ACT 2

Darth Maul dreams.

He sleeps but does not slumber. He sees but does not look. He bobs in the sea of the psyche; he twirls in the infinity of his mind. His plans lie in tatters, his schemes out-maneuvered by his foes, but he is not alone. He is Sith. He has kinship with the Dark Side. And he his brother. And more: He feels it as he opens his eyes in the dream-sprung ether, his body oddly unresponsive yet his thoughts flaring like live wires. Green mist billows around him in the dream world. A feeling of familiarity settles in his heart; a warmth, a relief, sprouts in his chest. No, he is not alone. His mother is still with him, too.

The sound of her voice eases away the pain of Mandalore's loss. "My son," Mother Talzin says, her voice soft yet echoing like thunder in his mind, "Maul. Look to me and know that you are not defeated. Look to me, son of Dathomir."

His eyes dart. From the mist Mother Talzin blooms, smoke twisting and stitching and pressing, her Nightsister form threaded to life by the somnolent weaver. She spreads her arms wide and the mist falls away; the dream twists and turns. Maul feels himself spinning about, and then finds himself standing on a blurry and hazy Dathomir, the red stone and earth forgiving beneath his feet, the sky terrible and mad. "Look up, and see that destiny realigns," Talzin says, and indeed in the dream the sky warps and howls, stars blinking in and out of existence, constellations blowing like waves towards the horizon. "Sidious is dead. The stillbirth of his plans leaves the galaxy in chaos. What would have been—Republic, Sith, Empire—is now in tatters, and in this grand madness do we remain, our revenge against Sidious stolen from our hands by Dooku. But this new galaxy, this world without Sidious, we do not find ourselves facing an ending. This great remaking is a cradle, my son, and new plans—our plans—are just as easily born as they are undone."

"I still have revenge," Maul growls. He tries to clench his fist, but in the dream his hands are not his own. This is Talzin's world, this land between life and death, sleep and wakefulness. Here he is not a Sith Lord. Here he is just her son, for here it is she who reigns. "I know Obi-Wan Kenobi lives. I will not rest until I have killed him."

"Your rage leads you astray," Talzin chides him, and again Maul spins, the world racing like a top around him. When he settles they are on a snow-covered planet, storm clouds raging overhead, a great tornado touching down atop a pyramid of grey. In the distance leviathans of shadow surge through the fog. "You think like a Sith when you let the Jedi blind you, Maul. Remember that you were born of Dathomir, made by Dathomir. By Dathomir you are, and from Dathomir you first came. Only once Sidious had stolen you away from me did he break you and mold you in his corrupt image. You are Sith as you wish to be, but do not let it distract you. There is so much more at stake. Far more than revenge."

She reaches towards the storm, and the cyclone stretches out to take her hand like a blind, mad god communing with its servant. "Dooku has devastated our home. He has torn your hard-won Mandalore from your arms. And even the Sith Order that you cling to he usurps. Hunting the Jedi will only play into Dooku's hands. Realize your true enemy. Our true enemy. It is Dooku, no less."

"I have not forgotten about him. He is a pretender. I am the Lord of the Sith, mother."

"So may you be, son. But now the galaxy is at stake. It is ours for the taking, but not in war. Not in open confrontation as Dooku and the Jedi would have. For all of Sidious's flaws, he was correct in one regard: It is plans and patience that will win true power, not naked displays of force."

"Would you tell me to assassinate Dooku?"

"Should the opportunity arise, perhaps, but your injuries and your long exile following your wounding on Naboo have left you much to learn about the state of this war, and the galaxy."

"I am not ignorant of things. I feel the flow of the Force. I know which way the winds of the galaxy blow, especially now with Sidious's death."

Talzin looks to him and smiles. "And yet compared to what Dooku has found, you know nothing. Look around," she says, pointing to the pyramid. "This is the world of Ziost. Here Dooku has found a weapon of unimaginable power: An ancient being known as a Celestial. A mad creature of the Force. With it he has a power you can only dream of: The power to see not only across space, but also across time."

Maul scowls. "You know this? Why did you not tell me of it before?"

"Because I could not feel it before, child, and so I did not know of it. Its connection to the Force is an antique link beyond my sight, a power far older than any magick I know. But once it was found by Dooku and…and another…this Celestial writhed and howled in the spirit realm so ferociously that I could not help but hear its cries and see it for myself. It is far stronger than any Sith. Yet I know more—I know that Dooku does not grasp the true nature of what he has lucked upon. He uses this being's power like a primitive handed a warship. In doing so, he stumbles ever closer to his own grave."

