((Notes: This chapter is nothing but fluff, but my depressed brain insisted the fluff was what I needed to write, and that I wasn't allowed to write anything more interesting until I had written the fluff. If this was a novel meant for paid publication, most of this fluff would have been cut. But who knows! Some of you may find this interesting or even endearing, and with the mental state I'm in, ten pages of writing is a herculean achievement so it stays.

Also, I realized mid-chapter that I have completely inverted the relationship between Kolto and Bacta in this story. Oops. If I ever feel up for it, I may go back and edit previous chapters to reflect that kolto is actually the dominant curative and bacta is, at this point in the timeline, rare and prohibitively expensive. In the meantime, please bear with me, I'm just going to do it right going forward.))

"Are you sure that was a good idea?"

Rye's brow stalks arched. His two security droids were still flanking Zavish, following right at his heels. He'd even used them to speak to Zav when he was done shopping, to request the access code to get back onto the ship. Which was how Zavish knew he'd taken a walk around the promenade, which was what Zavish was questioning the wisdom of now. Yet, he waited to address his questions to Rye's holoprojection, apparently laboring under the impression that if he wasn't talking to Rye 'face to face' then he wasn't really talking to Rye, as if an AI could only be in one place at a time.

Organics.

"Do you think we're being pursued?" he returned. His holoprojection was etched on the surface of a poorly-maintained dejarik table that had been bolted into the floor near the crash seats, sitting with one leg draped over the other, illusory boots dangling above the deck plates. The table's holographic projectors did a poor job of sketching Rye's holomatrix, struggling to cast light more than a foot above the table, leaving gaps in his frame and visible light trails as they etched and re-etched his features.

"I doubt it." Zavish eyed the two droids, which had stopped behind him. Rye rolled his eyes and they slid clumsily past Zav, moving on deeper into the ship and taking up stations on the bridge so they wouldn't be 'looming'. Azix had complained about the same damned thing. Organics were so sensitive of their space. Once they were gone, Zavish continued, "This isn't a safe place to wander. And if what little you've told me is true, your existence up till now's been a bit… sheltered."

"I know what Hutt territory means," Rye informed him. "Organized and petty crime, extortion, smuggling, corruption of any law enforcement that might exist, bribery of administrative officials. By the way, I borrowed some of your things to make myself less conspicuous. I hope you don't mind."

"My things?" Zavish repeated, and Rye gave him a guileless look, blinking crimson eyes innocently.

"Just a bag and a wrap. I didn't damage anything. I put them back."

Chal's mouth tightened, but he let it go. "Regardless," he said a bit through his teeth, "it might be better to keep your head down until we're in friendlier territory. Rishi is lawless, but there's an anarchist's sort of equality among most of the pirates there. Especially now that we've run the Nova Blades offworld." He continued past Rye's flickering, off-color projection - the djarik table was accustomed to producing holos of two-inch-high figurines, not a life-size person. "They won't intrude on the grounds around the compound, and your affiliation with us should keep you safe in Raider's Cove."

"Why haven't you repaired this?" Rye wondered. He gestured above him, where metal bars were wrapped in drooping netting. "Racks empty. You can mod the engines and the deflector plating but you can't replace the crash kits or these lenses?"

"Because this is my personal ship," Zavish said with a hint of impatience. "It doesn't carry troops, and I seldom have company with which to play Dejarik on board."

"Well, I couldn't help noticing the custom paint job and lighting," Rye said, swinging his lower foot idly. It kept disappearing when it went too far underneath the table's rim. "And of course, that beautiful Lergo. How did it get damaged?"

"Your Jedi threw it through a second-story window."

Rye smirked. "I'm sure you'll have it looking perfect again in no time. I had the chance to stop into a shop on the promenade with all sorts of modifications in it. Speeders, but also droids. It was interesting to think about modifying my chassis the way that you modify your own body."

As soon as there was a break in his speech, which also buzzed atonally played through the table's speakers, Zavish moved on, passing through the cramped hallways to his quarters, across from the infirmary. Rye's chassis met him on the way and stayed in the infirmary doorway, projecting his shape into the doorway of Zavish's quarters, but no further.

"There are a number of organic species who practice self-modification," he continued. "Rattataki, of course. Mirialans, Zeltron, Bosphs, the Kiffar. And you all place different amounts of significance on it. Modification seems to be quite significant to the Rattataki, and yet, there's hardly any good information out there about your customs, or the significance of certain markings. Mirialans, for instance, have an entire lexicon of tattoos that are supposed to portray the past, the future, their relationships to one another and to the Force. The basic array of shapes is then modified by their positioning, both on the body and relative to other shapes in the same design, to allow a remarkable nuance of meaning. I'm sure it's nearly impenetrable to outsiders, but I find the subject interesting," /all of a sudden,/ "and I happen to have a photographic memory. And the information is there if I care to learn it, which I have. But for Rattataki… nothing of import. Some observations, some speculation, some very limited first-hand accounts. Your species doesn't really want others to know you, do you?"

Zavish picked up the wrap and satchel Rye had left on his bed, shot him a chiding look, and put them away. Then he hung up his coat and walked through Rye toward the steps to the bridge. Now that refueling had been arranged, he had a preflight check to do before they got underway. Rye slipped into the map projector on the bridge and commandeered its holoarray to meet him there, settling his projection in the co-pilot's chair.

Seeing that he clearly wasn't going to escape this conversation by walking away from it, Zav sighed as he settled into the Captain's Chair. "I can't speak for my entire species. But if it's the Mirialans you're comparing us to, I think it's more likely there's just little worth in knowing."

