The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

XXVIII: We Know You Not

Strangely, though the Imperial battleship Samothrace managed to keep pace with Rhonabeq’s Penitent Queen on the flight to Obroa-skai, it would be close to a week before they would clear occupied space for the rendezvous. Anakin couldn’t fault the quarters they were set up in, close by to the hangars - or embarkation decks, as the Imperials called them - and fairly well furnished. They did feel a little like sleeping in a museum, though, or in some parts of what had been the Imperial Palace, back on Coruscant. All full of statues and busts and ornate frescoes painted on the walls. Meals were provided by quiet Imperials who didn’t speak any Basic and time passed glacially. The food was good, alien in the same kind of way that most spacer fare was in cantinas around the Galaxy.

Mei was still in the medbay - apothecarion, apparently - in an induced coma while Imperial surgeons did their best to keep her alive each day. Zalthis, when he stopped by their suite, swore up and down that the skill of Ultramarian 'chirurgeons’ was incomparable. Anakin had seen her wound, though. He’d seen the ends of her ribs, yellowy-white and spine-tingling cross-sectioned.

Sitting around made him antsy and there wasn’t much to do in their suite of rooms, so Anakin sought out Zalthis when he could. The two neophytes bounced back as if Obroa-skai had been routine, looking the very next day as bursting with energy as they were in the drop-pod before the mission. Meanwhile, Anakin had slept for close to fourteen hours, bundled up and lost to the world in silk Ultramarian sheets. At least Samothrac’s holocomm, let him send his letter off to Tahiri before he could second-guess yet again, as well as letting Colonel Loran keep up with New Republic Intelligence. Uncle Luke spent a lot of time with Mei, giving what assistance he could to bolster her own strength in the Force. After losing Rhonabeq, Anakin could feel his uncle’s resolve not to lose another Jedi on this mission. Not so close to the end.

So Anakin tried sparring with Zalthis, which didn’t go the best. He couldn’t use his lightsaber nor Zalthis a powerblade, so he and the Ultramarine used blunted, lightweight wooden training blades. Which, of course, threw him off completely because they actually had weight to them and a whole different center of mass and the first time he’d joined Zalthis in a sparring ring it had been so embarrassing Anakin still flushed thinking about it.

Zalthis hadn’t boasted about the easy win, at least.

“It’s good to know many weapons,” the Ultramarine observed after, when Anakin looked at the practice sword like he wanted to snap it in two. “Your lightsabers are potent, but what if you lost yours?”

Just thinking about losing his ‘sabre put a hollow in his stomach. It wasn’t just a weapon, it was part of him. He made it, every part of it. It was as familiar as a limb and sure, Jedi lost theirs sometimes, like how Uncle Luke lost his for a while - along with his hand, of course - but there was just something so personal about not having his lightsaber anymore that while Zalthis had a point, Anakin reflexively wanted to push away the logic.

Zalthis showed him all kinds of weapons after their first spar, taking each and demonstrating its use, even being able to tell what ‘forge-world’ had designed the ‘pattern’. The way Zalthis eagerly showed off the revving teeth of a ‘chainsword’ perversely reminded Anakin of Jacen’s collection, back at the Praxeum. The way his brother doted on each and every one of his menagerie was mirrored by the neophyte’s pure enthusiasm for killing devices. Zalthis asked what was amusing, but Anakin managed to distract him by pointing at a gigantic fist.

It was called a ‘powerfist’, and it could punch holes in tanks. The Imperials had strange ideas.

Solidian never joined them - not the first day nor the second, nor going into the third. It became a kind of routine - they would meet after breakfast and take over one of the many training halls. It was always just Zalthis and Anakin, even though he knew there were other Ultramarines on the vessel. They kept to themselves, he guessed, either under orders not to bother their guests or just uncaring. Zalthis said he hadn’t received any orders or commands not to fraternize.

