Shattered Knight

by Tim Radley

KoTOR: Eight months on from the fall of the Star Forge the expected peace has not come to the Republic. The news of Revan's return has become a source of schism and conflict within the galaxy, and Revan himself has his own demons to face.

19. Down in Flames

Huge apologies to everyone for the length of time it's taken to get this chapter finished and posted. Also, many thanks again to Jedi Boadicea for the beta.

---

19. Down in Flames

"Did you truly think that I would allow this to pass unanswered, Mal?" The voice from behind the mask was flat, hollow, metallic. No shred of humanity lurked within it.

Morrigance felt cold as she stared at the viewscreen. Even separated from the two of them by a dozen decks and half a kilometre's distance she could feel the charge in the air. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, her skin prickling as though with crawling insects. And she knew the rest of the Firebrand's crew felt it too, even those without the slightest hint of apparent Force sensitivity. It was similar to the way animals became panicked prior to an earthquake – senses they never knew they had suddenly tripping and telling them to run away as far and fast as possible. Now

If she hadn't known that he fully intended her to watch – that, in part, it was also a message to her – she would have turned the screen off and let her own instincts to flee have their way. Instead, she stood there, gritting her teeth so tightly that they squeaked, unable to feel a single shred of warmth.

"If I knew what you were talking about, perhaps I could provide you with an answer." A noticeable and deliberate delay. "My Master."

Malak's shuttle had docked with Revan's flagship half an hour ago. No one aboard the Firebrand – not even the lowliest technician – had missed the significance of that. Since then, the sheer tension had been a palpable presence, clinging like a grotesque monkey to their collective backs.

Staring at the top of Malak's bald skull – the only part of him visible in the viewscreen – Morrigance found herself wondering what impact the amount of Force she sensed would have on the ship around them if it were to be fully unleashed. It almost seemed like it might tear the entire vessel apart – a thousand churning, tearing maws straining at the leash for the chance to ravenously devour.

The two dark stars were now on unavoidable collision course, mutual event horizons breached. She couldn't help think that the inevitable result would be an explosion to match Cron Drift.

And she was standing much too close for comfort.

"I have spent an inordinate amount of time of late defending your intelligence, my apprentice. I think it's time you showed me I wasn't mistaken in that appraisal."

In response Malak simply laughed.

The sound of it chilled Morrigance to the core. There was no discernable fear. There was even less in the way of sanity.

"If you refer to Telos, my master, I was obeying your explicit orders."

The drawn out silence was utterly excruciating.

"It's strange. I seem to have misplaced my sense of humour somewhere." The glacial calm of Revan's voice made her heart thump. Behind the mask, he was smiling, she could tell. That scary empty smile where his eyes became hard mirrors and you didn't want to be anywhere in the same quadrant as he was. She didn't need to see.

"You told me to ensure Karath's loyalty. To leave him with no way to change his mind. Did you think I would accomplish that by buying him a puppy?" There was still no fear. In fact, there seemed to be an eagerness. A dark and desperate glee.

There would be no turning back now. Both of them wanted this, Morrigance could sense clearly. She shuddered, unsure anymore which of the two possible outcomes would be the worse.

"Do you know how much careful diplomacy you have undone with that one clumsy action? A dozen systems on the verge of joining us now stand squarely as our foes. The entire Hydian Way has re-ignited in conflict. Another front to the war we cannot afford."

"Diplomacy?" Malak's voice almost managed to be a purr. He stepped forward, further into the picture, the tattoos on his bald scalp lividly drawn bloodstains. "A strange word for the Dark Lord of the Sith to be uttering. I have brought our enemies to the fore. Goaded them into showing their true colours, so that now we might crush them all together. I thought you would be pleased."

"Shall I show you just how pleased I am?"

The tone of that voice – the inhuman, barely bridled power of it – appeared to penetrate through even Malak's madness.

There was silence, dragging. Morrigance could hear her own breathing, far too loud.

"You always emphasised the necessity of making sacrifices, Revan." This time Malak spoke quietly, almost calm. "Do you pity the people of Telos? Are you growing soft and weak?"

Watching, Morrigance almost laughed bitterly at those words. If anything the exact opposite was becoming true. The humanity was bleeding away drop by drop.

"If so, then perhaps you should step aside for someone who is capable of doing what is necessary. Someone who won't flinch. What are a few million more lives, when we consider Palastre and Xerxyon, and so many others? What are they to the billions that the Jedi Order sat back and sacrificed to the Mandalorians? If we falter now, what will any of it mean?"

"A sacrifice is only worthwhile if it gains you something you couldn't gain by other means. If you are going to throw my words back in my face, apprentice, at least try to remember all of them."

Another pause. The seconds had swollen into separate miniature eternities. Revan stepped closer to Malak, and it seemed to Morrigance as if the entire universe bent and distorted around them.

There was fear on Malak's part now. She could feel it clearly. But unlike in the past, he seemed to be feeding from the fear as much as he did from the rage. It no longer acted as a restraining collar. Quite the opposite.

"I have been lax, it seems," Revan finally continued. "You weren't testing Karath on Telos, were you Mal? You were testing me."

Abruptly, he clenched one black-gloved hand into a tight fist. Even at her distance, Morrigance felt the Force disturbance intensify. Malak though, stood firm.

"To remain strong we must always be tested. Always challenged." This time Malak's words were ragged, as if he was struggling to draw breath.

"And you chose to test me publicly, with all of the Sith an audience." Revan's voice was quiet – dense and dark. "So now you know that I have to pass your test, just as publicly as it was issued. For all our years of friendship, you leave me with no choice here. Remember that."

"The Star Forge . . ." Malak began, gasping. "It gives me . . ."

"We are not on the Star Forge now!" A sharp gesture, the palm of his hand thrusting outwards.

Morrigance jolted violently in shock as Malak flew backwards out of camera shot.

"So come now, Mal. Test me face to face. Seize the throne from my grasp if you've finally convinced yourself you have the strength and courage for it.

"Or crawl on your knees and beg forgiveness."

There was a choked laugh, harsh and primal. Following a moment later came a soft snap-hiss, and a semi-circle of garish red light appeared in view. "You always did talk too much. My Master."

Lightning crackled. The display blanked out in a wall of static.

Morrigance closed her eyes and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. She could hear her own blood rushing loudly in her ears. Abruptly she turned on heel and stalked out of there. Somewhere below and behind her, she could feel the Force surging – a violent, tumultuous storm that threatened to consume everything around it.

She had gotten the message all right. It perhaps wasn't the message Revan had intended to send her, but she had received it nonetheless.

She studied his face through the transparisteel divider, struggling to control her breathing, aware that she had been silent for far too long. She could sense Celyanda's growing concern.

"Revan," she finally acknowledged him.

He smiled at her. It looked slightly sad.

That smile . . . it cut right through her, and hate flared, hot and bright.

"I think," he said calmly, seemingly oblivious of the reaction in her, "that we've both just made a very big mistake here."

-s-s-

As Bastila watched, the cigar slipped from between Canderous's mechanical fingers and dropped to the floor. He swore beneath his breath. Rather than the usual reflex muttering there seemed to be a genuine edge of underlying frustration to it.

He started to bend to retrieve the cigar, then stopped abruptly as he finally became aware of her presence. After a distinct pause, he turned to face her. His expression was sour, drawn with annoyance – though perhaps that was more with himself, and the fact he hadn't noticed her sooner.

"How long have you been there, Princess?" When he finally broke the silence it was halfway a growl.

"Not that long." But much longer than she'd normally expect to remain undetected near him.

She was staring, she realised after a moment. He was stripped to the waist, and his physique would have been remarkable enough on a man twenty years his junior. Stark black Ordo Clan tattoos stood out on pectoral muscles that looked as solid as reinforced permacrete, while his entire right side was such a mess of scar tissue that it more closely resembled knotted wood than flesh. There were faded, discoloured burns and, trailing down and out of sight around his hip, a vivid collection of deep gouges that looked like they'd been inflicted by a particularly vicious set of animal claws. A rough stripe of flesh across his chest was more recent than the rest, almost certainly inflicted by Darth Malefic's lightsaber.

Her gaze jerked abruptly back to his face. "I was told you were supposed to be in bed."

The doctor had seemed sure that he would still be sleeping off the after affects of the anaesthetics. He'd wanted to keep her out, but she'd played dense and ignored the hints.

Canderous's eyes glittered – fractionally amused. "Yeah? That right?"

Briefly, Bastila glanced at his right arm – the clear gel bandage where flesh and metal joined. It still looked painfully raw, despite the kolto. "Your implant doesn't make you immortal."

"No?" A nonchalant shrug. "Haven't died once in all the time I've had it."

She snorted. "The doctor also says you were offered a natural prosthetic, outwardly indistinguishable from the real thing. But instead you opted for that thing."

"Mandalorians wear their battle scars proudly. They don't try to hide." A contemptuous twist to his lips. "Besides, this was quicker. No artificial flesh to worry about. Works more efficiently too. Stronger." For emphasis, he clenched the metal hand into a fist. The soft whisper of micro-servos was clearly audible.

Bastila held his gaze a moment longer. Then, finally, she glanced down at where his dropped cigar lay. She noticed a second one, about a metre from the first, rolled up against the wall. This one appeared to have been badly mangled.

Canderous apparently noticed the direction of her gaze. "I'm told it will take a lot of practise to regain fine motor control." As she looked back at him, he lifted the hand in front of his face and waggled the metal fingers. She got the impression that even this took a considerable amount of concentration. "If I offer to shake hands with you in the near future . . ." A brief, savage looking grin as the metal hand clenched tight again. "My suggestion is that you politely decline."

"I'll bear that in mind." She bent down smoothly and picked up the less damaged of the two cigars.

"They're from a Drexl larva." His words made her freeze. "Those scars you were staring at so intently, I mean. My blooding quest."

Bastila felt a flare of heat rising to her cheeks, but managed to hold back the instinctive and utterly useless denial. Her lips clamped together, forming a tight line. Inwardly she could picture his expression – the cynical, wryly amused smirk – without having to look up.

"So, your blooding was on Dxun then?" When she did speak, her tone was entirely bland.

The noise he made was dismissive. "Of course not. But we exported that moon's wildlife to a number of our worlds. Good hunting, and they take pretty much anywhere with an oxygen atmosphere and something halfway resembling a food supply."

She stood up again, only looking back at him when she was sure that the colour had faded from her cheeks. "Isn't a Drexl rather ambitious prey for a twelve year old?" That was the age, she recollected, that the blooding typically took place.

One corner of his mouth turned up in a crooked half-smile, as if grudgingly impressed that she knew even that much. "I was actually hunting a Boma Beast. Unfortunately the Drexl larva had pretty much the same idea as I did." His eyes took on an oddly distant look, as if he was seeing directly back into an entirely different time. "In the end I proved I wanted it more."

