Chapter 40

A Passing Thought Before Oblivion

Trail Keller was eleven when the Jedi stormed Congress, murdering Chancellor Damask and twenty-eight senators. Sheev Palpatine, himself maimed in the attack, bravely defeated the evil interlopers.

When the dust cleared, Senator Grayson—now Chancellor Grayson—claimed the Jedi had been framed as part of a plot by Damask and Palpatine. An absurd claim. Grayson had effectively argued Damask arranged his own killing.

Hundreds of billions saw through the lie. The Republic had lost its way. Corruption, greed, and government excess were choking planets. The Jedi's coup was the final straw.

Thousands of systems pledged loyalty to Palpatine. The Sith Empire was born, under Emperor Sidious.

The Republic had hoped his Sith identity would scare his subjects. The opposite was true. That Palpatine was a sorcerer gave them hope to defeat the Jedi.

Even as a teenager, Trail lionized Sidious. His warped face showed the cost of standing against the Jedi. Conscience and dignity defined every crevice.

At twenty-three, Trail enlisted in the Imperial Starfighter Corps. By twenty-nine he was Flight Captain. At thirty-five, Trail distinguished himself at the Battle of Yavin, earning the rank of commander.

His new commission from Tarkin was Darkfall Squadron. They were to be, in Tarkin's words, the emperor's whisper. Darkfall preceded Sith offensives, gathering intel, sabotaging defenses to make victory possible.

The stakes were staggering. But Trail's casual cynicism helped him cope. Survival was always a pleasant surprise. Tarkin hadn't understood him, but he gave him a long leash. Now Tarkin was gone.

Trail strode up the corridor dodging astromechs. "I donno, Lang. Maybe they'll chop off our arms, put us in Vader suits."

"That's not funny."

"We'll be okay. We kept our heads in the storm. Not everyone did."

Kyle Lang didn't disagree. But sense and proportionality were not traits of Darth Vader. Imperials were murdered for the crime of mourning. Without Sidious at the helm, the Sith Empire was a rotting simulacrum of its terrible enemy.

But the war would soon end. Perhaps then there'd be change. If there wasn't, he'd find a corner of the galaxy to quietly settle down.

"There's rumors," Lang said, "we're pushing for Coruscant."

"That's what it looks like. The first batch of clones came in from Kamino."

"Good. Let them be the fodder."

Trail frowned. "They're people, too, Lang. At least literally."

"Then they can literally die," Lang said.

Turning the corner, they found the rest of Darkfall waiting at the door.

Weet Sarver was a mean old bastard. He wasn't sentimental where civilians were concerned. He killed surrendering combatants to avoid inconvenience. But the crusty son of a bitch would never leave his team.

Fennec Shand could've grown into Weet if she hadn't met Trail. He kept her grounded. Tempered her ruthlessness. Her cold calculations were put to much good. "What's going on, Cap?"

Trail said, "I donno, but say a prayer."

"Do you want us to—"

"I'm good. Stand fast."

Trail left them in the hall, entering the briefing room, where Darth Demic stood alone at a blacked-out screen. Bleak red tones swathed the dark lord. The emergency lights. Trail thought there was only one reason to cut power from the room: Demic didn't want a record of anything that happened.

Trail fought off a shiver. His arms were gooseflesh. Even confidential briefings were recorded for prosperity.

"Commander Keller, thank you for coming," Demic said. "I've been looking forward to meeting you. Darkfall Squadron has quite a reputation."

Trail squinched at the warmth in his voice. "Thank you, my Lord."

Demic crossed his arms, dropping casually to a perch on the edge of the conference table. It didn't diminish him as he intended. "Did you know I was at Yavin?"

"No, sir. I didn't."

"I'm not a pilot by training, but they scrambled everyone. Kenobi's fleet was eating us alive. It would've been the greatest humiliation of the entire war... if not for you, Mister Keller."

Trail looked pained. "It was pure desperation. Nine times out of ten it would've failed."

"Nine men, out of ten, would have failed. History, Mister Keller, is written by the tenth men."

"The pen is yours, sir. I only make paper."

Demic smiled, unfolding his arms. "You were gone two months. It must be strange coming back, finding things changed." He walked to the view screen, turning his head. "Perhaps not to your liking. Would you say that, Commander?"

