Chapter Two: Ports of Call

"The popular image of Xim the Despot as a striding colossus with an army of merciless war droids obscures reality. We must not forget that the Despot, and the vast majority of his followers, his administrators, his soldiers and bureaucrats, were simply human beings."

S.V. Skynx, Dawn Times: A Short History of the Early Tion Cluster, 3 BBY

Year 24 of Xim's reign

Year 532 LE

11,347 TYA

Ten thousand soldiers stood on the open plain. Their uniforms, an identical black, almost gleamed in the hot sunlight. They stood in perfectly ordered rows a hundred deep, shoulder to shoulder, boots planted in the green grass, hands at their sides. Every head faced the raised stage at the formation's eastern end.

Ten thousand soldiers were gathered today on Accession Field at the Imperial Martial Academy of Chandaar. None of them had seen action yet, nor would they see it today, but they would see it soon. This was the day those ten thousand young men graduated and were sent off to war.

But before they could take the war to Indrexu and Gelistar, they would have to stand in the hot sun in hot uniforms and suffer through interminable speeches. The Academy head-master, a retired Cronese admiral, was not only dull but long-winded, and listening to him was a trial even for Marco IV Jaminere, First Viceroy of the Empire.

Jaminere was seated on the stage to the headmaster's right. He was dressed in the traditional martial uniform of his native Sorasca, though he'd never attended any formal academy. His education in warfare had all come on the battlefields where, planet by planet, he and Xim had built the Empire's foundations. They'd been merely twenty-three when they'd convinced the Livien League to surrender to their combined forces. That had been more than half a lifetime ago.

His son was out there now, somewhere in the hundred rows. Jaminere knew it was pointless but he scanned the ten thousand tiny faces anyway, wondering which belonged to Marco V. It still seemed surreal that fate had delivered him a son; he, who had killed his own father and brothers, the king and princes of Sorasca. He claimed no regnal title for himself; no, he was merely First Viceroy. The only king in Xim's empire was Xim himself, which was as it should be.

His relationship with his own family had been pained, to put it mildly. He tried to do better for his son, even though duty to Xim's ever-expanding vision kept drawing him away from their estate on Desevro. Every time he returned his son seemed visibly older. Marco was already eighteen years old now.

He was lost in thought and almost missed the end of the headmaster's speech. However, the graduates released a wave of rippling applause (fueled, he was sure, by relief) as the headmaster stepped back from his podium and gestured to Jaminere.

The First Viceroy had given graduation speeches before, but never with his son in attendance. As he stepped to the podium he couldn't resist scanning the endless faces once again, but no speck of his Marco could be seen.

It was the speech he'd given before, slightly modified for the audience and the era. He told them how proud he was to be here and how proud they should be to stand united in service to the Empire of Xim. He reminded them (as though they needed it) that for centuries since the Liberation of mankind from its alien Tyrants, the kingdoms of men warred with each other across the stars. The potential of unified humanity was wasted in petty squabbles while the vastness of the galaxy waited beyond our ken, waiting to be explored and colonized.

Now mankind was more unified than it had ever been, and this time man ruled himself. There were, of course, stubborn hold-outs to Xim's great vision, but with every passing day their numbers decreased. World after world was being brought into the fold of unified humanity. Just days ago, Yutusk had been welcomed into the rightful community of worlds. The last major hold-out was Ranroon, but it, too, would fall, and the greatness of Xim would be recognized across all known space. Then, at last, mankind would be united.

And it was they, the young cadets now graduating from the Imperial Martial Academy, who would bring centuries of struggle to fruition. They stood on the cusp of history and should feel honored to take part in such a moment, honored and proud, as befitting all soldiers of the Empire.

It was true, mostly. There were still straggling worlds, populated by aliens or handfuls of human colonists, existing on the edges of known space that were yet unconquered. On the other side of the Empire from the Federation, exploration teams were discovering new worlds and expanding the hyperspace beacon network that knit interstellar civilization together. There was no telling what wonders (or horrors) they'd find in the so-called Expansion zone, and the military would be playing a larger role there once Ranroon fell.

But what Jaminere said was mostly true. He hoped it was truer still, because he did not want his son to see any more war that was absolutely necessary.

After Jaminere finished his address and received applause, he looked over the ground one last time in vain for Marco's face then returned to his seat and waited for the other speeches to end.