A self-mocking snort followed a moment later. "Either that, or I had frak loads of high explosives and the Drexl larva didn't. One of the two."

Bastila held the cigar up. "I'm sure you're not meant to be smoking these right now."

"Something else the doctor told you, eh?" He seemed more amused than anything.

"I don't suppose it would make any difference if I asked you not to?"

"What are you? My wife?"

Bastila snorted quietly. "I wouldn't wish that fate on my worst enemy."

For a moment, he just looked at her, oddly intent. "You are your worst enemy half the time."

Her teeth clicked together, but she managed to keep her retort in check. She jabbed the cigar roughly in the direction of his face. "Here."

Expression bland, he leant forward fractionally and took it between his teeth. "Lighter's on the table while you're at it."

She let her breath out slowly, then picked it up and turned it over in her hand. It felt surprisingly solid and heavy. Her fingertips traced across a dent in the back of it. The cool metal was roughly textured to allow for a better grip. "So whose corpse did you loot this off?"

The only response from him was a rumbling half-chuckle.

Her eyes snapped back to his face. "What's funny?"

"Since we're on the subject of wives here . . .. It was a gift."

Her surprise, at the tone of his voice as much as the words, was so total that she almost dropped the lighter entirely. "You're . . . you were married?"

The look in his eyes was steely. For a moment, she didn't think he was going to answer. "It is the duty of every Mandalorian warrior to ensure the survival of the clan." Then. "Death rates are high. Birth rates have to be higher. It's the simplest kind of maths."

The words left her utterly nonplussed. There was no real reason for them to – in their own way, they made a perfect kind of sense. But she had never really looked at him in that way – as someone who might have had any part of life outside of war and violence. Her thoughts struggled to find some kind of order. "And you . . . you had children too."

He grunted. "Four."

"They're dead." She could tell by something in his expression.

"At Malachor," he confirmed.

There didn't really seem to be any appropriate response to that. "I . . . I'm sorry."

Something flared in his eyes. "Why? The youngest was as old as you are now, and saw more of war. More of life. They served Ordo and Mandalore with honour, and died gloriously in battle. What more is there for a Mandalorian?"

She just blinked, unable to answer.

"We don't mourn the dead. We especially don't mourn those who died as warriors."

Bastila groped for something else to say but came up blank. Instead, she opened the lighter, ignited it with a flick, and offered it to him.

The cigar still clamped between his lips, he leant forward and down, holding it to the flame. "Thank you."

Those two words made her jolt at their unexpectedness. She watched him as he inhaled the smoke deeply, his gaze off somewhere over her shoulder.

"And your wife?" The question slipped out without any conscious decision on her part, curiosity triumphing over any desire to move on to less . . . uncomfortable subjects.

"Wasn't my wife anymore by the time of Malachor. We'd raised our children to blooding age, seen our contract through and gone our separate ways years past. She lived through the battle. That much I know. After that . . ." He shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Bastila stared at him. "You mean you don't know if she's even alive?" There was a note of incredulity in her voice.

"Any reason I should?" He sounded vaguely irritable.

"You never bothered to find out?" The incredulity became more shrill.

He snorted and gave a fractional shake of his head. "Why are you so interested in this anyway?"

"I . . ." Bastila felt her cheeks colouring again and trailed to halt.

Canderous wasn't looking at her directly though, and didn't appear to notice. "Mandalorians tend to have a . . . pragmatic outlook. Marriage is a business arrangement. Nothing more. Two Blooded warriors hammer out a contract between themselves to conceive and raise a specified number of children. After the contract runs its course, and responsibility for any offspring returns to the Clan, both parties usually go their separate ways."

"So love has nothing to do with it?"

He looked back at her. One corner of his mouth was fractionally upturned. Bastila wasn't sure if it was a smile or not. "It's not forbidden. We're not Jedi."

For a moment, they just looked at one another. He seemed to read the questions in her eyes with startling clarity. "Her name was Nor. Our time together . . . it wasn't entirely without affection, though we never were able to agree on much."

Bastila made a noise halfway between snort and laugh. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Couldn't even agree on the contract terms. We had to take it to the battle circle for arbitration." As he spoke, his hand moved to a vivid white scar slightly above a collarbone that looked to have been broken more than once. "She was a strong warrior. Extremely skilled. I was only wearing scout armour, but even so. It takes a lot of effort to get one of our duelling blades through it to the flesh, never mind out the other side again."

Bastila tried to work out if she'd understood correctly. "Let me get this straight. You couldn't agree marriage terms, so you fought your wife-to-be in a duel?"

"That's about the size of it."

"And not only that, you lost?" She couldn't entirely keep the amusement out of her voice at this bit of information.

His still human hand came up and scratched the tip of his nose. "Never said that now, did I? Nor made exactly that same mistake too. Thought that just because I had a sword sticking through my shoulder I was beaten." The grin around his cigar was savage – strangely gleeful. "I broke her wrist, jaw, nose and eye socket. She didn't regain consciousness again for nearly two days."

There seemed to be an immense satisfaction in his tone as he said this.

Bastila stared at him. "And she still went ahead and married you? Even after that."

"Of course. That was already decided. We were just ironing out the fine print." He seemed to consider for a moment. "Didn't improve her looks any, I have to admit."

She shook her head. "You're making all this up."

He just smirked. "Yeah? Now why exactly would I go to all the trouble of making up stories just for your benefit, eh Princess?"

Another frustrated headshake and she turned away from him, wondering whether she should leave. There was a vague feeling that she hadn't addressed the reasons she'd had for coming to see him, but it wasn't as though she could even say what those reasons were in the first place. And she was realising more and more that she didn't have any kind of natural feel for even the most trivial kinds of human interaction.

"Why aren't you with Revan, anyway?" Canderous's words snapped through her indecision. "I'm guessing he didn't put his plans on hold on my account." A pause. "If he did, he's an idiot."

She grimaced. "No, he went ahead. It all started a few hours ago." And the vague senses that occasionally flashed across the bond were another reason for her discomfort.

"But you're still here." The implied question was obvious.

Bastila exhaled. She could suddenly feel an uncomfortable fluttering sensation in her stomach – something she'd previously been managing to suppress without even realising it. "I wasn't invited."

The noise he made managed to convey exasperation very succinctly. "You let a minor detail like that stop you?" Then, muttered: "Absolutely fraking hopeless."

Her head snapped round, though the glare she shot him bounced off the equivalent of reinforced durasteel.

"C'mon then." He stepped decisively past her. "Let's go and pull his fat from the fryer. I've spent far too much time sitting on my backside of late anyway."

-s-s-

He trudged through a bleak grey forest, utterly alone.

He couldn't say where he was, let alone how he had gotten there. In fact, he realised eventually, he couldn't even say for sure who he was. Vague shapes and glimpses of movement – silvered fish flashing through dark water – moved beneath the surface of his thoughts, but there was nothing he could truly call a memory. Every time he attempt to grasp hold of something and bring it up into the light, it slipped through his fingers and dwindled further away than ever.

So he concentrated on walking. That was a certain thing, and the forest . . . something about the forest made him profoundly uneasy. Walking, even if he had no idea where he was, or where he was going, at least gave the prospect of leaving it behind.

He couldn't remember how long he'd been walking anymore than he could remember anything else.

It was like there was a mist obscuring his vision, tree trunks resolving out of blank greyness only a few metres in front of him and vanishing entirely an equal distance behind. Except . . . there was no mist that he could see. Part of him wondered uneasily if the forest was simply creating itself spontaneously around him and didn't exist at all except for the short radius around him.

He stopped, the unease growing cancerously within him. Now that he couldn't hear his own footsteps, the silence seemed infinitely vast.

He found himself staring at one of the tree trunks in front of him. It was blackened as if from intense heat, the charcoaled surface cracked and oddly shiny. And it stretched high up into the blank greyness overhead, vanishing into the mist that wasn't. There was no hint of foliage. No sign of life.

"I used to have a toy that looked just like you."

The unexpectedness of voice had him spinning round towards its source. His surroundings gyrated disorientingly, not quite real.

"His name was Mr Muggles. I lost him when we had to go away. On the big ships."

The speaker was a human child, who seemed to have materialised out of nothing between two of the trees. He wasn't sure how to gage a human child's age accurately, but this one seemed particularly small and had dark skin. A faintly whispering recollection told him it was likely a boy rather than a girl, though again he wasn't entirely certain.

"Are you my toy? Are you here for me to play with?"

"I . . . don't think so." His own voice sounded unfamiliar and uncertain when he finally managed to find it, drowning within the endless grey. "Do you know where we are?"

The child was staring at him with intense curiosity. "You shouldn't be here. This is where the witch lives. The crazy wormhead. You don't want to let her catch you wandering around. She's gone mean."

"The witch?" Every single thing about the situation felt utterly wrong.

The child nodded solemnly. "Your eyes look funny."

He started to open his mouth – to ask what was funny about them – when the child let out a startled yelp.

"She's found us. She's coming. Run!"

Abruptly everything spun and blurred for a second time, and he had a vague sense of something small streaking past him at breathtaking speed. When his vision cleared again, he was alone again, the child nowhere to be seen.

The silence was as deep as ever, and he realised after a moment that he'd gotten turned around. There was nothing nearby that remotely resembled a landmark, and he had no way of knowing which way he had come from, or which way he'd been going. He glanced down at the ground – grey and textureless, like everything except the burnt and blackened trees – but there was no sign of any tracks he could use as a guide.

He opened his mouth – to call out to the child to wait; to come back – but something else caught his attention. Stopped him dead.

There was a brightness amid the endless grey

It was coming towards him, getting nearer. His eyes – funny eyes – struggled to focus. It looked like . . . dancing blue flame.

Blue flame. The witch. Something stirred deep within, and the surface of the dark water erupted.

Everything came back then in a shocking rush of images that left him dazed. Kamari Station. Carth Onasi. Revan. Sith assassins. And of course, the Catcher, standing before him and grinning as crackling blue fire grew around him in a perpetually shifting corona.

With the images came knowledge.

Knowledge that he was dead. Of trying to join with the Force, but being pulled brutally back from it, into something else.

Ulvol Ellas – or whatever there was still left of him at least – gasped. His legs – legs? – buckled beneath, dropping him to his knees as everything around him twisted and writhed chaotically.

The blue flames drew closer, resolving into a definite and solid shape.

-s-s-

The flames flared briefly, gleaming in the Catcher's eyes before dying down and fading away to nothing.

He let his hand drop back to his side, baring his teeth in a grin that had nothing at all to do with humour. Acrid tendrils of smoke still curled up from the charred body that lay – curled into a foetal ball – on the soot-stained carpet beside him.

His gaze took in the stretch of Coruscant skyline visible through the apartment's window, though it was still the images that flickered in his mind's eye – the knowledge and experience of the life he had so recently taken – that held the majority of his attention.

