The Perfidy

In… out. In… out. In… out.

Groggy, I wonder how many times it will take for me to wake without the sound of my synthesised breath dominating my hearing.

In… out. In… out.

The monotonous rhythm grows tiresome even to my half-asleep senses, though I seem to be rising from slumber more quickly than usual.

Slumber? When did I fall asleep?

In-in-out. In-out. In-out.

I hear my breathing quicken as my consciousness accelerates through the fog, through darkened mists that swallow sojourners easily, seducing them for the night until such a time that reality must return to senses intoxicated with the simple and necessary pleasure of repose.

Something has happened for me to fall into the embrace without warning.

…Without memory.

One inhalation turns long and loud as I gasp and tighten my stomach, sitting bolt upright and staring through a darkened room. But I find I wasn't fully lying down, merely reclining on a chair whose back was pulled down only a little.

What?

My fists tighten as my eyes dart about, trying to receive and take advantage of any small ray of light that might intercept my senses.

I inhale sharply once again, holding it a moment before releasing the air of my lungs into the complete darkness.

Of course. My senses.

But when I reach down to find my centre, I find it somewhat misplaced.

Odd.

I search with greater scrutiny, but I cannot locate that core of peace within me. In its place runs a different current of life.

I touch the coldness. This is not life. This is a current of death.

I test the chair, moving my arms and legs and torso, and find I am unrestrained. Not another exploration. I'm staying right where I am, this time.

Then I remember another. Sola. What happened to Sola? And Senator Palpatine? They must have been taken, along with me. But by whom? …and how?

I cannot recall how I fell under unconsciousness' spell. The last thing stored in my memory is Sola's gasp, and Palpatine's welcoming smile.

Strange. How was he expecting us? He had never even met me before.

What I know of the senator of Naboo is limited to files my Master and I went through before undertaking upon our peacekeeping mission.

I hope the Jedi neutralised the situation.

I allow a bitter chuckle to roll through my mind. Qui-Gon would never forgive them if they destroyed any of the local flora and fauna.

How I wish my Master were here. Though I know my Padawan braid is gone, I reach for its former spot for a touch of reassurance, but my fingers never quite make it all the way behind my ear before they freeze, along with the rest of me.

Slowly, tentatively, they thaw and both of my hands rise to explore this new discovery.

Since when does my hair grow nine or ten centimetres in a single night?

Panic threatens the already convoluted reason within me, and I struggle to suppress it, winding my fingers in my suddenly longer hair and giving it a sharp tug.

I wince. It's real, indeed. The pain also dispels any notion I had of this being a dream.

Slowly, I rise out of the chair. Perhaps if I can find an exit—

Then the lights flood the room, no doubt triggered by my motion. I grimace, closing my eyes for a moment before making them adjust.

Something begins to emit a strident pulsing beep behind me, just loud enough to be annoying. I turn and spot a flashing button on one of the armrests of the chair. Unsure of what exactly might happen, though fairly certain it's a comm unit of some sort, I lean over and hesitantly depress the button. "Yes?"

A cautious but clear subservient voice comes over the speaker, of a girl quite young, judging by what I hear. "I apologise for waking you at this hour, my lord, but there is a message for you that cannot wait." I suppose she interprets my baffled silence as permission to continue. "His Highness sends his wishes for you to begin inspection, as the first shipment is ready now, my lord."

My heart skips a pace. Who is "his Highness", and what on Kessel is she talking about? "Did he say anything else?" I notice, finally, that my mechanical voice sounds somewhat more sonorous than before.

"No, my lord, I'm afraid not." Her tone is puzzled but subdued, in the manner of a servant who knows better than to ask what's going on.

My panic begins to escalate once again, and I swallow hard. "Very well." I release the button, and I collapse in the chair, taking in the room about me.

It is austere in its simplicity, cold, metal, and utilitarian. The chamber of an ultimate pragmatist. One entire wall is a screen that is currently inactive, blank and gray as the rest of the room.

