Padmé landed on the training mat with a thud that half knocked the breath out of her.

"Very good," she gasped, and Numa grinned. "But—"

She kicked out, hooked one leg around Numa's ankle, and jerked. The girl squeaked in alarm as she crashed down beside her on the mat.

"—never let your guard down just because your opponent's down. And make sure you stay balanced at all times. Want to try that again?"

Numa let out a whuff of air and remained inert on the mat.

"Is that a no?"

Padmé could hardly blame her. This was their second session of the day, and it was nearing dinnertime. After their initial session earlier, she had finished Rabé's report, met with Bail and Mon, and had her call with the twins ("We miss you! And Aunt 'Soka and everyone! And swimming! And it's so booooring here!), and in all that time, Ahsoka hadn't called. Padmé had taken to pacing the common room as she tried to start Dormé's report, and Numa had dragged her back to the training room for another round to take her mind off worrying.

"No! It's not!" Numa sprang back to her feet. "And this time, I'm not letting you catch me by surprise."

Nor did she, and Padmé let her have her victory. She could have used more advanced tactics and won easily, but it had been a long day, and it would be good for Numa to end on a win.

The call from Ahsoka finally came as they were finishing dinner. Padmé excused herself and headed for her room as a very flickery holo sprang up above her projector.

"Ahsoka!" she exclaimed. "Did you make it? What's going on?"

Ahsoka replied with a tired nod. "Made it into hyperspace a few hours ago."

"The mission?"

"Successful. Most of the Partisans got away. We had some losses, but it could have been a lot worse. It's definitely been worthwhile, scrounging and modifying old GAR armor, and Indefatigable was able to hold her own against an ISD until we got back. Took some damage, but nothing we can't fix."

"That's good. We're still a long way from being able to take on the Empire head-to-head, but this is encouraging."

Padmé scanned her, noting the bandages on her lek and her arms.

"And you? Are you okay? What about Rex and Obi-Wan?"

"Me, more or less. Rex is fine, a little banged up."

"And Obi-Wan?"

Ahsoka hesitated. "Well… I wasn't the one who needed the warning about coming back in one piece."

"What? What do you mean?" Worry made the words sharper than she'd intended.

"Vader was there. Obi-Wan went to distract him. He lost a hand."

Padmé tried to suppress a rising feeling of dread. "Is he all right otherwise?"

"Physically. Mentally, I don't know. He's in medbay now, and I haven't seen him since we back it back to the ship."

"And—" She made herself ask the question which, for several reasons, she did not want to ask. "And Anakin?"

"Temporarily out of commission."

Padmé pursed her lips against a faint breath of relief.

"Command is going to want to know the reason why."

"I know," Ahsoka said.

"Are you going to tell them everything?"

"Do you want me to?"

Even without being able to reach her through the Force, Ahsoka could read the truth in Padmé's eyes during the beat of silence that followed. No. But Padmé wasn't about to say that. Ahsoka wasn't even sure she would let herself think it.

At last, she said carefully, "I don't want my children to grow up in Darth Vader's shadow. I don't want to put myself there, either. Or you, as his student. If the public learns that Vader is Anakin, we could become targets by association."

If things ever reached the point where the public could even know they were alive.

"But Mon and Bail can be trusted," Padmé continued, "and they should know."

Ahsoka nodded. She didn't ask if Padmé was thinking of a future where Vader "died," and Anakin Skywalker was miraculously found stashed away in some Imperial prison. That sort of conversation, if it was to be had at all, was for sleepless midnights, not post-battle comm calls.

"I'll write my report carefully," she said. She could surely find some certain point of view from which it was not abundantly clear that she willingly passed up a chance to kill the Emperor's right hand.

"Yes, but not before you rest," Padmé said. "The report can wait. Try to get some food into you, if haven't already."

"Yes, Mom."