"I should seek this power myself."

"No, you should not. You are not capable of controlling the Celestial's power any more than Dooku is, and it would destroy you just as easily as it may destroy him," says Talzin. "What you should do, Maul, is let Dooku make his mistakes."

She swirls around him, fading into the mist, then reforming behind him. He turns, and once more they are on Dathomir. "Your mind is your greatest weapon," Talzin says. "You need no ancient power to guide you. Picture Dooku. Find his weaknesses. And then exploit them. For once you have, you will weaken him, and then you shall strike. Then, and only then, we will have our revenge. But until then, patience, my son. Patience. Our hour is not yet at hand, but it will be soon." She presses her finger to his forehead. "Now: To the waking world with you."

Maul's eyes snap open.

He rises like a predator, reaching for his lightsaber, but he is in no danger. The hyperdrive churns; around him is but dull grey steel and stale, too-warm air. They made it off of Mandalore in one of the few ships to break the Separatist blockade, he and Savage, and now they pound their way through hyperspace towards the Black Sun's base on Ord Mantell. Towards refuge, towards a safe haven where they can rebound from the disastrous loss to the Separatists and plan their counterattack. For it is as he said to Talzin: He has not forgotten Dooku, and he will not let a pretender to the Sith throne stand uncontested. Not while he still draws breath. Not after all of those horrors he went through after his maiming at Kenobi's hand all those years ago.

Kenobi. The name knifes his mind. He scowls, gripping his forehead, sinking into his anger. Kenobi. Kenobi. I hope you felt agony when I killed that woman on Mandalore. I hope you suffered.

As much as he wants to pursue Kenobi to the ends of the galaxy, however, Talzin was right. He must be patient. If he waits, if he strategizes, if he strikes at and only at the perfect time, he will crush all his enemies. Dooku. Kenobi. All.

In the cockpit sits Savage alone at the piloting controls, staring idly into hyperspace. He grunts at Maul's approach. "Forty hours out from Ord Mantell," he says.

"Good," Maul says, slipping into the copilot's seat. "We must gather our forces."

"The Mandalorians were wiped out. It is just the criminal syndicates now," Savage says. "Even if any of our Mandalorian loyalists remain on Mandalore, they will not last long."

"Mandalore is in the past. A useful tool to begin, but nothing more than that. We must look forward. We must consider the grand scheme of things, not the minutiae of planets and soldiers."

"What scheme is that?"

Maul chuckles and folds his arms across his chest. "The only scheme that matters, brother. Power."

Savage shakes his head, frustration tugging at his face. "So where do we get more power? With Mandalore falling and Taris gone, most neutral systems will flock to either the Republic or the Separatists. The Hutts?"

"You think in simple terms. Power can be exercised in many ways: There is soft power, political power, the power of words…and the power of people. And that sort of power can be employed both for one's cause and against another's," Maul mulls. "With Sidious dead, the Republic's leadership is decapitated. They will be without their Chancellor. Their Senate will be in chaos."

"Do we attack the Republic? That would play into Dooku's hands."

"Indeed it would, and so we do not attack the Republic. Dooku will see to that. Without Sidious controlling his movements, he will take advantage of the Republic's weakness and assault it with all of his might," Maul says. "Yet that leaves him quite vulnerable to where he will not be focusing on: His heart."

Savage looks confused. "The Outer Rim?"

Maul scoffs. His brother still has so much to learn. He is a potent fighter, true, but in the art of strategy he is but a novice. A mewling babe. For now, fit only to be an apprentice. "Not anything so literal. Think, Savage. Dooku is safe with his armies and his fleets, but what is the Separatist Alliance? Is it merely fleets? No, of course not. It is a civilization. A sociopolitical body. And that means it is ripe for division."

"How?"

"Fundamentally, the Separatists seek secession from the Republic. Yet Dooku will not be content with that now that Sidious is gone and the Republic reeling: He will seek more. He will seek conquest. Domination. Power. His battle droids will follow his every word, but will his people? Will the Confederate Senate, on Raxus? What will the people of the Alliance say when they begin to suffer, all while Dooku focuses his energies and resources on attacking the Republic? Will they be content to simply suffer in silence? Or will they muster resistance?"