Trail searched his face, finding it futile. Demic was the absence of a man poured into a man's mold. "I serve the empire."

"For some, Emperor Sidious was the empire."

"The empire is a promise, stewarded by the Sith. It's not for me to choose your exemplar."

"Perhaps not," Demic said sympathetically. "But change is difficult. And our manner of achieving it couldn't possibly sit right. Commander, I require your loyalty, but I will earn your trust."

Trail's inner tumult crystallized into an igneous mask. If words had a color, Demic's were gray: that shade that looked white until you place white next to it. "I require a mission," Trail said mildly.

"We're really doing it," Fennec marveled. "We're taking Coruscant."

"It's too early," said Sarver.

Lang scoffed, "Too early? We've choked their supply lines."

"Let 'em starve," said Sarver. "Then you pick the bones."

Trail watched the exchange slouching in his chair. He took a breath, staring at his lap. "Vader isn't Sidious. There's a lot of ways we'll have to get used to that. The bottom line is: we're going. We're lucky Kamino rushed through the clone batch."

"You haven't said what we're doing," Fennec pointed out.

"Two targets: holonet mainframe... and the Jedi temple."

"The Jedi temple?"

Trail's face didn't change, but he took a swig of juma. "We have a man inside. A Jedi."

Lang grinned. "I fucking love fallen Jedi."

"Don't call them 'fallen,'" Fennec said. "That's the Jedi propaganda word."

"Wha'do you want me to call 'em—risen?"

Trail said, "Don't call them anything. They'll bake you with lightning."

Sarver grunted and the pain in his throat brought the point home. Eventually a Sith would teach Lang the same lesson. "Is this our party? Or are they sending a lord?"

"No extras. We're going in on a civilian transport."

Lang's brow creased and he poured a new glass. He flopped on the sofa, drank it in one gulp. He hissed silently and looked out the window. "I hate when they make us do that."

"Why?" asked Fennec.

"'Cause I get used to their faces," Lang lamented.

"I lie to myself. I lie that they're ghosts."

Sarver glowered. "Pack your ponchos. I wouldn't want you to get dirty."

Trail felt a headache coming on. He jabbed a thumb into the corner of his eye, rubbing away invisible particles. "They'll do their job, Weet. I don't need them to enjoy it."

"What's not to enjoy?"

"If you could that answer that question, you might be in my seat."

"We're both where we ought to be," Sarver said.

Trail splashed another glass so he might vanquish his headache. He held it above his head and smiled ironically. "To being where we ought to be."

Doctor Stall looked off. How could he do his job with his patient behind a mask? Without benefit of body language, Stall dissected every word. "'You said I—not we. 'I will not lose.' Do you think you're fighting the war alone?"

A'Sharad Hett revealed nothing behind his Tusken visor. His palms lay flat on the doctor's desk. "Every man fights his own war. When enough of them intersect, it creates the illusion of something grander."

"Tell me about your war."

"It is cold. It is brutal. And it's coming to an end."

Stall's mouth pulled in at the corner. He stabilized his voice with a few rapid blinks. "How will it end, Mister Hett?"

"However I want it to."

Even through his vocoder, the strange grin in Hett's answer was unmistakable. Stall shifted in his chair. The tight tendons in his neck showed his pulse.

He said, "I think that will be all today."

Hett rose to his feet. His optics watched Stall like a portrait in a haunted monestary. He bowed in mock-courtesy, before walking out.

Stall began to tremble. He fumbled for his liquor, drinking from the bottle. How had no one seen it? How did it evade his master's perception?

He took his comlink. It quavered before him like a flapping bird. "Master Ki-Adi-Mundi. I need to see you immediately..."

Mundi put a hand to his ridged temple. "Are you certain?"

Masters—parents—believe the best in their charges. Mundi's confoundment was natural. Yet his eyes were lusterless, perplexing Stall.

"I've spoken with him many times," Stall said. "There was always an edge, as I've told you before. But today I knew: A'Sharad Hett has fallen."

Mundi nodded slowly. "I accept your judgment. Provisionally. I will confront him myself—before we inform the Council."

The doctor sat still. His thumb and pointer pinched his chin. "That's highly irregular. I wanted you to hear it first—"

"For which I am ever-grateful."