The call over, Ahsoka dutifully made her way to the mess, where she took the most palatable-looking rations she could find and settled down in a deserted corner. Everything after the end of her duel with Vader was something of a blur, and thinking of the interval felt more like looking at someone else's memories than recalling her own. She'd had to defend Obi-Wan against an onslaught of blasterfire as some of Vader's troops broke away from the main conflict to deal with the two Jedi in their commander's absence. Some of their presences had been vaguely familiar. Clones. She had tried not to allow the bolts she deflected to strike them. Even so, one or two clones had still died. At least, she thought it was only one or two, but the 501st had had an entire year to take on replacements whom she wouldn't recognise. She had managed to incapacitate several troopers, and then, mercifully, the rest of her attackers had fallen from stun bolts as a ship descended to meet them, Rex and a few others leaning out with blasters in hand. They'd gotten Obi-Wan aboard, supported between her and Rex, and then gone back for the incapacitated troopers, who were accordingly sorted for medbay or the brig according to their status as vod'e or natborn.

Somehow, Ahsoka had managed to pilot them safely back through the Run, evading both obstacles and shots from the TIEs on her tail. They had found Indefatigable embroiled in a lively altercation with an ISD. Despite the onslaught of fire from the massive destroyer, she'd held her own long enough for her complement to make it back onboard, along with a number of Partisan vessels evidently deemed unfit for hyperspace travel.

The mission had been a great success, really. The Rebels had withstood a direct confrontation with Vader himself, they had proven the value of one of their significant investments, and they had done so with relatively small losses. They had even managed to wrest a few of the 501st out of the Empire's clutches. She knew this. But knowing it did nothing to make her feel like the battle had been anything but a dismal failure.

Not when she had met Vader, and he had reviled her, and maimed Obi-Wan. And all the while, Anakin had been just out of reach. She'd almost gotten through, she thought, when she had cleaved away that piece of his mask, and reached out, and he had called her by name. Then, she had spoiled it by using his name, and that had been the end of that. She should have known better. She should have said anything other than the name which he rejected.

"Caf?"

Rex set a steaming cup down in front of her. It was a welcome distraction. She curled her fingers around the cup, enjoying the comfort of the heat even though she wasn't particularly cold.

"Thanks. How are the men?" she asked, as Rex sank tiredly down beside her. He ran a hand through his short hair.

"Chips are out. Their responses are varied, but none good. It's hitting them harder. I should have realised it would. All the other vod'e turned on one, two, maybe a handful of Jedi. Everyone under Appo—"

"It was the whole Temple."

Rex nodded grimly.

"And every population they've been sent to subjugate since," he said. "Ashes is taking it best. He was a shiny, one of the replacements we got on Corrie after that last stretch in the Rim. It's not as personal for him. Still bad, but it's not like betraying family. Scattershot and Corda, they tried… Snap and a couple of the other vod'e are with them now."

"How's Kix holding up?"

"Insists on taking care of 'em all. I think he feels guilty, what with managing to dodge the order completely."

''By getting himself frozen for a period of years." Not that Ahsoka blamed him for feeling that way, of course. No one ever said guilt was a firm adherent to rationality. "Tell Azi to knock him out if he goes twenty-four hours without sleep."

"Already did. I guess they got General Kenobi's arm cleaned up, by the way; gonna give him a new hand when we get back to the base." He shook his head, as if he couldn't quite get to comprehension. "Skywalker did that."

"I know."

"You could have killed him."

"Physically."

"But you didn't."

"No. Maybe it would have been better, but I couldn't. Would you have?"

Could you? her eyes asked.

"I don't know," said Rex. "There's two kinds of betrayal. Sometimes you trust someone because of what they are, and sometimes you trust them because of who they are. Krell was one of the first, and I wanted him dead, no question. Skywalker—he's the second. It hurts more, but… dead? I don't know that I want that."

It was hard to want someone dead when you had spent three years fighting together on the frontlines. Made the betrayal all the harder to deal with, too, because there was no target for your feelings. You couldn't just pour out your hatred into killing your brother-in-arms. Even if he made himself aruetii, he was still yours. There was no such thing as dar'aliit to the 501st.

What were you supposed to do when forgiveness felt impossible, and revenge was out of the question?

Ahsoka pushed back her chair. "You going to be okay if I go see Obi-Wan?"

