Memory / Chapter 20 / Much More Than A Party

'You look good, Dad,' Dustil said, adjusting the ice pack over his black eye. He still refused to tell Carth what had happened. It's not every day you end up bailing your son out of an underground CoruSec jail - the kind of place where posting 'bail' is more like paying a bribe than anything else -- but Carth realized he couldn't push Dustil any farther.

Whatever it was, at least it had nothing to do with Revan. And at least he's safe now. Force, I can't believe he's been living down in hellholes like that for the last six months . . .

The squalor of the Underground shocked Carth, and he'd seen a lot of things in his time. But it was the contrast in extremes - between the clean luxury of life up here and the desperation of the underground dwellers that shook him to his core.

Coruscanti sublevels make Taris look like paradise . . .

'Boys will be boys,' Malachi D'Reev had said, almost jovial, when they got the call early the next morning. It had taken half the day, even with the old man's influence, to get Dustil out of that stinking cell. Something about property damage and inciting a public riot.

'Trumped up charges,' the old man sneered. 'They know who he is, they know who you are, and they just want to dip their beaks.' He too seemed like he'd been expecting something else. In fact, it was strange . . . but Carth thought the old man looked almost disappointed to find only a sullen Dustil sitting in the corner of a cell.

The Senator was just worried we'd find Revan. Worried it was some kind of trap. Not disappointed, worried.

Carth fiddled with the buckles of the elaborate coat again, frowning at his reflection. 'I look like a paper Admiral,' he muttered. He wished he could get away with wearing something less formal, but Ekkumi had warned him, Coruscanti society expected its most glittering lights to . . . well, glitter.

'So you really like Ekkumi, huh?' Dustil rubbed his swollen knuckles with his uninjured hand. His ankle was wrapped in bandages and splints and propped up on the couch. Only a sprain, D'Reev's medical droid had assured them. A faint smile played around his son's lips. For a boy who'd spent twelve hours in stir, he looked entirely too pleased with himself. Carth frowned at him again.

I could kill you for making me worry like that last night, Dustil.

"She's -- she's a good woman," Carth answered out loud.

"Rew's nice, Dad," Dustil said. "If I did something bad would you give up on me like you gave up on Revan?"

"It's not the same thing," Carth tried not to wince at the abrupt change of subject. "I'm proud of you, Dustil."

The boy's smile turned crooked. "No matter what I've done?"

"You're still my son, Dustil. No matter what." Even if I still want to kill you for making me worry. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, you'll be grounded until you're forty," he added.

Dustil's hand was picking at the splint on his ankle. The smile faded from his face. In its absence, Carth realized how artificial it had been.

"Dad, do you know anything about Force bonds?"

"I-I've seen them before . . ."

"Revan and Bastila had one, right?"

"They did, yes."

His son's face was perfectly blank. "Do you think that's what made them fall?"

"I don't know."

Carth kissed her harder, and they rolled over on the floor of the cockpit, fingers scrabbling at the thin layers of cloth that separated them. They were on the way to Dantooine, and they'd locked the cockpit door.

"No, go away," Polla muttered.

Carth pulled back, touched her bare arm tentatively. "Polla?"

"I said, go away!" she hissed. "Get out my fracking head!" Her face twisted. It was as if he wasn't there at all, she was talking through him, talking to thin air.

"If this isn't what you want, it's okay, beautiful -- I -- I understand," Carth said.

It's too soon, he thought; too soon for both of us.

Before he could stop her Polla slammed her head against the durasteel wall of the bulkhead. The sound was horrible, crack of bone against metal. Her head rolled back on her shoulders, loose, a thin line of blood tracing down her temple. "Go away," she whispered again. "Get out of my head, Bastila! This is none of your damn business! Some things are fracking private!"

Carth held her tightly, stopping her from doing it again. She twisted in his arms - she was so strong -- but he outweighed her. He held her down; outside, someone was hammering on the door. He heard Bastila's voice, and behind her, Zaalbar's alarmed growls and Mission's protestations.

"Open the door, please, Carth. I need to speak to Polla now."

"They're busy," Mission giggled. "You should leave them alone."

Polla slammed her head again, this time into the floor. She . . . keened, a thin high sound of pain and he heard Bastila gasp. "Get out of my HEAD!"

"Slice the lock, Mission," the Jedi said, shakily. "Slice it now."

Carth pulled Polla onto his lap, wiping the blood away from her eye. She'd reopened the old injury from Taris. Her face was so pale he could see the faint dusting of freckles on the tip of her nose. He found his voice, somehow, angry, confused, embarrassed and frightened.

"Security: disengage." It was a straightforward security system. Anyone inside the cockpit could lock it with a vocal command.

The door slid open. Polla's eyes opened, green and cold and furious. She sat up in his lap, rubbing her forehead. Bastila stood in the doorway, arms folded, glaring at them both.

"I told you that through our bond I feel what you do," Bastila said. "And I told you that Jedi do not form casual attachments. The Force is not a toy, Polla Organa. And you cannot continue to act like a hormone-crazed adolescent . . . "

The Wookiee growled something, gesticulating at the Jedi.

When Polla blushed her nose turned pink. It was pink now. She disengaged herself from his arms and got to her feet, absently pulling the top of her coverall back up over her bare chest. Carth stood up too, realizing his own clothes were in a similar state of disarray.

"I don't know about your Force, sister," he said coldly. "But whatever you just did to Polla, you should stop it. This is really none of your business."

"I only wish that were true." Bastila's blush gave her two high spots of color, red on her cheeks. "For better or for worse, Captain Onasi, Polla Organa and I share a Force bond. What one of us feels so does the other. And she is untrained, which compounds the situation . . . tenfold. Jedi do not engage in carnal . . . activities . . . and Polla must learn -- "

"- I am no Jedi," Polla interrupted, her voice low and furious. "And I didn't ask to be bonded to you, Bastila Shan. Even if I do have this Force thing you keep yammering about, I'm still me, and I'm an adult. What I choose to do on my own time is none of your business. I don't need you peeking in my thoughts, spying on me -- coming into my dreams . . ."

Her dreams were always nightmares. That was one of the first things Carth had learned about her.

"You have no choice in this matter. When we reach Dantooine we must go before the Masters. You have no training, no control, and you must learn these things. Love is a distraction, a danger. Passion can lead to the dark side and you are woefully unprepared. Irresponsible. You endanger us both." There was a sheen of sweat on Bastila's forehead. Carth suddenly had the sensation that behind all these words another battle was being fought between the two women. Out of sight, through the thing they called the Force.

"I dunno," Mission said. "Seems to me this is really none of your biz, Bastila. I think they're kind of cute together."

"Mission, go away," both of them snapped. Almost in unison.

"Geez, whatever . . . c'mon Big Z, let's go see what Canderous is doing." The Wookiee waved his arms again and followed the Twi'lek girl away down the hall.

"I can do whatever I want," Polla said sullenly.

Bastila flushed more. "You -- broadcast your feelings. What you feel, I feel. Do you understand? What you are doing wasn't private. At all."

"Then don't fracking listen to it," Polla said. "I didn't ask to have you in my head, I didn't ask for the Force. I've lived perfectly well for twenty-eight years without it, and I don't intend to start becoming some kind of celibate robe-wearing ninny now, just because it's awkward for you!"

"I can see your thoughts," the Jedi said, her artificial composure cracking. "You're frightened of what's happening to you and cling to the pilot like a child clings to a stuffed toy. Do you think that's the basis for a relationship? Even if I wasn't involved in this -- and make no mistake I cannot help but be involved in this -- is this really the way an adult acts?"

"Naturally, you're the expert on these things," Polla said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "You're . . . nineteen standard? And oh-so-worldly . . . "

"Just -- wait, that's all I ask." Bastila's voice sounded frightened, almost. "When we get to Dantooine . . . perhaps the Masters will think of some way to . . . to . . . teach you to control yourself. But now . . . what you feel, I feel . . . and . . . for my sake, please. Restrain yourself."

"It's not my bloody fault you're saving yourself for some Jedi hero right out of a holovid," Polla shot back. "I can see him in your mind at night when I sleep. Tall, gray robes, brown hair. You dream about him all the time . . . I thought you said Jedi don't have base urges? Some of the things you imagine him doing seem pretty base to me . . . and you're jealous, jealous of someone else . . . " Her eyes narrowed. "It's not you he likes, is it? He's in love with someone else . . . don't blame me for your own shortcomings, Bastila!"

"Our -- bond makes things . . . confused," the Jedi whispered. Her lips tightened, and she pulled out her lightsaber, igniting it. Carth moved forward, protectively, but Polla pulled his arm back.

"Stay out of this, Carth," she muttered. "It's between us." Her voice was cold and strangely empty.

Polla stepped in front of him, facing Bastila. She crossed her arms, and shifted her weight, assuming a defensive stance.

Bastila grimaced. "You cannot win, Polla."

The Jedi rolled up her sleeve and brushed the blade's yellow beam against her own bare forearm, gritting her teeth and pulling it back fast. The air smelled like scorched skin. Bastila flinched; but it was Polla who screamed, Polla who crumpled to the ground, cradling her arm to her chest. A hiss and the blade disengaged. Bastila's face was pale with shock, but expressionless. She held out her arm, almost proudly, displaying the angry red weal of the burn stamped on her skin.

"What one of us feels so does the other," she said, through gritted teeth. Healing white light floated like a cloud in her hands, washing over them both. The angry red burn faded. "Do you understand, now?"

"I'll go before your Masters, Bastila." Polla's voice was hoarse and furious. "And I'll learn how to sever this bond. I don't want you in my head."

Carth knelt down to comfort her, but she pushed him away, getting up to her feet again, painfully. Something unspoken seemed to pass between the two women and Bastila moved aside.

