Memory

by kosiah

After the Star Forge, the galaxy has changed. As most of civilized space mourns the fallen heroes of the Star Forge expedition, its real survivors must face the consequences of their actions - even the ones Revan can't remember.

25. The Heart of a Son

The Heart of a Son

Chapter 25 / The Heart of a Son

"A year of Padawan training and my butler thinks she's a Jedi Council member. Anger is just another thing to be controlled, Korrie. It's another tool, nothing more and nothing less."

"Well maybe there are better tools then? Different ones?" His voice was a child's voice, clear and clipped with an upper-crust Coruscanti accent.

"Maybe," Revan heard herself whisper.

He turned at the sound of her voice and her breath caught.

His hair looked flattened down, as if its natural curl was restrained; the same way that the heavy robes and high collar restrained his body. His hands flattened against the blue force field that separated them and one of them moved in a small wave.

Heart in her throat, she answered it. Waved back. Small gesture. Hello.

One of his front teeth was growing in crooked. The field that separated them washed his features in a haze of blue, made him look like a ghost.

"I'll leave you now," Rulan Prolik said. "I'm sure you all have much to discuss."

Behind her she heard the hiss of the door close as the shapeshifter left. In front of her, behind her son, an old man sat at a small round table in a high-backed chair, hands folded. She heard the whir of HK's circuitry processing, although her droid was blessedly silent.

But there were only two people in the universe. The rest of them were all suddenly and completely inconsequential.

"Malachor—Korrie," Revan corrected herself, walking forward. "You like to be called Korrie."

Carth said you like to be called Korrie. You're smart for your age. You're tall. You asked Carth questions about starships. You—oh, you. You're here. You're real. You're mine. Mine.

"I have to be called Korrie," her son answered. His wide mouth curled in a child's open smile. "But you call me Mal." He nodded at her, oddly formal. "They told me you don't remember. But it's okay, 'because you came back for me. Just like you promised." His grin stretched wider and the formality dropped. "I was right. You're not bad and you came back for me!"

Revan walked to the forcefield, bent down, fitted her palms against the places where his touched the blue wall between them. Knelt, so that their faces were as close as they could be. The field tingled unpleasantly; but it didn't matter. "I came back," she agreed, "for you."

You're here. You're real. You're mine.

"Touching," said a voice from somewhere else. Somewhere unimportant. "Drop the field."

The blue shimmered out and then he was in her arms. Solid weight of him. His hair smelled like soap and the robes were stiff and heavy silk. Eridu. His arms were around her neck and Revan fell back, almost laughing with happiness so deep she could die from it. Her son had a few freckles on his face and his eyes were a clear, pale gray. Lined with red lashes. Her hand stroked his face, wondering at the softness of his skin, rumpled his hair so that it curled again. He wrinkled his nose at her and laughed and she again laughed too.

Malachor's hand touched the collar at her neck. "Does this cut you off from the Force, Mother?"

"Yes," Revan said. Mother. I'm his mother. Even expected, the word hit her like a ton of permacrete.

"I don't have the Force," he said. "Maybe when I'm bigger."

"Maybe." Revan echoed. She felt her face smile so wide it felt like it was going to split. "What do you like to do?" she asked her son. "We have to do whatever it is. All of it. Anything. Anything you want." Anything for you.

"I dunno," her son said. "Play. Read stories. I like exploring, but I'm not allowed. Maybe when I'm older, Grandfather says. I like my friends at school?" A shadow crossed his face. "But now, I guess I won't get to play with Leeshy anymore 'cause she's a Racharn." His head ducked. "Sometimes I play pretend," he added.

"What do you pretend?"

She smoothed the curls she'd just rumpled back from his brow, marveling at the way the hair met in a downward peak at the top of his head. Her own hair did the same, but it was straight, not curly. His hair was a darker red, and his mouth was wider than hers was under her same pointed chin. There were tears in her eyes and she brushed them away absently, hugging him close. He was real and solid and heavy in her arms.

He bent his face close to hers so that their noses touched.

Hothan kiss, some stray thought told her, and she rubbed her nose against his, and watched his face crinkle with laughter. A baby's game, maybe, that he was too old for now. His head straightened again, and he sat up in her lap, round face turning up to hers.

"Look!" he said, rolling up his heavy sleeve to show her a fading red mark on his arm. "A burrower drone bit me today, but Dustil saved me. Do you like Dustil?" His voice was anxious, eager to please.

"Of course," Revan said gently. "He's Carth's son." Thank the Force he saved your life. "You've met Carth. He told me how wonderful you were." She swallowed the lump in her throat, stroking his hair.

"It was really cool when he saved me," her son said.

Reality began filtering back like a cold blast of vacuum. People are trying to kill my son. I just made a deal with the devil to stop it. Malachor was heavy on her lap. Big for his age. Eight. He's always been big for his age. Like his…. "Do you like Carth?"

"It's important that I like him," Malachor told her gravely. The words had the air of a lesson learned by rote.

"Who told you that? Did your grandfather tell you that?"

She was aware again of HK standing silent sentinel behind them, and the man seated in front of her; behind the small table against the wall of the room. Hawk like nose, and those same gray eyes turned to chips of durasteel. Watching her every move. Over her son's shoulder she met his gaze and stared back, willing herself to show no reaction.

"Touching." Malachi D'Reev repeated. His bushy brows drew together under his hairless skull, which was speckled with age spots like the egg of an enormous bird. His hands were folded in a triangle and he tapped two fingers together, measuring.

"You're quite like her, you know. And yet…. " The Senator shook his head slowly. "Differences. Subtle but there." Tap, tap, tap, went his fingers. "Revan would never sit so carelessly on the floor, especially not wearing a formal sash."

"So, is that the stick?" she asked him.

"Pardon?"

Malachor slid off of her lap and stood up, reached for her hand. Revan stood up too and took his small fingers in hers. Pulled him closer. He was tall, she thought, for eight. His head almost came up to her shoulders. She didn't want to let go of him. Ever.

Don't be scared of your Ma, Mal. She thought at him, uselessly. She has to intimidate your grandfather now. Your mother's good at that. But it's all for show.

"The stick," Revan repeated, making her voice grow cold. Like Hoth. "There's the thisla treat and the stick. The gift and the threat." She made her eyes narrow at him, made her face a mask. "Is it that the stick? Your claim that I am not Revan?"

Malachi D'Reev snorted, which was not really the response she'd hoped for. "Thisla?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

His expressions were eerily familiar. Like— she shut down the part of her that thought about that and concentrated on keeping her own expression serene. "Thisla," Revan said flatly. "It's a fruit. Grows on trees."

"That's a fruit from the Outlier colonies?" His lips pulled back. "Not known on Coruscant." He paused. "Or on Hoth. Or Dantooine or Arkania or anywhere else you've ever lived. On Coruscant we'd say... the open palm and the closed fist." The Senator uncurled his hands, made one open and one closed on the table. There was a spark of triumph in his eyes. "But yes, as you so quaintly put it: your difference from my real daughter-in-law is the stick."

Thisla grows wild on the Outlier colonies. We had a tree in our backyard.

On Deralia.

Don't show him anything. Don't give a centimeter.

"Coruscanti law," Revan replied, voice flat. "I am as Revan as Revan will ever be."

"I'm pleased you've been studying, and I admire your resourcefulness." His hands lay on the table, one open and one closed. "You may be aware that what was done to you has been done to Jedi before."

Revan thought about the scarred Twi'lek and tried not to shiver. "I'd heard about it," her voice drawled. It sounded like a stranger's voice.

The Senator's lip curled. "Have you?" His fingers tapped together absently, and he leveled a stern glance at his grandson. Revan looked down. Malachor grinned back at his grandfather completely unbowed. A small spark of pride swelled in her chest, and she felt her own mouth break into a similar smile.

"In such cases, matters of identity were never a problem. The memories used were carefully chosen from the archives of Jedi holocrons centuries dead. "Experimentation with sets of artificially constructed memories sadly proved to be unstable. That practice was abandoned over two decades ago, after a rather… spectacular failure." Tap, tap, tap went his fingers.

"Your point?"

Malachor squeezed her hand, and looked up at her again, gray eyes wide and trusting. She resisted the urge to rumple his hair again, try and lift him in her arms. He was too big for that now. Big-boned, like his— too grown-up to be carried.

"The politics of identity are curious. To find an example more relevant to your own unique set of circumstance, one must look to the Coruscanti Houses. Most of the ruling families have, at some point in their histories, used clones; passing the lines of succession from one generation to the next."

"One thousand years ago, the Phin family took this evolution a step farther: not content to just clone themselves, they also implanted memories of the previous Senator in the mind of the next. Naturally, the lives of Senator's heirs remained uncertain. And so, there were always two clones implanted at one time. A certain amount of rivalry was unavoidable; but for centuries the practice proved remarkably effective. They guarded their methods quite zealously; but like any secret, the tech they used to implant the memories was too valuable a currency to stay secret. Eventually, its coin fell into the hands of one of their rivals. Our house. D'Reev."

Malachi's hands folded into a steeple again. Tap, tap, tap. "A D'Reev heir was implanted with Phin's memories and laid claim to their House." He shrugged. "Predictable chaos ensued. And at the end, there was only one Phin heir, by age a child of ten; and the D'Reev substitute, by age a lad of twenty. Both with all the memories of House Phin."

"So?" Revan squeezed Malachor's hand again and looked down at him. He looked up at her and giggled softly, made a face where the old man couldn't see. She gave him a small smile back. My son. Mine. "The D'Reev pawn had no claim to the other House."

"So said the Phin arbiters. But identity is nebulous. Intangible. D'Reev called in expert witnesses: mystics, priests, Jedi…." The old man made a face. "The final ruling hinged on the matter of the soul; and the fact that it was, in a sense, split between the two bodies. If there had only been one heir remaining with Phin memories; it would have had unquestioned ownership. As it was, the courts and the other Senate Houses ruled that one of the two had to be the copy of the other. And as a mere copy, it had no rights at all." The Senator blinked his hooded eyes. "There's so much changed in you, Revan, I hardly know if I need to explain this more."

Her mouth was dry. Revan swallowed, remembering Mission's words.

" Are you telling me she's real? Polla Organa's real? She's alive? This is big, sis. Really big. Major."

" I thought I did tell you."

" That she was a real personality, sure. Not that she was a living real personality. Legally, that makes a huge difference."

"You made a deal with the Genoharadan," she said coldly. Be like Hoth. Go on the offensive. If you're losing one battle, pick another fight. "And it's a bluff." You value Malachor's life. You would not risk him. Not really.

And that's why... you're bringing up this other stick now.

"A bluff?" There was nothing in his expression to give her a clue one way or the other. The Senator shrugged. "I admit, my plans have changed. Originally I just wanted to destroy you. And I could. Very easily. At any time. Still." His expression was as cold as hers. "Technically, by Coruscanti law, you're a copy of a Deralian smuggler. Nothing more. You are quite fortunate that everyone who knows about this has a vested interest in keeping it quiet. Myself included."

Malachor's arms slid around her chest, his head rested in the hollow below her throat. Revan resisted the urge to pick him up again.

"Because now you need me," Revan said. Her throat was dry.

"Thanks to your antics, what we both value is at risk. You are not defenseless, Revan, and Malachor is. As my Second, our enemies— your enemies will focus on you, not Korrie." The emphasis he put on her son's name made her realize why he was called that.

Malachor. I named my son after the Mandalorian system. I named my son after his father. What was it that Aemelie had said?

"You're really going to have to do something about that name. How would you like it if I named this one Serroco? Or Althir? Or Dxun?"

That dream of Malak, on the refugee ship from Eos.

" We argued about his name for a week. I wanted to change it — you refused. "

"Old man, what makes you think we have the same enemies? "

Malachi D'Reev laughed. "With your claim on my house, you inherit mine. And, of course you've made your own. Do you even know why Racharn strikes at us?"

Revan took a wild guess. "Because of what I did to them during the Sith and or Mandalorian Wars?" Fracking hell. Probably because of what I did to their family, planet, country home, favorite pet… They should get in line. Her thoughts skittered, useless.

The Senator shook his head. "Remarkable, how like and unlike the real Revan you are. You truly don't know, do you?"

She gritted her teeth. "Enlighten me."

"Economically you ruined them. They were heavily invested in Echanis space. You and my son destabilized the region, burned a few select targets—carbonite mines and peridillium manufacturing centers on the industrial planets, and claimed the entire useless stretch of space dust for your glorious Sith Empire."