Rex waved her on. "Yeah. I'll be alright, Commander."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

As much as anyone ever was, these days.

The medbay's post-battle bustle had died down by the time Ahsoka arrived.

"Where's Obi-Wan?" she asked Kix, as he passed.

"Over there," he replied, gesturing in the general direction of a door. "Be quiet—don't disturb any of the other patients. They need rest."

He looked exhausted himself, and appeared to be running on the fumes of caf and determination.

"Kix, you need to rest, too," Ahsoka scolded gently. "You're not going to be able to help anyone if you collapse."

"Can't rest yet, Commander. There's still work to be done."

He moved off to a different area of the medbay, and Ahsoka sighed before heading through the door.

She found Obi-Wan on one of the cots inside, poring over—or at least staring at—a datapad. She had her doubts as to whether he was actually managing to accomplish much of anything, given the likely effects of analgesics and the recent removal of his hand by his own former padawan.

Which latter she still had trouble wrapping her mind around, even though she had felt his pain through their bond and had already seen him minus the limb. Obi-Wan had always seemed, perhaps not invincible—she'd seen him wounded more times than she could count; they had all caught the stray blaster shot now and then, or shrapnel—, but he had seemed durable, eternal. He had never sustained a permanent injury, through three whole years of war and almost two as an active member of the Rebellion. Somehow, him losing a limb hadn't seemed like a possibility. She could safely say she had never even thought about it before today.

"How are you…" she began, but trailed off as the words sounded inane in her montrals.

"As well can be expected, I suppose, under the circumstances," Obi-Wan replied. "Particularly these circumstances," indicating the surrounding infirmary with his remaining hand.

"They could at least allow me back to my own quarters," he complained. "It's not as though sitting here will help anything."

"You're incorrigible," Ahsoka said, lightly. "Still, I suppose it's good to know some things never change."

Not the things they wanted to never change, though. Those had changed with a vengeance—quite literally, in Anakin's case.

"Are you angry?" she asked. "About Anakin and—"

She nodded toward his bandaged wrist.

"Not much." Obi-Wan shrugged. "Odd, isn't it? But I think, even if he killed me, he could not hurt me more than he already has."

That was fair, in a twisted sort of way. Ahsoka herself was annoyed by the burns she had received during their fight, but it wasn't as if they were a terrible new betrayal. Nothing could be, after Anakin had turned to the Sith. She did think she would be more upset over the loss of a hand, though. Yet Obi-Wan regarded it with what she could only describe as an unnatural calm.

"It's not so bad, really," he said, sensing her unease.

She gave a disbelieving snort.

"I did worse to him. It was an ugly day, Ahsoka."

He didn't elaborate, nor did she inquire. She didn't really need to. Vader had towered over her, even though she was almost as tall as Anakin had been. Unconsciously, her hands came to rest on her legs. Guilt flashed across Obi-Wan's face as he saw the movement, but when next he spoke, it was only to remark, "You lost your beads."

"No," Ahsoka said, and he gave her a quizzical glance. "I gave them to Anakin."

She braced herself for the Kenobi look of disapproval, but it never came. Obi-Wan merely touched her arm in quiet sympathy.

"This was discovered in your hand," the med droid informed Vader, once the most urgent repairs to his systems had been completed.

The droid held out what appeared to be a pile of small stones. Vader had not picked up any stones on Wrea. He lifted one of the them with the Force, and the rest followed. They weren't stones, but rather beads, strung together—vaguely spherical. They looked like a clumsy approximation of silka beads, intended for an exceedingly accomplished padawan, to judge by the four larger beads at the end. Four. He made a sound of disgust. What new rebel propaganda was this? Was it an empty threat to the Sith, a brash promise to rebuild the Jedi?

But one end of the string was burnt. This was not merely some stupid replica for rebel propaganda, or anything of that sort. It was a real—amateurish, but real—string of padawan beads.

The Apprentice was the last person he had seen before his humiliating defeat. She was a fiercer fighter even than she had been as his—as a padawan, even more skilled and capable. Far past a padawan's level.

