16 BBY

A long time ago, Kyle had been born the only son of Morgan Katarn and his wife Patricia, forming a small clan of farmers who stayed busy making what they considered a living on the Outer Rim moon of Sulon. Kyle would be about eight standard years old when the universe first introduced him to its cruelty—the mysterious and sudden deaths of offworld neighbors Arze and Nanak Surraj being a primer to the main lesson, wherein Patricia Katarn was killed by a malfunctioning farm droid.

Just before the latter incident, Kyle was an unscarred youth, getting into whatever trouble he could in the golden fields of the Sulonese outback—when he wasn't getting worked down to the bone around the farm. He was no scrawny kid, though; Patricia Katarn saw to that with the massive family breakfasts of iridium mountain gorg eggs and besnian sausage, not to mention the raw gra milk which the Grawleys sold them by the repulsor sled load. Sweets were rare on the Katarn homestead; Kyle rarely saw candy except when Morgan took him to Barons Hed. His mother's cooking, though, was celestial. Both father and son knew that, though, which was why Morgan Katarn made sure they earned every calorie. "Variform beans don't farm themselves!" he liked to say.

Even with a few droids to help, it was hard work. Planting and harvesting, ensuring soil quality, maintaining the irrigation channels; extracting water from the tap trees, wrangling eye-eye snakes out of the crop fields; getting bit up by swarms of lume bugs and sting mites in the summer, fixing the compound's thermal generators in the winter...

In the Sulonese outback, life was the same thing as work, and even in the easier years before Mom died, the Katarns never experienced anything like a vacation—with one exception. The same summer that the Surraj bothers met their demise proved a very profitable one, yielding a larger and higher-quality variform crop than any Morgan Katarn had witnessed.

"This is what it's all about!" he crowed one evening in late fall, waving a datapad about in the family room. "This time next year we'll all be living the high life on Coruscant! Our fortune's finally coming in!"

"Yeah, this is what it's all about," agreed Kyle. He and the family droid, WeeGee, were playing beggar's dejarik on the caf table, which had been passed down from Nathaniel Arkanus Katarn, Kyle's great grandfather.

This was one of his father's many, many recurring jokes: Morgan raved like this every time they got into the harvest season, even if the harvest was terrible. They were finally about to get rich, then leave Sulon for an opulent life somewhere in the Core. The joke, of course, was that even the gra knew Morgan Katarn intended to be buried on this quiet little moon.

There was a shade of truth to his routine that year, though, because the Katarns made just enough money to afford a modest trip offworld.

"It won't be anything extravagant," Morgan cautioned his son, "but you've been lookin' up into the stars since before you walk, so I thought I'd give you a taste of 'em. Show you a world out there where we can have some fun—just you and me, make some memories." Kyle wouldn't know it for many years, but one of the other reasons for this trip was to take his mind off the recent deaths of the Surraj brothers.

The trip was its own kind of joke: father and son traveled literally across the galaxy (courtesy of Viraxo Passenger Services) from a remote, temperate Outer Rim moon known mostly for farming...to a remote, temperate Outer Rim planet known mostly for farming. With some sternness, Morgan assured his son that this trip was all pleasure, no business and no work. Kyle remained skeptical when they stepped off the shuttle and found themselves in Dantooine's main settlement, a dusty Mining Outpost whose collection of crumbling duracrete edifices made Barons Hed look like Imperial City.

Morgan set about making friends with the various spacers and locals loitering in the outpost, all the while shushing and brushing off his son's whining. In a couple hours he'd bought their way into a party of offworld huntsmen, who had come here to poach some pikets. Reptilian quadrupeds with long, thick necks, pikets were ponderous creatures but surprisingly tough. These "huntsmen" were in fact mercenaries who had been hired by a Corellian Master Chef to acquire some specimens, as pikets were renowned across the Raioballo sector for their gamy meat.

Morgan Katarn's idea of a special father-son trip, then, was a hunting expedition. "Way they tell it, it's nothing like a gra or a flatwing," he told Kyle. "Against a piket, you're gonna see what your old man's blaster rifle really can do!"

