi are still important to the galaxy, and I have the means to help you, so I intend to.” She stood then, stumbling only a little at the stiffness of standing up. “I will fund your expedition to Ilum, and I’ll provide you with equipment and some expert guides, and I will help your archaeological hunt to discover the secrets of this… ‘Balancing Mantle’, you called it?” She looked to Brophy, who nodded in a mute, autonomous fashion. “That. I have a list of returns on my investment that I expect you to honor, but mostly… I just want to hear how the adventure turns out. I want to know what you learn about this set of artifacts.” She stroked her chin, pondering. “You might say I’m… shopping for legacy. Now, how’s that all sound for a fair deal?” She clasped both hands on her cane, and waited for their response.

Chapter Text

XII

Draugmand Aboard the Far Green Country

“It’s a little tight,” Draugmand wheedled as the air puttered out of his lungs with the compressing of the jacket.

“The outfit is meant to be form-fitting,” PT-99 admonished. “Tightness just means it’s working.”

Draugmand winced. “Even if I can’t feel my fingers?”

The droid’s photoreceptors dawdled on Draugmand’s outstretched arms. “Oh. My, no indeed not. We wouldn’t want your fingers to fall off before you ever reached a hostile freezing environment, would we?” The droid yanked on the ripcord. The jacket unsealed itself, releasing Draugmand’s constricted chest.  

Draugmand gulped in air and let his arms fall. “I thought you said these crawlers are outfitted for the cold? We’re… planning on them, you know, working, aren’t we?”

The Duros mechanic, Untuwhum, cackled from somewhere beneath and beyond the huge tank crawler treads resting on the bay floor. His polished blue-green dome popped out from under the vehicle as he said, “You’re overpreparing for exactly that, tusk-face. It’s for the moments you don’t plan on that’ll freeze your testis off. You want to get stuck on a dead rock with no way to call for help? Be my guest. Just be sure to activate the homing beacon before you kick it. That way at least, we know where to find your little frozen fucking corpses, aye?” The mechanic chortled to himself as he disappeared beneath the tank.

Wek immediately scrambled down to follow.

“No, no, nono,” came Untuwhum’s voice from under the machine. “I’m not playing instructor in the middle of a project, you little rat. I’ve got my tools right where they’re supposed to be and you—don’t touch that.”

Wek said something in Jawaese that Draugmand couldn’t hear, but Untuwhum’s retort was clear as day.

“Because that’s how I do it, Dirt Robes. You wanna be more efficient? Go fuckin’ do it with your own tools and leave me in gordamn peace. Go read the manual or something.”

At PT-99’s behest, Draugmand brought his arms back up as the droid fastened the arctic jacket around his torso again after making adjustments.

“How’s that?” PT-99 asked after cinching it tight.

Draugmand dropped his arms, feeling none of the pressure from before. He frowned. “Much better.”

“Excellent,” said the droid. “So long as you don’t go fiddling with the straps, you should be able to maintain circulation to the extremities.” The droid moved pointedly into Draugmand’s field of view. “I will not be held responsible for lost digits upon return of this equipment if it was improperly used.”

Draugmand would have been wounded, were he not curious who told the droid of his history of, well, fiddling—according to Wek and Maatsu, at least.  “I’ll be careful,” he said without conviction. He supposed one of the pair must have said something.

The droid seemed to detect the candor of his voice. It turned to face him. “I’m quite serious. All of this equipment—particularly these EEV-As,” he indicated the pair of large, modified Sienar crawler tanks that dominated the floor of the Far Green Country’s extended cargo bay, “are not being given to you, no matter what the Madame says. They are loaned equipment, and thus, we expect they be returned to this vessel. Is that understood?”

Draugmand felt a sudden compulsion to straighten his spine a little. “It is,” he said, chin up.

“Also excellent,” said PT. “Then I only need to complete fittings for your Bothan friend.”

Draugmand snorted. “Good luck finding him.”

PT-99 turned back from the gear crate he was sifting through. “And why’s that?”

Draugmand shrugged. “He hates long sleeves. Says they pinch his fur.”

PT-99 cocked his head. “He doesn’t have a choice in the matter. According to my findings, daytime on Ilum can easily drop to lethally cold temperatures for most beings. Nighttime temperatures are altogether deadly—as a baseline.”

“Kaarsk won’t like hearing that,” said Wek, appearing from under the tank tread, trailing Untuwhum’s colorful words behind him like a streamer. “Where’s our gear from?” Wek moved without invitation to the gear crate PT-99 was hovering over.

“Actually, I’d like to know as well,” Draugmand added, fingering the insignia of a spiraling green galaxy with an oblong blue eye on his lapel.

PT-99 beheld each of them in turn in his huge photoreceptors, and he took a step to force Wek’s prying hands away from the lip of the crate. “Is it a major concern of yours, which brand of environmental gear we’ve acquired and intend to furnish you with?”

Draugmand offered a placating shrug. “Under normal circumstances, probably not—”

“—It matters to me.” Wek insisted.

“—But,” Draugmand overrode him, “since we’re talking about prolonged, dangerous cold? Yeah, I feel like not having the cheap stuff should be part of the conversation.”

“It’ll be fucking cold, wear a coat!” Untuwhum shouted from out of sight. “What more are ye twiddly fucks worried about?”

PT-99 ignored the mechanic, and instead reached into the crate, pulling out a medium-sized case of hard, textured grey plastoid branded with the same spiraling green galaxy logo as on Draugmand’s lapel. “Pretormin Environmental gear,” he said, tapping the logo. “Next to Ayelixe-Krongbing they’re the best available,” he caught himself, wabbling his hand on his own train of thought. “Although, Gandorthral Atmospherics does make some decent equipment, but most of their offerings focus more on the industrial markets—terraforming, atmospheric engineering and the like.” The droid brushed a spec of dirt from Draugmand’s breast. “They can’t be beat in the wearables market, though.”

Draugmand frowned, “How do you know all of this?”

The droid cocked its head at him. “We—that is to say, Madame Ooloora’s crew—pride ourselves on keeping competitive knowledge about a variety of equitable offerings in a multitude of markets.” The droid’s panel of photoreceptors narrowed at him. “If I were you, I might pick a field to familiarize myself with as well, if you want to truly impress her.”

Draugmand balked. “That’s… not really my thing,” he said, taking a step back from the droid. “I’m more of a ‘go where the getting’s needed,’ kind of guy.”

The droid huffed. “A shame. The Madame is always looking to make valuable new contacts.”

Wek raised his hand. “I know about a lot of droids.”

PT-99 studied him for a long moment. “I’m inclined to believe you. Yet I wonder,” he said, his vocabulator taking on another layer of ironic tenor, “How much could you tell me about the gear we’re already outfitting you and your fellow martyrs with, hmm?” He proceeded to remove items from the smaller Pretormin case, presenting them theatrically to the pair of them.  “Thermal-cell goggles; they ought never fog over so long as you keep the batteries from freezing. The batteries average eighteen standard hours before requiring a recharge.

“Standard issue macrobinoculars,” he continued, lifting the heavy pair from their soft, molded casing, “modified with a thermal convection coating to prevent icing.” The droid made a pointed, demonstrative stance with the goggles, as if previewing them to a captive critical audience. “Additionally,” he said, sarcastic showmanship dribbling from his mouth, “the Pretormin model comes with a desiccant pouch stored inside the casing, preventing the buildup of moisture should your freezing adventures run into hitherto unexpected water accumulation.”

Draugmand met PT-99’s sardonics with a dry glare of his own. “Wait, are we expecting water buildup on a snowy planet?”

The droid replaced the macrobinoculars in the case. “My point exactly. Do you understand just how cold Ilum can get? And, much more relevantly, do you understand why the pilots are being instructed to drop you a full four days away from your kyber temple target?”

Draugmand shared a look with Wek, who shrugged and shook his head. “No… we weren’t told that.”

“Ah, well, that is the plan. I imagine the bulk of the details will be delivered upon our rendezvous with your pilots and guides.”

“Why plural?” Draugmand asked. He was carefully maintaining eye contact with PT-99, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Wek was slowly edging his way towards the crate again. Draugmand gently shifted around the crate-ringed staging area between the EEV-A tanks, forcing PT-99 to face him, leaving Wek to continue his creeping approach.

The droid didn’t seem to take umbrage from the movement and turned to Draugmand to continue the conversation. “Plural what?”

“Why guide-s and pilot-s? Are we taking two ships?”

It was remarkable how the droid’s head tilts, which bore no expression nor facial movement, could still convey something as subtle as pursed lips, while his stiff body language gave off an almost definable aura of exasperation. PT-99 held out his arms, indicating the crawlers. “We are outfitting you with a plural quantity of vehicles for your journey. In case you haven’t noticed, these tanks are quite large and rather heavy. They have similar bulk to a wide assortment of one-pilot starfighters, and thus need a vessel larger than themselves to transport them. Is that plain enough for you?”

Draugmand’s patience was tearing under the weight of the droid’s condescension. He uncrossed his arms, taking a menacing step towards PT-99, employing identical intimidation tactics to those he might use at the club with an unruly patron… “Listen up, droid…”

…A recent memory bubbled forth. A balding Imperial’s defiant face. The sound of bones crunching. A stunned silence punctuated by a base-heavy club beat. The sticky warmth of blood on his hands. Sirens. Noses smashed under his fist as he made his escape. Rumbling, vibrating shame and anxiety as he’d holed up behind a cantina. Unspooling rage at his lack of control, his impotence…

Draugmand’s ire collapsed in his throat. He came back to himself. He was centimeters away from PT-99’s face, a curling finger perilously close to the droid’s folded aluminum outer casing. Wek was tugging fruitlessly on his pant leg, and Untuwhum the mechanic was scrambling out from beneath the tank treads, wielding a hydrospanner and howling at him to back the fuck up.

PT-99 turned his head, so close was he that Draugmand could see the lenses of the droid’s photoreceptor panels cycling their focus to a hex of six panels in a honeycomb—his eye’s narrowed. The droid’s voice was soft, unphased. “Your pupils are dilated, sir. Perhaps you should seek medical attention before you require it.”

Draugmand blinked, the threat rolling off him like water—not because he was calm, but because he had gone numb. His entire train of thought had just folded in on itself, and any productive thoughts of conversation had vanished with the flashing images of the Imperial’s broken neck. His thoughts were drifting through the Lavender Layaway while PT-99 held out a clothesline arm to keep Untuwhum from approaching, hydrospanner raised.

“Draug?” Wek’s small voice was curious, uncertain, with a hint of pleading.

Draugmand looked down at his friend, but couldn’t form the words.

“Do you want to sit down?” Wek asked, the yellow lamps in his hood boring through the swirling, raging fog of Draugmand’s thoughts.

Draugmand nodded. He looked to PT-99 and Untuwhum. “I…” he trailed off, uncertain how to finish, so he turned around and marched out with Wek rushing to keep up.

Ξ

Draugmand removed himself from interaction for the rest of the night and the better part of the next day. Arca’dia came to check on him sometime that evening and Wek left a tray of food outside his door, but other than that he sat in silence, trying to convince himself that he was meditating.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened at the Layaway. His lack of control had gotten the better of him. He had felt the Force spark and rise within, had felt the color of it shift. Was that the Dark Side? Had he felt a changing tide of the energy of the Sith inside himself? Did that mean he was a corrupted soul? A Fallen Jedi? The Masters had always warned about the dangers of the Dark Side, but as Draugmand took the time to unwrap his thoughts by himself, he couldn’t remember any lessons about what happened to Jedi who merely touched the Dark Side with a mistaken moment of weakness. Were there incidents of Jedi who had been tempted and redeemed? Had they been saved? Could they be saved? Or were they, like a single drop of ink in water, corrupted forever?

But then, he hadn’t only touched that dark side, had he? He had given in. He had killed a man for assaulting a woman; a woman under his protection. His rational mind had been overtaken, and a primal, furious side of him had taken over—

--No, that was a lie. A ‘darker’ side of him hadn’t taken him over. He’d wanted it. He had wanted to attack the officer, to hurt him. The man had shown his character by being scum, and Draugmand had wanted to punish him for it. Had he taken it too far? Well, of course, absolutely…

…Another lie. A voice, dark and direct, wrapped its tone around his thoughts. It was too quick.

Draugmand recoiled on his bunk. That wasn’t true. He hadn’t wanted to hurt the Imperial. He’d only wanted to warn him.

Liar, said the voice. He was a villain, and you showed him the kind of justice he never would have received.

