The Republic Strikes Back
Chapter 10 / The Republic Strikes Back
Why didn't you tell me, Malak?
"Why didn't you ask? I kept waiting for you to ask." His voice so kind that it made her shiver.
They were in a large cargo hold filled with people. Thousands of them, crammed together like livestock. The room stank of sweat and fear. Revan huddled next to Malak, wrapped in her cloak. Something moved under it. Something in her arms. Her breath caught in her throat and she pushed the cloak aside, looked down at the small face, nuzzling her chest. Red fuzz covered the curve of his head and his fingers opened and closed. His nose was wrinkled and flat, and she stared at it fascinated—trying to see herself and Malak's features in that tiny face.
Oh. He's—mine.
Revan swallowed past the lump in her throat. The baby opened his eyes and looked up at her. In the dim light she couldn't tell their color and she looked closer. The noises and smells faded, until she only saw him.
My son. Mine.
Malak's hand brushed her cheek gently. "Ours. "
She glanced up. Their son was heavy in her arms, and her—her husband's — face was taut with strain. Her hair itched, and belatedly she realized they were all filthy. Everything stank. Still, she felt oddly content. She should be angry—she would be angry—but right now, right now there was only this. Her son in her arms.
The Refugee ship from Eos, this must be how it was.
Malak tilted his head back against the wall of the bulkhead. The flickering fluorescents above them lit the line of his young profile from forehead to shoulder. His hair was tangled, and almost as long as hers.
"It wasn't all like this. We quarreled about his name for at least a day, and about me leaving the Order for at least a week. You were obsessed with the Fett. I kept telling you to shut up. Vrook ran himself ragged trying to care for the sick; feeling the emotional distress around us was not pleasant; we had lice—all of us, even Mal; and you kept going on and on about how we should have stopped the Mandalorian threat. My father was actually quite pleased when we finally got through to him from Taris—and we traveled the rest of the way in proper accommodations. Not that you noticed—you were so single-minded about your causes that you scared me."
Mal. Mallie.
"Mal. We named him Mal?" The baby squirmed in her arms and she marveled at the way his hand curled around her finger.
"Malachor. It had to be Mal-something, family tradition—my family. You thought it appropriate when we were tented on Mandalore. After Eos, I wanted to change it. You didn't."
Mal. Mallie. Malak. Malachor.
It was hard to be angry with her son in her arms. But—
"You should have told me." Malachor was so real and warm in her arms.
"You should have known." Malak said. "He cries for you still, but you shut yourself off from him long ago."
"Where is he?" Her son looked up at her with red-lashed eyes. Maybe three months old, a part of her thought. He'd be bigger now, he'd be older.
"Where do you think?"
It was nine years ago, that we went to Malachor. Malachor would be—bigger—he'd be eight standard, he'd be on—
"Coruscant. He's on Coruscant, isn't he?"
"Our Masters always said you were the smart one."
"He's on Coruscant with your father." A spark of anger flickered. "Your father who took Carth. Is there anything else you want to tell me about your father, Malak?"
"My father was quite fond of you once. I used to think he liked you more than he ever liked me. He's told our son that you were a great hero who sacrificed your life for the Republic. He'll come up with something else now. He always turns any disadvantage on its head. My father enjoys that—it's part of the game."
"Is our son—well?"
"He's crying. I should go to him." Malak got to his feet and the room narrowed suddenly, became a long hall made of gray stone. The carpet under them was white and soft. Revan got up to follow him, cradling her son against her chest. His warmth was reassuringly real—and for a disconnected moment it seemed more like a memory than a dream.
This hall, our son. Our son, this place. But she heard nothing. No crying at all.
"You can't come," Malak said. "He cries for you and you don't hear him. My father lets him cry, the servants don't really care. I'm all he has."
She stared at the baby in her arms. He burbled up at her waving his arms, happy, not crying at all.
He's not really here. This isn't him, not anymore.
"You said I shut him out—how?"
Malak laughed. "You're not going to ask why?"
Revan looked up at him. Now bald, his Sith-damned face, that metal jaw.
"I don't know how, Red. The same way you shut out everything you don't want. It's your nature—your damned gift. It was a gift that I didn't have." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "Sometimes I wished I did."
How could I not want this? Malachor closed his eyes and nestled against her. She raised the crown of his head to her lips and kissed it, breathing in his sweet baby smell.
"I want him back."
For a moment Malak looked as young as he had, the same vulnerable face underneath the Sith mask. "Good."
Revan took a deep breath. Memories tugged at her, all of them false. Her mother's kitchen, the farm on Deralia, family—warm, noisy, messy and safe. Her own memories mocked her. The quest for the Star Forge. Making friends and killing them. That blind hatred she'd had towards Malak at the end. Like a song that drowned out everything else.
"What happened to us?"
Malak was walking away. His cloak swirled behind him. His voice echoed metallic and bitter down the long stone walls.
"How can you measure the value of one life against a thousand? We must be prepared to make any sacrifice to save the lives of all sentients. This is the Jedi way. But now, when the Outer Rim needs our sacrifice, our master's preach caution and temper their indecision with empty platitudes. The Mandalorian threat is real."
His voice blurred and changed. Doubled. Until she couldn't tell if it was his or her own saying the words.
"Fett Cassus Lin will not stop his advance at Eos or Cathar. And when he sacks Republic worlds, when Republic citizens begin to die, our ships will be blind without the Force to guide them. We Jedi are the only defense the Republic has against the Mandalorian cloaking technology. We Jedi, who swear, just as much as any Republic soldier, to uphold the cause of freedom and life for every sentient, must join this fight. And we must do it now—before more worlds fall, before more lives are lost."
Revan's arms were empty. Suddenly the stone hallway seemed very cold.
Malak was gone, but walls reverberated with the sound of their speech. And his mocking laughter.
Our speech, the speech we gave to the Senate. And the Council.
Clink of glasses and the murmur of soft conversation. Someone was asking her a question.
She walked along the empty hallway, listening for her son, looking for her son, but each room was empty: richly appointed cells that seemed oddly sterile and cold. Everything was white. White on white.
I need to remember this, I need to come here. For Malachor. Malachor and Carth.
And then what?
A long curving staircase led to an empty ballroom, but it hadn't been empty always. She could almost hear the clink of glasses and the murmur of soft conversation. There were two entrances on either side, archways leading to paneled conversation rooms. Revan explored them both, but there wasn't much to see. One had a chessboard and a ring of soft red couches. Another long hallway, enameled with Zabrak designs, a trophy room full of mounted heads of beasts from a hundred uncivilized worlds. A terentateks eyes glittered coldly and a krayt dragon. A library, with a chair like a burnished throne and a polished marble floor. Her reflection gleamed back at her from the ground, hair loose around her shoulders, robed in white. Her face looked rounder, and very young.
