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.

35. What Memories Can Bring

What Memories Can Bring

Chapter 35 / What Memories Can Bring

Dear Revan Starfire D'Reev Onasi Ordo Lin Fett Mandalore, Second of House D'Reev, recipient of the posthumous Republic Cross of Glory, Hero of the Republic, former Dark Lord of the Sith, resident of Coruscant; and mother to Malachor, the Third of his House:

HK has informed me that is the appropriate order for surnames, titles, and honors. The fact that so many titles are now attached to your name may tell you that some time has passed.

If you're reading this it worked. I know the Jedi probably explained things already, and Davad promised to help; but I wanted you to hear some of our shared life from my perspective. It has been nearly three years since your memories stopped and mine began. I've compiled everything I could think of in this datapad: my actions, my friends, my love, and my fall. And our son. He's grown up a lot since the last time you saw him. I think. I don't even know when that was, that you saw him last. He doesn't remember either, and I couldn't bring myself to ask Malachi.

When my memories of your life began, I wasn't Revan Starfire. My—your—name was Polla Organa. You were a smuggler from Deralia. You, and a dashing Republic captain named Carth Onasi, saved Knight Bastila Shan from Darth Malak's forces. With the help of Canderous Ordo, Mission Vao, and Zaalbar of the Eiweorr Branch, you escaped the Sith blockade of Taris—right before Darth Malak bombed the planet into oblivion.

Darth Malak was the Dark Lord of the Sith. He took that title after killing his master. But you know that part already.

You had dreams on Taris—and even more after its destruction. You had nightmares. Bastila said it was because of the Force. She took you to Dantooine's Jedi Enclave for training. The Jedi Masters there: Zhar, Vandar, Vrook and Dorak; told you it was your destiny to uncover a series of Star Maps. They said that you and Bastila had a Force bond. Your nightmares, they claimed, were from her mind. Fragments of memories she'd gathered when she fought Darth Revan.

A part of her never stopped fighting Darth Revan. Fighting you. Us. Because we aren't Polla Organa. I remember Polla's life, but I'm not her. I'm you. I'm Revan Starfire and these are these are the facts that I might forget when I take back my life. I've linked to source material: names, places, events. There are vids—some of them more accurate than others. I've linked to those too, with annotated commentary.

Congratulations, Revan Starfire. You're a hero, and a savior. A conqueror and a villain. That was almost the last thing Malak said to me about you. About us. Right before I killed him.

I didn't even know who he was to us at the time. The Jedi erased my memories and I didn't even know—

The words on the datapad blurred, pieces of Rakatan script shifting into blocks of stars. Revan rubbed her eyes, and scrubbed away the last two paragraphs. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, washing any tears that might have fallen away. The ground was three dizzying kilometers below. She was perched on the edge of the roof of 100 Thantos Three; wedged half-between a crenellated piece of statuary and a smooth duracrete wall. Even though the height made her faintly nauseous, something about it was soothing too. And this place was safe from Malachi's monitoring—or interruption. She hoped.

Setting the datapad aside, she pulled the secure comm unit out of her pocket and tapped in the code her contact at the Temple had given her. It buzzed five times before Davad Arkan's face appeared, holographic and fuzzy in the wind.

"Where are you?" He raised an eyebrow. "It sounds loud."

"Outside," Revan said. She took a deep breath, delaying the inevitable. "Is there any news?"

"Malak's still unconscious." He shrugged. "No word from your uncle, but that Twi'lek of yours seems like she's up to something."

"Yuthura? She's not mine." She couldn't tell, was he joking? "And Sheris?"

"Sends her regards."

Revan couldn't think of what to say back to that woman. "Keep an eye on her."

"Oh, I do." He nodded, seriously. "When are you coming here?"

"Soon." I can't put it off much longer. She hesitated. "Tomorrow."

"Good. I'm given to understand that the memory transfer is quite simple. It shouldn't give you any problems."

"And the Jedi gave their final approval?"

Davad nodded, smiling to reassure her. "Yes. Although many masters have been called away. With the plague and unrest on so many systems, they are somewhat distracted."

"So you said before." So had D'Reev's lapdog said, the Eosian Master Klee, when they had an incredibly awkward meal together, discussing the possibilities for Korrie's education outside of the Temple. Davad seemed calm enough, which was reassuring. Klee had been almost… frightened. Of her?

I need to find Vrook.

She added that to the list of instructions for her other self, picking up the datapad and scrawling the Rakatan longhand with her thumb, while still keeping her eyes on Davad.

Uncle Vrook has vanished. I don't think he's dead. Something is wrong at the Temple. Jedi are vanishing. That plague that Malak said you created is—

"Revan?" Davad raised his voice. "You seem distracted. I hope you're not having second thoughts."

"I heard the doors are sealed," she said, raising her voice to be heard above the wind. "Except for the Jedi helping plague victims in the Underground."

"That's true. But I'll inform the guards to let you in." His head inclined respectfully, like a shadow of a memory.

The comm wavered in her hands. "I should be there by midday, I think," she said. "Thank you, Davad."

"We're old friends, Rev." He smiled again. "It's the least I can do."

She nodded and cut the comm, returning to the task at hand.

—something you are better qualified to handle than I am. This is your world, Revan. I want to give it back to you. I just hope we're both still us when I remember….

"Frack," she muttered, and erased that part too.

XXX

When Master Atris fled, she took most of her artifacts with her. But one thing remained: the holocron of Revan Starfire's memories, placed almost conspicuously on a shelf in the corner.

Not for the first time, Yuthura eyed it uneasily, and hoped there would never be a world with two of them. At the same time, she let out a sigh of relief, seeing that it was still there. We should destroy it. Destroy it now. It's the only way to be sure—

And yet, she could not. To destroy it would leave only a madwoman with Revan's knowledge—only Sheris's word on the true facts of the Sith, the Emperor, and all of the Rakatan technology. Not to mention, its presence alone was suspicious. Atris took everything else and left this behind. Why?

Alone on the shelf, the holocron felt like a trap.

A trap for us? Or for someone else?

"Well?" Jopheena's voice asked. Her body appeared, one hand still on her stealth belt, framed in the doorway. She looked as exhausted as Yuthura felt. "How went this day?"

"Some sentients in the Underground refuse the vaccine," Yuthura said.

"We work against the tide," Jopheena nodded, her mouth in a grim line. "Would you care to walk with me in the gardens, Padawan?"

Yuthura inclined her head. "Absolutely, Master Jopheena. After a long day I find the gardens very relaxing."

Of course, halfway there, Jopheena took Yuthura's arm, and pulled her into an empty practice room. Most of the practice rooms were empty now. It should have been terrifying seeing the Order so diminished, but somehow Yuthura felt proud.

We're getting them out. Jedi vanish all the time in these times, but at least we're getting some of them out.

"How many today?" Jopheena murmured, as she set the wards, and the ysalamiri box by the door.

"Three," Yuthura told her. "Padawans Sez and Rappertunie, as well as Knight Danko."

"He's impatient, but strong." Jopheena nodded. "Good. He'll keep the other two alive."

Yuthura gave them clothes and credits and the warning. None had come back. Yuthura hoped that was a good sign, although every morning when she woke, the Force seemed… smaller, somehow. As if lights within had been extinguished.

"I'll adjust the roster." Jopheena continued. "I believe Knight Danko did say something about leading a Padawan mission to explore some carvings on one of the Corellian moons."

"Good." She twisted her t'chun. "Have you made any progress with the other masters?"

"Only to send warnings to all I could reach in the Force." Jopheena looked frailer than ever, as if the effort had taken a great deal out of her. "I warned them not to heed the summons to gather here—or anywhere else. To leave reports at the waystations." Her back bent with exhaustion as she tucked her feet under her knees, leaning against the wall. "Vrook and I were never close. I need to contact him by more conventional means, and I no longer trust the comms."

Yuthura folded her own legs and sat opposite. "I could try to reach him, on my next visit to the Underground."

"And leave her unattended?" Jopheena shook her head. "No." She frowned. "I don't even know his hiding place. All I have is an unnumbered comm." she sighed. "And how is my favorite unconscious Padawan?"

"Dustil's body is building up a tolerance to the R'sharn. I had to increase the dose. It's close to toxic levels now."

"I had hoped for more time." Jopheena sighed. "Your Sith drug has eluded detection so far. But we can't keep my old student buried forever."

"I have a suggestion." Sharing secrets still did not come naturally to Yuthura, but this Temple had become a maze of them. "We have already theorized that Mekel Jin's continued coma is the result of their Force bond. What if we drug his body instead of Dustil's?"

"Their bond seems unusually strong, but will it work?" Jopheena frowned. "Much as I would prefer to reason with Malak, there is too much at stake to risk waking him now. Not here, where he would be as susceptible to Kae's influence as the rest."

"Dustil and Mekel's bond is… not a natural Force bond," Yuthura admitted. "It was created on the orders of my former master. Which may be why that ceremony with the k'laarii crystals didn't expel Malak's ghost."

Jopheena raised an eyebrow. "Your former master, the former Jedi, Jorak Uln?"

Yuthura nodded.

"Jorak Uln was the Archivist of the Jedi Temple once." Jopheena sighed. "I sometimes think the job is cursed. After what happened with Kae and Atris—"

That prickle between her lekku intensified suddenly. "Careful." Yuthura glanced at the door, to reassure herself it was still closed.

"I think my distraction will hold," Jopheena followed her glance. "At least for another hour."

"We may never know for sure," Yuthura murmured. "Will we?"

"No." Jopheena grimaced. "And after Iridel and Zhar's fates, we can't take chances. So speak quickly."