"I'm sorry," the Jedi whispered. Polla ignored her and went past.

"You've got a lot of nerve, sister!" Carth snarled, turning on Bastila.

"I don't expect you to understand, Carth," Bastila replied. There was an expression of fixed serenity on her face now, as if nothing had happened. "But as the commander of this mission, I expect you to follow my orders. Stop this . . . affair, now. It is more dangerous than you realize. For both of you." She stared at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen. The two spots of color burned in her cheeks. "And for me."

"When we get to Dantooine, you and your Masters better have a good explanation . . ." Carth warned her, furious.

From somewhere down the hallway they heard a man's grunt of surprised pain, and the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground, and then a stream of curses.

"You weenka-eyed, mud-flapping fracking kissra! Mind your own damn business, Canderous! Doesn't anyone on this bloody ship have anything else to do, besides think about what Carth and I -- " Polla's curses shifted into another language, Mandalorian, maybe. There was the sound of running feet, and Mission's excited voice, Zaalbar's growls of indignation.

"This isn't finished," Carth muttered, pushing past Bastila and breaking into a run down the hall. The Jedi was right behind him.

Something changed after Dantooine. Polla and Bastila came to some kind of accord. But Polla kept her distance after that - almost as if she was afraid of him. Until that night in Tatooine, when they were both drunk, and Bastila was already asleep.

"What about the bond?" Carth asked her, as they lurched out of the cantina, their feet locked in step, and his arm around her waist. She nuzzled the warmth of his neck.

"Frack it," Polla whispered. "I've learned something since Dantooine. Bastila hides things from me and I can hide things from her." She sounded smug. "I've been waiting for this for a long time, flyboy. No Jedi princess is gonna get between us now."

But she had gotten between them. Afterwards, after the Leviathan, when Bastila fell . . . when Polla changed to Revan . . . .

"I've seen what a Force bond can do, son." Carth repeated, uneasily. His memories were treacherous, his thoughts were traitorous.

Dustil looked away from him and shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Wh-what one person feels, the other one feels too."

"Revan felt . . . Bastila fall," Carth said. Sometimes I wonder if that's why she fell too. Sometimes I wonder if it was her fault. Sometimes I wonder if it was mine. Bastila warned me, warned me to stay away from her. She warned us both but we didn't listen. "Why are you asking me this now, son?"

The flat look in Dustil's eyes was inscrutable. When Morgana looked like that Carth had never known what she was thinking. The look meant that she wasn't going to tell him.

"No reason," Dustil said, shrugging. "Just . . . you know, Mekel and I could sometimes tell what each other were thinking."

Mekel Jin went to meet that computer, Mekel Jin could be with Revan now. Dustil said he was going to use Mekel to find Revan . . .

The commlink chimed, four chimes, his ride was downstairs.

"You going to be okay, here, son?" Carth stifled his growing feeling of unease. D'Reev sent more guards to the building, this place is a fortress. Dustil won't be able to get out and no one will be able to get in . . .

Dustil gestured at the tray of snacks on the table, the stack of holochips. "Going to have myself a party. It beats the Underground lock-up."

"Did you go to meet Mekel last night, Dustil? Is that where you went?"

His son's eyes opened wide, black and empty like space. "I went to a brothel, Dad." He shrugged. "You know . . . "

"Boys will be boys," the Senator said with an amused chuckle.

The commlink chimed again.

"When I get back, we're going to have a talk," Carth said. "Places like that . . . there are some things . . . you're too young . . . "

"I'm not a kid," his son said.

"I'm not a kid, you old geezer!"

"We're going to talk about this, Dustil," Carth warned him again.

"Sure," his son said carelessly. "Have fun at your party, Dad."

The head waiter surveyed his charges, a faint sneer on his lips. "One of you needs to stand by the reception line, offering drinks," he said. "Are there any volunteers?" The row of liveried staff shifted uncomfortably. None of them seemed very fond of the Mandalorians.

"I'll do it," Revan offered, stepping forward.

The man frowned at her, checking her face against the list on his datapad. "The new girl," he said. "Iphee Daks. Are you sure that you can handle this? I was going to put you on dewback duty . . . " His nose wrinkled, and Revan had a vision of herself standing by one of the pits turning the spit. That wouldn't work at all.

"I'm sure," she said calmly, pulling at the Force to ensure the certainty in her words. She'd been working on the calm all day. In some ways, this is only a dry run; this is the easiest thing I will have to face in the days ahead. It was a relief to be anonymous, hidden under the absurd holomask that made her feel like a cheap starlet. She shook her head slightly and almost felt the yellow hair move around her face. The face might be vapid, but it was a very good holomask. She smiled her best confident smile.

"Fine," the head waiter said. "Take the tray, the kegs are already set up . . ." His nose wrinkled again at the word 'keg'. Obviously he preferred champa and wine, but they were serving glasses of Tarisian ale at the door. It packed quite a punch, and intoxicated people were easier to influence. Gwenarius had wanted to serve something more traditionally Mandalorian; but fermented maffa milk and blood was an acquired taste and it would do no good to hand out something that no one would drink.

The atmospherics kept the air on the roof still and quiet under the blanket of stars. It was a rare clear Coruscanti night, and the shimmering core nebula melted into the skyline in a swirl of light. The Mandalorians had set up fire pits, one for each clan, and the clan banners hung above each one: Lin, Ordo, Rialis and Zal. The flames burned merrily, crackling around the roast carcasses of dewbacks imported from Tatooine. In the center of the roof a spiraling staircase led to the ballroom below. This banquet area at the top of the building's spire was shared by all of the embassy tenants, and most of the staff were hired help: Coruscanti natives, dressed in formal black and white uniforms, carrying trays of champa flutes and Mandalorian delicacies on silver trays.

The Bothan reporter for the diplomatic channel of Coruscant HoloNet was setting up his equipment. Three camera drones hovered above his head. His Rodian stylist surveyed the scene with a slight sneer on her snout. The Mandalorians weren't a big story in terms of the press, and both of them looked bored and irritable.

The headwaiter clapped his hands. "Ten minutes to showtime, people. Ghow and Mia, you're on spits."

Revan picked up the tray smoothly, balancing it with one hand as if she'd been doing this all her life. The crystal glasses clinked.

Clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation . . .

She did not let her step falter. She made her way down the spiral staircase, trying not to think about another staircase and another party, long ago.

"So this is the little Jedi you've been telling me about, Malak?" The old man's eyes were hooded and gray like his son's.

I was fourteen and Malak took me home with him to meet his father . . .

Malak held her arm lightly, fingers resting on her pulse in a way that made her heart race. She'd dreamed of being in a place like this with him.

"It's an honor to finally meet you, Senator D'Reev," her girl's voice said.

The old man drew them both into a corner of the room, making it seem the most natural thing in the world. "I'd like to know more about you, Revan Starfire."

Malak was only holding her arm with the lightest of fingers, but she could feel his pride in her overwhelming his dislike of his father. Malak hated his father, but the old man seemed harmless to Revan, careworn with the responsibilities of the Galactic Senate weighing heavily upon his shoulders.

Remember this, Red, it's important.

The tray slipped and the crystal glasses slid dangerously, then righted themselves as if steadied by an invisible arm.

You're not here . . . Her step almost faltered on the stairs and one of the Mandalorians wearing full battle armor standing in a line along the wall of the entranceway looked up. His head nodded slightly, and Revan regained her balance.

Thank you, Canderous . . . without you . . .

"Ah," said Oerin Lin brightly, from his place in the reception line at the door. "Here's our server now." The Coruscanti party planner they'd hired looked up from her datapad, frowning a little at Revan's appearance.

"She looks cheap," the Donovian said flatly, "really not the right thing for a first impression."

Revan pulled at the hem of her short bell-shaped skirt with her free hand, and wondered again why she hadn't followed her first impulse and made Mission get her another holomask. One with a face less like an adult vid star.

"I think she looks charming. And harmless." Oerin's smile burned like a nova.

Revan bobbed a quick Coruscanti courtesy, automatically keeping her back straight and her head high. "Thank you, Citizen Lin," she murmured.

Don't do anything stupid, Rev. Oerin's thoughts in her head were cold. No one had bothered to tell him about their excursions the night that they landed until they came back. He was still sulking about this, and about her refusal of the Ordo proposal.

"No one looks at servants anyway," he continued blithely, brushing the Donovian's arm with his hand. Millifar frowned at that and poked him with her elbow. The two of them were clothed in cloth of gold, stiff and formal adaptations of typical Mandalorian festival wear. They looked, Revan thought, rather like a prince and princess from some exotic land, transported to a Coruscanti dreamscape. The lights above them on the black domed ceiling twinkled constellations from different parts of the Rim, and the plain walls had been transformed with holostills of typical Mandalorian life.

The typical Mandalorian life that does not involve basilisks, sacking worlds, and clan blood feuds . . .

On the wall where the kegs waited, a train of dewbacks ambled over a sandy dune. Across from that, an image of Mandalorian women dancing the traditional sand circle, their swords flashing in a pattern that looked more decorative than lethal.

Looks are deceiving.

Mekel was already standing near the keg, wearing a suit of red battle armor. His face was light brown and his hair sandy blonde. His features twisted under the holomask.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Nineteen," she said back.

"Nineteen?"

"Your nineteenth. Apology. It's . . . it's okay," Revan said dully. "I shouldn't have let you go alone. I should have come with you . . ."

"That would have been worse," the boy said. "I don't think Dustil's told . . . anyone anything."

