Chapter Five: New Hopes & False Promises

"Politics is the fine art of getting what you want by convincing people it's what they want."

Xim's Rules for Ruling

The Object sat lonely in deep space, but it commanded emptiness like a star. It was more massive than anything Essan had seen save moons and planets, but this was neither. At its center was a pale metal sphere, the curvature of its super-structure pocked in a few places. A trio of equally-spaced, narrow protrusions extended from the sphere and stretched out to almost three times its diameter. From the angle of the Stormrider's observation deck, it looked like a hand with three fingers extended to pinch.

It was unmistakably of Rakatan origin. She'd seen sketches of the warships that had attacked Tython centuries ago, and they'd all born the same spherical body and overlarge arms, though none neared the Object's obscene mass. More than anything, it was the Force that told her. The Object pulsed with it. It felt like an animal, dull-minded but ravenously hungry.

As the Stormrider moved in closer, she got a better look. The Object was old and clearly damaged, though from what she couldn't say. Scorched-black streaks marred much of its surface. Half of one giant fin had been broken off, and another was riddled with jagged holes. It was a wounded animal, but all the more hungry for it.

Once the Stormrider sealed airlocks with one of the station's intact fins, Essan was allowed to step into the beast's belly. Like the Object itself the curved-walled corridors were massive, like they'd been built for creatures far bigger than mere Rakata. Some places were clean but many more were frosted by dust. Equipment for repairs lay piled in corridors and workers bowed before before Indrexu as they passed, though their eyes lingered on Essan.

"How did you find this?" she asked Indrexu when they were clear of the crews. "It's not located near any star."

"No. Ranroon's had its share of explorers as well as pirates. An agent for my grandmother found the Object almost sixty years ago. It was still moving then, and its trajectory indicated it had been drifting away from the nearest star—we call it Alpha-Seventeen-Twelve—for some time."

"Did we reach it through a beacon?"

"Yes, my grandmother had a transmitter node attached. Naturally it broadcasts on a very narrow, encrypted frequency. Very few can reach this place."

Like Abraxin, Essan thought, though here she was an honored guest. "It's been sitting here all this time?"

"Yes. It was totally inert when my grandmother found it. No power, no atmosphere, only residual heat from its active core. My mother hired Yutuski and Livien scientists to analyze it. We used their work to finally reactivate it five years ago. Even now we're running it at only a fraction of its optimum capacity."

She faced Indrexu squarely. "Is it a weapon?"

"Not directly, at least, not that we know. It's a foundry. We've been using the energy in its reactor core to build missiles and ships at a faster rate than any shipyard could manage."

"Then you've already managed to produce your own ships with it?"

"That's right."

"Then I wonder why you need me."

"There are many unsolved questions about this place. The Object's core is fascinating. It's like a miniature sun that churns the raw material for heavy metals at superheated temperatures. We've been draining energy its core, slowly but surely, and we can't figure out what fuel it will need to keep that fire burning." Indrexu's lips pressed tight. "I was led to believe you knew things about Tyrant technology."

"I've never seen anything like this before."

"You can still examine it, advise our engineers, perhaps improve its output so you can build even faster. We need every tool we can get," the queen said, lethally serious. "You don't seem comfortable here."

How to explain this to someone deaf in the Force? Six years in the Tion and she still felt interminably separated from its people. It would be hard to verbalize how this Object felt, even to a Jedi. She tried to find language Indrexu could understand. "The Tyrants were enemies to my people. They ravaged our homeworld so badly it never recovered, and they drew their power from the Force, the same as we do, but in ways that were twisted for evil."

Indrexu raised an auburn brow. "Are you saying you can feel their black magic now?"

"I can feel… echoes."

"Echoes of an evil that's been extinct for five hundred years. This Object has been inert for half a millennium. You think their evil still taints it?"

"I don't know. It may only be echoes."

"Without the Object, we'd have never turned out enough ships to resist Xim. My world would be ravaged, like yours was. The Tyrants might have been monsters but their tool is just a tool, one we can use to push back Xim."

Indrexu couldn't know how she was touching on ancient arguments. Je'daii had taken up Rakatan Forcesabers to battle the invaders; then they'd turned the weapons on each other. Essan had wielded a Forcesaber herself and using it had required her to draw on raw and dangerous shades of the Force.

The Forcesaber hadn't corrupted her, but she'd also lost it on Abraxin years ago. Would it have, if she'd continued to use it? She simply didn't know.

There was no use explaining that to Indrexu. The queen's argument, from her standpoint, was airtight. Without the Object, her world was lost. If they could master it, Ranroon could be saved. Essan wished Jedi dilemmas could be so simple.

Indrexu was staring hard at her. Essan took a deep breath. "I promise nothing… but I'll try."

The queen's smile was knife-sharp. "Your 'try' is worth more than other women's promise. I'll introduce you to my engineers before I leave."

Essan frowned. "We just arrived."

"Yes, but I have to leave for Ranroon. Don't worry, I won't abandon you. I have an offensive to plan, and as soon as it is planned, we're going to need you."

"I can't be everywhere and I'm not a miracle-worker."

"No, you're only a witch." Such a cutting grin. "But right now, some old magic is exactly what we need."

-{}-

Supreme Commander Kadenzi stood in his emperor's small but elegant audience chamber aboard the Eibon Scimitar, looking suitably ashamed for his defeat at Kurooine.

That wasn't enough for Xim. Jaminere stood to the side and watched as the emperor circled his admiral like a predator sizing up its prey. Kadenzi, barrel-bodied with a thick gray beard, massed half-again what Xim did, but he looked like a cowered animal.

"You should have marked that ship as Indrexu's immediately," he snarled. "You should have watched it. You should have been read for it to move. You certainly shouldn't have laid the Crown open for an attack."

"I admit my mistake," Kadenzi said stiffly, "but I did observe her and judged the Stormrider and its two escorts—just two pinnaces—to be an insufficient threat."

