The Past is in the Past
To her disappointment, there is no lightsaber to take from Cere Junda. The woman's belongings are laid out on the table: a pistol, a rosary with the Jedi crest, and a broken comm link, crushed like so much tinfoil. She picks up the comm link without touching it, willing it to float into the air as she scrutinizes it from every angle. Her teeth grit in displeasure. Cere must have destroyed it to stop her from using it to trace the ship. Defiant until the end.
She lets go of the device and watches it clatter back to the counter.
"What do we do with the body, ma'am?"
An officer stands stiffly at the door to the medical bay, failing to hide his discomfort as he eyes the corpse on the operating table behind her. The Jedi's sightless eyes stare up at the brightly-lit ceiling, black, coagulated blood staining the skin around her mouth and splattering her tunic near the gaping hole in her throat. Nothing flows from the wound anymore—what blood remains in the body is frozen solid in the veins.
She's made sure the sheets beneath the corpse remain spotless. As much as she hates to admit it, she doesn't like the sight of blood. There's something viscerally sickening about the way it wells and spurts and drips. She's careful to never let a drop of it touch her uniform. She's glad for the mask this time, for the barrier it provides from the metallic stench.
"Freeze it in carbonite and see that it is delivered to the Fortress Inquisitorius," she intones without turning.
"And what are your orders for the men?"
What orders, indeed. She's tempted to order the shuttle out to scour the surrounding hyperlanes, but she reins in her frustration. That would be a futile pursuit. The Stinger Mantis could have jumped to any of a dozen systems by now.
"Have local squadrons been notified of the situation?"
"Yes, ma'am. We profiled the ship as a Latero Jumpworks S-161. Any sighted ships of that make and model will be intercepted and subjected to a thorough inspection."
She knows none of the sightings will be them. She's failed again. She suppresses the urge to clench her fists as she stares down at the operating table, finding a cold modicum of solace at the sight of the dead Jedi.
Not all of them escaped this time.
"Focus on completing the repairs to the hull breach so we may be on our way as soon as possible." Her smooth tone betrays none of her inner turmoil. "That will be all, Commander."
The officer salutes and exits the chamber. She follows him out, snatching a dose of bacta spray from the wall locker before turning and walking down the corridor in the opposite direction. As soon as the officer is out of sight, she allows herself a quiet hiss from the pain of the burns covering the right half of her upper body. Hobbling her way to the elevator doors, she breathes a small sigh of relief when the platform arrives empty.
Pressing the button for the top level, she closes her eyes and focuses on calming her breathing as she collapses onto the elevator wall. Her quarters are near the bridge, and it's a slow elevator. She has time to breathe.
She never expected a Jedi to use Dark Side abilities. Cere Junda retaliating with Force lightning was a surprise—a surprise that cost her dearly. She was overconfident. Sloppy. She left the Jedi to succumb to her wounds instead of making sure she was dead right then and there, and it allowed the rest of the traitors to escape.
She will not make that mistake again.
The door slides open with a low hiss. She pushes herself off the wall, forcing herself to take smooth and measured steps through the haze of ragged pain. Sweat fogs her visor, matting her hair, making her bangs stick to her forehead. She focuses on the sensation. The irritation is a welcome distraction.
Pain is something she's well accustomed to coping with.
There's nobody but a chrome astromech droid between her and the door to her room. Not bothering with the code cylinder, she forces the door open with a flick of her wrist, pulling it shut behind her the instant she's through. The instant the door is closed, she rips the mask from her face, letting it fall with a low thud as she hits the floor beside it on her hands and knees. The pinprick needles from the Force lightning subsided quickly, but the searing heat of the burns only seems to have intensified since the fight.
She casts aside her gloves, steps out of her boots, undoes her belt. Slowly, carefully, she peels off her tattered uniform, taking care not to let the burnt fabric rub against the weeping red welts seared in patchwork from her navel to her shoulder.
Her hands are trembling.
The pain is nothing she can't handle. Her eyes run along the raised flesh of the other scars marring her abdomen—scars from where a plasma blade grazed her skin time and time again, purposeful and terribly, terribly slow. She didn't cry out then. To scream would have been to admit weakness. The others had screamed, and Vader had taken their limbs as punishment. She never did, and she felt his silent approval.
Vader did more than enough to ensure no pain she experienced in battle would hold a candle to that which she has already endured.
Her hands tremble for a different reason.
She sees it again, the expression of panic on the girl's face, the angry flames pouring from her palms. In her years of hunting, she never met anyone who wielded Force fire. What's more, this girl matches no Jedi or Padawan in the Imperial records—she's checked and rechecked. She closes her eyes, but the scene refuses to leave her mind.