But I took away his redemption, his chance to be better, Draugmand fought back.

He hated that even the derisive laughter of the voice was his own, not someone else’s. You don’t believe that. Do you truly think that man, who wore a sanctioned uniform and a badge, who hadn’t been punished yet, would change? The voice looped and lapped lazily around his mind, perfectly at ease. He would’ve gotten away with it. That night, and every night after. No one would have stopped him. But you did.

“Yeah,” Draugmand muttered to the room. “I stopped him.”

The voice snaked over his thoughts, creeping into the ever-eroding memories of the Jedi’s teachings. You did the right thing.

“According to whom?” he asked the room. But no one answered.

Ξ

Draugmand roused himself, checking the chronometer on his bedside shelf. It read “1827”. He’d slept most of the day.  

A faint knock at the door again. Then Brophy’s voice, halting and full of uncertainty. “Hey uh, Draug? Madame Ooloora said our rides will be here in about an hour. She’s bringing the pilots and the escorts over to the Country, she said we should all meet. You okay?”

Draugmand took a long, deep breath in through the nose as he sat up, cradling his head in his hands.

“Draug? You—”

“—I’m awake,” he called. “Be there soon.”

“Okay.” A single rap resounded on the door as Brophy left, and Draugmand was flooded with gratitude for his friend’s discretion. He undressed, stepped into the refresher, and proceeded to avail himself of a long, hot wash.

Cleaned, shaven, and with his uncertainties under lock and key, Draugmand crossed the docking tube to the Far Green Country alone. Making only a few errors down the long, hard-angled corridors of the Madame’s heavily modified YV-929 freighter, Draugmand made his way to the combination lounge-meeting room that PT-99 had shown them on the brief tour following the harrowing breakfast the previous day.

The lounge was wide and comfortable, the sort that one invested in as a place intended for regular, comfortable use without being too ostentatious. The décor was warm and well-appointed, sporting a consistent theme of greel-wood paneling accented with burnished bronzium. It all covered what would almost certainly otherwise be bare durasteel, and thus made the space feel superbly homey. The chairs looked comfortable, but not overly plush, the gentle scent of incense filled the space, while decorative sconces and warm-tinted lamps invited quiet, measured conversation. To Draugmand’s eye as he took the space in, the peak of comfort was the nearly wall-to-wall transparisteel viewport gazing out on the stars.

The only blemishes to the view were, much to Draugmand’s surprise, two other ships, hanging still in space just off the port side of the Country. One was clearly of Corellian design, with a distinctive disc-shaped body and tubular asymmetrical cockpit—almost certainly of the YT freighter line, though Draugmand couldn’t guess at which exact model. The second vessel was more unique, with a soft, organic shape weighted aft that tapered forward in a fattened T-frame. Odd, encapsulated protrusions puckered the grey hull, almost giving the impression that it had boiled and blistered, yet it felt natural, intentional even, and it certainly didn’t look damaged. Draugmand didn’t know what to make of it. He assumed though that the handful of unfamiliar faces crowding the lounge alongside the familiar ones were the crews of those ships.

At the bar, a stout Sullustan man in a teal flight suit was picking his teeth while PT-99 made him a drink, his broad, drooping jowls were well-kempt, while his enormous black eyes were quick and sharp. Wek was engaged in low, animated conversation with an R4 astromech droid painted the same color as the Sullustan’s flight suit. Untuwhum was sitting at a table with Titha, their heads bowed together in urgent conspiracy. The other Padawans were spread throughout the lounge, each briefly acknowledging him as he entered. In the back corner, Madame Ooloora, today draped in a multicolored autumn sari of rich reds, browns, and oranges that made it look like cooling embers drifting to the sky, was conversing with a pair of human men, both of whom looked to be of healthy middle-age—Draugmand could not always tell with humans, as their lived experiences imparted vast variations on their bodies. One of the men was of light skin, average height and lithe of build, with shoulder-length black hair and a pensive expression, wearing form-fitted heavy charcoal robes belted with a red sash. The second was a much beefier man, with handsome brown features, dark eyes and dark hair fitted into cornrows, wearing a similar outfit with the red sash. The larger man looked concerned at whatever Ooloora was saying, but the smaller man was nodding, absorbing and thinking.

As the door slid closed behind Draugmand, Madame Ooloora looked up and waved him in. “Ah, we’re all here at last. Good, good, no reason to dally any longer. She gripped the shorter man’s hand, mouthing, “Thank-you for coming,” to him in an undertone. He nodded respectfully, eyes shuttered in respect—or perhaps humility, Draugmand wasn’t sure.

“Alright,” said Ooloora to the room. “Now that everyone’s here we can speak freely. I appreciate you both coming without the full picture,” the latter she directed to the Sullustan and the two men, all three of whom gave dismissing responses. “Ah but first, quick introductions,” she continued. “Everybody, this is Ganta Saruga,” she indicated the Sullustan, who held up his drink in acknowledgment. “Excellent, reliable, and discreet captain of the Arkangel,” she pointed to the Corellian YT freighter hanging against the background, “and this is his copilot, R4-S5.”

The droid twiddled and beeped.

“And these gentlemen are here at my special request all the way from the Temple of the Whills on far-off Jedha—ah, do you know much about the Whills, sweet Brophy? Arca’dia? Any of you?”

Draugmand did not, and from the bewildered expressions of his companions, neither did any of the others. All except Maatsu, who looked about to respond when Ooloora mowed onward.

“Bah, story for another time. All you need to know is this is Chirrut Îmwe,” she indicated the shorter of the two men with the long black hair, “and this is Baze Malbus,” she indicated the beefier fellow. “Both of whom are guardians and protectors of a very old and very sacred temple in Jedha City—fascinating site, if you ever get the chance to visit. They came at my request on their ship, the Heart of Kyber.” She pointed to the organic, bulbous freighter outside.

“We would welcome pilgrims to the Whills,” said Baze, his accent thick and gravelly, as if spoken through pebbles out of his cheeks, but it was warm and genuine.

“Funny you should mention a pilgrimage,” said Ooloora. “These… young interlopers,” she waved to encompass the Exiles, “were hoping to make a trip of their own, and they need a ride.”

R4-5S tweeted a questioning blip.

The Sullustan set down his drink and crossed his arms, pondering. When he spoke, his voice was airy and drifting in cadence, as if he was constantly wondering how he got here. “So, why the secrecy Madame? You wouldn’t have called in your favor if this was a blue milk run.”

Ooloora shrugged, settling herself on one of the high-top stools. “I’d call you perceptive, Ganta, but no, that’s not a hard nut to crack. It’s less to do with the known dangers, and more to do with the discretion part—it needs to be an unseen trip.”

“Is it smuggling?” Chirrut piped up, his accent similar to Baze’s, but smoother, more thoughtful. “We would not be very comfortable endangering our heritage with such acts.”

Ooloora winced. “I wouldn’t look at it that way, my dear. After all, you could say that moving any person without documentation is smuggling, or you could just call them a ‘fare’, or some such. It’s a matter of perspective.”

“So it is smuggling,” Chirrut affirmed.

“It’s a simple drop-off and pickup on an unpopulated world,” said the Madame. “The uncomfortable part would be waiting for the pickup—for as much as five days, local time.”

Wek and Draugmand shared a look, and Draugmand immediately spoke up. “We heard the plan was four days, and why local time?”

Ooloora glared at PT-99, who quickly busied himself slicing something behind the counter. “Four estimated, five for contingency, and because Ilum days are much longer than standard—sixty-six hours per day, in fact.”

At the mention of Ilum, Chirrut and Baze had stiffened and traded looks. Ganta Saruga on the other hand, either didn’t register the name or didn’t care. “Why would we have to wait for so long?” he asked.

Ooloora huffed. “Why don’t you all hold your questions until after the presentation, hmm? Plenty of time to stew and be nervous in the meantime.”

Wek looked like he was about to ask something, but Arca’dia had a hand on his shoulder before he could, and he sank back into his seat.

“Good. Then let’s cover the basics: You four are here with your ships because they fit the nature of this particular job. The planet in question is in an Imperial black zone, but it’s incredibly isolated. Before you ask, I couldn’t say if the Imps have a strong presence there, that’s why we’re building in a window: The planet is very cold, one of the coldest hospitable planets in the galaxy, if I’m not mistaken. The destination landing zone is almost certainly under surveillance, which is why each of you will be loading up one of the Sienar Arctic Exploration Crawlers currently being fitted in my hangar bay. You will descend to the planet, drop off this young crew along with the crawlers and their gear, and you will wait just out-system until they call you for a pickup, preferably in four days. If more than five days elapse, then they were almost certainly captured or killed, and you’ll be excused—no heroic rescue missions today—and you will still be paid handsomely for your service.”

After a protracted silence, Saruga spoke up. “Is this one of those missions where we would be better off not knowing the particulars?”

“Definitely safer for you, mate,” Untuwhum said from the corner, his empty stein toasting across the lounge.

Saruga nodded, affirming it to himself. “Then bare bones it is.”

Ooloora looked to Chirrut and Baze, her expression posing a question.

Chirrut took a long, steadying moment. “There is only one reason one would brave the cold of Ilum under the eyes of the Empire.” His piercing, crisp blue eyes swept over the Padawans, and Draugmand swore he felt a tremor in the Force, as if connecting with another who was sensitive. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen in the past week. “Kyber crystals.”

“Kyber… kyber…” Saruga muttered. “I know it’s your ship but… Where have I heard that word before? I know I’ve heard…” he trailed off at Ooloora’s incredulous face. “You’re right,” he held up a surrendering hand, “I don’t need to know what that is. It’s not important.”

“And only one kind of person would be hunting kyber crystals at such a dangerous time,” Baze continued Chirrut’s train of thought. “You are Jedi.”

The Exiles collectively shifted uncomfortably.

Saruga on the other hand, who had just picked up his refilled glass, set it down with a loud clink as the color fled from his face. His voice shifted up a full octave. “You know, Madame, I agree, maybe the details really aren’t so important to this job? I think R4 and I can simply accept and… We can haggle over my fee later once you’ve hammered out the logistics and ah, we should just wait on the ship until you’ve sorted things out?”

Untuwhum snorted, shaking his head.

Ooloora turned, her wry smile bringing out the crow’s feet around her eyes. “Would you feel better with just the ‘need-to-knows’?”

Saruga, whose massive black eyes had started darting from one Padawan to the next, nodded vigorously. The words tumbled out of his mouth in their rush to escape. “I think that just keeps it more professional. R4, don’t we have a uh, a maintenance shift? We need to clean the ah, the ion injection manifold? Ha, heh, especially if, you know, we’re looking to take a long trip. That sound good? Great.” By the last words, he was already halfway out the door.

“Well,” Maatsu remarked as the door to the lounge closed behind Saruga and R4. “I’m glad you found us a stable pilot.”

Ooloora rolled her eyes. “You don’t think self-preservation is a good quality in a captain?”

“Is that what just happened?” Maatsu asked. “I couldn’t tell over the sounds of sweat dribbling on the floor.”

The playful twinkle in Ooloora’s eyes diminished slightly. “You could always walk to Ilum, Mr. Viz. I’d be happy to invest in a rowboat for you—much cheaper than what I’m already fronting.”

Maatsu gritted his teeth and dropped his gaze.

“That’s what I thought,” she said. Her attention turned to encompass the Whills’ monks. “I realize how far removed Jedha is from galactic goings-on,” she took in the Padawans, “and you all have been in hiding for so long you likely haven’t noticed, but ‘Jedi’ is a dangerous word to bandy about in any company these days. Saruga owes me a significant favor, but the scope of that favor does not include breaking his plausible deniability—no matter how wafer thin it might be, admittedly. He’s an excellent pilot, and he’ll do his due diligence to get out from under my thumb as needed. Self-interest is the most reliable motivator.” Creaking and wincing, she absconded from the stool and swept Saruga’s unfinished drink off the counter. “Can I count the two of you in to do the same? Though I imagine for counter-intuitive reasons.”

Chirrut and Baze shared a look. It lasted a long time, long enough for Ooloora to take an eyebrow-raising slug of Saruga’s drink. Whatever unspoken queues their nonverbal conversation parried concluded as Chirrut’s face pinched and he nodded, almost imperceptibly. Then the man looked to Ooloora. “We will do more than that. We will chaperone the younglings.”