Everything was immaculate and arctic. She tried to imagine a child in this place and failed.
Where's the entrance?
An arched hallway led to a towering rotunda. A greenhouse. Revan paused at a patch of eridu plants, absently picking a stalk and twisting it in her fingers to make the long sturdy thread. Red flowers dangled overhead from a Kashyyyk vine. The air was sweet and heavy. She looked up through the transparisteel panels at the orbitals sailing overhead in the clouds and then realized what she was doing and dropped the thread.
I've never even seen an eridu bush before.
Her thoughts were disconnected, and she tried to make tactics out of them. Find the main entrance. Find the secondary entrance. Look for access panels. Figure out a way in and out.
But she couldn't make her feet move to go look.
Something brown caught her eye, a brown furry thing caught in a blue-leafed bush. Revan went over and pulled it out. It was a stuffed child's toy, much worn. A blunt black-nosed face with round big eyes. She stroked the fur, smoothing it. A Wookiee? The toy wore a makeshift red tunic. Someone had stitched a blue butterfly on the front.
This is his, this is my son's.
She lifted the toy to her face and smelled the fur. Sun-baked, plain soap, nothing more. Revan realized that she was crying.
Crying for something I didn't know I had.
XXX
"Wish fulfillment dreams are common among many species. It's perfectly normal to try and relive events in the past. Perfectly normal to wish you'd done things differently. But you can't change the past. What you need to do, Captain Onasi, is focus on the future— your future."
The psych droid whirred a metal eye and looked at him.
Carth stared back at it suspiciously. Standard issue in the Republic fleet: a golden durasteel mockery of a man with that soft, flat voice; designed to pry out all of your secrets. He'd been down this road before: after Telos, when they questioned him about Saul. They gave you drugs to make you calm, make you talk about things that really shouldn't ever be said. Then they kept prodding at you, picking at you until you spilled your guts. Eventually, they'd say you were 'cured' and pack you off to fight again. He'd fought again and won more battles against the Sith. He'd searched for Dustil and tried to forget Morgana. He'd been a hollow man, and the perfect soldier.
Then came the assignment aboard the Endar Spire,for a flock of Jedi led by that famous Bastila Shan. That famous Bastila Shan, that dead famous Bastila Shan. Revan tore her apart.
I was in love with the Dark Lord of the Sith. I betrayed everything the Republic stands for, everything I fought for, for her. I wish I had just shot her after the Leviathan. I should have.
Revan's death seemed so real for something that had never happened. Just a wish fulfillment dream. But it could happen. It could still happen yet.
"Focus on my future," Carth repeated out loud. "Where is my son?"
The droid whirred sympathetically. "I assure you, every effort is being made. Surely when he learns that you survived, he'll find you, Captain Onasi."
Carth was a hero; they all kept telling him that, the crew of the Pearl.
"The Force can do terrible things to a mind," Sergeant Silvana had said. "Darth Revan twisted your mind to her own ends. None of this is your fault."
He tried not to remember her face, that empty voice telling him about Telos and Saul. Funny, he couldn't remember Morgana's face; but Revan's was clear in his mind. The arch of her eyebrows, those large eyes that were too big for the rest of her features. The curve of her nose and her pointed chin. That curl of a smile that was almost a smirk.
If I'd killed you on the Leviathan; if I'd just killed you then, Mission and Juhani and Jolee would still be alive. Maybe Bastila too.
"I wish I had killed her then," Carth confessed, not for the first time.
"Of course, that's normal, perfectly normal," the droid assured him. "You understand now, why the Republic had to go to such lengths on Manaan to liberate you?"
Carth nodded. He'd been so angry at Wann, he'd felt betrayed all over again—but the man had saved him. Saved him so that he could find Dustil. Find Dustil and pick up the pieces.
"When do we dock on Coruscant?" he asked restlessly.
"One more standard day. There's a member of the Senate coming to meet you. Someone who understands something about loss—and betrayal. He's taken a special interest in your case. His name is Malachi D'Reev."
XXX
He settled back against her, all too aware of the Twi'lek in the room. The vid began. Revan burrowed into his chest, muttering to herself. That was strangely familiar. Having her this close was strangely comforting. His eyes closed, until her body stiffened suddenly.
"Defense shields?" Yellow eyes glare at him, accusingly. "What defense shields?"
Carth jolted awake. For a second, he didn't know what she was talking about; but then—it was never far from his mind. "There were several teams of demolitions experts—and Jedi, " he stammered. "I came up with one of the last squads. One of the teams must have succeeded setting their charges—or the Star Forge would have never been destroyed."
"Nice of them to give me the credit," Revan muttered. "So, how exactly did I save anyone?"
He hugged her closer. "You stopped Malak. And Bastila. And I stopped you."
"But we all would have died anyway."
She was right. Stumbling for the right thing to say, Carth turned his attention back to the vid, the same one he'd already seen, at least four times before Canderous shoved a vibroblade through their recording.
This version is authorized by the Coruscanti Galactic Senate, The Republic Fleet and the Jedi Council. All other versions of this story are unauthorized and should not be taken as fact. All footage is real. All interviews were used with the full consent of the parties involved.
Produced by Senator Malachi D'Reev
D'Reev. He hadn't made the connection before. But of course, Malak's father. Did she—did it still matter? She curled against him, watching the vid. The feel of her in his arms. Trembling a little, and he didn't think she realized it. She felt so fragile, like a broken bird.
She was such a perfect little liar. All that evil contained in one woman's body. The blood of millions on her hands. Morgana's blood. Juhani, Jolee, Mission and Bastila.
XXX
Carth unclenched his fists and took a deep breath. "Senator Malachi D'Reev—you mean, Malak's father?" He felt a stab of pity for the man—and sympathy.
The droid nodded its head, an oddly human gesture. Of course, it was programmed to mimic human gestures. Easier to talk to a machine about your problems. Machines do not judge, they only listen.
"When you're ready, of course," the droid continued. "The Senate would like you to make a statement. Darth Revan is a threat to the galaxy, and you are the one man who can tell that story. You were there."
