Memory / Chapter 18 / Mandalorian Life

This was supposed to be his new room. His new room for this new life he and Father were never going to have. The Senator and his father and his father's friends were very generous, but Dustil hadn't bothered to unpack most of the new things he'd been bought. He had a closet full of new clothes, an Ophini Mach VII in the garage downstairs, a shiny new console, chips of all the latest vids, and a room full of subtle, expensive black lacquered furniture. Everything in their apartment was new and beautiful and cost more credits than he'd ever known existed.

It wasn't very clear why they were suddenly rich, but Dustil assumed it one of the old man's games. That Senator. That Senator gave him the creeps almost as much as his dead ghost son and the kid. Or his own father . . . at least Father was finally . . . getting back into the cockpit, as it were. He hadn't come home last night. Probably Captain Ekkumi, she'd been friends with them back on Telos.

Her son was in the same class as Dustil and Selene. When the bombs dropped, he got a piece of shrapnel caught in his skull.

It took him a week to die.

Dustil closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had a -- call it a hunch. A feeling. Maybe it was from Mekel, or maybe not. He'd felt something this afternoon. Just for a moment, just for a second, like a stone falling in pool of still water. A ripple and then gone.

Mekk?

Mekel?

Nothing. Dustil closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Feel the Force around you. Feel the swirl of emotions and rage and hate like chords in a familiar song. Feel it sing, with every life and every death, and take its power into yourself. Let it build, and use it, shape it. The Force is your weapon, your path. Finding a life, one particular life isn't that hard, not if you know the note it sings.

Lessons from Dreshdae. Sith Assassination 101.

Reaching out in the Force was like flying in the wind -- but somewhere, far away, he could hear the right note, like a chord, or one bright thread in a cloth, and once he'd found it again, it wasn't so hard to reach the other boy. Not hard at all . . .

Mekk?

Dustil? A wary mix of emotions, surprised hope, maybe a little fear.

Where are you, Mekel?

I'm fine. Are you -- are you okay, Telos?

That wasn't an answer at all of course.

Great.Dustil tried to make that thought enthusiastic. We just moved into our new conapt. So listen, where are you?

You're as subtle as a Zeltron in season . . .

Dustil pushed harder, he was stronger than Mekel, and if he pushed he could see through the other boy's eyes again. He pushed . . . and saw a blank featureless wall. A real wall, it could have been anywhere. White. Plasteel maybe. Or plimfoam. Dimly, he felt Mekel's amusement.

So, what do you want? She wants to talk to you.

Revan?

Huh? How would I know? I meant Mission. Dustil, Mission wants to talk to you.

She's dead! Dustil took a deep breath and tried not freak out again. Not cry again. Burn all of the emotions away into a pure net of rage and power . . . somewhere Mekel cowered under the assault.

Poor Dustil.He could feel Mekel's head hurting -- he'd pushed the older boy too hard, but Mekel wasn't frightened, he was just angry. Poor Dustil sitting in the clouds, plotting his revenge with his braindead father. You're a fracking idiot, Telos. Look, she's upset, you've upset her and she wants to talk to you. How can you be so dense?

How can you? That isn't Mission. It's a thing!

Whatever you say. Look. Meet us at Mom's. Tonight. Give me . . . four hours. We have to talk. You still remember the way there, don't you?

Yes.

Try not to dress up in your new duds, Dustil; I wouldn't want you to get rolled or something.

You're with Revan, aren't you? Dustil pushed again, pushed harder, and Mekel fought back. Somewhere Mekel bit his lip so hard that Dustil could taste the blood, feel the sharp pain of it, and someone was asking Mekel what was wrong, a girl's voice with an accent he couldn't quite place and Mekel was slamming his fist in the floor and the pain hurt so much, it felt like broken bones and the barriers slammed shut between them again and -- and Dustil opened his hand. The knuckles were white, darkening to a bruise already and it hurt like hell.

"I said, the Senator wanted you to come for dinner tonight Dustil . . ."

How long has he been standing there?

Dustil stood up and turned around. Carth looked a lot better; he'd shaved and was wearing a more normal Republic uniform, meaning much less gold braid, but still that ugly red and yellow. And he was smiling, but the eyes were dead like they always were, and his aura pulsed around him, dull and black and full of pain. It had looked a little better this morning, Dustil thought, as if whatever he'd been up to the night before made him almost happy, but now it was rotting and bad and black again. He willed himself not to see it.

"What were you doing, son?" His father was trying to act normal, as if any of this was normal.

"You want me out of the way for a hot date, Dad?" Dustil made himself smile.

"Something like that." Carth shifted uncomfortably. Their eyes locked.

I don't want to leave him, but Mekel knows where she is. I know he does. Revan's here . . . and that Mission . . . thing. She's just a droid. I can make Mekel show me where Revan is. I'm stronger than he is.

"Captain Ekkumi, huh?"

"Yep," Carth stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. "So, listen . . . tonight at the Senator's . . . you -- you be kind to Korrie, okay? He's just a kid. It's not his fault that everything . . ."

"Yeah I know that."

"I love you, Dustil." Carth swallowed. "You're a good kid, yourself."

"I'm not a kid."

His father shivered. It wasn't exactly pleasant making your old man shiver.

"The Senator's sending a car for you in an hour. You-you probably shouldn't walk there, security's kind of tight right now."

"I'd like to take the Mach; I don't really get to drive her much."

He'd only had the speeder for four days. They'd driven it twice together. Once upon a time Dustil had dreamed of having a speeder like this. Now, he didn't really care. The Mach was a means to an end.

Can't really drive to sub-47 anyways. I can park her in the tunnel-park on 20, I guess.

"If that's what you want, it's fine." His father smiled. "She's fast, so be careful."

"Of course."

"What's wrong with your hand?"

Dustil pulled it away and shoved it in the pocket of his jacket so fast that it hurt. Hell, it felt like he had broken something. It was going to swell up too, he could tell.

XXX

"What's wrong with your hand, Mekel?" the former Dark Lord of the Sith sounded worried.

Oh shit.

-- You dork, what did you do, Mekel Jin? --

"Shut up, Blue, please."

Mission did. The conversation with Dustil had left Mission a little freaked too, he could tell. He'd been whispering Telos' responses to her, and hearing both of them shrieking in his mind while he stared at that damn wall until he thought he'd go insane.

"Millifar came and got me . . . when you started screaming . . ."

I was screaming?

"Your lip is bleeding. . . ." She took a piece of cloth from the pocket of her robe and wiped it away.

"Thanks," he said, pulling the cloth away from her quickly. The expression in her green eyes was creepily concerned. He backed closer to the wall.

"What did you do?" she repeated, reaching for his hand. It was bruised where he'd slammed it into the duracrete floor. Felt like some of the small bones were broken. Small bones in the hand were great to break, they'd learned in interrogation class. Small bones in the hands and feet.

Mekel opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She frowned, a delicate line between her two red arched brows.

"Look," Revan said briskly, "whatever it is, just tell me. Was it one of the Mandalorians? I can't tell them you're not a slave, but they won't hurt you . . . if they do, they have to deal with me."

"Why can't you tell them I'm not a slave?"

Revan grimaced. "Mandalorian slaves have more rights and more access than Mandalorian guests. As a guest, you couldn't move this freely. . . .They're . . . odd about things."

"Well it wasn't them, okay?" Mekel pulled his hand away and shrugged. A shooting pain went up his wrist. He tried not to grimace. "I did it to myself."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"To break a Force bond." Mekel felt like kicking himself for telling her, but Mission knew, so maybe she knew anyways. He wasn't sure. Blue was being helpfully silent. He didn't think he could deal with both of them.

"Dustil."

It wasn't a question. He nodded, hesitantly.

"To stop him from knowing. . . ."

"He knows you're here on Coruscant -- I think. I think he wants to kill you."

"Because he believes I did this to his father?" The smooth calm in her face vanished. Suddenly Revan looked really vulnerable, and not much older than he was. Of course that was a lie.

"No -- he's not that dumb." How could she be this dumb? "Because of Mission."