"That may be true for me, but you know it isn't true for Azix," Rye reasoned. "You said it yourself - his lack of modification creates an instant impression of childishness, or even weakness. If I stood him next to you, your brother, and half a dozen of House Ekari's other Rattataki troops, he'd appear scoured by comparison. Naked, in a way. Now, I'm not sure how well he understands that." Fingers steepled, Rye watched Zavish's impassive face as he tested the preflight systems one by one. "He may acknowledge it cerebrally without really grokking what a disadvantage it creates for him. You have a language I don't think he understands, and as an outsider, I'm no help."

Chal exhaled through his teeth. "What exactly are you asking?" The thin edge of impatience was softened by undertones of resignation - he seemed to think he already knew what Rye would ask.

"We have about a week together, still," Rye said. "Azix will sleep through it and heal. I'll be making some preparations. You said I could expense his clothing, his basic needs," he reminded Zavish. "But I had a chance to look around the promenade at a number of clothing stores and I'm afraid I'm not sure where to begin. There was a great disparity in price that didn't always seem to match quality. I'm not entirely certain what constitutes a 'luxury', nor how many he might need of each 'necessity'. And I noticed there are magnetic piercings available which could, perhaps, alleviate some of his cultural disadvantage," he added. "But since I have no idea how Rattataki choose their piercings, I can't know what would be appropriate for him, what might convey the wrong message or give someone offense. All our supplies have been salvaged up till now, but we're not talking about secondhand junk. He lost everything on Ziost. The only things he still owns are in the hands of the Order. If I'm to help him carve out a bit of peace while he recovers, to see to his needs, I'd like to get it right. So I find myself needing to know how best to provide for him," he reasoned. "Which removable 'piercings' might help him blend in among pirates. How many pairs of pocketed pants he needs and which ones are sturdy enough to be worth the cost. And which underwear won't give him 'swamp crotch'." When Zavish threw him a sidelong glance, he said, "I was attempting to use customer reviews from the holonet to determine the quality of the product. Some were very… descriptive."

"Hnph." He sat back in his chair, hands settling on his thighs. "Well, you'll find more consistent prices on the 'net," he admitted. "It's shipping that's the issue, but since we have supplies brought in for the compound all the time, anything that has cheap delivery to Dromund Kaas can be loaded on our ships and brought to you. If you put your order within the first couple of days, it may arrive with Lord Virulion. You may want to overestimate sizes," he counseled. "It'd be faster and easier to have larger things tailored than to try to return anything once it gets there."

"Lord Vi-rul-ion," Rye repeated under his breath, but when Zavish looked up, he forged ahead. "I doubt he'd be picky. Jedi asceticism at work. But I don't want to get him cheap things that will be uncomfortable or fall apart. Yet I hesitate to infringe on your… good graces." As for sizes, he'd already reached the obvious conclusion, and taken it a step further - one of the crates in the cargo hold now contained a compact sewing machine, and Rye's matrix contained several instructionals on the craft. He had every inch of Azix's body scanned into his memory, inseam and all. He'd thought he'd take up knitting too, since it seemed to be so heavily based on mathematics. Surely a computer as capable as he was could come up with spectacular patterns once he got the hang of it. Though apparently, he was supposed to avoid sweaters; word on the 'net was they were bad luck for relationships.

Zavish didn't miss his barbed undertone, but he did ignore it. "We don't buy cheap goods for our people," he said simply. "As long as we're not talking demicot silk and umbaran crystal, no one will mind if you get him good-quality things. I'd offer to help, but most of my off-duty clothing is military surplus," he pointed out. "And I doubt he'd appreciate the Imperial aesthetic."

Rye inclined his chin. Zavish might be right, but the Imperial Military wasn't the only military. Like arms dealers, clothing companies couldn't be expected to limit themselves to supplying only one side in a war. He made a mental note to track down military surplus clothing in neutral colors, confident Azix would look delicious and feel comfortable in tactical pants and soft undershirts cut to strain just right across the shoulders. He shied from black, but Rye thought he'd look arresting in dark blue or violet. On the lighter spectrum, Hoth camouflage would look fitting on him, maybe some charcoal grays as neutrals with white and silver. And why stop there? The military weren't the only group of professionals who had high standards for their clothing. Explorers and extreme outdoorsmen needed sturdy boots and gloves, equipment belts, soft warm layers or breathable anti-fungal underlayers. Rishi was tropical… he filed, extrapolated, prioritized. Clickclickclick .

"Perhaps while we have this time to ourselves, we can talk more about Rattataki markings," he suggested. "History, meaning, significance."

"Rye…" Chal paused, irritated. "Do you have a family name?"

"No," Rye told him with faint amusement. "Just the one. I'm like a diva." Estelle had explained that convention to him once, and from the expression on Zavish's face, he didn't know whether to be amused or appalled.

"Fine," he said, voice a bit strained from swallowing his reaction. Then, "... You realize that feels… quite familiar."

Well then clearly, it was not fine. "I know," Rye said, because he was Imperial too. "But it's a bit different, isn't it? For you, saying your name is a privilege you grant to others. For me, hearing my name is a privilege seldom granted to me. I won't be referred to by a code. I've been addressed like a branded slave long enough. I have a name, and I want people to use it."

"I'm not suggesting you should use your program code. Choose a name you like," Zav countered.

"A family name," Rye pointed out dryly. "I don't have a family."

"What about the museum you came from? Could you name yourself after that? A historical site, plenty of people are named after the places their families came from."

"Yes, I'll just be Rye Brushstroke Canyon, shall I?" he suggested aridly. "That sounds perfectly ordinary and common."

"Don't be mullish," Zavish chided. "You could choose a name that describes your occupation, those are common enough. Use a different language root. Make it similar to an academic title. It's a more formal form of address anyway."