I wasn't there alone. Carth spared a moment to think of Zaalbar and Canderous, still caught in the Sith web of deceit and lies. "My friends," he muttered. It still felt odd to call Canderous that—Ordo was the enemy— remember Althir? But they'd been through so much, seen so much.
XXX
"There are many things I regret, Pilot," Canderous said, after his clansmen's suicide on Tatooine. The two of them had tried to drink themselves into a stupor. Carth succeeded; but Ordo just kept going: one glass after another. Tatooine: one final stop there to refuel, before setting off for the Star Forge and the bitter end. "Fighting beside you is not one of them."
Their eyes had met over Revan's unconscious body on the deck of the Star Forge. He'd almost expected the Mandalorian to shoot him, but the man only nodded—as if none of this was a surprise.
XXX
"My friends—are victims even as I was." His voice sounded uncertain.
The Mandalorian had nodded, as if none of this was a surprise. What if it wasn't? What if all of that was somehow—part of her clever scheme?
His thoughts didn't make much sense; he was so tired, so very tired. And all he'd done for the last week was sleep, it seemed. Sleep and answer questions. Always the same dream. The Leviathan and her.
"My friends are victims too," Carth repeated, a little more forcefully.
Zaalbar was innocent, at least. He had to be. The Wookiee was one of the most noble men he'd ever known.
You buried Mission in the sand, the blade through her chest cut through two layers of Baragwin corusteel. She was so very dead, and she looked only surprised, not even scared. Like she hadn't believed Zaalbar would really do it. But he told you he did. You piloted the Hawk off the doomed Star Forge and he asked you to kill him and end his life debt. He asked you… to end it. Just like Revan did.
And you did nothing.
The droid whirred and clicked. Lights on its chest panel flashed blue and red. "Regrettable," it said finally. "But they are not your friends. Who killed Mission Vao? Who swore allegiance to the Dark Lord? Perhaps the Wookiee and the Mandalorian are only weak-willed, swayed by Revan even as you were. But you must realize, their perfidy may extend much further."
The psychdroid got up from its chair and activated the console in the counseling chamber. An image flickered, a Manaan hallway, blank gray and featureless. "This vid was taken the day after you left," the droid said. "Manaan security cameras."
A party came into view, led by a Mandalorian in full battle armor, helmet off and tucked casually under his arm. No mistaking Ordo, flanking the frail, masked figure in black robes as if he were her personal escort. On the other side of them, Zaalbar. A fair-haired boy wearing a Sith uniform. A purple-skinned Twi'lek. A red metal droid, with a grenade belt slung around its shoulders. Behind them, a luggage cart floated—an oddly pedestrian touch that did nothing to dispel the image for what it was: a general, leading her loyal troops.
All of them circled the masked figure in perfect formation. Her cropped red hair— growing back in red, I like redheads— shone dully above the tattered blue mask. The Mandalorian's face was expressionless but poised. Canderous' hand rested easily on the hilt of his double-edged vibroblade. Wookiee expressions are hard to read; but Carth thought he could see the gleam of fealty in Zaalbar's eyes.
"Your friends," the droid continued. "If they were truly your friends, wouldn't you expect them to be concerned about your disappearance? Your friends went straight to the Sith Embassy, and from there, Darth Revan transmitted a message to the remains of the Sith Fleet. I've shown you that vid already."
Carth's hand twitched at his side, reaching for a blaster that he didn't have.
XXX
He ran his hand down her back, stroking the soft skin. In the dim light, he could barely see the marks.
Revan smiled, eyes half-lidded and yellow. Her voice was soft with false concern. "Do you want to take me away from all this because you love me, or because you want to keep the galaxy safe from my evil dominion?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, and in his mind, he heard Jolee's voice.
"So, the snake looks at the boy as he lays dying and asks, 'Why were you foolish enough to follow me all the way out into the desert?' The boy looks back and replies, 'Did I follow you? I thought I was leading you away from everyone else.'"
XXX
Don't think about it, just don't, don't think. I was such a blind fool. Bastila was right—and then she tore her apart. Revan tore her apart.
But that was to save you, a small voice in his head insisted.
No—some things can't be saved. I couldn't save Telos, I couldn't save Morgana and I couldn't save Revan.
"Do you know where they are now—Revan and the others?" His voice sounded strangled, even in his own ears.
"I'm sorry, that information is not in my databanks. But I assure you, the Republic will do everything it can to eliminate Darth Revan."
What if she goes to Coruscant? What if I have to face her again? She'll want revenge, revenge on the Council. That's really what she wanted all along—not Dustil, not me—she'll go to Coruscant seeking vengeance.
What about my vengeance? Vengeance for Morgana, vengeance for Telos, vengeance for what the Sith did to my son. I should have shot her after the Leviathan. I should have let her die on the Star Forge.
Her voice again, in his head. Her flat voice, the Revan voice—the one that wasn't Polla at all.
"A capital ship, under my command exploded. Equipment malfunction. 75 members of the Jedi Council were aboard."
"You don't know."
"I can't remember, but I know Carth. I know what it feels like, to want to kill everyone that's hurt you."
Her voice was so flat. Was it the mask that made her seem so cold or something inside? Something—wrong inside?
"Captain Onasi?" The psychdroid made a concerned clicking sound, processors hissing softly.
"I'm-I'm sorry," Carth said. "I was just thinking."
"You need to think about the future," the droid reminded him again. "Admiral Rensha has asked if you feel up to making a statement for the newsbands now. This is a dark time for the Republic. Sentients everywhere are afraid. If you're ready… it would help. And—perhaps your son might see the broadcast? It could help find him?"
My son. Dustil. Dustil and the future. I'll walk away, walk away with Dustil and make a life.
She's Darth Revan. I can't run from that. I have to stop her.
Carth took a deep breath. Admirals didn't ask: this was an order. He was ready to follow orders, that was his job.
"The Jedi Council is in danger," he said out loud. "She'll hunt them down. You need to tell them."
"I assure you, every precaution is in place to ensure their safety."
"I'm ready," he said and started to get up from the chair.
"No need," the droid clucked. "I have widebeam broadcast set up. Just look at the blue light and speak, tell your story."
XXX
The living room was a disaster. Stacks of her old star charts, thisla cores, empty juice and water pods littered the floor around the couch like galactic garbage around an orbital dump.
The curved durasteel beams arched overhead, and the rain drummed on the duratin roof. Polla shifted again on the couch, trying to get comfortable, while she watched the Official Coruscanti Version for the hundredth time.
"What do you know about the dark side?" Her voice was light and curious, almost playful.