"And you don't think he knows anything, I know . . ." Revan continued filling the glasses from the tap. If this plan fails, maybe I can get a job as a cantina waitress. On some world where they've never heard of Revan Starfire. Like maybe, in the Unknown Reaches . . . "Zaal's going to be fine. Look, it wasn't your fault -- at least you all got back here safely."

They'd made it back to the embassy a few hours after dawn, filthy and covered in blood and blaster burns. Mission took down part of the transportation grids to cover their tracks. Dustil had been arrested, Mission said. He'd been their distraction -- whether willingly or not, Revan still wasn't sure. Mekel and Zaal had been in bad shape. Neither of them would let her try to heal them with the Force, and Mekel was only standing up now thanks to the amount of stims Canderous had given him. Their kolto reserves were almost exhausted.

And we haven't even reached the part of the plan where my enemies start sending assassins after me . . .

"You -- you aren't what I expected," Mekel muttered, ducking his head.

"Why are you helping us, Mekel?" Revan asked. She handed him a glass of ale to fabricate a reason why they'd be talking, and stood with her back to the kegs, surveying the room. The Mandalorian drummers were sitting at the far wall, the great brujaril drums between their knees, and the horn players behind them began to tune the rujaks, creating a cacophony of booming notes. Later, there'd be dancing. Three more holocams were set up down here to catch the footage.

"I told you," he said, looking at the floor. "Because of Him."

Him is Malak. For some reason Mekel is loyal to me because he was loyal to Malak. Malak, whom I killed.

"I killed Malak," Revan said bluntly, wondering why she always felt the need to point out painfully obvious facts to remind people of things that she'd done that it might be better if they'd forget.

My new speech to the Senate: Yes, I was the Sith Lord Darth Revan who started a civil war, attacked Republic worlds, stole a third of your fleet, destroyed the kolto, and devastated the galaxy; but now I'm a nice person. Please give me my son and let me be a senator. And Carth Onasi, your favorite war hero -- I want him too.

"I-I don't think Malak minded," the boy said. He took a cautious sip of the ale, and Revan frowned warningly at him. Don't get drunk, she thought at him, pushing with the Force. His mind was a blank wall made of paper and she couldn't tell if he heard her or not. But she wouldn't break that wall. What it concealed was really none of her business. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what lay behind it. I don't understand you, Mekel Jin. Even under the holomask his eyes reminded her of a kissra lamb's going to the slaughterhouse. Blind innocence . . .

"Places!" The Donovian moved to the center of the room clapping her hands. Her voice cut through the band's warm-up, thanks to the headset she wore slung over a pointed ear. The Mandalorians milled around, sorting out suddenly into precise, almost military lines. Gwenarius and Aemelie moved over to Oerin's side, followed by the Rialis headwoman, the oldest Clan Mother in attendance. All of them were dressed in simple clan robes, in stark contrast to the opulence of Oerin and Millifar's dress.

Simple people happy to have their true sovereign returned to them. In such a setting even the warriors in full battle armor didn't seem that out of place. There were only five of them, the valiant efforts of a once-proud people to show honor to their lost way of life. Or at least, that was supposed to be the impression.

No one was visibly armed.

It begins, Oerin said in her thoughts. He was already speaking charmingly to the first guest, the secretary to Byss's senator. None of the senators would attend themselves of course. Senators were not supposed to be swayed by open displays of currying favor; but several had sent representation. The Fleet and diplomatic invitations had been much easier to choose. There were several ambassadors from worlds that might feel some sympathy towards the Mandalorian cause. As well as some that would come to gloat over their former conquerors' suffering.

The best intentions and the worst, Revan thought. All we need to do is bring them both to the same cause. Our cause. She reached for the Force, ducking underneath Oerin's mind like an underlay of cortosis and let the peace and goodwill radiate outwards.

Gwenarius had wanted to show holostills of suffering children on the walls, but Canderous had mercifully convinced her that subtle reminders were better than the obvious.

Mekel's mind brushed against hers tentatively, and she glanced at him.

Let me help. He gave her a rueful smile. I can help with this.

Revan nodded at him and felt his strength join to theirs. Mechanically, she stepped forward and offered their first guests glasses of potent Tarisian ale.

---

"Sorry we're late."

Carth slipped into the door of the luxury cruiser and sat down on the couch beside her. Rew was beautiful, clad in a gown of fabric that looked like silvered black mist, her hair coiled and speckled with jewels.

"It's fine," he murmured, kissing her cheek.

"I wanted to thank you, Captain Onasi." The woman sitting next to Jiya Sand was almost unrecognizable. Two days ago she'd been wearing a faded dress two decades out of fashion, her graying hair lank and loose around her ravaged face. But now, Helena Shan was dressed in a conservative orange gown with a choker of Corellian starflowers, and a fringed black mourning shawl tied around her shoulders. Her hair had been dyed a lustrous brown and cut into simple, yet elegant shag around her cheeks. "I wanted to thank you for sending me the holocron. It means . . ." she dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered swatch of eridu. "It means more than you will ever know . . ."

Jiya smiled at Helena indulgently. "She's like a new woman," he said to Carth, squeezing her hand. "I want to thank you too."

"The holocron," Carth echoed, thinking of Mission and Revan and the Kashyyyk computer.

"Seeing those memories of my husband! Talking to him again . . . it was as if . . . as if he was really there with me. It gave us a chance to say things, things we should have said long ago . . . before she came between us."

She. She means her daughter. Bastila. Helena Shan looked better, but those lines of bitterness were still there, etched around her mouth as deep as scars.

"The holocron of your husband," Carth echoed again. His mind skipped like a scratched disc.

Tatooine. In the Krayt dragon's cave.

"Well, Bastila?" Polla shot the dark-haired Jedi a look and tossed something that glittered in the air to her. The shorter girl's hand reached out and caught it, almost automatically. Her fingers tightened in a fist and she slid it into her pocket.

"Don't say it," she said crisply, turning her back on all of them. "I'm not giving it to her. She doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve his memories."

"She's your mother," Polla argued. "Doesn't matter if she drives you nuts or not. You still owe it to her . . ." her voice trailed off suddenly and she rubbed her temples. "It's here --" she said, moving deeper into the cave. "It's -- different than the ones on Dantooine and Kashyyyk, almost dead but I -- can you hear it, Bastila? It's singing to me . . ."

"I hear it," the Jedi murmured, face twisting in distaste.

"Are you okay?" Carth asked. Bastila shot him a wide-eyed glance; as if she'd forgotten he was there at all.

"I'm fine," Bastila replied, swallowing hard. She straightened her shoulders and followed Polla into the shadows. The smuggler's delighted whoop of glee echoed through the cavern and ahead of them a now-familiar globe of blue light sprung into view, bisected by new coordinates.

"Observation, Master: While dancing and combat training are close cousins in several cultures, you may want to stop jumping up and down and screaming before the hostiles get closer. Such actions make you a very visible target for ranged attacks."

"Hostiles?" Polla stopped trying to make Bastila and Mission dance with her and moved closer to Carth, her hand going to the saber at her belt in one smooth motion.

"Dark Jedi," Bastila whispered. "I -- I should have sensed them before but I was too -- too unfocused. I shouldn't have let my emotions blind us like this -- I should have realized . . ."

"Shh," Carth whispered, drawing his blasters and trying to get in front of Polla. She moved to block him stubbornly, the silk of her topknot brushing his chin.

"They feel like I should . . . know . . . they feel familiar -- how?" Polla sounded scared.

"Our bond," the Jedi said flatly. "I know one of them that approaches. He -- trained with me, he -- "

HK began to lob grenades at the cave's entrance. The explosions lit up the advancing figures -- five of them -- but seemed to have no effect. Carth started firing and the hiss of red blades began deflecting the bolts.

The two women moved in, smoothly twirling their double blades. Behind them, Mission activated her stealth belt, slipping into the shadows.

"Bastila Shan." The man's voice was amused. He was smooth-shaven, with a narrow dark beard, and his metal breastplate glinted red in the light of his saber's blade. "Lord Malak will be pleased when I bring you to him."

"You cannot win, Bandon," Bastila hissed, charging him head on.

Polla faltered, and Carth moved in to cover her.

"What I don't understand," the Dark Jedi said, countering Bastila's attack, and pushing an advance, "is how you found the Star Map in the first place . . ."

"Who are you?" Polla's voice rang out through the cavern. She sounded confused, not frightened or angry. Her lightsaber dangled loose in her hands and she looked at it as if she had never seen it before.

At the sound of her voice, Bandon froze.

Then he began to laugh. His laughter was terrible, but short-lived. Bastila cut him down in a heartbeat then advanced on the others. Carth started firing too. In the subsequent chain of events on Tatooine, the one he remembered most vividly had nothing to do with the Shan holocron.

"I always loved you, flyboy," Polla said softly, tangled in his arms.

"We found it on Tatooine," Carth said out loud. Rew patted his hand. He realized his mouth was hanging open and he closed it, struggling for composure. We found it on Tatooine but I didn't have it . . . I don't know what happened to it, but I didn't have it. I didn't send it to her . . . who could have sent it to her?

Revan? I know she's here, she has to be here, but why would she . . .

"It came in the post this morning," Helena murmured. "To tell you the truth I wasn't sure I felt up to this, but Jiya was being so persistent -- and -- what you did, Captain Onasi, saving this for me . . . it was so kind . . ."

"Carth's a good man," Rew Ekkumi said lightly, beaming at him.

"I hope the Mandalorians serve some kind of food that's edible," Jiya said. "I'm starving."

Mandalorians are harmless, you love Mandalorians. See how charming Oerin Lin is? Look at their quaint pretty customs.

Two of the Zals were enacting a traditional woman's sword circle in the center of the room. The bells on their ankles jangled a tune that was almost lost over the din of chatter, and their golden festival swords flashed in the twinkling lights cast from the overheads.

