Anishor led Kelta, Li, and Abi through the corridors to the carbon-freezing chamber aboard the Cathleen. Such equipment was not standard aboard a warship of any navy, but when the Zabraks had refitted the old Star Cruiser for their purposes, they had included it. Fortunately, it had survived the freefall from orbit. Why would they have carbon freezing equipment? Were they planning on freezing any enemies they captured? Kelta wondered.

As if he had heard her thoughts, Anishor spoke up. <The coatrack once told me that several of Iridonia’s capital ships are equipped with equipment for extracting and storing tibanna gas.>

“Why would they want their warships to be carrying mining gear?” Li asked with a frown.

<If the Zabraks were conducting long-range operations and were cut off from resupply, they could extract their own tibanna gas from any gas giants that had a deposit,> Anishor explained. <That would allow them to continue to conduct long-range combat operations. It takes up some internal hull space, but if they actually needed to use it, having it on hand would be invaluable.>

“Hal always liked to cover contingencies,” Abi commented. “I mean, it’s not like he could anticipate everything, but he would occasionally have some weird ideas about backup plans and what was needed.”

<Call them weird,> Anishor replied, <but remember that his contingency plans have saved all of us on several occasions.>

Kelta shook her head at the banter. She knew why they were all indulging in it: it was easier to joke and talk about the past than it was to talk about the present, when one of their old friends was nearly dead and they had no way to save her—only a way to possibly preserve her life a little longer. That, and it’s easier than thinking about the hordes of Yuuzhan Vong warriors trying to kill us all right now, Kelta thought wryly.

The Cathleen’s carbon freezing chamber was less impressive than it sounded. Several Zabrak technicians were finishing work on it as they arrived, climbing in and out of all its various components.

The freezing chamber was a flat affair, rather than a deep chamber. From what Kelta understood of the process, in a regular chamber a durasteel frame was dropped into a chamber, then sealed either by a physical plug or with a magcon field. The chamber was subsequently vacuumed free of all gas, then flooded with pure tibanna. A carbon-based liquid alloy was then injected into the frame, trapping the gas and forcing it into an inert state until it would later be thawed in a controlled environment.

The process of freezing something living was more complicated, as the regular carbon alloy would scorch away all of the victim’s skin. Kelta had never bothered to learn the details of what was necessary, but for the first time in her life she wished she’d researched it further.

The freezing chamber looks far too much like a funeral casket, Kelta observed with a shudder.

Unhesitating, Anishor carried Sandarie over and laid her flat in the freezing chamber. The Zabrak technicians finished their various tasks as the four veterans gathered around the chamber to look down on their fallen friend.

“There’s a chance,” one of the technicians was saying, “that she won’t survive the process. It’s never a safe process, and even the best rigs designed for this occasionally kill someone.”

“How often?” Kelta asked distantly.

“With healthy subjects? Perhaps one in a hundred.”

“What about people in her shape?” Li asked.

The technician hesitated. “Well, the body can only handle so much,” he hedged, “and a weakened or comatose subject is less capable of handling the stress.”

“How many people who are comatose survive the freezing process?” Abi asked coldly.

The Zabrak seemed to wilt. “One in three, statistically.”

That statement got Kelta’s attention. She looked at Anishor steadily. “Can you keep her alive?”

<If it is the will of the Force,> Anishor said. <Though I will need your help, young one.>

Kelta smiled a little. “I’m no healer, but I’ll help however I can.”

Anishor nodded and stepped back from the carbon freezing chamber. As the technicians starting locking it shut, he slowly knelt down and began to draw in the Living Force.

Kelta joined him as Abi and Li fell back to watch. She looked at the Wookiee for a moment through the Force.

The berserker was luminous in her perceptions. Kelta felt for a moment like she was standing next to a supernova, with the oncoming shockwave threatening to consume her entirely. Instead of burning her away, though, the energy from the big Wookiee flowed into her, through her, reinforcing her where she was weak.

Kelta wondered at the sensations for a few moments. The Wookiee’s understanding of the Force, his relationship with it, was so much different than a Jedi Knight’s. In moments like this, he felt more powerful than any Jedi Kelta had ever known, aside from Luke Skywalker himself, who always kept his power hidden under the tight bonds of Jedi control. When Anishor’s blades were at play, he was a duelist capable of defeating dark Jedi and Sith in single combat. Yet he could not reach out with the Force to move an object, nor could he sense distant happenings with the clarity of a Jedi. He was not granted visions of the past or future by the power he wielded. Nor could he touch and twist and manipulate minds, as the Jedi and Sith alike were wont to do.

She submerged herself in that power, and then reached out to the dying Twi’lek lying unconscious in a freezing chamber.

The casket where she may very well die, some dark voice whispered to her. She’s the prelude of what’s coming for all of you.

She ignored the voice, pushed it away. Kelta had neither time nor concentration to spare on hopelessness or doubt. She instead enveloped her friend with the power of the Force, trying to anchor her spirit more firmly within her wounded body.

Anishor’s tactic was different, she could sense—his power was focused on keeping her heart beating, her lungs breathing, her mind whole. His power succored her body even as the carbon alloy began to flood the chamber around her. The Wookiee focused to keep Sandarie’s physical self alive, while Kelta fought to keep her spirit intact.

Abruptly, Sandarie was gone from the Force. Between one moment and the next, in the span between heartbeats, the Twi’lek vanished from her perceptions. No! Kelta screamed in her own mind. Her eyes snapped open, and she scrambled to her feet.

The carbon freezing chamber was already sliding open. Kelta forced herself to look down on the Twi’lek’s frozen features. Sandarie’s face was relaxed, her body not responding to the pain of its final moments.

“I’m sorry,” Kelta whispered.

Two of the Zabrak workers stepped up and muscled the frozen Twi’lek out of the chamber. “She survived,” the one commented. “You owe me ten credits,” he added to his partner.

Kelta had the Zabrak held by his collar with both hands. “You’re betting on my friend living or dying?” she snarled. “She just died in that hell, and you’re trying to make money off it?”

<Kelta,> Anishor said, laying a paw on her shoulder. <Sandarie lives.>

The Jedi dropped the Zabrak. “What?” she asked, disbelieving. “Anishor, I felt her die!”

<You felt her absence,> Anishor corrected. <When a life is forced into hibernation, it can feel like a death. But Sandarie survived. Check the life support display for yourself.>

Kelta numbly looked at the display over her shoulder, saw all green lights on the display. Her head dropped. “Sorry. This war is getting to me.”

<Not just you,> Anishor answered. <We all suffer. Exhaustion threatens our clarity of mind and spirit. You need to rest.>

Kelta looked over her shoulder one last time. I just hope you survive in there long enough for us to get you a cure, she said silently to the Twi’lek. But we have to win this war first.

Ceikeh Alari was hesitant when he approached the only lit hangar in the long expanse of bays. While repair crews were still working around the clock to keep the fighter squadrons combat-capable, they had focused their efforts on hangars closer to the facility’s egress. Virtually all the fighters far back in the facility had either been moved up or lost in the seemingly endless combat.

This particular hangar, though, hadn’t housed fighters since before the long siege had begun. Instead, it was home to a single, battered light freighter.

Steady ratcheting sounds filled his ears as he walked through the dark. Occasionally it was punctuated by curses or mutters as the sole mechanic working on the old Gallofree transport stopped to examine his work.

“Ul’akhoi,” the former senator called aloud. “Can I speak to you for a few moments?” He winced at his own phrasing. That sounds way too formal for a meeting between old friends. After all, with Coruscant fallen, there might not be a New Republic anymore, which means I may be out of a job and have no official standing anymore.

Fortunately, Halyn Sanshir didn’t seem too off-put by the question or its phrasing. “That’s fine, as long as you bring me that binder,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards a table full of tools.

Ceikeh allowed himself a small smile. That’s Halyn. Not much for formalities. He picked up three of the six binders on the table, guessing at which ones he needed.

Halyn scowled at the three options Ceikeh presented him, but picked the largest one and said, “Well, I guess that’ll do.”

“It was the biggest one on the table,” Ceikeh advised him.

“That’s because the regular maintenance crew keeps coming by to steal their own tools back,” Halyn complained. “I mean, seriously, they don’t need all of those, do they?”

“Only if you want fighter cover,” Ceikeh deadpanned.

“Bah.” Halyn was silent for a few moments as he used the binder to hook up several of the port sublight engine’s relays. “What do you need?”

Ceikeh hesitated before asking. “I don’t normally question your military decisions, Halyn. I’ve known you for too long, and have too much respect for your capabilities as a tactician.”

“But…” Halyn prompted through gritted teeth as he struggled with a stubborn relay.

“But I don’t understand why you’ve ordered our front line to fall back,” Ceikeh said quietly.

“Ah. Didn’t expect anyone to see that until tomorrow, when the front had already moved,” Halyn commented.

“Well, I have seen it,” Ceikeh said. “So what are you doing?”

Instead of answering his question, Halyn finally dropped the binder to wipe sweat and grease from his brow. “Ceikeh, have I ever answered questions about my tactics to you in the past?”

“No.”

“Why do you think I’d start now?”

“Because you screwed up,” Ceikeh said quietly. “And I’m pretty sure you don’t want to screw up again.”

Halyn closed his eyes, and Ceikeh wished he could suck the words back into his mouth. Idiot, he berated himself. He’s hurting badly, and you just kicked him when he’s down. The last thing he needs right now is someone standing over his shoulder questioning every decision he’s making, because he’s already questioning every decision he’s making.

To his surprise, Halyn answered. “Yes, I made a poor decision, but it wasn’t made solely by me.”

Ceikeh thought back to the scene in the med center, replayed it in his mind. Kativie had to be the one who leaked the information to the Vong, he reasoned. She had to have been the traitor the entire time. So she was giving them the information he wanted the Vong to have. But if he was making decisions with someone else, that would mean…

“Kativie wasn’t just your agent, was she?” Ceikeh asked in surprise. “She was your partner.”

Halyn nodded. “When Argus and I prepared for the defense of Iridonia, we agreed that any plan we made needed to have a failsafe—a backup plan, I guess. We also decided that includes the leadership role. Argus was the one who was supposed to command the defense of Iridonia, but we planned it all together. When he disappeared, it wasn’t a stretch for me to step up and take command because I already knew the details. But that meant I now needed a backup. That included someone not just to take over the role as turncoat, but as a decision-maker.” He shrugged. “Circumstances have dictated our primary plans haven’t worked, so we resort to secondary plans. Sometimes the secondary plans are no longer applicable, and we’ve had to come up with new plans.”

Ceikeh shook his head. “So Kativie is prepared to take over if something happens to you?”

“She was,” Halyn said grimly as he picked up the binder and started working on the portside thruster again. “I’m not sure she is now.”

The Senator thought back to the blood-curdling scream he’d heard in the med bay. She just lost a large part of herself. Even if she can recover, it will be a long time in coming.

“So,” he asked again, “why did you pull the frontline troops back? You know the Vong will advance to take that space again.”

“Ceikeh, Ceikeh, Ceikeh,” Halyn said chidingly. “You’re not listening to me. I already told you why.”

The other Zabrak frowned and opened his mouth to reply, then shut it and began to think it over. Okay. He told me he and Argus planned backup plans for all their primary plans. What was their primary plan for the ground defense of Iridonia? From what I’ve heard from the others and gathered myself, their idea was to draw the Vong in and stalemate them until the New Republic could launch a fleet to assist them. But there’s no fleet coming—with Coruscant gone, and our own fleet gone this long, there’s likely no help coming at all.

So he must have a plan to beat the Vong here, on Iridonia soil, without outside help. But what could that be? And how is retreating going to help it?

He forced himself to think it through. When we give ground, the Vong take ground. He must be trying to maneuver them into the right position for…what, exactly? Did he and Argus order baradium bombs built and buried in Rak’Edalin or something? He shook his head. Doubtful. Whatever it is, though, I don’t doubt the Vong are going to hurt when it’s all over.

“What is this bucket, anyways?” Ceikeh asked aloud.

“This was my ship, a long time ago,” Halyn explained as he slid the repulsor-creeper under the central engine and began working on the relays there. “Back during the Galactic Civil War.”

“Never saw this ship in all the time I’ve known you,” Ceikeh commented.

“I left her behind at Zephyr Base when I resigned from the Alliance,” Halyn explained. “There were a lot of people I didn’t want following me, so I had to leave a few things behind.”

Like that Jedi, Ceikeh noted. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.

“What make and model is she?” the Senator asked.

“Gallofree,” Halyn replied, “which is why you don’t see many of ‘em. Gallofree had retooled a bunch of their industrial line to produce these light freighters—they call ‘em Nova Couriers—right before they went bankrupt. The Alliance wound up with a bunch of them when they purchased the bigger GR-75 medium transports. The GR line was horrid for maintenance, but these little Novas were good ships.”

“Interesting,” Ceikeh murmured.

“I don’t know who brought it here, but this one’s definitely the one I flew during the Civil War. I’ve been fixing her up during the night hours. It’s nice to have something to fix, rather than just destroy.”

Ceikeh smiled. “There will be plenty of fixing and building to do when this is all over.”

“More than you know,” Halyn said dryly.

The phrase gave Ceikeh pause. Now I really want to know what he’s planning. Instead, he looked over at the starboard engine. “Mind if I start on the third drive?”

“Feel free,” Halyn said. “Though you’ll have to find another repulsor-creeper and a bigger binder if you’re serious.”

Ceikeh nodded and headed to one of the adjoining hangars to look for tools.

The medical bay was very dark when Kativie silently slipped through the door. She was dressed again in the plain brown and white robes of a Jedi Knight, and a lightsaber hung at her belt. It wasn’t her blade, though—it was one of Kelta’s curved hilts. The Twi’lek Abi had given the lightsaber to one of the Wookiees she had left behind to hold the missile facility, and while the berserkers had been forced to pull back and burn the facility to prevent its capture, they had not yet returned to the Cathleen with her weapon.

The Zabrak woman called upon the Force for strength as her grief tried to collapse her knees. Only the steady flow of the warm, life-giving energy kept her from collapsing to the cold durasteel floor. The Force, and the knowledge of what she needed to do.

If I try to rejoin the fighting now, I’ll fall to the dark side, she admitted to herself plainly. A Jedi doesn’t attack, nor does a Jedi seek revenge. If I go out right now, it will be for blood—Yuuzhan Vong blood in return for the blood of my children. No, I have to find some semblance of peace first, or I’ll become what I’ve battled my whole life.

Images of her first mentor, the disciple of the dark side whose name she still refused to say, to think, flashed through her mind, but she forced them away. No. Mourn your children now.

Her children. The very thought squeezed at her heart, a pain so sharp she felt as though a lightsaber had been plunged through her chest. She knew they were gone now, one with the Force, but the thought was just as painful as when she’d felt their deaths the first time, battling Abi Ocopaqui on the boarding ramp of a Muurian transport.

Kativie forced herself to approach the first sheet-covered table. It was, in many ways, the least painful of the three—the body there was Triv, Allanna’s child. The pain still squeezed through. I’m so sorry, Allanna. You don’t even know yet. You don’t even know that one of your children is dead, and that your brother-in-law and sister-in-law are responsible. The thought shook her. When I met Allanna at Zephyr Base, I never imagined we’d become friends. She was too quiet, too focused on waging war, and she idolized Halyn. Who’d have thought she and Argus would find love, would marry, have kids that carry the Sanshir name?

If I’d have known, I’d have done things differently. I’d have befriended her even then. It would’ve made those early years so much easier. Now she’s my sister, and I’ve wounded her in a way I don’t know I can ever make amends for.

That thought ached—the possibility that one of her best friends, the woman now her sister—would never forgive her for her actions on Iridonia. I couldn’t blame her for it.

Kativie took a deep breath and moved to the second table. The accumulated pain brought her to her knees, and even the Force was unable to bring her to her feet as she wept on the cloth covering Nop.

My eldest. Hakk’s pride and joy. The boy who should’ve carried the Lusp name, made it great. He would’ve been the one who could truly make peace between the Sanshirs and the Lusps. Oh, Nop. Kativie found she struggled to breathe as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. You would’ve been a great warrior, and you were a wonderful son. Halyn and I struck you down as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow. Forgive me, my son—I never wanted this for you. I only wanted peace.

I wanted you to know a life without war. I wanted you to have the peace that Argus, Halyn, and I never had. You should’ve never had to fight in this war or make this sacrifice. I’m so sorry, Nop, forgive me. “Forgive me,” she whispered aloud, her voice so quiet it would be inaudible to anyone listening. “Forgive me, Nop. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

The Jedi Knight found herself unable to rise to her feet as she turned away from Nop’s still form. Without the strength to stand, she crawled over to the third table, the smallest sheet. There she collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

“I know you can’t forgive me,” Kativie rasped to young Sash’s still form. “You were too young to know it was my fault. You were too young to see your mother could fail you, that your family could betray you. I’m glad you never knew what that betrayal was.” She felt as though an impossible weight crushed her to the ground, and she was unable to even rise to her knees. “I’m so sorry I failed you, Sash. You were the most like me—the one who could’ve become a Jedi Knight. You could have surpassed me. When the storm came, I…” She choked on her tears, struggling to say the words she needed to say. “I exposed you to the storm. Like a delicate flower, you were crushed by the storm. And it’s my fault that I didn’t protect you. It’s my fault you were vulnerable. I’m so sorry.”

Tears blinded her now, and she couldn’t see anything but the blurry covered forms of the three bodies. “Forgive me,” she croaked. “Forgive me for failing you. Forgive me for my mistakes.”

Her head rested flat on the cold floor, and Kativie felt like she would never again rise to her feet. She wanted to fade away then, like the great Jedi Masters, to become one with the Force and leave the bloody, painful, horrid galaxy behind her.

Then she felt it, through the Force—the touch of a mind against hers. Her pain was so great it numbed her senses, and she struggled to identify the touch.

Vyshtal, she realized at last. His touch in the Force was uncertain—he was never as strong as young Sash, and he focused his efforts on learning uses of his talent more appropriate for battle—but Kativie had the sensation of a small, warm hand wrapping itself around hers. Even through her pain, she found comfort in the gesture—it was a moment of reassurance for a heart shot through with pain and death and mourning.

Somewhere, deep inside, she found she had the strength to squeeze his hand in return.

It was as though the Force itself had whispered in her ear. Perhaps it had; Kativie was not experienced in visions, or the more subtle prompting the Force sometimes provided a Jedi. But the meaning to her was crystal-clear, even through the haze of her pain. Mourn your losses, yes, but your living children need you now.

Somewhere within, she found the strength then to rise to her feet. Slowly, step by unsteady step, she stumbled to the door. With tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes, the Jedi Knight looked back at the three sheet-covered bodies. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the dead. “I can’t atone for what I did to you three. But your siblings need me now.” She closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the doorframe as her legs threatened to collapse again. “I promise you this, though—I won’t allow another of you to fall. Not again.”

The door hissed shut behind her, plunging the room into darkness.

Dawn revealed a Rak’Edalin shattered by war.

Over half the city lay in ruin. The Yuuzhan Vong had destroyed as much as they could, using living creatures to burn buildings to the ground and immolate every machine they could lay hands upon. They savaged every scrap of Iridonian custom and heritage they touched. They left no sign of the infidel “civilization” in their wake, nothing intact to speak of the great Zabrak history.

But the Zabrak defenders had done far more. Under orders, they had fought every step of their faltering retreat, forcing the Vong to attack over piles of the dead—the fatalities of both sides of the war. When they were forced to fall back, they did so behind a curtain of fire. Under orders, they burned everything in their wake—homes, weapons, medical supplies, food. While the Yuuzhan Vong invaders showed no interest in employing their enemy’s resources, the Zabraks had no intention of making the battle easier for them by leaving anything usable in their wake.

On this particular morning, the dawn revealed a change in the strategy of the defenders. Under the cover of darkness, the Zabraks had fallen back by about a city block, creating much more open space between the warring armies. The Yuuzhan Vong awoke to find, for the first time, that the Iridonians had freely given ground in the long-fought siege. Without the cost of a life, the Yuuzhan Vong could take extra space.

The Yuuzhan Vong found themselves baffled. Not even the most optimistic of their field commanders, nor the most faithful and devout of the priests, believed that the Zabrak will to fight had been broken. Nor did they expect the Iridonians to capitulate.

Instead, they expected a trap.

It wasn’t an unfair expectation, after all; the Zabraks had sprung many traps on them during the drawn-out war. The Zabrak warmaster had proven himself adept at outmaneuvering and tricking his opponents, having slain the first Yuuzhan Vong commander and ravaging the navy and army of the Yuuzhan Vong invaders.

Instead of immediately moving into the newly-given, newly-burned ground, the Vong waited, confused, for instructions from their great Commander.

“What is he doing?” Triak asked Ret as the Commander and his chief tactician toured through the burned husk of a city. “Why do his forces retreat, but only a small distance and then dig in again?”

“He delays us,” Ret said. He had spent the two hours immediately after the dawn in intense devotions and contemplations, pleading with the god of war, Yun-Yammka, the slayer, for insight into the maneuvering of his enemy. At the end of the two hours, he felt as though he had some idea of what their enemy had in mind. “He delays us by making us question freely-given ground. We spend more time studying it, looking for traps, then what it would have taken us to conquer it by force against the infidel defenders. He attempts to buy time and lives alike.”

“To what end?” Triak asked curiously.

“Time for his forces to recover,” Ret answered promptly. “The long grind of this siege has worn his troops down. He seeks to give them precious time to regroup against our attacks. Hours and days are what he needs to reinforce his lines, to make them impenetrable against our attacks.”

“And the assassination attempt?” Triak asked. “You believe it failed?”

“I know it,” Ret said confidently. “The assassins struck just after the sunset. The infidel retreat occurred in the few hours before dawn. Only their General Sanshir would have issued such instructions while leaving troops in place to fight; any new commander would have taken time to familiarize himself with the forces under his control before attempting such actions.”

“And what of the assassins?”

“I know not, Supreme One,” Ret answered truthfully. “I suspect they died in their attempt.”

“Commander,” a villip tender interrupted from behind, bowing his head deeply. “The infidels have broadcast a statement intercepted by our villips, and I believe you should see it.”

Triak waved his hand irritably. “If it is so important then please, show me.”

The tender provided an already-inverted villip with an image floating over it, created from light. Better than their ‘holoprojector’ and their other wrong machines, Triak thought smugly as he watched the image begin. Nothing can match the beauty of the living.

The grainy image of his counterpart, the infidel warmaster Halyn Sanshir, hovered over the villip. “This message,” the Zabrak spat, “is for the cowardly leader of the Yuuzhan Vong who lay siege to my world. Your attempt to assassinate me has failed.”

Triak cursed to himself. The infidel still lives. How did our infiltrators fail? He shook his head. It does not matter. We will divide these people in two and conquer them even while this Sanshir still draws breath.

The image widened, showing a Yuuzhan Vong warrior on his knees next to the Zabrak. The Yuuzhan Vong was clearly drugged, barely conscious and too weak to rise to his feet or act against the infidel. The Ul’akhoi spoke calmly. “While I fight on the field of honor alongside my warriors, the so-called commander of the Vong,” he continued, the emphasis on the word indicating he clearly knew it was insulting to refer to the children of the gods as such, “hides behind his troops and does not take the field. Perhaps it is for the best.”