The woman who thought she was Polla Organa put her elbows down on the table, cupping her face in her hands, drink untouched by her side. The cantina was dim and smoky, but the fake torchlight lit their profiles in sharp relief.
In this light, the woman's face could have been her own. There really was a resemblance. Polla leaned closer, watching each nuance of gesture more than the conversation itself.
She'd seen this vid so often she could recite the conversation—dark side, blah-dee blah—great power—coin-whatever. There wasn't very much footage of Carth and Revan together; but Polla was fascinated by their relationship. He was cute. And he looked a little like Seiran.
"I… used to think the dark side was a fancy name for something that I see every day. Corruption is everywhere. People are greedy and stupid and do horrible things. I'm starting to think it's different for the Jedi, however. That there's this evil watching them, waiting for its chance. You have so much courage and strength in you... yet, somehow, I have no trouble imagining it differently. Like the flip side of a coin."
His voice was painfully earnest. Even his stammer was oddly endearing.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Carth." The woman rolled her eyes and swallowed her drink—all of it—in smooth gesture.
Polla grinned, despite herself. The woman drank like a Deralian. Of course she would.
"I've been watching you. It's not just you. It's Bastila, as well. She's so... intense. I don't pretend to know much about the Force... but I know evil."
"You think Bastila and I are evil?" The woman chuckled and signaled the bartender for another round.
"No—no—of course not. All I'm saying is that when you have so much power, the stakes are higher. I can only imagine the kind of conflict that goes on inside you."
"I can handle myself, Carth."
"I know that, and Bastila says the same thing. You're both incredible women. I'm just... I'm just not sure this is the kind of thing you can defeat. I wouldn't want to see you hurt."
Her voice faltered, and she looked startled. "That's sweet—that's really sweet. I didn't know you cared."
Carth's response was too soft to be picked up by the low-grade holocam in the Tatooine cantina. Not for the first time, Polla considered the pilot's profile, the clean lines of his face underneath the day's growth of beard and that cute lock of hair that fell over his brow.
I guess it's no surprise that she fell for him—I would have fallen for him too.
The woman who thought she was Polla put her hand over his and leaned closer, ducking her head so that her topknot fell flirtatiously over her eyes. Carth Onasi's hand reached across the table and touched her shoulder.
Polla Organa Wen stretched out on the couch. It was so hard to get comfortable now, only another month or so until the baby was born.
Where the hell is Seiran? He should be back by now.
The narrator for this segment cut in, oily and annoying. He looked like he was reading his words off a cue screen. Blue-skinned Twi'lek face—handsome enough if you liked the type—but there was something shifty in his eyes. She'd known a hundred just like him back in her smuggling days. Opportunists, every one.
His sister's death had been the best thing to ever happen to Griff Vao. He'd cashed out in spades.
"On Tatooine, Revan Starfire reunited Bastila Shan with her mother, and saved me from the Sand People. Captain Carth Onasi was constantly at her side. When I first met him, I could tell that he loved her." The Twi'lek laughed. "I think I knew before they did! I'm a pretty good judge of character."
"Revan, or Polla Organa as we called her back then, and I went into business together. It's a great sadness to me that she and my sister didn't live to see the success of their initial investment. Griff's Tarisian Brew has grown into a multi-million credit operation and helped revitalize Tatooine's faltering economy. I'm a successful businessman now; but I've never known love as those two did. Carth Onasi and Revan Starfire. Two lost souls that found renewed hope in each other, even amidst the turmoil of uncertain fate."
"They—and my sister Mission—would pay the ultimate price to ensure freedom for us all."
A tear glistened in his eye, and his head tails curled down sadly.
Griff's face faded out to a cut from the holocam: Carth Onasi and the woman leaving the bar, his arm around her slim waist.
Polla eyed their retreating forms. The pilot was cute; he looked even more like Seiran from the back. They had almost exactly the same ass. Her waist had been that skinny once too. She patted the curve of her belly.
The front door opened, and her husband came in, with a rush of rain. Startled, Polla tried to sit up fast, but Junior's bulk made it awkward because she couldn't really bend. "Stop." She said to the vid, and the image froze. "End," she said, clapping her hands fast, hoping he wouldn't see what she'd been watching.
"Really, Pollie? Again?" Seiran wasn't fooled, not for a second.
He came over and helped her to her feet. His hands were cold, and he was dripping rainwater all over the floor. Rainwater and mud. Everything was a mess already, it really didn't matter much. "Why do you watch that trash?"
"I'm bored," she reminded him. She gave him a guilty kiss. His lips were cool and smooth against his rough stubbled chin. She brushed the rain off his face, pulling his topknot straight again. She wondered what he'd look like if he let the hair on the sides grow out more.
From the smug look on his face, Seiran knew exactly what she was thinking.
"How'd the job go?" she asked him.
"It went. I got paid. And I brought you a present."
"I like presents! What is it?"
"Well you're alone so much out here, sometimes I worry. And Junior's coming soon."
"There's not much to worry about. Deralia's not exactly a Core slum. I might melt in this rain or get licked to death by wild hessi—but really, that's about it."
His hands caressed her stomach and Polla leaned into him. Even dripping wet and freezing, Seiran's touch was soothing. She'd missed him a lot, she really had. So much she wasn't even gonna bring up the crap job he'd done, fixing the threshers—and how they were all broken again.
"Humor me," Seiran said, lips brushing her ear. "The community school didn't set up those target ranges to teach us kids to fend off hessi and trawler deer. Things change."
Uh-oh, he was bugged about something. "They sure can. Hey, did you notice, I'm pregnant?"
He kissed her topknot. "You're just full-figured. Have you watched the news this week, or just that trashy vid?"
"Uh...," Polla looked at the floor. "I know it's dumb Seiran, but—it makes me happy."
"I know." He snorted. "Give me a sec, okay?" He let go of her and went outside, coming back in with a long package wrapped in white plastifoil and tied with several red bows.
"Fancy," Polla said, beaming.
Seiran helped her sit back down on the couch and sat next to her, as her eager fingers tore open the wrapping paper. Smooth blue metal, sleek and capable and secure. She pulled the heavy rifle out, whistling admiringly.
"Damn, this must have cost a fortune!"
"Wasn't so bad," her husband said. "Picked it up in a pawn shop in Derra City. Technically, it's an antique. Mandalorian design: no automatic recharge, no auto-target—but I figured you wouldn't need that anyways. There's a practice setting too—so you can play with it without blowing holes in everything."
"Disruptor beam," Polla marveled, examining the settings on the barrel. "Wow! This is awesome!"