"In my day," the Headwoman of Rialis muttered to Revan, accepting another glass of Tarisian ale, "women's dances were never seen by barbarians. But I wouldn't expect you to understand, outlander Fett." Her wrinkled face scowled.

At least she's calling me Fett. Then again, she's calling a blonde woman dressed as a servant Fett in front of a bunch of Coruscanti dignitaries. Thankfully, the party swirled around them, and her remarks went unnoticed.

"Excuse me," a tall Eosian man smiled at Revan. "Could I have another glass of ale?"

"Of course, citizen," Revan said, batting her eyes. "It's almost as good as echinian brandy, isn't it?" She pushed with the Force. "Mandalorians and the Eosians are such close neighbors, don't you think it's time, after centuries of bloodshed to find peace between your two peoples?"

His face went blank for a moment and then he smiled, his eyes a little glazed. "After so many years of war, we should have peace," he echoed, brow ridges wrinkling with the novelty of the thought.

Revan beamed at him. Another one down.

Blue says he's a minor secretary to the Eosian Ambassador, no major influence.

She glanced back at Mekel, shrugging.

Well it's something . . .

"Revan, after the barbarians leave, I need to discuss Ordo's suit with you. I don't think you realize how precarious Clan Lin's position is . . . Headwoman Octiva Lin obviously did a poor job instructing you in our ways . . ."

Her smile slipped for a moment. Behind her, Mekel Jin coughed.

The Eosian looked confused. "Did that old woman just call you Revan?"

"I'm not sure," Revan said, trying to open her eyes as wide as possible. "I don't speak Mandalorian -- did she? She seems senile . . ."

"She calls everyone Revan," Mekel broke in, chuckling a little too loudly. He came forward, moving awkwardly in the armor. One look at him and you can tell he's not used to it. We should have put him in robes. But none of the barbar -- guests -- seemed to notice. "Come on, Mother Rialis, Mother Ordo was wondering if you'd check on the babes . . ."

I'll be right back, he thought at her.

Canderous moved into his spot, smoothly and silently. The Eosian glanced at him, suddenly nervous again.

"I think it's just charming," Revan drawled, "the way they've dressed up in their old battle armor, don't you?"

"Charming," the Eosian echoed, blankly. He blinked. "So . . . you're name's not Revan," he laughed. "What are you doing after the party?"

"It is considered extremely poor taste in Mandalorian culture to try and take advantage of another clan's slaves," Canderous rumbled in Eosian.

Not helping, that, Canderous. Just shut up and stand there.

Revan tried to look dim-witted. The Force sang around them, and the people at the party were like little spots of light, some glowing more brightly than others, but she could feel Lin focusing them into a dance, a pattern of peace and harmony and balance and love. He tapped into her power and it seemed like the room was bathed in a clean blue light.

She looked over at Oerin, and to her Force-enhanced senses it was like he was . . . glowing . . . brighter than a sun. She felt a shiver of fear. How in the hell does he do that?

Like I'd tell you, Rev. His thought was amused and lazy. He seemed terribly pleased with himself, in his element in the same way he'd been in the Sith Embassy on Manaan, the same way he'd been in the Mandalorian battle circle. There were lizards on Widek, she remembered dimly from some long-forgotten lesson, which changed their skin to match their environment, grew gills to swim in water, and wings to fly in the air. Lin was like that: no matter where you threw him, he was at home.

The heir to Mandalore was greeting a party of four now, with Millifar at his side. The men were still partially blocked by the doorway, but the shorter woman, dressed in a confection of silver and black that hugged her graceful curves like a glove, turned and said something to the other one. The second woman was older, and wore a Coruscanti mourning shawl over her orange dress. Her brown hair hid most of her face and she smiled, pushing the hair back. It was a brittle smile that didn't reach her violet eyes and she headed straight for Revan, and the tray of crystal glasses that clinked with the murmur of soft conversation and -- and Oerin stiffened suddenly, almost imperceptibly -- but she saw it out of the corner of her vision even as her eyes registered the woman's familiar face.

So like her daughter's face, if Bastila had lived to be old. But this woman wasn't even that old. She looked better than she had on Tatooine; but her hands trembled a little, just as they had on Tatooine, and she reached for a glass.

"I've always been fond of Tarisian ale," Helena Shan said to Revan, granting her a plastic smile with a bright red mouth.

The glasses rattled because her arm was shaking.

Someone was asking her a question.

"Can I ask you some questions, Padawan Revan Starfire? My son and I play games, you see. I ask him questions and he gives me answers. The Jedi play similar games. Would you mind if I asked you a question?"

Rev, don't lose it. Revan -- don't . . .

The blue light darkened a little, and Revan struggled for composure.

It's just Helena Shan. It's just Helena Shan. She looks . . . better than I expected. She has no idea who I am, just don't open my mouth and say anything, just stand here and be pretty and vacant and be a servant, hired help, pour more ale, set the tray down, turn around slowly --

No. It's not just that. Oerin turned around and glanced past her at Canderous. His hand moved in an old signal that she half-recognized. It meant something like, rally to the General now, she thought -- and that was her last rational thought because when Oerin turned she saw the man behind him.

The man behind him was Carth. Carth dressed in something that glittered and looked like it might have once been a Republic uniform before some Sullustan seamstress covered it with a million tiny sequins. Carth was holding the arm of the beautiful woman in black and silver. The other man with him was gray and balding and wore a similar costume, only with General's bars.

That's Corporal Jiya Sand, Serroco, Groundside command. Capable, but inefficient, chanted a part of her memory that only seemed to exist to taunt her with useless information.

"W-we didn't invite him," she said out loud, backing away. We didn't invite him! Why is he here? Oh frack oh hell, Carth!

She felt the Force splinter as her emotions twisted like a vortex.

His grief and hate was black and rotting like a shroud. If she reached farther she knew she'd find her name at the center of it.

"C-Carth . . ." Her traitorous voice seemed to exist on another plane, one that she had no control of. Her hand fell back against the small table she'd set the tray on and it tilted. Crystal shattered on the floor. Heads turned. Carth's eyes, everyone's eyes.

"Drunk," Canderous mumbled. She watched Carth's eyes narrow slightly at the sound of that voice, and then he shook his head, as if he'd imagined it. Oerin Lin appeared to be telling the woman and Jiya Sand a funny joke and the woman took his arm and leaned against him, with the familiarity of an old friend. Her accent was Telosian.

An old friend or a lover.

You are not going to spoil my party, Revan. Oerin's thoughts were like a whiplash. So, he's here, get over it.

Helena Shan's hazy eyes watched the exchange. "He is handsome, isn't he?" she confided to Revan. She spoke with the tones of someone used to confiding in everyone. Bartenders, servomech droids, lamp posts, shopkeepers and servants.

"Mmm," Revan said, nodding.

"He was in love with my daughter, you know," the woman continued, in a breathless whisper.

He was not! And your daughter was only in love with herself and my husband! The thought was so strange and venomous Revan wasn't even sure it was her own. That's not true, that's not -- Bastila was . . . oh gods, Bastila -- I'm so sorry, that's not fair, that's not true it was my fault, all of it my fault -

Glass crunched under her feet, and she realized that several of the guests were staring at her, as if there was some reaction they'd expect from a waitress besides standing there with her fists clenched at her side gaping at the Republic's favorite war hero.

You're not the only one, Rev. Nine hells, half the room's in love with him. I don't understand the appeal . . . he looks terrible. Oerin laughed out loud and the cluster of guests around him laughed too. Carth's laughter sounded forced, and he glanced in her direction again, a faint frown on his mouth.

Stay out of his mind. I don't care how you twist the others, but stay out of his mind, Oerin.

His mind's a mess. I'd do you a favor cleaning it up.

An order. Revan sent the thought at him so hard that the Lin flinched.

As you wish, Lord Revan.

Go to hell!

Oerin laughed again.

Mekel was coming back through the door now, pushing through the guests. He looked at her, edging cautiously around Carth and his date

Are you ok? Blue says she had no idea, the woman's Rew Ekkumi, Captain Ekkumi, she's one of the Mandalorian advocates . . . Telosian, well-respected in the Fleet.

I don't care who she is! Carth was whispering something in the woman's ear and the woman smiled at him, a familiar smile. A lover's smile. The strange tension in the room seemed to ease, and she saw the beads of sweat on Mekel's face, shimmering underneath the holomask as he tried to replace her strength in the Force. She fought for control again, for composure.

Breathe, Revan. It's all going to be fine.

Canderous nudged her arm. "The glass. Clean it up," he muttered in the Tarisian street dialect they'd used before. Odds were high that no one outside of the Taris undercity spoke it, and most of those people were now dead. She turned around and looked at him blankly. "Servants do that," he said. "Clean up the glass. And focus. We'll . . . we'll get him back for you. I swear it."

Helena Shan was drinking another glass of ale. The Donovian party planner had summoned another liveried waitress to serve the guests and was making sweeping motions at Revan, frowning angrily.

Revan knelt, trying to keep her dignity in the too-short skirt, and began sweeping the pieces of glass onto the silver tray. She took a deep breath.

This is all going to be fine, I'm fine. Mandalorians are happy peaceful people and you all want to vote in their sovereignty. You love Mandalorians, look at their graceful dances. Look at the shining faces of their adorable children.

Revan balanced the tray on one hand, and rose to her feet.

Take the broken glass to the kitchen, throw it away. Get more glasses. Don't think. Don't think and don't look.

One of her hands was bleeding and she wiped it carelessly on the black skirt.

She was halfway across the room when he caught her arm.