Malachor scowled at his grandfather. "Stop it," he said. "Mother's not bad anymore. Don't fight with her."

The old man snorted. "I lent them funds to diversify. Monies that they are still paying back. A debt between Houses is not grounds for dispute by the laws of the Game—or no one would bother paying them; but deliberate economic sabotage of another House's interests certainly qualifies. With your claim, you've made it quite convenient for them to target us both."

"Then give them more money," Revan made herself drawl. "To back off." She squeezed Malachor's hand tightly. We're going to run away, Mal, she thought at him. Don't worry. This is all just the kath and hessi show.

"Is that a technique you learned from the Deralian's memories? Pay everyone off?" The Senator's laughter was sharp. "The Game doesn't work like that."

Her eyes narrowed. "Everyone has a price. You're rich. Find it."

His lips gave a faint smile. Revan tried to not shiver. His expression was almost — approving.

"I used to wish sometimes that you were my natural-born daughter. My son was soft, but you—in your time, you were quite remarkable."

XXX

" Give them a cause to believe in," Malak said. His hand tightened on her arm. "Religion, or an ideology. A vision of a united Republic. A utopia worth striving for where all sentients live in peace."

XXX

"Soft," she echoed.

XXX

His eyes were sunk deep in his skull, and there was something black and sticky staining the tight cortosis weave of his red and black armor. Revan felt a wave of disgust. Lightsabers were clean. But Malak had deliberately wallowed in the deaths he'd made.

XXX

Soft.

Don't think. If you're losing a fight, pick a better one.

"You tried to kill me. You brainwashed Carth Onasi. You've told the entire galaxy that I'm Darth Revan reborn."

"And in retaliation you've united the Mandalorian clans, garnered diplomatic immunity for yourself—at least temporarily—divided the Jedi Council to the point of immobility, and gotten Racharn to move openly against D'Reev." The old man's fingers went tap, tap, tap. "Not to mention the rumors from Ziost."

What fracking rumors? She bared her teeth. "You know the Sith, always spreading rumor."

"I'm impressed. For the shell of the woman you once were, you've done well. I will not interfere with your games, Revan. They can serve us both, paving the way for the future. For Malachor's future."

His smile was approving, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"You're bluffing again," she said, voice flat. "The Genoharadan gambit is a bluff. You'd never hurt Korrie. You want your enemies to destroy me, and then you'll claim... something, wriggle out of it...somehow. You're like a Hutt in a mudpit, trying to clamber out. You're not fit to raise my son."

At her side Korrie looked up at her. His eyes were very wide. There was a confused frown on his face. "Don't fight," he repeated.

The Senator coughed. "You left him with me to raise." His cultivated voice was low and very, very dangerous. "You think it's a bluff?" He touched something at his wrist and there was a metallic click. The collar around her neck fell off and the Force came rushing back like a song. A sad slow dirge. Malachor's hand tightened in hers and she felt him, the soft weight of him, emotions, love so strong that you could die from it.

You, oh you.

Mother! I'm glad you're here. He promised you'd come back for me.

She looked down at Malachor— Korrie, think of him as Korrie, damnit the old man's right, it's safer— and saw the faint white glow around him. Innocence. And—and the Force.

"You have it," she whispered. Her son looked up at her, uncomprehending.

"You feel like you again," he said, that wide mouth breaking back into a smile. One of his teeth was crooked, mostly grown in now.

We'll have to fix that. How do you fix that?

"Fix what?" he said out loud giggling.

"Your tooth," Revan answered. "I-I think mine did the same thing, when I was your age, I—"

When I was younger than you I was on Telos and—no. She felt his mind reach for hers, like his hand holding her hand and she closed her thoughts down quickly, barricading them.

Like ice. Like a wall of ice.

"Touching, the bonds between mothers and children," the old man mused. "Malak and his mother were much the same, at that age."

"What happened to her?" Revan murmured absently, staring down at her son.

You have the Force, my son. It feels like a star inside you. Like the heart of a sun.

Korrie's head shook, and his mouth tightened stubbornly. No, I don't. I'm not allowed. His thoughts were like bright fish in a clear pond, darting too quickly for her to understand them. Fear there, maybe.

She tried to smile reassuringly.

The Senator snorted. "A shell," he repeated. "Of the woman you were. Without even the memories you need to understand anything at all."

"Father's mother was Second," Korrie answered out loud. "Most Houses have lots of heirs, 'cause they clone them. But we D'Reevs don't because that makes you weak. Stagmite — stag —"

"Stagnant," the Senator said from outside of the universe that only had two people in it.

"Seconds die a lot," her son said. "Father would have died too, prob'ly; but Grandfather sent him to be a Jedi until he got bigger."

"Oh." Revan closed her eyes.

XXX

The apprentice dormitory was silent and dark, thick with the softness of childish sleep.

Silent—except someone was crying. He'd been crying for hours.

She couldn't stand it anymore. The stone floor was cold, and she tiptoed to the last cot in the row of cots, knelt down beside it and shook his shoulder.

" Why are you crying?" she whispered.

The tall boy rolled over on the narrow cot and looked at her. His eyes were dry and gray. "I'm not," he said stubbornly.

" Inside your head you are," she hissed. "Shut up. You're keeping me awake."

" Go to hell," he shot back.

Vrook always said smiling at people helped them like you. Revan tried a smile. "Tell me why you're crying," she suggested. Before she'd come here, Vrook was always trying to get her to talk. Because Uncle Vrook said talking was good. It could make you feel better.

" My mother's dead," the tall boy said.

Revan shrugged. "So's mine," she offered. She tried the smiling thing again.

Warily, the boy smiled back.

XXX

Malachor giggled. "Father looked funny with hair," he told her. His voice was anxious. "Do you miss him?"

Mal, Mallie, Malak.

I don't—I don't know him—I-I killed—him. Her eyes were wet. Angrily she blinked them. Bad time. Bad time for this.

"Do you think it's a bluff?" the Senator repeated. She glanced at him. He was blurry, everything was. Damnit. She wiped her eyes with the stupid priceless eridu sash, watching him frown at the carelessness of the action.

The old man's Force-blindness was like a black spot on the sun. A dead place. She could sense nothing from him.

"A bluff," she repeated, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. Make her voice flat and cold. Like Hoth. "Yes. I think it's a bluff."

"Then strike me down and see how long your son survives." Tap, tap, tap, went his fingers.

Instinctively her hand curled into a fist and she raised it, pulling on the Force. She felt his pulse rate increase slightly, his old heart beat a little faster, but his face gave nothing away.

Tap, tap, tap, went his fingers.

"I could kill you with a thought," Revan said softly. She was aware of her son's expression even without watching it. His mouth open, eyes wide, a feeling that was not quite fear but close.

Damnit.

"The odds in the Observatory are twenty to one that you'll kill me within the week," Malachi D'Reev said, pleasantly. "But they don't know about our arrangement."

"It's a bluff," she repeated. Her hand tightened, and she was pleased to see his eyes widen, almost imperceptible, feel his heart rate increase.

Tap, tap, tap.

"Mother?" Korrie was pulling at her robe. Distracted for a moment, she looked down at him again.

It's a bluff. But what... what if it's not?

Her son's eyes were wide and gray.

Her hand fell, palm open, to her side.

"You have changed," the old man said. His hands stopped their tapping and he raised one to his mouth and coughed. "As I suspected."

XXX

As Vrook had said, the trial was only a formality. They stood before the Selkath Court and were judged innocent of any crime.

It should have been a victory.

Afterwards, a small escort took them back to what had been their prison to collect their few possessions. Of course, no one offered them back their lightsabers, or Gharen's blasters.

"You're free to go." Vrook Lamar repeated the words again. There was a weight in his voice that Yuthura couldn't quite read. Almost—a warning

Trap here, somehow. But laid by whom to catch what, she had no idea. Behind him, the containment fields were gone. Their Selkath guards fiddled with something at their console, and the faint hum of the neural disruptor field shut down as well. Strange, Yuthura had gotten so used to its relentless buzzing in her ears that the absence made her almost dizzy.

"Go where?" Armon Wu was already shoving the few things he'd collected into a bag. He looked at the human Jedi with something like a challenge in his face. "The Selkath want us off this planet, the Sith want us dead for traitors, where are we supposed to go?"

"We could have helped you heal the kolto," Sheris muttered. Her metal hand scratched the unscarred side of her face and her lip twisted.

Vrook looked away from her quickly. Seeing his niece's face, even a broken copy of it, obviously still caused him some discomfort.

"The Senate has arranged for you to have a ship. One ship. You are Republic citizens, and in recognition of that, they're offering you free passage to the Republic world or worlds of your choice." Roland Wann was smooth. His face was hard, and he looked annoyed, but Yuthura didn't buy it. The offer was too vague and too easy.

Trap here. The ship was the trap. Easy to trap people on a ship. How easy would it be to miss the boat?

"A ship. Any world we want. Sounds like paradise," Beya rolled her eyes.

"I want to go to Coruscant," Sheris whispered. "To the Temple." She looked up at the Deralian. Her metal hand reached for her friend's. "Would you come with me, Beya?"

The Deralian gave a short, sharp laugh. "You want to go to Coruscant with Revan's face? Chuba, sometimes I think you're still touched in the head."

Sometimes the best way to deal with a minefield is to run right over it. "It's wonderful the Republic is offering to buy us a ship," Yuthura said, keeping her voice serene. "But Manaan is, last I checked, at least nominally Republic?" She folded her arms. "I'd like to stay here, and heal the kolto."

"Bakata," Vikor said softly. "We could go to Ryloth. Come with me. Please."

Strange to feel him through the Force after weeks of blindness. His emotions were as sincere as his voice, but the sincerity didn't change the facts.

It's a trap, you fool, she thought at him, not sure if he'd catch her words or not.

His lekku twitched back, and a faint smile crossed his pointed face. His lekku twisted his response, giving a nuance of expression that no voice could match to his words. What trap can hold us? Come with me. Please come.

"I want to go home," Beya admitted softly, staring at the ground. "Sheris, come with me back to Deralia."

The girl from Hoth made a face. "No."

"Wann," Vrook said, voice sharp. "I have orders from the Council. Orders in confidence. Leave us. Now."

Roland Wann snorted and shrugged. "As you wish." With one disdainful backwards glance he left the room that had been their prison. The containment fields were down now and beyond them, an open door.

Freedom.

Yuthura smiled faintly and raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I wouldn't take the ship," Vrook said flatly. "If any of you want to stay on Manaan I'll do my best to keep you safe."

"Oh, that's comforting," muttered Lukash Vair. A scowl crossed his delicate Falleen features. "I'll take my chances in the stars, thanks."

"As will we," said Vikor, glancing at Yuthura. He reached for her arm, protective.

Possessive.

"No." She pulled away from him. "I'm staying here."

Around them, the rest of the Selkath ten murmured and whispered, packing their few possessions as they would.

"I'm staying," said Davad Arkan, voice flat.

"We'll be safe on Deralia," Beya insisted again to Sheris. She reached out a hand and touched the mask that covered half of her friend's delicate features. "We'll find a surgeon and he can fix—"

One side of the Hothan's face pulled in a sneer. "I said, no. Can I go to Coruscant, Master Vrook?" she asked the old man.

Vrook's eyes dropped to the floor. "That would be inadvisable," he said. "But there are surgeons here, and we could have the damage—and the alterations—fixed."

The green eye not covered by the mask widened. "Alterations?" Sheris shook her head. "Fix the scars," she agreed. "But nothing else. She lifted her chin, in an eerie parody of Revan's stance. "This is how she made me."

Vrook Lamar reached out a hand and brushed the red hair back from her forehead. "I remember your real face, Padawan Sheris Loran," he said, voice gentle. "Don't you want to see—?"

"Sheris Darkstar," the Hothan insisted, flicker of anger in her tone. "It's what she made me."

"Your parents are alive." Vrook said. "On Hoth. They wrote to me. Said to tell you if you wanted to come home, you would be welcome. Safe."

Of course, Yuthura thought. He's from Hoth, too. For a moment she wondered about the family that had spawned not only Revan Starfire but Master Vrook Lamar.

"Hoth's no home for your niece," Sheris spat back. "I saw the vids, they deny she was even born there."

"You and Revan are very different." Vrook Lamar answered steadily.

"We're the same." Sheris shook her head. "I thought you of all people would understand. We're the same. She made us the same."

"She's getting worse," muttered Gharen under his breath. "Pity you Jedi can't heal a cracked mind."

