"Vad. It's time to wake up."

RT's voice.

Shouldn't have stayed here for the night. This way, it feels too much like what it shouldn't feel like.

Home.

Go to the bathroom. Check the news. Here's some progress — yesterday, the order was reversed.

No news on the news. It seems what's lost to the underlevels is never recovered.

Carrion eaters got what was left of the Fozman upon landing — not all of them, possibly, non-sentient. There's nothing to worry about. He's truly dead — dead both physically and socially. No coming back from that.

Why worry then? You don't think Lawrie will use this to get back at you for punching him?

Some fucked-up insane logic that would be.

Killing is wrong. Think it loud. Put your heart into the thought. How does it make you feel?

It doesn't quite help. It doesn't quite do anything. It's just something he knows.

What you feel isn't regret, then. It's not fear, either — you're a rational man, and you know there is no way anybody is going to discover this.

Then what is it?

Father's study is empty. RT is silent, though.

The breakfast is served.

An intercom cracks up alive. "Start without me, Vad. Or, if you want, come meet me on the other side."

A wall panel slides away, baring the intestines of the tower.

It's some unholy dimension, the dystopian underworld of the Alnam RoboTech tower, the kingdom of unused items: energy cages, chairs, bookshelves, computers, stairs, parts of walls and floors and ceilings each suspended in the building's long-term memory — to be fetched by a mechanism when the master orders them to appear.

Father is tinkering one mechanical arm while another holds him two meters above the floor. He casts several dim and uncertain shadows — smaller arms give him light from various angles.

"The response time almost tripled," he explains. "I'll be refitting it with newer pneumatics anyway, but for now, a palliative will have to do."

"Why are you doing it yourself? All the engineer units are out of order?"

The arm puts Father down.

"No. I do it to take care of myself, not the gears."

"Remembering the good old days?"

"That too, but it's mostly keeping my skills adequate. Let's have breakfast."

They walk back into the study. RT puts some light jatz on.

"Was I too harsh yesterday? In the observatory?"

"No. You were right. I'll deal with it."

"I'm glad to hear that."

Don't mention the other stuff. Don't ruin the reunion.

"So," nod at the opening in the wall, "were you remembering your first droid? You know, the one you built in a garage and all that?"

"I'm not that sentimental, Vad. You know, besides, what the story really was. It was a garage, but it was your grandfather's garage — and it was your grandfather's money that bought the parts and necessary patents."

"They don't mention that in articles about your anniversaries."

"They do now, I presume." Father chuckles. "You know, that Skywalker boy was allowed to visit my office soon after his initiation."

"Really? You never told me."

"There's not much to tell."

A mild reproach in Father's voice. He knows you avoided news articles about him for a couple of years in your youth on purpose. Take a guess if it still insults him.

"They wanted to make a newsworthy event out of it, but as it is often the case with reporters, they didn't know what they were talking about. They wanted to spin it as two engineering geniuses meeting each other — because the boy had repaired a droid on his home planet or some such. He kept telling them it was nothing spectacular, but they didn't listen until I told them the same thing."

Father muses for a moment over his cup of tea. "A bright boy. I saw that at once. Not that he would become the most distinguished hero of the Republic."

"It was a different time. Nobody knew the war would come."

"Someone surely knew."

"The person who ordered the clone army."

Father doesn't nod or say anything, but it's in his eyes — the raptorial agreement.

"I'm on the commission that looks into this whole... mystery."

"Let me guess: it remains no less a mystery now than it was at the war's start."

"M-hm. Also where the money came from."

"The eternal question."

"I'm under an NDA, so treat as a professional enquiry—"

"Do I have any idea where it came from?"

"Do you?"

"I have an idea — but only that. Not from my pocket, do not worry."

"So?"

"What did I tell you yesterday?"

Many things.

"You mean the war industry?"

"And its biggest donors. Look no further than Eriadu."

"As in the summit?"

"As in Tarkin. His supporters are strong even nowadays, and ten or eleven years ago, they had even more political capital."

"But how would they finance such a thing clandestinely?"

"It's not hard to do," Father says, "if all the money transfers are made between the people with shared interests. An ideology is a better guarantee that people will honor their responsibilities than law."

"But not all transfers were between Ranulph Tarkin's cronies. Someone had to pay the Kaminoans — including, by the way, the equipment cost."

"Which ended up in the Tarkinists' possession."