Even Ooloora looked taken aback. “I’m sorry you… I just need to be crystal clear, this is why I prefer face-to-face interactions. They allow us the chance to knead out any imperfections in our best laid plans. I also pride myself on being a woman of my word. Our arrangement was quite comfortable, and any future debts incurred should in no way reflect the state of that arrangement, up to and including volunteering yourselves for extra services. Do we understand each other with that offer? I’m not interested in valuating our relationship with enhanced altruism.”

Baze steepled his fingers downwards at his waist. “We do understand. This is an offer we are extending owing to the nature of their… situation.”

Draugmand felt a confused, prideful prickle run up his neck, but he managed to suppress it. He swore he saw at least Kaarsk and Maatsu shift similarly from their seats in the stands of this negotiation.

“Displaced Jedi require goodwill to maintain their light,” Chirrut added. “Corruption of the soul is insidious, and often comes from a crumbling of the infrastructure around oneself. I sense these young ones are in desperate need of such demonstrated behavior. They need to feel the good of the Force from an external source.”

Ooloora chewed on it. “Well I can’t speak to this group’s preferences, but so long as it comes as a generous offering, I can’t see a reason to deny your request.”

“Do you think so little of us, to believe we would swindle you? You, who has dealt with our Temple in good faith these many years?”

Madame Ooloora adjusted the folds of her sari. “I think so little of the galactic shit-stain that is commerce, gentleman, and the deleterious effects it has on ones’ integrity. Though you seem to be avoiding that corruption nicely,” her winking smile was magnetic, and Chirrut seemed unable to help himself from returning it.

“We do not deal in that kind of commerce, whenever possible,” he answered.

The Madame wagged a finger as she finished Saruga’s drink. “Ah, see it’s that little addendum that convinces me you aren’t as naïve as your order would like you to be, darling Chirrut.”

Though Draugmand had felt the tension of uncertain faces in the room upon his entrance, that sensation had quickly bled away, and he allowed himself a firm lungful of air at the warmth of the old woman’s hospitality and decorum.

Chirrut bowed his head towards Ooloora. “We will walk the path with the young Jedi. The Force already has brought us together.”

Chapter Text

XIII

Kaarsk on Ilum

Kaarsk shivered in his sleeping bag. The heaters were heating, the thermal circuits in his bag were circulating, he was wrapped in supposedly top-of-the-line Pretormin Environmental govath-wool arctic underclothes, beneath which was his fur coat… and he was still frozen. His snot had frozen his nostrils shut over and over, his fingers were frozen, his toes were frozen, his pointed ears itched and burned inside the specially fitted hood that accommodated them. The cramped sleeping nooks inside the cramped living space of the arctic crawler tanks were little more than metal shelves with a harsh light and a sliding screen for some semblance of privacy. Kaarsk had been rolling in circles in his bag for two hours trying to drift off, but between the constant rumbling crunch of the tank treads on ice and snow, the dull bellows of the reactor beneath the deck, the oppressive stink of unwashed bodies, the murmur of dull conversation, the occasional crackle of comm static as the two tanks burst communications to each other… he was fed up.

Three days. Three days, they’d already been in the snow. Three agonizing, sixty-six-hour days of wind and storms, tracked by a pack of hungry asharl panthers who smelled a feast whenever the intrepid invaders poked their heads out of the tanks’ canopy hatches. That was over eight standard days. And that miserable nightmarish daily orbit didn’t even take into account the almost five-day trip they’d spent stuffed aboard the Arkangel and the Heart of Kyber, navigating back-channel hyperspace routes to the edge of known space, all to reach Ilum, this god-forsaken fifth planet in its namesake system.

A burst of frigid, savage air swept through the cabin… Again. It happened every time someone flushed in the refresher closet, when their excrement was dumped to the snow beneath them. As if Kaarsk had ever had more reason to loathe sharing a refresher.

Whoever it was stomped past the sleeping nooks up towards the cabin and cockpit. The entire breadth of the interior cabin of the tank was barely ten paces from front to back, but when the whole world had shrunk to such dimensions, every step felt like a blessing of separation.

The wind screamed outside, and Kaarsk knew he could hear the choral symphony of freezing, starving panthers on the wind, somewhere just out of sight behind them.  

Kaarsk cursed into his bag as he tried to sleep.

Ξ

“We’re gonna have to make a decision,” came Brophy’s tired voice through the comm panel. “That fork is coming up soon.”

“I’m telling you, it’s northwest, we go left,” Maatsu argued. “That’s the most direct route to the temple.”

The crew of the Kyber team’s tank were huddled in the common area beneath the cockpit. ‘Cockpit’ was a generous term for the narrow trio of pilot, co-pilot, and gunner seats in a wishbone layout inside the turret cupola on top of the tank, but then again, ‘common area’ could barely be called such when it was little more than a collection of stow-away benches and crate tops fitted with unyielding foam padding and a pair of fusion lanterns to augment the tanks’ pitiful interior lighting. Kaarsk crouched on the three steps to the sleeping nooks, wrapped tightly in his underlayers, under-jacket, and a layer of thermal sheeting while he nursed a steaming thermos of shitty instant caf. Maatsu was similarly huddled on one of the foam pads in the corner, while Chirrut and Draugmand worked the tight-beam comm channel to the other tank. 

“You didn’t see the scans, did you?” Kaarsk said loudly, projecting into the mic Draugmand had dangled into the common area so they could all speak and be heard. “There’s a huge crack in the ice shelf in that direction, it could send us straight to a dead-end, or even better, over a cliff.”

“We don’t have time to go circling around, though!” Maatsu countered, projecting equally.

The comm panel in the cockpit scrambled with static before Arca’dia’s voice came through, muffled, but audible enough. “We have more time than if we were to end up doubling back from a wrong turn in tight quarters.”

“I agree with Kaarsk,” Baze’s gravelly tone came through the comm panel as well. “I’m… uninterested in going over an ice cliff. Not today, at least.”

“Well what about…” Draugmand trailed off.

“Don’t hold back now,” Maatsu chided. “Spit it out.”

“We’re listening,” Brophy added.

Draugmand’s brow furrowed as he fingered circles around his chin tusks. Kaarsk had come to associate the action with him wrestling a train of thought. “What about… climbing the snowbank for a better view?” Draugmand finally said.

Maatsu and Kaarsk looked at each other nervously. Chirrut closed his eyes, pondering, gripping the frame of his collapsed lightbow nestled between his legs.

“That would mean leaving the tanks,” said Maatsu.

“It would,” said Draugmand. “But the scanners aren’t giving us anything. Maybe we need to just use our eyes.”

“But… the cold,” Maatsu implored, the misery in his voice palpable.

For once, maybe the first time ever, Kaarsk couldn’t overlook the miserable elements, and he agreed with the spoiled brat. “We can only be out in this for a few minutes before we start to freeze,” he said.

“Well…” Draugmand offered, “I didn’t mean tonight. We’d wait until morning. It’s still about ten hours out but—”

“—Are you suggesting we stop at the fork? We’ll be there in about four hours, maybe less if this snowpack holds.” Brophy’s voice was deeply incredulous. “I mean, are you nuts? We don’t have that kind of time to spare. Even once we get to the temple, we still have to actually find some kyber crystals and get out.”

Kaarsk watched as Draugmand wrestled with his temper. Much to his surprise, the Dowutin wrangled it. “I’d volunteer,” he offered. “I could take a pair of macrobinocs, get up the bank, hope we get a clear sunrise and… Look it’s probably safer to lose an hour or two—”

—Maatsu’s cough was poignant and dramatic—

“—Okay four hours. It’d be safer to lose four-ish hours parked and waiting for sunrise, than it would be to lose double that or more going the wrong way. I’d rather risk that. And I’m willing to go outside to prove it, no other volunteers necessary. Though, granted…" he looked to Kaarsk with a neutral expression. “You have the best eyes, but I wouldn’t ask you to do it.”

Inside, Kaarsk bristled. Draugmand was putting him on the spot and he knew it.

“My eyes are fine,” Chirrut spoke up, giving Kaarsk a little breathing room. “I will climb the bank with you.”

Draugmand nodded appreciatively. The rest of the party went silent as they waited for Kaarsk’s answer.

Instinctually, Kaarsk pulled the thermal blanket tighter around himself. His thoughts swirled with thoughts of warm, dry, clean, indoor spaces. “Oh for fuck’s sake, fine, I’ll come.”

Draugmand’s smile was probably genuinely grateful, but just then, Kaarsk could only look at it and see a sadistic shithead.

Ξ

The hours to the fork passed much the same as the many, many hours prior. Small attempts at conversation were made, followed by long, protracted silences, undermined always by the grumbling crunch of crawler treads on snow. Sometimes, occasionally, it was treads on ice, and that changed the monotonous ambience for a little while. But then it would be back to snow. Those transition periods were riveting, certainly. Occasionally, they even crossed a cracked glacial landscape at the foot of the monolithic mountain range they were skirting, and the snow mingled with ice, and the echoing sounds through the tanks crunched and cracked and popped, making a frigid symphony of nothing throughout the cabin. Those moments were the most exciting, no two ways about it. But then the bumpy ride would be over, and they would be on snow again. It was a truly remarkable experience.

For some unfathomable reason, the hours waiting until something happened since their landing on Ilum had been made bearable by the fact that Kaarsk knew there was still a “long ways to go”. “A long way to go”, as it turned out, was digestible in the abstract. It promised a solution eventually, while still admitting that said solution wasn’t going to happen right now. That long, indefinable “long ways” could be absorbed into easy behavior, like waiting, mindlessly, for something to change. In practice, that behavior mostly meant waiting through the awful rotating shifts on a twenty-four-hour standard day while on a planet with sixty-six-hour local days, thus ruining everyone’s natural sleep cycles—but it was still “a long way to go”, and there were no alternatives to that distance, so the wait was manageable. Was it pleasant? Absolutely not. Could Kaarsk still think of a million other preferable alternatives to this endless crawling? Definitely. But was there a relentless, vengeful space inside him that knew this agonizing boredom had a purpose? Why yes, yes there was.

Thank the Force, there was.

But something about this change in routine on the way to the fork had shattered the tenuous hold on his patience, and suddenly the nagging, crunching, never-ending drone of the tank treads grated on his nerves with every plowed meter. He found himself watching the odometer tick by and, to sustain himself for thirty seconds, he ran quick mental math to estimate how fast they were going, just to see if it matched the estimates on the speedometer. His math matched the gauge, though perhaps overestimating a little: Kaarsk guessed they were moving at somewhere around eight kilometers per hour, which was about as fast as the average humanoid sentient could travel at a light, leisurely jog.

He wasn’t interested in doing the math to see how much ground they had covered since arriving. He knew whatever the number, it would piss him off.

The four of them even tried lame attempts at personable conversation, prodding into areas of personal histories few of them usually attempted, but even those were pitiful attempts at connection. Kaarsk admitted he was an only child, they learned that Draugmand couldn’t remember his family, that Maatsu remembered being close to one of his cousins, and Chirrut’s family was those he’d found on Jedha. It would have been interesting stuff if there was any way to digest it that felt relevant.

Finally, after another failed conversation in the form of asking Maatsu how he came to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant at the late age of nine, a timer started going off up in the cockpit. Draugmand roused himself from the blanket nest he’d corralled in the corner and shivered his way up the ladder rungs.

“Are we there yet?” Kaarsk dared to ask.

Draugmand’s head ducked below the lip of the cabin. “You only get to ask that once, and only because we’ve made it. Maatsu, tell the others to stop, I’m gonna poke my head out. Kaarsk, would you mind—”

“—Yeah, yeah,” Kaarsk grumbled, fighting the stubborn urge to remain rooted in the belly of the beast. Instead, he and Draugmand swapped spots in the cabin. Kaarsk proceeded to take the crawler off autopilot and bring it to a stop, while Draugmand layered up.

The comm panel squawked. “You know, when you’re traveling single file, the scenery never changes unless you’re in front.” Brophy’s dry humor scratched and hissed with the transmission.

Kaarsk smirked and keyed back, “And what a view it is from up here.”

A dry snort started Brophy’s reply. “Sure, sure. Can you see anything or do you want us to get out?”

“Draug’s getting out. The visual scan…” Kaarsk checked the periscopic camera. It showed an almost featureless landscape of white in the faint reflected light of Ilum’s moon. It was just too dark and too blank to identify anything. “…Is about as good as it’s been so far.”

“Okay. We’ll keep the thermal scanners running for those panthers. We keep hearing them back here.”

“Yup,” Kaarsk answered. “We’ve heard them up here too. Keep us posted if you spot ‘em.”