"I'm taking her to Deralia." Beya reached for her friend's hand, the good one, not covered by a prosthesis.

" I said, no!" Sheris snapped back. Her good hand twisted slightly, and they all felt it. Pull of dark energy like the ebb of a tide.

Beya dropped the hand and backed away. "Frack, Sheris," she sighed. "Don't."

"Don't take the ship," Vrook Lamar repeated. "If you want to get offworld, do it secretly. Separately. I will help."

"Don't take offense, Master Vrook," said the former Sith Admiral Armon Wu. "But I think I'd rather take my chances with the Fleet's offer than trust anymore Jedi lies."

"I'm going to Deralia," Beya repeated. "Sheris, I want you to come; but if you don't, I'm still going. It's home."

"I want the redemption," Sheris Darkstar said, her green eye never leaving Vrook's face. "I want the redemption. The one she got. We're the same. Why can't I have what she got?"

Vrook Lamar inhaled sharply. "You have no idea," he said, voice oddly gentle. "What it is that you're asking for."

"Did they offer it to you once, Master Vrook?" Yuthura recognized the voice that came out of her mouth. Her old teacher's voice, mocking and serene. She folded her arms, attempting to strike her pose of old authority. "Did you take it?"

His dark eyes flickered to hers, face impassive. "They offered. I did not."

She made her lips curve upwards. "And did you follow Exar to Yavin? Were you swayed by Ulic's promises of a new golden age? Were you possessed by some ancient Sith holocron like the children's holovids say, about all of the fallen Jedi?"

Behind her, someone snickered.

Vrook shook his head. "I never fell," he said steadily.

"Neither did Tott Doneeta, and look at what they did to him!" Vikor's lekku flicked and his skin flushed a deeper green.

"He asked for it," Vrook said quietly. "If any of you choose to take that path, I will support your request, with the Council. But right now, things are—unsettled. Until Revan is—"

"—is what, Master Vrook?" Beya asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Mindwiped again?"

Vrook swallowed. His loss of composure was astonishing, like fragile cracks in a sheet of transparisteel right before it all crumples to the ground.

"Restored. Until Revan is restored, it would be useless to ask for anyone else. I'm aware that you know the truth about what was done to her. You know more than anyone, save some Fleet personnel and the Jedi Council. It's not safe knowledge to have. Do you understand?"

"Oh, absolutely," Yuthura lied. Her mind puzzled over the word 'restored' but she gave nothing away.

XXX

"Why do you follow her?" Gwen had asked him, voice sleepy with content, that first night of their reunion after he'd come home to them. The three of them were sprawled in front of the brazier, sipping the sweet, dark tea that he'd made. Its rich, bitter taste was a reminder of a home Canderous had thought he'd never see again.

"She's Revan," he'd said. In the man's world, that would explain everything. But, as he'd learned long ago, women weren't that simple.

"She's Lin," he added. "We are sworn to assist them."

"Only as long as their interests serve Ordo and all Mandalorians," Aemelie purred. His hand tangled in her hair and she giggled, softly. "Can she give us what we need?"

"I don't know," Canderous said, honestly. Better to be honest than to make promises that one couldn't keep. He hesitated. "It is doubtful. I can hardly see the Republic trusting her with what's left of its Fleet after what happened the last time."

"We don't need warships." Gwen wrapped her arms lazily around his chest and brushed her lips against his ear, nibbling lightly. Canderous groaned. Gods. It had been far too long.

"Again, if it pleases you," he said, exhaling in a sharp hiss. "We can go again."

"Mmmm. " Aemelie's hand brushed the surface of his skin and he nearly jumped out of it.

"Ask her for freighters," Gwen told him. "Harmless, dilapidated, salvage. Freighters. With the resources of D'Reev and that computer of hers, a small fleet of unarmed ships shouldn't be hard to come by." She yawned, stretching impressively. Canderous reached for her, and she fell into his arms, laughing.

"Freighters," he agreed. "We can retrofit?"

"It will give the young ones something to do," Gwen said.

"Are there... resources?" he asked, searching for a harmless euphemism that wouldn't intrude on women's business.

"Small caches," Aemelie replied with astonishing directness. "Left over from the war. Scattered across several worlds. Enough."

Later, it had been easy, sitting by the fire with his son on his knee to think of this all as a glorious gamble for the future.

xxx

Now, there was an issue with security and the double Krath blades that the Jedi Masters and the Fleet brass had not been foolhardy enough to attempt to take from Headwoman Catrinex Rialis, eldest Mother of the clans on Coruscant.

Rank and file CorSec guardsmen didn't show as much sense; and, unsurprisingly, the Republic had a prohibition about weaponry on the Senate floor. Canderous wondered if Carth had been caught with the old Degalian repeater as well. Practically a toy; but in a pinch it couldn't hurt. He'd watched Revan and Carth walk off with her droid like dewbacks to slaughter and had stifled his growing feeling of unease about this entire production.

The guard not engaged in a tug of war with a woman who'd seen sixty Rialis cycles wax and wane like moons ran the scanner over his robes again, frowning. The machine clicked and gave a small beep.

"He's clean," the lad said, dubious. "They both are."

"Of course we are," Oerin Lin snapped. "And the Headwoman's swords are entirely ceremonial. Sacred," he added. His hands curved protectively around the helm he'd strapped to his thigh. Canderous wondered what armaments the pup had smuggled inside it.

He hid his snicker under a gruff cough. The guards stepped back nervously.

That's your job, Ordo. Look intimidating… but not too intimidating.

"Shouldn't the Ordo one be shackled or something?" whispered a blonde wisp of a girl who looked barely old enough to fight, dressed in lieutenant's bars.

"You want to put the restraints back on him, Cally?" her companion, a nondescript human male shot back. The whelp was barely old enough to shave.

"Ordo and I have come to an agreement," Oerin said. "Your glorious leader, the High Admiral Rensha saw fit to remove his chains. Who are you to question it?"

The blonde girl giggled. "Glorious leader? Old Scaly?"

Canderous let his mouth stretch into a harmless grin and stuck his thumbs in the thick belt of his robe, surreptitiously checking the small blade he had lodged there. It wasn't much, but it made him feel better.

The other guard, the Trandoshan wrestling with the Headwoman of Rialis finally gave up, beating a strategic retreat under hail of Mandalorian curses. The old woman's mind might be half-soup, but there was nothing wrong with her tongue. Or her imagination.

Grandmother Ordo had been much the same, before her end at Malachor.

"Any more news?" Canderous mumbled in Mandalorian, shifting closer to Oerin in a warrior's swagger. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the guards closely. None of them gave any sign of understanding; but he assumed there'd be surveillance and a translator stationed somewhere picking up their every word. Still, he trusted the pup to be discreet.

Unless of course these Republic were complete idiots. Given recent history, not a point to be discounted.

"Her collar's off," murmured Oerin Lin. His eyes—at the moment a bright and guileless blue—shifted thoughtfully around the room. "They're fencing, now I think. She's with the boy. The others are positioned appropriately."

Too much to hope that the pup meant fencing with swords. Canderous could imagine the dance of words only too easily. Revan was good at that; but whether she knew enough was another matter.

"We're supposed to keep you here until they call for you," the girl Lieutenant said, her young voice full of self-importance. She spoke slowly, as if she suspected they were deaf.

Oerin Lin beamed at her and addressed her back in the same accentless Standard. "Are you from Dantooine... Lieutenant?"

"Lee," she smiled back. "Cally Lee. And yes, yes I am." Almost reflexively, her lashes fluttered.

"Barbarian whore," the Headwoman of Rialis muttered in her local dialect, spitting on the ground. "Mandalorian men do not take outlander wives. Only bad luck comes of it."

Oerin's hand twitched, and his ears flushed a slight pink. "There's Revan, Mother Rialis," he said softly in the same patois. "She was an outlander. And my mother as well."

"That rizka-bait trollop is no Revan. And your mother's plans for us... failed," the Headwoman shot back. "In your grandfather's time, boy, our men sacked this City-Planet properly." She gave a snort of disgust. "If you'd just let me bargain properly with the D'Reev we'd have our ships by now and you could blood yourselves on this fat prize of a world until the barbarians screamed for mercy."

Canderous gritted his teeth. The word Revan was still Revan, D'Reev was still D'Reev, and he didn't put it past these Republics to have someone on hand who could understand Rialis. It was basically an archaic form of Mandalorian, after all.

"My daughter Millifar," he broke in, "would look less kindly on your suit if she saw you flirting with another woman, Lin."

The entirely inappropriate words had the desired effect. Lin flushed red and ducked his head, looking less like a young prince and more like a denessan beet.

It was worth enduring the lecture on his shamelessness in mixed company from the Headwoman, just to change the subject.

Somewhere, Canderous suspected, some Mandalorian translator and xenososh would be having a field day with the transcript.

XXX

The little things hadn't changed. Same circular bar and golden servomechs. The same rows of small tables lined in a half-moon row in front of the same expanse of transparisteel; opening the view to the same Senate floor below.

So much unchanged since the last time he'd been here. And when was that?

Before. It was before. Before it all went to hell. Years.

Some faces were the same too; although different clones inhabited them. They all looked so young, as young as this body. The same calculating glances, cultivated laughter, hushed whispers as he and the Captain walked past. Without even trying he could hear the gist of their thoughts.

D'Reev's lackies—what are they doing here?

Captain Onasi hadn't killed him yet. Hadn't even tried. Malak tried to look on that as a good sign. The man's hate and fury beat on him like a wave, dulled only a little by the sporadic ysalamiri coverage. They hadn't gotten any better at shielding the complex from the Force. That was really no surprise.

And inside his mind, a dull, hopeless wail. Dustil Onasi's anger came in waves. The tide was out now. Easier, to be calm when the boy was hopeless, than when he was angry. Malak tried to project that calmness inward. Maybe it would help the child.

Or, maybe not.

Thinking about Dustil was blessed distraction from the faint emotions filtering through ysalamiri that he couldn't help but feel from his son.

Love. Love for Revan.

XXX

Instinctively, he reached for her, supporting himself on that wall of ice that was his wife's mind. The planet's surface blazed beneath. Mandalorian basilisks flew in formation, dropping like bright candies from a child's birthday surprise. The basilisks fell from the warbird their capital ships had encircled: clumsy purrgil, around a faster, sleek firaxa.

All a distraction. The Mandalorian's real ambush was just ahead of them. Their cloaked destroyers basked under a heavy cloud cover at the highest point of the moon's atmosphere. Invisible to the Republic's sensors.

But Malak could see the bright sparks of life on them, clear as tiny flames.

He tapped in the coordinates for Admiral Karath, and the Telosian gave the orders. Bursts from their main cannon on the viewscreen and the Manda cloaking nets flickered; an alarm going off on the Ascendant's bridge, as their ship's instruments finally registered what before only his mind had been able to see.

On the Mandalorian destroyers, those little flames went out, one-by-one. Four thousand of them—give or take. Revan's thoughts were even and contained and cold. An ice wall between him and emotion. No feelings as they died except—

Except love. That morning she'd asked him if he was fine. Skin rosy from her sonic; hair a tangled cloud of wet fire down her back. Eyes green as jewels, and as blank and hard. Perfunctory kiss, but her mind was elsewhere. Somewhere in a vision of tactics, as she and the Admirals played Mandalorian chess with flesh and blood.

The remaining drop ships reversed, burning their fuel reserves to upend trajectories, slamming themselves into the Ascendant's deflector shields. The madmen were trying to board them now: a futile effort, doomed and desperate. One by one, he felt their lights wink out; and he felt no feelings as they died except—

Except hate. Hate for the Mandalore, whose war had taken his wife and refashioned her into this machine.

Revan was deep in the trance now, beyond that place where he could reach her. Projecting a wall of ice between the Jedi Knights and the death they brought.

And Malak felt nothing but her.

XXX

"Were you at Dxun?" he asked the Captain.

Carth Onasi shot him another look of outrage. The man's jaw clenched. "We're not, going to have a chat about the wars, Malak."

" Don't," Malak muttered, trying to resist the urge to reinforce the objection with the Force. The Captain's mind was damaged, like cloth worn so thin that the light shone through. Any Force-compulsion over the injuries his father had inflicted would tear it to shreds. "Pretty funny, Dad," he murmured lightly, trying to slur the vowels just right. "Using that name here."

The other man's jaw worked, but he was silent. The Captain's thoughts ran endlessly in a hopeless circle. Predictable. His mind was so open, it would be easy to read. Malak didn't want to bother.