The Zabrak unholstered his blaster, leveled the emitter against the Yuuzhan Vong, and pulled the trigger. Triak’s eyes widened in shock as the infidel executed the defeated warrior. Over and over, the warmaster himself has said the infidels are incapable of such acts! This Zabrak has no trace of the softness that has allowed us to conquer this heathen galaxy.

“Come and join the field of battle, Vong scum,” Sanshir spat. “Your fate will be the same. No matter what tactic you use, what dishonorable assassination you attempt, I will kill you like I killed this one—this Vong not worthy of the title ‘warrior’. You chose to fight us here on our world; we will utterly destroy you for it.”

The image faded away, and Triak suppressed the urge to swallow. The Zabrak warmaster threatens and intimidates, but we are not beaten yet, Triak told himself. We are the chosen children of the gods, and they will not allow an honorless heathen to turn us back here.

But a tiny fear continued to eat away at his confidence: Are we truly the children of the gods, or did they abandon us at Borleias?

Ret Kraal stirred, then spoke. “The infidel general seeks to intimidate and demoralize us,” the tactician observed with slow, careful utterances. “His attempts will fail. When our warriors see this image, their hearts will stir for battle and they will finally overcome these Zabrak infidels.”

Will they truly? Triak wondered. Or will they lose heart and be crushed? He did not dishonor the warriors under his command by giving voice to his doubts. Instead, he changed the subject. “What do you recommend as our next plan, Tactician?”

“Take up the ground the Zabraks have given up,” Ret urged. “Do not allow them time to regroup. Keep the pressure on, continue to force them back. Every step of ground they yield boosts the heart of our warriors.”

“You counsel me to continue to sacrifice our warriors and take only ground covered in blood,” Triak murmured. “Our strength will continue to diminish if we pursue such a course of action.”

Ret shook his head. “The battle lines will continue to contract, particularly if these Zabraks continue to yield ground to us as they have this night. But that is only one avenue of attack; there is another to pursue as well.”

“Fighting on several fronts may cost us everything,” Triak warned.

“You misunderstand. We attack as warriors, army against army, which is one avenue of attack. But we must attack along other avenues as well if we hope to conquer.”

Triak leaned forward in interest. “Tell me.”

“The Zabrak warmaster, Halyn Sanshir, has a personal enemy in the form of Achick, of clan Lusp. He has already sought to overthrow Sanshir once since we began our campaign against this world. Should he take the mantle of power, I believe he would be more amicable to surrender.”

Triak gazed at Ret in open wonderment. “One of the Peace Brigade’s infiltrators?” he asked.

“No.” Ret chuckled. “He merely desires power so much, and despises the clan Sanshir, that he would sacrifice his world to see the Zabrak warmaster’s downfall.”

Triak allowed himself a small smile. “How can we see to his elevation, then?”

“Achick Lusp and the other politicians of this world are cloistered in a small building near the battle front,” Ret said. “With your permission, Great One, we will attack it and capture those present. With Lusp on our side, and possibly other of their politicians, their forces will be divided. Without a unified front, they will be overwhelmed and crushed by our warriors.”

Why should I doubt? Truly the gods are with us. The poison we need to strike down our enemy at last is at hand. “Strike hard and swiftly, tactician,” Triak declared.

The sun was burning hotly in the sky as Anishor peeked out from cover. The coatrack will pay for this, Anishor swore to himself. How could he possibly think this was a good idea? Reluctantly, the berserker admitted to himself that it was a brilliant plan. But it was a plan designed for Zabraks, not Wookiee warriors. Of course, without we berserkers to execute it, it would be far less effective.

He carefully lowered himself just far enough to let the lid seal itself again. It took long seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and even then there was nothing to see as his massive body filled the passage entirely. He shuddered in distaste at the mud and muck stuck to his fur.

It was another one of Halyn’s insane plans. With the Vong firmly entrenched and watching forward, waiting for an ambush of some sort to spring from the ground the Zabraks had ceded them, the time was ripe for exactly that sort of attack—as long as it came from behind.

On Halyn’s instructions, the Wookiee berserkers—the most combat-capable unit on the planet not already dedicated to holding the line—had crawled through kilometers of storm drains to reach assault positions. The drains would have forced a Zabrak soldier to crawl in many places, but Anishor had genuinely struggled to pull himself through the narrowest of places in the tunnels.

Wookiees were born to live in the trees and in the sky, Anishor told himself. Not crawl through the dirt and the darkness. The big Wookiee did not consider himself claustrophobic; he had spent many hours in the cockpit of a fighter with no ill effect. No Wookiee could tolerate this for long, though, he grumbled. None should have to tolerate this!

“What does it look like?” Kelta Rose’s voice floated up to his ears around his matted fur.

<The enemy is unprepared,> Anishor reassured her. <As they should be. No Wookiee should ever attack like this.>

Kelta chuckled a little. “No Jedi, either,” she added.

Anishor imagined her for a moment, seeing her robes stained dark with the mud of the sewers, her red hair streaked dark with grime. He allowed himself a small smile. At least I’m not alone in this misery, he told himself, though I don’t see how a furless could suffer in this. After all, a brief bath and she will be clean, but it may take weeks to groom this mud from my coat.

“How long until the attack?” Kelta asked.

Anishor clicked his comlink to life and growled the question. A variety of barks answered him. <The rest near their positions,> he reported. <Only a few more minutes.>

“Good,” the Jedi said with a touch of impatience. “I can’t wait to see daylight again.”

Anishor was grateful for Kelta. Not only had she helped him through some of the tightest tunnels, but her presence had helped sooth his own misgivings about the plan. Anishor was a Force-user and a powerful one in his own right, but his range of abilities was limited. The Jedi Knight’s abilities were far broader in scope than his own, and could prove critical in the battle ahead.

The Wookiee berserker settled himself into a calming meditation. Guide me, Great Tree, he prayed. Make my blades swift and sure. Carry me through this battle, that my friends and allies may survive. Should I fall, I become one with you.

The berserker did not fear the coming battle. His long experience in war, dating all the way back to the Clone Wars, had burned out any trace of weakness. His century of life had left behind the foolishness of the young. His communion with the Force secured his destiny—even should he fall, he had no doubt he would become one with the Life-Power. There was nothing the Yuuzhan Vong could do that would move him from that bedrock knowledge.

The Wookiee was not fearless, though. He feared for the young berserkers under his command. He feared for the Jedi Knight below him in the storm sewer, herself preparing for the coming fight. He feared for his friend and brother-in-arms, Halyn. He feared for the Iridonians hiding behind the thin line of warriors dying to protect them. He feared that his efforts would be in vain, that even the best efforts of the Wookiees would make no difference to the outcome of the hard-fought war.

But as he prepared for battle, he let his fear go. He let go of his hate, too—he despised the abominations called the Yuuzhan Vong, those hairless creatures that somehow existed outside the all-encompassing Force. He let go of his desire to win the war and save Iridonia, for that too was a distraction that would distract him.

He communed with the Living Force, dedicated himself again, as he had on a thousand battlefields, to following its flows and guidance. The Jedi rely on the Unifying Force, and its visions, Anishor thought to himself, but I follow the Living Force. I do not need to know what it will bring me to follow its flows.

So the Wookiee waited as the rest of the Wookiee berserkers found their position, their hole to strike from and retreat to when the battle was over. Strike fast, sow confusion, and retreat, Halyn had ordered them.

Anishor intended to do just that.

This could be going worse, Nisia decided.

“Another wave coming in!” one of her gunners shouted.

“Save your fire until they start climbing over the funeral pyres!” she shouted back. “Then knock ‘em down!”

Shouts of exultation and exuberance answered her orders. The pirate smiled. Could be much worse indeed.

The big E-web repeating blasters started to roar again, sending fiery death into the attacking Yuuzhan Vong again as they climbed over the “funeral pyres” to start their own attack.

One of the gunners had given the nickname to the mounds of Yuuzhan Vong corpses now surrounding the Council chambers in a broad, smoking circle.

The Vong assaults had begun with reptoid shock troopers. Perhaps expecting to crash right through the defenders, as they had elsewhere, the reptoids had started with a mindless charge towards the defended position. The Zabraks, well-entrenched with the big E-web repeating blasters, had mowed the attackers down before they could get within thirty meters of the Council’s walls.

More waves of proxy troops had followed, both the reptoids and enslaved species native to the galaxy. No Iridonian hesitated to fire, even when the Vong attempted to use coral-embedded Zabraks to attack. With the broad open zone surrounding the Council chamber, and the heavy armament Nisia and Halyn had put into place, the Council had been turned into a nearly-impregnable fortress. The biggest problem, one of her troops had joked, was that they didn’t have a way of disposing of the corpses outside their defenses. After several hours of wave attacks, it had become a genuine problem—the piles of bodies were high enough to obstruct their lines of fire.

Nisia had countered by sending out a handful of troops to knock over the piles of bodies the Vong were using as cover, but it was a gruesome task. After the third time the defenders had left cover to clear their killing field, the Vong had tried to spring an ambush. Precision fire from the E-webs had saved all but two of the Zabraks outside the walls, but Nisia gave up on trying to keep the field clear and instead ordered the E-webs to ensure the bodies were kept ablaze.

War really is hell, Nisia pondered while listening to the razor screeches of heavy weapons. It’s easy to lose myself in this. I mean, I’ve ordered my people to ensure the bodies of our enemies are kept burning. How sick is that? She shuddered. This is why I’m a pirate, not a soldier. The things I do at least make sense.

“Captain Eisweep, a moment of your time,” a smooth voice spoke from beside her.

She sighed. “What is it, Councilor Lusp?”

“Don’t you think it’s time to evacuate the Council?” he asked bluntly. “The enemy is all but literally knocking on our walls. If we don’t leave soon, we may all perish at the hands of the Yuuzhan Vong.”

“Trying to save your own skin, are you Councilor?”

“All of ours,” he answered honestly. “Consider, Captain. Should we die here, Zabrak space will be left without its government and could fall into chaos. Should that happen, the Yuuzhan Vong will tear through our space and conquer our worlds unhindered.”

“The Vong aren’t going to get past Iridonia,” Nisia said irritably.

“Should the Council die, our armed forces will question the Ul’akhoi,” Lusp said smoothly. “Should they not follow him willingly and hesitate, Rak’Edalin and then Iridonia itself will be lost. You must evacuate us immediately.”

Nisia bit back her first thought and forced herself to consider his words. There’s no doubt he wants to get his ass out of the fire, she reasoned, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. If the Vong manage to kill the Council, that could cause a lot of hard feelings with the anti-Sanshir crowd—and they have to be a reasonable size, or Lusp would never have gotten as far as he did with his attempted coup. On the other hand, keeping them here will allow Halyn to continue to prosecute the war, and we can hold this place for a good long time—pretty much as long as our power holds out.

“We’ll continue to hold,” Nisia said. “As long as I’m in charge of the defense, that’s the last word.”

“At least have an evacuation ship standing by,” Lusp pleaded. “Why not be prepared with a simple transport in the event that the Yuuzhan Vong find a way through our defenses?”

“Fine,” Nisia said through gritted teeth. “If that’ll make you happy, I’ll have a transport on standby.” Small price to pay if it keeps him out of my horns.

“It won’t make me happy, Captain, but it is prudent,” the Councilor replied. “I seek only what we all seek—the preservation of Iridonia and of Zabraks everywere.”

And your own elevation, Nisia added silently. “Fine. Go cower in a corner somewhere now, Councilor, while we do the real fighting. If, and I mean if, the time comes to evacuate, I’ll make sure we have a transport standing by. Until the Vong are knocking down our door, though, don’t expect to go anywhere.”

“If the Ul’akhoi believes you to be our best defender, then I trust myself in your hands,” he promised.

Sure, you old snake. Just wish Halyn would’ve given me orders to leave you here. She considered that possibility for a moment. Would definitely make life easier on the Sanshirs, and it wouldn’t be hard—just make sure he misses the boat if we have to evacuate.

“What is it?” Lusp asked.

Nisia snapped out of her revere. “Nothing. Go find a corner and stay out of the way,” she ordered.

The Councilor bowed and walked away.

What I wouldn’t give, Nisia said to herself. You’d be such an easy mark—bet I could rob you blind, too, before I left you for dead. But no, Halyn didn’t want me to do that, so I won’t.

Maybe.

It occurred to her then that the E-webs had fallen silent. “Status?” she called out to her troops.

“Fresh fire on the pyres,” one of the gunners joked. “Vong are backing off again.”

“Good,” Nisia said. “Keep it burning!”

A new sound entered her ears. “Incoming coralskippers!” she shouted. “E-webs, keep your noses down and let the fighters cover us from the air! If you try to play with a skip, the Vong will be knocking on our doors!”

Shouts of acknowledgement, more blasterfire. Thank you, Halyn, she thought as the familiar howl of X-wing fighters roared past overhead, rattling the walls of the Council. Wait, why am I thanking you? You got me into this mess in the first place!

Kelta crouched in the storm sewer, her thoughts centered and calm, the Force flowing through her like a quiet stream. The Jedi knew, with bedrock certainty, when the fighting started that stream would become a raging river, carrying her into the battle with strength and certainty.

She held her single lightsaber in front of her, not with her hands but with the invisible hand of the Force. Kelta would have felt far more comfortable with her second lightsaber on-hand, but she knew she could still fight well without it.

Above her, pressed tightly against the thin circular cover that concealed him from the outside, Anishor also meditated on the Force, albeit uncomfortably. Kelta knew, even without the Force, that her old friend was unhappy with the mud and slime that permeated his coat. With the Force’s aid, she knew just how much it bothered the Wookiee. It did not surprise her—every Wookiee she’d ever known was far more comfortable in the open sky than they would ever be underground.

Kelta stretched out further with her senses, feeling the readiness of the Wookiee berserkers around her. The last few were moving into position even now, and in a few moments they would explode out of their cover and attack the Yuuzhan Vong from behind. Such tactics wouldn’t win the war, she knew, but it would help reduce the odds against the Zabrak defenders if for no other reason than the Vong would have to deploy rearguard troops to keep themselves covered, reducing the pressure they could put on the front line.

How many other ideas like this does Halyn have? Kelta wondered.

It was a mistake to even think the Zabrak’s name. In spite of her bonds of control, thoughts starting churning up from the bottom of her mind, disrupting the flow of the Force. Emotions she thought she’d left behind sprung forth anew—anger at how he’d left her, protectiveness for her dear friend, possessiveness of her old lover. And there was even love.

The Jedi struggled to contain her emotions, tie them down again. She breathed deeply, slowly, calming her racing heart and bringing her racing thoughts back under control. It took precious minutes, but finally the Force flowed evenly through her again. In the corner of her mind, though, she questioned. Is that a memory of the love we shared years ago, or do I love him anew? a tiny voice asked her. Yes, Kelta, you do love him now. Even with how he’s changed, even with what he’s done, even with who he’s become. You still love him.

She told the voice to shut up, or it would get them both killed. The voice retreated into silence, though Kelta sensed it was only a temporary reprieve. Patience, she told herself. Patience.

Naturally, while she was fighting to keep her own mind under control, the fight against the Yuuzhan Vong happened.

Roars rattled the Rak’Edalin storm sewer as Anishor and dozens of other Wookiee berserkers erupted from their concealment, wordless battle cries that could freeze the blood of a Sith Lord, let alone a Yuuzhan Vong warrior.

Light finally shone down and illuminated Kelta at the bottom of the storm sewer. She grimaced at the bright light, chided herself for distraction, and gathered the Force around her. With a whisper of power she sprung upward, her body flying up through the tunnel and into the open air like a projectile from a slugthrower.

Even as she twisted through the air, she took advantage of the height of her jump to survey the battlefield. With the clarity the Force provided her, she saw in an instant the platoon of Wookiee berserkers charging forward, rykk blades already cleaving Yuuzhan Vong flesh. Surprised warriors were trampled by a wall of snarling fangs and fur, an unstoppable wave of Wookiee rage and strength that crashed down on the unprepared invaders.

Kelta landed on her booted feet easily, igniting her lightsaber and charging forward towards a group of unprepared Yuuzhan Vong warriors.

“Jeedai!” the familiar cry went up. Kelta had heard it on every world where she’d fought the invaders. Early in the invasion, it was a death sentence for the target; the Jedi, dependent on the Force to anticipate their enemy’s reactions, were unable to escape the swarm of warriors that inevitably resulted from that cry. Two years of fighting the extragalactic foes had taught Kelta how to fight an enemy she couldn’t sense. Before the cluster of warriors could even bring their amphistaffs to bear, she was among them, her shining violet lightsaber dealing death in swift, fiery slashes.

A part of her rebelled at the slaughter. A Jedi Knight did not strike down helpless foes, nor did she attack first—she waited for an opponent to attack first. Another part of her, though, knew what she was doing was necessary. I’m fighting a war. Not all Jedi ideals are compatible with warfare. Another part of her justified the brutal attack. They’re neither helpless nor innocent. They chose to risk the battlefield, same as any of us, and they invaded Iridonia.

She silenced the mutinous thoughts again by sweeping the legs out from under another Vong warrior, her lightsaber slashing across his knees. As she spun back to strike down the last two charging warriors, her lightsaber skittered off an amphistaff. She recovered by leaping back a meter, gaining space.

The warriors cautiously moved to flank her, amphistaffs hissing viciously at her. Kelta smiled faintly as she flourished her lightsaber, ending in a simple guard. They’ve learned to respect the Jedi light blade, she thought wryly. Too bad. It was easier when they just charged in mindlessly.

She stepped back slowly, refusing to give the Vong the opportunity to take up positions on opposite sides. Kelta shook her head at the stalemate, then raised her blade to prepare to attack. No sense staying in a stalemate—take a risk and break it.

The Force whispered to her. Instead of attacking, Kelta threw herself into a high arcing leap, landing a dozen meters beyond the further warrior. Her eyes were already sweeping the battle, looking for the incongruence that had triggered her senses.

Then she saw it: blue lekku among the furry muscled towers that were Wookiee berserkers. Who? she asked the Force, stretching out.

Then the time she’d bought herself was over as the Yuuzhan Vong attacked her again with whistling amphistaffs, and she abandoned herself to the Force to carry her though the duel.

Triak of Domain Kraal was still glum as he studied the blaze bugs showing the battle. “Your attacks upon their Council yield no success,” he pointed out to Ret Kraal. “Hundreds of warriors and slaves have died attempting to take the chamber, but they have yet to gain a meter of ground. Our dead line the ground like stones and blades of grass.”

“Severe sacrifice is sometimes necessary to bring about victory,” Ret Kraal, the tactician, offered in return. “Even our great victory over the infidels at Coruscant was purchased with many deaths, and that was at the hand of the warmaster Tsavong Lah himself!”

“Still,” Triak murmured, “our losses mount, and replenishment of warriors will not happen unless we are victorious. Domain Kraal is on the brink of loss.”

“As are the infidel Zabraks,” Ret said confidently. “They are at their breaking point; we can endure a few weeks more of these losses, but the infidels will shatter before then.”

“Are you certain, tactician?” Triak asked bluntly. “Perhaps their numbers are greater than you believe, and they can endure everything we can throw at them.”

Ret shook his head. “If they had that strength remaining, they would not retreat before our attacks elsewhere. Even now, their lines weaken and fall back.”

“Perhaps,” Triak said grudgingly. “Or perhaps the Zabrak warmaster seeks to draw us out, to force us to commit everything where he can finish Domain Kraal.”

The two warriors were silent for long minutes. Ret finally broke the silence with a question that no one else would dare ask the Commander—one that would have earned his execution had any other heard it, for it was heresy of the highest degree. “Tell me, Commander—have we been abandoned by the gods?”

Triak’s reply should have been immediate and voracious. Instead, it was quiet and troubled. “I do not know, Tactician.” Words fell from his lips, shared words of treason that would end both their lives if any other heard it. “We were sent here to Iridonia to prove ourselves true Yuuzhan Vong, the children of the gods, with no trace of Shame upon us. We expected these infidels to fall before us like the other races of the galaxy, but instead they strike and strike again. Even though they are weaker, their forces less numerous than our own, they strike with lethality and precision to weaken us and prevent our victory.”

“Have the gods abandoned us in favor of the infidel Zabraks?” Ret asked.

Triak snorted in derision. “The gods would never favor tool-makers like these infidels,” he said dismissively, but his voice was apprehensive when he added, “Yet they could still have abandoned us altogether.”

Neither warrior spoke as they considered the consequences of such an abandonment. Both were still silent when their room was breached by an attendant in seer’s garb.

“Supreme One,” the seer said as he fell to his knees in subservience, “we are ambushed.”

“What?” Triak asked, rising to his feet. “Who? And where?”

“Infidel warriors, attacking from below ground,” the seer said, his head bowed deeply. “They rose through the city’s waste-tunnels like ngdin, striking from darkness in attack.”

Ambush! Triak railed silently. Again! Have the gods truly turned against us? Triak did not give voice to the thought now, not with the seer here. Such a statement now would lead to his death, even should he finally conquer these Zabraks. “They attack without honor,” Triak said flatly, distantly. This was why they retreated during the night, he decided. They wanted to focus our attention forward, on the ground they ceded us willingly, to ensure we would not look backward for the ambush they prepared.

“How many warriors have the infidels sent against us?” Ret asked.

The seer bowed his head deeply. “Perhaps forty, Tactician,” he said with his arms snapped across his chest in salute. “Not Zabraks, either.”

“Droids?” Triak asked in disdain. “Some mechanical abominations they buried to lie in wait for us?”

“No, Supreme One. Large, furry warriors taller than even a great warrior. We have seen them sporadically in the defense of this world and in others, but never in the number which attacks us now.”

“Wookiees,” Ret Kraal said in disbelief. “We have never spotted more than a handful in any place. The Zabrak warmaster must have kept them in reserve.”

“And now tips his hand?” Triak asked. “The infidels now reveal a weapon they have held in secrecy, waiting for the right moment to use against us. And for what? An ambush carried out by a handful of warriors, an attack inconsequential to the fate of this world?”

“No,” a female voice snarled. “To allow me to repay you for your own tactics.”

Triak and Ret both turned toward the voice. The seer rose as he turned, rising between the Commander and the speaker. He almost immediately went down in a burned mess of flesh and blood, sending gore splattering across the room.

Commander and tactician responded with the instincts of long-time warriors, springing for cover. Another blast from the intruder caught Ret, sending the tactician sprawling limply. Triak snarled at the sight of his tactician unconscious. “Infidel assassin!” he snarled from behind a yorik coral bench. “You will not leave here alive!”

“Big words from the Vong on the floor,” the assassin spat.

Triak risked a glance around the yorik coral, was rewarded with a glimpse of a blue-skinned figure in purple and white armor. He barely got his head back into cover when another blast from the assassin’s weapon chewed into the bench, with excess energy melting holes in the deck and wall beyond it.

Triak snorted, clearing his mind of the problems of the battle for the accursed infidel city and freed a pair of thud bugs from his bandoleer. You infidels will never learn, he thought. Your machines have such limitations, but living weapons learn to surpass their limitations.

The tactician released the two thud bugs. They crawled across the floor, under the bench. Triak pulled a razor bug from his bandoleer, watching the thud bugs slowly crawl to where they could take flight. Foolish, foolish infidel. As the thud bugs spread their wings to lift from the yorik coral deck, he threw the razor bug as hard as he could straight up from the bench.