"Oh," she whispered. Her voice was very small and she stared at her hands. "No wonder he hates me," she said, almost to herself. "Maybe all of this is a fool's game. I destroy everything I touch, everything I love -- how can I even think. . . ."

"He needs you. The kid, Malachor."

"Did you see my son?" Her expression was fierce, almost hungry. Mekel shrank back.

"N-not exactly, Dustil was there, with the kid and -- and you know . . ."

"I don't. Know. Anything."

"Malak."

Her face was a frozen mask. The face she'd had in the tombs on Korriban when Jorak Uln made them taste the lightning, over and over again.

Mekel took a deep breath. "It was really Malak I saw, more than the kid, I don't know the kid . . . your son -- I mean we saw him once in the library but -- Malak was -- Malak is --"

"Dead."

"I think he can't get through to you, he's tried but he --" Mekel didn't want to tell her how many times he'd called for Darth Malak when everyone else was fast asleep in the Embassy. But the Dark Lord never answered.

"He's dead. I killed him." Her words sounded dead too. "I hated him. I killed him. He's dead."

"Yes, but --"

"I had dreams about him, but they were just dreams, just my mind making sense of shattered memories, memories I was too frightened to face. Do you understand?"

"No, he's real. Malak and the kid --"

She took a deep breath. "Did you know my -- did you know Malak?"

"He sponsored me at the Academy. He found me on Coruscant and took me to Korriban."

"He was important to you."

"He was, he -- was kind to me. H-he founded the Academy and I was one of the first students, I always hoped --" Mekel swallowed. It sounded so stupid now. So stupid and pointless. "I always hoped someday I'd be his Apprentice."

But he picked Bandon, the asshole.

"Looking back, I mean I'm not dumb, I was just a Force-sensitive kid he recruited into the Sith, but I never had a father and he --"

I'd never seen the stars, and sometimes, when he was in a good mood on the way to Korriban, the big man would tell me about them. The worlds he'd seen. The hole in his jaw festered and it got harder and harder for him to talk. All that power, and we couldn't do anything, couldn't mend anything. And sometimes, sometimes, the big man cried.

Her eyes scanned his face. "You couldn't have been very old, when this happened."

"I was twelve."

"Gods, that's young for Sith." Revan closed her eyes and clenched her fists.

"The Jedi take kids even younger than that."

When her face grew pale you could see shadows on it, almost like scars, where the Sith lines had been. Faint, like a tracery of silver. In some strange way, Mekel thought they made her beautiful.

"They don't teach them to kill," she said softly. "Not the ones that haven't already learned how." She blinked, as if bringing herself back to the present. "Your hand is injured."

"Yeah, I'll be fine, I'll just. . . ." put some ice on it and pretend its kolto.

"Let me see it." She reached for his hand, and spread out the fingers, ignoring the hiss of pain that he tried to quell.

"No." Mekel said flatly, pulling it back. He remembered the tombs and Jorak Uln, and that man -- Dustil's father. Carth Onasi.

Didn't she know her power . . . wasn't the healing kind?

"Do you know any way I can keep Dustil out of my head besides breaking my fingers?" Mekel gave her a twisted smile, trying to distract her.

"Stop him from reading your thoughts, through the bond, you mean?" Revan was still staring at his hand. She ran her own nervously through her short cap of red hair.

"Yes."

"Do you speak any languages? Obscure ones, complicated ones."

"Only ancient Sith."

"Conjugate verbs in it."

"Huh?"

"Laa'kai mmm tchevno. Laa'kai mmm techevna. La'kai mo tchev. . . and so on."

"I am strong. She is strong. They are strong . . . I don't get it."

"Doesn't matter what you say, just make a noise out of it. A noise like a wall that they can't get through. Sometimes I'd recite the Corellian Spire jump points, over and over again. . . ."

"It this some kind of Jedi thing?"

"I don't know. I -- came up with myself. To keep Bastila out of my mind." Her expression was remote. "I nearly gave myself a concussion slamming my skull into the bulkheads before I thought of it."

"Oh." Mekel didn't know what to say. She was holding something in her hand that she'd pulled out of her pocket, staring at the floor, as if he wasn't even there anymore.

-- We need to go, chuba face. Make some excuses. --

"I -- have to go," Mekel got to his feet.

"Go?" Revan raised an eyebrow, standing up herself. "Go where? The Jedi Council and D'Reev are after you, Mission said. You can't leave, it's not safe."

Mekel laughed, nervous. She made him nervous. She was hiding the Force now so completely that he couldn't even sense her through it; but there was something about her that was still . . . her. "They won't find me, I've been hiding out here just fine for the last six months . . . and where I'm going, they don't even know how to look. I have to see some . . . friends." He hoped Moms wasn't going to be mad again. Or ask for the credits he'd promised to pay her not to turn him in.

"We need money," he murmured to Blue.

-- Hard currency is a little difficult for me to come by, but don't worry, Big Z is bringing some. --

"Big Z is coming?" He'd said that louder than he meant to. Revan frowned.

"Hey sis," Mission herself rolled into the room, her chassis freshly polished, followed by the Wookiee. Zaalbar had two vibroblades strapped to his back, and a bandolier's harness across his chest. And a blaster.

All dressed up for a night on the underground.

The former Dark Lord of the Sith crossed her arms and shook her head. "No," she said. "Whatever mad scheme you've planned, Mission, the answer is no."

The T3 rattled something at her in a language Mekel didn't know, and Revan responded in kind. Mission's voice got louder, and more argumentative, and Revan flinched, suddenly.

"And if you get captured? If they get killed? This is an insane risk, Mission. You can't go after Dustil!"

Zaalbar interrupted, groaning loudly and gesturing with a heavy claw. Revan's hand closed around whatever she was holding, white-knuckled, and she looked at the floor. Whatever the Wookiee said made the former Dark Lord of the Sith look absolutely defeated. "Fine," she said. "Go. But if any of you get hurt, I swear I'll flay the flesh from your bones."

"I'll-flay-the-flesh-from-your-bones," Mission said, in a perfect imitation of Revan's voice. "Nice one, I'll have to use that. Get your coat, Mekk."

"Sure thing, Blue."

Mekel went back to the room they'd given him to grab the things they'd need. He wrapped his hand with an ice pack and some bandages from the infirmary, and slipped on the heavy bantha-hide long coat Mission had made him buy, still wincing at the pain in his hand. The coat was a little too nice for the underground -- but Mom's saw all kinds, and he figured they wouldn't get rolled on the way with the Wookiee. Wookiees were rare on Coruscant, but there were a few, here and there. They were legendary muscle. There were so many sents from so many worlds underground, that no one really noticed you twice unless you looked like an easy roll. With the Wookiee, they wouldn't be. He slipped Carth Onasi's letters from The Library in his pocket. Maybe, if things went well, Dustil would like to see them.

When he came back to the front room of the Embassy, Revan was still standing there. The expression on her face was almost wistful. "I should come with you. "

"No way Polla-Revan. It's like Bastila walking into the Sith Embassy on Manaan. If any of us get caught, we're small fish."

Revan shook her head, pacing, "I don't like this." From the other room came the sound of cheers. Someone had won another fight. That meant there'd be another fight. And then another. The Mandalorians were tiresomely predictable. Her head jerked in that direction and she sighed.

"Don't you have more Mandalorian butt to kick tonight anyways, sis?"

"Oerin's fighting them all now," Revan said. "It'll be a while. . . . I don't like this, Mission," she repeated. Her eyes rested on Mekel's for a moment and then she looked away too fast. She looked guilty.

-- Want to lay a bet, Sith-wannabe? Don't answer that, not in front of her, just move to the door. What do you think, is she gonna follow us or is she going to sneak out and go groundside? --

"Be careful," Mekel said. It wasn't what he meant to say, the words just came out.

Revan looked startled. And even more guilty. "You too," she said.

Zaalbar growled something and they went to the doors. The automated sentry droids clicked and the corusteel plating slid open. The Mandalorian Embassy was just the fifteenth floor of an old office building full of colonial embassies on the down and out, but they'd fortified the inside of it like a bunker.

"You think she's going to follow us?" Mekel frowned, glancing back nervously.

Zaalbar groaned and shook his head.

"Big Z thinks she'll go groundside. He's probably right. . . ."

