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Chapter 12

Malice

"Share this lightly, we do not," Yoda said.

Padme marveled at his stare, deep as creation. "I understand."

"Are you familiar with the Architects?" Mundi asked.

She thought back to school. "An ancient race that predates recorded history. It's said they're the source of technology," she recalled, before adding, "But they're a myth. More primitive cultures regard them as gods."

"Primitive, are not we all," Yoda said, "when regarded by greater beings? Hmm?" He jabbed his stick chidingly. "But evidence, there has never been, to prove their existence."

"Until now," Mace said.

The projector flashed on, showing an image of a sketchbook. On one of the worn pages was a drawing of a chair. It was stone, high-backed, capped by a smooth circle and fringed with crystals. There were two engravings: a serpent and a tree.

Padme stepped forward. "What is this?"

"It's an artifact," Mace said, "recovered from a planet in the Outer Rim."

"How did you find it?"

"We didn't. We only received this image of it."

Padme's brow furrowed. "From where?"

"We managed to embed an agent on Sidious' flagship. He sent us this yesterday."

"Sidious? He doesn't strike me as an archaeologist."

Yoda said, "If creators of all technology, the Architects were, then very potent are their remnants. Searching, Sidious is, for a power hidden by time."

"And this?" Padme asked. "What power is in this book?"

"The power lies not in the book," Mace said, "but in what this page illustrates."

"The chair?"

"We've had trouble translating the corresponding text. But we've made out some of it."

Padme looked intently at the lettering but didn't recognize the language.

"It shares a few similarities with Early Rakatan," Mundi explained. "We learned the chair's name, along with a short descriptive phrase." Padme's forehead wrinkled expectantly. "We believe it's called the Mercy Seat. And we believe it's described as the 'reaper of sorrows.'"

"And you think Sidious is looking for it," she surmised.

Mace said, "He believes it's a weapon—one of unimaginable power. If it truly exists, he'll never stop looking."

Her affect darkened. She blew a miserable breath. "Why are you telling me? What help can I be?"

Yoda leaned heavily on his cane. "Imperative, it is, that we find the chair before Sidious. Have the resources to launch our own search, however, we do not. Much blood and treasure has this war cost us."

"You want the senate to finance this," she realized.

"Yes."

"Then why don't you ask Chancellor Vallorum? Surely he'd approve it."

"Take the chance that this information is disseminated, we cannot. Keep the knowledge from the Sith, we must. Spies in our ranks, they have."

Padme blinked away the light. The secrecy they sought was not unprecedented. But it challenged her ideals of a transparent government.

Mace sensed her reluctance. He threw a look at Yoda, who nodded meaningfully. Mace lowered his head so he and Padme were eye to eye.

"Senator," he began, voice grimly quiet, "the war is going very badly for the Republic. Far worse than is generally known. We estimate that, within eight months, we'll be forced to surrender or face complete annihilation."

Padme blanched. She was briefly numb, until righteous anger could gather to animate. "Eight months?" she whispered, the words tasting of blood. "Who do you think you are? You've been lying to us at our intelligence briefings?"

"It won't help to create panic—in the public or the Congress," Mundi explained. "Perception is as dangerous as blasters."

"I never thought I'd see the day when a Jedi Master defended a lie."

Mace hardened. "We did not invite your judgment, Senator. And it's irrelevant to the matter at hand."

"I disagree," she growled.

"Understand, I do, your anger," Yoda conceded. "But necessary, we felt it was."

A thought suddenly struck her. "Did Obi-Wan know?"

Yoda's ears folded back. She pressed a palm to her head, feeling the fight leave her.

Obi-Wan's complicity should have made her angrier, but her faith in him would not abide it. To tell a lie, even one of omission, would be a last resort for Obi-Wan. If he'd found sufficient cause, then she had to accept it.

She let out a breath. "Do you believe this—thing—is a weapon?"

Mace shut off the projector, and the room went black.

"I believe," he said, "that it's our last hope."

Water spurted from the fountain base before it was caught in a basin and flowed down a slide. Eventually it squeezed through a drain hole and repeated the process.

Meditating Jedi took solace in the babble, in the canopy of trees. Miler didn't like to rely on a place for peace. But what can you do when your Inner Source has run dry?

He walked along the stone path. The plants, culled from various planetscapes, were wildly diverse. Yet they wound up and around each other, like they comprised a single life.

After some minutes, he stepped off the path into a mass of trees. And the further he walked, the closer he felt to a place far away.

Felucia was dismal. The air was pregnant with death. Monstrous flowers, with red exteriors and teeth-like yellow cores, stood as high as ten men. They swallowed living things, released deadly pollen. Every seed in the wind carried the plague.

The transport smashed through the trees, shaking its passengers. Miler unsnapped his rifle cartridge, checking the power cell, then slammed it back in.

"You have any sticks?" asked the man next to him.

Miler shook his head at—was it Sergeant Dawson? Dawson frowned and leaned back.