Draugmand flashed two gloved thumbs up from below, his face almost completely hidden by the wraparound fur-lined hood, balaclava, and heavy-duty snow goggles.

“Alright, Draug’s heading out, we’ll call you when he’s back inside.”

“Understood,” said Brophy. The line closed.

Kaarsk crawled down into the common area and shivered again. “Don’t stay up there too long.”

Draugmand shook his head, uttering a heavily muffled, “I won’t.”

Kaarsk nodded. Then, making sure that he, Maatsu, and Chirrut were bundled at the bottom of the tank, he slapped Draugmand on the shoulder twice. Draugmand gave another thumbs up, then he ascended the ladder to the roof. With a massive grunt, he unlatched the pressure seal and, with the sound of shattering ice crystals and screaming metal, opened the top hatch.

Kaarsk was wincing well before the hatch opened. When it did, even heavily bundled up, the air was like vacuum, sucking his breath out of his lungs. His eyes burned and his whiskers froze solid. He could almost see the ice crystals forming as his gasp of air froze in front of him. He heard similar pained utterances from Chirrut and Maatsu, but he couldn’t focus beyond his own escaping body heat.

Then the hatch slammed shut, and Draugmand was outside. The whole tank rocked with the ponderous clomping footsteps as he climbed off the roof. They lurched a little inside the cabin as he leapt off, then all was still. The heaters upticked their cycles for a few seconds, and the frigid air dissipated. Kaarsk looked to the others, but Chirrut’s eyes were closed, and Maatsu had already pulled out his datapad and was reading.

They waited.

Kaarsk must have dozed in his seat because next he knew, the shriek of the tank hatch roused him, and Draugmand grunted and grumbled his way inside.

“So?” Kaarsk asked when their lumbering friend had removed enough of his gear to speak freely. Thick snowpack fell from his chest to the rubber-matted floor.

Draugmand shook his head, scattering frost crystals. “Too dark, and I got a bad feeling… I think that pack is nearby.”

“So… what, we just sit and wait?”

Draugmand considered, then shrugged as he doffed the rest of his outer gear one accessory at a time. “We can’t come to an agreement on which way to go, so yeah, that’s the best course. We wait ‘till sunup, then we get some high ground.”

“You get some high ground, maybe,” Maatsu chided. “I’ll be staying right here, thank you.”

Draugmand tensed, then relaxed. “Can’t force you to go.”

Maatsu offered a self-satisfied eyebrow over the pale blue glow of his datapad.

“Though I’m wondering,” Kaarsk said absently. “If we all get ambushed outside, how are you going to pilot the tank all by yourself?”

Draugmand, picking up Kaarsk’s baiting tone, matched him. “That’s true. We’re no experts but, you’ve made a point to not learn the controls. How would you get out?”

Maatsu narrowed his eyes. “You could teach me now.”

Draugmand and Kaarsk shook their heads together emphatically. “Don’t think so,” said Kaarsk.

“It’s more of an art than a science, really,” Draugmand piled on. “Takes more time than just a few idle hours.”

“Uh huh,” said Maatsu. “Or I can just read the manual?”

“You could do that,” said Kaarsk. “But that won’t give you the feeling of driving.”

“What if you chose the wrong path after your friends are gone?” said Chirrut, surprising all three of them.

Maatsu’s self-certainty slipped and he stumbled, “I... Well I would...”

Chirrut laughed, his tone airy and nimble. “You should experience the cold, even if only to say you have done so.”

Maatsu huffed. “But I already did that once, when I came with my class and Master Yoda on the Crucible; when we came to retrieve our first kyber crystals.”

Chirrut frowned. “Is that not done when you are a child? Your perspective has changed. So too will your opinion of this place, if you allow it.”

Kaarsk cocked an eyebrow. “He makes a point.” Though, he thought to himself, does that qualify if my first impression is terrible?

In response, Maatsu tucked his blanket tighter around himself and he readjusted his datapad, signaling the end of the exchange.

“I think I’m gonna take a nap,” Draugmand said into the quiet. “Wake me before sunrise.”

Ξ

The hours dribbled by. Kaarsk forced himself to ignore Draugmand’s muffled snores, so much more noticeable now without the crawler treads reverberating through the cabin. He sank deeper into his blankets, the glow of his own datapad enough to drown out the cold world around him, and he plotted. A human face drifted through his thoughts, the same indifferent, insincere apology on it as the day Kaarsk last saw him. Rather than bat the face away and try to think of something else, he embraced remembering it. He stared it down, recalling those fierce blue eyes, the thick jawline with lean, hungry cheeks, the jagged broken nose that brought a certain charm to his former friends’ face. Kaarsk pinned the face to the side of his thoughts as he read up on the Corporate Sector, its worlds, its policies and procedures, the expectations of the corporate ladder, and how to infiltrate it, and he fumbled with his spiraling green knot pin.

“You have the protective shell of pain about you.”

Kaarsk blinked mid-article on the extensive filing requirements for commercial licensing on the Corporate Sector capital world of Bonadan. He looked up at Chirrut, his brow creased in confusion. “What?”

Chirrut was watching him from across the cabin. The stark, naked cabin lights cast the monk’s face in harsh relief, half warm and thoughtful, half hidden in deep shadow, implacable. Maatsu had a pair of sound wraps on and was slumped on the bench, eyes closed and dozing.

“Your emotions taint the Force,” said Chirrut. “You do not guard your feelings very well.”

“You can feel the Force?” Kaarsk asked.

Chirrut smiled a small smile. “All beings can feel the Force, if they choose to listen to it.”

“That’s a fancy evasion.”

“As have you done by evading my statement.”

“You didn’t ask anything.”

“I didn’t have to; it’s written on your face.”

Kaarsk warbled a huff. “I don’t see how that’s your business, or your problem.”

“We volunteered to join you here,” said Chirrut. “My partner and I. It is not unreasonable to want for trusting of those at your back.”

Kaarsk chewed on it for a minute. “But you ask us to trust your best intentions?”

Chirrut shrugged. “I have nothing to hide. I am simply on a journey.”

Kaarsk’s smile was toothy and didn’t extend to his eyes. “How quaint.”

Chirrut’s forehead furrowed in thought. “All journeys are quaint from the spectator’s eyes.”

“You’re just full of proverbs, aren’t you?”

Chirrut’s gaze wandered around the cabin. “Proverbs only work if you understand the meaning, so no. You are the one making proverbs from what I say.”

“And what are you trying to say?” Kaarsk realized he’d sat up, but his fist was clenched around his pin, the point slipping between his fingers.

“You misunderstand me,” said the monk. “I am not trying to ‘say’ anything. We are traveling together to a sacred place of your Jedi. Most accounts say that those journeys are often rigorous to the spirit, not just the body.”

“I wasn’t a Jedi,” Kaarsk muttered.

Chirrut looked at him curiously. “You were not?”

Kaarsk shook his head as he reached for his thermos tucked in the thermal blanket near his head. “I had only been at the temple a few weeks before we fled.”

Understanding dawned on the monk’s face. “You were there? All of you? During the Purge?”

Kaarsk eyed him over his thermos. “You didn’t know that?” He took a long drag of warm water, savoring it.

Chirrut held out his hands, palms outstretched. “That was not the business the Madame implied. You have every right to keep such information private.” He paused, thinking. “And much motivation.”

Kaarsk snorted. “Well, that’s true. But... no. I wasn’t a Jedi. I was barely a Padawan. I was picked up by a Jedi who was on a mission to the Corporate Sector.” He couldn’t help it, his eyes darted down towards his datapad. He knew the monk saw the motion.

Chirrut indeed followed his eyeline and beheld him in his gaze. “...The Jedi took you away from something.”

Kaarsk’s lip curled in an ironic mockery of a smile. “Not exactly.”

Chirrut stretched his arms out wide. “The Order of the Jedi always believed families to be a weakness.” His words were conspicuously absent of inflection.

Kaarsk considered that. “What about your ‘Whills’ that you guard? What’s that about?”

Chirrut rocked a little on the bench, smiling as he looked far away, through the walls of the crawler and beyond. “Our order is not dissimilar to that of the Jedi. One might call it a ‘less aggressive’ path to the Force.”

“You mean you aren’t warriors?”

“Oh, we are, if necessary,” Chirrut looked pointedly at the sheath holding his collapsed lightbow.

“Do you have the same teachings about family ties and attachment?” Kaarsk was eager to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Yes and no,” said the monk. “A Guardians’ abstinence is generally less enforced, and more voluntary—much it seems as is yours.”

Kaarsk sighed internally. Or back to me. “I don’t follow,” he lied.

Chirrut’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “When surrounded by enemies, keeping them away from you is safety. When surrounded by friends, keeping them away from you is survival. It is the impulse of one full of fear and hurt—one who has been betrayed.”

“You don’t know my story.” Kaarsk was barely able to keep the threat out of his voice. He wanted the monk to back off, but he knew he didn’t have to discuss his personal history with this relative stranger. He had that right. It was something he had to remind himself of sometimes. Often.

Chirrut nodded. “You are right, of course. I do not. But I see the current state of your story. You are driven, you are focused. You are also blinded. I think you will have a hard trial of the kyber.”

“The what?”

“The journey all younglings must take to retrieve their first kyber crystal.” He jerked his head towards Maatsu. “All of your friends are taking a pilgrimage. But it stands to reason that yours will be more difficult, as I believe you are the only one who is taking his first.”

Kaarsk’s ears twitched, rolling towards flat against his skull. He had to make a conscious effort to dissuade them. His eyes darted towards Maatsu, fearful that he was awake and listening. He tried to keep his tone steady. “It has to be done.”

Again, the monk laughed lightly. “Of course it does. You have made a pilgrimage. The only failure would be giving up nearly finished if you could go on.” Chirrut leaned forward, eyeing him with studious precision. “Can you go on?”

Kaarsk grumbled, his frustration rising. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Chirrut made a show of standing up and stretching. “You are. But are your thoughts?” He sighed as stiff joints popped. “By the way, it is sunrise. Your friend asked you to wake him.”

“What?”

Kaarsk’s timer went off on his datapad. The cabin filled with a gentle, pulsing wake-up sound. Brow furrowed, he let it run for a few seconds, waiting for Maatsu to stir. “How did you know that?”

Chirrut simply smiled. “Because I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.”

Kaarsk was about to respond, when the monk abruptly moved aft of the cabin.

“Wake your friend. I will return shortly,” and he disappeared into the refresher.

Dismissing the monk’s words as best he could, Kaarsk moved to Draugmand’s shelf to wake him. Before he knocked on the privacy screen, Draugmand’s deep voice burbled out from the sleeping shelf. “I’m up. Check the weather, would you?”

Nodding, Kaarsk returned to the main cabin, slapping Maatsu on the chest as he passed. “Wake up,” he snapped. “Time to check our path.”

Maatsu uttered a vicious little grumble and he groaned, crossing his arms and wetting his lips, eyes still closed.

Kaarsk ignored him, climbing the cold durasteel rungs up to the cockpit cupola.

The space was built entirely for function, with little to no regard for comfort in mind. The three-seat wishbone layout of the crew chairs were arranged triangularly around the shaft of the tank, making it so that anyone could climb into the oscillating space, even when the turret was rotating. The crash course Untuwhum, Ganta Saruga, and Baze Malbus had run the Padawans through hadn’t been thorough by any stretch of the imagination, but it had been enough to teach them the basics of piloting a military-grade ground vehicle.

Just now, Kaarsk wasn’t interested in any part of the piloting console, nor the reactor or status readouts. Instead, he moved to a section of console detailing external sensor gauges. Temperature, barometric pressure, wind chill, visibility, humidity, and more were all available at a quick scan. The main item of Kaarsk’s attention, as he balanced spread-legged on the rungs over the three-meter shaft down to the cabin, was the atmospheric sensor array. Wek had told them that it was a simple, rudimentary meteorological package, but it would suit their purposes.

Kaarsk checked, double-checked, and re-checked the atmospheric readouts. He felt a single knot among the hundreds in his chest start to release its tension—but he held it, unwilling to accept what he saw at face value. Not yet, he scolded himself. Check every piece of evidence first. Don’t take anything for granted here.

Shifting positions, Kaarsk moved to the bare stretch of forward wall between the pilot and copilot consoles. Restructuring his footing, he took a firm grip on the release lever, and pulled.