"May I help you, Citizens?" The servomech's toneless query interrupted them both. The droid gestured a golden arm at a small table by the window on the main viewing platform. Beyond that curved the senate boxes, each one a hovering gravlift, hanging like leaves above the floor far below. Above that the dome, and the white clouds of the Coruscant sky.

The floor was empty at the moment, but in the Observatory there was a sense of hushed expectation, as the Coruscanti elite and their offspring waited for the big show.

D'Reev versus D'Reev.

And somewhere, her mind only saw Malachor. Only saw their son. Her happiness felt like bile on the back of his throat.

This was not going to be easy.

He sat down at the table, watching the Captain sit across from him, hand still clenched tight around the primitive weapon he had in his pocket. "Althiri firewater," Malak ordered the servomech. "Room temp." The Captain's eyes glittered dangerously, and Malak suddenly remembered their only real encounter. That was near the end, right before. His lips twisted, unfamiliar, clumsy, as he tried to make Dustil's face obey instructions to look harmless and unthreatening. "Two glasses. Bring the bottle."

"You're not putting that poison inside my son's body!" Carth muttered under his breath as the servomech retreated.

Malak bit off his response and stared at the window. There, almost directly across from them, between the yellow and blue of House Qel-Ria and the silver and white of Phin: the D'Reev box. He could make out the two red heads, sitting close to each other, and farther away, the old man.

Malachor's thoughts were a simple clear burst of light. Happiness.

The holoscreen to the right of the senators' boxes showed the Senate floor. A man wearing the Mandalore's armor, and two figures behind in the traditional robes stepped off their gravlift onto the penitent's gate. There was General Ordo— my wife's other husband, what game are you playing at, Red— and an old Headwoman they'd found somewhere. Rialis, probably, from the pattern of her hair.

Malak tried to keep his breath even.

" On Mandalore," the old man had said, "the men of the clans are to be feared for their prowess in battle, their skill with swords, and their absolute conviction that war is everything. But it's the women of the clan who have the real power. "

The old man's smile had been smug when he'd said that. When had he said it? Before, right before. Right before Red and I left with Vrook on our quest to become perfect, gentle knights.

The old man's smile had been smug. Years before I knew the entire truth about why. If I had never known, would things have been different? Was it our arrogance, thinking we could change the Republic that led us to destroy it? If we had never been betrayed, if Malachor had never happened—would we gone farther?

Would they still have found us?

The servomech glided back, smooth and golden. Malak waved it away. His hand shook as he unstopped the bottle, poured two glasses of the clear harsh rotgot and swallowed one of them as fast as he could. His throat tightened, and Malak felt the boy's gut clench in protest as the liquid seared his throat.

The Captain glared at him. Malak looked away, and drained the other glass.

XXX

Polla wove her way through the dancers in the main room of the barn off to the feed room; where Seiran was sitting with her father and several of the other men, gathered around the flickering light of an ancient portable holovid player that someone had set up in the corner. Jasp Organa had his grandson on his lap, and a mug of ferra grass wine in one hand. Junior was sleeping peacefully at least. Sports, she thought. Even at a wake, they can't afford to miss Adaston's championship run against Rangon Hill.

"Having fun?" she asked Sei acidly.

His tanned face flushed. "Polla… hon…."

Suddenly, Polla realized that all of them, all of the men gathered on crates and bales of uncured grass were staring at her. She frowned.

"Noble sentients of the galaxy, we come before you humbled, seeking your aid. As a conquered people, we are eager to embrace the ways of your Republic, to turn our basilisks into harvesters; to be accepted as a protectorate of your great Empire."

Polla glanced at the screen. "Senate stuff from Coruscant? The game is on this afternoon and you're watching galactic politics?" She wasn't really pissed that Sei had snuck away from the traditional reels and line-dances. Men did that when the game was on, it was pretty much expected.

"Polla, it's the Mandalorian thing. The thing, you know—the—"

Mandalorian. Oh. Mandalorian meant Her.

"Well, where is she?" Her voice fell, flat and crisp in the suddenly silenced room.

Polla stared at the particle screen. The holographic image showed a man with blonde hair wearing silvery armor—he'd been the one in the vids before. And there was Canderous Ordo from the Ebon Hawk looming behind him.

Her other husband. He's way too old. Polla made a face at the viewscreen.

"It's just started," Jasp Organa said, settling back with his grandson on one knee and his mug on the other. "Sit down, dear. You should probably see this."

On-screen an old woman seemed to objecting to something the blonde man had said. Her voice was thin. Over the din of the reel in the next room, Polla had to strain to hear it.

"—cannot lead us. Mandalorians are led by a blooded warrior. Oerin Lin is blooded in only two of the three ways of our clans." The speakers crackled.

" We must appoint a regent," Canderous Ordo rumbled. He looked sort of awkward, Polla thought, the kind of man more at home in a firefight than on parade. "Until the pup gets blooded." He cupped his hand over his eyes looking up, the Senator's boxes soared around them like a towering black wall.

" I'll accept that," Oerin Lin said. He gave the camera a practiced smile. "As long as the regent is Clan Lin."

The old woman frowned and looked puzzled. "Now?" she said in badly accented Basic.

Canderous Ordo sighed. "It's your decision, Mother Rialis," he said formally. His hands seemed to twitch a little though.

The Galactic Chancellor's hovercraft came into the camera view, and the leader of the Republic began to give a long speech. The speakers crackled and his clicking Basic wasn't that easy to understand.

Polla started to tune it out. Politics had never interested her.

Where's Revan? Shouldn't she be out here in chains or something?

"So—" Polla broke in. "He's a prisoner too, right? Canderous? He doesn't look like one."

"Do you think he's cute, Pollie?" her cousin Garn grinned at her, well into his cups.

"This is a funeral," Seiran reminded Garn. "Show some respect."

"Frack off," Polla added, settling herself on the haybale between Seiran and her father.

Junior murmured something, waking from his baby sleep and she reached for him, setting his head against the bodice of her dress. With as much dignity as an old married lady should have, she undid the buckles and let him nurse. Seiran brushed his lips across the top of her neatly shorn head and she leaned into him, the paragon of domesticity.

The Galactic Chancellor continued speaking, long-winded and dreary. Polla was just dozing off again when they were interrupted.

"Pollie, dear?" Her aunt Pollana peered in through the doorway. "Yer Ma says there's a call for you on the comm. In the house."

"A call for me, here?" Polla asked, a little surprised.

Her aunt shrugged. "Some Twi'lek on the wideband. She says you've won a fabulous prize."

"A telemarketer?" Polla shifted Junior to the other side, standing up. "You're interrupting me at a funeral for a telemarketer?"

Her aunt grinned, missing teeth and all. "You never know, dear. She was pretty convincing. Surely, it's worth taking a chance?"

Seiran rolled his eyes.

Polla glared at him. "Okay," she said, burping Junior with one hand and refastening her shirt with the other. "I'm coming."

XXX

On the Senate floor, representatives of the race that had destroyed all of his hopes enacted their little comedy for the Senate kath hounds. The man in the Mandalore's armor took off his helm, fair-haired like most of the Lins had been. In his face Malak could only see a little of the child he remembered meeting, the boy in the Fett's tents who was always asking to play chess.

How are you even alive, Oerin Lin? And where did Red find you?

Or, where did you find her?

There was too much he didn't know.

At the end of the war there had been three events that had led to the rest. Three actions they had chosen—or rather Revan had chosen—that doomed the Jedi Knights like granslugs caught in a salt pool.

There was the duel where she almost died. There was the decision to eliminate all of Clan Lin. And there was Malachor V. The first act had been one of desperation. The second and third carefully plotted as much as any Senatorial intrigue.

Malak closed his eyes again. He could almost hear her voice in his head. That old argument, the one she'd won. She always won.

XXX

" If we don't destroy the Clan Lin completely someone else will use them again. He could use them again, Mal. They won't learn, they won't grow a conscience and become civilized. To Mandalorians we're the barbarians. If we leave them anything at all they'll rebuild, scrap together another Fleet, or just a few drop-ships and go again. It's what they do."

" If you destroy Lin, another clan will take their place. It's like my father, Red. Kill him, there are twenty-six other noble houses standing in line to ascend to the Senate seat. Nothing will change. Nothing ever does."

" It will this time. He found a tool to make war with," she answered, voice cold. "And we'll shatter it to pieces. One last war and then peace. Forever peace." Her voice was dispassionate, but her eyes flickered with doubt. And guilt. Her hand brushed the side of his face. He'd caught a piece of shrapnel groundside on Wies, and the cut wasn't healing. Not like it should. She hesitated. "You know, Mal, what have to do?"

Malak nodded. He was so tired, and he had to tell her the things she already knew. "We're not doing so well, Red. The other Knights, some of them—"

" Just more casualties," she said, voice empty. She hesitated. "It's still power, Mal. It's something we can use." Her eyes pleaded with him, almost as if she wanted him to deny it, tell her that she was wrong.

" Your computer told you that?" He'd read the same Sith archives that she had. Long ago, when they were children and curious; and more recently with deadly intent. He'd seen the same things that she had. But that thing on Kashyyyk only spoke to her.

She looked away, voice quiet and small. Her hand dropped from his cheek. "It doesn't have to tell me. I can feel it."

" We all can," he muttered. But she was right.

" Take out Lin, first," Malak said. "The other clans will fall in line and go to the treaty." He took a deep breath, again saying out loud what both of them already knew. "There are those—among the Fleet and Order who won't accept it."

Revan nodded. Her face was completely empty. "We'll have to make sure that they're on the right ships. Transmissions are spotty here, ever since we took out the communication nets. It will take some time for the news to reach the Core. "

Malak nodded and gave her a twisted smile. "My father told me information is everything. if we let it be known that part of the Fleet is off chasing the remnants of the Mandalorian threat it will buy us time."

"Time for what?" Her smile twisted. "You still think we're coming back."

XXX

"Dustil?" A girl's voice broke into his reminiscences sharp as a frag grenade. Malak blinked.

Across the table Captain Onasi was still scowling. The holoscreen circus continued, far below them on the Senate floor.

" Who will act as regent for Clan Lin?" Galactic Chancellor Nal'Gahar asked formally. "Do you have a member of your family that the other Mandalorian clans will accept?"

The blonde Mandalorian smiled and shook his head. " I am the last of my people," he declared.

Canderous Ordo coughed. "No, there is another." The words sounded rehearsed.

" Yes, there is another," the old woman agreed. "If the other clans are in accord, she will act as regent."

Is that your cue, Red? Your chance to stand up and take over the Mandalorians and my father's Senate seat in one fell swoop?

You fool.

"Dustil?" The girl had black hair and her features were vaguely familiar. She was dressed all in white. Scattered, he tried to place a name to her house. Makeon, maybe, they ran multiple lines of clones and alternated their succession from one generation to the next. Wearing no colors meant she was either outside of the lines of succession or too important to bother with needless formalities. He was too distracted to care about which.

What are you going to do with your Mandalorians, my love, after they've danced for the crowd? Do you think they'll just go away?

There was a muttered rush of sound over the dulcet conversations of the Observatory coming from the holocam speakers. The spectators below them gasped in astonishment and there was her face on the screen. Malak felt the Captain tense and he turned away, so he didn't have to look at her, look at him.

All he could feel from Mal was the same bright love. And her emotions: determined, focused, expectant. Malak shied away from seeing more.

When her dreams had been open to him, seeing the pilot's face in them was bad enough.

"Are you drunk?" the black-haired girl giggled.

Malak resisted the urge to push her out of the way. There is no passion, there is serenity. "What is she doing with the Mandalorians?" he demanded of Onasi.

" My name is Revan Starfire D'Reev Lin Ordo Onasi," her voice came over the holoscreen. "And I am recognized as a leader by the traditional Mandalorian custom. I was adopted by Clan Lin. I am entitled to serve as regent."

" D'Reev Lin?" the Chancellor echoed. Chambers was full of the hiss of whispers, as those who had not known, reacted.

"Shut up, Dustil," Carth muttered. He turned to the girl, who was still standing there, faint flush of pink on her cheeks. "This isn't really a good time, Citizen—"

"Aramis. I'm a friend of your son."

Sharp peal of girlish laughter behind them, Malak half-twisted in his seat to see. The Racharn girl—Leeshansintina—and a few other Amaltines were avidly watching Aramis' progress.