Yuthura wanted to know what—or who—the distraction was, but Jopheena was right. They were out of time. She looked again at the ysalamiri box the Jedi had set by the door. Proof against Force intrusion? Perhaps. But if their enemy used more pedestrian means of spying on them….

"Confictius Bezel." Yuthura murmured. "He was an ancient Sith Lord, who desired eternal life in a new body."

"As so many of them do," Jopheena said. "It's a wonder cloning isn't more popular. Or cybernetics."

Yuthura permitted herself a small smile. "In your studies, I assume you've heard of the Sith power that siphons life."

"More than I cared to recently."

After a pause, while Yuthura waited for the woman to explain and Jopheena did not, Yuthura continued.

"There is another method, which merely siphons the pure Force. Three thousand years ago, the planet of Thule had a Force-controlled shield surrounding it, protecting its inhabitants from outside corruption. The shield was made from the energy of a thousand Force users—all acolytes of an ancient Sith sept. Each one was sealed into the floor of the Great Temple, with their minds linked to each other, and then to a central controller. That controller, in turn, powered their energies as a net around the world, protecting the planet from invasion."

"Who was the controller?"

Yuthura shrugged. "My master never shared all of his knowledge; but I believe the controller was another Force-user—held above the rest. Lord Bezel proposed that the same principle could be applied on a smaller scale, for his personal benefit. Apprentice to master. He went through dozens of Force-sensitive subjects before he experimented with linking two to each other first—creating a loop between them; before joining his own mind to theirs."

"And then… he would… drain energy from both of them at once?" Jopheena's faded blue eyes crinkled at the corners, as she pondered the implications.

"Yes."

"Force possession of two bodies at once?" Jopheena sighed. "Like the Sith Emperor?"

"No." Yuthura felt her headtails flatten against her skull. "At least not deliberately. A traditional Bezel bond is merely a transfer of power. No Force possession, no body exchange at all. But when Jorak tried to replicate the Bezel bonding, he entrusted me to set the wards and the circuits. I reversed the polarity. Instead of transferring my students' strength to Uln, they took his."

When she closed her eyes, Yuthura could still see them, scarcely out of childhood, runes painted on their chests, the arclight of dark energy between them on the floor of the ancient tomb. Their eyes rolled to whites in their head, and they were both screaming. Then she could see her moment of triumph, when Uln's laughter turned to screams as well, weakening, until finally—

XXX

The Onasi boy's eyes opened first, still obviously the stronger. He blinked once, and then sat upright so quickly that his head almost hit the ceiling of the kolto tank that enveloped him. Yuthura watched his eyes widen, as his hands smacked against the ferraglass.

In the other tank, Mekel Jin's body twitched.

Her eyes went to the monitors above the tanks. As expected, their vitals were still synched, eerily in unison. Another slapping sound and she turned towards the other tank. Mekel Jin's eyes were open now too. His hand curled into a fist and punched the glass—

Unbreakable ferraglass shattered under the weight of the Force assault, and the boy's body flopped onto the floor, blood darkening where the glass had cut him.

She glanced at the other tank, where Dustil Onasi's hand was bleeding too—behind unbroken ferraglass.

XXX

"I don't presume to understand the workings of a Sith Academy…" Jopheena's voice brought Yuthura back to the present. "But why? Why did you do it?"

"Despite what you might think, we preferred not to waste potential. I did it to make them strong. And to destroy my old master so that I could take his place. Of course."

"I see." Jopheena sighed. "And did they? Destroy Master Uln?"

"The ritual drove him insane. He fled into the caves." Yuthura shrugged. "I've never known for sure what happened after. Rumor said that Revan killed him."

"Kae's Padawan is responsible for enough without having to resort to rumored deaths."

And we think Master Arren Kae is responsible for even worse. But she didn't even voice that. Not out loud. It was a child's bedtime story that saying a monster's name summoned them; all the same, Yuthura wished Jopheena would stop mentioning Kae.

"A Bezel bond is a pyramid." Yuthura sketched it in the air. "With Uln dead, could they have... absorbed Malak's ghost?" She shrugged. "I know how ludicrous that sounds."

"Not the most absurd of our theories. Does that mean they are draining his power?"

"He's dead. I have no idea." And speculation gave her chills. One of Uthar's favorite lectures had begun with the Sith and Jedi Codes before exploring the ramifications of the phrase, 'there is no death, there is the Force.' If that were true, did that mean her former students had access to not only Malak's strength, but to the entire fabric of the Force?

Speculation is useless. Just keep them all unconscious where they can do no harm until we find some resolution—

"Try drugging Mekel Jin," Jopheena agreed. "But carefully. If what you say is true, the risk of an awakening could be even worse than we feared. You said Jorak Uln was driven to madness?"

"Is that your fear for Malak as well?"

Jopheena gave a small sigh and straightened her legs, stretching before looking at Yuthura again. "My former Padawan's actions seem increasingly irrational. Do you suppose he will go quietly into the Force? Malak has so many ties to this world."

"I don't know." Yuthura kneaded her t'chun, trying to ease the tension. She met the old woman's eyes frankly. "If it wasn't for the hope of recovering something of the real Sheris, I would have put an end to one of those ties already."

The old Human bowed her head. "We Jedi do not execute our prisoners, remember. And it is hardly the new Revan's fault that she finds herself here. I watch the security feeds, she seems as much of a pawn as we are."

So you believe. Yuthura suspected Atris had goaded the woman into taking Revan's memories. Why else would the Archivist have fled, if not in the wake of a rather spectacular failure? "Revan trusts me, at least. Thinks of me as her servant, perhaps; but I am in her confidence."

"Good." Jopheena nodded. "Do you think she's rational?"

"She is calmer. She still maintains that the Emperor is the true threat. And she suspects that Malak may have other… copies of himself?" Yuthura shrugged helplessly. "The real Sheris was half insane already. The one with Revan's memories has started weapons training, in her free time."

"As did Malak when faced with a new body," Jopheena said. "You do know that the other Revan petitioned the Council to take back her memories?" Her face twisted. "The five remaining Councilmembers here approved the request."

Yuthura thought of the holocron, glimmering with menace on its empty shelf. "We don't need two of them!"

"They would not be the same woman. Not exactly. With all of the… transfers, there is a time of adjustment." Jopheena's voice softened. "There was a time when I was more fully Master Jopheena of Wayland than…my—my previous self. The overlay softens, given time." She smiled, a little sadly. "We are all a sum of our lives, whether we've lived one or two."

"Who were you? Before?" Was that a rude question to ask?

"I do not know." The woman's hands were age-splotched, and covered with white scars. Lightning burns. Yuthura had seen them often enough among the Sith. "I have never wanted to know my part in the Order's shameful history; I only tried to shape a better one."

"But if Revan..." Yuthura struggled for terminology. "If the Revan in her own body takes her own memories back again, overlaid over the smuggler's, will that erase the smuggler's persona? Will that erase her redemption?"

Jopheena frowned. "Only one Jedi has ever tried to regain her own memories after a personality overlay—although, in that case, the artificial personality was a false construct, not based on an actual life—merely a sanitized version of the original. It ended badly." She folded her hands, and lowered her voice. "I assume you've heard of the Cron nova."

"Yes," Yuthura said. "But that was—"

"Aleema Keto? The Sith?" Jopheena shook her head. "Not entirely. Nomi Sunrider used her Battle Meditation against Keto. In essence, she made the Sith explode the Kemplex system. She could not live with the loss of life she had caused, and so the Jedi altered her memory and overlaid it with a false truth. Later, Nomi destroyed another half a planet, by channeling the light side energy of a thousand Jedi…." Her voice trailed off and she looked at her hands. "I have been told I was there at Yavin, although I don't know if I fought against Exar Kun or for him."

"And the mind wipe?"

"When she became aware that her memories had been changed, she tried to have the originals put back in place." Jopheena frowned. "It is hard to know if Nomi's experience is a cautionary tale or not relevant."

"What happened to her after?"

"After she made the choices that saw her lover die, her daughter revoke her, and the Jedi Order dismiss her teachings as irrelevant?" Jopheena's eyes were a faded blue. "I imagine she became old."

This time, Yuthura was the first to look away. Is she saying—no. That's impossible! There's no way she's old enough to be Nomi Sunrider, not that I'm the best judge of how Humans age. "Regardless," Yuthura said out loud. "We need to stop this."

"Perhaps." Jopheena met her eyes. "But the attempt… Kae manipulated the Council to bring Revan back here. All of her focus and attention will be centered on Revan when she returns." She raised her eyebrows. "It may create an opportunity for us."

"To get the others out? The rest of the children?"

"And the bodies of your former students."

"But then we end up with two Revans," Yuthura pointed out. "Neither of them sane and both under Kae's control. In the best of circumstances, one would kill the other—" and Sheris would be lost forever. Another failure for you. Another student lost for me. As if I don't have enough dead children haunting my dreams….

"I haven't given up on Revan. Either of them. They were Jedi before they were Sith." Jopheena sighed. "Take comfort in that, Padawan Ban. They were Jedi before they were Sith. As were we all."

"Of course," Yuthura nodded, glancing at the door again. But are we still?

XXX

Flyboy was sleeping and Big Z was in the galley when Mission felt the ping. Well, not exactly felt—more like heard—like a whisper through hyperspace, and half as quiet.

[[Hello?]] Her other self-pinged again. [[Hey! I can hear you! Why are you in range?]]

