The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

Interstitials: Jacen

Jacen wakes. Jaina is peeking into the stateroom of Jade Shadow and she beckons to him.

"I thought I felt you wake up. Good timing, Aunt Mara is putting us down now. Dad's here. And Master Durron."

He feels foggy and confused, the weight of the vision clinging to him. His grandfather's voice echoes in his ears, almost loud enough to drown out Jaina. He swings his legs out of the bunk, feeling like his body is slightly ahead of his senses, like he moves after his limbs in an afterimage. Jaina is right. He can sense their father below, a familiar presence in the Force. With the Force still flowing cleanly through him in the aftermath of the vision, Jacen can feel the tapestry of Duro, swelling and sprawling all around him. He can feel the muted exhaustion and ennui of the refugees in the domes. He can feel a tension in the orbital cities, inhabited by billions. He can feel Master Durron's complex melange of self-recrimination, determination, disappointment and agitation.

He can feel his sister's pleasure at being active again instead of being treated like an invalid. He can feel his aunt's laser-focus on the mission, but underneath, he can sense…Jacen clamps down on the Force, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to touch on so private, so personal a thing.

When he blinks, there is an afterimage of a radiant, prismatic corona that dances behind his eyelids, like the precursor to a migraine. Like staring at the sun.

He changes into an all-purpose jumpsuit, sturdy boots and clips his lightsaber to his belt. The Shadow is creaking and hissing, settling onto the tarmac. He can hear his twin and his aunt conversing, voices muffled just enough by bulkheads to make out their tones, but not their words. Foreboding weights down his body. Tugs at his feet.

The Force never speaks without reason. The vision still rings, clear as day.

He doesn't think it was a coincidence that now, of all times, he has another vision. The last time was before Belkadan - a vision that had led him astray, led him to capture, led him to torture and salvation at only the last moment by his uncle. No - the vision didn't lead him astray. He had. He had read too much into it, been convinced off too much, had been too quick to jump at his assumptions of his role.

The meaning of this vision seemed clear. He exhaled and could taste ocean brine on his tongue. Ephemeral sensations of soft sand between his toes came, went. But the clearer, the more obvious, the more direct - the more he knew he needed to set aside his expectations and his biases.

He couldn't afford to make another mistake like Belkadan.

He joins his twin and his aunt and they descend the ramp of the Shadow, making joyful reunion with their estranged father. Kyp Durron says things, an alien Jacen doesn't recognize greets them all and is familiar and companionable with his father.

Jacen sees waves in the edges of his vision. Waves that climb and climb, until the sea touches sky. He blinks, and they are gone.

Jaina and Aunt Mara jetted off almost immediately on the next shuttle up to the Duro capital, the orbital city of Bburru. His twin complained about the orbital controller forcing them to go the roundabout way because of 'no special treatment'. The irony, of course, was that with their father as the SELCORE operational head, it had been simplicity itself for Han to sign off on customs and processing forms for both of them. No special treatment indeed. When the two were departing, Jaina seemed almost challenging, as if daring Jacen to speak up about how they were exploiting Han's authority to cheat the system.

Jacen didn't. It was fine. The Duro had reason to be careful about shipping, with the Yuuzhan Vong approaching, but under SELCORE authority, his father did have the ability to expedite through any visitors he wanted. It was kind of important to have that ability, to cut through red-tape sometimes, in case of hang-ups on supply runs or - in this instance - an extremely important and NRI-sanctioned investigation into fifth columnists.

Jacen knew his reputation among the Jedi, even in his own family. He butted heads often enough with his little brother and even Jaina had a degree of friction with him lately. He wasn't blind. He knew he could be 'annoying' sometimes and that his own particular views on the Force weren't always the most popular, given the danger of the ongoing war.

He also wasn't going to change just because some people were bothered by it, which was sort of the point. There was a misunderstanding that he didn't usually bother to correct.

Jacen wasn't paralyzed by indecision or some kind of self-absorbed navel-gazing (he'd overheard plenty from the likes of Ganner), even if he could see why they'd think that.