"Clearly you judged wrong." Xim circled round in front and looked him in the eye. "That's bad enough, admiral, but somehow you allowed yourself to be harpooned. What is the Victor's Crown, Admiral, a Cadinthian dreadnought, or a fish?"

"Indrexu's tactics were archaic. They couldn't have been anticipated."

"They could have been, if you weren't trapped by lazy think-ing. You Sorascans, you're too civilized for your own good."

Xim kept circling. Kadenzi's eyes darted to Jaminere's, but his fellow Sorascan stayed wisely silent.

Xim came back to the admiral's front. "I read every report that comes my way, every one. Ranroon ships have used that tactic against us before. Rarely, I admit, but they've used it. You should have anticipated it."

Kadenzi sucked it up. "I should have, sir. The failure of that engagement was entirely mine. I accept whatever judgment you pass. If you wish me to resign—"

"Oh, be quiet. You're still supreme commander." Xim waved a hand. "Your punishment is to return to Kurooine and keep fighting. Until the Crown is repaired, your new flag vessel is the Trident. Maybe you can spear some of Indrexu's fishes with that one."

Kadenzi winced slightly. The Trident was a Thanium polyreme with half the size and firepower of the Crown. And that, despite three serviceable dreadnoughts currently stationed over Yutusk. Xim shamed with his punishments.

"Take the Trident back to Kurooine and try again. Hopefully your wide-scale strategy is better than your short-range tactics."

"I promise, is it."

"It had better be," Xim said, then spun away and stalked over to his desk. He leaned over it, fists planted on its top, and stared into the polished wood without saying anything more.

When the silence drew out too long, Jaminere asked, "What was the final casualty count from the Crown?"

"Fifty-seven dead. Sixty-two injured, with wounds ranging from minor to crippling."

"How many injured did you bring with you?"

"Forty-six. I was told they'd be transferred directly to the Scimitar's medical bay for treatment and evaluation."

Kadenzi held his eyes and gave a tiny nod. He'd already sent Jaminere a brief message informing him that his son was injured but alive. The nod meant Marco was aboard the Scimitar now. Jaminere wanted to rush down to the med ward to see the extent of his injuries, but duty held him here.

After another drawn silence, Xim finally turned from his desk and faced them both. "Admiral, I believe there's a guest cabin ready for you. Go there and draw up a new plan to take Kurooine. By the time you've given that to me, the Trident should be prepared to receive your flag."

"Understood. Is there anything else?"

"Not at this time. Thank you, Admiral."

Kadenzi gave a salute, turned, and walked away. When the door closed behind him, the emperor exhaled and pounded fist into open palm. "We should have had her. He should have had her. Kadenzi used to be better than this. Perhaps he's going soft with age."

Or perhaps he was getting tired, and Indrexu's unorthodox, pirate's tactics took him by surprise. Jaminere said, "It was a mistake, but it doesn't change the situation on Kurooine. Give Kadenzi time. He'll take it."

"Oh, I know. Who else am I supposed to make supreme commander? Thane?" Xim snorted. "Though I suppose he might be better against Indrexu, one savage to another… If only the old man could be relied on to take orders."

Jaminere knew that when Xim said 'savage' he meant it as a compliment. Despite everything, unlike Jaminere, he was his father's son.

"How does this effect the Scimitar and Ascendant? Will we reinforce Kurooine?"

Xim considered. "Not yet. We need to cut away at her flanks more. Thane is having trouble at Eneska. I probably shouldn't have sent him in the first place; cutting out an entrenched enemy is more Felric's specialty."

"Will both of us being going to Eneska?"

"Yes, I think that's best." Xim didn't sound certain. He saw the question in Jaminere's eyes and explained, "Indrexu is the key to this. If Kadenzi had killed her, their entire front would have collapsed already. I'm sure of it. But there's no way to anticipate where she'll be."

"It's always a problem." By the time they received word of engagements, those engagements were usually over. Even using hyperspace drones, interstellar communication was simply too slow.

"I'd like to face her myself, frankly. One monarch to another," Xim said.

"I suppose that's up to chance."

"Is it? I'm no longer sure."

Jaminere frowned. "What are you thinking? A spy?"

"Nothing so mundane."

"I… I don't understand."

"I said I read every report and I meant it," Xim crossed his arms. "Have you reviewed the ground offensive on Kurooine's northeast continent?"

Jaminere had no idea where this was going. Xim could still confound him. "I'm sorry, I haven't gotten around to it."

"We sent an armored convoy to attack one of their bases. A half-dozen tanks, twice as many crawlers. All of them were either captured or destroyed."

"A new weapon?"

"Not the way you mean. Our listeners intercepted and decrypted some of their post-battle comms. They attributed their victory to one soldier." He held a finger up. "A red woman, with a sword made of light and inexplicable powers."

It was like getting smacked with the hand of the past. Six years ago Jaminere had captured her, tortured and interrogated her on Abraxin. After her rescue and the violent escape of her Tyrant allies, nothing. Not a single thing, despite the Geno-Haradan and all the Empire's other resources looking for her.

Jaminere asked, "Are we sure it's the same one?"

"How many other red witches with blazing swords stalk my Empire?" Xim shrugged. "I hope there's only one."

"So she's thrown in with Indrexu."

"Perhaps. The comms we intercepted were garbled, but it sounded like the Federation soldiers were as surprised as anyone. Of course, this was days ago. She could be at Indrexu's side by now..."

Jaminere took his meaning. "You think she helped damage the Victor's Crown? That's…"

"A leap, I know. But it is possible. It's why I didn't come down on Kadenzi as hard as I'd like to. Who can fight the old magic?"

Xim made the question sound rhetorical, but they knew it might be perilously important in the days ahead. Jaminere asked, "Is there anything we can do about her for the moment?"

"Unfortunately no, but we should be careful going ahead."

Careful was not a word Xim often used. Jaminere said, "There have to be limits to her magic. Her people can be beaten or killed. They can be defeated in battle."