"—but we have a duty now. We must inform the Council."

"Of course," Mundi yielded. "Of course you're correct."

For less than a second, Mundi's lips quirked, before resuming a solemn line. Stall's heart froze in his chest. The imperfection that proves a forgery.

Stall stood up shaking. He turned his back to take a data pad. "I'll transmit n—"

The doctor looked down at a glowing blue light, coming from his chest as if he were its source. A passing thought before oblivion.

Mundi retracted his saber. He took Stall's seat, picked up the data pad. He scrolled through the logs of all Hett's sessions. Mundi shook his head. Perhaps Sith lightning would teach Hett discretion.

The venerable Jedi erased all the logs. He threw the pad on the corpse and poured himself a drink.

He could clean this up, protect his and Hett's secret. But there may be a better way. He'd received a coded message that Darkfall was coming. The spectacle of a traitor would be useful indeed.

"This is my responsibility," Mundi swallowed. "I should have seen it."

Mace placed a hand on his arm. "The Dark Side is powerful. It clouds our minds."

"Time for pity, we do not have," Yoda said. "Master Fisto will interrogate Hett. Fall to us, it does, to plan Coruscant's defense."

Mundi's forelorne look was impeccably rendered. After a forced pause, he nodded reluctantly. The three Jedi made haste to the Command Operations Hub (COH).

The COH was the vital center of wartime operations. Dimly lit in cool blue tones, the mammoth room was filled with view screens, consoles, and more personnel than there were chairs (as many as 200 at any given time).

The COH was split into two levels, connected by stairs. Jedi and officers worked in "The Pit," while technical personnel used level two. Dozens of holo-calls happened simultaneously. The view screens updated battle statuses in real time.

Yoda struggled down the stairs, watching officers buzz about. He decided he was never as young as the colonel who received him.

Maximillian Veers was a deeply serious man. For that and his acumen, he was constantly promoted. Yoda personally chose him to run the COH.

"General Yoda," Veers saluted.

"Status report, please."

"We punched a hole in the Sith blockade at Metellos," Veers reported. "Two thousand ships have made it through. But the fleet's being pasted. I suggest we recall our ships to the Coruscant jump point."

"Agree, I do," Yoda said.

Mace interjected, "How are the ground preparations coming?"

Veers took a pad from his yeoman. He signed his name and returned it. "The upper cities are well-fortified," he said, walking to a view screen, "but the reality is—"

"The reality is: Coruscant will fall," Mundi said.

Veers' brows pulled in. He locked his hands behind his back. "Respectfully, General," he seethed with a blank face, "I would not send men to die if defeat was inevitable."

Yoda peered sidelong at Mundi. "Nor I," he assured Veers.

Mace stared at the battle map, where the avatar of a Republic destroyer suddenly blinked out. The Sith had choked off the four hyperspace lanes approaching Coruscant. Little by little, they advanced from the nearest planets: Foerost, Alsakan, Tanjay IV, and (very soon) Metellos.

"Vader is impatient," Mace said, "but it's mitigated by his numbers."

"To say the least," Veers allowed. "But the battle on the ground will be on our terms."

"Is that a joke?"

"Vader knows our tactics. Guard key infrastructure at all costs. Target Force users from a distance with artillery and air support. Quarter civilians in well-fortified locations."

"What would you have us do?" Mace demanded.

"Arm the civilians. Send wave after wave at the Force users. Make the Sith fight for every inch, until Vader's so angry he takes command of the ground forces."

Mace scoffed, "As though that's to our benefit."

"The temple, unguarded, will be a tantalizing target," Veers said with a wolfish grin. "Until he's swarmed and killed by the Jedi and marines we've held out of the battle."

Mundi looked between Mace and Yoda, gleaning indecision. Veers' plan might've worked, in another life where Mundi was another man. "Standard tactics won't work. Colonel Veers' plan is—"

"Insanity," Mace said.

Yoda laughed. "Mmm. Insanity. Yes. But if insane is the galaxy, to ruin will go the rational." He leaned on his stick and grunted. "If to succeed, our other plans are, then draw out the battle, we must."

Veers cocked his head, holding no hope for his query: "'Other plans, sir?'"

"Think, did you, I pinned all our hopes on Maximillian Veers?"