“You look like a proper citizen of Ultramar,” Zalthis observed, amused, and Anakin plucked at his tunic. All their changes of clothes were aboard Penitent Queen and, well…they wouldn’t be getting those back. His burned and tattered and sliced up jumpsuit wasn’t fit to wear, so along with quarters and food, the Imperials offered the Jedi and Wraiths changes of clothes, sourced from who-knows-where. Tunics, trousers, heeled boots and even some kind of off-the-shoulder robes, Anakin felt strange with the white symbol of the Imperials on his chest, but he couldn’t exactly go around naked or in his underclothes.

“Maybe I’ll have to get you a jumpsuit like I used to wear, see how you’d like that.”

“If you can find one that I might fit, I would be honored.”

Anakin snorted. Today Zalthis professed interest in seeing some lightsaber forms, which Anakin couldn’t really pull off with a weighted training blade.

“My Uncle could demonstrate all of them.” Anakin stepped into the center of the padded ring, Zalthis leaning on the railing that ran around the edge. “The forms, I mean. I know about them, but I haven’t trained in all of them, not even close.” He lit his ‘saber, taking a deep breath as azure light cast new shadows. Idly, he tapped Mei’s brother’s lightsaber, which he still carried on his belt, almost unconsciously, after grabbing it for her in the madness and chaos of that final stand. His uncle told him that her armor was ruined almost completely by both the amphistaff and then the Imperial’s removal of it and not for the first time he was glad he thought to recover the blade. When, not if, when she recovered, she would be devastated by the loss of her armor but at least she would still have her own lightsaber and her brother’s.

“There are seven forms, you have said?”

“Well, seven main ones. Shii-Cho, Makashi, Soresu, Ataru, Shien, Niman and Juyo. There’s a lot of other styles, but those seven were the forms of the old Jedi Order. We can learn those, but a lot of the time we kind of go with what works for us, which ends up a blend. Niman is closest to my style, but it’s not exact.”

Zalthis watched as Anakin started into simple motions, warming up, his eyes following closely the lightsaber. The Jedi brought his blade up to a basic guard, then shifted to an angled defense, then to another, another.

“‘What wins the fight is what wins the fight’,” Zalthis said, with the cadence of a quote. “It strikes me as strange to not have an ordered pattern of training, yet I cannot deny the skill with which I have seen Jedi fight.”

“According to Tionne, the old Order was really focused on the Forms. Some people take to them, but it’s left up to us. Master Katarn favors Djem So, but I guess an example is my uncle. He’s mastered all the forms, I think, but he never focuses on any one. It’s whatever he needs at the time.”

“A potent tool, then. Impossible for a foe to predict.”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t really think that way.”

Anakin slid into beginning stances, smoothly flowing from one preparatory pose to the next.

“It’s funny, a lightsaber is a weapon, but it doesn’t feel like it when we train.”

“Curious. What do you mean?” Zalthis draped his arms over the railing, leaning his broad chest against the mesh divider. Anakin still wasn’t sure what to make of not only the Ultramarines, but especially the two ‘neophytes’. He figured they were apprentices, kind of like, since the deceased Sergeant was their instructor. But that didn’t seem to fit right, given how very uncaring about killing both of them, especially Solidian, proved to be. They looked older than Anakin, but still pretty young, so then he assumed maybe Ultramarines picked from soldiers out of some kind of training or boot-camp, and this was like…a weird kind of officer school? His dad didn’t ever talk much about that brief time he was in the Empire’s Navy, but there was no shortage of people Anakin knew who had served, were serving, or were planning to serve in the military.

He stepped through a couple of simple stances, smoothly shifting from one to the next, letting his ‘saber’s reverb-hum fill the air.

“It’s kind of peaceful. Like a puzzle.” He imagined Jaina counter to him, brought his blade up in blocks and ripostes to counter his mental image of his sister and her own violet lightsaber. “Mei reminded me of that, right before we left for the, uhm, conference.”

“I’m afraid I’m still not understanding. It might be translational,” Zalthis allowed.

“Well, to be a Jedi is to serve peace.”

“This I have heard.”

“Which doesn’t mean avoiding violence,”

“I should imagine not.”

“-but I don’t know, there’s kind of an art to it? It was fun to duel Mei with both her lightsabers.”

“A challenge.”

“Something like that. I wanted to win, but it was also fun just to chase her around and try to figure out what she was going to do next. Not a lot of Jedi use two ‘sabers. I usually only ever sparred with Master Solusar and a few others. My brother and sister too.”

