Memory / Chapter 23 / Glass Houses

"I'm fine, Father." Dustil's voice was flat, the tone oddly cold and clipped. "Senator D'Reev wanted me to let you know that I'm fine. I'm going to stay with him for a while, until all of this dies down." His son glanced at something to the right of him. Whatever it was, it wasn't in the viewscreen.

D'Reev himself, Carth thought bitterly, watching my son. The bastard has my son.

"I-I'm happy for you -- for both of you." Dustil's lips tightened and he put his head back against the white wall, as if leaning on it for support. "I-I'm fine here, we're . . . all fine here. But she doesn't understand -- she doesn't know the risks. This isn't going to work. What she doesn't know puts him in danger . . ." He closed his eyes. Under the bright lights, his skin was very pale. "Why didn't you just listen to me, why couldn't you just listen?"

From offscreen came a dark chuckle and the old man walked into view. Behind him Dustil's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists. Carth wasn't sure if he'd imagined it, the first time he'd watched the tape. This was the tenth time. Now he was sure. The glimmer in his son's eyes, just for a second and then gone. Hatred so pure it made his heart sink, even as part of him cheered it on.

You're right to hate him, son. He trapped you just like he trapped me. He tricked me. He made me believe . . . Carth hit the table in front of him again with his fist. Beside him, on the couch, Revan flinched. And that's the worst thing, isn't it? All of those things he made me believe about her . . .

They were mostly all true. They were nothing I didn't already know.

In front of them the holochip continued to play its recorded message. Senator Malachi D'Reev opened his mouth and more kinrath venom dripped out.

"I can threaten her myself, Dustil. I don't need some half-grown Telosian to do it. Revan, whatever you think you know; it won't be enough. Can you measure your ridiculous quest for justice against the life of a son? Make no mistake. His life is in danger now. Thanks to you. Go to the Jedi and take what they offer; or he will suffer. The innocent always do. I can see the shape of the game you play, Revan. I taught you the rules. And you never could win against me. Even when you knew yourself."

"I wish you'd listened," Dustil whispered from behind the old man. "I really wish you'd --"

Whatever else was said, the tape cut out. Carth imagined the rest of his son's words like he'd done the last ten times, the last hundred times in his mind, pacing around the room that felt like a cage, in the Mandalorian apartments that felt like a prison. The guilt tore at him again. I wish I'd listened too, Dustil. To whatever it was that you wanted to say. We are in a prison. The Fleet and CoruSec guards outside are practically standing room. Snipers on the neighboring buildings. Every communication monitored. We've been like this for two days now. Two days now and all I can do is think, and pace, and curse. Dustil, please be okay, son. Somehow I'll get you out of this, somehow . . .

She stirred beside him. Carth turned to see her face. His -- wife, my wife. My wife, my life, my knife -- had her knees to her chest and her head rested on them. She blinked hard.

"Damn him to hell," Revan said. "It's not a bluff. Whatever it is, it's not a bluff."

She didn't have to say that it wasn't Dustil's life that was in danger. Or not just Dustil's. They'd known that when they first watched the recording yesterday.

Carth pulled her closer. His lips brushed the bright silk of her hair. She stiffened, then he could feel her deliberately relax -- forcing herself to relax.

"Whatever it is, we'll face it together."

"You're holding me so tight that I can't breathe," Revan said. She shook her head slowly. "Carth -- you could -- you could just go. Leave. Get out of here."

He turned her head to face his. "Pol -- beautiful, he has my son. He manipulated me. The things I said about you on the vids -- somehow he made me think them. And now he has my son. The bastard has Dustil." His voice sounded calm and reasonable in his own ears, which was strange, because he didn't feel either.

"The things you said on the vids about me were true. Some of them." She took a deep breath. "Most of them."

She didn't need to say that. She needed to stop saying that. "What, that you're the Dark Lord of the Sith? Gathering a Fleet to destroy the Republic again? What you did . . . what you were -- is done. Gone. The dead are dead -- Revan. Maybe Zaalbar's right." He and the Wookiee had had a very long talk. "Maybe . . . the past is just over and that's all there is. You gave me something to live for. You told me you have something to live for. We both do, we have them: Dustil and Korrie. They need us now more than ever. And if I left . . . what are the odds that he'd try and use me against you again?"

"According to Mission, a rather large number to one." Her voice was remote. That cold voice that made chills run up his spine.

"You asked it -- her." It wasn't Mission. She persisted in treating it like Mission and it wasn't. They'd had another argument about that, and finally he'd given up.

"I have to account for every possibility." Her face was frozen. "But you have a choice -- you could -- you could escape. Go somewhere, far away. Telos." She took a deep breath. "Deralia."

He never should have told her about that call to Manaan. About calling Deralian directory assistance. About wondering which woman it was that he loved. Just swallow your foot entirely next time, Onasi. Just jump off the top of this building. Just run out in the street outside waving a blaster and let the snipers shoot you down.

"And my son? We're going to go somewhere together, Revan. All of us." Call her Revan. Call her Revan because she wants you to. He pulled her onto his lap. Her limbs were as stiff as a doll's. "All of us. I promise." Carth tilted her face towards his again and kissed her lips.

"I've followed you across the galaxy, seen you pull off things that no one -- no one else could have done. We'll do this too. We'll muddle through and we'll win." He kissed her again. "Whoever you are, beautiful, you always win. The name's -- the name's not important." He smiled slightly. "Anyways, it's Onasi. Coppertop Onasi. Green-eyes. Freckle-face Onasi."

"Fett Revan Starfire D'Reev Lin Ordo Onasi," she murmured. Her lips curved up a little. Her eyes stared into his. "Force, I missed you, Carth."

His hands smoothed her hair back from her brow. "Onasi's the important part and don't forget it. The rest is just window-dressing." It was a smile on her face. A wan, scared one, but a smile nonetheless.

"Beautiful," he said huskily, kissing her harder. "Silk. Gorgeous. Cute-as-a-gizka."

"A gizka?" She wrinkled her nose.

He kissed it too. "My wife. Freckles." He traced the one on her ankle, sliding up to the one on her thigh.

"Flyboy," she whispered back, kissing his neck. "Captain Onasi. Admiral Handsomest-pilot-in-the-galaxy. Brown eyes. Beautiful. Amazing . . . " She lowered her voice and added something else in a language he couldn't follow. Carth blushed. "Did you just say what I thought you said?"

"In Mandalorian," she purred, "it's a compliment if they're large enough to make the comparison. Inkata. Bak'ta. Hsyimion . . . " she continued her advance, whispering more sweet nothings in languages he could only guess at.

His hands tangled in her hair. It was just long enough to tangle now. Barely. "Firetop. Red. Revvikins."

Her hands stopped moving. "What," Carth murmured playfully. "You don't like Revvikins?"

"Don't call me Red. Ever." She buried her face in his chest. She tried to laugh. "Revvikins is awful -- yeah, but -- but that's better than -- just don't. Please."

"Whatever you say." He pulled her up to kiss him again. "Freckles. Honey. Gorgeous Onasi. My Hothan princess. Coruscanti babe. My Revan. My darling. My wife."

"I love you," she whispered.

Carth kissed her again. "I love you too. Revan, we'll get both of them. Both of them back."

"I want to see Malachi burn in every nine of the Corellian hells," she murmured. "I want to see him broken."

It's beautiful.

The ceiling soared above them, domed to meet the sky, the milky light filtering down through ferracrystal prisms like a tiny million smiles. The great expanse was circular, and lined with the floating boxes of the representatives from hundreds of worlds. More than a thousand sentient races; each one with its own color and life and culture. The beauty of it took her breath away and somewhere inside her head, a Deralian farmgirl stammered for something to say.

"Wow."

Carth squeezed her hand. "Wow? You're going to have to give a better speech than that if you want this to work . . . "

The robed Mandalorian piloting their gravmag lifter glanced back. They'd soared out of the petitioner's gate, and were slowly circling towards the Senate floor. The subtle whine of their craft's magnetic engines was the only sound in the vast expanse.

Below them on the Senate floor was the petitioner's ledge: a spiraling stair wound around a conical edifice to the top platform, but the steps were mostly for show. One step for each world of the Republic, at least it was three hundred years ago, when it was built. Instead of climbing up the steps, they, like all sentients come to plead a case before the Galactic Senate, descended in their gravlift on a bed of soft air.

Revan stepped carefully. Having her hands chained was awkward, and it wouldn't do to trip. The others moved around her. Gwenarius' son gurgled gently in his father's arms and Canderous nodded. That nod said a thousand words. Or at least three. It's going well.

Oerin Lin stepped into the speaker's circle and the light from above outlined his golden robes, and the yellow of his hair.

"Noble sentients of the galaxy, I come to plead for my people . . ." he began.

It was a really bad time for her mind to wander, but all Revan could do was look up, transfixed at the ringing rows of sentients that surrounded them, all bathed in the haze of light dappled down from above. It's beautiful. Somewhere above, in those rows of floating seats was her son. She narrowed her eyes, searching for him. Near the top of the room hung the five banners of the Coruscanti ruling aristocracy: Racharn, Phin, Makeon, Qel-Ria and D'Reev. She looked for the black and red, barely discernable from such a vast distance.

The last words of Oerin's speech echoed through the chamber. "How can you measure the value of one life against a thousand? We must be prepared to make any sacrifice to save the lives of all sentients. And now, when the Mandalorians need your sacrifice, your leaders preach caution and temper their indecision with empty platitudes. The Mandalorian plight is real . . .'

At first, the applause was only scattered. But it grew thunderous, like rain on the Derran plateaus. Heavy, driving, decisive.

Galactic Chancellor C'tek Nal'Gahar hardly need to tabulate the vote on his receiving screen.

The vote was unanimous.

"By the power vested in me by Senate and Fleet, and with the approval of the Jedi Council, the Coruscant Galactic Senate recognizes Mandalorian sovereignty. A people, who have reached the age of reason and selected their own governance, deserve the same rights and privileges we accord to any protectorate system. We recognize the Fett Lin Mandalore as titular head of his people. We offer him the same hand of friendship given to all colony worlds. If there are any that object to this status, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace."

"I object!" Beaming, the Headwoman of Rialis stepped forward. "Oerin Lin cannot lead us -- yet. He has not yet completed the tasks that turn a Mandalorian boy into a man. He is still, sadly, unblooded in stars."

Revan sighed with relief. She remembered her lines . . . Carth squeezed her hand, encouragingly. We'll pull this off yet, she thought.

The Chancellor frowned. "Is there some other member of Clan Lin who can act as regent for Oerin until such a time as he comes of age?"

From the line of Coruscanti Senator's boxes high above, a bright light flashed in code. House D'Reev requested permission to speak.

"It's true that I cannot claim any blood kinship with Clan Lin through my own line," Malachi D'Reev's voice hissed over the speakers. "But my late son's wife has claim to Lin, and therefore, so does my heir. Malachor D'Reev."

The Galactic Chancellor's normally healthy red chitin paled to a pinkish orange. His beak chattered. "And who is this heir's mother?" he asked formally. The tension in his voice made it all too clear that it was a rhetorical question.

"Revan Starfire D'Reev Lin Ordo Onasi," the old man replied. His voice was full of hate. On the holoscreens above them her own face; head bowed, hands in chains, was projected ten meters high. The overlight drones projected a spotlight on her. It was blinding.

"Now," Carth murmured in her ear. He shoved her forward gently.