The blonde man -- barely more than a kid -- was telling them a long rambling story about traditional Mandalorian dances. Helena Shan was on her third cup of ale, and the waitress who'd dropped the tray when she saw him was kneeling on the floor sweeping the pieces of broken glass onto the tray with her bare hand.

She's going to cut herself like that. Doesn't she have any sense? Carth frowned. There was something -- off about this whole thing. Something that didn't seem right. For a second there, he'd thought -- no. It was impossible.

"What clans are represented here?" he whispered in Ekkumi's ear.

She flashed him one of her trademark million-watt smiles. "All of them except Wies," she said. "The remains of Wies went out beyond Unknown Space. They're already calling them the lost clan . . ."

And I suppose we had our share to do with that, Carth thought sadly.

"Ordo?" he asked her. It was impossible . . . and yet . . .

Ekkumi shrugged. "I suppose . . ."

The blond boy -- the Mandalore himself or whatever he was, caught his arm. "It's an honor to meet you, Captain Onasi," he grinned.

Carth shook him away absently, looking past him. There was something . . .

"You might as well try to stop the sea, Oerin," the girl dressed in gold muttered in Mandalorian. "Some fates you can't meddle in, Fett witch or not. I'm pleased to meet you too, Republic death bringer," she said, still in Mandalorian. "You look much better than you did last night, although I still think she -- "

The boy coughed. "He speaks Mandalorian, Milli."

"Really?" The girl flushed. "Oh. Well that should make things easier when he comes to his senses."

Carth looked past her. There was something -

The waitress got up, balancing the tray in one smooth gesture above her head and rose fluidly to her feet. She moved like a trained dancer -- a movement completely in contrast with her vacuous blonde face. Her absurd lips were painted pink, and her eyes were wide and round, with a look of perpetual surprise. Her walk was at odds with the face and costume too, long-strided and determined. She glanced at him -- right at him - and coolly walked past, plowing a line between the guests with surgical precision. The crowd parted before her like wheat under a scythe. Almost absent-mindedly, she wiped her bleeding hand on the short skirt that she was wearing. The skirt showed off her legs to all advantages.

It's impossible. No. It can't be.

She'd won the duel. Polla Organa, the smuggler from Deralia, known briefly as the 'Mysterious Stranger', had killed Bendak Starkiller. Hordes of screaming fans surrounded her as she came off the dueling ring floor. Her arm was badly slashed and bleeding but she didn't seem to notice the pain. Her eyes were fever-bright and she came towards him, parting the crowd easily just by walking as if she expected them all to move out of her way. To a sentient, they all did.

"You're bleeding," Carth said. It wasn't what he meant to say at all. He meant to say, 'how could you do anything this stupid?' But the light in her eyes and the smile on her face made that thought inconsequential. Nothing else seemed to exist in the room except the two of them.

There was a freckle on her ankle. A constellation of freckles really, most faint like far-away stars, but one was larger and shaped like the map of some place he'd never been.

The waitress had a brown splotch in the same place. She was too far away now for him to see if it was the same.

It only took ten steps and he was across the room, holding her arm. He twisted it around, to see the underside. A thin white line ran along the wrist and disappeared into the sleeve of her white blouse.

Carth found his voice, somehow. Thin and strained. "All those battles and only one scar."

"I - I think I had more, once." The same voice that haunted him in his dreams. Soft, barely a whisper. His hand tightened on her arm. "S-sometimes I remember . . . having more."

"I thought you'd come for me," Carth said.

"I -- I did but I couldn't -- it wasn't safe . . ." She still held the tray full of broken glass above her head.

She hadn't stopped walking. Carth didn't let go of her arm. She didn't look back. He walked alongside her, ignoring the curious glances and whispers of the party guests. With a soldier's awareness he heard the tramp of armored feet behind them.

"Send them away, Revan," he breathed in her ear. The lump of permacrete was in his pocket. It was always in his pocket, even when he slept. They hadn't screened for weapons or explosives at the door.

Typical Mandalorian arrogance.

She said nothing out loud, she didn't miss a step, but he heard the blonde man's voice behind them calling out something in Mandalorian too fast for him to catch and the tramp of armored feet stopped.

She pushed open a swinging door with one deft movement of her hip. Her grace made his heart ache. The false yellow hair fell over her false blue eyes. The lashes were impossibly long and black. He followed her inside. They were in a commercial kitchen. A few other black and white-liveried waitresses were stacking things on trays. Her pink bow of a mouth shook and her chin trembled.

He didn't want to look at it.

"Holomask? Or surgery?"

"Holomask," she said quietly.

"Take it off."

He heard her indrawn breath as if he'd hurt her.

"It's not safe." She pulled away from him and put the tray down, unsteadily, on the counter. She turned back to him. He stared at her arms, they were smooth and pale and unmarked, save for the scar. They'd been marked with dark lines before. He wondered if this was an illusion too.

"Take it off, Revan."

One of the waitresses dropped something. He heard it shatter.

"Is that Carth Onasi?"

"Did he say Revan?"

She looked past him at their audience. "Get out," she said. "Nothing happened here, get out. Go upstairs." The Force compulsion rushed over him like a wave.

This was no good; they were too close to the civilians outside.

"What's upstairs?"

"The roof," she answered.

"Is it empty?"

She took a deep shuddering breath and backed into the wall. Her hands were shaking. He covered them with his own, pinning her against the wall. Their faces were so close now, and her false face stared back at his, shocked and round and vacant. There were tears in her blue eyes, only a faint tell-tale shimmer around them as evidence that they weren't real.

"No," she whispered. "More servants . . . and some of the guests . . . and the children . . ."

He couldn't stand looking at her face. It wasn't her face, and it should be her face.

"Take the mask off, Revan."

"Let go of my hands."

"You're a Lord of the Sith, since when do you need your hands?" his voice was hard and she winced, that fake expression on that vapid pink face.

Her blue eyes closed and she shivered. A field flickered across her features and her eyes were green, her hair a smooth red cap that fell across her brow. It had grown since he'd seen her last. Her chin was pointed and her cheekbones were wide and her nose was slightly broader at the base than the brow. It was her face again. Polla's face.

Standing so close he could see faint lines of silver, almost like scars, that rayed out from her eyes like the shadow of some terrible sun. They made her face inhuman. But in some strange way, they made her even more beautiful.

"Is this another mask?" Carth asked her. "You look different than the last time I saw you."

"So do you," she whispered. Her eyes pleaded with him. Pleading lying eyes. Keeping her pinned against the wall, he looked around the room. There was another door at the far side. One of the waitresses was still there, cowering in the corner. He ignored her. Not important. "Y-you look awful. What he's done to you it -"

"Where does that go?" Carth demanded, jerking his head in the direction of the door.

"Fire stairs," Revan answered. Of course she'd know. They'll have this place mapped and plotted like a battleground. This is a battle. This is some part of her plan. This is something I must stop.

"Move."

Somewhere in the background, he heard someone gasp, and the sound of running feet. That waitress, he thought to himself. It didn't really matter. He watched her eyes track the movement behind them, and her face tightened with some kind of resolve.

Carth dropped her hands. It would be now, he thought. Now she'd turn on him and strike him down and it would be over. No need to make the decision. Let her make it. Let this be over.

Instead she walked to the door and stared at it. There was the click of a lock and it slid open.

"Shame you didn't know you could do that on Taris," he said.

Her head tilted back at him in a ghost of a sad smile. "Would have made the petty theft easier, I suppose."

He followed her into the echoing stairwell. One flight up and countless flights down.

Carth Onasi wandered off after the yellow-haired schutta. Rew Ekkumi looked rather upset.

"Men are dogs," Helena told her, trying to be kind. The room sparkled lazily, and she felt at peace. It was nice to be at a party again, it had been several months since she'd been invited to any social events. In the beginning, after Bastila's death there had been so many invitations; but they'd dried up of late, as the Coruscanti society that had embraced her so readily at first, withdrew.

At least Jiya was still loyal.

She gave him a fond glance, and he patted her arm, absently, looking off in the direction of the doors where Carth had vanished.

The golden-haired Mandalorian man came over to them and beamed at her. He was barely more than a child, but extremely attractive, she thought. The girl at his side would have been lovely too, were it not for her overlarge chin. She was biting her lip and looking nervous. Poor dear, she's probably not used to society.

"Helena Shan," the golden-haired boy smiled. Such a kind smile, she could practically feel his goodwill.

At his side, the girl said something in Mandalorian. She sounded concerned. The boy shook her off and took Helena's arm in one hand and Rew's in the other.

"It's marvelous to meet you all," he said, smiling even wider.

"Wonderful to meet you too," Helena replied, politely. "What should we call you? Is there an appropriate term of address . . . or . . . ?"

"Call me Oerin," he said. "The correct term would be Fett Lin, but we're friends. You can call me Oerin." He gave her an intimate smile. They were friends, she realized. He understood her, and she felt comforted by that. Mandalorians were kind and good people. It was a pity there'd been a war and such tragic misunderstandings before.

One of the Mandalorians in battle armor came over to them. He was little more than a child too, fair hair capping a dark face. He was the only one in armor not wearing a helm.

"Oerin . . ." he whispered, glancing at them nervously. There was sweat on his brow and it seemed to make his skin almost shimmer, strangely. "It's going to hell . . . fast."

Oerin backhanded him lightly, and the boy staggered, almost falling over.

"Insolence will not be tolerated, boy."

"Do something!" the boy hissed back, stumbling.

"I am," Oerin replied coolly. "Just help or get out. But stop talking if you can't be more discreet."

The boy just looked at them all.

"Oh, shit, Blue," he said, inexplicably.

---

The stairwell was empty and the walls were double thick. Sealed against fires and shielded from explosives. Something that can work both ways, he thought emptily.

