The voices return as Dooku walks down the long, wretched hallway to the Celestial. Dark, twisted walls. The air heavy. The passage like a closing throat. The only sound the voices. He expects Talzin: After all, she was who spoke the last time he walked this corridor, before he saw the revelation that won him victory on Mandalore. But it is not Talzin who calls from the darkness of Ziost this time. Instead Dooku hears the cackling of someone he thought gone forever, one he hoped never to hear again: His old master. Sidious.

Quiet, at first; so quiet as to be imperceptible. But the hissing becomes whispers, becomes murmurs, becomes words. And as Dooku draws closer and closer to that swirling madness at the heart of this storm-besieged pyramid on Ziost, the dead speech of Lord Sidious slips between his thoughts and nests in his mind. "Lord Tyranus. You think you have won."

At first Dooku says nothing. He does not stop but his eyes wander the walls, searching for movement, for disturbances. Sidious is dead, but in death he still haunts the galaxy. His voice silenced but his echoes rebounding. Silence once more as Dooku walks on: The Dark Side vergence ahead expects an answer. It roils, swirls, pulls on his feelings. He has used it once to such effect: Who is he to deny it now? Such a useful tool, the Celestial. He will indulge its hunger so long as it serves him. For it does serve him, he knows. Everything will serve him in time. "I have won, Sidious," Dooku mutters. "You are dead. The Dark Side is at my command. The past wiped clean; the future commences."

"You know nothing of the future, apprentice," Sidious's voice spits from the deep. "The war proceeds as I have foreseen. Your eyes have yet to open."

"Did you foresee your demise? Perhaps it is you who were blind the whole time, and my eyes the only ones to see," Dooku says. Part of him feels the fool for indulging in the voice—not even Sidious could escape death—but the Dark Side curdles and, dare he say it, smiles, when he responds, as if urging him on, promising rewards. The Force is meant to be used. Use it. Embrace it. Let it in and wield it.

The voice chuckles. "Your arrogance will unmake you, Tyranus. Do not forget what I told you when you first pledged yourself to me—to the Dark Side. When you left the whimpering Jedi and their obsolete Code behind. Only through me will you know your true power. Only through me will you meet your destiny."

"I will divine my own destiny, my former master," Dooku says with a smile as he steps out into the Celestial's chamber and walks out onto the viewing platform above the snarling, snapping abyss. "It is not arrogance. It is power. The power to bend all things to my will—even time. A power you will never know. Hence I survive, and you do not."

Sidious's cackling rings out as Dooku raises his arms into the air and looks down at the Celestial. Just like last time, that hellish maw stares back with an eye of the Force, its sight peering through instinct, beyond mere light and distance. Dooku can feel it gazing upon him, through him, into him. Let it in. Just another tool for him to wield, no matter how much it might taunt him with the words of Darth Sidious. Enduring its needling is a trivial price to pay for such strength—and he will need all the strength he can get to bring order to the galaxy. To put aside the notions of Republic and Confederacy and bring about his empire. "Now," Dooku says, eyes fixed downward into the dark, "show me your ways. Let the Dark Side spill forth and let me see across space and time."

The Celestial obeys. It whirls like a typhoon, howling through the Force like a wild beast, sickly yellow and black spinning in that sunken vortex as pinpoints of light sparkle to life above Dooku. Little by little a grand display of the galaxy unfolds, worlds, stars, nebulae, all of it twirling about Dooku's outstretched fingertips. He smiles. It is his. It is all his. "Show me," he commands again.

And again the Celestial obeys. Dooku closes his eyes and into that darkness he looks—he sees.

Coruscant. An enormous explosion rises above the Senate District.

Raxus. Fires burn a city to ash on the Separatist capital world.

Kamino. Drop pods fall out of the sky like hail.

Then the vision twists, warps. The future dims, blurs, discolors. Pain lances Dooku's temple and his smile fades. Show me. Show me the future. Show me how I will conquer. But the visions that form and twist in the dark behind his eyelids are no longer so clear. He cannot pinpoint a time. He cannot name a place. Yet still he sees.

Republic star destroyers in atmosphere, firing all cannons at an idyllic landscape, setting a world ablaze.

An array of green laser beams come together as one. The blast spears a shrouded planet and the world cracks like an egg.

Coruscant burns. Alderaan burns. Raxus burns. World after world after world burns. And above them all do Republic warships fire and put the galaxy to the torch.