The towering levels of senators gasped in a collective sigh.

"Noble sentients of the galaxy . . ." Revan knelt on the blue penitent's circle and raised her head addressing the room. "I saved you in the Mandalorian wars, and now I come before you, as a humble penitent representing the interests of a shattered people." The light blinded her but she kept her voice steady. "By Mandalorian law I am the Fett Mandalore, and by Coruscanti law I lay challenge to Malachi D'Reev. The old Senator has served you well, but he has served too long. I am his rightful heir, through my late husband Malak's claim. I am the rightful guardian to our son."

The Galactic Chancellor bobbed on his lift above her, tentacles waving slightly in agitation.

"What you say is the truth," he clicked, slowly. "By Coruscanti law . . . but . . ."

"-- and I accept the judgment of Coruscanti law. Let my fellow Senators judge me. If they find me lacking, I will fail." Above on the holoscreen the five representatives of the Coruscant Senate houses flashed for a moment, all of them looking down at her.

After all, what's the worst they can do? I lived through the Star Forge.

"I object," hissed Malachi D'Reev. "I will act as regent for Malachor -- for Malachor and the Fett Lin," he added hastily. "Revan Starfire D'Reev is an enemy of the Republic."

"Overruled," said one of the other Coruscant Senators. "The other four houses are in agreement. We accept the challenge. Revan Starfire D'Reev is one of our own, and by such laws we will measure her."

"Normally, we would put this matter to planetary vote. But in this special case, let's skip the formalities. Let the games begin." The Galactic Chancellor raised a claw, formally sketching his scepter through the air. Revan bowed her head. "Release the child to his rightful guardian."

"Let the games begin," Revan echoed the formal phrase, looking up out of the corners of her eyes at the lift that descended from the highest heights. On it, a red-haired child, tall for his age, and standing beside him, an older boy, almost a man, with dark hair and Carth's face. I did it. I've won and we didn't even have to wait for the planetary votes, didn't need to lobby . . . it was this easy . . .so easy . . .

"You did it, Mother!" Malachor leaned on the rail of the lift, reaching out towards her as they came closer. High in their boxes, tiers of sentient representatives cheered.

I did it, I've won. Now, we grab our sons and get out of here --

Suddenly there was a grating noise that broke through the applause like a blade against transparisteel. The gates on the far end of the Senate floor creaked open. Rank and file, lines of Mandalorian warriors filed in, resplendent. Thousands of them in their battle armor.

An army of them.

The Galactic Chancellor turned his head, sharply. "What -- ? No!" he cried out. "We are betrayed!"

A low dark chuckle sounded, and a black shadow clad in a heavy cloak rose up from his gravlift. Its gloved hand slid around his neck, caressed his beak. "Silence . . ." hissed a woman's voice. "All of you, silence . . ."

Revan stumbled in shock, scrambling to her feet. Her Mandalorian escort were all smiling. Some had swords drawn. Others had rifles. The Force surrounded the room, enveloping the onlookers within in its web of stasis. All voices were stilled.

The black-cloaked figure held the Galactic Chancellor of the Republic in by his tentacles, jerking his head back. "Talk when I say talk," it hissed. "Bow when I say bow. Dance when I say dance . . ." There was the sound of ripping flesh, crack of chitin breaking and the figure stepped back, holding out its hand. The Chancellor dangled boneless at the end of an arm.

"No," Revan whispered. Carth stepped forward touched, touching her arm tentatively.

"Don't do this, love."

"No!" Her cry echoed across the vast chamber. Above them, the gravlift carrying Dustil and Malachor paused and began to retreat. Her son's mouth opened in surprise.

This can't be happening. This isn't real, this isn't --

Real.

The dark puppeteer threw back her hood, lifted up the metal mask. Her grav lift drifted closer.

"No," Revan whispered again. She shook her head. "This is wrong, this isn't how it should be. You shouldn't be here!"

"Were you expecting someone else?" said Bastila Shan. Her pink lips curved in a knowing smile. The Chancellor twitched at the end of her hand, green ichor dripping from the terrible hole in his carapace. "Perhaps someone . . . taller? She held out her other hand, black-gloved, fingers curved in a formal Coruscanti invitation. "Join with me and we shall rule the galaxy."

With an expression of distaste, Bastila dropped the Galactic Chancellor. His body crumpled to the floor of the lift.

"This is a dream . . ."

"Slow today, are we?" Bastila hovered above her on the gravlift, hand still outstretched.

"No!"

Revan turned her head. Canderous, Gwen, the headwomen and all the other Mandalorians were gone. Carth stood alone on the platform, reaching for her. "I can't let you do this. I can't let you fall again . . ." he whispered. "I love you, Freckles, I love you, Red."

"Outdated. Ineffective. Puppets . . . to tradition. I have come with my Mandalorian army," Bastila addressed the frozen crowd with a cruel smirk on her face. "I have come for my apprentice. Do not think you can win against the Lords of the Sith. We have powers far beyond your comprehension . . .The Sith Empire will rise again, and we-- we are its spark." She paused, frowning, and shook her head. "Revan . . ., this is absurd. Carth makes a ridiculous Nomi Sunrider."

"And you a rather unconvincing Exar Kun," Revan replied. Her throat was dry. Dream. Only a dream.

"There was no one else left to play the part," the Jedi shrugged. Her laughter was sharp and crisp in the strange silence.

"So I'm Ulic, then."

"You seem to have set it up that way, yes." Bastila grinned at her. Her face was very pale and her blue eyes turned almost colorless. Two spots of pink burned on her cheeks. "Remember, isn't this your dream?"

The sound of footsteps behind her and an old man's sad voice. "Don't do this, kid."

No.

Revan turned.Two more players in this demented dreamscape had just ascended the steps and stood before her, lightsabers drawn. Their faces, pleading with her. Don't do this, it's not too late.

"This is the part," Bastila's voice was lecturing and assured. "This is the part where you strike down your friends, and you and I go off together to lay waste to the galaxy. Make sure not to kill them, so they can save you later. You got that wrong the last time. Come with me, Revan." Her voice was oddly gentle. "End this farce. Come. We need to talk."

"You know, the kid's right, Bastila," Jolee cleared his throat. "You do make a terrible Exar Kun."

Bastila's haughty eyebrows rose. "I'm sorry," she said, leaning on the rail of the gravlift. Her black-gloved hands dangled over the sides, one still dripping green ichor. "Do you see anyone else around to play the role? Do you think you'd be better at it?"

Jolee shrugged. "I actually knew Exar, unlike some people who weren't even twinkles in their parent's eyes."

Revan clenched her fists. The chains binding her hands broke. "I want to wake up now."

"Polla," Carth whispered. His voice was faint and even as she watched he vanished, shimmered out like a hologram.

"And it's always what you want, isn't it?" Juhani advanced, lips pulled back in a snarl. "You haven't changed at all."

Bastila frowned at the place where Carth been. "Stang, we're short one player now."

"Well, geez, isn't it a little weird for me to be Nomi? I mean, I loved Polla-Revan like a sister but don't be gross. Bastila, I think you should do it. You have the Battle Meditation and stuff . . ." Mission Vao trooped up the stairs, vibroblade in hand, bowcaster slung casually over one shoulder. She was dressed in her bright red Baragwin armor. "And then maybe I could be Exar Kun?"

Revan closed her eyes. "I'm going to wake up now."

"Oh you dumb crazy kid." A calloused hand caressed her face. Revan opened her eyes. Jolee was looking at her, sadly, his 'saber extinguished. "You dumb crazy, try-and-do-the-right-thing-and-frack-it-all-up-kid. Think, Padawan. What's missing from this picture? Who's missing from this picture?"

"This is a dream," Revan repeated stubbornly, backing away from him.

"I told you this wouldn't work," Juhani snarled at Jolee. "She's selfish and she doesn't listen. She doesn't see. You have to just be direct and even then she won't believe you." Her furred face twisted. "Revan," she said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully as if speaking to a small child. "Malak is gone from this place. Malak is gone from this place, do you understand?"

Revan shook her head. "He's dead. I killed him, I killed all of you, this is just a dream, only a dream. A really bad dream -- and I-- I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

The railing was at her back. Maybe twenty meters to the floor. She could use the Force to cushion her fall . . .

"You don't have the Force," Bastila laughed. "Not while you're playing Ulic. Nomi's cut you off from it, remember?"

"Pollie, dear!" An old woman staggered up the stairs, wisps of hair straggling out of her topknot. "There you are,child. Were you hiding from me?" Her frame was bent and stooped. and she wore a faded blue dress, patterned with leaves. Familiar pattern, familiar dress. Familiar face so abrupt that Revan's breath came out in a sharp gasp. This is a dream.

"I'm sorry," Bastila's voice was arctic. "This is a private intervention. Who are you?"

The woman's wrinkled eyes widened. "Why, you're Bastila Shan! I've seen you on the vids! And of course, you remember, that one time I came up to see Polla on your Republic ship? I brought you teacakes. I'm Polla's Auntie Mita, and I've been looking everywhere for her. I should have known I'd find you on Coruscant, dear."

Jolee stepped away to give the old Deralian room and her wrinkled arms enveloped Revan in a shaky hug. "You were always going on and on about coming to Coruscant . . ."

"I want to wake up now," Revan told her. "Please." She gritted her teeth while the woman exclaimed over her hair, and kissed her softly on the cheek.

"The pilot's very handsome. Polla was quite taken with him too, although she'd be loathe to admit it. Are you happy, dear? I do want you to be happy."

"Is this something from her mind like the rest?" Juhani's ears flattened back against her head.

Jolee reached out and touched the woman's shoulder tentatively, frowning. "I don't think so. Excuse me -- Mita, you said your name was -- are you-- are you dead?"

The old woman looked puzzled. "I'm not really sure. I went to sleep . . . how long ago was that? And I don't seem to have woken up since. I heard her calling for me -- I thought it was the other one at first but -- oh, Junior is beautiful, he looks just like his father -- and they're doing fine . . . " She frowned at Revan again. "Although you've gotten her in a terrible tether. Again. One of these days, the two of you are going to have to sit down and work this thing out."

"You don't know me," Revan whispered. "You're not my -- "

The woman put a finger to Revan's lips. "Shhh, dear. You know, if I am dead, I expect you to pay me proper the respect. You know what I like, don't you?" Her faded eyes twinkled. "You remember, that time we went down to the lake and picked basketfuls of them and I told you. Do you remember what I told you?"

Revan shook her head. "I'm not -- you're mistaken -- "

"Did the Council anticipate this, Bastila?" Jolee took the old woman's arm gently and tried to lead her away. She shook him off like a herran fly on a hessi.

"You have to do something about your hair. It's so untidy this way. See the Cathar's hair? She has fur, but even she manages to groom herself. I don't know what you've been thinking . . ."

"I doubt she's been thinking at all," Bastila hissed from above, leaning on the maglift's rails. "This dream sequence we just saw . . . this is your plan, Revan? I can see why Malak was so upset."

"You said he was gone." Revan pulled away from them all. "You're all gone. You're all dead. It's all my fault and I'm so sorry. I just want my son . . . and I'm sorry . . ."

"Kiddo, it's not like we and Malak have many chats. But he's not here. He was here and now he's not. That means he's somewhere else. And that has us concerned." Jolee waggled his lightsaber's hilt at her, gesturing. Revan stepped back more.

"This is my mind," Revan whispered to herself. "This is my mind trying to make sense of things that don't make sense. My mind trying to rationalize what I've done."