No, it was like everyone forgot that he and his sister and his kid brother, before even reaching majority, had seen some of the real depths of duplicity and evil the Galaxy could offer. Ganner and a lot of people in Kyp's camp - or what had been Kyp's camp, if the surface level impressions he was picking up from the Jedi Master were any indication - seemed to think Jacen was trapped in some kind of horrible limbo between pure white and deepest black kinds of morality. Like he was some naive child.

It's not like his kid brother was almost possessed by the Reborn Emperor barely after being born. It wasn't like in his own infancy and toddler years, that he and his twin hadn't been targeted for abduction, assassination, ransom, you name it. Or that they had to banish a Dark Lord of the Sith who had possessed their Uncle's body. Or that not a month went by without the acid taste of worry that their mother, their father, their uncle, aunt, everyone close to them came within a hairsbreadth of dying to some recalcitrant Imperial warlord or upjumped tinpot despot.

How many times had he thought his parents were dead, or Chewie was dead, in some fashion or another?

In a bitter fashion, it was having seen Chewie die is what allowed him able to truly believe it, this time.

He wasn't afraid of the Force or of power or even of fighting. He'd done plenty of that before.

It was the knowledge, the experience he had of seeing just how easily people could justify the truly worst things because they had the right words that gave him pause. A child with a slingshot was liable to bruise shins; a child with a blaster could kill. A demagogue on the street corner of Coronet City is a bother; a demagogue with an anti-human plague could kill quintillions.

It was all measures of scale. The more power, the more responsibility. Always.

And what did Jedi bear, if not the most awesome power in the Galaxy?

Anakin asked him, months ago, why Jacen was so critical of the Jedi's role in the war, but didn't seem to speak up and argue against the soldiers and sailors in the New Republic for fighting.

A fighter pilot in an X-Wing is dangerous, sure. A Star Destroyer can be a terrible weapon in the wrong hands. And the same time, that danger was mundane. If a pilot went rogue, a few ion blasts could take out their fighter. A captain driven by grief who tries to bombard a city from orbit could be arrested by their own officer corps, or the capital ship itself intercepted by a handful of others.

But a Force user who sets themselves above others?

The Galaxy could burn from that.

So he didn't really begrudge Jaina for not quite understanding what he was saying. It was disappointing, because as twins, they had always been on the same page - but people changed as they grew up. She would get it, in time. His sister was brilliant, even smarter than he was. She was just a little bit caught up in her time with Rogue Squadron. Which he was so proud of her for, because that was the ideal. She was a pilot, under the command of a seasoned veteran, with wingmates and a chain of command, authority, that had accountability and oversight. Not like Kyp and his Dozen, going wherever and whenever they wanted, striking out against targets they chose without any recourse.

It was about humility, Jacen figured, nodding along as his father described the ongoing operations of the domes. He was fine staying behind in the domes to vet the refugees and inhabitants for potential vong infiltrators while Aunt Mara and Jaina went up to Bburru to directly confront CorDuro. Jaina might've chafed at being given a mundane role like this and Anakin too maybe, but Aunt Mara had a lifetime of experience in stuff like this. If she thought the best place for him was to be down in the refugee domes, trying to winnow out infiltrators - what kind of arrogance would he have to argue against that?

He and Jaina were along to learn, after all. Other ways to use their gifts, their power as Jedi beyond just crude bludgeoning a problem.

"-we try to meet every other day, because you wouldn't believe how fast things can get blasted right out the airlock down here."

"But you trust the other administrators?"

His father huffed a laugh at Jacen's question and Droma - the Ryn - snorted. Master Durron had taken his leave, giving some space and saying he was needed to check back in with the comms relay station, which was still having fits.

"Not even close. They're a gang. Bunch of politicians that couldn't make it up on the orbitals, so they came down here to push around folks who can't push back." Han pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I still don't know how I got stuck with all this."

Droma spread his hands, shrugging.

"Showing up with a few freighters of foodstuffs buys a lot of goodwill - who would guess?"