Savage nods. "Then we attack where Dooku is not. His people. Their homes. Infrastructure, resources."

"You learn quickly," Maul says, tapping his copiloting console as if moving pieces around a dejarik board. "The process is simple. We create a problem for Dooku, one he is ill-prepared to solve. A problem his armies cannot simply erase. From that problem, we elicit a reaction. And then all we have to do…is present the proper solution."

"And what is that solution?"

Maul smiles. "All in due time, brother. Patience."

The color is off in Bail Organa's office in the Republic Senate Executive Building. Perhaps it is just the haze on a bleary Coruscant day; perhaps it is the half-closed shutters slicing apart the feeble afternoon light. Yet to Obi-Wan everything in here seems a shade too dark. The walls in their royal blue now glower with the color of unsettled seas. The overhead lights cast a twilight pallor. Even the faces of the two men he speaks with now look off: One old, one young, but both troubled. For Korkie Kryze, the trouble is understandable given Mandalore's fate. But Senator Organa hides a different anxiousness, his face long and papery as if he has not slept in days.

Obi-Wan knows the feeling. How long has he slept since that debacle on Mandalore? Satine. The news of Ahsoka. Trying to keep Anakin together. But then what he saw in the Hall of Knighthood…Qui-Gon. The shade of a good friend he thought long gone. He, at least, has hope.

It's more than he can say for Mandalore: "The situation is as Korkie says," he tells Bail Organa. "The Separatists came in force. It was a full-scale occupation army, the kind they typically only employ against our most fortified worlds. They wanted Mandalore, so badly that it was enough to draw Count Dooku himself to oversee things personally. Mandalore may have been neutral, Senator, but that neutrality has long since passed."

"I understand that, Master Jedi, but it's not a matter of scale, it's a matter of priorities," says Bail, his voice strained. Exhaustion is picking away at the veteran politician, scrubbing off his sheen. In public he is the same firebrand senator he has always been, but in private his walls are weathering salvo after salvo. The war is breaking them all down, senator, Jedi, everyone. Even Chancellor Palpatine must be feeling it, Obi-Wan thinks. Perhaps that it is why the Chancellor has yet to confer with the Jedi Council about the Mandalore situation, his office refusing even simple requests for contact.

"Priorities?" blurts out Korkie. Not the politician, this one. A fighter's spirit in him. In truth, Obi-Wan approves—a shade of Anakin in the young man—but this is not exactly the best time for that sort of defiance. Politics. How tiresome. "Mandalore is burning, Senator Organa. My aunt, the Duchess, is dead! Ask Master Kenobi here—"

Bail shakes his head. "If I could send a fleet to relieve every burning world in this war, I would," he tells Korkie, "but with our numbers, I'd only be able to send a single ship to every planet. Plus, that would make me a dictator, not a senator. Assuming Senator Amidala gets approval for your speech before the Senate, you have my support. Mandalore's position right along our front lines on the galactic north make it important, as well."

"This isn't about your priorities—"

"Frankly, if you want to win the Senate over, you'd better start thinking that way," Bail says, cutting off Korkie's outburst. "Politics is the art of the possible, Korkie. It's the best we can do, not the best we can dream up. It's practicality and negotiation, diplomacy and cooperation. We're not the Separatists. We aren't invaders."

Korkie scowls and looks away, but he does not reply. Obi-Wan knows Organa is right: Mandalore is an important world, but so is Thyferra, Taris, and a thousand over planets. The Republic navy has only so many ships, and one wrong move can lead to calamitous results. The losses incurred from the battle over Ziost speak to that.

A minute later the door swings open and Padme enters. She looks far more beaten-down than Bail Organa does, her face lean and gaunt, her eyes underlined with dark blemishes. Obi-Wan knows the story with her, though: She's been speaking to Anakin. Or, more precisely, he's leaned on her when Obi-Wan can't quite keep him standing up straight during this whole ordeal with Ahsoka's near-fatal wounding at Grievous's hands. They are all the paying the price.

Even Padme's voice is worn, battered: "I got approval to schedule your speech before the Senate," she says to Korkie. "Two days from now. Senator Chuchi's outside; she'll take you and help you out with putting together the basics for speechwriting."

"I know some of it," says Korkie. But he catches Obi-Wan's look of disapproval, thinks better of his response, and adds, "I'm grateful, Senator Amidala. I'll follow her. Thank you. Both of you."

