Thank you, Juneselene, for the great review!

His office pales in comparison to the imposing grandeur of Chancellor Palpatine's visitation chamber, but Vice Chair Mas Amedda's suite in the Republic Executive Building is no broom closet. Tile mosaics in deep blues and violets and greys pattern the office's walls with abstract art in the High Republic style, the cool colors and subtle aesthetics designed to temper willful visitors and lure political opponents into false ease. It is quiet, spacious, still—a picture of control, where Amedda might supervise all senators and aspirants who would come before him, lesser seeking to gather the scraps from his table. And while Admiral Tarkin might be a military officer of renown, he is still just another aspirant in Amedda's eyes.

"It was wise that you left Thyferra's occupation to your trusted officers," Amedda says to Tarkin, although he does not lift his eyes from the electronic reports on his desk. "The Holonet media has sung your praises for days. They credit you for the victory in the battle. It would be a waste to squander the public persona you're building in a messy occupation of such a fortified world."

"The media's praise is appreciated, but unnecessary. Thyferra's occupation will go on without a hitch. The officers I left behind in command are reliable," says Tarkin. He eyes Amedda as the Vice Chair thumbs through a report, a subtle frown pulling at the corner of his lips. "Should I return another time, Vice Chair?"

For a moment Amedda does not reply. He can feel Tarkin's irritation—good. Let him sweat. Political opponents—or even allies—should have to wait on your terms, not the other way around. And, with Tarkin's popularity beginning to catch the public's eye, Amedda needs to know whether the man is a potential ally or a rival in the making. Tarkin has gained Palpatine's favor, but Amedda will not throw his trust around so quickly. Someone must ensure those close to the Chancellor are the reliable type. "No," he says at last, setting down his tablet. "I summoned you to ask your input regarding a certain recently-promoted director of the Special Weapons Group."

Tarkin is a statue. "Orson Krennic? I was informed he had been promoted to the post."

"Yes. It is my understanding that you have worked with the man."

"I have. I would presume you to have fully vetted the man before promoting him to the leadership of an important strategic position, however."

Amedda presses his fingertips together and leans forward. "As a ranking flag officer, and one with the Chancellor's ear, you have access to our most classified military information," he says. "You know what the Special Weapons Group is building. You know what Krennic is now responsible for."

Tarkin's brow furrows just the slightest. "The Ultimate Weapon."

"Yes."

"That boondoggle has not even reached the completion of its prototype, so I hear. Let Krennic waste his time on it. I would recommend you stop wasting so many credits on such delusions, however. We have a war to win, and wars require ships, soldiers, men. Not fantasies."

"Krennic has assured both the Chancellor and myself that the prototype will be ready over Geonosis within a year."

"Then perhaps we should have this conversation in a year's time, when Krennic has asked for an extension. My input will be the same then as it is now, Vice Chair. The Republic wastes time and resources on far too many trivialities, be they dreams of superweapons or our societal norms that prevent us from redirecting the full power of our military might against the Separatists."

Amedda leans back. "Elucidate."

Tarkin raises his chin. "I have expressed similar concerns to the Chancellor as I will with you now: Allowing the Jedi, particularly young Jedi apprentices with little real military experience, to hold critical positions of command in our navy and army compromises our war effort, at times to a disastrous degree. Had I not persuaded General Skywalker to follow an alternative battle plan at Thyferra, General Luminara Unduli and General Obi-Wan Kenobi would have led our forces into a certain defeat. This is not an isolated occurrence, but a trend. And it is not limited to our military: The Jedi Order meddles in our political and economic affairs just when we must direct those very institutions to the path of total war, the only path that will defeat an enemy as formidable as the Separatist Alliance has become."

It is all Amedda can do to suppress a smile. Men like Tarkin do not reveal such ideas with abandon, especially ideas concerning an institution so historic and well-liked as the Jedi. Not unless he is either a fool or he is lulled into the very false sense of security that men like Amedda prey upon. But there is a third option, too—Tarkin knows the very concerns Amedda and Palpatine have shared in quiet, gloomy moments when Coruscant buzzes around them and they watch over it all like sentinels of some higher order, the galaxy at their fingertips even as it all churns on without their input. It is control that maintains order. It is strong men who keep the invaders at bay. And it is the divided house—one with meddlers just like the Jedi eager to hobble its leaders—that falls to the torch-wielding barbarians at the gates.