Much as Kyle loved to shoot, he spent most of that local week sullen and disappointed. They hiked all day and kept spartan camps each night as the huntsmen tried to track down a piket herd.

The promised day, when it came, was as discouraging as it was gripping. A trail of freshly flattened shibba grass led the party to a cleft between two of Dantooine's rare and accordingly modest mountains, called the Burad Gorge; close to fifty pikets were grazing inside. Noting the gorge had two exits, the huntsmen used sequencer charges to choke one with an avalanche of rock, then serenaded the spooked beasts with sonic and bowcaster rounds as they stampeded out the other end.

The Katarns were right there with the huntsmen, perched a safe distance up one of the rock faces. Dantooine's setting sun lit the whole countryside up with golden phosphorescence, and Kyle sweat buckets as he discharged Morgan's bryar rifle again and again. Yet for all his father's encouragement, all his practice back on the farm, he didn't score a single direct out of the mass of thundering, braying muscle below. When the dust had settled, the huntsmen found they had brought down two of the pikets and declared their expedition a success. "That's one and a half more than I'd hoped for," one of them joked.

They didn't ask the Katarns to help carry the bagged-up pikets, but Kyle's shoulders sagged practically the entire way back to the Mining Outpost, and he barely said a word except to apologize to his father. Morgan insisted that there was nothing to be sorry over, that better aim and concentration would come with more practice, but his son was inconsolable.

Much later, as they were breaking camp for the last time before reaching the outpost, Morgan was startled when Kyle dropped a pack full of ration cubes. The boy had turned his attention to the golden-white fields where Dantooine's sun was still rising. Squinting, Morgan barely picked out the black silhouette of a lone piket against the fiery horizon. He'd seen a million sunrises in his time, but something about the scene was intoxicating in its majesty—so much so that he didn't realize Kyle had snatched his bryar rifle until the sound of its discharge broke through the morning's serenity.

No sooner had Morgan finished scolding his son than he realized the piket had fallen. Hurrying over to investigate, they found that Kyle's bolt had gone right into the creature's eye and vaporized its brain—a perfect, clean kill. What's more, he'd made the shot at four hundred and twenty meters—almost twice a bryar rifle's effective maximum range.

The stuffed head of that same piket was still mounted on the main wall of the family room months later, when an unexpected visitor knocked on the front door of the Katarn family home back on Sulon.

To be more precise, he was only unexpected to Kyle. His parents welcomed the stranger with so little excitement that one would think him a neighbor from the next homestead over. But wherever he came from, it was nowhere on Sulon, that was for sure. He was certainly human enough, but his stocky build and especially swarthy complexion instantly marked him as not merely an offworlder, but someone from the far side of the Rim. There was an understated intensity about him; he spoke little, but only because he was holding something back. Even his callused hands and muscles were clearly not the result of farm work.

Morgan did not explain the situation until he and the guest had settled in the family room with cups of Sullumun tea. "This is Rahn—an acquaintance I made the last time I was in Barons Hed. He's a doctor, scientist...inventor...a lot of different things. He's here on behalf of the...what was it, again?"

Rahn cleared his throat. "The Outer Rim Chapter of the Biological Welfare Bureau. You see, there are unconfirmed rumors of Mugaari measles being transmitted across this sector, and possibly neighboring ones. I am here to investigate and see if there are any signs of the disease here on Sulon."

Kyle started to laugh because he thought "Mugaari measles" was funny-sounding, but a dagger-sharp look from his mother put a stop to that.

"I've already spoken with the authorities in Barons Hed and secured access to their records," Rahn continued. "However, I also need to gather data from more spread-out portions of the population—such as the families here in the outback."

Morgan nodded. "So we'll be giving him a room for the next week or so. He'll be coming and going, doing his research and all that."

His wife crossed her arms, scrutinizing the stranger. "Is this disease very dangerous, Dr. Rahn?"

"You need not address me as doctor, Mrs. Katarn," Rahn said, smiling gently. His glimmering eyes—their light all the more striking, coming from his dark, almost mysterious face—shifted to Kyle for a moment. "Though the young man may call me Mr. Rahn if he wishes. To answer your question, though, this form of measles was thought to be eradicated around the end of the Clone Wars..."