Eventually he let those images fade and bleed away. There was nothing of the prey he sought out in them. At least not directly. The security guard had been a fairly recent employee it seemed, starting work in the past couple of months, after Dustil Onasi had already departed from this place for good.

That in itself was interesting . . . though not especially helpful.

It wasn't a total loss though. There was one interesting image to be found amid the banality and dross.

A woman in plain Padawan's robes, asking after this apartment's occupant. Young, attractive. Powerfully earnest and intense.

May. Thalia May. That was the name the security guard had known her by.

Turning and walking to the door, the Catcher began to ponder upon the best way of reaching inside the Jedi Temple.

-s-s-

"No! Hold, Celyanda!"

Morrigance's snapped words made Tamar jolt. The surging maelstrom of Force surrounding the golden pair seemed to rein in just slightly, but it was still almost overpowering, drowning out all sense of anything else around them. Beside him, Yuthura's lightsaber had ignited, the harsh violet glare from it reflecting off the transparisteel between them.

Heart hammering, mouth dry, he lifted a staying hand.

If the situation turned to violence then there wasn't likely to be a positive outcome. Celyanda's presence altered the balance of the situation entirely and made a nonsense of any pretensions that they were in control here.

Yuthura shot him a questioning look, but after a short delay inclined her head. Her lightsaber snapped off again, the purple glare fading to leave just the light from the flames below.

His thoughts raced as he tried to discern a way out.

Morrigance broke the uneasy silence. "I once knew someone who said that every decision was a mistake of one kind or another. That you just have to stop being afraid of them."

He stared at the mirrored mask in front of him. The voice that issued from it was far too bland and unfeeling to read anything from. "That would have been me, I'm guessing?"

Morrigance's head inclined the merest of fractions.

"Wow, I really was a pompous ass, wasn't I?"

"Some might say nothing much has changed." There was a tinge of amusement.

It was his turn to incline his head in acknowledgement. He suspected that his attempted smile didn't quite come off.

"So what is this 'very big mistake' both of us have made then?" she asked.

Celyanda's Force presence overwhelmed hers to such an extent that he could barely sense her at all. There was a definite sardonic edge to the words though, and something else – deeper and harder underlying. It made his skin prickle.

"Underestimating Hulas and the Genoharadan." It was something of a surprise to him that his voice was so controlled – so conversational. "Concentrating so firmly on each other that we've lost sight of them entirely." He spread his hands. "And look at where we are now, together. I thought I was using him to help bait a trap, but now I can't help but wonder if it was the other way round entirely."

"Indeed." Again, there was a suggestion of faintly bitter amusement.

"We've started turning," Yuthura interrupted with quiet urgency. "And descending."

Tamar's gaze dropped fleetingly to the floor beneath his feet. The black cloud tops looked as far below as ever, though he knew better than to argue. A Twi'lek's lekku helped impart an extraordinary sense of balance. She would inevitably be the first among them to notice any change.

"Interesting company you keep," he said to Morrigance quietly. "I assume this means Darth Auza is no longer with us?"

"Sadly not."

Inwardly, a voice mocked him – standing conversing politely with a Sith Lord as they went down together into the inferno. "I'm curious. All those droids in orbit here. Yours or his?"

Despite the mask, he could feel her eyes crawling over him then – their contemptuous hate. "His. To start with anyway. You met him, Revan. I'm sure you experienced some of his more . . . charming characteristics at first hand. Stir up tensions. Have others fight the wars while he sits safe and sound, firmly out of harm's way. That was always his favoured way of doing things."

He nodded – forced another smile for effect. "Well thank you anyway. I'm sure I'll be able to find a use for them."

He could feel the air crackling then as silence settled in. His gaze moved past Morrigance briefly to Celyanda, but they stood there completely impassively, inert as dolls. Even their eyes looked blank and glassy.

A downward glance showed that they definitely were descending. The cloud tops were noticeably closer, shot through with lines of orange fire. And now he could feel that they were turning too – the subtle but definite shift in acceleration forces.

"Shall we stop playing games here, Revan?"

His eyes snapped back to Morrigance. "Let's."

More seconds ticked by. Tamar was aware of Yuthura stepping away from him, giving him space if the worst came to the worst. She seemed to be listening to something – Jolee and the Rancorous, hopefully. "As I see it, there are basically two ways this can go."

"Only two?" The sardonic edge was back, even stronger than before.

He shrugged. Any hint of nonchalance in it was purely surface. "We can be Sith about it. Go down fighting. Crash and burn together."

"Or?"

"Or we can come to an agreement and all walk away."

"How wonderfully simple and agreeable you make it all sound." Sarcasm dripped.

"Oh, it is simple." His own voice became hard then – reinforced durasteel beneath a layer of Hoth ice. "Quite utterly simple. How much, exactly, is your vengeance worth to you, Morrigance? I think you have a choice to make."

The words froze on his lips. The floor beneath him seemed to tilt beneath him, and abruptly the world around him slid away.

He was lying, naked, in a bed that was somehow both strange and familiar at once, covered in drying sweat and filled with a weary, muscle-deep ache.

Gauzy curtains stirred in a turgidly warm breeze, and there was an air of hazy languidness to the whole scene. His thoughts were slow and pleasantly blurred as he lay there.

One entire wall of the bedchamber opened onto a balcony and the night sky, three moons reflecting back enough of the local star's light for it to be bright as twilight on most planets. The smallest of the three moons was bright red, like a malevolent eye gazing down directly at him.

Strangely, he found that idea amusing.

A woman stood upon the balcony with her back to him, pale skinned and silvered by the moonlight, lithe and athletic with long, straight black hair.

She glanced back at him, over her shoulder. Her face was coldly beautiful, her eyes as hard as steel chips and filled with a trapped desperation.

The same, familiar vision, absolutely identical to the one that had come to him on an orbital station above Coruscant, seemingly so long ago now. The same vision he had spent so much time and effort poring over, trying to pick the details from and understand.

This time it lasted just a couple of seconds longer.

He felt himself open his mouth and distantly heard a voice both strange and dreadfully familiar. "I think, Morrigance, you have a choice to make."

-s-s-

"I'm sorry sir, please step away. I cannot let you pass," the hovering police sentry droid repeated blandly, for the fourth time in less than a minute.

The last fragile thread of Carth's temper frayed and snapped. "Damn it, droid! Get the hell out of my way. For the last time. I am Captain Carth Onasi of Republic Fleet Command, and this apartment belongs to my son!" He could hear his own breathing as it rasped between his gritted teeth, barely in control. The surface of rage covered over a deep well of pounding fear.

They'd gotten here too late. They'd . . .. He swallowed thickly, struggling to reimpose a veneer of composure. "Now. I am going to go inside, and you are going to let me. Am I clear?"

"I'm sorry sir, please step away. I cannot let you . . ."

Carth blotted the dreary monotone out and tried to barge past it. The droid refused to give ground, veering to block his path as he moved to swerve around its floating bulk. The pair of stun-sticks it was armed with crackled ominously to life . . .

And just as suddenly went dead. The droid's repulsors cut out with a dull whine and it dropped to the floor with a thud.

He stared at it, nonplussed, struggling to work out what had just happened.

Yolanda's voice beside his ear made him jolt. "It works like a restraining bolt." As she spoke his gaze settled on a small metal device that had clamped itself to the now inert police droid's out casing. "I hope that being 'Captain Carth Onasi of Republic Fleet Command' actually has some kind of weight here, because doing that to a police operative counts as a serious assault and carries up to a three year custodial sentence." By the sound of her voice, she wasn't remotely worried about that prospect.

He just grunted, stepping round the fallen droid's bulk and striding towards the apartment's door. His mouth was dry and he could feel coldly panicked sweat crawling down the back of his neck.

"Hold up a moment Carth." There was an exasperated intake of breath. "I've been talking to the building manager . . ."

Ignoring her, he ducked beneath the holo-seal on the door and pushed inside.

And stopped dead in his tracks. Suddenly his skull was pounding so hard it made his vision blur. There were four more droids of various designs going about the business of evidence gathering, but Carth was barely even aware of them. Instead, he simply stared at the groundsheet covering the centre of the room – the telltale shape of the bulge beneath it.

Dimly he could feel himself hyperventilating – struggling to draw air down a throat that seemed to have closed to a pinhole.

It was Telos again, the taste of the air bitter and acrid with hanging smoke. He was running through the piles of wreckage that had once been buildings and streets, lit by columns of cherry-red flame burning along the horizon line, and growing more and more frantic with each passing moment. A scattering of survivors milled listlessly, gathering around a supply drop station. At the sight of his Republic uniform, a dozen different voices started shouting out at once in an overlapping cacophony. Hands clutched at him, but he shrugged them off, heedlessly pressing forward. Their words – their pleas and protests – bounced off, unheard.

But of course, the house was no more intact than the surrounding street. Or block. Or city.

As he knelt amid the debris, face and hands coated in grey dust, he was aware of a voice shouting his name. But he couldn't look round. Couldn't look up . . .

Shoving the past away, he took a deep breath. His hands were shaking as he reached for the sheet, though a sense of detached unreality had settled in. It felt as if he'd been hollowed out entirely.

The sheet came back. Carth let out a breath, his hands coming up to cover his face.

It wasn't him. It wasn't Dustil. One of the droids jabbered at him angrily, but he ignored it.

Only the face of the corpse had escaped relatively unscathed. The rest of the body was badly blackened and charred, barely recognisable. It was enough though, for Carth to tell immediately that this had been a much older man, somewhere in his forties or early fifties – no one he had seen before.

Given the fact that the rest of apartment was more or less unmarked, it was easy enough to imagine what had happened. Closing his eyes he could picture the Catcher standing there in the centre of the room over the smouldering corpse, grinning.

"I tried to tell you." Yolanda's hand touched his shoulder lightly, making him flinch. "I talked to the building manager. He told me that your son left the premises about three months ago. He hasn't been seen since."

It took a few seconds to sink in.

"What?" Carth's head snapped round sharply. The questions boiled over. "Why? Where did he go? Why didn't anyone stop him? Where the hell is he now?" The same droid as before continued to beep stridently. He continued to block it out.

Yolanda's expression managed to convey a level of exasperation that even he couldn't miss, regardless of his mental state. "Look, I get the impression that Dustil didn't bother leaving a forwarding address. As to why . . .?" She shook her head. "The building manager did say that he was visited by a pair of 'busybody Jedi types' shortly before he took off." She fixed his gaze with her, the set of her jaw tight. "You're his father. You tell me the 'why'. You'd know better than me."

He looked away from her without saying anything. However much progress he sometimes seemed to be making, it kept being hammered home. He didn't know his son at all.

"This . . . was a security guard. He only started working here recently. After Dustil had already gone. The Catcher couldn't have learned anything useful, and this means he can only be a few hours ahead of us. We'll find your son first."