The colonel heard the grin in Yoda's voice. He turned to find Eisley at the other end of COH leaning on the railing. "Ah! General Pathij wished to speak with you, sir. Alone."

Suspicion tinged with fear flooded Mundi's energy. His comlink chirped before Yoda questioned it. "Master Mundi?" said a voice. "The prisoner's asking for you. He won't talk to Master Fisto. How would you like to handle this?"

"Go," Mace said. "We need to learn what he knows. If there are other Sith agents, it could make all the difference."

"Of that I'm certain," Mundi said.

The temple guard received him with a nod. "Thank you for coming, Master Mundi. He won't say a word."

"We'll see about that, won't we?"

"He demanded we turn the cameras off."

"Do it," said Mundi. "It may help him to trust me. If he's part of a Sith plot, we don't have long to get to the bottom of it."

The guard wrinkled his brow before flicking the switch. The monitor died and Mundi strode down the hall to his protege's cell. Outside, the watchman stood coiled and angry.

"Mind your thoughts," said Mundi.

"Yes, sir. Are you ready?"

Mundi nodded and the force field lowered. He stepped inside and it sparkled behind him. "Return to the guard station. No one enters this hallway. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Master."

In the corner of the room was a perfectly still shadow, like the night intruder that proves to be a thing when you run to the light switch. Only this time it was the shadow frantic for the switch.

"You were careless, Krayt."

Hearing his Sith name, Hett growled from the darkness: "I am here for your crime."

"You are here because I thought of a use for you," Mundi said dangerously. "If I were not so creative, you'd be in Chaos."

The apprentice sprang out of darkness, coming face to face with Mundi, who didn't move an inch. Behind his sandperson mask was a screaming demon.

"Take off this face, my apprentice. Let me gaze at the other so I may know which is the mask."

"What if they are both masks?" Krayt asked.

Mundi presented a fatherly smile. "Then I should think there is hope for you."

The Sheriff's office was two cells and a desk, fashioned from the remnants of a tattoo parlor. Sample designs still covered the walls: birds, dragons, a binary sun.

Wilk sauntered in, Galen at his shoulder. Behind him were Obi-Wan, Padme, and Brummel.

The Sheriff was in shadow, facing away in his chair. Two modded pistols lay out of reach. "I hear you boys made trouble," he said nonchalantly.

Brummel looked at the cells, noting cobwebs. "We left you some trash. I suppose that's littering."

"So you're here to confess?"

"Not unless you're a priest," Brummel said.

A cloud passed and sunlight revealed the sheriff. Two long, erect ears jutted from his head, covered in fur along with the rest of him. He turned in his chair, revealing his face, with its Y-shaped nose and small black eyes. "Wilk, when I said to make friends, he ain't what I pictured."

Wilk said, "Sir, your vouchsafing—"

Obi-Wan cut him off: "Let's start over, shall we? My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi High General."

"Jaxxon. Low sheriff of sheriffing. Should I curtsy or kiss your hand?"

"Whichever you prefer," Obi-Wan said.

He'd never met a Lepi, but their recreant reputation seemed well-founded. Jaxxon looked like the kind of sheriff whose guns were ice-cold.

Obi-Wan said, "I'm seeking the Mandalorian."

"You must really wanna meet her," Jaxxon mused. "That or the kid means squat. He's gonna get waxed you stay too long."

Padme said, "Isn't it your job to stop that?"

"I'm not a cop, doll. More like an insurance guy. I valuate grief. Make it worth more than vengeance."

Wilk's ears shoved forward. "Your actuary tables may yet be soaked in blood."

Jaxxon jerked a thumb at him. "He has the most polite threats."

"The Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said patiently.

"Right: Mando. Look, you hang around a few days—"

"We don't have a few days," Padme said.

"That sounds like a you problem," replied Jaxxon.

Brummel flicked his wrist and the window behind him exploded inward. Jaxxon shrieked, covered his head. "For god's sake!" he cried.

"My friends have a way of making things your problem," Obi-Wan warned.

"If you think I'm going to—"

Brummell waved a hand. The broken glass coalesced, flying at Jaxxon.

"Hey! All right already! I'll contact Mando!" The shards dropped on the desk. Jaxxon lifted his face from the crook of his arm. "Quit it with the glass, ya bleedin' nut!"