"I want that to be true, but at Abraxin they were infallible."

"Not totally. We could capture them." Never mind that they'd fought their way through half a base to escape. "If she's with Indrexu now, perhaps we can destroy them together."

"That would be for the best," Xim said, though for some reason he sounded disappointed. He stared into the distance for a long moment; then his eyes flicked to Jaminere and he forced a smile. "That's enough for now. You should see to your son, shouldn't you?"

He'd not told Xim about Marco, but of course Xim knew. "Yes, thank you."

Xim nodded to the door, giving permission to leave. Jaminere hurried through it, just as quickly as Kadenzi had, though he left with eagerness instead of shame.

Eagerness to see his son alive, but he still had no idea of Marco's injuries. If the boy had been maimed or crippled on his first combat mission—on a ship Jaminere had promised was safe—Erissa would despise him, and be right to.

When he found Marco in the medical ward, he was relieved to see his son sitting upright in his cot, blanket to his waist, left arm in a sling and a few thin bandages pasted on his head, but otherwise undamaged. He greeted his father with a slight smile.

"I wasn't near any of the hull breaches. These are from objects flying around when the engines died." He brushed his bandages with is good hand. "I cracked my arm on the console. Two breaks but they're both shallow."

"Have the doctors given you a full-body scan?"

"Yes, hard and soft tissue. I had a mild concussion but I'm through that now."

Either Marco felt confident or he was putting on a good show. Jaminere put on a show too. "I'm proud of you for keeping it together. I never expected the Crown to be hit like that."

"No one did." Marco's smile fell. "They're saying we went up against Indrexu herself. Is that true?"

Indrexu, and perhaps the red witch. "I think it is."

"I guess that's something I can brag about when all this is over."

Jaminere dearly hoped he'd get the chance. "Have you gotten any instructions from your commanders?"

"Not yet. I think they're still taking stock of everyone."

"I'm sure you'll get your instructions." Jaminere hesitated, then said, "The Crown will take time to repair, and Kadenzi's flag is being transferred to another ship."

"I don't care where I go," Marco said firmly. "I want to keep fighting."

Jaminere saw the conviction, heard it. Had he ever been so resolute? He couldn't remember.

He squeezed Marco's shoulder. "I knew you would. Still, things are in flux right now. You could be reassigned practically anywhere..."

"You said you didn't pull strings to get me on the Crown. That's true, isn't it?"

Jaminere nodded.

"Then let things play out here. I'll be fine, Father. You have more important things to worry about than me."

Had young Jaminere been that clear-eyed too? He doubted it. He'd always craved not to be his father. Even now, when considering his own son, he asked himself how dead Coros IX would react and tried to do and feel the opposite. He knew that his father would have never rushed to his side the way he had to Marco's, never offered to pull strings.

"What about Mother?" his son asked. "Has she been told?"

"When a soldier is registered as wounded, an automatic message is supposed to go to his family. I don't know if yours has been sent yet, but I'll compose one personally so she knows you're alright."

"Good. Tell her I love her."

"Of course." He squeezed Marco's shoulder. "I'll come down again. Get some rest."

Jaminere walked out of the med ward feeling light with relief. The coming battles and the threat of old magic felt immaterial. Marco had brushed close to death and escaped it: that was all that mattered.

Yet as Jaminere got further from his son and closer to Xim, he couldn't help feeling that the escape had been as temporary as it was narrow.

-{}-

Indrexu normally preferred to do important meetings face-to-face, but in this instance she was glad to be holding conference in her cabin aboard the Stormrider, bouncing short-range transmissions between Ranroon below and the man'o'war Wavebreaker, two thousand kilometers off her flank.

She was glad because Minister Rossu looked like he was about to explode. "This is unbelievable! You've taken it on yourself—unilaterally, without even telling us—to let this alien in on our core secrets! You even took to the Object!"

"Yes," Indrexu nodded, "but she's only seen it. She doesn't have the ability to reach it."

"What does that matter? She's already there," Gelistar said, more coolly but just as severe "If she's a spy for Xim—or some third party we don't know about—she may have a way to steal the transmission key."

"Or she may have some way to signal her allies and draw them in," said Admiral Minasc The gray-haired woman, Indrexu's chief admiral, was more polite but still grave. "Majesty, I wish you'd discussed this with us beforehand."

"There simply wasn't time. She was at Kurooine. So was I. I decided to best course of action was to test her abilities and they worked. We came close to destroying Kadenzi's flagship."

"You also withdrew and spared Kadenzi, on her urging," Minasc reminded.

"I don't discount that she could be a spy, but I don't believe she is. In any case she's being constantly monitored while aboard the Object. I'm willing to take the risk because her magic is real."

"It looked real, to you," Rossu corrected. "But if this is all some ploy by Xim, it would look real, wouldn't it? Have you subjected this witch to any tests? Have you searched all her belongings? Did you run any clearance before welcoming her into your arms or just take all her tricks on blind faith?" The comm screen rendered him in monochrome but she could imagine his face turned fuchsia.

Firmly she replied, "She's allowed us to take blood samples and run a thorough physical. We've found nothing exceptional so far. Her physiognomy and even most of her genome is very human-like. It's possible her people are a genetic offshoot. Captain Venta is looking into reports of red-skinned humanoids from beyond the Thanium worlds."

"Yet she claims to come from the center of the galaxy," Gelistar said.

"Exactly," agreed Rossu. "Her entire story is preposterous!"

"The Tyrants had the technology to cross the galaxy without nav beacons. Essan's people had it also."

"Yet she lost the ship that got her here. How convenient."

As the minister shook his head in disgust, Gelistar asked tiredly, "If you've gone this far with your red witch, why tell us now? You clearly aren't asking our permission."

"I don't need to. We agreed years ago, Mister President, that I remain the authority on all matters pertaining to Ranroon and its navy. What I'm doing with Essan is entirely a military matter."