By the time they did the sun had almost reached the center of the sky and Jaminere was sweating beneath the thick fabric of his uniform. So were the graduates, as he discovered when the ten thousand were released from Accession Field and went to the shaded pavilions set up for post-ceremony refreshments. There were four great pavilions in all: one for the infantry graduates, two for fresh naval officers, and one for Xim's elite janissary corps, which had originally been raised to serve the Livien aristocracy.

Marco was a new-minted Navy man, and by the time Jaminere found his son the young man had already been cornered by his mother and grandfather. Marco's scalp, shaved like all the graduates', shone with sweat and he held his ceremonial cap tucked into one arm, a glass of light champagne in his free hand. Jaminere grabbed a glass from a passing waiter and joined them.

"In case you slept through my speech, I'll say congratulations again," he said, and tapped Marco's glass.

"I stayed awake the whole time, Father."

"Yes, it wouldn't do to pass out in the middle of our graduation," agreed Marco's grandfather, Vardoc Oreneia, hereditary Grand Duke of Livien and head of the Mandate Council. Since Xim's conquest those titles meant less than it used to, but Vardoc was still a man of authority. He and Jaminere both trailed subtle bodyguards.

Erissa placed a hand on her son's uniform arm. "I can't believe you had to stand in the hot sun for hours wearing this. No wonder you're sweating."

"We went through much worse in training, Mother."

"Did you, now?" Vardoc raised a brow. "I was talking to a few Infantry parents and they said you Navy boys have it easy."

He was baiting, of course. Marco said, "We go through the same training as them. More, actually. On a ship you have to be ready for anything, not just groundpounders. Besides, everyone knows the war robots are doing the real fighting nowadays. That's why there's twice as many Navy grads."

"I always said there was virtue in a well-balanced, broad-based education," Vardoc said, and sipped from his glass.

Marco added, "We went through plenty of live fire exercises like Infantry but we also had a lot more technical training. When you're on a ship you have to trust your life to it, and that means you should know it inside and out. We covered everything from engines to navigation to comms to weapons. Whatever we have to do, we're ready for it."

It cheered Jaminere to see his son confident. Too soon, those spirits would be grounded down by war. "I'm happy you feel prepared," he said, "because on the Victor's Crown you can be sure you'll be seeing action."

"The Victor's Crown," Vardoc echoed. "Such a storied vessel. You must be proud to be assigned there."

Marco glanced at his father, eyes narrowed. "It was… quite a surprise."

"It was your scores that earned you a place on Admiral Kadenzi's ship. I had nothing to do with it," Jaminere insisted. It was true, but he doubted Marco would believe it.

"You're going to be an excellent officer." Erissa squeezed his arm. "But we knew that from the start."

"Oh yes," agreed Vardoc after another sip. "As soon as you crawled out of your mother I said, 'that sticky boy is destined for greatness.'"

Erissa rolled her eyes. "Oh, father, don't be crude."

"I'm only honest." Vardoc shrugged his silk-draped shoulders. "I have an instinct for picking winners. Usually I can spot them on first glance."

That was also true. When Xer VIII launched his invasion of the Livien League a quarter-century ago, many of the planetary nobles and merchant-princes had put up fierce resistance. In their pride they'd looked down on Xim and his father as dumb barbarians and paid the price for it. Duke Orenaia, in contrast, had seen the shifting tides and, along with Deservo's governor Tiatiov, had made a pact with Xim. For that reason he'd retained much of his wealth and influence. Those who'd resisted had lost everything. If only Ranroon's queen would be so practical.

Jaminere's marriage had been pressed on him by Xim as a way to solidify alliances. He'd expected Erissa to be a spoiled, sedentary brat and was pleasantly surprised to find himself partnered with an intelligent and pragmatic young woman. Theirs was not the kind of starry-eyed marriage poets waxed lyrical about, but there was affection between them and a son to be proud of. He felt blessed things had worked out so well.

Marco was soon called away by a gaggle of fellow graduates, all of them bare-headed and still shining from their hours in the son. As the young men converged their faces lit up with exuberance parents were excluded from.

"He's young and old at the same time," Erissa said, leaning close.

Boyish smiles and stiff black uniforms. Young men about to go to war. Public displays of affection were not part of their marriage, but Jaminere touched her arm and said, "He'll get old fast."

"I know." She swallowed, looked him in the eyes. "Believe me, I know."

When she and Jaminere first met a week before their wedding, he'd been twenty-four, a veteran of dozens of battles, an accomplished politicker, and, of course, a patricide. At twenty-four he'd already been old.