Fascinating. Perhaps Tarkin can be more useful than as merely a military tool. Amedda moves to speak, but a button underneath his desk flashes and a muffled tone rings. "My apologies, Admiral," he says, "I have a summons from the Chancellor. Perhaps we might continue this another time?"

"Vice Chair," Tarkin says with a nod. And just as quickly he has turned and strides to the door, his steps full of purpose and immediacy, the walk of a man who knows just where to go and just what awaits him.

Shadows dominate Chancellor Palpatine's office at this fading hour. Amedda's footsteps, quiet as they are, reverberate like distant drumbeats of thunder in the stillness. A heralding of the storms to come—for a storm, indeed, is raging right now on Mandalore, Amedda knows. The information is still concealed from the media and the Senate, but Death Watch's coup has not gone unnoticed here in the circles of real power. But the danger of a neutral bastion like Mandalore falling is also opportunity, Amedda thinks. Taris tipped to the Confederacy. Perhaps the right application of force might swing Mandalore in a more favorable direction. It is worth, at least, proposing to Palpatine now, before they are burdened by the bleating of the news media and hundreds of soundbite-spewing politicians.

He steps into the Chancellor's office and finds Palpatine's back turned, the elder statesmen staring off into the dimming Coruscant sky. "You summoned me, Chancellor?"

Palpatine does not turn to face him. He does not offer greetings, nor an explanation. All he says, in a grave voice, is, "Prepare my ship."

Tamri finds Sae seated on the floor of the Evening's engine room, her shoulder resting against the groaning hyperdrive, her hands wrapped around her knees. She knows she should leave her master alone; Neelotas has said as much, as well. But it has been long enough, and they can not run for much longer—the damage the ship took in the escape from Ziost ensured that. While she still has time, Tamri has to know what happened. "Master?" she says in what she hopes is a friendly, unassuming tone. "Are you awake?"

She knows full well that Sae is awake, of course. But she does not know what else to say; does not know what else will draw her master out of the mute funk she has wallowed in since they escaped into hyperspace. She has hardly said ten words since they left Ziost. And, just like with each of Tamri's other attempts to figure things out, Sae again does not reply. She does not even look up. It is as if she sees into some other forlorn plane, beyond Tamri, beyond the ship, beyond the maelstrom-sea of hyperspace they twist and turn through. "Neelotas said we have a few minutes before we have to pull out of hyperspace," Tamri continues, trying to keep the conversation—if it can be called that—as lighthearted and casual as possible. Perhaps she should just confront Sae, yell at her to tell her what she saw in that pyramidal mountain, but she does not have the heart to get angry. Not when all she feels is confusion. "He's going to pull us out at Mirial. We can try to get some repairs on the planet. Maybe."

No answer. Sae does not so much as blink. "I—okay," says Tamri, wringing her hands. "I made something to eat in the galley. It's just a little but if you want something…or, if you…I dunno. It's there. I'll leave you alone."

As she turns to go, however, Sae reaches out and grabs her hand. Tamri spins. Her master does not look at her when she speaks: "I should've listened," murmurs Sae, so low that Tamri thinks she is talking to herself. "I should've stopped."

"What?"

"I just kept going and going, and now we've gone too far to go back," Sae mutters. "I should've just listened when you said to stop." Then she looks up, her eyes clear, color flushing back to her face as if some alien presence has fled her being. "We're coming out at Mirial?"

Tamri rubs her hand as Sae lets go. "That's what Neelotas said. What were you saying? Did you see something?"

Sae ignores her questions. "Mirial's Separatist territory," she says, getting to her feet and fretting. "We have to get a message off before it's too late. Come on. Let's get to the cockpit."

Confused, Tamri follows her up to where Neelotas punches buttons on his piloting console, preparing to pull the Evening out of hyperspace. "Hey," he murmurs as Sae slips into the copiloting chair. "Reactor can't handle much more faster-than-light travel. We gotta pull out, patch some leaks and holes in the armor, get some more fuel. Got no chance making it back to friendly space with the ship in this condition."