Dooku snaps his eyes open. In the galactic map above a point of light blinks out. Then another. Then another. Lights snuffed out like candle flames until the galaxy map itself withers and dies, the only light the nauseous glow of the Celestial in its pit. Dooku steps back, gripping his head. Order. He will build order, bring order to this galaxy. That could not have been the future. The Republic would be so vindictive as to destroy it all to spite him? To salt the fields of its last remaining worlds in order to poison the fruits of his new empire?

Or was that not the future? No, no—it must have been. Those first sights, after all, felt so real, so trustworthy, so believable—Coruscant, and Kamino, and…and Raxus, ablaze. He shakes his head. The Celestial's predictions brought him Sidious's demise. It brought him Sae, right into his lap. It is fear that is forcing Dooku to look away from the future, not the prediction. It is the chaos that he fears, the disaster that this war could bring. Will bring, if his visions are anything to go by.

He steps up to the edge of the viewing platform and looks down again. The Celestial has settled, stirring in its bleak crater, a picture of madness tucked away in this prison of a temple, a mad god shackled to its throne. So be it. If that was the future—if the future is war and violence and apocalypse—then so be it. Dooku will be ready to meet it. Even a disastrous future will not stop the rise of his empire—in fact, armed with this knowledge, Dooku will only be stronger. All he has to do is make ready so that everything proceeds as he has foreseen.

He walks away with the sound of Sidious's cackling ringing in his ears.

Anakin was not sure what he expected tromping into the headquarters of the Republic's Senate Bureau of Intelligence, the highest division of civilian intel on Coruscant. What he certainly didn't expect was a modest—by Coruscant standards—steel tower and a decidedly average security suite at the front entrance. No snipers on watch or cutting-edge sensors to detect even the most hidden of armaments or communications devices. Nothing but a few armed guards and a basic weapons detector. Average. Below average for the Senate District's standards, even. Even the front desk, staffed by a pair of Twi'lek receptionists and without any sort of aesthetic splendor, has a decided sense of bureaucratic stiffness and utilitarianism, as if the Senate had allocated only a bare minimum of funds to keep its most secure intelligence branch running.

Strange. So strange that Anakin finds it suspicious.

"Ah, you must be Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker," one of the receptionists greets Anakin in a cheery voice as he steps inside. "We received all the details of your meeting request with Director Isard from Senator Amidala this morning. He will be ready to meet you shortly."

It feels less like a top-secret meeting with an intelligence director and more like a chat over lunch. "Is everything so casual around here?" Anakin says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I expected more security, at least."

"Oh, it's not necessary," the receptionist says. "We keep only a minimum of necessary staff on-site. Mostly employees handling regulatory requirements, along with financial and audit-related purposes to keep up with Senate requests."

"Huh? This is the Intelligence Bureau's HQ. Where's all the…y'know…intelligence-gathering part?"

The receptionist chuckles. "You'll see, Master Skywalker. But come—the Director is ready for you. Please mind your step; we're having some remodeling done."

Feeling as if he has either walked into a joke or a trap, Anakin follows along with a scowl. It was Padme's recommendation last night that he check the Bureau out, so he'll play along. For now: His patience is already strained given the drumbeat of a headache thumping from inside his skull. Another reminder of last night. Funny how tea and talk with his wife had quickly turned into…well, a lot more than tea. And a lot more than talk.

His headache only worsens, however, when the receptionist leads him to a small, six-walled, low-ceilinged room with several chairs. Steel walls, steel ceiling, steel floor. Not even a desk, let alone any sort of accoutrements that would precede a meeting with one of the most powerful people in the Republic's security apparatus. "We're meeting here?"

"Oh, yes," the receptionist says with a smile. "Please make yourself at home. The Director will be along shortly."

Quickly she departs and Anakin leans forward in his seat, sighing. Now he is sure he is the victim of some bizarre joke. What a waste of an afternoon. Padme had better make someone in the Senate hear about this.

Oh well. Plenty of time in the day left to take Ahsoka to the dojo again, link up with Obi-Wan to get the briefing on the Council's daily session, then still make it back home to pick up where he and Padme left off last night. Maybe even—

The lights dim and cut out, abruptly throwing the room into pitch-black darkness. Startled, Anakin reaches for his lightsaber. Then the lights return, but they are not electric, not the clammy, sad, pale bulbs of the headquarters building. Instead it is a pair of moons casting the glow from a night sky overhead, one moon blue, the other red, the blue one soft and shimmering, the red hard and pocked by craters. The room itself has been swallowed up by an elaborate, all-encompassing hologram and turned into what Anakin can only call a castle tower: Old gray stone bricks line the floor and half-demolished stone walls rise to knee and hip height around him, as if the tower was attacked long ago and now only this ruined edifice survives, persisting through centuries of neglect. Stranger still lies beyond the half-destroyed walls: Anakin peers over one and looks into a milky white light, like clouds or threads reaching out in every direction. A confusing sight, save for one thing: It's the most impressive holographic tech he's ever laid eyes on, especially since he's still in that same boring gray room the receptionist left him in. At least, he thinks he's still in it.