"You haven't just taken her on your ship, you've shown her the Object!" the president groaned. "That could threaten everything! And need I remind you that the Ranroon navy, at this point, makes up the majority of the Federation's remaining fighting force."

She knew it very well; it was what gave her the leverage she needed. "I made a decision that was within my rights, per our Federation charter," Indrexu told him, all regal authority. "I didn't come here for permission, only to explain and suggest the next course of action."

Rossu ran a head over his bald, probably-fuchsia head. "You mean you'll warn us what you're going to do before you do it. I suppose we should be thankful."

Indrexu looked at Minasc's screen. "Admiral, I was told that all our secret nav beacons are online and transmitting. Is this correct?"

"It is."

"And these beacons will get us behind Xim's lines?"

"Yes, Majesty."

"Then it's time we go on the offensive. Admiral, I want you to command continued efforts at Kurooine. We can't let it fall, even if Xim sends reinforcements. However, we should dilute his fleet when we start striking behind his lines."

"Do you still plan to lead those attacks yourself, Majesty?"

"I do." She glanced at Rossu and Gelistar, daring them to object, but neither man did. Possibly they were hoping she'd get vaporized. "I will be taking Essan with me, so I can continue to test her."

"If she is Xim's spy," Gelistar grated, "you could be heading into a trap, inside Xim's territory. No one can help you there."

"I'm aware of the risks, but this is necessary. We need to hold Xim back while the Object keeps producing more weapons, more ships."

"Even with the Object, we have supply issues," Minasc warned. "We have ships, but we're running low of pilots trained to fly them."

"We've put out calls for volunteers among the refugees," Gelistar added, "and to Ranroon's populace, I believe. That's given us some resupply, but the longer this drags the more we'll lose and more replacements we'll need."

Indrexu took a heavy breath. She'd been expecting this and had hoped to put off the order until later, but it seemed there was no other choice. She said, "This is our most desperate hour. Minister Rossu, Admiral Minasc, I'm ordering full-scale conscription on Ranroon. Any able-bodied, fighting-age woman or man is to be inducted into service. Technical training for ships is paramount to combat training. Understood?"

Minasc nodded. Rossu looked resigned instead of angry; he'd been expecting this too. "We can begin conscription today, but it will take time to properly train the inductees. Weeks, even months."

"That's why this order is effective immediately. I will delay Xim as long as possible so we can shore up defenses here."

For once there was no objection. All three of them nodded soberly.

It wasn't an order Indrexu enjoyed giving. None of Ranroon's old nations had relied on conscription; indeed, there'd been an unspoken belief that any state which had to force its people to fight was no state worth fighting for.

But this was a battle for their collective survival. No one could be spared. Her ancestors, queens and pirates, would understand.

-{}-

Erakas had seen a lot of so-called known space by now, and he'd learned that the most populated worlds had at least one orbital station and multiple groundside spaceports for interstellar traffic. Some newly-settled worlds only had orbital stations, with surface facilities only suitable for short-range travel. And some rustic outliers, like Rhen Var, only had one surface port.

Idux barely had even that. Its so-called spaceport consisted of only three docking towers, one of which was rusted and broken from neglect. Around the port were a few warehouses, a few homes, and no trading zone with the name. It was the most bare-bones port Erakas had seen in all his travels.

Even after landing it was difficult to reach the prophet. It took another half-day for Pres'carn to haggle out rental prices for a six-wheeler truck that would get them to wherever the prophet was. After that he piled into the truck with twenty Saheelindeeli

It was a long drive: an afternoon, a night, a day, and another night, all on barely-paved roads. They drove over plains topped by waving grass, then forested hills and then mountains. The road, he noted anxiously, was so badly maintained they nearly tipped down cliff-sides on several occasions.

It gave plenty of time for Erakas to wonder what in the hells the prophet was doing out here, on the very edge of civilization. He'd thought he was laying low on Santossa Station but this was a whole new level of reclusion. There had been Jedi hermits back on Tython, but if the prophet wanted that kind of isolation why did he allow followers to congregate around him? He couldn't make sense of it.

During the long drive he talked with the few Saheelindeeli who knew Tionese. He'd gathered on the outbound flight that most were recruits Pres'carn had gathered from the homeworld. They were like him, seeking guidance but uncertain what they'd find. Though their furred, muzzle-tipped faces were alien he could feel their mixed feelings in the Force. A few looked physically ill: one had fur fallen out in patches, while another (an older female, he though) was racked by coughs and shudders. Pres'carn hadn't said anything about the prophet being a healer too. Maybe he was an all-purpose miracle-worker.

Erakas barely slept on the long truck-ride, but when they found their destination on the second dawn, his weariness evaporated.

He wasn't sure what he was seeing at first. The sky was still dark except for its eastern edge, which was turning violet and red. The earth was still eclipsed in night but he marked one mountain rising taller than the surrounding hills. At the base of this mountain was something else: a dark surge too circular in outline to be a natural crest. As the truck grew closer he saw a faint constellation of lamps glowing at the base of the rounded surge, and some within the surge itself.

Soon the truck stopped and the pilgrims disembarked. Erakas was one of the first off, and he stepped away from the others to look around. The east was brighter and in its rising glow he could see the cluster of squat mudbrick buildings erected between the mountainside and the second hill. But he saw now that it was not a hill. Though it was caked in dirt and dust, it was clearly the crashed body of a cylindrical spaceship several hundred meters long. Long portions of the hull had been torn out, first by the crash and then by scavengers. What remained was a mostly-hollow but massive shell. Peering closer he saw lamp-lights flicker on from dozens of personal dwellings etched into the crash's tangled guts.

"Where did that ship come from?" he asked Pres'carn as the lanky Saheelindeel dropped from the driver's seat.

"Nobody knows, not even the Prophet. It's been here for centuries." Pres'carn gestured to the rosy horizon and the stars glowing above it. "It's fitting to arrive now. Some call this town Morning Star, because it marks the start of our new day."