"This is us, trying to get a point across through your thick bantha poo doo skull!" Mission came closer. Her lekku were twisted protectively around her neck. "Will you tell Sithboy I really did want to see him again?"

Revan turned away from her, looked out over the railing. "I'm going to wake up now. I'm going to wake up."

"When you see your sister, tell her I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to say goodbye -- " Auntie Mita's voice was querulous and a little sad.

I have to run away. I have to get out of here. "This is my mind. This is a dream," Revan told them all again. Bastila's mouth curved in a smile and she shook her head. No.

Revan scrambled over the railing and jumped.

XXX

She woke up on the floor, tangled in the sheet she'd pulled off the bed. Carth murmured sleepily on the narrow mattress, hand reaching out for the empty space where she'd been.

A dream. Not real. Not real.

The dead are dead. Zaal said so. Canderous said so. Carth said so, even when the shadows in his eyes spoke otherwise. The dead are dead.

Revan got up slowly, wrapping herself in the sheet. The chronometer flashed on the nightside table -- another three hours before dawn and everything that it would bring. My real speech before the Senate. My fool's game.

She went to the commlink and fit the earpiece around her head, whispering so that she wouldn't wake him. "Mission."

"Here, sis! What's the problem?"

"Did you just -- did I just -- " No, that's insane. That was a dream.

"Did I just what? I'm still running schematics for the Senate and the aftermath. You do realize, even if everything goes well, D'Reev will strike hard? Probably like, before we get out of the building."

"We can handle it." I hope. I lived through the Star Forge. I think I can handle a Coruscanti Senator.

"I've patched into the main communications link, but it wasn't easy . . . and it might not be stable. Lots of ice. Lots. Tons. And I'm still worried about blondie and the Manaan thing. I know what he says, Polla-Revan. Yeah, yeah, no one will recognize him from there -- but we can't be sure of that. It'd like, be bad, if your main advocate was revealed as a former Sith wannabe-Lord, don't you think?"

"We'll handle it, somehow." There was something stuck in her throat. "Listen, Mission, can you patch in a commlink for me? One-way visual, if you can, incoming visual, text outgoing . . . untraceable. Really untraceable. It's . . . important."

"Are you going to talk to Vrook about the Manaan thing? Sure, I can. Easy!"

The headpiece whirred against her cheek. "N-no, not Vrook." I can't deal with Vrook right now, I can't . . . Revan shivered and closed her eyes. This is nuts, it was a dream. "Deralia. Derran continent. Adaston. Molla and Jasp Organa . . . Green Hills Farm."

"Um, sis?" Her computer's voice sounded concerned.

"Only do it if it's safe. Safe for them, Mission. But try. Please. An order."

"Who are they?"

"Don't ask me questions, Mission. Do it. An order -- if -- it's safe."

"I guess I can run it through Yavin Station . . . sure. I think Suvam's onto me, though." Mission made a noise that sounded like a laugh. "He keeps changing the codes . . . give me a millisec, okay?"

The small screen shimmered in front of her, static, resolving itself to a still image of a painfully familiar couple. They looked a little older than she remembered, but otherwise the same. The man was holding a tiny baby in his arms, and the text on the bottom of the frame said. 'Congratulations Organa! It's a boy!'

Another cousin must've had another baby. Ma and Da always pose with them, trying to remind me that it's time to settle down and start doing that myself, but I --

"Gods," Revan whispered, clenching her fists. The link chimed, a tinny sound in her ear, tenuous, like the thread between stars.

"Text-only? Who is this?" The woman's face was wrinkledcrumpled with sleep -- late, it's late there too, I woke them up. "Pollie? Is this your way of calling to apologize?"

Revan tried to stop her hands from shaking. I wanted to talk about Auntie Mita, Ma, she typed.

Molla Organa frowned at the screen, her face softening. "Oh, sweetie, I know you were upset when I called about that; but it was her time. Look, you and Seiran and Junior will come over tomorrow for the wake. I'm getting her salish roses, she was always liking those when she was alive. I guess I don't need to ask what sort of flowers you'll bring. Told you both they're no more than weeds; but Mita did always did love them."

It was hard to focus and type a response. I had a dream about her.

Molla Organa's face softened. "Of course you did, dear. Sometimes the spirits of the dead come into our dreams. I've told you that a thousand times. And you have to get over this strop you're in. It's not good for Junior, you being this upset. You'll curdle your milk. There's no use in getting upset about things you can't fix."

It would be easier to type if her hands would stop shaking. Goodnight, Ma.

Molla sighed. "Not going to let me see my grandson, are you? Just going off to bed again? Well fine, we'll see you all tomorrow. Goodnight, Polla. Sweet dreams. Sleep tight. Don't let -- "

-- don't let the rejarik bite.

Revan cut the connection.

"Sis?" murmured Mission in her ear. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," Revan muttered. "You're sure that call can't be traced?"

"Course I'm sure! Sis -- why did you call that woman, Ma?" The headpiece clucked to itself. "I ran profiles on 3,864 citizens of Deralia named Polla Organa and found nothing. Are you telling me she's real? Polla Organa's real? She's alive? This is big, sis. Really big. Major."

"I thought I did tell you. . ." Revan rubbed her temples.

"That she was a real personality, sure. Not that she was a living real personality. Legally, that makes a huge difference."

"It makes no difference. Either way, she's not me!" Her voice was too loud. Behind her Carth murmured in his sleep.

"Who else knows about her? The Jedi must know . . . maybe some of the Fleet from the Ascendant -- I'll have to cross-check them. This is bad, sis. I can't believe you didn't mention this before."

"I -- Carth knows. Canderous knows -- we talked about it on the ship. The Jedi won't admit to it, Mission. Or the Fleet. Look, it doesn't matter. . ." That little wrinkled face in Jasp Organa's arms. Revan took a deep breath. "I think Polla, the real Polla, just had a baby. A son. We should . . . we should -- " her thoughts were heavy and slow and her head ached. Late, it's late, I need to sleep, I need to sleep and wake up and go and meet my fate and my son . . . I just want -- I want. . .

"Are you okay?" The computer's voice actually sounded concerned. "Look, it's not practical for you to fall apart right now. So don't. You can't afford this."

"Get her something. A present. It's tradition on Deralia. Gift to the mother for the birth, gift to the child, gift to the father -- they like gifts there. They . . . " The father is Seiran? She married Seiran Wen? The farmboy? Seiran dared me to race the canyon loop and I fell and I fell . . . "A-and flowers. Flowers for Mita. Derran lilies. But only if you can do it without tracing it back to here."

"This sentiment is really coming at a bad time. You can't afford to be angsty regretful Polla-Revan now. There's too much at stake." Her computer chirped softly. It sounded disapproving.

Revan took a deep breath. "I'm fine," she said, making her voice cold. "Get them some fracking presents and some flowers for Mita. She died. And don't mention this again. Don't question me again. Do you understand?"

"Whatever you say. I'll route whatever through Yavin. Derran lilies?" The headpiece clicked. "Is that an indigenous fauna? Where am I supposed to find --"

"Find a local florist. In Adaston. Deliver them tomorrow -- today, I mean. In the morning there. To Green Hills Farm." Its southwest of Adaston near -- " Near Janstak's Canyon, where I tried to fly the loop and I fell, I fell -- I --

"Get them all flowers. You got it, sis!" Mission's voice returned to its automatic chirpiness.

"No -- the presents can . . . come later. The flowers . . . tomorrow." Anonymous Mission. Untraceable. Do you understand?"

"Don't teach your mother how to splice." The headpiece whirred. "What do you want me to get them?"

What does Polla want? Sweet wine, a handsome pilot, adventure, romance, a life straight out of the holovids. Maybe a few pinches of Correllian spice --

None of those things seemed appropriate for the mother of a newborn son.

"Stars," whispered Revan. "Maybe one of those virtual generators with maps of stars. For Polla. S-she might be missing them, stuck planetside."

"Right. Stars it is." Was it her imagination or did her computer sound distracted? "And for the husband and son?"

This was too painful. Too awful. "I don't know, you pick. Seiran was into the swoops, once. Maybe something like that." Revan pulled the headset off her face before Mission could answer.

Mission's right. I can't afford to think about this. I will not think about this. I will not think about any of this. Ever again.

Goodnight, Auntie Mita. Sleep tight.

The Senator knocked politely on the door of the suite, unlocking it with the keychip he had strapped to his wrist. "Are you ready?" he called out.

The Onasi boy gave a muffled grunt from within. "Almost," he called back.

The door slid open. The lad was already dressed in the formal robes that were required tradition in the Senate complex. Designed to fit most -- if not quite all-- sentient races, their assembly was more complicated than it looked. Malachi had expected the collar, especially, to cause the boy some trouble, but it was securely fastened around his neck already, with all ten points correctly aligned. Well, the lad was a clever mimic. He'd already picked up the upper-crust accent, a trace of it crept into his soft Telosian enunciations. Malachi wondered if the young Onasi had ever considered a career in politics. There's more to you than I thought, Dustil.

It was always a pleasure to be pleasantly surprised. He'd expected to have to drag the lad into this kicking and screaming and possibly drugged. But so far, the boy was surprisingly tractable.

"I'm ready," Dustil said. He stood stiffly, as Malachi walked around him, making sure the robe fell correctly from his shoulders to the ground. He gritted his teeth with a spark of the old defiance. "I'm ready, sir."

"There's one more thing," Malachi said. He pulled the band out of his robe. It was a half-band, designed to ride against the brow on a human. At the hairline. Rather like a crown, really.

Prince of Telos . . .the old man chuckled at his own wit.

Dustil looked at it, his eyes narrowing. "What's that?" His voice was flat and uncurious.

"A neural disrupter." Malachi prepared himself for the argument. "I'm sure you can understand the reasons . . . you've been very sensible, Dustil, since your outburst the other day on that holorecording."

The boy only nodded and took it, fastening it to his head. Only a slight hiss of pain as the receptors sank into his skin against the bone. Then his expression turned smooth and flat again. Almost -- serene. Who would have thought it, the lad would have made a good Jedi. His composure was uncanny.

"It's time, Grandfather?" Malachor had crept up behind him. The child was never far from Dustil, except when Dustil was locked away. Another pleasant surprise; there almost seemed to be a bond between them. He'd been slightly concerned of course, leaving the two of them alone the night that Revan had shown the pattern of her game; but the HK was very reliable. He'd come home to find them in the library, Malachor curled against Dustil's side on a low couch. Dustil had been reading him a story. One of Malak's old books.

A Force-using ally could be useful for my grandson. Malachi sighed. And thanks to his mother's antics he will need one. Things would be easier if I'd had Hulas send her into the heart of a sun when I had the chance. But much less satisfying.

And ultimately . . . if we do win . . . this will serve Malachor more.

He'd made arrangements. In two days, after this farce was done, his heir would be sent with Fleet escort to their Corellian estates on the Chimern moon. Security there was impregnable, and it would not be safe to leave him on Coruscant once this card was played. A common enough practice. Seconds were too valuable to risk in the Coruscanti games. He considered the Onasi boy again. He'd have to decide what to do with Dustil.

Malachi D'Reev straightened the points on his grandson's collar so that the black and red lines fell cleanly in contrast with the piping on his robe. "No outbursts will be tolerated in Chamber," he reminded them both. "The penalty is immediate stasis and expulsion."