Obi-Wan smirked despite his better nature. "I thank you for your cooperation. We're staying at the inn..."

"I hope your room's got a lock," Jaxxon grumbled.

"For our sake or theirs?"

"For mine."

"In that case, I'll leave it ajar."

Jaxxon flashed his buck teeth in false magnanimity. Seldom did the sheriff abet arrogance as this. But they'd murdered a man already. And Brummel proved more than an everyday thug. Still, Jaxxon had to spit back some of what he'd swallowd.

Leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Padme. "What's your story, doll? Runnin' with Jedi? A guy might mistake ya for someone important."

"But not you," she said with a straight face.

"No, not me. But ya know how rumors are."

Obi-Wan took a breath. The skin crinkled around his eyes. "It's been a pleasure, Sheriff."

It didn't look like an inn exactly, but it was damn close for rummaged steel. Wooden paintings—surrealistic depictions of life in the Dead Zone—adorned the walls, which were treated to look uniform despite their sundry sourcing.

At the center of the lobby was an avante garde statue: a twisted-meal abomination anthropomorphizing the Red Death.

Palmer hopped on one foot, aided by Landon and Coda. At the front desk, an old woman nodded welcomingly.

"You all look tired," she noted their charred clothes. "Where's the rest of your party?"

"Business with the sheriff," Landon explained. "There's five more coming."

"You'll need our executive suite."

"'Executive' sounds expensive."

"It would be, for ordinary persons. For you, it's free."

Landon thought of the Jedi Temple. "My last free room came with a catch."

The woman's mouth was naturally slanted, granting perpetuity to a lopsided grin. "There's no catch. Sligo was a monster. That makes you an angel. If I were ten years younger..."

Coda snickered at Landon's raised eyebrows. He said, "But since you're not, thanks for the room."

"Should I call the doctor?" the woman looked at Palmer.

"My patella disintegrated," Palmer said through gnashed teeth. "What exactly will he do for me?"

Coda squeezed his arm in unwanted comfort. "Thank y'for the offer. But he'll be all right."

The executive suite was one large room, complete with a kitchenette, living area, office nook, and sleeping area. Twelve beds, split in two rows of six, were laid out like a hostel.

Paintings of wildlife that couldn't live in this desert covered the walls. Coda cringed at the Lethagore, a terrifying monster in Mareth's jungles. Maybe as an Architect, she'd been more brave. But her new interation would dream of this beast.

Beneath the painting, Palmer was sleeping. As contemnible as he was, the ex-Jedi impressed her. Through sheer will and Force mastery, he'd held off the pain until it was safe. And though he slumbered, one eye remained cracked.

Coda turned to find Landon had opened a sliding door. She followed him out to a private garden. Brown vines covered in pink and orange leaves snaked along the walls. At the center of the garden was a fire pit, surrounded by greenery.

"Brilliant," Coda giggled. "It's beautiful!"

"It's a piece of work," Landon agreed. "I don't know how they did it, in the middle of the Dead Zone."

Coda cast her eyes down.

Landon felt her gut punch through some osmosis. "That wasn't you."

"That depends on what makes me me."

"Kindness. Gentleness. That's what makes you you," Landon said. "And anyway, if I know Kenobi, then everything that happened truly had to."

"You believe in him that much?"

"Yeah, I do. And I'm starting to believe in you."

Coda sniffed, wiping her eyes. She turned and gave him a watery smile. "You're a good man, Landon."

He squinted and flinched. His tongue quivered between his teeth. "No, darlin'... I'm not."

"Why do you say that?"

Landon dropped his head back and stared into nothing. Dark flashes of memory melted into poison, pushed through his veins, tainting every drop of his liar's blood. Once mixed, when the blood was black, the poison turned solid, so every vein in him ruptured. Memory burst from his flesh and he had no say in it.

"That guy we lost. Miler. I..." He smacked his face: once, twice, thrice. "We had to swim to the surface. There was only one tank and I..." Landon growled like a Lethagore. "It—it wasn't—"

"You left him behind..."

"No, I left him to die."

"... they don't know," Coda realized.

In the doorway, unseen, Palmer smiled to himself before hobbling back to bed.

Landon moved to the wall. He grabbed two handfuls of vine and pulled 'til it snapped. It dangled like a cable in a ruined hyperdrive. Flowers covered his dirty boots.