"How long has the town been here?" Erakas asked.

"Since people started coming to the Prophet for guidance."

"Was he here before they arrived?"

Pres'carn made a chiding, hissing noise. "You ask too many questions. Save them for when you meet the Prophet."

"Is he in the village?"

"Nothing to simple. Some call him the 'Old Man of the Mountain,' and it is not for nothing."

Erakas looked at the ascending slope. The first sun rays had already hit it peak and were slowly falling toward the town. He remembered he'd gone days without real sleep.

"Do not worry. You can rest before you begin." Pres'carn sounded amused.

"I might do that. Where are all these people staying? Are there—"

He was interrupted by a small crowd that came to meet the arrivals. More accurately, he was interrupted by the skinny, brown-furred youth who raced ahead of the crowd, slammed into Pres'carn, and wrapped long arms around his waist in a loving embrace.

Erakas was stunned as he watched the small Saheelindeel, the youth, embrace his guide. Then they were joined by a third Saheelindeel, this one as tall as Pres'carn but with female curves. They muttered warm words to each other in their own language and Pres'carn stroked the fur on both their heads.

"You have a family," Erakas gaped once they'd pulled apart.

"Of course," Pres'carn blinked. "This is my wife, San'fel, and my son, Tam'pres. Did I not mention them?"

"No, I, um…." He balked, looking at the other Saheelindeeli. "It's nice to meet you."

In Tionese, Pres'carn said, "This human saved me from attackers at Santossa station. He has the same power as the Prophet."

Tam'pres's eyes went wide. In careful Tionese, San'fel asked, "Are you to be… prophet also?"

Still taken aback, Erakas shook his head. "No, I'm just here to see him. I'm very curious about him."

San'fel said something to her husband in their language; Pres'carn nodded in agreement and told Erakas, "We have many newcomers today, more than I expected. But you are the most special of all."

Erakas actually blushed. "I'm here for the same reason everyone else is. I'm not as special as that, believe me."

The three Saheelindeeli passed more words; then mother and son slipped away to help the pilgrims coming off the truck. Erakas stepped beside Pres'carn and admitted, "I didn't think this was the place for families."

"You have one of your own, you said."

"A wife and a son."

"How old is your child?"

"Almost four."

"Ah. Only a few turnings behind Tam'pres."

Erakas balked. Pres'carn's son stood almost as tall he did. Clearly their species matured at a different rate.

Pres'carn asked, "Do you regret not bringing your family?"

"No… I was just surprised."

"Perhaps you will bring them one day."

Erakas hoped so. He didn't want his Jedi duties to keep him separate from Reina. More, he prayed this prophet would be as good a teacher as his Master, one who could train little Sohren in ways Erakas himself never could.

But first he had to find the guy there. He joined the other pilgrims in a gathering hall, where food and supplies had been laid out for them by others in the town. In the rising light he saw that the gathering hall and most of the town's other buildings were made of metal stripped from the crashed starship, melded and reformed for a new purpose.

After breakfast, Pres'carn directed him to a scavenged-metal house where he could sleep. He rested for four hours, and when he stepped outside it was still a beautiful clear morning. The mountain beckoned, so he began his ascent.

During his apprenticeship Master Sohr had tasked him with ascending the Mount of Shadows on Kalimahr. That peak had been higher and steeper than this one, but Erakas was older now and still sleep-deprived; he soon found himself calling on the Force for additional energy. Even that became a drain as he got higher and the winds more harsh.

Pres'carn had claimed there was a path he could take to the hermitage where the prophet stayed, but if there was Erakas had lost it. He traversed rocky slopes interspersed by jutting conifer trees and tangled brush. No animals passed in sight, though avians sometimes flew in small groups overhead. The sun was bright and strong, hot despite the cool air. From halfway up he had a stunning view of the crashed spaceship, the town, the nearby stream and farmland, the forested hills that kept rolling to the horizon.

But he hadn't come here for this. He'd spent over a week trying to find this prophet, he'd gotten so close, but right now he felt too damned far.

Erakas stopped his ascent to re-energize and reach out with the Force. If there was any other sentient on this wind- and sun-beaten mountaintop, he should be able to sense it. He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and tried to feel. He stood there for over a minute but felt nothing, nothing at all, and it made his heart, so full of hope, tip toward despair.

And then a flare of light and life. He felt it clearly on the other side of the ridge to his right, beckoning. Erakas opened his eyes and bounded uphill, stopping only at the rest to catch his breath. He looked around and saw nothing, only more ridges, a few clusters of pines. He reached out with the Force again and…

Nothing. He didn't understand; he was certain he'd felt some-one calling to him. He steadied himself and reached out again, still felt nothing, and then, just as he started to doubt, another beckon came. It seemed to be from the opposite side of the mountain, even further up.

Had he been mistaken before? He paused and concentrated until he felt sure, then began climbing uphill. Erakas worked his way around the mountain curve for another ten minutes, periodically stopping and checking in the Force to make sure that life-sign was still ahead of him.

Finally he found it: a shallow promontory jutting outward. From its edge he looked straight down on the crashed ship and village. Yet in the Force, there was nothing.

Erakas cursed. Exhausted, he sank to the ground. The sun was still hot, the wind chilling. He felt like he was being ripped into pieces. Where was it?

And then he felt it again. He didn't even reach for it this time; it came to him. And it came from down the slope, around the mountain.

He immediately jumped to his feet. Descent was less taxing on lungs and legs but required more careful steps, lest he go tumbling and break his neck. He followed that feeling again, checking time and again, until he finally found the location the call came from.

It was the spot where he'd started. And once again he saw no living thing, felt nothing in the Force.

Erakas groaned and keeled forward, hands on knees. Was he really sensing something? Was he going mad? Was he being toyed with?

"What do you want from me?" he called into the wind.