"We understand that," Dustil muttered. He closed his eyes. He was very pale. A blue vein throbbed on his temple, bisected by the gold of the neural band.

His grandson opened his mouth to say something and Dustil shot him a look. Whatever prattle it was, it wasn't important. The old man was pleased that the Onasi boy understood.

There was a very old axiom popular among the Coruscanti elite: children should be seen and not heard. If they wish to live to be adults.

"Fleet escort, twenty troop carriers, three squads of fighters, and they've cut off all local traffic between here and the Chancellor's District." Mekel rattled off Mission's statistics, a slight frown on his face. It was his own face again, there was no use using holomasks now. Security would be scanning for them. "Blue says it's pretty obvious no one in charge believes the ruse. They're sending a Council ship to bring us to the Senate.Six Jedi Masters, twenty Knights as escort -- she thinks. The Jedi transmissions are tricky to read . . . and -- " He frowned suddenly, rubbing his head.

"Please don't have another fit now, Mekel Jin. We really don't have time for the delay." Oerin Lin walked into the room, rubbing a scorch mark on his newly reassembled armor's arm. His face knit in an annoyed frown. He tossed the silver mask to Revan. "Look at that!" he scowled. "Kex couldn't get the dents out completely. Five hundred years of sand, wind and stars and your damned Wookiee ruins my heritage with a bloody laser torch!"

Revan turned the mask over in her hands, running her fingers along the new seams. "They're on the inside, they won't show, Oerin." She turned the heavy mask over. Her reflection gazed back at her in its shining silver surface, bisected by a deep groove down the middle and the contours of its eyepieces. It was smooth and cold.

XXX

She raised the mask to her face, felt the weight of it cold on her lips. Familiar weight now. Comforting, substantial.

"My Lord, the Leviathan is within transport range. Their shuttle is requesting permission to dock."

"I'm surprised he came crawling back to us," her voice was mocking and unfamiliar in her own ears. Hiss of her breath through her mask, vision narrowed, focused, sustained. Frozen. It was a lie. She wasn't surprised at all.

Be cold like Hoth. Be like ice. Be like ice or be like the rest of them.

Their screams still echoed in her head. Death. She was seven on Telos. She was twenty-six now and Telos . . . Telos was burning again.

It had been burning for a week.

Do you feel this, Red? Do you really feel it? Somewhere above the planet he'd been laughing as the first bombs fell on the orbital defenses. And then planetside, he'd torn through the rubble, hunting the survivors as if it was some sport, a game preserve like his father used to take him to. Only Malak -- the old Malak, not this new one that she'd made -- could never stand the sight of blood or death. Back then, Malak couldn't stand to feel things die.

All of that rage and hate and power that she'd channeled so carefully, that she'd learned to channel, to focus -- because the weak die, they die screaming don't they, Red -- and he'd wasted it.

Her newly appointed Lieutenant bowed his head. He was still on his knees. She tightened the belt of her robe around her waist.

"Get up, Davad."

The man before her had been a Jedi once. He'd been a friend once. His dark skin had a gray cast to it now, and his eyes were as yellow as hers. Damned. He ran his tongue across his lips and looked at her. His eyes burned.

"Fetch him. Get Malak. Bring him here." Davad's expression didn't change, but she could feel the hunger in it. One of the noblest men she'd known. Once. No different than any of them now. He inclined his head, slightly in deference, but those damned eyes were hungry and calculating.

He still defers but one slip, one misstep and he'd rip me apart. Because that is the way of the Sith, isn't it? That's the way of the Sith--

"Should I send some message to Korriban, Master -- or is your new Apprentice closer at hand?"

The Onderonian was taunting her. They'll tear me apart. Malak's the only one I can trust and he -- he betrayed me. There is a power in rage. Strength. Focus it, use it. Every tool has a purpose. Who said that -- he said that--the old man.

Every tool has a purpose, even a broken one.

"Bring Lord Malak here, Davad. No questions." She made her hand into a fist, and felt the Onderonian's heart clench as if it were clasped in her fingers. His mouth opened and closed, soundless. She opened her hand again and he fell to the ground, eyes rolling back in his head, as he tried to scramble to his feet.

"Don't bother -- I like watching you crawl." It's the only thing they understand. A show of strength. Revan turned away, not bothering to watch with her eyes when she could feel him scrabble across the duracrete floor, feel all of them, the living web of them extending outwards and the silver thread that bound her to the one who was coming.

And somewhere Malak was laughing. She could feel him laughing . . .

Her husband was laughing under his metal jaw. Did you miss me, Red? Did you? Did you? The hope in him was choking. Hope that she'd kill him finally, and then he'd have peace.

"Peace is a lie." Revan spoke the words to herself, but she felt him hear them, walking proudly off the transport shuttle onto the Aleema's decks. His escort gave him and those that followed as wide a berth as possible. You don't taunt a rabid terentatek; you avoid it. You stand very still and hope its mad yellow gaze passes over you. She felt Malak's anticipation like a song. One way or the other this will end, Red. Can you kill me? Do you dare? The girl at his side giggled a nervous laugh. Sheris still giggled, sometimes. Her coppery hair fell loose past her shoulders, soft as silk. Malak put his arm around her, whispered something in her ear. Pink flush on that Hothan skin. His hand slipped under the bodice of her robe. Intimate, possessive, familiar . . .

If you wanted to make me jealous, Mal, you should have picked someone who didn't look like me.

You flatter yourself, Red. She looks much better than you do now . . . He squeezed the creamy skin. I wanted to stop it. She felt part of him begin to gibber. Again. Inside his mind he was screaming. I wanted to stop it all before we began, before we went farther -- ah, but Revan it was so fun -- entertaining -- let me show you, let me show you again how it feels . . . His hand squeezed and Sheris gasped--sweetness, like the taste of you. I remember the taste of you--I remember -- every one of them had your face when I cut them down. Maybe we should burn Hoth next, yes Hoth. Yes Red, you'll like that. I promise you . . . Did you like my test? I tested Admiral Karath's loyalty, yes I did. I made him give us the codes, betray his own world, and his Republic. I've won him over to our side, just like you asked, Red. But I did it my way. And it was fun . . . sweet . . . sweetness . . .

Be like ice. Be like Hoth. Be like stones. A tool for every purpose. Even a broken one.

Revan walked to the communications console, felt the comforting weight of the mask against her lips. Her dark-veined hand opened the comm channel to the Imperial. "Admiral Te'ar."

"Yes, Lord Revan?" On the transmit, the Admiral's faceted blue Durosian eyes were refreshingly sane. She understood now, why the leaders of Ziost had been so pleased to meet her. Except for Malak she preferred the company of non-Force users now herself.

Malak. My champion. My conscience. The best -- and the worst -- of what I have made.

Revan looked at the map again. It was a blue holographic globe as tall as she was, spinning with a thousand stars. She traced her fingers across the hyperspace points, one-by-one. Their advantage was lost. Core defenses would be on alert now. But there were other ways to shatter a false Republic. Her hand outlined a route, leaving a red line in its wake. She paused at the significant planets, tapping each once, turning the blue globes yellow. The map was a maze, and each tactic, each possibility, had a thousand outcomes. The trick was choosing the right one. The one that would win.

"Direct the Fleet to Endar. Cloaked. Far orbit, outside of their detection screens." Endar was another insignificant world, low population, colony protectorate with even less of a strategic importimportance than Telos.

And so. The Republic will think we're just mad Sith, doing what mad Sith do.

Endar would be a good base, close to the fuel supply lines; heavily guarded hyperspace routes that ran parallel to the main trading spires. From there . . . her hand traced the route again, fingers tapping lightly on the screen. Ossus, Yu-Phaedra, Donovia . . . and then Echanis.

Another Force-resistant population. Like the Mandalorians, only rational . . . Rational enough to understand? Perhaps. The General might be a problem, but he was only one man.

Calculating, she paced. If I cannot take the Core by force, I will build an empire outside, weakening the Republic from within. I wanted this to be fast, but no war is ever fast enough, Mandalore taught me that. And as the Sith Empire grows we'll have another coin to use. Fear is good currency. The best. Fear buys an advantage. Fear is everything . . . and all sentients fear the Sith.

As well they should. Power with no reason, anger with no purpose. Reaction with no cause. No cause but mine.

The door to her chambers slid open. Malak entered, arms crossed. Predictable defiance. The red-haired girl trailed behind him, nervous now. No, not just nervous. Sheris was terrified.

"Lord Revan," the Hothan bowed and knelt, her forehead scraping the floor. She expected to die. A part of her begged for it.

"Making you live is punishment enough, Sheris." Underneath the mask Revan smiled, grimly. "Now get out." She raised her hand and the girl flew back into the hall, the door sliding shut behind her.

"Ah, Red, that was cruel of you."

Malak loomed over her. Metallic voice through the prosthesis she'd made for him. Hairless skull, skin so pale it looked almost blue under the overlights, stippled with dark designs. They were darker than they had been. His eyes were sunk deep in his skull, and there was something black and sticky staining the tight cortosis weave of his red and black armor. Revan felt a wave of disgust. Lightsabers were clean. But Malak had deliberately wallowed in the deaths he'd made.

You come back to me drenched in their gore. You didn't even take a sonic.

Did you feel it, Red? I felt you feel it. I did it for you . . .

In her head, the image of him and Sheris again.His large hands on that creamy Hothan skin. Flawless skin. Her red hair tangled against the weight of his thighs. Her mouth on his--

Her voice was cold. Her breath hissed through the mask. "You weren't unfaithful to me in any way that mattered. She resembles me already. Hoth has a very singular phenotype. If you like, I could have the medics increase the likeness. A double could be useful . . ." Revan made herself consider the possibilities. A double could be very useful. And Sheris would comply. She had always been obedient.

Under the mask, her eyes closed and the images danced. Her husband's head was thrown back, sheen of sweat on his bare chest, the expression on his face mostly gone with his mouth, but his eyes opened wide.

I never wanted to see how obedient.

"Don't evade the real question, Red. Did you feel it?" He chuckled. "Did you feel the Telosians screaming?"

Be like Hoth. Be like ice. Be like stones. Don't remember Aunt Yancy.

"Do you want me to say I liked it?" Underneath the mask, her lips curled. "I've had better since you've been gone."

Revan turned away from him, knowing what would happen next. What he'd do.

Predictable Sith.

Malak charged with a howl of pure rage and the hiss of his 'saber. She whirled, meeting the assault with only an upraised hand. Her other one went for the mask and pushed it back from her face, letting him see her face. Her face was worse. Of course it was. But that didn't matter. She dropped her hand to her belt and her 'saber's hilt was cool. Her red blade activated and she spun, crouching back.

A faint look of surprise wrinkled his brow. "You're really going to fight me?" For a moment his eyes were almost sane. His large hands shook and the particle blade wavered.

"It's what you want, isn't it, Mal? You might win. You're better than me with a 'saber." Her lip curled. "Let's play. Master and Apprentice."

His voice was hoarse, even through the prosthesis. "Don't taunt me like this, Revvie. Don't tempt me."

The use of her childhood nickname brought a lump to her throat. Unexpected. Impractical. Bad.

Banish it. Anger can be useful. It drives away more dangerous feelings. Regret. Loss. Sadness. Use it. Use whatever you have, whatever it takes to win.

Revan raised her hand and pushed him back, calling the lightning, watching him writhe on the floor. He made no sound, but his body convulsed. His lightsaber fell from his nerveless hand and she disengaged it with the Force before it scorched the bulkhead. She moved closer, feeling the charge build, driving it into him again and again.

