She was dreaming, muttering something in a language he didn't know. She did that a lot—she always had, ever since Taris. It didn't bother him anymore; it was just another thing about her. Like her arched eyebrows or the way she never closed the fresher door, the lost green of her eyes.
XXX
Chapter Two / I Fall to Pieces
Carth thought they were dead. It didn't even seem possible they'd make it out of the Spire, let alone land right. Read-outs on the pod's primitive nav had all redlined early on in the descent. The woman across from him looked like she'd flatlined too-eyes half shut, showing only slivers of white. The air was too hot, and the pod's thermals were fried. They were going too fast, and whatever was down there wasn't gonna be a bed of mallowstars.
But remarkably, just as he thought he was going to black out, just as the gees kicked into overdrive, the ship stabilized, their trajectory smoothing into an even arc. They came in hard and fast, twisting like a manka by the tail, but they came in right; landing open enough that the stabilizers hit, taking up most of the shock.
I think we might make it. It's a mir-
Xxx
That was one hell of a landing.
Carth's eyes snapped open. He'd blacked out. No telling how long he'd been unconscious, but the pod had stopped.
Either the afterlife or Taris. Made it through another fall out of the sky. How many did that make now? Eleven? Not that Carth was counting.
Curved dome above his head, gray durasteel. Head locked in place, crash belts strapped over his shoulders. Faint light filtered through a crack in their pod. The air from outside stank to high heaven. Across from him, the woman he'd saved twitched in her sleep, barely visible in the dim light, but breathing. Definitely breathing.
So this is Taris. His limbs felt frozen. This is Taris, and we're not dead.
Carth didn't know much about Taris, except the nobles kept their Upper City pristine. Had some kind of Human separatist movement, he'd heard, kept the non-Human races boxed up below. Oh, and if that didn't make it lovely enough, Taris also was occupied by the Sith.
Taris had been one of the first Revan and Malak had taken. It had a standing military, strong defenses, but after seeing what had happened on Telos, those brave soldiers had given it all up without a fight, let the former heroes and their armada roll right in.
Revan and Malak, they'd been the best the galaxy had to offer, right up until they'd become the worst-
Accented Basic interrupted his thoughts. Two voices. Sounded like they were arguing over spoils. Took Carth another beat to realize the spoils were him and the woman. His hand crept down to his blaster, as his eyes cracked half open. Sun-no, some kind of widebeam-was shining into the now-open hatch.
He looked across at her, his fellow survivor, the woman who'd sounded like she was brain-damaged before they'd fallen from the sky. She was a mess. Looked like she'd had a nosebleed going down, a bad head wound, and her lips were nearly white. But she was alive. Her eyes fluttered once. "Eeshay," she mumbled suddenly. "Maleye korroh see. No. Esta deem! Trakellen. Sikuth-"
"Hear that? You argue, they awake!" The voice outside was male. Rim accent, maybe local.
We survived a crash like that. We can't die in the first five minutes!
That was Carth's first thought when the two helmeted and visored heads cracked open the hatch. He kept his eyes half-closed, feigning unconsciousness. Making it easier for them to shoot you. But what could he do? There'd been no time to break the restraints.
Sith. These are those Sith on this freaking planet that's everyone's talking about-
"Don't move," one of them ordered, brandishing a nasty-looking snub disruptor at Carth.
He opened his eyes, trying to feign helplessness at least. "Wouldn't dream of it." Still in crash restraints, there was no way he'd make it to the guns on his belt… but the hold-out tucked in his boot was a possibilty. Maybe….
"No!" the woman across from him muttered. "Get out! Get out! Nar'kellan Shirmok Tai! You fracking loser!" Her eyes were still closed. Half of her face was bloody. There was a cut on her head, bleeding enough to stain her dark hair red.
"Shakorr…" the Sith holding the pistol jerked his head in her direction. "Cover that one."
"Sure, I-holy… blastballs!" The second Sith nearly dropped his weapon, fumbling with it. "Look-"
"What?" The other one snapped. His head turned, away from Carth. Both of them now looking at her, the unconscious woman.
She was struggling in her restraints. "Ucah'alla y nik! Rysya Mandalore phar ech nhi' Republik infi! Nhi! Nhi Mandalore!"
Carth dove for the holdout, half expecting to feel his insides turned to jelly any sec by one of their disruptors-no time. He brought the weapon to bear.
"Is it Sheris-? Lor-" the man never finished his sentence.
One. Two. The slugs hit their targets exact, piercing the armored plating on their throats like cheap plimfoam. As designed. Nasty, but so was this bleeding war.
Carth finished unbuckling his restraints and stood up, pushing their bodies to the side.
"No," his fellow survivor murmured again. Blood had made a mask of her face now. Her eyes were only narrow slips of white, still half open and rolled up. She twitched like she was having some kind of seizure. "Issrakay? Mal?"
Carth checked her pulse. Despite her battered appearance, it was strong and steady. Not gonna die on my watch just yet. I suppose that's good.
"Thanks for the assist, kid. Guess whatever you told them worked." Whatever you told them in… Mandalorian? I'll worry about that later. "Let's get you out of here." And then what? At least she looked light. Carth's entire body felt like one long bruise.