Vardoc said, "Hopefully the battle for Ranroon will be over quickly. Then, perhaps, we can back off war footing and allow our young men to enjoy the fruits of their conquests..."

Jaminere and Erissa nodded, watching the innocent soldiers. All three knew it would never be, but it was pleasant, for a moment, to imagine.

-{}-

The Gravity Scorned's voyage from Rhen Var to Santossa was wholly uneventful. No vengeful slavers, no interdiction by Imperial ships, and no trouble from the angels, or Diathim, or whatever they were called. The luminous, eerily beautiful aliens simply waited in the Gravity's secondary hold, needing neither nourishment nor assistance.

Santossa Station was a trio of wheels spinning off a central axis over its namesake planet. It had been the Gravity's port of call for a long time, thanks to Kroller's friendship with its owner, and had become a second home over the past few years.

Yet on their return it was clear something had happened. The station was always busy, located as it was above an independent world close to both Imperial and Federation space, but Essan had never seen it so absolutely packed. Erakas, strapped at the communication console, reported that every last one of the station's airlocks were currently occupied. Peering through the cockpit porthole, it looked like dozens more ships were drifting in orbit, waiting for a turn.

It helped to have friends in high places. After a mere hour of waiting the Gravity Scorned was cleared to dock at the top wheel. Kroller easily matched their velocity with the centrifugal spin and magnetically sealed with the assigned airlock.

Erakas was the first to go onto the station. His eagerness showed on his face and in the Force, and why shouldn't he be eager? Essan trailed behind him and watched with detachment as he embraced Reina, then bent low and scooped their son into his arms.

They called the boy Sohren and he just barely four years old. He had a little of both parents in him: Erakas's straight black hair, his mother's fair skin and dark green eyes. He struggled a little in his father's embrace and relaxed in his mother's. Both parents looked down at the boy as though he was the most valuable treasure in the galaxy, because for them he was.

"Dad called ahead," Reina told him, "He said you'd gone and done something heroic."

"Mad, was he?"

"I think he'd calmed down by then." She jostled Sohren lightly and told the boy in sweetly tones, "That means daddy's got another story for us. I can't wait to hear it."

"It's really not that exciting."

"It had better not be." Still holding the boy, she jabbed Erakas with an elbow. "Next time you stay at home with the kid and I go off on adventures, okay?"

"Fair's fair," Erakas said, and mussed his son's hair.

Essan had seen this greeting many times and felt little; theirs was a personal joy that had nothing to do with her. There was melancholy in her detachment, though she'd never quite been able to place it. Did she envy Erakas his loves? Perhaps, even though she knew from experience the way attachment could cloud your judgment, the way it tore you apart when you lost it. She didn't want to go through that again, but she when she looked at Erakas, Reina, and Sohren, her existence felt very hollow.

"I agree with Reina," Kroller said as he came through the airlock. "Next time the Jedi stays at home changing nappies. Maybe then we can have an uneventful trip."

"Think of all the interesting thing you'd miss out on," Erakas chided, then asked his wife, "Want to see an angel?"

"An angel?" She frowned. "You mean those things from the moon of, um..."

"Maelibo," Kroller supplied.

"Iego," Vaatus said simultaneously.

Reina looked between them all, confused.

Sohren said innocently, "I want to see an angel."

"We have seven in the hold," Essan clarified.

"Unexpected passengers," Kroller said. "You can thank the Jedi here." When he said 'the Jedi' in such grumpy tones it almost always meant Erakas.

"Paying passengers?" Reina cocked a brow.

"Not yet. But I'm gonna get something out of this, I swear it. But first we gotta check with Mal and figure out where exactly where this Maelibo-Iego place is."

"I've got access to his whole nav database," Reina said. "I'll look it up. Malanthazaar's… pretty busy lately."

"The whole station looks busy," said Vaatus. "What happened?"

"You haven't heard, then?" Expression grim, Reina handed Sohren over to Erakas, flexed her shoulders, and exhaled. "The Imperials just took Yutusk and a bunch of other planets. Those ships out there are mostly refugees from the Federation."

The Gravity Scorned had done everything to stay neutral in the Imperial-Federation war; partly because of Kroller's 'not my problem' ethos but also because they'd had their own run-in with the Empire. Someone, possibly Xim himself, was keenly interested in the Jedi, and that meant the two of them had to lay low, for their own safety.

"Does this mean the war's over?" asked Erakas as he cradled his son.

Reina shook her head. "There's still some planets left. I heard the Yutuski president got away too. They've all converged on Ranroon."

"Xim's next target, then," said Essan.

