Chapter 2

The walk to the restaurant had been as uncomfortable as Kallus expected. He was not accustomed to making small talk, and neither, apparently, was the Governor. Somehow they had survived the trek—two city blocks had never felt so very long—and now he appeared to be stuck here for the duration.

When he found himself overwhelmed by the choices on the menu, Governor Pryce confidently took over the ordering. Now he was absentmindedly pushing a piece of Coruscanti game fowl around his dish and trying to find something interesting to say. The choice was actually a fine one on her part: the bird was exquisitely prepared, as was the spicy ahrisa side dish that accompanied the main course. Both brought back warm memories of special childhood meals with his family. But he nonetheless found it difficult to eat them. He was disgusted by the experience of being in this restaurant at all, surrounded by Imperial officers and highly-placed business people, being waited on hand and foot by local citizens. Every time he took a sip of his fine Renan wine, the waiters scurried to top it off. It was all so…excessive. Unnecessary. Wasteful. Even when he was a loyal Imperial, this sort of place turned his stomach. He generally lived on liquid rations or on mess-hall meals like his fellow soldiers; it kept him connected to his subordinates, and it kept him focused on his larger purpose. Knowing that even his ascetic rations would be a feast to most of the citizens of Lothal made the experience of trying to eat this luxurious meal even more challenging.

Kallus smiled weakly, nodding at the Governor and mumbling the occasional "mmm" and "indeed" at what he hoped were the appropriate places. So far, she had spoken at length about food—though they clearly had very different senses of the purpose of it—and, after seemingly exhausting that topic, she had been attempting to discuss sports. Kallus was never a fan of podracing or grav-ball or any of the other of the galaxy's most popular sports; his own interests were focused on practical training. And her own "interest" in sports was clearly forced, as if she had studied the most recent contests and events in order to pass a test. So far, she seemed to have been avoiding the few things they had in common: the Empire and the rebels. Her avoidance was clearly deliberate. Ironically, it heightened his sense that the purpose of this dinner was anything but pleasure, although she was clearly trying desperately to maintain that illusion.

After yet another awkward pause, the Governor changed her approach. "So," she asked, "I understand that you did quite a bit of teaching before...the rebel threat intensified on Lothal." He could tell by her face that she regretted bringing the latter into the conversation at all, but she pushed on. "Do you enjoy teaching cadets, Kallus?" He noticed that she had dropped the "Agent."

Although he wondered where she hoped to take this conversation, Kallus had been a good teacher, and part of him warmed to the subject for the first time that evening. "I do enjoy teaching, actually. I miss it."

"What did you enjoy most about it?" she prodded.

He thought for a moment, then responded honestly. "I found it both challenging and satisfying to shape young minds and direct them toward a higher purpose. I enjoyed encouraging and challenging those who may have doubted their abilities when I could see they had it in them to do better, to become a better version of themselves. It was especially gratifying on the occasions when I found a particularly promising student and could help them develop their talents and then recommend them for the ISB."

As he spoke, an image came unbidden into his mind: his most promising cadet, Swain. She had been much like him—ambitious, clever, and hard-working—and she in turn had almost idolized him. At the time, he was proud of her and certain that she would become a top-notch ISB agent. But then….she had defected. When he caught up with her, she had told him that she had become disillusioned by the treatment of the locals on Lothal; she was amazed that he could continue to serve the Empire after what he too had seen. And he had been the one to capture her, interrogate her, and turn her over to the Empire. Thankfully, he had not had to use any of the Empire's less savory interrogation techniques on her. But she was probably dead now, he realized, or rotting in an Imperial prison. Because of him. He struggled to regain his composure and smiled at the Governor.

She didn't seem to notice his discomfort. "Ah, yes. The power of holding someone's future in your hands is intoxicating."

He resisted the temptation to point out that this was not exactly what he'd meant.

"Who was your greatest inspiration, Kallus?" she continued, clearly pleased she'd found a topic that would take the weight of the conversation off of her. Her obvious relief at this fact made Kallus almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

He thought honestly about her question. It had never been the Emperor, or any other major figure in the Empire. No: it had been his fellow soldiers, most of whom he had trained with at the Academy, especially those with whom he had been deployed on Onderon. As he had told the Lasat, Zeb, while they were marooned on Bahryn, they had gone there to bring peace and security to a troubled world. His comrades had died; he had lived. Somehow. Their commitment to their purpose and to each other had inspired him. And their deaths had inspired him even more. They still did, but in different ways now. The complicated emotions that still swirled around their deaths threatened to engulf him.

"My fellow soldiers, especially those who lost their lives for the Empire," he replied simply.

She cocked her head, seemingly surprised by his response, and the look on her face spoke of both respect and, perhaps, a hint of sympathy. He decided to turn the conversation back to her, since apparently there were few questions about his past that didn't trigger some deep emotion, and he needed to keep himself under control. Thankfully, for the most part, Pryce didn't appear to be terribly observant.

"I was fortunate to fight with many of my former classmates," he continued, "who were the best of the best. Am I correct that you were also a student at the Royal Imperial Academy on Coruscant?" He delicately avoided the fact that she had finished there almost a decade before he had begun.

"Ah, yes. I am from Lothal"—she said this with a wince, as if being from an Outer Rim planet were an embarrassing fact to reveal—"but after my first year in Lothal Academy, I was transferred to the main Academy and continued there," she continued proudly. "They were some of the most enjoyable years of my life, I must admit," she added.

