The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

VIII: Ugly Ways

Who was his first student? Dev, maybe, in that brief time? Kiro, he'd never forget. More and more then, as the years went on. Kam, Streen, Gantoris, Corran, Dorsk… Every one of his students needed a personal touch. Something that he could connect to them with. Each new student was like learning to teach all over again, having to discard what he thought worked and try anew to find common ground and understanding. Some made it easy, like Tionne. Others made life interesting, like Corran. Part of the wonder of building his Order was in experiencing all the ways the Force manifested through those who could touch it. No two Jedi were ever alike. No two ever felt quite the same, believed the same.

Cross-legged, Luke sat across from one of his most challenging puzzles. Aeonid Thiel's eyes were closed, but minute muscles constantly twitched across his broad face. In the millions of lightyears Luke had crossed, he'd seen all manner of beings and every stripe and size humans came in, but the Astartes were and remained arresting. Not the tallest or even biggest beings in the galaxy - a bull herglic could well match Aeonid in both height and bulk, possibly strength, but in motion the Astartes had a most peculiar dynamism that none other of the human line could claim.

After all, they were weapons.

Some of his students had come to him in grim straights: driven by grief or rage, hatred or sorrow, fear or desire. He'd drawn Kam out of the darkness of his life and nudged Corran Horn away from blind retribution.

It was simple because they were all people. Just men and women, no matter where they came from.

Increasingly difficult was seeing Aeonid as anything but a weapon. The Astartes was trying to meditate and clear his thoughts, following the patterns Luke had laid out for him, but his mind was almost violently loud. If Luke could touch Artoo's droid brain, he suspected the sensation might be similar. Aeonid paid attention to everything.

Each time Luke exhaled, Aeonid cataloged the tenor of the sound and instinctively determined how far away Luke sat. The warm breeze of Yavin over them both - he felt Aeonid pick apart the varied scents in the air, organizing them into known and unknown, potential hazard or benign. The sound of stintarils barking in the jungle. Even the subtle flap of wings. Aeonid heard it all, smelled it all, thought of it all. Like a droid or some battle-computer.

Even the most tumultuous of his students, broiling in their own unprocessed emotions and impulses, did not approach the chaotic order of Aeonid Thiel's mind.

Meditation was, quite as the Astartes said, not the answer.

Luke opened his eyes. Thiel did so at the same time, only further proving the live-wire focus the Ultramarine held to.

"I'm wondering - why are you here?"

Thiel's confusion blossomed.

"I am here to learn of the Force."

Luke sighed, relaxing from his position to stretch his legs out. He gestured to Thiel, who did similarly. Long ago, this particular ruin was once a temple similar to many others in the complex, though nowhere near the size of the Great Temple. All that remained now were the cyclopean slabs that were once the foundation, swept clean by unknown cataclysm - or perhaps by planned deconstruction. A popular enough place for rest and reflection, left empty today for Master Skywalker's lesson. They'd brought food as well, a packed lunch of sorts with an intention to spend the entire day in lessons.

Aeonid was, despite his constant tension and permanently raised guard, very willing to go along with Luke's instruction.

Pulling out a ration bar, Luke removed the foil.

"The Force is energy that fills and binds all living beings. We are luminous in the Force, all bound together in life and in death." He took a bite, considered it good, and nodded definitively. "That's the Force, Aeonid. You've learned of it. Now, what else?"

"I am to learn to command it."

"As you would master the blade or blaster."

Thiel nodded. "Just so. My Primarch wishes to understand this power."

Stones rose about them. Luke chewed and they revolved about the pair. Interweaving, they became a ballet. Orbiting and twirling, spinning about each axis and coming so close it seemed impossible they did not collide. Now larger bricks lofted up as well, slotting into the play of finer gravel. Aeonid watched it all, rapt, expression blank. A menhir tore free, twice the height of the Astartes. It did not waver a micron as it too joined the telekinetic display.

Still Luke slowly worked his way through his ration bar, never looking away from Aeonid.

"I can help you understand."

Thiel's expression was hungry.

"But you'll need to unlearn everything you've learned."

That hunger became guarded wariness. Warning of danger radiated from the man in a moment. As was to be expected.

"I will not be made to abandon who I am. What I am, Master Skywalker. Even my father cannot order me to."

"That isn't what I said. I accept that you're Astartes. Just as I have, before, accepted the pasts of beings who came to this Praxeum wishing for more. Just as I can't stop being Luke Skywalker, you can't stop being Aeonid Thiel."

Each stone paused in their flight. Only the barest rustle could be heard as they all settled back to the ground, returning each to where they had come from, until all was still again.

"I'll ask again. Why are you here?"

"I have said already-"

"I know. You're ordered to learn about and command the Force." In an outsized, homespun tunic, Thiel might look the part of a Jedi, but the rigid tension across his body belied his garb. "If I told you that the Force couldn't be commanded, what would you say?"

Aeonid, to his credit, did not immediately speak. Opened fully to the Force in the moment, Luke shied from attempting to glean the Astartes' thoughts, instead observing the process of his consideration. The way Aeonid's Force presence shuttered like iron when his mind was made, right before he replied.

"I would disagree. Mastery is the way of the universe. You yourself claim the title of 'Master', do you not? An interesting etymological choice, for the claim the Force is not to be commanded." Aeonid waved a hand, gesturing at the ruins around. "Your display only argues against you. I have served with psykers and even those of high talent would be hard-pressed to demonstrate so fine a touch at telekinesis. I daresay, even some practitioners of the Thousand Sons would be impressed."

"Then I have command of the Force."

"It's self-evident. I have reviewed the records of Obroa-skai and I have seen the prowess of your nephew and Knight Taral, along with your own. Jedi prove to be adroit and great warriors, which I must only attribute to the Force." Aeonid's voice grew softer. "And from personal experience, I have never faced an opponent such as yourself."

"War does not make someone great," Luke admonished, then bit down melancholic amusement. "This is exactly what I mean. You've lived your life with only one goal, but now you're trapped."

Aeonid held up both hands.

"I see no chains."

"I do. You're suffocating in them. Aeonid, what do you intend to do when this war is over?"

Blue eyes narrowed.

"Whatever my Primarch commands."

"What would you prefer?"

"To return to my galaxy."

"And?"

"And continue the Great Crusade."

"Why?"

"Clarify."

Luke rose to his feet, height such that even seated, Aeonid's head was still level with his chest.

"I'm asking: why? Why do you want to continue your Crusade? What drives you?" Aeonid opened his mouth, but a raised hand stayed his tongue a moment more. "I know it's the order of your Emperor and your Primarch, but I'm asking you to look past that. What drives Aeonid Thiel?"