"It's got great range too."
"You get a kiss!" She kissed him again, harder this time and he hugged her tight, the rifle smushed between them and the bulge of Seiran Junior. For a second, it was all nice and cuddly, but then she heard that sigh he gave, when he was gonna get serious.
"Hon, about the newsvids..."
Polla shrugged. "News doesn't have anything to do with us on Deralia. What is it?"
Her husband sighed, a faint frown line etching between his brows. "Vid frequency seventeen."
He clapped his hands. The particle screen sprung to life again, resolving into a desert scene, a dusty spaceport town.
Polla peered at it. "Hey, that's Anchorhead," she said. "Funny, I was just watching the Tatooine part—"
"Oh, I know what you were watching, wife of mine..." Seiran smirked. "But this isn't what I wanted to show you. They'll run it again soon, or if they don't, we'll pay for replay. You really need to see this."
"We can watch Tat. I used to love going there." Polla snuggled closer to him. His fingers played with her topknot. It looked like it was a beautiful sunny day on Tatooine, not raining at all. Whatever Seiran was upset about, she'd find out soon enough. Right now, she was just glad he was back.
"Nico Senvi, former swoop race champion turned entrepreneur, is with us now to discuss his recent acquisition of the former Czerka mining operations on Tatooine," the human reporter said.
"I'm not good with numbers," the orange Twi'lek admitted, grimacing. "But my advisors say the potential for upside is really unlimited."
"And the name of your new venture, Citizen Senvi?" the reporter asked. She batted her eyelashes at him and her voice was a dulcet purr.
"I.E. Limited, we're going public on the Coruscant Exchange next week. There's really no telling… how far this venture might go!"
"What does I.E. stand for?"
Nico Senvi chuckled. "It's a private joke," he admitted.
The reporter turned back to the holocam. "Joker or not, this young man has accomplished a great deal in a remarkably short time!"
"Hey, I remember him," Polla said. "Used to see him around Motta a lot, when I was doing spice runs. Wide-eyed kid wasn't bad with a bike—not as good as me though. Wow, people change—look at that suit he's wearing. Must have cost a fortune."
"Yeah well… this isn't what I wanted to show you."
"It's sunny on Tatooine. Hey, wanna move there? Doesn't sun sound nice?" Out with it, Sei—whatever it is, just tell me.
"Stop," Seiran said impatiently to the vid. "Order, pay per view, vids, reference, Carth Onasi, Revan Starfire—last 25 standard hours all broadcasts."
"All broadcast? Are you nuts? That'll cost a bloody fortune!" Polla squawked indignantly. "Why do you want to spend a fortune watching news about dead people?" Her face felt hot. "There's not a new… improv vid out on them, is there?"
"No. Trust me," her husband said. "This, you'll want to see."
The particle screen flickered and resolved into a man's face. Brown eyes and hair, stubbled cheeks, shadows in those eyes—eyes that looked darker and older than they had in the Coruscanti Official Version. More lines on the face too, and a touch of gray at the temples.
"My name is Captain Carth Onasi," the man said earnestly. His voice was hoarse. "I'm speaking to you now to warn you, warn you all."
A muscle twitched in his cheek. The background around him was blurred, but he appeared to be on a ship of some kind. Gray durasteel walls, text scrolled across the bottom of the screen in Basic.
Official Republic Broadcast, courtesy of Admiral Aridoma Rensha.
It was time and date stamped from the day before.
"Revan Starfire did not die at the Star Forge..."
"Shit," said Polla Organa Wen. After a while, she realized her mouth was still hanging open and she closed it.
Seiran pulled her closer and they watched together in silence.
After some more time, Polla found her voice again. It sounded surprisingly subdued and she realized she was holding her new rifle very tightly with both hands, pressed against Seiran Junior's bulge like a shield.
"So… the Dark Lord of the Sith is alive."
"Yeah," her husband said.
Polla tried to think about what that might mean for the fate of the galaxy—she really did. But really, this wasn't just about that at all. This was… personal.
"I guess… she must know everything about me." her voice trailed off uncertainly.
"Yeah," Seiran said. "The question is—does she care?"
XXX
"Revan Starfire did not die at the Star Forge. She fell to the Dark Side and reclaimed her title as Dark Lord of the Sith. She killed… she killed four of our companions. Jolee Bindo, Juhani of Mer, Mission Vao, and Bastila Shan."
"Father..." Dustil whispered. They were in Mekel's cousin's flat on sub45. They crashed here sometimes, when Rekk Jin was out of town. The illegal holofeed was blurry and full of static; but that was his father's face—no mistake. His father's face and his father's voice.
This wasn't some actor—this was real. And it was live.
He's not dead, he's not dead. If he's not dead why didn't he come for me?
Dustil clenched his fists. "I need to get to a terminal," he said out loud. "If he's alive, he'll have sent me a message. I need to check."
Mekel snorted. "Information is free on Coruscant." His voice was acid. "Free for all citizens. Which we're not—remember?"
"We'll find a way—I did before!"
"You had papers from the Council then, we all did. And what happened? There were reporters chasing you. We had to ditch everything and come back down here." Mekel gestured at the walls, encompassing the flickering light, the dark crust of mold along the foamcrete walls, the water dripping softly from the sewer pipes over their heads. "I swore I'd never come back to this. I grew up in a room like this, Telos boy. You have no idea what it was like."
No idea, huh? Selene and I scavenged for food for a month through the rubble before the Sith patrol found us. You have no idea what it's like to see your world fall apart!
Korriban was my world, you idiot. It was my way out of this frackhole.
They glared at each other.
Dustil drew his thoughts back into his own mind and slammed it shut.
It happened sometimes, their thoughts interlacing without either of them intending it. It had been happening since Korriban, but it happened more now.
Sometimes Dustil thought they'd grown closer than either of them wanted to admit. There was a dark complicity in the Underground—and the things they did here; although they never spoke about them out loud.
"You know I never twisted your arm to come with me." Dustil was pissed now. "You could have taken the same offer the others took."
Mekel just looked at him. "Redemption? Forgiveness? Frack that." His voice was flat. "I saw how that worked for her.No thanks." His dark eyebrows knit in a frown. "You said you don't trust the Republic either."
"I don't!" Dustil snapped. "But that's my father!" My father said Mission is dead.
His thoughts about the Twi'lek were confused—anger for what she'd done to him mixed with… what had happened. His second kiss and his third. He'd hoped maybe she wasn't dead too.