Slowly she circled, words dropping out of her mouth like stones. "Why did you bomb Telos, Malak? Do you know how much you cost me? The Sith almost fell apart because of my Apprentice's clumsy mistake. Do you know how much it will cost me to let you live? They're like a pack of drajak at my heels, snapping, watching for me to fall . . . "

His eyes burned yellow into hers. Like suns. "I want things to fall apart, Red."

"It's too late for that." She pulled the mask back over her face. The holomask felt like cold metal against her lips, amplifying her breathing to a harsh hissing sound. Her anger faded as quickly as it had come and she watched him twitch for a while longer, watched the patterns of blue light play across his skin, felt his pulse falter, and felt the Force sing through her. Power.

All this power to do whatever she wanted. It was sweet. Sweet as the deaths he'd caused on Telos.

Malak laughed. "You're . . . not . . . immune." Sparks ran across the metal of his jaw. She smelled scorched skin, heard the pops of the delicate circuitry shorting out, watched his head roll back, his body arch against the floor. "You . . . not -- " the voder fizzled and died and his words garbled into incoherence. Not words anymore, only gobbles of pain. There were tears in his eyes and his face twisted; eyes bulged above the prosthesis, overlaid by that pattern of blue fire. That pretty pattern, like a tapestry against his white face, the red armor, the black cape.

His words continued in her head. You're not immune, Red. You're different from the rest of us, but you're not immune. You're mad now, too. Did you really think any of this is rational? You were going to assault Deep Core with a hundred ships all half-manned because we don't have the forces -- we were the heroes and now -- what are we now?

His pulse wavered, but he was strong. Malak had always been strong. He'd live a while longer. She reached for more power, took some of it from him. He had so much. And everything he had was hers.

"But I would have won, Malak. Kuat. And Byss. And Alderaan. The way to Coruscant would have been clear. It would have been fast. Precise. Final."

And then, my love? How would you rule your shattered Empire? Do you think Malachor would survive your assault? If your bombs didn't kill him, the Republic's freedom fighters would. Or the other Senate families . . .

"I'd rule with you at my side, Malak." You were the one trained to rule. I was only trained to win. But look at us now, look at us now . . .

Look at me; look at your champion, Revan. Look what he's become. Out loud he made sounds that might have been pain or laughter or just convulsions. His booted feet twisted a staccato against the floor. His heavy hands clenched and unclenched. His body arched, almost boneless.

And our son? Red, what about Malachor? His thoughts were suddenly clipped and cold. Like his voice was once, when he was angry. His thoughts were sane. They always were, when he spoke about their son.

The lightning died. Revan knelt beside him on the floor. She pulled the mask off her face again.

"You can't measure the life of one child against the lives of all sentients. The Republic needs to be overthrown. It's a rotting hulk -- we . . . " her voice faltered suddenly and she hated herself for it. Be like Hoth, just be like Hoth. "We can always have more sons, Malak. We can always have another son, Malak -- if --"

Red hair, gray eyes. His chubby fists. The weight of him in her arms. Don't think about him. Don't -- think -- about him.

"How is he? Have you had . . . news?" Odd how her voice could still sound the same, when underneath her reserve was cracking. Flaws in the ice field. Gray ice, deep cracks under the surface make everything unstable. Make things fall apart.

Don't let it fall apart. Hold it together.

Malak closed his eyes, hands going to the prosthesis, brow furrowed in pain. The metal was still hot, she realized. Underneath it he was burned. Badly. She'd have to rewire the neural circuits and possibly try another skin graft, if it would take . . .

Revan pulled his head awkwardly unto her lap. She pulled a kolto pack from her pocket and injected it in the meat of his neck. She unsnapped the prosthesis, turning his neck to the side to expose the ruin beneath. It was worse again. Underneath the burn, there was more infection.

Father says he's doing well with the tutors . . .

Malak's eyes fluttered, as she applied more kolto to the worst of the ruin. He made a choking sound and Revan worriedly checked the respirator line that ran, surgical and clean through his throat cavity and up into his upper jaw. It seemed intact. It is still not widely known whose son he is -- but when he gets older he'll--he -- looks like you, Red. He -- he cries for you. Still. Her hand traced the remnants of his upper lip, and it twitched, in a futile attempt at expression, exposing blackened stubs of what had once been his smile.

"Someday he'll understand." The rest of that was best unspoken. If he survives long enough. She hesitated. "He still shows no sign of the Force?"

No. You cut him off from that when you left. I don't know how you did it, Revan but you did it completely. My father has him tested monthly. My father -- dark laughter amidst the pain in his mind.My father raising our son was not supposed to be part of the plan.

"We couldn't take him with us and who else could we trust? Your father thinks of him as his heir. He'll guard him with his life. And he's powerful enough to do it. The Jedi would offer no such refuge and what they'd teach him . . . I don't want him to learn. And if he's not Force-sensitive . . . they wouldn't want him anyway." Revan closed her eyes.

And besides, their days are numbered. Men like Malachi D'Reev will be useful in the new order. The Jedi will not.

"Your father will be pleased with you, Malak. Telos is exactly the sort of target he'd prefer to have us waste our resources attacking." She bent over him, brushed her lips against his forehead. That soft kiss hurt him more than any torture ever would.

And part of her reveled in that. No, I'm not immune. But I'm in charge.

You can't trust my father, Red.

"I'm not a fool, Mal." She got up from the floor, mentally sending Davad an order for the medical droid to come to their chambers.

Every tool has its purpose. She paced.

"You did so well with wanton useless slaughter, Malak, that I'd like you to do it more. I'm sending you to command the groundside assault on Endar. Try to leave a few alive, let some escape to tell the galaxy about the Sith threat. The rest . . . just do what you do best."

Do what you're good for. Kill things. Destroy.

The other Sith on the ship were whispering. She could hear the shape of their thoughts -- if not the words -- like the hiss of vipers, the sound of scales. "I'll leave you now. To your thoughts." She paused, reaching a hand out to steady herself on the doorframe. "And I'll send Sheris in to see to your . . . injuries."

Every tool has its purpose. Even a broken one.

XXX

"Revan!" Light in her eyes. Sting of a stim against her throat. Something heavy and metal in her hands. A stretch of solid industrial tile in her vision. A worried blue eye, the brow above it bisected by an old scar. Another scar, pink and smooth on his cheek.

Revan closed her eyes. Her head felt like she'd bashed it on something. "Canderous." Her head pounded.

"Are you having fits now, too? You -- you were gone. Just gone." Oerin's voice, above her, slightly puzzled. She'd never heard him sound anything but self-assured. It was disconcerting.

Revan struggled to sit up, staring at the mask in her hands with revulsion. Oerin pushed back Canderous and took it from her. Mekel was standing in the background biting his lip. Whatever that was . . . whatever that was -- they didn't -- they didn't understand it either.

That wasn't like the others. That wasn't a vision or a fragment. That was complete. That was -- real--I was -- her mind fled from the implications. I am not that. That isn't me, that can't be me.

"C-carth ---- " she was shivering. "Where's Carth?" The silver mask gleamed in the Mandalorian's hand. Revan blinked, confused. "That mask -- it's not the same one that I -- it can't be the same one -- that I -- "

"It's not the mask, Padawan."

A man's voice, Eosian accent. Unfamiliar. From the doorway. Revan closed her eyes, drawing her knees to her chest. Force users. Strong. Six of them.

"It appears our Jedi escort has arrived." She opened her eyes and looked up. Above her, Oerin Lin made a sweeping bow to the six brown-robed figures that came into the chamber. Behind them, lurked Carth. He was wearing his Republic dress uniform again. He looked angry. He pushed back the -- members of the Jedi Council -- and came to her, took her in his arms.

"What did you do to her?" her lover -- no husband he's my husband he is not what I saw I saw what I just saw was not my husband -- glared at the Jedi, strain evident in his voice.

"I showed the Padawan this." The man came closer. An old Eosian man, face lined and worn. In his hand he held a tiny fragment of crystal. Gold and faceted. "We have all seen it."

Revan swallowed. It was too small to be a holocron.

"It's a recording," a woman's voice said. Cool. Serene. She was Falleen, and would have been beautiful except for the ugly red weal that bisected half of her face. "A fragment of a larger holocron. Just a piece of memory."

Revan closed her eyes. No need to ask whose holocron.

Mine. Before they burned away my mind, they recorded it.

The implications of that were too much to handle. Her mind shied away from them, skittish. A wild hessi dancing away from a bridle. They recorded my memories. They have my memories. They've seen everything that I was. . .

"It would have been impossible," said a white-haired woman with a smooth unlined face, "for one person to live through all of Revan's life. The Jedi Council searched through Revan's mind for the keys to stopping Malak, like looking for pieces of ash in a plain of sand." Her composure faltered. "It was not -- a pleasant experience."

"What did they show you?" Carth's face was concerned. Soft with concern. In her head the echo of Malak's laughter again and his armor stained black with gore.

Telos, I saw Telos. I saw Malak. I saw monsters. I saw me.

"She doesn't seem shocked to learn Revan had a husband and son," the Eosian mused.

"It is as we suspected." The white-haired woman -- Echani -- folded her arms and nodded decisively. "I warned Bastila that the danger of corruption was great. The Shan girl was careless. Through their bond, she must have reintroduced some of the old . . . personality. You set too much responsibility on her shoulders, Zhar. I warned Vandar that the risk outweighed the gain. Vrook was right."

Master Zhar was standing at the back, next to a brown-haired human man and another Twi'lek, green-skinned, whose face almost entirely covered by a hood. Zhar's orange eyes regarded her calmly.

"Hello, Zhar." Revan corrected herself. She leaned against Carth, but kept her voice steady. "Master Zhar."

Not so long ago, I wanted to flay the flesh from your bones over a slow fire for what you did to me.

And now, child?

His voice in her head. Revan flushed.

There is a bond between Master and Padawan. And you were my Padawan twice.

Now I want my son. That's all. That's all I want. She reached for the old anger almost reflexively and was startled to feel it gone. What she'd said in her mind was true.

No point in subterfuge anyway. They'd see through it.

I'm proud of you, Padawan. Zhar's voice again.

"You must consider our offer." The brown-haired human man walked closer to them. Automatically she noted the short, almost military cut of his hair, and his warrior's stance. A different kind of Jedi, that one.

"Your offer . . ." Carth pulled her closer, as if he could protect her from them. Funny, when we're alone he struggles when he thinks I don't see. But in front of others he's my champion. My -- no. Bad choice of words. Not champion. No. No, no no.

She didn't want to think about what had happened to her last champion.

"Your offer . . . " Carth's voice was furious. He got to his feet, pulling her with him. Her legs felt boneless, shaky. Revan leaned against her -- husband -- trying to regain some semblance of composure. "The one where you offered to take Revan off the Mandalorian tribunal's hands and sequester her in the Jedi Temple for the rest of her days?"

They'd received that offer, encoded in a small blue crystal globe, the same day as the D'Reev recording.

"There are worse fates," said the hooded Twi'lek. He pushed back the cowl and stared at her. His voice was rusty and weak. He moved very slowly, like a man aged before his time. The skin on one side of his face was twisted and mottled, as if from a very old burn.

It was like trying to pick up pieces of ferracrystal and reassemble them. "You -- you know what D'Reev is. And you don't stop him. Why? He was allied with Malak and me somehow . . . if you've seen that recording, you've seen that. Why don't you stop him? Why did you leave my son with him?"

