PART NINE: FIVE MONTHS LATER

Chapter Forty-Six: A Hidden Life

Always the crunch of frost under boots—always tundra but never quite winter here, the dry grasses growing as far as the eye could see but nothing taller able to endure amid the crystalized cold. Grey was the prevailing color, existing in a spectrum across the planet—verging toward green for vegetation, pale and grainy for stone, occasionally deepening blue across the wide expanse of the sky.

The only exception was the mornings. There, if the sky was clear, reds and oranges and pinks would flow through the great sea of atmosphere, like the wake of some impossibly bright boat as it traveled past the planet. You could hold up a piece of metal at times like those, let it catch the sunlight and glint in a reflected blaze, and feel like you were seeing a spark of sudden magic.

The tradeoff, of course, was that in order to see the brightness, one had to rise at the coldest part of the day. It was a choice—light, or heat.

Most days, the two people chose heat. Today, however, one of them—bearded, slightly taller, hair reddish-blond turning toward grey—had wrapped a cloak around himself and headed out to see the sunrise. The path he took was well-trodden, grass crushed into the hard dirt, the same footsteps coming down again and again to press the life out of the clumps of green. Looking at it, the man felt slightly regretful. Then again, it's not as though the leaves were living a particularly fulfilling life.

Lowering his hood, Obi-Wan let the chill of the dawn air wash over his face, carrying the last vestiges of sleep far away. The cold was less harsh than it had been when they'd first landed here—his beard, fully regrown now rather than a thin layer of stubble across his jaw, blunted some of the bite, as did regular exposure—but it was still something he didn't think he'd ever truly gotten used to.

Still, he thought, looking up at the canvas of orange above him, it was worth the discomfort to see something different. Inside had its small pleasures, but after several months they'd gone a bit stale.

Who knows, though. Perhaps there are still some surprises from your friends you haven't dug up yet.

Reaching into his pocket, Obi-Wan felt a hard smooth shape beneath his fingertips. When he pulled it out and held it upward, it caught the sunlight rising in the sky and sent it back outward in beams of white, like a shard of mirror. It was a little ritual, something he'd done once every week from the day they'd landed.

Lowering it, allowing the reflections to fade, he was able to take in the actual sight of the object. A chunk of blue, edges sanded down from roughness into polish, a cyan purer and richer than any ice crystal could be. A piece of kyber, all the way from Ilum, brought back to the Temple by Qlik from one of his expeditions. Snuck into Obi-Wan's baggage before he'd left Coruscant. Discovered a few hours into their stay, after he and Padmé had done enough setup of their camp that the Jedi had needed a break and started to unpack his bags.

The quartermaster hadn't given the jewel to Obi-Wan to serve as a plaything, of course. But it certainly did add a spark to one's morning.

Sighing, the Jedi returned the crystal to his pocket, fingers already going numb from cold. Another week gone, and you still haven't lost count. Small victories.

He stood there a few moments longer, then turned back toward the settlement. There was movement among the tiny, prefabricated buildings—the agro-droids, Obi-Wan knew, going about their constant job of making sure the food sources the disappearer had entrusted to the camp wouldn't die. One of them was missing—yesterday its guidance system had shorted out, and the Jedi had found it patiently trundling toward nowhere, pushing against the perimeter fence. Padmé had been trying to fix the poor thing, but she hadn't been able to get it done yesterday evening.

By the time he was back, Obi-Wan knew, she might be at it again, or fixing stale, watered-down caf—they were trying to be careful with their supply, but the further along she got, the more she needed the kick to get going in the mornings. And he had to admit, were she to shove a mug in front of him, he was not about to turn it down.

Behind him, the Force darted by his ear in a quick whisper—not one of warning, but an alert not to miss something. Turning, Obi-Wan at first saw nothing. Then, looking down at the expanse of gray-green steppe, he made himself go very still.

About thirty feet away, a mass of fur had risen from the foliage—almost impossible to see if one wasn't looking for it, for the animal's coat was the same color as the grass. It looked like a kind of fox, whiskers twitching and amber eyes gleaming with curiosity. Obi-Wan could feel its mind through the Force, a live wire of inquisitiveness, running the smell of this biped interloper through its sensory database and coming up blank.

Perhaps they migrate seasonally, follow prey animals like the mice we've found in Padmé's shack. It would explain why we haven't seen one before. Or maybe they're just shy.