Only after a solid minute or two of looking around does Anakin realize he is no longer alone. This stone tower is far from large—just one central square overlooking the eternity that sprawls below—and at the center of the square sits a well-dressed man with short silver hair slicked to the side. A square jaw, bright green eyes, and an impeccable ensemble: Navy blue court jacket and dress pants, an under-tunic so brilliantly white it seems a shame to wear, and dress boots the color of twilight and shined to a sparkle. Anakin only recognizes him based on rumor and the mostly-full glass of off-brown liquor in his right hand, a single ice cube floating at the top. Armand Isard, Director of the Senate Bureau of Intelligence. A man for whom nothing in the Republic escapes his eye. "Anakin Skywalker," Isard says. No greeting. No ceremony. Simply a business-like voice without inflection, without hitch.

"Director Isard," says Anakin. He holds out his hands. "Fancy holotech. What's it for?"

"I have over six thousand field agents and enforcers to attend to, and over three hundred operations occurring at any given time to monitor. I lack the luxury of in-person meetings," Isard says. "If you find that discourteous, I would ask you to forgive me. Or at least to understand my position."

No lack of confidence to this one. "So you watch everything from here? How's that go?" Anakin says, looking around. "And why the…castle, keep, tower, whatever this is?"

"This ruin is important. It reminds me what's at stake," Isard says. He rises and walks past Anakin, his holographic form sliding right on by as seamlessly as if they were in the room together. "Look out there, if you would."

The swirling white mists that Anakin thought were clouds come together. Not clouds—arms of the galaxy, stars by the hundreds and thousands and millions. As Isard waves his hand the mists shrink away and the galaxy itself comes into view, the tower at the center of it all and all of known space reaching around in every direction as if they stand atop the galactic core. The Director points at one spot in the distance and a frozen world springs into view, rising like a drop of water falling in reverse and growing as it nears them until it looms beside the tower like another moon. "Rothana," Isard says as he rotates the planet with his hands. Red lines of text and symbols pop up across its icy surface. "Two counter-espionage agents of mine are currently on the world sniffing out a possible Separatist infiltration attempt against Republic foundries. From here I can review each and every detail of my agents, their mission, their findings, the world itself—anything. I have the galaxy at my fingertips here, Skywalker. Here I can reach out from one end of the Outer Rim to the other. Nothing less will suffice when I have to keep eyes on everything at once. Nowhere else will allow me to do just that."

"So you manage the Bureau out of a holo-room. Huh. Are you even on Coruscant?"

Isard gives him a knowing look and returns to his seat. "After Senator Amidala sent along your request to speak, I reviewed your findings from Thyferra based on the data collected by your special forces team. Specifically what Captain Rex discovered within a certain secret installation."

Now Anakin truly feels confused, as if he's missed out on something playing out behind his back. "You spoke to Rex?"

"Of course not. He filed a report after the Battle of Thyferra to military command. I procured a copy."

Anakin scratches his head. If only the Jedi could get everything filed and transmitted that quickly. No paperwork, no bureaucratic holdups. Maybe he should start working out of a holo-room when away on campaigns. "So you know what Rex found, then," he says. If nothing else, he appreciates that Isard calls the veteran clone captain by his adopted name. Too many people Anakin's met in command—many of them former Judicial Forces officers, others long-entrenched leaders in civil and political affairs, all of them so high-and-mighty—look at the clones and only see their serial numbers. CT-7567. Rex. There's a significant difference. "Something suspicious is right here—or least here where I am, I don't know where 'here' is for you—in the Senate District."

"Suspicious as in connected to the House of Tath of Taris and Arkania. I know where your trail took you, from Taris to Sleheyron to Thyferra. You can spare me the details."

"So you know the stakes. They work for the Separatists and might be in contact with a traitor. If they have a cell here on Coruscant, or some sort of operation—"

Isard shakes his head and takes a drink. "They do not, in fact, work for the Separatists."