The Astartes answered with a swiftness that pained Luke's heart.

"Duty."

"Duty. So - to do as you are told."

Aeonid rubbed fingers across the stubble at his jaw.

"I am not uneducated, Master Skywalker. The concepts of philosophical debate are not new to Ultramar. In our spare moments, the Primarch encourages a breadth of study. I understand the concept of the social contract. I was elevated to this body by the faith and trust the Emperor and my Primarch had in me. They gave me this, and in return, I serve.

And I understand tautology. I do not hold to duty because it is commanded. I do because I have not been convinced it is wrong. If that is your aim, then this is the end of our lessons."

"It isn't."

Hunching slightly, bracing elbows on knees, Aeonid watched Luke as he paced back and forth.

"Then I am still listening."

When the thought arrived, Luke hesitated. He trusted Aeonid, mostly, and the Imperials. They were violent and steeped in principle, but they had shown particular principles of honor and a tremendous distaste for anything that could even obliquely be considered betrayal.

"Do you care about human life?"

Few beings in two galaxies could claim to have rendered an Astartes speechless, and now Luke Skywalker could claim that honor along with the altogether more singular of doing similar to a Primarch. Abject confusion, tainted liberally with building anger, carefully marshaled, bled from the Ultramarine.

"I don't mean that you don't care about humans - I'm asking if you care about human life."

A frown etched across Thiel's face, tugging at old, thin scars.

"Explain the difference."

Luke held out his hand. Aeonid eyed it, wary, eyes flicking between the offered appendage and Luke.

"Instead of explaining, let me show you."

The Astartes' fist engulfed Luke's hand. Like second nature, he reached for Aeonid in mind and soul. The Ultramarine burned bright in the Force, bright enough Luke could have laughed that he never suspected until their duel. For all his luminance, Aeonid sheltered behind durasteel walls a thousand meters high and just as thick. That light glimmered out through only a handful of tiny cracks and seams.

Come and see, Luke shared. Aeonid, wordless, could only follow, tugged along.

Minds assaulted them immediately. Loud minds but orderly ones, trained ones, ones that despite their youth bore an underpinning of structure instead of a cacophonous riot. The trainees, the younglings as they went about their lessons.

Come and see.

There was a history lesson. Tionne sang as she plucked her double viol, fingers moving along paths of habit. In lounges and on cushions and on thick mats, young beings swayed to the music, back and forth, back and forth. Eyes, paired and clustered, watched slender fingers dance over strings and shone with watery emotion. Hearts beat quicker.

Come and see.

Chitter, a Vor, swallowed on a warm heat in her throat. She loved the Praxeum, she really did, and her friends, but she'd been homesick lately. It came and went, but last night she had a vivid dream of her parents and woke up crying. She was too old to be homesick, so she didn't tell anyone, but now Master Tionne was singing and it reminded her so much of home that it made her want to laugh and cry. Associative synesthesia sprung scents of warm cooking, of soft coverlets and the sharp smell of grass on the breeze.

Come and see.

Tionne pitched her voice subtly higher, matching closer Chitter's mother, shifting key to play along a more traditional Vortex key and Chitter's emotions spiked, silent tears welling in her deep-set eyes. Catharsis - a boil lanced, pressure released, Chitter's chest eased and though her eyes were hot and she swallowed hard, the little Vor settled more comfortably on her cushion and her thin lips turned upward on her triangular face.

Come and see.

Sannah and Tahiri whispered with some urgency, cautious eyes on the move, making sure no one was around. The content of their hushed conversation went unheard, but Tahiri's excitement bled clean and washed over the young Melodie, redoubling and rebounding like a constructive wave-form, until Tahiri was bouncing in place. Under the excitement was longing, deep and heartfelt, a longing for another half, for the part that completed her that she did not yet understand.

Come and see.

Kam knelt in front of Izzuviz, carefully applying antiseptic to one scratched joint. The Brizzit youth could not weep like a mammaloid, but his antennae drooped and his multiple other limbs twitched as the stinging ointment was applied.

"Be more careful," Solusar admonished, peeling an adhesive bandage from a swatch and gently pressing it on. Izzuviz ducked his overlarge head, chagrined. "I know you and Zzivizu like to race, but how would you feel if Zuzu had tripped?"

The Brizzit's thorax ached. He imagined his hatch-brother here instead and wanted to curl up.

See.

Luke released Aeonid's hand.

​Luke.

A voice whispered in Luke's ear. Feminine, masculine, familiar as Mara, as alien as Yuuzhan Vong.

The temple foundation - gone. Aeonid - gone. Yavin - gone. Darkness swirled about him, physical, manifest. From beneath his feet came first glimmers of light, so faint his eyes had to be deceiving him, then growing stronger. A vortex, full of spinning motes, blooming beneath him, unfolding and flattening.

Each mote burned white and yellow, blue and orange, red, pinpricks on darkness and between them filled in gauzy clouds and the vortex spun out arms and trailing threads and the Galaxy glowed beneath Luke's feet.

Ah, he thought. It had been a while.

Deep breaths cleared his mind, ready to accept whatever the Force had to offer him.

Luke.

Breath tickled the back of his neck, raising hairs. He didn't turn.

Luke.

It echoed, from everywhere and nowhere, all about him.

From the darkness, into the light of the galaxy, came a clawed foot. Straightening from the gloom, a powerfully built form held out one thickly muscled arm. Sinuous lethality wove about it, squirming between clenched fingers and straightening into a great spear that extended above and below, far out of sight. The Yuuzhan Vong, for it could be no other creature, was etched night, carved ebon, chiseled from obsidian. Its armor was polished and glimmering as if wet, its flesh devouring all light. Silver scars glowed with dark light Suggestions of hooks and long, slender spikes sprouted from shoulder and chest, knee and elbow. A great crown of thorned horns rose from a full-faced mask, a mask without holes for eyes. Stygian shadow rippled from its shoulders, a cloak of midnight, flecked with singularity shine.

His lightsaber was in his hand. Instead of green, it hissed silver and white.

Luke.

Without looking, he knew where his feet were planted. Both by the Core. Left foot by Coruscant, right by Fondor. He bent his knees, bringing his 'sabre to a ready stance, high near his right shoulder, angled inward. The Yuuzhan Vong took another step, slithering darkness squirming into the disc of the galaxy where its clawed toes punctured.

From beneath its armored skirts, new figures appeared. Each was a mimicry of the greater Yuuzhan Vong; simpler in shape, diminutive in size, but they came in multitude, spilling out into view. Each the height of the Yuuzhan Vong's knee, they were a dozen, a hundred, a thousand, tumbling over one another and grasping at the light of the Galaxy beneath them. Bladed fingers sunk deep into the disc of stars. Razor-toothed mouths beneath sightless helms bit and tugged at starflesh.