Who does she think I am?

I wonder. Who am I? It seems a good question, all of a sudden.

I stand again, and look down at myself, holding my hands up for inspection. The calluses made by lightsaber technique practice are a little harder, thicker than I remember, my hands stronger. I flex my fingers and glance at my clothing.

Black robes. Black boots, black belt, black cape and hood and sleeves. I notice a glint hanging from the belt, and I unclip the unfamiliar handle, holding the weight in my hand a moment before activating the blade.

…Red lightsaber. I am so startled by the fact that I very nearly drop the thing, and quickly extinguish the blade, hooking it back in place.

What has happened to me while I was out?

A cold feeling overtakes me, seizing hold inside me in a way the first did not. There is one possibility that would fit, one circumstance that would bring such an icy grip about my throat and mind.

Perhaps I'm just imagining this, and it's only a dream. Extremely vivid, of course. But it couldn't possibly have happened! Who in the galaxy would have the power to…

I shudder violently.

To make a man's will and purpose fall to sleep.

Suddenly my body does not seem enough to contain my swollen mind, and my mind too small to keep my emotions back. The dam bursts in a violent explosion within me, and nor is the room large enough to contain me, I feel; I whirl about on my heels to make for the door in quick strides, wondering if this is the sensation that claustrophobia can bring.

The door has a certain reflective quality to itself—I see the entirety of myself for the first time, and I'm taken aback.

The robes, as I expected, are made in a similar style to the typical Jedi garb, except every square centimetre is completely black. A thought hits me like a block of ferrocrete—they look the same as the Zabrak's did, when he was still alive. I can remember his appearance perfectly, seeing as I sparred with him just a little while ago.

Or was it? How long has it been, exactly, since the engagement took place on the outskirts of Mos Espa? For me, it appropriately feels like little more than a week ago.

I step closer to the door, and make out my face on the surface of the metal. The man that stares back at me is not one I know. Oh, of course it is the same face. But little changes make it entirely different from what it was, paradoxically perhaps. I reach up and touch my hair again, absorbing the change in colour. It used to be…

I frown. I can hardly remember what colour it was, but that hardly matters anymore. Now it is black as night, just like my clothing, the highlights glinting off the strands with lustre. I step even closer to the door, peering into the pair of eyes that are mine and yet not my own. I can remember the colour they used to be: somewhere between an ice and sea blue. Through the reflection of this metal I can see no colour from them, but perhaps that is merely the metal interfering with the true colour. I like to think so, of course, but somehow I know that I should know better.

It seems I have been sapped of colour and of a life that has only now begun to return to me. Very strange and difficult, to think of a possible dormancy of my mind, though my brain and body were active.

Or were they? Did someone knock me out, change my clothes, colour my hair and put in disguising contacts before I woke?

I frown. But to what purpose? The idea is ridiculous. These… I touch my face. These changes are long-term. I must not mislead myself.

The problem is, the alternate possibility seems no less absurd. How am I going to explain this to the Order?

…How am I going to get back to the Order? Surely they've noticed my absence? I glance back at the chair. It seems an ominously harmless thing. Well, perhaps I can take comfort in the fact that my life will never be without its conundrums. Which is rather illogical in itself, giving proof to the matter. How lovely. I sigh wearily and palm open the door. There is someone's life outside I must begin to explore, and I may as well start before I begin to arouse suspicion by staying in the room, rocking back and forth in the chair as the confinements of the room and paranoia of the situation begin to sink their teeth into my sanity.

Where did that horrible thought come from? I grimace as the door slides open. Perhaps I am deluding myself, after all—perhaps my sanity's slipping already. In that case, I decide I shall do what I can to dissuade myself of that opinion as I stride out into the corridor. I am not only wearing someone else's character; I am a walking masquerade, improvising my way down a hall in a ship full of possibly deadly strangers, an explorer encountering a cavern of a carnivorous species discovered for the first time, though with the uncanny feeling that he's known them before. I think it would be easier for me to keep up the act if I was merely one of the unnoticed underfoot lackeys occasionally scurrying about, but from the fearful respect I seem to command, it's rather the opposite.

