The Eglatine Institute
Chapter 11 / The Eglatine Institute
The Selkath guards led her into the small gray chamber and left her there. The old man's hands were folded and quiet on the table, and his eyes were closed. The door closed with a watery hiss.
Vrook Lamar looked up. "Sit down," he said.
Yuthura complied, folding her hands as neatly as his. She sat up straight, t'chun and t'chin quiet against her neck, and stared him down.
"I'm surprised that they've agreed to let you be our arbiter."
He raised an eyebrow. "The Selkath honor the defendant's request for counsel. It's a Manaan statute."
"And your—superiors?" She tried to keep her voice light.
Something that almost looked like a spine flashed in Vrook's eyes. "You can speak frankly. The Selkath place a high value on privacy between counsel and client."
"Ah," she said—and waited to see what he'd do.
He nodded. "I'd expect you to be suspicious, but you have to know I'm not… against your cause."
"The Jedi sent me to the Sith Embassy to watch Revan. To see if she'd kill anyone."
Vrook grimaced and looked down. "She didn't." he said. His voice was low.
"No. She didn't." Yuthura let the emptiness wash over her like water. Clear water. She would not think of them. The table was smooth and solid under her hands. She tried to be the same.
The old Jedi stared at his hands. "Regret does not seem adequate. I was in the wars, against Exar Kun. I do...know, Yuthura, how—how difficult—this—"
"I tried to save them. But they wouldn't listen. Kel Algwinn was sixteen. On Korriban he was one of my most disappointing students. Too much fear and doubt to be a true Sith. Here on Manaan, he was a just a boy who wanted to be important. He didn't ask for mercy. And so, he got none."
His eyes scanned her face. There was sympathy in them.
Yuthura chose to ignore it. "I suspect nothing has really changed," she continued. "The same old story. Revan makes a mess, the rest of us clean it up."
Vrook almost visibly flinched.
Yuthura went on. She hadn't meant to keep talking, but once started, it was hard to stop. Part of her really didn't care anymore. That was easier than the alternative. "Now you'll tell me that this is all part of the Council's plan. Getting her safely off-world to fulfill whatever destiny you think she has in store. Maybe you'll say something like, 'with great destiny comes great responsibility' or, 'the Force moves in mysterious ways.' Or, perhaps there are forces at work that I simply cannot understand?"
One of her lekku curled around her neck in frustration and she made it unbend.
Vrook lifted his head slowly. "Maybe there are," he said. "I had no part in sending you to the Embassy, Yuthura. But you saved them. You… changed things."
"I couldn't save them all."
His eyes were bleak. "No one ever can." He shifted on his chair. "The Council isn't toothless. We won't let you be martyrs. Your goal is a noble one. Save Manaan's oceans. Heal the kolto."
"The Council doesn't care about us." There was more heat in her voice than she'd intended.
"Perhaps before, that was true," he admitted. "But they care now."
"Did the Council care about Carth Onasi too?"
"The Council had no part in that."
"I've seen the vid. The Selkath jailors like to keep us entertained. I met the man, Vrook. I saw what he was to her—and what Revan was to him. Do you expect me to believe that his mind could be twisted without the Force?"
"You, as well as anyone should know that not all Force users are Jedi. But I'm not sure in Onasi's case that the Force was involved at all. Wann and his ilk… there's more than you know."
"More like, you don't want to tell me for fear of it reaching the nets."
"It would never reach the nets. Or if it did it would be a different story entirely. I thought you understood that much, Yuthura Ban. From your own experiences."
This time it was her that flinched.
XXX
"She was my first friend. Revan Starfire was the first person I'd met who seemed to care, really care about who I was. And who I'd been." Yuthura was crying, and once the tears began, they would not stop. She never cried, had never cried, but the Bothan reporter stared at her with large, liquid eyes and patted her clumsily with his cloven hand.
"I understand this must be difficult for you."
"I just can't believe she's dead!" Yuthura took a deep breath, and sipped the glass of water, struggling for composure. "In a way, I suppose she was the first person I ever loved."
XXX
There'd been much more, but she didn't want to think about it. That horrible Bothan… cow twisted everything.
Vrook sighed. "I'm sorry."
"I resent her, you know," her voice was quiet and artificially calm. "My public humiliation was not her fault, but I resent her for it." She laughed. "For something as small and petty as the intimation of unrequited love, I resent her. Even now."
"Especially now, I'd think," Vrook said. "I do—understand."
Suddenly Master Vrook didn't look like a member of the Jedi Council to her; just a tired old man.
Revan's only living relative. She remembered the way he'd lurk in the public corridors of Ahto City, watching each Revan pretender, even when they all knew she was dead.
Or thought we knew.
"I don't want to talk about Revan. You're my arbiter. We're on trial for our lives."
"I understand. But there's one thing more. There was a man in the Sith Embassy called the Master of Games. One of the others told me they also called him Darth Lin. Lin's a common name on several systems; but the rumor is… that he was something more than common. And that he left with Revan. Can you tell me more?"
Yuthura shrugged her lekku, trying not to be angry.
Ten of us on trial for our lives, twenty-two more held on suspicion of 'collaboration' and it still comes back to her.
"He called himself Oerin Lin."
Interesting, how that name made Vrook Lamar pale. She blinked with her best impassive stare.
"He seemed to know her. Her droid tried to kill him. They spoke together in Mandalorian. I can recognize the language; but I don't speak it. I don't know what they said. He knelt before her and recognized her as Darth Revan."
"You're sure it was Mandalorian? That he spoke?" Vrook looked like a man already convinced of something, but desperate to be mistaken.
Yuthura nodded. "I'm sure. I interrogated enough of them to recognize the language."
I've heard them curse me in it. Force-resistant species that they are.
"And he left with Revan?"
"Perhaps he just jumped off the loading dock—or was pushed," Yuthura said coolly. "I don't know. I didn't see him again."
Lin wasn't one of the ones I had to kill. But his last orders came through: scar the Revan pretenders. They were working on Sheris, when Armon and Beya and I broke down the door of the medical bay. They used acid on one side of her face. I cut down four of them before I even had a chance to feel them die.
Vrook only nodded, his face settling back into a perfect mask. The Twi'lek's eyes narrowed. Masks could be cracked.
"Are you worried Lin will tell her something about the Mandalorian wars?"
"Leave it alone," Vrook said.
"I'm sure my companions could tell you more about Lin, Master Vrook. I only enjoyed the hospitality of the Sith Embassy for a very brief time."
His eyes met hers frankly. "I tried. They don't trust me."
"And are you surprised?" It was her old voice, her careless teacher's voice, mocking, prying, and heartless. A part of her enjoyed watching him squirm underneath that hollow Jedi composure. Whoever this Lin was, he bothered Vrook a great deal.