"Aramis Makeon," Malak said, making an educated guess. Phin were fair, generally, and Qel-Ria almost never came to the Observatory, at least in his day. Malachor had a little friend in Makeon too, he remembered. When he'd been an Eglatine the Makeon heir his age had been male. Dario. And he'd been an ass. "You're Arry's sib, yes?"

"It's cool that Korrie's okay," the girl admitted.

Another potential ally for my son. He tried to smile at her but the holoscreen's words distracted him.

" ...matter must be taken to Galactic vote. The sovereignty of the Mandalorian people has been accepted; but your choice of regents is unusual."

" D'Reev will back the claim. I have formally recognized Revan Starfire D'Reev as my Second, based on her marriage to my late son…."

The pandemonium increased at the old man's words.

"Wow," Aramis said, sliding into the empty seat at the table next to him. "It's all really out in the open now. Did you know, Dustil? Did you know, like everything?"

"You owe me ten credits," one of the other Am's yelled to her. "Didn't I call it?"

"Double it," the Makeon girl laughed back. "I say she'll kill the old man before next week."

"Where will your House side?" Malak asked her, trying to sound casual.

Obviously he failed. Her eyes narrowed.

Behind her, his son's face on the holoscreen. Malachor smiled tentatively for the galaxy that wanted to rip him to shreds.

Helpless. Innocent. Control…. Malak could feel the Onasi boy's rage within him; as if his own helped fuel it. Curious.

"That's none of your business," Aramis said. "Just because you saved Korrie's life, Dustil; don't think you can understand the game."

The Galactic Chancellor's voice cut in and the camera hastily cut back to his face. His beak chattered, agitated.

"I'm a quick study," Malak said. He turned his head deliberately away from her, angling his chair so that his back faced her. There were several greater insults in Coruscanti high society; but most of them required being a registered member of a House. He heard her hiss of indignation and sharp quick steps as she walked away fast.

"You have such a way with people," Captain Onasi snarled. From the level of the Althiri firewater bottle, he'd had a few. "Maybe you should carpet bomb her favorite store now? Or send in some of your minions to hunt her down when she's at school?"

"This matter must be voted on in accordance with sovereign Mandalorian traditions," the Galactic Chancellor was saying. "Before the regency can be accepted." The head of the Republic looked almost relieved as he continued. "That means, all Mandalorian clans must be in accord." His tentacles shrugged. "Only Ordo and Lin and Rialis are here out of the five."

"This is part of her plan too, isn't it?" Malak hissed back. "You, of all people, should know better! You fought against them. Saul told me that your loyalty was absolute!"

The man's face darkened at the mention of his former mentor.

Malak gathered he had made a severe error in judgment right before the Captain's fist connected with the side of his face. Hard.

Dustil's body was still unfamiliar, and lighter than he expected, and Malak failed to compensate in time. The blow sent him flying off the chair and awkwardly onto the floor. The table they'd been sitting at landed half on top of him. The crystal decanter shattered, splashing firewater everywhere.

" Clan Wies has renounced the other clans, they have no more say in our governance since their false Mandalore was overthrown," broke in an amused female voice. "But here is the headwoman of Zal. I'm afraid she doesn't speak your tongue, but trust me, she agrees with the decision."

On the floor Malak struggled to regain his concentration. If you Force choke Red's true love, she'll never get over it. His thoughts were black and almost hysterical.

"Seven credits on Onasi younger," a dry Coruscanti voice crisped behind him.

"Ten on the Captain."

"We were in a café on Palisadia and one of the Pads there said Dustil was a Jedi. My money's on him," giggled a girl's voice. Leeshansintina.

Control….

Malak got to his feet slowly, rubbing his jaw. It ached. Pain, like an old memory.

On the holoscreen the camera had panned to the public viewstation, where a large contingent of plainly-dressed humans clustered, like a pack of starving drajak, closing in for the kill. Mandalorians, every one. Their spokesperson was a blonde-haired woman, hair looped in the traditional braids they wore for the women's battles.

That is to say for trade. And what a trade they've made this time. Does Red have any idea? Is it worse if she's ignorant? Or is she doing this on purpose?

"You have to stop this, we have to stop this," Malak said to the Captain, who was staring at him, face bloodless with shock.

The man's guilt at hurting his son mixed with his hatred of Saul—and Malak himself—so hard that it was like a drum on his senses.

"I trust Canderous Ordo a hell of a lot more than I trust you," the pilot muttered. "He saved our asses more times than I can count. You, on the other hand—"

"Don't," Malak murmured, aware again of the avid eyes watching them. "Don't."

On the screen the Mandalorian she-spawn's head was bent, and a dark-haired boy, just into manhood, was whispering in her ear.

The face had an adult's angles now, and a wisp of a beard at his chin; but it was still familiar.

"That's Mekel Jin." Malak said. "Does she have him working with the Mandalorians now, too?"

For a moment, the Captain looked genuinely surprised. "You know Mekel?" Then his face dropped back into a scowl.

"He was my ward." Malak stared at the boy's face on the viewscreen. The son I never wanted Malachor to be. The innocent monster. He reminded me of Revan. No sith'ae'rah—but his hands were bloody, and his heart was good. Trusting. Malleable. He trusted me, and I threw him into that snakepit of an Academy, the one we fashioned. "I won't have him consorting with Mandalorian scum."

The pilot laughed. "This is rich. You, of all people—when we were on Korriban you know what Mekel was doing?"

"I was sent reports," Malak said.

I just want my son to be safe. There is no safety for him with the Mandalorians. No safety for the galaxy with the Mandalorians. I thought we'd destroyed them. Red, you fool.

"Don't you see? She's playing right into my—into D'Reev's hands!"

"She's not killing anyone and she's getting her son back," the Captain said. "And it's none of your damn business!" He moved closer, lowering his voice. The spectators that had formed around them stepped back a little, giving them room, presumably for the next round of blows.

"Malachi used them before." Desperate, Malak continued, moving closer, lowering his voice as well. He pulled on the Force lightly, carefully. Nothing to see here, move along; pausing as he felt most of the crowd begin to lose interest. Mostly. "Didn't you know? Didn't Saul tell you? At the end of the war—"

"At the end of the Mandalorian War I was back on Telos," the Captain hissed under his breath. "With my wife and son. It was the last time. The last happy time."

Below them on the Senate floor, a round of deliberations and arguments continued, all staged, probably, to lead to the point where Malachi would seize power over both Revan and the Mandalorian clans.

" Are there any objections?"

" Corulag objects."

Token gesture. Probably someone paid off by my father.

"Didn't Saul tell you?" Malak repeated. They were standing very close now, near the window. His eyes scanned for listeners even as he lowered his voice more, making the pilot strain to hear it.

"Tell me what?"

Malak glanced warily around them. With the prospect of no more violence incoming, and his own subtle dissuasion their spectators' attention had shifted mainly back to the floorshow.

"The Mandalorian Wars," he whispered in the pilot's ear. "The Mandalorians dared to attack the Republic because they had one thing the Fleet did not. Cloaking fields large enough to hide entire ships. Tech developed in a Kuati lab, licensed to SysTech Corp. Tech sold to them. By my father."

"The Republic didn't have cloaking technology until you Sith started attacking our planets," the pilot spat back.

"Right," Malak said, terse. "The Republic wasn't given that technology. The Mandalorians were. Do you understand?"

" Assent. Corulag withdraws its objection."

" Widek objects."

"What—what are you trying to say?" the pilot's voice cracked.

Malak moved closer to the window and the pilot followed. They stood, side by side, watching the gravlifts below them, as each Senator came forward one-by-one, detaching from the wall, to the center of the room, to cast their vote, yay or nay, in favor of the D'Reev and Mandalorian issue.

He closed his eyes. "The Mandalorians are a weapon. You know what they're capable of. Revan and I sacrificed everything we were to destroy that weapon. To end the war." His voice hardened. "You trust Canderous Ordo? General Ordo? Then ask him. Ask him to tell you how it was. Ask him what they're going to do now, now that they've got D'Reev influence and credits at their back."

"They're dying, in the Malachor system. The fifth planet lost orbit somehow, became unstable…."

Unstable? Unstable? Gods, he doesn't even know that? How can he not know? Did Red not tell him?

"They deserve it," Malak said, softly. "The fifth planet was a holy place, sacred to Mandalorian culture. No foot was allowed to touch the its blasted ground. Long ago, they fought a great war there. Tradition demanded after that their unblooded boys were sent to fight battles of wind, high in the atmosphere, pit themselves against each other and the elements. But never fall. Never touch the ground." He closed his eyes.

XXX

" This is how a war ends," his wife said, voice empty. "Not with a bang, not with a blaze of glory—"

" Their fleets are in position around the diplomatic convoy, Admiral Starfire," the nervous ensign interrupted. The title of Admiral was new, and would be short-lived. In another month, she would be called simply, 'my Lord.'

" Open a channel to the New Hope, " Malak told the ensign. Onscreen, the young Jedi they'd placed there looked up at them, obedient. To the last.

" Meetra," Revan said. "Now."

The young face turned and nodded to someone out of camera range.

The hologram dissolved into a million dots of light and—

"Malachor V," he said out loud. Just a whisper. "It should have finished them forever. It was supposed to be the end of this."

Captain Onasi shook his head. "That was a rumor," he muttered. "To hide the fact that you'd run off beyond the Rim with a third of the Fleet—"

"No." Malak chuckled. The poor fool didn't even know that. "Not a third. We left with only ten capitol ships, maybe five squads of fighters. One carrier. The rest were destroyed. With all hands aboard. A gravity well imploded at Malachor V in the middle of the armistice. On Revan's orders."

"No," Onasi repeated. "The Mandalorians broke the treaty. They destroyed the diplomatic convoy. There was a battle—"

"Ask your friends in the Fleet. Ask Dodonna. Rensha. Antilles. Sand. They were with us. They knew. We did not act alone—we—all of us—we just wanted it to stop. "

"High Admiral Forn Dodonna is dead," Onasi snapped. "She died a hero's death battling your forces at the Star Forge."

Strange to feel something, hearing of Forn's death. Surprise, maybe sadness. Most of what I know about the last year comes from an eight-year old's mind. I didn't know she died. She was a friend. She was a mentor to us both. She took us in when the Jedi cast us out.

Maybe guilt. Maybe.

What had she thought of him at the end? Was it vanity that made him wonder? Shame?

" Assent. Widek withdraws its objection."

" Assent. Corellia sides with D'Reev."

" Assent. Byss sides with D'Reev."

" Object. Archon objects."

"Guilt is an effective catalyst," Malak said. "Half of our remaining forces defected when they realized where we—what we had become. After that, many died hero's deaths trying to stop us."

The pilot wasn't stupid. "You're saying there was a—a coup? Part of the Fleet—planned this?"

"We were all sick of war," Malak said quietly. "The war was part of the game. A cause to unite the Republic. We weren't supposed to win, we couldn't win. Unless we swept the board clean and made a new one."

A new one with our new allies. With their new power—unlimited power. Power such as a man like you has never even dreamed of.

His voice faltered. "We sacrificed everything we had to stop the Mandalorian threat and you're letting D'Reev have them back."

"There can't be more than a few thousand Mandalorians left—you don't understand. And what you did after was—"

"Worse? Don't you think I know that? Force—I was there, Captain. We gave the orders. We built the Fleet. I harnessed the power of the Star Forge and it consumed me. "

" Assent. Archon withdraws its objection."

" Object. Dathomir objects."

Onasi's eyes narrowed. "Are you done?"

"For now."

For the first time, Malak saw a Carth Onasi who had been a Republic war hero. Who had led men into battle. Taken risks. Survived against incredible odds. Faced down the Dark Lord of the Sith on the deck of the Star Forge and won.

"My son," the Captain said quietly. "I want Dustil back. I want his life back. I want you out of it. Out of his life, out of hers, and out of mine."

"I want nothing more," Malak lied.

Across from them, she stood: Malachor half-hidden in a fold of her robe, her arms folded neatly in a Jedi pose. Below her, the Senators deliberated her fate. In the light that filtered down from the dome she looked like a statue carved in ice. He closed his eyes so as not to see.

I want nothing more than you, Revan. You and our son. But I gave that up long ago.

" Objection withdrawn. Dathomir votes with D'Reev."

" Assent, House Phin sides with D'Reev of Coruscant."

He met the man's eyes, trying to give him the truth—a palatable version. A noble one. "Get them out of here. Without her or Malachor the Mandalorians will have no real power. Without her or Malachor, D'Reev's line ends and the other Houses will destroy my father utterly. In this game, he's overextended. They know how he used the Mandalorians before. And the Sith. Get Revan and Malachor out of here and I will leave your son."