I suppress another shudder as I advance down the corridor. Every single person I pass by stops in their tracks whether they are pressed for time or not, either inclining their head or saluting stiffly. I give a tight nod to some of the more visibly distinguished ones, ignore the others, and pass on through, wondering what exactly they expect of me. I have an awfully forbidding feeling that I'm going to absorb much of whatever my usual behaviour was the hard way, picking up bits and pieces from the reactions of others. Once I have that worked out, I'll have to see a way out of here and back to where I belong.

The situation seems to worsen as I make an attempt at reaching out to sense the emotions toward me in the general vicinity of each person I pass; I'm given some time to each mind as they come few and far between at this time of the sleep cycle. I can feel the Force to a greater degree of clarity than before, but it still carries those cold undertones. If the Force I knew before pulsed with warm light, now it is darkened, the crimson frequency turning my stomach over.

The dark side. Whoever I am, I have turned.

Somehow (and thankfully, noting my present situation) the thought does not instil as much panic and fear into me as I thought it might. My heart is gripped, wrenched in the knowledge, but I do not flinch, my steps unhesitating, unlike my mind, as they carry me down a path unfamiliar.

In a way I don't understand, I never come to a dilemma at a junction of the hallway. My feet always know where to take me as if they are powered by some hidden asset deep in a part of my brain inaccessible to my conscious self. Perhaps that pocket of memory contains some semblance of who these people are giving their fearful respect to. I very nearly don't want to find those memories, in that case, but I know I'd better, and soon, if I want to keep this charade up long enough to salvage whatever situation I've dug myself into.

Therefore I must resort to continuing my sweeps of these people's thoughts of me, whether I feel the coldness or not. Of course it does not ease; for a moment I think I feel it growing when I realise the coldness is the chill of my own perception, from what I'm receiving from these people that unwittingly serve me in a way different than they would ever believe.

The chill is from the name. One name that imprints itself upon my discernment, that brands itself into my eyeless sight within. It is the sole phrase I pick up from their recognition of my face. Lord Xiian. See, here he comes, they think. We had better acknowledge his presence before—

I break off the connection and remember just in time to keep my face steeled before the next crew member comes within view. If I would be allowed a little privacy, I don't doubt I might start babbling in confusion and horror. The image of the or else that I see in their minds…it strikes a fatal blow to my already dying hopes that just perhaps I might have maintained some semblance of a good and/or honourable life. Now I see the reason behind the fear in their eyes, and for the intuitive apprehension I'd been carrying all the way down these halls at what I had been up to while my own mind was silent.

Is this what it's like for a hopeful parent to come into contact with their child after years of nothing and find they've been leading a life worse than criminal?

I feel I need to find an empty soundproof room, sealed off from any penetrating eyes, where I can scream out my terrified revulsion and collapse, waiting to die.

I wait for Good Friend to emerge gleefully from his silence and crow "no such luck", or something to that extent. But he does not come. I venture into his place of residence with fearful curiosity, thinking just perhaps…

He is indeed gone, without a trace. I linger in that place, wondering if he's set some sort of trap, but nothing springs upon me. I investigate within a little closer, and notice some signs of… removal? How odd. My walk carries on automatically as I poke about inside, feeling about the edges of a ragged wound. This almost smacks of violent expulsion. Like someone reached down and forcibly ripped him out. The thought is both appealing and worrisome. Who would have that sort of power? I was unable to even get close enough to think of going about such a thing.

It's the question my mind keeps returning to, one way or another. Who?

My mind returns unbidden to something Good Friend told me while I was restrained upon the bed before my wandering and waking Sola. The hidden planner, whoever he is, was supposed to be waiting for me at the end of that ride. Has the ride ended? It must have—if the ship has kept going, we'd be far out of the galaxy by now. A new thought occurs to me. Where was I on that trip when Sola and I came across Senator Palpatine?