Luke.

They spread across the Outer Rim, the Mid Rim. The Colonies.

Beneath his feet, the disc tilted. Canted. He stumbled, suddenly off balance.

More Yuuzhan Vong spilled from beneath the greatest one. The galaxy tipped more. The shadows bred and multiplied. On the light they fed, until the disc was worn away, etched by ichorous acid, punctured and pockmarked by talon and claw. Stars began to slide down the plane of the galaxy, tinkling like chimes as they fell to the dark. The bounced from one another, they plinked and plunked, musical like a dirge for the end of the world. The beat was tritonic, rising in timbre until it matched the hissing and gabbling from the hordes of invaders.

From near the Core, Luke felt a sudden new presence, mind and soul, one he knew. Among the stars flared a new light, a hard one, blue-violet, limned in black, like negative color. He shivered.

Luke, spoke the voice of his father.

​His fingertips left Aeonid's and Luke sucked in the jungle's humid air. The vision fled, as suddenly and quickly as it arrived.

The Ultramarine peered up at him, nonplussed.

"I - what was this?"

His father's voice echoed in his ears and Luke marshaled his thoughts. He could consider what he'd seen later, right now, his responsibility remained with his student.

"A life-" Luke coughed, cleared his throat, voice suddenly hoarse. "A life isn't about just 'being alive'. A life is about living. Friendships, companionship. Experiences, Aeonid. Feeling love and hurt, fear and wonder, joy and sadness. What I'm asking you is: do you care about human life? What it means to be a being among beings?"

Aeonid opened his mouth, paused, thought the better of it.

"You need to answer that question first, not to me, but to yourself. After that, you can ask the most important question. Does life need to be human for it to be worthy?"

He left the big Astartes chewing on that, driven by the need to see and speak with the other Masters. After so long with the Force utterly silent, so tangible, so clear a vision had him worried.

A bulky starship rippled fire from its flanks - and froze. In the hologram, blurred streaks could be seen of enormous, physical shells just then escaping plumes of combustible propellant. One manicured nail, buffed to a silken shine, flicked through the hologram. It ran backward, tongues of flame sucking back inward to broad-snouted barrels, then the recording played again, this time at a quarter speed. Attitude thrusters spumed silvery ion-exhaust as the battleship rolled about its long axis, taking splatters of hungry plasma across black-violet crackles of energy.

Pinch, then spread fingertips and the hologram zoomed out, focused ship shrinking down to reveal its dance partner, a lumpen, ugly Yuuzhan Vong cruiser analogue. Those very same shells spat out of the battleships' fixed broadside guns smacked into the asteroid exterior and she nodded as the miid-roic crackled apart beneath the barrage. Angry hyphens of plasma help speed along the death of the stricken living warship, turning coral into streaky whorls of magma.

Her office was darkened, windows tinted enough to make it evening instead of high noon. Blue light from a dozen holos painted her pale skin in strange tones, but Viqi Shesh noticed none of it. Enraptured, she scrolled through spy-satellite recordings, top-secret clearance snubfighter gun camera footage, shaky first-hand civilian vid-captures through cockpit screens of freighters. There was Opolor's Vow, frozen just as its 'lances' cracked out toward a vong dreadnought. There was Sorpenton, nucleonic blooms of magma missiles harrying the doughty battlecruiser, venting atmosphere but still beating down several frigate-analogues. Here was Son of Iax, plunging prow-first through a miid-roic.

One hologram stood out in contrast - a scrolling list rather than visuals. She glanced at it, occasionally, and a part of her recognized that she should probably feel some manner of emotional distress to read the dirge of the dead. Anlage, Amerce, Commendable - the rest of the lost ships, destroyed before they could even be formally christened was considered a catastrophic loss. Not to mention more than a third of Fifth Fleet that had been either destroyed or crippled.

She really should feel bad about that, but she kept replaying the way Opolor's Vow trembled along its entire length with each world-shattering broadside.

Oh, all the souls lost were a tragedy, of course. May the Force guide them, things like that. The ships, though…

The feeling that had lasted all morning and still kept a mischievous grin etched across her face was not entirely unlike the aftermath of an athletic night. None of Fifth Fleet made it out unscathed, but according to initial reports, only the ships the Exiles called 'cruisers' suffered any notable damage. Their flagship was alleged to have made it through entirely unscathed. Star Destroyer this, Star Destroyer that…Viqi dragged over an image of Yald, carbon-scored across her formerly grey-white hull, scorching out Republican Red markings and adjusted herself in her gel-pack chair.

"Victor," she called, depressing the intercom key.

"Madam?" Her second replied immediately, as expected.

"Arrange a link with my honored Auntie. For-" she glanced at the chron. "-for forty-five minutes from now. Tell her that I expect her schedule to be open."

"Madam…" She could hear the caution in her Chief of Staff's voice, though he'd never gainsay her.

"Do it, Victor." She cut the intercom, flicking fingertips to call up House Shesh audits. Among the smallest of the Ten Families of Kuat, Shesh held in perpetuity only a portion of the famous shipyard ring and outlying facilities in the system. Lists of current orders offered themselves up, all due to her standing within the family, only a few blacked out and redacted. Her Aunt would have the authority to reveal those, an authority that would be Viqi's by the end of the day.

The old hawkbat's clutching fingers were tight about the Family, clenched hard over all one hundred and nineteen years of her life. Just thinking of how much she had to kowtow and beg to pry Malaghi Shesh away reddened her cheeks and had her teeth grinding. At the creaking age of her aunt there were few joys left in her dusty life besides humiliating others of the family.

That was just fine.

Viqi Shesh had been the woman to reach a hand out to the Imperium-in-Exile, the Imperium-in-Exile who had just, in front of the entire galaxy, stood up to the Yuuzhan Vong and put a thumb in their eye. Oh, to imagine if she'd let it all pass on to Ministry instead of securing it under CSI. She'd have to get Praget something nice for that. Maybe a seat on the Advisory Council; that would be fitting.

Viqi daydreamed. Her aunt would come on knees with bowed head before her, now.

Waving her hand, every hologram cut off, banishing the ultramarine glow and leaving her office in shadows. Languid, leonine, Viqi interlaced fingers above her head and sighed in satisfaction. Whatever Shesh had, she'd use. It didn't matter if it meant promising slipways, treasure chests full of corusca gems or even her hand, the Exiles would come to her Family, and hers first and only.