"Probably. I don't think it'll be easy—they say Ranroon has the best fighters in the Federation—but that's Xim's problem, not ours. Ours is managing all these refugees."

By 'ours' she meant the station's staff and leadership. As Malanthazaar Czernak's junior manager, that now included Reina. Her father, however, said, "You'll do what you can. Right now I want to settle down, unload, and figure out what to do with those angels."

"Agreed," said Vaatus and, a little resigned, Reina nodded too.

The Gravity's crew rented space aboard Santossa station, and while it wasn't much more capacious than the ship itself at least it had reliable gravity. Reina and Erakas shared the largest cabin, while Kroller, Vaatus, and Essan all had small private spaces. The Sith woman wasn't bothered by her tiny, window-less cabin. It reminded her of monastic cells in which she'd undergone Jedi training years ago.

Going out amongst the station's denizens was easy for the humans, and even Vaatus didn't have much problem getting lost in the crowd, which included many aliens native to the Tion cluster. For Essan it was different. Without explaining their powers to Malanthazaar, they'd disclosed that they were wanted by the Empire. Essan in particular stood out, and she kept a drawer full of disguises to wear when she went outside her cabin. Some were mere cloaks, others mechanical masks with fake breathing equipment. She even had a few cans of washable spray-on paint to recolor her scarlet face. All of them confounded identification. They also prevented her from ever feeling at home.

But because she wanted to see the state of the refugees, Essan donned one of the fake breathing masks and explored the stations's curving halls and promenades. Through the tinted glass of her visor she witnessed people lining the walls, huddled in small groups or alone. Some of them wore rags, others unwashed finery. Some bent protectively over bags they'd grabbed in their desperate flight, others had nothing except their clothes. Many held out hands, begging for alms, for food, for a place to stay. Most were human but some were aliens: Brigians, Pakuuni, Saheelindeeli. All of them bled hopeless misery in the Force.

It twisted Essan's stomach. This was the same feeling that had stirred Erakas on Rhen Var but on a colossal scale, which made it so much worse. Two Jedi could save seven Diathim easily enough; what could they possibly do to tip the scales of history? In a galaxy so vast, what good was the Force?

It was the constant question. She knew it had tortured Master Talyak, and he'd gone off with the Rakata seeking answers. If Erakas had found a solution it was to focus on the small things: good deeds for strangers, protecting his wife and child. Modest, attainable, practical: so like him.

But not like Essan.

Their pain was like a pox on the Force itself. It followed her even after she'd retreated to her cabin. In that monastic space it was usually easy to meditate and touch the Force, but it was harder now with so many desperate minds crowding her, like stormclouds blocking out the sun.

She tried anyway. It was a struggle. Had the Force really been clearer in the Tythan system, when she'd been around all those Jedi? She often thought so, but Erakas had told her that was nostalgia speaking. Twice she'd gone to the surface of Tython itself, faced down its uncontrollable Force storms, and nearly died. She knew there was immense power that could be tapped, power she craved to feel again, at least to confirm that she could.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, eyes closed, Essan pushed away the encroaching dread on Santossa station. She reached deeper, pressed harder, tried to find the cosmic stillness that was a gateway to the Force's mighty current. She felt herself draw close to that gateway, felt trickles of the current touch her, calm her, strengthen her worried heart. And she begged for more. She craved answers, guidance, even a whispered hint of what to do. She could not continue like this, hiding from the Empire and working small favors while millions suffered and died. She needed to be a Jedi.

Whatever a Jedi was.

And as she sat in mediation she thought she heard a whisper. Maybe it was the Force speaking or her own desires. Maybe she was pressed against a wall and simply had no place to go. Yet her heart and mind found agreement. She could no longer bear to stand to the side. She needed to face the storm head-on.

The first thing she did was put in a request to speak directly to Malanthazaar. She wasn't expecting to see him anytime soon, but she wanted to get in the queue. It was a surprise, then, when his secretary replied within a mere three hours. The manager had an immediate opening, and could she make it now? Essan threw her mask on and hurried.

Malanthazaar was a big man with a beard almost as red as Essan's face. Even sitting behind his desk he emanated powerful energy. As soon as she stepped into his office she removed her mask and said, "Thank you for seeing me."

"I've got time, but make it quick." Malanthazaar leaned back.

"I've been going around the station and seeing all the refugees."

"They're hard to miss. And if you're asking what I'm going to do with them, I have no clue. Try to clear out as much as I can, probably. I've already started to offload some to the planet."