Whoever he is, I'll find out later. Whoever he is, I don't care.
"Our trial," she reminded him, "starts in two weeks."
"It will be a formality," Vrook said.
"And then?"
"Then you'll be free to go."
"Anywhere we want?"
Vrook's smile twisted. "You're Republic citizens. The Republic grants all freedoms to its own."
"You know it is almost— amusing. I was born on Sleheyron when it was a Republic world, and yet… I don't remember ever being called a citizen."
"Master Jorak Uln and I exchanged correspondence, some seven years ago, when you were at the Jedi Academy on Donovia."
She refused to let him see how much the abrupt change of subject rattled her.
"Master Jorak was always fond of writing, before he went mad," Yuthura said lightly. "Such a pity about the Donovian Academy. It was quite close to the Hydian Way. After we left for Korriban, I heard it burned."
"He wrote to me because I had experience with sith'ae'rah. Are you familiar with the term?"
"It's a Sith training technique." Yuthura frowned, not willing to admit he'd piqued her curiosity, at least a little. "I don't know much of the detail; it requires a very young impressionable mind."
"An ancient Sith training… yes." The lines on his forehead got deeper and there was a something that looked like a scowl on his face. "Conditioning really. Take a Force-sensitive subject young enough and make them kill. The resultant trauma is transformative."
"Jorak overestimated my ability. I wasn't that young when I killed Omeesh. And I felt him die most exquisitely." Yuthura pondered. "I'm no sith'ae'rah. From what I recall, the methods are impractical. Death on a large scale? Make a young child kill? Most wouldn't have the strength."
Vrook said nothing. She was eerily reminded of Jorak's old methods of teaching, ones she'd used herself. Lead the student to ask the right questions. Give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves on the answers.
"W— the Sith do not have the same squeamishness about death that the Order does," Yuthura said. We Sith do not have the same squeamishness. No, not we—I am not Sith anymore. Hanging myself on the answers. Damn him. She examined a small stain on her robe to hide her discomfiture. A scorch mark on the plain brown cortosis weave. Her fingers picked at the fabric.
Vrook politely ignored her confusion, although he surely missed nothing. "The Sith suffer the same results as the Jedi. There's a reason the Sith always lose. Instability comes with the dark side. Things always fall apart."
"Madness." Yuthura said flatly, trying not to remember how it felt.
"You're no sith'ae'rah; but… Jorak was right. You find a reserve—a detachment. It's what kept you alive all those years. It's the strength that pulled you out of Korriban. Helped you save the others. In some ways, it's a gift."
"What is your experience with this gift, Master Vrook?" With a sinking feeling she knew the answer already.
Her again, it always comes back to her.
"Heroes are made, not born." The old man sighed. "Sometimes even by accident."
"There are no accidents."
"Perhaps not, to the Force itself. But for us sentients… sometimes the lines are harder to read. Perhaps it was no accident that you are here now, Yuthura Ban. Perhaps..." he stared at his hands again, speaking almost to himself. "Perhaps none of this is an accident. Even Oerin Lin."
"I made a choice," Yuthura said.
"Indeed. As I am doing now. To support your cause." He raised his head up. For the first time she could almost see the family resemblance. His chin lifted in that same stubborn tilt she'd seen before on Revan's face, that same fixed expression. Blind conviction, no matter what the cost. "Shall we meet this fate together?"
She pulled her lips back from her teeth. Perhaps it was a smile. "Absolutely."
XXX
The tube rattled on and up. It was crowded this time of day. Whatever time that was, Dustil wasn't exactly sure. There wasn't much difference down below between day and night. But a large number of unders were going uptown now and he and Mekel were just two more in the crowd. Two more pasty humans who hadn't seen the sun in ages.
When they hit sub20, the ticket-taking droid came along the aisle, grinding its way through the press of sentients. Mekel paid cash credits for them both, and the droid stamped their hands with holographic ink. Round trip to back down below. Above sub20, the tube cost money. Below that, it was a public service for the unders—one of the few.
When they'd first come here, Mekel told him Coruscant was sometimes called the Reef. For thousands of years, the city-planet had been built and settled like layers upon layers of crap. Above sub20, which was groundside, there were skyways and air and streets that actually saw the cloud-covered sun. The Jedi Academy and the Library were built on what had once been a mountain, connecting around level 30 at the lowest points, and reaching up into the 50's at the highest spires. The Senate chambers were just down the street on Thantos. All the streets in the Chancellor's District were named after Republic planets.
This tube line ran along 20 for a while, humming through a curved white tunnel just below groundside. Dustil stared out the window at the holo ads projected on the walls.
A green Twi'lek girl's face pursed her lips in a kiss, Shsiaeo Lipbalm. An ad for the Republic Fleet promised Excitement and Adventure. Quen-xo Colony Ships bound for Onderon spoke about Exploration and Rebuilding.
Dustil twisted the note in his pocket. The Twi'lek ad beckoned again. Soft, kissable, fragrant.
XXX
Mission smelled like the bitter cigarra they'd shared and mints and sweet wine. The damn box was really heavy.
"What's in this thing?" Dustil grumbled as they carried it up the Ebon Hawk's loading ramp. The cargo lift was broken, and it was very late. The other inhabitants of the Hawk were fast asleep—he hoped. He'd seen them around Dreshdae. The Cathar and the old man stuck out like Gamorreans at a dress ball—or Jedi in a nest of Sith, which was what they were. He didn't want to get any closer.
Maybe he wasn't Sithboy now, but the Jedi still gave him the creeps.
"I dunno, it's just something we're gonna deliver to Tatooine. There's a Hutt there who'll pay lots of credits for it. Smugglers don't ask questions." She grinned impishly. "Polla taught me that."
Dustil's muscles strained with the effort of getting the thing up the ramp. His arms and his Force were both taxed. Mission was having trouble with her end too; but she was stronger than she looked.
"Her name's not Polla."
The Twi'lek looked indignant. "It is too! If she doesn't remember being—" she lowered her voice, even though at this hour there was no one around to hear them-" Revan— it's like she's not!"
My father's fracking the Dark Lord of the Sith.
Dustil still couldn't believe it, but he'd seen them together. His father looked at her with that same moonblind expression he'd had whenever Mother ran into his arms. It was awkward enough before he knew who Polla really was. But then she'd gone and told him….
"Trust me," she'd said. "The Sith will only lead you to death. I should know. I understand how it feels."