No, that's ridiculous. A senator wouldn't be—wouldn't have—

I struggle with my thoughts as they wander down a tangent often travelled to no avail, in my mind anyway. I've never trusted politicians, but to suspect one of something like this? It's more than a simple conspiring bureaucrat out to gain a better position on his home planet as well as in the Senate. For the brief time I actually saw the Senator, I was too surprised to gather enough concentration to find his signature in the Force.

But how could a senator hide a power of that kind from the Order for so long? The Senate and the Temple are on the same planet! Surely the Jedi would have noticed some anomalous activity within the Force if he was up to something.

Then I remember the quiet murmurings, the quick but solemn conversations between some Masters that I had observed but made little of. I can recall snatches of words: Clouded. Unfocused. Restless.

Shrouded.

I had thought, then, that they were talking about their perceptions during missions or something of the sort. Now I know better. If you must assume anything, I tell myself grimly, assume the worst. Assume that Senator Palpatine is covertly a dark Force-sensitive, and that he's neck-deep in some sort of plot. And of course, assume he is the hidden planner that Good Friend was referring to. If I follow along that course, some things begin to make sense. Of course it would have been easier for the Zabrak to locate Queen Amidala if her trusted senator was in fact two-faced and directing the Zabrak to her all along. No one except for a Force-user with sufficient information would be able to trace that dark assassin back to the desk of the pseudo-innocent Senator Palpatine. Hah. He probably doesn't expect anyone ever will, until it's too late… But the triumphant feeling quickly fades. If he had the power to hide his presence so well, was he the one who laid my mind to rest? Did he manipulate me into a shell of servanthood?

I snap back to reality, out of the mires of wool-gathering, and I realise I didn't take much time at all in the depths of thought and processing information. I search my memory to see how far I've passed through the labyrinthine corridors while my mind was away—only a couple of turns, only three people passed.

And another realisation hits me, with something of a heavier blow. How did I know it was two turns and three people in approximately one minute? I never would have been able to come out of deep thought with such a solid knowledge of what had gone on in the meantime. Is this fact good or bad?

I force my attention forward on my surroundings. I feel my destination is close now, whatever that may be. I'm glad, at least, that I've been able to get so much thinking done—or perhaps to have arrived at so many conclusions—in the space of a few minutes' walk. Now all that's left is to actually physically arrive somewhere.

Oddly enough, my footsteps direct me down a hallway I feel is seldom-used, despite (or perhaps because of) its pristine cleanliness. Strange. I thought I was headed for some centre of activity, not a storage room. But I try to keep up my faith in the seemingly unswerving confidence of my unconscious mind. It feels very peculiar, almost as if I was trusting the directions to another person entirely. Not an obscured Good Friend, I hope. The silent, nearly undetectable instructions have a different feel to them, though, despite that ever-present undercurrent of steely ice. A feel that I know is me. That knowledge helps a little, anyway.

Just as I would let go during a difficult kata or while blocking spurts of energy from enemy blasters with my lightsaber, I fully release myself; this time, though, it's not into the Force, but into that other part of me that seems to know so well where I'm going.

It's a side door I stop beside, of course, seeing as there's a noticeable lack of individuality between any and all of the doors down this hall. It's certainly nothing special, which arouses much speculation, possibly more than a distinguished-looking entrance would have. Why such a plain door? And why this one in particular? I hesitantly reach out to palm it open. The panel appears as innocuous as the door—until it commences scanning every detail of my hand as soon as I touch it.

"Identity confirmed," a toned-down, bland computer voice buzzes from beside the panel, and the door shoots open.

Wide-eyed, I step into the room, the door sealing as soon as I've cleared the threshold. No surprise there, noting the security measure I passed. But the room itself demands my attention for now.

The floor about twelve metres square, it's just as coldly functional as the room that's presumably my chamber was, the durasteel walls lending that same practical plainness. In fact, the entire room has no significant features except for the assembly of machinery in the centre. The focus seems to be on the raised platform that's covered with a transparent plaz half-cylinder. I come closer to it and look inside; the inner surface seems to be lined as a bed would, albeit without pillow or blanket.