"What is there for them to do on Santossa?"

"They can have free air and water instead of sucking up mine. Listen, I sympathize with those people, but I'm a businessman running a space station. I've already had to draw in five shipments of water and replace the oxygen scrubbers on the bottom wheel. Those things cost money, lots of it. And don't even get me started on what a nightmare sanitation is," Malanthazaar sighed. "If you've got ideas, I'm all ears."

Essan shook her head. "I can't help the refugees as they are now…"

"Then not to be rude, but why are you here?"

"If Ranroon falls, you'll be getting even more refugees."

"Don't remind me."

"Are other ports getting this many people?"

"You know, I haven't really asked."

She decided to say it plainly. "I know you say Santossa is neutral. I know you do business with both the Federation and the Empire… but you've also been secretly routing information, supplies, and weapons to Ranroon, haven't you?"

Malanthazaar snorted. "Reina should know better than to mix business and family."

"Is that why so many refugees are coming here?"

"They're coming here because they're desperate and scared. Listen, woman, the arrangement I have with the Federation is a business one. I let certain cargo come through the station because they pay me extra to keep it secret."

"Do you have shipments any going to Ranroon soon?"

"Maybe. What's it to you?"

She took a breath. "I want… to lend a hand."

"You want to get in on their big last stand?"

"You must have Federation contacts. If they're still good, I'd like you to put me in touch with them."

He looked at her skeptically. "Listen, I trust you as far as Ajek trusts you, because I trust him, but at the end of the day I don't know who or what you are. I'm not going to risk my reputation vouching for you. If you want to fight Xim, go ahead. They're sending out calls for mercenaries every day."

She repeated, "Are there any ships going to Ranroon?"

Malanthazaar drummed thick fingers on the tabletop. "Three days from now, a shipment of black-market Cronese artillery batteries is supposed to change hands here. Gods know how I'm going to manage that swap now."

"It goes to Ranroon?"

"Ranroon's not front-line yet. They're going to Kurooine. You heard of that one?"

"No."

"It's a nothing rock with a couple mines. And from what I hear, it's about to become the most important strategic prize in known space."

"All right. I'll take it."

His expression went from skeptical to confused. "Is that what you want? I know the guy handling the shipment to Kurooine. He's Federation military, Yutuski originally. If you're really serious, I can tell him I've got a volunteer." He frowned and added, "Do you have experience as a soldier?"

"No," she admitted, "but I've fought Xim's armies before."

"You and most of Tion." He drummed his fingers again. "You talked to Kroller about this yet?"

"Only you."

"Well maybe you should. Listen, I've got other things to do, but that artie shipment gets here in three days. I'm doing a check-in with that Fed contact in two. Decide what you're doing before that."

"I will. Thank you." She rose from her seat and affixed the mask to her face.

Malanthazaar looked at her hard one more time, then sighed and shook his head, resigning himself to the fact that some things would always be beyond him.

He was probably the smarter one, Essan thought as she left.

-{}-

Reina Kroller couldn't touch, feel, or hear this all-powerful Force her husband spoke of, but she believed in it, absolutely. How else to explain the impossible twists her life had taken?

She sat on the sofa of their apartment, one arm around Sohren as he nibbled on a fruit-bar snack, eyes on the cabin's porthole window. Their place on the bottom wheel of the station was currently turned to face Santossa, and the planet was the same comforting swirl of whites, browns, and pale blues as usual, though every dark fleck of drifting spacecraft was like a scar on its placid face. They'd just come back from seeing the bright and stoic angels of Maelibo, who remained secure aboard the Gravity Scorned.

With a small sigh she removed her arm from Sohren, rose, and walked over to the room's computer console. She turned it on, entered her administrator's access, and reviewed the nav data. Malanthazaar kept his computers as up-to-date as possible, marking every new hyperspace buoy as it came online. While Xim's warships engaged in brutal slogs against the Federation, the Empire was expanding easily on the opposite side of its territory. Every week, it seemed, another beacon came online, creating an ever-more complex weave of planets.

It took a minute to locate Maelibo. Data on the world was sparse but it had an operating beacon. To get there they'd have to go around the Spiral, past Astigone to Turallum, then use a branching path to get to Maelibo. It was quite a trip, the kind she wouldn't have minded a few years ago, because the Gravity Scorned had been her only home. Now it felt different.

"Mama," Sohren said from the couch.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"Can I get water, Mama?" He said it with a toddler's soft tips: 'wodder.'