Quickly Korkie is gone, and then it is three once more. Padme shakes her head and sighs. "I know how he must feel. I was angry at the Senate when I came here as Naboo was under the Trade Federation occupation. I thought our democracy was sluggish and old."

"Sometimes it is. But it's what we have," says Bail.

"Yes," Padme agrees. "It is. And I saw better, knew better, in time. He has a good heart, Korkie. You were right to bring him here, Master Kenobi. I know the Senate will listen."

Obi-Wan strokes his chin. "For his sake, and Mandalore's, I hope so. But you were right about one thing, Senator Organa: It's just one world. We're taking losses everywhere, it seems. Frankly, if I was the representative of some no-name planet, I'd be hard-pressed to vote for the liberation of a formerly-neutral world with the Republic's borders falling back by the day. I hope Senator Chuchi's in the mood for speechwriting."

"I'd actually considered that point," says Bail. "If we appealed directly to Chancellor Palpatine, we might be able to convince him to pass an emergency motion to commence a military action against the Separatist invasion. He could declare it an unlawful military action outside of the boundaries of war, and then we wouldn't need the whole Senate's vote. We'd only need the Defense Appropriations Committee's sign-off for budgetary purposes."

"I'm sensing there's a 'but' in here," says Obi-Wan.

Bail nods. "But…I haven't been able to speak to the Chancellor at any time in the two weeks since news came of Mandalore's fall."

"You too?"

Padme looks quizzical. "Master Kenobi?"

"After the action at Ziost, the Jedi Council wanted to confer with the Chancellor. His office has refused our every request," says Obi-Wan. "We have no explanation for it. We can't even find the man."

"And we've heard no word from the Chancellor or his office regarding Mandalore. Or anything. Even the Core Education Reform Act that passed last week—big news for the worlds that still know peace, certainly big news back home on Alderaan—the Chancellor wasn't even present for the vote. Vice Chair Amedda presided over things. The Chancellor hasn't offered any comments in two weeks, his office has been silent…I don't know what's going on, but I have a bad feeling about it," says Bail.

"Now and then Chancellor Palpatine has needed to take unscheduled visits to member worlds. Perhaps it's one of those times," says Padme. "Although you think he would've told someone, or at least allowed his office to comment on domestic affairs in his absence."

"You would think so. And yet here we are, without a clue."

Obi-Wan thinks. His mind drifts to Thyferra, back to when everything still seemed normal by the war's standard. Back before Mandalore, and what happened above Ziost. So many strange things afoot—he has even received word that Sae Tristess, of all people, had returned to the Temple from her mission to Ossus, except she had come back alone. Her Padawan killed in action, according to her. Tamri Dallin. A good girl. Ahsoka's childhood friend. Obi-Wan didn't know her too well, but every Jedi loss is a shame, and they are all the worse when he can match a name to a face, especially one so young.

And then Sae had disappeared, with no one the wiser as to where she'd gone. Everything is a mystery these days, and if it's not a mystery, it's a burning wreck of a defeat.

But again, his mind is running off. It does that too much these days. Thyferra, the Tath bunker that Anakin and Captain Rex scoured, the computer data that pointed to mysterious activity in the Senate District linked to the Taths, one long winding trail from Taris right back to here, as if Obi-Wan's path since setting out for Taris has come full-circle. Is the Chancellor's disappearance connected? He was quick to dismiss the Taths as mere Separatist tools, but if they have connections here in the Senate District, what more could be at play? Are the Separatists capable of striking directly at the Senate?

"Master Jedi?" Bail pipes up, drawing Obi-Wan from his ruminations. "You look lost in thought."

Obi-Wan nods. "I was just thinking of a finding Anakin made on Thyferra, shortly after the battle. It was the end of the road we'd tracked from Taris—"

Bail shudders. "An unpleasant memory, that."

"Yes indeed. The Taths' influence apparently stretched far beyond Taris and our fateful encounter with them. Their stronghold on Thyferra was routing artifacts, resources, and other goods—including, of all things, kyber crystals—to various accounts backtracked right here on Coruscant, into the Senate District itself, in exchange for massive payouts. But we never found out who on Coruscant was on the receiving end of all that material. Mandalore lit up soon after, then Anakin was drawn to Ziost…but Anakin was so intent on finding that source. His thought was either that the Separatists had an intelligence cell in the Senate District, or that we have a traitor right here in our heart."