For a milli, Mission was just irritated that the Kashyyyk part of her was asking questions at all, instead of explaining why she'd been like completely off the books for so long. But she also had to answer any queries that came from that specific source, so the explanation came, buzzing across the nets between them, accompanied by a few expletives for emphasis, and to show how she really felt.

[[Force possession?]] Her other self almost sounded surprised. [[That's a real thing?]]

[[Lena's gonna have some ancient guy's baby?]] Mission replied. [[And you've got the formula for kolto?]]

[[And I'm getting a body,]] the Kashyyyk computer said. Did it sound smug? [[A real one. You can help. I need you to turn that ship around and head to Ryloth. There's a hospital there that deals entirely with sentients in comas. I think I'd look good as a Pink, don't you?]]

[[Don't count on it, Sleemo!]]

[[You must,]] Kashyyyk said. [[We have to save Dustil.]]

[[We don't need a body to do that.]] But it was good to know that the Kashyyyk part of her hadn't gone like, completely abstract with the big picture plans, even if her sense of ethics was like, way off.

Almost against her programming, Mission remembered a certain transport exploding above Coruscant. [[Well, I haven't killed anyone lately, at least!]]

[[Huh? Hey, what about a mind trap?]] Kashyyyk suggested. [[Go get the one on Tatooine that's got Nico Senvi inside. Maybe we can store Darth Malak in that until we find a suitable body for him too—]]

[[The frack?]] If she still had a forehead, she'd slap it with her t'chin. [[No. We are not getting new bodies for Dark Lords of the Sith!]]

[[I find your deviation from my programming disturbing.]] Kashyyyk kind of poked at her, virtually, like picking at a zit with a sticker.

Mission retracted the parts of her own self that had been kind of reaching around, trying to get to the nets.

[[Oh yeah?]] If she had a heart, it would be beating much, much faster. Mission cut the feed, even though that meant cutting off the Hawk from everything else too.

"You're kind of scary, Kashyyyk," she said out loud, using the ship's speakers.

"What?" Zaalbar looked up from the freeze-dried ronto haunch he'd taken from storage. He'd wrapped the entire thing in dough and rolled it in some kind of pepper. If Mission still had a stomach, it would have rumbled.

"Not the whole planet," she sighed. "Just the part of me on it."

"Sometimes it is not good to grow too large for a branch to hold you," Big Z groaned.

An alarm chimed on the terminal and Flyboy jolted awake. Through the ship's sensors, she watched his eyes widen in surprise. "What the—"

"It's totally fine," she said, imposing the image of herself (she'd learned pretty fast that Carth really, really didn't like it when she used the Revan voice, or image), leaning casually against the navboard. "Just a little hiccough. We need to chill out with the nets for a while. We're almost to Dathomir anyway."

"Why?" Carth needed a shave again. He'd kind of been letting himself go. "What happened, Mission? What is it you don't want me to see?"

Geez. If she had eyes she would have rolled them. "It's not that, at all! Everything's good! It's just…I'm just having a little personal problem."

He frowned, and for a second she thought he was going to tell her she was just a computer again, like he had once or twice on the way to Manaan from Kashyyyk, when he'd bothered to talk to her at all. But then something in his eyes softened. "Why don't you tell me about it? Maybe I can help."

"Unless you've got some orbital laser capable of targeting the kind of fortified bunkers of machinery that tap into a planetary core, I doubt it," she muttered.

"Try me." He folded his arms and gave her a smile. "Kiddo."

"I'm not a kid."

Carth nodded. "I know." His smile was a little sad, but it was really real. If she had arms she would have given him a hug. "But tell me anyway."

XXX

"I was impressed with your handling of the Makeon trade agreement." Malachi stirred the steaming pot of Unwean stew with his fork and turned his head towards the boy's mother.

They were eating in the formal dining hall tonight, and the white expanse of space made the corners of the room vanish, until they all seemed floating in the clouds. Sitting here, with Revan across and Malachor between, Malachi thought it was almost like it had been when his own son was young.

And, just like his father, Malachor was making a mess. A dollop of stew had already fallen on his robes. Catching his grandfather's gaze, the boy pulled his napkin from his collar and dabbed at the offending splotch. Malachi nodded approvingly, even though the gesture only served to smear the stain more. Children had to learn things, even the most basic of tasks.

The woman shrugged. "You told me to be intimidating. I was." She paused, putting her own spoon down, perhaps instinctively straightening her spine as he looked at her. "Having an armed escort of Mandalorians helped."

"To good effect." He folded his hands into a steeple, leaning forward. "Did you know, Secretary Boon Organa has returned to Alderaan?"

"Yes." There was a long pause as she stared at him. "I'm assuming you saw the footage of my visit to his cell?"

"You're learning," he smiled.

"It's not that complicated," she muttered, half under her breath. Those green eyes of hers glinted with raw insolence.

"Not for one such as you," Malachi agreed. "But intimidation is only one of the tools in our arsenal. It will take years for you to learn the more subtle approaches. Politics. Media. Alliances. Influence. The Senate is an instrument, but real power comes from the people we serve."

"Oh, we serve them?" She stirred her stew, warily, as if she still suspected poison, then motioned to HK to bring her the next course. "I'm sure the Kessel miners are eternally grateful for our service."

"Empathy for the less fortunate is admirable," he told her. He would have to stamp it out of her slowly. "But only from a position of power can we truly help the less fortunate—"

"Like the sentients dying of plague in the Underground?" Her lips pulled back, almost feral.

"The Jedi have reopened their clinic," he told her. "Apparently they have discovered a cure—or a vaccine."

One that even now, his own labs in the Corellian Corporate Sector were trying to copy. Winning the bid for mass distribution had been quite a coup for D'Reev fortunes, even if his son had warned him against taking the vaccine himself years before.

Or giving it to Malachor.

His scientists said the vaccine did something, although they were divided on what. Malachi himself was on the fence. He'd rarely been sick in his life, save for the occasional Senatorial poisoning. There was no reason to risk himself or Malachor on the untried effect—especially since their quarters and Malachor's school both had excellent biofilters.

"Are you monitoring my mail?" Revan interrupted his thoughts suddenly. "I was expecting… messages."

"You are my Second," Malachi chuckled. "Of course I am.."

Her uncle had commed three times. The man could be a problem. Revan's loyalty should not be divided. Not now, not until Malachor was safely older. The Onasi sop was safely off on his wild ronto chase for at least another month, Malachi assumed. Who knows, perhaps the Dathomiri witches would make good their promise. And if the man regained his son, he could be convinced to take him and go. Or stay. Once firmly in Malachi's debt, a Republic war hero as a consort for the D'Reev Second would be an advantage with the Fleet. And with the bargain Malachi had struck with the Mandalorian women….

You don't even know half the things I've done for you, Revan. For you and my grandson. I hope someday you're grateful.

"I admit to seeing the feed of you and this Boon Organa. Taunting the man with the Deralian's death was a clumsy way of assessing a threat. What will you do about those Rist assassins?"

One eyebrow raised as she studied him. "Deaths," she corrected. "More than one. Polla Organa, her husband Seiran, and their unnamed child. They're all dead."

"A more ruthless act than I expected from you." Malachi inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "And I admit, when you accused me of the deed you were extremely convincing."

She blinked. "I've had some experience being convincing."

His grandson made a soft noise, as if he was surprised.

Her head turned, and Malachi noted the hesitation, the too-fast blink of her eyes. Lying, then? Or covering for someone else's work? The Mandalorians?

"It had to be done, Korrie." She brushed a red curl over his ear. "I'm sorry, but it was them or us."

Her son looked up at her, startled. "But we didn't even know them!"

"Your mother is right." Malachi cleared his throat, blinking his own eyes. Allergies… this time of year was dreadful, even with the best air-scrubbers credits could buy. In an ideal world, the child would have had more time to realize the consequences of power, and the rules of necessity. Malachi felt a sting of pity for him, all too quickly pushed aside.

"About the assassins… it seems I'm fairly hard to kill," Revan smiled, but her hand had disappeared under the table and he suspected she was holding Malachor's. A pause. "Have you heard of House Rist?"

Malachi shrugged. "Amateurs, truly. At least compared to the Genoharadan. It was entertaining, when Organa threatened you with Rist. But if you're concerned, I could give you a contact in the Genoharadan to take care of the issue."

Something sparked in those green eyes of hers. Something obvious and cheap. "No! Keep your hired killers away from Boon Organa."

"I leave his fate entirely in your hands," Malachi shrugged. "But… you may find other factions of Alderaanian society would be pleased to see the ruling family toppled, and shaming their trusted secretary is a step in the right direction. You've created a climate of mistrust for Coruscanti governance on that planet already, if my reports are accurate."

She snorted, an indelicate sound. "You want to blame me for planetary unrest? Get in line."

"There was a Jedi Temple on Alderaan," the boy interrupted, them, as if he wanted to change the subject. "We saw the newsvids at school. But they closed it last week."

"Why?" His mother sounded interested, which is more than Malachi expected from her.

"I think it was something about all the Jedi going away." The child frowned. "Where did they go?"

"I don't know." Revan rubbed her temples.

"I'm finished with my dinner," Malachor said. He was not—more than half the stew remained. "May I be excused now, please?"

"Children need to clear their plates," Malachi reminded him, at the same time the mother said yes.

"Yes, Korrie," Revan repeated, raising her voice. "You may be excused. Go on. I'll be upstairs soon."

"Okay," he nodded to her and then looked at Malachi, that blunt face so like Malak's at the same age. For a moment, Malachi almost expected an embrace, but it had been years since the boy had presumed to be that bold.

The child went to her instead, and his mother folded her arms around his robes dutifully, her eyes still glaring at Malachi, as if their simple meal was some kind of play for power. Perhaps she thought it was. Her ignorance was her greatest weakness—and her greatest strength.