"I—what? Of course they do. They opened up Taris to an occupation fleet right when I was fleeing the planet."

"I'm aware of the fate of Taris. What I can tell you is that Solan and Hosha Tath did not throw the planet to Count Dooku's hands out of any sense of allegiance. Instead the Separatists rewarded them handsomely by purchasing out their entire stake in the world, and immediately thereafter both Tath cousins left the planet, Solan returning to their noble holdings on Arkania and Hosha to parts unknown. Whatever goal they are pursuing, Taris—and the Separatists—are only a small part in it."

Anakin frowns. "You sound like you know quite a bit about them. Tell me."

"Only this: They have more formidable information security than any organization I have ever seen. My agents have penetrated every level of the Separatists' networks. I have yet to make much of any progress against the Taths'. I suspect they either are, or are part of, an independent group benefitting off of the war and likely doing business for both sides. What that could entail, however, is beyond my knowledge."

"Both sides? Republic included?"

"Of course. You know they have a connection to Coruscant. Do you think the Republic is free from all profiteers, from any corruption? War is more than black-and-white fighting. Even the Jedi know that light and dark are spectrums, not absolutes. And in that spectrum, there is plenty of shade for all manner of rats to hide in."

Anakin clenches his teeth. "I don't like the side of that. I did suspect that traitors might be operating out of the Senate District, but I only have a general idea of where to start looking based on the Thyferra data. I was hoping, by coming, that I might learn from you where to get started. If you know of anything suspicious, any sort of…I dunno, it was credit transfers, big ones, in that data from the bunker."

"As a matter of fact, I do know where you can start looking if it's treachery close to home that you're worried about," says Isard. He takes another drink, empties the glass, and pushes it away. It disappears from a view for a moment then returns, sitting on thin air beside him completely full and with a new, fresh ice cube. He picks it up once more, takes another drink, and continues: "I received a report recently about suspicious financial activity by a special liaison beholden to the office of the Dantooine senator, Ranis Sandral."

"Define suspicious activity."

"Spending far more credits than any bureaucrat from an insignificant world like Dantooine should have. Along with a few interesting cargo manifests, one of which my agent on the trail uncovered. The data you discovered on Thyferra mentioned a shipment of kyber crystals. So did this cargo manifest."

"Wait a minute. The Dantooine senator's people are selling us out? Seriously?"

"Don't jump to conclusions, Skywalker. I have a manifest. Not an arrest warrant," says Isard. "But given your enthusiasm, perhaps you'd do best resolving this lead."

Finally. "Yeah. I'll talk to this senator. I'm gonna find out what he knows."

"No. That will only alert our target, and he will flee if he suspects anything. Whoever is conducting this business, they are not doing it haphazardly," says Isard. "I have a small warehouse nearby where I've stationed a field agent. A former clone commando named Falco. Meet with him tomorrow at noon sharp, listen to his findings, and together close this circle and find out where this lead goes." Isard sets down his glass and it disappears. "No need to file any reports. I'll contact you next time."

"Hold on," Anakin says as Isard stands. "What's your angle in this?"

"My angle is the preservation of the Republic. The same as the Jedi Order's."

"Really? You've got agents spying on senators. Do you even tell the Senate that?"

"Not before I've first informed the Chancellor."

"Who's mysteriously missing all of the sudden. Know anything about that?"

"Perhaps it is a surprise to you, but I do not. If anyone could speak about that, it would be you, given your relationship with the man," says Isard. He regards Anakin coolly. "The Chancellor's disappearance has thrown a wrench into things, however. By will and charisma he has kept things together during this war, and we desperately need his stabilizing force. These last three years have witnessed the Republic tearing at the seams and threatening to come apart, even without the Separatist problem. We're not just at war with them. We're at war with ourselves, with our ideals, our government, our future. It's my interest to make sure that war never goes hot."

"Or?"

Isard sweeps his hand about the ruined stone tower. "Make sure you get some answers in your investigation, Skywalker," the Director says.

Then he is gone, the lights suddenly shutting off, the hologram flashing out. A moment later the dull white overhead lights of the headquarters building blink on and Anakin is once more within these bland steel walls, right back on Coruscant as if he had never left. Which, of course, he didn't.

He sighs. It feels as if half the day has just gone by and his road ahead has suddenly forked. It's enough to exacerbate his headache and make him want to punt on Jedi business for the rest of the day. No—he told Ahsoka he'd be there for her. Promised her. To the dojo they'll go.

Obi-Wan and the Council business can wait until another day. Not today. And, apparently, not tomorrow, either.