They'd landed in some kind of waste recycling facility, and all the junk had helped cushion their fall. Lucky.
His unconscious fellow survivor was heavier than she looked. There was no time to think too much about how to escape, Carth just had to do it, keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other, soldier. Across the pit was a yellow access hatch. Carth headed towards it, the woman half over his shoulder in a modified battle man's carry.
Xxx
The creamy trace of her spine followed the curve of the white, circular bed, like overlapping tiles on game of ryss. Her hair was spilled effortless, loose and artful, a red banner across that perfect, pale back. She had one hand poised, so perfectly supporting her weight that it might have been posed there. Posed and prized, just for him.
"My Lord?" Sheris turned towards him with that faint, mocking smile on her lips. The smile, exact. "I was waiting for you on the Bright. But I grew cold."
Her hair was beautiful, like sunset, a bonfire, like blood. In the open ferraglass reflection of the viewport, it was her reflection that stared back: cool and serene. With nothing of innocence left.
"Sherisss." Her name came out in a mechanical hiss through his voder, vibrating against the alumoid edges of his artificial jaw.
"Malak." She turned her head, showing him that perfect profile, swoop of her nose, delicately arched eyebrows, graceful as birds. Wide green eyes stared up at him, thickly framed by red lashes.
She'd used to darken them with cosmet, until he made her stop.
Red had never darkened them, rarely painted her face at all, except when expected for some formal function. Red had rarely bothered to curl her hair. Her vanity had been well-disguised, more concerned with delusions of her own power than visual artifice.
Sheris was naked entirely, and Malak's hands dropped to his belt. It had been nearly a year since he'd killed his wife and he had begun to forget the difference.
Xxx
"You let her go? Just like that?" Bandon had an ugly smirk on his face, looking up from the feeds.
They'd locked into the Endar Spire, pulling the smaller hammerhead into the Leviathan's maw like into the jaws of a firaxan. Davad appreciated the conservation of a valuable resource, but the security footage still existing from the Endar Spire's dormitory cameras was… an unfortunate mischance.
"I assumed she'd die well enough on her own. The pods were sabotaged. "
"Some might wonder at your loyalties."
Davad ignored the brat, spearing another piece of nerf with his knife. The delicious taste made his mouth water, his senses sing. He was starving. He took another bite, chewing more carefully, before responding. "What did Master Ulgo tell you?"
"Not enough before I broke him. There was a Jedi plot."
"No," Davad deadpanned, but poor Bandon didn't get the joke. "Should have left him alive. Where's Malak?"
There was a chance he could salvage this. But only if Davad was the one to tell Malak. And not the other way round.
"With her." Bandon sneered. "Her shuttle arrived yesterday from the Grave."
The Grave Bright was an aptly named ship, Davad thought, not for the first time.
His stomach growled, and he waved at the nearby serving droid to bring another plate. Brandon's was almost untouched.
"You should eat something," Davad told him. "You look like shit."
The man's yellow eyes glared back at him. "I didn't come here to be taunted."
"No. I know. You came for information. You want to tell Malak yourself. Of course, he's rather unpredictable. He might strangle you. Wouldn't be the first time our Lord strangled a messenger." Davad kept his voice unconcerned, shoving another succulent slice in his mouth, chewing carefully while he watched the other man burn. "Losing Shan was a blow enough, but Malak never had her. "However, Lord Revan, in the hands of the Jedi… with their claws in her mind… there's no telling." He laughed. "You know, you're right. I should have killed her."
Those unmistakable eyes, staring at him blankly, all the light in them gone out.
I should have killed you, Rev.
Xxx
"Go on; I like watching you crawl."
She stood over him like a colossus. Standing, she was taller than he was, and that seemed… right now. As right as this.
He could see his reflection in the mask of her face.
She pushed back her hood, revealing the thinning ruin of her hair, the oddly vulnerable shape of her delicate skull. His breath caught as she removed the mask: the movement as strangely sensual a gesture as he had once found the innocent nape of her neck, turned from him unaware, turned always toward Malak.
An eyebrow arched, delicate and frail as a bird's wing above her bilious, yellow eyes. Her teeth bared in a smile through her perfect lips, and she let the mask fall, clattering to the floor, her hand moving to the nape of her neck, the buckles of her robe-
He hungered for her, as sharply and savagely as the beasts he used to ride in the Dxun winds between the Demon's Moon and home.
"I would have made you a queen," his voice felt hoarse and thick.
"Don't speak." She frowned, eyes going distant. Davad lay before her, but she was thinking of him, her Coruscanti ruin.
Xxx
"You have a hard-on right now for her. Still?" Bandon jeered. "Wipe the fracking drool off your chin, Arkan."
Davad felt his teeth pulled back from his lips. The meat in his mouth turned to ash, and he spit it out. "I remember how you cried when we killed your Master, Padawan. Don't speak of things you were too young to understand."
"Too young?" Bandon was young, and right now he looked it. All bravado and no brains at all. He pushed back from the table, stood, one hand on his saber. "I'm not too young to kill you, Beast-lord." He scoffed. "Why don't you slink back to your cave and cry about her some more?"
