Memory / Chapter 19 / The Return of the Sith

'Hey there, Mekk-who's your big hairy friend?' Katti Base purred at him, dangling from the gilded cage hanging over the round doorway, and flicked his face insubstantially with her tail. The lurid pink holosign flashed overhead, painting her striped fur in vivid relief and bathing them all in flashing neon lights. Mom's. Brothel. Open.

He knew it was Katti because she always flirted with him, but the Cathar holosuit covered her from head to toe. Those weren't cheap. Moms had come up in the world. Of course, real Cathars didn't have tails, but never let it be said that Moms lacked imagination.

-- Don't take this the wrong way, Mekel Jin, but your mother's brothel gives me the creeps. --

Mekel sighed. Mission sounded oddly subdued. Zaalbar growled something at them, but it must not have been important, because Mission didn't bother to respond or translate. The growl sounded like disgust.

It may be gross, but it's the only place I have an edge over Dustil.

I hope.

'We're expecting someone in about an hour, Katti. You remember my friend Dusty?'

'Heh. You mean Dustil Onasi?' Katti winked. 'I saw the newsvid interview with his father . . . you granslug, you never told me your little friend Dusty was the savior of the galaxy's son! He looks just like his father too.' She sighed, dreamy. Her eyes were glassy with glitterstim and she kept talking, really fast. 'There's a picture of them in the Subterranean Star eating at Madoo's with some Fleet brass. Dustil's all in black and looking so broody . . . mmm he looks good in person too, cleaned up rrreal nice.' Katta gave him a once over, taking in the bandaged hand, swollen lip, and gray coverall that he wore underneath the long banthahide jacket. 'Unlike some people . . ."

Great. Dustil's rich, famous and better-looking than me. And stronger in the Force . . . The jealousy was automatic. Mekel tried not to think about it too hard.

'Looks good in person?' Mission interrupted. Her lights flashed red. 'Is Dustil here already?'

Katti blinked at the T3. 'It's a talking droid!' Some vague idea seemed to percolate behind her glazed yellow eyes. 'Is that a T3? Hey Mekk! Why're you meeting Carth Onasi's son with . . . a Wookiee and a T3?'

'I'm not a T3,' Mission said, coolly. 'You must be mistaken, Cathar.'

Katti giggled. 'I'm not a real Cathar, silly!' She turned back to Mekel, dangling her legs down through the slats of the cage and kicking her feet. Her shoes were high-heeled and red.

'Yeah, he's here, Mekk. Your moms gave him the Starbuckler's suite. Didn't want any company though.' She blinked slowly, as if another idea had occurred to her. 'Oh. Is that why you brought the Wookiee?'

Zaalbar groaned. It sounded like quiet outrage.

'Later, Katti, have fun, good tricks.' Mekel pushed open the swinging doors and walked inside. If they were lucky they could get past the bouncers and up to the suite before Moms asked him for the credits.

The Gamorrean goons waved them all through, but then their luck ran out.

'Well, well, well. Look what came in with the tide.'

'Moms. Hi.' Mekel dug into his pocket, fishing for the credits Zaalbar had given him, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach he always got seeing her.

Deeka Jin had been a common street treat when he left for Korriban, but she'd come up in the world since then, and her tastes with her. Her once-thin frame was padded sleek, and she wore a silver mesh dress that highlighted more than it concealed. Mekel winced and dutifully kissed her rouged cheek, pressing the credits into her outstretched hand. She had feathers in her black hair and her eyes were sharp and alert.

'So, Dusty's already here?' he began cautiously.

'So, Dusty's already here?' she mimicked, echoing the patrician tones he'd taught himself long ago when he was finally given the means to climb out of this hell. ''Dusty' is Dustil Onasi! Why didn't you tell me that whelp was worth something when the two of you came trawling in here looking like schuttas from the sewers?' Her eyes narrowed as she took in his companions, and her plucked and artificially blue eyebrows rose. 'Where'd you find the Wookiee, Mekel . . . '

'Just hired muscle.' Mekel tried to keep his voice bland. She snorted at him, not fooled for a second. Her eyes passed over Mission's chassis as well. Moms fingered her chin thoughtfully.

"Come up in the world, have we, son?" He could see the gears turning like credit chips behind her flat black eyes. "You might consider sharing some of it with your old Moms . . . the Jedi have been around twice, looking for you. It breaks my heart to tell them they have the wrong Moms, and that I have no son at all . . . '

'Has anyone else looked for me?' His bandaged hand ached.

'Who were you expecting?' She gave him her mercenary smile, and her gold tooth glittered.

'CoruSec.'

'No.' Moms frowned. 'Should they be?'

-- That was dumb, Mekel Jin. Your mother seems like the type to turn us in. --

She wouldn't want trouble with CoruSec either . . . He couldn't come out and say it though, not even as a whisper. "It's fine," he said out loud. "Look, we'll be going upstairs now, I'll see you, Moms -- afterwards?"

Her attention appeared to be distracted by the two Fleet uniforms that had pushed in behind him, but Mekel wasn't fooled. She really hadn't changed much since the old days when she'd worked curbside and he'd waited for her on Beggar's Row. He hoped she wouldn't offer him a job working here again.

"Make sure to stop by the office before you leave, honeygizka, there are some things we have to talk about . . . "

I'm sure that there are. But facing down Moms and her Exchange goons will be cake compared to raging Telos angst boy.

"Let me go in first," Mekel whispered to Blue and Zaalbar as they climbed the stairs to the Starbuckler's suite. "He's going to try something and I can stop it."

The Wookiee groaned something like a protest.

Mission growled back at him. -- Yeah okay, but don't hurt him, Mekel Jin. --

"Right," Mekel said. Dustil's mind brushed against his, like a knotted spring of rage and hate and power. And I'll try not to die too.

Dustil sat on the slick synthhide couch, as that seemed preferable to sitting on the large star-shaped bed. The suite was small and dingy, and he'd dimmed the lights, casting all of it in shadow. He'd gotten here two hours early and he'd fixed his eyes on the door ever since. His good hand kept twitching on the blaster he carried and he wished he had his 'saber. His left hand still hurt, a persistent throb in tempo with his pulse and his anger.

When he let his mind drift he could catch glimpses of Mekel's presence, but Dustil didn't push too hard. This would be easier if Mekel was off-guard when he came in. Finally, he heard footsteps and the clack of something metal coming up the stairs. Mekel's mind poked at his tentatively, like testing a minefield.

Are you going to play nice, Telos? Or will this be a scene like with the Echani sword dancer?

"I'll play nice," Dustil hissed out loud.

The door opened and a yellow beam of light ignited, bisected by Mekel's hands. It lit his face from below, casting his features into shifting shadows. Dustil watched his stance carefully. Mekel was a better fighter than he was, but he looked uncertain with the double blade.

"Nice 'saber," Dustil said, winding his thoughts for a strike. The Force sang around him, like a rush of power. Sweeter than a kiss.

"It was Bastila Shan's," Mekel answered. Behind him, still hidden by the door something growled. Something else beeped.

That thing's here with him. The droid.

Dustil coiled his mind like a spring and pushed.

Mekel staggered a little, but kept moving into the room.

Dustil called the lightning and the air built like a slow sweet charge. Mekel bared his teeth, like a challenge. Dustil raised his hand and the blue flame crackled, he sent it into the other boy's body, watched him jerk and twitch and the 'saber fell from Mekel's nerveless hands onto the floor, hissing and burning the dingy carpet. Dustil felt the other boy's pulse in his chest stagger, smelled something like singed hair.

The walls between them began to crumble.

"It's okay, Blue," Mekel whispered, voice hoarse. "I'm fine . . . "

And then the loop fed back into Dustil's own mind and it hurt, it hurt more than anything he'd ever felt before, more than any Korriban punishment because it wasn't just the pain in his own body, it was Mekel's pain too.

Enraged he pushed harder, and the world tilted into a red haze. He'd fallen on the floor somehow, gasping and twitching just like Mekel. But he couldn't sense the other boy's thoughts. There were no thoughts, only the burning pain, it felt like the blood was boiling in his veins. The carpet smoldered and burned. He hoped it was the carpet. It smelled like scorched hair and skin.

