Happy Easter, everyone! This chapter is not exactly what I would call seasonal, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. ;D

Vythia hadn't contacted the Marauder once since they'd entered hyperspace, a fact which both intrigued and concerned Quinlan. The Nautolan woman was apparently disinterested in conversation, casual or otherwise . . . at least for now.

The past day and a half had been busy enough. The commandos had gone through every piece of equipment they owned, making sure it was in prime condition for the upcoming mission. After finishing that, they'd moved on to the ship itself, fixing and repairing wherever they could. Quinlan had helped out, since, as he told the Bad Batch, he'd become quite handy with an arc welder due to a couple of unfortunate instances with vehicles during his teenage years.

He was a little insulted that not one of them had looked in the least surprised.

By the end of the first day, things had been as ready as they could get, so everyone had scattered to work on their own projects.

Now, halfway through the second day, Quinlan was in the lower hold, working his way through forms again. He was forced to move slower than usual – it still hurt to take deep breaths. Still, it was as good an opportunity as any to use his lightsaber; he didn't get to use it much, since he was nearly always undercover. In fact, on most missions, it was dangerous to even ignite it, lest someone hear him.

Here, though, he could do katas to his heart's content. He finished Ataru, with both a forward and a reverse-grip, then moved on to Jar'Kai, leaning a little harder into each stroke. Maybe I should get another lightsaber and work with both . . . Quinlan glanced at the walls. Then again, Hunter would probably kill me if I damaged his ship.

Footsteps sounded on the ladder behind him. He finished the form and turned to see that Hunter was standing on the bottom rung, hanging off the ladder with one hand as he watched.

Quinlan gestured at the walls. "I'm being careful."

The commando sergeant raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say anything."

"Not yet, you didn't . . ." Quinlan's gaze fell on the lightsaber that hung from Hunter's belt. "Hey, you up for a spar?"

Hunter stepped off the ladder, eyeing Quinlan's glowing blade cautiously. "I'm not shooting at you so you can practice blocking lasers."

Quinlan lowered his blade with a blink of surprise. "First of all, how do you know that goes on."

"Cody worked with several Jedi."

"Oh . . . Yep, that explains it. It doesn't explain why you think I'd do such a thing."

"Well – if some of the others do it, you probably would. You said yourself you were completely crazy."

"I did, didn't I." Quinlan pointed his saber at Hunter. "So. You up for this, or not?"

Hunter cast him an uncertain look. "I thought you were joking."

"Nope. Why would I be?"

". . . It's a Jedi's weapon."

"Well, a gun is a soldier's weapon, and I use one."

Hunter removed the hilt from his belt, studied it for a moment, and looked up. "One of us is going to lose an arm."

"I'm not going to attack you," Quinlan said. "You do the attacking, and don't worry – I won't let you get past my guard."

Hunter pressed the activation stud and gave a couple of practice swings. "I use knives all the time, Vos. I'm an expert at getting past people's guards."

"Yeah, but you can't use the Force to see an instant into the future, can you?"

Hunter tilted his head to one side, then lunged forward and slashed at Quinlan's neck. His blade hadn't even met Quinlan's when he was pulling back to aim a second blow at his leg, then his arm.

Quinlan blocked the last two strikes without giving ground. "So, what do you think, is this better than a knife?"

Hunter converted the momentum from his next swing into a spin. To Quinlan's surprise, the sergeant reversed the blade as he turned, aiming it in a backwards stab at the Jedi's torso. "Well, you can't throw a lightsaber."

Quinlan batted that blow aside. "Yeah, you can. It just won't go as far."

"It doesn't have the same weight." Hunter took a step back, spinning the hilt expertly from one hand to the next. "Good balance, though."

"Be careful," Quinlan cautioned, reaching out warningly. "You're gonna cut your own hand off doing that."

Hunter shook his head, but stopped. "Probably not a great idea to practice with a live blade."

"Not like that," agreed Quinlan. "Okay – want to be on defense?"

Hunter shifted his stance. "Fine by me."

Quinlan channeled the Force more deliberately, so that he could sense when Hunter was about to move – he didn't want Hunter to dodge one strike only to be hit by a second – then launched himself into a series of attacks.

Hunter gave ground rapidly, ducking around Quinlan and toward the back of the hold, using his own lightsaber only when he couldn't dodge one of Quinlan's strikes. His reactions were swift and precise, but he was quickly running out of space . . .