"Well, if it's about formal address, you can always call me 'my lord'," Rye snarked.

Zavish's head turned slowly, embers of orange gleaming in his eyes. "You are not Sith," he said, a low and threatening rumble. "I'm not offended that you choose to wear that face. Though, as I'm not a pureblood, I probably have no grounds for offense. Not all purebloods are Sith anyway. But I will be, if you start putting on airs and playing at titles you haven't earned."

Rye's eyelashes lowered. "Your house accepts aliens," he pointed out. "Former and current Jedi. Genetically engineered hybrids."

"And the Jedi who wanted to convert earned their titles on Korriban. Do the same," he challenged, "and perhaps I'll change my opinion."

"And Teleon Virulion? Did he attend Korriban?"

"He was too old at the time of his conversion. Lord Kryos took him as an apprentice and submitted an application for citizenship, and he earned his titles fighting the Republic. If you can find a Sith Master," Zav said, "feel free to do the same."

"I have a Sith Master," Rye retorted. "I have multiple Sith masters." He tapped his light-etched chest, though of course it was his chassis' chest piece he was referencing. "I'd hardly be the first whose first instruction in the Dark Side came from a holocron."

"And those converts had to find living masters to induct them into our society. There is no skipping the queue," Chal declared, venom dripping from his tongue. "Everyone pays their dues. I doubt you have what it takes."

"Because I'm an artificial being?"

"Because you're far too arrogant," Chal growled. "You have aspirations well above your place. You've been treated like you're inferior to biological sapients, which you've decided is untrue, but somehow you leapt to the conclusion that you must therefore be SUPerior to biological sapients, that you're owed things you haven't earned by virtue of having downloaded information the rest of us have to study."

"I've killed two Sith acolytes who did graduate Korriban," Rye pointed out. "And helped corrupt a Jedi. Are they doing something different in the trials on Korriban these days?"

Zavish let out a hiss and pulled his datapad from his pocket, slapping it down on the console in front of Rye. "Lift that," he challenged. "With The Force."

Stymied, Rye glared at the datapad first, then at Zavish.

Zavish's continued to glower from the corner of his eye as he resumed his systems testing. "No hurry," he drawled. "Take all the time you need."

He felt an odd little burning sensation. Something like anger, but more sullen… resentment. He had plenty of experience with resentment, but in The Force, it was different. It felt… sour. "I haven't figured out how to levitate objects yet."

"You ambushed two inexperienced teenagers, and overwhelmed them with superior numbers," Zav declared. "And frankly, I don't think Azrahix is much of a social challenge. Less so, under the circumstances. You're not Sith. You have a long, difficult way to go before you'd could even begin to be Sith. Assuming that's even possible," he added, flicking switches with final-sounding little clicks. "Which isn't an assumption I'm prepared to make. If you want titles and respect, earn them. Since you can't bleed," he remarked, "you have no choice but to sweat."

Rye was tempted to call out the metaphor, because technically he couldn't sweat either, but being petty would only reinforce Zavish's opinion of him. "Fine," he said airily, "I'll consider a surname for the sake of your comfort. But all else aside, I still want to talk about Rattataki culture. If you want him to let go of the Order, he'll need another touchstone. Your people are clannish. Social isolation will drive him back to the Jedi, not away."

"Well, I'm done talking," Chal replied. "Watch me if you must, but find something else to occupy your time."

The burning sensation intensified. Rye painted a thin smile across his face. "Fine. Another time, then." He cut off the projection and left his droids to supervise Zavish's refueling checks and launch sequence while he retreated into himself.

At least he was never truly without someone to talk to.

x-x-x

"The Force is in everything," Virul told him while they both shared his optical sensors, staring at a datapad on one of the medbay consoles. "It's the source of life, but it's not just life. It's gravity, magnetism, heat, and momentum. Living beings generate The Force, they embody it, and in return The Force connects them all. But that doesn't mean living things are the only ones who are affected by The Force, or who can have it inside them."

"You do realize," Rye drawled, "that I have the introductory lectures of several hundred Sith and a handful of Jedi already stored in my matrix, including yours. I know all this; I don't need the remedial class."

"In the language of old Sith," Zihuratt responded, "there are many forms of the verb 'to know'." He had reduced the volume of her voice but not the resonance. It made the delicate crystals inside the holocron thrum like an impacted ulnar nerve, a sensation he found discomfiting.

"The simplest form is 'to know intellectually'; something you've observed, read, or heard and accepted as fact. In this way, you may 'know' that Adas was the last great king among the old Sith, that he repelled the invasion of the ancient Infinite Empire, and the dates of his birth and death, without being personally invested in such knowledge. Then there is the 'knowing' that is personal, that was gained through experimentation or discovery - an internalized knowing. In this way, you may 'know' that leaving your akk puppy along at home will result in your possessions being destroyed, or that your bachani plants grow thicker and taller when you place small fish among their roots. This is the 'knowing' we accumulate throughout our lives, the experience that shapes our adulthood.

"Next, there is the 'knowing' that is integrated into the mind and spirit," she continued as Rye glowered at the datapad and tried to enforce his will on it. It didn't even tremble. "This is a foundational knowing, the knowledge on which a view of the world is built. It is this way that you must know The Force - it is not enough to know, intellectually, how The Force surrounds and binds us. That knowledge must reside in your heart of hearts. It must change the way you perceive the universe and everything in it.