She would have relished that expression of abject terror on any other traitor. Not on this girl. Her hands close into fists, crackling as frost crusts over her fingers. The red hair, the blue eyes, the freckled cheeks—they're too familiar, too much like her. The sister she couldn't save. The reason why she cannot rest until the Jedi are hunted into extinction.
It's been thirteen years since Anna lit the fireplace in the library, but she remembers it like it happened yesterday. She remembers the way her little sister's face glowed with excitement, how tightly Anna hugged her while babbling about all the heroes of legend who she would grow up to be just like.
The Jedi attacked two days later, and Anna never got to grow up at all.
Her memories of the war are faint and distant. Screaming, explosions, so much baster fire. Guards running out of the castle, fewer returning. A losing battle of attrition.
When she got separated from her father, she went to the only place she knew to hide. Her room collapsed around her in a suffocating torrent of rubble. Then came Vader, pulling her from the dust.
Another pulse of pain brings her back to the present. Pushing herself wearily to her feet, she picks up the bacta canister where she dropped it on the floor, gingerly administering the soothing spray across the largest of the burns. Looking over the rest of her wounds, she lets the pain direct a wash of cold over her skin, sealing the burns under poultices of ice. There will be scarring, but they'll heal soon enough.
She has work to do in the mean time.
She dresses quickly, pulling a fresh uniform from the narrow wardrobe and stuffing the damaged one unceremoniously into a corner. Picking the mask off the floor, she holds it up to the light, inspecting the swath where the heat from the girl's flames discoloured the metal in chaotic patterns of purple. It almost looks better this way.
Cal Kestis and the girl may have escaped, but there is still one former member of the Mantis's crew aboard this dungeon ship who is very much alive and available for interrogation.
She slips the mask back over her face.
When she arrives in the holding cell, the Nightsister's eyes are closed. The haphazard hole the girl cut in the door gives a window into the room— evidently, there are still holes of higher priority to the repair team elsewhere. She ducks through into the room, stopping at the base of the raised platform. The prisoner looks almost relaxed in her spread-eagle position attached to the walls and ceiling. Faint indicators flicker along the tubes connected to her breather, in sync with the soft sounds of working pumps somewhere deep in the walls.
The Nightsister's eyes snap open, deep red irises raking over her with the intensity of a Krait dragon's claws. Hatred radiates off of the woman like heat off of a furnace, already rivalling that of Cere Junda in her final moments. Clearly, the Nightsisters don't share the same qualms about passion as the Jedi.
"Nightsister Merrin."
"Inquisitor," Merrin spits. "Come to gloat?"
"Come to talk." She keeps her tone polite, impassive. "You once served aboard the Stinger Mantis, if I'm not mistaken."
"You couldn't capture him, could you?" She can hear the sneer in Merrin's tone even through the breather.
"No. Unfortunately, a certain Cere Junda decided to play the hero one last time." She pauses to let the words sink in. The Nightsister bucks against her restraints.
"You bitch." The words drip like venom. The heat rises until it's almost palpable.
She strides forward until she's level with the prisoner. "What was Cal Kestis searching for in the Legacy Databank?"
The Nightsister barks a spiteful laugh.
"I'll never tell you anything."
Metal groans as vines of frost creep down from the ceiling. The Nightsister hisses as gelid metal brands her skin.
"Don't be short with me, Merrin."
Crimson eyes glare back defiantly.
"You must be stupider than even that mask makes you look. I have not seen Cal Kestis in five months. How the hell am I supposed to know?"
"Careful, Merrin." Her voice echoes metallic through the mask's modulator. She takes another step closer. "It's in your best interest to remain an asset to me."
The Nightsister cocks her head. The heat subsides slightly.
"You are different from the others." There is no anger in the prisoner's voice this time, only detached curiosity. "You carry an aura of magick. I can feel it." Her eyes narrow. "But you are no Dathomirian. What are you?"
That gives her pause. When she answers, her voice is soft and cold.
"I am the last of my kind. The Jedi slaughtered the rest."
For a long moment, they regard each other in silence. What the Nightsister says next, she does not expect.
"That's what I thought, too."
She freezes for an instant. Sensing her hesitation, the Nightsister presses on.
"I am the last Nightsister of Dathomir. When I was a child, I watched my sisters slaughtered by a warrior brandishing lightsabers. A Jedi, I thought. I was wrong." The heat dies out completely as Merrin lowers her gaze. "When Cal Kestis came to Dathomir, I was determined to kill him. I let hate blind me from the truth. The Darkness tastes sweet, but it cannot be trusted. The Darkness tells you what you want to hear. Cal Kestis showed me the way is not so black and white."
Her mouth twists beneath the mask.