Sherin prayed under this breath with a fervency he'd never known he had. What he prayed to, he really was not quite sure - the Force, maybe, but he was pretty sure the Jedi said it didn't work that way. Whatever was out there, as long as it - or he, or she, or however it was supposed to be that gods worked, he had no idea - was keeping an eye on him, that would be enough. Sherin never considered himself a religious man, but when the Vong showed up and rang Fondor's bell hard enough it was still ringing hours later - that changed a fellow. Teach an old nek new tricks, Sherin supposed, though after thirty years of knocking the heads of vagrant addicts, retirement would've been preferable to conscription and finding some kind of higher power.

Going from being night patrol for the local Guild warehouse to being tossed an old DC-15 and a few plasma grenades and told to 'kill anything with scars' had him scratching his head and wondering about that hazard pay everyone talked about. Because - and Sherin swore a ripely foul invective in Huttese as prang prang went two bugs into the makeshift barricade he huddled behind - because even though he was probably going to die today, he'd much rather die knowing he'd become a rich man. Sherin tugged at his mask, adjusting the ill-fitting filter over his mouth and nose again.

Ventif, eyes so wide Sherin could see the boy's entire irises, was locked up tense and tight. Rings of pale skin showed around his eyes, where the dirt and ash hadn't caked. Claw-fingered hands clutched at his own deece so hard his knuckles popped. Dusty blond hair, freckles, and the kind of complexion only someone in their late teens could claim, Ventif'd shut down an hour ago, last time the scarred bastards tried the wall.

"Venty, wake up, wake up, don't wanna die on sitting your ass," Sherin shoved the kid gently - Ventif only almost tipped over. "If you've still got charge left in that blaster when I die, I swear I'll haunt you."

Ventif sort of looked through him, but the way he mechanically clambered back to his feet meant that someone was at least sort of home.

"Good enough." Sherin peeked over the barricade, wincing. Every time, he just knew he'd eat a bug like that poor bugger yesterday. Kolmec? Kollek? Something like that. He was still there, under a sheet, missing most of his face. The Sullustan had gone quick, small blessings.

Nothing he could see. Given that the air was choked with ashfall, that didn't mean all that much. Mix the ash from the continent-sized fire from that ship that came down with all the chemical fumes Fondor put out already, mix in smoke from burning blocks and factories and visibility was like trying to peer through gasleen-sludge. Oily and thick, twenty meters at best, and it was mostly just shapes and outlines.

Had to be a little jealous of the bugs the scarheads had, since grenades didn't have a mind of their own. Have to just lob and hope.

Well, they'd sent some bugs his way, which was a statement, and Sherin never liked to leave a conversation unfinished. He propped his deece up, squeezed off a few shrieking shots of blasterfire into the murk, then dropped back down a step. Ventif was panting, facing the barricade, head down and chin tucked to his chest.

"Fraggin' Clone Wars vintage," Sherin muttered, "old as I am."

"Don't wanna die, don't wanna die, don't wanna die," Ventif whispered.

"Didn't you hear? Just have to hold on till the Guilds release the war droids. Heard there's even old mothballed armor they're digging up. Can't imagine the kinds of things they've got stashed away."

"Don't wanna die."

Sherin glanced up at the black murk above, hiding the sky, the stars. Fondor's capital, Oridin City, used to glow from over the horizon, ablaze with the tops of its starscraper towers visible at the right times. Now it was all lost, choked away in swirling murk.

"Me either," he admitted.

Centerpoint receded behind them. Like their arrival, Ebrihim ferried the Solo brothers in his quaint little yacht, taking them back to Drall and the waiting Governor-General. The ancient station seemed diminished as the yacht left it, as if something vital had been stolen away. A handful of New Republic Navy ships lingered around it, orbiting at a respectable distance after the station's unexpected actions. None spoke until the Double Worlds themselves were small, shrinking ever more until they were ruddy discs the size of a fist.

"You did the right thing," Jacen assured.

"I didn't do it for you," Anakin's focus was elsewhere, unwilling to meet his brother's gaze. His rapt attention stayed focused on the starfield beyond the yacht's transparisteel bubble-cockpit, bisected by the plume of the galaxy and bright glow of the Core that painted across part of the sky. "But yeah, I know."

"It would have ended in an ugly way," Ebrihim tried. "What did you do?"

Anakin sighed.

"I turned it off."

Jacen felt his brother's lie.

The ride from Opolor's Vow aboard the Thunderhawk was brief. Regil had commanded the grand cruiser to high anchor, only a dozen kilometers from the assembled and beleaguered Republic fleet. Near half of the capital ships present were lost; either destroyed or too damaged to be repaired. Those that remained bore some manner of wounds, from superficial carbon scoring on the flagship to enormous holes punched deep through armor and interiors on others. They held onto life, surviving dockyard technicians and specialists already swarming across the hulls.

Optarch peered through the crystalflex canopy at the growing field of dead ships held at a distance, sparks of light waiting to be cannibalized for armor sheeting, hardware, whatever could be scavenged. The Republican 'Star Destroyer' was looming close, the triangular expanse of grey metal trimmed in red blocking out part of the sky. He patted the pilot on the shoulder, ceramite palm to glazed blue pauldron, and stepped back into the troop bay.

Cornelius Regil nodded to him, securely buckled into place along with three aides.

'Nearly there, Lieutenant?'

Optarch nodded. The rank still felt peculiar, though his tenure as a sergeant had been long and faultless.

'Nearly. We will be docking in moments.' The demi-squad also locked in place checked weapons, tapped the hilts of holstered gladii. Six marines, a small honor guard. The two youths who had caught his eye were among them: Zalthis and Solidian. He'd thought to bring more, but Regil was unconcerned.

'I admit: I would like to see one of their vessels up close.'

Optarch nodded again.

'It's a point of pride, you know. I've served aboard every class of starship to leave Terra. Well. All those that are in the Navy. I confess these Republic warships are not much to look at, but they seem to do well enough.'

'They took more than fifty percent casualties, Admiral.'

He brushed it off with a wave of his hand.

'I didn't say they were impressive, Captain. Just that they seemed to do well enough.'

'I suppose. I am unsure of the expected outcome now. We had been dispatched to be the hammer upon the Republic's anvil. Now, we were hammer and anvil both.'

'A fanciful way of saying 'We saved them', lord Astartes.'

'A roundabout way of saying that we are committed now. With the original plan, the victory would have been shared. Instead, this…I would not call it victory, but this stalemate was a product entirely of our intercession.'

Regil tapped his lip, as from outside the Thunderhawk they heard the telltale sign of atmosphere – noise returning, knocks and bumps and clanks as the claws extended, as the landing sequence ran through.

'It gives us a position of strength. I see no concern here.'