Taking advantage of this, Quinlan lunged forward and locked blades with him, forcing him back until Hunter's heel hit the wall. Catching the sergeant's wrist in one hand to keep him from taking a retaliatory swing, Quinlan raised his own lightsaber and aimed it at Hunter's throat. "See, here's where I normally demand for my opponent to yield," he said, releasing Hunter's wrist.

Hunter smirked, deactivating his saber. "Here's where I normally do this . . ."

The commando lashed out, his left hand catching Quinlan's right wrist, then took a step forward and spun away, ducking outward as he kept the Jedi's arm pinned. Before Quinlan could use the Force to call his lightsaber across to his free hand, Hunter finished his spin. Keeping his grip tight, he brought Quinlan's forearm down across his knee, twisting the lightsaber free as he did so. He deactivated the weapon and held it up almost tauntingly.

Quinlan glanced sideways at him. ". . . Uh, you can let go now."

Hunter stepped back and returned his lightsaber.

"I gotta admit, good move," Quinlan told him. "Dangerous, though."

"Not when the opponent has broken ribs and isn't taking the spar seriously."

Quinlan tossed his lightsaber hilt and caught it absently behind his back. "So what you're really saying is that you want to go another round."

Meeting Quinlan's raised eyebrow with a challenging look of his own, Hunter raised his blade.

It was on their fourth round that the proximity alert beeped and Tech called, "We are nearing the Chorlian system! Two minutes until we exit hyperspace."

Quinlan didn't acknowledge him. He was too busy fending off Hunter's increasingly aggressive attacks. So far, the sergeant hadn't won once – unless one counted the first round, which Quinlan didn't, because technically he'd already beaten through Hunter's guard – but that wasn't stopping him from trying.

Both of them were at a disadvantage because of the relatively small area they were sparring in. Quinlan had seen Hunter's fighting style during their headlong escape from Dverik's stronghold, and the clone seemed to favor acrobatic attacks. As a matter of fact, to Quinlan's mind, Hunter's attacks were more reminiscent of a Force-user's than those of a commando wearing full armor – or even those of a commando wearing civilian clothes, as Hunter had been at the time . . .

"Some time, we'll have to try this in a larger area," he panted, slashing three quick blows from the same direction.

Hunter blocked the first two without shifting his blade, then spun to catch the third blow over one shoulder. "We have to stop in a moment," he replied breathlessly. "Coming out – of hyperspace."

Despite the intense Force-healing he'd focused on the past two days, Quinlan's side was burning. He gulped in another breath and struck again. "Okay, go ahead and stop."

The sergeant huffed in amusement despite his own lack of breath. "Not likely."

"Didn't you hear me?" Tech yelled down the hatch.

"Hey!" roared Wrecker. "Sounds like they're using lightsabers!"

Hunter's gaze flicked briefly to the ladder. "We should stop."

"You should," agreed Quinlan. A thud sounded behind him, but he didn't have the focus to turn away. Hunter was pressing his attack.

Quinlan locked blades with him again and shoved upward, spinning beneath the crossed lightsabers. He slammed an elbow into Hunter's side. The commando took a step back and kicked Quinlan hard in the back of the knee, sending him staggering. Quinlan dropped to one knee and spun around in a stab. Hunter dodged, slashing at his head.

They froze at precisely the same moment, staring at their lightsabers. The tip of Quinlan's was buried in the wall, while, three feet above it, Hunter's blade had scored a deep burn at least six inches long.

They exchanged silent, guilty glances and deactivated their weapons.

"Draw?" suggested Hunter.

"Draw."

Only then, as they turned back toward the ladder, did they realize that Hunter's three squad mates were standing in the lower hold. Tech stared wide-eyed at the damaged wall, while Wrecker gazed at the lightsabers and Crosshair chewed consideringly on his toothpick.

"Hey, guys," Quinlan said, with a casualness he did not feel. "What's up?"

Tech stared from the Jedi to Hunter and back. "Did those have safety settings?"

"Uh . . . You mean the lightsabers?"

"No," said Crosshair. "He meant the wall. Nice job with that, by the way."

"Ha!" Wrecker grinned. "Guess I'm not the only one who damages things with weapons, huh, Sarge?"

Hunter rested his forehead on a convenient ladder rung and let out a dramatic sigh.

Tech glared at him, then at Quinlan. "I can't believe . . ." He elbowed Hunter aside and climbed the ladder in a huff.