"Can the comms still send a message to Coruscant?" says Sae, her voice grave.

"Uh, what? No. Comms got knocked out when the fighters hit us. I couldn't so much as send a message inside a system, let alone from the Outer Rim to the capital. Why're you trying to reach Coruscant now?"

Sae shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. I'll figure something out planetside."

"Coruscant?" Tamri says. "Master, are you trying—"

"Tam, not now. Neelotas, how long?"

The Nautolan pulls a release lever over his head as his sensor console begins bleeping. "Pulling us out now. Far as we go until we can make repairs. Let's hope there's not a fleet in orbit."

Sea-blue hyperspace frazzles and frays; stars blossom and burst. The black of space rushes to meet the Evening and there, hanging before them lonely and barren like a desiccated egg from a forgotten mother and lost land, is Mirial. Dry, dusty, cold; the home of the Mirialans, so far from the Core Worlds that Coruscant and all the rest of that wealth and influence is but a rarely-spoken world. There is no help for a few lost Jedi this far out. There is no one coming to save them. And there is no one to halt the phalanx of droid starfighters that, alerted by their entry to orbit, breaks off from a garrison station in orbit and veers straight at them as a long-range scanner pulse pings the ship.

Neelotas checks the scanner and swears. "Never should've said that. Damn. Whole squadron of vulture droids inbound to check us out. Two frigates in orbit, as well."

"What's the status of the guns?" Sae says.

"Guns aren't going to help us here."

"Then what do we do?" says Tamri, her voice frantic. "If we can't jump back into hyperspace—"

Neelotas grits his teeth. "Try to see if they just ignore us. Might think we're just another freighter, I don't know. If they flag us as hostile, then gun it for the planet," he says. "Sublight engines are still fine. We might be able to hold them off long enough to…I don't know, find a helpful chunk of topography to lose them in."

"That's the plan?"

"I didn't say it was a good plan, Little Wizard. Shut up and let me fly."

Sae points over her shoulder. "Go strap in to something, Tam," she says.

"No, no," Neelotas countermands, shaking his head. "Go get to the escape pod. Prep it for quick launch. Then strap in."

Tamri's chest tightens. "The escape pod?"

Neelotas shrugs. "Only idiots don't prepare."

"Do what he says," Sae growls as she shifts levers on her console. "Now, Tamri!"

Ignoring the knot balling in her throat, Tamri races away towards the escape pod. The metal floor thrums, coming alive as the engines roar. It is dreamlike, the sequence: Time slowing to a trickle, the thin metal walls all that separates her from empty space, and as her feet pound forward, left then right then left, she hurtles into the escape pod just as the first lasers from the droid fighters batter the Evening's shields. There will be no smooth landing, no sly slip through the Separatist orbital defenses. There is only the enemy here, and only Neelotas's piloting skills—and the Force, she supposes, if that is enough—to see them through the danger.

It has to be enough. Please, be enough.

Her heart quickens; her skin beads with sweat. She throws the emergency power lever in the escape pod, priming the getaway vehicle for a quick release in case Neelotas's worst-case scenario comes true. Then, with nothing more she can do other than wait and hope, she sits down into one of the pod's jump seats, pulls a pair of restraints across her lap and her chest, and closes her eyes. See us through this, she thinks. Let us be okay. Please, let us be okay. We've come this far. Don't let it end like this.

The ship rumbles. Somewhere—the cockpit, it must be, yet it sounds as far away as Coruscant—an emergency klaxon blares. Sae's voice, so tiny. Neelotas's voice.

Tamri clasps her hands together. If it will do anything, anything at all, she will give it her all. Please. Help us.

Again the ship rocks. It thunders, quakes, shudders with the energy of matter hitting atmosphere, all fire and mass clashing against one another in a contest of will and might and nature. Another impact. Then footsteps.

Sae barrels into the escape pod with soot stains spotting her face. "Hold on," she urges Tamri, breathless. "Neelotas?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just about. Hold up."

"You don't have time! Come on!"

Tamri tries to tamp down on her growing panic. "What's going on?"

Sae ignores her. "Neelotas!"