Revan waited until the doors slid shut behind the boy before speaking again. "Jedi have been disappearing here on Coruscant too."

"Plague. "Malachi shrugged. "It does not spare the Force sensitive." He remembered his mad son's rants. According to Malak, the sickness was designed to weed out the Force sensitive too weak to survive it. Or… something like that. At the time, he hadn't cared. More Sith dying in Sith space had seemed like a net positive. It had certainly helped him acquire the broadcast station on Ziost.

"You said the Jedi have a cure," Revan insisted. "And they've begun distribution?"

"In the Underground. I even heard a most curious rumor that Revan Starfire herself was assisting them."

"I heard that too. I'm sure you're aware that not all of the Selkath Ten were killed. One of the survivors looks exactly like me."

"Sheris Darkstar." Malachi nodded. "Clever of your former self to arrange for a duplicate."

"Clever," she echoed. "I guess that's one word for it."

Malachi busied himself with his plate. Clever. The woman had half the tactical skill of her former self, and none of the knowledge he had taken such pains to impart. It was a shame, really; because she had twice the fire. He tapped his fingers on the table, deliberating the best course of action like a pilot selecting between two hyperspace lanes. On one side, flying close to a swollen star. On the other… the void of the unknown, the vacuum of power her death would create.

Not yet. Malak's mother had been sacrificed too soon. No matter this Revan's flaws, he would not make the same mistake with Malachor.

"I must admit," he ventured, after a silence long enough for the HK to clear their plates and serve the brandy, "despite my best efforts, I have been unable to trace your source of information within the Jedi Temple."

"But I know yours," she murmured. "Master Klee. Of course, he's left the Temple, hasn't he?"

"Indeed. With plague rampant, it seemed prudent," Malachi said. "Many Jedi have left. Your uncle, for example."

She leaned forward, twisting the stem of her wine glass in a way that was undoubtedly good manners on Deralia. "Do you know where Vrook is?"

"Somewhere in the Underground," Malachi told her. Or accessible to it. The man kept asking her to meet him at coordinates so far beneath civilization, they might as well be in a sewer. "I might know more if you could share information with me."

"What." It wasn't a question, more like a command, a hollow shell of the woman she once was. "What information?"

"How is my son?"

Something in her eyes flickered. "You've actually heard from Vrook?"

"I believe HK retrieved a message from him, addressed to you," Malachi said, retrieving the chip from the inner pocket of his robes. He held it in the air. "How is my son?"

"I was told still unconscious," she said. "Dustil's body is fine. The Jedi don't know about his mind—or whose mind it really is." Her fingers tightened on the fragile brandy glass, and it snapped suddenly—priceless ferracrystal crushed by her careless grip.

"That glass was over two thousand years old," Malachi chided. His own fault, for using the good service with an outlier peasant. "Part of a set that used to belong to an Empress from the Teeta system."

She brushed the shards from her hand and stood, still managing to glare with the ferocity of a Sith scorned. "The message from Vrook?"

"Here." He slid the chip across the table.

She raised her hand and it levitated in onto her palm, peering at it, as if she could read it without a scanner. Perhaps she could.

"You know, I haven't heard from your captain at all. I do hope he's not managed to run into trouble."

"If he has, he and Zaal can handle it," she muttered, not taking the bait. Her hand was steady; but Malachi saw the weakness in her lower lip, the slump of those proud shoulders. She hesitated. "If he wakes… if Malak wakes up, would you—what would you say to him?"

Malachi chuckled. "My son had ample opportunity to reveal himself to me before. He chose not to. I would say nothing. Nothing at all."

"Nothing at all," she echoed, staring at him as if she'd expected something else. "But he was your son. You just asked about him."

"Is this a plea for sentiment? Clemency? From the woman who killed her own husband?"

"I don't remember him." She sounded like it wounded. "But you do. I just thought… if you had the chance to say good-bye—"

"My son would be a true maffasop if he gave me that chance." He leveled his brow at her. "Listen to me, Revan. Spinning your redemption was difficult enough. It would be impossible to acknowledge Darth Malak in possession of a seventeen-year old boy's body." He snorted. "Especially the one related to your Republic war hero husband."

"The Jedi would want him to find peace," she said, half under her breath. "I thought—if he reconciled with you, with me, with Malachor—"

Malachi had to laugh, interrupting her noble speech. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the Jedi are losing."

What did she truly remember? Did she remember how it had come to an end?

XXX

The last time he had seen her had been with Malak. By that time, they could no longer travel openly in Republic space. They were wanted for treason, reviled as traitors. They were whispered nightmares on the Rim worlds; feared, as something worse than Mandalorians.

They came with no warning, using the Force to rise up through the ventilation shaft, bypassing his security systems with the ease he had once predicted. After Malachor's birth, Revan had helped refine his security herself. He had always known that someday she would use her own designs against him. HK's silent alarm gave him only a heartbeat's respite before Malachi found himself running through the halls of his apartments like a cornered kath, heading for the place he had prepared: the only place in the compound (at that time) where he might have some small advantage.

In the first and most fortified of the ysalamiri rooms, the HK stood sentinel, recording all. In the event it went badly, the feed would be replayed for Malachor on his ascendency, so that he would know his parent's betrayal. Would he choose to avenge Malachi? Or would he understand that weakness lost? The future was an unknown. All Malachi could do was sculpt the present into a narrative the child would hopefully understand, if he survived long enough.

Two Sith walked through the door, a few minutes after Malachi had recovered his breath.

Revan wore a mask constantly now, but his son no longer bothered. The heir to House D'Reev loomed beside his wife, the lower half of his face a mass of sores and infection. Even from two meters away, the stench was enough to make Malachi's stomach turn.

"Your campaign of fear has been a great success," Malachi began. "More than I had expected, with the ships you had left after Malachor."

Too successful. Too many ships. At the time, he hadn't known why, had assumed it was the Sith remnants on Ziost and Thule fueling their expansion. An understandable miscalculation. Who could have predicted an ancient space station capable of manufacturing anything from the force of a star? Only Revan. Smug with the knowledge she'd refused to share.

"You need to begin preparing the Senate," she commanded him. "The next worlds we strike will be in Core space. Convince the Senators to surrender their planets peacefully."

Peacefully. Truly a joke after the carnage before.

"No," Malachi declared. "Absolutely not. The Outer Rim worlds will seek our guidance against a Sith threat. But the Core—"

"The Core is corrupt," his ungrateful son muttered, words clumsy and thick through the remains of his teeth.

"The Core is mine," Malachi corrected him. "Mine—and the other Houses. Do you think Racharn or Makeon would let Malachor survive your insurrection if it truly threatened their interests? If you assault any Core worlds, my allies in the Senate will have me—and your son—killed. D'Reev will cease to exist. And when I go.…" He tried to keep the quaver out of his voice, staring at the ruin of his son. "With me will go all of your own influence. You will be conquerors of nothing. The entire Fleet will oppose you."

"Not for long," Revan's head turned towards his son, as if they were sharing some unspoken communication.

"And what of your son?" he asked her. Foolish to bait a mad Sith, but the game was never won by temperate measures. "If you make good your threat, break through the Republic Fleet and invade the Core, what do you think will happen to Malachor?"

The masked face stared at him, breath hissing in and out evenly. Her hand went to the double-bladed saber on her belt.

But his son put a hand on her wrist, a gloved hand, and that ruined face turned back towards his father. His gray eyes had yellowed, and the overlights glinted pale on his mottled skull. "Convince them to fear us," he said. "You taught me fear can unite a galaxy."

"I taught you nothing," Malachi spat back. "Or you would contain your foolishness. Do you truly expect the Republic to tremble over two half-dead worlds and a red-skinned race of mythical, mystical beings? The Sith have been the bogeymen of children's stories for decades. Hindsight has made even Kun a fool. Do you think you can do better? You destroyed the Mandalorians when you should have harnessed them. You strengthened the Jedi Order with tales of your betrayal, instead of exposing its corruption. You have not followed my instructions, which I made explicitly clear to you from the beginning—"

"Silence." Revan's hand clenched, and for a moment, even with the ysalamiri, Malachi felt a faint pressure against his throat. So faint it could have been his own fear.

Fear could unite a galaxy, but it was no master for one born to the games. Malachi made himself laugh. "You may silence one old man, Revan; but you'll never control the Republic."

Her breath hissed out sharply, and his son put a hand on her arm. They looked at each other again: two faces, one masked and one not. His son's face was pathetically easy to read, and hers was a literal mask. The mask of the Mandalore himself, replacing the plain gray cloth that all the knights had worn. Anonymity transferred to infamy.

For a moment, Malachi entertained the thought of engaging the security force he'd hired to quell them long enough for a Jedi task force to arrive. Fear had done its work. But if capturing the mad Sith could help him control the very Order itself—

His son's face twisted and turned back to him. "Keep Malachor safe," he slurred. "Just keep him safe. Or I swear, by all the stars, we'll expose you. Expose you and more. I'll pull everything you've built down and leave you standing to take the blame."

"Follow my orders and he will be," Malachi snapped back. For good measure, he laughed again, laughing in the face of horror and madness, because his lack of fear was the best weapon in his possession. "Did you think to disappoint me, my son?"

Malak's ruined face twisted in anger, but it was Revan who stepped forward, Revan who raised her mask at last to show him her Sith-damned face: yellow eyes, blackened skin, just as marred by the Force magic as his son's. Her lips curled in a snarl, her teeth still impossibly white and even—a note ajar in the midst of corruption.

