"How do you trace someone after a random jump to hyperspace? You can't. You can't even know that he didn't leap into a supernova and burn up. We did all we could to scour nearby sectors for a ship of Laranth's description, but nothing turned up. Imagine not knowing if your best friend is alive or dead. Then imagine living with that emptiness, that helplessness. Now imagine living with it for thirty years."

When Darth Vader returned to the planet, the sun was coming up over Theed. Crisp morning light gave testa-ment to all the scars the city had gained over the past night. Palace Plaza was still filled with ash and debris. The steps to the palace itself were laden with the bodies of dead RSF officers, though the Imperial bodies had already been carried away.

The rest of the city was not as badly damaged, though some damage remained: the great hole blown through the side of the hangar, the broken pillar at the base of Padmé Amidala's mausoleum.

After his shuttle set down at that far end of the plaza, Darth Vader stepped down its landing ramp to see the mausoleum looming in front of him. It called him, still. He didn't know what he could do in there. There was no purpose in seeing Padmé's coffin again. Still, a part of him wanted to go, to be with her, to remember.

It was too tempting. He'd come here to break with the past. If he clung to Padmé's coffin he might as well crawl back to Tatooine and weep at his mother's grave. The past could not be escaped, but if he refused to let it go he'd be as pathetic as A'Sharad Hett. Naboo had been enough; he would not be going back to the desert too.

He turned away and marched toward the palace. As he neared the steps, Colonel Panaka marched up to meet him.

Panaka snapped a salute and said, "I'm glad you're here, Lord Vader."

Vader said nothing in response. He stared down Panaka, at the bags under his eyes and gray stubble on his cheeks. He looked so old, so tired.

"What has been done with the queen's body?" Vader asked.

"At the moment it's being preserved inside the palace. What do you recommend doing with it?"

"Burn it secretly," he said. "There is to be no funeral ceremony, no public mourning. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you selected a replacement for Apailana?"

"We've found a young lady in the Legislative Youth Program who is… amenable, my Lord."

"Excellent."

"My Lord, several of the Queen's counselors are still being held prisoner, as per your orders. Sola Naberrié and Sio Bibble."

"Take me to them, Colonel."

Panaka nodded and led Vader through a clear a path up on the stairs and into the palace. The colonel started to explain the general layout of the building but Vader paid him no attention; he already knew it well.

It was his first time being here as Darth Vader instead of Anakin, and he should have felt something about that, but he didn't. Since the death of Jax Pavan he felt hollow inside. It had taken a long time to understand his own reasons for chasing Pavan, and once he finally had, the chance to deliver the final blow had been stolen from him by one last act of Jedi bravery.

He still remembered the last sensation he'd picked from Pavan's mind before his death. It had been pity. Pity for the Dark Lord of the Sith.

It was not the ending he'd needed. He felt empty and unfulfilled. He wondered if that would ever change.

Panaka showed him into one of the palace's many ornate meetings rooms, where Sola and Sio Bibble were bound and watched over by four 501st commandos.

They were a hapless pair. Sio Bibble was old and dirty and tired. And Sola…

When he'd met her long ago, on his first trip to Naboo after ten years, Sola had immediately struck him as an older, more careworn version of Padmé. It wasn't just the physical resemblance; she'd had Padmé's curiosity and her ideals, but at the same time they'd been weathered by experience and responsibility. Rather than being pre-occupied with the convulsions of galactic politics her concerns were closer to home: Naboo, her sister, her husband and infant daughters. Anakin had seen in her something of the future he'd wanted for himself.

Now that woman stared at him with utter revulsion.

"Good morning, Counselors," he said.

Sola cringed. Bibble sneered, "This won't work, Vader. Your master should have known that. You invade our planet, you kill our queen, and what will it get you? Do you think you've beaten us into submission? Nute Gunray thought that too. Look how it turned out for him."

Vader had killed Gunray. He'd been one of the first. There'd been many bodies since then; it seemed a long time ago.

"A replacement has been selected for Queen Apailana," he said. "She will remain in that position until we say otherwise."

"Of course. So much for democracy." Bibble shifted his glare to Panaka. "I hope you're proud of yourself, Colonel. Do you remember how brave you were, defending Queen Amidala from the Trade Federation? If she saw you now she would vomit."