“You sound like what I’ve heard of Emperor’s Children,” Zalthis said, snorting a laugh.

“Who are they?”

“Another Legion of Astartes. Very preoccupied in the artistry of war.” the Neophyte dipped his head, smirking. “Some say too much so.”

“There’s other Legions of you guys?”

“Eight-eighteen.” Zalthis confirmed, though for a moment Anakin felt a tug of complex emotion from the man as he stuttered. Anger and sorrow and regret all in one.

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“You were at the conference, it is no great secret. We conquered the galaxy with the Legiones.”

Anakin relaxed from a low block, drawing back upright. Considering what he’d seen down on Obroa-skai, he could believe the boast. And it was a boast - Zalthis nearly glowed with pride when he said it.

“If those ‘Emperor’s Children’” and Anakin suppressed a frown at the very unfortunate name “are all about artistry, what are Ultramarines about?”

Zalthis opened his mouth, narrowed his eyes and considered, shutting his mouth again with a click of his teeth and pursing his lips.

“Hm,” he hummed. “I think - we are about readiness.”

Anakin resumed stepping through forms.

“Readiness, huh?”

“Any Astartes you ask will have a different opinion. Sol, I think, would say the XIIIth is about order. Structure, maybe. He jokes and is irreverent, but he loves the clarity that service gives. There’s never a question of your place, in the XIIIth.”

“Neophyte, Sergeant, Lieutenant, Primarch?” Anakin rattled off the few ranks the New Republic had learned or met in person. Zalthis nodded in agreement.

“Like that. Other Legions, like the Space Wolves, seem to pride themselves on their chaos.”

“Space Wolves?”

“I’ve heard they don’t like to be called that. Or the White Scars, who by reputation are quite apathetic toward authority.”

“That’s four,” Anakin observed, keeping count. He nudged aside ‘Jacen’s’ low slash, moving in slow motion. He imagined his brother’s more reserved form, matched it.

“We would be here until the end of the day if I were to describe them all. But you asked of the Ultramarines. I think it's readiness. We aren’t the best at siegecraft - that is the Iron Warriors. We aren’t the best at fortification and defense - that is the Imperial Fists.”

He paused, watching with rapt attention as Anakin leapt up, somersaulting, landing exactly and continuing, ‘saber always in motion.

“Impressive. We counter by being prepared. I think that is our strength, even if it is less…exciting. Before arriving here, there was a campaign we were preparing for. Another Legion, I think, might have simply charged ahead. My Primarch ordered a grand muster, to pull our strength together, reforge bonds between companies and Chapters and ensure the Legion was utterly ready. Then we could smash the greenskins utterly.”

“Look before you leap.”

“Like so. Not unlike, if I am understanding correctly, your Jedi.”

“Some of us,” Anakin said, thinking of Kyp and Ganner and others. “What do you think?” He waved his ‘saber, the neophyte tracking the blade with his eyes.

“Very agile. I am not sure I could match. I wish we could spar with proper blades.”

Anakin shut off his lightsaber, returning it to his belt. Not even breathing any heavier, as he’d been demonstrating, not really practicing, he joined Zalthis at the rail. The sparring pit was elevated, such that with Zalthis leaning and Anakin standing tall, they were just about face-to-face.

“It’s dangerous. Even Uncle Luke didn’t want to go any farther with your Lieutenant.”

A faraway look stole over Zalthis face.

“Ah, that was inspirational.” he breathed. “That is what I wish to be, one day.”

“Lieutenant Thiel?”

“A champion, like him. Do you not want to outpace your uncle? Show your own prowess?”

Anakin shrugged. Maybe it would be normal for a teenager to want to outdo their famous uncle. Or their famous father. Or famous mother. What was the thing - growing up in a shadow? Luke Skywalker surely would cast an enormous shadow over any of them. Jacen, Jaina, or himself. Heir to the Jedi Order, the last Jedi standing, the man who took down the Sith themselves. Killed the Emperor, saved his father, saved the galaxy how many times? Maybe it would be normal to be envious of that kind of fame.