Optarch shifted. 'My concern is what follows. The Republic will not question our desires now: this surely was a demonstration to secure it, beyond others, but…while I have no qualms about greater involvement, my Primarch…' He trailed off. The Lord Admiral raised a grey eyebrow, slashed through with an old scar.

'You believe he will restrict our deployment to the world?'

'I cannot say. It would pain me to leave unfinished business. I am sure you agree.'

Regil adjusted the cuff of his greatcoat, glancing to his aides.

'I would like another piece of those rocks hiding from me.'

For convenience, Admiral Brand had ordered assembled comfortable arrangements in a bay just off the primary hangar. Optarch was grateful he would not need to spend time ducking and dodging through hatchways and corridors unsuited to his stature and was sure his attendant honor squad felt the same. Instead, a smartly uniformed Republic Navy officer greeted them at the foot of the Thunderhawk ramp, imploring them to follow. She led them past ranks of fragile-looking strikecraft toward what appeared to be formerly a machine shop, set into the port side of the broad hangar floor.

Inside was their host, Admiral Brand, a tall man, turning grey, firm and serious, along with a dozen aides and officers. Greetings were exchanged and renewed, for it was merely the first time all had met in the physical. Optarch noted more than a few glances askance at Lord Regil as he settled comfortably into an offered chair, likely at the glaring red bionic of his eye and clicking silver and clockwork augmetic that replaced his left hand. The people of this galaxy seemed, at times, to be displeased with outward and obvious augmetics – strange, considering their twisted obsession with abominable intelligences. None were present, thankfully: the ubiquity of the machines pleasantly but notably absent.

Assessing the seating on offer, Optarch elected to stand, hands clasped behind his back, a short distance from the broad conference table. Refreshments were offered, mostly declined save for chilled water for the Lord Admiral, who sipped with relish.

Then the final member of the Republic's entourage arrived – shimmering to life as if seated in a chair, though transparent and shaded indigo: Senator Shesh. She had been, apparently, instrumental in securing the New Republic's focus to fall on the distant xeno world of Bothawui, rather than the intended Corellia. Optarch knew little of her, merely what had been included in briefings and from his own Lieutenant - Captain's - recounting of the summit.

According to Noskaur, who had spoken with her most of all, she was the representative for the New Republic's government. And 'was a very odd woman, all told'. What that meant the Iterator had not clarified, merely raising bushy eyebrows in an expression the Astartes could not read.

Optarch eyed the tall woman, recalling the organizational structure of this Republic. Alike in some respects to some pre-Unity Macraggian dynasties, with elected officials and heads of state to lead a representative senate. Some of the old traditions remained, in parts, throughout the Five Hundred worlds and he reckoned her role easily enough. Regardless of what Noskaur had said, she was the interface between this New Republic and the Imperium. A fine proponent too, by the Iterator's reckoning.

To her, he granted a short bow, little more than a dip of his head and a brief sign of the Aquila. Ultramarian respect for governance died hard. This the Senator noticed, a slow smile spreading across her face as she inclined her head in return.

There was representation for the local authorities – Guildmaster Eeshu Naa and Security Chief Semblum. Both were human, appearing terribly gaunt doubtlessly from lack of sleep, rounding out the group in a pleasing manner to the Lieutenant. The former was a straightbacked and severe looking woman and the latter a man of indeterminate age, remarkably nondescript.

'Admiral.'

'Admiral.'

'Guildmaster.'

'Lieutenant.'

'Chief.'

'Senator.'

'Admiral.'

'Lieutenant.'

Regil cleared his throat, tapped his dataslate and glanced around the conference table. 'I'm pleased we can all meet again, alive and well.'

Brand sighed, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his chin and glancing at Shesh. 'It came close, Admiral.'

Semblum glanced around the table, incredulous.

'Close?' He repeated. 'We can see the damned vong from Oridin. It was a bantha-hair from tipping completely in orbit. Half the planet is dark.'

'Contain yourself, Chief.' Naa interlaced her fingers, leaning forward. 'I would like to open by formally submitting the gratitude of the Guild of Starshipwrights to the, I believe I am correct here, 'the Thirteenth Legiones Astartes Ultramarines and His Armada Imperialis' for their intervention and aid in defending our world.' Optarch grunted, impressed. Her sources were good – very good. The senator, Shesh, buried a smirk.

Regil bowed his head, accepting the thanks. The Ultramarine was unmoved.

'You are most welcome, Guildmistress. When we stand together, we are ever stronger than alone.'

He wondered if the Admiral would be so generous if there were any xenoform present. Likely, in truth, for what he knew of Cornelius the man preferred to put his best face forward at all times.

'If Fondor can provide any aid, you let us know. It would be our pleasure and, I think I can speak for everyone down there, our honor to render assistance. Few of our yards remain, but we know at least one warship, Sorpenton, received damage–'

Optarch cleared his throat, speaking up for the first time and cutting in.

'That remains to be seen. Captain Langour has yet to submit a final assessment.'

'In any case, Fondor owes the Imperium a debt. If we survive the next week, call on us. We repay what we owe.'

'A lovely sentiment, I'm sure.' Senator Shesh eased in, flickering, adjusting her robes and looking at all gathered around the table. 'But the fact remains that Fondor is under siege. I've seen the initial reports, and I know the Vong landing was focused, but they're still on the ground. The moon Nallastia is now a strategic threat that will need to be handled and production capabilities have been slashed in half. The vong might have been driven back in space by the assistance of the good Lieutenant and Admiral here, but the damage was done.'

'We have weathered worse,' Naa shot back, eyes narrowed at the other woman.

'Of course.' Shesh's lips quirked and Paston read some manner of deeper enmity there, though he knew not the source. 'My point, however, is that Fondor isn't out of the woods yet.'

Optarch shifted, considering his words on the Thunderhawk over.

'I am empowered by the Primarch to act as I see fit. I have fifty Ultramarines and three companies of Imperial Army - Eboracum 1st and Iax Tertius 57th.'

'Why, Lieutenant Optarch, you read my mind.' Shesh's hologram beamed a great smile, at odds with the gloom of Brand and the hangdog expressions of the Fondorians. 'It's outside of what we agreed on, but, well, it seems it would be a tremendous waste for you to have flown all this way…'

The Guildmistress found her voice again, refusing to allow the Kuati to claim the spotlight.

'The Guild will back whatever you require, Lieutenant, Admiral.'

Regil craned his neck, peering over his shoulder at Optarch. The old Admiral spoke in High Gothic then, the tongue that remained, still, sacrosanct.

'Better to beg for forgiveness…'

Optarch concurred. The Primarch's remit was flexible.

'I will, of course, assume theatre command.'

Naa seemed almost taken aback that it had to be said.

'Of course,' the Guildmistress demurred and Chief Semblum nodded so fiercely his neck might have suffered trauma.