The dark man went on for several minutes. Kyle quickly grew bored and wanted a snack, but Mom was blocking the way to the kitchen.

"...nothing catastrophic. Fatalities were extremely rare, even when the disease was rampant. However, my work is important. If cases of Mugaari measles are confirmed here, that will be of interest to the Bureau as well as Sullustan authorities. System governments facing outbreaks would need additional funding and resources for their medical programs. We at the Bureau would play a key role, presenting our recommendations to SoroSuub and the local Moff."

"And maybe they'd do something about it—in the next century or so," Morgan scoffed.

"With any luck, yes." Rahn's gentle smile resurfaced, then faded. "Mugaari measles via simple analysis of a patient's blood sample. With your permission, I would like take samples from each of you tomorrow morning. After that, I promise not to intrude on your affairs."

The mention of blood instinctively made Kyle uneasy. His parents traded a peculiar look before Morgan suddenly leaned forward—nearly spilling his tea. "If it's just an ordinary blood test, well, that's no big deal. It'd be kind of queer for us to give you a room and not help with your research, wouldn't it?"

"Not at all, but I appreciate it very much."

For a moment no one moved. Then Morgan gave a shrug of his hefty shoulders and got up. "Well, with that out of the way...Kyle, WeeGee, help Mr. Rahn carry his stuff upstairs. He'll have the north guest room. And dear...how about some nerf steaks tonight? Our guest isn't from this part of the Rim. I think we should show him the best Sulon has to offer."

Rahn had three large pieces of luggage which he had apparently gotten from his landspeeder to the door easily enough. Nonetheless, Kyle helped the doctor and the droid carry them up to the guest room, knowing better than to argue. When they returned to the main floor, the two men resumed their seats while the kitchen began to rattle as Patricia Katarn moved about it with her tempestuous serenity.

With mouth half-open, Kyle studied the dark, powerful-looking offworlder and tried to think of an adult-sounding question to ask him. Something to do with the wider galaxy, or his job with the whatever-it-was, or...what else had Dad called Rahn? An inventor?

"Uh, Mr. Rahn—"

Morgan cut him off. "Kyle, why don't you go help your mother? Those Iridonian potatoes need to be mashed."

The boy was slightly disappointed, but the promise of a nerf steak dinner had put him in a good mood—good enough, in fact, that he'd do his best to keep up with Mom in the kitchen.

As he headed that way, Rahn casually looked over the various ornaments and knickknacks on the family room's main wall. "Is that a piket?" he asked.

Morgan grunted. "You've been to Dantooine?"

"No, but I have colleagues who have. Was that a kill you made?"

"As a matter of fact," Dad said with beaming enthusiasm, "it was my boy who made that shot. It was practically a miracle."

"Is that so?"

By now Kyle was in the kitchen doorway, hesitating, just barely able to hear the grown-ups' conversation. He felt an urge to go back, to tell the story himself, or at least hear Dad tell it—to bask in his father's pride. To him, the moment he killed that piket was the greatest, most tremendous moment of his life, and not only that—

The plump whirlwind which was his mother interrupted his thoughts. "Oh, bless you, child. The Iridonian potatoes are right there."

Kyle mumbled an "Okay", went in, and got to work.

Being farmers, the Katarns always started their day before sunrise, and the next morning was no exception. Kyle was groggily impressed to find Rahn joining them for their hefty breakfast; he didn't expect that from an offworlder.

When the kitchen was cleaned, Rahn retrieved a squarish rod-shaped device from an equipment pouch and pressed it to Morgan Katarn's arm for a few seconds. He pulled it away, checked the readout, then repeated the procedure with Patricia and finally with Kyle—who winced against the prick of the tiny needle. Rahn then waved a few medical scanners over them in the same order, then brusquely voiced his thanks.

The doctor had promised to stay out of their way, and after taking the blood samples he made good on that. Every morning that week he took breakfast with them, then left on his landspeeder (it looked like a rental) to visit other homesteads across the outback. Usually he didn't come back until dusk, whereupon he joined the Katarns for dinner, then retired to the guest room.

