XII

Alderaan was an old planet. Its mountains had been worn down by time and snow to gradual, gentle slopes and grassy plateaus. Blue lakes sat serene in their bowls. But it was not a tame planet; the rudimentary computer told Darth Maul; it had sat so long and fought and learned among itself until it had one of the most diverse and complex ecosystems in the galaxy. Some creatures were so specified to a niche that to take them out of their latitude would kill them, and others could survive at extreme conditions unheard of on Alderaan. The computer contained basic data on planets the ship might visit, presumably to familiarize the Jedi pilot with them, but did not connect to the larger HoloNet, and so was useless in finding the other thing that Maul so strongly wanted to know—the origin of his name.

Perhaps he had family somewhere, perhaps his name held some code that would unlock for him what direction to go in; perhaps Darth Sidious, as all-knowing as he was, had made a code of it that would tell him where to go next.

Why not go right back to Sidious?

Because although he remembered how the Dark Lord had his hands in everything, in all the workings of galactic politics, Maul also felt that the one thing Sidious did not understand was his Ciaràn-personality. Because Sidious had not created it; but then nor had the Jedi, not in the process of refining and erasing that had produced Maul.

As soon as he passed through Alderaan's orbit, an automated voice asked for his destination, addressing him as Master Jedi—the Watchman must have gone in and out often, which was, Maul supposed, part of their just description. The voice demanded to know his destination, and livid with the irony of the address Maul scanned a map of Alderaan for a mid-sized village, trusting in the Force—and not really caring—that e would get where he wanted. A town called Danoda, on the edge of a mountain range, was the right size, and so he named it.

Listening carefully to the computer droning on about weapons restrictions and some activities being illegal, he took the ship down.

"We've run into a problem," Quinlan said as Qui-Gon sat down in the Scimitar's second level for the descent to Alderaan. White clouds were beginning to dissolve before the viewport as the ship skimmed Alderaan's atmosphere.

"What is it?"

"No weapons allowed on the planet. This ship is full of them."

"Ask to set down in the capital, Aldera, under guard. Senator Antilles should accept a message from the Jedi."

Quinlan nodded. When Alderaan hailed them, he explained that the Jedi had capture the ship and were chasing a fugitive. Soon sleek aircars armed with electronics-crippling ion cannons roared out of the atmosphere and slaved the Scimitar between them to guide it in. The voice of one of the security officers came over the comm again.

"Master Jedi. Welcome. Please note that your lightsabers must be released to the palace guard along with any other weapons. A message just came in that one of your number has arrived in Danoda; Master Ellis, I believe."

Quinlan looked back at Qui-Gon.

"The Watchman for Alderaan." Qui-Gon said. "It was his ship that Ciaràn took."

"Then that's where we need to go next."

The palace of the royal family of Alderaan shared its grandiose scale with the palace on Naboo, but was much more modern. The Jedi docked outside the city on a pad overlooking the caldera lake and were immediately surrounded by guardsmen, who locked up their lightsabers and molded a pressor field over the ship. It lurked warily, like a wild animal.

One blue-clad guard confronted the Jedi in the hangar. "Master Jedi, with all due respect, this ship shouldn't be here. It'll have to be confiscated until you leave the planet."

Qui-Gon and Quinlan exchanged glances. Qui-Gon said, "We would like to speak to Senator Antilles."

They met on a round deck above the lake. Aldera had been the site of a volcano once, before the ground relaxed and rain filled the ancient stone bowl. Then humans had rained down as well, and built a city.

Bail Antilles, dark-haired and round-faced, looked thoroughly Coruscanti in his woven blue robes. Two guards and a secretary attended him, placed strategically almost out of earshot beside sculptured, potted bushes. The Jedi bowed before him.

"Welcome," he said. "I've been told you're chasing someone, and I'll have only one caveat to delay you." Definitely not Coruscanti, Qui-Gon thought, relieved. Too straightforward. "One of my advisors will go with you to ensure that you find your way around properly." He gestured the person Qui-Gon had assumed was a secretary forward.

She was a thin, blue-grey skinned alien with amphibian-slick skin and a limp frill around her neck, and she held a datapad in her thin arms as if it weighed more than she liked. She said, "Good day, Master Jedi"

Bail said, "This is Alyce. She can travel for a few days with you, help out..and help be sure that the citizens of the planet aren't exposed to your fugitive."

Keep tabs on us, Qui-Gon knew he meant, and Bail's pleading expression showed that he knew it too. But if that was how it had to be…Alyce looked barely twenty years old. Qui-Gon said, "Senator, we may end up in danger. Having weapons would make it easier for us to defend her if need be."

Qui-Gon felt her nervousness in the Force, but Alyce gave no impression of wanting to speak. Bail continued, "Don't misunderstand this culture, Master Jedi—I know you are not familiar with our customs. We do not restrict our people's expression. We do not forbid someone who wants to live elsewhere from coming back to see their family. Many beings from different parts of the galaxy travel here because they want the kind of life we provide; a quiet one. We do not ignore how the rest of the galaxy lives; this is why we have a senatorial committee. But we offer a choice, and there are citizens relying on me to provide them that choice.