"Groundside, where?"

"Either to Carth or D'Reev's building."

"But . . . but -- I thought, but that's . . ."

"Insane? Yeah. Don't worry. We've accounted for it. And I mean, she is her."

"It just seems rash. I mean, she's--Revan . . ." Mekel lowered his voice, even though they were in alone in the elevator now and Mission had already scanned it for bugs.

"No." Mission's voice was colder suddenly, almost mechanical. "Revan wouldn't have let us walk out of there. Revan might storm the gates to take her son or Carth, but not without some kind of plan. She's not just Revan, she's Polla too. Polla . . . well it's exactly the kind of thing she'd do."

"You're not worried?" Mekel didn't really understand what she meant. Mission was talking about Polla as if she was another person.

"Didn't I mention it's taken care of? We won't let her screw this up. That's like, our job."

---

"You will not ask her that." Telling Gwenarius, first wife of Clan Ordo not to do something was like pissing in wind on the plains of Hrukar, but he had to try.

"It's none of your concern, husband," Aemelie snapped. "This is women's business." Deftly, she adjusted her son in her arms, so the babe could nurse from her other breast.

Gwen just folded her arms and glared at him. Their daughter, still too young to be named, was sleeping in the crib at the foot of their sleeping pallets.

Both of the children were strong, and would probably live to their naming days. Canderous felt a sense of pride in that.

Even though I had nothing to do with it.

You've been among the barbarians too long, Ordo. There was a time when you wouldn't have even wondered, wouldn't have even thought. Bringing children into the world is women's business. These are your wives, and so these are your children. Where the seed came from is irrelevant.

Their son wrinkled his face and started to squall. Canderous put down the tray of tea on the low table. "Let me calm him," he said, taking the boy from Aemelie. The babe was dark-skinned, with a fuzz of curly black hair and blue eyes that were changing to black. He let the child curl a fist around his finger and bounced him on his knee.

This was no time for a proper tenting -- and the girl-child was too old for that anyways; but it was his responsibility to stay here with them, as much as he could, to learn these children and re-learn these women he had taken to wed. A thing for all seasons, tenting was a celebration of life and the continuity of the clan.

Of all things I expected to find on Coruscant, I did not expect this. He pressed his lips to the babe's forehead, and held him against his shoulder, patting the boy's back until he burped.

Gwen watched him, a faint smile on her face. "The outlander Lin would have strong children, Canderous. Children for Ordo."

"She owes us lives, for the ones she took," said Aemelie.

"She won't understand." Canderous didn't know why he bothered arguing with them. "She's pledged to another."

"Barbarians remarry, after their mate dies," Gwen argued. "We've been here long enough to know that. Surely enough time has passed. . . ."

"She's pledged to the pilot, Captain Onasi. The man you've seen on the broadcasts."

Aemelie shrugged, uncomprehending. "Onasi spoke against her. He hates her, doesn't he? Surely, that negates any vows they might have made."

Canderous sighed and stroked the boy-child's tiny back, shifting his weight on the floor and crossing his legs.

Gwenarius Ordo smiled at him fondly. "I'll ask her tomorrow. If she says no, she says no." It had been hard enough getting Gwen not to challenge Revan -- and therefore Clan Lin -- for the title of Mandalore in the middle of the starport. Canderous supposed he should be grateful his wife's thoughts had moved on to a different, although no less predictable, path. "Don't forget your place. This business is between her and us."

May the gods place me elsewhere when you ask Revan to join Clan Ordo as my third wife. Please.

"She's not unattractive, for a barbarian, and she fights like one of our own. She defeated Fett Cassus Lin. She defeated all of us . . . even if her ways weren't entirely honorable. Tactically, they were brilliant. If she beds like she fights she'd be enjoyable for you. You've followed her for over a year, Canderous of Ordo. Surely you can't tell me you've never once considered . . ." Aemelie's voice trailed off, and she looked at her husband uncomprehendingly, her brown eyes wide in surprise.

"You think he's never bedded her?" Gwen looked shocked.

"Of course he hasn't -- you can tell that by watching them fight. But surely he wants to. . . ."

He'd fought Revan to a draw in the battle circle. That was something they'd pre-arranged, after she beat the Lin whelp in it. And then she'd fought all of the others--unblooded boys and no real challenge for her. Among the men, that was enough to tie Ordo to Lin, and therefore all of the other sub-clans, and the remnants of Rialis and Zal. But women's business was a different thing entirely.

"You haven't suffered any injuries, have you?" Gwen squatted down next to him, and reached for the belt on his robe.

He batted her hand away. "The babe is sleeping! No. I am intact. And what I think about Revan -- as a woman -- is irrelevant. She does not desire me, do you understand? She and I settled that long ago."

On Taris.

The Deralian spun, twisting her double-bladed vibroblade to meet his counter with a clash of cortosis steel. Sparks flew from the impact. Her feet moved in a dance he knew only too well. Women were smaller and faster than men, and their patterns in the battle circle reflected this. What surprised Canderous was to see a barbarian who knew these steps. And yet, a part of him was pleased.

Somewhere, the teachings of my people live on, even after we have passed from memory. Someone must have taught Polla Organa the old dance.

"Are there Mandalorians, on Deralia?" he asked her, moving more slowly and solidly to meet her attack.

"Huh?"

They were in Davik Kang's estate with her companion the pilot, in the training room off the guest suites. The pilot sat on the sidelines, watching them fight. He was no match for them with blades, and he knew it. Out of the corner of his eye, Canderous noted the scowl on the man's face, and the way his eyes never left her lithesome figure.

She was attractive; there was no question about that. Her breasts heaved becomingly under the bodice of her jumpsuit. Her waist was narrow, and her hips flared underneath, tapering to shapely muscular legs. She was more slender than any of his wives, but it was a slimness built for the fight, not a weakness. Her topknot flared in the air as she leapt towards him again, a grin on her face as their blades met one more time.

"You fight like one born to it," he said, wondering if she would understand.

"I trained with blasters and rifles and throwing knives since I was a kid," she answered, pausing. She wiped the sheen of sweat from her face with the sleeve. "All Deralians do, in case someone tries to invade us . . ."

"Those things have their uses," Canderous said approvingly, "but it's the sword that you fight well with."

A puzzled frown crossed her face and she stared at the double-bladed vibroblade in her hands as if she'd never seen it before.

"I guess I'm talented," she shrugged and looked at him. "Are all Mandalorians so...so--polite?" Her green eyes glinted.

He hesitated, unsure if he'd misunderstood. Barbarian women were odd, one had to tread carefully. Of course among the Clans, only women mated with outsiders -- usually. But now, things had changed. And she was not unattractive, this barbarian. She moved like a Mandalorian. In a way, she reminded him of home. A home lost to him forever, and a way of life that was ground into dust.

"Perhaps you'd like to join me in the massage room?" he said politely. "Davik has a good supply of oils and your muscles must be stiff. We've been at this for hours. My people have made an art of massage, as well as fighting."

"Huh?" Her attention had wandered past him already, and she was looking at the pilot. And the pilot was looking at her. Oh. She sheathed the vibrosword in the strap across her back and tugged at her jumpsuit, smoothing it down. Her fingers fiddled restlessly with the tail of hair that hung from her neatly-shorn scalp. A faint frown crossed her face and she tore her eyes away and back to his.

"Are you . . . are you hitting on me, Canderous Ordo?"

"Your choice," he said. His voice came out rough.

"Um . . ." She looked uncertain suddenly. Behind them on the sidelines, the pilot scowled. He got to his feet and came over to them, his hands curled on his blasters. Canderous noted the automatic soldier's stance in the man's walk, the alertness in his eyes. Republic-trained Well, that made sense -- after all, they'd rescued that Jedi woman, Bastila Shan. Of course he's Republic.

"Is he bothering you, Polla?" The pilot glowered at him. That was nothing new. Ever since he'd met the man two days ago in Javyar's cantina, when she came back with the codes from the Sith base, the man had been glowering at him.

"It's none of your business, Republic," Canderous shot back.

"You say that like it's an insult, Mandalorian." The man's hands were on his blasters, half-drawn.