You've seen that recording. You've seen others. She felt a chill. You've probably seen more of my life than I have.

Master Zhar met her eyes for a moment and then looked away. "Padawan, you must trust me when I tell you to have faith in the larger scope of things. What other options do you have?" His lekku twitched, sketching an emphasis to his words.

"You can't go through with this farce." The white-haired woman's voice was absolute. Her pale eyes looked at Revan as if she were a granslug fallen into her tea. Underneath the robe, Revan saw her hands clench.

She hates me. Why is that?

Why am I even asking? She hates me because I'm Revan. She hates that monster I saw . . . what I saw . . .

Oerin looked completely disgusted with her. Of course, she wasn't hiding her thoughts. He was, the Jedi ignored him completely.

"I'll ask, okay? Just stop it bugging me!" Mekel's whisper was low, but it caught in the stillness of the room. The Falleen looked at him curiously. Mekel flinched. "I'm sorry," he muttered. He cleared his throat. "I -- uh, I was wondering . . . if you had Darth Revan's memories, why'd you need her to find the Star Forge?"

"A very astute question." The Falleen smiled gently at him. It might have been a comforting expression if her face hadn't been cloven by that terrible burn. "A clever question, no matter who asks it." She glanced at Revan. She thinks I told him to ask that. I -- I'm not that smart. Mission is, as always, two steps ahead.

The answer however, was obvious, now that she knew the question. "You couldn't access the temple, couldn't shut down the shields, couldn't reach the Star Forge. You knew that, from my memories. It was . . ." Revan stumbled over the words, remembering the familiarity again, each piece of the Star Map like an old friend. The power singing to her. So much power. "It was bound. To me. Somehow."

It liked me. I was the first sentient in a thousand years to be sith'aerah. To have a gift that it could use. I was special. She gritted her teeth.

"We had to leave enough of Revan in the personality that we constructed for the Rakatan artifacts to respond. It must have been an extremely difficult experience." The scarred Twi'lek looked at his hands. "I was more fortunate, long ago." His face was remote. "I pity you, Padawan."

"You didn't construct the personality," hissed Carth. "You stole it."

It was probably impossible to startle Jedi. They just looked regretful. And sad. "Did we choose badly, Polla Organa?" Zhar asked her.

Her lip curled. "I'm not her." Goodnight Ma. Sleep tight. Don't let the rejariks bite.

"Ah. Are you instead the woman you saw in the crystal? The shade you saw shadows of in Bastila's mind?" The white-haired Jedi unfolded her hands from her sleeves and put them behind her back, walking back and forth. She looked like an instructor, teaching a very difficult lesson. "Do you feel some kinship with Darth Revan? Was her life appealing to you? Do you lust for power like that again? Do you still want to destroy the Republic?"

"I don't care about your fracking Republic!" The words just came out. Irrationally she wanted to throw something. Or shoot it. Except I'd miss because I can't -- hit a black thresher door in a blizzard. Can't hit anything, can't pilot a starship, can't race a swoop bike, can't . . .

The brown-haired man nodded. Revan felt a chill. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't care about your fracking Republic . . ." She blinked, hard.

But Revan did. Revan cared enough to try and destroy it.

"That's why you picked her, isn't it? Why you chose Polla? Because she didn't care."

"Some answers are not worth finding," said the scarred Twi'lek. "Do you know who I am?"

"A Jedi. Member of the Council. Of course I don't. You all made sure of that."

"My name is Nyrmon Het."

Revan looked at him. His face had scars. One gouged deep in his forehead. One of his head tails was gone: the other one bore marks of knife blades. Twi'leks hold their memories, their identities in their lekku, chanted the futile information voice. Zhar's voice, maybe. Instructing some long-gone child Revan -- or adult Polla.

"You look like you've been through a war." He moved like it too. Stiff with age, but a half-cautious alertness that spoke of someone trained to combat. He and the brown-haired human, she realized, were perfectly poised to take her down in an instant, should she -- snap.

Don't be afraid, Padawan. Zhar's voice pierced her defenses easily. They mean you no harm.

"Forty-odd years ago, I was in a war. Thirty-odd years ago, the man that I was -- died. And Nyrmon Het took my place. I am Nyrmon Het now. And that is all."

Canderous snorted. He'd been very quiet, standing in one corner of the room since the Jedi entered. Revan glanced at him, and noticed he'd also managed pull out his old repeater. The laser sight glinted on the Twi'lek's scarred face. Canderous frowned, as all eyes turned to him.

Oerin Lin sighed. "The barbarians would probably take it badly if we shot members of the Jedi Council on our way to the treaty talks, Ordo."

Even he's dropped the charade. But that doesn't matter. Coruscanti laws . . . they can't touch me. If I don't let them.

"It's set on stun," Canderous said. "Probably." Not letting go of the repeater he fished in the pocket of his robes for a cigarra, flicked the lighter core at its tip and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

"So," he said. Almost conversational. "You Jedi do this a lot, do you? Fall to the dark side? Get mind wipes? Kidnap Republic citizens and steal their memories? Take away a mother's knowledge of her own child?" His lips adjusted the cigarra so that he could spit on the ground. He did. Twice. "Among my people, the last alone would be reason to take blood price on all of your hides. And since you know what Revan is to us . . . I think you'd be happy she's being so reasonable." His voice was gruff. "Give us the kid and we'll go away. "Both the kids. Dustil and Malachor. It can be that simple." He blew a smoke ring. "Or it can get complicated. Your choice."

"They are not ours to give," said the Eosian.

"More importantly," the white-haired woman snapped, still pacing back and forth. "The child, Malachor, is not yours, Padawan."

"He's mine. He is mine!" His face, that round face she'd seen in her dreams, on older in that recording in front of the library. The thoughts she'd almost glimpsed of him. Revan remembered the weight of him in her arms, soft breath against her cheek.

"Malachor's mother died in the Mandalorian wars. You saw what remained after that. Who you are now, Padawan, is someone entirely different." The brown-haired man looked at her. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

Revan leaned warily against Carth. Indignation warred with logic. This was all another trap. Trap me with the truth. Tangle me up in it until I have no choice, like Vandar and Dorak did on Dantooine. The Force cannot be denied, it gives you nightmares, Polla Organa. Therefore you must accept our training. The Sith are going to hunt you down, therefore you must go on this quest. The Republic is going to slap you in chains and execute you; therefore, you must go with us to the Jedi Temple and accept your fate. And what's the fate? Another mind-wipe? No. No.

"You're Kavar Vakla." From his corner, Canderous sounded bored. Oerin raised his hands deliberately to his lips and coughed. "An Onderonian commander. You were trained in battle, before you came to the Jedi Order. We expected you to lead the Jedi against us, not Revan." A faint smile crossed his face. "We thought you had balls, but of course we were mistaken. After Dxun . . ." he adjusted the rifle, training its sights on the brown-haired man. "After Dxun you went bleating back to the Council like an unnamed babe and left a pack of half-grown children to actually defend your home system."

The man's face was impassive. "After Dxun," he said lightly, "I knew that some wars are not worth fighting."

"Tell that to your countrymen you left behind for us to slaughter," Canderous growled. "There's a statue of Revan on Iziz. There's no statue of you. Disinherited, weren't you? Off the official lines of succession? Jedi must be all you have left." He glanced at Revan. "Don't bother listening to that one; he's nothing more than a coward."

Again the man showed no reaction. None of the Jedi did. They were all watching her. Watching her too carefully.

"I was one of Revan's teachers," the Onderonian said softly. "And a friend."

"If you had any authority you'd just take her away," Carth snapped. "So don't bother."

The Falleen laughed. A silvery laugh, like the chime of tiny bells. "You still inspire much loyalty, Revan." She looked smug. "Jopheena was right." She glanced at Mekel and he shrank away from her. The look on his face was too easy to read. Guilt. Is that the Jedi Master he injured? "We've cancelled the search for you, Mekel Jin. There's no need to be frightened." Her hand reached out and touched the boy's face. "Strange," she mused. "Before I sensed darkness in you. Now all I sense is purpose. Determination. And strength." Her scaled lips curved, and her head ridge flushed a deeper gold. "Jedi Knight Revan has been a good influence."

She called me Revan. None of the others have. She called me a Jedi Knight.

Revan caught the scowl that passed quickly across the Eosian's face before vanishing. The slight twitch of Zhar's head tails.

The Jedi Council is divided, regarding my case. How deep does the divide run? And where is the split?

The answer came, obvious. My identity. They aren't sure who I am either. I'm both. I'm neither. I'm -- nothing. Goodnight Ma. Sleep tight. Don't let -- there was something stuck in her eye. Angrily, she rubbed it away.

Kavar shifted on his feet. "You and Jopheena have taken responsibility for Mekel Jin, Iridel. It's your right. But again, I think you're making a terrible mistake, leaving him in the Padawan's hands."

"We're going to be late," Oerin Lin said mildly. "Late for my coronation." He tapped his foot. "I know lateness is fashionable in Coruscanti society, but we really should go."

"I wonder again, where you found the Fett Mandalore . . ." The Echani Jedi crossed her arms, studying Lin closely. Too closely. Not good for them to wonder that. Really not good. Mission warned me . . . and she was right.

"General Ordo met me at the swoop track, on Manaan. Convinced me to seek my true heritage." Lin's smile was bright and guileless as a child's. "I would have been season champion, had I not chosen to take a more active role in my own fate. Meet my destiny. See the galaxy . . . "

Carth shifted softly behind her. They'd told him Canderous met Oerin in the Manaan cantina at the pazaak tables. One small lie, my love. Because I was afraid how you'd take the truth.

"Tactical Statement: There are six Force-using sentients of great power standing here doing nothing. Conclusion: This dialogue serves no purpose. Unless you wouldlike me to commence negotiations on your behalf, Master, we should go." HK, freshly polished and revealed again in his own copper chassis, clanked in the doorway. "Happy Anticipation: I am looking forward to continuing our tour. I have many fond memories of the Senate complex to share with you. Senator Thomasi and I spent a great deal of time there."

He was speaking Rakatan. Although since they've seen my memories I guess I can assume that won't work . . . they can probably speak it too.

"No need for negotiations, HK. At this time." She answered him in the same language, watched the white-haired Jedi's eyes narrow. Revan smirked. That one speaks it. And she hates me for it. Well, I don't like her either.

"Beep beep doo weet!" Mission pushed past HK. The flower on her chassis had been retouched. Mekel's work, probably. She beeped several more nonsense syllables and rolled in a circle. The gloom on Mekel's face dissipated slightly. He covered his mouth with his hand, to hide a laugh. His hand reached out and rested it on her dome.

Oerin snapped the silver mask to his newly reassembled helm and put it on. "Right," he drawled, sounding bored. "Put on the restraints and let's get on with the show."

Carth's brown eyes met hers, as they snapped restraining bands on each other's wrists. Canderous finally put down his rifle and did the same. One of the Jedi coughed.

"The Senate has requested that we take the precaution of also using a neural disruptor," Zhar said. He sounded apologetic.

"In case the Mandalorians are wrong about the loss of your Force powers." The Falleen smiled at her.

"I was under the impression that Senate chambers were Force-sealed. Ysalamiri?" Revan made her voice light and unconcerned. Inwardly she quailed. Don't cut me off from the Force, please. It's like being trapped. It's like choking, blindness, dying . . .