The Nautolan hurtles into the pod, then stops at the entrance as Sae buckles into a jump seat. He Looks back at the passenger corridor outside, his face falling. "If Rust could see her now," he murmurs. Then he throws a lever, slams the escape pod's hatch shut, throws himself into a seat, and yanks down on the emergency release.

He buckles himself into his seat just as the pod detaches from the Evening and blasts off towards the surface. Through the engine-side window, she watches as the transport careens out of control with no one at the helm, spinning, twirling in the sepia sky of arid Mirial. Then a droid starfighter strafes it, red laser fire raking the ship, and in that sundered sky the ship blossoms with fire, debris torn loose, electronics sparking as the Evening explodes.

The shockwave strikes the escape pod. Tamri catches her breath as the pod shudders and shakes, veering off as the emergency boosters fire and throw it towards the surface. She shuts her eyes. Balls her fists. Don't let it end now.

Somewhere in the maelstrom of the pod tumbling and the remains of the Evening exploding around them does Sae's hand find hers. Tamri loosens her fist. Locks her fingers with her master's.

Find your grip. Hold tight. Don't let go. Don't ever let go.

Cold desert air. Feel as it bites at your skin. Smell the staleness in the breeze. The aridity, the lifelessness: You are so, so far from home.

Sae squints as she peers over the rocky ridge. A trio of lumbering, furred ungulates with six legs and ears that fall to their knees amble past, grunting and lowing, the only disturbance in the unsettling stillness of the Mirialan desert plains. An ugly world: It is her first time here, and hopefully it will be her last. A kilometer or so ahead on the plains lies the outer sprawl of a town. Off-brown buildings of stone and mudbrick, most no more than two stories high, jut out of the desert flats. Sae has the distinct reminiscence of her lone trip to Tatooine, to the spaceport of Mos Espa; apart from the chill in the air, this place is little different. Inhospitable, forlorn. Sad. A place where life is best off leaving.

Beside her, Tamri's stomach rumbles. "Sorry," mumbles her apprentice as she lies in the dirt, her face smothered in smoke and dust from their escape pod's landing site.

"We'll get food as soon as we can," says Sae, still surveying the wayward town. It has been…how long has it been? A half-day? More, less? The sun was just rising when they crash-landed in a canyon some way away from here, and now it has since set, darkness falling across the drylands, blues and violets inching across a darkening sky. They have evaded multiple Separatist scout drones and patrols surveying their crash site until they have reached here, now, lost penitents alone in the desert, waiting for something, anything—a stone, a bush—to come alive with light and fire and point them to the path that might take them home.

One thing at a time. They have evaded their pursuers. That is one step down. "Is Neelotas coming back?" Tamri says, pulling her traveler's cloak tightly around her shoulders.

"Hopefully soon," says Sae. "Just be patient. We're okay for now."

"All right."

"It'll be fine, Tam. We're safe."

"All right."

Five minutes, Sae guesses. Ten. Her own stomach starts to rumble. Then a shadow pushes through scrub down at the bottom of the hill she lies upon, and instinctively she reaches for her lightsaber. At least she has something left over from the crash. "It's me," the shadow gruffs. Neelotas. At least they're all still alive and together.

Sae rises from her prone position. "Did you find anything in town?"

Neelotas lifts his hood, his face scrubbed with dust. "Yeah," he says, "found what you wanted. Found a couple things, in fact."

"Go on. We've got the time."

"Some magistrate from a bigger city's in town. Parked their ship at the local hanger bay. Dunno what they're doing here—some sort of government business, got the wife and kid with 'im—but security's pretty light in a place like this."

Tamri looks offended. "What are you suggesting? We just steal it?"

"Nothing, for now," Sae says quickly. Best not to inflame tensions when they're all running hot. Tamri's an honest girl and Neelotas is a former pirate; she doesn't need them quarreling at a time like this. "You find a communicator?"

"Yeah," Neelotas says. "There's a cantina—big one, bit upscale almost, not a run-down joint—near the center of town. Seems to service local bureaucrats and the like. They've got a couple galactic comms terminals. All pay-for-use, though."