"Finally, there is the 'knowing' that connects you to someone or something outside yourself, the way you can 'know' your ancestral home, or the rhythms of the sea, or the mind of your heart's companion. Seek The Force with dedication, and this type of 'knowing' might be yours, but only after a great deal of time and intimacy. It is the 'knowing' of synchronization, of precognition, of twin stars orbiting one another, caught in each other's gravity. The root of this form of 'to know' is shared with the word for 'harmony' or 'duet'. It is oft-repeated in great stories of romance and enmity, as a perfect harmony, an effortless tandem, may be achieved only by the truest of lovers or the truest of enemies."

"I've got that part," Rye snapped. "I can feel The Force. I can feel Azix in it." As if to prove it, if only to himself, he reached for the clouded silhouette floating in glowing blue kolto in the tank next to him. Azix was deeply asleep, and thanks to Rye ensuring his chassis was never more than a few feet away, no ghosts haunted his dreams. Touching him sent a shiver of recognition through him, and he wondered if that was what Zihuratt described as the 'knowing' of wordless duet. /Mine,/ Rye's algorithms concluded instantly, generating a list of aggressive extrapolations from that conclusion - parameters, priorities, potentialities. If 'Azix=mine', then also the following...

There was a burning at the heart of his lover; a pulse of heat and turmoil nestled beneath his sternum. Even the repose of healing sleep couldn't soothe it away. A Jedi was supposed to keep serenity at his center, an inner calm no matter what storm surrounded him.

Azix didn't have a Jedi's heart anymore.

"You can reach Azix because he reached out to you first," Virul said dryly. "He did the work on this bond, not you. He gave you the knowing of him, but that type of knowing isn't something you can steal or piggyback. You have to find it for yourself. The first step of finding it is to let go of prior assumptions, conceits about the nature of the universe. You're reaching out thinking you know what you're going to find, but you're a novice in The Force, Rye," she said gently. "You don't know. A relationship is a lever - if you want to move something, you first have to build a bridge between it and yourself. So stop trying to move the datapad," she suggested.

Rye felt the pressure of her will on his processes, thinning and settling the negative feedback generated by his repeated failures.

"For now, just observe the datapad. Reach out and feel it. Calm your thoughts, quiet your processes; be receptive. Let the object tell you about itself."

Her touch was like fingers on the sides of his datacore, cool and focusing, narrowing his perceptions to what was in front of him. He wasn't about to give up all the other input he was constantly receiving, but he did shunt it to secondary processes.

"I'm supposed to let the datapad tell me about itself?" he asked dryly, and she smiled.

"This datapad doesn't exist in isolation," she said. "It has relationships with the things and people around it. Reach out. Don't look at the datapad, sense it. Feel its place in the universe by its relationships."

He gave the impression of an exhalation and heard it echoed by his vocoders. "It's just metal and plastic," he said, and sounded sullen even to himself.

"That's what I mean by assumptions. You've already analyzed this datapad and decided what it is," Virul told him. "Let's try an experiment. Find me the data about this specific pad, wherever you're storing it." She waited for Rye to bring up the notations. "Right," she said. "Now, delete it."

Rye internally recoiled. "... Ridiculous."

"Space-wizardry is bound to be ridiculous on many levels," she retorted. "Just delete it, Rye. Let it go, and don't refill it. Get rid of all those failure logs, too. Give this datapad a clean slate."

He still hesitated. Was there anything important on that datapad? Anything consequential? He could always access it again later, re-download anything he'd lost….

"The Force is a deep ocean, Rye," Virul murmured. "You can read all about the ocean. You can scan its depths. You can analyze its waters, track the migrations of its creatures. But you will never know it if you stay safely on the shore. You're standing on the cusp; there's seafoam at your toes. These are the shallows, yet you hesitate to take a step. A child of the Sith or the Jedi would learn these meditations at the same time they were learning to speak. What are you afraid of?"

"Low," he muttered, but he didn't delete the data. It... truly was inconsequential. He was paying more attention to it now than he had while gathering it, or in the entire time he'd had it. He considered doing as Virul said, deleting it, but something stopped him, the same way a biological would struggle to force themselves to touch a hot stove. He'd been forced to delete information before and he hated the strange, naked feeling of not having data where data had been. Certainly he cleared out corrupted data and condensed other information for space, but that was… that was code. It wasn't knowledge . This, petty as it was, was knowledge about something in his close proximity, something he might use, something practical within his environment. To remove that knowledge, to suddenly stop knowing….

"It's okay, Rye," Virul said. "You don't have to do it now. It may be easier to do with another living thing, something with a stronger intrinsic Force presence. We can start when we get to Rishi."

"I'm not a coward ," he declared even as he stood, stricken, 'staring' at the data. Perfectly innocuous data. Weight, dimensions, year make and model, storage capacity, known programs and files. No harm would come to him if he ceased to know this thing. He hadn't known this thing before boarding Zavish's ship. But to just… let go of knowing…

He felt her shrug. "You know this pad in the first verb-form," Virul explained. "What you have is merely information. But that information is a barrier to foundational knowledge. You have to let go of one if you want the other."

"I…" He ran an analysis on his hesitation. "This is... antithetical to my purpose. I'm supposed to accumulate knowledge and catalogue it, disseminate it. Not… intentionally become or remain ignorant about things."

"That's one way to look at it," she agreed. "Another is that you're opening yourself to a deeper expression of knowledge. You'd be correcting ignorance you didn't know you had, replacing mere data with truth."

"Mere data," he repeated fretfully. "I AM mere data."

"No. The code and the information aren't the same thing. The code is just the language of the information. It's okay if you just want to be an archivist," she said. "There's nothing wrong with being an archivist. Information can be power - the galaxy runs on it. And you have the ability and capacity to amass a body of information people would kill for. Or, in better circumstances, pay for." Her wry humor did nothing to assuage his frustration. "If a throne is what you want, I have no doubt you can get yourself one."