Anakin wanted to be famous. He wanted to be powerful and respected and a great Jedi. And then Anakin fell to the dark side and killed his mentor and friend and tried to kill his own children, blew up a planet and became the thing that went bump in the night. Anakin Skywalker had enough ambition for the name ten times over.

“I’m okay with being me.” Anakin shook his head. “As long as I can help people.” Zalthis bobbed his head, not quite agreeing, but recognizing Anakin’s words. “What’s a champion mean to you, anyway?”

“It…would mean I excel at my role. That I would be an inspiration to other Astartes, as they’ve been to me.”

“Sure. That sounds pretty good.”

“Better than ‘good’. A real champion of the XIIIth is respected by all; their honor and fidelity unquestionable.”

That struck a strange note.

“People have questioned your honor?”

Zalthis looked as if he’d been struck.

“What? Never!”

“Why would you need to prove it, then?”

The neophyte’s mouth worked like he chewed on syllables, face contorting.

“Because! Never mind, you - forget what I said.”

Anakin held up his hands, placating. He might not have always been the best with people, but a sore spot was obvious.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No, no. Of course not. You don’t know our ways.”

Anakin leaned on the other side of the railing, the mesh fence running between them, between Jedi Knight and Astartes Neophyte. A thin, flexible mesh of metal, woven together, meant only to corral errant trainees and contain overzealous exercises. Here he was, worrying about Mei, still coming to terms with the gaping wound that was where Chewbacca should have been - Zalthis and Solidian had watched their teacher and mentor die and it was like nothing happened. Not knowing their ways was an understatement on the scale of saying that the Suncrusher was a little dangerous. He’d given his condolences to Zalthis the first day back aboard Samothrace, before their spar, and Zalthis had just nodded gravely, thanked him for his words, but said that he didn’t mourn Sergeant Ascratus.

“I will miss his lessons, but he died in duty, as any Astartes could ever hope for. I should only be so lucky.”

Solidian, Zalthis said, kept Ascratus’ pistol and made it his own, which was about the closest either of the two came to appearing in any way affected. Anakin didn’t have to try to imagine what it would be like if that happened to him, because it had.

Ascratus turned and ran from the teleport homer, dying by cuts, buying time for his charges to escape.

Chewie threw Anakin aboard the Falcon, roaring at Dobido as the moon came down.

He couldn’t imagine just shrugging off Chewie’s death the way these two did. It wasn’t the same, of course, a Sergeant compared to a member of the family, but they didn’t even seem to blink outside of swearing to repay the Yuuzhan Vong in full. That, at the least, he could commiserate with. Zalthis cleared his throat, extricating himself from his lean against the railing, bouncing his palm off the hilt of his combat knife.

“Shall I demonstrate as well?” he asked. “I imagine we have very different practicals.”

“Go on.”

Zalthis neatly heaved himself over the divider, Anakin edging further away to give him more space. The Ultramarine drew out his ‘knife’, the length of a shoto blade, twirling it easily, wristing snapping around. The shining steel cut the air with a whistle. Already in his first, quick motions, Anakin could see what he’d already faced before in their friendly sparring. Everything about Zalthis’ style was direct, to the point, and optimized to kill. No wasted deflecting, no wasted dodging, no moves to disarm or delay. Just rapid, pugilistic, eviscerating strikes.

A little like what Juyo Anakin had seen in action, when his Uncle trained, but so much more brutally honest. A killer’s motion. He thought of the chazrach, mobbing in throngs, the warriors with their lean aggression. Finesse was good, but like Zalthis said: “what wins the fight is what wins the fight.” He watched the neophyte move, imagining incorporating the style the Astartes showed with his own, personal form. Next time, he could be faster. Next time, there wouldn’t be another Mei.

His arming chamber was draped in stygian darkness. Nude, Aeonid Thiel sat cross-legged, fresh from ablutions, short-cropped hair still damp. Laid out on his bunk were a tunic, trousers, boots. A thin mat separated him from hard decking. He kept his eyes open, seeing nothing at all in the utter darkness. Not a photon of light bounced around his sealed chamber. In the darkness he could feel where everything stood, ordered over months aboard Macragge’s Honour. His armor, polished and waiting on its rack. A small desk, tucked to the side, piled with dataslates and ring-bound sheaves of vellum. His bunk, just large enough for an Astartes’ stature, made up precisely and neatly.