"That's the plan," the pilot said, stony-eyed. "That's what we're going to do. So. Leave. Now."

"Get them out of here to some world where they've never heard of any of you and I will," Malak whispered. "Beyond the Rim, or some backwater, somewhere Malachor can grow up to just be a man. And Red can—" He shook his head, wondering even as he tried to imagine Revan on a sub-tech planet, planting crops, digging ditches, doing whatever the ground-locked did.

The pilot's hand dug into his arm. "You're not leaving my sight," he hissed, "until Dustil's back where he belongs." His face twisted. "And Canderous is worth ten of you. All he wants is his family—"

"His family? Ordo's family? All he wants his family to be reunited? All he wants is his clan's boys to be blooded? To regain the honor they lost? You have to know what that means! "

So easy to hate. That had always been the problem. Malak envied the Mandalorians for a moment. They never bothered with hate. The Mandalorian language had twenty ways to say barbarian outlander and none to say hate—not in the true sense of the word.

" Listen to me, he'll ask for ships. Not war ships. No, they're marginally too subtle for that. But clever. Very clever with their tech. Something that seems useless. Freighters, old carriers, cargo ships to get their people off their dying system in search of new colonies." His voice dropped, bitterly. "Preferably inhabited ones, with some kind of sentient indigenous life that will prove a glorious challenge. They won't attack the Republic again. Not in your lifetime—not without a lot of help from my father; but somewhere right now, a star system, a quadrant of space, sleeps in peace never dreaming of the death that will fall from its sky."

He watched Captain Onasi's face flicker with an expression of near-comprehension. "Revan would never let that happen," he began, uncertainly.

"I have no idea what she'd do," Malak said. "But she must know, she was there the same as I was."

"She doesn't remember!"

"She remembers something. She must. She's—"

"— not," hissed the Captain. "She's not your wife."

"I don't know what she is," Malak admitted. He closed his eyes. "It doesn't matter. My son. Make my son safe, Captain. Do this and you'll never see me again. Any of you."

I think.

The truth was, he didn't know. What he'd done, he'd only read about. The power of the ancient Sith to transcend death. What happened after wasn't in any scroll that Malak had ever found.

"What did you do to Bastila?"

The abrupt change of subject rattled Malak. He saw Onasi's mouth twitch, almost pleased.

"I made her my apprentice," he said flatly. "It doesn't matter now."

XXX

" How hard this must have been for you." Malak came closer, never leaving those two round wide eyes. In the flickering torchlight they looked black, but they were blue, he remembered. Such an honest blue.

She didn't struggle, bound on the stone slab. Her small chin lifted, stubbornly.

" What do your thoughts tell you, Padawan Bastila?"

" I'm a Jedi Knight, now. Knight Bastila Shan."

" The Jedi made you a Knight, when they entrusted you with their most precious possession?" He came closer. "I can see your mind. Difficult, living with all of her pain and none of the advantages."

" There's enough of her in me to know one truth, Malak. She'll destroy you. Utterly."

" Is there enough of her to know another? A part of you that remembers?"

" You tried to kill me," Bastila whispered. Something inside of her opened, like a dark flower. Her teeth bared, defiant. "And you failed, Malak."

" I wanted to live, Red." His gloved hand touched her clenched fist. "I had become a liability to you, but I still wanted to live. That's all any sentient wants, in the end, isn't it? The old cycle. Suns rise and fall. Do you think the Jedi will let you live, after what you've done? Do you think they can afford to let you live?" Malak shook his head. "They won't call it death, of course. Just the redemption. Like what they've done to your body. A new personality. A carefully constructed shell." He paused. "It's your destiny, with them. Both of you." He bent his head to her hand, pressed the prosthesis against it. She flinched. "I can offer you something far greater."

" My name is Bastila Shan, and I am a Jedi Knight." Her breath was ragged. "All I have is her memories, so that I can guide her. But I am still Bastila Shan and I am a Jedi—"

He called the lightning and her words dissolved into screams.

XXX

"Alderaan objects."

There. If he'd blinked he would have missed it. Behind Revan and Mal, where the old man stood like a bird of prey surveying his domain—a tilt of his head, perhaps a frown. From this distance it was too far to tell.

The Chancellor responded with traditional words, and then Malachi D'Reev spoke again, voice even and calm and assured. The voice of reason. All sorts of assurances. Mutual benefit. Trade opportunities. Historical statutes.

" Alderaan objects," the Senator to Alderaan repeated.

There was a rush of voices over the speakers from the tiers of representatives beneath them, like the rustle of leaves in the wind. Across from them Revan's head tilted down to her son's, her arm pulled him closer, protective.

" Name your grounds," said Malachi D'Reev.

XXX

Polla came into the kitchen. Every available surface was lined with cooling thisla pies and ground nerfburger tarts. Bolts puttered around the wreckage, joints squealing indignantly with overwork, from the oven to the moisturator. Her mother sprawled on one of the kitchen stools, frowning at the hazy image on the commlink.

"—good marks in xenososh and fifth-dimensional math, but my Polla never was one for books."

"Ma?" Polla began.

"Citizen Wen?" The light-skinned Twi'lek on the commlink gave her a breathtaking smile. She was lavender, maybe. Or pink. It was hard to tell in the fuzzy image. "My apologies for bothering you in the middle of a time of sadness and loss, but it really was quite important that I reach you before the contest deadline runs out. You see, you may have won some fabulous prizes!"

"Hm," Polla answered, shoving a tart into her mouth. It was too hot, and her tongue burned. She cuddled Junior in her arms, grimacing. "Yeah, so I heard. So. What's the catch?"

"Have you heard of the galactic Sabine-Ooxley standard personality test?"

"No," Polla mumbled through a mouthful of spiced nerf. "You want me to take it? What's in it for me?"

"Really fabulous prizes!" the Twi'lek repeated. Her wide eyes blinked over her small pointed smile. Her button nose wrinkled, charmingly and her head tails quivered with excitement. Polla stifled a yawn.

"This is a family tragedy," she said. "Why are you calling me here at my Ma's?"

"She said she couldn't reach you at home, dear." Molla Organa interjected, ever so helpfully.

"Cute baby," the Twi'lek added. "What's his name?"

Molla groaned. "Don't get her started. She has this outlandish idea—"

" Ma!" Polla shot her mother a warning glance. She never should have told her that stupid story. Anyways, it was none of this stranger's fracking business.

"It's for my husband to decide that," Polla replied, serene. "So, what's this test? You never did say what I'd won."

The Twi'lek giggled. "An Ophini Mach XXI, a Ferel Corporation Holographic Representation of the Galaxy with resolution up to thirty parsecs per kilobyte, and... a collector's edition of the cast of the Ebon Hawk crew, complete with the discontinued Revan Redeemed model, suitable for children of all ages." A faint frown furrowed her immaculate brow. "I'm not sure though, your son looks pretty small. I don't know that much about human babies. Is he going to get bigger fast?"

"They grow up so fast," Molla Organa nodded. "Jasp and I always regretted only having the one, you know. Well, Pollie dear, don't you already have the collector's edition of the Ebon— "

" Shut up, Ma," Polla muttered through gritted teeth.

An Ophini Mach scooter? Fracking hell, you could buy something that would go intergalactic for that price. Thing does everything but jump to hyperspace and make kaffa. Seiran would kill for it.

"What's this test?" Polla demanded.

"It's a personality thing. Calibrated for your career, species and general background. I need to ask you a few questions, that's all."

Molla leaned back against the counter, nearly upsetting a tray of thisla pie. Bolts moved in hastily to recover the offending object.

"Ask away—no, wait a minute. How did you get my name?"

"You're Polla Wen, registered smuggler? Used to work the Corellian Spire? Native of Deralia, right?" The Twi'lek giggled and covered her mouth with a delicate hand. "It's a marketing survey. You know, random selection."

"Totally random," she added. "Now, do you want to get these fabulous free prizes or not? The offer expires today. That's why I decided to call here, when I couldn't reach you at your home address."

"Well it's gotta be better than that damn Senate thing," Polla muttered.

"Senate thing?" the Twi'lek chirped.

"Just some fracking vote on Mandalorians or something," Polla shrugged. "I don't know why I was watching, really."

"You should stay away from politics," the Twi'lek agreed. "Now, let's get to the questions." She folded her hands neatly in front of her and lowered her voice. It looked like she was trying to sound official. Despite the annoyance, and the almost certain feeling Polla had that this was some kind of scam—pyramid scheme or cult, maybe—she'd seen them all before; Polla sort of liked her.

"What's your name?" she interrupted, the babble of official-sounding legal terminology that the Twi'lek was reciting.

"Who me?" the Twi'lek squeaked. "It's—Lena. Lena Wee."

"That's a nice name, dear," Molla interjected.

"Ma, don't you have some guests to see to?" Polla glanced at her, cradling Junior. His dark eyes were open, watching her face, and he cooed, blowing a bubble of baby spit. She cooed back and his baby face split into a toothless grin.

"You like kids, huh?" Lena observed.

"Motherhood's great. You should try it," Polla responded automatically. "I mean, when you're older." Lena didn't really look old enough to have a job, even. Then again, Twi'leks tended to grow up kind of fast.

"Yeah well..." Lena's expression didn't quite match the tone of her voice. Her smile grew brighter. "On to the questions. We need to hurry!"

"I've got some other stuff to do," she added.

"I'll be in the barn, hon." Her mother left the kitchen, trailed by faithful Bolts.

Without further preamble the questions began.

"Okay, you are traveling with a companion when you encounter complications. Hypothetical: you and your companion are captured and separated. If you both remain silent, one year in prison for each of you. However, call Therion a traitor and he will serve five years while you will serve—"

"Therion? Why'd you pick that name?" She'd been suspicious already. But this was really kind of weird.

"I got it from your arrest record on Corellia. You know, if you don't mind me saying so, Polla, he seemed like a bad influence. Treacherous kinda bad news core-slimy guy. I have a brother like that. Serious bad news—but so anyways, what do you do?"

"The same thing I did, do," Polla snapped back, slightly rattled. "I accuse that asshole, just to be safe, and then bribe the guards and get the hell out of the sector."

"You wouldn't trust him to stay silent or anything? Interesting."

"I wouldn't trust anyone to stay silent in a case like that. Would you?"

"Well, this isn't really about me. Remember, you must answer truthfully, knowing the consequences. I must demand honest acceptance of the proper behavior."

Polla sat down and the table, rocking Junior in her arms. "Get on with it then."

"Hypothetical: you are at war. With a rival smuggling operation, I mean. Deciphering an intercepted code, you learn two things about your enemy. A single spot in their defense will be at its weakest in ten days, and they will attack one of your trade convoys in five days. What do you do with this information? What is the most efficient course of action?"

"Their defense? You mean one of their bases?"

"Yeah, sure—one of their bases. Their main base of—smuggling operations. Do you cancel your convoy and keep the goods?"

"What are they carrying?"

"What?" The Twi'lek's voice squeaked again. On the screen, her mouth kept smiling, as bright as ever.

"What do I stand to lose, if I sacrifice the convoy? If I stop the run, I'll tip them off. Is it worth it?"

"They're carrying... whatever they usually carry. Spice? Remember, you must answer truthfully."

"I do nothing. I alert the local authorities in ten days to my rival's location. They go in, clean them out, problem solved."

"That's... interesting." The smile never faltered.

"Thanks." Polla reached for another tart. Junior gurgled gently. "More questions? Did I win?"

More questions followed all along the same lines. It was really pretty simple. Very similar to the test she'd taken years ago to get her smuggler's license in the first place.

"Of course, I wouldn't trust my boss. I mean, the way things work; one minute you've got one boss—and the next minute someone else has taken over the whole operation. If you don't look out for yourself, you'll get trampled in the stampede, you know?"

"That's the last question on the test," Lena nodded. Her head tails were wrapped around her neck now, but her face still wore that bright tractor beam smile. "One more question, though. Just… because, okay? We're running out of time."

"Shoot," Polla said.

"An… old friend offers you unlimited wealth and power. Another friend tries to stop you from taking it. The only way to you can... gain the position is to kill the second friend. What do you do?"

"What the frack kind of question is that?" Indignant, Polla got to her feet. "Why the frack would I want unlimited wealth and power?"

"You don't? What if you could solve the galaxy's problems?"

"I'm a bloody smuggler—or I was. I want to see new things, meet interesting people, and fly a fast ship. Maybe be famous." Polla considered. "Like, a little famous. That's it, that's all."