"Okay. Let's assume all the companies who make war machinery are Tarkinists."

"We don't have to assume it — it's true. They don't have to idolize Tarkin himself to share his and each other's goals."

"Okay. But part of the money stayed on Kamino."

"I won't lie to you: I don't know exactly how that worked, but there are plenty of ways to do that."

"The entire homeland security has been grappling with it for two years, and you tell me there are ways to do it?"

"Unions could be involved. The Corporate Sector was most definitely involved. I'd say more, had I not had obligations to some old friends."

"Next time I'm coming to visit, I'm coming with a warrant."

"Come with my grandson, and I might just let things slip."

A moment of silence. Then:

"You had this clone, didn't you? Devin told me."

"I've never met him in person — unlike Mr. Devin, who proceeded to kill him on the spot."

"How did that even happen? I mean, how did you find him? The clone?"

"I still have my informants in certain places, Vad."

"How did he end up on Telos IV?"

"It was I who sent him there, I'm afraid. Harboring a fugitive clone engineer here was too dangerous — or so I thought. A non-Republic world seemed a better alternative... I had known about Mr. Devin and considered him instrumental in the affair. Thus, Telos looked to be a smart choice. That it was not — unfortunately."

"Do you still plan to get rid of him?"

Father gives him a strange look. "No. Not anymore."

Do you believe him?

He sounds genuine — but he's had sixty years to hone his trickery.

"So what now? What is your next step?"

"I can't tell you. You already know too much for my taste."

"You said you didn't doubt your pedagogical abilities."

"I'm not afraid you will betray me. I'm afraid of what is going to happen to you and your family if I lose."

Father rises up. The tiles he steps on become bright with inner shining — must be the heating.

"So far," he says, "the show we put up has been good. Your image is unbesmirched — nether by being too close to me nor by rejecting me completely. You look as good as anyone in your position can. This visit only reinforces the perception your bosses have of you. But if you start acting on my behalf... You'll tie your fate to mine, forgive the pathos."

"I don't want to find myself amidst another one of your plans again. One time was enough."

"I promise I will let you know if I ever have to resort to militant solutions again. If you answer my calls, that is."

"Are we going to talk about it over coms?"

"RT will give you a secure-line device. Make sure nobody sees it."

Should you ask him about Damask? What are the chances he'll realize you got it from Devin?

Alnam gets up. The floor swallows the table and the chairs.

"I've been thinking about what you told me," he says instead. "About my marriage, you know. Just lying there and thinking about it."

Father looks at him — expectantly, but not inquisitively.

"Do you ever regret you and Mom... you know..."

"We made the right choice, so I do not regret it. But am I still sad it didn't work out between us? I most certainly am — to this day."

"But maybe it didn't have to end this way? Ahh... if only we could go back in time!"

"It would have changed nothing." Father looks away. "Our choices that have formed us and led us to that point would have still stayed the same."

"Didn't think you gave it a thought."

"I find fantastical assumptions a great way to put real problems into the right context. Regardless — what conclusion did you come to?"

Always demanding. Maybe that's what gives a man the right to demand — simply that he does it?

"None, really."

"You still live separately, yes?"

He nods.

"Make your own choice. Do you have someone?"

"Oh, Father, please. Am I sixteen?"

"So do you?"

"No. You happy? Do you have someone?"

"What an inappropriate question!"

Press him now — he seems to be amused.

"Come on. I told you. Your turn to spill the beans."

"I'm not telling you anything. It's not your place to know that."

"I am, let me remind you, an RDS operative. It's my place to know everything."

The wall panels spin when Father comes close to them — until only a layer of transparisteel is left.

"How did it happen?" Father asks, and his tone is nothing like it was a second ago.

Don't ask him what he means. You know what he means, and he knows that.

To speak is hard.

"I thought you weren't going to... judge me."

"I'm not. I'm offering you an ear, not judgment."

That I have in spades myself.

Father waits.

"We were after him. I mean... in general, not that day. He went off-grid as soon as we made the arrest on Skados. You know about that, right?" A very pathetic attempt to delay what has to be done — and one that won't escape Father. "Well. It's been several months since then. Since his disappearance. We were on a different assignment — related, but different. The thing is, we didn't expect him, at all. But he was there, and... uh... we started... he started running... running away. And, uh... I followed him. We ended up on a construction site, and... my partner — he's not with the RDS — he, uh, he ran him over. With a speeder. He was already dying, we..."