The external durasteel blast shield slid open with a frozen shriek, and Kaarsk winced at the sound. The single and only transparisteel window in the tank was cleared to the outdoors and, blessedly, was not completely frosted over. Through the quickly fogging circle in the middle of the narrow window, Kaarsk looked out on a sliver of the frigid world around them.

He couldn’t see much more than a snowy embankment with a single rocky outcropping, stark and black against the white, but he wasn’t interested in the features of the landscape. Craning his neck and all but smashing his snout against the window, he pushed to see over the embankment to the sky. He could only see a sliver, but it was the deepest blue, tinged by the racing wave of a brilliant pink sunrise on scattered cirrocumulus clouds, high, high up in the sky. Kaarsk allowed himself a micro-moment of relief. The sky was clear, the air was still, and that boded well for their chances at seeing the right path to take from this fork in the road.

He pulled back and drew the release lever closed. The blast shield slammed shut, and he was once again bathed in naked yellow cabin lights.

“What the blazes was that?” Draugmand called from below.

“Blast shield. Just checking the weather,” said Kaarsk, descending.

“And?”

Kaarsk gave a wicked grin. “Looks clear for now, and looks like we might even have some time to spare.”

“Let’s not push our luck, though, yeah?” said Draugmand, already cinching up his under-layers.

“My thoughts exactly,” Kaarsk answered, sidling past towards his pack with all his gear. Maatsu was still on the bench. “You’re just staying here, then?”

Maatsu shrugged as he fired up the caf pot. “It’s not like I’d know what we’re looking for.”

Kaarsk’s lip twitched.

“You’re a big help,” Draugmand reprimanded.

“I’m aware,” Maatsu answered absently.

For a moment, Kaarsk thought he detected the faintest hint of shame in their blue compatriot’s voice, but he didn’t have time to examine the notion. “Fine. Call the others then, would you?” He set to bundling up for the cold.

Maatsu at least did that, with the other team acknowledging and asking for an update soon.

Ξ

A busy quarter-hour later, Draugmand, Chirrut, and Kaarsk were all bundled to the gills in extreme cold-weather gear and light arms--Kaarsk with a blaster and a vibroknife, Draugmand with a blaster and a heavy vibrosword, and Chirrut with his collapsed lightbow and a gnarled staff. Maatsu was mashed in the corner of the cabin, knees curled up to his chin as he nursed a steaming hot thermos of caf. His gaze was far, far away as they readied to leave.

Kaarsk double-slapped the side of his head to activate his ultra-high frequency earpiece comlink, and the other two did the same. His earpiece crackled.

“Can you hear?” he asked.

Draugmand gave a thumbs up. “Here.”

“I can hear you,” said Chirrut.

Kaarsk took a steadying breath. “Alright, lets go outside then.”

Draugmand, being the strongest of them, went first. He ascended the rungs to the cupola and braced himself against the tightly wound hatch seal. With a furious, fervent grunting, he pulled down on the release handle and threw his shoulders into the hatch frame. With a thunderous clang and a squeal, the hatch popped free, once again showering them in ice crystals and a draconic blast of frigid air. The hatch boomed as it was lifted up and open, and Draugmand clambered out.

Kaarsk followed, with Chirrut bringing up the rear.

No sooner were the three of them standing on the deck, taking slow, steadying breaths as the icy, very-nearly lethal cold air seeped through their gear and into their lungs, than Draugmand slammed the hatch shut at their feet, wasting as little heat as possible.

Even with heavy heated goggles, Kaarsk felt the cold air grasping for his eyeballs like singular spears of deathly digits. It brushed at the watery orbs in his head, sucking them dry with their ferocity. He blinked furiously, trying to keep the rapacious tendrils at bay. When he had developed sufficient blinking rhythm to allow him to gaze at the landscape around without ice crystals forming on his eyelids, he knew he had to see more, and he wanted to see it soon, as dawn was well underway.

The tanks were parked at the bottom of a steep ravine. The west side on their left rose a meter or two over their heads, blocking the view beyond, but it was a steep embankment made entirely of fallen snow, hiding all beneath it. On the east side to their right the ravine was rocky, with a sharp overhang of ice and a jagged gaping mouth of icicles and icy columns caging off a shallow cleft in the ravine wall like the maw of some frozen beast. The right rose quite a bit higher than the left embankment, but it looked to be a better-known commodity in terms of makeup and danger.

Looking behind them, back behind the other tank, the path wound back and away and out of sight, like a lazily drifting river basin marred only by the faint shadows of churned snow from the crawlers’ passing. Ahead, just enough distant that they could change course to choose, was the fork. Craning his neck, Kaarsk could see further down the right path as it shot fairly straight and narrow to the northeast. The left fork curved sharply at a rocky outcropping maybe eighty meters away, and they could see no more.

Either way, there was no clarity to their path, not beyond the perfectly clear air and sky. Everything was cast in shades of black and blue and white, while the brilliant pink heralding light of Ilum’s morning sun charged across the sky and the landscape, chasing the shadows of the night deep into the basins of snow and ice beneath them.  

“So wh-which side do we climb?” Kaarsk managed, barely suppressing a violent fit of shivering. They needed to move to get their blood pumping.

Draugmand took a deep breath, his muffled voice at odds with the scratchy words hawking through Kaarsk’s earpiece comlink. “West side looks safer, but I don’t trust that snowfall. I say we climb the shelf here,” he indicated a rough path up the rock on the right side of the ravine.

“That is sound reasoning,” said Chirrut, his arms held firmly in at his sides, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.

“For quick argument’s sake,” said Kaarsk, rubbing his chest. “The west side will get sunlight sooner, should that be a consideration?” His jaw muscles worked to enunciate each word as clearly as possible so there would be no miscommunication.

Both Chirrut and Draugmand shook their heads. “Won’t matter if there’s bad footing underneath,” said Draugmand.

“And no solid visible anchor points,” said the monk, opening his satchel and pulling out a handful of pitons, his piton hammer, and a heavy coil of synthrope.

Kaarsk stamped his boots and nodded, heavily over-exaggerating the movement to make sure they saw through his heavy layers. “Agreed. Alright, east side climb it is.”

Not interested in wasting any seconds in the still, freezing air, they set to work, climbing off the tank’s right side and wading through the soft powder to the mouth of the cleft in the rock. In short order, they were set up with Kaarsk and Chirrut preparing to lead the climb, while Draugmand would stay on the ground as the belayer, carefully aiding their ascent. His size precluded the idea of his joining them safely.

They moved, straddling the line between speed and deliberateness. Safety was paramount, but their long days on Ilum had already shown them that weather here was a fickle mistress, and the clear conditions were almost certain to disperse, it was only a question of when. Chirrut and Kaarsk tied off their ropes and clipped the lines together as they began as quick a descent as they dared, a pair of ice picks in both their hands and crampons on their feet for traction. Chirrut went first, eyeing an approach and pointing it out to Kaarsk for approval before ascending. In short order, they were up past the ice columns and approaching the rocky lip near the top.

Kaarsk labored to keep his airflow slow and methodical. Every breath burned as it went in, but his pounding heart made his entire body feel like it was pulsing with the effort of the climb. The throbbing heat of his skin clashed like durasteel against the implacable, immovable frozen wall beneath him. The chill of the surface leeched into his bones wherever he touched, even through the thick layers of gear, his fur-lined outer coat, and his own fur. His feet were anchored stably to the wall, and his ice picks were sunk deep above him. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a second. If he could take a nap, he could get some of his strength back... It wouldn’t take long, just a few minutes... All he had to do was close his eyes...

“Kaarsk!” Chirrut’s sharp crackle in his earpiece strained, but it shook him awake. “You must keep moving!”

Kaarsk blinked furiously and realized what he had done. He had allowed his entire body to rest against the rock, and like a warm blanket, like the envelopment of a deep-sea predator, the warmth had fled his body, replaced by the creeping smother of a deadly slumber.  

“Kaarsk,” Chirrut repeated. “Are you awake?”

“Everything okay up there?” Draugmand’s deep rumble was at odds from the distant whisper of his actual voice on the ground below, as if the decibels should be reversed.

Kaarsk heaved a deep breath and pulled himself from the wall, forcing his muscles to move. They screamed in protest. “I’m here. I’m moving.”

“Do not stop,” said the monk. “The climb is not much longer. I can see the top.”

Kaarsk willed his body to obey. He followed the instructions they had been given on the trip here: One limb at a time. Move one limb to the next anchor point, then focus your mind on the next limb move it, anchor, and then the next. They were not at a high altitude so oxygen wasn’t the problem, but even so, cold of this caliber was enough to slow even the sharpest mind, and even simple acts could become herculean tasks.

So he moved. Lowest limb first; his right foot. He pulled the crampon from the ice and focused, forced, willed his leg to move up and jam into the icy face. Once he was sure it was secure, he pulled his left leg up above the right and repeated the action. Then his left arm with the ice pick, using all three other limbs to bring him bit by bit, inch by inch, higher up the wall. He swung the pick, clipped the ice and missed, cursed, and swung again, this time gaining purchase. On he went.

Above, he could hear Chirrut doing the same, the sounds of the monk’s labored breathing and crunching impacts against the wall the audible sounds around. Even the latent rumbling of the tanks’ reactors had faded into the background. Now it was just the faintest whisper of the wind, and the two of them, alone against the rock and the sky.

“I am at the top!” Chirrut’s triumphant declaration shocked Kaarsk’s tired mind from another slide into fugue.

“You’re up?!” he asked.

“Climbing...” the monk gave a tremendous grunt, “...over the edge now. Yes. I am here.”

Kaarsk felt relief blossom in his chest. Almost there. He barked a short, hysteric laugh that only comes from the release of tension, and he grinned. They might actually make it.

Then he heard the howling.

Chapter Text

XIV

Brophy on Ilum

The air crackled and popped with charged tension. Static coursed through the cabin as a dangerous situation unfolded. Muscles lay coiled, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Brophy’s fierce gaze met Baze Malbus’, whose eyes were dark, stoic, and unreadable, matching his body language. The man’s face was a mirror of solemnity, echoing no signs of distress nor excitement. His expression betrayed nothing at all. The beginnings of crow’s feet were visible around his eyes, but that said nothing about his thoughts, his motivations. This was the moment. Brophy had been waiting for over a week for this, ever since they landed on Ilum. He’d been trying to get a moment alone with the bulky guardian monk, but such private opportunities were rare in the confines of the rear crawler tank.

Then, finally, when the other team had radioed that they would be stopping at the fork in the ravine, while the crawlers were on autopilot and there was nothing to get in his way, Brophy had made his move. Now, he was locked in a deadly dance. An uncertainty of grand scope unfurled itself between the pair. Brophy had known this would happen, he’d known it from the moment he set foot, however briefly, on the Arkangel. When he saw what the monks had kept in their common area, Brophy had known this contest would be inevitable.

Finally, Brophy acted.

“Call,” he said, his voice steady as he moved a pile of chips to the center of the crate, into the waiting maw of the pot.

Baze said nothing.

“...And raise,” Brophy added, taking his entire stack of purple chips and placing them firmly in the pot.

Still, the guardian did not move.

On the bench next to them, Wek and Arca’dia sat hushed, rapt, riveted; the ideal audience.

Finally, Baze broke eye contact to look at his cards.

To the man’s credit, Brophy watched Baze’s eyes sweep over his hand but once, reaffirming what he held. Brophy’s own cards were face down on the table. He tapped his finger with the faintest affectation of impatience.

It was an act, of course. He was excited and thoroughly enjoying himself. He loved playing sabacc, and he so rarely had the opportunity to do so. The impatience was a tactic, a part of the dance, meant to intimidate and derail Baze’s carefully calm demeanor. It hadn’t worked so far, but Master Kolo had taught him that such displays were often well worth the effort, even if the immediate benefit was less than clear.

Allowing himself a whiff of remembering, Brophy recalled that Master Kolo had called the game one of “gentleman’s deceptions, when not scoured by scoundrels”.

That line had stuck with him.

The truth was, Baze, for all of his protestations that the Guardians of the Whills did not often partake in ‘parlor games’ or ‘deceptions of chance’, as he had initially called it, Brophy couldn’t help but register the flicker of amusement in the serious man’s face as he had held his own, hand after hand. The two of them had readily cleaned out Wek, who didn’t have a deceptive bone in his body, and Arca’dia, well... Arca’dia had been surprisingly difficult to beat at the game. Without any eyes she couldn’t see the cards, and she had assured them that her Miralukan Force affinity didn’t register anything on the printed faces of said cards (something which Brophy had decided to accept at face value from her, for the sake of fair play), but she had insisted on playing, nonetheless. She was curious merely for the sake of it, and Brophy respected that. Besides, in doing so she had held up against his and Baze’s onslaught for nearly three hours before finally falling not to Brophy, but to the monk. After the stunning final hand where Baze had bluffed his way to victory, Arca’dia had muttered something about Baze’s emotional control and how she “should have seen his shift”, but Brophy wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.