It took the infidel assassin no more than a second to track and fire on the razor bug, splattering it against the coral walls. It was long enough, however, for the two thud bugs to take flight and throw themselves at the assassin.

Unwilling to forego witnessing his victory, Triak peeked out from cover in time to see the two thud bugs wing in at the infidel. She was good enough to shoot one of the unexpected bugs out of the air, but the second one smashed into her weapon before she could fire again. The crippled, fast-moving thud bug and the remains of her own weapon smashed into the assassin’s chest, sending her down in a heap on the floor.

Triak rose and collected the dead seer’s amphistaff, then stalked to the fallen assassin.

She was not a Zabrak, as he suspected. Her skin was a pleasing shade of blue, but she was otherwise as ugly as any infidel. Instead of hair, two large hairless, fleshy tentacles descended from her skull instead. “Twi’lek,” Triak said aloud as he brought the amphistaff up for the coup de grace. “A slave species of this galaxy.”

The assassin’s eyes snapped open. “Slave this!” she snarled, lashing her foot up between Triak’s legs.

The Yuuzhan Vong was thrown off balance by the blow and the pain that accompanied it, but he still brought the amphistaff down in a heavy overhand strike. The hissing serpent cut deeply into one of the Twi’lek’s head-tails, drawing a spray of blood and a scream of pain from the assassin.

Triak hissed at the assassin, tugging the amphistaff back up and out, severing perhaps a third of the lekku. Before he could strike again, though, the Twi’lek lashed her foot sideways into his ankle, throwing him off-balance and sending him sprawling into the wall.

Impossibly, the Twi’lek was trying to rise to her feet in spite of the wound. Triak’s head spun from the impact, though, and he was dizzy as he tried to straighten as well.

Through the ringing of his ears, Triak was slow to recognize a new sound accompanying running feet in the hallway: the hum of a lightsaber.

Kelta slid to a stop, her lightsaber burning brightly in her hand. The horrible reality of the scene took long seconds to sink in, as her brain wrestled with what she saw and tried to label it a nightmare.

Abi Ocopaqui was unsteadily trying to rise to her feet. At her feet lay a large piece of her lekku, apparently severed by the Yuuzhan Vong warrior leaving heavily against the wall with an amphistaff in his hand. Blood ran in rivulets from the severed lekku, painting the floor red.

The Jedi snapped out of revere and stepped into the chamber, moving to protect Abi’s wounded side. “Abi, what happened?” she asked. “Did they capture you, try to enslave you?” She kept her blade raised. Get Abi out first, she told herself. Kill the Vong later.

It was a Jedi choice, and for an eternal instant she felt like perhaps the galaxy hadn’t turned inside-out in the last few years. Maybe there really was a way for the Jedi to survive the war as Jedi.

Abi tried to answer her, but the words were incoherent. Kelta eyed the severed lekku for a moment. Part of a Twi’lek’s brain is in the lekku, isn’t it? She might not be capable of responding anymore. The thought sickened her. If that were Abi’s fate, would she have rather died here than live brain-damaged?

There was no further time to waste on speculation. Kelta kept her blade up between herself and the Vong warrior as she pulled Abi’s arm across her own shoulders, supporting her.

The Vong surprised her, rasping in Basic. “Jeedai. Are you not here to finish what this one started?”

Kelta ignored the words—they made no sense.

“No? I thought you were another assassin of the infidel warmaster here.”

“Assassin?” Kelta asked.

The Yuuzhan Vong warrior chuckled at her, a sound that raised her hackles. She would’ve dropped Abi to the ground to defend herself with her lightsaber, had the Vong looked capable of doing anything besides leaning against the coral walls of the horrid living building.

“Ah, so you live in ignorance of what war truly is,” the Vong taunted her. “Take your little assassin and run along.”

Kelta retreated, her lightsaber held tightly in her off hand. Dammit, Halyn, she railed silently. Our strike mission was an assassination attempt, wasn’t it? You were trying to get revenge for the kids. Why didn’t you tell me?

Because you wouldn’t have approved, the little voice said to her as she finally lost sight of the Vong around the corridor.

Yep, and neither would Anishor. She felt no shame for the thought, though she understood well why he had done it. If it had been Adreia who died in on the Cathleen, would I have done it? In a heartbeat, she knew. Yes, I would have, dark side be damned.

She stopped, helped the semi-delirious Abi slide down to sit on the floor of the Yuuzhan Vong building. Then, with lightsaber in hand, she charged back to finish the Vong warrior.

The chamber was empty.

The Jedi sighed, shut down the lightsaber and clipped it to her belt, then brought her comlink to her lips. “Cathleen, this is Jedi Rose. Can you hear me?”

As she hoped, Halyn’s voice answered her a moment later. “Go ahead.”

“Abi failed,” Kelta said, working hard to keep any emotion out of her voice. “She’s badly wounded and needs a transport.”

“I’ve already got air cover and a pair of Muurians inbound,” Halyn answered crisply. “Don’t miss the pickup. Wookiees are punctual, so don’t keep them waiting.”

“Roger.” Kelta returned to Abi, found the Twi’lek unconscious but still breathing. The Jedi lifted the operative into a rescue-carry, and headed out of the building at a Force-enhanced run. Hal, this was not your best idea.

The Council building seemed to rock like an ancient sea-going vessel as coralskippers flashed by overhead, pounding it with plasma fire. T-wings screamed past in hot pursuit, the shrill screech of engines vibrating Nisia’s teeth. She grimaced at the pain as the snubfighters tried to keep the Vong assault off, but even their best efforts were no longer enough.

Yuuzhan Vong warriors advanced against the Council, picking their way through burning mounds of their own dead. They never stop, Nisia observed distantly. We kill them and kill them and kill them, but they never seem to get the hint. E-web repeating blasters started hammering away at the approaching forces again. Vong warriors began to fall, even their best vonduun crab armor unable to protect them from laserfire capable of taking down unshielded starfighters.

Still they advanced onward, wasting slave troops and their own lives in yet another assault on the fortified position. Nisia shook her head at the waste. If they were Zabrak, I’d call it a sad loss of life. With these scarheads, though, it’s just stupidity. If their own people want to throw away resources like this, they can feel free to keep doing so.

More Vong fell to concentrated fire. The corpses were starting to pile up again, and she grimaced. No way we can send out scouts to knock down the piles again. Not with the skips overhead, and the Vong keeping more pressure on us. She frowned and lifted her macrobinoculars to her face, watching the advancing troops. They’re not going to give up this time, are they?

Sure enough, the Vong continued to pour forward, even as dozens more fell to the concentrated defensive fire. The former pirate frowned, trying to understand their strategy, when she felt a tremor in the ground. What was that?

Through the haze that seemed to be a constant in Rak’Edalin now, she caught a glimpse of movement well behind the Yuuzhan Vong assault lines. She refocused the macrobinoculars, trying to get a good look. The smoke from burning all those buildings is making it harder to get a good look at anything, she mentally griped. Little downside to Halyn’s strategy I bet he never considered.

A gust of wind blew away enough haze for Nisia to finally get a clear view, if only for a heartbeat, of what was moving. The ground trembled again, and she swallowed hard. Wonderful. A range. She tried to ignore the fear gripping her heart. Unless we get a lot of fighter cover here right now, we’re going to die.

She unclipped her comlink and brought it to her lips. “Cathleen, this is Nisia at the Council chambers. We need evac immediately.”

“Say again, Nisia,” a distant comm officer answered her.

“The Council chamber is about to be overrun by Yuuzhan Vong,” she said bluntly. “We need transports here in ten minutes or there’s not going to be anyone left alive.”

“Please wait,” the comm officer said calmly.

Nisia gritted her teeth. Bloody military types never understand urgency, she thought harshly. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. C’mon, Jess, come riding to the rescue.

As though her words had summoned him, Halyn spoke on the comlink a moment later. “What’s your status, Nisia?”

“We’ve held out so far,” she said bluntly, “but the Vong are moving in with the heavy artillery. They’re bringing ranges down on us right now, and throwing away warriors to keep our guns tied up. We need evac from your Muurians right now, or you’ll be picking up corpses. How soon can you get us out of the fire?”

“You can’t hold if I eliminate that range?” Halyn asked.

Nisia hesitated, not expecting the Ul’akhoi’s question. She considered carefully, but the tremors were becoming heavier and more frequent. “Jess, I don’t think anyone can knock it out in time.”

“If Argus would’ve let me bury those baradium bombs under the streets like I wanted to,” the distant Zabrak grumbled. “Alright. Stand by.”

The comlink went dead, and Nisia’s nervousness continued to rise. Jess, don’t leave me hanging, she yelled inside her own mind. Don’t let us die out here.

The Ul’akhoi returned to the channel a moment later. “We’re dispatching the Muurians now—they’re just turning around from pulling out one of our strike teams. Hold fast as long as you can, and they’ll pull your feet out of the fire.”

“Thanks, Jess,” Nisia said with a wave of relief washing over her. “I owe you one.”

“Yeah, like you’ll ever deliver.”

“Well, I would if you weren’t the one who put me into this situation in the first place,” Nisia retorted. “I don’t know why I ever let you drag me into this war in the first place.”

“See you soon, Nisia.”

“Roger, Nisia out.” She was secretly guilty at the relief she felt as she clipped her comlink to her belt. Halyn no doubt had intended some secret use for the Council chambers, and now she was forcing him to abandon it. Still, they had killed a good many Vong attackers, and they had forced the invaders into committing a far larger force than they’d likely intended for the Council.

At least that damned Lusp will be off my back, she thought wryly. I’m sick of him pestering me abo—

She had no time to finish the thought, as the world around her seemed to explode into fire.

Kelta stormed onto the Cathleen’s bridge, her robes soaked in blood. “Halyn,” she called sharply. “Need to talk to you, right now.”

The Ul’akhoi glanced over his shoulder at her, then returned to the officer he was speaking to. “Three transports should be enough,” he was saying. “Tell them to leave the E-webs behind; there’s no time to evacuate the heavy equipment. Blaster rifles and troops, and every member of the Council they can cram on board. Got it?”

The officer nodded, and Halyn turned to Kelta. She irritably waved him over to a relatively quiet corner of the bridge, where the Zabrak general joined her.

“What is it?” he asked a bit sharply. “We’re trying to take advantage of the chaos your team’s ambush caused, but time is critical here.”

“You didn’t tell me it was an assassination,” Kelta said bluntly. “Who was that? The Vong Commander?”

Halyn rocked back on his heels. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

The Jedi Knight leaned forward, keeping him off balance. “The Vong you sent Abi after. It must have been one of the Vong higher-ups here on Iridonia. He was scarred head to foot, after all.”

“You saw him?” Halyn asked in astonishment. “He actually was there?”

“Yes, he was there,” Kelta snarled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know. After all, you knew you couldn’t send me or Anishor after him directly—neither of us would’ve accepted a hit mission. We’re not assassins, so you sent the best one you could find, and she paid the price.”

Halyn shook his head. “No, I didn’t know the Vong commander would show. I was trying to draw him out so we could find him and take a shot at him, but this was a recon and disruption mission. I didn’t intend to assassinate anyone. At least not yet.”

Kelta’s rage lessened. “Then who…?”

“Me,” another voice answered.

Kelta turned to see Kativie Lusp, the Zabrak Jedi Knight with a very un-Jedi-like glint in her eyes. “I knew Halyn was trying to draw him out. I asked Abi to take the shot if she had a chance. The bastard deserves to die and die screaming, but I’ll take a quick and painful death at the hands of one of the New Republic’s best operatives. It would have blunted the Vong’s assault as well.”

The Zabrak unhooked Kelta’s lightsaber from her own belt and offered it to her colleague. “I’ve retrieved my own. Thank you for letting me borrow this.”

Kelta accepted the hilt wordlessly. Kativie…have you fallen to the dark side? She reached out with the Force and felt darkness in the Zabrak Jedi’s aura. Her pain and desire for revenge colored her perceptions red, and Kelta felt for a moment as though she could lose herself in the depths of Kativie’s rage. It’s the anger of a mother who has lost children. She wants revenge for what was taken from her. Kelta was a Jedi Knight, but she found herself unable to condemn her old friend. Would I be in any better shape, if it had been Adreia who was assassinated?

She swallowed, the righteous anger she’d felt with Halyn starting to fade. It wasn’t him at all. He might have enabled it, but that wasn’t his intent. Another dark intention touched her perception. If he had known the Commander was going to be there, he would’ve taken the shot himself. Kativie would too, actually…but I bet Halyn forbade her from accompanying the strike team.

“Wait,” Halyn said slowly, “what do you mean, Abi paid the price?”

Kelta swallowed. “She took a shot at the Vong and lost.”

Halyn’s face was ashen. “She…”

“She’s alive,” Kelta said. “She lost part of a lekku in the attempt. I don’t know if she’s going to make it, or what will be left of her if she does.”

Halyn closed his eyes.

Kelta could almost see his thoughts in the Force, broadcast in clear text. Twi’lek lekku were more than limbs, more than decorative bits of the head like human hair or even a Zabrak’s horns. The cartilaginous tentacles housed large chunks of a Twi’lek’s brain. Kelta wasn’t absolutely certain on Twi’lek anatomy, particularly brain structure, but she was fairly certain the lekku largely housed memory—some of it passed on from mother to child.

A Twi’lek with damaged lekku was said to be an outcast from her own kind.

Kelta shoved the idea away. Worrying or speculating won’t help Abi now. She glanced at Kativie. I don’t know if she will allow me to help her now, either. She’s tainted by the darkness, but she hasn’t fallen. If I try to help her now, I’ll only push her further and faster along that path.

She took a deep breath. “What can I do?” she asked.

Halyn shook his head. “Stay here on the bridge with Kativie,” he said. “Just make sure nothing else goes wrong.” He turned and headed swiftly for the turbolift at the rear of the bridge.

“Where are you going?” Kelta called after him.

“Where do you think?” he retorted as the lift slid open for him. He turned inside it to look back at the two Jedi. “I don’t like friends of mine dying, but if she doesn’t survive, I won’t let her die alone.”

Nisia was surprised to find herself alive. Fires burned around her, but they were starting to die out. I couldn’t have been out long—maybe a few minutes at worst. She glanced down at her skin, saw the burns, and grimaced. Shock and adrenaline must be keeping me going, she thought. This is going to hurt like blazes when I start to feel it again.

She slowly sat up. Rak’Edalin spun around her, but she refused to give an inch of ground. When the city finally stabilized, she carefully rose to her feet. The ground shook beneath her, and she nearly collapsed again. No, no, no, I will not fall. The Vong can’t kill me.

It wasn’t until she started to walk that she realized the tremors she felt weren’t from her injuries. They were from the Yuuzhan Vong rakamat thundering its slow way to the Council.

She looked around the rooftop, saw several holes melted clear through it. That range must have let loose with the Vong version of artillery, she observed distantly. Now it’s clearing a path to the Council.

The E-webs chattered constantly now, raking reddish laserfire across the Vong creature, but it deployed defensive voids to intercept the damage. Behind it, she could see dozens, maybe hundreds of Yuuzhan Vong warriors clustering in closely to the beast’s legs, depending on it for cover against the defending Zabraks.

Why aren’t they just blowing us to pieces with the rakamat’s weapons? she asked herself. A moment later, the answer surfaced with crystal clarity. Because they know who’s hiding here. The Vong are coming for the civilian government to try to use them as leverage to force us to surrender. But that’s not going to happen.

The distant shriek of repulsorlifts was music to her ears. Here comes the evacuation, she told herself cheerfully. We’ll get out from under the Vong yet.

The rakamat turned and opened fire with its plasma cannons, sending balls of fire out at the approaching transports. That’s not good, Nisia thought dumbly. I’d better get below and get the evacuation started. If we take too long, we’ll get chewed apart.

Li Coden swore as the Muurian transport bucked. “Sithspawn, why did I let anyone talk me into flying one of these buckets?” he griped as plasma splashed over his forward shields. “Two and Three, squeeze in—if we don’t overlap defenses, we’re going to get ripped apart.”

“Sir,” the second Muurian pilot responded, “these aren’t exactly starfighters.”

“I’ve noticed,” Li said sharply. “That doesn’t mean we can’t use the same tactics. Overlap defenses and we have a much better chance of surviving this run.”

Reluctantly, the other two Muurians slid into tight formation with him—one flying directly above him, one directly below. “Remember,” Li joked, “don’t pull back on the stick. Or push forward. Rudder pedals only.”

The other Muurian pilots were grimly silent as they focused on maintaining the formation. Transport pilots aren’t use to this kind of precision flying, Li realized. I’ll be lucky if one of them doesn’t get us all killed.

Another plasma ball splashed over the overlapping defenses of the three transports, deflected away by the energy shields. <Well done,> Anishor commented from the copilot’s chair. <I haven’t seen this kind of precision flying with ships this big and slow since…well, ever.>

Li grunted as he focused wholly on the flying; a salvo of magma missiles crashed into the shields and were similarly repulsed. “That’s why you talked me into this, right? You wanted to see some precision flying that even a Jedi wouldn’t be stupid enough to do?”

<I suspected your skills may be necessary to evacuate the Council,> Anishor allowed. <Besides, this transport’s regular pilot was drunk.>

“Drunk?” Li asked in disbelief. “How did you…?”

The Wookiee chuckled. <Acute sense of smell. Not all of you furless deal well with the stresses of war.>

“All of your people do?” Li asked, sweating as more plasma thundered against his forward shields. “Three, you’re lagging—move back up, or we’ll lose our defense advantage.”

The transport promptly throttled up, tightening up just in time for another salvo of fire to wash across the forward shields. The Vong really don’t want us getting in.

<Not all of our kind do, no,> Anishor admitted. <Some become madclaws, others exhibit cowardice.>

“Got any tips on landing?” Li asked, leading the three transports into a shallow banking loop over the Council. Below, the rakamat was against the Council chambers now, and the Vong warriors were pouring out from behind it to rush into the building which had been breached by one of the creature’s massive claws.”

<Straight down,> Anishor advised.

Li smiled at that thought. “Sounds crazy enough to work.” He flicked his comm back on. “Two and Three, break left and right, and then go straight down,” he ordered as he leveled off and pulled the throttle back, cutting in repulsorlifts.

The two transports obediently swung into position. “Sir,” the third pilot spoke up, “I’m pretty sure the Council’s roof won’t hold one Muurian, let alone three.”

“I’m counting on it,” Li replied with a smirk.

Nisia was starting to feel the distant touch of pain from her burns when the Vong started pouring in. Zabrak soldiers were abandoning their E-webs to rush forward, zhabokas rising to meet a tide of amphistaffs.

I’ll get cut to pieces in there, Nisia observed. Instead of joining the rush, she moved past the warriors, heading towards one of the now-abandoned E-webs.

Achick Lusp was at her side before she was halfway to the heavy weapon emplacement. “Captain, surely you have ordered an evacuation,” he said grimly. “We can no longer hold this position.”

“Is that your expert political opinion?” Nisia snarled over her shoulder, never breaking stride. “Or is that merely the amateur warrior?”

“It’s not opinion, it’s fact,” Achick said bluntly.

“Good thing I’ve got three Muurians coming to bail your ass out of this fire,” Nisia replied.

“Oh.” Achick seemed momentarily taken aback, though he continued to follow hot on her heels. “The Ul’akhoi agreed to the evacuation, then?”

“The military situation was not lost on him,” the pirate said dryly. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to get out of the…”

Her chiding was interrupted by a roar. The building shook again, harder than it had while the rakamat was pounding away at it. What the…?

The roof gave way, collapsing in great chunks as a Muurian transport crashed through. It caught itself on repulsorlifts, settling smoothly to the now debris-cluttered Council floor. Two more transports, repulsorlifts similarly screaming, followed suit, landing ramps dropping even before they could set down on their landing struts.

“That’s something you don’t see every day!” Nisia shouted to no one in particular over the roaring engines.

She rushed to the E-web emplacement, ignoring everything else around her. The clashes of combat, the war cries of the Yuuzhan Vong, the shouts of Iridonian warriors were all drowned out by the deep bass howl of the transports’ engines. Need to buy time for our people to get out, Nisia thought as she reached the E-web.

The weapon was still powered up and ready to go, its barrel protruding through a hole cut in the wall for just that purpose. She heaved against the weapon, trying to pull it back inside. It seemed an impossible task; nothing happened as she threw her weight and muscle into her efforts.

Abruptly, it started to move, nearly sending her sprawling. She looked up and was shocked to see the Council member, Achick Lusp, straining against the weapon with her. With their combined efforts, the heavy E-web slowly retracted into the building.

The moment the barrel cleared the inner wall, Nisia quit pushing against the E-web and straightened. A moment later, she swung the barrel around towards the skirmish between the Yuuzhan Vong and the Iridonian defenders.

The Zabraks were beginning to break toward the transports. Councilors were already boarding the Muurians, rushing aboard for sanctuary.

Nisia grabbed ahold of the weapon’s controls and jammed both thumbs into the firing studs. The E-web thundered, sending fiery death into the crowded Vong. Two Iridonian warriors went down to friendly fire, but the pirate allowed herself no moments of remorse as she raked blaster bolts across the crowd. Don’t need much time, just to buy enough for the politicians to escape the grasp of the Vong.

The thought embittered her more than a bit—the knowledge that dozens, maybe hundreds of Iridonians were dying to save the lives of a bunch of good-for-nothing politicians, people who had done nothing for the war effort except trip up those who were fighting it.

She was so intent on firing she never saw the Yuuzhan Vong attack from behind.

The strike was mercifully swift; the pirate never felt the blow, had no pain as the amphistaff swept through her neck, separating her head from her spine and sending her sprawling bonelessly to the Council floor.

Dust and debris from the shattered roof was repelled by the Muurian’s shields, raising sparks and giving a faint blue haze to the view through the canopy. Li grimaced as another large chunk fell and bounced off the shields directly above him, drawing a whine from the ship’s shield generators. “This is getting ugly,” he grumbled aloud.

Anishor answered through the ship’s comm. <Not much longer.>

“How many left?” Li asked.

<Twenty at best,> Anishor replied, his voice abruptly rising into a battle growl that made Li wince. He’s going to shatter my eardrums.

“We can get those on board our ship,” Li decided. He slapped the comm board, changing channels. “Two and Three, take off and get yourselves back to the Cathleen with your cargoes,” he ordered. “We’ve got the rest.”

He waited until the other Muurian pilots had acknowledged, then flipped the comm back to the channel he was sharing with the Wookiee berserker. The two transports slowly rose on repulsorlifts on either side of him, sending yet another shower of debris raining down on his parked ship. “C’mon, Anishor,” he said urgently. “Get the last Zabraks on board so we can get our asses out of here. We’re going to get the ship shot out from under us if we wait much longer.”

Anishor didn’t immediately reply. Li rose from his seat, trying to get a better look at the battle through the smoke and dust boiling through the destroyed Council chamber.

The remaining Iridonians were reluctant to disengage from the eager Vong warriors, but they were slowly being pushed back. The Zabraks were careful in their direction, only allowing themselves to fall back towards the Muurian. Zhabokas and amphistaffs were flashing faster than Li’s eye could follow in the dust, with casualties falling on both sides.