Carth still didn't say anything. Yolanda's words were . . . logical, but any comfort they provided was purely notional.

Damn it Dustil . . .

But the thought cut off abruptly. If Dustil hadn't run when he had. If he'd still been here . . .. That really didn't bear thinking about. Abruptly – grimly – he started walking, striding out of the apartment.

Behind him, he heard Yolanda's hissed intake of breath, followed by rapid footsteps as she hurried to keep up with him. "And where are we going, exactly?"

His answer was short – snapped. "The Jedi Temple."

And they would give him the answers he needed. He wasn't going to take no for an answer.

-s-s-

"A choice?" Morrigance echoed. The expression on Revan's face . . . it cut straight through her own anger and left her suddenly very scared indeed. She had seen that expression before, but never directed towards her. "What, exactly, do you mean?"

He stood up, expression unchanging. Her eyes couldn't help but flick across the fresh scars that adorned his flesh, remnants of his recent battle with Malak.

And that in turn, inevitably, drew her mind onto what he had done to Malak when apprentice had finally fallen, collapsing to his knees before the master, his lightsaber fallen from his grasp. The final coup de grace had been withheld, although that had proven in the end to be the exact opposite of the mercy it at first appeared.

His expression had been disturbingly similar then too, calmly lifting Malak's jaw and forcing him to look him in the eye.

"I can't help but notice that you seem to have been . . . distracted of late. As if your attention has become divided."

Something inside her chest clenched tight, and all the heat drained out of the air at once. The reflected light of Nagslim's eye tainted the night with blood. His tone, on the surface, had been light and casual, but that was always when it was at its most dangerous. Still waters, she had learned, tended to cover the most devious and deadly traps.

She forced herself to remain totally calm. "If you feel that I have somehow not been performing my duties satisfactorily . . ."

He chuckled dryly. "Now that isn't quite what I said, is it?"

Her hand came up and pushed her hair back from her face. Her lips compressed, but she said nothing, snatching up a robe and pulling it on. She no longer felt even remotely comfortable under his gaze.

"I don't question either your skill or your application," he went on. "Or the results you produce. All that has always been exemplary."

"Then what do you question?" Morrigance struggled to suppress a shiver. "My loyalty?"

"Not . . . precisely."

There was only blank impassivity in his expression as he said this. Reflected in his eyes, she couldn't help but see the ruin of Malak's jaw – hear the tormented gurgle of his breathing.

"If I doubt anything it is your . . . commitment."

Again, it became a struggle to breathe. "I assure you, I remain fully committed to seeing our work through, right until the end."

"Our work?" He was smiling. Nowadays that smile seldom boded well. "Do you truly still see this work as ours?"

She bit her tongue. She knew that right then he would sense a lie.

"I know that I am not the only one to share your bed." So, so casual the way he said it.

"Jealous?" As she spoke, Morrigance watched him move to take her place on the balcony, bathed in the light of the moons. His normally lithe, smoothly padding movements betrayed a stiffness – a lingering discomfort. Three entire decks of the Firebrand had been had been utterly wrecked, and his flagship was now secretly docked in the Dantalus shipyards, undergoing emergency refurbishment. Over fifty full-scale engagements had done less damage than two Sith Lords vying against each other for supremacy. "I don't imagine I have exclusive call on your affections either."

His laughter sounded genuinely amused, though that did little to ease the tension. "Would it surprise you to know that you do?"

She heard her own teeth click together.

"Although that," he went on, "is more a practical consideration than anything else. Don't worry yourself, Morrigance. I am not a sentimental man, and I do not read more into our . . . association than there is. Any relationships you choose to pursue are your business. Provided that they do not interfere."

"So why bring it up?" That was the question really making her nervous.

He didn't answer right away. There was a strange half-smile on his lips, his teeth reflecting white. "Because I know you are using your new amusee to build yourself an escape route. A way for you to cut and run."

Her face felt brittle as she struggled to keep it impassive.

Not impassive enough, obviously.

"You may have brought your own people in around you, but a Sith is a Sith, new or old. In the end we all look to ourselves first and foremost." He almost sounded slightly . . . regretful.

"Isn't it only sensible to maintain contingencies for all possible eventualities?" No sense denying. That was one of the worst things she could do. She attempted to keep her tone of voice unconcerned. "I thought you of all people would appreciate that."

"Don't play games with me, Morrigance."

She jolted hard. His voice remained soft, but the change of intonation was marked – deadly.

"And no need to be so afraid."

She took a deep breath. "Should I not fear my master's anger?"

He looked away, gazing out at the view spread out before him. "I am not angry with you, Morrigance."

"Disappointed then?"

"Not even that." He sounded almost reflective then. "I have no escape route planned. You know that?"

The words startled her. In her experience, he had contingencies in place for every possibility that could be predicted. Or at least, nothing ever seemed to catch him unprepared.

"The closer that victory approaches the harder it becomes, does it not? With each action we are required to take now . . . sometimes you catch yourself thinking that defeat would be easier. Simpler. It is inevitable I think. I feel it too – what if I could just stop and walk away, leaving all this infernal machinery I have built behind me?"

She saw him shake his head. "With what is to come, if either of us leaves ourselves the luxury of a way out, we will take it. That is inevitable too."

Somewhere in the distance, a night bird let out a strange, ululating cry.

He turned back from the view. There was a ferocious intensity to his expression. It startled her into a rapid backwards step. "We succeed or we go down in flames. That is the only choice we can allow ourselves."

"And that is the choice you spoke of?" Her voice, when she found it, sounded ever so slightly hoarse.

"Your choice . . . close off your escape route. Stand beside me. See this through."

"Or?"

He shrugged. "Or walk away, I suppose."

"And you would just stand aside and let me go?"

He simply looked at her; said nothing.

No, of course he wouldn't simply stand aside. Of course not. He couldn't, especially not now with Malak.

"I will do what is necessary." With that she turned and walked out of their shared bedchamber, into the heart of the ancient Rakatan ruins Revan had transformed into a private villa on a world unknown to either the Republic or the Sith – a world that the primitive indigenous population called Honoghr.

She found herself wondering, and trying to pinpoint at exactly which point Revan had gone completely mad.

He was staring straight at her, shock written large on his face.

And at that moment, Morrigance knew with utter certainty that he had shared that . . . intrusion from the past. That they had both been there together, then as now. Part of her wondered, as she struggled to hold onto the tattered shreds of her composure, if he had experienced exactly what she had, or if he had watched the scene from entirely his own perspective. Part of her wondered if the memory had been her own or his.

"That was why I . . ." A breath. "I mutilated you. You tried to leave me? To run?"

"No. I didn't try to run. I judged myself much cleverer than that."

"I . . . " He seemed to be struggling to form coherent words, so far removed from the him of the past that the absurdity of it all seemed laughable. "I had you kill your own lover?"

That startled bitter laughter from her. "Oh please. You make it all sound like some dreadful two-bit melodrama written by a committee of incompetent hacks. When they took your memories, I hadn't realised that the Jedi Council had also turned you into a child."

That at least seemed to strike home, his expression taking on the look of someone who'd just been slapped. "If you want revenge . . ."

"You will willingly sacrifice yourself upon the altar of my hate." Behind her mask, Morrigance could feel her teeth grinding. "Are you actually naïve enough to think this is anything at all to do with revenge on you?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she tracked Yuthura, who had drifted unobtrusively to stand next to the stairs leading up out of the viewing compartment. The Twi'lek appeared to be listening to something, and not anything that was taking place directly around her. The behaviour left Morrigance fractionally disturbed and she directed a quick thought towards Celyanda to cover her.

"If this is not about revenge, then what is it? What are you doing? Why did you kill the Jedi Council?"

Her gaze flicked back to Revan, her eyes focussing on his face – striving to see through the surface veneer to something that had to be there.

Except she couldn't find it.

"Why did I kill the Jedi Council?" She tasted bile in her mouth, and the bitterness flowed over into her words. "Isn't that what Sith do? Why do you think, Revan? Dazzle me with your profound insights. Please."

The clouds tops were only a few metres below the transparisteel bottom of the gondola now. They appeared to be so dense as to be solid, scudding by at breathless speed. The occasional breaks between them presented fleeting windows into burning red hell, gone too quickly to form more than the vaguest subconscious impression. It was difficult to escape the naggingly ridiculous notion that once the gondola finally hit the clouds it would be torn apart, sending them all tumbling into the ravenous flames . . ..

"I don't know. I have no insight here."

Something about the tone of his voice and the way he was looking at her made Morrigance's breath catch.

"You really want to know what I'm doing, Revan? Why I killed the Council?" She spoke then without really meaning to, hatred flaring white-hot and burning through her self-control. "I'm doing what you should be doing. I'm doing your job."

-s-s-

"Now, if I ask you what you were doing again, is it going to provoke another temper tantrum?" Kreed folded his bulk carefully into the seat set in front of the cell and smiled. That smile, he knew well enough, was generally considered to be rather unnerving.

"Frak off."

Kreed shrugged – a casual shifting of polished metal plates. "You know, this cell's last long term occupant was so much more inventive and original than you. You could've learned a lot from her."

Hooded green eyes bored into him furiously. The malice in them was quite startlingly intense.

Kreed just smirked in response, using the opportunity to study the cell's occupant more closely. Young he decided at length, despite the size and outward hardness. Seventeen. Maybe less. Not old enough for his beard to grow in more than patches.

Of course, youth was relative. For a Mandalorian, seventeen could mean a veteran.

His hands bore calluses and scars, oil and grease ground into the crevices and underneath the nails. The fake ID he'd been carrying indicated he was a mechanic, and it looked like he'd at least been working that cover story. Nothing Kreed saw adequately explained Rath's eagerness to keep hold of him.

Nikos, the ID had said his name was.

He shaped his smirk into a savage grin. "I suppose Shak's been telling you how much I like teenage boys? How much I enjoy . . . breaking them in? He's a fraking nasty bastard, is Shak. Even by Trandoshan standards."

'Nikos' looked down rapidly.

"Shak's a liar though. You shouldn't believe a word of it." He paused for effect. "Well . . . not everything, at any rate."

Kreed saw him swallow and his grin grew even wider. "So anyway, if you don't feel like trying to have a nice, polite conversation with me, I can understand that. I can always turn that disruption collar you're wearing up to maximum and sit here watching you drool and twitch."

There was no response forthcoming.

"Then, while you're out of it . . . well, I sometimes get these urges." Kreed shook his head in mock sadness. "A spacer's life gets lonely."

"You even try touching me, you fraking Mandalorian freak, and I'll gut you."

Kreed chuckled dryly. "Oh, I'm sure you would, kid. If you could still touch the Force."

Nikos couldn't quite stop himself from flinching. Not that Kreed had truly needed any confirmation on that score. "What the frak are you talking about?"

