Amid maddening science and lab-grown horror does Count Dooku wait.

Otherworldly white lights. The pulse-rhythm beeping of monitors and sensors. The air heavy, cold; a sour-acid taste on the tongue. Pervasive is the rank of antiseptic. The entire surgical suite feels like an anathema to life itself even as a monster takes shape within these sterile gray walls. Medical droids whir and tend with insect arms to the abomination birthing atop the gleaming steel operating table in the center of the room. Tubes too numerous to count ferry lipids, blood, saline; white, crimson, clear. On an attendant's table to the right of the operating station litter mechanical tools and parts: Wires, gears, nodes, sensors, relays, ports, actuators.

Dooku clenches his jaw and looks upon the creation lying on the operating table. It is the preformation of a left arm, from fingers to just above the elbow. The skin has yet to be added: The medical droids for now weave blood vessels and stitch sinews. To the flesh they add lights and metal: Mechwork and electronics situated amid the bone and muscle, the arm itself an amalgamated atrocity of droid and man mashed together like an artist's nightmare of a cyborg limb. Diode-freckled fingertips flick as the droids paste nerve ends together. Ligaments spasm as they are linked with fibers and cables. This monster of an arm is nothing that should ever find its way to life—yet Dooku persists.

"Insert the crystal," he murmurs as the droids finish lacing the cephalic vein up the arm between the holes in a web of electrified titanium mesh.

Now for the final part, where the mixture of metal and man meets the Dark Side of the Force. The lead medical droid removes from a black box a small kyber crystal, a tiny heart that in another world might power a Padawan's lightsaber. Here, now, it will give life to a tool twisted and torn. The droid nestles the crystal in a hollow of flesh just beside the radius before wrapping the electric mesh about it, binding it into the arm.

It is in. The droids unfurl the plate-grown skin and lace it up the arm as the flesh seizes up beneath their touch. As if the arm itself has already taken life with the kyber crystal's insertion; as if the limb resents the droid's probing and prodding, knowing with futility the fate that awaits it. Knowing that Dooku is right there, watching, waiting to inflict far more horror than the medical droids could ever manufacture.

Up the hand, up the wrist. Skin to sinew to suture. Small rock-like black protrusions poke through the artificial skin as it is pressed to the flesh. Alerts blare from the biomonitors: The arm is rejecting its form as the medical droids bring it to completion. But Dooku has anticipated just this possibility; he knew it would come when he selected the kyber crystal to plant beside the bone. Now he waves the droids away. The automata cease their efforts to stabilize the arm as Dooku approaches, his hands held aloft.

He looks down at the arm. Disgusting thing. Any other man in the galaxy missing a limb might simply order a cybernetic replacement, like Skywalker did following their fight on Geonosis three years back. But Dooku does not intend for this scientific monstrosity to fit just any man. He needs something worthy of an apprentice. Something bound to the Dark Side. Something that will service him.

Dooku raises his hands. Concentrates. Hatred. Anger. Wield the Force, tap into the Dark Side, and let loose thy talons within your very spirit.

He unleashes a storm of Force Lightning upon the arm. The flesh seizes, the fingers flutter, the hand curls in on its wrist as if hiding from Dooku's attack, yet the Sith Lord does not relent. He grimaces, pressing the Force onslaught, singing and burning the lab-grown flesh as the arm spasms. The artificial skin blackens. Diodes and metal monitors poke through the covering. Somewhere, deep within this synthetic horror of an artificial limb, that kyber crystal is breaking. Bleeding. Bending to Dooku's will. Bending to the Dark Side.

Red lines like thunderbolts lace across the skin, up the hand, down each finger, and it is only then, as the flesh takes an inhuman pallor and this abomination of a limb warps and morphs into abhorrent finish, that Dooku ceases his attack. He lets out his breath as the arm sizzles on the table.

"Finish your work," he says to the medical droids as they flock back around the table, mechanical arms already humming in motion. "Then fit this to the prisoner."

Hyperspace is a silent sea, the swirling blue just beyond the frontal viewscreen of the Twilight without depth, without horizon. Ahsoka always feels as if she could fall into that rushing vortex and end up anywhere, the Outer Rim, the Deep Core, even another galaxy. Coruscant; Sleheyron. In hyperspace they are just names and dots and fantasies. An extra few seconds on the controls and the ship could end up light-years beyond its intended destination. She could fly right off of the grid. Go where no one could find her. Forget about the mission. Forget about this mission.