First Sherin thought the building roar was some new scarhead monstrosity. One of those big sail-finned lizard monsters had shambled through earlier in the day, luckily on a mission to be elsewhere, so everyone had mutually agreed to make like lumps and not even look its way. But then the roar took on the throaty whine of technology, something Sherin knew better than the face of his own mother, being a true Fondorian born and raised, so then he got his hopes up about it being reinforcements. Impossible to say where it was from and if it was coming or going, what with the smog and ash and all, but it seemed to be getting louder.

"Venty, I think we just might be saved." The kid had passed through blind panic and into resigned exhaustion, dead eyes hollow over his breather mask. He didn't react to Sherin's words.

Sadly, the deities Sherin had decided to pray to might have been friendly with the scarheads, because it turned out that if Sherin could hear that whatever-it-was, so could they. And they decided that if reinforcements showed up, well, Sherin wouldn't be there to greet them.

First came bugs - as usual - smacking and spanging into the barricade. It was just sheets of durasteel, hauled off the local lines and quick-welded together. Some corrugated sheets for a step-up to peer over and I-frame bracers to keep it all from tipping over. Kept the bugs at bay, but then came the plasma.

Hadn't heard anything about no scarhead plasma like that, not on the ground. Their rocky ships had it, he'd seen the news, but when balls of the stuff started whizzing past overhead, hot enough Sherin felt his hair singe, that was going to be the end of it all.

"Stang," he swore, watching as part of the barricade went cherry-red. "Hey Chief, I think we're spaced here. Chief?" He looked up the line, squinting through the choking atmosphere, but the big shape of the Chief didn't seem to be there. The Herglic overseer - the son of a ronto had probably done a runner.

More spots on the barricade started to take on that glow, the kind that meant temperatures that could make a star blush, and Sherin was seriously considering grabbing Venty by the scruff and chasing the Chief when whatever was making that damned roar showed up.

Spotlights stabbed out of the gloom, so bright Sherin cringed and flinched away. After a day in the choke, it was like Fondor's primary itself came down to stab him in the eyes. Watering, and not just from the stinging air, Sherin shrouded with a hand to the forehead, squinting and peering up. There was a shape, proper huge, just hovering there. Downdraft tugged at his cap, tried to snatch his mask.

Then it started shooting.

Chug-chug-chug went rotary cannons, and sudden flowers of fire erupted all along where the scarheads were. Sherin whooped, whipping off his cap and hurling it in the air. He never did find it again. Bars of hot red light blinked out again and again, ion tingling his teeth. Even Venty snapped out of it, gawping up at the gunship with his arms hanging at his side, deece dragging on the permacrete.

Rocket went out, then another, and the double-concussion snap-boom was the best damn feeling Sherin'd ever known.

The gunship came down, whine decreasing, jets powerful enough it blasted away the permanent ashfall and let him see it more clearly. It was a big monster indeed, painted a dark blue with white trim. Four big engines sat on its back, along with downswept wings sticking from the rear of a thick-bodied fuselage. It settled gently onto gear, hatches already swinging open at the sides, ramp dropping from beneath the nose.

Sherin's jaw dropped as a brick on treads rattled out of the brightly lit interior, flanked by crisply jogging soldiers in full-face helmets.

"Holy stars, Venty."

Another big vehicle, a treaded tank of some kind, followed the first. A fat barreled turret already panned back and forth as it came off the ramp, joining its partner. The soldiers themselves double-timed toward Sherin and, as he glanced left, and right, the mostly abandoned barricade. No sign of the Chief at all, not even with the ash blown away from the moment.

"Are you in command?"

Sherin jumped, faced by a tall man in chunky body armor, a long rifle held at the ready. Of all things, a blasted skull floated next to him with glowing red eyes and that's where the words came from.

"Come - come again?" he stuttered. The man said something muffled, definitely not Basic, then the skull spoke again.

"I asked: are you in command?"

Sherin adjusted his breather mask, looked around again. No Herglic. Damn.

"Uh, I suspect I just might."

The man nodded, saying something again. The skull translated.

"Major Laev Torenius, Iax Tertius 57th, Second Company. Commendations for holding this position. I am taking command."

Sherin doubled over laughing, almost wheezing, slapping his knees.

"Oh, don't let me stop you, Major. Don't even know what the hell a Tertius 57th is, but that there looks like two tanks, which is two more tanks than we had ten minutes ago. I'm not getting in your way."

"You will be folded in as an auxiliary. Name and rank." He wasn't sure if the man was that humorless, or if being translated through a slagging skull stripped out all nuance.

"Sherin, night patrol. Payband CC4."

There was a long, long pause.

"Very well, Sherin, night patrol."

Soldiers rushed past, hefting filled canvas bags over each shoulder, dropping them at the barricade. There was shouting, all in a language Sherin'd never heard (and being on Fondor, he'd heard a lot), a lot of rushing back and forth. He peered closer at the rifle the 'Major Laev Torenius' held. Never seen the like: polished metal barrel, chunky, black anodized receiver, polished wood stock. Rails ran along the top and underneath the barrel, a long sight screwed up top. Looked damned new and nicer than an old deece and Sherin gestured at it.

"If I'm getting conscripted, again, mind if I get one of them?"

Major Torenius glanced down at his weapon.

"Mu Pattern Lasrifles will be made available."

Behind his breather mask, Sherin grinned fit to split his cheeks. The day was looking up.

Luckily, Tahiri didn't bowl him over this time, instead contenting herself with a single, quick spine-creaking hug. He had to be gone for more than a week to risk bodily harm.

"Okay, you kept your promise. That's a point in your favor."

"Just one point?"

"Well, I'm not sure what the points are actually worth, so we'll stick with one."

"Mm. Hello, Sannah."

"Hi Anakin!" The Melodie joined the two as they left the hangar, Fiver handling powering down Anakin's X-Wing, the astromech tootling quietly to itself. There wasn't any fanfare, just his two friends waiting. Considering what he left behind, Anakin wasn't feeling overly triumphant. "You know, we met one of those big guys you fought with."

His mind cast around, trying to figure out just what Sannah meant, because the only thing he could think of made no sense.

"An Ultramarine?"

"Yeah! One of them. He's here to train to be a Jedi."

"That's…not the strangest thing I've heard this week, but it's close. Tahiri, tell me you didn't annoy him."

"Annoy him?" The blond girl pinned him with an arch look. "I'm never annoying, Anakin Solo. That's the worst thing to say."

"Yeah, never," Sannah said, entirely without conviction.

"Traitor," Tahiri sniffed.