It sounded defiant, but to Kreed's ears, it rang entirely false. Switching to the infrared view his artificial eye afforded only confirmed the accuracy of that assessment. The lie was written on his face in lingering patches of heat.

"Defels aren't that good with the fine detail of human emotion. A walking shadow can't have much use for facial nuance, can it? But even Drex spotted your reaction."

Nikos opened his mouth as if to hurl another insult, then apparently thought better of it. A moment later, he said: "I'm not a Jedi."

It came out so sullen that Kreed was tempted to revise his estimate on his age downwards. He leant back in the chair and folded his arms. "Now that," he said quietly, "is the first thing you've said to me that I actually believe."

Nikos's head shot up. There was surprise mixed in with the usual venom.

"I've fought Jedi. Killed at least a dozen of them, and watched them cut down my kin and battle brothers in turn. And while you kind of look the part, I've never met a one – not even the rawest Padawan – who was a sulky little boy."

Heat flared in Nikos's cheeks, but he didn't say anything. His gaze dropped and he appeared to be inspecting the backs of his hands.

"So, we have ourselves a Force user who isn't a Jedi. Where does that leave us, I wonder?"

No answer of course, and if he was honest, Kreed hadn't expected one. "My guess would be a Sith. No more than an apprentice, but I can see you in the uniform. Swaggering, cocksure. A real bullying little asshole."

The flush to his cheeks was obvious – anger, embarrassment; maybe shame. "That from a Mandalorian. Can you even spell hypocrite?"

Kreed laughed – a harsh, barking sound. "Now that's much better. Finally, we're getting somewhere. So. You're a deserter. Or maybe an escaped prisoner of war. I guess the difference doesn't matter much."

"Yeah. We're both murdering scum together." Nikos snorted.

Kreed shrugged. "Oh, I'm not judging you, kid. Don't get that impression. I'm more . . . thinking aloud. Trying to work out why you were sneaking round our ship."

Temper flashed. "I already told you!"

"Yeah." Kreed's metal hand came up and made a show of stroking his chin. "You were scoping out the Corvine, looking to see if you could either stowaway or maybe even steal it. So you say."

"It's the truth!"

"No. No it's not." Kreed didn't bother to explain about his eye and what it allowed him to see. Instead he said: "If you really were looking to do either of those things you'd have made up a lie to cover yourself. It's instinctive. People lie when cornered. Human nature."

"I don't believe this. The reason I'm locked up in this cell . . . you're holding the fact I was actually honest with you against me?"

Kreed simply kept on looking at him and waited for him to fill the silence.

Which, of course, he did. "Look." There was a hint of desperation now. "I saw what I was dealing with. Anyone who employs Defels. Mandalorians. Anyone who can . . ." He trailed off; swallowed. "I figure that kind of person is not someone I want to be messing with. I made a mistake coming anywhere near your ship. I just want to get out of here."

That bit at least was undoubtedly the truth. If it had just been down to him, Kreed wouldn't have bothered with any of this. He'd have either let him go or shot him in the back of the head to be on the safe side. He wasn't quite sure which.

What the hell are you playing at here Rath? Why do you want him?

"So tell me the truth. Tell me all of the truth." Kreed leant forward until his face was mere centimetres from the forcefield separating them.

"I am telling the truth, you stupid bantha-spawned bastard!"

More silence. Kreed sat back again and waited, letting a small smile play across his lips.

Nikos drew in a deep breath. There were twin spots of colour on his cheeks. "Look, okay. I think I get it. You're looking to make some money out of me, right?"

"A mercenary looking to make some money? That's quite the suggestion there. I think I feel offended." It came out as a sardonic drawl.

"You're going to be disappointed." There was a rising note of desperation now. "What I'm running from . . . you were right about the Sith bit, okay? I was an . . . an apprentice, like you say. Not a very good one." He rubbed his hands over his face. "Now that's all catching up to me, and it's going to burn everyone around me. If you know about the Sith, Mandalorian – and I'm sure you do – you'll know they can't be reasoned with. They'll kill all of you just for having been near me. If you actually try to sell me to them . . ."

"Sith die, kid. Just like Jedi die. We have our talents." For the first time though, he had the sense that he might be getting beneath the surface here. It was a bit like picking your way through a minefield. That was all.

Then something clicked.

Kreed almost swore aloud. Damn you, Rath . . ..

And of course, he had to include himself in his berating. How stupid had it been to believe that Rath had actually seen reason and decided to let go of his obsessions? Just how fraking stupid? But it had been exactly what he wanted to hear . . . go to Coruscant, half a galaxy away from the Maw cluster in just about every possible respect, and seek out new work there. Put everything from the past few months behind them and start again. A long, long way from Revan.

Yeah, right. Ronto-loving idiot.

"You recognised this ship, didn't you 'Nikos'?" It came out harsh and brutal, though the anger was all directed inwardly. "That's why you were sneaking round. Because you recognised it under a name that's not the Corvine."

There was enough reaction in the kid's expression to give away the truth. "W-What are you talking about?"

"You knew its former owners, I'm betting. Must have been a shock when you found us on board instead."

Nikos didn't manage to cover his reaction very well, and from the chagrined looked that followed, he knew it.

"What's your real name, kid? It sure as frak ain't Nikos."

The expected silence followed of course, though Kreed didn't let that worry him. "What's your connection to Revan? Why would you be a useful hostage to my boss?"

This time the shock and alarm was clearly visible.

"I'm asking this for your benefit as much as mine, kid. You've blundered your way neck deep into the bantha crap here, and right now – believe it or not – I'm probably going to be the closest thing you're going to find to someone who's willing to help pull you out."

Nikos stared down at the floor.

Briefly, Kreed watched his shoulders rise and fall in time to his breathing. Abruptly, his face twisted into a snarl. "I don't have time for this, kid. You want to sit there stewing in your own bile, then fine. I've got better things to do."

Like pounding your face flat, Rath. You devious heap of mynock dung. What the frak have you got us into now? He started walking.

"Wait."

Kreed stopped walking. "Make it good, kid. Make it very good."

"I – I need to get a message to someone. Please." His voice sounded hollow. "They're . . . in danger. If I don't get out of here they're probably going to end up dead."

"Appealing to a Mandalorian's better nature." Kreed snorted after a lingering pause. "Well there's a novelty."

But he turned around.

-s-s-

"We got it. Much good may it do us."

Jolee's voice came over Yuthura's earpiece accompanied by a shrill whine of static. The gondola had pierced the roiling sea of black cloud now, plunging the interior into semi-darkness as skeins of mist whipped past the windows, wailing thinly like damned spirits. If anything, the rate of their slow-spiralling descent had increased during the last couple of minutes, the angle of the floor tilting noticeably now.

Her gaze flicked back to Tamar, her attention torn in three separate directions. He still seemed to be focused on Morrigance to the exclusion of everything else.

"My job?" She recognised the shock in his voice and could sense his struggle to retain even a semblance of composure. "I don't suppose it would help much if I asked you to stop?"

"Not much," Morrigance agreed quietly.

"I'm guessing from what I'm hearing that you're not in any position to answer at the moment," Jolee continued in her ear. "The mess I can feel in the Force down there right now . . . Phew girl, it's enough to make even an old man shudder."

You're telling me. Yuthura could sense Celyanda's eyes on her, the attention making her flesh creep. Everything about those two made her flesh creep. A large part of her simply wanted to turn and run. To get the hell out of there. Right then.

"Damn it." There was some muffled cursing she didn't catch, followed by a heavy sigh. "I did tell you this was a stupid plan, didn't I? I'm sure I must have."

Oh you did. You did. She bared her teeth. Celyanda's eyes tracked her position as she paced.

"Why?" Tamar's voice pierced right through Jolee's words, yanking her attention back to him.

"Why?" Morrigance's answering retort was harsh, edged in bitter acid. "Because someone has to, don't they, Revan? And it doesn't look like it's going to be you anymore, does it? You get to take the easy way out, reborn and redeemed without even your memories left to trouble you. The rest of us are left behind to see it through to the bitter end."

The quiet that fell then was deathly – no sound at all except for the wind noise outside.

"That's the real reason you hate me so much, isn't it?" Tamar said finally. There was something there that sounded like . . . realisation. Yuthura felt her various stomachs trying to tie themselves in knots. Her skin felt cold. "Not because of your face. Not what I did to you physically. But because I left all this to you."

Her laughter echoed hollowly.

"So what is it? Conquer the galaxy in the name of the Sith, simply because I was psychotic enough to try?" The deathly bleakness of his words made Yuthura shudder. "Keep walking the same path I did, even when you can see exactly where it leads to."

"Bantha crap." Yuthura jolted hard as Jolee's voice came over her earpiece. It took all her effort not to snap right back at him.

"I'm not quite sure whether this is funny or pathetic." Morrigance's retort was scathing.

"If you're still listening girl, and I'm guessing you must be, kick him up the arse for me." Suddenly Jolee sounded immensely old and tired. There was another sigh. "He can't do this now. He's got what he came for. As much as he's going to."

Do what? She wanted to demand. Celyanda seemed to be staring right through her.

"Oh, I don't think it's the slightest bit funny." So, so soft.

"He's not trying to stop her here. He's trying to save her. Do what he failed to do with Malak." Lightning flashed, lighting up the murky cloud. It was followed almost immediately by a rumble of thunder that seemed to come from every direction at once and make the entire vast flying wing shake. "Sometimes though . . . sometimes the only thing left is to let go. Let go and have an end to it, no matter how painful it is."

"So deluded." Morrigance's words assumed a bizarre synchronicity with Jolee's. "If only you could know your old self. That, I think, is something that I'd love to see."

"Explain it to me then."

Yuthura wanted to yell at Tamar but couldn't. She could barely breathe.

"You don't remember what you once told me, do you? No, of course not. Stupid question."

Jolee was muttering something to himself that didn't fully carry across the comm. Yuthura's attention was fixed elsewhere anyway.

"You had been wrong, you said to me, about the Mandalorian war. The Jedi Council had been right about it all along, though for exactly the opposite reasons to those they thought." Morrigance spoke quietly, but her words still seemed to resound through the gondola somehow. Wind howled in eerie accompaniment. "The Mandalorians were supposed to win. To wipe the slate clean and finally restore balance to the Force. Put an end to the infinitely repeating cycle."

Yuthura heard his breath hiss.

"The Mandalorians were being manipulated and used by the Sith . . ."

"Exactly." She cut him off. "And that was what gave it all such perfect symmetry. When the Mandalorians had broken the Republic and crippled the Jedi, the Sith would strike and claim it all for themselves. Forge their great and glorious everlasting empire of darkness." Contempt dripped. "Tell me. Do you really think that the old Sith, as embodied by the likes of Darth Auza, had even a shadow of prayer against a freshly victorious Mandalorian war machine with the resources of a newly conquered Republic to back it up?"