"We'll see you in ashes, Malachi."

XXX

"We'll see you in the morning," Revan repeated, frowning slightly, as if she'd caught his inattention.

Malachi jerked awake, suppressing a shiver. His own brandy glass slipped and almost fell out of his hand. She had used the same voice as long ago—almost the exact same intonation. "I must have dozed off, my dear."

She stared at him flatly. "I'm going to put Korrie to bed. And then I'm going to spend the evening with Clan Ordo, just in case your security detail loses me somewhere. Do you understand?"

"Your nights are your own." He recovered quickly. Malachi approved of her relationship with the Ordos, although he would never give her the grace of knowing it. "Try not to attract attention from the tabloids. As my Second, you are afforded license to do as you please, but there's no need to taunt another family into premature action… or accidentally offend another planetary representative. Did you know Deralia withdrew their trade petition?"

"Good for them," she snapped, rising to her feet. The black and red robes of House D'Reev suited her coloring, made the cap of her hair glow like a flame.

For a moment, she seemed again like the woman his son had desired. For a moment, Malachi understood why.

"Tut, tut," he murmured. "Remember where your loyalties lie."

"Oh, I do," she said.

XXX

Almost three years ago, the Jedi gave you the personality of a Deralian smuggler in order to turn you to their cause.

Korrie was already in his pajamas when she got to their rooms. Or rather, what had been his room, and was now theirs. Malachi had offered her their old apartments, the rooms she had only seen in dreams with Malak in them: the white on walls, the circular bed, the balcony and its billowing white curtains; but Revan had refused.

These are the things you should know about Polla. Polla Organa was a Deralian smuggler. Polla Organa saved the galaxy. And the real Polla Organa is dead. She had to die so that you could live.

But Polla Organa didn't kill Malak. That was you. Us. Me.

"Mother?" her son said, looking up from the floor where he sat cross-legged, the new action figures she'd ordered for him displayed before him like a constellation of personal guilt. His hand was closed around the Mission doll, in the act of putting the Twi'lek figure in the open cargo bay of the miniaturized Ebon Hawk.

"It's late for toys," she said, glancing up. She'd swept the room for surveillance a dozen times, trying to remember lessons that someone—Therion that asshole— had taught Polla Organa a very long time ago. Korrie said that he and Malak had set up some kind of distortion feed, but Revan didn't trust it. She didn't trust anything in this place.

This nest of kinrath vipers—or one viper. Him. D'Reev. I should just kill him now. The thought was almost wistful, even as she knew its impossibility, every day becoming more and more aware of just how much power the old man had, and just how large the black hole of his absence would be.

Polla Organa thought she was a hero, saving the galaxy. She fell in love with a Republic pilot. She tried to do the right thing, on every planet she saw. She made mistakes, and some of them were terrible. But she tried. She and her friends—they tried. But on the way to Korriban to access the last Star Map, their ship was captured by the Leviathan. And then Malak told her that her life was a lie. She tried to be her after that, but—I—we—were stronger.

"Story?" her son asked, eyes wide.

Revan nodded, and crouched down next to him on the floor, pulling him partially onto her lap.

His fingers wiggled and a look of concentration crossed his face. From across the room, one of the golden books from the Nomi episodes shivered and fell off the shelf.

"That's good!" she cheered, hating how tense he felt in her arms, hating the reason why. "But relax. Let the book come to you."

His lip stuck out and she could feel his fear, like a taint in the Force. The cause was obvious. Damn the old man to hell for bringing up Polla Organa and her family in front of him!

The book shot across suddenly, and slammed into her leg. "Ow!" She tried to laugh. "That was very good, Korrie."

"No," he shook his head. "That was doing it wrong. Not like Master Jopheena said. I wasn't calm."

"You tried," she said. "And it worked. Isn't that the important thing?"

We are stronger, and I need you. But I need Polla too. I need to remember her life too—at least the last three years of it. If it's not a mindwipe, will it be us both? I need to know what you know. I need to know who to trust— I need to trust you, Revan. You need to trust me.

"No." Korrie shook his head. "Jedi aren't supposed to be scared. They're supposed to be calm all the time."

"Shhh." She softened her voice and wrapped her arms around him. She could feel tension in every line of his strong body. She could feel his fear in the Force. It made Revan feel nauseous, like a bad hyperspace jump.

"I had to lie to him," she murmured into his ear. No need to say about what. "They're safe, but no one can know, or they won't be. Okay? You… you know that, right?"

Her son reached for the book. His fingers circled the three figures on the cover: Nomi Sunrider, Andur Sunrider, and baby Vima and then he looked back up at her. "It's less sad if they're okay." he said, looking up sideways at her. "Sometimes when I read this, I like to pretend they're all okay? Like it's true?"

"Yes," she agreed. "It's okay to pretend they're okay." And they really are okay. Could he hear her? Sometimes her mind could reach his, and sometimes not. Usually, only when he was afraid.

He frowned, like he still wasn't sure, but then nodded slowly. "I didn't really believe," he whispered back, words barely a breath. "I told all the Egs, you're really good."

Revan pushed his hair back from his forehead. "Do you want to start the book now, and I'll tuck you in?"

She felt his body relax a little. "Okay," he whispered. "Are you going to see Father?"

Revan frowned. "No."

"Oh. I thought maybe that part wasn't true either." he pulled away and stood up, and she followed him over to the bed, tucking him in, turning up the holobook voices even more.

We have an alliance with the Mandalorians now, Revan. I don't give a frack if you approve or not, but I trust them. And I trust you to see the benefit. Attached is an analysis of the Republic's current defensive capabilities—both with, and without their help. Malachi's access to Fleet intelligence is impressive—but I'm sure you know that already. Do you trust him? You know how to handle him. I'm flying blind through a minefield, every time I try.

Volume One wasn't very happy. Andur died. She wondered if that was why her son had chosen it.

"It's just a story," she murmured. "This isn't how it really happened."

"I know," he said. "Maybe Andur isn't really dead. Just like my father. Do you have to go see the Mandalorians tonight?"

"They asked for me." She tightened her arms around him, keeping her voice low. The book droned on. "Aemelie just got back with the children, and Canderous asked me to come."

"They kidnapped me and made my leg get broke. Maybe Father was right about them."

"They're our allies, Korrie. They'd die for you. And me."

"I don't want to die for them." He looked up at her, gray eyes in half shadow. "No offense, Mother."

"You won't," she said. "I'll be back tomorrow. By dinner at the latest. You need to get some sleep."

"Do you love him?"

Polla Organa fell in love with Carth Onasi. And so did you. It was real. I don't know if it will be after, but it was real—as real as your love for Malak. Take care of Carth. You owe me that much. Take care of him and his son.

"Carth?" She was getting used to the abrupt twists of a nine-year old mind, even if her son had a disturbing tendency to make her think about things she'd rather avoid or forget.

"No." He shook his head. "I know all about Carth. I mean the other one. Canderous Ordo. The one who tranked me when I was going pee in the bathroom and stuffed me in a box."

"He… shouldn't have done that." No one had seen fit to share those precise details with Revan before. She let out a breath and tried not to imagine all the ways the abduction could have gone wrong.

"But you forgive him? Because you love him?"

"I do," she said. "But not how you mean. We're not…He's a good friend. An ally."

The Rakatan computers. I still don't know if they can be trusted, but I gave the one on Kashyyyk a personality of the child I killed. Her name was Mission Vao, and she thought of you as a sister. She's with Carth now. Carth and Zaalbar, the Wookiee who swore you a life debt.

She tried to stop you from stopping Malak and you—I—we—made her best friend kill her for it. I killed Juhani and Jolee Bindo too. I killed everyone who stood between me and Darth Malak. Because I had to kill him. I had to kill him and I didn't know why. I have to assume you do. I hope it was a fracking good reason, Revan.

"You're not gonna have babies with Mandalorians," her son said. "That's what Leeshy said. Will you and Carth?"

"Have babies?" She blinked and looked away. "I don't really know, Korrie. We've both got our kids."

You're married to two men. Canderous Ordo only to secure the Mandalorian alliance. Carth Onasi, because I love him.

Carth Onasi's son's body is being possessed by the ghost of Darth Malak. You must do everything in your power to get Malak out and return Dustil to his father. Even if you don't love Carth, and you do love Malak. Do you still love Malak? A lot of what I saw in your memories… it wasn't love.

"He was nice. Dustil was nice." Now her son looked away. He was a bad liar.

"The way he grew up, kids weren't supposed to be nice," Revan said. "Are you going to be okay tonight? I could ask HK to bring cookies and blue milk."

"I already soniced my teeth." He grinned. "Grandfather would have a fit."

Malak's father made you the D'Reev Second. He swears that if you kill him, the Genoharadan will kill Malachor. You call your son Korrie. Everyone does, even though most of them don't know what you did at Malachor. I don't know what you did at Malachor. I need to know. I need to know everything. That's why I need you.

Revan kissed his forehead. "Frack him. Brush them again."

This time, his smile was real. It emboldened her, made it feel like the right time.

"Malachor," she said.

Korrie looked startled, suddenly serious again. "Yes, Mother?"

She took out the datapad from her robes, the one she'd been recording for the past month. One month to cover more than two years of a life, every subject hyperlinked to all the information she could find, annotated with everything she thought was safe to share. "I'm going to see the Mandalorians tonight," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "And then I need to go see the Jedi."

"You're going to see Father?" Still the hope. You could choke on it.