Davad stood up too. "I plucked you from Korriban; I can send you back just as easily." He smiled. "Maybe in pieces. Uln is always looking for experimental subjects."
Bandon smiled slowly as if this was what he'd wanted all along. His lightsaber ignited.
The beast roared, and this time, Davad heeded its call.
Xxx
Padawan Jaik Sensa, formerly of the Endar Spire, was barely alive, a mere spark, but Beya Organa thought he would survive. The worst of his injuries, the severed hand, had already been replaced by a prosthesis and packed in kolto. The rest… the rest could wait until he awoke and answered her questions.
Their dossiers on members of the Order were extensive. Jaik had been apprenticed at four, originally from a merchant family on Balmorra. Eosian on his mother's side, he was fifteen now. Perfect fodder for the Korriban crucible, if he survived her interrogation.
Before the Spire had fallen, they'd collected seventeen Jedi still living. Mostly Padawans. Masters had a certain inflexible rigidity to conversion that was impossible to break; and Knights… well, there weren't very many Knights left.
Only us. The Order's golden children, forging a new order in the ashes of the old-
The clash of sabers interrupted her thoughts. Another duel? She glanced at the chron. Oh. Of course. It's time for lunch.
Competition among Sith was commonplace enough to be beneath notice, but the cafeteria always seemed to inspire more conflict than it sated-especially, Beya had noted, when Arkan was aboard their ship and not his own Demon Moon.
"It's her fault," the child whispered.
Beya glanced at him. "Awake already, Jaik?" She was pleased.
"Yes. Did you kill her?"
"Your master? Hira Kiteen? Not personally. Didn't you see? I believe Xaset had the honor."
"I'll kill him," the child vowed.
"Maybe." She smiled. Such an easy turn. It was like the Jedi didn't even try anymore, rot eating them from within. "You need to become stronger first."
"Did you kill her?" he repeated.
Beya walked over to him, watching as he took in her face, saw him flinch as he felt her strength. "Are you addled? Xaset killed your master, boy."
"I meant her." His lip curled. "Revan."
"Revan…?" She started to laugh, at the absurdity. "Our Lord Malak killed Revan; although, in the Republic, I believe they say it was Bastila Shan."
"No." His mouth twisted. "I saw her. On the ship."
"I didn't realize Malak had sent Sheris with us." A part of her raged that he'd risked his lover on such a dangerous mission, but it was a part of her that she tamped down quickly.
Sentimental Sith were soon dead ones.
"No," he repeated. "Master Hira was… sometimes I helped. It never worked. We kept wiping her over and over but it never worked. We tried everything. She kept coming back. It got worse and worse. Every time she saw a mirror, or a saber, or heard about the wars-"
"What are you babbling on about?" Wiping? Master Hira?
"We took her to Dantooine and it didn't even work."
Clash of sabers again. Shouts. A crashing noise from the cafeteria.
Animals. Mad kath. But there's strength there. And we need that to win. We need to win this war.
That truth remained, even if Beya had forgotten why. The reason no longer mattered, not in the face of true strength. Power was its own reward.
"Who?" she asked slowly. Later, she realized that was when she knew already, knew this boy didn't mean it was his poor dead master who had been wiped. "Who did you take to Dantooine? Who was… wiped?"
"Revan," the boy spat. "Force-damned Revan Starfire, Dark Lord of the Si-"
Her saber slashed across his throat.
It was a painless way to die. He was only a child; he deserved that much.
Xxx
Polla Organa's dreams were nightmares. It was the first thing Carth had learned about her. Nightmares in… at least a dozen languages. Some Carth recognized, and some sounded like the back of a hoverbus exhaust pipe belching, but 'no,' was pretty clear in all of them.
Whatever her nightmares were about, Polla Organa obviously wanted them to stop.
The second thing Carth learned about his unconscious roommate was that she wasn't a natural brunette-certain, awkward realities made that clear early on.
The third was that she wore a man's standard small, in shirts and trousers, a size sept shoe. Her own clothes were too battered to be usable, except maybe the vest; but he'd traded some of the pod's medical supplies with an Ithorian swindler in the Taris Lower City for a few changes for both of them. His own new civs felt too loose and too uncomfortable at the same time. How long since he'd worn civilian gear anywhere?
No point. Never thought I'd need to wear it again, never thought I'd see anything but the hull of a ship before the end-
The fourth thing Carth learned was that Scout Organa had a tolerance for sedatives. A huge one. The doc he'd gotten to come look at her (recommended by Gaz, the Ithorian), had tried half a dozen types and combos to get her calm. Nothing worked.
Xxx
"Smuggler, huh?" The doc frowned. "Probably an addict." He rolled up her sleeves like he was checking for injection ports, but the only thing they found was a fading red scar on her left arm. "I can't waste any more drugs on her. We've got others… men in real pain. Ones I can help-"
The smuggler twitched, yanking her arm back. Her eyes rolled under their lids. Carth had still never seen them open-not since the Spire-but he had a memory of a vivid green, almost too hard to be real. She'd seemed a simpleton back then, maybe a little crazy, but at least she'd been awake.