At any rate, this one wasn't alone. Obi-Wan could see images in the creature's tiny brain, thoughts of a mate, pups, in a den somewhere past the point where the human's trail faded away. A family, one the fox needed to feed.

Well, there was food to be had in their settlement, but the mice weren't worth the risk—Padmé had taken to frequent target practice to while away the time, and she wasn't likely to pass up the chance to dispose of a canine varmint that had invaded her space. Obi-Wan didn't know how best to convey this in a way the creature would understand, so instead he simply waved. When the creature cocked its head, the Jedi added, You might try somewhere further to the east. You won't be bothered there.

Whether it understood him, he couldn't tell, but the fox promptly turned and headed east, snout low to the ground, tail twitching behind it.

Watching it go, Obi-Wan felt a smile tug at his lips. Farewell, and may the Force be with you, wherever it is you go.

Come back sometime.

The agro-droid warbled nervously, photoreceptors straying toward the pair of pliers Padmé was wielding in her right hand. Rolling her eyes, she told it, "Look, your guidance system is separate from your primary processor. I'm not gonna screw anything up in there."

It couldn't understand, of course—just twitched its "head" back and forth at the top of the stalk that extended above the main body. With a sigh, Padmé reached down and flipped the thing's deactivation switch, stilling all motion. "You won't even remember this when you wake back up."

Liz would have complained—woken up yelling about her agency being robbed. Snorting, Padmé slid open the primary access panel on the agro-droid and muttered to herself, "Boy, you would've loved this, Liz. Trying to grow slightly more edible grass as your primary function." Looking downward at the swell of her belly—a shape she still wasn't used to—she raised her voice slightly. "If you're malnourished when you arrive, you can't blame me. We didn't get to pick the climate."

Talking to a droid with all the personality of a pocket calculator and a baby that wouldn't understand you even if it could hear you. Great, Amidala. You're not going nuts at all.

With a whoosh of cold air, the door to the outside swept open; a few moments later, Obi-Wan pushed through, rubbing his hands together. "Ah. How's the droid doing?"

"Unconscious again, at the moment. Hey, gimme a hand, will ya?"

The Jedi stepped across the "living room," where his fraying meditation rug took up most of the floor space, and over toward the kitchen counter, where she was at work. "I'm afraid my fingers are too stiff for anything precise at the moment. Besides, I doubt you'd want me poking around in that—I'd be an embarrassment compared to . . ."

He'd stopped himself quickly enough that the sudden spike of panic she felt at what he'd almost said quickly faded—pausing just a second too long, she brushed his unfinished second sentence aside and focused on the first. "Well, the pliers in the Spice Dancer aren't too precise either, so would you kindly help a lady out and pull this thing's guidance calculator out of its head with the Force?"

Obi-Wan's beard twitched with a smile that seemed at least half generated by relief. "Beg pardon?"

With a roll of her eyes, Padmé groused, "I stopped not believing in the Force five years ago, Kenobi, for gods' sakes. Would you hurry up?"

Still smiling, the Jedi took a step closer, then sniffed the air. "No caf?"

Padmé resisted the urge to glance wistfully over at the pot that sat atop the stove—one that had gone a few days without use. "We've only got about a quarter of it left, and once it's gone, it's gone. Figured I should be careful." Not that it was easy—even now her brain felt like it was at eighty percent capacity, still unfolding a long, slow startup process.

Wordlessly, Obi-Wan stepped past her toward the stovetop, plunking the pot atop a burner. Turning as quickly as she could with her new center of gravity, Padmé gave a half-hearted, "Hey!"

"You need your energy," he said calmly, rummaging around in the cabinet above the stove as he searched for the bag of grounds. "And if I'm completely honest, so do I."

Sighing, she found herself smiling ruefully. "You aren't fooling anyone, Kenobi." But she didn't complain—if she were honest, he somehow managed to wring a bit more flavor out of the stuff than she whenever he prepared it.

As the kitchen filled with the sound of water hitting metal, the Jedi said, "You know, I saw something on my walk today—some kind of dog. It was out looking for food."

Now there was something she hadn't expected—the only animals they'd seen out here were the rodents currently infesting the space beneath her bunk. "Friendly?"

"Well, it was hardly a wolf, if that's what you mean."

"Ugh, I wish I were in the shape to go out on one of your early-morning strolls. Seeing it would have been nice." Frowning, she added, "Hey, if you see it again, maybe try and mindtrick it over? We could use it to get rid of the mice."