"Forty years ago, ysalamiri proved . . . unreliable." The scarred Twi'lek responded. "Naturally, there is some concern. And knowing the truth as we do, we cannot let you present a potential danger to others."

Revan closed her eyes and nodded. I thought they might do this. Her former master snapped the heavy collar in place around her neck. A silver choker that extended from her shoulders all the way up to her chin. She couldn't move her neck. Almost instantaneously, the Force went away. She'd been hiding it before, but this was different. Total absence. Blindness.

The Falleen was advancing on Mekel with another one. The boy looked completely terrified. Oh hell.

"Unfasten, the neck of your robe, please," the Jedi said. Her voice was gentle and kind.

"No." Mekel shook his head. His hand went involuntarily to his neck, and what the cloth concealed.

Damnit. I should have anticipated that. We need Mission's counsel. She's the only one who can keep all the Senate delegations straight . . . and she's our advantage. One they don't anticipate. One of the two . . .

The T3 whirred, almost indignant.

"Mekel will stay here." Revan imbued her voice with authority, trying to ignore the way the collar cut into her neck, made her unable to turn her head. Bind my hands, cut me off from the Force, lead me out like a kissra to slaughter . . . She closed her eyes. Well, it will look realistic.

And we still have Oerin.

"I want to come -- " the boy began. Then stopped. He nodded hesitantly. "Or I'll -- I'll stay here. Maybe I can . . . help with things here."

A swish of robes and the Headwoman of Rialis came into the room, her double swords clanking. She cleared her throat, expectant, and all eyes turned to her.

"Fett Revan Ordo Lin Mandalore, Gwenarius and the others are ready. The false restraints you had us place on the Ordo clansmen will drop at a moment's notice. Additionally, I took the precaution of asking your computer to isolate the frequency they use to scan for weapons. The Coruscanti dogs will be completely unprepared for any assault -- should such a thing become necessary. We await your orders."

The Headwoman looked pleased with herself. Canderous sighed. Revan closed her eyes. What did I expect? She's half-senile . . . but she's the elder and we need her to challenge Oerin's right to rule them . . .

"There will be no Mandalorian escort," the Eosian Jedi said. He sounded grim.

"I told you no weapons, Headwoman Catrinex Rialis," Revan said. The idea was a show of force, not actual force. I don't trust you all with weapons. If things go badly, you'd all be too happy to re-enact the battle for the Senate -- because it would be a great battle. And for you that'd be just grand.

The battle for the Senate . . . oh, and I'll be Ulic. Her dream taunted her. My dream was only a dream. And I'm not going to think about it.

"I told you no weapons as well, Catrinex," Oerin gritted his teeth, glaring the old woman down. She looked completely unperturbed.

"You!" She cuffed Oerin lightly on the cheek. "Unblooded whelp! This is woman's business that we have with D'Reev. None of your concern."

"Do you really think you can control the Mandalorians, Padawan?" Kavar sighed. "If you insist on continuing this charade, we will allow the following: you, the false Fett, Canderous Ordo, and Carth Onasi . . ." he scanned the room. "You'll need Rialis to back your claim, so you, Headwoman . . . The old scow looked pleased to be included.The Jedi folded his arms. "That is all."

Revan swallowed. That's not enough. That will look too much like the orchestration that it is. Only us and Lin and the Headwoman -- if she even remembers her lines . . .

Well of course, they don't want this to work.

Mekel glanced up. "It's okay," he whispered, looking at her, and then looking away again. The Falleen raised a brow ridge at him and he flinched.

Mission thinks it's okay, then. Great. Why? Revan ran through possibilities in her head. A map, a maze, a thousand possibilities and one -- she couldn't nod. The collar wouldn't allow it. Public viewstation. Has to be. The map of the Senate chamber swum in front of her eyes. She had no recollectionof the place itself, but she'd memorized the schematics and looked at every holostill that she could find. Okay. That could work. Maybe. If they can get out of this building and get there on their own . . .

"Fervent Objection: Master, I am well-versed in Coruscanti custom. To leave me behind would risk offending some faction with your typical organic carelessness. I must come with you."

"Your 'protocol' droid may come." Kavar's agreement startled her. The other Jedi frowned. The Eosian opened his mouth as if to raise an objection, then closed it again. Something unspoken had passed between the members of the Council. "Is he armed?"

Revan didn't know how to answer that. The collar choked her, she felt blind. They'll know if I lie. Is 'not exactly' a lie? Is 'he probably can't harm any sentient lifeforms but I'm not sure' an acceptable response?

"Reassuring Statement: my lethal capacities against organic sentients are still inoperative. However, I am well-prepared for the Senatorial traditions; even with the restraints my poor shattered meatbag Master has shamefully imposed upon my programming."

Kavar nodded. "Good." He folded his hands. "We can only escort you to the entrance of the Senator's complex, Padawan. After that . . . "

"You may need your droid's assistance." Zhar's expression was sad. He shook his head slowly. "I wish you'd just accept our offer."

The Falleen advanced on Mekel again, looking at him curiously. "Free will," her silvery voice said. "The Order has always believed, all sentients must choose their own fate. May yours be fortunate, Revan. More so than it has proven in the past." She turned to Mekel. "Thalia hopes you're doing well. She is worried. Shall I give her your regards?"

"Um, sure . . ." the boy whispered, backing away.

"Free . . . will? You've got to be joking!" Carth grabbed Revan's hands, clumsy with the restraints and pulled her to him, as if he could shield her from all of them. "If there's something you're not telling us, how can Revan make a decision?" His voice was low and dangerous. "You're doing it again, aren't you? Sending Revan off to confront something she doesn't understand, doesn't remember, while you sit back with all of the answers. It's not right -- it's not -- it's not fair! How can you call yourselves Jedi, how can you do this to her -- to us -- again?"

Kavar opened his hands, palms upward, frowning. "It is difficult to predict what she knows and what she does not. As hard to predict as what she is. Would you tell us, Padawan? Would you share the details of your plan with us now? Would you seek our counsel?"

Revan's mouth tightened and she glared at the scarred Twi'lek. And be like him? "No."

"May the Force be with us all," the Eosian whispered.

"You haven't changed much," the Echani snarled, under her breath.

The sun was dim and red in the sky, tinting the lake with a pink cast over the black still water. Polla shifted the woven ferragrass basket on her shoulders, and adjusted the setting on her scythe's laser-edged blade to low. The stalks of Derran lilies were tough on the outside, but very fragile within. Too high a setting and the blossoms would crumple like paper, wilt before their time.

Maybe it had been Auntie Mita's time to go; but that didn't make her any less sad. Damn annoying busybody most wonderful aunt in the world. Polla rubbed her eyes with the back of a sweat-soaked sleeve.

Summertime. It would be a hot day with no rain. The memorial was starting in two hours, and she'd come down here herself to gather the lilies. Lilies made the plants sound fancier than they were. In truth, Derran lilies were weeds that grew wild in the swampy, boggy parts of Deralia. But once, when she was twelve and just becoming a woman, Auntie Mita had taken her down to this very place and given her a long rambling talk about men, women, life, and the world. It was something she'd never forgotten.

'Organa women are like these flowers,' Auntie Mita said, twisting the stems of the ones she'd cut to make Polla a white-petaled crown. 'Tough on the outside, tender on the inside; common as stars. And as beautiful as stars, too.' The old woman beamed at her and chucked her chin. 'You'll break some hearts one of these days, Pollie. Mark my words."

'Don't call me Pollie,' Polla scowled. She was a grown-up now, nearly almost, and although her parents had ridiculed the idea she'd had to change her name to Desiderata, or Seriina, or Riannnaishen'amah, at the very least, she could get everyone to stop calling her Pollie.

Auntie Mita made a clucking noise under her breath. 'But looks really aren't the all of it,' she continued, ignoring Polla's complaint. 'The important thing is, to be happy. Find it where you can, and don't ever let it go.' She adjusted Polla's topknot so that it tucked neatly under the crown of flowers.

'But how do you know?' Polla asked her.

'How do you know what?' Her aunt was already fidgeting with something else, digging into their picnic basket for some cakes and tea. She handed Polla a generous slice of thisla tart, wrapped in an eridu napkin.

'How do you know when you've found it?'

Auntie Mita frowned and shook her head. 'Suns, I hope you grow up smarter than you are now, dear. How do you know? Can't you tell when you're happy or not?'

Polla twisted the stem of one of the lilies, threading it through the ties of her topknot. Her bare feet squelched in the warm mud. She picked up another armful from the pile she'd already cut and lay them gently in the basket. Pausing for a moment, she looked at the lake. A few wild hessi were drinking on the opposite shore. One of them snorted at her, and rolled its meter-length tongue threateningly in her direction. She laughed, and it shied away, galloping off on its six heavily clawed feet. The others just regarded her curiously.

'Chtuk, Chtuk, chuck,' she clucked at them, like Mita had taught her. Polla put the cutting blade down for the moment, and fished in her pocket for the crumbled kaffa cake she'd grabbed before setting out on this expedition. Rolling its eyes, one of the colts came closer; curiosity overruling caution. She held out her palm flat and felt the flick of his barbed tongue brush against her palm as the. The hessi colt neatly snagged the cake. He was still a half-meter away. 'You're a beauty, you are,' she cooed. He was, dappled blue and gray and green, with a silky yellow mane.

His ears perked up and he mewed at her softly, begging for more.

'Polla!'

The hessi colt and the rest of the herd startledstarted at the noise and took off, thundering across the shallows of the lake and back into the swamps.

Polla turned around. 'Hey, Sei.' Her husband picked his way cautiously down the slippery path to the lakeshore, Junior swaddled and slung in across his chest.

'Your Ma called this morning,' he said. 'Said she heard from you really late last night. Wanted to know if you were alright.'

'Late? I called her after dinner . . . it wasn't late!' Polla shrugged. Seiran smiled and her and shrugged back, unslinging Junior as he came closer. Polla grinned at him, reaching for her son.

Seiran had gotten the knots right, but he'd used a blanket she'd never seen before to bundle the baby. It was really high-grade, the kind of eridu used mainly for export, and the edges were trimmed with white fur.

Polla nuzzled Junior's nose with her own, and swung him gently back and forth in her arms. 'Will you get the flowers, hon? I'll carry Junior... he's going to be too hot in this thing. Where'd it come from anyways? Looks pretty fancy for a baby's swaddle...'

'Your Uncle Boon, I guess. There was no card. Came a week ago from Coruscant. It was the only thing I could find in black to wrap him in.'

'He's going to melt.'

'No, it's temp-regulated and self-cleaning. There were instructions that came with it.'

'Hmmm...' Junior gurgled happily. He didn't look uncomfortable anyways. Polla fingered the fabric. 'Bloody hell, Seiran, this is imperial weave. I know Uncle Boon's doing well, but . . .'

Her husband smiled at her. 'It's fit for a prince, yeah. See the embroidery? I think that pattern's an old Zabrak tribal design. Not sure, been a while since I took xensosh.'

'It's kind of pretty.' The red slashes gleamed against the black fabric. Swaddled inside such opulence, her son blew a spit bubble and gurgled, content.

The cruiser's engines hummed as they spun towards the docking bay of the Senate complex. It was almost a city in itself.