He felt a fool, taking slow breaths in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. What was it Skywalker had said? Meditate. He was no Thousand Son with ink-stained fingers chasing ‘enumerations’. He understood the word, not the concept. Thiel imagined the feel of a burnishing pad in his fingers, rotely following circular motions as he polished his wargear. He could lose himself in that, finding time had slipped past even the enhanced senses he was blessed with. Was that meditation? It seemed to fit the definition, but Skywalker had stressed calm and stillness. He imagined that doing something violated those tenets.

Stop thinking. His brain chased thoughts and concepts, peeling apart the idea of what he was doing, analyzing if it was going correctly - Aeonid adjusted himself, scowling in the dark. Stop thinking!

Air flowed in through his nostrils, cool, creating mild pressure through his sinuses as his lungs filled. His lips felt the wind of his exhale, diaphragm tightening to compress his lungs -

Another angle. Still feeling ridiculous, he pictured the Jedi Master as he was, shirtless and smiling, lightsaber at the ready. He felt the same incredulity that this mortal thought to cross blades with him, an Astartes. He felt the heft of his electromagnetic longsword in his hand, felt hairs along his forearms tingle in the aura of the power field. Luke Skywalker smeared into a streak of light and Thiel reacted.

He did not remember their duel, but he imagined it. He imagined the smaller human duck past and through Thiel’s defenses, forcing him to the backfoot. He felt ghosts of shock reverberate up his bare arms, from wrists that protested as his longsword trembled and rang at each meeting of plasma and power.

Luke Skywalker was there, there, everywhere. Behind him and in front of him, beside him and around him, ducking and leaping and dashing and in the serenity of his mind Aeonid let frustration slide away. He eyed his embarrassment at being bested and blew it away with a breath. He tasted sweat on his lips, felt it burn in his eyes and accepted it. He could not face the Jedi Master one-on-one. Luke Skywalker was too quick, too insightful, too skilled. Aeonid would have to match. Skill could be countered by strength. Speed could be countered by reflex. Insight - insight. Luke Skywalker knew what Aeonid would do before Aeonid did. He was already blocking a blow before Aeonid thought to begin it.

Insight had to be matched by insight. He imagined the Jedi Master and in his mind’s eye he extended a hand toward the smaller man. Luke Skywalker, grinning in a way that shed years from his face, reached out his much smaller hand.

Aeonid opened his eyes.

Macragge’s Honour was alive.

In the darkness of his chambers Aeonid saw through kilometers of armor and decking, through bodies and beings who burned with life and vigor, until stars rolled overhead and nebulae spun, until Eboracum, white and green and blue and brown swelled before him and a huddling tunneler trembled in its burrow, feeling the claws of a patient predator dig, dig, dig away. Men laughed and sang as they tilled soil, children chased each other and then there was more, and more, a universe of stars, glimmering, glinting, diamonds in coal, filling Aeonid to bursting.

He gasped and it was gone, slipping away in moments until he was alone in the dark in his chambers, breathing heavily, head spinning. His heart - hearts - pounded against his fused ribs.

“Throne alive,” he murmured.

Two squads of Ultramarian soldiers waited, flanking a sealed docking hatch. They stood at attention, weapons resting against shoulders. Zalthis and Solidian both stood by, in fresh armor, Solidian with Ascratus’ pistol at his hip. Shipmistress Altuzer, crisp in her dress uniform, stood off to the side. This was not her operation, but it was her ship.

“Attention!” Zalthis barked, and as one, the soldiers shifted rifles to opposite shoulders, boots rapping heels together. “Delegation departing.”

Face guided a gently hovering gurney bearing Mei, still in an induced coma though rapidly regaining healthy color. Bhindi had a rucksack slung over her back, bearing dense and heavy databanks, loaded down with plundered records. Anakin and Luke led the small group, both in simple spun robes that bore a passing resemblance to Jedi robes. A gift from Shipmistress Altuzer, so that her guests might feel more comfortable.