Polla looked oddly apologetic. The tip of her nose blushed pink. "We were just practicing, Carth. Not that I have to explain that -- or anything to you, you Gamorrean pigman."

The pilot grinned at her, "Don't get frisky with the hired help, beautiful. Mercs can't be trusted. Especially Mandalorians."

She grinned back. "Frisky, I'll show you frisky, you hairless Wookiee!" Polla reached behind her back and drew her sword out in one smooth movement. Even though his chances of getting anywhere seemed increasingly slim, Canderous couldn't help but admire the simplicity of her form, the perfect balance of her stance. She seemed entirely unaware of it. Then he felt a dull shock of surprise as he realized what she was about to do.

Her sword point grazed the edge of the pilot's cheek, etching a faint half circle, just a small scratch that didn't break the skin. The man didn't budge, but his eyes widened.

"What are you doing, gorgeous?" he asked her, voice carefully even.

"Marking her claim," Canderous muttured. Someone had trained her well. He could understand her reticence in discussing it, but the dance was as old as the stars that had once been their empire. "I'll be going now," he said to the empty air. The pilot and the smuggler stood there, eyes locked. He might as well have been in a different galaxy.

Two weeks later on the way to Dantooine, he asked her politely if she wanted his assistance in counseling the pilot for the marriage bed. He got a right hook to the jaw and a stream of Deralian curses for his efforts. Of course, he realized now, she really did have no idea what he was talking about.

". . . ask her in the morning," Gwen continued. "We need to finish the preparations for this accursed festival the Lin slave said that we have to hold. I really think that would be the perfect time for her to mark him -- once the barbarian Coruscanti dogs leave of course . . . if she agrees to the union."

"Of course she'll agree!" Aemelie said. "There's no reason why she can't have the pilot too, after all. If that's what she really wants." She looked speculative, almost dreamy. "Captain Onasi's rather handsome. Do you supposed she'd --"

"You'll embarrass her," Canderous broke in, gritting his teeth in exasperation. It was hopeless. Some things they would never understand.

A soft knock on the door saved him from further humiliation. He'd been expecting it. Canderous got to his feet; shifting the weight of his son in his arms and feeling his joints creak with the familiar stiffness. "Enter."

His daughter Millifar opened the door.

"Five minutes ago, Father, as you said. She took the larger droid with her, the one that keeps growling in that Wookiee's tongue." Her chin lifted, pride in having an assignment overcoming her dislike of him. "We're ready to move out, at your command. Kex, Shadrak and Abatar and I are going. I chose them because they're the best hunters. I hope that meets with your approval."

"The tracking devices?"

"She found and disabled the one in the droid, but she carries her lightsaber and she's wearing the holomask the Lin slave bought. So we have two." She handed him a comm link with a map of Coruscant scrolling across the screen. A green light flashed on it. From his studies of the city's systems, it appeared to be in one of the underground tubes the people of this world used for transport.

"The Lin slave and the Wookiee left shortly before with the smaller droid," she added.

Canderous raised an eyebrow, but kept his thoughts to himself. What game are you playing, Zaalbar? Well -- it was the Wookiee's business. The computer has been useful to us, thus far -- despite my concern about its loyalties. The two of them can surely handle whatever task they've set for themselves. Zaalbar can keep the computer in line. It listens to him. The Sith boy doesn't look promising, but he's inconsequential.

"Follow Revan, as I instructed. Use stealth, don't be seen -- but if she tries to enter either address we spoke about, hit her with the trank gun and get her out of there fast . . . the droid . . ." Canderous frowned. HK might prove to be a problem. Although they'd disabled his lethal capacity, the droid was good at improvisation.

"I'm not afraid of a droid, Father." Her lip lifted in the arrogant sneer of youth.

"Then you are foolish. That droid slaughtered all of Clan Lin, save one."

"Save two," Millifar corrected him. "Revan and Oerin Lin." She was much like her mother. Once they'd accepted Revan was Lin, they thought she was one of them. He didn't think they understood how much she did not -- would not -- understand.

"Go --" Canderous said. "Be swift and silent, and do not overstep my orders."

"The dosage you gave us for the gun is far too much for her body mass." Millifar's eyes narrowed and she pulled on her braids. "Did you want me to recalibrate it?"

"It's the right dosage. She's a Jedi, they're hard to drug." As I learned on those weeks on the Hawk. "Go -- in this you bring honor to our Clan."

His daughter was a capable girl, and the pups weren't bad warriors. The door closed again and he glanced back at his wives. Aemelie reached out her arms and he gave their son to her.

Gwenarius pulled out an old battered shipping container from under the bed, and unsealed it. "Your brother's armor, husband. I assume you'd like to wear it when you go after them?"

Even after all these years, she knows me so well.

"I can talk the droid down," Canderous muttered, ashamed for doubting his own blood's abilities. "Probably." He slipped out of the robes he wore and began to put on the armor. Gwenarius gave him a slow lazy smile.

"That thing really slaughtered all of Lin?" Aemelie looked impressed. "Such a device would be an asset to Clan Ordo."

Canderous strapped on his swords and the battered old repeater that had always brought him luck. Considering, he selected a small ion blaster from the stack of weapons they'd brought from Manaan and strapped it to his thigh.

"I'll ask her in the morning," Gwenarius said again. She came to him, cool fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Her lips met his with a small spark. He kissed her deeply, in the formal style of two tongues locked and a small bite on her lower lip. She shivered. "Come back soon, husband."

"You have our permission to go," Aemelie added formally, watching them. Her chestnut hair was loose on her shoulders, like a soft cloud.

"Just try and manage to come back," Gwenarius said. "We've missed you, Canderous Ordo."

The conapt felt so empty with Dustil gone. Carth watched the sun fade through the clouds, an orange glow darkening to a red, vivid as her hair. The tumbler of Corellian brandy -- a gift from the Senator -- was half empty. He thought about poor drunk Helena Shan and did not refill it.

He'd been so sure that Revan would come.

Restless, Carth paced.

I loved a smuggler named Polla Organa. She turned into the Dark Lord of the Sith. And she'll come for me.

In his dreams she always came. Sometimes looking like the Deralian he'd pulled from the escape pod on Taris, sometimes looking like the Sith Lord he'd saved on the Star Forge. Sometimes she looked like the woman he'd loved on Kashyyyk, growing thinner and paler and weaker, until it made his heart break.

Like Morgana in the hospital on Telos. And nothing I could do. No, nothing like Morgana. I should have let her just die on Kashyyyk.

In his dreams she always came for him and said the same lying words. "I love, you. Someday when this is all over . . ."

He made himself try and think about Rew Ekkumi instead. She was clever and their sons used to play together. She was beautiful, like Morgana had been beautiful. She was everything he could want in a woman.

And she told you to take a hike, Onasi. She said you're in love with someone else.

I am in love with someone else.

Carth stared at the comm terminal. Would the doorman announce her? Or would she burst into the room? He fingered the hunk of permacrete in his pocket, hand resting lightly on the detonator key. It would be quick, it would have to be quick or she'd destroy him.

The commlink beeped and he nearly blew up the conapt.

Heart in his throat, he went to the terminal and sat down cautiously in front of it. General Jiya Sand's face appeared on the screen. The Seroccan's lined features were grave, as they always were, but his eyes were kind.

"Rew asked me to call you," he said. "Are you --"

"I'm fine," Carth muttered.

"She said you might want to talk to another man about things . . ." Jiya looked uncomfortable.

"I don't."

They both looked relieved.

"In any case, I wanted to let you know that the Jedi Council has requested that we meet with them. It's really you they want to see, but they seem to be going through several Fleet branches at once trying to get to you."

The Jedi . . . Carth clenched his fists.

"I'm not interested," he said, trying to keep his voice cool.

"Master Vrook gave a speech a few hours ago to the Selkath newsvids. It didn't get wideband broadcast -- it won't get wideband broadcast -- but -- he mentioned you."

Revan's uncle. Was he a traitor too?

Carth kept his voice steady. "What did he say?"

"That you've been brainwashed as part of some conspiracy to discredit the actions of his heroic niece." General Jiya's eyes didn't blink. "I thought you should know."