And, looking at Anakin sitting ramrod straight in the pilot's seat, staring ahead as if spotting some interstellar monster swimming through that bottomless blue, she wonders whether that might just be the right idea.

"No one's shooting at us yet, Master," says Ahsoka, if only to say something to break up the past ten minutes of uncomfortable quiet ever since Anakin woke up from a nap and took over the helm in preparation for coming out at Sleheyron. "You can relax a little. You're kinda creeping me out."

Anakin's expression defies words. "Merciless" is the first word that comes to Ahsoka's mind. As if he is ready to mow down everything they see in Sleheyron orbit the moment they emerge from hyperspace. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he murmurs.

"Worse than Taris?"

"They're Hutts and scum, Ahsoka. They're not even going to pretend to be civilized," Anakin says. "Ten bets something's waiting to ambush us the moment we come out in orbit."

Ahsoka taps her copiloting dashboard. "Guess we're about to find out. Coming out of hyperspace in three…two…"

She yanks a handle on her console and hyperspace blurs, the blue dissipating like morning fog and stars rushing into view. Before them blooms an ugly and blasted sphere: Sleheyron. Volcanic rock and chemical skies, all charred grey and molten black. Tiny spits of rock litter the orbital neighborhood: Asteroid stations, repurposed bulk freighters, skirmish debris, even space trash dumped in space like a cosmic landfill. A crater-pocked moon slums about the ugly world like a neglected pet. If the Hutts really want such a dump, Ahsoka thinks, they can have it.

"Master Kenobi said two Hutt clans were fighting over this planet just months ago," she says, checking their long-range scanners. "Think there's any warships still around?"

"Probably all kinds. Just the junky sort," Anakin says. "The kind you can't tell from your average garbage scow."

Sensors light up. "Something's deploying from a station ahead of us," reports Ahsoka. "Looks like an asteroid base is barfing up fighters."

"Great. This is why I had a bad feeling," Anakin says, his jaw tightening. "Are they coming for us?"

"They're definitely coming this way."

"Fantastic. I didn't feel like negotiating anyway."

Ahsoka shakes her head. "We're just one ship, Master. Maybe we should try not to get shot down before we even make it into the atmosphere?"

"Who said we're the ones getting shot down?"

"Oh, this is going wonderfully already."

Anakin snorts, the tension from hyperspace already easing into the typical carefree attitude he has right before every battle. As if talking with words is more strenuous than exchanging laser fire. "You're starting to sound like Obi-Wan. One of him is enough."

Ahsoka zooms in on the scanners, long-range to short-range. "Six interceptors," she says. "They're a lot faster than we are."

"Bet they blow up pretty easily, then."

"Uh…we're getting a hail."

"What?"

"From the station. Want me to patch it through?"

For a moment she thinks Anakin will decline, that he will instead open up this conversation with a hail of gunfire. But instead he sighs and mutters, "Fine. Let's see what they want."

It's audio-only, a rough, grating sound of what Ahsoka imagines is some rough-and-tumble Weequay who has spent far too much of his life using glitterstim spice. "Got a toll to pay," grumbles the audio feed.

"Excuse me?" Anakin barks at the comm.

A garbled chortle answers. "Pretty little lingo. Excuse me? Sorry, but guests gotta pay our toll. Thousand credits a head. So you're gonna stop ya ship and let us check on board, have a look around. Then you'll pay. If you want to get down to Sleheyron, o'course. Or you can turn around and go right back to where you came from."

"We're on Jedi business," Anakin retorts. "You can get out of our way, pirate."

"Jedi business?" the respondent cackles. "We're with the Haxion Brood, wizard. You can't wave your laser sword at us and expect us to run. Pay up, turn around, or die. Don't care what you claim to be."

Anakin reaches over to Ahsoka's dashboard and punches the commlink. "Boring conversation," he growls.

"They're not gonna like that."

"Yeah, forget them. No one's going to miss a few slavers and pirates. We're doing the galaxy a favor."