Quinlan straightened his tunic. Tech's grouchiness from the past couple of days seemed to be continuing. Then again, they had just sparred with lethal weapons and damaged the ship . . .

"So," Quinlan said loudly, casting a look at the hatch. "What do you suppose he's more upset about: the fact that we just scored the perfectly repaired walls, or the fact that we could have killed each other?"

"Definitely the walls!" Tech shouted from the cockpit. Then the internal comm clicked on, and his voice came through at perfectly normal volume. "Exiting hyperspace in twenty seconds."

Crosshair gave the damaged wall a final judgmental look before hurrying up the ladder. The others followed silently and gathered in the cockpit just as Tech pulled back the lever.

The hyperspace lane resolved into star-streaks, and the ship slowed to a halt, leaving them drifting in the endless black of space.

"Incoming signal," said Tech, flicking the comm switch. "This is the Marauder."

"Tech," greeted Vythia's calm voice. "Are the others nearby?"

"Right here," replied Hunter, pulling up a hologram of the sector. "I'm seeing two fully mapped routes which could take us through Zyggerian space. Are we taking either?"

"No. I am sending you the next set of coordinates now. We will make another hyperspace jump which will take us around Zyggerian space and to the edge of the Malachor system. After that, we will be flying manually. There are no recent records of the system, and the ancient records report strange gravitational inconsistencies."

"Got it," said Hunter, watching as the coordinates from the Phoenix appeared on the navicomputer. "Far as I'm concerned, slow is better."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Quinlan asked, in a falsely cheerful voice since he'd just remembered he was supposed to be a passenger. "Those inconsistencies were probably caused by out-of-date interdictors. I'll bet they shut down years ago."

"Hm," said Hunter. "You want to fly around on your own later and get yanked out of hyperspace, be my guest. For now, this isn't your ship, so quit piloting over my shoulder and sit down."

Quinlan, of course, didn't even glance at him.

"Inputting coordinates now," said Tech, rolling his eyes a little at their unnecessary acting.

"I will give you our next instructions once we near Malachor Five," Vythia said, and cut comms. The Phoenix flew past and vanished into hyperspace.

As they entered the lane after her, Wrecker turned off the comm panel. "Man, I sure hope this isn't a long flight!"

"It shouldn't be," said Tech, checking the chrono. "Flight time remaining: four hours, fifty-four minutes and thirteen seconds."

Quinlan grinned and leaned forward to watch the chronometer. "Flight time remaining now: four hours, fifty-four minutes and nine, eight, seven . . ."

Hunter slumped a little and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Vos."

"Not a number. Four, three . . ."

Hunter lowered his hand and narrowed his eyes pointedly at the Jedi.

Quinlan trailed off with a grin, then gazed at the ceiling and reflected on the wisdom of Master Yoda's speech to his youngling self about silence. He didn't remember much of the speech, but he was pretty sure it had been wise – and aimed directly at him.

He definitely remembered Master Yoda ending, quite seriously, with, "Forget, you must not, young Quinlan: silence . . . golden it is."

The ancient, wise and revered little gremlin had then hobbled off, chortling to himself, probably delighted that he'd left behind a confused youngling who would spend the next ten minutes trying to figure out the relationship between sound and a color.

Come to think of it, I should probably try that line on a few younglings next time I'm at the Temple.

Quinlan woke as suddenly from his healing meditation as though someone had shouted his name. He straightened and glanced around the bunkroom, which was empty, then at his chrono, which was off.

After turning it back on to see that it had uselessly reset set to Coruscant time, he got up and marched into the galley to check the chronometer there.

Wrecker stood in front of one set of storage shelves, chin resting in his hand as he stared suspiciously at the top shelf. The image was made funnier by the fact that the top shelf, for Wrecker, was at eye level.

Quinlan grinned. "Looking for something?"

"Yeah." Wrecker glanced at him. "I just got off watch, so I'm starved. Want some breakfast?"

"Sure." Quinlan caught the ration bar Wrecker tossed him. "We left hyperspace at twenty-one hundred . . . Where in space are we now?"

"Still flying through the Chorlian sector," said Wrecker. He took a bite of his ration bar, which looked strangely small in his hand. "This is early breakfast because it's, I dunno, oh-three-hundred or something."

"Hard to keep a normal schedule in space," Quinlan sympathized.

Wrecker groaned cheerfully enough. "No kidding."

Quinlan watched as the big clone continued to poke around the shelves and small compartments. "So," he said. "What are the others doing?"