"You are the one who's been blinded. Hatred is strength. Strength is the only law." The words ring like the mantra they are. Her gloved hands clench with a faint squeak of rubber. "The Jedi killed our people because they are weak. They saw our strength and feared it would challenge their rule."
"Do you really believe that?" Where there was once malice in the Nightsister's voice, there is now a gentle pity. The woman's body sags limply in the restraints. "Have you ever spoken to a Jedi? Really listened before you murdered them? The Jedi did not kill our people, Inquisitor. The Jedi do not condone genocide." Merrin raises her eyes, and a hint of the old steel returns. "We have both seen the evil at the heart of this empire. These people will burn a village to the ground to make sure a single Force-sensitive child doesn't escape. Is that not evidence of their fear? Is that not exactly the weakness you speak of?"
She can feel the warmth drain from the air to fuel the fire of her own rage. Delicate veins of frost crawl over the surface of her mask.
"Enough! The Jedi are a plague. A pestilence to be eradicated! A pity you let Cal Kestis poison your mind with his lies." She takes a deep, calming breath. When she speaks again, her tone is detached. "Cal Kestis is looking for information about my people. Why?"
Confusion flits over the Nightsister's features.
"What? Cal is looking for…" Merrin's eyes widen slowly. There's a flash of revelation. "The girl."
The words slip through the breather in a whisper, washing over her like a wave.
"What?" Her hands unclench.
"The girl who cut that hole in the door. She was like you. I felt the same magick." The Nightsister's gaze burns with sudden intensity. "She was no Dathomirian, either."
Bit by bit, the ice coating the prisoner's restraints retreats. The girl's face flashes in her mind's eye. She sees the blast of fire, searingly bright. Those sea-green irises burn into her, hauntingly familiar. Is there recognition behind the fear? Is there accusation?
She screws her eyes shut behind the mask, banishing the spectre. No. The girl can't be her sister.
That's impossible.
"You felt it too, didn't you." The Nightsister says softly. It doesn't sound like a question.
There's something stirring inside, like a python uncoiling in her stomach. She feels off balance.
For thirteen years, she's believed she's the last Arendellian. If there's even the tiniest fraction of a chance that she isn't…
She whirls back toward the doorway in a flutter of capes, flinging the doors open with the momentum of the storm inside her. The sound of her boots on the floor pulse in her ears like someone else's footsteps. She can still feel the weight of the Nightsister's gaze on the nape of her neck.
The hallway back to the elevator is longer than she remembers. She tries to ignore the tremors in her hands as the platform carries her back up to her quarters.
She needs to make a call.
The holotable in her room is small, obviously retrofitted from ancient Mandalorian tech like so much of the rest of the ship. She locks the door behind her before making her way to the comm station. Unsealing the mask, she sets it down beside the holoprojector as she enters the transmission frequency with her other hand.
At first, there's nothing but grains of static. Then, a pale Pau'an face, marked with long vertical grooves from forehead to chin. It isn't the black, angular mask she expected.
"Twelve. I just received the Commander's report," the Grand Inquisitor states. "Good work eliminating Cere Junda."
"Grand Inquisitor," she greets with a terse nod. "I was hoping to contact Lord Vader."
"Lord Vader is occupied off-world at the moment. State your business, Twelve."
She takes a deep breath.
"I require access to a Legacy Databank for my investigation into Cal Kestis."
Most would have missed the way the Pau'an's lips twitch in a light grimace. She does not.
"I'm afraid that's not possible. The Legacy Databanks are not a resource available to members of the Inquisitorius."
The Grand Inquisitor's words are cool and even, but her eyes narrow. He sounds too much like that insufferable Admiral Weselton.
"Cal Kestis found and infiltrated a Legacy Databank in search for something," she says, clenching her teeth. "I need that data."
The Grand Inquisitor shakes his head, his glowing eyes piercing through the static of the projection.
"Your task is to neutralize Cal Kestis and his crew. Outside of the hunt, his motivations and goals are not your concern."
"Grand Inquisitor, how am I meant to gain the upper hand over this Jedi if he possesses Imperial assets that I have no access to?" An edge slips into her voice. She can feel the storm swirling within, begging for release.
A shadow passes over the Grand Inquisitor's gaunt features.
"Watch your tone, Twelve. We are soldiers. We don't make excuses, we make do. You've already proven yourself capable. Finish the job. Don't give Lord Vader reason to doubt you now."
Ice crawls at her fingers beneath the gloves, but for once she forces it back.
"I… Understood, Grand Inquisitor." She manages to keep her voice steady.
The Grand Inquisitor gives a satisfied nod. "Good. Do you have any other business for me?"