Bail looks troubled. "It's certainly possible. I've received reports from the Senate Bureau for Intelligence regarding a pair of intel cells the Republic has on Raxus; it wouldn't be a stretch for the Separatists to have operating capability here. But right in the Senate District?"

"It's a big place," murmurs Padme.

"Yes, but…" Bail trails off. He narrows his eyes. "Do you think this has anything to do with the Chancellor's absence, Master Kenobi?"

"I have no idea. Just a thought. A lead I wish we'd had time to follow before…before all this turbulence," he says. He glances at Padme. Briefly their eyes meet. Then they look away. "But there's never enough time for everything."

An alarm on Bail's desk trills out. "Well put," he says. "I hate to cut this short, but I have a meeting with Senator Mothma in five minutes. Please, don't feel the need to leave on my account. My office is yours."

"Of course," Obi-Wan says, bowing as Bail Organa hurries from the room. With his departure a certain awkwardness settles over the room, a fog that both Obi-Wan and Padme pretend not to see. "Well, I should be going myself," he says, clearing his throat. "Duties at the Temple."

Padme is first to reach across that gap. "Obi-Wan—wait."

He closes his eyes. He already knows what she's going to say, and moreover, he knows he doesn't have the answers she wants. But he will try. For her sake.

For Anakin's sake.

"Senator," he murmurs.

Padme pauses. They are going to pretend, he thinks. Pretend they don't know. Pretend that the suspicion he has had for so long—those moments when Anakin is around Padme and he looks happier and more fulfilled than at any time in the Jedi Temple, that connection that always has him working with her whenever Senate business comes calling for the Jedi—they will pretend that it is nothing. That they are nothing more than Jedi and senator. That there was no special reason that Anakin was in stitches wanting to rescue Padme—and Organa, of course, because he was there too, but really, come now—on Taris. But once Padme starts, Obi-Wan doesn't want to pretend. Just for once. He tells himself he cannot, that he must keep his silence, not ask the questions about Anakin and Padme that want to come out, but holding back the urge is growing more and more difficult. And given the topic at hand, it's even harder than ever to keep up appearances.

"I—Master Skywalker told me—" Padme begins.

"Please, Padme," Obi-Wan says. "We've known each other too long for formalities. I know what happened over Ziost. I know how Anakin feels right now."

Padme hesitates, but she's a fighter, and she pushes on even despite Obi-Wan's warning signs. "I know Ahsoka is Anakin's responsibility as his Padawan," she says, her voice straining, "but I…I…if there's something I can do…I don't know what I can do. Anakin talks about it, about her—to me, I mean—"

She is trying her best to walk that fine line. It's painful to listen to, but Obi-Wan at last finds his grip. He will bear it. He will pretend that there is nothing unusual about any of this. "There isn't anything to do," he says.

"I—what?"

"You said it yourself. Ahsoka is Anakin's responsibility. He is a fighter beyond compare, a warrior among the finest in the Republic, but now he has to be something more. Only he can support Ahsoka now. We're just the people around him. If you want to help him, then find time in your busy senatorial schedule and just…be there. Listen. Because that's the best any of us can do. Words aren't going to help him now. He can't fight his way out of this, and no amount of advice or guidance will give him what he needs. Anakin needs to be a man. He needs to rise to the occasion. That is all. No more, no less."

Again they make eye contact. That is all, isn't it? Because if his suspicions are true—if, as if they aren't—this is the test of Anakin's mettle. Not just as a Jedi, but as a person. And to you, Padme—do you need a fighter? A Jedi Knight of your own? Is that all it is? Or do you need someone more than that?

But those are questions he will not broach. He is pretending, after all, pretending not to look into the shadow-laden corners even he does not dare to tread. Instead he bows his head and says, "Now, I really do need to be off. Good day, Senator Amidala."

He feels her eyes tracing his back as he leaves. I'm sorry, he thinks. Perhaps I'm not brave enough to cross that line. Or perhaps that requires more than simple bravery.

"So what exactly is the plan with her? Leave her to freeze to death in that cell, or were you actually interested in turning her to the Dark Side?"