I don't want to die like this. . . Dustil wasn't sure if it was his thought or Mekel's. Don't . . . want..to . . . die like this . . . It was hard to breathe and his vision blurred. Dustil pulled back, pulled away. Stop it, stop this . . .

The Force guttered and died. They both lay on the floor gasping for breath, the yellow particle blade scorching the carpet between them.

"I-I . . . thought we'd . . . have it out with 'sabers," Mekel whispered. His lips looked blue in the dim light, and his eyes were like black pits against white skin. His hand shook and he twisted his fingers. The 'saber on the floor deactivated with a click. Around it, the carpet smoldered.

"I lost mine," Dustil's mouth was dry and his chest burned. Painfully he felt his pulse return to something like normal.

The door opened the rest of the way and a Wookiee and a T3 droid came into room.

"You have got to be the most pathetic excuse for a Sithboy that I've seen, you asshole," the droid said.

"If you've caused any permanent damage to Mekel Jin, I'll flay the flesh from your bones," it added in a different voice, words crisp and decisive and threatening.

The Wookiee started growling, a whole string of words in a language he didn't understand.

On Kashyyyk the natives speak Shyriiwook. They are a peaceful, forest-dwelling race, with an agrarian society based on harvesting the bounty of their arboreal planet . . .

Lessons from civics class on Telos. Xenosociology 102.

"You're Zaalbar, the one that killed Mission," Dustil said accusingly to the Wookiee. His voice was a croak. He tried to sit up, but his limbs wouldn't let him.

The carpet was burning. The T3 spat out a stream of white foam from one of its jets and the fire died out. The Wookiee waved his arms in the air and gesticulated at the droid.

"Okay, okay, Big Z -- I'll translate. Geez. Don't you think I should get to talk to him first?"

The Wookiee barked something that sounded like a negative.

"Sheesh, I mean he was my friend!"

"You're not Mission Vao," Dustil snapped, trying to get his arms to work again. His hand was killing him. Mekel had the trace of a smug smile on his face. He wanted to wipe it off and grind it into the dirt.

The T3 beeped, and the lights on its top flashed blue.

"I'm the closest thing left! You nerf-herding stupid piece of bantha . . . turd! I knew you for like a month, and you get all sithy again over me? And how could you be such a fracking idiot that day in the Library anyways? Why didn't you just run away? I arranged a perfectly good distraction and you just stood there blinking like a tach in the overlights!"

"A distraction?" Dustil frowned.

"Nevermind."

The Wookiee made more gestures with his paws. They looked threatening, and the T3 rolled back into the corner of the room. Zaalbar stood over him, barking. His brown animal eyes were soft and sad. Dustil scrambled to his feet, willing his numb legs to hold him up again. The Wookiee was huge, he'd never realized how huge he was the few times they'd met on Korriban.

"Translation," the T3 said in a different voice. A mechanized one, like you'd hear over a commlink making public announcements, or on the newsvids. "It was my blade that slew Mission Vao, and it is my debt. But the dead are dead, son-of-Carth, and you are only a small cub. When the leaves fall in winter, or the hunter misses his mark and is eaten by the kinrath, we mourn, but we help the living. We prune the dead wood and the other trees grow. Your father and Revan's cub need our assistance. The Mission-ghost is not the one that we loved, but she has her memories-"

"-- I think of myself as Mission," the T3 said in Mission's voice, interrupting its own translation. The blue lights flashed.

Zaalbar shook his furred head slowly and groaned. Behind him, Mekel was getting slowly to his feet, his face pale and covered with a light sheen of sweat. Dustil could feel every ache in the other boy's body. He pushed at Mekel's mind again, hoping to catch him off guard. Mekel flinched and sat back down heavily on the floor.

You suck, Telos.

This was all a distraction. Dustil wanted to get what he'd come for. He wanted to know where Revan was. So he could make her pay.

You . . . fracking . . . idiot . . . .Do you think you'd last two seconds against her? You know who she was. You know how powerful she is. Mekel was in so much pain it was hurting him to think. There was a power in that too.

Show me. Dustil pushed harder.

"'My fleas are your fleas, my hunt is your hunt, your tree is my tree.' Mission Vao is dead, but the cub she was learned this poem from me. She thought of you as part of our family, and when you were both older she hoped that one day the two of you would mate --"

"Whoa, slow down. I never said 'mate' -- I just said I thought he was cute!" It was Mission's voice, coming from the T3's chassis. "I mean of course he was part of our family, 'cause Carth and Polla-Revan were like, practically married and stuff, with all of their 'we-have-to-lock-the-cockpit-doors-because-they-slide-open-during-hyperspace-jumps-and-someone-might-get-hurt--but I mean, I just had a crush, I thought he was cute! It wasn't major!"

The Wookiee waved his hands and growled.

"Fine. Whatever. Big Z says I loved you, Dustil Onasi." The T3 whirred to itself.

Dustil closed his eyes and tried to focus. He felt Mekel trying to draw strength, felt it slipping through the other boy's fingers, felt Mekel's pulse grow thready and weak, felt his breath falter. He pushed harder. Mekel's thoughts scattered like leaves before his assault--and he reached to catch them but what he found made no sense.

The big star is the Serrano system, and that's Wayland and Bandomeer, twin worlds in its orbit. Twin worlds line the gate to the Hydian Way. When we get to Junction Station we'll stop for supplies. You'll have to go . . . get -- more kolto -- I cannot be seen here. Not yet. Not far away is Dathomir, which has its own version of Force-users, witch women who call it 'magic' but who only scratch the surface of true power. I-I studied them for a time -- before -- when I was, when I was one of the Jedi . . .

Mekel?

The Sith are only a tool she keeps saying, only a tool to achieve our true purpose, but we've changed. My father always said that power corrupts but he never tasted true power, true glory. My father plays games in the ballroom with Coruscanti politicians and makes worlds burn for the sake of his sport. We'll make worlds burn to stop it. Sometimes I ask myself if there's a difference.

Mekel? Dustil pushed harder.

She said think of something else to keep him out, think of languages but I can't concentrate, I try and think of Him, but he never answers me. He called me insignificant, a pawn, a tool, grist for the machine, but it's better here and she said she used to crack her skull on the bulkheads to keep Bastila Shan out of her head . . . She's Revan and I'm nothing and don't talk to me Blue, it hurts, I can feel it in my spine--and I can't keep Dustil out of my head -- he's stronger -- he's stronger than I am and--I can't do this, I'm weak, I'm too weak and. . . Dathomir, and after Junction Station comes Toprawa, and then Thule. On Thule, they'll recognize me as their Lord, but not their Master -- she says it must always be like this: always a Master and Apprentice, it is the way of the Sith. And then Korriban, where they will teach you, Mekel Jin. Coruscanti son, little killer. We'll teach you to kill for a cause instead of bread, teach you to harness power and make worlds burn . . .

"Stop it, Telos!" Mekel yelled out loud. Get out of my head, getoutofmyhead . . . The other boy's thoughts disintegrated into a soundless scream.

"Hey! What the frack are you doing to Mekel, Dustil? Stop it! You're killing him!" The droid's fake voice sounded frightened. The T3 had blasters in its appendages and the Wookiee growled and moved closer, his hand on the hilt of one of his swords.

He couldn't focus on two things at once; Dustil released his grip on Mekel's mind and reached for his own gun.

"Frack . . . you . . . Telos." Mekel took a deep shuddering breath and poured the pain back through their bond like a whiplash. "Mission . . . cares . . . about . . . you--how can you be so fracking dense? At least your father has . . . excuses . . . he's brainwashed . . . you're . . . just an idiot."

Dustil's concentration splintered. The blaster fell on the ground. The Wookiee growled, and the computer was rattling at it in Shyriiwook.

"How can you live with what you did? How can you let her live after what she made you do?" Dustil yelled at Zaalbar.

The Wookiee groaned a response.