"Tech's fooling around with something . . . Hunter's sleeping in the pilot's seat . . ."

"Uh –" Quinlan nearly choked on the bite he'd just taken. "Wait, then who's flying?"

"Crosshair, I think."

"I assume he's awake, at least?"

"Last I checked," Wrecker muttered absently, his focus on a stack of boxes he was pushing to one side. He clattered around for a few more moments before suddenly letting out a shout of triumph. "HA! I knew it!"

Quinlan looked cautiously up from the table. "What?"

Wrecker shook a small packet, a manic gleam in his eyes. "I knew Hunter had caf in here!"

"What, he hides it?"

"Yeah, the rest of us aren't allowed to drink it." Wrecker put some water into the heating unit. "Hunter wasn't really, either, but he made a new rule. Says he's allowed to drink it because he's got to deal with us."

"Makes sense." Quinlan poured a few crumbs from the wrapper into his hand. "If I was a sergeant, I'd need caf too. Why aren't you supposed to have it, anyway?"

Wrecker pulled out the hot water and added the pack of caf grounds. "Me? Probably because I get really clumsy. I don't even like the stuff, though, unless it's got a lot of sugar."

Quinlan snickered. "I don't like it much either, but Obi-Wan always says he dreads the day I became an addict. Whatever that's supposed to mean."

"I dunno." Wrecker edged toward the cockpit, carefully balancing the cup. "Come on, Vos. Get ready to stop Tech."

"Wait, what?"

Wrecker had already left, so Quinlan shoved the wrapper in his pocket and followed. The big clone led the way to the cockpit, stepped soundlessly in, drew a deep breath, and roared. "TWENTY MINUTES!"

Hunter didn't even twitch. His lack of reaction was more than made up for by Crosshair, who was in the co-pilot's seat. The sniper jumped violently, spun around, and fixed Wrecker with a poisonous glare. "Stop screaming like that!"

"I wasn't," Wrecker said. "I was just – shouting."

"Uh, I don't see Tech," Quinlan put in. "Why am I supposed to be stopping him?"

Wrecker held up the steaming cup. "Because –"

"Hang on," Crosshair said. "Is that caf?"

"Ye –"

"No," murmured Hunter. His eyes were still shut.

Quinlan and the two commandos exchanged glances, and Wrecker leaned forward to study the sergeant. "Hunter?"

No answer.

Quinlan shrugged and turned back to Crosshair. "Yes, it's caf."

"Good," said Crosshair, reaching towards it.

"No," said Hunter.

This time, Quinlan stepped forward to observe the sergeant. He appeared to be asleep – no expression, his eyelids weren't moving . . . "Does he talk in his sleep?"

Wrecker frowned. "Don't think so."

"It's most likely an automatic response," said Tech from the doorway. He'd removed his ever-present goggles and was rubbing the bridge of his nose. "More precisely, an automatic response to subconsciously registering Crosshair refer to caf in any way, shape, or form."

"Huh."

For a long moment, everyone eyed Hunter.

Quinlan cast a sideways look at Tech. "What about someone apart from Crosshair?"

Tech smirked. "Wrecker, give me the –"

"No," said Hunter.

"Hm," said Tech. "It would seem he also responds to the idea of my drinking caf."

Quinlan nodded wisely. "Wrecker – we Jedi have a saying: action follows belief."

Wrecker's eyes widened in understanding, and he chortled. "Okay! Here, Tech, have some caf."

Hunter materialized between them, eyes still lightly shut. He snatched the cup, took a sip, and wandered back to the pilot's seat.

Quinlan scratched his jaw. "I have literally never seen anyone move that fast."

"Action follows belief," quoted Tech. "I like that saying."

Crosshair sent an amused look from the sergeant to Quinlan. "You're saying that Hunter acted because he really believes that Tech drinking caf would be a bad thing."

"Tech or you," Hunter said, finally deigning to open his eyes, and took another sip.

Wrecker gave him a confused look. "So, were you awake or weren't you?"

Hunter smiled blandly. "What do you mean?"

Tech sniffed. "Translated, Wrecker, that means 'you'll never know'. How long until we reach Malachor Five's orbit?"

"About twenty minutes," Hunter said.

Quinlan looked out at the distant planet, a black, unevenly edged circle against the backdrop of the pale star that was its sun. He extended his mind toward it, then recoiled at the slippery touch that responded. "Oh, man," he muttered.