Everything I love dies, everyone I care about—or could care about—dies.
"Telos," Mekel's hand brushed his shoulder. "I'm sorry about the girl."
"It's okay." He gave a sharp laugh. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now."
"I escaped," Carth's voice said emptily. "I escaped on Manaan, and realized that for some, there can be no salvation." His eyes looked down and away from the camera.
Dustil looked more closely at the image, trying to reconcile this shattered man with the one he'd seen last on Korriban.
XXX
"I'm proud of you, Dustil. You aren't hanging onto a lie after you see it for what it is. Not everyone could do that."
"I want to come with you," Dustil insisted stubbornly. Carth looked away.
"You can't," his father said finally. "It's—it's too dangerous. We might not—make it back."
XXX
"But you did, you did make it back. Why didn't you find me?"
Mekel looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "If you want to look for your father, I'll come."
Carth's eyes looked at the screen again. "They say I'm a hero," he said. "They say I set the demolitions that blew the Star Forge shields. I don't remember." His eyes closed, and a muscle twitched in his cheek.
His voice continued, emotionless and tired.
"I had a chance to kill Revan Starfire and I didn't take it. She twisted me, like she twists everything she touches. She told me that she—that Revan destroyed Telos to make Karath prove his loyalty. The Sith must be stopped. Nothing else matters—except—except my son."
"Dustil, if you can hear me—if you see this—come to the Republic Embassy on Coruscant. Please. I need to see you again."
"Well there it is," Mekel drawled. "I guess you're saved, Telos. No more Underground for you."
"Shut up." Dustil kicked him, to hammer in the point.
The transmission cut out, replaced by a droning Bothan voice and star maps of the purported locations of the remaining Sith Fleet. Star charts and images of the remaining Sith worlds. Korriban spun for a moment like a red-gray pearl; then Ziost, Ossus, Thule, Elom and Almania.
Then Telos: a blue and green ball speckled horribly with black, caught in the balance between Republic space and Sith.
The Republic anthem played, sonorous and melancholy.
Dustil cursed. "Telos," he whispered. "Telos—my mother and—and—Mission!" He felt the Force, always so close to the surface, surge through him. Use your hate, Uthar had advised. Use your hate and your loss and your passion. Through your emotions, the Force will serve you. "Revan has a lot to answer for."
"Sure, but not—did they say Telos?" Mekel sounded surprised.
"I'll destroy her," Dustil whispered, fists clenched. "I'll find her and make her pay for what she did. How could you!" He yelled at the vid. "How could you be so blind, Father?"
"But Revan didn't—Darth Revan didn't—"
Power to do anything, anything I want. Power to make her pay, pay for what she's done.
"Dustil!" Mekel was yelling now. He sounded frantic and—and scared? "Darth Revan didn't attack Telos! Malak did! She sent him after the Kuat shipyards. He went after Telos instead. Against her orders. No one knows why he disobeyed her—or why she didn't destroy him for it—but she didn't. But it wasn't Revan, it was Malak who attacked Telos! Your father—that vid—it's wrong."
"That is my father," Dustil said, staring at the screen. "I know that's him."
"Well, he's fracking lying. I was at the Academy when Telos happened. Uthar and Bandon both were expecting big promotions after Malak fracked up. Bandon was pissed when Malak didn't die, and he had a big mouth. Revan didn't order the attack on Telos. The vid is wrong—even if that is your father up there, the vid is still lying. Your father lies—or someone else lied to him."
Dustil unclenched his fists and stared at the screen. They were replaying his father's words again, and now the image of Darth Revan reborn, giving orders to the Sith Fleet. He turned and looked at Mekel. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Did the Dark Lord just say 'please' to the Sith Armada? "'Please follow the instructions?" And is that Ban, standing behind her?
Maybe Revan might go back to the Dark Side, but Ban? She was so far up the Jedi Order's ass she could have charged. Mekel's right… something… something's wrong here.
Mekel wasn't lying. He could tell that. The Force bond between them flickered uneasily. If he wanted to, he could see Mekel's memory in his own mind. But he didn't want to. Dustil slammed the connection closed and took a deep breath. His own memories were bad enough; he didn't need to see Mekk's too.
XXX
"Come here, I want to show you something."
"Hm, what could you possibly want to show me in this old tub of a freighter?"
A slender blue hand covered his mouth, and she giggled. "I hear they have this great supply closet—the view's really cool."
"The view of what?"
She giggled again and slung the heavy bag over her other shoulder. Her lekku brushed his cheek, and she smelled like mints and the sweet Corellian wine they'd filched from Uthar's rooms. Dustil had no idea why she'd insisted in carrying that heavy bag… but he didn't care.
He'd follow her anywhere. Mission Vao was like no girl he'd ever met—not even Selene.
XXX
Dustil reached his hand in the pocket of his coverall. The crumpled note was still there, folded many times. He carried it with him always. That seemed the safest thing to do, even though he'd memorized the words long ago. Somehow, he'd never had the heart to throw it away.
Mekel's mouth twitched, as his eyes followed the gesture. "Look, you said you have a way to send a message to your father? Why don't we try that? But careful, okay? Something about this stinks."
"Okay." At least they'd be doing something. And Father was alive. Dustil glanced at the screen again. Darth Revan's face, and his father's on split screen.
"Okay. Then let's do it. We can sit around here, and roll pervs anytime." Mekel elbowed him. "So… you want to find a mark with an idchip? Ride the tube uptown to the civi and use a public term?"
Dustil frowned. "No," he said. "We need untraceable access—public terms aren't safe enough. If there is something wrong, I don't want to leave any trail back to us. We're safe down here. We can't jeopardize that."
"Right," Mekel muttered, looking at the dripping walls. "Safe down here." He sighed and crossed his arms. "What are you thinking we should do?"
"The Library. Free terminals inside. Serving the Public's Right for Information, just like the ads say on the tube."
" The Library. Not just one of the branches?" Mekel swallowed hard.
" The Library is the only one with sentients checking ids at the door. At the door and nowhere else… once we're inside, we can look at whatever we want. Anywhere else, we leave an electronic trail."
Mekel snickered. "You're a fool to think there's no trail in The Library too."
Yeah, probably. Remind me again how young and naïve I am again—please? That never gets old.
You are young and naïve, Telos. I'm sorry but you are.
Shut up.
Am I talking? Do you see my lips moving? Mekel raised his eyebrows and smirked.