From what he was gathering, his father had been chasing around Droma's family, which had been split apart as they fled the encroaching vong. There was a real story underneath that all, given the hints dropped here and there, but apparently had all come to a head at Bilbringi, when they'd managed to find the rest of the Ryn clan in quasi-indentured servitude. One thing led to another, and Han Solo might have dipped into some older habits and jacked several bulk freighters, running off with the Ryn and enough food supplies to keep all three of Duro's SELCORE domes eating well for the next few months.

One thing led to another, Han kept having to slap down idiots who wanted to grab more than their share, until he had the reputation of being impartial and fair, and then…

Then his father ended up in charge of some ten thousand refugees, which was about the last thing Jacen would've expected until he gave it a little more thought, at which point it was almost surprising it hadn't happened sooner.

His dad liked to play up his reputation, but there was a reason he'd thrown away his career and future in the Imperial Navy because of a single Wookiee.

Han scratched at his chin, thinking.

"I'd say to check all of them to make sure they aren't all vong in disguise, except that I don't think vong're that cutthroat. Y'know what? Jacen, Droma, you should talk to Cree'Ar."

Droma dramatically rolled his eyes, a put-upon sigh whistling through his perforated nose.

"Cree'Ar? He hates everything except his mud and test tubes."

"Sure, but somehow he always has notes on everyone else."

Noticing Jacen's confused expression, Han paused to elaborate.

"Cree'Ar is one of our best scientists on the whole 'fix Duro' project. He's a scientist's scientist because he hates leaving his lab for any reason, so he's always attended mandatory meetings through hologram. Or just sends a writeup. But he's been getting results with digestive bacteria so I can't complain. And that's one less pain in my ass at each meeting, so-"

He waggled his hand.

"Upsides and downsides."

Droma concurred, and that led to the two of them heading down into the tunnels below the main dome, down toward the Duro geneticist's laboratory. The Ryn chatted away, Jacen content just to listen and soak up what his father had been up to. The SELCORE domes were massive and hermetically sealed to keep out the nasty airborne pollution and acid rain of the ruined industrial world. They'd been erected on a relatively dry plain, then prefabricated buildings popped up swiftly within the confines, making a strange kind of camp/town under the off-white duracrete umbrella and the tall, swooping spars of durasteel that supported all the weight.

Apparently, Duro was so unpleasant that a common punishment was assignment to dome inspection detail. They had to go out and do visual inspections and scans to make sure the acid rain wasn't eroding too much, too fast. Droma said that Cree'Ar was confident he could whip up a sort of lichen that would anchor onto the duracrete exterior, metabolizing the material that got softened up by the rains in order to spread and then reinforce the domes.

The geneticist was some kind of savant. His obsessive work ethic that led him to stay locked up in his sterile labs was the same focus that resulted in the rapid-growth bacterial mats that were filling up swamps around the domes, happily chowing down on rancid petrochemicals and exuding fresh, clean oxygen and nitrogen.

"It's funny," Droma said. "Cree'Ar's got blackmail on the other two dome administrators and their teams. Every time someone tries to choke out his supply, he comes out swinging with implications and then all of a sudden it's 'of course Doctor, you'll get the substrate in the next supply drop, yes, we'll double your water ration, no problem'."

"That seems a little bit of a distraction from his job," Jacen noted. "But if it gets him what he needs…"

Maybe he just had his team doing it.

"That's why Roaky's been letting him get away with it." Jacen still needed a moment each time to mentally connect 'Roaky' with his father. 'Roaky Laamu' had been his alias while he was gallivanting around with the Ryn and he'd stuck with it while working as director here…and Jacen knew exactly why. If one 'Han Solo' was signing reports for SELCORE, well, his mom would've been here yesterday.

His parents ongoing…difficulties made him uneasy. He could still feel their deep love for each other underneath it all, which made it all the harder for how they couldn't stop lashing out at each other. And he and his brother and sister were in the middle of it. Anakin's response was to simply not act on it at all and chase his own path out on the battlefields of Dantooine and Obroa-skai. Jaina went to Rogue Squadron and Jacen…was left behind.