"Ishmay. Lekeen. Aryun. Malachor. Avedin vishate nah! Aveedin vishate NAAH!" She shook. "No! You can't… can't win."
"Basic," the doc noted. "You catch the other one?"
"Not that one. There's been a few." Mandalorian was one he'd never forget. She'd cursed at someone in it for nearly an hour.
Could she be Manda? She had no tattoos… wouldn't that be ironic.?Saving a Mandalorian, after all those years spent shooting them out of the sky.
After Revan and Malak had broken their might, the clans had scattered across the galaxy. Mercs on practically every planet. They even hired out as Republic fighters now. Carth didn't like it any more than any other flyer he knew, but they made good cannon fire. Even enjoyed it, the kind of bastards they were.
"If she's not an addict, and the drugs don't work…" the man leaned over, peeling back one of her eyelids. "Huh," he commented, shining a light into the woman's eye. It was green, faded in the dim light. "No pupillary response at all. Sure she's not brain dead?"
"You just heard her talk." Carth was starting to wonder if this loser was even a doc at all.
"Get her scanned," the man suggested. "Zelka Forn in the Upper City. Had a clinic up there. He'll do it. Don't tell him I sent you. Used to work there, 'til he fired me."
"No kidding." Carth bit back a harder response.
"No kidding." The man shrugged. "Forn's real helpful, always likes helping you Republic types."
Carth felt a chill. "I never said we were Republic." He'd tossed everything with an insignia, everything military, even down to his shoes and skivs.
"Head injury, not from around here. Do I look stupid?" The man snorted. "She's Deralian, and you're… you've got one of those farm accents. Can never keep the Rim colonies straight."
"It doesn't matter." Carth let his hand fall on his blaster. "Get out."
"Hey. Just making conversation." The man shrugged, backing away slow.
The second the door slid shut behind them, Carth had started to pack their kit.
"Genoharddon," muttered the Deralian. "Therion. Asshole."
"You tell em, sis!" Carth sighed, and slung the pack over his shoulder, lifted her in his arms. She was long-limbed and floppy, heavier than she looked.
He wasn't sure what it meant about the neighborhood when no one blinked an eyestalk at a man carrying an unconscious, bloody woman in his arms; but they weren't exactly choosers.
XXX
The Endar Spire shouldn't have come anywhere near Taris. Their mission had been to go to some forest world in the backend of beyond. Them, and the rest of the so-called Jedi Battle Fleet: nine capital ships under High Admiral Forn Dodonna's command.
Just like old times, with Jedi calling the real shots.
Jedi Battle Fleet, that was a joke if Carth had ever heard one.
Back when the wars had begun, back when the Mandalorians began their attacks on Eos, Althir and all the rest; the Republic Navy had put Jedi on all its capital ships as a way to sense out their hidden enemies. Had worked too-like a damn charm.
Carth still remembered the sense of awe he'd had the first time he saw one: she had been little more than a kid, but they'd called her a Jedi Knight, an honorary General. General Knight Pando. Short as the dickens, even for a Rodian.
He'd never known her first name.
She was dead now. A lot of good people were…and that was a road he was going to avoid.
He'd changed apartments after the run-in with Doc Gurney; now they were one level down, the only Humans in a sea of Twi'lek, Duros, and Rodian faces. The water barely worked and the power was sporadic. There were rumors of some kind of plague running wild… and even wilder rumors that it wasn't a plague at all; but some kind of virus dreamed up in a lab that turned sentients into monsters.
Sents into monsters? Carth could've laughed. In his experience, most sents weren't that far off.
Xxx
Malak watched the footage silently, seething with fury. They'd cut and shaved the woman's hair in a barbaric fashion, dressed her as a half-clothed street urchin, but she still moved like her: brash and arrogant; as unaware of her grace as a planet was to its orbital satellites.
Revan. Red. Master. My wife.
"You should have come to me immediately, Arkan," he muttered. "The trail is colder now."
"Revan had one duplicate made that we know about," suggested the woman. Beya Organa. Her dark hair was loose and long now, but she'd worn it like a Deralian for years. Like Revan's hair now in the holostill. "This could be another. We all felt… we felt her death."
They had. One last scream in the Force. It had half-deafened Malak, sent him unconscious, and when he awoke for a moment he wasn't sure which one of them had died.
For another moment, he wasn't sure which he had wanted.
You tried to kill me, Red.
He should feel triumph for his success, his victory. But it wasn't complete. Not until they held the Core, not until he gripped Coruscant's dark pearl in his hand, and squeezed, taking his rightful place in the Senate, bringing the Republic to leash, the Senators and Jedi Council both mere ash beneath his feet...
She promised to see you in ashes, and I will.
"It was her," Davad said. Darth Arkan. They'd been friends, long ago. Long ago, and that time is gone. "But changed. She didn't know me." He sounded surprised.
"How did you know?" Malak demanded. "How did you know to find her?"
"A chance encounter."
A lie. Arkan and the woman had come out of what looked like a dormitory bunk. No footage of the room itself, but there was in the hall. In the hall: Revan's face, caught by the camera, looking up at the Beast-Lord. Her eyes wide and-and it was impossible to read any expression in the grain of the feed. And Malak had sensed nothing. Nothing of her there at all.