No answer came. Lightning lit up the gondola again. More thunder rumbled, even louder than before.

"And so the Sith would be manipulated into engineering their own destruction, just as the Jedi were being influenced into sitting aside and placidly accepting their own annihilation. The will of the Force. You have to admire it in a way, rebalancing itself in a single stroke. Starting everything afresh."

"So I took it upon myself to correct my 'mistake'?"

At that moment, they emerged from the cloud cover, the surrounding darkness burning off in a ferocious blaze of red. It was awe-inspiring and terrifying at the same time, everything below them in every direction an endless sea of flames. The air swirled with smoke and distorting heat haze, occasional islands and outcroppings of crystal reaching into the sky like twisted fire-blackened fingers clawing from beneath the charred earth.

Overhead, the clouds they'd just plunged through capped everything like a solid cavern roof, the churning funnels of nascent tornados reaching down like crooked stalactites. From this angle, lightning flickered continuously, competing with the flames for spectacle.

"We just took out the satellite tracking your position." Yuthura was staring at her surroundings so intently that Jolee's words barely registered. "Hopefully that'll blind the Genoharadan. If you can give us some kind of confirmation that you're ready to go to the next stage it would be most appreciated."

"And since I failed, you've succeeded me, carrying on with what I started."

Yuthura's gaze flicked away from the gondola's windows back to Tamar and Morrigance, still locked together in a world that seemed to consist solely of each other. A battle of wills she only saw the surface of.

Several thousand metres directly overhead, skimming through the upper reaches of Eres III's atmosphere with Jolee stood on the command deck, the Rancorous would be tracking their position exactly. On receipt of her confirmation, a jamming field would be projected down over them, cutting off any incoming or outgoing signals. Once that was done, the three-hundred plus assault droids they'd recently acquired would be dropped in from above.

Of course, when they'd concocted this hasty countermove to Hulas's change of plan, they'd not really anticipated that they'd be attacking a moving target, but the principals still applied.

"Oh, I've made some amendments," Morrigance said softly. The inferno reflected in her mask. "I'm not a warrior or general the way that you, or even Malak, were. But there are other methods of shaping something than simple brute force. Better methods, that don't leave you destroying what you're trying to shape."

"You're right about me being an idiot." Tamar's answering words were implacably grim. "Then and now. But ask yourself: what does that make you? Knowingly following in an idiot's footsteps."

This had gone on long enough, Yuthura decided.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. Far below her feet, the waiting flames seemed eager to devour her if she made the slightest slip.

She laid a hand firmly on Tamar's shoulder, feeling hard muscles tense and coil beneath her touch. Then she spoke, loudly and clearly so the open comm. channel to Jolee couldn't fail to pick it up. "Come on, it's time to go."

He turned in what seemed like slow motion, blinking as if surfacing from a daze. For a moment, she feared what his response was going to be, but there was no protest. He simply nodded once. Both Celyanda and Morrigance were glaring at her directly now. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.

The comm. link had gone dead, no more than a blank hiss of static. Message received. They started rapidly towards the stairs.

"Wait!"

And of course, he stopped and looked back.

Yuthura had to restrain herself from grabbing his arm and trying to yank him after her bodily, like a recalcitrant toddler.

Morrigance's mask shone red-gold in the light from the flames. "You have spoken to Jedi Bastila. You know about the Living Fleet."

"I know."

We don't have time for this. But the words didn't make it past Yuthura's lips.

"Perhaps you're wondering why nothing has been heard of either it, or Darth Malefic?"

Tamar cast a brief look back over his shoulder at Yuthura. A sliver of a smile touched his lips fleetingly. She bared her teeth in response.

"Not particularly, no."

That seemed to leave Morrigance taken aback. Without any expression to go on, it was difficult to be certain. Behind her, the red backlight had transformed Celyanda into perfect gleaming devils.

"You should, Revan. Because right now I'm the only thing that's keeping them restrained. If I die here; if I'm captured; if anything else happens to me at all . . ." She spread her black gloved hands. "Then that restraint is gone. Given the state I left Malefic in when last we parted . . . I think that the Republic will come to regard even Malak as a gentle breeze by comparison."

"Come on." As she spoke, Yuthura sensed a fractional change in the subtle vibrations passing through the craft – almost a smoothening and lessening. It took her a second or so to pinpoint the cause, until it struck her that a couple of the vessel's propellers had just shut off.

"My safety and the Republic's safety right now are one, Revan. And it would seem we have both placed that safety in your hands."

"Please."

Tamar finally allowed himself to be pulled away. They started up the steps at a run.

At Morrigance's silent signal, Celyanda's lightsabers ignited, silver-white glare pushing back the angry red.

-s-s-

Ulvol Ellas stared at the figure in front of him and struggled to cling onto his sense of self.

She was a Twi'lek. It took him several seconds to work that out, partly due to the near complete dislocation he was feeling, and partly because of the fact that every visible portion of her had been burnt black.

No, a curiously detached inner voice amended, not burnt. Burning.

A corona of hot inch-high blue flame – the flame of burning low-grade shuttle fuel – continued to eat at her blackened skin. Angry pink eyes with milky white irises looked out at him from a ravaged nightmare of a face.

"You're dead, Jedi." It came out as a grating rasp, her lips cracking and weeping clear fluid. Horribly fascinated, he saw that the flames even burned inside her mouth. "In case you were wondering."

"I . . . I know. I . . . remember." Jedi. He looked down at himself – robes; golden fur – all of it unburned. "I think."

"I'm surprised. The shell of you has been wandering here for . . ." She faltered. "For however long it's been. He drained you thoroughly. Some of us thought you'd never recover any of yourself. There are those who don't when he takes too much."

"We?" The sense of dislocation suddenly became vertiginous.

"Oh yes. We. We're all one big happy family here." The burning Twi'lek's voice was scathing. The flames around her grew briefly bright and more intense, as though her anger fanned them. "You've already met at least one other of us. The boy. He was one of the earliest ones, I'm told. Perhaps the earliest of all. You should try to avoid the early ones. They're almost entirely part of the Catcher now, and anything they see he knows immediately."

The Catcher . . .

Ellas struggled to make sense of her words, but his thoughts were leaden and slow. Suddenly an image played, leaping from the jumble. The Catcher, leaning over him as flames danced and played all around and everything seemed to dwindle. He could feel the Force . . . trying to flow in one direction, but being dragged in the opposite.

The Force. He blinked, startled, groping to form words. "I . . . he burnt me when I died. I . . . remember the flames." Memory was important to him. Memory had defined a large part of what he was, but now all of those memories where scattered and disordered. "Why aren't I burning now? Like . . . like . . ."

"Like me, you mean, Jedi? You were burned in life, while I was burned in death. There is a crucial difference."

Ellas couldn't make himself stop staring at her face. He felt something like shame. A Jedi should be something better than this. A Jedi shouldn't be so helpless and enfeebled. "What do you mean? Burned in death?"

"Carth tried to burn him, so the Catcher channelled the flame into here instead. Into me. I think it was a form of revenge."

"Revenge?" he echoed. "On you?"

"No!" Charred lekku writhed, dripping fire from their tips as if it was liquid. "On Carth."

His thoughts refused to work the way he knew they should. There was a sense of dislocation, as if they somehow belonged to a third person. He asked another question that he knew was stupid before he could catch himself. "You . . . knew Carth Onasi?"

"Funny how someone you meet for so short a time can have such an impact on your life. And what comes afterwards . . ." She trailed off suddenly and let out groan of purest agony.

Ellas stared in horror. "You . . . you still feel the flames? The pain . . .?"

"Oh course I feel the pain!" It was almost a shriek. She bared teeth that had turned glossy black in the heat, fire shining between them. "You're not . . . You're not much of a Jedi, are you?"

"No. I . . . I suppose not." The shame burned more intensely and he struggled harder to get a hold of himself. "Perhaps . . . I can help you . . ."

"Keep your pity for yourself." The rage in those raw, boiled eyes grew to frightening intensity. "Believe me, you'll need it before long."

Ellas stood firm before her, reminding himself what he was – what he had been. He strove to find some kind of centre. "I'm . . . I was a doctor. A healer. There has to be some way I can help you. Some way to put out the flames and . . ."

"No!"

The sheer vehemence startled him, and he was forced to leap back rapidly as the flames flared high and bright around her, crackling hungrily. The blackened figure at their heart faded from view almost entirely amidst the dazzling brightness.

Suddenly the charred forest seemed to be closing in around him, the greyness a cloying, thickening shroud. Ellas felt everything sliding out from under him, and suddenly was struggling desperately just to hold onto the shreds of identity he'd managed to reassemble. Distantly he heard the flames crackling. Distantly he heard something that might have been shrieking.

It felt like he was going to be torn apart – the remnants of what he was scattered to the winds. Slowly the flame subsided and the world, or whatever it truly was, seemed to stabilise itself by degrees. He realised vaguely that he'd fallen to his knees at some point.

If it could be said that he even had knees anymore.

"No," she repeated more softly.

He stared up at her.

"The flames . . . the flames are mine!" Her voice distorted hideously then, raw with suffering. "The pain . . ." She laughed, the sound containing very little in the way of sanity. "The Catcher doesn't like the pain." The laughter broke down and became another raw scream. "It means he stays away from me for the most part, and that is a price worth paying. Any price for that."

He was too numb to respond. Ulvol Ellas. His name. It made him jolt. Somehow, it had almost gotten away from him again, memories leaking like arterial blood.

"Besides, look around you, Jedi. This is hell right here, and I don't want to forget that. I don't want to grow to accept it. Not the way some of us here have. Burning like this helps to remind me what I am and where I am."

"But . . ."

"No buts." Her face twisted, her cheek cracking and something oozing forth like a thick, sticky tear.

Finally, Ellas nodded – forced himself upright. Ulvol Ellas. Caamasi and failed Jedi, fallen now in more respects than one.

Ulvol Ellas. Dead.

He looked around – this strange grey place, scorched by fire. Ulvol Ellas. Damned.

But no. That was something he wasn't willing to concede. He found his voice and it was slightly stronger and more certain than before. "What's your name?"

"My name? My name was Bliss." A ghastly pain-wracked attempt at a smile followed. "Oh the ironies."

"Let me help you, Bliss. Please." This time the voice was calm. His voice.

She looked at him in silence with her gruesome, tormented eyes, then sadly shook her head. "I had allowed myself to hope that a Jedi might be different. A foolish hope. I see now you're just the same as all of us here. Just as helpless. Just as lost."

Abruptly she turned her back on him and started to walk away, the greyness closing in rapidly.

"Wait!" he called, but she didn't stop, or look back.

He trailed after her.

-s-s-

"I'll meet you there then." The voice sounded very much like Carth Onasi. There was a note of urgency to it – desperate impatience barely concealed beneath a layer of civility. "Thank you for your time, Padawan May. I appreciate the trouble you're going to."