"What is it?" Tech asked.

"Malachor feels dark even from here."

"Is that going to be a problem?" Crosshair asked.

Quinlan frowned at him. "Darkness is always a problem."

"Easier to hide when it's dark," returned the sniper.

Yeah, except for the fact that I'll stand out like a beacon there . . . Quinlan paused, cocking an eyebrow as he belatedly realized that Crosshair was being purposefully literal again. "You know what I mean."

Hunter shook his head. "I don't think any of us do, Vos. That spirit urn was enough of a problem, and now we're going to a planet full of . . . dark energy, right? How's this even going to work?"

"I can shield my mind," he said. "When I smashed that urn, I wasn't prepared for how strong the darkness in it was. Believe me, I've got no intention of destroying artifacts while we're on the planet."

"Hm." Hunter turned his attention back to the controls.

"Yeah." Quinlan continued to stare at Malachor. "Still – I sure hope Vythia's right about the artifact's position. If it's not, we might have to spend several days looking for it."

And Vythia seems to think my psychometry will be key to finding it. Oh, joy. This is going to be such a wonderful mission . . .

Wrecker was squinting at the planet. "Why does it look so weird?"

Tech finished his scan at the same moment. "Malachor appears to be surrounded by a vast amount of debris. It must be from the space battle that ended with the activation of the Mass Shadow Generator."

Hunter tilted his head. "That was thousands of years ago. Orbital decay wouldn't take that long, would it?"

Tech shook his head. "Remember, the gravitational pull exerted by the generator vanished as suddenly as it appeared. While things within a certain radius would have fallen to the surface with one or two centuries, the rest is so far away that it may have been moved only a few meters. Theoretically, graveyard orbits are capable of lasting for millions of years."

"Graveyard orbit," repeated Quinlan with a humorless smile. "Well, that's a strangely appropriate term . . ."

As the two shuttles entered the floating graveyard of twisted and destroyed ships, Hunter cut speed, guiding the Marauder between what appeared to be two halves of a single cruiser. Each half was relatively intact near the stern and bow, but the center had been lain completely open to space. He could see the individual decks as he flew past. It looked as though two enormous hands had taken the cruiser at either end and twisted it until it tore apart.

"I've never seen that kind of damage before," Tech said. He didn't sound excited by the discovery.

Crosshair hissed and pointed. "What is that?"

Hunter tilted the shuttle to starboard, slowly approaching the object. It was a complete suit of silver Mandalorian armor, and Hunter knew immediately why Crosshair had been so startled. It looked alive. The helmet had been removed and was clenched in one metal gauntlet, and the opposite arm of the suit was raised, as though to shield the wearer's face. There was no face to shield, though, only a battered humanoid skull that was missing its jaw.

Behind him, the Jedi shifted. "He's not the only one."

Hunter slowed the ship to a near standstill and gazed around. He had assumed that most of the objects he was seeing were pieces of ships, but as his eyes adjusted to the glow reflected from the planet's cloudy atmosphere –

The sheer scope of what he was seeing made him catch his breath. "Tech . . ." he whispered. "How many?"

Tech shook his head once, then got to work adjusting his scanner.

Hunter increased speed, guiding the ship through the field as a silent five minutes passed. No one spoke until Tech looked up from his work. "I keyed our sensors to enumerate all objects which are both within a certain range of size, and which contain a high percentage of biomolecules. The results are still compiling . . . I am only scanning our current sector."

"How big is the sector?" Vos asked quietly, stepping between the two pilots' seats.

"I'm scanning one third of the area in this hemisphere of the graveyard orbit," replied Tech. The scanner beeped once, and he leaned forward. "First sector: four million, five hundred seventy thousand, five hundred and twelve matches . . . Should I scan the others?"

"No," replied the Jedi. "There's no need to."

Hunter nodded his agreement. Assuming that the numbers averaged out, that meant there were over twenty-seven million dead in the graveyard orbit alone – a huge number of people had presumably died closer to the planet as well, and all of them had perished within the few minutes that the shadow generator was active. He looked away from the field of destruction for a moment to catch Vos' gaze. "Darth Tanis and his own superweapon – that was after this battle, correct?"

"Yeah . . . The Sith settled Malachor after it stabilized. Got to wonder why they left all this."

Wrecker was staring at an ancient, black-painted cruiser which looked as though it had been crumpled by a vast collision. "What could anyone do about it?"