Anakin slams the engines to full power and the Twilight rockets ahead. On the scanners the half-dozen fighters emerging from the gaggle of hob-knob asteroid and scrap bases maneuver and wheel on their position. Then comes another blip, larger, more formidable: A gunboat. "More company," warns Ahsoka.

"Let 'em come. Get on the gun," says Anakin, flicking switches.

The targeting reticle for the Twilight's turret-mounted wing laser drops from the ceiling. Ahsoka sighs. "This is gonna go well."

"Just get ready to shoot, Ahsoka," says Anakin. "I'm not in the mood to part with two thousand credits."

"I'm sure that's the only reason."

A half-squadron of Z-95 Headhunters converge on the transport as Anakin makes a hard burn for the planet. Ahsoka peers into the targeting reticle, her hands locked around the control grips. Maybe Tatooine would've been better, she thinks as the Headhunters close in, despite Master Kenobi's caution. It's as if Anakin has combined the need to blow off steam from the debacle at Taris with his hatred of slavers into a mix that's just as likely to see them plastered all over local space as it is to get them planetside to complete their mission. Or even to start their mission.

Anakin punches his controls. "Missiles out," he says, and the Twilight bucks as it releases a pair of concussion missiles at the approaching vanguard.

The starfighters whirl away from the warheads. Two of the more daring Headhunters pivot around the missiles and open up with a flurry of cannon fire. Anakin spins and dives, evading, shooting up beneath their broken formation and turning on the tail of a pair of fighters. "Any time, Ahsoka!"

She doesn't need prompting. Her reticle locks on to the nearest and she fires. Laser fire spits from the Twilight's wing. The Headhunter banks to starboard too late, and her fire catches its port engine. Smoke billows into space as its shields crumple, the wounded starfighter limping away as its fellows turn to engage.

"Behind us," Ahsoka warns.

"Got 'em."

Anakin feints down before pulling the Twilight up hard, firing a reverse engine burn for a few seconds to null the ship's acceleration and let the speeding fighters zip beneath them. Then he pushes the thrusters to full once more, levelling out as the pirate ships turn away. Ahsoka doesn't hesitate: She jams the trigger, lancing the closest Headhunter with a trail of gunfire. Shields fail; armor boils away. The fighter explodes in a blossom of flame and parts, the four remaining Headhunters peeling away for another attack run just as the gunboat speeds into range. "What're we gonna do about that?" Ahsoka says, looking away from the reticle as the warship bears down on them.

"Outrun it," says Anakin.

"You sure?"

"Just shoot, Ahsoka. I got this."

Surprisingly, the gunboat does not bother to even fire on the Twilight. Instead, as the remaining starfighters curve about to engage once again, the gunboat unloads a flurry of defensive flak fire at them. The Headhunters split and break off as the flak rounds erupt behind the Twilight, blanketing the space in shrapnel. "What?" Anakin blurts out as he shoots through the melee, the starfighters circling about the gunboat as it peppers them with point-defense rounds.

Ahsoka abandons the turret and rushes back to her copilot's station. "Open-channel comm," she says. "I'll patch it through."

"From who?"

"The gunship, I think."

Ahsoka patches in to the comm. A sneering, malicious voice greets them, halfway through a threat: "—you know who controls this space. You don't get to set conditions up here. Run back to your shacks you call bases or I'll shoot you all down."

Anakin looks confused. "Is that for us?"

"Or for the pirate fighters?" Ahsoka opines. "Let's keep listening, Master."

But the comm shuts out immediately afterward. Then the remaining four Headhunters break off, pulling away from the gunboat as it launches a final salvo of flak fire at them. Anakin lets out a pent-up sigh. But no sooner does Ahsoka think they're free than does the comm flare again, and this time on a private channel. "For us," says Ahsoka. "Let's see who it is."

The same voice, but this time it sounds much more accommodating. "Jedi," the voice on the other side greets them. "I apologize for those pests hassling you. Every time I uproot one Brood nest, they settle in two or three more."

"Who is this?" Anakin growls. "How do you know who we are?"

The voice chuckles. "I tap every communicator in orbit, Jedi. The Brood serves a purpose, even if they are a nuisance at the same time. I knew who you were the moment you told them you were on Jedi business."

"What do you want? I don't have time to meet up and chat."