"He says they were both madclaw and since they did not die of it they must let the dead be dead. He says you should understand. We watched you, at the Academy. And Polla-Revan asked around. What about those prospective students you half-fried, Dustil?" It was Mission's voice coming out of that thing. If he closed his eyes he'd think it was her.

"Some of the stuff I did, Blue -- wasn't very nice. Maybe we wouldn't be friends if you knew."

Her head tails twitched and she looked at him with those big round eyes. "Then don't do them anymore," she said. "Don't be Sithboy."

Mission made it sound that simple. And I believed her. But now she's dead.

"W-what . . . about . . . Erimac . . . Dustil?" Mekel whispered. There was a faint smile on his lips, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position again. The effort made him cough, and Dustil felt it too, like an ache in his lungs.

"You were worse than me!" Dustil shot back. Mekel had been worse than him. They were weak. I had to kill them to get prestige. If I didn't get prestige someone would kill me.

"Yeah . . . I . . . I'm not the one t-trying to m-make excuses now. W-why don't you tell Blue how you won your 'saber? T-that was a real f-fair fight wasn't it?" Mekel's teeth were chattering and his lips looked purple. The T-3 rolled over to him and an appendage shot out. There was the hiss of a kolto pack unsealed and Mekel jerked as the injection stung his arm.

"D-don't waste that, Blue," he whispered. "I'm f-fine . . . " His fingers scrabbled at the high neck of his shirt and he unbuckled it. There was a collar around his neck and he pulled at it as if it burned.

In Dreshdae, lightsabers weren't constructed, they were won. And it was easy to get one, all you had to do was kill someone that had one and take it.

Of course, the harder they were to kill, the more prestige for the act. Erimac was the best duelists in school. Dustil could never hope to beat him in a fair fight. But it was child's play to convince three out-of-work Iridonian mercs in the cantina that shooting a Sith student was their best chance of getting hired to work security detail.

All Dustil had to do was pick it up off the cooling corpse. The mercs got jobs too. In the dueling room. He picked one of them out of the cages later himself.

"That wasn't the same. If I hadn't someone would have killed me!"

"You know I helped with Selene," Mekel shot back. "We don't talk about it, but you've been in my mind, you know I did. Master Uthar told me get her into the caves and I was with Lashowe when she killed her." He smiled crookedly. "I watched."

One of those things we don't talk about. Ever. Like why four months ago we got jobs in Lusha's cantina, because killing was all we knew how to do, and it scared us to like it so much. It felt like madness. It felt good, it felt like power.

"I took her into the caves," Mekel went on, his face twisted, lips white with anger. "I told her we'd go looking for artifacts. She thought I wanted to get in her pants, but she came with me, Telos. Maybe she thought I was hot. Lashowe was waiting for us there. We split the merit points."

The anger was like a fire. Like flames burning around them. He could practically see Mekel twisting in agony again on the floor, and feel the pain again himself. I'd kill us both. Dustil clenched his fists.

"Revan destroyed worlds," he said, keeping it in check. "How can you compare what we did to that?"

"You want her dead for the life of one Twi'lek, how can you be such a fracking hypocrite?"

"I loved her!"

"I'm right here," the T3 said, its voice subdued.

The Wookiee groaned again, waving his arms.

---

"Your grandfather said I might find you out here." Carth kept his voice light and careful, trying to bury the worry that gnawed at him. Dustil just ran off to get drunk or something. Do whatever it is that boys do. It doesn't mean he went after Revan . . . he-he could be anywhere. When I was his age I stayed out once until dawn and my parents grounded me for a month . . .

Malachor turned and looked at him, his mouth round with surprise. When he'd come in the child had been leaning up against the forcefield that surrounded the balcony, whispering to himself. The Senator said the child had been upset at school. He was worried about him. The old man was busy and distracted, and he'd asked Carth to look in on his grandson.

"He looks up to you, Captain Onasi. If you could speak with him again? He won't talk to me. And get him to come off that balcony before he catches a chill."

D'Reev had been very comforting about Dustil.

"Boys will be boys, Captain. And I'm sure it's not . . . her. There's been no sign of her, no sign at all." His lips curled in an embarrassed smile. "Just that little incident with Seriina at the ports. Seriina is rather upset with me, we're friends, you know."

The night air wasn't cold, the atmospherics took care of that, but the boy was shivering. Carth wrapped the blanket he'd brought with him around the small shoulders.

"I was . . . I was just standing out here," Malachor said. "Sometimes you can look down and see people. I saw a lady in pink." He wiped his nose. His eyes were still red from where he'd been crying.

Carth looked over the edge of the balcony. From this height the pedestrians were specks. You couldn't tell what they were wearing at all.

"He cried all afternoon, when the derm wore off," the Senator said. "I feel so helpless when he cries."

"Do you want to go inside, Korrie? We could get you some hot choca."

The boy shook his head. His eyes were very wide, and he frowned, biting his lip. "Captain Onasi, if I ask you something will you tell me the truth?"

Morgana and I always prided ourselves on telling Dustil the truth. But he's eight, Malachor's eight.

"Sometimes the truth hurts, Korrie." Carth knelt down and took the boy's hands in his own, trying to dull the ache in his throat. He blinked his eyes.

The child swallowed. "There's a lot of stuff I don't understand. Because it's bad. Bad stuff that they did." His eyebrows wrinkled. "I guess it's sort of like Grandfather and the Senate. Sometimes he does bad stuff too, because he can. Because he thinks he has to . . . "

"Your grandfather just wants to protect you." What can I say to him?

Malachor bit his lip. "Y-you loved your wife and son more than anything. He says it was your strength, he could feel it like a star inside you." The boy's head drooped and he stared at the ground. "M-maybe my mother loves you like that. You do love her like that, don't you?" The boy's eyes pleaded with him.

"It's not your mother's fault," Carth began automatically, remembering the first talk they'd had about her. It's not your mother's fault. But sometimes people get . . . broken and they can't be fixed. Like your mother. Like me. Like Helena Shan. Like Telos. Gods, but please, not like Dustil.

The boy blinked hard. "That's not true," he whispered. His eyes seemed old in the young face. "S-she made choices. They both did. Maybe they were wrong. B-but my mother got a second chance. B-because of you."

Carth didn't know what to say. The child kept talking, words spilling out,

"Y-you came in on a ship called the Republic Pearl. That's one of High Admiral Rensha's and my grandfather gives her money. Sometimes I listen, and sometimes I see stuff. Grandfather says to Wann keep the Selkath ten in jail because they could cause trouble."

The Selkath ten . . .

"The woman I saved on Manaan was not the Sith Lord, Captain Onasi," said Yuthura Ban. "She was only a woman who had suffered as we all suffered. I feared her, but when I looked at you, I saw her hope. Do you ever wonder who has the most to gain by denouncing Revan Starfire? Do you ever wonder who winds you up and makes you dance?"

"We're pawns," the Twi'lek continued, when Carth couldn't find any words to answer her. "Vrook doesn't tell me much, but at least I know I'm being used. You're like a dancing puppet and you don't even know whose hands pull your strings." She smiled coldly. "This call is monitored. Have you ever wondered who listens?"

The commlink flashed with another incoming call.

"I have to go," Carth said. His head was pounding and all he could hear was her broken voice again, in the cockpit of the Ebon Hawk.

"Promise me . . . "

The Senator's face was grave. "Dustil isn't here," he said. "He never arrived. I've checked the grid reports for signs of an accident, but there's nothing. Please come here, Captain Onasi. I'll put all of my resources at your disposal to find your son. But I--Korrie's inconsolable. About his mother. I need you here."

Something bothered him, there was something here he should think of, something important.

"Your grandfather would never let anything happen to you, Korrie. The guards, the defenses . . . " Carth's voice trailed off.

"Captain Onasi," the little boy's voice was tight and oddly formal. "Do you love my mother?"

You're eight, Korrie, how can you understand?

Carth took a deep breath. "When I look at you, Korrie I see the good in her. I see what she could have been."

"She is good," the child said fiercely. "If you found out she was good would you stop hating her?"

"I--I don't hate her." You're eight; you can't understand what I feel. Sometimes I don't understand it myself.