"Just a second," she said. The apartment was large by the station's standards but it was only four long strides to the kitchen nook and faucet, five steps to the sofa. She took Sohren's snack bar from him and let him scoop the cup in both hands, tip it back and drink. Only a little spilled from his lips down his chin.

Such a wonder this plump, tiny, fumbling thing would grow into a man, hopefully as capable and brave as his father. A wonder, too, that he had come from her and Erakas. Sohren carried a bit of each in appearance, and also in his name: Serena from Reina's late mother, Sohr from Erakas's Jedi Master, not dead but lost in some unknown part of the galaxy. It seemed cruel that the Jedi had strewn themselves across the stars in meager groups of three. Jedi, Erakas told her, needed to be prepared for loneliness.

Yet he'd ended up with anything but. The door to their bedroom slid open and Erakas, freshly washed and changed, walked out. He smiled gently and dropped himself on the other side of Sohren.

Still holding the cup in pudgy hands, the boy asked, "Dada, when will you go away again?"

"Oh, not for a while." Erakas mussed his hair. "You mom wants me to stick around here. So does your grandpa."

"He wants you out of his hair," Reina clarified.

"That too." Erakas shifted his hand to his son's shoulder. "He wants to offload the angels and I feel like I should go help him, since I did bring them aboard… Did you figure out where Maelibo is?"

"On a branch off Turallum," Reina supplied.

He frowned. "And Turallum is..."

"Far down, past Astigone."

"The Expansion zone, then."

"That's what they're calling it." She rested her head on the sofa's back and tilted it to look out the window. "You can hack it out with Dad, but I think you should give star-crossing a rest for a while."

"You'll go with him, then?"

"I don't think I can. There's so much that needs to be done on the station…"

"The refugees."

"We can't take this many. This is a space station and our resources are so limited." She sighed. "But we'll manage. Besides, I'd rather stay here with you two." She held out Sohren's snack-bar. The boy took it and began munching.

Reina and Erakas waited in silence for a minute, listening only to their child's chewing and the soft whistle of the air system. Simple sounds, so far away from the destruction consuming other worlds. She wanted it to stay this way forever.

When Erakas and Essan had first come aboard, she'd worried as much as their father that the Jedi might draw them into unwanted dangers. Notwithstanding acts of localized valor, like on Rhen Var, that hadn't happened. They'd stayed on the sidelines of Xim's latest war, letting history march past them undisturbed. She was grateful for that.

But still, she wouldn't love Erakas if it weren't for that occasional valor. She turned head toward him and asked, "Are you going to tell us the whole story?"

"You already saw the angels."

"They were so pretty, Dada." Sohren said it 'pweddy.'

"I still want to hear how exactly you got them aboard our ship," Reina pressed. "Come on, I'm sure your son wants to know all about your latest act of heroism."

"I wasn't trying to be heroic."

"Yet somehow, you always pull it off." She gently poked Sohren. "Come on, tell Dada you want to hear his story."

"Tell me, Dada."

"All right, all right," he gave in, so easily. "I don't know where to begin exactly. We were at Rhen Var spaceport, Grandpa and Vaatus were off making a delivery, I was just kind of hanging around, when I started to get a feeling…."

"Don't you always?" Reina whispering, smiling, then closed her eyes and let his story carry her away.

-{}-

The shuttle shook violently as it pushed out of Chandaar's atmosphere, buffeted by aerial friction and its own powerful rockets. When heat flared white outside the passenger section's tiny portholes, Erissa Orenaia clasped her armrests and clenched her jaw. She'd always despised space travel. Entering and leaving planets was the worst part.

Her husband, strapped into the seat beside her, showed no such discomfort, but he'd gotten used to being blasted into the celestial void on a barely-controlled explosion. She wondered about their son, whether Marco treated this as casually as his father. She prayed she'd get a chance to ask him later.

After the interminable duration of take-off, the shuttle cleared Chandaar's atmosphere and began a smoother sail through the vacuum, toward the destination in high orbit. Her husband's Cadinthian dreadnought, the Ascendant, would carry them through hyperspace back to Desevro, and while she had little love for the warship's cramped corridors at least it had artificial gravity. Their shuttle was currently sailing zero-g and she'd forgotten to fully band her hair before departure. Scowling, she let go of the handrests and tried to gather the wavy strands swirling around her head.

Jaminere smiled. "Now you see why we make the cadets shave their heads."

"I suppose it's less messy." That and it enforced conformity, which was essential in the military.