Somewhere deep in the near infinite maze of passages and rat runs that formed Coruscant's undercity, a primitive communications terminal – so primitive that it even lacked a holo-feed – shut off. Teeth gleaming brilliant white in the flickering artificial light, the Catcher stepped back from it, reaching up and peeling off the dermal microphone he wore over his throat.

"Thank you for your time, Padawan May," he repeated, his grin spreading to take in his entire face. This time, the voice was very much his own.

-s-s-

Tamar swore under his breath, then shook his head, struggling to concentrate and block out the vision that had been playing inside his head since he'd left Morrigance in the viewing gallery. Little bits and pieces kept on leaking through though, beyond his ability to contain.

"It won't budge." He let his hold on the Force subside.

Yuthura didn't say anything, her lightsaber snapping on as she stepped past him. In front of them, blocking the way back to where their flyer was docked, an emergency barrier had descended from the ceiling. It was stubbornly resisting any attempts to bypass it.

"No. Celyanda's going to be on top of us before we're halfway done." He could feel them closing fast.

"Then what?"

He gestured back the way they'd just come, towards a service ladder that led up from the gondola into the superstructure of the wing. "Maybe we can get around it that way."

"Outside?" Yuthura sounded decidedly sceptical.

He didn't blame her, but the list of viable alternatives was contracting fast. "We can always stand and fight."

"Outside," she agreed.

He led the way, wrenching open a maintenance hatch and ascending rapidly, the ladder vibrating in time to their movements. Celyanda's presence, getting closer at an alarming rate, was like a homing singularity, distorting everything around it as it approached.

Another hatch blocked the way above them.

This one was locked, red warning lights shining in the gloom. The wind noise and hull vibrations were markedly stronger now. A quick attempt to override the lock produced an angry beep of denial. Ripping open an access panel revealed a mess of wires and circuitry beneath. He struggled to stay calm and keep his breathing under control as he studied it.

"Do you feel that?"

Tamar glanced down at Yuthura. "What?"

"Another pair of engines have just switched off," she stated evenly.

His gaze snapped back to the wires. He'd counted ten separate vast propellers along the length of the wing on the way. Briefly, he wondered how many of them were required as a minimum to keep them airborne. "Is the jamming field still up?"

"Yes." The outward calm in Yuthura's voice held a brittle edge. "I'm starting to wonder where our help has got to."

He grunted, giving up trying to work out what anything in front of him actually did and trying to let the Force guide him. "Everything's probably running to a pre-programmed sequence. Look on the bright side. We're still alive to have this conversation."

"For now."

It felt like Celyanda was right on top of them – or rather, right beneath them – a storm to match anything outside. Gritting his teeth, Tamar pulled two wires free and pressed their ends together. The red warning lights above him died. Unfortunately the hatch remained as firmly locked as ever. He swore.

"I hate to be a nag or anything, but could you speed things up a little, Tamar?"

He positioned his lightsaber to cut through the hatch lock, pulling the Force close around him in a protective sphere. Briefly though, he hesitated, glancing down at Yuthura again. "You need to shield yourself against the airflow. Similar to the kind of shield you'd use against Force lightning. You see?"

"I've got it."

Gritting his teeth, he ignited his lightsaber in a dazzling blaze of cyan. A fraction later there was a sharp cracking noise accompanied by a shower of sparks. With a shrieking wail of tortured metal, the hatch ripped free.

In that first instant, Tamar was almost yanked free as it felt like he was seized by a gigantic fist. Agonising pain flared through his shoulders, as it seemed for several seconds that his arms were going to be ripped from their sockets in the effort of holding on. The roaring of the wind was like an entire chorus of banshees screaming directly in his ears.

After that first instant, he managed to create a calmer bubble of air around him, and the immediacy of the danger passed. His breath was coming hard and fast and intermittent tremors passed through his arms. Sweat trickled down his face and made his eyes sting. The wind was hot.

Gritting his teeth with the effort of maintaining the air bubble, he pulled himself up, into Eres III's open sky.

-s-s-

Thalia May strode rapidly down the steps leading from the entrance of the Jedi Temple, trying not to seem conspicuous – trying to keep her thoughts placid and ordered. She recited the Jedi Code inside her head, not for any fractional comfort or focus that it might give – since it gave precious little of that – but because it hopefully hid her real purpose from showing too prominently in her thoughts.

The robes she wore felt oddly uncomfortable around her.

That was at least nine parts psychological, she knew. They were Jedi Knight robes, and for all she had progressed well as a Padawan, to the point where she'd even heard vague talk of possible knighthood trials for her some time in the future, they did not belong to her. She didn't know the name of the Jedi she'd stolen them from – the act had felt fractionally more comfortable done that way.

The theft had proved necessary – or at least, expedient – due to the fact that, since the murder of Master Quatra, all apprentices and Padawans had been confined strictly to temple grounds.

And right now, she judged, what she was doing was more important than strict obedience.

Not that this judgment made the decision any easier. When she was found out – as she accepted that she inevitably would be – it wouldn't just be herself who felt the consequences.

All of those who had once been with the Sith knew well enough that their individual transgressions inevitably reflected back upon their entire number. And all of them knew equally that, for all the Jedi Masters claimed that they were fully welcome no matter what they may have done in the past, among the rank and file of their fellows, it was a very different story. They were – and perhaps always would be – an underclass, viewed with thinly veiled distaste and suspicion.

The fact that there was currently such general antipathy towards the Jedi Order in the Republic as a whole simply worked to amplify the situation tenfold. The blame was always unspoken, but it was equally always there.

And perhaps, when it came down to it, it was deserved. She struggled, at least on her own behalf, to fully argue otherwise.

She stopped suddenly in her tracks, staring, thoughts forgotten. It took her conscious brain a moment to catch up with her eyes and subconscious.

The object that had grabbed her attention so forcefully was a man with a shaved head walking up the steps towards her. There was a woman walking alongside him, but Thalia barely paid her a thought.

He was handsome enough, she supposed, in a rugged kind of way, but not really to a degree that justified the intensity of her reaction. He certainly didn't look exactly like he appeared on the recruiting posters. Despite the shaved head though, he was close enough a match that she was absolutely sure she wasn't mistaken.

Their earlier conversation came back.

I'm looking for my son. Dustil Onasi. I understand you're . . . well I don't know if friends is the right word, but at least that you know him quite well. I'm standing in Dustil's apartment right now. There's . . . there's been an incident. Could we arrange to meet, Padawan May? I'm . . . well to be honest I'm extremely worried. I'm sorry, but for reasons I'd rather not go into over an open line, I can't come to the Jedi Temple.

Right. Captain Hero Lying Bastard Onasi. Walking up the steps to the Jedi Temple he couldn't come to at precisely the same time he'd arranged to meet her somewhere else.

Gritting her teeth and trying – not altogether successfully – to keep her irritation in check, she walked across to intercept him.

She never noticed for a moment that she was being watched.

-s-s-

Hot wind howled cacophonously, everything lit by ruddy, hellish glare. Thunder grumbled continuously overhead, a constant counterpoint.

Sweat glistening on his face, Tamar inched forward. The turbulent flow of air formed a visible slipstream around the stable pocket he was struggling to maintain around himself to avoid being snatched away into the stormy Eres sky. Substantially more surefooted than he was, Yuthura had overtaken him and moved ahead by several metres, though even she was hardly moving quickly. The second hatch they were making for still looked an imposingly long trek ahead of them.

Suddenly he realised that Yuthura had stopped. She was gesturing frantically for him to look around, mouthing something that the screaming wind devoured whole. Her lekku whipped out sideways from her head like streamers.

As he turned, his jaw dropped, and every conscious thought was swept away in mix of awe and sheer terror.

They were heading directly towards one of the vast tornado funnels reaching down from the jet-black cloud above. It looked to be at least a hundred metres in diameter and gave the weird optical illusion of spinning in both directions at once. Burning ash had been swept up from the raging fires below, so that the churning maelstrom seemed to be shot through with threads of incandescent white-orange flame – the devouring maw of a wrathful god.

It was closing in at an alarming rate.

"Sh . . .!" His voice was lost and swept away.

The impact point would be somewhere in the region of five hundred metres away from their current position, just beyond the midpoint of the wing. It didn't seem possible that the hotel had even the remotest chance of surviving such an encounter.

Heart thudding with surging adrenaline, attempting to increase his speed, Tamar overbalanced and slipped. As a startled cry was sucked from his lungs, he bounced head over heels down the smoothly curving metal surface of the wing.

Each bone-jarring impact blasted the air from his lungs and made his vision swirl and distort crazily. In sheer last-ditch desperation, he stabbed down with his lightsaber, deep into the wing's surface, clinging onto the hilt for dear life . . .

And finally came to a thudding halt at the end of a ten-metre gash in the wing's surface, his legs still kicking out behind him in the air. Where the lightsaber pierced the wing's skin, droplets of molten metal sparked and spat.

Finally, as it began to feel as if his heart was going to burst inside his chest, he managed to suck some air back into lungs. A few seconds later, he managed to haul his legs under him again and stabilise his position slightly, wrapping himself once more in a bubble of relatively calmer air. For a time though, it was all he could do to cling on limpet-like as his muscles trembled and shook.

As he looked back he saw that he'd tumbled close on a hundred metres beyond Yuthura's position, straight past the hatch they were aiming for, so that he was now even further from it than he'd been before. He saw that she was looking directly at him and he managed to give her a slightly shaky thumbs up gesture.

She returned it, resuming her steady forward progress. Grimacing to himself, he pulled his lightsaber free of the wing and copied her.

And then, as if to prove the situation could get worse, Celyanda arrived.

The female half shot out of the same hatch he and Yuthura had exited just under a minute earlier, flying gracefully through the air and landing with the ease and grace of a cat. The wind made her hair writhe around her head as if it was formed out of living golden serpents. Otherwise, she might as well have been taking a quiet stroll in the park for all the effect it seemed to have on her.

Less than a second later, her male twin landed just as easily at her side. Their lightsabers shone like lightning bolts. Behind them, the fire-shot tornado loomed larger and larger.

Yuthura whirled immediately to face the new threat, her own lightsaber glowing violet as the wind streamed past her, directly into his face. He stared in rising horror. There wasn't the slightest chance that he could reach her side before Celyanda closed the distance. Any attempt at Force jumping would simply see him swept away.

And the chances of her being able to take on both of them together . . .

Before he could finish the thought, something swooped down out of the lightning-shot clouds directly above them. Belatedly he recognised it as one of the Rancorous's dropships.

The wind tossed it around as if it was a child's toy, but somehow, either through tremendous skill or equally tremendous luck, its Echani pilot managed to guide it until it was directly above their position and hold it relatively steady. The back of it opened, and a number of gleaming shapes started plummeting down towards them, metal seeds blown from a giant flower.