"I don't understand!" Malachor's voice shook and he pulled away from Carth. He went back to the edge of the balcony again, leaned his palms against the barrier and rested his forehead on it. "I don't understand, why can't I just tell him? Why can't I just tell him everything and then he'll help us?"

He's hysterical. Poor kid. "Choca," Carth said emptily. "Come here, Korrie. We'll go to the kitchens and see if Sivona can make us some choca."

He held out his hand, and Malachor took it. "You love her," the boy said stubbornly. "I know you do."

The cubs screeched at each other and the Mission-ghost squawked until he thought that the cacophony would drive him to madness. The room was too small and smelled like bad mating and it was too hot. Carth's son was white-eyed and rabid. In the forests his people would have just driven him to the Shadowlands until he died or came back to his senses; but there was no room for such an exile on this tiny planet teeming with so many different races. No room for green places here.

Mekel Jin smelled like hurt still, and Carth's cub smelled like pain. The Mission-ghost didn't smell like anything; but he could tell she was angered by the tone of her voice, shrill and grating against his ears.

'I'm right here!' she said again, and Carth's son just looked at her with loathing.

'You're not Mission!' he insisted again. 'You're not Mission, you're a thing! A tool Revan can use to do whatever she wants with.'

'Polla-Revan doesn't tell me what to do!' the Mission-ghost shot back. If she'd been the real Mission she'd be crying. The real Mission had been very fond of the son of Carth. More fond than the boy deserved, he'd thought, although really they had only met the few times Mission brought the boy aboard the Hawk. Korriban had been a bad place, dry and dead; and Zaalbar had happily stayed in the ship for the month they'd spent on the planet. After the unfortunate incident with the Czerka representatives on Tatooine, Polla-Revan had thought it safer for him to stay out of sight on planets where the enslaving infidel corporation held sway.

'Tell the boy what Polla-Revan wants to do,' Zaalbar growled at the Mission-ghost. 'Perhaps if you can make him understand that she is no longer madclaw, he will stop biting his own tail trying to hurt her.'

'I can't trust him with that information,' the Mission-ghost said back, in Shyriiwook, interrupting her own rant of Twi'leki curses. 'He's not dependable and he's too close to D'Reev.'

'But you trust Mekel Jin,' Zaalbar waved his hands uselessly. Both of the cubs had that sick smell, the death smell he'd learned to associate with the Sith; although he had to admit the Jin boy had done everything that had been asked of him without question.

"I have Mekel on a leash," the Mission-ghost responded. "And anyways, he treats me like a person, unlike some people."

Zaalbar groaned unhappily. She wasn't a person, she had no smell and no skin and no blood anymore. His own role in that struck him like a sharp thorn, not for the first time. "You're a wind in the leaves," he said, trying to make her understand. "But you don't grow, you don't change. You're a machine used to make things, with the memories of my old friend." And daughter-cub, he thought to himself sadly, remembering her bright laughter and gentle teasing.

"That's not how your father or your tribe thinks of me!" she shot back.

"Now isn't the time to talk about that, Mission," Zaalbar groaned. The cubs were still screaming and it hurt his ears. He let out a roar of protest, loud enough to drown it all out.

He was roaring so loudly that he didn't hear the footsteps on the stair, didn't sense the men with guns until they broke into the room.

"Analysis: Based on current psychological reports, Captain Onasi's reconditioning will fracture. Projection: The recordings of his time spent with Captain Rew Ekkumi, and his interactions with other Fleet personnel, as well as the latest Manaan transcript, recommend initiation of an accelerated timeline."

The Senator chuckled. "I wasn't aware we were on a schedule, HK." He scrolled through the datapad again, tapping a few of the more pertinent facts into tabular columns for further study.

"Perceptive Extrapolation: If your organic assumptions are correct regarding Dustil Onasi's current whereabouts, the Captain's utility as a weapon may still be salvageable. Observation: for most sentients, few things in life are more motivational than a dead son."

Malachi D'Reev laughed out loud. "Don't try and bait me with that, your bucket of bolts." He stared at his droid fondly. Its red eyes gleamed.

"Of course not, Master. You are not like most sentients. That is why we get along so well. Observation: Rew Ekkumi and Jiya Sand are a destabilizing influence on the Captain. The recordings show a regrettable ambiguity in their loyalties. Much like the pilot himself, they may be untrustworthy allies."

The old man chuckled, "I could have told you that, HK. All allies are untrustworthy, by their very nature." He swirled his brandy. "There are no allies, there are only pawns."

It was hard to decide which would be better: a dead Dustil Onasi at Revan's hand, (assuming he was correct and that the boy had some means of tracking her through the Force); or a live Dustil that he could use later, for some other scheme. Either would suffice. As a boy, hawking with his father on their Corellian estates, Malachi had learned that sometimes the best way to hunt was to untie the jesses, and deactivate the bird's homing device. Wild things hunted more naturally free. So it might prove with the Onasi boy.

The game pieces were already in place -- although events were moving more swiftly than he'd expected, and in unfamiliar directions. Vrook Lamar certainly wasn't helping matters and Manaan itself was becoming more trouble than it was worth . . .

But Revan is on Coruscant now . . . somewhere.

You didn't need a thing like the Force to know that. It had been an almost brilliant move, using his own pawn against him. Seriina Starr was still refusing to take his calls-although as long as she wore that face, perhaps it was for the best. The surgery was good for realism on the holovids; but in a more personal sphere it was rather distasteful. He'd heard Seriina was wearing a holomask of her own face now while she tried to renegotiate the contract with Juut. She'd have no luck there.

But Manaan . . . frowning, he tapped the recording of Yuthura Ban and the pilot's conversation again. Their images appeared on a split screen, glowing above the surface of his polished desk.

"We should talk," the Twi'lek said.

"I'm all ears," muttered the pilot. He looked distracted.

"I've seen the broadcasts," Yuthura Ban said. "You've been speaking about the scourge of the Sith and the rise of Darth Revan -- but you know that's a lie."

"What I know is that Darth Revan has to be stopped." Carth was rubbing his head as if it pained him.

"The woman I saved on Manaan was not the Sith Lord, Captain Onasi," said Yuthura Ban. "She was only a woman who had suffered as we all suffered. I feared her, but when I looked at you, I saw her hope . . . "

Typical Jedi nonsense.

"Do you ever wonder who has the most to gain by denouncing Revan Starfire? Do you ever wonder who winds you up and makes you dance?"

That was more dangerous.

"We're pawns," the reformed Sith continued. "Vrook doesn't tell me much, but at least I know I'm being used. You're a puppet and you don't even know whose hands pull your strings. This call is monitored. Have you ever wondered who listens?"

The Senator shrugged to himself, and poured another glass of brandy. He'd interrupted the call before Yuthura's last words went through.

"Do you ever wonder who started this? Do you ever wonder who started the Mandalorian Wars?"

It always came back to Mandalore. How fitting they'd found a kinglet somewhere to drag out to beg on bended knee . . . of course, that was a sword that cut both ways as well. Revan and Malak named their son more aptly than they knew . . .

"Stop replay," he said to the console. "Query: Have you collected any more data on this Oerin Lin?" There were half a hundred bills before the Senate, but the Mandalorian measure was one he had a vested interest in. More than an interest. Like many things, it was a thread to weave into the cloth, another piece in the game.

"Affirmative: Master Klee has released the files from the Jedi Archive as you requested. The claim is legitimate. Fett Cassus Lin had six sons. Oerin Lin was the youngest. Issue of his seventh wife, Jana Novasun, a native of Ossus."

"Native of Ossus?" Malachi frowned. That was unusual. Mandalorian men rarely married outside their own clans. And Ossus . . . either she'd have to be ancient or . . . Sith.

"Query: Jana Novasun."

The console whirred. "Native of Ossus, deceased. Married Fett Cassus Lin on Malachor IV. One child. The place of her death is not recorded; but from the time stamp it can be inferred that she was killed at the same time as the rest of Clan Lin. Five years ago."

"Interjection: The HK-47 model was grossly negligent to let Oerin Lin survive."