Hours? Days? Weeks? Who can tell? Not Tamri, not as she rots in this cell. Not as she fades in and out of consciousness, her body not her own, her fate left to the hands of strangers who poke and prod and draw blood and run tests and snap at each other. The Selkath attendant—Kesh—she Tamri can remember. And the Arkanian. Yurica. Yurica Tath. The one whose mother is coming. Names, faces. She has to hold on to something to keep herself from going crazy. Or to keep herself from losing her will to keep going at all. It would be too easy to give up and let whatever happens happen.

Free. She has to get free, get out of this place. A prison, a lab, a hospital—where is she, exactly? On Telos, Yurica said when she had Tamri strapped to an operating table. Not very much to go on. Keep your eyes open, Tam. But there's nothing to see in this cell where everywhere she looks is a metal wall. Only herself, the white-and-blue paper gown her captors have draped her in, and the intravenous line plugging her full of drugs that make it hard to think and even harder to move. She has to do something. Something. She can't just let this happen.

But where does she even begin?

The little things first. Keep your eyes open. Ears, too. Look for something, anything you can use. Any vulnerability. Don't forget a single thing. And fight through the hurt, the confusion, the shock. Fight. Fight.

Because no one is coming to fight for her.

The Selkath researcher, Kesh—researcher, attendant, jailer, whatever she is—looks almost frantic when she next enters Tamri's cell, rouses her from a muted sleep, doses her with another hit of paralysis drugs, and lugs her onto a gurney. Fight. Tamri struggles to find her focus. Fight. Concentrate on the lights, on the whining of the gurney wheels. Fight.

Through the stinging-eye haze of chemical sanitizer and the whirring and bleeping of a half-dozen diagnostic machines, Tamri overcomes the distractions and focuses on the muffled arguing she can hear in the area adjacent to her exam room. She knows the voices by now: Kesh and Yurica. And she can just make out what Yurica is saying—and, specifically, who she keeps talking about.

"…has to be perfect. Perfect, you idiot!" Yurica snarls. "Stop crying at me and tell me things are working perfectly. Mother will be here at any minute. Her shuttle's landing right now. Stop fumbling around!"

The whip-crack of a slap. Kesh's yelp of surprise and pain. Yurica bombarding the Selkath assistant with curses. Then comes a third voice, a softer tone, a man's, and Yurica's swears turn to groans and rapid-fire instructions. A minute later Kesh, rubbing the two cetaceous flukes that hang beneath her aquatic jaw, re-enters the exam room and furiously begins to click control panels, adjust monitors, and twist dials. Whatever that argument was about, something went wrong.

A kindling of courage sparks somewhere deep in Tamri's feelings. Her arms and legs aren't moving with the IV line still plugging her full of paralytics, but her lungs, her tongue, her voice—that all works. "It doesn't sound like your boss likes you," she says as the Selkath taps away at her console.

Kesh looks over at her with wide, worried eyes. Just a moment—then she returns to the computer as if nothing ever happened, as if she can just ignore it. Tamri tries again: "That sounded like it hurt."

"It did, thank you," mutters the Selkath under her breath. She does not look Tamri's way.

"Maybe you should quit. Yurica told me we're on Telos. There isn't a job that doesn't involve being slapped on all of Telos?"

Kesh glances at her and looks away just as quickly. A minute later and she finishes punching in commands into her console, gets up without a word, and leaves the room as if dashing to put out some other fire. Oh well. Tamri achieved nothing, but if nothing else, it felt good to provoke a reaction out of her. She has to count her victories as they come, because there's nothing else to hold on to in this abyss. Even hope feels as if it's slipping away.

She only has a short while to herself for reflection, however. Mere minutes later she hears Yurica's voice once more, all of her abrasiveness from before gone and replaced with a pleasing, placating tone: "…honest. I've run everything you asked for. She's not ideal, but still a Jedi, and that counts."

Answering Yurica is a silky-smooth, too-sweet voice that beneath the charm drips venom: "I will see for myself, Yurica. Leave me now." Tamri has the distinct vision of smiling red lips curling back to reveal viper fangs.

"But…but, Mother, I can—"

"Now. I won't say it again."

A sulky pout, soft footsteps. Then a drop of silence before the door slides open and Tamri is stunned into silence.