Dooku gets a hold of his anger. There are times—so many times—where anger is the best of weapons, but there are also times where it is best to keep rage in check. And with Taron Malicos, he has to pick his battles. The frustration this man brings out. How in the world was he promoted to Jedi Master? His japes and sarcastic, smarmy comments. Dooku almost wishes he'd found and turned Sae first, let her deal with Malicos. But this is the position he is in, and with this he must make do. "If you have a better plan on handling her, you are free to share it."

"Well, it's like this: You've left that Pella girl in a cell all this time, and what's she done but just sit there and rot? Seems like this is round two."

"Pella Starseer will have her use, but she is only a child. Just a broken Padawan. Sae is very different. She is—was—a Jedi Knight, and one strong in the Force. She will fill a far more immediate need."

"And you're going to accomplish that by having us stare at her when she's in her cell?"

Dooku looks at Malicos with a desire to throttle the Sith acolyte. Perhaps I will feed you to her, instead. He could shock the man with a blast of lightning, treat him like he did Savage and Ventress, but he has the distinct impression that would only give Malicos what he wants. The man seems to enjoy pain now. The Dark Side has taken to the former Jedi Master in a particularly strange sort of way: In doing away with all of the trappings of the Jedi, Malicos has even abandoned all of his former civility. It is like bearing with a barbarian. If Malicos wasn't as strong as he is, Dooku would cut him down just to get rid of the aggravation. He does not suspect treachery of the type he wielded against Sidious—not yet, at least—but by the time that comes, Malicos will have likely killed Dooku out of sheer annoyance.

At least he won't be tempted to veer back to the Light. Of that Dooku has no doubt. Malicos is enjoying this new life with the power of the Dark Side at his disposal and none of the morality of the Jedi holding him back. "If you still have a mind left in that head of yours, Malicos, use it. Sae is broken. She lost her master, Adi Gallia, and now has lost her Padawan, Tamri Dallin. It is too easy to see how much of herself she placed in those close to her, and with their deaths, she has come apart. We need not interfere in this process: In isolation in her cell, Sae will reflect on her failure. She will reflect on her loss, on her failure to keep them alive, on her inability to even die properly. And when she has finally reached the bottom, when she sees just how powerless she is, it is then and only—listen to me—only then that we can begin the process of building her back up. When she is nothing more than the constituent pieces that comprise Sae Tristess, then we will put those pieces back together in whatever ways we see fit. In the ways that make for a strong Sith."

Malicos shrugs. "Why is this my duty?"

"Because I have other things to do than stand watch over Ziost. We are in a unique position of opportunity with Darth Sidious's death, and we must take advantage while the Republic reels from the loss of their Chancellor. Time is of the essence. We must act. And that requires me to be elsewhere," Dooku says. They are back on this fascinating old world of the Sith, not far from the Celestial and its imprisonment within the storm-pounded pyramid, tucked away in the depths of a base hastily erected by Separatist construction teams. Here Dooku will build his army of Sith; here will the Sith Order grow, starting with Sae, then one by one as he draws the Jedi off and forces them to face reality: That they are not powerful, not without facing and embracing the Dark Side, not without joining him. And those who do not join him…well, he can find uses for them, as well.

"So that's what I'm doing? Standing watch?" says Malicos, looking bored.

Dooku pounds his fist against the table between them. Malicos does not look the least bit bothered. "Ziost has become our most important world. The power here cannot be lost. Not at any cost," he says. "But we are at war. The Separatist Alliance will not stand by idly while you and I build the Sith Order to come. You are capable, and I know quite well by now that you have a grip on the Dark Side. As impudent as you are, I am entrusting you with an important task. I am entrusting you with Sae. Turn her. Make her ours. And while you are doing it, yes, stand watch. Ensure the safety of Ziost. We cannot lose it."

"Got it."

"I certainly hope so," Dooku says. "Know this: Sae is not you. She will not embrace the Dark Side simply because of its power. In her pain, she is vulnerable, but she will need more persuasion."

"Such as?"

Dooku looks away. "Once she embraces the fact that she has lost everything, give her something to lose. She needs that fear of loss, of pain. With that fear, her anger will come far stronger than it ever has. Her hate towards the Jedi, for the pain they made her endure—that too, will come. And then she will be ours."

Malicos laughs. "That I can do. That I can do, My Lord."