“Much longer and we’re not going to have anyone alive to get out,” Li grumbled.

Anishor’s battle roar was audible even over the din of a building shaking itself to pieces. Li saw the big Wookiee charge headlong into the fray, a rykk blade in either hand as he bolstered the faltering Zabrak defenders.

“Wrong idea!” Li shouted. “We need to retreat, not hold!”

The battle came to a standstill for a long moment as the arrival of the berserker swung the tide. Anishor’s blades seemed to gleam with some internal light that was visible even in the haze of war. Li shook his head. He’s forgetting the point of evacuation, the pilot thought. With nothing to do but wait, he looked away from the fight to the bodies lying around.

He was sickened to recognize a beheaded corpse as Nisia Eisweep, one of Halyn’s close friends and advisors. Damn, he thought to himself. Damn. Halyn’s not going to like this. He sighed. Be honest, Li. You’re going to be lucky if you make it off this rock alive, and there’s not many pilots who can match you in the air. For all you know, we’re all going to end up like that.

His eyes wandered further, and he spotted something even more disturbing: an older Zabrak, not quite elderly, being pulled from the mounds of dead by Yuuzhan Vong warriors. They released him, and he swayed on his feet, but remained standing. They’re taking prisoners! Li swallowed, remembering what he’d seen on a dozen different worlds: loyal New Republic citizens, taken and sacrificed to appease the bloodlust of the Yuuzhan Vong’s imaginary gods. No one deserves that.

He turned back to the battle to see that Anishor was now leading a slow, defensive retreat back to the last transport. The Zabrak warriors still standing were a bloodied and battered lot, their numbers slowly dwindling even with the mighty Wookiee defending them.

Li glanced over at the prisoner and the Vong warriors. No one deserves that, he repeated to himself.

He unstrapped from the pilot’s seat and ran aft.

The upper turbolaser had been manned by a Zabrak gunner when the transport had broken its way into the Council, but that gunner had abandoned his post to defend the boarding ramp with a zhaboka and blaster rifle. Li took advantage of the vacancy by climbing up the gunwell and settling in behind the turbolaser’s controls.

He didn’t bother strapping in; he would be returning to the cockpit in just a moment. The controls were labeled in Zabraki, but the layout was standard Corellian controls for the weapon, no different than the more common quad lasers found in smuggler transports across the galaxy. Li flipped the weapon out of standby with a few switches, then rotated the starship weapon around to where the Vong were now retreating with their prisoner.

He was almost too late; the Vong were already retreating into one of the holes opened through the hallway. The Zabrak had already disappeared into the gap by the time he leveled the weapon at the hole.

Li closed his eyes for a brief moment. Killing in battle was one thing; he had long since made peace with that, having shed blood for nearly thirty years. He even was comfortable with what he was about to do to the Yuuzhan Vong—they had massacred and sacrificed and slaughtered their way across a galaxy that would have greeted them with open arms, had they come peacefully. But to pull the trigger on an ally, to save him from captivity…well, that was something else entirely.

He pushed his doubt aside, opened his eyes, and jammed his thumbs down on the firing studs.

Green-white laserfire, blindingly bright in the dim chamber, flashed through the dust-choked air and slammed into the wall. Yuuzhan Vong at the edge of the blast were thrown askew, tumbled like insects in a gale-force wind. Vong more directly caught by the shot died instantly, their blood and flesh boiled away faster than an eyeblink.

Of the captured Zabrak, Li could see nothing.

However, he very distinctly could see the even-further comprised wall starting to collapse.

Li found himself grateful that he hadn’t strapped himself in. He dropped from the turbolaser turret, sliding down the ladder to the transport’s main deck.

When his boots hit metal, he sprinted for the cockpit, pushing through dazed and wounded Zabrak warriors and politicians, making for the cockpit. The rumble outside the ship grew louder, and he could hear Anishor’s battle cry clearly now.

By the time he was sliding into the pilot’s chair again, he could see the building was coming down. No stopping it now, he thought as he fed power into the repulsorlifts. “Anishor!” he called at the comm. “Ten seconds until lift!”

<Go now!> Anishor immediately returned.

Li decided survival was more important than grace, and slammed full power to the repulsors.

The transport leapt from the ground like a startled nexu. The dorsal shields smashed against the roof—his ascent hadn’t carried him along the same path as his descent—but he held tight to the controls, refusing to budge a centimeter.

He couldn’t tell if the roar was from the shields, the engines, or the building, but Li couldn’t hear anything distinct as he fought the Muurian’s controls with every ounce of skill he possessed.

Then the building was falling away, and the transport was free.

The rumble faded away, and Li could hear again. His eyes stung, and he realized sweat had poured into them during the struggle. He wiped it away, and found his hands were shaking. He clamped onto the controls to steady them.

Anishor was speaking now over the comm. <…too many close scrapes,> the Wookiee rumbled. <Even during the height of the Civil War, we had more breaks, more rest, more time between fights than this.>

“Yeah,” Li croaked. He shook his head. I’m never flying a transport for Halyn again. And people say starfighters are dangerous!

The infirmary was quiet when Halyn arrived. The only time they’re not quiet is when all hell has broken loose, he observed distantly. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be proper. Can’t break decorum unless there’s a damned good reason.

He shook his head at the dark thought. Can’t be thinking that way. Too much to do yet, and too little time. Can’t afford to pity myself, either, or Iridonia will pay the price. We’re on the edge of disaster, and if I don’t walk this exactly right, it will end in disaster.

He allowed himself a small smile, remembering some long-ago lecture to a class of starfighter pilot trainees. The difference between a good pilot and a great pilot is the ability to operate on the very edge of disaster; a great pilot pushes much further toward that line than a good pilot. The difference between a great pilot and a dead pilot is that the dead pilot pushed even further.

Dead… he shook his head, trying to will the word away. Dead, dead, dead. Lenn is, Sandi is between life and death, some of Kativie and Allanna’s children did, and Abi could’ve died, all because you’ve been too reckless. Others are paying for your mistakes. Not to mention all the Iridonians who have died fighting the war so far. How many more will die before this is over? How many will you kill to beat the Vong?

No. No self-pity. No doubt. Carry the plan through, or everyone who’s died following your orders did it for nothing.

He swallowed hard as he walked further into the medical bay. It was perhaps half-filled now with wounded Zabraks. As the battle lines had pulled in tighter around the Cathleen, the wrecked ship’s facilities had been heavier utilized to treat the casualties of the nearly-continual fighting.

He would have had to be blind to not see Abi, though.

Amidst the flesh-colored Zabrak warriors, the blue Twi’lek stood out distinctly from the other wounded undergoing treatment.

Abi was alone on a corner bed, treated only by a medical droid. Sandi’s dire predicament was indicative of Iridonia’s limited capability to assist non-Zabraks. Were Abi’s wounds more typical—an amputated hand, a hole opened in her belly from an amphistaff stabbing, or slashed open flesh from a cut—Zabrak physicians would have sewn her up, treated her with bacta, and sent her on her way.

A severed lekku, however, was something else entirely.

Halyn had known more than a few Twi’leks during his years—Abi and Sandarie, several of his pilots during the war like Tairs’Ren, pirates like Poe’kunal, even Force-users like Ab’Ki Acha. From many conversations, he understood something of lekku and their purposes.

The nickname “brain tail” for a lek was not entirely inaccurate. The cartilaginous lek housed a fair amount of a Twi’lek’s brain, and was a tool for communication as well. Twi’leks could communicate entirely silently with shakes and twitches of their lekku; only a few non-Twi’leks could even attempt to decipher the language.

Sandarie had told him once—after a lot of drinking—that lekku stored the memories of her ancestors. Those memories weren’t necessarily clear, vivid images, but they held deeply ingrained beliefs, behaviors, attitudes: the very basics of culture.

A Twi’lek who lost her lekku was an outcast.

It wasn’t that other Twi’leks would necessarily exile an amputee; rather, the victim would lose a certain, fundamental part of herself that every Twi’lek shared. In a certain sense, she was no longer a Twi’lek at all.

Halyn was hesitant to approach his old friend.

Abi’s eyes burned with something Halyn couldn’t identify. “You,” she whispered hoarsely.

Halyn didn’t speak at first; instead, he watched the medical droid finish wrapping the amputated lek. When the Emdee-One finished, it laid the damaged appendage across Abi’s chest, mirroring her other lek.

The Zabrak blew out a sigh as he looked her over. “Hello,” he said quietly.

“I should have shot you twenty-five years ago,” Abi rasped.

“Yes, you should have.” Halyn shook his head. “How do you feel?”

The fire faded from the Twi’lek’s eyes. “I…I don’t know.”

The words jarred him worse than anything he had imagined she might say to him. Abi’s personality was always bedrock certain—right or wrong, she would stick with a thought or opinion until it wasn’t possible to maintain it. She made her mind up quickly, and never, ever bothered with indecision.

“I feel…different,” the Twi’lek said slowly. “Like some part of me is just gone.”

“What part?” Halyn asked.

She started to shake her head, grimaced, and stopped. “I don’t know. It’s like I know something’s wrong, but I can’t identify it. I know something’s missing, but I don’t know what.”

The Ul’akhoi straightened. Don’t hesitate, he told himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I got you into this. I’m sorry you were hurt fighting on my behalf.”

Abi looked at him, and he still couldn’t read her eyes. “I’m not sure if I’m still me, Hal. I’m not sure if Abi died, and I’m here in her place.”

The words stung him, and he closed his eyes. Of course. She’s brain-damaged. Even assuming she heals, she might not be the same person anymore.

“The med droid believes the amphistaff missed my brain, though,” Abi continued softly. “Took a big chunk out of my lek, severed a lot of nerves and muscles and tendons and cartilage, but the soft stuff is still intact. An inch higher and I’d be in a lot worse shape.”

Halyn opened his eyes. “Your brain’s intact?”

“The med droid thinks so,” Abi said. “But the surviving part of my lek is all swelled with blood and clotting and from the trauma, so it’s a bit like you horn-heads having a concussion. We won’t know for sure until the swelling has gone down.” She grimaced. “Though I don’t know what I’ll do with a short lek.”

The Zabrak found his voice. “Could be your new signature as a bounty hunter,” he suggested with forced casualness. “Criminals could be terrified of One-Lek coming after them.”

“Not my style,” Abi said. “Too distinctive. I mean, with one lekku, I’d never be able to sneak up on anyone.”

Halyn reached out and grasped her hand, squeezed it. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t,” Abi retorted, her eyes opening and flaring with fire. “So knock it off. I got myself into this fight, and the Vong cut my lek off, not you. And believe me, when I get out of this damned medical center, I’m going to find a way to make every single one of them pay for it.”

“That sounds like the Abi we all know,” Halyn said with a quiet, sad chuckle.

“And love,” Abi added.

“Well, know, anyways.”

She wasn’t strong enough to lash out at him, but he stepped back anyway.

“The patient needs complete rest,” the Emdee intoned from the other side of the bed. “Further excitement will only serve to harm the patient.”

“Shove it up your charger port,” Abi rasped at the droid.

“No, the machine is right,” Halyn said. “You’d better rest.”

“What else is going on?” Abi asked as Halyn turned his back. “I know I didn’t get the bastard, but I saw him. Did anyone else get him?”

“Not yet,” Halyn said as he started to walk away. “No one got him during the strike, but I’m going to make damned sure he doesn’t get off Iridonia alive.”

Commander Triak of Domain Kraal smiled contentedly when the bloodied warriors dumped a Zabrak at his feet.

“The Zabrak Councilor, Achick Lusp, as you requested, Supreme One,” one of the warriors growled.

“The Commander requested he be brought alive,” the tactician, Ret Kraal, stated flatly.

“The Zabrak lives.” The warrior shook his head. “One of his own kind attempted to kill him when we captured him. A dozen warriors died, but this infidel lives.”

“Wake him,” Triak said impatiently, gesturing a hand at the infidel. “The war progresses quickly, and we must waste no time.”

One of the warriors provided a spineray coaxer, a new creation of the shapers during the Iridonian campaign. The nervous systems of the infidel species were varied, and creations that worked for one species often did not work well on another. The creature, designed to inflict pain, had been specifically adapted for use on the Zabraks. It had been tested thoroughly on captured Zabrak warriors, but never put to important use.

Until now.

Achick Lusp’s eyes snapped open as pain coursed through his nervous system, eliciting a pitiful moan. Hardly the behavior of a warrior, Triak thought with amusement. And there are those among us who dare think these Zabraks equal warriors!

He carefully pushed aside his own doubts, his own heresies, refusing to acknowledge them until he had finished with this infidel politician.

“Awaken and arise,” Triak said aloud, in the infidel Basic tongue. “The gods have smiled upon you, Achick Lusp. You still have some minor use to them before you go to your Ultimate Reward.”

The Zabrak tried to rise to his knees, but the pain was apparently too much for him to bear, as he curled into a tight ball on the floor of the damutek, one of many such living buildings the shapers had grown and planted among the Rak’Edalin ruins.

Triak gestured impatiently to the warrior controlling the spineray coaxer. The warrior stroked the creature wrapped around the Zabrak’s neck, quieting it. A moment later, the Zabrak stopped shaking and managed to rise to his knees.

“Where am I?” Achick asked blearily.

“You are among the Chosen,” Triak informed him shortly. “Arise, Achick Lusp, and serve the gods! Or die as an infidel coward and face the eternal void instead.”

The Zabrak, to his credit, staggered to his feet in spite of the burns lining his back and arms, the scorches that patterned his bald head with red streaks. “What are you talking about?” he rasped.

“It is simple,” Triak said. “I want to make a bargain with you. That is the correct word in your Basic, is it not?”

“Basic is not my language,” Achick said hoarsely.

“I will take that as a confirmation.” Triak began to pace back and forth before the prisoner. “We have learned much about you infidels in our time in this galaxy,” he explained slowly. “You infidels often choose the weakest amongst you to lead. It seems your kind prefers a warrior with no power, who could never be a threat, to be your leaders. Your galaxy is a soft place, one which does not understand the necessity of war and sacrifice.”

The Zabrak’s eyes were focusing more clearly now, Triak noted approvingly. “We have taken advantage of your weaknesses repeatedly. A stronger leader to your New Republic, for example, may have stymied the early invasion before we could establish our foothold in this galaxy. A wiser leader would certainly have united these small kingdoms and empires together against us, instead of allowing us to split them apart and dilute the forces arrayed against us.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Achick said hoarsely.

“You understand well what I have already said,” Triak said approvingly. “It is evidenced by your own words and actions. You recognized the weakness of your warmaster and sought to overthrow him, to replace him with a more capable warrior. Your effort failed, but that made you no less correct.”

Achick watched him warily, like a cornered predator. “What do you want?” he asked again. “To turn the Council against Sanshir? It won’t work.”

“Your politicians and your Council are meaningless,” Triak said dismissively. “What I want is to put a strong leader at the head of your kind. A warrior who understands well how to fight.” The Commander smiled cunningly. “A wise warrior who would make peace with our kind, who would lead his people into an alliance with us—an alliance that would end the pitiful New Republic and the Imperial Remnant. A leader who could take his people into a new age of conquest, victory, and glory.”

“You want to make me the leader of Iridonia?” Achick said, his eyes wide.

“Of course. You have proven yourself wise—this Sanshir has been incapable of stopping us, as you predicted. You understand the need for strength of arms. With your wisdom, your people would even come to know the True Way, I have no doubt.” Triak spread his arms wide. “Join us in our war against this galaxy. I have learned much of your history—it is the nature of Zabraks to join conquerors, not remain defenders of the weak. You are natural allies of the Sith, and you would be to us as well.” He offered his hand in a gesture of friendship the Yuuzhan Vong had learned, but never had bothered to use. “Join us.”

Achick responded not by offering his hand, but by a hacking sound. It took Triak a long moment to realize the Zabrak was not coughing, or in pain, but laughing.

Laughing at a child of the gods, and at a warrior.

“You really are fools,” Achick Lusp said, gasping for breath. “You know nothing about me, or about my people. You think I can’t see what’s happening here?” He stopped and bent double for a moment before straightening, his face contorting in pain. “In spite of everything I said and did, Halyn Sanshir is beating you. You’re losing the war here on Iridonia. You’re desperate for anything to change the tide of the war—so desperate you’re trying to get me to betray my own people.” He laughed again, an ugly sound, and raised a finger at Triak.

The warrior turned his back on the Zabrak, examining his options.

“You know nothing about Zabraks, or about the Lusps,” Achick continued. “Yes, we worked with the Sith, to overthrow a corrupt Republic and to maintain our own sovereignty. You Yuuzhan Vong don’t want to just conquer us, you want to remake us. You want to make us become like you. We’ll never submit to you, you scarhead slime.” He spat at Triak. “And the Lusp clan would never, ever betray the New Republic. The Sanshirs and the Lusps may hate each other—we’ve been at war for longer than family memory—but all of us know Iridonia would be crushed under your heel.”

He stopped and gasped for breath for a moment before adding, “Find a different puppet, Vong scum. I won’t betray Iridonia or the New Republic to you.”

Triak chose, and acted.

The Yuuzhan Vong warrior spun and lashed out with his amphistaff. The serpent uncoiled like a whip, its fangs sinking deep into the Zabrak’s flesh and unleashing its venomous load straight into Achick’s bloodstream.

The Iridonian Councilor fell to his knees as poison rushed through his system, eating his nerves alive. “Iridonia will never submit,” he said weakly.

“Fool,” Triak growled. “You could have become great by my hand; instead, you will be crushed by it.”

“Iridonia has survived far worse than you,” Achick slurred. “Like every invader, it will chew you up and spit you out into the void. You’ll never win here. Iridonia will never surrender.”

Triak watched in contempt as the Zabrak Councilor, Achick Lusp, died.

When Achick rested motionless on the floor, his doubts began to rise up again. Even if we win here, will we ever be able to force these Zabraks into submission?

Jram Lusp stared up at the night sky. The stars were as familiar to him as his own hands; he had grown up on Iridonia, had seldom been off-planet, and had learned to navigate his way across the planet using only those same stars above as his guide.

Tonight, they seemed utterly alien.

“There’s been no word from Achick,” his comlink said softly. “When the Council building fell, no one ever saw him board a transport.”

“What do you believe, Mother?” Jram asked distantly. Father, gone? I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. He wouldn’t just vanish.

“There are rumors the Vong took him, that he defected to work with them to help them conquer Iridonia,” Alyce’s distant voice said. “Even more rumors that he’s been working with them all along. Rumors that you and I are traitors as well.”

“Foolish,” Jram scoffed.

“Obviously. We would never betray Iridonia to these invaders. But there are quieter rumors that Sanshir ordered Achick left behind, that his soldiers intentionally ensured that he couldn’t board a transport to make it back. One of his personal agents, and the Wookiee berserker, were responsible for evacuating the Council. Another one of Sanshir’s pets was responsible for defending the Council as well, and we see how well that worked out.” Alyce’s voice held a trace of bitterness.

Jram hesitated before responding. “Mother, I don’t think the Sanshirs would order Achick left behind. Even if they did, a Wookiee would never go along with it—it would violate his honor.” He shook his head, even though his mother could not see it. “Besides…”

“What? You think Halyn Sanshir would hesitate to kill Achick?” Alyce’s voice dripped with venom. “He practically promised to kill him on the Council floor!”

“Yes, but that’s his style! He wouldn’t hesitate to run Father through with a zhaboka, but he wouldn’t arrange to have him killed.” Would he? He hesitated. “The Sanshirs haven’t been killing indiscriminately. After all, they allowed me to live even when I personally fought and tried to kill Halyn.”

Alyce’s reply was reluctant. “Perhaps you are correct,” she said slowly. “Still, what could have happened to him?”

Jram shook his head at himself again. If he wasn’t evacuated, he’s either a prisoner of the Yuuzhan Vong or dead. If he’s a captive, he likely wishes he were dead, and there’s almost no chance we’ll get him back.

“I’m working to get you removed from the front line,” Alyce said, changing the subject. “It would do no good for you to be lost in this war. When it is over, you’ll be needed to help rebuild Rak’Edalin. What the Sanshirs destroy, we Lusps will be called upon to rebuild.”

“No, Mother,” Jram said grimly. “No special favors for me. I’ve been out here fighting because I’m needed here. If I die, there’s always Hakk.”

Alyce was silent for long moments before snarling, “Yes, the son who took up with a Sanshir girl. The Jedi. She has addled his mind with those Force tricks and illusions. I need you to survive, Jram.”

He thought of Kativie and her shining emerald lightsaber, the unstoppable wave of green fire that turned back the Yuuzhan Vong and saved him during the early pushes. I can understand why Hakk fell for her, even if she’s an enemy. She’s a superior warrior and fought without losing her honor. Aloud, he said, “Then I will survive fighting on the front line, Mother, if that is necessary.”

“Lusp,” a voice interrupted him, “it’s time to move out.”

“We’ll speak again later, Mother,” Jram said and shut the comlink off without waiting for her answer.  He wondered, briefly, if her mistrust of the Sanshirs would be considered paranoia by any of the better doctors on Iridonia or Coruscant.

“The Sarge is ordering all our gear packed up for another fallback,” the soldier, barely sixteen years old, told him. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we need to move out.”

Jram nodded. “Then I’d better pack.”

He returned to the camp and spent a few minutes packing up the few belongings of a frontline Rak’Edalin warrior: his sleeping mat was tightly rolled and tied, the tent he shared with one other soldier broke down and split between them, the little food he carried returned to a watertight pack, his spare power packs attached to a bandoleer and his blaster rifle shouldered. When he was done, he leaned heavily on his zhaboka as the rest of his unit finished similar tasks.

“What are we doing?” he mumbled aloud. “We fight all day to hold the line. Our warriors bleed and die and don’t give a centimeter of territory to the Vong, but night falls and the Ul’akhoi orders us back. Why do we keep falling back during the night, and only fight to hold in the day? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps it keeps our defenses more concentrated and harder to break through,” another soldier suggested.

Jram shook his head. “Falling back and shrinking the line allows the Vong to concentrate their forces as well. It doesn’t change much, other than giving them control over more and more of our territory, which means we have less and less supply sources to draw on. I’ve been running the numbers already—we’re pretty much at the breaking point. If we give much more ground, our supplies can’t keep up anymore.”

His pronouncement was met with shrugs and weary sighs. Most of the warriors fighting on the front line were exhausted; their concerns were day-to-day combat and fighting to survive. More abstract concepts weren’t important enough to enter their psyche while the Vong were at their doorsteps.

What is the Sanshir up to? he asked himself silently again. He has to know that he’s allowing the Vong to concentrate. He also has to know he’s hurting his own supply lines by doing this. So what does he, or Rak’Edalin, or Iridonia benefit by these nightly fallbacks?

He fell into step with his squad as they began falling back. The usual retreat was somewhere between fifty and a hundred meters, but tonight his sergeant did not stop after the usual retreat. When they had covered two hundred meters, Jram’s nerves felt on edge. Okay, so we established a pattern of nightly retreats. Tonight, we’re retreating even further. Why? What are we doing? He shook his head. What could the Ul’akhoi be doing?

The warrior carrying the other half of his tent fell into step beside him. “What’s going on tonight, Jram? This isn’t the usual fallback.” he asked in a low voice.