Rahn did not always stay there, however. Kyle, whose room was also upstairs, often heard him leave and go down to the family room. When that happened, the boy would get out of bed and creep his way to the stairwell, from which he could distantly hear the guest speaking with his father. Sometimes their voices were jovial and merry, but other times low and mysterious. WeeGee, however, always caught Kyle and ordered him back to bed before he could get close enough to parse the conversation. The family droid was programmed, if nothing else, to be a merciless killjoy.

One of those nights, though, Kyle decided to sneak into the guest room instead of listening at the stairwell. He wasn't suspicious of or even particularly curious about this offworld doctor; more than anything, he just felt resentful of WeeGee and wanted to outsmart the droid for a change.

One could believe the room's occupant was a doctor. The desk was covered with small devices, flimsiplast sheets, and other odds and ends, but everything was very neatly arranged. The three pieces of luggage were stacked into the triangle in the far corner. The bed was perfectly made.

Kyle shuffled this way and that, hands stuffed into the pockets of his handmade gra wool pajamas. Most of the gadgets lying around were unfamiliar, but they didn't look particularly interesting, either. Aside from the one used to collect the blood samples, Kyle thought he recognized one or two from his last doctor's appointment in Barons Hed. With his interest flagging, he had a look at the top sheet of the flimsiplast stack. It was a list of names—people who lived on the outback, with the Katarns at the top—followed by numbers. The top of the page read, "MIDI-CHLORIAN COUNTS".

That's a funny word, thought Kyle.

From downstairs he heard his father's voice, a sharp exclamation. Whether serious or humorous, Kyle couldn't tell, but it startled him enough that he hurried from the room and went straight back to bed.

Two nights later, something actually strange happened.

Kyle and his father went to the outskirts of the premises to fix the natural gas processor, and had a rotten time of it. At first they thought it only needed some tuning, but in fact half its internal components were wrecked; a mailoc had flown into its exhaust fan, been ripped to pieces, then scattered through the machine. Cleaning and then repairing it was such an ordeal that Morgan made the rare choice of calling his wife over to help. Kyle had to stay there well past sundown, listening to his father's frustrated outbursts as they worked—though his mother's teeth-clenched silence was far more unnerving.

Finishing the job turned out to require the yellow wrench—which, of course, Morgan had forgotten to bring, meaning Kyle had to run back to the homestead and get it.

He stumbled through the house—sweaty, sore, stained with grease, flecked with mailoc gore—and made it to the hall outside the workshop, only to stop dead in his tracks. The sound coming from it was something he'd never heard before: some kind of exotic, fluctuating release of energy. There were footfalls as well, like someone inside the room was running or rather dancing back and forth, and a rippling green light poured through the doorway.

Kyle stared, amazed and scared out of his wits—until the sound shrank away with an electric hiss and the alien light faded. He practically leaped into the workshop, where he saw Rahn seated on the edge of a stool before one of Morgan's workbenches.

"Ah, hello there," the swarthy man stammered. He sounded short of breath.

"I—did—was something—?" Kyle said, his eyes darting wildly in search of he knew not what.

"I apologize for not telling you before—your father did give me permission to use a few of his tools." Rahn wiped his forehead. "I understand there's some sort of difficulty out on the farm?"

"Yeah, it's—it's the gas processor, we're fixing it...Dad told me to get his, his yellow wrench for 'im." Kyle had recalled why he was here to begin with in a flash, but now something else struck him. "Oh—oh, blaster bolts! Mom hasn't been here to make any food! I bet you—"

"Don't worry about that," Rahn cut in, springing to his feet. "I already had some of my own rations for dinner. Yellow wrench, you say? Perhaps I can help you find it."

"Oh! That'd sure be nice of you..."

Kyle trailed off as he and Rahn started to look around. For some reason he hadn't thought of it before, but right now he found it strange that this man didn't dress anything like the doctor in Barons Hed. His only set of clothes seemed to be a shabby white tunic and brown robe.

As they searched, Kyle strayed to the bench Rahn had been sitting at, where he spotted a gleaming metal cylinder with a rubber handgrip and several buttons and switches—and the sound he'd heard before, the glow he'd seen, surged through his mind like lightning. "Hey, Mr. Rahn? What's this thing here?"