Obi-Wan looked up from the pot of caf in surprise. "And here I thought you'd want to shoot it if it got too close."

"My maternal instincts are catching up with me, I guess." She idly laid a hand on her belly—it was quiet in there now, but last night her body's other resident had been kicking hard enough to make her jump.

Just a few weeks out, you. And then you get to cause me all other sorts of problems.

"I sent it on its way, at any rate," the Jedi replied, stepping back over and pulling the spare chair out from the counter. "It has a family too." He looked almost wistful, staring at the door to the outside as though he could see through it, watching the creature travel along the grass.

Padmé patted his shoulder, then pointed at the droid. "Hey. Help me with this?"

Blinking, as if awaking from a dream, Obi-Wan hastily looked downward at the dormant hunk of metal on the counter. "Of course."

"Do you suppose there are others somewhere?"

Padmé looked up, startled—usually when Kenobi was meditating, she was the one who interrupted. Not this time; though he knelt on the rug, hands held outward, his eyes were very much open. "What, on the planet?"

He nodded. "Strange, that it hadn't occurred to me in all these months. But what are the odds that we're really the first intelligent life on a world like this?"

"'A world like this' seems to answer the question. I sure as hell wouldn't be living here if I had another choice."

Nodding, Obi-Wan sighed. "I suppose. And even if there are settlements, there'd be no way to find them. Not without powering up the Spice Dancer and flying over the entire surface."

"With our luck, whoever we found would be hungry for offworlder meat."

He looked a little crestfallen at that, and suddenly Padmé felt guilty. "Hey. What is it?"

"Oh, it's nothing." For a moment, the Jedi closed his eyes as if attempting to slide back into mediation; then he gave it up, rose to his feet, collapsed into one of the two threadbare chairs. The less padded one—gallantly, he'd refused to use the overstuffed one Padmé currently sat in since they arrived. "I've just been thinking. About the long term."

The baby shifted inside her—Padmé knew it wasn't a response to Kenobi's phrase, but the movement matched her own puzzlement. "Long term?"

Obi-Wan hesitated, but when she continued to stare at him he plunged ahead. "Once the baby is born, I'm not going to be able to provide the best care should something have gone wrong in the delivery. Anyone nearby with medical expertise . . . it would be a help. And they might have suggestions for how the agrodroids can better take care of the crops."

Kicking again, accentuating her pulse's own slight spike. For no reason she could figure, Padmé was nervous. "Hey, we've been making out okay. Got the little guy back out there this morning. And it's not like the droids have to take care of things that much longer."

The Jedi looked confused; then, in that way he had, he shook his head and let it go. "Well, clearly my concentration isn't at its height today. Perhaps I'll just . . . read, til it's time to make dinner."

"Ah yes, moss and protein soup. My favorite."

Casting her memory back, she could still picture those early days trapped beneath Had Abbadon—getting to know the rest of their camp, bartering with Amaranth for her first bowl of stew. It had seemed so funny, at the time—a refugee whose first thought when fleeing had been to grab not money but his collection of spices. But they make all the difference, he'd always said, and it was true—all too often in the last five months Padmé had found herself wishing she'd robbed a kitchen before disappearing.

Still, even the memory was enough to make her smile a little—the sheer wonder she'd felt taking a spoonful of dripping gunk and realizing it actually tasted good, not just edible. The Chevin's laugh as she'd looked up in disbelief, so quickly she almost spilled it on herself. And then Anakin tried to talk his recipes out of him, and—

No, she thought, and closed the memory as quickly as she would a book. "Whatcha reading?"

Perhaps she'd asked it a bit too loudly—Obi-Wan started. Then he reached across the space between them to hand her the volume he'd begun perusing. Real leather formed the cover, cracked and aging, while the pages were so delicate that it felt like merely turning one too hard would break it. "Oh, the Temple text we found in our baggage that first week here."

Padmé snorted. "Gods-damned Jedi. Leaving you going-away presents like some kind of scavenger hunt instead of just handing them to you." She looked down at the page her friend had been reading.

The tree, when planted, is exceptionally hardy, requiring nutrients only in the smallest amounts over long periods of time. Still, planting in a rich soil deposit is crucial—the life taken in during youth will sustain the sapling in the perilous early months of growth.

With an effort, she resisted the urge to run her hand along the pendant. "Gardening, huh?"

"I just find myself thinking of the old courtyard, sometimes."