Jram shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

“C’mon, don’t give me that,” the other warrior said. “We all know your father is Council, big-time. You have to have the inside line on this.”

Jram forced a smile. “I’m just as ignorant as everyone else here,” he said. “Believe me, I wish I knew what was going on. I was on the comlink with my mother when we started packing up, and she didn’t tell me anything.”

“And your father?”

Jram couldn’t stop his smile from vanishing. “Missing since the Council was evacuated. No one’s heard anything from him, and he wasn’t on any of the transports.”

“You sure nobody threw him out an airlock?”

“Now you sound like my mother.” Jram shook his head. “Everyone knows there’s no love lost between the Lusps and the Sanshirs, but we’re all pulling together against the Vong. No one would take the time right now to stab someone else in the back.”

The march was over five kilometers long; the ravaged hull of the Cathleen was visible even in the darkness when the sergeant finally called a cease to their retreat.

“We’re practically inviting the Vong to take the whole city,” Jram muttered to himself. What is he doing? Is he trying to surrender the whole city?

It had become an open secret that, during the night, Halyn could be found in one of the subterranean hangars dotting Rak’Edalin. Virtually all the officers whom had a history with the Ul’akhoi had found him there during the darkest hours, working on an old battered Gallofree light freighter.

Kelta was surprised, then, to find him absent when she walked through the restored hallways of the little freighter. It looks just like it did during the Civil War, she observed as she walked through it. The cockpit had its two extra chairs restored, with all four of the seats reholstered. The panels had been closed up, the displays all in functional order, blinking slowly in standby. I bet she could be started and underway in five minutes, Kelta thought distantly. She always had a fast start-up sequence.

The forward hold had an old overstuffed couch bolted to the floor, a holochess table within reach of the center of the couch. On the opposite side were two heavy-weighted chairs, their bases solid durasteel. The chairs were common in starships across the galaxy, a design intended to stay in place even during turbulence in flight. Elsewhere around the forward hold were similar bits and pieces Kelta remembered from the old days—a lizard-skin rug, a workbench lined with tools, a couple of depowered R-series astromech droids.

The crew quarters were just as she remembered as well—a second workbench, a small galley, and four crewman bunks. She spent a moment to check the refrigeration unit and was amused to note it was stocked with several bottles of alcohol. Just like the old days, she thought wryly. He never did skimp on his booze.

The bunks looked just as she remembered as she stepped over the battered, but recently re-cleaned orange rug that dominated the small chamber. She blushed at her own memories, chiding herself for the embarrassment. You loved him then, and you love him now. It’s hard not to remember when the ship looks just like it used to.

The aft section of the ship had also been restored; the engine panels had been restored, wiring bundled, grounded, and safely tucked away. Two cabinets of tools were bolted to the wall and filled with their usual array of hydrospanners, calibers, laser welders, and other tools. She hooked her finger in a small hole in the decking and heaved; it lifted away to reveal the hidden storage compartments Halyn had installed sometime before she had met him.

As she walked back down the boarding ramp, she saw the sublight thrusters had been cleaned and aligned, the hull patched and repainted, the scorch marks scrubbed away. The Starwind looks ready to fly.

But that doesn’t answer the question: where is Halyn?

Kelta was reluctant to tap deeply into the Force. She was more sensitive to its flows than most Jedi, and intimately felt the pain and anger and fear and hope of those around her, Force-users or not. In a warzone, if she couldn’t maintain her mental shields, she could rapidly be overwhelmed by the sensations. In the past, she had feared such powerful outside emotions could drive her mad.

If she wanted to find Halyn now, though, she suspected that the Force was the only way to do so. Reluctantly, she allowed her shields to ebb. At the first breach in her defenses, the Force flowed into her like a river filling a dam; within moments she felt like she was filled up entirely, the excess energy sloshing over into the flow of the Force around her.

With the Force came the waves of emotion from Rak’Edalin: the physical suffering of the warriors who had been injured in the fighting, the emotional pain of nearly every Zabrak she could sense—all of them had lost homes, family, friends in the long siege.

She felt like she was drowning in the Force.

Kelta stretched out harder, fighting to hold onto her identity under the barrage of others’ emotions and thoughts. It was hard, so hard to concentrate as she felt everything.

Then she found him, touched his mind, and felt like a swimmer breaking the surface after a long dive.

The Jedi slammed her shields back into place, felt the emotions of the ravaged city fall away from her. She spent a few moments breathing, a Jedi calming exercise, and took refuge in the calm clarity of mind she’d felt from Halyn.

“He’s on the Cathleen’s bridge,” she said aloud in wonderment. “In the middle of the night. That’s not like him.”

When she felt she could walk, she ran towards the hangar’s exit, and towards the Cathleen.

Halyn paced the Cathleen’s bridge. The chamber was dark, red-lit from the few battle alert indicators which still functioned.

The survivors of his war council were gathered there with him: Li Coden, the starfighter pilot; Anishor, the mighty berserker warrior; Ceikeh Alari, the Zabrak Senator to the New Republic; Kryi Rinnet, the starfighter coordinator; Kativie Lusp, his sister and Jedi Knight. Edlin Sanshir, Allanna’s eldest son, stood with his back to the wall, clearly uncomfortable with his inclusion in the elite group. Only Kelta Rose, the other Jedi Knight, was still missing.

Too few survivors, he thought bitterly. This war has cost me too many friends and allies. But no more. His thoughts turned to Lenn Kaman, killed when his starfighter was shot down; Sandarie, poisoned and held in hibernation in the hope of getting her to a medical facility capable of saving her; Allanna and Kativie’s children, three of them dead from an assassination attempt aimed at himself; Abi Ocopaqui, heavily medicated in the medical bay with a damaged lekku; and just hours previously, Nisia Eisweep, dead from the Yuuzhan Vong attack on the Council.

I don’t deserve such friends. They fought and died because they are my friends, and I asked them to fight. So many lives lost on my account.

“So, why did you call us all here?” Li asked conversationally. “You usually like having your meetings in the early morning, not late at night. That whole sleep thing most of us need and all.”

Halyn pulled himself away from his dark thoughts. “All of you have fought and bled on my behalf,” he began hesitantly, “and on behalf of Rak’Edalin and Iridonia and perhaps all of Zabrak space. Some of our friends have died or been badly wounded during this war.” He tried to force a smile, but it failed to materialize. “I wanted all of you to know how much I appreciate it.”

“We’re giving up our sleep for that?” Ceikeh asked dryly. “You could’ve sent a thank-you note.”

Anishor roared a wordless assent.

Halyn did manage a smile at that. “I guess I could have. I prefer to show it, though.”

“Show it how?” a new voice asked from the turbolift.

Halyn turned and nodded to red-haired Kelta Rose as she stepped out of the lift. “By making sure you’re here to see the end of the war.”

Kelta shuddered involuntarily. “Does that mean…?” she asked, unable to completely verbalize her question. Does that mean you’re going to surrender?

Halyn shook his head. “No, my rules remain the same. No retreat, no surrender. We fight until the battle is over, one way or the other.”

“Then what…?” Kelta asked, confused.

Halyn smiled just a little. “This is the end, Kelta. What I—we—have been planning since the Cathleen landed in Rak’Edalin.”

<Landed?> Anishor asked. <Only you would call that a landing.>

“Didn’t you see some of his students back when he was running the Rara Avis flight academy?” Li asked sardonically. “Compared to what happened to some of those Y-wings, the Cathleen settled in like a downy feather.”

Laughs circled the bridge, just enough to take the edge off the nervousness. In spite of Kelta’s mental shields, the edginess everyone seemed to be feeling bled through with enough strength to keep her off-balance.

“So what have you been planning?” Ceikeh asked. “And who is ‘we’?”

“Kativie and I,” Halyn said, drawing a deep breath. “She’s the only one who knows everything I’ve done in the defense of Iridonia—whether she agreed with it or not. Kativie knows every plan I made, every step I took, every tactic we deployed. It was necessary to have someone ready to step in should I have fallen.” Halyn took a deep breath. “I didn’t know if I’d survive to see the end of this war.”

“So, how are you going to end the war?” Li asked.

The sense coming off Halyn was so cold for a moment that Kelta shivered.

“We established a new pattern for the Vong recently,” Halyn explained slowly. “Our warriors fought them to a standstill during the day—our Iridonians gave no ground nor quarter during the battles. After nightfall, our warriors fell back, giving the Vong ten meters, fifty, a hundred—enough to safely keep their distance. At daybreak they defend their new positions.”

“This benefits us how?” Ceikeh asked.

Kativie answered. “The Vong won’t think anything of it when our troops pull back from the battle line, as they did tonight.”

Kelta could see that Anishor’s expression was pensive, even through all the hair. <Where did your troops fall back to?> he asked.

“To the Cathleen herself,” Halyn said grimly. “To give us the room to execute this.” He looked over at Kativie. “Are we in position?” he asked.

The Jedi Knight closed her eyes, and Kelta could feel her drawing heavily on the Force. Its currents seemed to bend around her, flowing into the Zabrak Jedi like light into a black hole. At last Kativie nodded, her eyes still closed. “All our troops have fallen back to their proscribed positions.”

“Good.” Halyn closed his eyes, and Kelta could feel the weariness of his spirit even as his body seemed to blaze with strength. “Cathleen gunnery crew, this is the Ul’akhoi. Open fire.”

Kelta’s eyes widened as she began to grasp the significance of his order.

The Cathleen had been badly damaged when the Yuuzhan Vong pulled it from orbit with a dovin basal. Its skeleton was shattered, leaving it incapable of ever flying again. Its engines had been crushed beneath the vessel’s hull when it smashed into the city. Entire decks of the warship had been compressed, packed together like layers of material in a laminate. Many of her crew had been killed instantly; most of the survivors were left injured or wounded.

Yet some of the vessel had survived. Its hangar was still in use, even now, by a small group of Muurian transports. Crew and cargo compartments now sheltered Rak’Edalin’s refugees. Its limited medical facilities now treated Zabrak warriors injured in the ongoing battle. The bridge had become the command center of the entire defensive operation.

The reactor had also survived—it provided the necessary power for the essential ship systems the Cathleen depended on, even in her crippled state.

So had eighteen of the turbolasers.

Red-white fire lanced out from the Cathleen and into the city.

In spite of her mental defenses, Kelta felt shock and horror, both from within and without, shatter her mental shields.

The turbolasers fired once, twice, three times in salvo before falling into a regular thump-thump-thump of the heavy weapons. The regular rhythm was soothing, but completely at odds with the raw sensations pouring into her through the Force.

There was death, of course—but not the death of Zabrak warriors. In fact, she did not feel the intense pain of a life torn away; it was the more muted death of animals, primarily small rodents and scavengers which survived by picking their way through the burnt remains of Rak’Edalin.

Grief, though, was a far more sentient emotion. Kelta could not differentiate her personal emotions from those carried to her by the Force. Her stomach collapsed in on itself, and she felt depths of grief she could barely comprehend—pain she’d felt only twice in her life. Once, when Halyn Lance had walked away from her after the battle of Endor, disappeared without saying goodbye; and once, when her husband, Liam Varo, had died during the Thrawn campaign.

Shock rattled her very soul, replaced moments later by the heart-wrenching pain of betrayal. She felt the betrayal of thousands of beings, Zabrak warriors who had trusted their Ul’akhoi to defend their city against the Yuuzhan Vong—the same Ul’akhoi who now ordered its destruction.

The pain all swirled together, and she could feel her individuality fading away in the storm of pain brought to her by the Force.

Then she felt a calm eye to that storm—the Zabrak it all focused upon. Halyn was utterly calm as he ordered the city utterly destroyed, reducing a burned ruin to a vaporized scorch mark on the face of Iridonia.

She latched onto him, a lifeline to keep her sanity. She could feel his own pain for the responsibility he bore in this maneuver, but he kept it tightly wrapped beneath layers of discipline and necessity. As the emotions of others tried to tug her under the flow, she hung to him in the Force like a shipwreck victim to a life buoy.

Halyn burned brightly in the Force now, even as she could feel faintly the thrum of the energy of the turbolasers. As Kelta felt her sanity, her self returning, she realized that Halyn was more brilliant, more vivid in her senses than she’d ever felt him before. As the remains of Rak’Edalin were reduced to ash, as Yuuzhan Vong warriors were vaporized by powerful starship weapons, his brightness seemed to grow in her perceptions.

He was burning brighter than Kativie, brighter than Anishor. The collective pain of the Zabraks witnessing the loss of their city seemed to fade away. She began to feel as though she were looking into the sun itself, with everything else fading into insignificance when compared to its impossibly bright light.

Then that sun collapsed in on itself, in the span of a heartbeat turning from a brilliant star into a black hole.

Kelta collapsed on the deck as the collective scream of the Zabrak survivors reached her through the sudden emptiness. Waves of pain swept over her, with nothing to dull it.

She pushed herself up to her hands and knees, felt Anishor’s furred paws on her shoulders. “I’m okay,” she rasped as she tried to shut down her connection to the Force. “What…?”

The Jedi raised her gaze far enough to see the truth: Halyn Lance lay silently on the deck, his eyes closed, his chest no longer raising with breath.

Ceikeh Alari had seen a number of people die in his lifetime—in part because of his previous profession. Before acquiring enough fame that he was inducted into Iridonian politics, he had worked the Outer Rim as a mercenary, a gun-for-hire. He and his wife, Arraya, had flown an old YT-1300, the Tansarii Dream, from planet to planet to ply their trade.

He had killed a number of people in the heat of battle, most often Imperial soldiers. Occasionally he had participated in gang warfare between Hutt criminal syndicates and pirate bands. In many of those same battles, his allies had also suffered losses. Often there were not “right” or “wrong” sides in the battles, and casualties on either side didn’t bother him; he grew numb after a time, hardened to the emotional shock of watching allies die.

A decade of politics had made him soft again.

Halyn Sanshir lay on a medical table. Were it not for the monitors showing his very slow heartbeats—perhaps once every ten seconds—and the extremely shallow respirations that didn’t seem to move his chest, he would have believed his old friend dead.  Looking at his old friend in such a state hurt, and hurt in a way he hadn’t thought he would ever feel again.

He was heartened to see that Kelta Rose, the Jedi Knight sent by Skywalker, was back on her feet, though she was still pale and her hands shook when she released her grip on the edge of the medical bed where Halyn now rested.

The big Wookiee was kneeling on the other side of the fallen Zabrak—even on his knees, he was tall enough to stretch out his big furry paws to rest on Halyn’s chest. Anishor’s eyes were closed, and Ceikeh could swear that light was emanating from his hands, though it was hard to see through the fur.

See something new every day, Ceikeh thought. And this war has brought on a lot of new things.

<I pour my strength into him, but he does not respond,> the Wookiee growled in frustration. <I touch him through the Force, but there is almost nothing left. He is fading quickly.>

“Let him go,” Kativie said hoarsely from another medical bed, where she sat with her hands folded in her lap. “There’s nothing you can do to save him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Kryi Rinnet asked. “Why did he collapse?”

Kativie was silent for long moments. She isn’t denying knowing, Ceikeh realized. Which means she knows.

<Kat,> Anishor said, rising to his feet with slow weariness, <what has happened to him?>

“He’s dying,” she whispered. “He’s dying, and I can’t save him. I’ve been trying. I’ve been trying so damned hard, but nothing I did made any difference.”

“What do you mean?” Ceikeh asked. “You’re not a doctor.”

Kativie laughed, a slow and bitter sound that equaled any Ceikeh had heard before. “No, I’m not. I’m a Jedi.”

<What has happened to him?> Anishor repeated.

“We don’t know exactly when or how,” Kativie said slowly. “Some time around the Yuuzhan Vong’s initial invasion, he was infected with something. It’s been slowly eating at his nervous system, and we knew eventually it would reach his brain’s critical functions. Once those shut down, he’d die, and there was nothing we could do.”

“Why didn’t you take him to a doctor?” Li Coden asked. “I mean, you knew he was sick.”

“We did go to see doctors,” Kativie ground out. “We saw every top physician I could get him in to see. I pulled every string I could as a Jedi, got him in to see top neurologists, top xenobiologists, anyone who we thought might have some insight into whatever has been killing him. I even managed to get Master Cilghal to examine him once, and there’s no better Jedi healer than her.”

“And?” Li prompted.

“And nothing. They could see the damage, and with repeat visits they could see the progress of the disease. But they couldn’t ever find it, couldn’t reverse the damage.” Tears flowed down Kativie’s cheeks. “I could sense the hurt in the Force, but I couldn’t find the disease itself. Neither could Master Cilghal. It’s the reason we thought it was something from the Yuuzhan Vong—anything else I should be able to sense.”

<How does the disease hurt him?> Anishor asked. <If I know, perhaps I can find a way to help him fight it.>

“It’s attacked his nervous system, over and over. But only specific parts.” Kativie took a moment to compose herself. “He lost his ability to feel pain about a year ago. Well, not just pain. He lost his ability to feel tiredness, pain, anything. He started struggling to sleep, and it nearly killed him then—he pushed himself way past the limits of his body, and he almost died then. Since then I’ve tried to keep him in check so he doesn’t do it again, but he kept throwing himself into the battle.”

“That’s why he never seemed to notice,” Ceikeh reasoned. “He would take cuts, mostly shallow wounds, and he wouldn’t notice until someone else started binding the wounds up.”

Kativie nodded, her eyes red. “Yes, exactly.” She looked down. “I couldn’t save him,” she whispered. “No matter what I did.”

A red-and-grey R2 astromech whistled from the doorway. Ceikeh turned to look and frowned. “What is that beat-up old droid doing here?” he asked.

“That’s Deuce,” Kativie said, looking over at the R2. “Halyn’s old astromech droid.” She tried to smile, but it never reached her eyes. “He probably wants to say goodbye, too.”

“No,” Kelta Rose said hoarsely, speaking for the first time since Halyn’s collapse on the Cathleen’s bridge. “He has messages for us.” Her tone was bitter. “Halyn’s last words, I suppose.”

The R2 astromech called “Deuce” had been in service for over forty years. A leftover from the Clone Wars, where he had served aboard an ARC-170 starfighter in service to the Old Republic, he had been decommissioned and left at a deep space storage facility. From there, he was eventually liberated—along with the ARC-170—by a resistance group. He later survived the destruction of the fighter and was then shuffled from group to group, acting as a backseater in Y-wing bombers until finally being assigned to a new T-65 X-wing starfighter. There he came under the ownership of one Halyn Lance, a starfighter pilot recruit in the Rebel Alliance.

Halyn Lance had retained ownership of him, unlike many previous pilots, beyond the destruction of the X-wing. Deuce had eventually been stationed at Zephyr Base on Rori, where he served with distinction as a backseater for X-wings, Y-wings, reconditioned ARC-170 starfighters, and several obscure refurbished craft. He had also participated as part of the crew on several larger vessels, including the Gallofree light freighter Starwind and the larger, heavier-armed Incom X4 gunship Firestorm.

When Halyn left the Rebel Alliance, the droid had remained in his service, acting as partner and accountant for the Zabrak’s business ventures ranging from smuggling to honest shipping to mercenary jobs. Eventually, Halyn had left him on Iridonia in service to Argus Sanshir and Kativie Lusp, helping to coordinate the defensive preparations.

Droids were not programmed with emotions, but Deuce had felt something akin to joy when Halyn had reappeared to help with the defense of Iridonia. While the Zabrak had not taken direct ownership again, the R2 unit considered himself back in Halyn’s service. Thus, it had not been a surprise when the Zabrak had asked the droid to record several messages for his friends and allies in the event of his demise.

Deuce had known from experience that many pilots recorded such messages with similar conditions; it was a common enough practice that the necessary programming had been added to his software during his service to the Rebel Alliance.

The R2 considered the encrypted messages, calculated the likely consequences of permutations of orders of playback, and chose to start with Kativie Lusp.

Kativie didn’t bother trying to compose herself when the R2 astromech wheeled up before her with a low whistle. “It’s okay, Deuce,” she said. “Go ahead.”

The R2 whistled and adjusted the angle of his body; after a moment, his holoprojector lens focused and a grainy blue-white image of Halyn swam into existence.

Judging from the battered duster and the recently-healed cuts, Kativie guessed the message had been recorded very recently—within a day or two of the collapse of the New Horizon Designs building.

“Hi, Katie,” he said hesitantly. “You know, I’ve recorded and updated this message a dozen times since the Vong started their invasion of Iridonia, and it’s still hard to say what I need to say and get these words out.”

He closed his eyes and his expression smoothed out as he composed himself. “First, thank you, little sister. I couldn’t have done this without you, and we would have long since lost the war if you hadn’t been my second. If I’m gone now, that means Iridonia will be in your hands, and I can’t imagine anyone more capable of it.”

“Second,” he said, his voice shaky and then silent for several long seconds—long enough for Kativie to wonder if the recording was corrupted. “I’m so sorry for what happened to your children. It was my fault, and I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll understand if you never forgive me.” He went silent again, seemingly to gather his thoughts.

His eyes opened, and his gaze was intense even through a grainy recording. “I know you’ve struggled over the years, standing in the shadows of a brother who was the living hero of Iridonia, and the brother who was a general in the Rebel Alliance. You’ve grown into a powerful Jedi Knight, and in many ways you’re a better Zabrak than either of your brothers could ever be.” He smiled faintly. “If anyone can bridge the gap between the Sanshirs and the Lusps, it’ll be you—if it’s even possible.”

Kativie smiled a little at that.

“Rely on our friends and allies. Don’t try to shoulder the burden of this all alone—let Anishor and Kelta and Ceikeh take some of the burden.”

“What, I don’t count?” Li Coden groused.

“If you don’t, this war will crush you the way it has me. You have children, a husband, a family—they deserve more than just a soldier, and you can give it to them.”

Halyn hesitated. “Thank you, little sister, for everything you did. I know keeping my secrets has been hard on you, but I hope you’ll remember me fondly, not as the brother who hurt you.” He raised a hand. “Goodbye, Katie. Remember I love you,” he quirked a smile, “even if you were a brat. Halyn out.”

The holo faded away, but Kativie continued to stare at the spot where Halyn’s image had been.  She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to ask Deuce to play the message again. No, be strong, Kat. You’re the leader now; don’t show weakness.

She rubbed at her cheeks and couldn’t understand why her hands came away wet.

As she watched, the R2 spun around on its wheels and headed for someone else. She didn’t look up from the spot where the holo had been projected.

Anishor watched with a small degree of amusement as the old R2 rolled to a stop in front of him. He remembered the droid well from Halyn’s days as a Rebel X-wing, and later Y-wing, pilot. The coatrack left a message for me, did he?

Deuce beeped twice at the Wookiee. <Go ahead, little one,> Anishor rumbled with a smile.

The hologram of his old friend appeared in a staticky haze in standard one-quarter size. Halyn’s expression was more cheerful than it had been when speaking to Kativie. “Hello, Anishor,” the Zabrak said with an easy smile.

Anishor smiled at the hologram. <Hello, honor brother,> he said in reply to the recording.

“Of the few people I’m leaving these recordings for, I know you’ll likely be taking this best.” The hologram chuckled. “I’m sure you’re already talking about me becoming one with the Great Tree, or something like that. You’ll be at peace with my passing, even when the others are fighting or mourning me. And I appreciate that.”