Carth reached in his pocket and turned the switch. There was an audible click that sounded loud as a blaster bolt.

Revan's eyes followed his movement and then returned to his face. Hers was still, almost expressionless.

"How long?" she asked.

"Sixty seconds."

She nodded and bit her lip. "I can't read your thoughts, Carth. And I don't . . . I don't want to make you do anything. But I can't let this happen." She stared at her hands. "I -- I need to live for -- someone else."

"The galaxy might be better off if you didn't." Carth hated his voice for saying the words, hated himself for wasting this last minute. He wanted to take her in his arms and then have it all be over.

That's what you should have done on the Star Forge, his inner voice mocked. But you were a coward who thought you were a hero.

Revan held out her hand and tilted it. The slight vibration of the permacrete's timer stopped.

"Fused the core," she said, her voice empty. "Detonator's useless now. But you could probably throw it at me if that would make you feel better."

"Why don't you . . ." Carth's voice trailed off.

"How is my son?" The question caught him off guard. She knows, how does she know?

"He's -- he's fine. He's . . ."

Her green eyes were filling with tears. The eyelashes were red. When her hair had been black he'd wondered at that.

"I don't expect you'll believe me," she said, frowning. "But D'Reev's done something to you. Something happened to you on the Pearl. Malachi D'Reev wants to destroy me, Carth. He's using you. But I'm going to win, and I'm taking Malachor back." Her eyes dropped. "And you. If you'll . . . if you'll have me."

"Revan." His voice was rough and she flinched again.

He could hear voices arguing about something from behind the door they'd just passed through, but the duracrete was double-thick and he couldn't understand what they were saying.

"If you betray me to D'Reev now, it will be an inconvenience, but in the end it will change nothing." Revan's voice was cold. "If you stand by me, it will help me but probably . . . ruin your career in the Fleet. If you -- if you care about that now . . ." She took a deep breath. "If you go to D'Reev and confront him, he might try and hurt you, or Dustil. I can make him pay, but I can't stop it . . ."

"Korrie told me that I loved you and I didn't really understand but I -- " Carth stopped speaking. Revan's face was completely blank.

"Korrie?"

"Your son."

Her mouth twitched. "Korrie? I -- in my head I call him Mal, in my dreams I call him Mal . . ."

The same name as your dead husband, Darth Malak. Carth thought he'd gotten over that old pain but it flared up again, like a wound.

The voices on the other side of the door grew louder. Revan took his hand. "Come on," she said, moving up the stair, dragging him up the stairs.

He glanced back down. She followed his gaze. "Your date, Captain Rew Ekkumi, Corporal Jiya Sand, the heir to Mandalore, Canderous, and his wife Gwen are having a small disagreement about whether or not to send a search party after the hero of the Republic who seems to have disappeared along with their clumsy waitress . . . " She frowned and took a deep breath. "And . . . there's trouble. That waitress -- she saw -- and the others - they're not sure what they saw. They're talking. The guests . . . soon everyone will -- will know . . . Let's go to the roof . . . I -- I need some air."

"General Jiya Sand," Carth corrected her. It was surreal. Almost a normal conversation. "Canderous has a wife?"

"Two, actually. And three children that are here . . . I -- I think he had more children, once but . . . Mandalorians are . . . different from us, Carth. They -- " she smiled painfully. "I'm not ready for you to meet Canderous' wives."

This all felt like a dream. She wasn't the woman he remembered. This strange complicity, this automatic assumption she had that he would go along with her plans -- all of this was wrong. "The holocron," Carth said. "Was that a trick?"

Revan frowned. "Which holocron?"

"Helena thanked me for mailing it to her -- but I -- I didn't have it . . . you . . ."

"Yeah," she said, her voice soft. "I mailed it to her. It was the right thing to do."

"She's a horrible woman."

Revan just looked at him. She tapped a silver button pinned to her blouse, and her true face disappeared, hidden under that vapid bimbo look again. "I agree," she said, her voice tight. "But Bastila thought the same thing about me. And I . . . I thought the same thing about Bastila, quite a bit of the time. Helena-" Revan closed her eyes. "It doesn't matter what she is. You -- you don't stop helping someone because they're not good, you can't measure the worth of someone else's life against your own . . . and . . . you -- you shouldn't try."

"How can you say that, after what you've done?"

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know half of what I've done. I don't know half of what I'm doing, Carth . . . I just -- oh Force, Carth . . . "

"Polla," he whispered.

In the next heartbeat she was in his arms. He wasn't sure which of them had moved first, but it didn't matter. They were kissing, her lips were real and solid under the holomask and her mouth was warm and demanding. She was crying, and the tears were salty.

He fumbled with the silver button on her blouse. "You shouldn't hide," Carth told her. Her face was beautiful; he wanted to see it again.

"Don't -- "

Carth pulled at the button and it came off in his hand. Her lips were her lips again, and her green eyes were full of tears.

In his arms she shivered. He dropped the silver button down the stairwell and kissed her again.

The clang of the door downstairs was only another noise.

"If you don't stop pointing that gun at me, Mandalorian, there will be an interplanetary incident."

"Don't take another step Captain." The familiar voice was cool. "Trust me; you don't want to go up there."

"Carth Onasi is my escort and I demand to know what you've done to him!"

Rew . . .

"Uh, Rew, he's probably just wandered off -- he -- he's unstable, you know that."

"Jiya, cover me, I'm going up."

Revan stiffened in his arms. "Who is she?" she whispered, staring up at his face.

"The roof," Carth looked away, not answering her. "Come on." He took her hand and she let him lead her to the door at the top of the stairs. It opened onto a corner of a vast roof garden.

There was a scream from the direction of the doors that Captain Onasi had gone through, and a waitress burst out of them. A different waitress than the one Carth had followed: this one had dark hair and skin, now pasty with fear.

"Revan!" she cried out, over the din of the vulgar music. "Revan Starfire is in the kitchen! Revan! The Dark Lord of the Sith!"

The golden-haired man's smile did not falter.

"Revan?" Jiya said incredulously.

"Revan?" Helena echoed. She was dizzy and her stomach lurched. Revan was here?

Captain Ekkumi pulled away from Oerin and started walking towards the doors, only to be blocked by a hulking figure in battle armor; face concealed under one of their barbaric helms.

"You don't want to go in there," the Mandalorian said. One of their women, hair coiled in braids, came over to them, her face knit in a thoughtful frown.

Oerin sighed and regarded them all slowly. "I'm sure this is a misunderstanding," he said lightly.

A misunderstanding. Of course. That makes sense. Helena felt the fear dissipate.

The waitstaff had stopped serving and were all clustered in a corner whispering, along with several of the guests.

"I demand to know what you've done with Carth Onasi," Rew Ekkumi said coldly. Her voice cut across the room and the music stopped.

She pushed past the figure in battle armor, and went through the double doors.

The golden-haired man sighed again and called out something in Mandalorian.

"He said, salvage it?" Jiya whispered in her ear, frowning. "Salvage what?" Oerin glanced back at them sharply.

"Perhaps we should continue this discussion in the kitchens?" he suggested. The smile on his face seemed angry for a moment and Helena felt a twinge of fear again. Then the fear vanished as quickly as it had come under the melting benevolence of his gaze.

They all followed him into a large commercial kitchen. Carth wasn't there. Rew was already pushing at a door at the end of the room. "Locked," she said. "Open it. I warn you - you can't just kidnap a Republic citizen . . ."

The Mandalorian in battle armor snorted. "We leave those jobs to the Republic," he said. "You're a . . . friend of Carth's?"

"Yes," the Captain snapped. "And I demand to know what you've done with him!"

Rew Ekkumi pushed at the door again, fishing in her pocket for something. She pulled out a security spike and fitted it against the lock. The security spike beeped and the door swung open with a clang.

"Don't move," the Mandalorian said. He had a small blaster in his hands. Helena wondered where he'd gotten it. Her thoughts seemed oddly slow and strange.

"If you don't stop pointing that gun at me, Mandalorian, there will be an interplanetary incident."

"Don't take another step Captain. Trust me; you don't want to go up there."

"Uh, Rew, he's probably just wandered off -- he -- he's unstable, you know that." Jiya rubbed his temples, frowning.

"Jiya, cover me, I'm going up."

The heir to Mandalore sighed. "Well, Ordo, if there is any truth to these accusations, as your Fett I will be bound to deliver . . . the appropriate justice." His hand tapped his cheek thoughtfully.

The woman in braids raised her eyebrows. "Indeed." Her mouth curved in a slow smile. "Canderous?"

The man in battle armor mumbled something in their own language.

"Canderous?" Rew said, looking at him with astonishment.

"Canderous," he growled. "Canderous Ordo. Trust me, Carth is fine."

Helena found her voice. "You're Canderous Ordo?"

"I am," the warrior said quietly.

"You knew . . . my daughter."

The helm nodded at her. "She was a good warrior," he said, hesitating. "She . . ."

"I have to place you under arrest, General Ordo," Jiya interrupted. "Fleet HQ will want to speak to you, regarding the events of the Star Forge."

Canderous shrugged. "You can't."

"He's under my command," Oerin said. "Whatever clan Ordo has done, they will answer to Lin first."

The woman in braids chuckled. "So be it," she said.

"I'm pleased you understand, Gwen," Oerin replied. His hand touched his cheek again, tapping it as if for emphasis.

"I understand perfectly," the woman replied. "See to our guests, Oerin. Canderous and I will check on things . . . upstairs?"

"We're coming with you," Rew broke in angrily.

The woman laughed. "Of course you are." She took the Mandalorian warrior's arm and walked through the kitchens back towards the reception room. Jiya and Rew followed them. Helena started to move, but the golden-haired man caught her arm.