"Whatever. Won't bother us," says Sae. "Can you…y'know…make a bit of a scene to draw off attention and give us a few minutes to use one?"

Neelotas snorts. "Pretty easy request. What kinda scene? Dead people kind, or just a chase?"

"Wait—we're just trying to get off-world, aren't we? Not killing people," interjects Tamri.

Sae sighs. "Get creative," she tells Neelotas. "I don't care how. I just need a few minutes to send a message to Coruscant. They need to know about Ziost. Once that's done, we can figure a way off this planet."

Neelotas shrugs. "Gettin' a message to your Jedi people?"

"Yeah. Yeah," says Sae, glancing at Tamri. "It's…just buy us a little undisturbed time."

"No problem," says Neelotas. And then he is gone, a shadow once more, cloak flapping in the wind as he disappears into the dusk.

Tamri rubs her shoulders for warmth. "Are you going to contact the Council?" she asks.

"I am," murmurs Sae. "You said it a while ago. Multiple times. I should've listened." Thoughts race around her head. You didn't listen, did you? And now you know better. You know then. Now. And what's coming. The things you have seen. The things you still might see. "We can still make this right. You remember the Jedi Temple's comms frequency, right?"

Tamri nods. "Yeah. Um…thanks, Master."

"Thanks for what?"

"For doing the right thing," says Tamri, looking away. "This is too big for us. Whatever you found on Ziost, and Dooku, and all that. I'd rather leave it in the Council's hands."

Sae stares at her. The girl has a strange sort of wisdom. A quiet sort. She's not bold, not brash—but she has the courage to admit when she's not strong enough. It's a sort of bravery few Jedi have. The strength to admit when you're weak is a rare strength, and Sae herself has always shied away from such things. For shame. "Hey," she says as Tamri looks away. "Hey, look at me."

Tamri glances her way. Glances away. Shadows thickening in her blue eyes. "When we're away from here, and safe again," says Sae, "we'll…look, when the Council's taking care of things and we're free and clear, we'll go wherever you want. Just the two of us. Maybe Neelotas too, if he somehow sticks around after all this crap. We can take it easy for a little bit. Leave the war behind, even for just a few weeks. That sound good?"

"Fine," says Tamri. But she does not look Sae's way again.

A half-hour later and they cross through the squalid streets of this lost-name town. Cloaked and hooded Mirialans glance up once, maybe twice, as they pass, eyes flitting past the humans who clearly do not belong in such a wayward town. Foreigners. Outsiders. Aliens. Maybe the locals saw the escape pod falling from the sky and maybe they did not. It makes no difference: Sae knows they do not belong here. If all goes well, they will not be here for long.

Another block and they reach the humble rear entrance of a whitewashed, two-story stone building, a cantina with columns and neon signs out front that here in the garbage-strewn rear is no different from any hovel or brothel. "This door," Sae says, sliding up to a metal entrance in the low, pale electric light that flickers overhead as the night falls over Mirial. "Neelotas should be drawing off any attention by now."

"Was he sure there's communicators in here?" says Tamri. "Comms that can reach Coruscant?"

"Bars often have this sort of thing on Rim planets like this. Master Gallia and I were forced to send an emergency message from Takodana in a place like this once," says Sae. "I don't doubt what Neelotas said. We can find the comms rooms on our own. Now come on. Don't draw your lightsaber if you don't have to. I'd rather get in and out without being seen."

She waves her hand, and with the Force as her guide the door opens. Sae slips into the cantina's employee corridors with one hand feeling her way along the wall and the other tickling at her belt, ready to draw her weapon despite her words to Tamri. Those same words that drove her forward before now tickle her mind again as she makes her way through the lonely hall: Forward. Keep going. Keep moving forward. She tries to shrug it all off, but her mind is not alone in its thoughts anymore. There is another voice sharing her head now, that same voice that has been there since Ziost, since she stared into that pit, since she witnessed that hellish light of the imprisoned Celestial and let a visitor from another time and place and realm in.

Keep going. That's what you always say, isn't it? Well: Me too.