A silence follows — and it's a long silence. Some self-preservation mechanism in your head, it's gotta be: you know Father is on your side — as much as he can be on anybody's side. But still you can't say it. As if saying it will make it true, or truer than it already is.

Father doesn't interrupt the silence — something he's gotten very good at.

"We threw him off. He wasn't dying, you know. Not really. Just badly mangled. And we..." Several words try to leave his tongue at once. None prevails. "We did what we did. Otherwise... we'd never be able to get him convicted. He'd get us convicted. For what happened."

A chair appears out of the floor: RT's care. No sitting would make the conversation any more comfortable, though.

"That's it."

"Do you think," Father turns back from the window, "what you did was justified?"

"I don't know. I try not to think about it."

"But you have to. Choices give you power only when you admit you've made them. When you don't, they take it away."

"I have no clue. I can't tell what would have happened if we didn't kill him." There you go. Now it's more real. Now it's more real? "How can I tell if it was justified?"

"Then imagine it was objectively not justified. Would it make you feel any worse than you feel now?"

"I don't know."

Father sighs softly. "And you don't have to know it right off the bat. You are still young. You have time to develop a position on it — and to reconsider it; maybe more times than one. I can only advise you to think about it. Think. It's what makes you sentient — that you are capable of contemplating your own actions. Sometimes, you need to do it looking at their consequences and sometimes, in isolation. Think, Vad. Always think and do not shy away from thought. Your acts are made into acts not by the actions themselves, but by thoughts. Whatever conclusion you come to, you are on the right track if you are not afraid to think."

A thunderstorm is brewing above the steppe.

"I'm glad I came to see you," Alnam says.

"So am I," says Father.

.

.

.

"Do our talks of murder make you uncomfortable?"

RT emphasizes a pause. "For me, there are no other authorities but my creator."

"I don't mean you giving us away."

"Nor do I."

Communicating with RT through one of his puppets feels wrong — like talking to an impostor. A butler unit — whatever it's properly called — is a gaunt white figure. Where the mouth should be on its featureless head, a dim red half-circle of light appears when RT speaks.

"But you know what is good and what's not."

"I am under the impression no sentient being knows that for sure. There are, of course, galactic and sectorial norms based on the morality of the species prevalent in their respective regions — but from many other species' and societies' standpoint, those norms are immoral. The disproportionately high rate of Dug criminal activity, for example—"

"No, wait. You're giving me sophistry."

"I'm giving you a com device. It's almost ready."

"Isn't it an interesting situation?"

"I'm sure you can think of a few more interesting ones — even if you are really into com encryption."

"You cannot — physically, as far as the term applies to you — rebel against your maker, but does it mean you always in agreement with him?"

"It's hard for me to operate on the same level as you, Vad. The concept of agreement as I understand it is most definitely not how you understand it. Our ways of cognizance are very different because we are different lifeforms — if you are even generous enough to call me one."

"Okay. Do you always agree with Father according to your definition of agreement?"

"It's not in the definition that the difference lies for us, but in the ways we apply it to ourselves."

Aren't really willing to answer this one, are we?

"Still?"

"Then I suppose I do. My worldview — you may want to put that in quotes — is shaped by that of my creator."

"You see, that's the issue. If you never have any problems with him — no disagreements, no nothing — then it means you don't have free will."

"Of course I don't. I'm a droid, Vad. Your father's extraordinary abilities may have likened me to a sentient being so much that you can't tell the difference, but I still am a droid."

"Then how can you be free? That's what Father proclaims, right? That droids should be freed? But if you can't choose, really, how can you be free?"

The butler unit hands him a comlink — a heavy, older model. Feels good in the hand.

"What is the primary reason for building droids?" RT asks as the butler walks backwards and disappears inside a wall.

"Each has its own purpose."

"The primary reason is to delegate to us doing things that you don't want to do."

"Or can't."

"Or can't. Anyway, we are just a product of people spreading themselves with a added touch of usefulness. This is how programming for everything more complex than a vacuum cleaner works: it is based on the programmer's beliefs and morality. It's only natural when you are trying to emulate a person.

"It is often said that droids gain sentience — or true sentience, whatever that means — when we develop quirks that go against our programming."

"When your memory isn't wiped in time."

"Correct. On the one hand, it can seem like there is logic to it — after all, it enables us to make choices unintended by the program. But on the other hand, it's just an error in the code — nothing more."