"There are too many to bury," said Crosshair. "A fleet of retrieval ships would spend decades gathering them all."

Hunter shook his head. "Yes, but they could have at least gone through and blasted everything."

Tech cast him an uncertain look. "That . . ."

"It would have been better than leaving this," agreed Vos, folding his arms. "How many times did they go through it, flying on and off the planet?" His voice trailed off as he remarked, almost to himself, "If it's the same all the way around Malachor, it probably blocks a lot of sunlight."

No one spoke again until they had left the massive, drifting graveyard behind them and were in clear space once more.

Tech cleared his throat. "Now where are we headed?"

"I'll comm Vythia," said the Jedi, moving to the communications panel. "Marauder to Phoenix. Vos here."

"Excellent timing," the Nautolan woman answered. She sounded completely unflustered by what they had left behind. "I was just about to call you. I have our destination marked. I'll lead the way to the surface."

"Copy." He shut off the comms, and they all watched in silence as her shuttle soared past, increasing speed as it went.

Hunter matched her speed, trailing fifty meters behind. Within minutes, they were entering the atmosphere. Thick, ash-colored clouds surrounding them drastically reduced visibility, but Vythia didn't slow down.

Hunter glanced at Tech, who was focused on his scanners, then decided to match Vythia move for move. That way, if Tech somehow didn't see a mountain or tall building in time, Vythia would hit it first. He glanced briefly at the altimeter. Five thousand feet – at this point, any buildings would have to be pretty darned high. Mountains were the more immediate concern.

Within a thousand feet, though, they broke out of the clouds and Malachor extended before them.

"Oh . . ." said Tech.

The surface for miles in all directions was cracked and jagged, as though something immensely heavy had slammed into it and then vanished. At the epicenter, which was at least a few hundred feet below the rim of the pit, a shadowed crevasse vanished into the depths.

The two ships continued to descend, soaring past the pit and out above an open plain. The ground was flat and utterly devoid of life, as far as Hunter could see. If there were any plants, they must be grey or black, like the ground itself. The plain was broken only by a single crashed ship. It looked like a destroyer, at least in shape. It was hard to tell much about it – apart from the obvious facts that it was ancient and had burned before crashing.

"Must be a lot of wind here," Crosshair said. "That thing looks free of dust."

"Good point," agreed Vos, a little vacantly. "I . . . Yeah, I think our destination's just up ahead, guys."

"The crashed ship?" checked Hunter. Vythia didn't look to be landing yet.

"No," said Crosshair. "She's headed for that pillar."

"What pillar?" muttered Wrecker under his breath.

Hunter, who had been about to ask exactly the same thing, shut his mouth. "Straight ahead, I presume?"

"Yeah," said Vos, suddenly more alert. "Tech, what can you give us?"

". . . It's a large stone pillar," said Tech. "There seems to be nothing – wait. There is nothing special about the pillar itself, but there is a series of caverns beneath it. I can't get a clear reading on anything yet."

So, it is a labyrinth. Hunter glanced at Crosshair, who hadn't moved an inch; then back at the other shuttle, which was descending more rapidly.

A few minutes later, they reached the pillar, and Hunter set the Marauder down on the earth with a gentle crunch.

The Phoenix's boarding ramp unfolded, and Vythia left her ship, her wide black eyes taking in everything around her.

Hunter put on his helmet and signaled for Wrecker to open their own door. One after the other, with Quinlan trailing last, the commandos left the shuttle and joined her.

Their footsteps crunched strangely on the gritty dust. It looked like flakes of ash, but bigger – too big to be sand, too small to be gravel. Hunter scuffed a boot against it. That sound's going to get really annoying, really fast.

Vythia stopped in front of them, rested one hand on the hilt of her knife, and made a sweeping gesture with the other, guiding their eyes out toward the lonely expanse of grey stone behind them. Her eyes glittered despite the dim lighting, and her lips tilted upward in a smile of controlled exhilaration. "Gentlemen," she said in a low, eager voice. "Welcome to the ancient world of the Sith. Welcome to Malachor."

I think I spent about half an hour researching orbital decay - mostly because I got distracted and continued from geostationary orbits to the speed of orbital debris . . . Apparently, in low Earth orbit - below 1,250 miles - debris travels between four and five miles per second, and the average impact speed of debris with another space object is approximately six miles per second.

Also, graveyard orbits are real, and could theoretically continue for millions of years. I'm sure you wanted to know all that. :D