I frown. Can't possibly be a bacta chamber, then. But it's obviously made to contain a humanoid of some sort, for some purpose. My fingernail taps against the plaz closure thoughtfully. I feel a connection to this thing somehow, a vague and distant link. In curiosity and the possibility of finding an answer to the connection, I turn my attention to the computers hooked up to the chamber. One is devoted solely to monitoring vital organs, another brain activity, another for administering nutrition to the subject.

Well, if it's not a healing tank…

I repress a groan. Not another hibernation compartment. At least this time there's no one to wake. Wondering if the computers hold more information than mere biological processes, I check over for any likely terminal that might store the information—and more importantly identification—of the hibernation chamber's previous occupants.

I do manage to find a listing—but it's not much of a list, as they go. One single occupant.

I swallow, knowing what the name will be already, but I must see it before me. I bring up the identification, and there it is, hard and undeniable in text.

Xiian.

I was in hibernation, then? Long enough for my hair to reach this length, at any rate. But that doesn't explain the changes within me. That doesn't explain the intuitive map my subconscious seems to carry. Most especially, that doesn't explain the fear in the faces and minds of those crew members and officers.

Could I have been put into hibernation first off, and my mind laid bare before whoever the conspirator is here? Could Good Friend have been quite literally ripped out of his dwelling within me during that time, and something else put in? And then when I awoke…

I grind my teeth. That still does not explain why I have no memory since seeing Senator Palpatine. There has to be an answer somewhere. Perhaps the best approach would be to go to Palpatine and see what I can find out. Or perhaps not. I don't even know what year it is. And if I was put into a proper mode of suspended animation, my metabolism and ageing process could have been slowed enough for me to sleep through a century before emerging. Suddenly feeling frantic, my hands make a rush for the computer, desperate to know the current date. I have to see it, have to find out how much time has wasted away since my last memory.

Though I wonder if it would have been better for me to never have found out. Oh, it's not nearly a century's difference, but it's long enough. Far too long.

"Thirty-two years," I choke out aloud. "Thirty-two…" Though I hardly look a day over thirty, I'm actually… fifty-seven? I try in vain to think up a curse vile enough, finding nothing suitable in the considerable vocabulary I've picked up over many a mission.

Numbly, my fingers wander over the keypads of the computers, seeking more information, something that might just dispel this sickening revelation. I find I was released from hibernation after twelve years in the chamber. That's two decades of unaccounted time. And I've aged far less than that. I must have been subjected to some sort of age-delaying technique or hormone or drug in hibernation that kept affecting me after my release. What was I doing those twenty years?

And why was such a delay put upon me? Someone must value my services. Whatever they may have been. I shiver suddenly despite the room's relative warmth. I need to find some sort of an information source. A database computer, or a network connection, a library of news holovids. Something.

A fact clicks in the back of my mind, bringing to my attention something mentioned not so long ago. The girl said something about his Highness wishing for me to inspect a shipment. A shipment of what? Not food rations, anyhow, of that I'm sure.

What prompted my return to true consciousness?

I stare into the hibernation chamber, wanting to absorb the secrets it must contain, though the answer to my last question likely lies elsewhere.

I seem to be following an alarming pattern of falling comatose and waking again under somewhat unusual circumstances,

I think dryly, somehow managing to keep a finger on what sense of humour I have left in me. Hopefully that pattern won't continue in the near future.

But for now, I must keep a wit of a different kind about me, fitted like a permanent cloak. My first order of business? To irrevocably place my life into the sabacc pot and hope desperately for a winning hand. The host of the game? His Highness, who is undoubtedly the former Senator Palpatine.

Whether or not there will be any other players remains to be seen.

"One-ten and twenty-four."

The bridge bustles with activity while managing to keep a nervous eye on the back of their overseer. One of the young communications lieutenants keeps rattling off coordinates to the squadron engaged in a training exercise.