Dull laughter bubbled in his throat. "He's calling her his niece now?" He never admitted it publicly before . . .

"Yes." As with Ekkumi, Carth felt a twinge of unease, as if the man was watching for his reaction a little too carefully. The twinge of paranoia was reflexive.

"She's Darth Revan," he said angrily.

"I was there with Bastila when we stormed her flagship, Captain. I know what she was."

"What she is, you mean."

"Yes -- of course." The General looked down at his desk, thumbing through some paperwork. "Well...Ekkumi asked me to check on you, and seem fine . . . so . . . I don't want to keep you, Captain. You're coming to that Mandalorian thing with us?"

"I'll come, yes. Is --" a thought occurred to him. "Is Ekkumi okay?"

General Jiya Sand frowned. "She's fine, Carth."

Another hour passed, and somehow he finished the tumbler of brandy despite his earlier resolution, staring out the window at the Coruscanti moons and the kilometer-high spires that soared around him reaching towards the stars. He'd changed out of the Fleet uniform, and pulled on some battered, familiar clothes. Somehow, that seemed like the right thing to do. Something tugged at his thoughts, memories he didn't want to recall.

The moss was soft on his bare back and she lay sprawled across his chest. She was snoring, gently, and her eyes moved under dark-lined lids. She was dreaming.

"Revan," he whispered in her ear, drinking in the smell of her skin. The towering trees soared above them; they'd been here on Kashyyyk for a week now.

"Not Revan," she mumbled sleepily, nestling her head in his chest. Her neck looked so pale and fragile above the weight of the Baragwin collar. "Don wanna be her, it hurts . . ."

"Polla . . ."

"Mmmm?" She rolled off him and curled against his side, still asleep. The sunlight filtered down, bathing them in green and gold.

I fell in love with a woman named Polla Organa.

"Polla Organa is real." He said the words out loud, as if they had just occurred to him, but in reality it was a thought he'd had more than once this past week.

Before I face Revan. Before I kill her, I have to know. I have to . . .

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Carth found himself in front of the comm terminal.

"FTL transmit," he said to it. "Deralian directory assistance."

The screen wavered, and resolved into a flat holostill, a yellow plain under a red sun. Farmland, simple and clean.

"I grew up on a kissra sheep farm on Derra, that's the biggest continent. We lived in the middle of it. It was boring, and I knew that someday I'd get off that rock. . . . I always knew I'd have this grand destiny and meet a handsome pilot . . ."

"Ah, so you do think I'm handsome! Finally you admit it!"

"And vain," she murmured, staring him down so frankly that he almost wanted to blush. "Let's get this serum back to the doctor. I hope you realize he's gonna pay us in gizka or something equally worthless." She rolled her eyes, but he'd already learned it was more for effect than actual sentiment. "The Exchange guy offered us a better deal but we have to make these sacrifices for the bloody fracking Republic . . ."

"Hey, you signed up to this mission, sister!"

Polla made a face. "I had a head injury, it shouldn't count. It was under duress or something." She smirked.

Try as he could, he couldn't remember the name of the town. Maybe she'd never told him.

Welcome to the Deralian Directory, Sentient. Please type in your request.

Carth's hand shook. Polla Organa, Derran continent.

A stream of names filled the screen. He scrolled down through them, looking for something that would give him a clue.

Polla Organa, Jinnistown, Derra; Polla Organa, Keene, Derra; Polla Organa, Keene, Derra; Polla Organa, Listi Lowen, Derra; Polla Organa, Listi Mall Derra; Polla Organa . . .

The total at the bottom of the search counted 3,865 results. It was a popular name. One of the founders of the original Outlier colony had been named Polla. She'd told him that once.

Mita Organa

There were 402 results.

This is ridiculous, what would you say to her? She probably isn't even there. Why would Polla still be on Deralia? You're chasing a woman who never existed. A woman you've never met.

What would you even say?

But there was that letter. Carth got up suddenly and rummaged through the stack of fan mail. He found it crumpled near the bottom, and unfolded it.

Beya Organa, on Manaan.

"FTL Manaan. Commlink request, Visual transmit."

"Greetings Sentient," a mechanized voice said in Basic.

"Visual request, commlink: Beya Organa."

The screen resolved to an orange-gilled Selkath. "That sentient is in custody, and not available without clearance," the Selkath said. Its translator repeated the words in Basic.

"This is Captain Carth Onasi," His jaw clenched. This was insanity. "Captain Carth Onasi." Just once, let my so-called fame be good for something. Stars, they banned me from the planet once, they must have my voiceprint on file.

There was a long pause, while the Selkath tapped things in the console in front of it, and looked distressed.

"You have clearance, sentient. Please realize that this call is being monitored. The Deralian citizen Beya Organa is currently imprisoned awaiting trial for murder."

For killing Sith -- how can that be a crime? They let us off with a slap on the wrist. And the Sith kill each other all the time. Something stinks about that Manaan trial. Something isn't right.

I don't care. I just want to know . . . know if she's real.

The image resolved into a room, a blue forcefield in the background. The terminal was located in one corner of it, and the woman who appeared in the foreground had her black hair in a Deralian topknot and golden skin. Her eyes were a dark blue that was almost black, and her face was heart-shaped but hard. A soldier's face, with an expression he knew only too well. He saw it in the mirror every morning. Flat and hopeless.

"Captain Carth Onasi?" The edge of her lip curled, incredulous. Off-screen, someone laughed harshly, on the edge of hysteria. Beya's accent was more pronounced than Polla's had ever been. Real Deralian, as flat as farmland. "What d'you want?"

She was, Carth realized, drunker than he was.

"You're Beya Organa," he asked.

"You're Carth Onasi," she said, rolling her eyes. "Yes, and what do you want? Is this about our mutual friend? It's too much to hope you'd be takin an interest in our case . . . hero of the Republic that you are . . ."

"Your aunt -- asked me to look into it," Carth hesitated. He hadn't been thinking about that at all.

Her eyes narrowed. "My aunt?"

"Mita . . ." Auntie Mita.

"She's a cousin, actually, but it figures. She's been writing to everyone. Da's pretty embarrassed about it, so I hear . . . still it's funny . . . the way things work out . . ." she chuckled, but her eyes were hard as stone. "So," she said lightly, "how is old Revvie doin'?"

"Revvie?" It was so unexpected that Carth was confused, as if the name was unfamiliar. It is. I never called her Revvie.

Beya made a face. "Your girlfriend? Stang, someone sure did a number on you, Captain . . . they mindwipe you too? Maybe the rumors are true."

Off-screen someone murmured something in a low voice, in a language he didn't understand. Beya turned her head away and muttered back.

"You know her?" he asked stupidly. Of course she would, she was Sith. All of them, fallen Jedi that Yuthura redeemed if you believe net gossip, or Sith spies if you believe the newsvids.

Beya smiled a hard smile. "Know her? Rev-an. Our Dark Lord of the Sith? The redeemed one? The one who gets off star-bloody free while the rest of us rot with the fish?"

"I didn't call about her," Carth said awkwardly, realizing how this was going to sound. I'm just killing time until she comes here and I can try to kill her. I just want to know if the woman I fell in love with is real. He took a deep breath. "I wanted to ask you about Polla."

She snorted inelegantly and covered her mouth with her hand. It was an almost familiar gesture.

"Polla Organa," he repeated. "She -- she's real, isn't she?"

"I have six cousins named Polla Organa," Beya said. "But I think I know the one you mean. Yeah, she's real. Da says she's real pissed too. Oh, and she just had a baby, it's a boy." She snorted again and rolled her eyes. "You want to send her a present or something, Captain?"

"Is she . . ." Carth's voice trailed off. He wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. Is she happy? Is she well? Married?

Beya frowned at him. "Revan and I were Padawans together. Revan and Malak and I. I got my knighthood and left the Order for a few years, went back home...and when they called for aid against the Mandalorian threat, I came back. I think I've met my cousin Polla about five times in my life. I wouldn't even remember her if I hadn't heard about what happened. What the Jedi did. . . . On the other hand, Revan and I fought together. In the wars. Do you remember the wars, Captain?"

"Both of them," Carth muttered.