"I served Naboo, not the queen," the colonel said stiffly. "And frankly, Counselor, Amidala brought invasion on her head with her own naivety. And so did Apailana."

"She loved Padmé," Sola said quietly. "Apailana did."

"So much she chased the same fate." Panaka shook his head. "Naboo's always needed less idealism and more wisdom."

"Is that what we have now?" Bibble looked at Vader. "Wisdom?"

Vader took two steps toward the old man. "You have what the Empire has given you. Your life. You should be satisfied with that."

"Some gift," Bibble laughed bitterly. "I wish I'd never lived to see this."

The old man was getting tiresome. He'd passed beyond fear and gotten reckless, but when Vader looked at Sola, he still saw the desire to live.

"What of you, Counselor Naberrié?" He asked.

She blinked eyes just like Padmé's. "I… want to live."

"Why?"

She blinked again. "Lord Vader… I have a family... A husband… children."

He remembered what A'Sharad Hett had told him in the mausoleum, the oath he'd sworn to destroy Vader and his descendants. At the time he'd dismissed it as the ravings of a man gone mad with grief. Now he allowed himself to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Padmé had survived long enough to bear a child after all.

Vader placed a hand on the hilt of his lightsaber. "You care for your family, don't you?"

"Of course I care." Her voice trembled. One tear ran down her cheek. "I love them."

"And your dear sister? Did you love her as well?"

"More than anything." She sniffed. "I still do."

"And your sister... did she have children?"

He saw the confusion on her face, felt it in the Force. It faded quickly into sadness. "Padmé died before she could give birth."

He leaned close, stared at those eyes (so like Padmé's) and probed her with the Force. He sensed no deception, only deep pain and some curiosity.

Sola's brows drew together and she asked, "Who are you?"

Vader stared. He didn't back away.

"Who are you?" she asked again. "Did you… know Padmé?"

Something softened in her eyes. For a moment he sensed concern, even sympathy.

It was too much.

His lightsaber sprung to life in his hand. The woman ducked her head low, like that would help. It didn't matter anyway; Vader swung his blade over her head and right through Sio Bibble's neck.

The old man's head went rolling to the corner of the room. His body swayed on its feet before crumpling to the ground.

Sola screamed until she was too weak to stand. She fell to her knees and looked up at him. That face- Padmé's face- was red with grief and anger.

"Why?" she screamed. "Why did you do that? Why?"

When he gave no answer, she started to cry. He stared down that face, tried to memorize its lines and creases and the absolute hatred in those eyes. If he clung to it, in time it would replace the memory of love in Padmé's.

Once it did, that hatred would always be with him, burning him, forging him into something greater.

Vader hooked his lightsaber to his belt. He turned to Colonel Panaka, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at Bibble's headless corpse.

"Colonel," he said.

Panaka blinked, shifted his eyes to Vader.

"See to it that Counselor Naberrié is released to her family unharmed."

Panaka frowned, uncomprehending, but he nodded. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

He turned his back on Panaka's blank stare, Sola's whimpered crying. He walked out of the palace, across the plaza, and back to his shuttle.

When it lifted off he didn't spare Theed one more look. It was all behind him, purged of nostalgia's temptation. His shuttle soared through the clouds and out of the atmo-sphere and through space as black as his armor, as cold as the heart beneath it.

-{}-

Admiral Octavian Grant stood behind his family's hand-carved wooden desk, his back to Farstine's dusty sphere as it slowly rotated beyond the viewport, and watched the hologram shine to life in front of him.

This time, he didn't salute.

"Grand Moff Tarkin," he said, "It's a pleasure to hear from you again."

Tarkin looked the same as ever. His skull-like head tilted in a slight nod and he said, "I wanted to congratulate you personally on your promotion, Admiral. And to inform you of your next assignment."

Grant stiffened slightly. He'd expected it to come from Screed, or even the Emperor himself.

"As you know," Tarkin went on, "There have been unsettling developments in the Western Reaches. I have finally convinced Imperial Center to give me the resources needed to stamp out these annoyances once and for all."

Grant had half-expected that. Now that Syne was defeated the Empire needed new enemies to squash. He found himself flush with excitement over the thought of new battles, new challenges.