The Wookiee swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, grateful that the furless beings around him likely could not interpret his expressions well enough to understand what he felt. You’re wrong, coatrack. I mourn you, too, even as you join the Force. I may accept your passing, but I feel your passing as dearly as any family.

“Seriously?” Li grumbled. “No message for me?”

Anishor studied the hologram closely, seeing the distress in his old friend’s face as the recording continued. “I know I was your honor brother, and that means more to me than you’ll ever know. In many ways, you were closer to me than my own brother. We went through everything together, and you’re a big part of why I survived the Civil War.”

Halyn’s tone grew darker. “You helped lead the rescue on Talus when I fell into the hands of the Empire, and you covered my back in some of the worst starfighter combat the galaxy ever saw in the months leading up to Endor. You helped me lead the One-Eighteenth and kept Zephyr Base hidden on Rori.”

His voice dropped even further. “Now I need you to help me one more time. At the time I’m recording this, Iridonia is in danger. With me gone, Kativie will be the last remaining hope for Iridonia to win the fight against the Yuuzhan Vong. I need you to protect her as you have me.”

<I would have anyways, coatrack,> Anishor growled. <She is honor family as well.>

“Right now, you’re probably shaking your head at me for telling you to do something you were already going to do,” the hologram said. “But it needed to be said.”

The recording seemed to freeze in place—long enough for Anishor to wonder if the droid had malfunctioned. Then the hologram finally spoke. “I also wanted to say goodbye. Well, not just goodbye, but thank you. Furball, even after all the things I did, the hell I put you through, you still chose to be my honor brother. You protected me, came for me when I was in captivity, without any thought of the danger you put yourself in. When the war started to eat away at me, and I was losing my way, you were the one who called me on it and forced me to see what I was doing.

“You were a far better friend than I ever deserved.” Halyn hesitated again before adding, “So, I guess I’m saying thank you for being my friend, my protector, my sounding board, and my conscience. Thank you.”

The hologram faded out of existence, and Anishor found himself blinking away at suspicious moisture in his eyes.

Kryi Rinnet watched in puzzlement as the battered R2 unit rolled over to Edlin Sanshir. The young Zabrak warrior had been standing alone, leaning against the wall, just watching. Why would the General leave him a message? It’s not like they were particularly close.

The red-and-grey droid adjusted itself, then started up the holoprojector. The hazy blue-tinted hologram reappeared on the floor again, dressed in the same clothes he had worn in the previous holo.

“Edlin Sanshir,” Lance’s voice floated from the tinny speaker. “This message is for you.” The General hesitated for a few seconds. “I know you and I haven’t been very close over the years, and I’m mostly to blame for that. While you were growing up, I was gallivanting across the galaxy, getting myself into and out of trouble everywhere but Iridonia. But with Argus and me both dead, and knowing that you may never see Allanna again, I felt you need to know some truths. Truths about the Sanshirs. Truths about me. Truths about yourself. There are things I need to tell you that even Kativie doesn’t know.”

Kryi turned her head to see Kativie’s reaction. Shock rode freely on the other’s face at Halyn’s words. She thought she knew all her big brother’s secrets, Kryi thought silently. He obviously included her in so much of his planning that she just assumed…

“Argus, Kativie, and I were all born into a time of war and unrest here on Iridonia. We responded to it different ways. Argus became the noble one among us three—the leader, the Zabrak who would stand up for what he believed in, and would fight to free Iridonia from the Empire’s grip.”

Halyn smiled. “Sometimes I think that’s why Kativie was born with the Force—she was destined to be a Jedi Knight, the noble warrior among the three of us, the real hero of the Sanshirs. If you look at the history of our family, we seldom have Force-sensitives born to our clan, but when we do, it’s usually when the galaxy is at war and such heroes are needed.”

His smile faded into a somber expression. “I was born the coward of our family. I ran away, became a criminal. I was eventually forced to rise above it, but I made a lot of mistakes over the years. Some of those mistakes I regret; some of them turned out better than I could have hoped at the time.”

Melancholy dominated his tone. “After I left the Rebel Alliance, I spent months in the criminal underworld of the galaxy, skipping from planet to planet running cargo. I made a few enemies, made a few credits, and impressed more than a few criminal kingpins. It’s amazing how applicable military training is to running cargo past Imperial patrols.”

The hologram shook his head. “Like everything I’ve done in life, it fell apart due to my decisions. I met a Zabrak girl who was enslaved by a Hutt, and I decided I liked her more than I liked him. The myth that Hutts are immune to blasterfire? Yeah, it’s just a myth.” Halyn’s expression softened. “She and I fell in love. I left the smuggling game and we found a nice backwater planet to hide on. We lived there for just a little while—less than a year. Then the Hutts caught up with us.”

The hologram’s eyes were hard. “Hutts are very unhappy when another Hutt is killed—officially, anyway. Because I hadn’t been acting on orders from another Hutt when I killed Sari’s master, they needed to eliminate me to make an example for the rest of the underworld.”

Halyn’s voice dropped in tone and volume. “Sari was killed by Hutt assassins. I took our child, our son, to Iridonia. I want you to understand, Edlin, just who I was—I was a criminal, a Zabrak who had abandoned every cause he’d been a part of, and didn’t know a way to make an honest living. So, I turned my son over to Argus and Allanna, who were only recently married. I knew they’d be able to provide a stable upbringing for my child—the kind of upbringing a kid should have.”

The General stared through the hologram at Edlin as though he could truly see him. “Yes, that son is you, Edlin. Argus and Allanna raised you, and I know you will probably call them your parents until the day you die, and I don’t hold that against you. But you needed to know the truth—that I’m your father, that your mother was a Zabrak slave girl.”

He hesitated again. Kryi looked at Edlin, but the boy’s expression was completely unreadable to her. “I’ve watched you grow up from afar, and I know you’re already a better man than I am. You’re proof that you can be greater than your origin. Never forget that, Edlin—you are your own man. You make your own decisions in life.”

Halyn finally smiled again. “I know it probably won’t mean much, but I love you, Edlin. There is little else I can say, but good luck. I know the Sanshir family name is in good hands with you.”

The hologram fizzled and died. Kryi’s eyes flashed from Edlin to Kativie, then around the room at a variety of shocked expressions. I guess I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know.

Kelta Rose thought she was holding her composure well as she watched the old astromech deliver messages. The shock of discovery—of Edlin’s parentage—had reached through the fog of pain and mourning that had descended over her. Halyn had a son? It’s not him at all. Though leaving him to someone else? A stab of old pain cracked her heart. Yeah, that I can believe. That’s entirely his style.

The Jedi felt, in that moment, a clarity she had never experienced—she understood entirely how a Jedi could fall to the dark side. It’s good Halyn didn’t date more Jedi, or the galaxy would be overrun by Sith by now.

She was still caught up in that line of thought when Deuce rolled up and stopped before her, beeping to get her attention. Kelta looked up at the R2. Oh. Yeah. Halyn left a recording for me. I’d almost forgotten.

The droid didn’t immediately kick off the recording. Instead, it whistled inquisitively at her.

The Jedi suppressed a shudder. Damn mechanical things. I don’t know why Halyn set so much store by them. She nodded at the droid. “Go ahead, Deuce,” she said reassuringly.

The R2 whistled uncertainly, but a moment later the hologram of Halyn Lance reappeared.

This Halyn Lance was dressed in the uniform he had worn when he collapsed. How recently did he record this? Kelta wondered.

“Hello, Kelta,” Halyn said quietly. “I’m pretty sure this is the last recording I’ll ever make. My last checkup with the med droid indicates I’m nearly at the end.”

The last recording he’s making is to me? Kelta wondered.

“I made a mistake twenty years ago, and I know I can’t make up for it now. So I’m not going to try. There’s no forgiveness to be had for me. I’ve done terrible things, both back then and now.”

Halyn took a deep breath. “I spent five years fighting the Civil War, almost all of them as a fighter pilot. By the time I met you, I was a jaded officer. I was certain I was going to die fighting the Empire like so many of my friends. And when I recruited you to manage the flight academy, I thought you were a naive girl who could do the paperwork.”

He swallowed. “I was wrong, Kelta, and it was the first of a lot of mistakes I made. I was wrong in denying how I felt about you for so long, and I finally started doing right when I let you get close to me. You stabilized me. When we started, I thought the only thing that mattered was the war, and I was ready to die for it. You helped show me there was something to live for, too.”

The hologram seemed to hesitate again before continuing. “Kelta, I loved you more than anything. And that scared me, gave me hope at the same time. Then Endor happened, and half the people we knew died at the horrid place. And when it was over, I knew I was done with war…if I could be.”

Halyn’s face twisted into something unreadable. “When I decided to leave the Alliance, I did it because I wanted to see if there was anything left of me besides the killer I had turned into while fighting the war. I had to know if I could be something else—someone who didn’t immediately evaluate a situation by judging how to kill opponents, how to escape, how to minimize casualties if a firefight broke out.” He took a deep breath again. “That’s when I made another mistake—I thought the only way to do it was to leave everyone behind, to make a completely clean break.”

Kelta fought back against the old wave of pain as the recording stirred old memories.

He closed his eyes. “I left everyone, including the woman who mattered to me most.” He paused again, clearly struggling for words. When his eyes opened again, they seemed to see Kelta even through the recording. “So when I left, I left a big part of myself behind.” He swallowed. “I told myself that it was better for you—that you weren’t the killer I was, that I was protecting you, that you would be happier and better once you had gotten over me.”

The next words seemed to tumble out uncontrolled. “I left the Alliance, met Sari, fell in love, thought I had found myself. We ran away, hid from the war, hid from the Hutts, tried to live a simple life. She died weeks after having our son, assassinated by some Hutt’s lackeys.” His expression was dark. “I went after them, killed them too, eliminated the Hutt who sent them after us. Realized I was still the same Zabrak I was during the war—a killer, a man who shed blood willingly. So I turned Edlin over to Allanna and Argus so he could grow up knowing something besides death.”

The Zabrak stopped to compose himself. “I’m happy for you,” he said at last. “You had a happy marriage until Thrawn’s invasion. You have a wonderful daughter. You’ve made yourself into the Jedi you always wanted to be. And maybe, maybe you’re a better person because of it. So, I wanted to tell you one last time what I’ve wanted to say every time I’ve seen you since—that spaceport at the end of nowhere, Kativie’s wedding, the first time I saw you on the Cathleen’s bridge.

“Kelta, I…I love you. I always have. I never stopped.” He smiled faintly. “Apparently I’m not capable of change, because even now I’ve been refusing to say it to protect you. I didn’t want to draw you in and then die on you. I’m sorry, Kelta Rose. But I love you.” His voice was hoarse. “I’ve always loved you. Goodbye, Kelta.”

“I love you, too,” Kelta whispered as the hologram faded away.

She felt Anishor’s big paw on her shoulder. <Are you alright?> the Wookiee asked, his voice low and calm.

“No.” Kelta shrugged his hand off. “I’m not okay. Halyn is dying or already dead, and I will not let him get off that easy.”

<What are you doing?> Anishor asked as Kelta pulled herself to her feet, then stalked over to where Halyn’s body rested, still hooked up to monitors and showing some faint traces of life, and no sign of hope.

“I will not let him die,” Kelta growled, stretching her hands out and resting them on Halyn’s chest. “Not now. Not after all this.”

<Kelta…> Anishor said hesitantly.

“Kelta, if there were some way to bring him back, I’d be the first to do it,” Kativie whispered. “But you can’t. No one can.”

The Jedi Knight felt her legs weaken, the walls begin to spin around her. “No, I can save him,” she said hoarsely. “I can save him.”

She fell to her knees. “I can’t let him die.”

<He will be one with the Force,> she heard Anishor say.

Kelta closed her eyes, felt the galaxy itself spinning around her. I can’t let him die. He can’t die here. Not now, not after everything.

She could hear voices distantly, but they meant little to her. Ceikeh Alari, Kryi Rinnet, and Kativie Lusp leaving the medical center to return to the Cathleen’s bridge. Anishor and Edlin Sanshir conversing in low tones. Li Coden complaining about a lack of a recording for him yet again before departing to return to his squadron.

They were leaving her to mourn, she knew. But she wouldn’t mourn—not yet. Instead, she reached out to the Force with every bit of strength she possessed. Can’t let him die.

Dawn rose on an Iridonia scarred by war.

The Cathleen’s turbolasers had fired nonstop for about six hours during the night. The glow of fires and the brilliant flashes of the weapons themselves had lit up the city in the darkness, but only daylight revealed the true nature of the destruction Halyn had ordered inflicted upon Rak’Edalin.

No structure more than a few hundred meters from the wrecked capital ship was still standing. The destruction had been thorough; the heavy weapons had brought down already-damaged buildings, had burned to the ground the previously-burned homes, businesses, civic structures that had made up the city.

Kativie Lusp studied it all from the bridge of the Cathleen, watching the holograms relayed to her by scouts, by reconnaissance flights, and by the warship’s own visual sensors.

Some of the minimal bridge crew wept openly and continually at the horrifying images. In spite of the infamous Iridonian discipline, sobs were audible throughout the bridge. Down below, in the areas given over to the protection of Rak’Edalin’s non-combatants, there were wails of despair and anguish as families realized everything except their lives had been ripped away from them, turned to ash in the span of a single night.

Kativie did not cry, nor did she feel sorrow or pain. She felt only numbness as more and more images were displayed in the bridge’s holographic well. The Jedi had already felt the pain of Rak’Edalin’s final destruction; the Force had carried it to her with a crystal clarity, with a realness that the tasteless, odorless, soundless images of a hologram could never match.

Both my brothers gone; two of my children dead; Rak’Edalin in ruin. Is Iridonia saved, now? she wondered distantly. Or will this battle keep grinding on?

Because in spite of it all, scattered reports were starting to filter in. The Yuuzhan Vong army had been badly damaged, but they had survived. Yuuzhan Vong warriors, seemingly as shell-shocked as her own troops, had attacked some of the scouting parties out in what little remained of the city. In places, yorik coral vessels and structures had managed to survive the turbolaser raking, either by pure luck or by dovin basal defenses.

Surely the Yuuzhan Vong did not have the strength for yet another battle.

Kativie tried to stretch out to the Force, but the very act of touching the energy was as painful as holding her hand in a bucket of icy water. It was raw with the pain and terror and horror of an entire people mourning the loss of everything.

She wondered, distantly, how Kelta would cope with it. Maybe she can’t. Maybe that’s why she’s still down in the med bay, clinging to Halyn’s body like she can save him. Even that image did not pierce the heavy fog surrounding her, the numbness pressing down on her senses.

“You did it, Halyn,” she whispered aloud—so quietly she doubted anyone would hear her. “You beat the Yuuzhan Vong. It only cost you everything.”

“Jedi Lusp,” an officer rasped from behind her. “Sir, what are our orders?”

Orders. Right. I’m in charge now, until the Council finds a way to act. The Sanshirs sure aren’t going to be heroes for this mess. Aloud, she said, “Keep all our intact forces in place, and order them to dig in. I want more reconnaissance flights over Rak’Edalin, with the best sensor packages we’ve got left. We need an estimate of any surviving Vong forces.”

She heard acknowledgements to her orders, but they hardly registered. Something bothered her, though. I feel like I’m missing something. What am I missing? The Yuuzhan Vong army has been shattered by Halyn’s last order. The city has been reduced to rubble and ash. We have scout parties out and more recon flights to locate any surviving Vong units, and we’ll eliminate them soon enough if they don’t surrender.

So what am I forgetting about? She felt uneasy; there was something she was forgetting about. She knew, with bedrock certainty, that there was still some danger, but she could not seem to comprehend its source.

The warning wasn’t from the Force; even if it wasn’t so painful to touch, she knew her own emotional turmoil would likely obscure any message it tried to give her. No, it was something that should be blatantly obvious. Kativie felt as though the answer were staring her in the face, but she couldn’t focus her eyes close enough to recognize it.

“Not much left, is there?” Senator Alari asked quietly from behind her.

Kativie turned and nodded at her brother’s old friend. “No, Senator,” she whispered. “Halyn made sure of that.”

Ceikeh stepped in close to her. His voice dropped to barely audible levels before inquiring, “Was this his plan from the beginning? Did Halyn and Argus plan this defense together?”

Instead of answering, Kativie asked, “Does it matter?”

“To Rak’Edalin? To Iridonia? To the Council, or the New Republic? No. To me, as his friend, I’d like to know,” Ceikeh answered slowly.

Kativie gnawed at her lip before replying. “This wasn’t the original defense Halyn and Argus had designed, no. They fully expected to draw the Vong into a long, drawn-out conflict in Rak’Edalin, but they’d expected to hold the Yuuzhan Vong fast here in a stalemate until the New Republic fleet arrived. With Iridonia as an anvil and the fleet as a hammer, they expected they could crush the invaders, after taking some collateral damage.”

“But they didn’t expect Coruscant to fall and the New Republic to come to pieces,” Ceikeh reasoned.

Kativie nodded. “Halyn had designed a contingency plan that Argus rejected, in the event that the New Republic wouldn’t send a fleet. He had expected to turn the city’s defensive turbolasers around and use them to vaporize any parts of Rak’Edalin that the Vong managed to capture and hold.”

“But the city’s defensive grid was shattered by the Cathleen’s fall, and later that Vong warship,” Ceikeh interjected.

“Yes. Fortunately, even after the fall, the Cathleen’s power core remained online, and more than a quarter of her turbolasers survived. It wasn’t what Halyn originally planned, but it was a final solution in the event the Vong were winning.”

Ceikeh shook his head. “Halyn was wiling to sacrifice everything to win, wasn’t he?”

“Anything less would’ve meant the fall of Zabraks everywhere,” Kativie whispered. “He had to draw his line in the sand, and enforce it with turbolasers, proton torpedoes, zhabokas, anything else he could lay his hands on.”

“And yet,” Ceikeh said, so quiet Kativie wasn’t sure she heard him, “he was still protecting you, up to the end.”

“What?” Kativie said reflexively, completely puzzled by his statement.

“He knew he was dying, didn’t he? So he made sure you wouldn’t be the one to issue the order. He knew it would destroy you to do that, so he moved the units around and setup the game board for his final instructions. And he made sure he did the dirty work, not you, because it would destroy you.” Ceikeh’s tone was somewhere between admiration and revulsion. “He really did care for you.”

“What do you mean, it would destroy me?” the Jedi whispered.

“You’re a Jedi Knight,” Ceikeh replied. “You could never have ordered an attack like this—not against your own city.”

Kativie reflected on the Senator’s simple statement. No, I couldn’t, she concluded. Not without taking a very large step toward the dark side.

“And there may well be political fallout from this,” Ceikeh continued. “In the aftermath of this, Iridonia may well be one of the only planets in the galaxy that repulsed the Yuuzhan Vong, which will make him a hero to outsiders. But here on Iridonia, and in Zabrak space, he may very well be cast as a villain for ordering the razing of Rak’Edalin.” The senator shrugged. “In the end, it may not matter that he ensured everyone was out of the line of fire, that he protected all the lives he could. Doing what he did may have tarnished his name forever.”

“His name, or Clan Sanshir?” Kativie asked haltingly.

“His own.” Ceikeh sounded bedrock certain. “Oh, I don’t doubt there will be a few opportunistic Councilors who try to spin this as a Clan Sanshir plot, but they will fail. Everyone knows Halyn’s history as a renegade—from the time he left Iridonia as a young Zabrak to the time he spent in the Rebel Alliance and on. If Argus was still alive and had ordered this, it would likely be all Clan Sanshir, but Halyn is a rogue.”

The Jedi shook her head despairingly. “I hate politics. He did what he had to do to save Iridonia.”

“I agree,” Ceikeh said. “And I don’t know if anyone else could’ve issued the orders he did. But there are many who will second-guess him for years to come.”

“What happens now, Senator?” Kativie asked, changing the subject.

“What do you mean?” Ceikeh said.

“We’ve beaten the Vong. Now what?”

“If they really are beaten, then I suppose we’ll have to make contact with the New Republic. We’ll need our fleet back, and find out where the New Republic government has setup so we can start coordinating with the larger galaxy again.”

Kativie looked up at the ceiling of the Cathleen’s bridge, and realized what she had been missing all along—the danger so obvious it was staring her in the face.

Li Coden’s X-wing roared over Rak’Edalin.

The snubfighter’s s-foils were locked in their cruise position as he made a fast, low pass over the city. His sensors were locked in a ground-search configuration, a variety of thermal, motion, topographic, and life-form readings steadily flowing across his HUD.

The topography was generally flat and predictable; a child in a recreational airspeeder could have flown over the city without endangering himself. The Cathleen’s turbolaser fire had reduced nearly everything to a uniform height, even shearing off small rolling hills that had made up some of the natural terrain under the city.

The pilot gently pulled back on the fighter’s stick. The X-wing responded, rising above the debris, allowing Li a far more panoramic view of Rak’Edalin.

Dark smoke rolled up into the clear morning sky from a hundred different places. The thermal sensors pointed out a thousand more hotspots where fires smoldered, with only a lack of fuel or oxygen preventing them from breaking into full-fledged flame.

It reminded Li of Restuss.

During the Galactic Civil War, a team of scientists developed the next generation of power generation technology—a reactor capable of supporting a Star Destroyer with energy, but small enough to fit in a pocket or be held in a sentient’s hand. The development team, trying to hide from prying eyes, had setup their research facility in one of the two starports on the moon of Rori.

When word broke out of the development and the location, the Rebel Alliance and the Empire had both acted.

Both factions established beachheads with easily-deployable, prefabricated garrisons, then marched on the city of Restuss with the plan of holding the city until they had secured the “Star Core” technology.

The necessary Rebel marines had arrived on fast-moving Corellian Corvettes, brought in as quickly as possible to secure the city. Given enough time, the Empire would arrive with a fleet of Star Destroyers which would make securing the Star Core impossible.

With ground forces moving in, the starfighter wing known as the Vanguard, already based on Rori, were tapped to provide air cover.

Li Coden had led his Sabre Squadron as part of the defensive group, alongside Bendo Kyn’s Grey-Ghost Squadron of Y-wings, and Cody Qel-Droma’s Resurrection Squadron. Halyn Lance, the wing’s commander, led a separate flight of special tactics pilots called Grey Flight.

The wing held off the Empire’s TIE fighters and bombers aptly, with the Y-wing squadron providing direct air-to-ground support for the Rebel marines. The arrival of Imperial capital ships—namely, a Lancer-class frigate—finally turned the tide of the battle against the Rebel forces.

Then everything had gone wrong.

An impossibly large explosion ripped the city apart. Tens of thousands of Rebel and Imperial troops, and an unknown number of civilians, were killed instantly. A quarter of the Vanguard pilots were too close to the city at the time and either crashed or were vaporized.

The official investigation had concluded that the Star Core technology was not stable, and a failure in containment had allowed for the catastrophic overload of the reactor, which in turn detonated and killed everyone involved in the project.

Halyn had subscribed to another theory, one officially discredited. The Zabrak had believed there had never been a “Star Core” and that the entire project was faked; instead, he believed the incident had been a trap meant to draw the Rebel Alliance into an open confrontation by using irresistible bait. The explosion, he maintained, had been a massive baradium bomb. Imperial losses he dismissed by pointing out the willingness of Imperial commanders to sacrifice their troops pointlessly in other theaters.