Nothing, when once they'd been close enough for him to feel her dream across a sector.
"And you, Beya? Another chance encounter?"
"No." The Deralian spat on the ground. "My prospect confessed. He blamed her for the death of his master."
"I will question him myself."
Something in her eyes glittered. "Impossible. He died of his injuries."
Lie. Again, another lie.
Did they know they were so easily opened? Malak could not read their thoughts-not entirely-but he still had his gift for gleaning intent.
He would allow them their falsehoods. For now. (Although they begged further discovery.) Despite the small lies, these two were still loyal.
Of course they were. Sith were nothing without attachments. And Malak was all they had left.
"And so. Revan took the redemption." Bitter irony choked his throat.
Redemption. The secret eating away at the heart of the Order. Jedi rose and fell, almost cyclically. But their power, their knowledge… it could not be squandered. And so. Waste not, want not. Memories replaced. Death with light. Past lives of exemplars merged to present fallen ones-
There was an entire cadre of masters from the Exar Kun wars the Jedi trotted out for Days of Remembrance every year. All of them scarred and twisted composites, shells of the sentients they'd been.
Even my own master Jopheena. A woman who had never existed. Would you have offered it to me, Master, if it had been me in your grasp and not her? Is it the Sith'ae'rah you wished to preserve? Selfish, even in your damned mercy….
Davad coughed, exchanging a glance with Beya, and Malak realized he had been silent for too long.
"Who?" he asked. "Which ancient master has my wife's body now?" His thoughts were strange, a mix of scorn-and still, desire.
Davad coughed again, either a sound of distress or amusement. "My Lord. I sensed… I sensed no Force at all."
"She was blocked? They stripped the Force from her mind?" Fury spiked in his heart: for the waste of the woman he'd tried to kill and the Jedi hypocrisy that had ruined her after. Jedi fools, they piss on their own redemption. "They gave her a Jedi's memories, then stripped her like they did Meetra Surik?" It was… remarkably cruel of them.
Malak almost wished he had thought of it himself. If we possessed the ability to remove the Force at will from our enemies…. How quick, both Coruscant and Kaas could be brought to heel.
Davad shrugged. "She insisted her name was Polla Organa, and that she was a Deralian smuggler. She seemed to have no memory of a Jedi's life at all. Quite honestly, I assumed she'd be killed in combat. She was entirely hapless."
"But you let her live," Beya sneered.
Beya the Betrayer. Malak did not know what had triggered the Deralian's transfer of loyalty from her closest childhood friend to him; but it had been Beya who gave warning of Revan's planned attack against Malak. It had been Beya who gave him the means to strike first, and it was Beya he had to thank for his triumph over his old master.
He trusted her loyalties now above Arkan.
"There was no sport in her death." Arkan's feigned carelessness fooled none of them. There was dried blood on his teeth, flaked around his lips.
Malak had been informed that Arkan had taken a chunk out of their latest Korriban initiate's arm, the boy, Bandon Agare. With his teeth.
Bandon would survive the scar. It was almost amusing.
"Who else knows?" Malak asked, standing up from the table and walking over to the holographic projection of the planet beneath them. "Who else knows of this? Besides the Jedi… the remaining Jedi."
"Bandon," Davad said. "He provided me the security footage."
Provided it to you and not me. Attempted to blackmail you with it.
Malak would have to have a word with the Sith Academy tutors about their curriculum if this was what passed for cunning in their new recruits.
I would hire teachers for my disciples from the Senate Academies, if they didn't screen out Force sensitivity as a matter of course. A null would last five minutes in my Academy on Dreshdae. As by my design-
"Question the other survivors. Find out what you can. I will send Bandon to the planet's surface to hunt for Shan. Remember Bastila Shan?" Malak chuckled. "Touching as a reunion with my broken master would be, Shan is the prize. The planet is quarantined. We will find Shan first. No need to allocate resources for a mind-wiped null... even if she does possess my wife's... physical attributes." He stared hard at Arkan, until the man's yellow eyes turned to the floor, a kicked kath. "I have no need for another copy, but we need to know the Jedi's true intentions. Was this merely punishment? Or some deeper game afoot?"
"As you say," Davad muttered. Lie. For Arkan, Shan would never be enough.
Malak had more long-term goals. Revan's obsession with her plague (and his death) had been disruptive to their New Order. In her absence, he was fast-bringing a new doctrine of strength and unity to the galaxy.
"What about you, Beya?"
"My Lord?" Her head was bowed, staring at the steeple of her hands, presumably lost in thought. Memories of dear old Rev? Or the ones they'd forged later, with war and Mandalorian blood? "What was your question?"
"Polla Organa. A Deralian smuggler. Have there ever been any other Deralian Jedi? I was under the impression you were an outlier."
"Polla Organa is about as common a name on Deralia as Jain Antilles is on Coruscant. There have been some Deralian Jedi. We test for Force-sensitivity as part of school screening." Beya smiled. "That's how I came to the Jedi. You remember."
The sentiment and conceits of our bygone youth. Yes, Malak remembered.