"From my perspective it was one long war . . . I suppose I owe you an apology for the part of it where we fought on different sides. Do you want me to say I'm sorry now? Would that make it better?" Her voice was mocking. Carth felt a slow burn of anger. He felt like a fool.

"Look, sister, maybe this was a mistake."

"Mistake?" Her voice cracked. "You could help us, Carth Onasi. Force, you should help us. Make her help us . . . if it wasn't for her we'd be . . ."

"You'd be dead by now, Beya," said a smooth even voice from off-screen. A familiar voice. The last time he'd heard it, he'd been -- no, don't think of Revan in your arms, don't think of the hopes you had. "You'd be dead by now if it wasn't for her. And for me."

Yuthura Ban regarded him, smooth and calm, her violet eyes hard as stones. Only her head tails betrayed her discomfiture, they were curled tightly around her neck. She pushed the Deralian out of the way and sat down at the console.

"So," she said, that expression betraying nothing. "How are you feeling?"

"I-I'm fine," Carth said.

Yuthura frowned at him. "You've looked better. I didn't expect you to call."

I didn't call you; I only wanted to know about Polla. But he couldn't say that, he couldn't just say that.

"How are you?" he asked. It was something to say, meaningless. On trial for your life? In jail on Manaan? How did things go after you abandoned my son in the Coruscanti underground? You gave interviews and joined the Jedi. Did you save these Sith or join them?

The Twi'lek gave him a grim smile. "Holding up. It's not always easy." She took a deep breath. "We should talk . . ." she began.

"Query: Master, are we going home?"

"We're just going for a walk, HK." Or rather a ride.The tube was crowded, and she was smashed against the clumsy silver plates they'd welded over HK's copper chassis. Both of them were sandwiched between two Bithan street musicians and a Duros dressed in a well-cut suit that looked out of place in this part of the tube. There was a strange sense of familiarity to the scene, although she was hard-pressed to imagine the Revan she'd been ever riding public transports.

They were speaking Rakatan. It was the only language she could think of that no one else would understand.

"Tactical Analysis: A well-placed surgical strike into the heart of D'Reev's compound could win us the primary target. But, Master our odds would be better if you'd let me bring more armaments, or some of those Mandalorians. They owe you loyalty and they are efficient fighters, for meatbags."

No. Even if we did succeed, that's exactly what he'd expect. We'd have the entire planet gunning for us. Malachor wouldn't be safe. I can't risk going anywhere near there. Not yet. But -- I want to see -- I have to see . . .

The window behind them was black and she could see her reflection. Straight yellow hair -- garishly yellow and artificial, wide blue eyes and a pouting pink mouth. The lips matched the tight fuchsia jumpsuit, which left so little to the imagination that she'd had to stuff her lightsaber in the matching pink bag, emblazoned with the logo of some fashionable designer. She'd strapped two blasters on her hips, mostly for sentiment. After more than a year of trying to be the marksman that Polla Organa was in her memories, Revan had finally given up.

I used to think it was the head injury that made me not be able to hit a black trawler in a blizzard in front of a thresher door . . . but it's not. It's just that I've never been able to hit anything.

I look ridiculous. I look like the ideal human woman, according to a fourteen-year old Twi'lek girl's taste.

Mission had sent Mekel on shopping expeditions for all of them.

Revan couldn't stop thinking about Zaalbar's words. He told me it was none of my business. Mission and Zaal said it was between them and Dustil. Zaalbar said I had to respect that. His hand killed her, not mine. For a Wookiee it's that simple. They said that Dustil wants me dead. I should go after them. How can I leave them to deal with Dustil alone? I don't even know where they went . . .

But Mekel said that Malak -- Revan closed her eyes. Malak's not a ghost. Only my subconscious, telling me truths I was afraid to face.

"Master? If we are going to the Chancellor's District we need to transfer here."

"Clear us a path -- without shooting or disabling anyone, HK."

Her droid clanked in disappointment, but complied. They transferred to the crosstown tube and got off a few stops later at Chancellor Station.

There was a maildrop next to the tramway. Revan reached inside her purse and pulled out the package she'd prepared. The hastily scrawled address on it made her pause again. The address had been easy to find from the nets. It wasn't one of the better areas of the planet, some part of her remembered. The name on the front made her bite her lip again, made her hand shake.

She dropped the package inside the slot, and it fell with a heavy thunk.

That was stupid, the rational part of her mind said. They'll know I'm here anyways, she answered it. I owe her that much.

You think she'd have wanted that?

It was the right thing to do.

The back of her neck prickled, whether from unease or the odd familiarity of being in a place she knew but couldn't remember, Revan wasn't sure. The walls were tiled in pastel mosaics and they rode the tramway up to groundside. The air here smelled sweet, piped in fragrances. Many of the shops were still open, and richly-dressed sentients milled around. Hovering sublims whispered.

A small discrete billboard in the window of a bank building flashed scenes of Republic warships: Invest in Kuat shipyards and rebuild the Republic. Defeat the Sith threat.

She stopped and stared at the image. It dissolved into a picture of an oribital shipyard; turning slowly above a brown world slashed with white.

Kuat was important. The main shipyards for the Republic Fleet. If we could hold Kuat, we'd have a position in the Core. We could strike Byss and then Alderaan. The way to Coruscant would be clear.

But my Apprentice disobeyed me.

I should never have left him alone, should never have trusted him with such an important task. I should have killed him. We only had one chance to catch them by surprise and he wasted it on an outer-rim backwater, spun me a fable about tests of loyalty. Once alerted, we had no chance of reaching the Core without fighting our way in . . .

But I did it for you, Red. Something brushed against her cheek, like a hand caressing her face. Revan froze. Her purse hit the ground with a clank and she knelt, reaching for it with shaking hands.

You're not here. You're just in my head.

"Master?"

"Citizen, are you ill?" A CoruSec civilian guard touched her arm tentatively. With great effort, Revan quelled the reflex to strike the woman down.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant, stand down," She straightened up, her hand clenched around the 'saber's hilt through the fabric. The words came out before she thought about them, not really the right thing for a Coruscanti pedestrian to say at all, but the girl -- she was barely more than a girl -- complied, reacting automatically to the authority in Revan's voice.

"Come on, Cally, she's probably just tipsy. There's a fine for public intoxication, citizen, please don't loiter in this sector." The green-skinned Twi'lek looked bored, barely glancing at the droid behind her.

"Thanks, I'm okay." The world tilted oddly, everything seemed too bright under the streetlights, lit by a strange glow.

Force. Ripples in a pond. Sink to the bottom and just be a stone.

---

Revan started to walk away, aware that the two guards were trailing her, whispering to themselves. A prickle on the back of her neck, and she realized they weren't the only ones following her.

"HK?"

"Observation: Four humanids wearing stealth generators. The modulation of the frequencies is Mandalorian. Extrapolation: as we discussed, Canderous did not let you venture out unaccompanied. Probable Analysis: They are your escort and are of non-hostile intent. Regrettable. Insubordination among the meatbags of that culture is far too common. I advise you to make an example of one, to show the others it will not be tolerated."

"An order: you are not to harm them. Under any circumstances." Cand' had me followed. I thought he would and I guess I can't blame him. There's more at stake here than just me.

But I'm not going to do anything stupid, damnit.

"Master, I could be wrong. There is a point 0987 percent chance that they may be assassins. I advise you to allow me to eliminate that potential threat. Also, those CoruSec guards are still behind us. Surely, you are not going to tiresomely plead for their lives as well?"

"I don't plead, I tell," Revan snapped. "You forget yourself HK. I've disabled your lethal capacity. Your role is an advisor. You remember this place, I do not. That's why you're here."

If they'd gone the other direction they would have passed the Jedi Temple, and beyond that the Galactic Senate. But this road looped into a residential district, full of expensive towering high-rises and exclusive shops.

"Compliance: Yes, Master. In addition to my extensive assassination programs, I also have been most fortunately programmed as a protocol droid. Running subroutine: Tour Guide." Only HK could make those words drip with sarcasm. In Rakatan.