"You ever dream?" he asked.

"We all do," said Miler.

"I've been dreaming a lot. I can't figure why. And they're not bad dreams. Last night, I dreamt I was king of this place."

"Ya may be king of this army by the time we're done."

Dawson shook his head, like he hadn't heard him. "It was weird being worshiped. But kind of nice at the same time. Maybe that's how it starts: becoming a Sith."

Miler smirked. "Ya wanna be a Sith now?"

"Nah. No, I don't think so. Whatever's inside us that talks to the Force, mine doesn't tell me what the Force says back."

Miler looked away, brows knit together, feeling every bump. "I dream abou' my mom. Sometimes I'm a kid. Sometime it's now. It's always nice, 'cause I loved her very much."

"You believe in ghosts?" Dawson asked.

"I think there's things that linger," Miler said. "Whether it's spirits or echoes, I don't really know. Or maybe there's nothin'. What a waste that'd be."

It surprised him to realize he enjoyed the conversation. He was settling into the new feeling when his grizzled commander appeared scowling. The commander's speech was impeded by a death stick.

"All right, listen up!" he shouted. "May not look like it right now, but things are getting hot. We're ten clicks from the thick of it. The Sith punched through to our midline, so be ready to push back." He tossed his death stick over the side. "Man up, check your blasters, and I will see you in the jungle."

Miler unsnapped his cartridge, checking the power cell, then slammed it back in.

"How's he doin'?"

Aayla looked up from her seat between Obi-Wan and Eisley. "He endured a great deal. A lesser man would've died."

Miler was glad for the warmth in her voice. "He's a humble bloke." At her expression, he added: "Not every Jedi's tha' way. Saesee Tinn was a good man—but arrogant." He smiled awkwardly. "I hope ya don' take offense."

"None at all."

He dragged a chair to the bed. She was glad for the company. Leaning back in her seat, she looked at Eisley. Neither the doctors nor healers were hopeful for recovery.

"She's your master," Miler realized. "We didn't re'lly speak, but she acted bravely."

Aayla wrinkled her brow. She owed her master a great deal, but she owed Obi-Wan more. He was there for her when the dark was most tempting. He'd stay up all night assuaging her doubt.

She looked at Miler, drawn to his eyes. They were sad but kind, and very light, almost partially opaque, as if she could glimpse the soul underneath. "I'm sorry for your loss. I know how hard it is."

"War is difficult," Miler said thickly.

"You've known loss before, haven't you?"

"We all have."

"Yes, but not like you," Aayla said. "I sense you've had it harder than you let people know."

Miler chuckled humorlessly. "I build m'life around people, is all. It's lovely while it lasts. But people go away."

Aayla smiled shyly. "The universe is vast. Filled with people."

Miler's eyes sparked. He couldn't help but smile back. "You're very wise. I see why the Gen'ral likes you."

"Thank you. But I have much to learn," she deflected, feeling slight for his praise. She decided the soldier was handsome, but that it mattered little. "I'm not sure I heard your name. Or if I did, I'm embarrassed I forgot it."

He extended a warm hand, calloused and scarred, very unlike her own. "I'm Miler," he said as he took her palm in his.

"Aayla."

Landon flexed his bandaged hand. As blaster wounds went, it was thankfully mild.

He sat in the temple promenade, watching Jedi pass by. There weren't that many. Most of the Order was dead or deployed.

Small bands of light pressed through a sculpted window, which followed an archway. It could never be home, a place this sterile. His mom used to tell him a place isn't lived-in until it's dirty and broken, and until there's graves to tie you down. But the temple was clean, sturdy, and the Jedi burned their kin.

"I hear you'll be sticking around," Padme said.

Landon looked up, crossing his ankles. "Yeah, that's right. That Organa fella knows how to treat a guy."

"As opposed to me, I assume?"

"He checked my first box by not threatening to kill me."

"Give it a few conversations," Padme said dryly. She gestured to his hand. "What did the doctor say?"

"Consider your conscience satisfied, your heinous."

Padme denied him the conflict he sought. She smiled politely, continuing on her way.

Landon glanced off, eyes falling on a Jedi, who was walking very purposefully in a steam-pressed tunic. It could never be home, he thought.

Dawson was dead, face-down in the swamp.

Miler clawed over him, taking his blaster, and sprinted onward. Blaster bolts trailed him, rippling the swamp. Beside him, a woman's head exploded in the wind. A sentient flower reached into the water, consuming the headless body.

Miler's unit awaited him. His commander laid down cover, before suddenly screaming: "Miler, look out!"

His unit vanished in a swampy geyser. Corpses and flames shot through the sky. Miler was thrown twenty feet and deposited on his back.

All was black, and silent, and cold.

He startled awake at a hand on his arm. He rubbed sleep and memory from the corners of his eyes.

"That doesn't look very comfortable," Padme said.

Miler rubbed his neck, righting his posture. He found Aayla's chair empty and Obi-Wan asleep. "He hasn't woken up. But they said he'll recover."