If she thought Yurica was tall, the Arkanian woman who now enters has her beat—easily; this woman could peer over a full-grown Wookiee with height to spare. She does not look the part of a researcher or lab worker, instead wearing a glossy gown of violet, noble, regal, without so much as a stain or even a loose thread. Her white hair flows in strands of silk; her eyes so colorless as to be spectral, otherworldly. She moves without an ounce of wasted movement and seats herself in a chair beside Tamri's table with the grace of an empress. With the imperiality of her appearance, it strikes Tamri as supremely odd that the Arkanian then draws a rust-colored stick from the folds of her gown and sticks it between her teeth. Tamri's seen that sort of thing before—from another life, another time, back when she was just a Padawan still, running around with Sae through crime-ridden streets on lawless worlds. A spice stick. And, if Tamri's nose and memory work, it's not just any spice the Arkanian is helping herself too, but the most valuable kind, a narcotic that sells for so much that crime lords kill each other for it. Glitterstim. Only from the deepest, nastiest tunnels on Kessel.

Rich, this Arkanian. And well-connected with unsavory people.

The woman takes a draw of the glitterstim stick, smiles as she inspects Tamri—or at least Tamri thinks the Arkanian is inspecting her; who can tell with those eyes—and says in a sugary voice, "There's no need to be afraid, Padawan." Then her smile fades and she turns her head towards the door. "More than I can say for some people."

Tamri shudders as the Arkanian woman runs a hand over her arm. "Who are you?"

"You can call me Hosha, Tamri Dallin," says the Arkanian. "I think you've met my daughter."

"Yurica?"

"Yes. Unfortunately. She lacks her father's brains and if she hadn't come out of me I'd say I wouldn't know her mother, either. Color me shocked when she claimed to have procured a Jedi. The one thing she's probably ever succeeded at," says Hosha Tath. She snaps her fingers and produces a hologram readout from the palm of her left hand. "Don't introduce yourself. I know all about you. Tamri Dallin, seventeen years of age, Jedi Padawan, promoted from Initiate four years ago upon your apprenticeship to one Sae Tristess. Born to a minor noble family on Kuat. Taken from them by a Jedi Seeker at age nineteen months. Too young for memories, then. At least for you humans. Your people are so weak as babies." She glances at a sensor to her right and her smile returns. "Let's dig deeper, shall we? Your mother's name is Alere. Did you know that? She was a commoner before marriage. Your noble father is Tevenis. He is a ranking corporate officer with Kuat Drive Yards but in truth has a passion for mechanical work. Oh—" she stops, tracing a rising line on a computer graph. "My apologies, Padawan. Perhaps I've made you uncomfortable. You're heartbeat's racing."

Tamri looks away, blinking rapidly. Uncomfortable is a liberal way of putting it. Her insides curdle; her thoughts are mush. She didn't need to hear all that, particularly not after she made the choice back on Kuat to avoid going to her family home. She chose to let that life go when it was all at hand. Now this woman, this Hosha Tath, will force it upon her anyway, and when she is in no place to run away. "Stop it," she says. Her voice is tiny; she can't help it.

"A sister! Two sisters. Even—ah, but I'll stop," says Hosha gently as if heeding Tamri's plea. She pulls her chair up to Tamri's head, takes long draw on the spice stick, and twists the knife: "Perhaps your parents should have kept you from the Order, though. Your blood's poor midi-chlorian count tells me you're not much of a Jedi. Weak in the Force? Hm?"

"What do you know about the Jedi?" Tamri spits.

Hosha laughs. Tinkling like breaking glass. "I've had the luxury of spending time with a few Jedi. Far more illustrious ones than you, though. I liked Anakin Skywalker quite a bit; a shame circumstances broke us up on Taris. Very easy to look at for a human. Obi-Wan Kenobi I was not so fond off. I was happy to foist him upon my cousin."

"You don't know Master Skywalker and Master Kenobi."

"You don't know much of anything, it seems," Hosha says. She holds up a needle that looks large enough to inoculate banthas. "Big prick. Courage."

Tamri grits her teeth out of annoyance. This woman's patronizing attitude. Human this, human that. Everything dosed with a touch of condescension as if the galaxy is too small to be worth her time. Only a searing pain in the crook of her left arm dims her irritation. "What're you doing?"

"I said it'd be a big prick," says Hosha. She pushes out a drop of red from the needle onto a scanner, and immediately a holographic display jumps to life. The images flash so fast that Tamri can just make out pictures here and there—a genetic double helix, a scatter graph, and, most curious of all, what looks like an enormous, upright insect standing next to a model of a human that barely rises to meet the bug's shoulder. Then the images are gone, and Hosha is grinning. "Yurica, you foolish child."