"Don't worry, Jedi. I'm not aboard that gunship," the voice says as the warship moves off. "You're trying to get planetside it seems, based on your approach vector. I happen to be groundside myself. I can't assume that any Jedi Knight would come here unless on an important mission, and it just so happens that I have business of my own that could use your touch. What is the expression? You scratch my back, and I yours. Why don't we help each other, hm?"

"No deal," Anakin snaps. "Just stay out of our way."

"Master," Ahsoka interrupts, muting the comm. "Maybe we should hear him out before turning him down. We don't even know where to start looking for this Arraton guy the Tath comms mentioned."

Anakin scowls. "This all just sounds shady as all get out."

"We're going to a Hutt world, Master. Everything on it is shady."

He sighs. Then he moves Ahsoka's hand, unmutes the comm, and says, "What kind of business?"

"Agreeable, are we? As it happens, I serve the mighty Steno the Hutt," the voice says. "Steno of clan Anjiliac, the new masters of Sleheyron. Yet we've had a little trouble rooting out the last of clan Besadii's holdouts entrenched in their fortresses, tending to their slave hordes. I know the Jedi Order can't abide by slavery, hm? You help us…liberate…a particularly nasty one of these holdout entrenchments, and I will do what I can to aid whatever it is you want. After all, you can't let these slavers continue their foul work unattended to, can you?"

Anakin's face twists at the word slave. Yet still he relents. "I want to talk in person," he says as he noses the Twilight down into the charcoal atmosphere. "I'm not agreeing to anything until then."

"Of course, Jedi. Of course. The mighty Steno is nothing if not diplomatic," the voice preens. "I will send coordinates. I foresee a great partnership between us. At least for a little while."

Then the comms go dead. Anakin grunts. "Yeah, I bet he's some virtuous liberator," he grumbles. "This stinks like a trap."

"Everything we seem to walk into is a trap," says Ahsoka.

"Yeah. Could really go for a nice change one of these days."

"It's probably not gonna happen here."

Anakin presses his fingers to his forehead. "Well. Guess it's just time to spring the trap. Again. What do you say?"

Ahsoka pats her lightsaber. "Beats sitting around. Let's do it."

"Just like Taris," says Anakin. "Only this time, when things go bad, I'm not playing nice."

Sae leaves the rented speeder at the bottom of the hill. A thousand credits for a few days of what is little more than junk cobbled around an engine. Her first time on Kuat in years, and yet already this world stinks despite its fair green country and its cloudless skies. Maybe it is the noble estates that sprawl across the hillsides and open plains, their manor houses sprawling, large enough to house whole villages. Maybe it is the way the native Kuati in their silks and velvets turn their nose up at people like her, speaking slowly as if she is some halfwit who will not understand them otherwise. Maybe it was the ten thousand credits it cost—and the three days it took to arrange that sum—just to acquire a permit to get down planetside from the orbital waystation. Non-waivable, according to the bureaucrats Sae negotiated with, Jedi business or not—"to preserve the sanctity of our world," according to them. What a racket.

Or maybe it is something else. Maybe it is the building anxiety of words unsaid that cannot remain so. She knows that before she leaves here, she has to cross a line that the Jedi are not supposed to cross.

Tamri waits for her at the hilltop, lying face-up amid the tall grass, staring skyward at the metal ring of the Kuat Drive Yards manufacturing facilities and orbital yards that encircle the world. Hundreds of millions of people up there, including almost all of the offworlders and the laborers who make this planet the shipbuilding capital of the galaxy. The Republic's star destroyers originate here. The heart of the Republic navy beats in orbit around Kuat. Above this planet the war effort is born. And yet down here on the paradisiacal groundside, the war may as well be a fantasy. Even with the all-encompassing control of the noble families, it is peaceful here. Serene. As if no Separatist blaster or battle droid could ever so much as mar a single blade of grass, or discolor a sole square inch of perfect blue sky.

Tamri looks up at Sae's approach. "So?" she says, sitting up. "What happened?"