"Wait with me here a moment, Helena," he said softly in her ear. "They're not ready for us yet."

She looked up at him, confused. His face was so kind, so gentle.

'I need a drink,' Helena said.

The air smelled like smoke and roasting meat. There were immense bonfires with carcasses of huge beasts on spits above them. Less people up here: small clusters of partygoers and a few packs of small children running underfoot. An arched railway in the center led to the stairs down below in the central ballroom. Music was piped in from unseen speakers. High above their heads the shimmer of a containment field turned the sky into a blurry swirl of light and color.

"Come over here, Polla," Carth muttered, dragging her across the roof to an unoccupied corner behind one of the bonfires. They stood against the edge of a gilded rail that surrounded the roof garden's edge.

Revan's expression was distant, but she didn't protest when he took her in his arms. "They're talking now, downstairs. It's -- too much for us to . . . to stop. Too many of them. Not much time, I only needed another day, Carth. Oh hell, Carth -- what I have to do to fix this -- "

He silenced her with a kiss. And then another. And there weren't any coherent thoughts, not even the hate he'd expected. There was only her, as it seemed like it had always been. Only her and only him. Nothing else mattered.

But it will matter. It will matter.

Far away a woman's voice was calling his name.

"Whatever comes, we'll face it together, do you understand?" He murmured the words against her mouth.

She stiffened in his arms, like a spring coiled to strike. "I hope you will," she said. "Please Carth, I hope you'll understand."

Her words almost sounded like an apology.

How can you even try to apologize, Revan? After all that you've done? It didn't matter. He kissed her again.

Helena started to follow Jiya and the others, but the golden-haired man -- Oerin -- caught her arm.

'Helena,' he said, almost gently, 'I think you should wait with me here for a moment.'

'That - man was with my Bastila on the Star Forge,' she said, trying to pull away. 'And if Revan is here too . . . don't you understand what that means?'

Oerin laughed. 'That my party is ruined?'

He looked into her eyes, frankly, searchingly. He was shamefully young, but she felt her cheeks blush all the same. The way that he looked at her, it was as if he could see all of her secrets, all of her fears and even the old dreams she'd had once, long ago.

He walked with her out of the stairwell, through the kitchens, and back into the main room.

Around them, people were whispering. Some were leaving rather hurriedly, but still more were pushing up the spiral staircase, to see whatever was happening on the roof.

'I need a drink,' Helena admitted. She did need a drink, but she felt . . . strangely calm, somehow. Considering the circumstances she wasn't sure how that could be, but she didn't question it. You take moments of serenity where you can among chaos. She'd learned that lesson long ago, trailing after Abasen and his crazy treasure-hunting schemes.

Oerin tilted his head, those blue eyes of his seeming to pierce all the way into her very soul. 'Why?' he asked.

His face was so smooth and innocent, guileless. It was the face of a young prince at the beginning of his life with no idea what the worlds would hold in store for him.

"Why?" she echoed.

"Why do you need a drink?"

'You- wouldn't understand,' she pulled away and headed to the bar. The waitstaff had all vanished, they were almost the only people left in the reception room at this point. Even the holocams were gone. There was an abandoned tray full of champa flutes discarded on the bar's edge. She picked up one and drained it quickly.

'I have a soft spot for mothers.' Helena whirled around. The boy had followed her, was standing right next to her. He'd moved so silently, she'd had no idea. 'Don't drink anymore, Helena Shan. Can you do that for me?' His eyes met hers levelly. They were calm and serene.

The champa tasted bitter in her mouth. She put the glass down quickly. 'It's gone off,' she said. 'Cheap wine, not that I'd expect better from a pack of-" she broke off remembering who she was talking to.

Oerin only laughed. 'Forgive my people; I didn't give them much time to plan this.' He took her hand. His voice was earnest. 'You do forgive them, don't you, Helena Shan? Forgive all of them?'

'That man, Canderous. He was with Revan. If he's here, she can't be far behind. And Captain Onasi too, the lot of them, all of them- they killed her - they didn't save her. Because of them my Bastie's dead.'

Oerin sighed. 'But you didn't like your daughter, Helena, so why do you care?' His hand brushed her cheek, gently. 'You spend so much energy hating yourself. Can't you find something else to do?'

'I'm dying,' she confessed. Helena felt like she should be angry, but it was hard to be angry at this golden-haired man.

'Would you like to die faster?' His voice was even, almost thoughtful, as if that was a serious question.

'Of course not!' she shot back.

'Then live,' Oerin shrugged and looked towards the stairs. He held out his arm to her and she took it automatically.

On Talravin, in her girlhood there had been parties and handsome escorts and dancing. Taking his arm made her feel young again, as if all of her life stretched before her like a glorious starburst once more. 'It's time,' he added. 'Time for us to play our part.' His mouth twisted in a wry confidential grin. 'For the record, and between us- I think this is a terrible plan . . . but it's not like she'd listen to my advice . . . and they've utterly sabotaged the original.'

Helena was dizzy. The light glimmered his hair into pure gold, and for a moment his eyes seemed cast from the same metal. 'Our part,' she repeated, laughing a little. Somehow this was all very funny. Oerin laughed too. 'What is our part?'

His lips curved into a deeper smile. 'We're going to be outraged. Just . . . do what comes naturally, Helena Shan. But . . . afterwards . . . ' he paused for a moment on the stairs and raised the back of her hand to his lips. 'Afterwards, there is one thing I want you to consider. Much as you hate Bastila, you love her too. And really, when you think about it . . . that gives you something in common, doesn't it?'

'With . . . ?' Helena frowned, confused. Her head spun and she hid her discomfiture behind a veil of bright laughter, just as she'd been taught as a girl.

Oerin did not answer. He only took her hand and led her up the stairs.

"Carth?" Rew's voice was closer now, and there was a confused babble of other voices too.

A small child in a robe ran past them and stopped and stared, eyes wide. "Aunt Gwen," he called out in Mandalorian. "She's over here!"

"Please," Revan whispered, "not like this."

Carth pulled her closer to him, breathing in the scent of her hair and her skin. She was frozen in his arms, trembling.

"Nine hells," someone familiar muttered in Mandalorian. "I told you to let me just go after them."

"We can salvage it," a woman said in the same language. "Ultimately, this plays to our advantage."

Rew had reached them now. "Carth?" Her soft Telosian voice was concerned. Then her expression froze as she saw Revan's face.

"Oh," the Captain said. She flushed. Above their heads a camera drone hovered, shining a bright light on their faces.

"That's the one!" an excited voice behind her, one of the waitresses from the kitchen. "Carth Onasi called her Revan, and her face changed . . . it -- it looked like Revan -- and then -- and then -- "

Revan pushed away from him. The growing crowd around them murmured. Partygoers, Mandalorians, and the waitstaff. She reached for his hand and squeezed it hard.

"Revan," Captain Ekkumi said. Faint lines appeared around her mouth as she frowned. "That's impossible . . ." She looked at them both. "Isn't it?"

"No," Revan said quietly. "It's not impossible." She was very still next to him. Carth watched the crowd, saw the partygoers' faces register shock, and then fear. And hatred. He held her hand tightly, seeing the hate there.

But you hate her too, part of him chanted. You hate her too.

Around them, voices broke out in an excited babble. There was a reporter wearing the HoloNet logo, who had pushed his way through the crowd. His Bothan face was slack-jawed in shock and the microphone hung loose in his hand.

Behind Rew loomed a hulking figure in Mandalorian battle armor.

"You look terrible, Republic," it said, voice gruff.

"I'm not the one hiding under a helm," Carth answered.

Canderous chuckled.

Rew took a step back. "I should have known," she said tonelessly. "When Jopheena asked me to bring you here, Carth. I should have known."

"Jopheena -- asked you to bring him?" Revan's voice was very small.

"I doubt you'd remember," Rew continued, her voice detached, "but I served in a squadron under your guidance, Revan, over Dagary Minor, early in the war. "You -- you were a good leader."

"I don't remember." Her voice was dead.

"You have to understand, Revan," Jiya Sand stepped forward. His tone was almost apologetic. "We have to bring you in. Fleet HQ will want to take custody. There are things . . . that you will have to answer for."

"The Mandalorians are innocent in this," Revan said. Her shoulders tensed.

You're lying, my love. You always lie.

Whatever it was, it was between them, him and her. Whatever happened, it had nothing to do with the Fleet. Carth could only think of one card to play to make them back off.

He found his voice. "You were stationed on the Ascendant, Jiya. When Darth Revan was captured. In the Outlier systems. Near -- Deralia . . ."

The Serrocan's eyes looked wary. "I was one of Forn's advisors, yes." He hesitated. "And Bastila's." He shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. "I was on the bridge of the Aleema when we captured you, Revan."

"You stayed on," Carth pressed. "As an advisor. Did you help them pick out an appropriate subject, General? Or were you just hired muscle for the Jedi's dirty work?"

The man had been in the military too long to give anything anyway easily in an expression.

"You know?" Revan murmured. Her breath was hot on his cheek.

"You know too?" he muttered back. How does she know? Does she remember?

"Polla," Carth whispered to her. She flinched at the name. Are you Polla or are you Revan?

Revan's head turned back to the General and her voice was cool again. Composed. Frozen. "I don't remember seeing you there, General Sand, but perhaps I wasn't . . . .myself?"

"What is she talking about, Jiya?" Rew Ekkumi asked.

"You tricked her," Revan continued. "I remember that."

"Blackmail isn't going to work," the General said steadily. He looked up at the holocam, which recorded everything with its unblinking yellow eye. "We have an obligation, a duty. Regardless of . . . consequences, I'm going to have to take you in."

Rew Ekkumi frowned. "Consequences? Jiya, what did you do? The Fleet can't afford a scandal, not right now."