In that strange vision before Kafrene, she had held out her beads. I'm asking you to come back... We're all asking you to come back.

Because she had come back.

Knight Tano.

The realisation hurt like frozen fingers on a warm cup of tea after Ilum. It burned like the terrible fire of Kenobi's betrayal, but something in him knew it only burned because he was so very, very cold. He hated that something. It looked upon the string of beads and rose on an updraft he recalled as pride.

Pride was an alien feeling, these many years, and rightly so. Its reappearance was disturbing. A Sith apprentice should not feel pride for the accomplishments another being. Definitely not for an enemy. And certainly not for one who had betrayed him. Which the Apprentice had done, not once, but now twice. These beads were proof of that.

Beads. Someone had made a string of beads for her, someone had trained her, someone had knighted her.

He flicked a finger over the string's blackened end. Devastator's framework groaned as he fought an irrational surge of jealousy. Someone else had become her master. Someone else had finished the training of his Apprentice. Kenobi, in all likelihood. He had stolen her, as he had stolen Padmé and Luke.

[But she had given him her beads. Not Kenobi, but him.]

She had put her beads into his hand, and then she had gone away again, with Kenobi and the Captain. They were together, and Kenobi knew where Padmé was. They were together, all of them.

[They were together, and Ahsoka had reached out to him.]

[Together, and Obi-Wan confessed that he had lied, because even on Mustafar, he had still—]

Kenobi was supposed to hate Vader, as much as Vader hated Kenobi and as much as he hated himself. He was supposed to blame him. But instead, he had claimed the blame for his own, damn him. And he had shown no hatred, only regret. [Only? No. There had been more than regret, because Even now, I—]

He hated Obi-Wan for Mustafar. For maiming him, for leaving him to burn. [For leaving him to Sidious.] He hated him because cutting off his hand had yielded only a pyrrhic satisfaction. He hated him because, at those words—Even now, I—Anakin had stirred amidst his own ashes, like some pathetic songbird's scorched remains aspiring to the phoenix, as if the traitor's proffered love could resurrect him. And there was just enough light to see by, to stare out across the waste that was his Empire, across mountains of corpses and rivers that ran with blood, and to know that it had all been for nothing.

For they were alive, all of them—his angel and his son, his old master, the Apprentice [his Apprentice, his magnificent Ahsoka], his Captain. Alive not because, but rather in spite of him and all that he had done. Alive and together, with love in abundance.

Everything that he had done had been for nothing. Every final breath, every broken neck, every drop of blood—every head which bowed before a Master.

Within, the Jedi screamed as raw a cry as Mustafar had ever known, as Shmi's words rolled across the waste. You had everything, and you threw it all away.

[He wanted to break. He wanted to shatter and give himself over to Even now, I—I want to help you—and the outstretched hands, and the eyes that held so much hope around the sorrow.]

But he never could, because that would mean admitting it was all for nothing.

All for nothing.

The Jedi knew. The Jedi had always known, from the moment Sidious told him he had slain his angel, and it had become all the clearer following the revelation of her survival.

The atrocity was all for nothing, and he could not live with the knowledge. He could not live, but Padmé and his son had survived, and so he would not die.

The only absolution was to make it all for something. Strengthen his personal forces. Finish his revenge against Kenobi. Kill his Master. Bring peace to the Empire of his Empress. Skywalker was too weak, but Vader accepted the blood as the price for his future Empire. He had no use for the Jedi's horror and remorse. They were worthless. And if the Jedi was determined to live, Vader would see to it that he never again saw the light of day, much less the Force.

Piett almost sighed with relief when Ozzel's diatribe on the Wrea loss—as if it had been anyone's fault but his own—was interrupted by the appearance of Lord Vader, who ploughed onto the bridge in a gust of cold not quite of the physical plane, scattering guards and officers before him. Every soul in the room shivered.

"Admiral!"

Ozzel stepped reluctantly forward. Piett, a few of his fellow lieutenants, and Captain Durren remained tactfully into the background, as was generally wisest when their commander was in so remarkably foul a temper.