Dustil helped Mission carry the box down the curving hall to the cargo bay, moving as quietly as they could. He was left with a vague impression of the rest of the ship. Clean lines: ones his father would appreciate. The Hawk was an old disc design. Corellian Ship Yards, about two hundred years old. Father taught him everything about makes and models. She'd be fast and easy to handle. Not a lot of defense, but a smuggler's ship only needed to be fast. The Hawk was a smuggler's ship.
Stolen, Mission had told him, winking coolly. Stolen from a dead man on Taris.
He wished they'd let him come with them—wherever it was that they were going.
They'd been so careful not to say. On some quest to save the galaxy.
Like you'd do anything less than that, Father. To hear you go on that's like, your job.
Finally, they set the crate down in the almost-empty cargo bay.
Mission sat on top of it and beamed bright as a supernova. "Thanks. If I didn't look out for our credit supply, I'd swear we'd all starve."
Dustil shrugged. "No prob."
"Let's see… what should we do now?" She had that smile on her face again, the one that made him go soft inside. She was so different than Selene; but it was that same soft feeling. A weak feeling, the Sith might say; but Dustil didn't care anymore. He tried to sound just as nonchalant.
"I dunno, what do you want to do?"
She giggled. "I think we should get off the Hawk, for starters. If Jolee catches me tipsy he'll give me a big old lecture. Important day tomorrow and all of that."
"Okay, where do you want to go?" He was trying to look like he didn't really care, but she'd gotten up again and was moving closer to him.
Mission was so pretty, Dustil wondered if she knew that. And the way her red armor hugged her every curve made his head spin. He had a sinking feeling that he was blushing. Her eyes were so round and blue. She was close enough now to put an arm around her waist, and he did so, cautiously, remembering what had happened the first time he'd hit on her.
Their faces were very close now, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. She smelled terrific, like mint and sweet wine.
"The cantina's closed, and the Academy's a bit too public," she purred. She sorta looked like a little girl trying out being a woman—maybe overdoing it a little; but Dustil didn't mind at all. He couldn't believe his luck.
The events of the last few weeks all narrowed down to her face and that smile.
Her lips brushed his lightly. Dustil shivered. Mission looked pleased. She grabbed his hand.
"There's this freighter," she said. "No guards and I can pick the lock. They're not loading til tomorrow… you wanna check it out?"
Dustil didn't even wonder about why there were no guards. He just followed her. Her hand was calloused and small and capable. He tried not to think about the things he wanted it to do… because of course she'd never do that. And he wouldn't ask. But maybe… she'd let him kiss her again.
Their second kiss, in the supply closet of the Dominion's Bounty, was open-mouthed and a little sweaty. Her breath tasted like sweet wine and mints. Her lekku brushed his cheek. She was sitting half on his lap. He never wanted her to leave.
Then Mission's wide blue eyes blinked, and she took a deep breath, as if she was about to say something momentous.
But all she said was, "I'm sorry."
Then she jabbed a trank in his arm. The world spun out. He was out for two days.
When Dustil woke up, the ship's engines hummed with a hyperdrive whine. He sat there in the closet quietly for another day or so; seething, reading the note over and over again.
Outside, he could hear voices and feet; but he'd been too embarrassed to ask for help. He could tell that Mekel was there. And some of the others too.
It was fracking humiliating.
Eventually, the door opened, and there they all were. Yuthura looked almost concerned—an expression he'd never expected to see on her face—not that he'd ever expected to see her face again. Thalia and Odoo just laughed. 'Phile ignored him. Kel kept asking him what happened; but Dustil didn't talk about it, not to any of them.
Mekel just looked at him—for once, not saying anything. And Dustil knew why.
Mekel understood what it was like to be caught in something completely beyond your control.
XXX
Dear Sithboy,
I'm sorry about leaving you locked up like this, but I promised two very important people I'd make sure you wouldn't get hurt, and really bad stuff is about to go down. Below is some infoz you can use to contact us—maybe when this is all over if you don't hate me already—we can have that third kiss.
I think you're pretty cool, you know. It wasn't all an act.
xxooxxoo
Blue
XXX
Now on the tube Dustil had something caught in his throat.
Mission's probably dead like the vids said.
"Our stop," Mekel said. The shorter boy grabbed his hand, jerking him back into the present.
The tube slowed to a halt, and the doors slid open. They pushed their way out through the crowd and into Chancellor's Station—a crystal vault of light and clean pastel mosaics. They blended in well enough—two more unders making their way groundside on a job. Maybe dishwashers or groundskeepers for one of the fancy estates in the clouds.
The stairlift carried them up and onto the ground. This part of groundside was clean and artificially quiet—sound dampeners overhead blocked out the traffic noises; and the streets were wide and evenly paved. A ped's paradise. Shops beckoned on either side of the street, discrete and expensive. Even the ads here were softened: small projectors bobbed, murmuring in hushed sublims.
Sweet. Soft. Taste. Luxury.
On Telos, everything was wide open. Long low buildings under a beautiful blue sky—or— at least it had been… before everything changed.
Here, looking up made Dustil's head spin with reverse vertigo. Coruscant soared above them, a latticework of walkways and traffic lanes connecting the towering buildings together. Buildings upon buildings—Mekel grabbed his arm.
"C'mon," he hissed. "Onward and forward."
Dustil jerked away. "I can walk fine. I don't need you coddling me."
"Just try and stop gawking like an outer rim plebe, then?"
"It's this way," Dustil said unnecessarily. They both knew where to go, they'd been 'guests' at the Temple before they left with Ban. Prickles of unease shot up his spine as they got closer. Those soft voices and their fake concern. Brown-robes, every one.
XXX
"We need to ask you some questions about Polla Organa. I hope you don't mind."
"I know who she really is."
"Then perhaps you understand the need for the questions." The Falleen Master's voice was completely unsurprised. Suddenly Dustil really wanted to tell him everything. Suddenly Dustil really wanted to get the hell away from those white walls and perfect gardens, and the sickly look of peace and contentment on Thalia May's face.
"It upsets you." The Falleen looked sad. "We can discuss this later, if you wish to meditate. You've been through a great deal, young man. I will leave you to your thoughts."
Only the prickling sensation made him feel like they weren't only his thoughts. Or not his own private ones. It was then that Dustil realized he had to get the hell out of that place.
XXX
They passed the white steps leading to the columned entrance on the Temple. The Eternal Light burned in a crystal globe set over the doorway. A few sentients—Knights by their robes, although a few wore Padawan beige or apprentice white—sat on the steps, talking in clusters. They could've been students at a university on Telos.
"Head down," Mekel muttered. "Keep walking."
"Yep," Dustil said. The Force presence of so many Jedi sang softly like a background hum. He tried to dampen his own thoughts to blend into it.