"To your right is a renowned Rylothan dressmaker. When I was owned by Senator Thomasi, he had me eliminate one of his opponents in that store. The rival senator was in the dressing room, attempting to squeeze her bulk into an eridu evening gown three sizes too small. I used a small and extremely cunning poison grenade to knock her out, and then garroted her with the gown's scarf. Rather fortunately, this action was observed by the shop's staff and I was forced to eliminate them as well. It appears that the Rylothan has hired new staff since then. Would you like to go shopping?"

"No, not really."

"On your left is a grocery frequented by several senators' kitchen staffs. On yet another assignment for the Senator, I injected a slow-acting neurotoxin into several stuffed pomatos that had been set on reserve for a rival's dinner party. I managed to eliminate not only the primary target and his immediate family, but also the ambassador to Alderaan and a member of the Jedi Council who had been invited at the last minute. The neurotoxin acts directly on the cerebellum of most sentient races. A slow and painful death. Although I did not get to witness it, I have imagined it many times."

"You know, for an assassin droid, HK, you're not very subtle."

"Statement: You did not program me to be subtle, Lord Revan."

Even in Rakatan, the word 'Revan' was still 'Revan'. It made her shiver. A passing Durosian couple gave her an odd glance, but continued on. She looked behind them nervously. The CoruSec guards were now walking in the other direction, much to her relief.

"Expression of Appreciation: Thank you for bringing me, Master. It pleases me no end to revisit a place that holds such fond memories. The glittering lights of Coruscant are just as I remembered."

"Do you remember anything from when you lived here with me, HK?" 100 Thanos 3," he'd said. "Master, are we going home?"

"Regrettably those memories were erased. Still, the destination is programmed as 'home' in my central core."

"Is it in mine?" Revan mumbled the words to herself, but HK answered her anyway.

"Clarification: Was that a question, Lord Revan, or are you having another emotional disturbance? Do you think you might become violent?" Only HK could make that question sound so hopeful.

The strolled past a sidewalk cafe where three young Jedi dressed in padawan beige were sipping caffa. She felt their clumsy Force presences wash over her like waves on the sand. They did not react. Good, I'm in control. One of them whistled appreciatively as she walked by, and underneath the holomask, Revan blushed, suddenly aware again how tight the coverall she was wearing really was.

I didn't think Jedi were allowed to ogle. Bastila said --

Jedi are sents just like anyone, Red. In the old days, they loved and married and had children and lived among their people, just like everyone else. No one ever told Nomi and Ulic not to fall in love, or go to war . . .

Almost a voice, soft in her ear.

It's not real. He's not here, my mind plays tricks.

The tables blurred, and a girl in Padawan beige kissed a boy dressed in the same. Her loose hair was a flame down her back.

"Do you want the whole planet to find out about us?"

"I want the whole galaxy to know how much I love you, Mal."

"Keep carrying on like this and the whole galaxy will know." Their companion, a golden-skinned girl with black hair in a Deralian topknot wore a Knight's robes. She rolled her eyes.

"Frack the galaxy," Malak said. "We leave for Malachor tomorrow with Vrook and we'll be cooped up on a ship for weeks."

"We'll have to find some way of entertaining ourselves," the red-haired girl giggled.

"I'm going to find Davad and 'Tina," the Deralian said, getting up from the table. "I'll leave you two alone. . . . if I don't see you before you leave, good luck and may the Force guide you."

"May the Force keep us from getting sand in places there should be no sand," Revan said. "From what I've read about Mandalore, that will be the real test of our knighthood."

"Master? This seems an inadvisable place to stop."

"Yeah -- yes." Revan made her feet move. The Padawans behind them were talking and laughing, different Padawans, none of them red-haired or Deralian -- or -- or Malak.

Malak.

Listen to me, Red, why won't you listen to me?

"Because you're not real," she muttered out loud.

"Master?"

"Because you're dead. Because I killed you. Because I --"

The building was slim and silver and white. New construction, luxury conapts. There'd been a feature for Coruscanti Style on Captain Carth Onasi's new quarters. Of course they didn't publish the address, but it had been easy to extrapolate with a map of the sector. And--D'Reev owned the building. It seemed fairly obvious this was where Carth would be.

She stopped in front of it and stared. I don't know the floor. And this is a trap. This is D'Reev's trap. I had to see but I know. This is a trap.

"Observation: My sensors detect several hidden cameras equipped with retinal and brain scanning devices. If you move another meter forward you will trigger them. In addition, those ports on the side of the doorway could contain hidden sentry droids, or explosives. The doorman inside is Echani by his stance, and I am reading several life-signs behind him, concealed by that tinted ferraglass partition."

"We expected this." Revan took a few steps back, and felt the prickles at the back of her neck again, as her hidden escort followed her lead. "They'll let us in, but we'll never come out."

"Proud Approval: Your analysis of the situation is as always, commendable for a meatbag. However, I am sure we could overcome these obstacles, although practically it would be better if we had more weapons. Perhaps the Mandalorians that are stalking us have some we could borrow?"

"A terminal," she muttered. "Maybe I can call him or --"

"Imprudent, Master."

"I'm not an idiot, I wouldn't tell him I was me. If there was some way I could lure him outside, talk to him -- if I could only talk to him . . . see him . . ."

"Are you a fangirl too?" The voice behind her was young and spoke Basic. Revan whirled around to see a pair of tweener girls, wearing matching lavender outfits cut similarly to her own. A modified Republic uniform, she realized, seeing it on someone else.

"You're out late," one of them said. "Usually he stays inside after nineteen hundred, but sometimes he goes for walks. He always looks so sad . . ." She sighed. Her hair was dyed bright red, and she'd lined her eyes with so much liner that they looked bruised.

"Leesa has five autoprints already, I just want one," her companion said. Her hair was an artificial black and pulled up in an imitation of a topknot. She wore a red visor over her face.

I'm dressed like them. Maybe this isn't just bad Twi'lek taste after all. Maybe it's fashion.

"Have you seen his son? Dustil's totally dreamy," the redhead giggled.

"This is the right building, then. Do you . . . know the floor?" Revan asked, trying to young and casual.

"Seventy-three, but security won't let you anywhere near. Trust me, we've tried everything. Yesterday we pretended to be delivering flowers. And the day before that, Aramis tried to get her father to let us come to the Telos talks, so we could see him . . ."

"Yeah, well, Dads said no," the black-haired girl sulked.

"Haven't seen you around before, you from the Uni? You look kinda older . . ."

"Um, yes. The Uni." Revan tried to think of what that could be.

The University of Coruscant. Damnit, Red. Listen to me, you have to listen to me!

Angrily she pushed back with the Force. "You're dead," she whispered.

"Excuse me?"

Somewhere a child was crying. Not very far away. Shhh, Mal, it's okay, I'm here. She'll come, I promise you, she'll come . . . what are you planning, Red? Please talk to me, Revan.

"M-Malak . . ."

"You like Malak, too?" The black-haired girl made a face. "Wow. Usually, it's like, Carth or Malak. Although my mom thinks Canderous . . . but you know, she's old and stuff. Malak's kind of creepy, but have you seen the Coruscanti Underground version? My younger sister thinks Malak's cool, but she's only eight and she's just an Eg. Besides her best friend's -- well, uh . . ."

The red-haired girl poked her friend hard.

Revan tried to collect her scattered thoughts and translate them, apply something that they were saying to her present situation. Eg, what's an Eg?

Eglatine. I was one. Malachor is one. Red, listen to me!

"Malachor," Revan whispered.

The redhead paled beneath her tan. "You shouldn't say stuff like that out loud, I mean we don't even say stuff like that. Who are you? You never did say . . ."

She pulled the Force back inside herself and tried to look perfectly harmless. "N-no one."

"Hey!" The redhead pulled her friend's arm and pointed. "Is that him?"

A man wearing a battered orange jacket and a heavy visor over his face stood in the building lobby arguing with the attendant. His hair was cut short, brutally short to her eyes, and streaked with gray at the temples that hadn't been there a few weeks before. His broad shoulders were hunched and his pants hung slightly loose as if he'd lost weight since they were fitted.

"Don't be silly, he always wears his Fleet uniform. That's some kind of janitor or something."

"But the jacket . . ."

"Everybody has jackets like that now, and that's so six-months ago Star Forge. No, that's not him."