XXX
The sidewalk cantina was open, too open. Public. But the patrons were used to seeing Jedi by now. They'd been coming here for years, Padawans on the verge of their trials. Coming to satisfy needs not granted in the Temple. An unspoken, allowable rule-as long as those needs were not becalmed between their own kind.
Revan's loose hair was a flame down her back. She was sitting on his lap, legs askew, a rare carelessness for them both. Her mouth was hot and open and sweet, and he could not stop devouring it.
But reason had to prevail. No matter what they did in private, (and it was extensive), it should not be done here. Not like this.
"Do you want the whole planet to find out about us?" he warned, finally catching his breath. At that moment, he would have set the world ablaze for her smile; but in this place, with his own station constantly in question-not to mention hers-this was madness.
Malak found that he did not care.
"I want the whole galaxy to know how much I love you," she declared.
"Keep carrying on like this and the whole galaxy will know." Beya Organa was a golden-skinned girl with black hair in a Deralian topknot, already knighted. She rolled her eyes.
"Frack the galaxy," Malak announced. "We leave for Malachor tomorrow with Vrook and we'll be cooped up on a ship for weeks."
"We'll have to find some way of entertaining ourselves." Red laughed, so careless. She, who was never careless-and that laughter had been no ruse, no trap-just pure joy for the both of them. It was, he thought later, perhaps the last time things were simple, duracrete, clean... for either of them. More joyous moments had followed (now a great source of power for him-his rage fueled by their loss); but those had all come with a price.
In this one memory, they had been free.
"I'm going to find Davad and 'Tina," the Deralian said, getting up from the table. "if I don't see you before you leave, good luck and may the Force guide you."
"May the Force keep us from getting sand in places there should be no sand," Revan chuckled, breath warm against his ear. "From what I've read about Mandalore, that will be the real test of our knighthood."
"Come here," he urged, pulling her back. Eyes were upon them, it was too public a place, but in this most perfect, simple moment, Malak D'Reev no longer cared.
XXX
The image of Taris shimmered before him, outlined by read-outs of its sectors, populations, troop positions, news broadcasts. His eyes scanned the data, noting the chatter about escape pods, rumors about plague in the Lower City, the Under City... perpetual rumors of rebellions... the normal gang violence that kept the masses entertained...
"Perhaps the Jedi meant the Organa surname as an homage to your merits, Beya," Davad broke into Malak's thoughts, as he had once tried to break into much more.
Malak felt his fists curl, at the man's impudence. Jealousy. It was a useful tool, even in his own mind.
Beya's voice mocked the Beast-Lord, sharing Malak's sentiment. "Jealous they didn't make her an Onderonite princess?"
"Revan is dead," Malak reminded them, not even turning to look back at them, his former friends, still sitting at his table.
Even without looking, he knew they were staring daggers at each other, honing their hate upon their shared past and their own lost conviction.
You were both too weak to hold your own needs. That is why I hold you. "Find what you can from our Jedi captives, and report back to me."
Malak stared at the map of Taris, rotating it slowly, while they muttered their acquiescence and departed. Somewhere below was Bastila Shan, Hope of the Republic with her Battle Meditation. And also, it seemed, the broken shell of the woman who had brought them all to this.
Bastila Shan and her Battle Meditation. The broken shell of my wife. A false equivalence that I will not choose between.
Xxx
"Wake up." A hand shook her shoulder.
Waking up was like crawling through a nest of eridu, struggling to surface.
"I-" Polla's eyes snapped open.
There was a man with a worried face staring down at her. His face needed a shave, his eyebrows knit in a way that made his eyes squint, half-obscured by the hair.
I need to see his face. I need to see his eyes, I-
"Seiran-?"
For a second Polla almost thought it was Seiran, the guy who'd convinced her to fly the canyon loop in the first place. But no, this guy had a square face with more lines in it.
"Trask? Ensign Jedi Trask?"
"You said he didn't make it." The gentle smile on the man's face receded, so quickly she wondered if it had been real before.
Trask didn't make it. Echo in her skull. She blinked. "Oh. We need to find Bastila Shan."
"Right ahead of you there, sister. You… you had a pretty bad knock to the head. You've been out for a week."
"My name is Polla Organa. I'm a Deralian smuggler."
"Might not want to go bragging about that. From what I hear, Sith take a dim view on smuggling." His smile was quizzical as if he was trying to make a joke.
"Sith." Her mind slipped, images of black robes and red blades and... and eyes. Eyes. "We have to avoid the Sith. We have to avoid the Sith and find Bastila Shan and Carth Onasi."
"I'm Carth." Now his smile was rueful, humoring her. "So we've found me already. I'm Carth Onasi and you're…"
"I'm Polla Organa," she repeated. "Registered smuggler. At your service."
"I know who you are. Registered… smuggler?" He had stubble and eyes the color of Deralian wheat, and now a scowl, twisting that pretty mouth. Republic types. Always sticks in the hyperdrive.
"Yes," she said slowly. He loomed above her. "Do you have a problem with smugglers?"
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not as long as you don't get us arrested."
"I see you read my file?" Polla tried to laugh. Therion was an asshole.
"What?" He frowned. It made him look older, made the planes of his face seem less pretty-boy hotshot.