"Hey. What're you doing to me?" Tamri presses. "What do you want? Your daughter won't tell me. Nobody's telling me. What're you doing here?"

Hosha slides the needle into a secure case before answering. "Imagine Kamino," she says, "then take a dose of the Jedi Temple and shake it all up with something very, very old."

"What?"

The Arkanian runs her hand through Tamri's hair. "I'm sure a bright young Jedi like you can figure out a puzzle or two," she says. "And the best part is that your blood, as disappointing as it first seemed, might just be what I needed."

She gets up with the secured needle in her hand. At the door waits Kesh, looking petrified, shrinking in the giant Arkanian woman's shadow. "Mistress Hosha," the Selkath murmurs. "Yurica—your daughter, she—"

Storms flash across Hosha's face. "Where is she?"

"She left in a huff. She said—she told me to tell you that—"

"That brat," Hosha snarls. She shoves the encased needle into Kesh's hand. "Put that in cold storage and secure it. Don't let anyone except me or my daughter touch it. And take that Jedi back to her holding cell. Now I have to deal with whatever tantrum that bit—"

She throws the door closed with a slam as Kesh stands cradling the needle case as if it will be the next thing to assault her today. Tamri watches quietly. There's an uncertainty in the Selkath researcher, a shakiness, and not just in her words around the Arkanians. It's as if she doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to be carting a prisoner around between cell and lab, doesn't want to be laboring under these sterile lights. Kesh locks the needle away, approaches Tamri, presses her hands together, and says so quietly it is barely a whisper, "You're truly a Jedi?"

Tamri hesitates. "Yes. Why?"

"Nothing. I have to take you back to your cell now," murmurs Kesh. But there is no confidence in her words, no consent—just the bland, flavorless intonations of a servant.

And something else. Tamri is not lost to the Force even though the drugs steal away her body. She can feel something more—a depression, a despair, an anxiety in the Selkath researcher. That, at least, is something Tamri can work with. It's something that can kindle a little hope when she needs it most.

She's not dead just yet, nor is she helpless, even if it's so easy to feel like it. Keep fighting.

Sae wakes in her jail to an odd sight: The energy gate blocking her exit is down. Nothing but the hallway that Taron Malicos so often prowls around in beyond, open air. Nothing to stop her from simply walking out.

Well, nothing better to do after days—weeks, however long it's been—with Malicos tormenting her. Clearly Dooku's run off to more important business, leaving only the fallen Jedi Master to barrage her with verbal insults and taunts at all hours of the day. And when he's not around it's visions of Master Gallia and Tamri wrenching Sae out of her sleep, assailing her with her failure, prodding her with reminders of their deaths, dragging up old memories just to snuff them out and bathe her in an even deeper darkness.

If it's stay in here and keep dealing with that or just up and leave, Sae will take the latter option.

As soon as she steps out beyond the energy gate's projectors, however, she turns and finds Malicos right in her face with a look of giddiness. "Heads up!" he shouts as he smashes her in the face with a clenched fist.

Sae crumples into a heap. Pain radiates across her face like a nova. Malicos stands above her, rubbing his fist and laughing: "Oof. Really connected on that one. That's why you can't just go running around corners, Sae. You never know when someone's going to pop out and…well, punch you."

"Do you have nothing better to do than just wait for me to wake up?" Sae groans.

"Pretty much. Dooku left me in control while he…I don't know what he does, war stuff…and so here I am. You really should have checked to make sure that wasn't a trap. I mean, come on. You're in Dooku's prison. The door's just conveniently left open and nothing's wrong with that? Really?"

It's all so unfair. She loses Master Gallia and Tamri, tries to fight Dooku to the death and can't even die properly, and now she has to deal with the galaxy's most aggravating jailer. It's not even tragic anymore; the sadness has taken a hard turn straight into the absurd. It's as if the Force is lumping as many ounces of bad luck onto her as it can just to see when she breaks. The injustice of it all. What did she do in a past life to deserve this?

What is the only way to meet an unjust world? It is with anger! Dooku's words when they fought for the last time. Maybe he had a point then, because right now, looking up at Malicos laughing like a lunatic as he stands over his body, she sure is feeling angry.

"Go crawl back in now, Sae," Malicos says. "Can't have you slithering about out here unattended to. Go on. Git. Get in your hole."

Sae gets to her knees and drives her elbow straight into Malicos's manhood. He doubles over, wincing, and she returns his favor, punching him in the face and knocking him down. "I am so sick of you already," Sae says through a grimace as Malicos flops over and pants. "Tell Dooku to come back and just kill me already."