Once she'd pulled as much as she could into a fist and knotted it behind her head, Jaminere said, "On the plus side, you won't have to do this for a while again."

"Aside from re-entry you mean."

"Aside from that."

But it was true. She had no plans to leave Desevro once they returned to the capital. Unlike Jaminere and Marco, whose duties flung them across the stars, hers kept her at home. She was thankful for that, even though she'd spend every day groundside worrying about her son.

Quietly she asked Jaminere, "Did you see the message from Maslovar?"

"I did."

"Will we make it in time?"

"We should."

"You're right, we should. The poor man." After a tiny pause she asked, "Will Xim make an appearance?"

"I don't know. That's for him to decide."

Just like everything else. Erissa merely wondered. Maslovar Tiatiov was the former Desevran governor, now Imperial Minister of Finance. Along with her father, he'd been Xim's biggest ally in the Livien League and had negotiated the League's accession to Xim's ever-growing empire. He'd lost his second and last son at the Battle of Yutusk and was holding a memorial ceremony for friends and allies.

Erissa considered herself both. Once upon a time she'd thought she might marry Maslovar. League politics was built by wedding important families and though he was five years older, her teenage self had thought him preferrable to other potential husbands (the elderly Count of Amarin, for instance, or the sadistic Duke of Folende). A quarter-century later, he was a peer and a friend.

Instead she'd married Marco IV Jaminere, nominal ruler of Sorasca and Xim's right hand. It was a twist of fate she'd neither expected nor wanted. Thankfully Jaminere was neither barbarian nor tyrant. She'd been relieved when he hadn't followed Sorascan custom and taken up a harem of concubines. Only later did she realize that she was really sharing her husband with Xim; more accurately, Xim was sharing with her. Which, really, she should have known from the start.

She wondered if Xim would appear at Alandi Tiatiov's memorial. He'd shown up at the elder son's service, held seven years ago, but the emperor had thrown himself into the conquest of Ranroon and might not have time to spare for fallen sons.

Erissa wondered sometimes if having a queen would have calmed Xim's lust for conquest. She believed a family gave Jaminere a stability he needed; a port he could call to. If Xim had something like that, she wondered, would these endless wars end?

As the shuttle continued toward the Ascendant, she asked him, "Where is Kadenzi's ship now?"

He understood her question. "Marshalling with the fleet at Yutusk. It should take Marco about three days to get there."

"And the next offensive?"

"Yet to be decided." Jaminere crossed his arms. "He should have time to get situated on the Victor's Crown before going into battle."

She'd been hoping that Kadenzi's ship might launch an early attack, before her son got aboard, but she muttered, "Good."

"During a battle, the flagship is the safest place to be," he assured.

Except away from the battle entirely. She wondered if he was really so confident. After over twenty years of partnership, he could still be opaque to her. All she knew was that she dreaded ended up like Maslovar, sacrificing her child to Xim's endless wars. If she did lose Marco…

Erissa pushed the thought away. The thought of him going into battle terrified her in a way Jaminere's endless engage-ments did not. The reason was that simple complexity Livien nobles were taught to disregard but never fully could: love.

Jaminere was her partner, Marco was her son. It was all the difference in the universe.

-{}-

Erakas and Reina's cabin was spacious by station standards, but five adults (plus one toddler) was pushing it. Parents and child took the sofa, Vaatus and Kroller filled the kitchen nook, while Essan stood with her back the porthole window. As soon as she stepped into the room Erakas could feel her restlessness. She had something she wanted to say and something to do.

But Kroller was the one who'd called the meeting, so he got to first. Leaning against the counter, arms crossed over chest, he said, "I got a chance to talk with Malanthazaar and I think I found a way we can drop off our angelic passengers and make some profit out of it."

"You found compelling business on Maelibo?" Erakas asked.

The spacer shook his head. "Those angels—Diathim, whatever—like to keep to themselves, so Maelibo's just going to be a stop-over. After that, we'll ride the signal to Xoraes and from there to Gwynhes Minor."

"I've never heard of it," Reina said.

"That's because it's a soggy mudball with no sentient species. A beacon just came online there a few years back. But they're prospecting for minerals there and Malanthazaar has some industrial-grade drill bits they'll need if they plan on opening a mine."

"Which is where we come in," Vaatus finished.

"Does he have a buyer arranged for these things?" asked Erakas.

"They just put in their deposit yesterday. Which means we're heading out soon as we can to deliver."