This time, though, it was Halyn who laid the trap, Li thought. He drew the Vong in and hit them with a sucker-punch they never could have seen coming.

For a blurry moment, the smoke and the debris looked too familiar—he really did believe he was flying over the bomb-shattered remains of the Restuss starport.

Then his vision cleared, and it was Rak’Edalin again, the smoke hard against the clear blue sky.

He sighed. Are all wars the same? Do we fight the same conflicts over and over, with the same results?

Li sent the X-wing into a lazy, long arc over Rak’Edalin to look down at the city off his starboard s-foils. It really does feel like Restuss all over again. So many things that went wrong, so many dead, a city reduced to ashes. Was that Halyn’s plan the entire time? Destroy the city to wipe out the Vong? The idea made him feel a bit sick. It’s the sort of thing the Empire would do, isn’t it? The line of thought made him even more uneasy. They were worried about making Halyn into a dictator. Maybe he really was the villain some people feared he was.

The New Republic agent’s hand tightened on the stick as he considered the possibilities. I know I didn’t make a mistake coming here. Iridonia needed assistance and Abi and I provided it. I don’t know if what we did made a big difference, but we contributed as best we could. That couldn’t be a mistake.

But Halyn? Was Halyn the general I remembered him to be? Did he change? Or are my memories of him tinted by time?

He shook his head. I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead and gone, and Iridonia still stands. His little sister has command now, and she’ll finish this war.

Li frowned down at his heads-up display when the R5 unit started whistling at him. “What is it?” the pilot grumbled.

His comm started flashing for attention. He reached over and tapped the button. “Coden here,” he said.

“This is Cathleen actual,” Kativie Lusp’s voice called into his ear. “I think we’ve got trouble.”

Triak Kraal surveyed the remains of the Yuuzhan Vong invasion force.

Ninety percent of his troops, including all the reptoid slave troops, were completely wiped out by the treacherous infidel attack. Less than a thousand of his true warriors still lived.

I should have been sent to the gods, Triak told himself. I should have died with my warriors. Instead, I live with my Shame.

The infidels have beaten us. We are no longer the chosen children of the gods; we are orphans, parentless, the godless, the heathens. We have failed, and we are now only Vong.

The thought stabbed at him, and he was not sure he could live with himself for a moment longer.

He looked around at the battered yorik coral structure. Two coralskippers had shielded the living building with void defenses, which had not been enough to prevent damage to the structure, but had allowed the Commander of Domain Kraal to survive.

Ret Kraal limped to his side. “I bring my report, Supreme One,” he rasped.

The intense smoke from the blazes lit by the first abomination—fire from a machine—had damaged his tactician’s voice. “Do not delay, Tactician,” Triak said.

Ret Kraal nodded and spoke, his voice hoarse. “I was incorrect in my initial assessment; in hindsight, it is clear. The infidel warmaster has been preparing his deception for some time. I believe now the retreat of his forces night after night was to acclimate us to the action, leaving us unprepared for his strike.”

“He layered his deception well,” the commander said grudgingly. “He sacrificed many lives to defeat us.”

Ret hesitated long enough for Triak to know the next statement would not be pleasing. “It appears not. He evacuated their weak and cowardly well before the battle reached the last week’s area of combat. From our surviving troops and scouts, we know that his forces marched in retreat almost all the way to the wreckage of their warship. They ceded the entire city to us to complete their deception.”

Triak closed his eyes. Deceived! Are we not children of Yun-Harla, the Trickster goddess? How could their warmaster have succeeded in this gambit? The gods have truly abandoned us.

“There is more, Supreme One,” Ret said with deeply bowed head.

“Continue, Tactician,” Triak said.

“The enemy warmaster has fallen,” the tactician rasped.

Triak’s eyes snapped open. “What? What do you mean?”

“The details are limited,” Ret said. “But it appears he fell victim to disease. Even as his warship destroyed us with the First Abomination, the gods smited him. He died of a disease, a living thing.”

Perhaps we are not Shamed. The gods have brought us to humility, but they have also given us the means to redemption at the same time!

“Who now commands their forces?” Triak asked.

“The former warmaster’s younger sister,” Ret Kraal responded, his head so low as to touch the ash of the surface. “The Jeedai Kativie Lusp.”

“A Jeedai?” Triak asked. “I thought these Jeedai warriors did not lead.”

“I believe that is true,” Ret said. “They do not seem to lead outside their own kind.”

Triak frowned. “She may perhaps be a weak warmaster for these infidels. Now, at last, the time may have come for us to finish this war. We can still defeat these Zabraks and conquer this world.”

“With what army?” Ret asked in disbelief. He coughed and dropped into a deep bow again. “My apologies, Supreme One. I speak out of place.”

“Your concern is valid,” Triak said. “But we have warriors remaining aboard the fleet overhead even now.”

“They are few,” Ret said. “And most of those who remain will need to stay with the fleet; many of our vessels already have barely enough Yuuzhan Vong to keep them in orbit. Even if we could bring them all down, our force would hardly be a match for their surviving ranks. Only bolstered by the gods could we defeat these infidels at such numbers!”

“We need not defeat and destroy all the infidel troops,” Triak said with a small smile. “We need only enough to attack their warship, and finish them off. Without their commanders, their warmasters, they will scatter and fall before us like chaff in the wind.”

“When will we bring our warrior ranks down from the fleet?” Ret asked.

“I have already ordered the final landing,” Triak said confidently. “I believed we should allow our warriors to die in a final, glorious battle than in ignominious shame; now they shall taste victory!”

“Supreme One, if I may exchange words with only you,” Ret requested, his face on the ground.

Triak dismissed the rest of his Yuuzhan Vong officers with a shake of his hand.

When the others had scattered, Ret rose up from the ground to kneeling. “Supreme One, we have already begun to descend into our Shame. I am no priest, but the truth is plain to all the warriors. If you truly believe we can still defeat these infidels, I have a recommendation for you.”

“Which is?” Triak asked the wounded tactician.

“You must provide a sign to our remaining warriors—an indication the gods are still with us.”

“A deception, tactician?” Triak asked. “Would not the gods be offended by such things?”

“Not a deception, Supreme One,” Ret answered. “For without their assistance, we will surely fail.”

“What sign, then?”

Ret hesitated before answering. “A challenge to the infidels—a duel between yourself and their warmaster, the Jeedai. Strike her down in honorable combat, and the gods will surely smile upon us. If you fail, the warriors will know we are utterly Shamed.”

“Should I order off the landing, then?” Triak asked.

“No; when you win, the infidels will surely attack us in their desperation.”

Triak nodded. “Your plan is cunning. Victory will prove the ultimate redemption of Domain Kraal!”

The Yuuzhan Vong commander tried to ignore the uncertainty he felt. Against one of the Jeedai? Am I capable of such victory? I have heard rumors of these Jeedai on Yavin Four, where one of them was the redemption of a Shamed warrior. Perhaps the death of this Jeedai will be my redemption as well.

If not, she will surely be my doom.

“Jedi Lusp,” Kryi Rinnet called tightly from the Cathleen’s starfighter coordinator station. “Multiple traces in high atmosphere and falling like meteors.”

“Or rocks,” Kativie said tightly. Here they come. “Get our starfighters in the air.”

“Already scrambling them, sir,” Kryi said. “But some of them will get through.”

Kat merely nodded.

The Yuuzhan Vong fleet, still blockading off Iridonia from the rest of the galaxy, had been irrelevant to much of the conflict since the Vong’s second landing attempt—largely due to the impressive fighter screen Kryi had carefully maintained and coordinated. Kat knew the coordinator’s work had often gone almost completely unnoticed due to her effectiveness. The squadrons had made resupply of the Yuuzhan Vong forces virtually impossible.

The squadrons had been maintained in a dozen hangars around Rak’Edalin, virtually all of them subterranean with only launch tubes exposed. The concealment had kept them from falling to most of the Yuuzhan Vong’s attempts to neutralize the fighter groups by ground strikes, artillery, and coralskipper strafing runs.

The Cathleen’s turbolaser raking had, unintentionally, collapsed most of the launch tubes around the city.

Squadrons of starfighters were straggling into position, but it was clear there wouldn’t be enough to intercept the transports and coralskippers now in a screaming dive from orbit.

“Run the numbers for me,” Kat ordered. “Their estimated strength, and ours.”

Estimates of friendly and enemy forces flickered in a corner of the hologram. Kat looked at them, mentally calculated strengths and weaknesses. The Rak’Edalin squadrons were finely-honed and seasoned by the long campaign against the Vong, and their pilots couldn’t be better. Their starfighters were battle-worthy, even if they were not at one hundred percent maintenance. Ordinance was in limited supply, but the fighters now scrambling to meet the Vong forces carried almost everything available.

On the other hand, the coralskippers falling down the well were well-replenished. Their pilots had been faced with inaction and, in their limited engagements, been beaten badly and demoralized. Their numbers were superior for the first time in the Iridonian theater, but their previous defeats were making them tentative, unsure, and reluctant to engage.

But the numbers didn’t lie.

Kat eyed the falling contacts, judged they were coming largely from the north. “Rinnet, order the squadrons into a full-boost climb to the south. When they pass the Vong’s altitude, they’re to swing back and pounce.”

Kryi raised an eyebrow at Kat but issued the orders.

The Jedi stretched out to the Force, looking for guidance. The few Rak’Edalin squadrons that had made it into the air were climbing hard south, even as the Vong descended. In previous engagements, the defending starfighters climbed straight towards the Vong and engaged with the temporary disadvantages of speed and altitude, counting on superior firepower and numbers to overcome.

Now, with the fighters climbing to the south, Rak’Edalin lay open.

The Force gave Kativie no guidance, and she prayed that meant she was pursuing the correct course of action.

The two opposing aerial forces passed each other in altitude. The Rak’Edalin squadrons looped around, beginning their pursuit.

The Yuuzhan Vong craft had the advantage in initial velocity due to their long descent. The starfighters, however, had the advantage of energy shields to dissipate heat, allowing them a much higher atmospheric speed without burning up.

The Yuuzhan Vong’s coral craft were over Rak’Edalin by the time the Iridonian squadrons again reached firing range. Laserfire and plasma balls flashed back and forth across the sky, a brilliant lightshow punctuated by explosions as starfighters and coralskippers began to fall.

Kat closed her eyes. She knew the squadrons would be unable to stop the scattered transports from landing in the burnt remains of the city, but she wouldn’t make it easy on them.

The Cathleen’s turbolasers fired, but it wasn’t the steady boom-boom-boom of salvo fire. Instead, individual weapons fired, tracking the Vong transports carefully amidst the rolling clouds of starfighters and coralskippers.

A handful of transports fell to the ground as flaming boulders, but the majority made a hasty landfall, almost impossible to distinguish from debris by sensors alone. The starfighters continued their dogged battle with the coralskippers, but the skips were unwilling to stay and fight once their charges had made it to ground.

As the Vong fighters retreated for space and the Iridonians returned to their hangers to refuel and rearm, Kativie had to wonder if she had made the right decision. Is the Force guiding me? Or am I drowning in the dark side, and it can’t reach me?

The Jedi Knight fought the deep-seated rage she could feel, deep in her heart. The Yuuzhan Vong had cost her, personally, so much: her children and her brothers, so many of her friends and allies. She no longer felt certain her husband or sister-in-law still lived. It’s not Jedi to hate, she told herself. Let it go.

But she couldn’t.

When I touch the Force, am I still a Jedi? Have I become a Sith and not noticed? If she were slipping to the dark side, she would hardly be the first Jedi to do so in this long, long war. More than a few young Jedi Knights—mostly younger than herself—had tapped the awesome powers of darkness as a weapon against the extragalactic invaders. Most of them had less reason than she herself did to want vengeance upon the Yuuzhan Vong: they had lost homes and possessions, whereas she had watched them rip her family apart.

Tenatively, she reached out for the Force, but she wasn’t sure if the warmth she felt of its energy was the brilliance of the light…or the heat of her own anger.

The scopes were clear of contacts now, and Kativie felt a sense of unease. What will the Vong do next? Attack us with their army again—whatever’s left of it, at any rate? Will they bring their warships down from orbit to attack the Cathleen and our ground forces? Will they strike somewhere else on Iridonia?

Think, Kativie, think. You’re a Sanshir and a Jedi Knight. If anyone can hold the line against the Vong, it’s you.

“Jedi Lusp?” a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes?” Kativie said, her head snapping up and around to look at the comm officer.

“Sir, we’re receiving a hail…from the Vong commander.”

Kativie frowned. “Oh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t think they used anything that would work with our comm systems.”

“Sorry, sir—all I know is that he wants to talk to the, uh, warmaster of the infidel forces.” The comm officer tried to hide her embarrassment.

“I guess I’m as infidel as they come,” Kativie said with a confident smirk that she didn’t feel. “Patch him through.”

A full-size hologram of a heavily-tattooed Yuuzhan Vong warrior swam into existence. Kativie recognized him immediately. “Commander Triak Kraal, I presume,” she said, her smirk far more genuine this time.

The Yuuzhan Vong seemed to study her intensely before recognition dawned in his alien eyes. “It’s you. Nylah, the traitor.”

“As you can see,” Kativie said cheerfully, “I played you for the sucker you are. You Vong are too easy to trick—there’s no challenge or sport in it.” Get him mad so he’s not thinking.

Of course, that plan assumed she wasn’t too angry to think straight herself.

“Your treachery has not been forgotten, little one. I will dispatch you to the gods myself. Your death will be without honor or mercy. You shall know nothing but pain for the last days of your life,” he ground out. “Your entire race will be exterminated, but I will start with you. I will slaughter all you hold dear, sacrifice them upon the priests’ alters, and then disembowel you and leave your carcass to rot in a pit of soulless machines.”

Kativie’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t be exterminating or sacrificing anyone. Your forces have been beaten. It’s over.”

The Vong commander laughed. “You are not worthy of my time—I demand to speak with my equal. Where is your warmaster, the Sanshir?”

“My brother, the Ul’akhoi, is dead,” Kativie said evenly. “Died to one of your poisons. I’d expect nothing else from a cowardly race, though.”

The Vong seemed to ignore her insults. “Then I demand to speak with his successor.”

“That would be me,” Kativie said.

Triak Kraal snorted. “An honorless child-bearer?” he asked dismissively. “You are no warrior.”

Kativie’s eyes narrowed. How dare he! “I am a Jedi Knight,” the Zabrak spat, “and the scion of a line of warriors. It is you, a worthless and inept Vong, who is unworthy to speak with me.”

The Vong seemed taken aback for a moment. “So, you Jeedai forgo the path of war to instead pursue trickery and deception unworthy of a true warrior.” He pondered for a moment before adding, “I should have known such deception was your nature. You likely slew your own kin to rise in rank, and now blame his death upon us.”

“Did you call to surrender, or is this just a social chat?” Kativie asked sharply, her patience thin. “Your forces are surrounded and cut off from your fleet. Your army, such as it is, is outnumbered five to one by my Zabrak warriors. The war for Iridonia is over, and you have lost.”

“Have I? My fleet is in orbit, prepared to rain death upon you. Your army stands prepared for battle against mine, yes, but your estimate of our strength is badly mistaken.” The Vong commander exuded confidence—enough so to make Kativie wonder if the Vong had found some way to neutralize the Cathleen’s attack the night before. “I call you now, Jeedai, to make a challenge—a challenge of personal honor to combat.”

Triak’s tone took on a distinct distaste, reminding Kativie of her children when they were forced to eat a meal they disliked. “Your warmaster and I have fought a long battle here, a battle between tacticians and warriors. We exchanged our attacks, our feints, our parries and blocks, through the lives and movements of our warriors. We both stand bloodied from this war, and it is only fitting to finally meet my foe face-to-face to prove superiority.”

“And now you’ll never get the opportunity,” Kativie said with contempt.

“Because he has died a coward’s death,” Triak continued coolly, as though the Jedi had not interrupted, “I now issue the challenge to the one who has taken his position. Apparently you, the Jeedai and spy,” he spat. “So now, Jeedai, I challenge you to meet me upon the field of combat. You and your second, me and my second. One fight to the death.”

Kativie snorted, trying to choke back her rage. “And what happens if I win? You surrender?”

“I will do no such thing—I would be dead.” The Vong smirked at her. “And the Yuuzhan Vong under my command would never obey such an order. This is about personal honor, Jeedai.”

Kativie turned the idea over in her head. The Yuuzhan Vong commander had led his army capably throughout the bloody campaign. From what she knew of the Yuuzhan Vong, he likely didn’t have a successor ready, and striking him down could potentially throw the Vong invaders into enough confusion to overwhelm them before they could strike coherently at Iridonia’s defenses again.

Halyn would never back down from this challenge, she told herself. He’d take it as an opportunity to strike the head from the serpent. This would have been exactly the sort of chance he’d be waiting for at this stage in the game. The Vong are beaten for now, but if Triak actually does have more forces on the ground than we know about, taking advantage of this could give us time to win the war.

“I accept,” Kativie said sharply. “Where, and when?”

“As the sun touches the horizon this day,” the Vong said. “Where your Zabrak Council met, before you immolated it. Just you and your second.”

“Fine,” Kativie bit out. “I’ll kill you soon enough.”

The Yuuzhan Vong warrior nodded curtly at her, then faded away as he broke the connection.

Kativie turned around and found herself face-to-belly with a very large Wookiee. She had to take a step backward before she could look up far enough to see the other’s face.

“Yes, Anishor?” she asked sweetly.

<What are you doing?> Anishor asked her in disbelief.

“I’m going to kill the Vong commander at sundown,” Kativie replied cheerfully. “There’s only one person on the planet that could do it more reliably than me, but I’m pretty sure he’d take it as an insult if I sent you in my place.”

The Wookiee growled. <This is not the action of a Jedi Knight.>

“I’m acting to defend Iridonia,” Kativie justified. “He challenged me, not the other way around, so I’m not acting in aggression. I may not be the best Jedi to ever come out of Yavin IV, but I’m still toeing the line.”

The Wookiee leaned over her and sniffed deeply. His blue eyes were troubled and his voice was much quieter when he rumbled, <I sense darkness in you, little one.>

“You’re always straight to the point, aren’t you? No small talk, no easing into a subject, just a face full of blasterfire.” Kativie said irritably.

<Why are you so eager to fight this one?> Anishor asked her. <Halyn has beaten the Yuuzhan Vong with his final moments—it is the legacy he has left you. You can finish this war and help Rak’Edalin rebuild, but now you’re taking a chance to fight a battle that doesn’t need to be fought.>

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kativie said coolly. “The battle isn’t over. The Vong battle fleet is hanging over our heads, and the Vong might have a lot more warriors out there then we know about. We used the storm sewer system to attack them before—they might have taken cover there en masse and survived. If I strike now, I can take the head off the Vong army and throw them into disarray long enough to ensure we win this war.”

<At what cost to yourself?> the Wookiee asked.

“Halyn was willing to sacrifice everything for Iridonia,” Kativie retorted. “You could argue he did sacrifice everything. He set the example for me to follow.”

<Yes, he did sacrifice everything,> Anishor agreed. <But tell me, Kat, did he know he was dying?>

The Jedi nodded silently.

<He sacrificed everything knowing his time was coming,> Anishor said. <I know your brother as well as anyone, and I think I finally understand what his battle plan was.>

Kativie’s eyebrows went up. “You think you know something about his plans that I don’t?” she asked skeptically.

<Yes. Halyn made the hard decisions that he didn’t think you would be capable of,> Anishor said bluntly.

“That I wouldn’t be capable of?” Kativie repeated, her jaw dropped open. “What, did he think I was too weak to do what we had to do?”

<Far from it. He feared what those decisions would do to you,> Anishor parried. <You are a Jedi Knight, a servant of the Force and bound by ethics to keep you from falling to the dark side. He was no Force user, and dying as he was, he was no longer concerned about his reputation. Think for a moment, Kativie, about what he chose to do.>

“I’m not sure I follow,” she said, puzzling over his logic.

<Your brother assumed the reins of power and ordered Rak’Edalin held at any cost. He indirectly conscripted Zabraks into the ranks of the warriors by disallowing civilians to evacuate. He oversaw a long and bloody campaign of street and house-to-house fighting throughout the entire city. He ordered buildings burned to the ground and supplies destroyed when they were about to fall into enemy hands.> Anishor’s tone was even as he described the Ul’akhoi’s orders. <He willingly invited Yuuzhan Vong assassins into the Cathleen. He put the Zabrak Council in the line of fire. And finally, he ordered the entire city razed in an attempt to eradicate the Vong invasion.>

The Wookiee spread his arms wide. <He sacrificed everything about himself—his name, his legacy, his fame, his position—in an attempt to protect Iridonia. He gave orders that would have sent you as a Jedi Knight or me as a berserker straight into the arms of the dark side. He knew he was dying, so he sacrificed everything to protect Iridonia, and to protect you.> The Wookiee growled. <Now, will you throw away his sacrifice by pursuing this?>

Kativie’s head spun. Did Halyn really do all that? Every decision Halyn had made she had understood at the time, and had agreed with. Now, though, with the clarity of hindsight…He did do a lot of things that would send a Jedi to the dark side, she reluctantly realized. And when this is all over, I don’t know if history will remember Halyn as a hero or a villain.

<So please, Kativie, abandon this pursuit. Do not face the Yuuzhan Vong commander. I don’t doubt you will, but it will undo you.>

Kativie slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, Anishor, but if Halyn was willing to sacrifice everything for Iridonia, I can do nothing less until the Vong are wiped out.”

The Wookiee closed his eyes, then turned and walked away without another word.

The Jedi wasn’t particularly sensitive to emotions and thoughts—that was Kelta’s specialty—but she could feel two emotions clinging to the Wookiee like water to his fur: sadness…and resolve.

Kativie decided she didn’t want to ponder the possibilities, and as soon as the turbolift doors slid shut and cut him off from view, she washed him from her mind to concentrate on the matters at hand.

“I need a second,” she said aloud. She looked around the bridge. “Senator Alari, would you…?”

“It would be my honor,” the ex-mercenary said with a deep bow. “I represent all Zabraks to the New Republic—it seems fitting I would do so to the Yuuzhan Vong, as well.”

Kativie nodded. “Perfect. Rinnet?”

The starfighter coordinator came to attention, though her stance was weary.

“When I beat the Vong commander, bad things are going to happen,” Kativie said dryly. “They’re not going to take it well. Our battle line is going to stay firmly entrenched here, around the Cathleen, which should make it impossible for the Vong to penetrate. However, there’s the big issue of the fleet overhead.”

Kryi nodded. “And the skips they’ll be sending down after us.”

“Exactly. I know we probably won’t be able to clear the launch tunnels around Rak’Edalin in time, but at sundown we’ll need every fighting ship we can find in the air and ready to go. Starfighters, obviously, but every smuggler’s freighter, every corvette, every airskiff with a laser cannon needs to be manned and in the sky.”

“Do we attack them in space, or wait for them to come to us?” Kryi asked.

“We don’t want them to get too near any of our cities,” the Jedi said, “but we have a maneuvering advantage in atmosphere. I’ll leave the final decision up to you, but I would recommend letting them drop far enough inside atmosphere to give our fighters the advantage before attacking.”