"Welp, thrilling as this is, I should probably stretch my legs a little." With a groan, her lower back straining against the added weight, Padmé rose from the seat. The baby stirred again, as if excited for what the motion could signify. "Warm enough by now, I think."

Before she could reach down to return the text to him, Obi-Wan himself had risen from his chair. "Would you care for some company?"

Gods, he was weird today—they'd gone on walks together, sure, but usually when she headed out around midday he'd stay, try to get some meditation in while he had the solitude. And he'd only just been out there this morning.

You're just jumpy, she decided. With how close things are getting. Three weeks isn't much time.

"Sure," she replied, stepping past him to grab her coat. "But if you're with me when that dog comes back, I'm making you take it home."

Night came early on their world. It had become a routine; around sunset, after dinner, the two of them would spend some time together in the common unit, talking or playing some card game or just sitting quietly in the same space. Then, an hour or two later, Obi-Wan would retire to the "bedroom" that was his unit, and Padmé would head to hers.

The Jedi sat on his cot, easing his boots off, staring at the wall across from him. Not for the first time, he wished these things had windows; the planet might not be much to look at after nightfall, but it would have provided some variety. The interior of the prefab housing was all the same: white and grey, a mix of metal and plastic, giving one the feeling of living in a larger-than-usual casket.

Still, he'd added his little touches. When they'd landed, some hardy wildflowers had been in bloom; Obi-Wan had picked some and pressed them between the pages of one of his books. Dried now, lifeless but preserved, they added a spot of lavender to the wall above his cot. A string of cheap, ancient incandescent lights that had been sealed in the Spice Dancer's storage locker now adorned the far wall, adding some illumination that was a bit warmer than the sterile white the disappearer seemed to prefer.

And then there was the jar that sat on the corner table, a thin cutting of gnarled wood within it. Obi-Wan had pulled it from his bags as the two of them unpacked—a last gift from the Temple, along with the book from the library and Qlik's kyber crystal. Like the dried flowers, it was lifeless; unlike them, it needn't remain so.

When Obi-Wan had discovered the smuggled Jedi text and cracked it open, a scrap of flimsiplast had fallen out. That scrap had marked a specific chapter; the same one he had shown Padmé earlier today. Careful instructions for the revitalization of a dormant piece of Temple tree.

He'd never shown her the cutting itself. Never brought up its existence. He'd told himself he was waiting for the right moment.

And what moment might that be? he asked himself.

Unbidden, Padmé's voice ran through his head. And it's not like the droids have to take care of things that much longer.

That had, he supposed, been the plan. An assumption so obvious that neither of them had actually bothered to voice it, when they were acclimating to their new life here. A disappearance, until the baby was born. Until Tarkin's interest in them waned. Until seeking out a new Jedi enclave to join was no longer a danger to the Order. And then . . . they'd return. Live their lives.

No life at all.

A selfish thought. But one that had occurred to him with ever greater frequency as the weeks dragged on.

We'll return to the galaxy. And then . . . I'll still be unable to show my face. I could never truly do good work for the Order ever again. Just sit around whatever enclave takes me, keeping myself hidden from the Republic's prying eyes. Shut up with books, like Qui-Gon after her injury.

Vanity, pure and simple—something he was ashamed of feeling even as he found himself unable to stop feeling it. Qui-Gon, he felt, would have understood—after all, hadn't she chafed against the restrictions? Snuck out after hours?

Still, vanity he could overcome—he was a servant of the Force, of the Jedi, and would do what either required. It was what lay beneath that emotion that truly had him distracted lately—that kept him from sleeping at nights, made him unable to close his eyes and meditate.

He was tired.

It wasn't physical exhaustion, of the kind he'd felt hiding out from Tarkin's goons or fleeing Snowblind. Rest was one thing he had in abundance on this world. It was something deeper, festering in the roots of his bones. A miasma that clung to him no matter how much he tried to dispel it. An impossible weariness that he could feel inside him like a fever that refused to break.

One morning, a few months into their life here, he'd been meditating. The Force had streamed into him and out of him in one motion, connecting him to everything—the hardy grass, the mice, Padmé in the other hut. His own self had been one link in a chain stretching to encompass the whole planet, and beyond. And then, without warning, a question had risen inside him, in his own voice.

When was the last time you were happy?

As his link to the Force had sputtered out, he'd reflexively stretched back in his memories, trying to grasp the feeling of happiness. He'd found he couldn't remember it.