"That said, I do not imagine that the Jedi Council sent you here for a typical fugitive. You will have my comm number, and if you call, the Alderaan guard will be down to aid you with ion cannons and stun guns at their disposal."

Qui-Gon bowed; Quinlan also, a bit more ruefully.

Darth Maul arrived in the town in the mountains during planetary evening, when a bored traffic controller ushered him into a landing pit in a field and addressed him by the Jedi Master's name. He walked out to the town tentatively, missing the mission data Sidious usually provided him. It would tell him what the town was like and where to go, how to blend in.

Houses and speeder parks were black since the sun had gone down, but a yellow light-glow and Force presences remained on a street of two- and three-story stores in the town center. Gentle, cool wind rustled the decorative grasses. Maul was used to working-class towns and fighting pits, or Coruscant's lower levels, where a being with an inked face and black cloak could blend in by virtue of people being afraid to cross him. But this was more like the upper levels, where informal dress was the crime most likely to be noticed by passerby. Maul judged his own costume; tan, loose Jedi clothing cinched with a black belt and tabards. He snugged his collar around his neck and pulled his wide sleeves down over his marked hands.

A quiet murmur of voices saturated the cobbled sidewalk between the shops. Maul kept his head down, but in the space of a few moments he saw a purple-haired Zabrak; a father with his child on his shoulders politely asking a Kushiban whether the space on the bench beside it was taken; and a handful of other species dressed in what looked like whatever sort of clothing fit their fancy.

This was more like the Jedi Temple than any town Maul had ever been in, and so he relaxed into the Ciaràn persona and saw how here people who looked different were seen as innocent until proved guilty. The Force flowed peacefully.

So he walked, looking for a place with public HoloNet access.

He found a library, a columned building at the end of a busy, well-lit street. No one questioned whether he was a local or not—either because they were native and stupid because most people on Alderaan were trustworthy, or because they were simply wealthy enough to have a system open to anyone.

Among the shelves of carefully ordered disks, across from teenage humans giggling about something on their terminal, Darth Maul ran a search function on his own names.

There were Ciaràn Surins everywhere, most Zabraks, some not. He could probably spend a lifetime picking through to look at each of them and their families.

He went back to the search function and typed in Darth Maul.

There were no exact matches. But 'Darth' pulled up ranks of encyclopedia entries. It was a hereditary title among the Sith, he read, given to those who had proven themselves worthy of the title 'Lord'. Skimming the article, he found that it was not like Jedi Mastery in that a Lord was freed from their tutor—judging by Darth Revan and Darth Malak, the example in the article, 'Darths' stayed with their Masters.

Maul leaned back and looked at the screen as if he could talk to Revan and Malak through it.

He folded his arms, let out a quiet breath. What had he done to earn his title? Funny that it wasn't a given name per se, that 'Maul' was not another family.

He tried to remember, tried to part the mists.

He remembers: Exhausted and rain-soaked he listens to Sidious tell him again that another apprentice has always been waiting in the wings. Betrayal floods him. Sidious raises lightsaber against him and Maul is so optionless, so frustrated, that he attacks Sidious with all the tiny strength he has left and tastes his Master's blood on his tongue.

And then, when Maul's desperation rules him, he is given his name.

Maul did not understand, tried to forget the event while treasuring the name; but now he saw that the reason Sith never formally left their Masters was because they always turned on each other.

He closed the search and left.

The fields were dark and dewy. Piled shapes in the distance were nerfs, big, shaggy meat beasts lowing in their sleep. He picked his way through the field back to the ship.

He lay sleepless on his bench-bed that night, first replaying his successes in his head. The defeat of Silus, of the Jedi in whose blood he had first washed the double lightsaber.

(They had taken it from him, the Jedi had. He would wrest it back, he would destroy them--)

But Qui-Gon had given him something else. Rali had given him something else, a sense of company and family.

But he was stronger than them. He could dance around them all, if they hadn't kept him doing break-falls—

He needed to start a new life somehow.

He didn't need a new life—Sidious was still out there.

Sidious had let him go, had sent bounty hunters after him—

This inner debate wouldn't get him anywhere. He stood up and stretched, then paced through katas. He slammed punches into seat backs, went through pushups of four variants, fed to his wearying muscles an organized rage that widened his eyes and pulled his lips back from his teeth—

He thought at first that each target was Qui-Gon's face, but then it was Sidious'.

But, he realized, this would not help either. Not thinking at all was as bad as too much thinking.

He stopped. He couldn't betray Sidious…but that conviction was based on a very sheltered life.

The sky brightened as he looked out at the it, one hand on the pilot's seat shivering with exertion.

He needed to talk to Qui-Gon, to ask him whether the Jedi would explain him.

And he realized he had chosen a side.