Zalthis stepped out of formation, linking thumbs and spreading fingers across his chest in salute.

“Master Skywalker, Jedi Solo. Colonel Loran, Lieutenant Drayson. I am honored to send you on your way, on behalf of Ultramar and the Imperium.”

“It’s my honor,” Luke replied, inclining his head. “I hope our peoples can continue to work together.”

“It is not my decision, but if it were, I would be proud.”

A moment later Solidian spoke.

“As would I. Sergeant Ascratus believed in our mission and I see he was correct. We struck a blow against the Yuuzhan Vong xenoform.” The neophyte made the same sign over his chest, bowing slightly at the waist.

Face and Bhindi both offered salutes while Anakin dipped his head as well.

Altuzer cleared her throat and Zalthis turned to her. She held out a small pistol to the neophyte, who took it with a nod.

“Jedi, Republicans. I trust you enjoyed your stay aboard my ship.”

“We’re in your debt, Shipmistress. Thank you for coming to save us.”

“Seconded.” Face echoed Luke. “The Wraiths won’t forget it.”

Zalthis stepped closer, turning the pistol so that its grip was extended, offering it to Face.

“Colonel Loran. A gift, from the XIIIth and 4711th Expeditionary.”

Tentatively, Face accepted the sidearm, turning it over, holding it carefully. Zalthis retreated with Solidian back to the end of the line, nearest the airlock.

“I’m honored,” the Wraith said. “Ah, what is it?”

Altuzer smirked.

“Agemmon-pattern Hotshot Laspistol. I was told of how resilient vong armor is to your blasters. I trust this will serve you well. Word of warning: don’t look directly at it. There is a datawafer for proper maintenance and how to recharge the battery.”

“I’ll use it well.”

“Good. Jedi, Wraiths, I grant you leave of my ship. Go with the Throne’s peace.”

The hatch irised open, revealing a flexible docking umbilical, leading over to Runaway Artist. The slender Corona class had mated successfully with a universal clamp over the Imperial airlock, so that Mei would be out of care for as short a time as possible. Luke led the way, past stock-still soldiers, pausing as Anakin did when they drew up to the neophytes.

“Zal,” his nephew said.

“Jedi Solo.” The Ultramarine offered his arm and Anakin took it, wrist to elbow. “You are a fine warrior. I hope to fight alongside you again.”

“I hope not,” Anakin said. Zalthis frowned and his nephew smiled. “If we never had to fight again, it would mean the war was over.”

“Ah,” Zalthis brightened, though Solidian raised an eyebrow. “I understand. Throne guide you, Jedi.”

“May the Force be with you, Zalthis. Solidian.”

Then they were past and through, into the airlock and on and behind him, Mei’s repulsor gurney thrummed as they picked down the lightly jostling umbilical. Clear panels of plastek here and there gave them breathtaking views of Samothrace spreading out on all sides behind them, like a gigantic wall in space. Runaway Artist, at the other end, looked so tiny in comparison.

“Good folks,” Face said, as they neared the far airlock. It cycled open, revealing a medical team that rushed in, relieving the Wraith of Mei’s gurney, swiftly bearing her out ahead of the rest of the team. “Strange, but good.”

His conversation with Roboute flitted through his memory. Absolute authoritarians, virulently xenophobic, paranoid - and yet, Face wasn’t quite wrong. They seemed to wear their staunch ideals as a virtue, rather than trying to hide or obfuscate them. The Empire often liked to dress itself up in pretty justifications or hide behind thin reasonings, with few being so overt and outright about their real feelings. If Luke couldn’t respect the society they built, he could acknowledge that they at least embraced the truth of who and what they were and didn’t try to misdirect. ‘Strange, but good’ was too positive, given the implications of Roboute’s judgment of the New Republic, the Jedi, and himself, yet they’d reigned it all in to work, in truth, very comfortably and seamlessly on Obroa-skai.

He tried to imagine taking along three Imperials of the old Empire on a similar mission and could only imagine the absolute headaches of arguments over chain of command, decision-making and who had the ultimate authority.