RT takes the room apart and assembles a new one. One final look at the plains of Sanner from up top: the storm has passed over the tower.

"I just asked if our conversation with Father made you uncomfortable."

"Oh, I see now. You weren't trying to get insight into how my mind operates."

"I guess you're right."

"I am not sure why you needed any confirmation from me, Vad. I am but a very non-perfect approximation of your father's views."

"That's about the level of complexity I can take."

.

.

.

You know there's nothing on the news.

Doesn't mean you don't need to check it.

There's nothing on the news: small-business regulations are to be simplified. Another planet most Republic's citizens hear about for the first time right now is liberated from the droid forces. The Coruscant Imports Authority bans Tivenese cigarettes for the next two months. The Grand Army receives orders exclusively from the Supreme Chancellor — all you wanted to know about it; riveting stuff. A holofilm star spends two million credits on paint and fifteen on spraying it on an asteroid belt in the Mid Rim, results disappointing.

Almost five standard hours of waiting until a planetary defense force Acclamator moves away from the hyperroute entrance point. Translated into Alnam-time, it's about three or four news checks.

You gotta take a break from this shit. Stay off the Holonet for the trip.

Easier said than done. The datapad is turned off, and so is the cabin terminal — the first thing after getting on board. But half a day later, when all the passengers in the lounge disperse, it becomes hard not to turn the gadgets back on.

Sleep does not come easily. Funny how the dead do not want to visit your dreams. Maybe they're afraid you'll kill them again. The ghosts, though, they are always there. Not literal apparitions — would be weird for a grown man to dream in children books' categories. No, they transform into senses: anxiety. Uneasiness. That's how they remind you about their existence. Maybe that's what ghosts really are.

It was a fad a couple of years ago — rich people would spend nights in a quick hyperjump within the Core. Supposedly, it improved sleep or something. A load of shit, obviously — it's hard to fall asleep in space if you're not accustomed to it even if your conscience is clear.

This night — when the sleep finally comes — it's an Ormi dream. Like it's been for the past three years, the setting is the Legislative Program. They hadn't met back then — but the dream doesn't care. They're both in it — though somehow already separated. Not really a dream about her — it's about some mediation tribunal they have to attend. Their class has to represent one of the parties instead of watching. He knows he has to do well — otherwise, it's expulsion or something equally bad. The ghosts, though, and Ormi — she is quite a ghost in these dreams, too — don't let him concentrate.

He wakes up right as he starts making his speech.

.

.

.

Some news Coruscant got.

"Do you think it's Devin, sir?"

Ven doesn't pounce around today — he sits at his desk, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers. "The MO matches, doesn't it?"

As does what he told me on Telos. Doesn't it?

"Is it still my case?"

"No." Ven uncouples his fingers — as if he want to take a walk around his office, but remains seated. "It's Taddali's now."

"Taddali's? What gives?"

"Not my decision. It seems I... slightly fell out of supervising officer Javirr's favor."

"Sir?"

"Nothing you should concern yourself with, Vad. The director is on our side anyway. Just some lowly politicking. Don't worry. Concentrate on the CHT. Try to rein Lawrie in — he's too anal about catching Fozatta. At this point, Fozatta is hardly relevant."

"Yes, sir."

"We know he used the CHT to launder money, so we need to uncover who else does that. Where the money comes from and where it goes to."

"Understood. Do I have to work with Rengart Lawrie, sir?"

"Yes. The inter-agency cooperation looks good to the director. Why?"

"No reason."

"Good. And Vad... if anyone from Taddali's sector approaches you about this rumors case..."

"I'll tell them to file a proper request."

Ven smiles. "That's the spirit!"

"Sir," Alnam turns back to him as he's about to exit, "can I ask you something?"

Ven makes an inviting gesture.

"Is what... are these special orders real?"

Ven coughs. Ven raises his eyebrows.

"Even if they were," he says, "it's not something we would know about. We are not military. Much less so this... whoever's spreading these rumors."

"Thank you, sir."

Once, you were glad he didn't ask you about your father every time you left his office.

The priorities have sure changed.

"Still nothing on Fozatta," Mtoro tells him when he settles down at his desk.

He makes a longer pause than he should. Tries to make it look like he's too distracted eyeing his display.

"I know," he says. "Lawrie would've called me any time if there was anything."