Tarkin continued, "The Emperor, in his wisdom, has seen fit to give Terrinald Screen direct leadership over the campaign. Therefore, he will be relocating his command to the Outer Rim sectors."

Grant frowned. "Then who will command the Home Fleet?"

"It has been decided that the honor will be yours, Admiral." Tarkin smiled politely, but like everything Tarkin, it came off as vaguely predatory.

All Grant could say was, "I see."

"You should be congratulated, Admiral. Command of the Home Fleet is a very coveted position."

"Am I to relocate to Anaxes immediately?"

"Those are your orders, Admiral."

One hand reached down and pressed against the polished grains of his desk. "I will have to make arrange-ments first. Relocate supplies. And so forth."

"Of course. You will be given standard preparation time. I thought you also might like to know that your Captain Griff will now be in command of the Ryndellian sector fleet. He's been given the new rank of commodore."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I've already contacted him directly to inform him of his promotion," Tarkin said, "Though of course, you're free to congratulate him yourself."

Grant nodded dumbly.

"And may I pass my personal congratulations to you too, Admiral. I wish you great success in your new position."

"Thank you, Grant Moff. And good luck in your new campaign."

Tarkin nodded. "I'm sure we'll speak again, Admiral. But for now, goodbye."

And just like that, the holo flickered off.

All of Grant's energy evaporated. He dropped into his chair and stared at his desk. He felt empty inside, uncertain of how to feel.

An appointment to Anaxes was a blessing. Defending Coruscant and the Core was a prestigious position. It brought him close to the center of political power and gave him close access to the most important beings in galaxy. In that sense, it was as far from Farstine as could be.

It was also a curse. He'd embraced the Judicials' transformation into a fighting force because he wanted to bring order and prove himself. Battling the likes of Marath Vooro, Slayke, and the Syne family had given him the chance to do just that. There would be no battles to fight in the Core, just drills to run and resources to shuffle. He could end up nothing more than a glorified quartermaster.

He wondered if he might end up like Screed, sitting bored in his posh penthouse, enriching himself by whatever means possible while others went off, fought, and died.

Well, Screed was going to go back to fighting soon. Grant wondered whether corruption had dulled the man's once-brilliant tactical mind. He was sure it had stunted his bravery. Grant didn't want to follow that path, but felt afraid he would anyway.

He spun his chair away from his desk and stared down at the planet. He suddenly felt he would miss this world. Not the planet itself, not this station, not this quiet exile. He knew that once he got to Anaxes, he would miss the hours spent sitting in this room, looking down at Farstine, contemplating new ways to bring his enemies into line.

Marath Vooroo, Gregor Syne, little Jereveth Syne most of all, those were enemies a man could respect. They gave him purpose and a challenge.

As he watched the planet turn, he discovered that he missed them all.

-{}-

Because he was ordered to, Jan Dodonna returned to Terrinald Screed's unfinished penthouse in Imperial City. When he got off the speeder taxi and onto the landing platform, he was surprised to find a gold-plated protocol droid there to greet him instead of the pale young Twi'lek.

The droid was certainly more polite and less leering than Boc, so he didn't much mind. It shuffled inside and showed Dodonna right back to the chair he'd left in disgust several days ago.

Screed was sitting in the opposite one, just like Dodonna had left him.

"Would you like anything to drink?" he asked as Dodonna sat.

"No thank you. I don't plan to stay long."

"Have other business do you?" Screed raised his one eyebrow.

"Not particularly, no."

Screed's features went cold. He waved a hand and told the protocol droid to go.

As he watched it shuffle out of the room, Dodonna asked, "What became of your servant Boc?"

"Taken from me," Screed snorted. "By High Inquisitor Jerec, of all people. It turns out Jerec lost his most trusted apprentices during the raid on Naboo. That means he needs new ones, and it turns out Boc was Force-sensitive. Can you believe that? I guess I should have sensed it. He was always a little too clever for a subhuman, too good at reading peoples' intentions..."

"What happened on Naboo?" Dodonna frowned. He hadn't heard anything about it, not on the HoloNet, not from anyone else in the military.

"You'll see it on the news soon. A Jedi cell attacked their capital and killed the queen. Thankfully, our brave troops intervened to put them down." Screed said with a mocking sneer. "Darth Vader was there himself, cutting down all those evil terrorists."