“Even if we could get every fighter in the air,” Kryi warned, “it wouldn’t be enough to stop that armada.”

“I’m not expecting you to manage that,” Kat reassured her. “But do what you can. The Cathleen’s heavy turbolasers should do a number on anything that gets close—I doubt their biggest ships can make landfall—and the rest of the cities have shield and turbolaser defenses ready to go, and even if they’re not up to what Rak’Edalin’s specs were, they’ll be enough to make the Vong think twice.”

“Maybe,” was all Kryi would say.

Kat shrugged. “Our options are limited.”

“So this is it, then,” Li Coden spoke from a corner of the bridge. Kativie looked over at him in mild surprise—she hadn’t sensed his arrival.

“Halyn all but won this war for us,” Kativie said. “It’s up to us now to push Iridonia across the final line to victory.”

“It’s cost us a lot,” Li grunted.

Kat didn’t want to think about it—she’d already considered it once while speaking with Anishor. Her heart ached for her children, for her brothers, for her friends, but she forced the pain away. Mourn when it’s done, she told herself. The Force will sustain you for now. When the war is over, you can afford emotion. Not now. “Yes, it has,” Kativie conceded aloud. “But by standing our ground, we can see victory is within our grasp.”

The Jedi looked around the bridge. “Many of you are here because you were loyal to my brother, Halyn, and to the causes he fought for. Some of you are here because you don’t want to see Iridonia fall to the invasion—which was Halyn’s final cause. I am here because I love this world and the Zabraks who live here, and I’ll do anything to save them from the horror of a Vong victory here.”

She swallowed. “So this is it—this is our final stand, our last battle to defend Iridonia. Do not falter, and we can and will win freedom, and show the galaxy at large that the Yuuzhan Vong are beatable. We can do what even Coruscant could not—withstand the full strength of the Vong. So, I ask you,” she finished, unsnapping her lightsaber and holding it aloft over her head before igniting the blade, “stand with me as you would with Halyn. Join me for this one last battle, and Iridonia will be free of the Vong.”

Kelta Rose reached out and grasped the Force, gripping it as she would the hilt of her lightsaber. With every bit of strength she could muster, she wielded it like a weapon, bringing it to bear against her terrible, unseen, unfeeling foe. Her attack did nothing, like a lightsaber blade fizzling away from the touch of cortosis ore. The Jedi wanted to scream in frustration, but instead used it to fuel yet another futile attack against her enemy.

With the sensitivity she had always possessed, she could feel the damage the disease had done to Halyn Lance. She could feel the frayed nerves, the damaged senses, and the battered mind and soul. The Zabrak warrior had been as brilliant as a star throughout the long siege of Iridonia, burning as brightly as a Force-user, but now she could sense only the faint embers of his life slipping away from her grasp.

She attacked the disease, a creation of the Yuuzhan Vong, with everything she could muster, but her attacks seemed to slide over it, away from it, no matter what technique or approach she used.

She didn’t know if hours had passed, or minutes; time seemed to travel at its own pace when she was so deeply entwined in the Force.

Kelta reached for the Force again, but before she could renew her assault against the disease, a vision flashed into her mind.

“A Jedi Knight uses the Force for knowledge and defense, never attack,” Master Skywalker said to the class of potential Jedi.

Kelta sat cross-legged on the ground, feeling a trickle of the Force—a sensation she had intentionally avoided since before the birth of her child, Adreia. Now, on Yavin IV at Kativie’s urging, she reluctantly listened to the Jedi Master’s words, sitting amidst a group of students all younger than herself.

“But Master Skywalker, you participated in attacks against the Empire, even as a Jedi. You participated in attacks at Endor, at Bakura, at Mindor, at Wayland, and a lot more places that I don’t remember,” a younger student spoke up. “Did you not use the Force during that?”

“I did,” Master Skywalker acknowledged. “I used the Force while participating in those actions, but those attacks, as you call them, were in the defense of free sentients everywhere.”

“Isn’t that just semantics?” another student asked.

Kelta plucked a small white flower from the ground next to her, studying it as she listened to the discussion.

“Yes it is, and no, it isn’t,” the Jedi Master replied. “To some degree, yes, it is semantics. On another world, if you were to lift a blaster and kill someone, would it matter if you did it for cold-blooded reasons, or in defense of a victim?”

“Yes,” the first student said, “and I already know where your point is going. But…”

“The person who died at your attack would say you took offensive action, particularly if he had not yet threatened a life,” Master Skywalker said smoothly. “And yet, as a Jedi, the Force showed you his intention—did it matter if he had not yet acted upon it?”

The student leaned back with a troubled look on his face.

“The difference is in your intent,” Master Skywalker explained. “Do you raise your weapon in defense of another life, or to exhibit dominance?”

Kelta studied the flower closely, turning over the Master’s words in her mind. It was a familiar argument to her—she was all too-acquainted with the nature of the dark side. Her first master had tried to subtly corrupt her; her second had warned her and showed her the dangers of the dark side, and the importance of defense.

“Does it matter?” another student, a Twi’lek girl, asked quietly. “The results are the same.”

“To act in the defense of another is to allow the Force to guide your actions; to dominate is to slip into the shadow of the dark side,” Master Skywalker warned.

Kelta shook her head at the vision, unsure of what the Force was telling her. She reached out for the Force again, and another memory assaulted her.

Kelta stood over her first master, blade in hand, looking down at the broken woman with no small amount of contempt. “Your dominion over me is over,” she said harshly.

“You have been slow to come to this point,” the old, old woman said, her face far younger than her years. “But you have finally arrived. You will be a capable weapon.”

“I’m not a weapon for you to use,” Kelta warned. “You have no control over me. I am my own woman.”

“Don’t I? We all serve a master, young Listener,” the woman said. “The Jedi Knights of old served the Force, or so they believed—they have always been servants of the Republic. The Sith Lords serve their own base desires, and trade their humanity for their power and become slaves to the dark side. It is the nature of existence to serve something greater than yourself.”

“I’ll never serve you,” Kelta declared. “You’re a monster. You tried to turn me into your tool so you could rule Nam Chorios, because you don’t have the strength to overthrow the Hutt yourself.”

“Then what do you serve, Kelta Rose?” the dark woman asked her.

“I serve no one,” she snapped. “If I find a cause worthy to support, I will serve it, and the Force will guide me. But I’ll never let someone manipulate me. Not again.”

Kelta turned her back on the woman and walked away, leaving her alive. In hours, she knew she would be off the planet in a “borrowed” little Z-95 Headhunter, even if she wasn’t much of a pilot. All her life, she had been manipulated and controlled—from the Elders to her ex-boyfriend and now Taselda, they all tried to turn her into something to fit their needs. But she was her own woman now, with the Force at her back, and the galaxy would burn before she would submit to someone else’s machinations again.

The Jedi Knight staggered from the vision, a flood of old emotion overwhelming her. She remembered the horrors of her first apprenticeship, her flight across the Outer Rim, the Headhunter giving out in that forsaken little starport, only to be “rescued” by a Zabrak flight instructor looking for someone to run the books at his flight academy—which directly resulted in Kelta joining the Rebel Alliance, and serving for the next two years as part of a Rebellion starfighter wing.

She tried to grasp the Force again—she needed its power if she were to save Halyn’s life—but instead of responding it struck her with another vision of the past, the history that had hurt her so many times, over and over, in spite of her best efforts.

Kelta sighed as she descended into the seedy little bar. She had stopped at several of them across the Outer Rim as she had fled from place to place, and she noted wryly that they all seemed to be alike. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she reflected that trying to find work was difficult given her skills.

She had been raised in relative isolation, prepared to be a figurehead for a people she had rejected. She was a mediocre pilot and had never spent time farming or ranching. She’d never picked up a hydrospanner to fix anything herself, and she’d never even had a chance to perform physical labor. Her education had been limited—she could read and write Basic, of course, and knew her basic math, but so much of her youth had been wasted on the traditions and history of her tribe of Listeners. That knowledge was worthless in the wider galaxy.

So as she sidled up to the bar and ordered a very mild drink she had learned she could tolerate, she wondered what profession she could find for herself. Her options were very limited, she reluctantly concluded. She could try to get on with a freighter crew and do manual labor, or find someplace where she could learn to farm. The brief possibility of selling herself crossed her mind for a second, but she firmly banished that from the realm of possibilities.

Of course, the state of the Z-95 Headhunter made her options even more limited. She didn’t know if the little starship would hold out through another hyperspace jump or two; she didn’t have the funds to properly maintain it, and the stresses were starting to show. The idea of another hyperspace jump gave her a deep sense of forboding.

“Need to find work,” Kelta muttered to herself. Someone to serve, a little voice treacherously added silently. Someone who will use me and protect me and…

Shut up, she told the little voice firmly. Just shut up and go away.

“C’mon, I haven’t had a chance to say anything yet,” a deep male voice said in her ear, allowing Kelta to realize she had said the words aloud.

“Sorry,” she said, throwing the stranger a little smile. Her eyes were drawn upward to the top of his head—instead of hair, he had a vestigial array of horns.

“I’m a Zabrak,” the male said.

Kelta blushed. “Sorry.” I really sound like a backwater girl. Of course, I am a backwater girl.

“Did I hear you say you’re looking for work?” the Zabrak asked.

Kelta nodded. “My Z-95 is about to give out,” she said to the stranger. “So I’m looking for a job on a freighter. Know anyone looking?”

“Yeah,” the Zabrak said. “Me.” He smiled at her, and Kelta noted for the first time he was rather striking with his dark tattoos and easy smile. “I run a little flight academy on the Outer Rim—training rookies on Z-95 Headhunters. I’ve got some positions open, Miss…?.”

“Kelta Rose. I doubt I’d be much of a flight instructor,” Kelta said, her smile failing her. “I’m not much of a pilot.”

“I’m actually looking for someone to take care of the logistics of the flight academy,” the Zabrak said. “Someone to take care of the books, ensure we have supplies requisitioned in a timely fashion, have the necessary staff for cleaning, maintenance, cooking, and so forth.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Huh. I’ve never met a human with violet eyes before.”

Kelta’s mind raced. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” she said casually. “I’d be willing to give it a shot, though.”

“Excellent. My freighter is here, the Starwind. I’m parked over in Docking Bay Eighteen. I’ll be leaving here in twelve hours. If you’re not there by then, I’ll assume you turned down the job offer.” The Zabrak laid down several mismatched coins and waved to the bartender. “This should cover my drink and hers.”

As he turned to go, Kelta asked, “Wait, what’s your name?”

“Halyn Lance,” the Zabrak said with a smile before he walked out the door.

He’ll use you like the others have, the little voice told her. Don’t trust him.

But as she weighed her options, she reached out to the Force and could sense no ill intent from the Zabrak. There was plenty of secrecy—his mind seemed locked up like a safe—but his intentions toward her were decidedly benign. With the Headhunter on the verge of giving out, she decided it was worth the risk.

“No,” Kelta growled aloud to the Force. “I don’t have time for this. I have to save him first.”

The Force ignored her protestation, though, and when she tried to grasp the power again yet another vision flooded her senses.

She was on Rori, in the swamps outside Zephyr Base. Her master—her first true instructor in the ways of the Jedi—knelt in meditation a half-dozen meters away. Kelta mirrored his pose, feeling a trickle of Force-energy floating through her, like water dripping from a leaking faucet.

“To be a Jedi Knight is to be committed to the defense of everyone,” Master Sprint intoned. “It is not a profession—it is a way of life. It is total: every day, every hour, every minute, every second, you are a Jedi. This is not a commitment you can walk away from.”

“So I just wander around the galaxy, looking for evil to smite?” Kelta snarked.

Korris chuckled at that. “The Force guides us to where we are needed,” he answered her. “How else would you have found an instructor now, when the Jedi are all but extinct?”

Kelta did not have an answer for that.

“To be a Jedi is to surrender control of your destiny to the Force. The Sith believe they can control the Force and thus control their own destiny. To be a Jedi is to control your own desires—your will must be subjugated to the Force, or you will fall into the trap of the dark side.”

Kelta gasped for breath. The visions were coming too suddenly, too intensely for her to handle.

Then the Force showed her Luke Skywalker, a conversation only a few months ago.

“Kelta, you’ve been with the Jedi for a long time now. You have secrets that you don’t share, and I understand that. But…” the Jedi Master uncharacteristically hesitated. “Something limits you. Your potential lies untapped because something in your past still shackles you. And the Force has indicated that you are the one who needs to do this. I believe this, Kelta Rose, is what is needed not just for the Jedi or for the New Republic, but for you personally. I have no evidence…only what the Force has led me to believe.”

The Jedi Knight found herself lying on the floor staring upward, breathing hard. She began to reach out for the Force yet again, but stopped before she made contact with the energy flow. Think, Kelta. Halyn is dying, and everything you spent hours doing didn’t work. Now, whenever you reach out for the Force to try again, you’re confronted with visions. What’s the common factor?

Control.

She considered that for several long moments. Control. It’s always been about control. People have tried to control me for my talents, and I’ve sought to control myself, to control the Force. I’ve not fallen to the dark side and become a Sith, but maybe I’m going about it wrong. I’m trying to use the Force; the masters have always told me I need to allow it to control me.

The solution was deceptive in its simplicity. It can’t be that simple. To allow the Force to control me would mean I’d have to let down my defenses. Every time I’ve done that, the pain I feel from others through the Force overwhelms me and cripples me. If I try this, in a war zone, even if it doesn’t kill me it may cripple me to the point that I can’t help Halyn.

She dragged herself up to her knees and laid her hands on the Zabrak’s chest. She could feel his hearts beating oh-so-slow, too slow for any living sentient. I can take the risk, because the alternative means he dies.

With Halyn’s life in her hands, Kelta prepared herself for several long moments, breathing deep and cleansing away her fear, her pain, her anxiousness. When her mind was settled, she dropped her hard-built defenses against the Force.

The Force struck her with the impossible strength of a hurricane, sweeping her up in its energy.  She thought she heard herself scream as the energy flooded all of her senses, blinding and deafening her. It seemed to overwhelm her, threatening to rip away her very identity and leave her a mindless shell.

Her instincts screamed at her to slam her walls up, to push away the Force. If I do that, Halyn is lost, she found the strength to tell herself. If I hang on, there’s a chance…

Almost as abruptly as it begun, the storm subsided, and Kelta sensed she was in the eye of the proverbial storm. She found herself there, floating in a sea of warm power, energy that strengthened her, comforted her, gave her insight.

With the Force came the familiar anguish of the citizens of Rak’Edalin—the pain of Zabraks who had lost friends, lovers, children, parents, and homes in the bloody invasion. But for the first time she could ever recall, it didn’t debilitate her. She could sense their pain with the absolute clarity she always experienced, but it was separate from her, and it was not hers.

She marveled in the clarity the Force granted her, but not for long.

She had surrendered herself to the Force with a purpose, and she could sense time was critically short. Kelta did not reach out with the Force for Halyn, however.

The Force reached out with her.

Excruciating pain. Pain flowed from his fingertips to his shoulders, across his chest, down his abdomen, all the way out to his toes.

Pain. Pain that made a man want to die; pain that debilitated and crippled. Pain felt only by dying men, by those burned head to toe, of a sort that could only be felt by breaking every bone in the body.

Pain.

Pain.

It had been over a year since Halyn had felt pain, and he wondered if he had finally died and been sent to a galactic hell. Maybe it’s a hell reserved just for Iridonians, he thought distantly—Iridonians who have done horrible, unforgiveable things. Maybe I’ll see Arsani.

In the course of a year, he had forgotten just how painful simple physical pain could be.

He found the strength to open his eyes, and light stabbed him like vibroblades. He immediately shut them again, grimacing. Abused cheek muscles added their protest, and Halyn felt for a moment like every part of his body was informing him, with great detail, what a horrible person he was.

But for all his faults and all his mistakes, there was one thing that Halyn wasn’t: a quitter.

He opened his eyes again, rode out the shock of pain and light. His eyes refused to focus, but he persisted. He tried to swallow, his mouth and throat impersonating a desert, but still he persisted. He blinked, again, and again. Slowly moisture formed on his eyes, teardrops providing a protective shield. After long minutes, his eyes quieted their protestations enough for him to focus on the ceiling above.

I’m in the Cathleen’s med bay, he realized. And I’m still alive. And I’m feeling pain again. Unless this really is hell.

He tried to raise his arm; his muscles, filled with lactic acids, promptly told him no.

But his eyes had eventually yielded to his demands, so he kept up, slowly working his arms. He began by lifting just his fingertips, then his hands, then his forearms.

As the pain faded from harsh intensity to dull throb, he realized that two hands were laying upon his chest—hands smaller than his own, feminine but hardened.

He slowly turned his head to the side to see the hands’ owner. His neck opined that it was very likely broken, but he did his best to ignore it like his other treacherous limbs. Halyn’s eyes focused on a sweat-stained and greasy mass of red hair, elaborately braided like always.

It took him several attempts to open his mouth before he croaked, “Kelta…”

The Jedi looked up at him, amazement in her eyes. She was exhausted, he could tell, but her violet eyes burned with a new intensity, a new power he could not recall seeing there before. “Halyn,” she whispered. “Halyn, you’re going to be okay.”

“Dying,” the Zabrak managed. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. You deserved to know.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re going to live. The Force healed you.”

“Liar,” Halyn said. “Not a healer.”

“I didn’t heal you, Halyn. The Force has healed you.”

Halyn tried to sit up, but Kelta felt impossibly strong when she pushed him back down. “No. You need to rest.”

“The war,” Halyn said stubbornly as he tried to push himself up again. “Still fighting…”

“I can feel what you’ve done to yourself,” Kelta told him. “More than even you know. You really couldn’t feel anything, could you? That’s how you kept up with the Vong. You never felt your own exhaustion, you couldn’t feel your own ripped muscles or torn tendons. You pushed yourself literally past a living being’s breaking point because you couldn’t feel it. You’re paying the toll now.”

The Zabrak pushed up against her hand again. “No time to rest. Not until it’s over. Even if I’m going to live.”

“You need to rest.”

But Halyn had pushed himself up to sitting and was swinging his feet off the medical cot. Pain flared from his joints as they bent; inflamed tissue felt like fire. But he persisted, refusing to be held down or coddled. “I need to rest,” he rasped, “but afterward. There will be time then.”

Kelta sighed. “I would’ve thought being taken to the edge of death would have made you smarter than this.”

“What’s happened since I collapsed?” Halyn asked. “I remember giving the order to fire. Then nothing.”

“The Cathleen leveled Rak’Edalin,” Kelta reported. “I don’t know anything after that, because I came down here with you.”

Halyn nearly collapsed when he slid off the cot, but the red-maned Jedi caught him until his abused legs found their strength to stand. “Who’s in command?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Kelta said with tired exasperation.

“We need to find out,” Halyn said, his voice coming back. “It’s not too late for the Vong to reverse our gains.”

“You need to rest, Halyn,” Kelta said.

The Zabrak felt the pain fading all across his body—not away, unfortunately, but to a tolerable level. Strength was returning to his limbs. “Afterward,” he repeated.

The medbay door slid open to admit a new figure. Halyn turned and saw the huge, unmistakeable form of a Wookiee berserker. “’Ello, Anishor,” he said with a pained smile.

The Wookiee stopped dead in his tracks. <Halyn?> he growled, his voice quiet and disbelieving. <Halyn?>

“Kelta had a Jedi trick left,” the Zabrak said.

The Wookiee roared in delight and bounded across the medical bay, wrapping both the Zabrak and the Jedi in a hug that lifted their feet clear of the floor. <Halyn! Kelta!> he laughed. <You’re alive!>

Halyn’s head swam as the Wookiee spun them around the room. “Easy, Anishor,” he wheezed. “I’m still trying to live here.”

The Wookiee chuffed with laughter as he set them both done. Halyn staggered a bit, but his legs held. “What’s going on? Who’s in command?” he asked breathlessly.

The Wookiee was still grinning, his lips peeled back in a smile that would have been intimidating to anyone else. <How did you save him, Kelta? I can smell the difference on him now—the scent of death is gone!>

“Who’s in command, Anishor?” Halyn repeated. “What’s going on?”

The Wookiee finally sobered, his eyes shifting from the exhausted Jedi to the revived Ul’akhoi. <Your sister has taken command. The Vong have landed reinforcements from their fleet, but they’re not much—our forces outnumber theirs by a good margin. The fleet stays in position to threaten Iridonia.>

“Let’s get Kativie down here to talk strategy,” Halyn rasped.

The Wookiee hesitated, and Halyn knew in a heartbeat that something was wrong.

<Your sister has accepted a duel with the Yuuzhan Vong commander,> he said slowly. <She left orders for the inevitable battle and left the Cathleen with Senator Alari as her second, not ten minutes ago.>

“Where?” Halyn demanded. His legs protested again as he started to walk toward the medbay door.

“Halyn, you’re in no shape…” Kelta began.

“Where?” Halyn demanded again with all the strength he could muster.

<The site where the Council stood,> Anishor said.

“Raise her on comlink,” the Zabrak said as he continued his persistent line toward the medbay’s portal.

<She left it behind, intentionally,> Anishor told him. <She said she didn’t want any distractions.>

The door slid open at Halyn’s touch. “So what aren’t you telling me, furball?” he muttered. “There’s something else, or you wouldn’t have hesitated before telling me where she’d gone.”

<Kativie is on the edge of the dark side,> Anishor said bluntly. <I don’t know what will happen to her if she fights this duel.>

“Then I guess we have to stop it,” Halyn said as he slowly walked out into the corridor, his stride becoming steadier and stronger with each step.

The turbolift door slid shut around the three of them before anyone spoke again, though Anishor and Kelta exchanged looks that Halyn pointedly ignored.

“Halyn,” Kelta said quietly, “I know better than to think I can stop you. But please, you need to live.”

“Not at my sister’s sake,” he said bluntly.

<Your death will not help her. Your demise is what sent her to the brink already.>

The turbolift stopped near the quarters where Halyn maintained his private armory. His motion was almost fluid by the time he reached the door—the pain was largely under control now, though to himself his motions felt sluggish.

He shrugged his duster into place as Kelta and Anishor watched him, both their eyes pained. He slung a zhaboka across his back and, after a moment of hesitation, reached for the simple sword he had found in the Starwind’s hold.

“For the hope of Iridonia,” he murmured as he slung the blade from his belt, under the big duster.

“Halyn,” Kelta said wearily, “I don’t have the strength to go with you right now, and I know I can’t stop you. Well, I could, but you’d never forgive me if something happens to Kativie. So here.”

She handed him an object with a small smile. “Think of it as a token of my affection.”

Halyn took it with a raised eyebrow. “A token, huh?”

“Yes. I love you, Halyn,” she said. She stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Halyn’s eyes widened, but he embraced her in return. If I really am alive, and I’m going to live, then this is what I want, he told himself. More than anything. But I have to finish this first. He could read in her eyes understanding, and when their embrace ended, he said, “I love you too, Kelta.”

He turned reluctantly and looked up at Anishor. “I’m going to need a second.”

Anishor’s eyes widened. <You’re crazy.>

“It’ll work.”

<If it doesn’t kill you.>

“It’s a distinct possibility.” Halyn shrugged. “Are you in or out?”

<You are my honor brother,> Anishor answered.

“Then let’s go.”