It made him more attractive. Polla Organa was done with pretty-boy-hotshots. "Nothing, don't get your unders in a twist—"
"Okay, okay." He held his hands up, backing off.
Was he… mocking her? Insolent cretin! She sat up, bringing another wage of pain ringing through her skull. She stood up, and that was even worse.
"I'm sorry, I seem to have hit my head. Hurt my head. My head's.…"
"Yeah, I had someone take a look a few days ago." He grimaced. "Wasn't sure you were gonna make it, to be honest. We crashed pretty hard. I think you got the worst of it."
"We need to get back to the ship, it's safe there." Standing, she only had to angle her head slightly to see his eyes. They were brown. Worried. Not at all yellow. Or red.
Why did I think-
"Stars," Captain Onasi muttered. "Why don't you sit down? Eat something. I… I'll run through it again. Okay?"
"Okay." There was a puffy hydroderm on her arm and another one next to it that looked like kolto. Polla peeled them both off and dropped them on the floor.
"Hey!" He said. "You might… you might still need those!"
"No." She shook her head. "I'm better. Where's Bastila Shan?"
He started to talk again. He talked too much. Polla waited until he was finished before asking the next question.
Should have just taken me back to the ship. It's safe there.
Xxx
It took Carth about ten repetitions before any facts seemed to sink into Polla Organa's brain; and even then she followed him around the apartment like a pet loth cat, peppering him with questions that only seemed to have one set of responses. He'd answer her questions and she'd tell him again: her name, her occupation, her home planet, that the Endar Spire was a safe space, that he was a trustworthy guy (somehow not flattering), and they needed to find Bastila Shan.
Oh, and she knew Sith were bad. That was a relief.
It was damned hard not to be annoyed, but he'd seen this before. The Force could do terrible things to a mind. They'd liberated a few prisoners that had been interrogated by Sith on Endor, about a year ago. They'd been like this too. Like they'd been pushed. One guy had ended up offing himself. The others had gotten over it. Mostly. Far as Carth knew. He'd been transferred to the Jedi Fleet soon after, assigned to their great hope, Bastila Shan. Kid was only about nineteen and too serious for her own good, going by her inspirational speeches in the officer's lounge.
But under her command… well, he'd heard Battle Meditation was a thing to see. But Bastila had never had a chance to use it, between sitting in orbit around Dantooine and this jump that was supposed to take them to a world called Edean, but had left them stranded and separated from the rest of the Fleet instead. The only thing Carth had seen was a bunch of Jedi Masters packing Bastila and a few other Jedi into an escape pod the second the first Sith ship was sighted, then sending Carth off to fetch Master Ulgo and some patient of his, and then….
Well, and then they'd lost... they'd lost everything. So many dead, and for what?
Carth had been suspicious of this Polla Organa at first, but now he thought he got it. Master Trask and Bastila Shan had been the powerhouses on the Spire:-the great Jedi hopes. Only, because wasn't it just how the galaxy crumbled (and it was crumbling); they were both lost, and what had been saved instead was their little charity project, this hapless kid who'd been caught up in some Sith factory or something, half-brainwashed, maybe left to die.
Hell, he'd even heard her screaming about a factory: in Huttese, Mandalorian, and Basic. Factory. Foun'day. Rydisc…. Forge.
There were rumors the Sith were doing sweeps on the Undercity. Looking for escapees. Being Human, he and this woman stood out already. He wasn't sure how long goodwill was gonna keep them alive. Goodwill didn't feed a man's kids, and the Twi'lek family next door looked hungry.
The way Carth saw it, they'd be safer above ground, where they could blend in. If this woman, with her blank stare and nonsensical babble, was capable of blending anywhere.
He gave her another sleep cycle before he sent her into the fresher with the change of clothes that looked the most upmarket, and some lave. She was in there for an hour, long enough that he started to get worried.
"You okay?" He knocked on the door. "Polla?"
"Ja'kun," she called back. Hey, he knew that one. A minute, or your life's breath; it makes no difference to me. That was Huttese.
"Fine," Carth muttered. "Be that way."
Women spent a lot of time in the bathroom sometimes. Frankly, it was the first kind of normal thing she'd done.
XXX
The fresher had a mirror. There hadn't been any on the ship, which was really strange. They… they said it was because of collisions. So no one got hurt.
They said. Who? Who said?
The people. The people on the ship. It's safe there, but we're here.
Polla Organa stared into the mirror.
Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale.
You just fell out of the sky and landed in a coma again. Of course you're pale.
I should call Ma. She'd have a fit. She'd probably kill me. Maybe… maybe I'll call her later.
Her eyes were-she blinked them. They were eyes. Eyes change color, you know that. Sometimes they're brown, sometimes green. Sometimes yellow-or-red.
Red's bad.
"Red's bad." Polla Organa bit down on her lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, watching it well to the surface and then recede. It hurt. Her lips looked funny. She pulled back her hair to check the healing gash on her head. It hurt a little too, not much. Her hair felt strange and thin-
Tie it up. Need a topknot. I'll feel better when I have a topknot.
She looked around the bathroom. Her hair had been wet and now it was dry. How long had she been standing-?
There-the shirt she'd been sleeping in. It was too large anyway. She ripped off a sleeve and used it to wrap around her hair.