"If we use an idchip, the record can be traced. Even if we make the mark missing permanently—it might leave a trail to down here...and then maybe to us. I can get us past the door guards at The Library, no prob." Dustil tried to sound assured. He was pretty sure that he could, anyways.
You'd better be sure.
Get out of my mind!
I think you're in mine. I just hope you're right.
If you don't like my plan, don't come—I don't need you!
I—didn't say I wouldn't come. I said I would. Mekel walked across the room and picked up his coat from the floor, brushing a few slugs off the front of it absently. Dustil shuddered. He'd never live down here long enough to get used to the local wildlife.
"I'm bringing my blade," the Coruscanti boy said softly. "I suggest you do the same."
He tugged out the plimfoam box from under the fresher sink and rummaged through their worldly possessions, pulling out the two smooth silver cylinders.
Dustil's mouth went a little dry and he hand went up automatically, catching his 'saber in his hand. It felt so right, like it belonged there.
It did. Erimac had been weak and he'd been strong. Among the Sith it was all that easy. Sometimes Dustil missed that clean simplicity.
Only it hadn't been simple, had it? Selene… Selene wasn't weak—she was just an obstacle. An obstacle for Uthar to dispose of. Unless—what if Father lied had about that? What if Revan had done something to him? What if this was all some kind of elaborate trap?
Mekel's thoughts cut into his smooth as a vibroblade. Seriously? Do you even hear yourself? The shorter boy spoke out loud. "Let's go to The Library, conveniently located, as it is, next to The Jedi Temple, and send your fracking message. Okay?"
"Okay." Dustil shoved him. Stay out of my brain.
Mekel shoved him back. "What brain?" And Telos? Let's—let's not get caught.
Right.
XXX
"Bantha poodoo," the ship's speakers cursed.
"Is that a request?" Rulan Prolik looked up from the printouts of Coruscant's underground that she'd made for him. He was looking like a blue Twi'lek still—only male this time. He sorta looked like Griff, if Griff had ever had a brain.
On Tatooine, the temperature of water sent to a certain brewery's vats suddenly went up by several degrees. Somewhere on Anchorhead, a million gallons of Tarisian ale boiled over, spoiled.
"No, it was an expletive. Take a look at this."
Mission ran the vids. Captain Carth Onasi, speaking against the scourge of the Sith. Plus, associated commentary. If she'd had a mouth, she'd be frowning. She'd expected them to try and make him turn, but she hadn't thought he'd actually do it.
Carth was the stubbornest guy she'd ever met. Except maybe for his son.
And he really loved Revan too. Revan wasn't gonna be happy about this, either.
Maybe it was good that the Hoth's outside communication bands were still blocked. She and Rulan would be on Coruscant in another two days. Carth would be landing there—just about now. They still had time to turn this around. After all, she could always try an override on the nets. She'd rather not be that obvious though, the orbital defenses weren't really ready, and she needed to expand more….
Poor Carth. Bad stuff always seemed to happen to him.
On the bright side, maybe his dim-witted son would finally find a terminal and try and send a message to his father. If she could get to Dustil before they did… well that would help with Carth. Also, FIND!DUSTIL was locked in her programming surely as anything else. Practically a prime directive.
Part of her wondered if she'd still want to find him even without that.
Maybe she would, even if he was a complete kinrath turd.
There was something odd going on Tatooine too… she put a few processors to work on figuring that out. Some entrepreneur was opening up all the old mines again. Sort of weird, they'd been tapped out over thirty thousand years ago, back when a part of her had still been young.
Freyyrr had her run the scenario again. The one where they lost half the trees and gained an ocean. It was workable, might be workable, but she was trying to talk him out of it. Easier to just make an ocean world somewhere else. More stable that way too. One kind of world for each zone. Mission liked everything organized. Clean as circuitry. Anyways that was years away… but Freyyrr was a dreamer.
She would have smiled fondly.
Coruscanti Senators' terms were one hundred standard years long and hereditary. D'Reev's term of service was at one hundred and two years, twenty-eight days, seven hours, sixteen minutes… round it off. So, when his heir came of age, (he did have one; but she couldn't tap more than that since the heir wasn't old enough to be recognized), the old man would be out. If Darth Malak had lived, D'Reev would've been out already. For her own amusement, Mission ran a scenario where Malak hadn't died, and he'd taken over his father's Senate seat. It was kind of funny—if you thought long bloody civil wars were funny—and part of her, of course, did—but ultimately impractical. The other Senate Houses would have killed him off before it got that far, probably. The Senate aristocracy had more complicated rules than the actual Senate.
So, now she could see why D'Reev had been in bed with the Jedi, so to speak. And he definitely was. There was that vid, and the weirdness happening now on Manaan. Malak had been a threat to his father, personally. But why would the Jedi bother with D'Reev?
Well, one answer might be power. Much and they hemmed and hawed and denied it, she'd noticed certain patterns. The Jedi liked everything tidy, drawn in nice clean lines. Good and bad. Black and white. Mission could understand that; even if it seemed to drive most sentients to the edge of reason trying to live up to that structure. If D'Reev offered them power to make things black and white...and the man, say what you might about him, did have power… perhaps they'd align their goals with his. After all, Darth Malak was a threat to them all.
But all of D'Reev's actions lately seemed to be focused against Polla-Revan. Was it personal? She considered that. Polla-Revan wasn't really a threat to much of anyone at the moment, although the potential was there. The Sith nets were buzzing with as much speculation as the Republic. Mission predicted fighting would break out on those worlds soon—as what government they had left split to either follow—or rebel—against the presumed Dark Lord of the Sith. Would D'Reev care about that? He was in a position to profit off it.
Did D'Reev care about profit?
"Are you still trying to get through to Hulas's ship?" Rulan asked her politely.
"Yep," Mission said. "I hope Big Z can open communications from inside. I mean we could intercept their flight path and flash lights at them, but I'm still working on just patching in. That would delay our arrival way too much, and there's stuff we have to do on Coruscant before they get there."
Maybe it was ideological? The Republic really did dislike the Sith. Mission remembered hating the Sith too. The Sith had been mean on Taris, no question. But...as a computer you get to see a lot of intel. The Republic weren't exactly saints either. They'd certainly never helped the Wookiees against Czerka. Mission admitted a certain bias there, but facts were facts. Half the Senate owned shares in Czerka—rumored Sith lackey corporation or not.