Time passed before Coda found gumption. "Would you do it again?" she asked.

Landon's eyes squeezed shut. Tears pooled but didn't fall. He saw his mother's face. He saw Miler's.

"Hello there."

He whirled at Obi-Wan standing in the threshold.

"My compliments on the accommodations," Obi-Wan said. He frowned at Landon's visage, cadaverously gray. "Are you all right?"

Landon turned to Coda, who had no expression. She looked back at him blinking.

"He's dead on his feet," she said after a moment. "We all are."

Obi-Wan smiled wryly. "Lie down a while. You can't shoot anyone that way."

Landon forced a laugh to cover his shudder. "You got it, Boss."

Wilk lay upright, legs splayed behind him. The reflection of fire danced in his eyes. He looked at Obi-Wan beside him picking at a meal.

Across the fire were Padme and Landon. Brummel sat alone along the garden wall.

By Padme's count, Landon was five drinks deep. The smuggler's slicked-back hair was falling in his face. She wasn't prudish in these matters, but felt a tinge of worry. "Slow down a little."

"Why's that?"

"Becase you're already pasted. If you fall asleep, you can't keep us company."

Landon poured another drink. "Do you know the saying 'a drunk sleep is dreamless?'"

Padme felt her lips twitch into a smile or frown. "Hmm. Pour me one, too, then."

Obi-Wan's eyes fixed on Wilk, and the wolf didn't miss the gleam of impatience. "I need to know about the boy," Obi-Wan said. "Why is he coveted?"

Wilk masked his discomfort by attending to a paw. "From the frame of his nature, Galen does something of which all men dream. He creates."

"Creates what?"

"Things appear where there was nothing."

"'Things.'"

"A ball. A bandage. Children's toys," Wilk said.

The words wrenched a gasp from Obi-Wan's chest. "What?"

Coda walked outside carrying a guitar. Fixed on Brummel, she missed the other goingson. She sat by the brooding Jedi, handing him the instrument. "Do ya know how t'play?"

Brummel thought of a few lies before answering, "Yes."

"I thought so. Y'look like a poet."

He strummed the chords to a lullaby. "It was just an excuse to get out of my room. My master said it disrupted her meditation."

Brummel tensed at her fingertips dragging down his arm. She pushed on undaunted: "Do y'miss her? Ya don't talk about her."

"I don't talk about anything."

"But ya talk around things. Girls like a puzzle," Coda said cheerfully.

His fingers were bleeding where they plucked the guitar strings. He didn't feel it, and she didn't notice in the smoky light. Brummel peered into the fire like a witch in her spellcast. His own voice sounded very far away. "There was a song she hummed. A Mercian song. It didn't have any words. But one night I wrote some. For a moment in time, it made us close."

Coda's fingers withdrew. She stared gobsmacked at his face in three-quarter relief.

Brummel lowered his head, strumming a melody. Soon it paired with his gravelly voice.

I place my hand upon my hilt
and walk these silent halls
a lonely sentinel
I never learned to be at peace
It's just a thing we're
taught to teach our padawans
The menagerie, it teems with life
a calm center of the Force
surrounded by the Dark Side and its strife

The armor pile is ablaze
My brothers rise in plumes of smoke
to ozone graves high in the sky
Do not miss them, just rejoice
he says despite my pain
and I don't—but want—to ask him why
I let my tunic fall away
My skin is bare and by the heat
of ashen man I wonder if it's worth
the price I've paid

Well, I've seen evil bare before me
Felt it creeping in my heart
Mine, for now's, contained but ready still
to nova like a star
Of these stark and bloody nights
I've grown not to be afraid
For what I've sewn is more than
any soul can ever burn away

The Jedi Way it flickers out
when sleep blackens my eyes
There's neither Love nor Nothingness so I may
neither claim to live or die

I make no claim
and cannot answer
why?

Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. Her porcelain skin seemed delicate as ever, like the wind might rip her open to the bone.

And she felt something new, something large. It was a box. A very special box. In it was pain, and fear, and misery. The avarice of youth and the regret of that avarice. Knowledge, stupidity. Kindness and callousness. And there was love. Perfect love.

It was all in that box.

And still the box wasn't full.