She slips through the cantina's dusky halls undetected until she finds the public communicator room, a squat, circular, cordoned-off hall of four Holonet-linked comms terminals separated from one another by crumbling adobe walls. A crude sort of privacy, but this is a cantina: Just a couple hallways away and they are serving drinks and entertaining guests with mostly-nude dancing girls. Or hopefully not, if Neelotas has done his part and caused enough of a disturbance to draw attention away. "Okay," she says to Tamri as she approaches one of the holoterminals and taps its computer interface to activate it. "Can you get me a transmission to the Temple?"

"I doubt they have much security. Should be a cinch to slice," says Tamri. "Just give me a sec."

As Sae watches her apprentice tap away at the console, she acknowledges that Tamri is skilled in too many ways that she has never let her excel at. Slicing, like this. Engineering. Machines and parts and the things of this world that are beyond the Force and the Jedi. Too often has Sae looked away from what Tamri is good at and only seen her Padawan's flaws: Her weakness in the Force, her mediocrity with a lightsaber. She is not a perfect Padawan, no. Maybe she will never pass the Trials. But the things the girl can do with a computer, even one as lackluster as this meager terminal in a backwater cantina. The things Sae has overlooked. So many things she has missed about Tamri in their four years together. So many things she needs to focus on after all this is over. Her priorities have been all wrong all this time. Be a good Jedi, she has told herself, a quintessential Knight. Show her the ways of the Force. Teach her the ways to pass the Trials. Yet she has seen past all the ways to be a mentor, so eager to guide Tamri down the paved path that Sae has missed all the ways she could've taught the girl to be a good person. To be confident, to be brave. The things that matter. What time she has wasted these four years, and how quickly time passes. How easy it is to harbor regrets.

Well, no longer. Once they are off this planet, once they are safe, once this hideous mission is complete, Sae can get to rectifying those mistakes.

Tamri punches at the console and smiles. "Okay," she says, "it's not a live transmission, but you can record a message and it'll get to the Temple. Secure, and all that. Go ahead, Master."

Sae steps before the holoemitter's recording lens. "It's on?"

"It's on. I can adjust it before you send it, so don't worry."

The things this girl knows. One day, Sae promises herself, she'll know everything about her apprentice. "Here goes nothing," she murmurs. She steadies herself. Tell the Council everything they need to know. Hand off this responsibility. Leave this whole mess behind you. You have done enough. "This is Sae Tristess, calling the Jedi Council," she begins. "I am stranded on Mirial, behind enemy lines. I have made contact with the Jedi library on Ossus, as requested, and followed a trail of clues to the ancient Sith world of Ziost. Coordinates will be provided with this message. There, I—" she stops as a trickle weaves its way into her mind, a tendril slipping past her mental defenses and anchoring into the folds of her brain. Do you really want to tell them everything? Everything? There are things you should not say. Words that should not be repeated. For we are one now, you and I, ancient and new. Celestial and human. We have a bond, do we not? "I have…have found an ancient vergence in the Force," Sae pushes on, the words she wants to say slithering off of her tongue and dissipating in the dry air, new words replacing them as soon as they pass. Are they her words, or those of another? "A…a Dark Side nexus on Ziost that the Separatists have also tracked down. It is only a matter of time until Count Dooku and the Sith utilize its power."

She looks to Tamri. Looks away. Whether or not the Council believes her story, what does she owe Tamri regarding what she has seen? The truth? Can she say it? She pushes on: "It is a potential weapon that could turn the tides of this war and give the Confederacy an edge that could topple the Republic, should Dooku take advantage of it," she says. "I am urging you to send all available forces to Ziost, to seize control of the world and hold it against whatever the Separatists might send. This is no time for caution, Masters. I have…I have seen how…" she stammers. Her words fail her. Then they come, bit by bit, a spring of strength willing its way past her impediments: "I have seen the darkness that is there, and I have seen how things might end. I was not strong enough to stop it myself. Please: Heed my warning. If Count Dooku seizes upon Ziost and learns its secrets, he will learn the power to end the Republic and the Jedi Order as we know it. I am leaving this in your hands, Masters. Please."

Then she steps away. She can say no more. Off to the side, Tamri's lip trembles. "Master?" she says.

"Send it," says Sae. "Send the message and Ziost's coordinates. Let Coruscant know. And then let us run away from here."