Naturally, there was no answer. He felt more exhausted than ever. For a moment the world swam before him and lost balance. He tipped forward then snapped back, adjusted his footing—

—and the ground gave way beneath him. He felt mortal panic for a split-second, then called old instincts to land in a forward roll, hands covering head. Unfortunately he kept rolling down the slope and was only gaining momentum, so he tipped himself into a wipe-out. Rocks gnawed at his side and tore through the right sleeve of his tunic; dust clouded his face.

But he stopped falling. Erakas found himself flat on his back, head pointed downslope and feet toward the peak. The noon sun was blinding in the center of his vision and he instinctively shielded his face from the glare.

And then he felt it. No, it reached out and grabbed him. The presence he'd been chasing all along was right in front of him, and though he should have been angry he felt instead triumphant. All his doubts, fears, and frustrations dissolved into a perfect peace.

What being could project such beauty? Erakas lowered his hands, squinted into the light, and saw a figure standing over him, radiating blessing. The figure shifted to eclipse the sun and became a haloed silhouette. His eyes adjusted and the shape gained texture and features. At last he saw the source of glory.

It was a hunched, green little gnome with comically oversized triangular ears and a deep-lined face.

With the voice of a burping amphibian it said, "Going in circles, you seem to be. Lost, are you?"

Erakas, too dazed to stand, propped himself onto his elbows. "Are you him? The prophet?"

"A prophet you seek? Come to a strange place, you have."

"But aren't you him? I've felt you, haven't I? In the Force?"

"Of whose force do you speak?" The creature cocked its head. "Little sense you make. Drained you, your climb has."

With a groan, Erakas forced himself to sit upright. He was suddenly at eye-level with the little gnome. Those eyes were a large expressive green and black hair was pulled back to a stout tail. Its head seemed too large for its body, which was covered by a brown thatched robe.

"What are you?" Erakas rasped. "I'm sorry, but I've never seen one of your species before. Are you from the Tion or elsewhere?"

"Too many questions, you have. Fall over yourself with them, you will."

"I think I already have." He looked at his scuffed trousers, his torn shirt-sleeve. Parts of his arms were scraped and bleeding, but nothing seemed serious. "You are the prophet, aren't you? Please, I've come a very long way to see you. Longer than anyone, probably."

"A prophet? Hmm…." The gnome's face wrinkled deeper with a scowl. "Call me that some do, but you need not. Gedor, you may call me."

"Is that your name? I'm Erakas."

"How far have you come, Erakas?"

He looked at the blinding sun and wiped dust from his face. "That would take a really long time explain. Can we get to a shelter? You must have something if you live here."

"A small trek it is. Walk, can you?"

"I can walk," he assured, though when he tried to rise he almost lost balance and pitched further downslope. Yet a soft, invisible hand caught him so he could steady himself.

"That was you," Erakas said, looking down on Gedor. "You used the Force there."

"The Force, you call it? Very well. The Force it will be." The gnome looked upslope. "Follow me, if you can."

And then he was off. The little creature moved with astound-ing speed, using the Force to propel his small, stub-legged body through arcing leaps. He moved up faster than the human could manage but Erakas tried nonetheless. He chased Gedor over the ridge, around the mountain's curve, and finally to the promon-tory where he'd stood before. This time Gedor stayed on the cliff's edge, wind playing with his stringy hair.

"Come from there, have you?" He gestured to the town far below with a three-clawed hand.

"That's right," Erakas panted. "Pres'carn said there was a path but I couldn't find it."

"A path you have made." Gedor turned from the cliff to the ascending slope. As they curved around the mountain Erakas saw the black mouth of a cave yawning in the rock. Somehow he'd missed it before.

"Come," said the creature, "Shelter waits."

Gedor stepped lightly into the cavern and disappeared into the dark. Erakas followed without hesitation. As soon as he was inside the cavern sparks flared and he saw Gedor standing before a burning pit in the center. Smoke rise toward a small hole in the ceiling. Erakas made out the essentials of a living space carved into the rock: a niche with a straw-stuffed mattress, a short table, perhaps a kitchen. Several sets of identical, dowdly robes hung off a suspended wire.

None of the furniture was human-sized, but Erakas set himself cross-legged before the fire and tried to examine his wounds by its light. Gedor picked up a stick and lightly prodded the flame. Erakas's mind was still a tangle of questions and he had no idea where to begin.

It was Gedor who asked, "From where do you come?"

"Very far away," Erakas said. "The heart of the galaxy."

The gnome's long ears rose in surprise. "Jest, you do."

"No. I told you it's a long story." He looked around the cavern. "Do you have anything to drink?"

"Manage that, I believe I can," said Gedor, and for the first time he showed the hit of a smile.

Erakas started talking while Gedor prepared a cup of some kind of tea. He kept talking while it warmed over the fire and after he started swallowing down the hot liquid. It was bitter but cleared his mind and senses both, allowing him to explain more fully how he'd come to be here. He didn't tell everything, but he explained how the Jedi had been isolated on Tython for ten thousand years, how they'd started to explore the rest of the galaxy, and how he and Essan had been effectively marooned thousands of light-years from other Jedi.

"I was sure we were the only two Force-users in the Tion cluster," Erakas said once his cup was half-empty. "Where did you come from? I've never seen one of your kind before."

"From far away, though not as far as you." The whole time, Gedor had hunched before the flame like a green-gray statue. Even now he didn't budge. Firelight danced in his large eyes.

"What are your people called? Where are the rest of them?"

"What we are called… no longer matters." Gedor's ears twitched down. "As for the rest, I cannot say. Long scattered or destroyed, I suspect."

Erakas gaped. "You're the last of your kind? I'm… I'm very sorry."

"More of us there might be. Say, I cannot. But on my own I have been for many years. Centuries, by your reckoning."

"I'm sorry," Erakas repeated stupidly. He dared ask, "Was it… a war? In this part of space they call them the Tyrants but in mine we knew them as Rakata. They ravaged and enslaved entire planets… and they were strong with the Force."

"Strong with the Force, as you call it, my people were. Avail us little, it did."