"Just a bunch of arrogant shi—, er, it went fine," grumbles Sae, trudging up to the top of the hill. She spent the last three hours in a meeting with envoys from the Tirell noble family, at whose estate Jedi Master Eno Cordova apparently has taken up scholarly residence for the past month, researching their extensive archives and deep historical vault into some lost and mysterious alien race. Three hours that could've been ten minutes if not for all the formalities and arrangements and other annoyances. High society and Sae do not mix. Maybe it's all those missions on Nar Shaddaa and in the Coruscant underbelly rubbing off on her.

"Can we meet with Cordova?"

Sae sighs. If only it were that simple. Is anything that simple on Kuat? "Well, at least we didn't miss Cordova. He's still studying at their estate's library. Supposed to be the biggest private collection on the planet."

"And?"

"And," Sae says, "the Tirells are happy to tell him we're come to see him. Something that could've been done in all of five minutes if we were on literally any other planet in the galaxy."

Tamri smiles. "You're not really getting to the point, Master."

"Air here's probably wearing off on me already. Fine: The Tirells have 'cordially invited' us to some gala they're hosting at their estate for a bunch of noble families. Night after tomorrow."

"Oh!" Tamri says, her face lighting up. "A gala? Like a formal party or something?"

"Please, I just want Cordova to tells us how to get to Korriban, and then to get off this planet," Sae says. "I didn't want this whole song-and-dance noble schtick."

"No, it sounds fun."

"It sounds like a nightmare."

But Tamri will not be dissuaded by Sae's cynicism. "Come on," she pleads, "we never get to do fancy things like this. The Council always sends us to the butt ends of the galaxy."

"Then you'll be happy to know I accepted, if only because it sounded like the least painful way of getting to talk to Cordova. The Order's most reclusive Jedi ever, apparently. At least this sounded easier than breaking into their estate and accosting the man."

"Ah! Great!"

"You're welcome," says Sae. "Now what did you find out when I was listening to some idiots talk nonsense for hours?"

Tamri stands up and points. Down adjacent to the foot of the hill sprawls the town of Alaren, a humble rural enclave of ten thousand middle class local workers servicing the regional noble estates. A few towers of glass and durasteel surrounded by sloping-curve homes and commercial outlets bedecked in subtle yellows and blues and pinks. Like a whole town of springtime blooming to life out here on the Kuati plains. Down in the small ship dock rests the Into Evening's Call, where—last Sae saw—the dock guards were eying Neelotas as if he carried some sort of infectious alien disease. "I heard a couple things around town."

"Like?"

"Like," says Tamri, "Maybe the reason the Tirells are throwing their gala is because there's a holiday going on the next three days. The Festival of the Ten. It's some founder's celebration that goes back thousands of years to the settling of Kuat, but supposedly it's a big deal. This is a middle-class town. A lot of the workers are freed up from their obligations to the noble families for those three days. Maybe we could look around and listen. Gather some intel."

"Intel on what? We're not here to scout out Kuat. It's a Republic stronghold. There's nothing to discover. We're just here to talk to Cordova and get directions, which we would if not for the thousand bureaucratic and noble firewalls in our way."

"Well, we could look anyway. Maybe something interesting pops up. You said we're not expected until the night after tomorrow. We have some time. Right?"

"You just want to see the festival."

"I, uh, yeah. Okay. Is that that bad? Master, we've been fighting through Belderone and Ossus and we're going to Korriban. Can't we relax for just one stop?" Tamri huffs. She looks away. "You need it. You're tense all the time."

"What?"

"I didn't mean—I just—nothing."

"If you have something to say, say it."

Tamri keeps quiet and looks at her feet. "We can do whatever," she mumbles. "Sorry."

"Tam—"

"I'm sorry."

Sae closes her eyes. This again. She wishes Tamri would just argue with her. Just once. Instead it's this constant deflecting, this abnegation taken to an extreme. She can teach Tamri how to wield a lightsaber, how to deflect a blaster bolt, how to negotiate with smugglers. She can show her how to navigate the criminal underworld and how to pick a lock. How to interrogate a suspect. How to fight bit by bit for peace in the galaxy, just as the Jedi ought to. But she has no idea how to instill even a shred of self-confidence in the girl, let alone how to light a fire in her. Tamri's seventeen, and every day is a day closer to when she'll have to face the Trials of Knighthood. Without a belief in herself, she has no chance in passing the Trials. Not with only a middling grasp in the Force. And Sae has no idea what she needs to do to make things easier on her apprentice.