Malachi laughed. "Perhaps, HK. But it serves us well now that he does. If he was dead, the title of Mandalore would pass to some other clan . . . "

He tapped his fingers on the desk. "Novasun," he mused. It was fashionable years ago, for Jedi to take new surnames when they joined the Order. Sunrider, Cloudancer, Skywalker . . . a pack of ridiculous prancing fools. He was glad the practice had fallen out of style by the time Malak was knighted. Revan herself bore the unfortunate moniker her father must have chosen during the wars with Exar Kun. Starfire. He wondered idly if the man had felt idiotic for choosing that name. After the Cron cluster's implosion, Starfire would have been in poor taste. As terribly inappropriate as 'Novasun', actually. "Was Jana Novasun registered as a Force user?"

"There are no records from Ossus," the console murmured.

I know that. All the Jedi records were destroyed, and the Sith are too smart to keep any. Officially, the planet was uninhabited to this day, although as with any place rumored to be a repository of ancient secrets that was a polite fiction. It lay in Sith-occupied space now. One of the useless prizes captured during the last war. By my idiot son. Malachi sighed.

"Hmmm . . . " Even if this 'Novasun' had been a Force-user, her son most certainly was not. Mandalorians were not Force-sensitive -- they were one of the few races where the trait did not breed true. It was something he'd always admired about them. Although, the old Rialis woman had asked me about that too, once, long ago. But I had no answers for her on that topic . . .

"Master? There is another part of the holocomm recording from the Onasi apartments tonight that you might find interesting. Do you wish to view it?"

It would be impossible to wade through the hours of vid footage he'd collected of Carth Onasi himself. The HK did a commendable job extracting the highlights, although sometimes there was no substitute for an organic mind.

"Certainly." The Senator sat back in his chair. Captain Onasi was with Malachor in the kitchens having choca. He'd asked the pilot to put his grandson to bed. It would distract him for a time from worrying about Dustil. And they seemed fond of each other. Perhaps in the times to come, that could be useful, one way or the other.

The next part of the recording was from the beginning of the tape. Watching it, he felt a spark of the old thrill. Always pleasant, even after all this time, to be capable of surprise.

He knew the Deralian, of course. She'd served under his son, years ago. One of the troublemakers, constantly spewing her vitriolic nonsense about the Mandalorian Wars. Automatically, Malachi weighed the simple option of eliminating them all now again. It would be prudent to wait a few more days first and see what Revan did. If she was predictable, having a group of her Sith allies already imprisoned would sate the public's appetite for justice.

"Know her? Revan? 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. I wanted to ask you about Polla."

The Deralian laughed.

"Polla Organa," the pilot said. "She -- she's real, isn't she?"

"What's this?"

"Reiteration: Master, this is the part of the dialogue I thought you would find interesting."

"Indeed," the Senator said softly. "I do." He took another sip of brandy.

"I have six cousins named Polla Organa. 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." The Deralian made an unpleasant face.

Once Beya Organa had been attractive, Malachi remembered. But the years had not been kind.

"You want to send her a present or something, Captain?"

Malachi set his brandy down and leaned back in his chair. His laughter echoed through the room. Once started, he couldn't stop. Great booming laughter echoed off the marble walls.

"Sentimental Appreciation: It is good to see you so pleased, Master. I thought you would find this amusing."

"By their own standards of morality what the Jedi did to Revan was questionable enough . . . but . . . they used . . . a real person's memories to do it? Maffa-licking fools . . . " The old man shook his head, still laughing and tapped the console. "I can understand why they hid this from me . . . Find her. Find this Polla Organa."

The terminal responded. "There are 3,865 denizens of Deralia registered with that name, cross-referencing for approximate age--"

Malachi snorted. "Cross-reference with any Republic ties." That ought to narrow it down, Deralia is not a world known for its loyalty. They hang onto their colony status only for their own profit. He pondered. "The Polla persona was a smuggler. Cross reference again against the index of registered Deralian pilots, and any recent registered births to mothers named Polla Organa."

The console whirred to itself, and a face appeared on the screen. Remarkable. Despite the difference in coloring there was actually a physical resemblance.

"Polla Organa Wen, registered smuggler." Only in the Outlier systems would they have registered smugglers. You almost had to admire that."Registered address: Glory Road Farm, Adaston, on the continent of Derra. The sentient suffered a head injury approximately two point five years ago and was treated aboard the Republic capital ship, the Ascendant, one month after Darth Revan's capture."

Which is when they asked my permission to wipe her mind. I doubt they asked Polla Organa's permission. Fools. I could rip them apart if the people knew their precious Jedi were stealing memories from Republic citizens . . .

"Get me as much information as you can on her." One way or another, it would be useful. "And . . . " he pondered. The girl just had a son. "Send an anonymous gift. Something appropriate for the baby."

"Suggestion: perhaps a blanket? In his infancy the young Master was fond of his."

"Yes, HK, a blanket would be fine. Send it priority express."

Malachi D'Reev smiled. Revan had not taken the most predictable path; but that only made the game all the more interesting. In a war, each side stockpiles what munitions it can before knowing the time and the place of the battleground. Polla Organa was a sword he could hold over more than one neck, should the need arise. Poor girl.

In the right hands, even the weakest piece on the board can turn the game.

---

These are not Moms' usual goons . . .

That was the last coherent thought Mekel had for quite a while.

There were six of them, dressed in black and masked and armed with blasters. They came in firing. He'd been yelling at Dustil when the first bolt struck the wall, leaving a smoking hole in the cheap plimfoam. Zaalbar let out a howl and charged their assailants immediately, vibroblades unsheathed and flashing in the dim light. Mission opened fire back but her energy bolts glanced harmlessly off their shields.

Mekel called to the 'saber on the floor, as he ducked behind the bed. Come on, come on . . . The silver cylinder flew clumsily into his hand and ignited, searing the edge of the mattress and nearly taking off half of his face. Double blade . . . shit, I don't know how to use this bloody thing . . . His coat was heavy and awkward and he slipped out of it, dropping it to the floor. His injured hand hurt like hell, and even with the kolto injection he still felt like shit. He made the swollen knuckles close around the hilt anyways, so he was gripping it with both hands. Focus, focus, don't die . . .

-- Don't die, Mekel --

And Dustil was just standing there in the middle of the room, gaping like an outer-rim plebe. A blaster bolt caught him full in the chest and he staggered, like a spark going out.

A vise gripped Mekel's heart too.

No!

Mekel? Mekk? It--it hurts--it-

Dustil's mind dimmed, startled, frightened and in pain. Mekel poured the Force back into the other boy with everything he had, leaping across the bed and charging their assailants himself. They'd switched to blades now, and four of them were on Zaalbar. Mekel cut one from behind with the edge of his 'saber. Half the man's torso fell cleanly, divided by the bright yellow light.

The man died instantly and somehow, behind him, Dustil was still standing. The air . . . rippled and a hard red light bathed their assailants, like pure power. Dustil was channeling their energy back into himself, draining them. How does he do that, how can he do that? Even as he had the thought, the power rushed through Mekel too, exhilarating and pure and wonderful. One of the women advancing on Mission's chassis faltered when the red light licked against her and Mekel threw the 'saber at her, felt it sever her spine and then snap back again, cool and calm in his hands.

The world became slow and focused. Calm and strangely beautiful. More men at the door with disrupter rifles. A beam of energy shot at him, arching slowly and he deflected it with one side of his blade, sending it back. The doorframe splintered and burst into flame. Dustil called the lightning again. He was . . . laughing, Telos was laughing, and their enemies kept dying, lights winking out like an overtaxed grid. And each one was a whisper and a promise of power.

This is what we were born to do.

Was it his thought or Dustil's? Mekel wasn't sure.

Zaalbar was already charging the reinforcements crouched in the doorway, with a wild bestial howl of pure rage and Mekel followed him, almost jealous of the two that the Wookiee's swords dispatched. Their blood was slippery on the cheap carpet. A blade came out of nowhere at the side of his peripheral vision and he met it with the beam of his saber, turning to face his assailant. This one was good, but he was no Force-user. Mekel was faster, and he drove the point of his saber into the man's wrist, severing it. The swordsman looked at him in dull shock -- and Mekel laughed and twisted the blade across the man's torso, smiling as the beam cut through the light armor and the man fell down.