"And settle," he ascertained. "Be what I was made to be. Accept my limitations."

She chuckled. "Rye, there's no 'wrong' path except the one that you're unhappy with. You are already MUCH more than you were ever made to be, and you can keep growing in this direction if you want."

"Hasn't that shuttle flown?" Rye countered. "I'm in a crystalline matrix, now. I can feel The Force. If I ignore that capacity, then I'll only ever be half of what I could be, connected to this greater realm of knowledge while remaining separate from it. What a waste that would be. If I did that…." He spun threads of logic, conclusions. "... Then I'd be proving my own inferiority. Proving I can only play-act at what biologicals can master." Soft threads of highlighting surrounded some of the notations in the datapad's file, blinking at him almost mockingly in their neat, nested rows. "The Infinite Empire created technology that could use The Force. I'm not dealing with a total unknown - this path has been partially blazed, at least. I don't know if those machines were made to be sapient, or achieved it, but I know if they could, without sapience, be immersed in The Force, then… I can." /It's just a datapad,/ he told himself, trying to force that reasoning on his own resistant logic program. /It's just a datapad. It's a first step. A small one. It means nothing, it risks nothing./

The rectangular highlights blinked. A command cursor blinked in counterpoint.

"You're being entirely too permissive," Zihuratt told Virul. "One who has the potential for excellence but refuses to pursue it is no less than a coward."

"Oh, I disagree," Virul replied. "People have the potential for all sorts of things. It's impossible to pursue every avenue, so the ones that fulfill you should be prioritized. Nobody can walk your path except for you, so you should get to choose it."

"Liberal nonsense," Zihuratt shot back. "None of us is unbeholden, even those without ancestors or culture or citizenship."

"Relationships being a recurring theme," Virul said with a smirk. "To what, then, is Rye beholden?"

"To destiny," Zihuratt thrummed. "To The Force itself."

"My lady, I'm astonished." Virul's voice was taking on its more masculine tones. "I thought the notion of Rye becoming Sith appalled you. Now you're taking the position he's obligated to do it? Are you saying The Force has a plan for him, or are you just offended he might choose to decline something you hold in such prestige?"

"I find the entire situation offensive," Zihuratt said, clearly miffed. "But I am not the master of The Force. Denying the path that has been laid out for him is the effort of a fool or a child. If he was not meant to become Sith, he never will. And if he is meant to, if that is the shape the galaxy will take as time marches inexorably forward, then he cannot choose otherwise. One way or another, it has been decided for him."

"If fate is so inexorable, then it doesn't matter what he decides," Virul concluded. "So he may as well make the choice he prefers, and if things shake out differently in the future, he can make that jump when he comes to it. If The Force has a will and makes Itself known, which isn't an idea I'm contesting, then it will reveal itself in due time without any particular help from us."

"I've heard a number of prominent Sith say that the Sith are masters of their own Destiny," Rye interjected, determined to have some say in this discussion of his future. "That they wield The Force, it does not wield them. Submission to Destiny sounds like Jedi philosophy."

"We are, all of us, game pieces," Zihuratt intoned. "Some can see the hand of the mover, while others insist they choose the moves on their own. And yet, when they choose, they seem to play out the same games over and over across history, the same contests of Dark and Light. To my knowledge, only The Emperor Himself has ever truly broken free of his Destiny. If recent events have been conveyed accurately to me then in doing so, he may have unmoored himself, and sacrificed meaning in exchange for freedom."

"And become a black hole in the process," Virul suggested. "I've thought the same thing. What we mean, Rye," he explained, "Is that our relationships bind us into the fabric of reality, of all this." He implied a sweeping gesture. "We exist in relationship with others: with people, with culture, with worlds. For good or for ill, those ties define who we are and which part of the tapestry's ultimate design we're supposed to portray. Some Sith insist they can change the tapestry, forge their own path, but even if they succeed in altering their own threads, the rest are still woven. We are who we are in context, all except for Tenebrae, who severed his. Including you," he said with a hint of humor. "And this datapad."

"Oh," Rye said sourly. "Are we back to that?"

Virul laughed. "Well, if that's not the relationship you're interested in, consider this: threads of Destiny clearly connect you and Azix. If you mean to stay with him, how does pursuing The Force change that relationship?"

/Emperor's balls./ Rye felt almost helpless as he watched his predictive algorithms spiral into compounding fractals of conjecture. /You had to ask me that./

Virul also watched the potentialities hit several hundred thousand within the space of a few seconds and continue to multiply. "...Ah. Well. Maybe you'd like to think about it for a while? Answer it later?"

"He was horrified by the idea of my becoming Sith. Surely I can acclimate him," Rye muttered, peering along some of the threads he liked best, examining their variations. "If these people Lord Chal has called are the least bit worthwhile, they could help me. But this light-sider, this former Jedi, he could ruin everything…."

"Okay, okay." Virul did the mental equivalent of taking him by the shoulders and pulling him back away from the code. "First off, stop. No more number crunching. You don't have enough data for any conclusions to be worth the working memory. Second, I know I'm the one who asked the question, but let me give you just a bit of parental advice, Rye." He tugged Rye's attention until it was diverted, until he ended the calculus and waited silent, expectant. "Never, ever give up your dreams for a boy," Virul said seriously. "And don't ask someone else to give up their dreams for you. If you're going to be with anyone, if you're going to experience real love with anyone, then neither of you will be required to cut pieces off yourselves to fit together."

"Then Azix and I are doomed," he said, unamused.