"La dee dah..." Mekel whispered, and Dustil bit his lip trying not to laugh. They'd fallen in behind some street cleaners who wore gray coveralls similar to their own. Sweeper droids cleaned the walkways until they gleamed; but they hired sentients in this quarter too. One of the Jedi's good deeds, gainful employment for the unders.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dustil thought he saw Thalia herself on the steps; but maybe it was just another dark-haired girl.
He didn't stop to look back.
Paranoia gets you every time.
His thought or Mekel's—no time to think about it.
The Library was a curved boxy structure made of windows that refracted light in a thousand rainbows. The doors were open right on street level. Above them the motto was etched on the glass in faded Basic letters, a meter high.
The Right to Knowledge is the Right of Every Citizen.
Inside, the library guard sat at a polished black desk in the sleek entranceway. She was Radnoran, stocky and small, and her white apprentice's tunic clashed oddly with the lines of age on her face. Librarian was a common occupation for the failed Jedi students. Dustil ignored the twist of apprehension in his gut as they approached.
"Welcome, citizens," the woman said. "All that seek knowledge may pass."
She held out a chubby six-fingered hand to accept their idchips.
"That won't be necessary." Dustil placed his hand over hers in a gesture that mimicked handing her something. He pressed gently with his mind against hers. Her thoughts scattered as they made way for his own.
There was no one behind them, which was a really lucky break.
"That won't be necessary," the Radnoran agreed. She frowned a little. "You shouldn't be out of uniform, Padawan."
Oh hell….
"I'm just seeking knowledge," Dustil said with a little more pressure. "We're not Padawans, just two students from the Uni."
"Of course," she agreed, bobbing her heavy head on its stumpy neck. The bells in her gray hair jingled. "May you find what you seek, students."
You're pushing too hard, she's gonna start drooling in another second.
Shut up, let's go.
The librarian pressed a button on her desk and the ferraglass doors in front of them opened wide. They walked on through.
The main room was an atrium, hundreds of meters high. Circular balconies curved above them in a slanting spiral. Light refracted from the solars, splashing the plain white and gray surfaces in a dance of color. Various figures moved between the stacks of discs and catalog droids, chatting in hushed voices.
"Public terms on fifty," Mekel muttered, grabbing his arm again. "Elevator this way— stop staring."
"I'm not, " Dustil hissed back.
Mekel laughed softly. "First time we came here, I had to pick your jaw off the floor."
They'd spent a lot of time here in the first few weeks after the Star Forge—after they felt Revan fall. It was here that they'd found Yuthura Ban hiding out among stacks of ancient datachips and books. Here they'd voiced thoughts that none of them were willing to say inside the Temple itself. They'd sensed Revan's return to darkness vibrating like a discordant note in the fabric of the force. They weren't the only ones; but perhaps they were the only ones to admit—at least among themselves—that it felt like home.
Or like a command to follow.
A Fosh in brown robes passed by them now, arms full of books. He made a shushing sound with his beak and his talon feathers flapped. Dustil didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until the Jedi passed.
"Elevators," Mekel muttered again. "Lah dee dah."
We're students from the University, working on a paper about recent events. Recent events and their portrayal in the media. How is this knowledge disseminated in the public domain? How is this affected by the holovid's presentation?
That had to be Mekel's thought, trying to fool any Jedi monitors. Dustil's were moving along more like: Let's get to the elevator, let's get to a terminal. Let's see if my father left any word. It took all his efforts to keep calm.
The elevator stopped on two, and he groaned. The doors opened, and a troop of schoolkids got on. Rich schoolkids and their teachers. One of the adults sniffed at the sight of Dustil and Mekel, but their charges were already on board, holding on to the railings and looking down through the plastiglass walls at the floors below.
"Forty-three" the teacher said, and the elevator chimed, accepting the request.
Mekel was elbowing him hard in the ribs. Senate brats from the Eglatine Institute. Don't attract any attention. Those teachers are combat-trained, and they have fast reflexes.
Hard not to stand out, since they looked much more unwashed than anyone else. They'd tried to clean up too, but under the bright lights the efforts seemed laughable. Not to mention, they towered over the kids.
The students were maybe what you'd call eight-formers on Telos. Eight or nine standard years old. All humanid, and all shapes and colors, like a poster for the Republic. Of course, as senate kids, Dustil bet most of them had never been out of this neighborhood. Senate brats didn't really do anything until they came of age. Technically, they didn't really exist until they were twelve. Just one of the useless facts of Coruscanti culture that Dustil had picked up over the last eight months. Right up there with, 'don't pick a bar fight with an Echani sworddancer,' and 'pervs that dress well don't carry cash.'
Dustil edged closer to the wall and bumped into something soft. One of the kids had slipped behind him somehow and was crouched half under his feet.
Trying to ditch the field trip, I guess. Nothing to do with us.
Big gray eyes looked up at him from a cap of curly reddish hair. The boy put a finger to his lips, and hunched down more, hiding from the teachers—whose attention was occupied by two dark-skinned girls who were screaming in accents so clipped it took Dustil a moment to realize they were speaking Basic. They were arguing about shopping.
He moved in front of the kid, blocking him from view.
Spoiled brats.
"Forty-three," the elevator chimed. "The planetarium. Access is restricted to Eglatine students and faculty."
The doors opened, and the students streamed out. For all their awkward-looking robes, they moved pretty fast. The two teachers swam along, caught in their wake and the doors closed shut again.
"Thank you," said the boy, getting to his feet. Dustil moved away, giving him room. He was tall for his age. Or maybe he was older than the others. Left back a few years. He didn't look very smart.
"No prob. I used to cut classes myself. Although, you seem a little young to be looking for trouble."
"I just need to use a console," the kid said, frowning. "My grandfather's cut off my access at home."
"Hm, yeah—well, you shouldn't be bad. I used to get cut off too, when I did something wrong."
"I wasn't! " The boy said imperiously. Or indignantly. It was sort of hard to tell. Whatever. The freckles on his face kind of spoiled the effect. One of his front teeth was only halfway in. Looked like it was growing in crooked. Dustil revised his age estimate back down again.
Mekel rolled his eyes. Stop talking to the upper crust, Telos. They'll come looking for him and it'll be a fracking sithshow. We need to get out of here before that.
Right. I know.
"Fifty," the elevator said. "Public Terminals. Knowledge is the Right of all Citizens."
The three Republic citizens got off. Dustil walked fast down the long hall to the term rooms, Mekel on his heels. The kid trailed behind them, like a forlorn kath pup.
Mekel nudged his arm. Lose him. He's attention we don't need.
Dustil stopped and turned back. The boy was wearing ridiculous heavy robes that looked like they'd stand up on their own. He had a hopeful expression on his round face that made Dustil want to scream.