"Was it Aeonid Thiel?" The Ultramarine Lieutenant's duel with his Uncle had been mind-bending. He'd never seen Uncle Luke move like that. More than just his Uncle's prowess with his lightsaber, Anakin had been almost intimidated by how much Uncle Luke had burned in the Force. He knew his Uncle was powerful, but to see it like that - it lit a fire in him, deep in his stomach, that he'd one day match. Then the reveal that the Ultramarine was Force-sensitive - Anakin knew it couldn't be anyone else.

"Yeah, Aeonid. Funny name. He was really stiff, but I think he might not have liked all the kids."

The image alone wrung a laugh from Anakin. The two 'neophytes', Zal and Sol, who might have even been younger than Anakin - he'd never asked - were so steadfastly serious and straight-up-and-down that putting the Lieutenant in the same room as the energetic trainees was like something straight from a holocomedy.

"I wonder if I'll get a chance to talk to him."

Tahiri shrugged.

"He's been spending almost all his time with Master Skywalker. But, uh, I think we'll be a little busy."

Sannah, suddenly, found the stone floor of the Praxeum fascinating. Tahiri's broad grin was as guilty as all the times he'd seen it.

"Tahiri," he started.

"No, okay, it wasn't my fault. I didn't ask to almost get eaten."

The two girls carried on a few steps further, realizing belatedly they'd left Anakin behind.

"Eaten!"

Shouting wasn't the plan, but they had sworn to leave that behind with the krayt dragons!

"Almost! And it was a big almost too, really big, like, Wookiee-big almost. Besides, you got to have an adventure, so I had one, so we're even."

"Tahiri, did you tell anyone about - vaping moffs, Tahiri, what did almost eat you?"

She aimed a finger at him like a blaster.

"That's the mystery, hero. I have no idea! Isn't that exciting? Oh yeah, and what happened with Centerpoint? We saw the news about Fondor."

"Oh no, don't change the subject. I need to see Master Ikrit, but that can wait until you tell me what almost ate you."

Tahiri made a show of checking her chron. Sannah giggled.

"Well, it's almost dinner. So - dinner?"

"Dinner. And talking."

Tahiri stumbled, grabbing at his arm and dramatically swooning.

"Anakin Solo wants to talk. What happened to you?"

In the years since the Rebel Alliance made their home in the Great Temple of Yavin IV, the lowest level aboveground which had been a hangar, had been mostly disused. Enough space existed for squadrons of starfighters to comfortably fit, yet with only about a hundred Jedi in total there were never more than a handful of craft occupying the vast open space. Long term storage sat in the basement level, where tall ceilings allowed freighters to comfortably rest until needed. Doors had been installed to allow the hangar to be sealed off, along with the rest of the Temple, back when the threat of the Empire was around the corner.

Most of the shutters were gone now, especially in the upper stories. The Praxeum was a place of learning, not a fortress. In some areas, flora had crept in with all the steadfast determination that plants were known for. Creepers and small flowering vines, a few hardy ferns and orchids sprouting from seams and cracks. No one bothered to remove them as they hurt no one and life was life.

Anakin left the Praxeum behind, walking out into Yavin's night, cool air bracing on his skin. Tahiri was in bed, Sannah too, but he couldn't sleep. Nocturnal orchids bloomed and offered sweet aromas, the jungle murmuring beyond the hangar entrance. Anakin glanced back to his X-Wing and Fiver's inactive form off on a charging station. He'd left a note on his door, but no one really controlled when he came or went, not anymore.

He wasn't Anakin Solo, Jedi Trainee anymore. The days of sneaking out with Tahiri to investigate strange canoes were past. He tried to imagine being afraid of a simple rainstorm and it made him want to laugh. Then it almost brought tears to his eyes.

His feet led him. Yips and hooting calls drifted through the canopies, but he was a Jedi and the Force his ally. Hunting packs decided to try their luck elsewhere. Dozing herds had no concern for the interloper in their midst.

The hunched, cracked shape of the Palace of the Woolamander wasn't even a surprise when Anakin raised his head, finally looking up from the path before him. Its trio of beckoning gateways soared above his head, rectangular with a slot cut out at the center of the lintel. Everything led back here, eventually. The outside was cleaner now, added to groundskeeping duties and it had been mapped by archaeologists on invite by his Uncle. Its mysteries were stripped away and the old Palace was just another echoing monument.

Down in its heart, Anakin found Master Ikrit.

The Kushiban Jedi lay just as he had years ago, though the Golden Globe was long gone. Now the chamber was a little garden, tended to by the old Master, in honor of the children's souls long-gone. He wasn't sleeping and his long white ears perked as Anakin sank down to rest against the wall. Ikrit grew feather ferns and nebula orchids, wender-saplings and snapsprite bushes. It was good to see the garden here, where there'd been naked stone and the eerie Sith relic.

"Hello, Anakin." Ikrit readjusted himself, resting his head on his paws. His pale green eyes were searching.

"Hello, Master."

"It's quite late."

"I think it's actually early, now."

Anakin folded his fingers in his lap, tipping his head back until his scalp met cold Massassi stone. Above, a shaft had been bored all the way up to the sky, letting in a thin bar of starlight and fresh air. Little night insects flitted on soft wings around the pale column of luminance.

Small paws nudged Anakin's leg and he looked down. Ikrit hopped into his lap, the Kushiban curling up and tucking his forepaws beneath his chin. A knot clenched in Anakin's throat. They hadn't sat like this since - since he was younger.

"Talk to me, young Jedi. What bothers you?"

"I don't know what to say," he said, voice rough.

"There is nothing wrong to say - only silence can hurt."

Reflexively, Anakin reached out to run his fingers through the thick fur ruff at Ikrit's neck. When he was younger, after he learned who Ikrit really was, he'd been so embarrassed for treating the old Jedi Master more like a pet, until Ikrit had chided him and gently educated him about Kushiban. His kind were a tactile race, always grooming each other and often resting in great piles of fluff. If anything, he found the way many beings shied away from casual interaction to be isolating.

"I was at Centerpoint," he began, although everyone already knew this. Ikrit kept his peace, knowing his charge well. "There was a moment." Anakin lifted his hands, turning them over, peering at his palms, the lines of his hands. "We found out about Fondor."

"A great tragedy," Ikrit nudged Anakin's hand with his forehead. "Though no fault of your own, nor that of the New Republic."

"I know. But I had just reactivated Centerpoint." The Kushiban's attention sharpened. Very few knew anything further than Centerpoint had, briefly, come active. It was impossible to hide a space station larger than the second Death Star teleporting itself across space, but what went on in the control room was kept at the highest levels of classification under threat of treason charges. Thrackan had been fuming when Anakin left. For many reasons.

"You succeeded, then."

"I did, Master. The station - it knew me. It remembered me."