"Regardless, we'll have one." The General sighed. "We have to take you to Fleet HQ, Revan," he repeated.

"I'm afraid not." A Mandalorian woman had come up behind the others. She was wearing a plain robe and her fair hair was coiled in a nest of braids. "This is embassy property."

"She's not a Mandalorian citizen," Jiya said.

The woman chuckled. She sounded almost- smug.

Canderous sighed.

The woman beamed. "Take off your helm, Ordo," she commanded with the authority of a military general.

To Carth's astonishment the warrior complied. His friend's face was unchanged, as hard and unmoving as Telosian granite. "I'm sorry," Canderous muttered, looking at Carth and then looking away.

"Get on with it," Revan said. "Congratulations, Gwenarius Ordo." She squeezed Carth's hand hard and then let it go, stepped away from him.

The Mandalorian woman grinned. She tossed something bright and long through the air and Revan's hand caught it. The blade cut into her palm.

Before anyone had a chance to register that the Dark Lord of the Sith had a knife, Canderous had a fresh cut on his face, deep, almost to the bone. Revan clasped her bloody palm to it. He patted her shoulders awkwardly.

There was a brief silence, soon broken by Mandalorian cheers. The Mandalorians had formed a phalanx of sorts, between them and the guests. The yellow eye of the holocam flashed.

"Whatever that was, we still have to take you into custody," Jiya said flatly. "I'm sorry, Revan."

"You can't," Revan said. Her voice was toneless. "No jurisdiction."

"What just happened?" Carth asked her. She pulled away from Canderous and stood there, not answering. Her hands were white-knuckled. He noticed with concern that she still held the knife by its blade. Blood dripped unnoticed from her hand.

"As long as our case is a proposed measure before the Galactic Senate, our citizens and their families have full immunity," Gwen answered, in a pleased voice. "You cannot arrest my husband, Canderous Ordo, or his third wife, Revan Starfire D'Re -- "

"Enough," Revan snapped. "It's done. You have your alliance and I -- " her face hardened " -- I'm going to win." Her eyes looked unfocused, as if she wasn't really there at all.

"Third wife? Canderous?" Carth's voice cracked. For a moment he felt like he was Dustil's age. He had an irrational desire to hit something really hard. Or shoot it.

"Feints and counter-feints," Jiya said. "You haven't changed much, Jedi Knight Revan."

"I am no Jedi," Revan answered. She stared at the knife as if she had no idea how it had gotten there. She took a deep breath. "Mandalorian laws . . . " Her head looked up, regarding them all, and her gaze settled on Rew Ekkumi.

"Captain Ekkumi," she said almost formally. "Do you have any claims on the Telosian Carth Marcus Onasi?"

"Claims?" Ekkumi's olive cheekbones tinted with a pink flush.

"Claims," Revan said again. "Are you now or have you ever born any issue that he has recognized." Her eyes narrowed. "You're not pregnant now so I'm assuming not."

The tip of her nose was pink. Her hand weighed the knife and Carth worried that she was going to stab someone. Who, he wasn't sure.

Gwen laughed, and glanced back at their audience. "It's bad manners to speak of such things in mixed company, Third Wife Ordo."

"Forgive my ignorance of proper custom," Revan muttered. "But I am within my rights, as I understand them?"

"You are, although it's not commonly done these days. There's a shortage of men as it is, and many would consider it poor manners to take -- "

She moved so quickly Carth didn't have time to flinch. The blade traced a line of fire across his face and her bloody palm pressed against his cheek.

"Two of them," the woman finished.

"Well," Jiya Sand said.

"Aemelie's going to be thrilled," Gwen said. "I'd better go check on the spits."

"I don't think so, Gwenarius," a voice said, coolly. 'What is the meaning of this, Clan Ordo?'

'What is the meaning of this, Clan Ordo?' Every inch the young prince, Oerin parted the crowd of spectators with a wave of his hand, and the ringing tone of his voice. At his side, Helena stumbled a little in shock.

Her. It was her. Dressed as a waitress with a bloody knife in her hand standing between Canderous Ordo and Carth Onasi. Revan.

Helena watched those unnatural green eyes blink at her in recognition, and that pointed face grow pale.

'A wedding, Fett Lin,' the blonde woman in braids said, almost deferential.

'So I can see,' Oerin snarled. 'And to what purpose do you tie Ordo to an outlander barbarian? Specifically, that outlander barbarian? And where did you find her?'

'That,' Canderous muttered, 'is none of your concern.'

'The barbarians were going to take her,' the woman in braids said coolly. 'And she's our prisoner, not theirs. How better to hold her than to seal her to our clan?'

'I'm . . . your . . . prisoner?' the woman- Revan's- face was blank and she looked at the ground. At her side Captain Onasi reached for her hand but she pulled away from him.

'My prisoner,' Oerin corrected them all. 'As your Fett, as the Mandalore, she is my prisoner, not yours.'

A holocam whirred above them; its yellow eye whirred and clicked.

'You are not the Mandalore yet,' Canderous said.

The air around them was tense, expectant. The crowd was silent. Helena clung to Oerin's arm, trying to make sense of the events around them. She was so dizzy and her thoughts felt muddled. This didn't seem real. It seemed almost like- a bad theatrical production? But no, it was only too real. That woman. Revan Starfire was here. She shrank back.

'When I am appointed as the leader of the Mandalorians by the Coruscanti Senate I shall be the Mandalore,' Oerin said softly. 'Were you trying to stage some sort of coup under my nose before that could happen, Ordo? You overstep your place.'

There was a clatter of armored feet behind them, and more Mandalorians in battle armor pushed through the crowd. They were led by the fair-haired boy with the dark skin. He moved awkwardly in the armor, Helena noticed, as if he wasn't used to wearing it.

'I'll take them into custody, Fett Lin,' the boy said. Behind him, one of the warriors giggled and he whirled around shooting them a furious look. Another one mumbled something in Mandalorian.

'Please do,' Oerin said coolly. He tapped his foot and they began to move forward.

The woman in braids coughed.

'Apologies, Gwenarius Ordo, was there something else you wanted to say before your imprisonment? Said to these noble people of Coruscant? Say to the galaxy that watches you, even now?' Oerin waved his hand at the crowd and at the cameras.

'I just wanted to be clear,' the blonde woman grinned, baring her teeth in a defiant smile. 'We've claimed Captain Carth Onasi for Ordo as well. Ignorant barbarians may not understand our ways. Will you let it be known that he must share our fate now, whatever it may be?'

'What the hell is this, Revan?' Captain Onasi's whisper carried. He'd grabbed her arm and she was leaning against him now, looking pale but strangely composed. 'What are you - '

'Now, Helena,' Oerin said softly, so softly that she didn't even see his lips move. He pushed her forward.

'You killed my daughter!' The words were raw, louder than she meant them to be. They sounded like they came out of a stranger's mouth and not her own. 'You! Revan Starfire killed my daughter! Bastila. You killed Bastila!'

Revan's face tightened. Her eyes looked right past Helena. 'This wasn't necessary, Oerin,' she hissed.

'You are in no position to judge necessity, Revan Ordo,' Oerin Lin shot back. 'Let the woman have her grief.'

'You killed her!' Helena said again. Her hands were shaking. She wished she had a drink, wished the light wasn't so bright on her face. The camera would show every wrinkle, every crease, every line of pain.

'No.' Revan shook her head, backing away. 'This wasn't necessary. You go too far, Oerin Lin, way too fracking far . . . ' Canderous caught her arm, and murmured something in her ear. There were tears in her eyes, and she wiped them away, ducking her head as if there was somewhere to hide from the cameras and the crowds. Captain Onasi moved towards her protectively. He looked shell-shocked, as if none of this was real. Helena felt a pang of sympathy. None of this seemed real. Even her own voice, her own words, seemed liked they belonged to someone else.

'Did you know my daughter worshipped you? Looked up to you? She thought you and Malak were the embodiment of everything a Jedi should be, could be. And then you betrayed us all, everything the Jedi stood for . . . and then you killed her!'

Revan's face twisted. 'I think I knew Bastila far better than you ever did,' she muttered.

'She was all I had!'

'And you abandoned her . . .' Revan's voice was low and angry. She bit her lip, struggling. Several people in the crowd backed away. 'I'll see you burn for this, Mandalore,' she spat.

'Take them away,' Oerin responded, regal and unconcerned. He waved his hand again at the crowd and the cameras.

'Helena . . .' Jiya took her arm and she buried her face in his coat, sobbing. 'I'll take you home now.'

"We need to talk, Jiya," Rew Ekkumi said.

"We will, Rew. But not here. Not now."

The prisoners and their escort moved past them, followed by the holocam's avid yellow eye. The remaining guests whispered, and the Bothan reporter, who had been silent throughout the proceedings, finally found his voice.

"This is Jokka Rai reporting. Live from Coruscant's Embassy District, history itself is made as the former heroes of the Star Forge are reunited once more. In some strange twist of fate Revan Starfire has been captured by the Mandalorians."

"It began as an ordinary diplomatic party. But now, from the Outer Rim to Deep Core, sentients of the Republic will wonder what tomorrow may bring."

"Does the fate of the galaxy now depend on the heir to Mandalore?"

The holocam's bright light was blinding. The fire behind them burned, giving the scene the strange appearance of a battleground. Jiya squeezed her arm, reassuringly. "We'll go home now," he repeated.

"Remember what I said, Helena," the heir to Mandalore whispered. His voice sounded so close, as if he were whispering in her ear. Then he laughed.

Helena looked at him. She really wanted a drink. That woman. Revan Starfire. She killed my Bastila. Her nerves . . . her nerves were very bad.

XXX