In fact, he didn’t have to imagine. Ithor was just yesterday and getting Pellaeon and the Moff Council to work with the New Republic had been like pulling teeth. And then there was Jagged Fel, and the Chiss contingent…

Maybe not ‘strange, but good’ so much as ‘brutal, but honest’.

That honesty, that willingness to be open and to reach a middle ground, even if they might not like it, is what gave Luke hope. A middle ground meant there was always a chance for change. Anakin asked if he could follow Mei, as the medics planned to ease her awake. He waved his nephew on, knowing the Jensaarai was out of the woods. Turning to Face and Bhindi, before they could wander off to their own assigned quarters, Luke cleared his throat.

“I just wanted to say again - you have my condolences. Wedge always spoke highly of Zev and the times I met him, he seemed like a man of incredible character.”

Face Loran looked his age, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, ruining the picture-perfect image of a holovid star.

“Thanks, Luke. That would mean a lot to him, coming from you.”

“If there’s anything the Jedi can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Bhindi laughed, a dry, sad laugh, devoid of much humor at all.

“Don’t promise the Colonel that,” she warned. “Not unless you know what you’re getting into.”

“Just promising a friend,” Luke answered. Face and Bhindi made their farewells, off to find their new quarters. The latter had said something about getting a jump-start on indexing the databanks, now that they were back aboard a Navy cruiser with droids to requisition. Luke could feel her determination to find something of use, something that made Zev’s death meaningful.

With Anakin following Mei to the medbay and Face and Bhindi off, Luke wandered the corridors of Runaway Artist, nodding now and then to sailors that stopped to salute. He wasn’t in uniform, so it didn’t really count, but - well. He could feel their surprise and enthusiasm when they recognized him.

A yammosk slain. A yuuzhan vong commander, possibly dead. Altuzer said that Samothrace got a good look at the boulevard as it swept overhead and reported large fires left over from Ascratus’ meltabomb. She did not have permission to fire on the planet herself, something that would have been a political knot to untangle considering Obroa-skai’s technical position as a New Republic world, merely occupied, and that the Imperium hadn’t yet signed a final, formal agreement of any kind.

By any metric, it was a success. Like Face had said, the yammosk alone was a coup. Each war coordinator exponentially strengthened the enemy. Maybe yammosks were quick and easy to replace. Something told him they weren’t, and that this loss was one that would hurt for a while to come. If they were lucky and Malik Carr died as well, that could be a double-punch that might actually stall out the entire advance of the front. With that in mind, the archives downloaded was more of icing on a ryshcate than anything else.

He had a Jedi crippled, nearly dead. Another Jedi lost, returned to the Force. Zevulon Veers, a long-time veteran Wraith, also slain. The Imperials lost a Sergeant.

He found himself in an observation blister and watched as Samothrace shrank rapidly, Runaway Artist angling to jump to lightspeed. Out here in the far reaches of an empty solar system, there were no mass shadows to avoid. Sure enough - the stars lengthened, smeared, and were replaced by the whirling, indigo funnel of hyperspace.

Luke exhaled, watching the familiar kaleidoscopic lights.

So many hours of his life were filled with that vista. Days and days, weeks maybe, counted all together.

It’s not the years, it’s the parsecs.

Han’s voice echoed in his ear. Wherever his brother was, Luke wished him well. Kyp said he was going to chase him down and he hoped he’d been successful. Kyp and Han had a unique friendship, one that held up down through the years. If anyone could reach Han through his renewed grief and guilt over nearly getting Luke, Mara, and many other Jedi killed because he hadn’t seen through Elan’s lie, it would be Kyp.

May the Force be with you Han, wherever you are.

Malik Carr radiated fury. Harrar steepled his fingers, resting them against his fringed lips, listening quietly while the Commander ripped a particular Indendant to shreds, and then fed those shreds to a starving stuvak. It was deserved. Oh, Nom Anor, Nom Anor, meddling Nom Anor. Nom Anor, who claimed to know all secrets. Nom Anor, whose infiltration of the New Republic and this toxic galaxy was so complete he promised to lay bear every hidden strength before the Chosen people.