A farewell is on the tip of her tongue when the inkling of an idea gives her pause. Slowly, the storm subsides, replaced by a cold clarity that crystalizes into a plan. A very dangerous plan. She licks her lips.
"There is one more thing. Could I have the prisoner Hans Westergaard transferred to this ship from the Star Destroyer Invictus?"
The Pau'an raises an eyebrow. The silence stretches for an instant longer than she likes.
"Very well, Twelve," he finally answers, inclining his head. "Glory to the Empire."
"Glory to the Empire," she echoes with a bow. The transmission flickers out, and she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding in.
She'll get to the bottom of this, one way or another.
The shuttle doesn't arrive for three hours.
The shuttle bay is tiny in comparison to the central hangar on a Star Destroyer, with barely enough floor space to dock two shuttles. The shuttle that serves as transport for the Purge Troopers sits off to the right, wings folded neatly in landing configuration. She prefers to fly her own TIE Interceptor whenever possible, but this time she's glad she took the shuttle. She'll need it for what comes next.
At some point the Captain comes to join her on the flight deck—an older woman with hard, emotionless eyes and greying curls.
"Inquisitor, ma'am." The woman gives her a crisp salute. "The repairs are well underway. We should be ready to jump to hyperspeed within the hour."
"Captain Serka. Any word on the shuttle carrying Westergaard?"
"It departed the Invictus not long ago." Serka pauses. "Ma'am, I still don't understand why you insisted on having the prisoner sent all this way. We can rendezvous with the Invictus ourselves once the hull breach is sealed."
"This is a very time-sensitive matter, Captain." She holds the other woman's gaze through her visor. Something is nagging at her—an inexplicable feeling that if she doesn't hurry, the answers will be out of reach for good. She knows doesn't have the luxury of time. She can feel it in her bones.
Serka's brow furrows slightly. For a moment, it seems like she's ready to push the matter further, but she simply shrugs.
"Fine, it's your show. You know where to find me if you need anything."
She follows the Captain's progress back across the hangar until the woman is swallowed once more by the elevator. Turning back toward the still-closed doors of the shuttle bay entrance, she clasps her hands in front of her out of habit. On a whim, she closes her eyes and reaches outward with her awareness, past the confines of the hangar, through the durasteel shell of the dungeon ship into the aching emptiness of the void beyond.
Vader never taught her to use the Force for anything other than killing, but she hasn't forgotten her father's lessons. She continues to reach past Corsun's blazing core, her perception spread so thin that her own body feels tiny and distant, a single leaf in a vast, empty forest.
Nobody in the Empire knows the name Ahtohallan. The River of Truth, Papa called it; a bridge between the elements, but also a conduit for the strength and wisdom of all the past rulers of Arendelle. She hasn't reached for it for a long time—not since she was a child curled up in the corner of a bare cell in the Fortress Inquisitorius, lonely and afraid. She felt it then, a presence just outside her reach, as languid and ancient as the auroras of home. It gave her the strength she needed to survive. As hard as she tried, however, it never soothed her worries, never responded to her questions. Ahtohallan never answered her.
This time is no different.
She sighs, opening her eyes. A low boom reverberates across the chamber as the hangar bay door cracks open before her, revealing the triangular silhouette of a T-4a shuttle backlit by Corsun's blazing horizon. The wind from its landing thrusters washes over her in a wave of heat, throwing the capes of her uniform out behind her and tossing her braid to the side. She watches as the shuttle approaches through the rectangular gap, its long wings folding up into landing configuration. Its gear legs meet the floor with the soft squeak of hydraulic dampers.
The exit ramp slides open with a gust of white vapour, and she straightens up, unclasping her hands. Two Purge Troopers with electrostaffs strapped across their backs emerge from the smoke, frog-marching a familiar man between them, his hands bound behind his back with stun cuffs. The men greet her with curt nods before forcing the prisoner to his knees at her feet.
Hans Westergaard tilts his head upward to meet her gaze, blowing a tuft of hair out of his eyes through the light hangar breeze. He laughs.
"Missed me already, Inquisitor?"
She ignores him.
"What are our orders, Twelfth Sister?" one of the troopers intones.
"You are dismissed," she answers with a gesture over her shoulder. "Return to your posts aboard the Invictus."
"Understood."
The troopers turn heel in unison. One of them makes a rotating gesture toward the cockpit, and the scream of the shuttle's engines rises again. The ramp lifts up until it's flush with the hull. Her gaze follows the ship as it floats back out the hangar entrance and unfolds its wings, hull spinning slowly to face away from her before the main boosters ignite in a flash of white. Only after the hangar door slides fully closed does she turn her attention back to the man at her feet.
"Mister Westergaard, I need you to tell me the location of the nearest Legacy Databank."
The corner of the man's mouth twitches upward.