He smiled faintly. "I didn't say the outside factors would never require some work. As for Azix, I don't think that poor boy knows what his dream is. He may say he wants to be a true Jedi," Virul reasoned, "but honestly? I think all his focus on that goal is wrapped up in a deeply-ingrained sense of inadequacy." He paused, and a… a sort of color that wasn't really a color tinged his resonance in The Force, a sensation of mixed compassion and sharp-eyed purpose. "You may get farther than you think just by telling him he's enough . That whatever he does, or becomes, you still want him."

/Like a parent maneuvering their child into a meet-cute with an extremely eligible bachelor./ If blatant manipulation could be loving, Virul did it lovingly. Rye wondered how his children had felt about it.

"Unconditional love is rare in the universe," Virul was saying, his tone gone cunningly light. "I'm sure most people don't believe it exists, but they'll still eat from the hand of whoever offers them something close. You have your own plans, of course. I'm just saying."

/Of course you are./ Was that affection mixed with his amusement? "A one-sided showing if he can't make the same allowance for me, isn't it? He's balked every time I've advanced in power. Does he love me? Or does he just need me?"

Virul smiled that witch-smile. "Rishi," he said, "Would be a good place to find out."

x-x-x

Zavish didn't get much more communicative over the next five days. Between lessons in sensing The Force taught in cycles between Darth Virul, Darth Krazzk, and Lord Zihuratt, Rye continued to try to pry information about the Rattataki out of Zavish to little avail. Chal didn't even have anything particular to do; he just wasn't interested in talking to Rye, especially now that someone else had been specifically contracted to talk to Azix and Rye. Appealing to any species loyalty he may have had seemed futile.

Since they passed the hyperspace beacon near Gamorr, where Zavish dropped a commdata packet that contained Rye's supply order and picked up confirmation from Teleon and Kes, he seemed content in the knowledge that his passengers were no longer his problem. He'd been slightly more helpful on the subject of clothing Azix than that of decorating him, but even there, he used the fewest words possible. Rye found himself wishing he'd gone to the overpriced textile store in the spaceport at Sleheyron and picked up some yarn, a few yards of fabric, anything to give him something novel to do while they hummed near-silently through hyperspace.

So when Zavish got on the captain's intercom and announced they were entering the Abrion Sector, Rye could barely contain himself. He picked over everything loose in the medical bay and then the cargo hold, stowed and re-stowed the handful of things that belonged to him, analyzed Azix's vitals, and most of all, snooped as much of the ship's sensor data as he could get, measuring every passing mass shadow between them and Rishi.

Raider's Cove was the 'capitol' of Rishi, if a world of lawless anarchy could be said to have one, but they didn't land there. As they came out of hyperspace, and Rishi's jewel-like colors filled the viewport, Zavish announced himself to an Imperial flight tower and swung southwest. Several Gage-class Imperial transports hung in low orbit over House Ekari's compound, smaller shuttles buzzing between them. A handful of Quell Starfighters seemed to be performing training maneuvers in the upper atmosphere nearby. They dipped their wings as Zavish's Cygnus A-10 passed.

Rishi's waters were the brightest, purest aquamarine Rye had ever seen, and holos didn't do them justice. The clouds were billowy-white, piled into grand skycastles that looked down on sprawling mountain slopes draped in skirts of lush, flowering jungle. Where the mountains met the sea, pale sand formed a winding ribbon edged in seafoam lace. Compared to the austere, tundral beauty of Ziost, riven by city-canyons of deep shadow lit with flickering neon, Rishi seemed almost carelessly colorful, bursting with an excess of life. Yet there was a restfulness to it that Rye could sense even as they made their descent - large swaths of the planet were barely inhabited, untouched by the endless colonial machines of the galaxy. There, the native Rishi lived in peace and followed their own ways as they had for thousands of years, and the rhythms of life were marked by long sunsets and bountiful tides.

House Ekari's compound stood out like a sore thumb with its severe octogonal symmetry, its straight, black, Imperial walls rearing up from a wide swath of clear-cut foliage. Zavish submitted codes to deactivate a force-field protecting the compound from aerial assault, and they descended into one of several recessed landing pads laid out in a cluster, like a geometric flower.

"Med techs are on their way to transport him to the infirmary," Zavish told Rye when he cast his holoprojection into the co-pilot's seat. "Our chief physician will assess him, but I'd imagine he'd be ready for extraction. Go along if you like, but don't cause trouble," he said, throwing Rye a pointed look.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Rye replied archly. "And the cottage?"

"Two miles from here, one of our most distant properties. He won't be able to see the compound and the presence of Dark Siders there shouldn't cause him any problems. Short speeder-trip for the Virulions, and well within emergency-beacon range."

"Exactly how much land do you control here?" Rye wondered as Zavish rose and began to buckle into his armored robes.

"About five square miles, on treaty with the local Rishi," he grunted back, tugging his pauldrons into alignment. "They prefer the mountains to the lowlands - less humid. In case you haven't heard, nobody fucks with the natives. It's not just Darth Scion's decree," he warned. "The pirate crews enforce it as well. They're very friendly, the Rishi, deal strictly in barter, and anyone does wrong by 'em will get a piece of pirate justice."

Rye eyed him. "I'm not sure how I convinced you that I'm such a colossal bore," he declared. "As if I don't know how to behave myself around doctors or friendly bird-people. You can't be holding the incident with those acolytes against me. I told Azix to lie his way past them, no violence necessary, but he wasn't up to the task. If he could have kept that accent bottled up for more than thirty seconds…."

"You're not a member of House Ekari," Zavish replied, a soft, bass growl underscoring his tone. "You've got no allegiance and no breeding to speak of. You're a guest who hasn't acknowledged the hospitium. How much good behavior can we expect?"