Nom Anor, who utterly missed these Impeerials.

Carr’s burns were still peeling as they healed, his left arm truncated at the elbow, awaiting a blessed grafting. His long tresses, a point of pride for the commander, were just a dusting of new growth at his scalp. A diminutive nol dovin basal could only bear so great a void. The biot spared the Commander’s death, at least. The pain of his burns and injuries only clarified and focused the Commander’s mind, to Harrar’s pleasure, like a coufee paring away sick flesh to leave him whip-strong and filled with righteous fury.

“First their mutant men shame my warriors and slaughter them with ease, then they slip a grand cruiser past our very wards! Not a single dovin basal sensed the craft until it bore down upon us! Had the infidels a stronger stomach, they could have laid waste to all of Obroa-skai and crippled this front. I finger you as responsible, Intendent. Speak! Fill my ears with your pretty lies and poison my tongue with the flavor of your incompetence. Speak!”

Nom Anor fumbled and Nom Anor made excused and Harrar had heard them all. Malik Carr paced and bellowed, villip choir flexing to follow him.

“They slew a yammosk in its den! It spoke to me its last words, to warn me of these Impeerials of this Impeerium.”

“I know only of a Ssi-ruuvi Imperium, much honored Commander! This I swear, this is a new trick of the jeedai, or perhaps some secret nation come revealed in fear of our righteous conquest-”

“I choke on your platitudes!”

With the Warmaster’s ear, Harrar knew that word had reached the highest of levels. To slay a yammosk in its den, leaving the body intact and untouched, sent a thrill of uncertainty through the Priest. Yammosk were the holy vessel of Yun-Yammka, closest to the Slayer himself. Whatever weapon these Impeerials wielded, it was potent indeed and a dreadful one. Rumor had it shapers already beseeched Yun-ne’Shel to reveal secrets and even the Supreme Overlord might be moved to intercede to Yun-Yuuzhan himself.

Harrar felt more circumspect. These infidels were unworthy, corrupt and craven, of course, but they had proven the capacity for great mettle already. A weapon that could slay a war coordinator was one they would not hesitate to unleash. Why now, and why in such an inconsequential way? The loss of the yammosk’s memories and talents was a burden, but another would arrive in time. Perhaps if the New Republic had sent a fleet to assail Obroa-skai, then the slaying would reveal a logic.

Thrown into disarray and disunity without the yammosk to command them, the orbital defenses would have been laid bare. The infidels might have claimed a great victory indeed.

This told Harrar that whatever was done to slay the yammosk, it was not done by intention. The creeping infiltrators had not planned on assassination, only theft of data. It could mean that this weapon could not be recreated. It was unseemly to imagine wasting a weapon to save a pitiful few jeedai and others, but the infidels did value life overmuch. Could they waste the killing of a yammosk to protect four, five lives? Of course they would - this was why the Chosen people were fated to victory.

“Esteemed Commander,” Harrar interrupted. Malik Carr spun, seething, chest heaving and sweat slicking his limbs from both agony and exertion. The sensation of raw burns across so much of his body must be exquisite, the priest considered. Electrifying. He wondered what truths Carr might glimpse in so elevated a state.

“Speak,” Carr spat.

“The Gods have blessed us,” he began, pausing as Carr rasped laughter. “By guiding the infidels to unsheathe their amphistaff too soon. Though the insult to your person is grievous and the loss of the war coordinator troubles the Warmaster, we must consider this to be a boon.”

Nom Anor, cursed be his name, was too intelligent for his own sake.

“You mirror my thoughts, Eminence. I admit that my sources did not reveal this Impeerium to me, but now that it is in the open, I can redouble my efforts.”

“You would do so regardless.”

“Before the Intendent so interrupted me-” Nom Anor’s visage on the villip, meaty and slightly warped, looked suitably chastened. “I was speaking of a boon. Already the shapers plumb the cortices for answers to ward our yammosks in the future. I will make sacrifices that Yun-Harla will find delight in the New Republic’s utter failure at deception, and grant us her favor to better instruct them on secrecy. So girded, when next revealed, this Impeerium will crumble as the Outer Rim already has, and glory will be yours, Commander.”