On Telos, when he and Selene scavenged for food, they'd seen faces like that. Other kids, younger kids, just as lost and orphaned as they were. But you couldn't help them, not all of them. You learned fast to just turn away.
"You should go the other way," Dustil never felt guilty using the Force on marks and pervs in the underground; but somehow this made him feel wrong.
"I don't want to," said the kid. "Can you help me?" His voice wavered, and he blinked his eyes very fast as if he was going to burst into tears.
Dustil blinked. It wasn't Force sensitivity exactly—from what he could tell the kid didn't have any—not that he was an expert on these things—the kid was just immobile. He couldn't be pushed.
"We're busy," Mekel snapped. "Go away."
"Please? I don't know how to work these terminals. At home we have the voice kind."
The clatter of footsteps along the curve of the corridor saved them from any further response. The kid turned and ran through the nearest open doorway. Two Ferroan scholars passed by speaking in hushed tones.
That kid's more being afraid of being caught than us. Huh.
Mekel laughed and started walking again. "I think we just met one of our leaders of tomorrow. Aren't you impressed?"
"Something weird about that," Dustil muttered, uneasy.
"None of our biz, c'mon."
They picked a room off the main passageways, in the deserted area of the floor. Inside, a terminal and two plain plasticore chairs. Mekel sat down in one with a sigh. Dustil tapped the door closed.
"I'll hold it locked," Mekel said, frowning a little in concentration. He smiled crookedly. "Go ahead, do whatever it is, look for your father."
Dustil was already tapping at the keys.
Lockbox, Yavin Station. Code 6-oh-9238
Username: Sithboy79
Password: Rwweeop Kaattyyr Nam
Nice password, Sithboy—what is that, you hitting the keyboard loaded? Mekel was looking over his shoulder in his head, even sitting across the room.
Shut up, it's Shyriiwook. I don't know what it means. I didn't make it up.
Who did, your Wookiee boyfriend? From across the room, Mekel raised a dark eyebrow.
You're an ass, it was Mission. She—left it for me.
Oh. Mekel got quiet again. They'd talked a little about Mission, but not that much. What Dustil felt— might have felt— for her fell under one of those uncomfortable areas. Easier to just avoid.
The computer screen went blank for a moment and there was a pause.
Connecting. FTL, Yavin.
Welcome to Suvam's Emporium, Sithboy79. You have 63 messages.
Dustil was already printing them out as he scanned the dates. They were all marked with his father's signature, but the most recent one was four weeks old. He sighed in disappointment.
He hasn't sent word on where he is now. But he's alive. I knew I should have checked sooner.
There was only one message from Mission and it was eight months old. He printed that one out too.
I guess she's dead then. I guess she really is.
Dustil started to type in a message to leave for Carth.
Dear Dad,
I guess you're a hero now. Congratulations. I wish you'd—
No, that was bad.
Dear Father,
I'm fine, but I don't trust the Republic or the Jedi. I've been living in the underground. We roll pervs for credits, because that's easier than doing what they want. When I saw we, I mean me and Mekel. Do you remember him?
No, that was worse. Dustil closed his eyes and ran a finger across the screen.
It beeped softly at him. The printer kept churning out pages, in a monotonous drone.
He opened his eyes frowning. The screen was black. Letters scrolled across it suddenly, written in Ryl.
Member is online, verify identity. Please enter your name.
"That's weird," Dustil said. "I didn't know it had a subprogram for verification."
Mekel got up from the chair and peered over his shoulder. "Maybe we should just leave when the print job is done," he suggested. "Your real name has got to be set up to trigger stuff—remember that reporter the last time you tried to send a message?"
"Yeah..." Dustil frowned and typed his name in anyway. Dustil Onasi.
"Great," Mekel said. "Just do whatever you want then. When you're done, I'm just going to nip over to the Temple and ask Master Iridel if I can spend some months in meditation and contemplation of my sins. Maybe she'll let me have a cell with a window this time, looking out on that lovely green garden."
Verify, Dustil Onasi: Who gave you your first kiss?
Suddenly, Mekel was leaning over his shoulder again. "Nice security."
"Shut up," Dustil said. Selene Karath, he typed.
Who gave you your second kiss?
Mission Vao.
Who gave you your third kiss?
Mission Vao.
What happened when you tried to kiss Mission Vao before she wanted you to?
She kicked me.
Where?
In the balls. Dustil stared at the screen, hardly daring to breathe. A hot spark of hope in his chest. They're alive, both of them. My father and Mission!
No, I mean, where were we?
Blue?
Verify Identity. Answer the question.
Master Uthar's room, stealing wine.
Sithboy?
I thought you were dead! I thought Revan killed you!
There was a pause.
I've been waiting for you. Geez, you're slow.
Where are you? What happened?
Her response spat out so fast it almost looked pasted in.
Listen. Your father's in big poodoo. Really, really big. BIG. There's this guy who made him think things that aren't true about you-know-who. We've got to rescue your father. Party of two landing tomorrow—big black bird. Meet them at The Wheel. Private room, booked under that other name I called you. We need to get things rolling, ok?
Transmission end.
Mekel was already picking up the sheets of paper and stuffing them in his jacket pockets. Dustil grabbed one and looked at it. Words jumped out at him, words from his father. Will come when I can, I am so sorry, I love you very much, fate of the galaxy, I can't leave her like this, sorry….
Something close to anger flickered under Dustil's skin. "I don't need to read this," he said dully, crumpling the pages in his hands.
Mekel ignored him.
"You might want to later," he said. "Hell, I might want to. What really happened to them?" The other boy took the pages out of his hands.
Behind them the terminal sputtered. Lights flashed, and something smelled scorched.
It's overloading-shit— Dustil grabbed Mekel's arm and they ran out of the room.
"That seems like an unlikely coincidence..." Mekel's voice trailed off uncertainly. They started walking away, walking fast. "What the frack is the Wheel?"
Dustil snorted. "Aren't you the native son? It's casino on Coruscant. The Golden Wheel of Fate. Mission said we should go there sometime and rob them blind. My force and her skillz. Make a killing."
There was a lump in his throat and something caught in his eye. He blinked fast.
"Oh, you mean the Golden?" Mekel looked dubious. "Good luck trying, that place is Exchange territory if it's anything."
"Well, it's a place to meet her, ok?"
Party of two, under that other name I used to call you.
Big black bird—has to be the Hawk.
My father's in trouble. That stuff he said on the vids was a lie.
Mission didn't say she was coming too—but she must be. I'll see her again.
They were walking fast down the hall, trying to ignore the smell of smoke that wafted in their wake.