There was a rip in the sleeve of the leather that had been patched with a careful cross-stitch of yellow thread. A rip from a vibroblade back on Taris. One of the Vulkars. The seam was coming undone a little.

"You look sort of cute, sewing up my clothes. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you."

"Don't expect me to make a habit of it, flyboy. I just don't want the Sith to pick you up as a transient."

Revan stood and watched him, her heart in her throat. He was armed, she noted, shiny and unfamiliar blasters at his side. They looked expensive and dangerous.

Her hands brushed the pair she wore on her hips. The ones he'd left behind.

Whatever the guard said didn't please him. Carth came out of the building, walking towards them. The visor hid almost everything but his mouth. It was white-lipped, and every line of his body was tense.

"I think it's him."

"It's not him, he looks totally better than that!"

He walked past, barely giving them a second glance.

Revan closed her eyes and then opened them again, willing herself not to move. This was madness. She watched numbly as the red-haired girl ran up to him to ask for an autoprint, watched him flinch and shake his head and walk away fast. He was in a hurry; she could see it in his long strides, the tension in every part of his body. He was halfway down the block before she let herself whisper his name.

"Carth."

The black-haired girl was still standing beside her. "You've got it bad, wow. I mean he's cute and everything, but you're like, shaking."

Revan tried to give her a noncommittal smile. "Am I?" She motioned to the droid and they began to follow.

"Happy Affirmation: Master, I am so pleased you brought me with you to stalk your target. The pilot deserves punishments for his betrayal. I hope you will let me assist you."

"No punishments, HK," she said quietly.

There was a light mist in the air that smelled sweet, like night-blooming flowers, piped in from the atmospheric generators overhead. The street gleamed in the overheads, set with crushed crystal that caught reflections and sparkled. Magical Coruscanti nights . . .

His strong arms caught her from behind and his lips nuzzled her neck. "Red, we should go back to the party, my father will wonder where we've wandered off to."

"All right, Mal -- take me home . . ." The white hem of her gown swished against her bare legs, and his hand enfolded her arm. She was a little tipsy from the champa, and she leaned against him.

Revan. Listen to me.

You're not real, Malak. You're not here.

Carth was halfway down the block just ahead of them. Revan wondered what he'd see, if he turned around. She quickened her step, it was important to keep him in her sights. She knew where he was going.

He's going to see my father. Dustil was supposed to come for dinner and he didn't arrive. The old man's on alert, Red, you shouldn't do this, it's not safe.

"Why did you bomb Telos, Malak?" Her girl's voice giggled the words, made them a joke, but it seemed to Revan that she'd asked the question in an entirely different tone, once. "Do you know how much you cost me? The Sith almost fell apart because of my Apprentice's clumsy mistake. Do you know how much it cost me to let you live? They were like a pack of drajak at my heels, snapping, watching for me to fall. . . ."

His lips nuzzled her ear. They felt cold, like the steel plate of his jaw. "I wanted things to fall apart, Red."

"It's too late, Malak." The holomask felt like cold metal against her lips, amplifying her breathing to a harsh hissing sound in her ears, or was that the thrum of her 'saber? She gripped the hilt harder, frowning at the pink fabric that concealed it.

That isn't right.

Talk to me, Red. What are you planning?

Carth was just ahead of them, disappearing into a towering building of blue and gold metal and glass. The guards stationed at the entrance nodded at him as if he was expected.

He is.

"Statement: Master, the defenses ahead of us are more fortified than they appear. I detect a stasis field generator at the front desk, and retinal scanners within twenty paces of our current location. I would advise you to begin aggressive maneuvers now. The complex of Thanos 3 is designed like the hulls of several starships, built on top of each other so that each compartment can be self-contained. During our assault, at any time our enemies will have the capacity to seal off the levels above and below. We are not presently equipped with any tools to breech these hulls."

I could use the Force. . . .

Revan felt it ripple around them, like a slow still lake.

He opened the balcony doors and walked outside, the forcefield was a faint silver gleam to keep him from falling off and going splat. Downbelow everyone was little, like tiny bugs. His eyes were sore from crying so much, but at least Grandfather was leaving him alone now, wondering where Dustil got to. He leaned against the forcefield. It made his fingers tingle, and he looked down.

Her eyes were looking up, under a mask. He waved.

A small hand in her hand, and gray eyes looking into hers. Red lashes wet against her cheek. Then the feel of him in her arms. Solid, secure, safe. His thoughts weren't words, just emotions, so much hope in them she could die from it.

An armored hand grabbed her wrist and Revan screamed.

"Miss, are you all right?" From her other side, two CoruSec guards approached, hands on their blasters.

Revan jerked her head, staring at the suit of Mandalorian battle armor that had appeared beside her out of nowhere. HK seemed completely unruffled. "I-I'm fine," she whispered.

The suit of battle armor patted her arm awkwardly, trying to gentle a nervous hessi with a quarter ton of durasteel. "Time to go," Canderous' voice said.

"I-I'm fine," Revan said again to the guards. "My . . . escort startled me is all."

"Apologies, Citizen, but there's no loitering here . . ." The Trandoshan guard frowned his brow ridge at them, skin flushing a dubious brown. "I'm afraid I will need to see some idchips. Security in this sector is very high at the moment."

His companion was eyeing the Mandalorian, with suspicion that could only too easily turn into something else. Revan felt the prickle of movement behind them, as if her unseen escort was moving into some kind of formation.

"You don't need to see our idchips." She kept the words soft, and felt them almost bounce back -- resistant, they've been trained -- but Revan pushed harder, and their minds bent.

"We don't need to see your idchips," the Trandoshan nodded, unhappily. His human companion was frowning.

This is good because we have none. Her hands moved nervously on her absurd pink purse.

"Have a nice evening," Canderous said gruffly to the guards and pulled her away, walking briskly.

No words, but an emotion like hope, it hurt so much she wanted to scream.

"I love you Malachor, I'll be with you soon. I promise."

The small hand slipped away from hers, and she was crying under her mask. The lie felt thick in her throat. We can never come back, not after what we've done.

The old man laughed. "Did you think to disappoint me, my son?"

Her own voice, cold as stars. "We'll see you in ashes, Malachi."

A block away, there was a parking garage, it's squat structure at odds with the architecture around it. They entered the gates and behind them, stealth fields dissolved.

"You didn't have to follow us, Father." Millifar's voice sounded disgusted. She and the three boys with her were all clad in nondescript black coveralls, and armed with rifles.

Canderous turned around. His voice sounded amused. "You did well, all of you. I was not disturbing your hunt; I just . . . wanted some night air."

The girl snorted. "We were doing just fine!"

"A tracking device," Revan made her voice cold. It brought her back to herself. She crossed her arms and tried to make the gesture look authoritative, instead of like a shiver. "Where'd you put it?"

Canderous chuckled. "We're not going to tell you."

"I wasn't going to do anything stupid." Probably.

"The computer said the odds were twenty-two-to-one that you might," his tone was so light she couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "Look --" even though the garage was empty he was careful not to say her name -- "we thought you needed the chance to . . . see this place. Or do whatever you needed to do. But that doesn't mean we'd let you throw your life away."

"I wasn't going to storm the gates -- I know it's a trap, I just wanted to see . . ."

"And you saw." Canderous patted her arm again, a gesture made even clumsier by the full body armor. They'd reached a small nondescript speeder. It was a tight fit, but they all clambered in. Millifar took the controls and eased the vehicle down the ramp way. A mechanized machine at the docking bay scanned the seal on the windshield and beeped. The garage doors opened and they spun into the Coruscanti night.

"There's an irony in this," Revan said quietly, sandwiched between Canderous and his daughter. The night wind rippled through her hair, it was cool on her face. In the back seat the boys stirred restlessly, whispering. HK sat, implacable and sulking in their midst.

No one answered her. Irony was not a Mandalorian trait.

"Your people destroyed everything that I could have been." She kept her voice small, speaking almost to herself, let the words be lost on the wind, but Canderous heard them anyways.

He laughed. "I could say the same about you, Revan." He patted her arm again. "And so could your pilot. But what do you want to do about that now?"

XXX