"There are over ten thousand sentients that make their home within the Senate's walls," Malachi began. "The complex is a masterpiece of construction, the product of more than fifteen thousand years of the Republic's stability and progress. Its main Senate chamber is over half a kilometer tall and has representative seats for more than five hundred worlds: full, colony, allied and protectorate. Each core world has five senatorial houses. House D'Reev has been a Coruscanti representative for over four thousand years; although long ago, our ancestors came from Corellia. The noble Coruscanti Houses share a unique position, as the closest advisors to the Chancellor. Alone, of all the Senate seats, ours are passed by blood, and not by election or sponsorship."

"I've had the tour," Dustil muttered.

"Of course you have, you've been here with your father. But this will be an entirely different experience. Coruscanti houses have their own traditions, and as our guest, you may not understand them. Please realize it is important not to cause any offense. We're circling now to land in the D'Reev docking bay. From there, we will be provided with an escort to the Senate Chambers. Korrie, remember what I told you about children being seen and not heard. It's very important."

"Be quiet, Korrie. Don't make any sudden movements," the child parroted obediently. He glanced at Dustil again. The other boy pressed his hand, reassuringly. It was really quite touching.

"It's extremely important." Malachi felt the pang of apprehension again. The child was very young for this. Too young. But the mother had left him with no choice. Eglatine immunity could be discharged, under the right set of circumstances. He has to grow up sometime. Let it be now.

"We're going to see her today," the boy murmured under his breath where he thought his grandfather wouldn't hear. Dustil stroked the lad's hair, an oddly vulnerable expression on his face.

"Remember your lessons, Korrie -- " the old man reminded him. Suddenly, the cruiser dipped and a red light went off flashing overhead. HK's voice broke over the comm channel.

"Alert, Master: Hostile drones. Starboard, closing, ten point three meters. Burrowers. Class C-three. The colors are purple and gold."

"Evasive," Malachi said. So soon. I thought I'd have more time. "Raise the shields." And pray that they hold.

Across from him on the bench Dustil's eyes widened. "Burrowers?" His hand went to his forehead and he pulled at the band there. "Get this thing off me. . . "

"We'll be fine. Sit back down." Malachi kept his voice steady. "Burrowers. They aren't after you or Korrie, Dustil. Just stay calm and remain still. Both of you. No matter what happens."

The cruiser jolted as the drone's drills landed. The entire craft shook, vibrating as the adamite drills began their work piercing through the layers of shielding. Malachi's heart sunk. I thought I'd have more time before the gerek began to circle. Scavengers on the weak, to a man. "Purple and gold." House Racharn.

"HK, send the appropriate orders. To be carried out regardless."

"Proud Compliance, Master," his droid said.

The cruiser rocked from side to side as the burrowers' drills invaded. Malachi's breath was short and his chest ached. It cannot not end like this.

"Malachor." There was no time to say much. "You're too young to have this happen now, but remember, everything I did, I did for you. I left you records in the archives -- you cannot rely on your mother. She doesn't know--"

"Gods," Dustil whispered, his face twisting. "Release the damn disrupter! Malachi -- please!"

No time to wonder at the lad's sudden familiarity. No time for anything. The hull breach alarms went off in a heartbeat. Malachi activated his personal shield, then leaning across to touch the ornate brooch on Malachor's collar as well.

He's an Eglatine, Racharn won't strike at him but . . . but the crossfire . . . accidents . . . Damn you, Revan, you cannot win the game like this. Is this part of your plan? His thoughts were desperate. Is this your doing, Revan? Have I underestimated you that badly? His heart sank. I am not this much of a fool. How could she have gathered House Racharn? They have no reason to love her, they were invested heavily in the Echanis system. And it suffered greatly during the war. Her war. She--

"Release the disrupter!" Dustil's face was pale and his dark eyes burned. "Stang -- gods, Malachi -- please!" The lad leaned across the table between them, reaching for the controller Malachi wore on his wrist.

Hiss of air escaping through the hull breech; alarms jangled. Their cruiser jolted to a stop, as HK put it into hover and disengaged the barrier between pilot and passengers. His laser rifle took out the first drone. The ferracrystal fibers of its purple and gold signature blew to pieces in a pulse of red light.

"Malachor -- remember me," the old man said. He stood up. Meet your fate standing. He drew out the small disrupter he carried from his belt. Futile, perhaps, but better to go down with an explosion than a whimper. Time was so short. I should have anticipated this, I should have --

The whine of more tiny drills. Somewhere in the background, an announcer drone murmured, toneless. "Sanctioned by Coruscant law, House Racharn declares hostile intent against House D'Reev. Statute twenty-two, amendment seven."

"Mal, get down!" Dustil was already tackling his grandson to the ground. "Release the bloody control, Malachi! Please!"

"Racharn?" His grandson was crying. A red head poked out from under Dustil's arm on the floor. "Leeshy's house? But that's Leeshy's house? She'd -- "

"Keep your head down!" Dustil hissed, shoving his grandson's head into the floor. He fumbled at something underneath his robes. A hiss and a blue beam engaged. Malachi stared at in shock.

Malak's weapon. I knew Malachor has been in the vaults. But -- he gave Dustil Onasi my son's old lightsaber?

"Burrowers sense movement," the Telosian hissed through gritted teeth. "Get down Mal. Stay still, Korrie. Don't move at all. No matter what happens." The boy's face was desperate. "Release the band, Malachi. Now!" The lightsaber wavered, coming closer. The boy's face twisted with hate, and for a moment, Malachi wondered if Dustil was about to cut him down.

The Senator shook his head, slowly. No matter what came to pass, his grandson would survive. If I have been outmaneuvered this badly by her then I deserve this.

Dustil Onasi's voice was hoarse. "What if it's not you, Malachi? What if it's not you they're after? Release the damn band!"

Another flash of red light as HK targeted another one of the drones. But more humming. A hundred hull breaches, pinpoints of lightfrom the stasis field activated around their craft to prevent any outside intervention. Honorable Coruscanti combat. An honorable Coruscanti death.

Their house is far more numerous than ours. An old man and a child. And Her. Malachi D'Reev wanted to laugh. What else can I do in the face of death? An old man and a child and her -- will she respect this? Or did she orchestrate it? I've underestimated her. Somehow she found allies. Somehow . . .

"Father!" Malachor's voice was high and panicked. He started to stand and Dustil shoved him to the floor again with one hand, the blue particle blade flashing as it hit another drone dart. And then another.

"I am not afraid," Malachi D'Reev began formally. This is how my father met his end. And his father before him. "I tried to be a father to you, Malachor. Remember --'

A dart flashed before his eyes and Dustil's blade stopped it. The lad whirled to face another and another. HK's laser flashed.

His grandson started to get up. Dustil's hand pushed him down again, even as he moved to counter another drone dart that circled around Malachi's head.

"Release the frelling band!" the Telosian boy cried again. "Gods, please! Without the Force -- I can't--" He cut another one down and pivoted, turning back to the child that cowered underneath him.

Another dart penetrated Malachi's shielding. He braced himself for the sting, watching dully as Dustil and HK moved too slowly, too late to stop -- the drone hissed and spun before his eyes. There was a horrible split second before he recognized it for what it was. A terrible pause, when he watched the purple and gold microfilaments spin and he felt the sting on his face before he realized.

Dustil had stopped moving, his mouth open as if he was trying to say something.

Then Malachor screamed and convulsed.

The drone dart that hung twisting between Malachi's eyes fizzled out. A feint, it was a feint. It wasn't me at all . . .

"Target reached," chimed the toneless voice. "By first strike, Racharn declares its intention against D'Reev. Let the games begin."

"Objection!" Malachi cried out. "He's eight! He's an Eglatine! Not a legal target! Not!"

"Denied: Your destination is Senate Chambers. He is your Second. His Eglatine status is dissolved. House Racharn cites intentionality as justifiable cause."

On the floor, his heir and all of his hopes for the future twisted and shook. The child's face turned blue as the poison hit his system.

Dustil's face was ashen. He dropped to the floor, the deactivated lightsaber clattering beside him, forgotten. "The neural band!" His hand clawed at his forehead, "Malachi, please!"

Shaking, the Senator pushed the button at his wrist. The golden band fell off the Telosian's forehead. Dustil took Malachor's hands in his. His eyes were closed and his lips moved. "Gods, Force, please . . . no . . . please . . ."

By the games, by the gods, by luck, by the Force . . . no . . .

On the floor Malachor screamed and shook. "It hurts! Father! Mother -- please make it stop hurting -- make it stop -- "

"I'm here, Mal." Dustil's hands moved. He took a deep breath, and a cooling white aura of light enveloped both of them.

Healing? The lad can heal? Thank the gods, thank the Force thank --

Malachi found his voice again, stumbling over the formal phrase. "House Racharn, D'Reev has foiled your attack. We -- request -- one standard day before resuming hostilities. Coruscanti statute twenty-nine. By the laws that bind. By the game."

"The . . . game . . . " Dustil held Malachor close. Trembling, Malachi knelt next to him, grasping his grandson's hand. The pulse was thready but it was there. "It's not a game, old man." His voice dropped. "It never was."

"Revan. They would not dare otherwise. This was a strike at her."

Dustil only looked at him. His face twisted, as if he was struggling to speak. He pulled the child protectively onto his lap. "Between the two of you, you'll get him killed."

"I don't expect you'd comprehend Coruscanti politics, Dustil. But Revan brought this on our heads. D'Reev has been allied with Racharn for centuries. Even so, I had to work very hard to gain back their trust after my son and his wife's assault on their interests. But now . . ."

Malachi shook his head. There was no point in explaining this to a half-grown Telosian. "How are you feeling, Malachor?"

"I never understood," Dustil whispered. "Never." The child in his arms peered at his grandfather through the crook in Dustil's arms, his eyes wide and gray.

"Can't you tell Senator Racharn that you're sorry?" His heir rubbed his nose with his sleeve. The child was very pale, but there was a flush of life returning to his cheeks already. Thank the gods they used one of the slow poisons. Thank the Force the Telosian can heal. Thank the game he cares for my grandson.

"It's not me she's angry at, Korrie. It's your mother."

"Oh." The small face hardened and the chin set stubbornly. "But Leeshy's my friend and I never did anything to her or her stupid family . . ."

Dustil shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The boy's face turned up to his and they stared at each other.

"There's more of your father in you than I thought possible, young Onasi," Malachi said. "You saved my grandson's life." He tried to chuckle comfortingly, but it came out forced. "I guess you've earned the right to call me Malachi."

"My father . . . ." Dustil's face was ashen. "My father, the hero." He pulled Malachor closer and whispered something in his ear. Comforts, the old man thought. Two lost children . . . he cleared his throat, there was something stuck in it. He got to his feet again, and straightened his robes, lifted his head high.

"I suppose you've earned the right to Malak's old 'saber as well. But Korrie, you are not to keep digging around in the vaults without my permission. I'll have to seal them off from you entirely if this insolence continues."

The announcer drone chimed. "Demilitarization is complete. You may disembark now. Racharn has failed in their attempt against D'Reev. D'Reev wins the round." The blue light of the stasis field faded from the viewscreens. HK moved to open the hatch.

Malachi reached out a hand to his heir. His mind moved the pieces on the board; shifting, rearranging, accommodating. I thought I'd have more time. I thought her ruin would save him. But I will not be unprepared again. I know now what I must do He sighed, already planning the necessary arrangements. Security would be a concern, of course. And by necessity, certain concessions would be needed for an advantageous accord. So much depended on her intentions. Everything, really. But the old proverb still rang true.

A House divided cannot stand.

XXX