"I am informed we have lost the Rebels."

Inwardly, Piett cringed and tried not to picture the likely fate of whichever poor junior officer had been selected to deliver that bit of news.

Ozzel reddened.

"The Venator was highly modified. There was no way we could have foreseen such a turn of events!" he added, hastily. "Intelligence suggests—"

"Intelligence suggests that when an enemy known for caution suddenly positions one ship within easy reach of six of your own, they must either possess some extraordinary advantage, or be calculating on your overconfidence." Vader paused, ominously. "It seems, Admiral, that their calculation was correct, and your incompetence has cost us not only the rebels, but two Jedi, as well."

A sudden, horrible glimmer of understanding came over Piett. Lord Vader had known as well has he that the rebels would not be so stupid as to leave a single Venator open to attack without some greater plan. Knowing that, he had still given Ozzel free rein—because he had also known damned well that Ozzel would kark it up. This Wrea operation wasn't about hunting rebel scum. It was about politics.

"I—" Ozzel tugged at his collar. "I will bear that in mind, my lord. I will not make such an egregious error again."

"No. I do not believe you will."

Piett observed the barely perceptible drop of his admiral's shoulders as the man congratulated himself on escaping with his life. Then the choking began.

It wasn't as though Piett had never seen one of his fellow officers strangled before, but he had never been this close. Trying to ignore the sounds of gagging as the unfortunate Ozzel struggled for air, he glanced toward Captain Durren, who watched the execution with stony mien. The captain wasn't half bad, by Imperial standards, and stars knew he would be ten times the admiral Ozzel had ever been, but all the same—while he deserved promotion more than many of his peers, he certainly did not deserve to be pushed farther into the path of their commander's ire.

"Rear Admiral."

Ozzel's body hit the floor with a thump, and Piett found Vader staring at him over the corpse.

Why? Durren was next in the chain of command to become Admiral of Death Squadron. What did Vader want with Piett?

"Admiral Piett—"

He had not just heard that. No. It was too absurd, it was— He did not want to have heard that.

"I will expect your report on the Wrea operation before your next shift."

Vader was still facing Piett. He hadn't turned toward Durren at all.

The newly christened Rear Admiral Piett paled as the bridge spun around him, and did his best to keep from swaying on his feet in the face of his rapidly-dwindling life expectancy. He raised his hand to salute, but Vader was already halfway to the doors. As soon as they closed behind him, a murmur broke out, and all eyes turned toward Piett. The murmur rose to the grating buzz of a hive of wasps.

Piett opened his mouth—and then, having opened it, resolved that he must say something, for he refused to look the fool by closing it again without uttering so much as a word.

"Carry on," he managed. "I must—ah—acquaint myself with my duties. You have the bridge, si—that is, Captain."

He shot Durren an apologetic look, which was met with a stiff, but not unkindly nod. Though the captain little appreciated his rightful command being given to one of his juniors, still he acknowledged his plight.

Some time later, Veers found Piett catatonic in one of the officers' lounges, head in his hands. A datapad lay on the table in front of him.

"I heard the news."

Veers rested a hand on the erstwhile lieutenant's shoulder, and Piett looked up moment later. So pale and drawn a face as his, Veers had never seen outside the medbay.

"Max, do you have any idea what it's like to watch a fellow get strangled by thin air, not four feet away? And then to be told, before his corpse hits the floor, that you're to replace him? In a role you're not qualified for? And he was qualified for—supposedly—and still got offed? Rear admiral, Max!"

"There are officers who would kill for your chance at advancement."

"Let 'em," Piett said. Strains of Axxila began to show through his fraying Core accent. "At least they'd just stab me in the back and be done with it."

Veers poured out a glass of brandy, which he offered to his pale young friend. Piett pushed it away.

"Can't. I checked Ozzel's schedule. There's a meeting with the squadron captains in a couple of hours. Hours! What the hell am I supposed to do? I was just Durren's lieutenant, and now I'm his senior officer. And I haven't a clue what's going on in the upper ranks, or what I need to know before the meeting—" He gestured to the datapad, which had a ridiculous number of files open.