"Five-sixty and fifteen."

It quickly becomes white noise, a background for my silent thought as I gaze into the cold points of light hanging outside the viewport, my feet standing shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over my ribs.

My viewport, apparently. My bridge, my ship. And no one seems willing in the least to dispute that. I can feel their quiet tension humming in the electric air, feeding disruption into the currents of the Force. To make things worse, it seems they know something is wrong.

Perhaps it was the way their lord walked into the bridge. Perhaps it was the look upon his bleak face. Or perhaps something let go of their will when I awoke and they feel the change, feel the release, yet don't exactly know what it means.

"Two-nineteen and eighty-six."

The starfighters, still in flawless formation, swerve onto a course with professional fluidity that brings them to cruise past the bridge's viewport, across my field of vision. Interesting craft, really. I've overheard the make's name—the TIE fighter. What TIE stands for, I truly have no idea. That matters little, at the moment, seeing as they also are mine.

And this ship that I stand on? It is of immense scale, a full eight kilometres long. I can hardly fathom such a length of metal; upon the event of the front tip ramming a solid object of some sort, I would have time to react and rush out of the bridge to an escape craft of some kind before the shock wave finally reached the aft end. A Star Destroyer, aptly put in the class of Super. I've briefly looked over much information since my arrival to the bridge. There are three main classes of Star Destroyers: Victory, Imperial, and Super-class, the latter of which seems to be few and far between. This, of course, means I'm likely an even more distinguished personage than I'd supposed. As if I'm a right-hand man.

"Seven-forty-three and sixty-five."

A different voice cuts into my thoughts, places itself above the droning lieutenant. "Lord Xiian?"

I recognise it as the voice of the girl that gave me the message within the room I woke in. I keep my eyes riveted on a single star as I respond. "Yes?"

She comes within my peripheral vision hesitantly; I can feel the fear emanating from her, and also a sort of forced-upon courage. It's likely she's done this sort of thing before, whatever that would have entailed. "My lord, the request for inspection was of some urgency."

I am very glad she is oblivious to my own wavering fear. I turn my head to the side and lock eyes with her—a second later, her face totally drains of colour.

So this is what I have come to. A tyrant ruler of a travelling city and garrison.

I uncross my arms, shifting my stance until I am nearly facing her. She is quite obviously doing everything in her power not to flinch, not to flee. I look her in the face again, gesturing to a spot on the floor barely a metre from me. "Come here."

I thought she had already turned the purest form of white possible. I stand mistaken; she looks as if she belongs among the dead, her hands trembling almost imperceptibly as she forces her way forward. The entire bridge seems to have held its collective breath, waiting for the heavy-handed punishment they think is coming.

Then they are mistaken as well. I furrow my brow, keeping my attention solely focused on the girl. "Tell me," I say to her in a voice pitched for her ears only, "what the word 'honour' means to you."

She wavers, glancing briefly at her crewmates, hardly able to bring her gaze back to my eyes. "My lord?"

"I wish to hear out your opinion on the matter," I tell her firmly, still as quiet as before. "I do not like to think that this ship is powered by mindless automatons. No harm will come to you. What do you think?"

Steeling herself with a suddenness that surprises me, she lifts her eyes to my face, inhaling deeply before answering in a voice as quiet as mine. "I believe, my lord, that honour is dictated out of a respect made from admiration and an honest reverence…and sometimes a willingness for humility."

I pause for a long moment, rolling her words about in my mind before nodding once. "Then you have my honour for presenting to me your truth." A grim smile doesn't quite make it all the way through to my face. "I must keep little honour in your eyes, then, I think?"

The fear still shimmering in her expression is all the answer I need. "You have my respect, my lord."

Closing my eyes for a few seconds, I nod. "Respect can be bought with credits, with lives. Honour? That's something completely different." I let a little of the smile come through, no doubt a thin and humourless one. "Change is a healthy thing, they say. Well. You're sure you heard nothing more about this shipment?"