Padme fingered the dressing on her head. Obi-Wan had risked so much to ensure her safety. Perhaps more than he should have. He was the perfect Jedi, compelled to put others first. Yet there was something more where she was concerned.

"I don't know what I would have done if I lost him," Padme admitted.

Miler wondered how it felt to have one so devoted. "We all adapt, ma'am."

"You look very tired," Padme said.

"A little."

"You should get some rest."

"And you?"

"I'm only staying for a bit."

Miler's throat was rough when he laughed. "With respect, ma'am, you're a terrible liar. It's a wonder you've succeeded at bein' a senator."

Padme smiled, turning to Obi-Wan. When Miler graciously departed, she lay her head by the Jedi's. She stared at his eyelids and wondered if he was dreaming.

The Sith officer smashed him in the mouth. Miler's head snapped back. His arms strained against the binders holding them to the chair. He licked the blood from his lips.

"I'll ask you again: where is your Jedi commander?"

Miler stared ahead blankly. The officer cracked him above the eye, opening a new wound. Miler grimaced but didn't make a sound.

"This is not a game," warned the officer. "My Lord is not merciful. If you do not answer me, I'll be forced to hand you over. My Lord's methods are... harsher."

He threw another punch for emphasis. Miler's head bobbed before rolling back.

"Lieutenant Miler Crata," he mumbled. "Service number: 38-917-8A. Date of bir—"

The officer slammed his boot into Miler's face. It broke his nose and toppled the chair. Miler heard only footsteps, and the drip of water from a leaky ceiling. He was alone in the drifting dark.

Landon descended the temple steps, feeling his knees ache. Youthful vigor had calcified into time's cold reality.

He wandered the city, coiled himself in people. It struck him how Coruscantis lived in the moment. He heard trivial arguments, breathy laughter. There was no war in the streets. The myriad dead went unconjured.

Landon liked the idea of it, so he found a bar and drank.

Padme pushed some hair from his face. It was short but unruly. Finding gel too prideful, he was constantly brushing it back.

Her hand trailed down his beard. It hid a scar beneath his chin, where he'd been scraped with a lightsaber. It wasn't vanity. He just wanted to forget.

Padme, too, tried to forget Anakin's fall. It hadn't shocked her; he'd grown increasingly deranged. Even years later, his obsession was chilling.

She thought back to meeting him. She was still queen then, visiting Obi-Wan after a trip to Congress. Even as a boy, Anakin scared her. She didn't know why. Perhaps, the way the arthritic foretell rain, she'd sensed his dark future.

Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open. Padme leaned in, taking his hand, and flashed a smile at once giddy and exhausted.

"You again," he mumbled.

Her smile widened, showing teeth. "Would you prefer R2?"

"I couldn't take his lecture."

"How about mine?"

He slurred, "Let's skip to the part where I pretend to be sorry."

She moved her chair to an intimate distance. "How are you feeling? Should I get the doctor?"

Obi-Wan ignored her. "How are the others?"

"All accounted for. But…" She looked past him to Eisley.

"Bad?" he mumbled.

She nodded sullenly, squeezing his hand.

"Miler? R2?" he asked.

"Miler's fine. R2's being repaired. And Landon—"

"Landon?"

Padme pressed her head against his arm. "There's a lot I have to tell you."

We often dream of dying, or of almost dying, and so some fear nightmares as they do grim death. But truly the most terrifying is the State between sleep and awake. Nightmares beguile us, mining hyperbole from our unshuttered minds, but deep inside we're wise to the ruse, whereas the State collects elements of the real and the ruse and blends them, so that our wisdom cowers, and while most think of death as a sort of slumber, the perished know it is the State unending.

Miler heard footsteps, and they sounded like his mother's and like the interrogator's and like his own as he walked across his childhood room and across Felucia's dead facade. He could feel the Force, and the lack of the Force, and everything in-between.

"What is your name?" a cruel voice asked.

"I said: what is your name?" asked the Black-Hooded Man.

When the soldier didn't answer, a snarling minion kicked him in the ribs. The soldier gasped, sputtering blood.

"You have an impressive resistance to the Force," said the Black-Hooded Man. "For a time, you may even resist torture. But will can be exhausted; it is a finite thing."

The soldier grimaced, teeth scattered around him. The Black-Hooded Man entered the light. His face, a putrid amalgam of burned and stitched flesh, capped at the scalp by two horns, reflected the soldier's own death at him.

"I'll ask you once more: what—"

The comm-panel chirped, then a voice from the bridge: "Lord Malice."

Without moving, the Sith demanded: "What is the purpose of this interruption?"

"Forgive me, sir, but Lord Sidious requests your presence."

For a long moment, Malice's red eyes bore into the soldier's. Then he walked to the door, turning back to declare: "I shall have what I want from you."

Miler listened as the footsteps faded—and then, at last, he was alone again—he and the end and the beginning—he and the light and the dark.