"Really?" Erakas leaned forward. "Could all of your people use the Force?"

Gedor nodded. "A blessing, I see now, but took it for granted we did. A mistake that was. Better prepared we might have been, for our enemy."

Erakas tried to console him. "The Je'daii on Tython had the Force and they barely survived the Rakata."

"But survive they did. Here now, are you. Spreading across the stars, your people are." Gedor tilted his head. "Very curious. Might not more of them find their way here?"

"I hope they do," Erakas sighed, "but we have no way of communicating with them or calling them here. I wish we did. Splitting ourselves up into small groups… I think that may have been a mistake. It left us vulnerable." He hadn't told Gedor about Sohr yet and tried to muster the strength.

Gedor made a thoughtful noise. "Much to think on, you have given me. Ask you I must: What have you Jedi been doing? For six years, you said, you have been in the Tion. Accomplish-ments you must have."

He felt weirdly sheepish. "I have a wife, and a child."

"This Essan, your wife is?"

"No, no. Essan isn't even human. My wife's name is Reina. She can't use the Force, of course… but my son has that power. I've sensed it in him and I've been trying to train him, though I've only done a little so far…."

Gedor cocked his head. "Seek a teacher for your son, do you?"

"No. Well, yes, but not only that." He heaved a sigh. "On Tython everyone I knew was in touch with the Force. We were a community and the Force bound us all together, so I took it for granted. But here nobody can touch the Force except Essan and me. It can be very lonely sometimes." Even with Reina and Sohren, he often felt alone.

Gedor narrowed his eyes. "Is loneliness all? More, I sense in you..."

He breathed deep, then took the plunge. "I had a teacher on Tython. His name was Sohr and he was a Kwa. I don't know if you've heard of them, but they're an ancient race like yours. Every one of them could touch the Force. But slowly they started to lose touch with it. They lost their empire too, to the Rakata. Sohr was one of the few left who had the Force and he came to Tython to help teach the Jedi, and to lead us out into the stars." Dwelling on his Master brought a sad smile to his face. "Sohr taught me everything, but we went out into the galaxy separately. I had no idea where he went or what he did… but he died. Just a few weeks ago he died. I felt it in the Force. In my heart." He tapped his chest. "That was bad, but worse was how he died. Afraid. Confused. Wondering what he'd done wrong. I never thought Master Sohr could feel those things. He'd always seemed so… so..."

Words eluded him. He bowed his head deeper. Gedor said softly, "Immortal?"

"No, not immortal…." But he trailed off again. The Kwa really had seemed immortal to him, existing as part of the great spread of history far beyond Erakas's meager human span.

"Mortal, your teacher was. As all teachers are," Gedor said gravely. "Their final lesson it is, and a hard one to learn."

Erakas swallowed. "After he died, the way he died, I kept asking myself, what is the Force for? What good is it? It's spread so thin, it can't do anything to stop wars or save planets. You can do good deeds with the Force—I've done plenty—but that's not enough. The Force needs to be… more."

He was started to talk like Essan. He wondered where she was now, if she was discovering anything for herself. He'd found his goal but still felt lost.

"Is it comfort you seek, or wisdom?" Gedor asked.

Erakas looked up at him. The gnome's craggy face stared back, underlit by the shuddering fire. His heart said comfort; his head said wisdom. He knew Essan would choose the latter.

"Wisdom is comfort," he said. "At least, I hope so."

"At times it can be. In others not," Gedor exhaled. "Of your purpose, speak. Name it, so I can answer you plainly."

He composed his thoughts into words. "I want to know all you and your people learned about the Force. I want to see it through new eyes. I want to know what it can really do."

"Miracles, do you seek? Promise you those, I cannot."

"Not miracles. Just… something new. That's what I want. That and companionship," he admitted.

"Lonely you feel. This I understand. So long has it been since I met others like us. When you appeared, barely believe it I could." Gedor poked the fire, flushing out sparks. "Teach you I will, if you so wish. But teach me, you must. Show me what you Jedi can accomplish."

"I will," Erakas nodded, but thought of Tython ravaged by Force-storms and millennium-old scars. "It's not always pretty. The Force can harm as much as heal."

"Of that I am aware," Gedor straightened. "A partnership, have we? I teach and learn, you learn and teach?"

"A partnership," Erakas grinned.

Gedor did not smile back, but in the Force he emanated perfect satisfaction.

-{}-

K'nala, the largest city on Kintan, was modest compared to Imperial metropoles, but it had a messy, relentless energy to it. Even more than Menata it bristled with new construction. The streets were filled with almost as many aliens—leathery Weequay, jowled Klatooinians, thick-skulled Vodrans—as Niktos, who themselves had been drawn here from across the planet. Against such a mélange the lone human stood out all the more, but Vaatus's father took it in stride, as always.

The city's normal bustle was amplified with new excitement when Vaatus, Kroller, and Katorr arrived. Today the city was to receive a visitation from Churabba the Liberator, the goddess who'd destroyed the priests of M'dweshuu and gifted the Nikto with the stars. Now she had come to receive the gratitude and adoration she deserved.

Whatever that meant. During the past week the brothers had spoken much about their respective pasts, but Katorr was still evasive about the alien benefactor who'd transformed Kintan so quickly. Vaatus hoped he'd get some answers when he saw the Liberator himself.

The visitation was to be held in K'nala's largest ampitheater, which had room for one hundred thousand, but many more people flooded the streets for miles around the arena. There were no tickets sold for this event: whoever got inside got to see the goddess. The other aliens, normally aloof from the native Nikto, jostled with them to get inside the arena. Several stampedes and crowd crushes broke out as hundreds of thousands jostled to be through the gates.

"This is a special kind of crazy." Kroller told his son as they watched from a safe distance.

Vaatus had to agree. Along with the desperation of the crowd there was also a joy. Patches of people burst out into songs and rippling cheers. Flags from every Nikto nation fluttered happily in the wind. Above all else, this was a celebration.