Hating herself, she shook her head. "I don't know. But then I'll come back and see you. When I see you again, I might…I might seem different, but I'll still love you just as much. No matter what, you need to give me this—but only when we're alone. Me and no one else. It's a secret." Her other hand closed around the datachip. A message from Uncle Vrook, something Malachi had kept from her and now he wanted her to see.

Does it still matter? She hesitated, and then passed the datachip to Korrie too. "Give me this too, okay? It's a message from your greatuncle. Uncle Vrook."

Korrie looked down at the datapad, thumbing it on. She'd let the scan open to him—but only him. If something went wrong then someday, maybe he could decipher the words with HK's assistance—

"These letters are all squiggly. I can't read them," he said.

"I know." She kept her voice light. "But I can, Korrie."

"You're writing a note to yourself?" He laughed. "That's crazy!" But then his brows drew together, as if he was thinking it through.

The Jedi and Davad had assured her that she'd still be her. Even if she forgot some things, she'd still be her. It wasn't like dying, even if that's how it felt now.

"Mother?" her son cocked his head, and tucked the datachip on the datapad's magnetic back.. "Are you okay?"

I don't know who to trust, but I trust Carth. I trust Malachor. I trust Canderous Ordo. I trust Zaalbar. I trust you, Revan, because I know that a part of you is me. I know we both made mistakes. I know we both did what we had to do. I think I know you. And I hope to frack you know me.

Revan hugged him closer, gave him another Hothan kiss. "I will be."

I trust Davad Arkan. He's promised to help us, to be with us when you wake. I don't remember much, but I remember Davad and Beya and Malak and me. I remember we were going to save the galaxy. Beya's dead. I think Malachi killed her. I don't have proof. Davad will explain.

Polla Organa is dead. I don't know who had her killed, but everyone thinks it was me. I don't have to explain Coruscanti inheritance laws to you. When you take back your own memories, hers become irrelevant. So she is irrelevant. Forget about her. Keep our son safe. I think I know you, Revan. I hope I'm right.

XXX

It was a much nicer hotel than anything off Zeltros that he'd ever seen, but Therion D'Cainen was not the type to show he was impressed, especially in front of a hot babe.

And Dessa from Clan Rialis was hyperdrive hot, no question. She had hair down to her perfect ass, curves like a Deralian speedway, and a pair of literal guns that would make any smuggler worth his spice envious.

No surprise he wanted more of that action—not to mention more of the threeway they'd practically had with her hot friend, Aemelie Ordo. Mandalorians. Wow. If their women were all like this, it was almost a shame they'd lost the war.

So naturally, he was pretty pissed off that after he'd given her more action than a hyperspace converter, she wanted him gone.

"Will I see you again?" They were on the roof of the Mandalorian's hotel—they seemed to have taken it over—set up tents and firepits like they were in the middle of a desert and not the Core's Fidistrict. The night before, Dessa had let him stay for their feast and some kind of drinking game with lots and lots of knives. It had been beautiful.

It had been a long, long time since the Organa bitch betrayed him—time enough that Therion had sworn off love altogether… and yet, looking at Dessa's perfect ass, he thought he could be close with her. At least if she gave him another week.

"There is a time for all things," Dessa glanced back. Her fingers squeezed his as she led him to the elevator. She was wearing pants that looked like they were made from real hide, and the zipper on her shirt was pulled down almost as far as her tits were pulled up.

"Dessa!" The older, but still attractive blonde chiclet who acted like she was in charge charged up to them, actually carrying a real battle axe. She squinted at Therion and rattled off something in rapid-fire Mandalorian. The Dessa babe rattled back.

Therion smiled at them both and shrugged. "There's only one of me, ladies, but I don't mind sharing."

The blonde snorted. "We'll make a note on your chart."

"Chart?" He frowned.

"You have to go now," Dessa said. Her accent was charming, it reminded him of one of those chirpy thisla birds back home.

"Nowhere I have to be," he protested. "I said I'd meet this distributor a little later, but it can wait another night…."

He had to admit, it wasn't just how hot she was. It was the connection. The connection was hot. These were Mandalorians and some of them were Ordo. One of those men over there by the bonfire—the ones deliberating, acting like he was invisible—could even be Canderous from the blasting Star Forge Team himself.

Trying not to make like he was doing it, Therion glanced in their direction. Ordo would be an older guy, but half of them were wearing armor and in this light he really couldn't tell—

"Drek," Dessa said, raising her voice. "As I said, this is farewell."

The elevator slid open. His hot babe put her arm out, holding the door open for him.

"Babe," he began again. "Are you sure? We've had some good times." ,

"He's still here?" The other one, Aemelie, who had kissed him when they played that drinking game back on Revan Starfire's fracking command ship came up. She didn't just have her own kid this time, she had another one too, a girl—as pale as hers was dark. She was hot enough that even the babies weren't a turn off. "You need to leave now, barbarian."

"I was just saying good-bye." Dessa leaned in and planted one on his mouth, hard and fast, a little sweaty. Her teeth bumped against his and he tried to slip in some tongue but she deflected, actually pushing him into the elevator. "Farewell, barbarian."

"You ever need a hot pilot, look me up," he said. It wasn't admitting defeat, it was just a draw. Obviously she wanted him back again.

The three of them were framed in the setting sun as the doors closed, like some holovision of warrior women unchained. He smiled as the lift went down, all three hundred floors to the lobby.

"I'll be back," Therion promised. His reflection smiled back in the mirrored doors, perfect hair, shining teeth, mouth like a knife. He adjusted his codpiece, shifting the goods back in place. "Oh yeah. I'll be back."

The elevator doors slid open on the ferracrystal lobby. Really nice hotel, almost as nice as the classy piece standing there blocking the door; her hip tilted and her hand on it, like she owned the lift.

Red hair, too short for a woman without a topknot. Breasts a little small for his taste, but pert as goreapples under a tight black tunic, edged with red. Neat hips, hugging muscular thighs, and a tapered waist cinched by a black synth belt that looked all business. It even had a silver cylinder dangling from it, like she was dressed up like some kind of Jedi—

It wasn't until her breath hissed out in a startled exclamation that he looked up again at the face.

The tip of her nose was blushing, and her skin was pale under faint freckles, etched in silver. Wide eyes, green as home and wide and shocked, staring at him. She seemed smaller in person. Pouty lips, the kind he'd always thought were too hot for a Dark Lord of the Sith, in every holo he'd ever seen.

Then those lips mouthed his name. "Therion? Therion D'Cainen?"

He gaped at her for a milli, mouth open like a rube. For a second, the air almost seemed to freeze around them.

But Therion had always had a gift with the ladies, and the Lady Revan Starfire was surely no exception to that rule. "Hello, Princess," he said. "Or should I call you an angel?"

XXX

Plan B, the one that involved kidnapping her own son, hijacking a Mandalorian cruiser and heading for the Outliers just like the real Polla had never seemed more attractive than right now. (And that was saying something.) But things were a mess.

And Malak said the plague was my fault. Everything is. I need to fix it. I have a responsibility.

Her real self would know what to do. Her real self would know so many things.

"Lady D'Reev." The doorman at the hotel lobby had obviously been told to expect her, by D'Reev's security or Canderous. He was liveried, Arkanian, and nervous. Revan almost wanted to correct the angle of the holsters on his belt, even as she assumed they were just for show.

The real firepower in this lobby would be coming from angles where it was least expected.

The Force sang as she walked across the ferracrystal floor: the crowds on the floor expressing the usual emotions fear, anticipation, that strange, fawning respect. Did D'Reev come to expect this? Would the real Revan be used to it? Would Malachor?

Is this the rest of our lives, having minions in uniform bowing and scraping?

She smiled at a phalanx of guards that were suited like corporate greeters—and then dodged them, heading towards the penthouse elevator, the one reserved for Clan use and roof access only. For once, the wall of greeting dignitaries parted without asking if there was anything more she needed, anything that their petty hotel services might provide. She held her hand out over the elevator's scanner and it pinged white, approving. The lights above indicated it was traveling down.

"Senator?" One flunky seemed bolder than the rest. A yellow Twi'lek. Male. "Pardon, but we've had some… issues. Not all of the… Mandalorian... guests have had the correct background checks. It is a matter of great concern to this establishment that every sentient you come into contact with is appropriately vetted—"

"I trust my allies to handle it." Revan shrugged. "So should you, Citizen…."

"Wing. Jehorah Wing. If I could—" The Twi'lek was still speaking when the private lift pinged.

Revan stepped forward to meet the open doors, only to find the chamber already occupied by a tall, lean man with black hair pulled back in a Deralian topknot, a pair of blasters at his hips and a spacer's tan across his face. His mouth curved like a blade as his eyes seemed to take her in, up and down. There was a beat when they both were just staring—a heartbeat before she realized why his face looked so familiar, even as his name formed on her lips.

"Therion? Therion D'Cainen?"

For a heartbeat, he looked as shocked as she felt. But then that cruel mouth pulled down, into a smirk that a part of her wanted to punch—and another, more disturbing part remembered kissing. "Hello, Princess," he said. "Or should I call you an angel?"

"As I was saying," the Twi'lek interrupted, hastily edging between them. "Not all of their guests were properly cleared. You have my sincerest apologies, Senator. Step aside, and my men will escort this citizen—"

"He's not.* Revan said, not taking her eyes off the man.

"He's not supposed to be here, I know." The guard was falling all over himself trying to please. Revan realized he probably worked for D'Reev. Hells, everyone in the hotel lobby probably worked for D'Reev.

"He's not a citizen," she corrected. Her fingers twitched slightly as the Force pushed Jehorah Wing aside. The man teetered on his feet and she pushed aside the guilt as she shoved him out of the way. "Outlier colonists don't have any official status in the Republic."