For the last five years, he'd watched everything he ever cared about slowly, surely fall apart. The Jedi. The Republic. Friendships, old and new. Now, the only shred of it that remained was hiding here, with him, running out the clock til the baby was born. Then the two of them would go their separate ways.

And after that, she will never truly feel safe again.

Not that Padmé would have minded that much, were she on her own. But with a child . . . whether she'd admit it or not, Obi-Wan knew exactly what it would change.

His hand strayed to his shirt pocket, feeling the thin layer of cloth over a hard, smooth lump of crystal. When Qlik had secreted it into their luggage, Obi-Wan knew the quartermaster had had a plan for what would happen next. Master Kenobi would discover it, smile to himself, and set about rummaging through his supplies, looking for the right components. Assemble a lightsaber that was his—really his, not a Temple hand-me-down or the backup saber long since snatched up by Tarkin's men and filed away as evidence.

Instead, he'd simply kept it all this time. Looked at it, periodically. Unable to bring himself to do more. He just wasn't ready. Maybe he never would be.

He could overcome that unreadiness—build the lightsaber, shake hands with Padmé, and head out together into the unknown before splitting up and taking their own paths. Do whatever the Order needed him to do—and they would need him, as they'd need everyone in this new, uncertain time, scattered across a thousand worlds.

Or you could stay. Plant the tree. See for yourself if some of the life you've felt across this world is sentient—if there are settlements, towns. If any of them can touch the Force. If you can teach them. Keep the Jedi alive here, a place small enough that you can still make a difference.

You could ask her if she'd stay with you.

There were, of course, the rote responses of duty, courage, devotion to a cause. He'd parroted them to himself enough times, Force knew. But in these recent days, it had become unsettlingly clear just how rote they felt.

Gazing at the fragment of tree, Obi-Wan exhaled. Another night wasted, another attempt at meditation gone. Casting a wordless apology in the direction of the Force, he stood and stretched, resigned to turning off the lights and heading to bed. As he did, his eyes strayed from the glass jar to the other thing that sat on the corner table, reflecting the amber glow of the incandescent bulbs.

A finished lightsaber. Not his, but one whose blade, he knew, was the same color as the cyan kyber gem within his pocket. The weapon of an old student, and older friend. One whose name hadn't been spoken once since Obi-Wan and Padmé had set foot on this planet.

A real reason to return. Maybe the only one.

In case you ever need it again, he'd told Anakin eight months ago. And in spite of everything, the thought still nagged at him.

What if you're the only one who can help him?

Sighing, Obi-Wan yanked the cord of lights from its power supply, willing the ensuing darkness to cover his thoughts as well. You need to sleep. Once the baby is born, you can talk about things with Padmé. Not til then.

As he lay down on his cot and closed his eyes, he found himself wondering what she was thinking.

"Yes, Miss Padmé? What is it?"

"Nothing, Liz. I'm just . . . tired, is all."

"Well, it's been a long day, for all of us. Not that I can tire myself out the same way living beings can, of course."

A hiss of white noise; the ship settling, background systems carrying out their tasks with the occasional chug of machinery.

"Liz?"

"Yes, Miss Padmé?"

"I'm not . . . do I strike you as a bad person?"

"Oh, no, not at all!"

"Let's . . . let's say I was in a situation where I had to agree to something that could save a lot of people. But if I did, Anakin and I—"

Padmé snapped the tape reader off. Sighed. She'd forgotten that particular conversation had been where she'd left the tape off all those months ago, when she first found it beneath the floorboards of the Coruscant apartment.

Rubbing her belly, she spoke aloud, something she'd gotten annoyed at herself for doing more and more lately but hadn't been able to stop. "Well, kid, that was your aunt Liz. I'll try and find a better clip for you." As she thumbed the fast-forward button, she added, "She'd have liked you. Hated you. It's complicated."

Looking around the bedroom, she found herself wishing to be back in her bunk on the Spice Dancer. It was a mess, sure, but it had some character. These walls were all polished and monochromatic and lifeless, like living in a hospital room. She could have added some personal touches—she knew Obi-Wan had thrown up a few decorations in his—but it wouldn't do to get too comfortable in this place. After all, once she'd had the baby and gotten well enough to fly, they'd be out of here again.

But she couldn't have just left everything completely bare—even with Obi-Wan's company during the days and evenings, if she had to spend her nights staring at all-white walls she would have gone insane. So rather than her own things, she'd set up Liz's salvaged belongings on the table across from her cot—Flamewind globe, vial of memory lichen, pilfered bottle of Palpatine's wine. And, of course, the memory tapes, two of them, along with the tape reader she'd stolen from Anakin's workbench as she ransacked her own home.