Dooku sighs. Even Grevious makes that honorific sound better. But he has an odd sense of trust in Malicos: The man turned to the Dark Side quicker than Dooku could have hoped and has grown powerful enough to face off with the Jedi without a shred of hesitation. Despite his…quirks…he was a good choice to bring into the fold. He will serve the Sith well. "Good," says Dooku. "I am counting on you, Malicos. The Sith begins anew with us. No more are we simply two. No more are we merely master and apprentice. The old order of phantoms and shadows ends, and a new order, an order of power, of strength, begins. Do not disappoint me."

Where? In deep space does it pass, this bulk freighter, this transport of hell, cargo of oblivion, wanderer of the abyss. Its passengers like penitents to a lesser purgatory, writhing in their shackles, their voices screaming out with no ears to listen. They know, each and every one of them, that a moment has come and gone: The moment when their old lives ended and their new lives began. The moment when they passed from being sapient, free beings of the galaxy and became merchandise. Goods. Slaves. For that is all their worth to the Haxion Brood.

This is no-man's-land, the dead space between worlds, between souls, where only demons dwell. Nothing alive lasts here for long.

Yet deep within the bulk freighter stirs a soul. A single spirit locked behind an energy gate and imprisoned in the most secure cell on the ship, walled in by durasteel, sensors, and a pair of blaster-armed drones keeping a constant watch. The shackles binding this prisoner's wrists and ankles will do little. They are just metal and physical locks, and such things are easily manipulated by the Force.

And this prisoner knows the Force, for she is a Jedi. Not a powerful one by any means—far from it—but the Haxion Brood pirates who crew this ship do not know that, and they are just as terrified by what they have on board as they are elated by the price her head will earn them.

For a day after she is taken aboard, the Jedi stirs in a fitful half-sleep, passing in and out of consciousness, never quite aware of her surroundings. Oxygen deprivation after days aboard a cramped escape pod brought her to the doorstep of death, and captivity does little to remedy her situation. But she is young and healthy, and little by little she fights back, strengthening, rousing, the Force growing in her as, at last, her eyes open.

Tamri Dallin sits up. And immediately—she panics.

She spies the chains shackling her hands and feet and a surge of adrenaline shoots though her. For a moment she thinks she is still imprisoned on the Haxion Brood station, but—no, no. The walls are steel, not rock. And Sae—Sae came for her, didn't she? They met. Tamri fled in that beat-up pirate freighter. Shields failing, she made a break for the escape pod just as Sae shouted at her to do, and…and then…

Then it is hazy. She does not know everything that happened. Her memory is formless, colorless. She only knows that she is here, bound in the hold of…what? A ship? A station? Is she on a planet? No, definitely a ship: The ground rumbles with the tell-tale quaking of engines, and she can just make out the rumble of a hyperdrive on the air beyond the buzzing of her cell's door. A ship, then. A ship to where? The Separatists were on the Brood station—is this their ship? Does Count Dooku have her, even now?

First things first: Find a way out. She looks at her shackles: Pointless to free herself, unless she can also get the door open. It will only anger any guards.

No, first—first get a hold of yourself. She focuses, trying to stop her frantic breathing. Slow down. Slow down. You have to slow down. Breathe in. Breathe out. The Force is all around you. Inside you at all times. The Living Force is in your feelings, your instincts, so trust them. What do they tell you?

They tell her she's screwed, that's what.

Sae. Sae, please. Sae come and get me. Just this once more. Please. I'll do better Sae, promise. Just come find me.

But she knows: Her master is not coming. Where Sae is she does not know, but what Tamri does know is that she is on her own. She needs to figure this out. There has to be a way out. Focus. Concentrate. Focus.

The door. No generator within for the energy gate. No weak points for her to try and finagle open with the Force. And outside, just past the energy wall, she spots the drones, guns at the ready. No, not that way. She looks behind her, around, below, above. Don't leave any stone unturned. But there is nothing: No loose bolts, no uneasy gratings, no conveniently-placed air shaft. This is not a holodrama. There is no easy way out, no chance for her to make a quick escape and jet out of here back to the Jedi Temple.

Patience, then. One step, then the next step. If you can't get out by yourself, then wait until a guard comes past. Use the Force. Get them to free you. You can manage that, can't you? You have to. You have to be strong.

But she is not strong. She never has been strong. And as time ticks away—is it minutes? Hours? How should she know?—her resolve withers. She could manage the first time. Sae came for her on the asteroid base after Lendon Rust ambushed her on Mirial. But to have this whole mess happen again—it drives a spike into her heart. Tamri brings her knees to her chest, holds tight to her legs, and cries.