Kroller let it stop there, leaving an opening for Erakas. An opening, and a hard stare. What he'd said to Reina earlier was true; he really did feel bad about shirking responsibility for bringing those angels aboard. At the same time, that stare warned against the offer.

Reina interjected, "That's good, Dad. You don't need Erakas, do you? I think there's plenty for him to do here. With his son."

"Dada," Sohren mumbled.

"I think there is," Kroller exhaled, "Comm seat's always open for you, if you want it."

"I think I've also got things to do here." She touched Sohren's head. "Plus thousands of refugees we're trying to unload. Sorry, Dad, you'll have to take a team of three this time."

Erakas looked sideways at Essan, who hadn't yet said a word. "Is that okay with you?" he asked. "Or is there somewhere else you want to be?"

All eyes swung to her. The Sith woman straightened and said, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be coming with you."

"Found other plans?" asked Kroller.

"Yes." Her eyes darted to Erakas, then away. "A ship is leaving tomorrow for Federation space. I've decided to take it."

"You're going to fight?" Vaatus asked.

"I… don't know exactly what I'll do. But I need to do something. The ship will take me to Kurooine."

"They say that's next on Xim's chopping block," Reina said. "You're not a soldier… are you?"

"I've made my decision. I've already told Malanthazaar and he's informed his contact in the Federation."

She looked around, as though challenging them to object, but her eyes skirted over Erakas's.

"Essan," he said, rising from the sofa, "We should talk."

"I will not change my mind."

"I know. But still." He glanced at the bedroom door.

She nodded and said, "Excuse us," then slipped past the Krollers.

Erakas followed her to the bedroom and slid the door shut behind them. Unlike the living room there was no window here, just six plain metal bulkheads and a bed. Essan stood facing him, back of her knees against the mattress. There was very little distance between them and he could see her eyes wide with defiance. He could also feel her uncertainty in the Force.

He deliberated over what to ask. In the end he said simply, "Why?"

"I can't stand around and do nothing anymore."

"We're still helping people. On Rhen Var—"

"We saved seven lives. What are those against the millions dying in Xim's wars?"

"What do you think you can do? You're not a soldier. Jedi aren't supposed to be. You know what happened to Tython. The Je'daii became warriors to fight off the Rakata and it corrupted them. It corrupted us and ruined the whole planet."

"I know there are dangers. But I'm not the whole Je'daii Order. I am me." She tapped her chest. "Any help I can give is better than nothing. And I'm not telling you to come. You have a family and you should stay with them."

He heard an ache in her voice, felt her longing. It surprised him; Essan had always seemed self-sufficient and assured. He'd envied her for that. "Essan, I never thought—"

She held up a hand. "We've always been different Jedi. Our fates always pointed in different directions."

"You're talking like it's goodbye forever."

"It's not. At least, I hope not. But for now, this is what I need to do."

He knew he'd never talk her out of it. She was too stubborn for that. Still, he needed to understand. "Essan… what do you plan to actually do? Wave around your lightsaber on the battle-field, show off all your power? That'll get you all the attention we've been trying to avoid."

"Maybe attention is what we need. If we're doing to make any difference in this place we can't do it from the shadows."

"So you'll be on the front lines, killing and killing?"

"I don't relish the prospect."

"I know you don't, and I'm not even worried about the dark side. Xim knows us, you especially. When he hears of a red woman with Force powers he'll come after you again."

Her eyes darkened at the memory of torture. "I haven't decided how yet, but I'll show my powers, and then I'll offer them to the Federation. I'm hoping I can get an audience with President Gelistar or Queen Indrexu."

"That's aiming high." She offered neither apologies nor excuses. Erakas sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I want you to keep us updated, any way you can."

"I have no idea what the communications situation will be. Kurooine is about to become a heavy combat zone."

"Well, at least let me know when you get an audience with the queen." He faked a smile.

"I will." She faked one too. "And I believe… if something does happen to me..."

She didn't need to say the rest. After honing their Force-bond for years they'd come to believe that if one died, the other would feel it. Erakas had never experienced another Jedi's death in the Force but he'd heard about it and knew Essan had been scarred by her friend's death on Tython.

"You can take care of yourself," he said, and believed it. "Just… don't do anything too reckless."

Her smiled flexed, became genuine. "I believe that's usually what I tell you."

"I'm only reckless when the stakes are a lot lower." He glanced at the sealed door, at his family beyond.

"I understand. You should do what you must… and so will I."

He exhaled and looked at her again, all smiles gone. "I guess that's what being a Jedi is, then?"

She averted her eyes. "We will see."