"Don't touch that!" Rahn's sharp tone and sudden turn was almost frightening, but his usual serene manner immediately returned. "I'm sorry, but it's dangerous. You see, it's a—a new type of fusioncutter. I was just testing it before you came in."

Kyle's forehead wrinkled. As a rule he'd been raised to trust and respect adults, but he also knew a lazy fib when he heard one. Even so, once his eyes fell on the gizmo again, he found it hard to look away. "A fusioncutter? I never saw one that looked like that."

"Naturally—because I built this one from scratch. It has a crystal-based power source."

Saying this, Rahn crossed the room in a swift but elegant movement, then retrieved the device.

Kyle's eyes followed it. "Can I see it work?"

Rahn paused and raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid it shorted out. It still needs work. Otherwise you would have seen it moments ago."

"Oh. That's a bummer."

"Don't give up hope," Rahn said with a strange twinkle in his eye. He attached the device to his belt with a clip, then concealed it in the fold of his tunic. "However, if I can get it working again...perhaps I'll show you another time. But I think you said something about a yellow wrench?"

"I'll be leaving tomorrow," Rahn said over dinner two nights later. "I've collected enough data from the outback. There's a few other parts of Sulon I'll need to visit, but staying here would be inconvenient for me as well as for you."

"You haven't been a bother, Rahn," Morgan said, after finishing a gulp from a tall glass of raw gra milk. "It's been an honor to have you."

"Mm-hmm," added Patricia, who was focused on stirring her steaming bowl of blood chowder.

Caught off guard by the announcement, Kyle was still as he looked back and forth between the adults. Per usual, he had barely seen their guest since their encounter in the workshop, but he'd also noticed that Rahn hadn't taken his rental landspeeder anywhere. Instead, he'd apparently stayed locked up in the guest room all day—doing research, according to Mom. Still, he'd been showing up for meals—and, apparently, continuing his nocturnal conversations with Dad. In fact, Kyle thought he'd heard his mother taking part in the one last night.

It was all kind of disappointing. Kyle had hoped to catch a glimpse of that weird fusioncutter Rahn was working on. He was sure it'd be pretty cool, something his friends would be interested in hearing about.

He felt like saying something. For whatever reason it ended up being, "So did you find any sick people?"

Rahn finished slurping a spoonful of his chowder, then wiped his lips. "Mm-mm. No cases of Mugaari measles—here or in Barons Hed. I have to check the Yrolliug region, but I expect the same results there."

"Guess you came all the way out here for nothing," Kyle remarked.

"On the contrary. My information will be useful, no matter the result. It's enough that we know—and keep our options open."

Almost nothing was said for the rest of the meal. Dad's glum silence was particularly odd, but Kyle never asked what it was about.

The next morning, Rahn had his speeder loaded up before breakfast, and after an unremarkable farewell he was gone. In the spare few minutes Kyle had before starting the day's chores, he stole upstairs and went into the guest room, but of course there was nothing to find.

12 BBY

"It's not right, just not right...too thick," grumbled Morgan Katarn as he stared, frowning deeply into the bubbling pot.

"I'm sure it will taste just fine, old friend," came a solemn voice from the direction of the kitchen table.

Morgan glanced over his shoulder sourly, then gave the shang stew a couple useless stirs. "You don't understand. It...Pat made this hundreds of times. Thousands. She always got it just right. Made it look so easy. You'd think I'd get the hang of this kitchen after three years."

"We can only make the best of what the Force has given us," Rahn offered after a moment.

"Hrng. No arguing with that."

Admitting defeat, Morgan prepared two bowls of the stew with sides of Reythan crackers, then sat down with the Jedi Knight. For a few minutes they simply ate, and Morgan begrudgingly admitted the stew was good enough.

"I'm sorry to have not come sooner—"

"Don't trouble yourself over it."

"—but I've only just heard of what happened to your wife," Rahn continued, keeping his eyes lowered. "My contacts are few and stretched very thin, so word takes a long time to reach me."

"You don't have to apologize," Morgan repeated tightly.

The dark-skinned man nodded and worked away at his stew for a while.

"You mentioned Kyle is in the hospital in Barons Hed."