Tie it up. Need a topknot. I'll feel better. She checked the mirror.
Polla Organa blinked.
Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? And the spots? Faint, but there.
I look old. And pale. She pulled up her shirt, peering around it. And thin. She dropped the shirt back down, scrambling into the pants the pilot had provided. They seemed wrong, but so had the clothes on the ship.
Polla Organa blinked.
Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? Faint, but there.
I look old. And pale.
You just fell out of the sky and landed in a coma again. Of course, you're pale. I should call Ma. She'd have a fit. She'd probably kill me. Maybe… maybe I'll call her later.
A noise behind her, a door sliding open. She tensed-
Blaster. Where the frack is my blaster? I had it, and then I crashed the canyon loop-
"Sorry to bug you, I just wanted to check, make sure you didn't fall in or something... Oh! Didn't have you pegged as vain." The man's voice behind her was strangely grounding. Normal. His reflection behind her in the mirror. Grounding. Normal.
Of course. That's Carth Onasi. I trust him. She left out a breath. I trust him. We're going to find Bastila Shan.
"I'm fine," Polla Organa said, turning away from the reflection. The approval she saw in Mister Republic's eyes was better than the mirror anyway. She pulled her hair up and out of her eyes, looping the tie around her top knot. "Thanks for dragging me out of that escape pod. Guess I was pretty out of it."
"You hit your head pretty hard," the man agreed. "And whatever you were dreaming about sure made you talkative."
"Oh? What did I say?" Her dreams had all been like some children's vid about Jedi out of legends: a woman's face, a yellow-bladed laser sword, and a feeling of overriding panic, like the images should mean something; but the words themselves were lost.
"Nothing in any language I know." He paused. "But you know a lot of languages, right? I read your service file. Isn't that why the Republic brought you in on this mission?"
"Languages?" She frowned. That was—that wasn't right. Not exactly. But she did—she did know a lot of languages. When you're making your way through the galaxy, you need to learn a lot of languages. She knew basic, and Corellian, and Huttese, and—
And I know a lot of languages. I know a lot of languages. That is why I am on this mission. My mission is to report to the Jedi and follow their instructions—and I know a lot of languages.
It's not my fracking fault the Jedi all died. Did this mean the deal was off? She felt a surge of relief. Fracking Jedi.
"The Jedi are all dead," she told him. "We're free."
"Yeah…." His voice trailed off. "That's the... optimistic way of seeing things, I guess."
"First we'll find Bastila Shan," she allowed. "Do you know where she is?"
He seemed to pause for an irritatingly long time before he answered her. "Yeah, maybe I was thinking we'll find you a safe place to hunker down and then I'll do some snooping. Bastila Shan's a Jedi, but no one's gonna be looking for a few grunts like us."
"No, the Jedi are all dead," she told him. "Therefore, Bastila Shan isn't a Jedi."
"Yeah…." He was attractive, the way that line furrowed his brow.
Polla Organa glanced in the mirror again. And blinked.
Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? Faint, but there.
I look old. And pale.
"Do I-?" her voice broke off. I can't ask him that, can't ask if he thinks I'm old and pale. He'll think I'm nuts. Or vain.
He already thinks you're insane. See how he's looking at you?
"I sorry," Polla apologized. "I'm not myself."
"It's okay. It's okay."
He could gentle a hessi with that voice, she thought. "I'm really fine. I'm just… I hit my head."
"Yeah..." He stared at the ground and kind of shuffled his feet. "We should… we should probably make tracks. I made friends with this guy Larrim. He says there's a bounty on Republic escapees? I don't think folks down here would want to turn on us, but if they offer a reward that's big enough-most sents aren't saints. Guess you... you probably know that already."
"How much of a reward?" More for you, probably than me, Mister-Republic-Poster-Boy. "Hey, didn't you do some recruitment posters a few years back?" She shifted on her feet, regaining a little equilibrium. "Or maybe you just have one of those faces?"
"Maybe both," he smirked. "I'm… I'm pretty well known in some parts, but not around here. Taris is pretty far out there."
"Not as far as Deralia. I'm from Deralia."
"Yeah… you… you keep saying that." The worried look was back.
"Let's go." She was suddenly restless, like something was stalking along her spine. Hessi walked on your grave, Auntie Mita would say. "Do you have my gun? I'm an excellent shot. I think I need my gun. I left it in the speeder-"
Carth Onasi sighed. "We'll see."
XXX
"Taris," the narrator said sadly. "Just another planet to burn under Sith occupation and then shatter under Sith bombardment. Just another planet in a string of Malak's atrocities. Atrocities that began with Endar, Yu-Phaedra, and Telos. But Taris was different. It is said that Darth Malak bombed Taris to rid the world of one Jedi: the brave Knight, Bastila Shan."
"Unbeknownst to him at the time, Taris was also the current residence of his former Master and his mortal enemy."
"In one of the Republic's finest moments, Revan Starfire saved Bastila Shan—and a few others—from certain death. There are few survivors and fewer images; but here are their stories. Stories from simple people, whose lives Revan Starfire changed irretrievably for the better, despite the great tragedy that followed..."