In the meantime, it had fallen to him to uphold his Master’s title, and so here he was, risking not-quite it all, but enough that if Baze were to take this hand, he would likely be able to bleed Brophy’s chips for the rest of the game, until he too, fell to the supposed amateur. He was tempted to call Baze out for being a hustler, but he had a feeling the man truly didn’t play much, he just had a sharp tactical mind.

“So what’ll it be?” Brophy prodded, “You’ve got four cards, I’ve got three, I can’t imagine you’re trying for a null Sabacc, so it’s a Nulrhek then, right? So show me the numbers then, c’mon.”

The thinnest smile curled the corner of Baze’s mouth. “There’s still a chance for a shift,” he said ominously, tapping the ‘referee’—the simple trapezoidal-box randomizer droid that doubled as the deck box. At the end of each round of betting, there was a chance that the randomizer would trigger, potentially changing the values of the electronic cards in their hand.  

Brophy narrowed his eyes. That was a hint, but he couldn’t tell which way it was leaning. The ‘Sabacc Shift’, was randomly activated at the end of each round, and it affected a random number of cards. This variant of sabacc they were playing was a version of Corellian Spike that Brophy had never seen before, but he was hooked. It was firmly in his goals to get his hands on a deck once they got off this frozen rock. That didn’t help the conflict at hand, though. If the shift activated, Brophy could easily end up flipping his carefully crafted values and end up with a bust. They’d both escaped a shift so far this set, which meant they both were almost certainly holding dangerous plays—and that made it so much more exciting. Nothing was better than a round full of winning hands.

“I will call,” Baze said at last. Moving deliberately to prevent from jostling his many chips, his eyes flashed up towards Brophy. “And... I will re-raise.” He dropped three black chips into the pot—the 100-value chips, the highest they had.

Now that was interesting, and gutsy. It was more than Brophy had remaining in his pile, which meant he would have to go all-in to call the monk. He still wouldn’t have won the game if he took the pot, but he’d be much, much closer.

He almost chewed his lip, but that would be a dead giveaway to his uncertainty. He had a solid hand, but not an unbeatable one. Instead, he cocked his head, relaxed his shoulders, and chortled deliberately. “Alright,” he smirked. “Let’s go then. I’ll call,” and he pushed the rest of his chips into the pot. He had a +22 sum-total in his hand. The goal of this version of the game was to either reach exactly zero (a ‘Sabacc’) using positive- and negative-value cards, or to reach exactly plus or minus twenty-three (a Full Nulrhek) without going over. Luckily for his total, if they tied, a positive sum outweighed a negative sum, giving him a slight edge. So, unless Baze had exactly a Full Nulrhek, then Brophy had him, and since he couldn’t bet anymore, it was time to reveal their cards.

“Alright Guardian,” said Brophy, “Let’s see it.”

Arca’dia and Wek leaned forward from their seats front-row seats...

...And the emergency-band comlink started shrieking.

Kaarsk’s voice, scratchy and panicked, bounced through the cabin. “—uys! Hey! We... ...n the ridge!... ...ot alone!... ...side! Outside now!...” There was no reason for there to be any static in these still conditions, which meant Kaarsk must be scrambling around frantically.

Brophy couldn’t help but feel a flash of irritation followed by immediate shame as he and Baze dropped their cards. He’d been so close! But Kaarsk sounded serious. He scrambled backwards over his crate-seat for the comm panel. He mashed the call button. “Say again, Kaarsk? Say again, you’re outside?”

Draugmand’s voice barked onto the channel. “They’re on the ridge! Chirrut and Kaarsk are on the ridge and...”

A burst of static, then something unintelligible, something that sounded like Chirrut’s voice and then, at the same moment that Brophy and the others heard it echoing through the crawler like the call of a far-off ghost, he heard a piercing, chilling howl off in the distance. The sound landed somewhere between a high-pitched hissing and a predatory yowl.

Panthers.

“Shit.” Brophy cursed. He turned to give directions to Baze, but the monk was already scrambling over the bench. Sabacc chips went flying as he flipped up the crate and started digging for his gear. “Shit shit shit shit.”

The panel blared again. “You better hurry it up... ...there!” Draugmand called, a note of genuine fear in his voice. “I think they’re down in the ravine with us.”

Brophy traded wide-eyed looks with the other three in the cabin, and then they were all a flurry of movement. Arca’dia scrambled out of the way, opening crates for the others to grab their gear. Wek, Baze, and Brophy tore through donning their outer layers. Another howl echoed through the crawler, much closer this time. So close that it sounded right outside. The comm panel blasted again. This time with unintelligible sounds of growling, shouting, yelling, snarling.

Then, “Yup,” came Draugmand’s rising voice, “Panthers down here too!” Then the Dowutin gave a thunderous bellow from deep within his oversized lungs, enough to rattle the entire ravine, enough to be heard inside and out.

“Shitshitshit we gotta go,” Brophy barked, yanking down his balaclava and pulling on his gloves.

“Vibrosword?” Arca’dia asked, holding out the scabbard out to him.

Brophy shook his head and tapped the heavy combat knife at his hip. “I’m better with these,” he said, unclipping the holster for his Dragoneye Reaper as he did so.

Baze, the first to finish buttoning up to minimal safety, pushed past him and Wek, unsheathing the half-meter blade at the end of his traditional glaive and ascending the rungs of the cabin ladder to the cupola hatch. “I’m going out,” he growled. “I’ll leave the hatch open.”

“Got it,” Brophy answered.

The monk was already unlocking the release and pushing up and out into the frigid dawn air. The hatch banged against the turret, echoed by the sounds of multiple—at least five—distinct snarls, then intermingled with the primal roaring of their Dowutin companion.

Arca’dia gasped from her corner as Ilum’s forsworn frigid mistress found her way into the tank, but as Wek and Brophy finished arming themselves, Brophy felt a wave of the Force wash over him. He glanced up to find Arca’dia cross-legged on the bench, her veil fluttering in the blast of icy air, her breath swirling with frost. Even without trying to feel the Force, Brophy could almost see it rupturing out around her, like the arcing golden fire of a solar flare. She was immersed in it, sending out waves of reinforcing emotions to them both and beyond. Sensations of confidence, of courage, of simple warmth, each suffused Brophy’s very essence as he turned to leave with Wek.

“Wow,” he breathed. It was an incredible, uplifting feeling. His mind felt clear, his purpose simple. “You’re the best!” he practically shouted at Arca’dia.

She didn’t answer, but a smile touched her lips as he turned to leave. He felt her presence, urging him up the ladder behind Wek. Then they were outside in the hostile climate, slamming the top hatch closed beneath them.

The chill snuck up behind and set to strangling him like a bitter phantom. He coughed into his balaclava, the cold stinging his lungs, his throat, even his teeth. It grasped for any bit of exposed skin to char and burn with its ferocity. He reached out for Wek, who had similarly started to wheeze and choke. They both sank to their knees, momentarily blinded by it. Indeed, the blinding was figurative from the temperature, but literally too, as their emergence immediately fogged his goggles over, erasing the world in frost while the thermal circuits set to freeing his lenses from the death-grip of the cold.

He registered a human shout somewhere close by and below him while his goggles defogged. It had to be Baze. The shout was challenging and primal, like a primitive making a combat display, full of pomp and intimidation.

In response, there came a low, menacing growl, deep and guttural, certainly only a little bit further off. Brophy could only register blurry, shadowy masses in his vision.

“There’s another one!” Wek shouted. His goggles must have cleared up already.

The world resolved beyond blurry shadows as Brophy’s goggles cleared. He gripped his combat knife and drew his monstrous pistol, feeling further comforted by its heft in his palm.

Brophy crouched on his haunches just as his goggles cleared, and he saw a blur of mottled white fur launch through the air at the whirling grey and black mass that was Baze Malbus. The monk spun with preternatural, almost Jedi-like reflexes as the blur assailed him. Claws flashed in outstretched paws. Baze’s glaive swept through the air. The beast’s snarl turned into a yowl of pain. A spray of steaming crimson dotted the snow. Baze spun to match the creature’s falling arc, his heavy cloak billowing through the powder behind him.

The creature landed. Finally, Brophy got a clean look at an asharl panther as the injured beast took up position next to its packmate, and both animals bared their spectacular sets of fangs towards the three of them:

With beady golden eyes set beneath overbearing brow ridges, the snub-nosed panthers hissed and snarled at them, baring an upper and lower set of downward curving fangs set in a triangular mouth. The panthers were large, about a meter tall and perhaps two-and-a-half meters long from nose to thin, whip-like tail. No ears graced their broad, vaguely stretched arrow-shaped heads. Instead, two thick, ropy, tentacle-like organs sprouted from the back of their skulls like antennae, sporting what looked to be a knobby sensor organ at the tip of each. Two long, curved talons graced each of their four legs, and what little of their naked, pale-green-skinned undersides Brophy could see appeared stretched over exposed and emaciated ribs; they were definitely starving. Little could actually be seen of their underbellies, for they stayed low to the ground, their thick, matching gray-and-white spotted fur coats blending in well with the snow around them, even with Brophy staring directly at them. It was clear they were patient, opportunistic hunters, and with the Exiles and the monks finally stopping and leaving the safety of their rolling durasteel fortresses, these starving creatures had taken a desperate opportunity to attack.

Brophy didn’t want to hurt them.

They were just animals. Carnivores and predators, to be sure, but natural-born killers in their native ecosystem. He and his compatriots were trespassing on their home territory, and their very presence had likely disrupted the creature’s hunting grounds. The smell of multiple, well-nourished meals must have been irresistible to the panthers on the wind, and this pack had followed them for over an Ilum week now, likely ranging far out of their normal hunting grounds.

Then again, they could be nomadic, but from what Brophy knew of the similarities found in hundreds—if not thousands—of large, land-based, predatory mammals across the galaxy, that probably wasn’t so. Not if they hunted in large packs like this one. They likely had an established territory, and he and the Exiles had stomped right through it.

Still, in a question of survival there was no contest, and at this moment the beasts were threatening Wek and the others. Even as Brophy danced through his thoughts in a few seconds, the two panthers spread out, flanking left and right, trying to catch one of them from behind.

Brophy fired a warning shot.

The zing-and-pound of the Dragoneye Reaper split the air like thunder, and the snow in front of the larger, uninjured panther exploded from the thick crimson laser blast. The beast yowled and leapt into the air, its fur poofing out in panic.

The shot didn’t stop the attack. The other panther took the cannonball report as a challenge, and it charged, this time choosing Wek as its target. Its tentacle-antennae lay flat against its body, its paws outstretched as it raced at the accumulated snowdrift next to the tank, rebounded off of it, and leapt for the Jawa.

Feeling his heart sink, Brophy held his breath. He squeezed the trigger. The Reaper kicked again. The whole ravine shook with the sound.

“Waaugh!” Wek wailed as the panther bowled him over. Together they tumbled over the side of the tank and into the snow, disappearing into the powder below.

Knowing just how dangerous it was to take his eyes off of the other panther, Brophy didn’t move.

“Wek,” he called. “You okay?”

An agonizing pause held as the larger panther uttered a burbling, furious growl, its eyes darting briefly to where its packmate had just disappeared before returning to Brophy.

A string of untranslatable Jawaese drifted up from the snow as Wek dug his way out from the corpse of the panther. “I’m okay,” he finally managed.

Brophy kept his eyes locked with the other panther. “Climb up here,” he said. “Slow and steady.”

Baze, his center of gravity low, his glaive balanced and ready in his arms, began to flank the other creature.

Brophy saw recognition in the animal’s eyes. It gave a hooting, scratchy, much higher-pitched yowl than its previous sounds—likely calling for its packmate.

In response, Brophy barked at it. He uttered a good rough, guttural bark, buoyed from deep in his chest. He stood up straight, rolled out his shoulders, puffed out his chest, extended his neck, all making himself look bigger, and barked again. He took a step closer. The hole in the snow where he had fired the warning shot was still smoking at the panther’s feet.