Malicos cackles and grins. "Ah, that'd be no fun," he says, looking down at his waist. "Whew. Wasn't having children anyway. No big deal."

"That's doing the galaxy a favor right there."

"Oh-ho, hilarious," Malicos says. Then he whips his twisted left arm at Sae and hits her with a blast of the Force so strong she flies back into her cell, hitting the far rock wall and falling into a heap. Malicos throws a rock at the energy gate's activation panel and closes off Sae's exit once more. "Not even going to run, Sae? There went your chance."

Sae gets to her feet. "Nah."

"No?"

"It'd be no fun."

Malicos slaps his thigh and laughs. "The jokes on this woman. How about I tell you something funny instead?"

"I'd rather you didn't. I bet your sense of humor sucks."

"Let's find out. Your old master, back in those Jedi days—Adi Gallia, yeah? Council member?"

"Yeah. What about her?"

"I knew her," Malicos says, pacing before the energy gate. "She was an old hand. I knew of you back then—not much, but a little. Knew her first apprentice better, though. Bothan guy. She ever mention him?"

"Gen Stet'thana. I know who he was," says Sae. "And I'm already aware he died before she picked me as a Padawan, so you don't need to go off on some stupid rant about whatever you can make from that."

Malicos shrugs. "Oh, I don't care about that. I do know this, though: Master Gallia ever tell you about how she liked you better than she liked him?"

"No, and I bet she never told you that, either."

"Hey, didn't say it was first-hand knowledge. Master Coleman Trebor told me that one. Good guy, Master Trebor. Shame he got it at Geonosis."

"If you think Geonosis is a shame, then why are you working for the man who caused that massacre?"

Malicos holds up a hand. "Story time isn't finished yet, Sae, so shut up before we lose the plot. Anyway: The Bothan. He was actually in my year as a youngling, but I barely talked to him. Seemed pretentious. As it was, yes, he got killed by some strange cult stuff on…eh, think it was Rishi, but I really can't remember—started with an R—a little after he was knighted. But look at this: How bad of a Jedi and an apprentice must he have been for Adi Gallia to like you more than him? I mean, you're a sad sack who tried to get herself killed after doing absolutely nothing to keep Adi Gallia from dying and then getting your own apprentice killed. You're useless. Was the Bothan worse than useless? How is that possible?" He sits down, leans against the far wall, and laughs. "Stars above, the Jedi, man. How pathetic are they? Why do I only see that now?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Oh, so much for being fun. You're getting sulky again," Malicos says, getting up. "I'll be by again later, Sae, you can count on that. Why not, in the meantime, think about all the ways you're disappointing dear ol' Adi Gallia, may she rest easy? Hope she was never all that close with Tamri. If so, must've killed the girl when she died. Ouch. That's on you too, remember. Not like you can do anything about it now."

He waves and tromps away, whistling a horridly off-key jingle as he goes. Sae groans out of exasperation more than the aching from hitting the wall. Absolute git of a fallen Jedi. Couldn't Obi-Wan or someone more even-tempered have fallen to the Dark Side and stood watch over her?

"You could've just avoided this whole situation in the first place, had you been strong enough."

Oh no. There it is again. Sae wants to look away but she can't: Her eyes trace up the wall until she peers up at the shade of Master Gallia standing above her, her old master wearing a face of disappointment. "He's right, you know, Sae. You weren't there when I died. You weren't there when the bounty hunter stole Tamri away from you on Mirial."

"Go away," Sae moans, leaning over and covering her face with her hands. "Get out of my head. I didn't ask for this."

"You did ask for this. You walked right up and asked," Master Gallia, or the horror that speaks as her, says.

"Go away. You're not Master Gallia."

"Perception begets reality, and you can clearly perceive me. Besides, it doesn't change the past. Not as if you would even if you could. I showed you the future and you didn't even bother trying to stop that from happening. You walked right into it. Let it happen. There's a truly dire fatalism to you. Do you know why you're doomed? Because you think you're doomed. You have bad luck because you think you're unlucky. It's as simple as that. Positive thinking, Sae. Try it."

"No. Piss off."

Master Gallia smiles. "At least you can get angry about it. Maybe you should've tried that before—getting angry. Would an angry Sae have let Tamri die? Maybe if you'd been angry all along, none of this would've happened. After all, anger's the only way to respond to an unjust world."

Sae looks up. Master Gallia looks back and smiles.