She'd feared having to explain it to Obi-Wan for a while, but he'd never once tried to enter her space. Gallant to the hilt, that man, she'd thought with a roll of her eyes when she realized—wouldn't visit his best friend's "bedroom" out of his desire to avoid the appearance of impropriety, even when the only witnesses were agrodroids.

His best friend, she'd repeated to herself immediately afterward, and felt so strange about it that she hadn't really said anything for the rest of that day.

A faint squeak rose from under the cot, and Padmé jumped as much as her added bulk would allow—gods damn it, they were back, after being quiet the last few nights. "Go away," she growled at the mouse, which gave another quiet squeak and then seemed to dart back into the hole in her wall.

As good a signal to stop as any. Padmé released the fast-forward button on the tape. "Let's try this."

She didn't need a visual to tell that the voice leaking out of this tape had blue eyes. "—birthday! Another year, and you're still here. Something to celebrate."

Frowning, Padmé leaned forward, as if it would let her see the scene the tape had recorded. She definitely didn't remember ever celebrating a birthday with the droid present—too many opportunities for Liz's crankier personality to spoil things. And it's not as if she was sneaking out to birthday parties across Coruscant.

Before she could wonder further, Liz spoke again, this time in a voice whose eyes would have been decidedly red. "Not that the organics think so. No presents, no greetings, not so much as a gods-damned bonus for your trouble. 'Hey, Liz! Good job on five years operational!'"

Softly: "Oh, not that it's a problem, of course. Masters have birthdays, droids don't. We're different, after all. You're just being silly."

Harsh, biting: "Who needs 'em, anyway. You're still alive, no thanks to them. Just hope another one of their pea-brained adventures doesn't change that."

Gentle, patient. "I know that talking to yourself is probably a sign of malfunction, but it just seemed like a nice thought. Someday you'll copy a fresh round of memories to your backups—and maybe you'll hear this and think to yourself, 'How nice that I remembered.' So happy birthday, Liz."

"Yeah, and don't let the bastards get you down."

Click.

Brushing a hand across her face and feeling the damp there, Padmé laughed. You idiot. What were we supposed to do, bake you a cake?

The thought of getting up and putting the tape reader back in its place was too tiring at the moment; she just let it clatter to the floor, then slid it over toward the table in the hopes that the mice wouldn't venture over to the other side of the room.

It occurred to Padmé that she didn't actually know when Liz's "birthday" even was; they hadn't been keeping up with the calendar much in the years when the droid had been reassembled. Too late now to ask.

Looking downward at the swell of her belly, she thought, I promise I won't forget yours. Once we're out of here, we've gotten reconnected to the holonet, and I know what day it is, I'll work backward and figure out the day you were born. I promise.

Thinking that far ahead made her shrink a little. What would a kid's first birthday celebration even look like, for a mother who would be a fugitive until the day she died? For a kid who wouldn't have any friends or relatives to celebrate it with? What are you supposed to do, take time off from criminal activity and bring the kid to whatever Jedi outpost Obi-Wan will be holed up at? Have a party?

Running a hand along the baby's current home, she closed her eyes. Well, no matter what, you'll remember. That's something.

And hey—maybe they wouldn't be all on their own. Maybe Obi-Wan would be there after all. Jedi are supposed to wander the galaxy righting wrongs, right? That's what the legends always said, anyway, before you thought they were real.

No rule that says he can't wander it with a partner.

Republic Archives: Caridian Plains Fox

Vulpes caridius is a species of fox native to the plains and foothills of the planet Caridia.

Once found exclusively on their homeworld, the Caridian plains fox is now spread across much of the known galaxy. They were first shipped offworld in the year 774, when a team of colonists and explorers conducted a mass migration of the foxes to Ibanjji in an ill-fated attempt to use them as natural pest control.

Though the measure was effective in keeping rodents out of the colony, without any natural predators the fox population exploded. To address the problem, local merchants sold the creatures to passing travelers—as pets, hunting companions, or again as a natural pest control measure.

This led to the distribution of the Caridian plains fox throughout the galaxy—though in most cases they failed to rise to the level of invasive species. On Ibanjii they have been hunted to extinction, and no one is permitted to land in an Ibanjii spaceport with a Caridian plains fox aboard their ship.