"Go on."

"All I had to do was touch it and it just - turned on. Everything. It's like it was waiting for me to come back."

Gentle support flowed from the old Jedi, bolstering Anakin and he took a deep breath.

"It's - I can't put it into words. But when that time came, I - I could have done it."

Anakin choked on the words, swallowing hard.

"Done what, young Solo?"

"I could have fired Centerpoint."

Speaking the words snapped pressure in his chest and Anakin gasped. To say it out loud, to admit it, was like a bantha had stepped off of him. He'd told no one. Not a single soul, not even Jacen. Everyone suspected, of course, but he hadn't confirmed it.

"I could have fired it. I could see it all in my head and Centerpoint…Centerpoint wanted to. The way the Triad used it, it was wrong and it damaged the station but Centerpoint didn't mind being hurt, it just wanted to do what I wanted and when we heard the Vong were at Fondor, it, it showed me."

He hauled in a stuttering breath.

"It showed me aiming solutions and power requirements and how to minimize damage to the station to manage a starbuster shot. I had it all, right in my head. I could've blown up the whole vong fleet, Master."

Feeling breathless, like there was too little air, too thin of oxygen, Anakin sucked in short breaths until he felt Ikrit's paws on his chest. The Kushiban's green eyes were inches from his, a surprisingly stern look on the Jedi's furred face.

"Please breathe carefully, young Solo."

Long and deep, fists clenched and squeezed. Long and deep breaths, smelling the nebula orchids and snapsprite flowers. His thundering heart slowed. Ikrit nodded, returning to his curled up position.

"But you did not."

"How could I? How could anyone?"

"Very easily," Ikrit observed. "Anakin, you must understand: there are more beings than you could imagine who would have pulled that trigger."

"That's what I thought of." Still the cold quicksilver feel of the joystick lingered in his palm. The way the trigger was so easy under his fingertip, so eager to flick with just the least amount of pressure. The vong were attacking, anyway. They were invading a world and it was a fleet of warships. They were all warriors. How could it be wrong? "It made me think of the Exiles."

"Like our new guest?"

"Yeah. Them. I got to know one of them after Obroa-skai. I fought with him and Master Ikrit, I might've died with him there. It was so close at the end, but then his Sergeant died for all of us and then we had time to just talk afterward. And train some too, but the more I talked to him - to Zalthis, I mean - the more I just, I don't know. I know Jacen is afraid of doing the wrong thing or causing consequences he doesn't intend - like on Belkadan, with the slaves - but-"

"You learned from Zalthis."

"I think he was trying to convince me their way was right. Zalthis would've destroyed the whole vong fleet and then blown up every vong world he could find."

Ikrit hummed, more of a purr that rumbled in his small frame.

"I am not sure of the friend you made, young Solo." Anakin felt the Master's wink in the Force, tempering the accusation implied.

"That's just it. I knew Zal was a good man too. When we were on Obroa-skai, I told you about this, with the slaves - when I asked him not to kill them, he listened. The whole time I had my hand on the trigger, Jacen and Ebirihim were begging me not to do it while everyone else wanted me to."

"Was it them, that tipped your decision?"

Anakin's teeth worried his lip.

"Not like Jacen thinks. I didn't take the shot, Master. I did a lot more than that."

Ikrit lifted his head from his paws. Green eyes to blue eyes, Master to student.

"I ended Centerpoint." The admission was a whisper. "I had everything. I told Centerpoint to reset itself. To the very first settings ever input, when it was built. Then I told Centerpoint to revoke all administrative access and disable imprint pairing." Anakin swallowed hard, throat bobbing. "I turned it into a paperweight. It'll only ever turn on again for whoever made it and they're long gone. The reactors will keep working for lights and environmental control but the rest…"

The Kushiban's green eyes gave nothing away, the Master withholding himself in the Force. Anakin found himself with tears tracking down his cheeks and brushed them away angrily. He didn't even feel any regret over it, why was he even crying?

"Anakin," Ikrit spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with precision. "I did not think I could be more proud of you after you freed the Massassi children. I was wrong."

Ikrit's long ear tickled his nose, but Anakin didn't notice, hugging the Kushiban tight.

"I was so worried when you left, Anakin. I was afraid of what they might make you do. You did what was right. No Jedi would ever gainsay this."

In the moonlit chamber, Anakin whispered, for to be too loud would be to shatter like glass.

"I did the right thing?"

Ikrit nuzzled Anakin's shoulder.

"You already know the answer. It's why you did what you did. I feel it from you, young Solo. I feel the depth of your certainty. The station was too potent and too dangerous a tool to be left."

"But I could have just, maybe I could have keyed it to work for someone else. Admiral Brand, maybe."

"Anakin, to take the responsibility and the consequences both on your shoulders is not just the mark of a true Jedi, but the burden of a hero. You knew the terrible, terrible burden of the responsibility of Centerpoint and you refused to yoke another being with that. That was well done, my student."

Sniffling, wiping his eyes again, Anakin braced himself with a deep breath and let go of his Master. Ikrit hopped up to his shoulder.

"Every day, I am amazed by the leadership of young Luke. You are a tribute to his teachings and to your own strength. Tell me, Anakin, when you came to see me, did you have doubts?"

Thrackan pulled the trigger: klack klack klack klack. The look of pure hunger on his cousin's face as he imagined, for just a moment, the power, the prestige, the glory that would be his. Bought on lives he didn't even consider. Jacen's bursting pride and relief when Anakin stepped away from it all. Ebrihim praising him for making the choice.

The way Anakin secretly burned in anger that both of them, both of them, doubted him. Each night since then, Anakin went to sleep hearing Jacen's pleading in his ears. How terrified his own brother was of him. How Jacen was able to truly imagine a world where Anakin would do that.

Zalthis would have. Any Exile would. They'd think it was right, too. Worse than Thrackan, who just saw it as a means to an end, that being his political ascendency, Anakin knew with utter certainty that an Ultramarine like Lieutenant Thiel would pull the trigger and think it noble, with the means and the ends all the same.

For all his mocking, Thrackan had been right. The Navy had tricked and deceived the very Chief of State of the entire New Republic. There was no trust. Jacen didn't even trust him. It was all on Anakin.

"I didn't."

"All the better. Doubt breeds fear, and anger feeds on fear. Anger corrupts into hate, and hate to suffering." Ikrit bumped the side of Anakin's head with his forehead. "Now, as you said, it is early. You have a bed to return to."

Rising to slightly shaky legs, Anakin stretched out his arms and yawned wide. Around him, nocturnal flowers faced the thin moonlight. Moths whupped on soft wings. He should tell Tahiri, too. She never doubted him, either.