She hesitates again. "I could be mistaken, my lord, but I was under the impression that it is a new TIE squadron from Sienar Fleet Systems."

"I see." Actually, I don't see. Not at all. At least that explains vaguely what I should be looking for. But where? I glance at the ranking upon her uniform, something I'm already able to read with ease. "Very well, Major. Perhaps we will talk again in the future. You may return to your business."

"Yes, my lord." There is no mistaking the twinge of confusion in her voice as she bows and spins about smartly to walk off with a military-rigid posture.

Strange, that someone as high up as I think I am should be assigned to an inspection of just another squadron of starfighters. Which likely means this isn't just another squadron of starfighters. A new edition, perhaps? Or is it something entirely different? Am I being given covert instructions for an important assignment?

I wince inwardly, trying to remind myself that it isn't paranoia when they really are out to get you. What if the best thing right now would be to ignore the message? What would I have coming for me, in that case? Pain, perhaps, but answers at least. I grit my teeth. I suppose I'll have to decide then if it will be worth the price.

Clearly, I cannot wait for a possible return of memory to answer me. There very much seems to be a time limit upon my actions. Perhaps I could take one of the higher-ranking officers into a private room and ask him about myself, then alter his memory of the conversation? There would be little harm done, in that case.

Or possibly I just have a lot of reading to do.

The room is quiet, but somehow I know it is not destined to remain so for long. The only real noise comes from the muted hum of the machinery and an occasional tapping on my own part as I scroll through information.

"What took you so long?" The voice behind me is male, adult and strong, tainted with a strand of impatience.

I steel myself against showing any surprise. For the presence behind me is vaguely familiar, changed from what it once had been but somehow still the same. I must face him, though, of course, and so I turn around in the chair, keeping my face impassive as I look over to where he stands at the doorway.

Anakin's face has lost far too much of its former innocence of youth. It is hardened, cynical, and cold. Perhaps a little tired. He himself has grown quite tall, though I can't quite gauge it from where I sit. Substantially taller than I am, at any rate, though that comes at no surprise.

Only one word comes to my mouth. "Explain."

His face hardens even more. "It's due more on your part. What exactly is this change I sense?"

I search him carefully, looking for subtleties, nuances of behaviour, anything. And then, then I know it. This man before me is Xiian's right hand.

All I can do is play for time. He might be an enemy as well as a servant. I stand, forgoing the aid of my arms to push me out of my seat, and stare at him levelly. "Perhaps the change has been made in your own perceptions. It changed as you grew physically, emotionally, and mentally. Why should it not change now? Why should a sentient not undergo some growth spurt later in his life?"

I can see the faint undertones of authority I pushed into my voice have been duly noted. His look of defiance has subdued somewhat, but he accuses: "You're not talking about me."

I barely manage to keep the waver out of my voice. "Then you know what has happened here?"

He smiles a little, malice glinting in his eyes. "It's simple enough to understand." Anakin walks toward a viewport set in the wall beside me, staring out into the stars. "The Imperial palace is dissolving into chaos. Something has happened to their leader, and they are beginning to realise the consequences."

"Something has happened to you," I point out quietly.

He shoots a heated glance in my direction, but it quickly disappears. "I am not the issue at hand, my master. You are no longer driven by your hate, I can feel. You…" He searches for a fitting word. "You've awoken."

I can feel his silent questions. Why? How?

"But," he continues, "I don't think you understood exactly who I was referring to when I said 'leader'. It's not you, master. It's him."

"Palpatine," I whisper, mostly to myself, and wonder if I shall come out of this room alive.

Anakin grins, a menacing expression that's toned down only because I'm here. "You don't remember, do you? That's why he's collapsed."

Desperation clutches at my heart. "What do you mean? What's happened?" I feel the helpless rage rising inside, eating away my energy to feed my growing fear. I growl in a voice that startles both of us, "Damn it, Anakin, what's happened to me?"