My hand's stopped hurting. The thought was oddly mundane. Was it his or Dustil's? He looked down at his hands. The bandaged one didn't hurt anymore.

The air was still and quiet suddenly, except for the sound of their breathing. All of their attackers were dead. Mekel realized Mission had been yelling at him through the collar for some time now, but he hadn't heard her.

-- I said, leave one alive you stupid Sith-wannabe! We need to find out who sent them! What the frack was that, Mekel Jin? What's wrong with you? --

"Are you okay, Big Z?" she said out loud. The T3 rolled awkwardly over the broken bodies on the carpet and came to the Wookiee. He had a bad blaster wound in his side, and a vibroblade slash on his arm. A deep one.

"Someone's coming," Dustil whispered. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were glassy and strange.

"Heal Big Z with the Force or something!" Mission said.

"We can't," Dustil muttered, barely glancing at her. He blinked and held out his hands, a red ball of light flickered into existence in it, and he looked at it dreamily, longingly. "More are coming, though-two more . . . " He had a faint smile on his face. Expectant. Longing.

Mekel's blood turned to ice as reality came back. No. Not this again. Please no.

More. Two of them. Mekel heard their footsteps on the stairs. He reached out with the Force -- and . . . Zaalbar was already pushing away from Mission and heading for the door with his blades in hand. Dustil still had that creepy smile on his face he glanced at Mekel with that old camaraderie they'd had in the bad old days, rolling marks in the alley, and moved forward, raising his hand again--

"Wait!" Dustil turned back at him questioningly and Zaalbar groaned something unintelligible.

Don't, its Moms . . . it's my moms . . . The thought was a scream. It wasn't just Moms either. The other presence slid around his attempts to identify it. Moms and someone . . . someone strong.

Stronger than us? Dustil's thought was cocky, almost scornful.

Wait . . .

"Well, son." Moms looked almost proud as she came into the room, but a mock frown crossed her face. "You're going to have to pay for the damages, you know."

The figure behind her was cloaked and robed in black, its face covered by a golden lacquered mask. It was taller than Moms and it stepped forward, lifting black high heeled boots fastidiously over the layer of broken bodies stacked in the doorway.

"Your son has grown powerful, Deeka." The voice was tenor and husky. It sent chills up Mekel's spine. He knew the voice. Everyone in the Underground knew that voice. And feared it.

"My son is good at surviving." Moms beamed, as proud as she'd been when he rolled his first mark.

"As are his companions." The robed figure regarded them one-by-one. "Lord Revan's emissaries. I am pleased to see you." She murmured something formal to Zaalbar in Shyriiwook and nodded at Dustil.

"Arca," Mekel found his voice again. He tried to make it sound angry and not terrified. "Why did you send your goons after us?"

"Ambassador Arca," the robed one corrected. She removed the mask, revealing the golden-scaled face beneath. Falleen, like Master Iridel; but with black Sith lines etched like bars across her face, and burning damned eyes rimmed with red. "I'm pleased to see that your time among the Jedi didn't soften you entirely." The woman shrugged. "It was a test. If you'd fallen, Lord Revan would have been forced to send more of her followers to discover your fate. Or perhaps . . . come here herself. Since you live . . . you can deliver my message."

"I knew you'd be fine, dear," Moms smiled at him, and fluttered her cold black eyes. Mekel wondered how much she'd been paid to betray them. He'd been stupid to trust her. I should have known better, should have known. Credits mean more than blood, they always have.

"Ambassador to what?" Dustil spat. Mekel wished he'd dare warn Telos to shut the hell up. You didn't mess with Arca. Everyone in the Underground knew that. Arca could be the ambassador to anything she wanted. You should nod and say yes and then get the hell out.

The Falleen smiled. "Ziost. They've asked me to represent them . . . in an unofficial capacity, you understand."

Mission whirred. "Arca Trinii. A near-legendary Underground Coruscanti figure with ties to the spice and slave trades, as well as black-market currency markets."

"I'd hoped to become more famous for my work with the media," Arca murmured softly. "We're working on a sequel to the Underground Coruscanti Version, you know." Her pointed teeth bared in a smile. "We're going to call it The Return of the Sith."

What the frack is this, Mekk?

Shut up, Telos, shut up and nod and let's get the hell out of here.

"Mekel, honeygizka, Arca was just asking me, where's Darth Revan now?" Moms had that bright glittery smile on her face. The one that meant, tell me or I'll send you to level 60. Or I'll make you wish I sent you to level 60.

"Darth Revan would not be pleased that you tried to harm us," Mekel ventured. His pulse thudded painfully in his chest.

The Wookiee opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He groaned uneasily.

"Darth Revan wants your loyalty, Arca Trinii," Mission hissed back. Somehow she managed to say those words in a voice that sounded as scary as Revan's own.

The Falleen raised a brow ridge. "Of course she does, and she has it. That is the way of the Sith. As long as she is the Master, she has our loyalty -- but you must understand. The officials on Ziost are wondering why hasn't she been in contact? In her absence . . . there has been some regrettable instability . . . certain factions -- vie for power and those of us who are loyal . . . even we begin to wonder . . . "

Her eyes were burning red and yellow. They were, Mekel realized with a chill, just as mad as Jorak Uln's. Just as mad as Lord Malak's.

This is where it leads, the dark side. Madness and death. This is the gift I give to you, Coruscanti son. We'll make it all burn. The big man was laughing like he did sometimes after he cried. Mekel plugged another kolto pack into the hole in his jaw and backed away fast before the big man hit him.

"Revan would not be pleased you tried to harm us," Mission said angrily. Moms and the Falleen looked at her as if she was a piece of furniture that had decided to talk.

"Let me handle this, Blue," Mekel whispered.

Dustil's eyes were still glassy and vacant. Those deaths had hit him pretty hard. For all that Telos liked to talk tough, he wasn't used to this, he didn't really understand what it was like.

Let me handle this, Dustil, Mekel thought at him. Trust me, don't mess with Arca.

The Falleen looked at him curiously. "I can understand what the Dark Lord would want with the Onasi boy, and the Wookiee has proven his worth, but what does Darth Revan want with you, Mekel?"

-Asshole, she didn't even acknowledge me at all. Tell her to frack off. She's nothing but a cheap holovid version of a Sith wanna-be Lord. Polla-Revan could eat her for breakfast if she really was a Sith again.--

Mekel tried to shrug carelessly. "Dark Lords of the Sith seem to like me."

Moms grinned. "He's a handsome boy, I suspect he has his uses. I know I've had patrons asking about him ever since he came back from Korriban, but Mekel's too good for Moms' little club now, too happy with his powerful friends to care about his poor Moms at all."

Even in the Underground, it was considered bad form to hit your own mother. Not to mention Arca would probably kill him before he took two steps across the floor.

-- Your mom makes Griff look like a loving brother, Mekel Jin . . . I'm--sorry . . . --

--"She is what she is," Mekel whispered. "What's the message for Lord Revan," he said in a louder voice, trying to sound important.

"We are poised to strike against the Jedi Council, at her command." Arca smiled coldly. "Of course, if her command does not come soon, we will strike regardless. A dozen Darths vie for power now that the Manaan games are finished. There is little accord, but in that, all are united."

-- Ask how they plan on striking with no fleet and no army, gizka-breath. --

"You have no fleet," Mekel echoed. "How do you plan on striking?" He could guess the answer, but he asked anyways. Maybe Mission didn't know. Not everything the Sith did was done with soldiers.

The Falleen laughed. "If Darth Revan cannot answer that question herself, the Jedi have truly shattered her." She spread her hands open, mocking the Jedi gesture of peace. "And then she will die with them."

Dustil looked at him, uncertainly. Almost like the old days, when he'd been a fish out of water, and Mekel had to teach him to walk.