Katorr's business associates in N'kala had arranged for a heli-transport that allowed them to soar high above the crowds before it deposited them in the arena's mezzanine layer. Thus they were able to claim prime seats looking down on the circular stage below and had only to hold their ground while the crowd filled lower tiers to bursting.

Vaatus had so many questions to ask, but the crowd got so loud it was difficult to hear yourself speak, let alone your neighbor. The three of them waited patiently as the sun set, shadows fell over the city, the stars peeked out, and the amphi-theater filled to capacity, with hundreds of thousands more packed into the surrounding streets.

Once darkness fell and obscured the arena floor, the visitation finally began. First came the pounding of invisible drums, then the flare of bronze braziers at the stage's perimeter. Then came piping music, and then triumphant brass. Then trap doors in the arena floor opened and more Weequay emerged, dressed in ceremonial bronze armor. Watching skeptically, Vaatus thought of Xim's Duinarbulon Lancers in their elegant ebony shells. Was Churabba the sovereign of a foreign empire?

More trap doors opened, and the creatures that marched onto the stage were unlike any he'd seen before. They looked like large pack animals, with four trunk-like legs and humped backs draped in red and gold. Thick necks lifted broad heads topped with up-thrust horns. Six of them marched across the stage, took position at its edges, and turned to point their horns to the crowd.

Then, finally, the goddess made her arrival.

Vaatus had spent the past week wondering what this alien deity might look like. He'd imagined she might be like the Diathim they'd rescued on Rhen Var: slim, luminous, ethereal. When the goddess emerged from the trap door she looked like a giant roll of gold and silver silk. Yet as she moved he saw there was a body wrapped beneath those gleaming sheets, a body more massive than any sentient he'd ever seen.

When it reached the center of the arena the creature lifted it head and began to speak. Loudspeakers carried its rumbling words across the stadium but the language was incomprehen-sible. Vaatus leaned over the railing and squinted, trying to make out its form. Underneath those trailing sheets was a massive worm-like creature three times longer than a Nikto was tall. The only limbs he could see were two stubby arms the creature—the goddess, Churabba the Liberator—raised as she spoke through a huge lipless mouth. Two large, vertical-slit eyes scanned the crowd.

Once she finished her invocation, a group of Nikto joined her onstage. They carried banners from all the old nations, and all bowed to one knee. Then more Nikto came before Churabba. They were hard to see from this distance, but there appeared to be a dozen guards with ceremonial spears shepherding a half-dozen figures in black robes. As they approached Churraba the crowd went mad: they surged at the stage, screaming curses and throwing objects. All of it was aimed at the men in black robes. Prisoners, Vaatus thought.

His brother leaned close and said: "Priests of M'dweshuu."

And in his other ear Kroller said: "I've got a bad feeling about this."

The crowd jeered, howled, pounded the seats and walkways. The guards forced the priests to their knees, like they were commanding them to prostrate before their new god, but M'dweshuu's men refused. One even sprang to his feet, pushed two guards back, and nearly got to the edge of the stage before two Weequay grabbed him and hauled him back to Churabba. Was that a mercy? The crowd would have torn the priest limb from limb.

And Vaatus couldn't blame them. Despite the sick feeling in his stomach he couldn't muster any sympathy for their priests. They'd sacrificed millions, his own sister among them. If he felt sorry for anyone it was the crowd. They were reduced to howling savages, mad for bloodshed and revenge.

When the guards had finally forced the priests to their knees before Churabba, the worm-like creature lifted both stubby arms and turned her eyes toward the sky. The crowd fell into a sudden, startling hush. Katorr tapped his brother's shoulder and urged him to look up at the sky.

Vaatus looked and understood. Hovering over the northern horizon was M'dweshuu itself: remnants of a star gone nova, now a swathe of violet and red like a bruise on the night sky. It was to this dead star that so many had been sacrificed. Were the priests, too, about to be killed for M'dweshuu's sake?

He glanced back to the stage wondering. Then the crowd gasped. Even Katorr sucked in breath beside him. When Vaatus looked up his jaw dropped. Mere seconds ago, M'dweshuu had stained the northern sky. Now, in the space where it had been, there was only black.

The blare of trumpets drew every eye back to the stage. They watched as the first guard lifted his halberd high and brought it down, severing the first priest's head from his body.

The crowd exploded.

As soon as the first head fell, the next was chopped off. The guards went down the line, executing priest after priest. Vaatus shuddered and looked away. Kroller had his head bowed but Katorr watched, not even blinking, expression hard and unreadable. Every blade-fall brought a new burst of cheers.

When the killing finally stopped, the crowd kept cheering until Churabba spoke. Her rumbles were incomprehensible, but those in the audience seemed to know what was expected of them. Groups of people began to rush the stage and, to Vaatus's shock, the Weequay guards stepped back to form a tight circle around Churabba, surrendering the rest of the platform to the audience. Soon dozens, maybe hundreds of Nikto filled the stage, and together they prostrated themselves before the goddess.

The audience had done strangely silent. Vaatus asked Katorr, "What's going on here?"

His brother watched only the stage. "They're offering themselves as tribute."

"Sacrifices?" Vaatus gasped.

"No. Tribute. They're volunteering to leave Kintan and serve the Liberator."

Vaatus knew what he meant. So many of Xim's soldiers had been given to him as 'tribute' from conquered peoples and were brought up to fight and die in the warlord's name.

"Serve her where?" he pressed. "What world does she come from?"

"I don't know. Nobody does. But they're offering themselves nonetheless."

He heard the reluctance in his brother's voice. "Is gratitude the only reason? Only that?"

"Some families receive… payment if their sons go away," Katorr said through his teeth.

Vaatus understood. He couldn't bear to look at the stage anymore; he had to turn away. The spectacle he'd seen horrified him as much as the blood-rites he'd seen as a child. Those, at least, had been a spectacle played out on Kintan alone. The sacrifices of those young Nikto would be spread across too many stars.