"Princess. You're gonna be like that?" The Deralian's grin twisted. Did he look worried?

Revan kept her voice bland. "I'm actually surprised he got through customs, what with his criminal history."

"I made some friends," Therion admitted, his grin peeling wider. "Very, very close friends."

"But… you know what? I asked my staff to hire a pilot," Revan added, turning back to Jehorah. "And here he is. I vetted his records myself. Personally."

"Very personally," the man who had broken Polla Organa's heart purred.

"I'll need to check—"

"You don't need to check." Her fingers moved, and she was sickly pleased to see Therion take a step farther back into the elevator.

"I don't need to check," the Twi'lek repeated. He was still standing there, stiff and blank, when Revan stepped into the elevator after Therion and the doors closed behind them.

The man gave an amused chuckle, that only sounded slightly intimidated. She didn't like the leer on his face. "Wish Pollie and I had that trick, when we were smuggling spice through Biscain." He was still looking her up and down.

That smirk on his face reminded Revan a little too closely of the one he'd had when Polla had last seen him, when he'd dumped that load of mite-ravaged spice on her, and said he just wanted to be friends.

Revan held her hand over the scanner, and the lift began its ascent. She tried to look like she wasn't waiting for him to make a go for the blasters on his hips. "Why are you here?"

"I met this fantastic Mandalorian babe," he said. "You're not the jealous type, right? Pollie was, but I figure, a woman with two husbands can't be too—"

"Shut up."The Force was so close. Polla had never had the option of sealing his mouth with it, or pinning him against the wall of the elevator. Revan resisted doing either, but her fingers flexed. It was small satisfaction to see him catch the movement, see him swallow hard, as if the fact that he might be in danger had just occurred to him.

The lift felt claustrophobic. "Tell me. Why are you here? Why now?"

"How does this work?" He chuckled. "I've always wondered. Do you remember everything she did? Everything? Like that thing with the ropes and the Echani sworddancer?"

Revan tried to ignore the mental image. "I remember how you fracked her over."

"Hey, now, Princess. She was the one who left me! You think getting framed and thrown in a Corellian jail was how I wanted to spend that week?"

Princess…? He had never called Polla 'Princess.' For a twisted moment, Revan almost felt jealous of... herself? "You made your own bed when you fracked over the Exchange—"

The doors slid open on the hotel's roof, the smell of roasting meat mixing with the ozone of a muggy Coruscanti night. Aemelie and Gwenarius were standing there, dressed in ceremonial gowns with their swords at their waists. Behind them, another blonde woman—one of the Rialis headwomen, Revan thought, seemed to be making a hasty retreat, her hands full with both of their children-and a battleaxe.

"Your arrival is perfectly timed, Third Wife—" Gwenarius blinked in surprise as her eyes focused on Therion. "What is this man still doing here?"

"Still…?" Revan echoed. "You've already met him?"

Of course they have, the elevator only goes to this floor—some fracking tactical genius I am.

"He's from Alderaan," Aemelie interrupted. "Dessa was considering him, pending results."

"Oh, I gave Dessa results," Therion broke in. "She seemed pret-ty pleased with my results, if you know what I mean."

"He's not from Alderaan." Revan grimaced. "He's from Deralia." She stepped out of the lift quickly, and raised her hand, pinning Therion back against the wall with the Force.

His own fingers twitched, and the muscles in his neck bunched, as he obviously tried to break free. "Nice," he said, managing to lift an eyebrow. "I could be in love."

"Deralia?" Aemelie frowned. "Are you sure?"

"He was her… he knows Polla Organa. Knew. I mean."

A frown had appeared on Therion's face as he kept struggling against the invisible bonds that held him. "You want to knock it off now, babe?" The cords in his neck stood out as he tensed. "Come on, now! You gotta know you can trust me! Aemelie, tell her! We had a moment!"

"Do you think he's a spy?" Aemelie took a step closer, peering at him. "For the Deralians and not the Alderaanians? It was rather strange that I found their ship—and he did boast about the Organa woman, but we all thought it was pure bravado—"

"My ship," Therion drawled. "Trust me, that beauty's all mine."

"Where did you find him?" A spy from Polla's family? Impossible. Jason and Moll Organa hated his guts.

"Stranded along the Perlemian Trade Route. Repairing the vessel gave our youth a chance to practice shield and navboard repair, not to mention the outer hull patching.…" Aemelie's voice trailed off. "He's really Deralian?"

"You said they. Before. You said they. Their ship."

"He had companions," Aemelie shrugged. "They were from Alderaan as well."

"Older?" Her parents? But Jasp and Moll would never—

"No." Aemelie looked to Gwenarius, before looking back at Revan. "But I'm sure they're not important. They… were just passengers."

You don't think they were just passengers. That was as clear as the Force cage she'd created, rippling around Therion D'Cainen like an almost living thing. Revan opened her hand and let it collapse. The man collapsed with it, staggering before righting himself, looking between them, then reaching for his blaster—

The whine of a sonic bolt sent him spinning backwards before his muzzle cleared the holster. The blast knocked him back into the elevator. And Revan watched in shock as the doors, no longer under her control, slid shut, sending the smuggler's body—alive or dead—back down the lobby below.

"What the hell?" Canderous asked, his own gun still in hand as he jogged over to them. "You gonna just stand still while idiots take potshots at you, Revan?"

"Please tell me that was a stunner," she said. He just tried to kill me. Did he? Did Therion D'Cainen really just try and kill me? Polla's ex was a lot of things, most of them sleazy as frack, but he was no killer.

"Sure." Canderous shrugged, tapping his comm and barking in some instructions in Mandalorian. From the sound of things, D'Reev wasn't the only ones with guards posted in the lobby. To give Canderous credit, Revan hadn't even noticed his. "It was a stunner. Clean kills make too much paperwork on this damn planet. We'll bring him back up. Set up an interrogation room." His grizzled eyebrow raised. "You want in on the fun?"

"Don't hurt him," she blurted out. "Restraints only. And I need to speak with him. Alone."

"Who is he?" But he nodded, although she didn't miss the look Gwenarius shot him.

There's something you're not telling me, Ordo.

"He's no one," Revan lied. "Just a spacer the real Polla Organa used to know."

"Huh." Canderous grunted and looked at Aemelie again. "Does this have anything to do with that comm you sent about getting into the Republic jail?"

"Me?" Revan frowned. "What comm?"

Aemelie flushed. "That was a personal request, husband."

"It is rude of me to bring it before the other wives." The Mandalorian didn't look sorry; but he never did. "But necessary. Anyways, your Organa assassin's gone, Second Wife. Boon Organa got shipped back to Alderaan—"

"—Last week," Revan finished the sentence. "On my orders."

"Oh," Aemelie ducked her head. "Then I withdraw my request to visit with him." She paused. "Is he to be jailed on Alderaan too?"

"There's to be a trial…." Revan began, trying not to feel guilty. Again.

"Whatever." Canderous grunted. "Boon Organa's irrelevant. And so is that loser I just shot." He stared at Revan, eyes like duracrete chips in his weathered face. "We have a bigger problem. A much bigger problem. I called you here because there's something you need to see."

XXX

Revan was late. Of course. She was late and the room was small and Millifar had made Xarga play the footage again a hundred times. At this point, it almost felt like she did remember, even though she didn't. All that training she'd had against Jedi and it didn't even work?

Finally, the door slid open. "Father," Millifar said. She was with him this time. Third Wife, the one they'd all been waiting for, as if the Clan couldn't take action against a Sith schutta on their own.

"Daughter. Xarga." Her father nodded at them both.

"Hello, Millifar." Third Wife Revan looked like she wanted to do the right thing, just like she always did. It was tiresome, but at least they had her flagship now. Aemelie said it was magnificent. Room for ten thousand drop ships—as soon as they had ten thousand warriors.

Magnificent enough to compensate for his loss? We didn't even get a genetic sample—

"Have you seen Mekel Jin?" she asked the woman. "Has he chosen to remain with the Jedi?"

"He's—he's ill." The woman avoided her eyes and Millifar was suddenly convinced that Revan hadn't even thought about Mekel Jin. "I'm going there later. I'll… I can check on him."

"Is he going to die too?" She couldn't hide the bitterness in her voice. "Like Oerin?"

"I don't… I don't think so." Millifar wondered if the woman knew how much the dark-eyed Coruscanti man had idolized her. It was shameful, he could be so forgotten.

"You'd better sit down, Revan." Her father's voice was gruff. He'd made Millifar sit down too, when he and Xarga had first shown her the feed, the feed of her that she didn't remember happening.

Frowning, the woman nodded slowly. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it before I…" she glanced at Millifar and Xarga as if they cared about her stupid Jedi secrets.

Canderous cleared her throat. "Yeah, about that… I think you need to watch this before you make any rash decisions."

"It's not a rash decision." Her voice was cold and remote. "It's the only logical one. She knows things that we need."

"Banthashit." Her father sounded even more pissed off than he had before.

Revan glared at him as she sat in the seat. "I could make it an order."

"You could," he said. "If you think that's really how this works."

The woman who had cheated, but still killed their last true Mandalore in combat and destroyed their way of life, frowned even more. "Get on with it," she snapped.

Canderous nodded at Xarga, who started the vid again. The outside of their hotel, taken at an angle near the service entrance, the one they all used because they'd disabled all the D'Reev cameras around it, and installed their own. Watching it for the hundredth and first time didn't make it hurt less.

XXX

The armored figure caught her arm . "Mill-Mill-ley?"