The panther growled at him as Baze continued to circle closer and Wek scrambled up behind him. Brophy caught Wek’s hand and squeezed it before returning to his display, never taking his eyes off the creature, never blinking.

“Leave,” he growled at it. “We’re not worth the trouble.” He barked again, louder.

The panther flinched, hissing, baring its fangs.

The snow crunched under Baze’s boots. He was only a few meters away now, the blade of his glaive a sharp sliver of silver against the white background.

Brophy felt the Force around him respond to his action, his atrophied extrasensory instincts unfurling like flower petals in the morning. It was little more than a trickle, a wisp of intention carried on the still air, but it did what he wanted. He poured his dominating behavior into the trickle, the confidence that he was in charge. It carried across the intimate chasm of the ravine, buoyed by the still-suffusing golden light cast up from Arca’dia beneath them, and it drifted to the panther.

Whether from Brophy’s Force affectation or his physical display, he couldn’t be certain, but finally, the beast relented. It lowered its body to the ground, gave a savage hiss and an angry swipe at the air, and bolted. It turned and fled back down the ravine behind the crawlers and was out of sight in seconds.

Brophy let out his held breath in a slow, steady stream. His heart was pounding in his ears, but his lungs were steady. He blinked slowly and lowered the Reaper. Wek stepped into his vision.

“Are you okay?” Wek asked.

Brophy looked down at the Jawa clad in thick layers of winter gear so that he looked like little more than a child playing in the snow. “I’m alright.” He turned and peeked over the side of the crawler.

The other panther lay still, half-covered in blossoming crimson snow.

“HEY!” Draugmand’s shout shook Brophy’s skull. The adrenaline in his veins, which had been fidgeting with the possibility of fleeing the confrontation, leapt back to work, and he snapped up to look at the forward crawler, only about twenty meters away. Draugmand’s head and shoulders had just become visible up over the turret as he took wild swings with his huge vibrosword at assailants unseen.

“Come on,” Brophy snapped.

Baze leapt off the side of the crawler. “Down we go,” he said at Wek, and held out his arms to catch the Jawa.

Brophy clambered down as the Jawa jumped, fearless, into Baze’s arms. The monk caught him and held him against his chest. “I’m carrying you.”

“Okay,” said Wek, gripping the huge monk’s hood as the man charged through the snow.

“Back!” Draugmand howled from atop the tank. “BACK!”

As they came up on the other crawler, Brophy took in the sight of the climbing team’s predicament. Two lines of synthrope hung unattended on the icy ravine wall. Up near the top, a figure scrambled on the line against the ice—he couldn’t tell who it was—while the snarls and shouting of an engagement out of sight over the ridge split the dawn air. Ahead, three more panthers had scrambled onto the crawler’s wide arms, arms with beveled edges that gave the tank a silhouette not-unlike a large, bladed prong with a nub in the middle—the cabin and turret cupola. The panthers were struggling to find purchase on the frozen durasteel, their tails whipping back and forth for balance, but three scrambling, hungry creatures in a wide fan formation were more than enough to force Draugmand back and up onto the turret for safety.

The Dowutin was effectively cornered. The churned rock and snow beneath the flank of the tank was about a three-meter drop. Possible to fall safely to, but also more than enough distance, with uncertain footing, to cause serious injury. Not to mention if Draugmand were to tumble and smash his head on the back of the tank, it’d be all over.

“Where’s your sidearm?!” Brophy shouted as he pushed through the churned powder.

Once again, they were close enough for Brophy to hear Draugmand muffled terribly outside, and then much more clearly through his earpiece. “I fumbled it, alright?” Draugmand gestured furiously towards the base of the cleft where, amongst the dangling ropes and bits of fallen gear and ice from above, Brophy thought he could see the butt of a blaster sticking out in the snow.

Setting Wek down at the back of the crawler, Baze charged around the far side, his cloak billowing out impressively behind him, his glaive flashing.

Coming around the near side of the crawler, only a meter or so from the nearest panther, Brophy skidded to a halt, barking and generally making as much noise as possible to get its attention.

The nearest panther snarled while the first two continued inching towards Draugmand, who was gripping the rung around the lip of the cupola now, swinging wildly with his vibrosword to keep them back.

“Brophy...” Draugmand warned, a hint of angry pleading in his voice. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Oh, way too late for that,” Brophy said. He fired at the tank itself this time, aiming as close to the near panther’s claws as possible.

The ravine shook, the red laser blast lit up the scene as it ricocheted off of the tank’s thick armor, and all three panthers yelped in fear, completely unprepared.

“What the hells was that?!” Draugmand practically shrieked.

“I’m not trying to kill them!” Brophy answered. “They’re just hungry!”

Draugmand howled a bitter laugh, “Then YOU offer up a hand or two!”

At that moment, two things happened. First, the far side of the tank clanged with some other impact as Baze made his move—it was a crisp, finite clap, probably the monk had banged his glaive on one of the climbing rungs. That sound made the far panther leap into the air and practically go tumbling off the side as it landed and lost its tenuous purchase on the durasteel. Second, a fearful shout resounded from above, echoing in their earpieces.

Chirrut’s voice was filled with fear and surprise, and all engaged parties at the bottom of the ravine looked up just in time to see an amalgamated, furious mass of man and beast bowl over the edge of the cliff.

“Oh no,” was all Brophy had time to gasp.

The mass of shadow against the brightening navy sky tumbled over the edge, and as if it were happening in slow motion, Brophy watched as the smaller monk—who was missing his protective thermal goggles—scrambled, desperate to pull away from the entangled predator. Chirrut took a bodily swing with his gnarled walking stick midair, jamming it horizontally into the asharl panther with whom he was falling. The creature, mouth agape, tooth and claw flailing, desperate for purchase, clamped down hard with its odd triangular maw onto the monk’s staff inches from Chirrut’s neck. Chirrut's unprotected face though, wasn’t so lucky. The panther’s wildly flailing claws struck the ice wall as they tumbled over the edge, missed, and razed shards of brilliant sharp ice and rock from the cleft. Brophy watched as the shards pelted the monk’s face, shearing exposed skin and piercing into and around his eyes.

They tumbled only half a meter or so, then Chirrut’s synthrope line went taught. Not the one that Draugmand had been holding, that one immediately started to pull up from the unsupervised ground. No, the pitoned line held between Chirrut and Kaarsk—who was still scrambling against the ice near the top—was the one that caught him.

Chirrut slammed into the cleft on an arc, shaking ice crystals loose and almost yanking Kaarsk free while the panther, falling on its own unaided trajectory, tumbled over the edge, howling and grasping for purchase. There was nothing but air.

Time resumed its normal pace as the panther fell. It plummeted and slammed into the mess of ice and rock and snow below. A wet crunch punctuated its fall, and Brophy winced at the splatter. The other three panthers yelped in shock, uncertain of what just happened or what to do.

Taking full advantage of the moment, Brophy fired another shot, this time into a rocky outcropping he could see on the far side of the crawler. The exploding rock did the trick, as sounds from all sides assaulted the remaining panthers in the ravine. Seeming to reach a unanimous decision, the creatures howled in earnest—a resounding call for retreat—and, scrambling to get off the strange metal monster that had invaded their territory, fled back the same way as the first one.

Almost-quiet echoed through the ravine. Above, Kaarsk and Chirrut worked to steady themselves at the top of the cleft wall. Ahead though, a pained gurgle reached Brophy’s ears. He winced, the adrenaline finally fleeing his system and leaving him feeling drained and exhausted. The sorrow hit him quickly, but it didn’t overwhelm his resolve. Moving steadily, he approached the broken panther’s body.

He didn’t need to examine it in detail. He could see the bones in the open air when they shouldn’t be, the blood on the snow. Taking careful aim, he closed his eyes, squeezed the Reaper’s trigger, and put the poor beast out of its misery.

He gasped when the echo faded. The shame and sorrow overwhelming him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” The tears wanted to come, but he held them back, as the rational part of his brain held firm that he couldn’t safely remove his goggles outside to wipe his eyes. The mourning for the innocent creatures could be accomplished later.

Finally, a reverent silence overtook the ravine.

“Up,” came Kaarsk’s voice on the channel. “Come on,” and he grunted.

Brophy sniffed and looked up towards the ravine wall as Kaarsk hoisted a hunched Chirrut up towards the edge again.

“Are there any more?” Brophy asked.

Kaarsk strained to answer as he helped the monk. “Just heard... the other two flee up here... Think they... heard the call... Oh!” In a few short heaves, the pair of them disappeared over the lip, and then it was just the sound of scraping from above and gasping from the lot of them.

“Chirrut!” Baze called, “Are you alright?!” He stood close by, looking earnestly up the wall to where they’d just disappeared.

Chirrut’s wince took over the channel. “I’m... alright,” he breathed. The hesitation in his voice made Brophy’s stomach plummet. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Oh,” said Kaarsk, his shock poorly concealed. “If you say so.”

“I’m certain it's not so bad,” said Chirrut.

Draugmand, who had scrambled down off the tank and was rushing over to the belaying ropes, spoke up. “We need to get you back down here,” he said. “Can you climb?”

“Probably,” Chirrut wheezed. “We need our heading first.”

“Right,” said Kaarsk in his self-effacing tone Brophy knew he used when he was starting to analyze his own actions, ripping them apart for flaws in his performance. “Hold tight.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the monk heaved. He winced on the channel.

“Kaarsk,” Brophy began, “He’s not—”

“—It’s worse than a scratch,” Kaarsk jumped his question. “But a few minutes won’t change anything.”

“Told you I’m fine,” Chirrut said, clearly directed at Baze.

Baze grumbled. “I’ll believe that when I see it, fool.”

Anxious silence followed as Kaarsk did whatever he was doing up above.

Apparently sensing the uncertainty, Kaarsk added. “Just climbing the hill over here,” he took a few heavy inhales. “Better view.”

“Alright,” said Brophy, shifting his feet as the cold, ever-present, worked however it could to grasp at any lax in movement. “Go fast, we need to get Chirrut looked at.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” the monk insisted. “I’ll just enjoy the exposure from up here for a few minutes, no need to fret.”

They waited. Brophy and Wek moved to help Draugmand clean up the mess of gear at the foot of the ravine wall while Kaarsk did his jaunt up the hill. The only real sounds on the team channel were labored breathing and the occasional direction from the team on the ground. Brophy went ahead and called Maatsu and Arca’dia to fill them in on what happened, as both of them were still inside their respective crawlers.

Finally, Kaarsk’s voice came back on the channel. “I can see the temple. If we could take a straight shot we could be there in maybe... thirty hours.”

Maatsu’s incredulous voice came on. “Thirty hours? Is that off-your-head math, Kaarsk?”

“No, these macrobinoculars have a rangefinder and I can do basic distance calculus, scud.”

Maatsu said nothing.

“That’s not our problem, though,” Kaarsk continued when a retort wasn’t forthcoming.

“What’s our problem, then?” asked Brophy, huffing as he and Draugmand moved the fallen panther’s bodies out of the way of the tank treads. There was no sense or utility in burying them, but neither was there a need to disrespect them further by running them over. Plus, if the rest of the pack were of the cannibalistic sort, there were likely a few small meals on the animals’ thin frames, enough maybe to sustain the survivors a bit longer.

“The left fork is the direct route, but you and Malbus were right: it looks like the ravine narrows to a crack in the ice shelf headed towards that western cliff. We have to take the right fork. The ravine climbs and ends a few kilometers northeast of here. Looks like it dumps out onto the tundra plain, and then we’re exposed crossing that frozen lake as we circle around north and west towards the temple glacier. I don’t like the exposure, it’ll make us visible if there’s another Imperial patrol flight, but I don’t see an alternative.”

Another patrol, Brophy mused. As it had turned out when they arrived, landing far away from the temple had been the right thing to do. Both the Arkangel and the Heart of Kyber had detected Imperial transponders at what appeared to be a small garrison base or outpost in a valley kilometers away to the northeast of their landing zone. The expectation was now that there would likely be Imperials around the kyber temple, but that didn’t change their goals, so they had agreed not to worry about it until they arrived. Detection before arrival, however, that was very much a concern. There had been two patrol overflights by TIE fighters since they landed. The first occurred during a blizzard and they’d barely been able to register the fighters with the tanks’ sensors, and they’d hoped that such low visibility worked both ways. During the second flight the skies had been relatively clear, and still they hadn’t been spotted. But once they cleared the ravine and set across frozen water with their crawlers’ reactors bouncing heat off the ice, they would become brilliant targets to anything in the sky.