With effort, Morgan mastered himself before answering. "Yeah. He, uh...we had a little accident with the laser plow on Zhellday. Gave me a real hell of a scare, but he'll be fine. The doc said he'll be good as new in a couple of days."

"I see."

Morgan averted his eyes from the Jedi's gentle but powerful stare. His heart had jumped a little as he remembered the accident, relived the flash of maddening fear.

Rahn must have noticed, with that uncanny sense of his. "Perhaps I can stay and help you around the farm until he is discharged."

"I suppose you could. Wouldn't mind an extra hand...though to be honest, the place isn't gonna fall apart in a few days without Kyle." Morgan looked up to find Rahn pursing his mouth uneasily. "What? Got something to say? Let's hear it."

The Jedi Knight obliged him with obvious reluctance. "As a matter of fact, since I first heard Patricia is gone, I was originally going to offer to stay for a while."

"And finally get acquainted with my son?"

Rahn winced at that. Even though Morgan had spoken purely on petty impulse, even though he knew it was wrong, it still felt good. Patricia was three years buried. The Katarns had weathered their grief, as well as Morgan's draining legal battle with Arakyd Industries, which had sold the faulty droid responsible for his wife's death. They had survived and adapted. Kyle had grown in stature and strength, and the Katarn name with him.

And now this Jedi Knight—the guardian of knowledge of the Force—now he showed up.

"That, too. But first and foremost, to make sure you are all right, and to do whatever I can for you." Rahn inclined his head gravely. "I don't have many friends, Morgan—you are one of a select few—and when others aid me, I always return the favor."

Morgan slumped in his chair, chastened. Of course his guest had to be so gracious, and here he was: taking out his resentment on a man who was braver and more virtuous than he'd ever be. His memories of Rahn's first visit turned bittersweet. They'd gotten along so well back then, but that...

Morgan's gaze fell on his right hand which now gripped a spoon, but which could also grip a blaster, and had done things with a bryar rifle which he'd never expected from himself.

...that was before Arze and Nanak Surraj, and...

He looked into his bowl of shang stew, which was thicker than it should have been.

...and it was also before Patricia died.

"You should eat, friend. You look a little pale."

Morgan mumbled agreement and resumed on his stew with haste. The food didn't seem to help, though; it became like a lump of wet duracrete, slowly solidifying in his gut.

Rahn bowed his head over his own dinner and took his time with it. Morgan watched a while, remembering everything they'd talked about years ago, knowing it was all going to come out again. This strange, swarthy offworlder, this mysterious mystic...Qu Rahn was a ghost, a specter of the past, and he had brought many forgotten spirits with him into the home of the Katarns.

He'd brought everything, of course, except the one thing Morgan would have asked of the Force, if he could.

"I noticed you still have that piket head up in the family room," Rahn said at length.

"Well, where else would it be?"

The Jedi raised a brow, and Morgan found himself unable to meet those strangely bright eyes. Again he had snapped at his guest. With effort, he controlled his voice and tried to effect disinterest. "Excuse me, I don't know where I left my manners...but I think I already told you that story the last time you were here. I don't really feel like retelling it."

The truth, of course, was that he loved retelling it—to the Grawleys, the Jamesons, everyone he knew. That moment on Dantooine was like a dream, except unforgettable—the blazing morning field, the perfect shot, his blossoming astonishment and pride in his son. It was one of Morgan's fondest memories—but it had been turned into something else...

Gingerly, Rahn put his spoon down. "No adult human could have made that shot, let alone a child—no ordinary child."

"Don't—don't get started with that again," Morgan warned hopelessly. "Kyle's a bright young man with a bright future—and yes, he's, he's had some real lucky moments in his life, same as me—but you leave him alone! Didn't you tell us you'd respect our decision?"

"I did, and I will always respect your authority over him as his father. But you also told me that you would listen with an open mind, should I ever ask you to reconsider."