He freezes, his eyes wide with pain of memory and anger at me, at anyone. "That's the only name you remember? Gods below, what did he do to make you like this?" He begins to move away from the viewport, entering into what I instantly recognise as a predator's circle. "Who are you, then?"

A fifty-seven-year-old senior Padawan with uncommon, unknown knowledge and a dark, forgotten past. Sounds like something out of a holodrama.

I refuse to move, staring ahead as he passes by and out of my peripheral vision. "It matters not who I was, only who I am now. Obi-Wan Kenobi."

I can somehow hear his silent mirth as he moves behind me, coming around to my left side and back up front. "What a field day for the media. A reformed Sith master, is that it?" And I can instantly see he regrets the slip of his tongue.

My throat restricts at this. Sith? But they've been wiped out for over a thousand years…? "I trust you'll keep me up to date," I say while my mind scrabbles madly for a foothold.

The man who was Anakin begins to say something, but pauses and looks past the walls for a second before returning his attention to me. "Your presence is required on the bridge," he tells me flatly. "I suggest you keep up your pretences as well as possible, master."

I meet his stare levelly. "And for you to support them."

The alarm throughout the ship is manifest in the thickness of the air. I can feel something has happened to these people's leader. Their eyes shine with fear as they look to me, trying to console themselves that all is not lost, that there is still a strong leader among them.

They truly don't know of their mistake. I am not what they're looking for, not anymore. And somehow…I suspect the "collapse" of Palpatine, as Anakin put it, is closely tied with my awakening.

My head spins with knowledge as well as the lack of it thereof. If only Qui-Gon had been able to sell that podracer a few minutes earlier, perhaps none of this would have happened. Such a little thing for results of such magnitude.

An admiral steps up to me. He has a slightly sallow face, beetled brows, an aquiline nose. I search vainly within my memory for any inkling of his name, but of course I do not find it. He's as nameless as the near-complete majority of this crew. "My lord, we have disturbing news from Imperial Center."

"Then relay it," I tell him as he takes up stride beside me while I walk to the bridge's viewport. Imperial Center? The heart of the Empire, obviously. And if there is anywhere that a new government would want to take root, it is Coruscant.

He hesitates noticeably before speaking. "There appears to be some concern over the Emperor's current, er, state of health, my lord. According to the medical staff at the palace, he seems to have collapsed into a comatose state without warning."

I digest this news carefully as we reach the viewport, then look directly at the admiral. "Collapsed without warning, you say."

He flushes, almost imperceptibly. "According to the report, yes."

My heart takes up its pounding cadence again. "I see," I say carefully. What now would be my best course of action? To take myself to Coruscant, or Imperial Center as it is now, would be something akin to suicide if I would fail to conduct myself appropriately. However, maybe Anakin is willing to assist this masquerade.

"Await further orders," I instruct this admiral. "They shouldn't be long in coming."

He nods smartly. "Yes, my lord."

Another man then walks up to us, his face nearly the complete opposite of the admiral's, his eyes glimmering in fear and uncertainty. First he salutes me stiffly, then addresses us both. "Lord Xiian, Admiral Rhenth, there is an update on the report."

I am glad, at least, that I have a name now for my subordinate. The admiral raises his brows slightly in response. "What is it, Captain?"

The captain swallows, looks at me for as long as his fear will allow. "His Royal Highness is dead, milord."

A sharp intake of air from Admiral Rhenth. "This has been confirmed?"

The captain nods numbly, and looks to me again, as does the admiral.

I clench my jaw, and turn to look out the viewport, hands clasped at the small of my back. What now? Who is my superior? Who will gain the throne? What have I to contend with?

As I turn back to the two officers, my worst fear is confirmed as the last three questions are answered for me by the look in their eyes: Me, myself, and I.

THE SHADOW OF THAT HYDDEOUS STRENGTH

SAX MYLE AND MORE IT IS OF LENGTH.

— Reference to the Tower of Babel in Ane Dialog by Sir David Lyndsay