Dustil pushed the button for the elevator. "Come on," he whispered. "Come on..."
An alarm went off.
"Shit!" Mekel hit the elevator angrily. They stood there, helpless. Dustil closed his eyes and tried to stay calm.
The doors opened, and a squad of Republic civi guards streamed out.
Dustil reached underneath his coat for his lightsaber. Mekel put a warning hand on his arm.
Wait, okay? Just wait. Don't be a fracking idiot.
The guards rushed past them, fanning out down the corridor.
"Fire down that way," one of them called.
Dustil felt himself smirk. Never let it be said the Republic doesn't have smart soldiers. Observant, too.
The hallway they'd just left was filling with smoke, and the hiss of retardant foam.
"Locator reads coming from the other direction. Fire's nothing to do with us," their commander said. His eyes glanced over Dustil and Mekel with the edge of something like curiosity, and he put his hand over the sensor to keep the doors from closing. "Citizens, have you seen a boy? About this high? Red hair?" He gestured.
Dustil stared at him blankly and shrugged. "We were never here."
"You were never here," the commander echoed, frowning. "Blasted Senate brats..." He turned back to his troops, the light glinting on his yellow helmet. "Sweep out and find the kid before we all get demoted."
"I know I joined to the army to be a babysitter," a woman muttered.
"Shut up, Cally."
The doors hissed shut, and they were away. Dustil sagged against the back with a sigh of relief. The elevator dropped down.
"Well that was fun," Mekel said brightly. He started to laugh.
Despite himself, Dustil felt a twinge of pity for the kid. Whatever he'd been looking for, he'd seemed to want to find it very badly.
XXX
When Malachi D'Reev was not much older than his grandson was now, his mother took him to the roof of their home. Her private garden was sealed in a crystal dome to keep out the wind. Looking over the edge you could see the entire world below shining in clusters of jewels and light. From up high, the Coruscanti traffic moved in patterns, as ornate as a dance, or the designs on a Zabrak rug.
"Down below," his mother said, "things seem random and uncontrolled. But from up on high, we can see the true weave. The fabric of the universe. And thus, we control its destiny."
She died a year later, after failing to assassinate his father.
The old man's approach was more direct.
"Power is our responsibility. The stability of the Republic Empire is our reward. Three branches of power: a system of checks and balances. The Senate, the Council, and the Fleet." A smile curved across his thin lips, and his eyes half-closed. "How do you balance them, my son?"
"With the will of the people," said Malachi D'Reev.
His father laughed. "Precisely."
XXX
The portable holopad crackled. The old man frowned and tapped the side gently. The picture resolved itself and he smiled. So simple sometimes to make things work again.
"Is there anything else?" Admiral Rensha asked. Her image shifted and blurred. Tightbeam relay wasn't the most reliable transmission, but it was secure.
The aircruiser swerved to dodge an incoming bus. As always, HK's reflexes were more than up to the job.
"Not at the moment," Malachi said, adjusting the windows to dim so the light from the sunset didn't get in his eyes. "You're sending the Pearl crew on a long patrol?"
"The far reaches of Sith space. Many crews have not returned from such expeditions." Rensha replied. "Perhaps a diplomatic cruiser is required in that sector."
"You have my utmost thanks. I'm sure the Senate will agree to your request for more funds."
The Admiral nodded her accord. He peered at the screen closely. Surely that couldn't be disgust? Perhaps it was just the static on the screen.
He ended the transmission and looked down upon his city. It spun beneath; gleaming in a dance as intricate as history.
The cruiser angled up towards the orbital landing docks where the Pearl waited.
He'd arranged a groundside landing for the next arrival: far more convenient. It was odd of Hulas to be so coy with the details but the Genoharadan hoarded their secrets like a nest of old women. As long as the results were adequate, he had no complaints.
She was coming, and he had what she wanted.
Or what she thought she wanted. The old man was fairly sure she had no idea about the real prize. It was better that way, he thought. Cleaner for all of them.
The will of the people.
Using the Telos gambit with the pilot was clumsy, and he'd approved it with some hesitation—only after all other avenues had failed. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed advantageous. After all, some of the greatest facts in history were the most disputed. Contradictions made them all the truer in the end.
His son had been such a disappointment after he learned about his mother. Now, he'd have to tell Malachor about his mother as well. Still, sometimes adversity brought out the best.
Malachi D'Reev hadn't been so much older after all, when his own mother died and shattered most of his illusions.
And perhaps… he'd have an ally, when he broke the news to Malachor.
He'd have to wait and see how dependable Captain Onasi was.
XXX
"I can do this myself," he grumbled.
"Captain Onasi, it's really an honor. I don't mind at all." The laser brush was cool on his cheek, and the ensign's perfume smelled like spice. He tried to ignore how close she was.
She leaned over him and ran the brush across his upper lip.
Her hair was a light auburn, and she had freckles on her upturned nose.
He rubbed his hand over his now-smooth cheek. "Well, thanks, I guess."
She'd turned away from him and was holding out a formal dress coat. Fleet red and yellow, fit for an admiral, even though it only had captain's bars.
Carth frowned at it. "Is this all really necessary?"
"Most of my work is in public relations," the ensign answered him. "We're with the media division of the Fleet—and yes, it's really necessary. You're a hero Captain. You need to look like one. The Senator will expect it."
"The Senator's meeting me, Silvana said?"
She beamed. "Yes indeed! His cruiser should be docking now—or just about now. Here, let me button that for you."
He snorted, surprised at natural it felt. "Thanks, sister; but I can put on my own clothes."
She giggled. "You look very nice in them, if you don't mind me saying so. Sir."
Carth didn't feel nice. He felt ridiculous. All of this parading seemed so wrong, compared to the Sith menace and finding Dustil. He gritted his teeth and straightened the lines of the coat.
Ensign Delaney moved closer again with a comb and Carth backed away.
"No more," he said. "You don't want to keep the Senator waiting, right?"
"Oh!" Her blue eyes went round. "Of course not!"
She opened the door and he followed her to the Pearl 's docks. The crew were lined up along the hall, smiling and waving at him. They all looked so young.
The omnipresent whir of a holocam followed them down the hall.
XXX
She reached for serenity. This was a desperate gamble, but it must not lead to madness.
In her head, she recited the words of the Jedi Code.
There is no emotion; there is peace.
He was shrunken and stooped now, under those voluminous Senator's robes; but once he'd been tall, towering over her. His features were narrower than his son's; but cast from the same mold. Eyes the color of durasteel glared at her with hate.
Light from the crystal chandelier shone on his hairless skull.
"H-how did you get in here?" The old man's voice snapped like a blade, but there was fear in it too.