That took Rye by surprise. He was silent while Zavish finished buckling his armor and tossed his hood over his head, then headed for the airlock. This time, Rye didn't send droids to follow him - it seemed pointless, since he was entirely at Zavish's mercy.

While the flight technicians locked down the interceptor and began to secure the cargo, Rye extracted himself from the ship's computers. It had been an illuminating ride, one he looked forward to repeating in the future with even greater immersion. With a personal ship as a vacuum-safe skin, he could explore the whole galaxy, look upon its wonders with his own eyes… and maybe if he was lucky, his stubborn Jedi would provide a beating heart.

/A dream./ He filed it away, even as Darth Virul's advice whispered across his matrix and manifested as a datatag. Not to be given up for a boy.

The med techs were a no-nonsense pair, a human and a nautolan. The nautolan obligingly explained what they were doing as they ejected the kolto tank onto a sled for transport to the infirmary. Rye sent his museum security droids into the cargo bay to shut down and be transported with his other belongings while he rode the back of the sled, since the front only had two seats.

House Ekari had cleared the land around the walls for visibility and security, but inside the walls, the trees had been allowed to grow. Palms arched over every neat gravel path, flowers and ferns wrapped around every durasteel building, and colorful cloth awnings lightened the gunmetal gray of Imperial construction. Fountains had been built and stocked with colorful fish. There were a few holo-signs, but paint seemed more popular than neon, and a number of buildings and market stalls had their names emblazoned on their walls in colorful murals. The burgundy and black uniforms of passing Imperials were tactical, not dress, and he saw sleeveless and short-sleeved variations everywhere, tan lines on display. Not to mention an astonishing number of aliens wearing House Ekari colors.

Rishi, he imagined, must be a highly coveted posting.

The compound had a main gate facing away from the sea, and it stood open at the moment, with the market clustered around it. Rye spotted several of the Rishi trading there. A handful of guards stood about, but they weren't in full trooper gear, and most had their rifles slung over their shoulders by the strap. They seemed unusually relaxed for Imperial troops, but why not? The natives were no threat, the pirates wanted no quarrel, and it was a beautiful day. Birdsong followed their movement as they zipped along the paths to the infirmary, built into the ground-level of the command center, on the seaward side of the compound. They circled around behind it, where a pair of bay doors opened for them and the techs maneuvered the sled around to back into the garage next to a pair of rapid-response speeders.

Rye stood aside while the techs moved the kolto tank from the sled to a small hand cart, and then followed them in. The infirmary was not large, but it made good use of the space allotted to it. Based on the directories posted next to the stretcher-sized lifts, he imagined it claimed several stories in the building for advanced care, while keeping the general practice on the ground. They wheeled Azix's tank into long-term recovery, where four other tanks waited, all of them glowing softly kolto-blue. The techs hooked his tank up to the lab sensors and began the diagnostic program.

The doors hissed open to admit an aging human female. She wore a lightweight version of the grey and white coat of the Imperial Medical Corps over a sleek burgundy dress, and rather than a full helmet, her scanners wrapped around coils of dark hair. Her movements as she tapped commands into her tech bracers were confident, but the look she gave Rye was awkward. "Is this… are you the… droid?" The bracers displayed the diagnostic results in front of her as a blue holoprojection, lighter and more convenient than carrying a datapad around.

Rye projected himself in front of her. "I am Rye," he said. "I assume you're the chief physician here?"

"I'm Doctor Callys," she confirmed, wrinkles between her eyebrows like she hadn't quite squared with the situation. "I was told you are... responsible for this patient?"

"Don't let my appearance deceive you, Doctor," Rye said, eying her. "I am using the chassis of this droid to transport my program, since the datacore that previously housed me was no longer safe after the cataclysm on Ziost. However, I am not a droid. I am an advanced archival artificial intelligence. This patient's name is Azrahix Tsuva. He has a history with your house, and his care and safety as a guest has been ordered by Nollok Jen'Kari, First Apprentice to Darth Scion. He has no family to assist with his care, so he's in my charge. You can advise me about his situation."

Her eyebrows arched. "Very well." To the techs, she said, "Let's get a cranial holo, give me an fMRI. Do 360's of the right shoulder and that phalangeal fracture on the right hand. I want a high-contrast of the left knee for the patella fracture and MRI for the ACL. Based on these scans, it doesn't look like the fracture displaced…." She was swiping through the scans Rye had taken at the casino infirmary. "Ten days in the tank?"

"That's right," Rye confirmed, assuming she was asking him.

"Well, we should see some definite improvement." That seemed like courtesy small-talk, so Rye didn't answer. The Nautolan tech put on a visor and brought up a holo-interface to direct the medscan droids as the human opened the top of the tank. Working in tandem, three small, round droids sank into the fluid, their lights blurring in the slight kolto-haze. They maneuvered around Azix's drifting form, lifting his arm and separating his legs to allow for unobstructed scans, and the images began to form over the control console.

"Looks like… that edema's cleared out," she murmured, almost to herself, touching the holo-image to pivot it. "ICP's normalized. He can come out of the tank today," she added in Rye's direction. He nodded, eying the scans with interest. The scan of Azix's shoulder was pulled forward and magnified. "Hm, I don't like this," she said, trailing her fingers along the more shaded area where the ball connected with the socket. "There's some fraying around the labrum… give me a 360 of the left shoulder," she told the Nautolan tech, who directed the droids back into position. They circled Azix's outstretched arm and the holo loaded next to the other while she pursed her mouth at them. "Right, this is old damage. There's some new cartilage build-up, which should help, but it looks like he had a pretty violent posterior dislocation sometime before he went in the tank; gave him a pretty good tear. The old damage won't regenerate with kolto, now it's been healed so long. I'm going to examine him physically when we take him out," she told Rye.