"What really happened?"

"It doesn't matter," Screed waved a hand. "There's more important things going on."

"Such as?" Dodonna said stiffly.

"I've received a new assignment. I am transferring my command to the Outer Rim to lead the pacification of the Western Reaches." Screed made it sound like a prison sentence.

"I've heard most of the unrest there is from criminal elements mixing with Separatist hold-outs," Dodonna said. "They sound less capable than Syne and Slayke."

"Oh, it shouldn't be that difficult. Tarkin has been kicking up a fuss and the Emperor wants to keep him happy, so he's sending his best to put down the rebels." Screed leaned forward a little. "Come with me, Jan."

Dodonna shifted uneasily, looked away. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Why not? You hate it on N'zoth. It's obvious. I don't blame you either. Keeping those Yevetha in line is a nasty job for anyone."

"It's not that."

"Then what? I could use you, Jan. We could end this campaign all the quicker." He softened his tone and added, "It would be like old times, wouldn't it? I might even be able to pull Adar back into it. Imagine, the three of us, together again."

The campaigns Dodonna had fought alongside Screed and Tallon had been fierce, brutal fights against the Separatists' best. Yet, somehow, he felt a certain nostalgia for them. At least then he'd known who was friend and who was enemy. He'd had comrades he could trust.

But that was a long time gone, and it wasn't coming back.

He shifted his gave back to Screed, held both eyes, and asked, "Terrinald, where did you get the money for this place?"

Screed's face darkened. "Excuse me?"

"I've heard you have a penthouse on Anaxes almost as fine. You can't buy all this on a military salary, even yours."

"How did you hear that?"

"I've been asking a few discreet questions since our last meeting."

"If you've been poking around, why ask me?" Screed said coldly. "Apparently you've already heard enough rumors to make up your mind."

"Because I want to hear it from you, Terrinald. Tell me you're not embezzling money from the government. Tell me you didn't get your Twi'lek 'servant' from a Ryloth slaver."

"You even checked up on Boc, did you?"

"I just… heard things. But I owed it to you, Terrinald, after all we've been through, to get your story. So please, tell me they aren't true. Tell me something, anything."

Dodonna's voice had started trembling. He stared at the face across the table and found it more strange than familiar.

Eventually Screed said, "What's the point? You've made up your mind."

He wasn't even going to try and deny it. Dodonna didn't feel angry, just empty, more empty than he could ever remember.

"Why?" Dodonna breathed. "Just… why?"

"You have to ask me that?" Screed snarled.

"Of course I do! I don't understand how… how..." He faltered, couldn't say it. He honestly couldn't understand how Terrinald Screed, the face of duty and devotion, could have fallen so far.

"I'm just taking what I deserve." Screed said.

Dodonna hadn't expected that. "What does that mean? You're already a high admiral. You're one of the most decorated, most respected men in the galaxy. What else do you want?"

"Respect?" Screed laughed bitterly. "What good is respect? Look at me, Jan! Look at this face, this broken body. I gave up everything for the Republic, then the Empire, for service and duty and all those big, lofty, stupid words." He pounded a fist on his metal chest. "This is what I am now. So yes, Jan, I deserved more. I took it."

It took Dodonna a long time to figure out what to say. "I know this hasn't been easy for you. But we knew this, when we signed on for the careers we did. We knew what could happen and we accepted that, because we were part of something greater-"

"The Republic?" Screed shook his head. "The Republic was a diseased animal, and this new Empire..."

He trailed off. Dodonna pressed, "What about the Empire? Tell me, please."

"Look at Palpatine. Look at all he's done. Do you think that man really deserves our service?"

"No," Dodonna said. He settled back in his chair and felt all the weight lift from his body. It was what he'd come here planning to say; it felt strange and unreal for Screed to be the one to say it.

"This New Order is just as hollow as the Republic. Only now, Jan, we're not young. We're not stupid. Service is not its own reward. We have to take that ourselves."

Dodonna stared down at the table. He felt like every-thing was through, complete. There was only one more thing to say.

Screed held out a hand. "Come with me to the Western Reaches, Jan. We can get what we deserve, even there."