"Through the front door." Her own voice sounded dead, echoing through the mask's amplifiers. The metal plate was cool on against her lips.
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
He was reaching under his desk now and she raised her Krath vibroblade, hands gripping the center pommel.
Her friends were at her back; but they would not intervene. This was her battle, and hers alone. It could be no other way.
The old man laughed, and she pressed forward. The sound of the holovid he'd been watching was a steady drone. That and the hiss of her breath through the mask were the only two sounds in the room.
XXX
A small planet, reddish-brown. The holoimage zoomed in, spinning through clouds, to cracked plains; then finally, to a dusty arena. The imaged righted itself on an old-fashioned fighting ring: crowds of armored figures with their clan banners surrounding it—and a small row of Republic-clad troops all in a line.
Two figures: one tall and one short; both hooded and masked, armed with vibroblades, faced off in the center arena.
"Revan Starfire faced the Mandalore in single combat on Malachor V. Mandalorian honor commanded him to accept the challenge. There were few witnesses, but one of them had a holocam. Here again, is footage never before seen by the public. The fight that ended the Mandalorian wars."
XXX
The old man had two dark vibroblades, one in each hand now, curved and short in a style that she recognized. No time to think about where she'd seen them before. Her vision narrowed until he was all that she could see.
There is no passion; there is serenity.
"This ends today," Revan said. "For Malachor. And for the good of the Republic."
And Carth, andcarth.
Malachi D'Reev moved fast for an old man. He met her in the center of the room, blades ready. There was the sound of metal scraping metal as he pressed the attack. Revan ducked and dodged easily, taking his measure. He had the longer reach, and greater physical strength; but she was used to fighting with these disadvantages. She was faster—even without the Force. Her double blade moved in a blur to block his thrusts.
There is no chaos; there is harmony.
The Force rippled around them, but she would not draw on it. The old man's Force blindness was like a spot on the sun, where all other things sang with life. She met his attacks squarely and waited for him to tire.
He was older, and she'd been training for this moment. Eventually she would press her offense.
XXX
"They fought for hours," the announcer said. "Mandalorian stamina pitted against Jedi discipline. Mandalorian skills against a Jedi's desperation. Desperation to save her Republic and end the wars."
XXX
They fought for hours. Sweat pooled under her mask, and her hair itched under her helm. Beskar-forged blades met cortosis-woven durasteel again and again. Their bare feet sank in the hot sand, kicking up plumes of dust.
Sand?
His robes were the color of sand.
She lashed out and a line of red striped his shoulder, but he dodged the brunt of it.
Finally. First blood is mine.
One of his blades hooked the end of her sword and he tugged, dancing back, trying to unbalance her. She tightened her grip and leaned to the side, ready to dodge.
As if in slow motion she saw the feint for what it was—and she was dodging the wrong way. Too slowly.
The Force sang around them like a dirge, but she would not draw on it, she would not.
His other sword sank deep in her side. Lancing hot pain ran through her body like a shockwave. Terrible sound of metal against bone. Her spine jerked and suddenly there was nothing holding her upright except his sword in her side.
He twisted the blade and pulled it clear.
There is no death; there is the Force.
Revan fell.
There is no emotion; there is peace.
"No."
"A bold challenge, daughter of Lin. You fought well."
"Ucah'alla y nik," she whispered from the ground. Far away she could sense rather than see the others that watched them. Watched and did nothing.
They couldn't help; this was her fight and hers alone.
Malak's desperation beat against her mind. Their last hope. She couldn't make her hands work, and the blade fell from them. The sand sank under her knees, stained with dark blood. Her blood. She couldn't feel her legs.
"No."
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
The pain ebbed and receded. If she tried, she could see every grain of sand on the endless plain.
Somewhere a child was crying but she closed that out, just like she closed out Malak's fear and rage—and the anger and hate that surged from their friends.
It doesn't matter what we promised. If I die, this war will never end.
There is no passion; there is serenity.
The Fett stood above her, head bowed in respect. One of his blades was stained and dripping. It wouldn't be long now; she could feel the darkness creeping closer like a soft blanket. Her breath hissed painfully. She clutched the wound in her side and looked up at him. Her vision was blurry, and her hands were wet with something. Something red.
There is no chaos; there is harmony.
No. No, please no. Please, please, no. Please.
"No," she whispered.
Blood stained the sand. The sun beat down overhead.
Somewhere, someone was beating uselessly against her mind. Loss and grief and anger screamed through her barricades, familiar as a kiss. As always, she kept a part of herself detached from it, trying to project that numbness to the others; shield them from the worst of his anger. Shield them from this one last death.
Her death.
No Red, please. Please no. Don't leave me, don't leave us. Don't leave us, Red. Please.
She felt, rather than saw, Malak's attempt to heal her through the force. A swirl of white light like an aura in his hands.
Too late for that. Too late for anything now. The sand was rough under her fingertips, and all she saw was each grain of it. She'd fallen. She'd failed.
There is no death; there is the Force.
"No."
Her breath was ragged and rattling, and the sand was warm through her robes. It hurt.
This war will never end; and it's all his fault.
The Force beckoned like a shining star. Melt into it. Be one with it. The Fett was like a black spot on the sun.
He'd bested her: he'd taken everything from her. Her trust, her innocence, her soldiers.
Malak's healing broke over her like a cool burn—too little too late—and his reserve was cracking. When it broke, all that he was would be anger and loss and hate. He would burn with it. There was a power in that too.
This war will never end.
The Fett was like a blemish on the sun. A black place.
Revan reached out her hand and something trembled, something crackled.
She burned the black place away, drawing its energy inside herself. Knitting bone and tissue. Everything blurred into a blaze of red fire. Fire and lightning.
Fett Cassus Lin fell, and she rose.
Somewhere, people murmured. Somewhere someone's hands caught her, as she stood trembling on her feet. The pain in her side was gone. Her breath hissed through the mask, and the world seemed bathed in hard yellow light.
Her thoughts were disjointed and strangely mundane.
I'm sorry. I cheated.
No. You won. You've won. That's all that matters. Oh gods, Red. You're alive.
Malak's hands were fumbling at the buckles that held her mask in place, but she pushed them away. She stepped away from him and faced the crowd, standing over the burned shell that had once been the Mandalore.
"The war is over," Revan called out and her words amplified through the mask. "I claim the spoils of the victor. Your weapons, your tents, and your Empire are mine. Melt down the basilisks, scrap your ships, and leave this place. Your age of warriors is past. Are there who challenge my right to command you?"
There was a pause. The clan observers came closer, inside the circle. Blunt shapes in their battle: Ordo, Lin, Weis, and Zal.