"I'm sure it isn't your first time seeing these sorts of injuries in a Force User," Rye said.

"Force users, huttball players," she replied dryly. "Shoulder injuries only get worse with age. If he has stretching or tearing of the tendons in his rotator cuff, I'll be recommending surgery."

Well, Azix ought to love that. "I suppose we'll discuss it."

She added some notes to the shoulder scans and swiped them to a different side, then pulled in the scan of Azix's hand. She gave it a good look, then swiped it aside and moved on to his knee. She examined those scans, one with the bones bright white and shining, the other with the bones cloudy and tendons in white, for several minutes.

"I'm happy with the bone regeneration," she concluded. "Both fractures are looking well. I'll give him a file with some exercises he can use to rebuild the muscle around them. I'm not sure about the ACL. Considering the level of athleticism we can expect from a typical force-user," she pointed out, acerbic, "I'd be more optimistic about its soundness if we did a graft. I can take some tissue samples now for the stem-scaffold. Shouldn't take more than a few weeks to grow. Then if he does need shoulder surgery, we can get ahead of it."

Rye considered. "And if he decides otherwise?"

Dr. Callys gave him a sharp glance and shrugged. "Early retirement." She swept the last of the images aside. "Begin the extraction. Assuming you've no objections?"

Rye inclined his head graciously, and the techs moved in to work.

The fluid was drained, the harness lifted. Azix was laid on a medical bed and toweled dry, his IV hung from the frame. He looked smaller than Rye was accustomed to seeing him, and a little shriveled, but that awful bruised look was gone. His skin looked hydrated, and all the little scratches had vanished. And of course, he smelled like he'd bathed in pineapple juice. As they disconnected the respirator, Dr. Callys moved in and began to squeeze and knead Azixs's shoulder. She dug her thumbs in firmly and lifted his arm, rotating it around, frowning thoughtfully as she followed the stretch of tendons with her thumbs. Then she circled the bed, the techs moving instinctively out of her way, to give the other shoulder the same treatment. Then she stepped away to add to her notes. "Vitals are just fine. Will you be remaining on Rishi for his recovery?"

"We're staying in one of the beach cottages," Rye offered. "It's not far by speeder. For a number of reasons, it might be better if he didn't wake up here, in this facility."

"He's fit to be discharged," she replied. "Since you've already been doing it, I trust you're competent to continue his IV until he feels up to solid foods?"

"Quite competent," he assured her.

"He should regain consciousness within eight hours," she told Rye. "I'll give you some outpatient care instructions, but there shouldn't be any complications. He's in no danger, healthwise," she clarified, "it's just his continued mobility that concerns me. I'd like to see him in two weeks for a follow-up. We can discuss options for restorative surgery then."

Rye looked down at his unconscious Jedi. "I don't suppose you make house calls?"

She flicked a longsuffering glance in his direction. "For a guest of Lord Jen'Kari, arrangements can be made."

/Hospitium,/ Rye thought, and as if summoned by the memory, Zavish Chal walked through the doors. The three Imperials stood back and at attention.

"My lord," Dr. Challys said. "We're just finishing up."

Zav gave her a curt nod, then said to Rye, "Cargo sled is loaded. There's room for a stretcher. He good to go?" This was directed at Dr. Challys, who nodded.

"I'll finish the discharge record. Get him a gown and a blanket," she told her techs, "And get him loaded. Who signs for him?"

Rye considered answering, but then Zavish stepped forward. She found a datapad to accept his thumbprint. "All yours, then."

Zavish didn't look terribly pleased at the prospect.

There was room in the front of the cargo sled, but Rye rode in the back next to Azix's anchored grav-stretcher. His chassis steadied the stretcher as his holographic fingers traced Azix's plain tattoos. Zavish hadn't been lying… it was a five-minute ride, if that, along the open stretch of the beach. They passed a handful of other cabins, and Rye saw a few more rising above the canopy deeper in the jungle, all built in the round, Rishi style with natural wooden supports, open walls, and thatched roofs.

The one Zavish stopped in front of was similar. Two stories, the ground level was open, furnished with woven-wood furniture and colorful rugs. Rain screens were rolled up between the supports, letting the ocean breeze pass through the house. A single thick log with steps hewn from one side led up to the second floor. Behind the house was a stone-paved courtyard with an outdoor hearth. Zavish helped Rye's chassis maneuver the stretcher up the log to the second story, which was half-open, screen walls woven with thatch and open toward the sea and away to keep air flow. A large bed stood against one of the screen walls on a thick rug. The sheets seemed fresh.

Azix looked small in it.

Rye found a good branch to hang the IV from and gently pushed the needle into the shunt. He draped the light blanket over Azix's middle, covering him from his shoulders to his knees so he wouldn't be too warm.

"Trust you can handle the rest of this lot," Zav grunted when Rye rejoined him on the ground, hoisting their meager crates off the sled. He offered Rye a dataslip. "Holocodes. Comm's over there. Lord Virulion should be here in a day or two."

Rye accepted it. "I'm sure we can manage not to have any emergencies before then. Thank you, Lord Chal," he added soberly. "For all your help."

Zavish's brow twitched like he wasn't sure how seriously to take that. He climbed back into the cargo sled, now holding only the antigrave stretcher. Sand sprayed on his departure.

Once the sound of his engine faded into silence, there were only the sounds of the jungle and the waves. It was midafternoon on Rishi - plenty of time to get unpacked and plan a quiet evening.

He told his security droids, curled up for transport next to the crates, to get up and get to work.