"Oh, of course." The Twi'lek nodded sympathetically. Her head tails tapped. "Congratulations! You've won. Your fabulous prizes will be shipped from our nearest supply depot on Yavin Station as soon as—"

"Yavin?" Something about this whole thing had been off from the start. "Did you say Yavin? Do you work for Suvam?" Something occurred to her. "What the frack is this? Is Suvam… did he put you up to this?"

Is he on to me? Shit. I didn't even take advantage of that infinite credit line!

"Suvam Tan? Do you know him?"

"None of your fracking business. Are you working for him?"

"I didn't know that you knew—" the Twi'lek's voice trailed off and there was a long pause. It was strange the way she kept smiling, though, as if her image was frozen. Glitch in the transmit, maybe. "You must have done work for him, right?"

"Maybe." That kind of thing wasn't something you just admitted to, ever.

"Well, that explains a lot, but it's really inconsequential at the moment. Listen. There's one condition on these fabulous prizes."

"Of course there is." Here comes the stick. Here comes the scam.

"Sabine-Ooxley is a common personality test. You've matched the parameters set in memory—sort of. But, if someone asks you in the future to take this test again, you have to answer these questions differently. Do you understand? Totally differently. You have to lie."

"Why would anyone—" her voice broke off. Polla hugged Junior closer. Test my personality? Test my personality against what? Against who?

Insane as it was, she could only think of one reason. "Who the frack are you? Let me talk to Suvam! I can explain! I didn't mean to imply that—that I was her, I was only trying to get my fracking credits!"

"Polla!"

Seiran's voice sounded frantic. Polla turned around. Her husband and father stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Behind them, the murmur of voices, excited ones.

Jasp Organa crossed the room in three long strides and took her arm. "Honey, we've got problems."

On-screen the Twi'lek snorted. " You've got problems? Bantha poodoo."

"I've got to go," she added. Her voice dropped. "You're a nice person, Polla Organa." Her long lashes fluttered. "Be careful." The transmission fizzled out, abrupt.

Open-mouthed, Polla just stared at Sei and her father. "I think Suvam's onto me," she whispered. "It was so bloody stupid, but I called him, and he thought I was—"

Her father shook his head, interrupting. "Bigger than some Exchange boss, Pollie. My fracking brother and his loyalty to that bloody Republic! He's just hung you out to dry."

Various Organa relatives were peering in through the door, whispering.

"Out." Jasp Organa said to them. Seiran took her hand, led her out of the other kitchen entrance and down the hall to her old bedroom. Her parents followed behind, silently. Their expressions were bleak.

"Just fracking tell me!" Polla erupted, as soon as the door was closed. She sat down on the bed. The three of them loomed over her, looking utterly grim.

Jasp Organa closed his eyes. "I can only think of one way to get you out of this mess, hon. And you're not going to like it." Angrily he hit the wall. They all jumped. "Bloody Republic! They should leave both of you alone!"

"Tell me!" In her arms Junior started to wail.

Seiran shook his head sadly. "Oh, Pollie…."

XXX

" Alderaan objects," the Senator from Alderaan repeated.

"On what grounds?" Malachi D'Reev said from behind her.

Revan pulled Malachor closer. The other objections had been a formality. "Just part of the dance," the Senator had explained. "They'll object, and we'll offer concessions. Then they'll fall in line. They always do." He'd been smug. But for some reason, the Senator from Alderaan was playing this out. They didn't need the vote, they had enough to win already. But something… something nagged at her. A feeling of unease. Like impending doom.

Just keep your head up, and keep him close. It'll be okay.

Dimly she could feel Oerin and Mekel through the Force, waiting for the next move. Mission had managed to stack the absentee vote—something that might not hold up under an audit, but hopefully they'd be long gone before that happened. At least, that had been the original plan. Now...

Now how can I leave? If I stay, I get my son. If I leave and something happens to the Senator, my son will be running for the rest of his life. Now, Malachi holds all the cards.

Her eyes looked up from the hovering line of Senators casting their votes below them and met the wall of reflective glass that hid the Observatory. Somewhere in that room were Carth and Dustil.

Will you understand, Carth, if I stay? Will you stay with me?

Revan tried to picture herself as the D'Reev Second. Living in Malachi D'Reev's house. Constantly avoiding assassination attempts. Keeping Malachor safe.

After all that I've done, maybe this is what I deserve? I could—maybe I could do good there. Maybe... I should try.

And D'Reev? Will I really just let him live? After everything he's done?

"Permission to speak frankly," the Ambassador to Alderaan said.

"Granted," said Galactic Chancellor C'tek Nal'Gahar.

"I find it disturbing that the Senate is willing to hand Malachi D'Reev Revan Starfire and a Mandalorian army without a whimper. The loss of her Force powers could be a ruse. I believe it is. How else could she have manipulated events to put herself in this position? Whatever she is, she is too dangerous."

"Threat assessment is still to be determined," the Chancellor replied. "But rest assured, we have the matter well in hand. This is a matter of Coruscanti law. She is Revan Starfire D'Reev. And by our laws, she is only assuming the responsibilities that come with the position of D'Reev Second."

The Ambassador to Alderaan smiled. His white-painted face gilded with gold looked amused. "If that were true, of course," he began, "the basis for my objection would be without weight. But is it not."

Behind her the Senator was too good at his game to show any reaction, but Revan felt him stiffen.

"State your grounds, Senator," the old man broke in. "If you have some basis for your accusation, let's hear it. The wife of my late son has been genetically scanned and proven to be Revan Starfire, the mother of this child. The representatives of seventy-nine worlds have already voted in favor of her succession. If you have some opposing opinion, tell us why."

The Senator to Alderaan turned to the man standing behind him. Another white-painted human face, gilded gold and red in accordance with their formal customs.

"I would like to introduce my secretary, Boon Organa. Secretary Boon has lived on Alderaan for many years, although originally he came from the Outlier colony of Deralia. He has brought a very disturbing story to my attention. In good conscience, I cannot let it go unheard."

"Oh, well played," Malachi murmured. He reached a hand out to the console controls of their box, dimming the overhead speakers. Revan turned and looked at him, the sinking feeling in her gut traveling all the way down to her toes.

"Do you know this Boon Organa?" the old man asked her. "Tell me now." He snorted. "Alderaan is an idealist. He'll see the Republic splinter into pieces all for the sake of his vision of truth and justice." He grimaced. "Idealists are the worst. I wonder what rational mind is behind this play."

"Does D'Reev have any official response?" the Chancellor was asking formally.

Malachi thumbed the speakers back on. "A moment, to confer with my daughter-in-law, please. If the Senate will allow."

"Certainly."

He switched the speakers back off. The dead noise enveloped them again, made Revan's word tinny and sharp.

"Polla Organa's uncle," Revan whispered. "I—I think. The name… she had—has—an uncle with that name. Who lived on Alderaan. Her father's brother."

I was ten when we went to Alderaan. Uncle Boon gave me cimarran sweets and a painted doll dressed like an Alderaanian actor. He smoked cigarras with Da and went to his warehouse and he said I could come work for him when I grew up, but I told him I'd rather be a pilot than a trader and he said sometimes it was the same thing. And we saw a real killick hive, and rode thrantas—and all the bread tasted like suc; and Sara broke my doll later, but we too old for them, and I didn't really care.

She didn't recognize his face, but it was hard to tell under that layer of paint. He'd had more hair, she thought. It had been a long time ago. Shit, a part of her cursed.

"It's one thing to keep a pawn in place, in reserve. Quite another when someone steals it from your board. I took steps to eliminate the risk from Manaan. Perhaps I should have eliminated Polla Organa as well." Malachi sighed.

"Mother?" Korrie had been very quiet. He'd been instructed to be very quiet. Now a wrinkle of a frown appeared between those two red brows.

Revan's mind caught on the words eliminate and Manaan and puzzled over them.

"It's going to be fine, Korrie," she said automatically, trying to smile at him.

"Pity," the Senator continued. "You would have been useful as my Second, Revan. Understand that no matter how this plays out, my arrangement with the Genoharadan has not changed. One way or the other, D'Reev will survive only with me."

He didn't wait for her response. Malachi D'Reev opened the speakers again, and his voiced boomed over them. "Let's hear your little tale in full, Secretary Organa."

"I have a niece named Polla Organa," the man began. "She lives on Deralia. Two and a half years ago…."

XXX

Malak

"Tell me, Captain, that this is part of your mad plan too."

"It's not," Carth Onasi whispered. His jaw clenched. Behind them, the Coruscantis murmured. "But I don't see why it matters. She's still Revan to them. She still has every right—"

"— far as we've been able to figure, the Fleet and the Jedi Council must have been in on the whole thing. When Pollie was on the Ascendant, my brother told me that they met her nurse. Name was Bastila Shan. And the commander of the vessel was a Republic General named Jiya Sand. At the time, Jasp told me, he was pretty impressed the way the whole ship's crew seemed so concerned for Pollie's well-being."

So arrogant, they used their real names. Fools. And they call me a madman.

"No. If this is true, she has no rights. She's not even a person." Malak leaned his forehead against the glass. "Not by Coruscanti law." His voice hardened. "Is it true, Captain? Do you know?"

"It's true," Carth whispered. "I talked to her cousin. The real Polla's cousin. I—I wanted to know if she was real. S-someone sent me a letter saying that she was real and I—her cousin's on Manaan. They wanted my help, getting her cousin out of jail."

There were former Sith on Manaan, Malak remembered. Malachor hadn't paid much attention to the news broadcasts, but he'd gathered enough to know they were being held at Malachi's whim. Held in reserve. It was one of the things he'd had the boy warn the pilot about. Was that why? He'd never bothered to learn their names.

"Her name was Beya Organa. She was with Yuthura and some others. She laughed at me, she told me she knew Revan better than she ever knew Polla—"

"Beya."

XXX

" There's a rumor that the two of you are plotting something." The Deralian looked up at them from her stack of datapads. "It's the Mandalorians, isn't it? You're going to do something?"

" Do you care?" Revan raised an eyebrow. "Thought you were going to go back to your home planet, abandon the Order. Turn your back on the Republic."

" I care about sentients dying when we have the means to stop it," the Deralian said. "Just like you do." Her heart-shaped face split into a mischievous grin. "But you know that, already, don't you? That's why you're here?"

" Aside from Mal, you're my best friend, Beya. That's why we're here."

" I heard you got married, on Mandalore. You crazy kids. Vrook must be completely white-haired by now." Beya laughed.

" There's bigger things to worry about than that," Malak said, voice serious. "We need your help."

" Deralians make lousy Jedi, anyways. Count me in. Just don't tell my father I'm fighting for the Republic. It's the kind of thing that'd get me beaten up in a back alley, on Derra."

XXX

"I knew Beya," Malak muttered.

Later, it was easy to twist her feelings of betrayal into hatred against Revan. Later, she followed me without question.

"This isn't part of my father's plan, either," he added. "I imagine he would eliminate Beya if he knew she existed, but keep Polla alive as leverage over Revan."

The Alderaanian Secretary continued. " They stole my niece's memories and implanted them into the Dark Lord of the Sith's mind. You can imagine how Polla feels about it now! What kind of government kidnaps sentients and takes their memories? Technically, Deralia isn't even a full member of the Republic! What kind of Jedi Council would condone stealing someone's memories?"

Beneath the D'Reev box, the Chancellor clicked. "These are serious charges against the Jedi and Fleet. But if they are true, then this woman is a non-person. She is only copy of a Deralian smuggler. In the case of D'Reev-Phin versus Phin, the ruling found in favor of the older version. Since this Polla Organa is still alive—" His tentacles twitched. "She is still alive, correct?"

"She'd better be," Boon Organa said, folding his arms.

"Then she has claim to the identity. This woman before us does not exist; and yet, she has committed several grievous offenses against the Republic. There is the matter of the kolto's destruction on Manaan. The battle for the Star Forge—"

"Damnit! She saved you all!" Carth snapped. His fist hit the glass uselessly. Behind them, nervous laughter.

"I may not exist, but I can still talk." Revan interrupted. Her chin lifted, stubborn, face set with an expression that made Malak's heart ache. " Malachor is my son. I want my son. I want him safe."

" When was he born, this son of yours? " The Alderaanian Senator looked smug, as if he didn't expect her to know.