Dodonna looked at that hand stretched before him, bony and old before its time, trembling lightly with Screed's agues. Instead of taking it he reached for his chest, plucked the general's rank badge off his uniform, and tossed it on the table.

Screed lowered his hand. "What is this? What are you doing?"

Dodonna took off his rank cylinders and put them down too. "It's over, Terrinald. It's done. I'm resigning."

"What? What do you think you're doing?"

"I just told you. I'm leaving Imperial service effective immediately."

"You can't."

Dodonna stood up from his chair. "I just did. Because you're right. The New Order isn't worth serving."

Screed staggered to his feet. "What do you think you're going to do now? You've been an officer all your life."

"I haven't thought that far ahead."

"But you can't!" Screed repeated stubbornly.

"It's over," Dodonna said firmly. "To be honest, I made up my mind already. I submitted my formal resignation just before coming here."

Trembling, Screed braced himself on the arm of his chair.
"You're making a mistake, Jan. You're throwing away everything."

Dodonna looked sadly into Screed's eyes and said, "There's nothing to throw away."

He turned and walked out of the room without looking back. When he stepped outside the wind tousled his hair and stung his cheeks. Dodonna felt empty but free. Some-how, he found the strength to smile.

-{}-

Nighttime in the desert.

It was a deeper dark than anything save the blackness of

space. When the wind blew, it was dry and bone-chilling.

The sandy plain swept into invisible forever. The stars overhead were myriad. If he stared up at them long enough it felt like his body and left the ground and he was floating weightless in the endless expanse of the universe.

But A'Sharad Hett knew that, sooner or later, twin suns would crest the horizon and burn the Tatooine sand with their scorching light.

He stood with both lightsabers in his hand: his own in his left, his father's in his right. He'd clung to them, even as he'd plunged off the waterfall on Naboo, even as he'd summoned the Force at the very last second to soften his impact in the icy river far, far below.

For a long time after that he'd just laid there on the cold snowy riverbank, staring at all those stars, wondering what else he could do, where he could possibly go. In the wake of Syne's death he'd clung to the idea of killing Anakin Skywalker and all his descendants, because that fulfilled his need for for purpose and revenge.

He understood now that he was already too late to kill Anakin Skywalker; Darth Vader had done that, and Vader was beyond his ability to kill. As for Anakin's descedants, it seemed that even Vader himself was unaware of them. If they existed at all, they would be impossible to find.

He wasn't even sure if the Force wanted him to do that any more.

So, adrift and without purpose, he'd come back to Tatooine, like a dying animal returning to its nest.

He'd taken a landspeeder out to Achorhead, and when night fell, he'd simply walked off into the desert. There was no light except from stars, no sign of life at all. He felt like he could stay in this nothing forever.

But he knew those suns would rise, the planet would turn, and life would go on. He stared down at his weapons, glinting faintly in starlight. He's clung to his last relic of his father for all his life, and in the end it had gotten him nothing. Sometimes he felt like his father, his memory and his weapon, had been guiding him all his life, taking him through a broad circle only to end at the same place where he'd began.

Maybe it was better to bury the lightsaber, and the past.

Hett crouched low over the sand. He placed his weapons on the ground and dug a pit with his hands. He clapped the sand off his palm and picked up the lightsabers again.

He thought then that if he buried them, he would leave everything else behind too: Sharad Hett, Syne, all the Skywalkers. All the dead who'd brought him through a circle where nothing had been gained.

Then, in the distance, he heard a sound.

Even after so many years, he knew the battle cry of a clan of Tusken. He stood up and spun around searching for the source of the noise. At first all he saw was the flat horizon-line of an endless desert. Then he heard the sound of firing blasters, saw their flash of light in the far eastern distance.

Only outlanders used those weapons.

It seemed that, after all this time, his home had not changed either. Outland settlers still stole Tusken land like it was theirs to rule, the Tuskens defended themselves, and the settlers responded with devastating force.

His father had lived and died protecting his people from the outlanders.

Hett looked down at the lightsabers, still in his hands. He may have failed in all else, but what his father had once done, he could do now.

Perhaps he'd come full circle just to do what he should have from the start.

Hett kicked the sand beneath him, filling the hole he'd dug. He stamped the ground flat. Then he walked across the desert toward the promise of violence and a new day.