"There ain't nothin' to reconsider. My son doesn't have any potential to be a Jedi, and that's final. I already saw your—your so-called proof, and I dunno why I believed it then." Morgan's forehead crinkled. "You can't tell me there's a transcendent, mystical energy field working in the universe and then expect me to believe that attunement to it is somehow measurable with science. Just because his blood had a lot of maxi-chlorinates or whatever—"

"The Jedi Order," Rahn interrupted, leaning forward with sudden energy, "used midi-chlorian counts to accurately predict Force-sensitivity for millennia, and your son's count is over nine thousand—an extraordinary number. The Force is strong with Kyle, Morgan. Destiny lies open before him. It's no coincidence that our paths crossed. How can you deny it, after everything you've seen?"

"Deny it? Hell..." Morgan pushed his chair away and stepped back from the table, glowering. "Destiny didn't bring any Jedi Knights around to save my wife or to help raise my son..."

Rahn ascended from the table with the poised elegance of a flatwing. He held Morgan's gaze steadily, serenely.

"...not that it would do any blasted good now! Why did I ever have to see your face again, Rahn? What—what did this Force ever do to get the Empire's boot off of Sulon? What did your Force ever do for me and my family?!"

His whole body shook as the words came thundering out of him. His hand, pointing in accusation, flopped beside him as he gasped, expelling the last of his fury. Shame threatened to burst his head from the inside. Knees knocking, eyes blurring, he turned away, groping for support.

To his amazement, Rahn's arms kept him on his feet. It was unlike any hug Morgan had experienced in his life; empty of passion and yet far from being cold, it was undeniably a Jedi embrace.

After a moment the offworlder guided him back to the table, and they reclaimed their seats.

"Rahn, I'm sorry," Morgan croaked when he was able. "Nothing that's happened is your fault, and I know you have a mission, great responsibilities that I can't imagine—that I can't be allowed to know about. But I've already helped you. Then I lost Pat, and now—what, you still want to take my boy from me?"

Rahn shook his head. "He wouldn't have to leave Sulon, or even this home. I could stay here and train him as he grows. Normally Jedi trainees were separated from their families, but those restrictions were not always absolute, and in dark times like these—"

A loud sigh interrupted him. "You don't understand. If you turn Kyle into a Jedi, I'll—I'll still lose him, whether he's in my house or not. He'll become a Knight like you and go off, face the Empire and...worse. This gift, this burden, I never wanted it for myself or my family. Kyle's a good boy. He has so much potential—just from himself. He doesn't need to follow some mystical path. He doesn't need to do this."

Morgan looked up. His face was marked by tear-trails as well as the lines of premature age—but it was also resolute. "I'm sorry, but I don't care what the Force wills for my boy. I can't give him up, Rahn. I just can't."

The two stared at each other for what felt like minutes.

"I respect your decision—as I promised," Rahn said finally, bowing from the neck. He stood up. "I think it's time I went my way."

Morgan staggered to his feet. "Huh—what!? You just got here and—and it's nighttime already! The mailocs will be out!"

"I can take care of myself. The next shuttle out of Barons Hed will leave in a few hours; I intend to be on it."

Morgan's jaw hung open as he followed his guest through the house to the foyer. "Rahn, listen! I—I've been a really rotten host, and—you shouldn't feel like—I mean, you don't have to—"

"I have no further business on Sulon, and you assured me that you have no need of my help."

They were almost to the dark, heavy wood door when Morgan caught the other man by the shoulder and turned him round. "You can't just leave after how I treated you!"

"I am a Jedi Knight; I can do whatever I must." Rahn's manner was grave, but not unkind. "You are still my friend, Morgan, and I forgive you. But we each have our own paths; though they must diverge for now, I sense that they may yet cross again."

"Well, I...I sure hope so," Morgan managed to say. "Listen, I need to tell you, thank you for everything. All the things you do about the war, the Empire, things you can't tell me about...and things I could never do."

"Don't sell yourself short. Jedi or no, there is much that a man such as you could accomplish for the Rebel cause."

That gave Morgan so much to think about that he ran out of words. Next thing he knew, the door was open and Rahn was reaching out patiently. Morgan reached back, and they shook hands.

The Jedi Knight smiled. "Until next time, my friend—may the Force be with you."

Then he was gone, and as Morgan Katarn drifted back through his quiet, dark home, he glanced up at the stuffed piket head and thought, Maybe someday.

CHAPTER COMPLETE

PASSWORD: TARNOONGA