On the floor of the Coruscanti exchange, shares in the Czerka Corporation, which had hovered close to the delisted mark for months, suddenly rose, as an anonymous foreign party made a run on the company. Inevitable speculation followed, driving up the price. When the shares rose fifty percent, the foreign party dumped them. Profits spun into a nice unmarked Alderaanian bank account. Alderaan was such an understanding planet about privacy, Mission really liked them. Czerka Corp. stock plunged back down again, as everyone bailed in a panic.
D'Reev himself lost over ten million credits. Not that he'd notice, but it was funny.
They needed more credits anyways.
"Do you know a way to get through to the Hoth?" Mission asked Rulan. Perhaps the shapeshifter was hinting at something. Or maybe he was just bored, she hadn't spoken to him much in the last few days.
"I could ask Hulas," Rulan offered.
Computers don't get angry exactly, but once, she'd been a fourteen-year-old girl. Mission let that part come out for a moment and say exactly what the real Mission would have.
"I've been working on this for a week and all you had to do was ask? You stupid nerf-herding bantha choob-sack!"
"Perhaps I should just kill you," she added, in Revan's best ominous voice.
Rulan frowned and looked sad. Of course, him looking sad made him look more like Griff, which didn't exactly improve her mood—as much as she had moods.
"You didn't tell me it was important," he said. "You only mentioned it out loud, because you wanted to know if Hulas owned the Hoth. I told you that he did, and you got all quiet again."
He even sounded like Griff. He was doing it on purpose. Mission never should have let him watch that dumb vid. She would have rolled her eyes. Instead she just said, "I assumed you didn't want to contact Hulas because he'd put a contract out on your life?"
"Nice of you to be concerned." Rulan Prolik answered. "But he doesn't know that I know that. Although, he certainly may suspect."
Freyyrr wanted to know if they could make one of Kashyyyk's moon into a grassy plain full of worthy predators for young Wookiees. Mission really did admire his vision… but she'd have to convince him to think on a larger scale. Well—she had nothing but time.
"Besides," Rulan continued, "Hulas is small time. If he hadn't clumsily assassinated his Overlord, he'd have no rank at all. He won't last, his kind never do."
"Sure." If she had shoulders…. "Whatever. Go ahead, patch in and ask him."
"I'm transmitting with a thirty second delay," she added.
"The delay could tip our hand." Rulan warned her.
"My brother once said to me; don't teach your mother how to splice a security lock. He said ours was very good at it." Mission replied. "I told you… go ahead and ask him, I'm assuming you'll include some kind of threat with the request. I expect it will be sufficient."
Besides, D'Reev probably knew whatever it was Hulas wanted him to know already. She could learn a lot more about the Genoharadan from what Rulan chose to say.
The message was simple and seemingly uncoded.
Hulas, need to contact your packages on the Hoth. Provide access codes in the name of the One we serve. He will be more merciful than I.
-Rulan
"Who do you serve?" Mission asked. As far as she'd been able to research, the ancient order of assassins served only themselves. Although it was odd, most of their profits went to small religious orders on Inner Rim worlds. Not a lot of pattern through; not like, one religion or anything. In fact, none of the religions seemed to have anything in common at all.
"The One," Rulan answered. His lekku twitched.
The incoming message was already streaming in; she'd deal with Rulan Prolik afterwards.
Thisla. Sapient. Pulpy. 432873.
Rulan, you've been lost in a forest, old one. Here are the codes you've requested, but the One supports my efforts, not yours. You are forewarned.
-Hulas.
"Sounds like he might be mad at you," Mission said mildly. "Give me a sec, and we'll talk, okay?"
She began running closer scans on those religious organizations.
"There are more things, in space and ground to be learned than in your silver circuitry," Rulan said ominously.
Mission ignored him—for now. What-ever.
Thisla. Sapient. Pulpy. 432873.
Girl from Hoth, acknowledges Blue Ghost. How may I serve you?
Visual. FTL. Immediate.
Dance across the nets and there she was.
"Hey guys!" Mission said brightly to a large room that seemed to have been converted from a bridge to some kind of living quarters. A lump stirred under a pile of blankets on the long couch in the middle of the room.
The room was a total mess, but Polla-Revan had always been a complete slob so that wasn't surprising. It looked like something had literally exploded too. White dust everywhere.
A red head appeared from under the blankets and stared at her. Polla-Revan did look much better, that was good to see. Much less Sithy than she'd been.
"Mission?" Polla-Revan rubbed her eyes, looking confused.
Mission sharpened the holo-image a little more. Maybe it was showing off, but she'd been able to refine the program to look much less fuzzy than most holo-projections. It only took a bit of focus—and the ability to process a few trillion more bytes of data.
"Listen up boss, we've got problems."
Polla-Revan sat up, pulling the blankets around herself. "Problems," she echoed. "Of course. I'm dreaming. What do you need to show me?"
"Nope, this is real. Listen. They—Malachi's D'Reev's people—have turned Carth against you. There're broadcasts going out on wideband across the galaxy about your return as the Dark Lord of the Sith. And they've got Carth saying all sorts of bad things about how evil you are. It's totally not fair."
Polla-Revan looked tired. "Carth against me. I—was afraid of something like that." She lifted her chin. "We have to save him anyways, Mission. It's an… It's an order."
"As you command, Lord Revan," Mission said. Perhaps that was the wrong way to say it though because Polla-Revan winced and looked even more unhappy.
"Anything you say, sis!" she qualified.
Polla-Revan sighed. "Listen, Mission… there's more. There's—someone else we need to—"
"I'm still working on Dustil!"
"Yes, Dustil too. But… Malak and I had a son. His name is Malachor D'Reev. He's eight years old. He's… on Coruscant, in the D'Reev Senator's house." Her eyes turned stony. "We're taking him back."
It was kind of neat, being a supercomputer and still being able to be surprised about something, but that actually made lots of other things fall into place.
"Did you marry Malak?" As a fourteen-year-old Twi'lek who'd actually seen Darth Malak, (albeit from a distance on the Hawk's cameras in the Leviathan hangar bay); and not to mention those soppy holovids of them holding hands in fields of flowers that kept getting broadcast from the Coruscanti Underground—the entire concept was pretty gross. But… politically?
The marriage angle opened up an entirely new arena.
Polla-Revan nodded. "Apparently so." There seemed to be a lot of emotion there somewhere, by the way she was biting her lip and trying not to cry, but Mission didn't press the issue.
Revan crying right now would be really inefficient.
"That explains a lot."
"I'll get the others." Polla-Revan got up, still wrapped in the blankets. Somehow, she managed to look regal that way instead of completely ridiculous. Polla-Revan was like that. "You can explain it to all of us."