This is what happens with all your killing and angst, Telos boy. Mekel thought at him coolly. You go madder than a Sullastan in a dairy farm. Trust me, just agree with whatever she says, and let's get out of here.

"I'll tell Lord Revan. If she wants to be in touch, how shall I tell her to contact you, Lord Arca?" He tried not to put too much emphasis on the 'Lord' title, but he saw her eyes flash in pleased recognition of it.

-- Okay. Listen. You're not going to tell Polla-Revan about this, Mekel Jin. --

"Huh?" He said that out loud. Mekel tried hard not to look confused.

"Your mother's establishment is as good a place as any, and Deeka will not mind carrying our messages, will you, pet?"

"Of course not," Moms said. Right then Mekel hated her, hated the obsequious groveling tone of her voice with a rage so black that it scared him.

-- You're not going to tell Polla-Revan about this. Big Z isn't gonna tell her and I'm not gonna tell her. Understand? --

Mission's voice in his head was toneless, but the words reverberated along his skull with an ache that shot up his spine.

"Okay," Mekel said out loud, still trying to hide his confusion. He took a cautious step towards the door and slipped on something. A dead person, half-eviscerated by Zaalbar's blades. He refused to look down and see it.

Come on, Telos, follow us out the door. Now.

"Mekel, dear?" Moms coughed. "You've made a mess in here, I will expect compensation."

"You have a bank account registered on Duria, with the Coruscanti branch of Intergalactic Federal Savings Loan. Its balance has increased by ten thousand credits," Mission's voice was crisp. "Don't frack with us, Deeka Jin, we are far more powerful than you can imagine."

"That remains to be seen," Arca murmured.

-- Fracking pathetic nutter Sith-wannabes . . . We need to move, Mekel Jin. This place is going to get raided. And soon. --

Mission beeped a series of short sharp chimes at Zaalbar and the Wookiee growled uneasily again, gesturing. Dustil still had that blank confused look on his face. Mekel wished he could slap it off.

"Come on," the T3 said out loud in Basic, and rolled out the door. They trailed behind her, even Dustil, leaving Moms and the Ambassador to Ziost behind in the trashed suite.

Outside Katti Base was still in her cage. She purred hopefully at them -- no, at Dustil. But Telos ignored her completely. The dazed look was finally off his face and the sullen angry one was back. Big surprise.

"What the frack was that, Mekel?"

"That was the Sith, you dumb pleb!" Mekel shot back. "Is that what you want to be?"

Telos turned pale. I-I couldn't control it. It felt like --

Did we even go to the same school, Telos? I know what it felt like! You want to be like that? You want to be like Arca?

She was . . . powerful, she was --

Insane. She was insane. She sent Sith assassins after us for fun. That's what it's like Telos. They all go crazy. You're going to go crazy too if you don't stop this banthashit!

"Move. Now." Mission was using Revan's voice. She must have it recorded somehow. There was no questioning the command in the tone. They moved. Somewhere behind them, Katti called out a good-bye.

Steam from the pipes overhead cast the street in shadows and fog, lit only by the lurid holosigns of the joy district. Mom's was only one in a long row of brothels on this street, a street nearly deserted . . . which is odd, because this time of night, normally there'd be tricks and marks and pervs all over the place . . .

"So, Sithboy," Mission chirped. "Are you coming with us or not?" Blue lights flashed on her dome.

Dustil whirled and faced her, staring down at her chassis with pure hate in his eyes. "Coming with you? When you go back to your Sith Master?"

"Polla-Revan is not a Sith, you stupid nerf-sack!" Mission's voder sounded exasperated. "And that's why we're not gonna tell her about this. You can do whatever the frack you want, Dustil Onasi--I don't care." Her voice turned ugly. "But if you hurt Polla-Revan, or Mekel, or Big Z, or the child, or your own father . . . I'll make you suffer punishments that make Sith teachings look like an Ewok party."

"You? you're nothing! You . . . thing!"

Dustil raised his hand threateningly at her and Mekel shoved him as hard as he could, knocking him back. Telos swayed on his feet, suddenly, and his hand went to his chest, where the fabric of his jacket was scorched and blackened. His face was very pale, it almost gray in the dim light.

"I-I'm -- I'm leaving," Dustil said. Underneath the surface his thoughts boiled. Mekel didn't want to see the shape of them. He realized suddenly he'd forgotten his coat upstairs. His hand tightened around the hilt of his saber that he was still clutching in his hand. At least I remembered this . . .

Dustil's mouth opened and closed. For a second he looked just as lost as he had the day he'd showed up on Korriban. Or the day Mekel had had to explain to him that Moms' offer of a job didn't just mean serving drinks to the patrons, and that was why they weren't going to take her up on it, why they had to sleep in a squat and roll pervs in the alley instead.

Are you okay, Telos?

Leave me alone! The rebuke was like a slap in the face. The walls between them slammed shut again.

Dustil turned and walked away. Fast. The sides of his long coat billowed around him like a cape.

Zaalbar growled a long series of sounds that sounded like questions. Mission answered him in Basic.

"He doesn't know anything." It was Mission's voice, but it sounded oddly strained, almost metallic. "There's no jeopardy to our plan. Maybe -- maybe he'll get over it." It almost sounded as if she were trying to sound unconcerned. If she'd been real, Mekel could have read her emotions. As it was, he tried to catch the nuances in her voder.

Zaalbar growled something that could have been disagreement. Mekel could sense the Wookiee's intentions, dimly, like through a mist. The Wookiee disagreed with Mission about telling Revan about the Sith, he thought. Mekel didn't understand what Mission meant about that either.

"If there's a plan against the Jedi Council, we should . . . warn them or something," Mekel stammered.

"It's none of our business," Mission responded. To both of them. "Polla-Revan's got enough to deal with now. I'm not adding to her concerns. The Jedi can take care of themselves. Besides . . . " Lights beeped on her dome. "Jedi and Sith fight, that's what they do. I will not allow our primary objectives to be compromised because of some silly religious war. Historical projections show it will end as it always does. The Jedi always win, they don't need our help, and they don't need to frack with Polla-Revan anymore!"

"That's an order, by the way," she added, in Revan's voice. "Don't tell her about the Sith thing. Or I'll flay-the-flesh-from-your-bones."

Zaalbar growled, warningly.

"Listen, Big Z! Do you want your people to go on being slaves? Did the Jedi ever lift a finger to stop that? Any resultant instability can only serve to help our plans for Kashyyyk! Don't be dumb about this . . . please?"

The Wookiee sighed. In the direction Dustil had gone, searchlights flared to life suddenly, cutting through the mist like beacons. An alarm went off and there was the sound of sirens and shouts.

"Sector raid," Mission chirped. "Come on, there's an access panel to the sewers in the next alley over. We need to get out of here before they seal it off."

"CoruSec never raid down here," Mekel muttered, already moving towards the alley towards the square metal plate in the ground. His mind turned the tumblers of the lock automatically and it sprung open in front of them.

Mission rolled along beside him, beeping softly to herself. It almost sounded like laughter. "Well, someone wants the distributor of the Coruscanti Underground Version real bad . . . it's -- let's just say possible -- that an anonymous tip might have been sent regarding her location . . . and your moms is gonna have to pay a big fat fine, Mekel Jin. Not to mention how she'll explain all those dead sents -- I hope she can afford it."

Zaalbar groaned something that could have been a curse as they started climbing down the spiraling stairs to the sub-sub level. Mission's treads slid awkwardly on the narrow steps and her metal chassis slammed into Mekel's back. She was heavier than she looked and he grunted in pain.

"Wait. Let me . . . " Mekel pulled on the Force, held out his hand, trembling with the effort and levitated her a few inches above the steps, moving her chassis with his mind until they reached level ground. Mission splashed down softly in the muck of the sewers. Zaalbar groaned again. It sounded like a protest.

"I know it smells bad, Big Z! So does your breath! Come on, we need to keep moving . . . "

"Thanks, Mekel," she added. "That was nice of you."

Her treads rolled awkwardly through the slime. A beam of light from her dome illuminated the area in front of them. Mekel ignited his 'saber again to add more light. The granslugs were huge down here, but they didn't like the light.