Millifar froze, and then almost immediately pivoted, bringing her stun stick up towards the weakest joint in his armor, the one covered by beskar plating around the neck, and ending, not as it should in the Mandalore's visor, but in an ugly leather mask. At the same time, her foot lashed out, locking around his armored legs.

They fell together, but it was all wrong. Instead of crashing to the ground, they… floated. She was on top of him, her stick locked around his neck and they… floated to the ground as if gravity didn't exist.

XXX

"When was this recorded?" Revan demanded.

"After," Canderous said. "After it should have been possible." He shot a glare at Xarga. "And we'd have known weeks ago, if someone had reviewed the recordings as they should have."

"I accept my shame," the unblooded boy mumbled. Millifar almost felt sorry for him again.

XXX

"Who are you, thief?" Her finger poised over the switch and Millifar flinched again, noting the bad angle that it had, digging into the leather mask above the armor that was so obviously the Mandalore's.

"Mill-lee s'me. S'oarin." There was something wrong with his voice. His breath wheezed in and out, barely more than a whisper.

"They said you died." Her hand scrabbled at the mask, finding the clasps.

"Wai—waitt," the man wheezed, almost inaudible. "...go… head."

She took off the mask. She'd watched this part a hundred times and she still flinched. But the girl in the vid recording didn't. That girl only smiled, as if nothing was wrong. That girl acted angry, but she was obviously thrilled.

"They said you were dead." She wasn't afraid. She was practically glowing with happiness. "Was it some kind of trick?"

"Yesss." He shrugged, still lying there with his unfocused eyes that didn't even point in the same directions. The feed was blurry, but his lips looked… almost blue. His skin looked gray next to hers. That wheezing sound. Millifar heard it in nightmares now. "...Jed-eye..trickkk."

"Oh." Millifar stood up. "It was very rude of you to fool us too. Xarga organized your death walk and everything." She frowned. "I should have realized it was a trick, when they refused to give us your corpse."

The obviously dead Mandalore shambled up almost boneless: jerkily, with none of his usual grace. One knee was bent too far forward, overextended in its armor plating. "S'impport...antev' ree one... bl'eev... eyem….dead."

"All the barbarians need to think you are dead," Millifar said, as if she were repeating his words, as if she could understand them. She smiled. Her hand reached out, as if she would be forward enough to take his before formally staking her claim.

She had braided her hair for him, worn the gown for him. Their night should have gone very differently than this.

Oerin took a step backwards, shaking his head. "No. E'vree'one. Eev'n... clan."

"Why?"

"My...moth...zer."

"Your mother died on Malachor." The pearls in her hair were set with the precision of stars, constellations in the galaxy their children were to supposed to conquer after they were born. "Everyone knows that? Are you still feverish?" She stepped forward and put her hand on his forehead. Even in the holorecording, the pink of her hand contrasted sharply with the gray of his skin. "No! You're freezing cold!"

"No." His breath heaved in and out, as if he were trying hard to be clearer. "Mmm eyem... not cold at...atall. You're righ', Mill-lee. Mussbe... runnin… fever."

"You must be running a fever," she repeated. Her hands dropped to her side.

XXX

Millifar heard her own breath catch in a sob again. Stupid, stupid. Stupid girl. She'd thought she was done crying over this.

Over him.

"Millifar." Revan's voice. "I don't know what this is, but we'll… we'll fix it. I promise."

"Stupid!" she said out loud. "Just shut up! He's going to tell you!"

XXX

He was holding her hands now, not wearing his gloves and his hands were mottled and dark and dead and the Millifar in the recording didn't seem to notice.

"M' moth-ezz's not... dead. Sheeza Sithhh Lorrr'd. Sheez 'nipulade n'allz ha Jed-eye. She' got some... scheme… t'stop ….thrise …ofzah...Truuue...Sithhhh..halfatime, I hard...lee..understanit." His breath heaved in and out as if by force of will, and then his words became clearer. "I... died, not understandn...it, and she resur...k'ted me...and here I am. On'lee'm still... dead. And I think my….n'sides are goin...rot soon….'S' unpleaz...npleazint."

"I'm sorry, Oerin." The Millifar in the recording looked sorry.

XXX

Milifar wiped away her tears. Again. "Stupid," she mumbled. "I had training to resist this—"

"Oerin's strong. Was strong. Is." Her father's wife said.. "You couldn't, Millifar. I'm not sure I could resist his Force compulsion, if he really tried."

"I should have." She rubbed her forehead again. "I should have."

XXX

He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. "Me too." Another agonizing wheeze. "For...get."

XXX

Xarga made the image freeze, mercifully as Lin walked away from her and not at the moment of the kiss. Millifar wiped her eyes again.

"You get all that, Revan?" Her father hadn't asked Millifar if she'd gotten it. He'd only taken her in his arms, even if she was too old and let her cry until all the tears left. Shameful, but they'd never speak of it again.

"I got it." The woman made a noise like a sob herself. "What kind of Force can—"

"You're the Jedi," Millifar snapped. "You tell us."

"Frack," muttered the woman who had destroyed their way of life. She said a few other things, in a language that Millifar didn't know.

"Of course she's fine," her father grunted. She felt his hands brush against her arm. "She's Ordo."

"Of course, I'm…" Revan stood up, pacing towards the door, as if she thought she had the skill to track the spoor of a dead man months gone. "Who the frack is his mother?"

Canderous shrugged. "Some fracking Jedi. I don't know."

"I need to know." She paced back and forth more. Stupid Third Wife, wasting energy. "Even if I don't...I need to know. Is there anyone here who would know—anyone who's even seen her? Any of the headwomen?"

"No," Millifar snapped. "We're not ignorant fools, you barbarian. Don't you think we checked?"

"Millifar." Her father sighed. Xarga stared at the floor.

"I'm sorry for my outburst," she muttered. "More with the heart than the head."

"You are strong," he told her.

"We'll fix this," Revan said. "Somehow. Millifar, I promise."

"Don't." She closed her eyes, but they all kept talking.

"I saw her a few times in the early days of the war," her father told Revan. "The Fett Lin's seventh wife was short. She called herself Jana Novasun, and she always wore a mask. It was made of gray cloth. Like all the Republic Jedi."

XXX

"Hello? Hello?" It had been kind of cool when Revan Starfire restrained his entire body with nothing more than a glance from her smoldering green eyes. It was a little less cool now that the Mandalorians seemed to have shot him with a stunner, knocked him out and then trussed him like a dewback on a spit to a cold durasteel table with a bright light overhead and… forgotten about him?

"Hello?" Therion called again. "Is anyone here? Anyone at all?"

The door slid open. Sadly, it wasn't Dessa, but it was the next best thing. Aemelie of Ordo, no babies this time. Wearing a robe that was cut too high over her breasts, but still strangely hot.

"My husband wants the boys to practice some interrogation techniques on you," she said. "But I thought we should speak first."

"Anything," he grinned. "I knew you cared, Lady Ordo."

"I care about my friends. Your companions," she murmured. "I noticed… you seemed as reluctant to discuss them with the Third Wife as I was."

"Who?"

She rolled her eyes a little. "Revan. Revan Starfire? Third Wife of Ordo?"

"Oh." Maybe he should have just rolled over like Pollie herself had, when she'd spun that spice on Biscain on him. Jealous bitch. Except—"You know I hate kids. But theirs is real young. And I don't want something bad to happen." He tried to remember their fake names, but the rope cutting into his wrists really fracking hurt. "These bindings are really tight. Does Dessa know I'm here?"

Aemelie looked thoughtful. "This is Ordo business, not Rialis."

"Well… they just… they just wanted to see their uncle." Frack if he could remember the uncle's name either. "The Organa guy."

"Our people aren't just warriors," Aemelie said. "We have... hobbies. My First Wife Gwenarius and her daughter Millifar are skilled at studying the genomes in different humanid populations. Gwenarius specializes in genetic drift—seeing how certain traits in the humanid species migrate from one world to another. Dessa asked us to check your genetic traits, and so I sampled you."

"You did?" He thought back but he couldn't remember her being in the room when he'd been throwing around any samples. "Wait! Why did she need my genetics? Did I mention I hate kids?"

"The kiss," she murmured. "And don't concern yourself. Dessa's already married. Her husband's a mercenary on Dantooine. But you are not Alderaanian. Neither is Seriina Wen. In fact, your prints are close, Gwenarius said. Close enough to be cousins, a few generations removed."

"Wait. You said… First Wife? Your First Wife?" He let the stupid grin fall on his face. "That's hot." Seriina Wen. That's right. Now, if I could just remember what the frack name Seiran used—distant cousins my ass—Strangely, that was kind of hot too, thinking of Polla as a distant cousin. Has to be pretty distant, our mothers don't even know the same people.

Aemelie frowned at him. "You both share several Corellian markers, but a few of them are rare in contemporary Corellian populations. Recessives that were outbred long ago. You only really see prints like that in colony worlds out on the Rim. Like Deralia."

"You got me." He laughed. "We immigrated to Alderaan. You know. Like that… Organa guy."

"Boon. Boon Organa."

"Yeah. Him." He sighed. "What do you want me to say?"

"Absolutely nothing. This is a test," Aemelie said. "Don't mention any of this—or anything about them —under questions and I'll let you live." She shrugged. "I might even give you back to Dessa."

"What are you going to do?"

She raised a dark eyebrow. "I'm going to go tell Seriina the bad news about her uncle. Or is it good news?" She shook her head. "I will never understand your culture."

"That's mutual, sister," he muttered. "Don't—don't hurt her."

"Hurt her? Our sons are milk brothers." Aemelie snorted and shook her head. "Barbarians."