"Rialis accepts your victory, Fett Revan." Kevan Rialis knelt before her.
"And Ordo," spoke a granite voice.
"I accept for Clan Lin." Adatrix pulled off his helm and looked up at her with respect, but something glittered cold in his eyes.
Wies and Zal knelt too.
Somewhere behind her, the Republic soldiers broke into a ragged cheer.
Revan's knees trembled, and Malak's hand steadied her arm, before she started to fall down again.
Get me out of here before I faint or something.
I will. Red, we've won. Walk away, just walk away with me.
Her cape billowed behind her and she turned her back on Mandalore.
XXX
A Sssyrian pan flute played a sad melody.
"The war was over; but the Mandalorians did not all bend at the knee. Revan Starfire took a third of the Republic Fleet past the Outer Rim, to the unexplored reaches of space to hunt down the last pockets of Mandalorian resistance."
"It was a hero's move; but it was doomed. For there, she and her followers fell to the Dark Side of the Force. It was there that they found the secrets of the Star Forge and remade the Sith Empire to threaten us all."
XXX
"Revan. If you're going to watch this stinking maffa offal, turn the sound down!"
Someone chuckled.
"She's asleep. I think it's rather amusing, myself."
"You would, cub." Canderous' voice was like stones. Granite. She heard the heavy tread of his feet crossing the floor, and he was muttering under his breath. The holovid cut out with a squawk.
Revan opened her eyes and sat up. She was curled up against Zaalbar like a kath pup. He patted her on the head gently and growled a soft greeting.
"Sorry—I just..."
To her relief, the console was intact. Canderous had only turned it off this time—not plunged a sword through it.
He crossed his arms and sighed. "If you wanted to know about the fight, you could have asked me. I was there."
"The Fett bested me," she said, rubbing her eyes.
Canderous shrugged. "You used your tactical advantage. That is the way of war. In the end, he died, and you did not. Some say that you were only toying with him, up until the end." A faint smile crossed his face. He looked almost—proud. "It was a very long fight, but I don't think you were toying with him. You fought well on his terms. You won the war on your own."
Revan stared at the floor, relieved to see corusteel plates and not sand stained with blood.
"The next season we almost starved," Oerin said. "Without the harvest droids, we couldn't plant enough crops to feed ourselves. And the Republic imposed an embargo against trade with the Malachor system." He spat on the ground. "Not that we'd have accepted their trade."
She looked at him. "The harvest droids?"
"The basilisks." It was Canderous that answered her. "In the days of the clans, their utility changed with the seasons. Our machines held twin purpose. Harvest and war."
Revan remembered the train of dewbacks she'd seen in Oerin's mind; his thoughts showing her their meaning. "So, I made your people starve."
Canderous laughed. "Don't give yourself too much credit. You went off with the Fleet. What happened to us afterwards had nothing to do with you. Not really."
Zaalbar growled in her ear. "Polla-Revan, please speak Basic and make the others do the same. How can I help you if I miss half of what is going on?"
"Sorry, Zaal'." She gave him a quick translation.
"I am learning their infidel tongue, but it is not easy. Not enough vowels."
"I know, my friend. But you're going to need to learn it better before we get to Coruscant."
Coruscant. I've seen your face, Malachi D'Reev. And I have the means to destroy you.
Revan got up from the couch and stretched her limbs, banishing the doubts from her mind. "Who wants to practice with me?"
Oerin got up too. "I will," he said. "After watching that fight again, I think I'd enjoy it."
Revan nodded at him, accepting the challenge. "We have ten days. And then it all begins."
"You place much confidence in that computer of yours." He raised his eyebrows mockingly.
Zaalbar growled. "Tell the boy Mission-ghost will do her part. I only hope he does his."
Oerin grinned. His grasp of Shyriiwook had expanded considerably. "Oh, I will… my part is going to be fun." He had a cocky smile on his face.
Revan spent the next few hours trying to wipe it off.
XXX
"I just can't help but feel sorry for the poor girl," Molla Organa said.
"Ma!" Polla dropped her fork halfway to her mouth. It hit the table and fell on the floor. Grimacing, she started to stand up. Her mother kept on talking, ignoring her discomfort.
"In a way dear, we're all the family she's ever known."
"That's true." Auntie Mita frowned. "Now, now, Polla, don't get up, I'll get you another fork, no worries."
Her ancient aunt—one hundred and two if she was a day—rose creaking to her feet and bent down to fetch the fork that had fallen under the table.
Polla sat back down in her chair trying not to seethe. If they saw that they were annoying her, they'd only go on. That was what the two of them were like.
"Did you see the broadcast of the awards ceremony for Captain Onasi?" her mother asked Auntie Mita.
"Yes, such a sad young man he was too." Her aunt rose tremulously from her knees and tottered over to the cabinet to get a clean fork for Polla. Absently, she dropped the soiled one on the floor again. None of them moved.
Bolts, the Organa's ancient utility droid, rolled over to pick up the offending object with a rusty wheeze.
"Ma," Polla protested again, wondering why she'd bother to come, "we're not her family."
Her mother ignored her, eyebrows knitting in a serene, but thoughtful expression.
Auntie Mita picked up the tray of kaffa cake from the counter and carried it back to the table, setting it down with a contented sigh. She sliced off a hunk for Polla and handed it to her, wrapped in an eridu napkin.
Polla ate absently, still distracted.
"That whole Telos thing is a lie," said Auntie Mita. "Bendowen's girl...you know Bendowen—my great-uncle's second wife's son was his father's father… that'd make him your… third cousin once removed? Or is it twice? Or would that be your fourth cousin...? In any case, his daughter… the one that ran away to join the Jedi during the Troubles? Well she was with the Sith Fleet a few years ago—and she said Darth Malak ordered the Telos bombardment."
"That poor Captain Onasi is completely wrong! Revan would never do anything like that! Organas don't destroy worlds needlessly; they're not like those corrupt Coruscanti politicians."
Polla took a deep breath. Her son kicked inside her angrily, as if to echo her protest.
"Darth Revan is not an Organa."
Her mother still looked thoughtful. This was worrisome. "You know, in a way," she began, "it's almost like she's your own sister. We always wanted more children, your father and me. I hope you and Seiran are planning on having more. An empty house is a sad one."
"Let's just get this one born," Polla sighed, giving up. She felt awful. Her back was really killing her.
"So anyways," Auntie Mita said, gesticulating with her fork, "I heard that Bendowen actually got a letter from Beya the other day. Everyone thought she'd been killed in the wars or something, but actually, she's on trial on Manaan. Something about killing Sith? Or was it joining the Sith? I'm really not sure… but it's a damn shame."
"A damn shame," Molla Organa echoed.