"Ah. Do tell me about them," Kallus encouraged. He was rewarded with a genuine smile.

As Pryce recalled her glory days in the Academy—she had, not surprisingly, been a very ambitious and successful student, but also apparently more socially adept than he had been for most of his time there—he tried to imagine what she must have been like as an eager and idealistic young woman.

And although there was no real resemblance between them at all, only the superficialities of eye and hair color and height, he was reminded suddenly of another woman. A very different woman. He tried to concentrate on making the right responses to the Governor, but for the third time that evening, he was overwhelmed by a ghost from his past.

Lusa.

Kallus wiped his eyes and shook his head unconsciously to rid himself of the thought of her. He tried to focus on the Governor's chatter. The similarities between the two women dimmed, and he was briefly awash with relief. He continued to nod along with the Governor's stories. But now Lusa's face rose even more clearly before him, smiling, eyes sparkling mischievously as they did when she teased him about one of his pompous speeches about the Empire. Then her eyes changed, softer this time, as they were when she tried to cheer him out of one of his frequent periods of crippling self-doubt.

Her eyes… they never held any secrets. From their first meeting, his second year at the Academy, he knew that Lusa was honest, forthright, and her eyes were the confirmation of that. He had been an awkward and guarded young man, but he trusted her immediately. They relaxed into an easy friendship. And he was rewarded by eyes that shone with trust, mirth, affection—and then, eventually, with love. A love he returned. A love that was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He struggled to keep his face neutral as another memory rushed back. Lusa had tried to be tender with him after his return from Onderon. He remembered the care and concern in her eyes as she attempted, fruitlessly, to get him to talk with her about the massacre of his fellow soldiers, about his feelings at watching and not being able to help, about his guilt at surviving. But he shut her out. The pain had been too great, and he couldn't burden her with the devastating weight of his guilt. He remembered the hurt in those eyes, the hurt at being closed off from the man she loved. He thought he had done the right thing in sparing her.

Then later she had come to him, eyes flitting nervously about as she tried to share with him her concerns about the Empire. They had both been recommended for officer training, and had planned on attending together, but she was no longer certain of their purpose, of the goals of the Emperor. She had heard things, she said. She seemed scared. She tried to get him to listen, but he had again shut her out, his guilt now transformed into hostility. How could she think of stepping away from their shared future? And how could the one person he loved not understand why he was even more committed to the Empire after his friends had died their awful deaths at the hands of the extremists? To question was to dishonor the memory of the boys and their sacrifice.

Or so he thought then.

He told her he needed some time to think. She agreed, though the depth of her sadness was palpable. He remembered her walking away from him, folded in on herself, looking impossibly small and vulnerable. He felt awful, but he thought it was for the best.

And he remembered the night, just a week later, that two of his former classmates came to visit him.

He didn't know them well; except for Lusa, most of his friends had died on Onderon, and since then he had once again kept himself aloof from other people, cocooned in remorse, anger, and self-pity. When they stood at his door and awkwardly relayed the news of Lusa's death at the hands of rebels on Lothal, he gritted his teeth, thanked them for the news, and all but closed the door in their faces. And then he collapsed.

"Kallus? Are you quite well? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

Pryce's voice brought him sharply back to the present, and his eyes once again focused on the person in front of him. The similarities between Pryce and Lusa were entirely superficial. But then, a horrifying possibility began to dawn on him.

Could it be that Thrawn had begun to search Kallus's past, digging through it for places of vulnerability that he could exploit? Could it be that Thrawn had seen the similarity, too? Thrawn was a meticulous pattern-finder. His understanding of human behavior was cold and calculating. Governor Pryce may have appeared physically similar enough to Lusa; he wouldn't have known anything about Lusa, really, or indeed about how human affection and love truly worked. His clinical review of the details would simply have concluded that one pawn looked enough like another to be used on his chessboard.

Anger gripped Kallus's throat. But he forced a smile.

"I'm sorry, Governor. This soldier is not used to quite such a plentiful supply of wine. I'm rather afraid it has gone to my head."

"Oh, please, Kallus. Let's not be so very formal. Do call me Arihnda, at least here. And while we're at it, is there something you prefer to be called?"

He paused for a moment. A few months ago, he had seen his youngest sister again, and she had called him by his given name, Kal. He explained then that he had changed his name from Kal to Kallus, first because it was required of ISB agents to take new names, but also for him to have something to live up to. She had assumed that he meant that he needed to be callous to do his job, and she wasn't wrong.

But he didn't tell her, didn't tell anyone, that "Kallus" was something else: it was the closest he could come to uniting his name and his future to Lusa.

"No. I prefer…Kallus."

Something in his face must have made Pryce uncomfortable; she looked away.

He forced himself to lay his hand on hers. "Arihnda," he continued, "this evening has been a rare pleasure. But I fear that, between the wine and a long day of paperwork, I haven't been the best company. Would you be willing to join me again in a day or two? I promise to be a better companion then."

She looked relieved and pleased. "Of course, Kallus. It would be a delight."

As he rose to pull out her chair for her, he considered what he knew and what he suspected. He suspected that the longer he kept up this charade, the longer he was likely to survive. Thrawn was using him and the Governor for his own purposes. Kallus would play along, bide his time, and try to discover what those purposes were. He knew, of course, that at some point Thrawn would come for him.

And he had some work to do before that happened.