The first two assault droids were caught in the wind's teeth and missed the wing entirely, tumbling past and away towards the blazing xoxin plains below. A third simply hit the edge of the wing and bounced straight off with a squalling wail, likewise to its doom. But the next few all hit true, landing between Yuthura and Celyanda, huge metal claws ripping into the metal surface and clamping them tightly in place.

Immediately they began to lay down a steady barrage of blaster fire in Celyanda's direction.

Gulping in relief, Tamar watched as Yuthura took advantage of the distraction and started to resume her way towards the hatch. He followed suit, moving as quickly as he dared as the wind battered at him. In the background, the tornado loomed larger than ever – a devouring infernal titan.

About a dozen more droids managed to land on the wings while just as many missed. Celyanda's lightsabers blurred as the twins seemed to dance through the blaster fire. One assault droid was cut down in a blazing shower of sparks while another pair were knocked lose by a violent wave of Force. A fourth was sliced cleanly in half, then a fifth . . .

Between Celyanda's twin capering figures, Morrigance had now risen into view, black robes streaming out behind her like raven's wings. The vision in Tamar's head rose up again, but he rapidly throttled it back hard.

Overhead, the dropship now swerved downwards, manoeuvring closer and closer to their position, a ladder trailing down from its rear. The angry whine of its repulsors mixed with the howling of the wind. Further away, a second and a third dropship had descended through the cloud cover, and were in the process of dropping off their own payloads of battle droids further down the wing.

And all the while, the tornado's destructive embrace grew closer . . .

The entire situation seemed utterly, utterly insane.

Yuthura was within an arms length of the ladder trailing from the first dropship when near-disaster struck. Having dealt with the first wave of droids, Celyanda lashed out via the Force, an ion storm crackling into life around the dropship's bulk.

The dropship's repulsors sputtered, then cut out entirely. It lost control.

As it swerved wildly, the ladder trailing from it hit Yuthura a glancing blow and sent her sprawling. Tamar's throat contracted tight as she bounced and slid past him down the wing, seemingly completely limp. Frantically he reached out with the Force to try to catch her. Overhead, the dropship flipped over completely in mid air and veered away.

Groaning with effort, he managed to bring Yuthura's tumbling slide came to a halt scarily close to the wing's edge and oblivion. He could feel shaking as he struggled to hold onto her. With his concentration divided in two, he could feel the pocket of stable air around him wavering, on the verge of collapse. A violent gust of wind plucked at him, and in desperation, he dropped flat, jamming his lightsaber into the wing again to anchor him tight.

Somewhere behind him came a horrendous crash and the metal beneath him juddered violently.

The dropship had slammed, upside down, onto the top of the wing, pulverising a trio of unfortunate assault droids that happened to be in the way. Spraying sheets of incandescent sparks and ploughing a deep gash in the wing's superstructure, it slid for about fifty metres before its repulsors kicked in again, causing it to bounce and flip.

Straight into the path of the second dropship.

Tamar flinched. Near-miraculously, the second dropship somehow managed to swerve out of the way.

In doing so though, it strayed far too close to the tornado and was caught up and swept inside, where it was ripped apart in seconds. The first dropship, its cockpit along with the entire front section completely flattened, fire spurting from the fractures in its hull, exploded concussively.

The third dropship, also straying much too close to the tornado for comfort, had to peel off abruptly vanishing from view.

Tamar yanked his gaze away, grimacing.

Yuthura was moving now, albeit feebly, her limbs twitching uncoordinatedly. There looked to be a deep gash in her scalp, leaking blood in copious quantities. Concentrating grimly, Tamar set about the business of hauling her in towards him, his free hand outstretched towards her as he clung onto the hilt of his lightsaber with the other. Hot wind buffeted constantly as if it had taken on a malevolent consciousness and was deliberately trying to pluck him free. A deafening peel of thunder set his ears ringing.

Finally, their hands touched, locking together spasmodically. He channelled Force into her as well as he could, and her eyes seemed to clear slightly, locking with his. The sense of relief was dizzying.

"I'm okay," she mouthed, the sound swept away as soon as the words passed her lips. "I'm okay."

He felt her touch the Force, using it to re-establish a bubble of still air around herself, and nodded shakily.

Then he threw a hasty glance back over his shoulder. Unnoticed during his efforts to pull Yuthura in, he saw that he'd been dragged another ten metres further down the wing, his lightsaber leaving another crooked molten gouge.

And in that time, Morrigance had reached the hatch they'd originally been aiming for. Behind her, Celyanda was still busy annihilating droids, covering her progress.

As Tamar watched, Morrigance's lightsaber ignited smoothly and carved straight through the hatch as easily as if it were butter. It was as if she felt his eyes on her, and she paused briefly, looking up. Her mask reflected orange.

Come, Celyanda. Time to go.

He heard the thought with crystal clarity. Then, inclining her head in brief acknowledgement of him, she dropped through the hatch, out of sight.

She was, he realised numbly, going to try to take their flyer – leave them trapped.

If she could get past the locked controls . . .

Which, of course, she could. He snorted, letting that faint hope die. Groaning with the effort, hot wind lashing all around him more fiercely than ever, he pulled himself upright again – started after her.

Immediately though, Celyanda broke off from their combat with the remaining droids, moving through the wind and turbulence with a speed and ease that was astonishing. His heart thudded, lightsaber raising defensively . . .. But they didn't pay either him or Yuthura even the slightest fragment of attention, vanishing inside the hatch.

He pressed forward regardless. The controls would take at least a few moments. If they moved quickly enough, they could still . . .

Yuthura's hand closed on his shoulder. He looked up.

The tornado hit.

The impact made the entire wing lurch and shudder violently, knocking them both to their knees. To start with at least, the hotel held together. The noise was horrendous, thousands of metal plates covering the wing's surface buckling and tearing free, spinning through the air like chaff. The entire superstructure seemed to be groaning aloud in agony, and Tamar could feel it shifting and distorting beneath him.

One droid after another was sucked up into the air, spinning away into the clouds. A giant propeller screamed, then shattered in a spray of gigantic shrapnel. The entire vessel started to spin around slowly, orbiting the twisting maw of destruction at its centre.

He grabbed hold of Yuthura tightly, extending a protective shield around them as metal fragments flew through the air nearby with enough force to slice a person completely in two. He felt the Force flowing from her to him in turn, augmenting his strength and reinforcing the protective barrier.

It was entirely futile. All it did was buy them a few more seconds before the burning tornado plucked them away and devoured them.

But a few more seconds was a few more seconds . . .

He looked into her eyes, her face dark and sticky with blood.

She smiled; gripped him tightly. He smiled back. The heat was scorching against his face. Beneath them, the wing began to tilt upwards alarmingly . . .

It looks like you two could use some help.

He jolted hard, and it took him a moment to recognise the source of the words inside his head.

Bastila. Speaking across the bond.

His gaze lifted, Yuthura's eyes following his. Another ship was swooping, hawk-like from the cover of the black clouds, seemingly riding the very edge of the tornado like a suicidal surfer as it flew towards their position.

It disappeared from view under the wing directly beneath them . . .

Now jump.

-s-s-

Tamar watched through the window as the huge flying wing finally surrendered to the inevitable and broke into fragments. At this distance, unlike up close, it all happened in serene and almost stately silence. His eyes followed one of the gondolas as it tumbled free, plummeting end over end, all the way to the flames far, far below.

It was a strange feeling. More a lack of feeling, perhaps. Having surrendered to the inevitability of death, only to be reprieved at the last, when no prospect of reprieve remained.

There was no elation. Nothing he could identify except weariness as the flow of adrenaline subsided

He closed his eyes. And he finally surrendered, letting the vision that had been lurking in his subconscious at last come entirely to the fore.

He watched the scene through Revan's eyes – his own eyes – yet at the same time it was as if he saw everything as a neutral observer. There was no access to the secret interiors of his own head. No way to truly know himself.

It was, he realised, how all his visions of the past went.

The visions he'd had from Bastila, of facing her on the bridge of his flagship. The visions he'd had from Malak. And now, the visions from Morrigance. His mind gravitated to what it instinctively knew was familiar – the dark and dreadful monster in the mask – but he never truly saw inside the monster, because it never was his memories he was in.

The monster was looking down into another mask that was polished to a mirror sheen. In that mask, he saw his own mask, reflected and reflecting. Masks within masks within masks. An infinity of them, layered inside each other.

The mask was descending slowly and steadily towards the figure secured to the gurney beneath it – the still raw, skull-like ruin that had at one time been a face. The eyes that were the most human looking part of that ruin remaining flicked back forth. Breath sawed rhythmically through perma-grinning teeth, redolent of pain. Finally, with a soft click, the mask locked into place.

"You will need to wear this from now onwards, and not for reasons of aesthetic nicety." The monster's voice echoed, hollow and alien. It didn't really sound human at all. "Without lips, without a protective dermal layer, or the mucus membranes in your nose, you will always now be prone to infection."

There was no response, save for the amplified sound of her breathing.

"I didn't want to do this, Morrigance." He watched clinically as his hand reached down and touched the sheet beside her shoulder. "It didn't give me any pleasure."

"Norb ee." Nor me. He saw his own gloved fingers spasm. The voice sounded like that of a ventriloquist in dire need of practise. It was barely recognisable.

He chuckled. It sounded forced, and trailed off into a sighing breath. "I would have let you go, you know. In the end, I would have let you go."

The only sound from the figure on the gurney was a hissing rasp.

"But not the easy way for you, eh Morrigance? Needlessly overcomplicating simple things has always been your biggest flaw." He shook his head, and an element of harshness crept in. "Why try to deceive me? Why try to play both ends?"

"Hab by cake ad eatit." Have my cake and eat it. Briefly, there was a strangling noise. Her chest shuddered and heaved beneath the sheet.

"Your timing was especially bad. On another occasion I might have been able to let it pass." He started to walk, padding in circles around her supine form like a pacing vornskyr. Her masked face tilted, as though to follow him, but she gave up the attempt quickly, seemingly too weak. "Not now though. Not so close after Malak, with the scrutiny I am under, all the vultures circling – searching for the slightest hint of weakness."

A pause. A snap. "I will not allow everything to be undone. You must have known that." He stopped pacing. "I suffer a loss of face, so therefore you must too. That is the way of things."

"Wabt ow?" A wrenching groan. "Why obt kill be?"

"In this, killing achieves nothing useful. As for what now?" He seemed to be weighing up his answer carefully. "Now, I think, we are right back to the point where we started. Full circle, if you like. You still have a choice to make, Morrigance."

"A choibce." The grating sound might have been an attempt at laughter.

"This time I expect you to actually make it." He turned away abruptly, and started walking towards the med bay doors. "I'll give you one week to put everything in order."

The agonised sound of her breathing followed him.