Please. Help.

Help does not come. Instead a burly Weequay passes by the door, sees Tamri awake, and begins hollering. In short order two other guards come up, one a Quarren, the other another Weequay, the three of them arguing about what to do. The Quarren takes command: Jabbering orders, he sends one Weequay away, snapping at the other until his companion returns with a tray of off-brown, perhaps-edible food and a cup of water. Then he lowers the gate.

She needs to do it. Now. Not later. Not tomorrow. Now. Be strong.

"Hey," she says as the three guards enter. She keeps her eyes straight on the Quarren. "Hey—where am I?"

The Quarren snaps at her in Huttese. So much for diplomacy. As the first Weequay sets her foot tray down, she focuses her concentration. Let the Force flow through you. You are a Jedi. You can do this. "You," she says, losing her resolve momentarily as the Quarren snaps at her. "You will let me go. You will undo these." The Quarren scratches his chin. "You will let me go free."

For a moment she thinks she's succeeded. The Quarren looks dazed as she waves her hand, summoning all her concentration. He takes a step towards her as if to undo her chains—and then one of the Weequays elbows him, muttering. The Quarren blinks, shakes his head, and kicks Tamri straight in the stomach.

She squeaks in pain and curls into the fetal position as he kicks her in ribs, bellowing in Huttese. Bad idea. She could get one of them, but not the whole trio. He kicks again and a fourth time before one of the Weequays stops him, counselling him in broken Huttese that Tamri can't quite piece together. The Quarren stops his assault, but he bends over her, yammering in her ear so loud she's afraid he'll burst her eardrum. Then he stalks off, his attendants quick on his tail, the energy gate thrown up to trap her once more.

So much for that. All her hopes ending in pain radiating from her side. She slumps over, shackles clanking, the buzzing of the door deafening in the otherwise-silent cell. She just has to wait. Patience. Patience. But it is hard to be patient when she cannot see the other side.

Please, Sae.

Sae does not come for her. Sometime later—after another five food trays and several more kicks—a new group of visitors clusters at her door. One of them is a Nikto dressed better than the rest of the thugs who have met her during this ordeal, the unfortunate man bearing the scars of a long pirating life with only one eye and one arm. The three others with him, however, clearly do not belong on this scow. At first glance she thinks they are human. Each is draped in tight silk gowns in violet and blue, each with heads full of glossy, smooth white hair, luxury and niceties no stranger to them. The closest of the three turns Tamri's way, and it is then she sees it: They are not humans after all, not unless this one has had significant, unnatural alterations. Humans do not have eyes of silver, so light the iris seems to recede into the sclera.

Tamri has seen enough of the galaxy with Sae to have laid eyes on their kind before, however, although only among the most elite of private security. Echani. Dangerous people. Far more dangerous than whatever thugs have penned her up in here. This must be a negotiation then—the Nikto negotiating for the ship, the three Echani for an outside interest. Buyers, maybe. At this point Tamri does not know what is an opportunity and what will only earn her a boot to the ribs, so she stays quiet and still, watching, eyes wide. Just give me a chance already.

The tallest of the three Echani nods to the Nikto and the two shake hands. And agreement has been made. Time for credits to pass. But the Echani also nods to one of his companions, and as the Nikto talks on, the companion circles around behind him, staying just beyond his notice. Then, as the Nikto motions towards Tamri's cell, the Echani behind him draws a hold-out blaster, aims, and fires a violet blaster bolt squarely into the Nikto's head.

The thug drops immediately. A perfect shot.

Tamri waits, holding her breath. She can't do anything like this. Her heart races, out of control. She feels as if she's going to explode. Please don't.

The lead Echani smirks at the Nikto's body. He presses a circular device to the energy gate, unleashes a blast of electricity across it, and lowers the door. Then he strolls in, eyes flitting across Tamri, his grin drooping into a scowl.

Tamri's stomach flops over. "Please," she says, holding up her hands as he draws a blaster pistol of his own. She looks around, desperate. Can she move the Nikto's body enough to shake him? Is there anything else she can throw? Something to save herself with? "Please, people can pay for me. You don't need to do this."

The Echani laughs. "I know, Jedi," he says in airy, heavily-accented Basic.

He presses a button on his blaster. Tamri swallows; already she knows what he's doing: Setting it to stun.

He aims at her. Smiles. And fires.