He somehow managed to appear even younger than his twenty-seven standard years as he stared at Veers, frazzled, cap askew. "It's insanity, Max! I can't do this—not under a normal commander, and especially not under him!"

Veers straightened his cap, which had gone badly askew. "You can, and you will."

"Well, that's a bold position to take. One might almost think you were offering empty words of encouragement."

"I'm not. You know it's not my way, Firmus. Now, listen to me. You've got a good head on your shoulders."

"For now."

"For a long time yet. Listen."

"What?"

"Listen. To the captains. Have them brief you on their situations. It's not to be expected you'll know everything. Everyone in Death Squadron knows about the officer turnover rates, especially on Devastator. We're the pride of the Navy, and the Army too, but no one with an ounce of brains would ever want to be one of us."

"Plenty of requests to transfer…."

"And not an ounce of brains among the lot of them. It's a fast route toward advancement, but only if you can get out before you get promoted into the really dangerous positions. Anyway, as I was saying—put that datapad away. You'll make a better impression on the captains if you're composed and in control than if you're knowledgeable. Sad to say, but that's the state of the Empire for you."

"Thanks, Max."

"Thank me by staying alive."

The lounge door slid open, and an ensign poked her head in. She hesitated upon encountering Veers' glare of death, but entered the room, evidently deeming the consequences of shirking duty worse than those of antagonizing the Iron General.

"Excuse me for intruding, sir," she said, a little nervously, "but I have a message for Lieut—er—Admiral Piett."

Piett straightened up and tried to at least look the part. The effect would have been better, had his face not possessed all the vitality of a cadaver. Nor was that greatly helped when he realised that the technician was she who had embroiled him in the matter of Lord Vader's apprentice.

"What is it, Ensign?" he inquired, resignedly.

"That boy who called Devastator a while ago—he's calling again, and he still wants to talk to—he's still asking for the same thing as last time."

Of course, he was. It never rained, but it poured.

"Transfer him to my comm."

Piett could feel Veers' narrowed eyes boring into his back.

"Yessir," said the technician, relieved to have the matter once more out of her hands.

"Thank you, Ensign…?"

She stared at him, as if perplexed by the suggestion that an admiral would care to know a lowly technician's name.

"Teshlen, sir."

Then she hurried away.

"What's this about a boy?" Veers asked, rather too offhandedly.

"Not now, Max."

"Firmus…"

"I can't tell you."

"Can't? Or stubbornly refuse to, out of some notion of keeping me safe?"

"Can't. I've given my word, and I won't break it."

"To whom?"

"Please don't ask."

Veers sighed, long and gustily. "So, this is what had you so worked up, a while back."

"I—"

"Don't bother denying it, Firmus. I can see the answer in your eyes. Sworn to keep Vader's secrets weeks ago, and now you're Rear Admiral of Death Squadron. Seems like you've made quite an impression."

"Evidently a poor one. Max, I swear he's cracked. I don't know the first thing about being an admiral!"

"It could be worse. At least Ozzel was only a rear admiral."

"It's still outrageous! Senior lieutenant to rear admiral—it's unheard of! Either Vader has finally cracked the rest of the way, or he's plotting something, and Max, I don't know which possibility terrifies me more."

"Plotting something?"

"He gave Ozzel full command over the Wrea skirmish, and then he offed him. Vader knew I was right, and he still let Ozzel kriff it up. It was a setup. He wanted him gone, and me in his place. Durren was right there; he should have gotten the promotion, but instead… it doesn't make any sense! All I can think is that he must be toying with me for some reason before he finishes the job."

"Or you've gained his trust by keeping quiet about the kid. Speaking of whom—"

"That's ludicrous. Lord Vader doesn't trust anyone."

"His respect, then."

Piett gave him a doubtful look.

"You know, your ludicrous promotion is not necessarily as unreasonable as you think," Veers said. "There're plenty of rumors Vader used to be a Jedi. They went from supposed keepers of the peace to generals in a galactic war. Stars, they made their teenage students kriffing commanders. It's only to be expected that they'd have skewed ideas on promotion."