But, of course, that can change right here on Kuat. Sae breathes in deeply. She has prepared for this moment. Prepared to defy one of the Jedi Order's deepest conventions. Now the time comes. Is she ready?

All Jedi leave their pasts behind. The families they are born into. The homes they otherwise would have grown up within. A Jedi's true family is the Order, after all. But is that how it should be?

"Master?" says Tamri, looking quizzical. "Are you okay?"

Sae lets out her breath. "Sit," she says.

"Huh?"

"Sit. Sit with me."

"Okay. What's going on?"

Even now the words struggle to come out. "We have two days," Sae says slowly.

"Yeah. You said that."

She is making a fool out of herself. Just blurt it out. It won't get any easier. "Listen: You have money. You can take the speeder. The next two days you can get up to what you want. Just don't tell me or anyone in the Order. And make sure you're back here before we have to go to the Tirell estate. Make damn sure."

Tamri looks concerned. "What are you talking about? I didn't mean anything weird when I brought up the festival. I just thought we could go together and see it."

"I'm not talking about that," says Sae. Another breath in. Another breath out. Silently she curses the Jedi Order for making this difficult. "Look, Tam. There's a minor noble estate about a hundred kilometers or so to the west of here."

"So? Are they going to show up at the gala?"

"I don't know. Hopefully not."

"Are we checking them out for some reason?" says Tamri. "I can help."

"No—I mean, I know—ugh. No, I'm not investigating them for anything, but I know who they are," says Sae. "They're the Dallin family. They're your parents."

Tamri sucks in air. "What?"

"Your mother and father. Two or three younger sisters, I don't remember. Grandparents who live with them on the estate, last I saw. I checked them out when I chose you to be my Padawan. They have a controlling interest in something at Kuat Drive Yards. A Seeker found you when you weren't even two. That's why you don't remember them."

"I have sisters?"

"They weren't born when you were found."

Tamri presses her hands together and hesitates before she continues. "Why are you telling me this?"

"We're on Kuat."

"We're supposed to leave our old families behind," insists Tamri. "The Jedi Order is our family. It doesn't matter where we come from. We're all equal under the Force."

"That's what they say."

"So why are you telling me?"

Sae looks at her. "Because most of my friends got chucked away at Geonosis, almost all except Obi-Wan Kenobi have died since, Master Gallia's now dead, and Count Dooku was this close to killing us on Ossus," she says. "The war's just getting worse, Tam. Everyone around me ends up going away. We might be dead tomorrow for all I know."

"I'm not going to die on you, Master."

"Master Gallia might've promised me the same thing, and now look. Some Zabrak Dark Sider gored her on Florrum. I don't know what tomorrow brings, Tam. And I don't know if I'll ever have the chance to tell you again. It's a stupid rule we have in the Order, cutting ourselves off from our pasts," she says. She sighs. "I was just some foundling on Coruscant. My parents didn't give a damn about me, whoever they were. I never had a chance to figure things out. You do."

"This isn't right," mumbles Tamri. "I don't even know what I would say to them."

"Your parents seemed like nice enough people, as far as Kuati nobles go. You could figure out a way to introduce yourself."

"The Council would say this is wrong."

"Which is why you shouldn't mention it to anyone in the Order."

Abruptly, Tamri stands up with her fists balled. She runs a few steps ahead before looking back, her eyes wet and wide. She opens her mouth as if to protest before turning and running off, down the hill, away towards the parked speeder and the town.

Sae lies down in the grass. Looks up at the cloudless sky. Watches the orbital ring revolve in its ponderous orbit. Good. Let her go. Let her run off and find out about herself while she still has the chance. Let her have a moment of growing up that the Jedi Order has never allowed her. Just like a normal person.

Part of her hopes that Tamri will keep running, on and on and on, that she will not come back here in two days, that she will leave Sae and the Jedi and everything behind. That she won't be thrown atop the pyre like everyone at Geonosis. Like Adi Gallia at Florrum. But Tamri is not a rule-breaker. Sae told her to be back in two days, so she will be back, no matter what she does between now and then.

Sae groans. If only things were different. If only there wasn't a war. If only they weren't Jedi.