Revan's eyes flickered. " Harvest season, third month of Tribrach, Seventhday—which would be day two hundred nineteen, Coruscanti standard. His birthday is in three days' time. He was born on Malachor IV. Malak D'Reev, my husband, and my uncle were in attendance. My Uncle, Vrook Lamar will testify to this, I am sure. He's on Manaan right now." Her lips curled in a slight smile, as if she'd won something.

"She remembers," Malak said softly.

"No," Onasi snapped. "Oerin just told her the date. I think. He was there, right?"

"How did he tell her?"

"How do you think?" The Captain turned to look at him. "With your damn Force."

Nothing to see here, watch the floorshow. Their audience's curiosity was growing again. He could feel it like lasers on the back of his neck.

"Mandalorians don't have—"

"That one does. And I don't trust him either, but right now he's still looking a hell of a lot better than you."

So Red not only struck a bargain with the Mandalorians, she found the last heir of Lin who is a Force-user to lead them back to their former glory?

"Force," Malak whispered.

" Without me to protect him, my son's life is in danger." Revan's hands curled protectively around Malachor's shoulders.

" We must consider," said a silken voice from the House Racharn box, "whether it is safe to let the son of two former Dark Lords live. Some might consider it a civic duty, to stop such power from ever rising again."

" He's eight," Revan shot back. "Almost nine. He's a child. Do whatever you want to me, but leave him the hell out of it!" She knelt down, pulling him closer, whispering urgently in his ear. Her former composure was entirely gone, and Malak could feel his son's fear and confusion—and through that—like an echo—her own.

" He doesn't have the Force," Malachi interjected from behind her. "He cannot repeat his parent's mistakes."

Damned if he does and damned if he does not. If he does, the Jedi can take him into custody and he's safe from the Games. But not safe from the random fanatics that will hate him for what we did. Not safe from the Jedi teachings that will lead to a fall like ours.

" Test him for it," Revan said. Her chin lifted again, and she straightened to her feet. "It's the right of any child of Coruscant, isn't it? To be taken to the Temple and tested?"

" He has been tested," Malachi said. "He's as Force-blind as I am."

" No," she shook her head. "The Jedi know he's not."

"Captain Onasi. Citizen Dustil Onasi. Pardon, but I have orders." Dull click of something metal behind them. Slowly, Malak turned around. The red circle of a laser rifle glinted on Carth Onasi's face, mirroring the one he could feel warm against his own. In front of them an entire battalion of Fleet troops had somehow materialized.

Ambush. Two veterans of the wars ambushed in Senator's Coruscanti bar….

A dark chuckle started to emerge from his mouth and he closed it tightly before more laughter could escape.

The nervous Captain who had spoken fell back, and Jiya Sand stepped forward. The Seroccan looked much older than he had the last time Malak had seen him and his mouth was set in a resolute line. "It seems that we need to talk again, Carth," he said mildly. "Will you come quietly?"

"You owe me the answer to a question first, Jiya." The Captain's voice was deadly.

"Of course." The General nodded. "I didn't know about the Pearl. Not at first. Rensha kept Rew and I in the dark about that. We wouldn't have stood by and let something—let that happen—especially to you."

"No, Malachor. Malachor V. It really happened, didn't it? You and Dodonna and Saul and—"

The General was still too much of an old warrior to react His eyes blinked. "It was supposed to be a bloodless coup. Then, just a few ships. When she finally ordered the bulk of the Fleet—no one realized. By the time the scale of it became… measurable, it was too late to stop."

"There's no such thing as a bloodless coup," Malak muttered. "You were a fool, Jiya, to think otherwise."

"You have to excuse my son," Captain Onasi said. His mouth twitched. "He's a little upset."

Jiya sighed. "That's understandable."

Behind them, a new voice spoke over the speakers. Serene and very familiar.

" This is not a matter that can be decided in one day's deliberation. But the Padawan is correct. Malachor D'Reev should be retested for Force sensitivity. And the Padawan is — our responsibility. The Council takes full accountability for them both until such as time as —"

" I object." His father's voice. "Does the Jedi Council now interfere in the internal affairs of a Coruscanti House?"

" Both of their cases involve the Force, Senator. And that falls outside of your domain." The female voice was dry and amused.

Master Jopheena, you haven't changed. Malak resisted the urge to turn around. It would, he reflected, probably get him shot.

He began to relax, slowly. The Jedi are no haven, but they're better than the alternative for now. Then Revan's next words stopped him cold.

" They claim that I am not Revan because I don't have her memories, Master Jopheena. But those memories exist, don't they? If I asked for them, would you give them back?"

" There would be consequences, Padawan."

" Right. My consequences. You damn me for what I can't remember. Don't I deserve to know what it is?"

" We will not have you face them blind. You should know, before you make a decision—"

" My name was Polla Organa. I woke up on Taris with a head injury. There—there was a man there, Carth Onasi. " Malak didn't recognize the hesitation in her voice, the strange vulnerability. "He told me we had to rescue Bastila Shan before she fell into Sith hands. He—he was —"

Next to him, the pilot turned around and placed his hands against the glass. The soldiers seemed frozen.

Malak turned around too.

Her arms were wrapped around their son, and her voice was shaking. "We saved Bastila, she told me I had a glorious destiny that I could not ignore. She told me I had the Force. The Jedi on Dantooine told me that we had to find the Star Maps. They said I couldn't avoid my destiny. They said Darth Malak would kill me, kill Bastila, destroy the Republic and we were the only ones who could—who could save—"

"No, Polla," the Captain whispered. "Don't do this."

" Come with us, Padawan. You and the child both." Master Zhar reached out a hand from the Jedi's gravlift, which now hovered in front of the D'Reev box.

" This isn't over," Malachi said.

" No," the Twi'lek responded. "I fear it's just begun."

Revan took her son's hand and led him onto the Jedi's platform. They both sat down on bench sandwiched between Jopheena—and—Kavar, it looked like.

Don't do this, Red. You don't want to know. It drove us all mad. You don't want to know. And yet, if she did know—would she be his wife again? Would they face the threat they had sacrificed so much to face—together?

Her head twisted sharply, as if she'd heard him. Malak felt her mind reaching out through the Force, and he sank back into Dustil's body like a stone.

Below on the penitent's ledge, Oerin Lin coughed. The sound rang out in the room and everyone stopped.

" Silence," the Mandalorian said. "You're all forgetting one thing."

" Revan's a member of Clan Ordo," added the woman from the public viewing station. "She's married to my husband, Canderous. You barbarians may not recognize her identity, but we do. By our laws, she has Mandalorian citizenship."

" I'm quite willing to back the Mandalorian claim, regardless of my daughter-in-law's status," Malachi said.

" You don't have to go with them, Revan." Canderous Ordo said.

" I know that." The camera, which had been panning frantically back and forth between them, finally settled on her face. "But I have no choice." Her eyes blinked, cold as jewels. "Take what you can from D'Reev," she said. "To help your people."

" We'll take what he promised," Oerin Lin said, smiling.

"Bloody hell," Malak whispered.

"I agree," Jiya Sand said. Malak turned around. Captain Onasi grabbed his arm in a surprisingly firm grip.

"Whatever it is, Jiya, it will have to wait. My son and I have to go now. To the Jedi Temple."

"I don't want to arrest you, Carth—"

"You can't," the Captain said. "Not without causing an interplanetary incident." He gritted his teeth. "I'm a Mandalorian citizen, now, remember?" He glanced at Malak. "I suppose you are too, son. How do you feel about that? Do you find it upsetting? Nothing like being forced into a corner with your old enemies, is there?"

"Don't let her do this," Malak muttered.

The soldiers looked uncertain. Behind them, the Coruscanti elite were placing bets on something.

Malak didn't want to know what.

XXX

They'd seen the news coverage - the entire spectacle and the upset. Watched as Revvie won—and then promptly lost—her claim to D'Reev. Funny, you think you know everything, and then you discover there's more that you didn't. Beya had considered the D'Reev knights friends once, close friends; but even she had never known about the child. The marriage was obvious; the fact that they had been lovers had never been much of a secret, even back when they were all Padawans. That kind of thing was pretty common. And later, during the war, no one cared.

When you're facing death every day, you find love where you can. There was an irony here, so thick she could taste it, but it had nothing to do her plans for the future.

Of course, half of those plans were still on Manaan with that sycophant Vrook and Yuthura Ban.

"You look like you need a drink," Vikor said, handing her the bottle. Beya Organa stretched her legs out in the co-pilot's chair and stared blankly at the hyperspace coils that made up their viewscreen. The five others that had chosen to come on the ship were all asleep or lost in their own meditations in the cramped crew quarters that made up the rest of the ship.

"More than one," she finally muttered, letting the liquid burn down her throat.

"It's not your fault," the Twi'lek said. For a moment Beya wondered what he was referring to: the Sith War; Revan's fall; that scene on Coruscant (after all, Boon Organa was a cousin, although a distant one); the last six weeks of their imprisonment... and then she realized.

"She—there's a lot more to Sheris than that. She wasn't always like that."

"Oh, I remember her well enough," Vikor said, mouth twisting. "Dangling on Malak's arm like a little gilded beetle. And of course, more recently Oerin's." He gave her a frank stare. "Have you ever thought that maybe she just goes where she thinks the power is? You deserve better."

"Sheris has been through a lot."

"You were better off when all you did was duel. When you cut off her arm you should have done her a real favor and finished the job."

Beya winced at the memory. She quickly changed the subject, trading a barb for a barb. "Have you wondered why Davad stayed behind? That man was always a sucker for a lady in distress."

Vikor snorted. "I'd like to see him try. Yuthura would rip him to shreds."

In truth she had wondered about Davad. The Onderonite was quiet—she had never been sure of where his thoughts ran. If he'd reminded Beya of anyone, it would have been Malak… and of course, after the fall… that comparison had been too obvious.

"Or maybe—he and Sheris. They deserve each other," Beya said, a little bitterly. "They can trade stories about who was better in bed, Malak or Revan."

"Davad Arkan wasn't sleeping with Revan," Vikor interjected, raising his brow ridge. He gave a short laugh at her incredulous expression. "Oh please, I thought you knew that! She just let it be thought he was to keep old Mallie in line. " He snorted. "It worked rather well, to a point. I don't know where Arkan got his jollies, actually." His lekku twitched in an attempt at levity and his mouth curled up, revealing his small white pointed teeth. "Maybe he was like you, Beya."

"Frack yourself, Vik."

"I suppose I'll have to, now." The Twi'lek reached for the bottle and she handed it to him.

She twisted a smile. "Hey, whatever gets you through."

"You're welcome on Ryloth, you know. All of you — anyone that wants to stay. My family is quite wealthy, and they'll be pleased to have their prodigal son back. Twi'leks are too practical to let a little thing like a Sith past stand in their way for long." He gave a short laugh. It wasn't the first time he'd made the offer, and Beya knew him well enough to know that there'd be no strings.

Something struck her through—for the first time.

"You—you want us to stay, don't you?"

His round eyes looked pensive. "I don't think any of us wants to be left alone with our thoughts, Beya. I—I'd like to be close to people who… understand."

A long-buried memory surfaced, unwanted and terrifying. The aftermath of Malachor V. She'd screamed her throat raw. Beya could still remember the durasteel floor of the Progress, and the world twisting upside down as she screamed and died a million times with each life that winked out in the planet's destruction; the dim awareness that every other Force-user on the ship with her was experiencing the same thing….

And the house of ferragrass she'd constructed to keep herself sane blew apart. Blew all to pieces. And her screams turned to laughter and the feeling of power was—

Good, it was good. Necessary, it was necessary. And she'd been grateful, so grateful; like a window in her soul had been opened, a bird set free.

And the Dark Lord had come; and it seemed right, suddenly, to think of Revvie that way. She'd come to their ship herself, masked and hooded, and Beya was only one in a long line of new Sith royalty, kneeling obeisance before their true leader and her consort.

Her eyes met Vikor's, and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

"Before that, we were the angels, Beya. Remember that instead."

The ship's engines hummed sharply, dull hyperdrive whine being replaced with something else.

Beya put the bottle down and scanned the controls, disbelieving. "We're coming out of the jump early. This can't be right!"

Vikor's lekku twitched. "These coordinates are way off. According to the navicomputer we're in the middle of the Cron cluster."

"The Cron—?" Their eyes met, and the ship bucked under them.

Terrible realization, just enough time to realize what that meant.

Vrook warned us, Beya thought. Shit. She took a deep breath and reached for Vikor's hand.

Their unnamed ship came out of hyperspace and melted into a blaze of light. Straight into the heart of a sun.