---

'Have some more dewback.' Aemelie beamed at Revan, leaning forward across the table with the meat-covered plate. It was just past dawn and the last thing Revan wanted was a dripping bloody haunch that looked barely cooked, but there was no polite way to refuse. She nodded and selected the smallest chunk she could find, spearing it with the blade of her dagger.

Gwenarius had given her the dagger with great ceremony at the beginning of the meal. Canderous' two wives-she was still trying to register the fact that Canderous had two wives; not to mention two children who were still in the cradle and couldn't possibly really be his-sat across from her, looking as expectant as a herd of tame trawler deer waiting for lumps of sugar.

'Great kaffa,' Revan said finally, when they failed to make more conversation. She'd barely slept at all, worrying about Zaal and Mekel and Mission who still hadn't returned. I'm sure they're fine. If they weren't Mission would have sent word. I promised Zaalbar I would not interfere . . .

'Clan Lin should join with Clan Ordo,' Gwenarius pronounced, weighing her voice with the authority of a Clan Mother. 'Will you accept our proposal?'

'Ordo and Lin are already pledged,' Revan said. 'What other terms would you require?' The meat stuck in her throat and she forced herself to swallow it down.

'Blood ties are men's ways. Clan Lin adopted you in the old traditions; we would do the same.'

'The same-you wish me to bear a child for Ordo?' Revan tried to think of a polite way to decline, even as part of her imagined the look on Carth's face when she told him that their as yet unborn and completely imaginary offspring was actually a Mandalorian. Of course, this is in a world where Carth doesn't hate me . . . The brief flash of amusement turned to ashes in the back of her throat. She drank another swig of caffa quickly. Gwenarius' daughter was stirring restlessly in her mother's arms. Revan smiled at the small round face surrounded by curls of brown hair. The little girl-maybe almost a year old-beamed back at her.

'Can I hold her?' Revan asked softly.

'Of course.' The Mandalorian passed the child across the table and into Revan's arms. She squirmed there uncertainly for a moment and then settled in. Revan bent her head and buried her nose in the sweet smell of the baby's hair.

This seems so simple. If I could hold Malachor like this . . . But he's older, he's eight. Would he still let me hold him like this?

'We would hope you would have many children for Ordo,' Gwen said, eyeing her. 'And at least some of your husband's stock. He's good breeding material. Millifar is one of the brightest young warriors here on Coruscant. Comely too. Although it is unfortunate she has his chin and not mine. Among our clans Canderous is well-regarded. As am I. Joining us would erase some of the inevitable doubts that will arise . . . regarding your outlander status and the way you bested Fett Cassus . . . ' She raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

The baby squirmed in Revan's arms and she dropped the piece of flatbread she'd been trying to feed the child, almost dropping the little girl too in her shock.

'You want me to marry C-Canderous? Your husband?" Try not to sound so shocked; try not to make them think you are insulted. Don't offend them; this is delicate as walking on razors as it is . . . but he's already married . . . twice . . . and he's . . .

He's my friend. And he's not Carth. My life is complicated enough as it is.

'Have you asked Canderous about this?' Revan ventured, trying not to imagine what his response would have been.

'He says you'll refuse us,' Aemelie broke in, scowling. 'But he's just a man; they don't really understand these things.'

'I'm in love with someone else,' Revan protested.

'Milli told us you went to see Captain Onasi last night. If you wanted the pilot why didn't you just take him? Surely the woman who defeated Fett Cassus and scattered our people across the stars could manage a minor abduction on a Coruscanti street?' Gwenarius was scowling at her now.

'It wasn't safe,' Revan said. 'Until I have my son . . . I can't risk trying to get to Carth. Malachi D'Reev has twisted Carth somehow . . . he hates me-until I have Malachor I can't-' she realized she was babbling. The little girl cooed in her lap and batted her cheek with a small soft hand.

'Malachor,' Aemelie muttered. 'You're really going to have to do something about that name. How would you like it we named this one Serroco? Or Althir? Or Dxun' She rocked the small boy in her arms, soothing his fretting.

Battles the Republic lost in the Mandalorian Wars. Revan felt like the words should mean something more than that, but they were only words. Facts she'd read. Carth looked like a man who had lost everything. He looked broken, just as Jopheena said. What did they do to him and how was it done?

We didn't lose Dxun. Although sometimes I think . . . sometimes-Red, what are you planning? Revan, listen to me. What are you planning? I can only see pieces. You shut me out. You shut out both of us. Listen to me, Red.

She was getting better at ignoring Malak's dead voice in her head. It was easy. Like the points on the Corellian spire, like banging her head against the bulkheads. Just think about something else.

Mission had promised to look into what had happened to Carth on the Pearl, but they knew nothing yet.

Mission and Zaalbar and Mekel. Where were they? Mission can tap into the communications grids. If there was trouble, she'd have sent word. She didn't, so they must be fine.

But she's kept things from me before. She's a computer. She's . . . No, they're fine, they have to be fine . . .

Gwenarius' daughter nestled in the crook of her arm. She buried her nose in the baby's sweet-smelling hair.

'From what my husband has told us, the Jedi took your memories away from you. Perhaps in your ignorance of civilized customs you misunderstand the importance-and the honor-of our request?' Gwen asked. 'The title of Mandalore is not hereditary by default- Lin has held it only by strength for the last century -- by the older traditions there is no reason why Mandalorians would automatically owe you or Oerin allegiance. However, with Ordo's support your rule would be unquestioned. Our clan and our husband have the strength of arms to hold it for you. No other clan can offer you as much.'

'By the customs of your people you owe me allegiance regardless,' Revan answered, trying to keep her voice cold. 'I defeated the Fett and your armies. And Ordo is allied with Lin already. Oerin told me this. Canderous told me this. I don't need to marry someone to hold my claim.'

Their sullen silence told her she was right.

'I don't understand your reticence,' Aemelie argued, pouring more kaffa for them all. 'Canderous is quite skilled in every arena. And we are willing to put up with whatever barbarous mating customs you outlanders have -- within reason . . . ' She frowned. 'Although I do have to ask, Gwen and I watched a vid, Revan's Private Lessons at the Academy-do the Jedi really use their lightsabers during-'

'Aemelie, you're embarrassing her. Don't bring shame to us' Gwen mercifully interrupted. 'Look at her; she's blushing like a man.'

'I want to marry Carth,' Revan said quietly, realizing it was true. Horribly, depressingly true.

Aemelie shrugged at Gwenarius. 'Canderous said she'd refuse. I really thought we could reason with her . . . ' Her eyes narrowed and she sighed. 'If Oerin manages to get blooded perhaps Millifar would consider him-'

'My daughter seems overly fond now,' Gwen said. 'We're fortunate he was raised properly. We'll have to raise your son properly' she said to Revan. 'In the old ways. Perhaps in time my babe might consider him, if she lives.'

'I will decide how to raise my son,' Revan answered. I have no idea how to raise a child. I have no idea how to be a mother. The little girl wiggled on her lap and stuffed a hunk of bread into her mouth from the table. Revan wondered if a child so small was supposed to eat something so large but the Mandalorians didn't raise an eyebrow.

Gwenarius shrugged and began to describe Mandalorian weddings. Naturally they involved blood and knives.

Naturally, Red. I thought you'd take off my jaw.

Malak's hollow laughter echoed in her head.

Not real, he's not real. Revan focused on Gwenarius' descriptions as if they were the most important thing in the universe.

The door opened and Millifar came in, braids loose and hair down her back like sheaves of yellow wheat. 'We've set up fire circles on the roof, Mother,' she said. 'For the stupid festival. And the hired slaves are waiting in the ballroom.' She glanced at Revan. 'If she is going pass as one of them, she should disguise herself and join them soon, lest the others wonder where she came from later. Did she agree to our suit?'

'She did not,' Gwen said, with a faint smile on her lips, watching her daughter's face.

'Then you'll need to tie Ordo to Lin in some other way,' the girl said, too blandly.

Gwenarius got up from the table. 'I'm sure we'll think of something, daughter.'

XXX