"Oddly enough, that doesn't make me feel any better."

Piett's commlink began flashing, and he started for the door.

"Firmus? Where are you going?"

"To my quarters, to take this call."

Veers' frown deepened. "Firmus—"

"Later, Max."

Ignoring his friend's disapproval, Piett hurried to his quarters and answered the comm.

The boy from before popped up above his holoprojector.

"Oh, it's you." He was clearly rather put out.

"Yes, it's me."

"I need to talk to my master."

Piett hesitated.

"I don't think talking to him is a good idea," he cautioned.

He wasn't sure Vader could physically injure the boy when he was in all likelihood halfway across the galaxy, but nor did he particularly wish to find out. And, in any case, it wasn't as though physical harm was the only way he could damage him.

"But it was fine last time," the boy protested. "He even helped me some—well, a little. But it was still more than he did before."

Firmus Piett lived in a world gone mad. Lord Vader and help did not belong in the same sentence—at least, not when Lord Vader was the one doing the helping. Regardless, however, the specter of fury who had stormed onto the bridge, executed a man for falling into his trap, and elevated a lieutenant to the rank of admiral without a second's hesitation was certainly not in a helpful mood.

"Your master is in an exceedingly foul temper," Piett said, "and I think it would be very unwise for you to speak to him just now. I don't suppose I can help you in any way?"

"Not unless you know how to fix droids now," was the sullen, half-sarcastic reply.

"I'm afraid I haven't picked that up skill over the past few weeks."

"Then no. Let me talk to my master!"

Piett shook his head. His conscience would not permit that.

"But I need to talk to him! The stupid holos don't help enough, and I ruined some pieces because I don't know how to do what they say to do without breaking stuff, and—"

The boy's mouth puckered into a frustrated scowl that only just managed to hold back a meltdown.

This was no way for a child to grow up, damn it. Piett racked his brains, trying to think of some way he could help without bringing down Vader's wrath on his head. Unfortunately, that was a difficult task, given his commander's Sithly nature. Either he risked his life to help the boy, or he did nothing at all.

Oh, to hell with it. He was a seedling admiral under a commander who brooked no incompetence. Realistically, he was already going to die anyway, sooner or not much later—and probably very soon, indeed. Might as well do a bit of good on his way out.

"What's your name, child?" he asked.

"Starkiller."

An odd name, that.

"Pleased to meet you properly, Starkiller. I'm Firmus Piett."

"Don't care about your name."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't."

"You gonna let me talk to my master?"

"No. Not today," Piett replied, ignoring Starkiller's glare. "But I think perhaps I can help you, a little."

The boy cocked his head in grudging interest as he continued, "Back when I was in the academy, there was this old instructor who asked us cadets if we knew how our weapons worked. Most of us just knew how to shoot them. So he gave us a pile of old, simpler blasters, and told us to take them apart and put them back together until we understood how they worked. Couldn't have us ruining our regulation arms, you see. His final test was to see whether we could disassemble and reassemble those regulation arms so they still worked well as before we took them apart. If we couldn't, the repairs came out of our own pockets."

"And could you?"

"Most of us. It was a little harder, but with a bit of time, we were able to figure it out. I know a droid is far more complicated than a blaster, but perhaps…."

"I could take apart one of the regular training droids and try putting it back?"

"That's the idea. Just go piece by piece, and make sure you try to understand what each piece does as you remove it."

Starkiller nodded.

"Okay. I'll try it. I guess Lord Vader won't be too angry if I wreck more droids, because he always wants me to when I'm training. Besides, he already smashed PROXY, so I guess there's not much worse he can do. Unless… unless he…."

Piett felt a sudden urge to confront his commander, whose definition of corporal punishment he knew all too well. But that, of course, would be futile. Vader would merely dispose of him and carry on abusing his apprentice. Possibly even kill him. If, however, Piett managed by some miracle to eke out a long tenure as Death Squadron's admiral, he could do more good in this quiet way than if he went into foolhardy heroics.