Brophy stood up straight to catch his breath. The sun still hadn’t climbed over the mountains to the east, so while the sky had bloomed and brightened from navy to cerulean, down here in the shadows the temperature remained desperately low. They had continuously checked on Chirrut to make sure he was alright up above while they readied the gear and the crawlers. The monk was still conscious and insistent of his good health, but his shivering voice made Brophy anxious.

“Well,” said Draugmand, answering Kaarsk’s verdict. “That sounds like the way then. Unless anyone has any objections...”

The unspoken wait for Maatsu to speak up dragged out in silence.

“Right fork it is then,” Brophy interjected before the antagonizing started. “Kaarsk, get your ass back down here, let’s get a look at the stubborn monk.”

“On my way,” answered the Bothan.

In a few short minutes, Kaarsk returned to the top of the ridge. A few hastily reclipped and refastened knots and clips later, and Draugmand and Baze tandem belayed Kaarsk and Chirrut down the cleft while Brophy waited at the bottom. Wek waited anxiously next to the tank, wringing his hands, uncertain of what to do.

At last, Kaarsk’s feet touched the floor of the ravine and together, he and Brophy untethered Chirrut from the ropes. As they did, the monk spun slowly on his foot, and Brophy could finally see what had happened.

The monk’s head was a bloody mess. At first glance, it looked as if his entire face had been ripped off, but Brophy’s fear ebbed only slightly as he got closer and saw the seeping blood had come from a hundred shallow slashes. Bits of rock and refrozen ice covered his purpling cheeks. Brophy was about to wipe some of the dried blood off when Baze interjected bodily.

“Well now you’re truly hideous,” he rumbled, hesitating at the sight of Chirrut’s face.

Chirrut opened his left eye, revealing bloodied sclera and a torn lower eyelid. Nothing seemed to have pierced the eyeball proper, but the little cuts had done nasty work. “Still p-p-prettier than you,” he laughed through a half-frozen stutter.

Baze’s eyes were furious behind his goggles, but he shook his head and untethered the line from his partner, half lifting him, half supporting. He addressed Brophy then, saying, “I have a decent medkit in my gear, mind if we switch—”

“—It’s not in your pack, it’s in mine,” Chirrut interrupted tiredly, closing his eyes and returning his face to a camouflage that would hide neatly in the blood swamps of Dathomir. “You forgot it.”

Baze chewed the moment and was about to forge his question, but Brophy already had an answer. “Come to our crawler. Wek, are you okay riding up front for awhile?”

Wek nodded earnestly, “Of c-course.” The Jawa’s entire little body shivered violently as he started to climb awkwardly up onto the forward tank.

It was only then that Brophy noticed the faintest high-pitched whistle of wind whipping through the ravine. It lasted but a moment, but it set his nerves on edge. He looked to the sky. Only faintly blowing trails of snow were visible off the jagged peaks to their east, above and beyond the ravine, but he didn’t like it. They still had such a long way to go. “Okay then,” he said to the group at large. “We have a direction, let’s swap some riders and get on the move again. Hopefully the weather holds for the day.”

The group moved to disperse. Brophy and Kaarsk clapped forearms and shook firmly. “Good job up there,” he said, lowering his voice so they could share a private moment. “What happened?”

Kaarsk hissed through his sharp teeth into Brophy’s ear. “Full story later, but nothing really. I got tired on the climb, Îmwe was helping me up. They attacked. He saved me.”

Brophy nodded. “Okay.” He paused, considering his words. “You think we can make it in time?”

Kaarsk looked to the mountains too and shrugged. Brophy could almost see his cocked eyebrow through the frosted goggles. “We have to, don’t we?”

Brophy smiled a grim smile that he knew the Bothan couldn’t see, but he could certainly sense. “Let’s get going then.”

Ξ

The rest of their time in the ravine passed with the renewed monotony of how most of the rest of their trip had gone so far. Baze brought Chirrut to the rear crawler and with Brophy and Arca’dia’s help they got him unwrapped. The cold on Chirrut’s exposed face had done the monk no favors, but even between the light frostbite and the scars, there was nothing a good layer of bacta patches and maybe a good spray of synthskin couldn’t cure. He might have a few faint scars, but those too would fade with time.

His eyes though, were another story.

Baze and Brophy spent the next few hours of the crawl cleaning bits of rock from Chirrut’s eyes at their makeshift triage station in the cabin. They pulled together as many lights as they could find and, combined with the harsh naked overhead cabin light, made a decent approximation of an operating table, albeit without a sterilized—or perfectly steady—environment. Arca’dia kept the team channel open with the forward tank, where Maatsu and Kaarsk relayed a near-constant stream of terrain updates back to them. The last thing they wanted was to be caught bumbling over a boulder with tweezers under the monk’s eyelids.

Once they had his face cleaned of blood, the cuts disinfected, the area around his eyes anesthetized, and his eyes flooded with numbing drops, Brophy and Baze went to work. Brophy had much smaller hands than the larger monk, so he set to the more delicate damage. The ice had all melted, obviously, but with their limited medical supplies, they were able to remove the fine bits of gravel that had jammed into his eyeballs. The process was exhausting and tense. More than once, they were delayed as the crawler bumped and rattled and they simply had to wait it out before taking to the tweezers again, but no more damage was caused, at least by Brophy’s hands.

When they were finished, Chirrut slept for a few hours. When he came to, he stubbornly denied anything was wrong until Baze nearly clubbed him into telling the truth. Chirrut admitted his vision was splotchy in places and his eyes hurt, but he could see much more clearly than when they’d brought him in from the cold, and that was something. Brophy and Baze examined both eyes. Both showed visible signs of damage and tearing, but at least the whites were no longer stained red. Mostly.

Nobody said it out loud, but without the option to get the monk to proper medical facilities in a timely fashion, it was likely that that the damage could become permanent. It might not doom his eyesight today or even next year, but such injuries had a habit of compounding over time.

As Brophy had come to respect and understand was his way, the monk accepted the unspoken diagnosis with a soft smile and an assenting nod. “The Force is my guide,” Chirrut said simply. “I walk in its path,” and that was all he would allow them to fuss over him about it.

The long day spun on. Soon enough, they climbed at last out of the ravine and into the sun. Brophy’s anxiety ascended to a new plateau as their elevation rose; they no longer had high snowy walls to hide them. Yet they pushed on, for there was no other path available. His nerves complicated then in the afternoon as, just as he had feared, the weather took a turn for the worse. On the one hand, one of Ilum’s churning snowstorms could provide significant cover from the Imperials if another patrol took flight. On the other hand, the weather presented its own unique challenges to visibility, travel, and as always: the general cold. It simply depended on how severe the weather turned. 

As it turned out, they were in for a nerve-wracking end to their fourth day and night on frozen Ilum.

The wind climbed in wrath and ire for hours and hours, reaching what felt like the forces of a hurricane. Snow and ice hammered them on the open tundra, and then worse over the frozen lake as they reached it and crossed, slow and steady. Agonizingly slow, and steady. To Brophy’s and the others’ horrified surprise, the acoustics of the frozen lake bounced sound almost tailor-made through the crawler cabin so that with even the faintest crack of the thick ice under their treads, with each rumble of their multi-ton vehicle, an echo split through the cabin, resounding with startling frequency. The random nature of the ice crackling made it feel like lightning stabbing at Brophy’s heart with each audible cue. It was a wonder he was able to sit still for the desperate want of dashing out into the storm just to escape their durasteel fishbowl. Still, the crawlers drudged on. The temperature plummeted, and at least any fears of them falling through thin ice faded quickly, even with the threatening spears of sound they had to endure.

According to the team channel—which even from this distance, got choppy in the storm—sleep came in thin fits for both crews. Hot meals and hot drinks were shared in the relative bundled warmth of their respective cabins, and even amidst the wasteland of ice and snow around them, Brophy could admit that, even for a few stolen moments through the storm, he felt safe. Such a feeling was fleeting, smothered again and again by the ice or a fresh gale that threw stones like smashballs at the hull, but it always came back; like a stubborn root forcing its way to the surface for light and air. Such moments sustained him on crumbs in the dark.

Ξ

The storm abated in the hours before dawn. By then they had crossed the lake without incident and were making their final approach to the temple through a veritable forest of eroded glacial pillars. The fresh drifts of snow slowed the crawlers down by a margin, but not enough to stop them. After the lake they had turned west, putting the temple dead ahead, with the massive continental glacier rising to the north on their right, and their previously winding path at the foot of the mountains hidden over the kilometers to their left. They were almost there.

Once again, the morning was clear and bright, and it promised to be a positively balmy day by Ilum standards. As they came within a few hours of their destination, an argument broke out about whether they should get out in case there were Imperials at the temple, but the group ultimately agreed that it was better to risk an engagement with a thick tank hull protecting them. At least then they might be able to bluff their way through an interaction (unlikely, they admitted, but still possible). The tanks were produced by Rothana Heavy Engineering after all, a firmly Imperial-owned corporation.

As it turned out, some fashion of Lady Luck was on their side for this last leg, and there were no lifeforms on their scanners as they came within scanner range of the kyber temple.

That realization was enough to make Brophy want to ride outside as they drove the last leg of their journey. He wanted to see it unobstructed. No one tried to stop him, and Maatsu of all people decided to do the same from the other tank.

Geared up and feeling alive, Brophy climbed through the hatch and posted on the hull as the crawlers rumbled at last to their destination. Ilum’s sun was warm on his layers, and the temperature gauge on his cold suit told him it was only about thirty-five degrees below freezing. He decided to risk it, just for a few minutes. He lowered his hood and slid his goggles up to his forehead. The cold contracted his eyeballs while they adjusted, making them burn while the world warped around him for a minute. He hissed and turned, shielding his eyes from the spectacular white of the world.  

The crawlers passed another snowy stone pillar, its tall shadow blocking the sun, and he realized just how stark the difference in sunlight made to the cold on this world. While in the shadow of the pillar, Brophy took a quick scan of the windswept terrain around them. The pillars dotted around were eroded to a narrow base with a wide top, like railroad spikes slammed into the snowy plain, set like forgotten stakes at the base of the titanic glacier wall to their right.

Ahead, Brophy heard a clang and he watched Maatsu’s small frame scramble out of the forward crawler.

“Watch your footing,” Brophy warned.

“I know, I know,” Maatsu snapped into the team channel as he moved awkwardly, inefficiently grabbing the wrong handhold so he had to adjust his entire body and grab it with the other hand while still balancing his foot on the rung.

Brophy winced at the show.

“It should be just beyond that archway,” came Draugmand’s voice on the channel. “We’re almost there.”

Despite himself, Brophy felt excitement swell inside him. They were almost there.

The forward crawler plowed under the arch Draugmand had indicated, and Brophy heard an involuntary gasp escape Maatsu.

Uncertainty gripped him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing I just... It was snowing when we came the first time,” Maatsu breathed.

Brophy’s crawler went next, dipping beneath the arch then coming up and around the bend.

Brophy saw it at last.

The Jedi kyber temple. Like a stoic, guardian obelisk, forestalling the approach of wanderers, mysteriously judging the entrance of pilgrims, it stood immense and stately, something that could withstand the test of ages if left untouched. It was a great, towering wall of dark grey stone carved into the very face of the glacier, scaled for giants and gods. The edifice rose all the way up the nearly kilometer-tall ice, where, near the top, an enormous round oculus window sat, its scale impossible to determine from all the way down here. Near its base, Brophy could see the top of the grand double doors that granted access to the temple within. He knew the doors to be around four meters tall, but from here, even seeing only the tops of them, they looked fit for insects when measured against the monolith rising above.

At this distance, Brophy noted the texture of the temple’s face looked roughly hewn and roughly textured, but Brophy knew that that was from a thousand years of carvings gracing its face, carvings depicting great heroes and stories through the history of the Jedi, lessons and conflicts, and the occasional artistic rendition, just for the sake of their beauty.

Brophy felt an unusual wave of calm sweep over him. He was still so unfamiliar with his connection to the Force that he couldn’t tell if it was its influence, or just his emotions. Either way, the sight, the feeling, the knowledge that this opening leg of their journey was nearing its conclusion... it all gave him a great comfort. Beyond that mighty threshold lay the crystal caves and, hopefully within, a crystal fit for each of these Exiles, that they may build proper artifacts to wield in the name of their order, to find their place in this upended galaxy.

In whatever small way, Brophy knew with certainty that, today at least, the Jedi still lived, and that was enough for now.