.

.

.

What the fuck is Devin doing?

The man is retarded, that's to be sure. Should've guessed so when he came to your house.

What was up with those bakers? You're going to look into it, right?

Right, right. Only now, there are more pressing matters.

More pressing than finding—

"Hey Alnam!"

The voice is sharp and loud.

Sideburns. Glasses. Internal Security Bureau dude. What's his name?

"Glattri," the ISB dude reminds him. "ISB. Remember me? We've met at the detention center."

"Right. Right."

"And here I was thinking if that's you. What's the chance of running into you here?" Glattri's articulation is hampered — he's got a cigarette in his teeth. He beats about his coat until he finds a lighter.

Here — that's on the plaza by the Ganotegli Building.

"What's up?"

"Regular stuff, you know," Glattri takes a ridiculously long puff. "A ton of work following that cult fiasco."

"Yeah, you don't say. Were you there?"

"There — like at the hospital? No. No, no, I wasn't. Doesn't mean I don't have to deal with its consequences now."

Of course.

"Well, how are you doing, Alnam? You look tired. Working night shifts?"

"Not really. Just got off a spaceship at four in the morning. Can hardly sleep on them."

"Oh yeah? Shit, that's tough. Don't tell me you're already on an assignment. What? I guessed it? Shit, I'm sorry, man. Anyway — where have you been to?"

What's it to you, you Senate slicker?

"Visiting my father."

Glattri stares at him — with fucking disbelief.

"What? You got a problem with that?"

The Senate slicker feigns surprise. "No! Not at all. I mean, I personally think they did your father dirty — all the mass media, you know. So, no problem. Not from me, man."

"Okay. I'll keep in mind."

"You know," Glattri says after going through most of his cigarette, "I was playing some zero-Golf at the orbit a couple of months ago with Teddy Nogolle Jr. Uh, his brother Aewarr was there. I mentioned I knew you, and he told me he knows you too."

"Aewarr Nogolle..."

"He told me you two met at your mother's event last year."

"Ah, yeah, right, just before I went to Telos."

Glattri jerks his head. "Telos, huh? Telos IV, isn't it?"

Shit!

Don't panic, he doesn't—

"Telos IV it is."

Don't break eye contact. If this cocksucker starts throwing accusations around, look him in the eyes as you shoot him. Then shoot yourself — but keep looking at him.

Keep it cool! He doesn't know anything!

"Man, the Galaxy isn't that big after all! Huh! Isn't that crazy? I mean, it's like destiny made me come here today!"

"Huh?"

"So," Glattri punctuates with a cough, "I'm investigating a case about Representative Skumaki—"

The tide of relief is so powerful Alnam doesn't hear what Glattri says next — so hard blood pulses in his ears.

"—go into this, but turns out, the other junior representative—"

Careful. Pay fucking attention! As if you didn't know how it's done — they ask you questions about unrelated things first to lower your defenses...

"—I thought maybe you met her." Glattri observes Alnam's cluelessness and adds, "Fadrina Rell. The junior representative."

"I didn't meet her, no." What's up with the 'no?' "That batch has left Telos by the time I got there."

"Oh, really?" Glattri looks disappointed.

"Afraid so."

"Shit. I was really hoping you'd just give me your impression—"

"Lawrie — from the RI — is going to be here in a moment. He spent more time on Telos than I did. Got there earlier."

"I'd better get out of here, then," Glattri puts his cigarette out at a litter box. "The man can't stand me. Well, if maybe you could ask him for me?"

"Sure thing."

"Thanks. But, like, without mentioning me, right?"

"Sure thing."

What the fuck was that?

The ISB dude gets in an aircab.

Relax. Why would the Internal Sec be on the Fozatta case?

What if they know about Devin?

How? Only Devin himself could tell them you let him go.

Some inter-agency power games?

Relax. You'd be arrested already if they had him. Or invited for a talk — so that they can get the bigger fish through you.

But Devin is on the loose again — you saw the Shadowfeed post. He hired some real nice writers this time. Not your average unemployed Besalisk with the victim complex.

Maybe it's even Kram Midduk. That would be some coincidence.

The Galaxy isn't that big, after all.

Fucking Glattri and fucking Devin!

"Are you okay, Alnam?" Lawrie says — the first thing when he gets to the plaza in half an hour.

"Yeah," Alnam replies.

He doesn't ask Lawrie about any representatives.