He'd have to slip his mother a mention about Han being here after they made it back to Coruscant. She was still at the capital for another few weeks, working through another exhausting round of funding and appropriations hearings for SELCORE overall.

There were no turbolifts, so Droma led Jacen down into a stone-cut tunnel that dove down in switch-backs, sinking into the bedrock below the dome. Cree'Ar's lab, due to the hazards of potential leaks of experimental organisms, was kept behind a few sealable hatches set into the raw stone of the tunnels.

Idly, Jacen run his fingers along the rough walls, feeling the texture left by rock-chewer droids, reminding him of at least a half dozen other places he'd been, including the ancient tunnels under Drall.

"I'm going to ask Doctor Cree'Ar if he has shipping manifests he can share," Jacen mused. "If he knows what the other domes have a surplus of, then he must have some kind of contacts with CorDuro. And if he does, maybe he can help us figure out where the 'surplus' ships are being sourced from for the Peace Brigade."

"Be ready to bargain for it," Droma said drily. "He's going to want a pound of flesh just for interrupting us."

Jacen smiled at the Ryn.

"It's a good thing I know the head of SELCORE!"

Droma depressed the button again, visibly forcing himself to take a deep breath before speaking again.

"If you make me ring up Roaky for the override codes, you can bet your rear that I'm going to make it my life's purpose to dragging you up to each admin meeting. Hear me, Doctor? Every meeting. Every two days."

Cree'Ar…wasn't feeling cooperative. He'd dismissed them immediately, saying he was busy with a final culture cycle and couldn't be interrupted.

Jacen let Droma handle the Doctor, figuring the Ryn, as Han's right-hand man, would know the Duro best. So far, Cree'Ar's clipped comments back through the intercom didn't come across as particularly angry, just distracted. He extended his sense through the Force, past the sealed laboratory door. He picked up one, two, five…seven beings. All Duro, all with an undercurrent of stress and anticipation. Understandable for a critical step in an experiment. They bustled around, pretty focused and intent on their work.

"Do as you must, Mister Droma. I will not sacrifice a month's stable mutations because of your impatience. You can wait an hour."

"We got you assistants for that," the Ryn whined. "Let them-"

Jacen leaned closer to the intercom.

"Doctor Cree'Ar? I'm Jacen Solo. We just need a few minutes and it's very important. I promise, I wouldn't bother you otherwise." He bit his lip, hating to even imply a promise like this, but-

"When I get back to Coruscant, I'd be happy to help you get in contact with Tekli or possibly Master Cilghal. They're both very skilled with biology and using the Force to heal and bolster life and could have insights about your experiments."

There was a moment of silence, Droma offering two thumbs up and a toothy grin. And a wink.

Cree'Ar's voice returned, this time pitched with some emotion for the first time: interest.

"Jacen Solo? Jedi Knight Jacen Solo?"

Jacen nodded, realized how silly that was and confirmed aloud.

"I'm flattered, Jedi Solo. I am an admirer of the Jedi. Give me four minutes."

The intercom clicked off. Droma blinked at the panel, then looked back to Jacen.

"That easy? Damnation, I should've known to namedrop a Jedi. You're useful to have around!"

Responsibility, again. A Jedi can change minds, move worlds, with just words. Or get a grumpy doctor to spare a few minutes of time to talk. In the grand, cosmic scale, this was something simple. Jacen touched on the technicians in the lab again, the seven Duro still bustling around, now exuding more agitation and anticipation.

Something seemed off. He didn't want to press deeper, to try to sense more than just impressions of emotions - that was an unfair violation, but all of them seemed more busy and active than he'd expect for techs in a lab. Then again, he didn't really know what a normal lab was in the first place. Still, something bothered him. He frowned, ticking off each of the seven again.

None of them were thinking of him or Droma. None of the Duro inside seemed to have any feelings of interest or even acknowledgement of visitors outside or a Jedi.

Cree'Ar sounded interested over the intercom.

So why couldn't Jacen…

He clenched fists, desperately wanting to be wrong.

"Droma," he asked, keeping his voice level. "Have you ever met Cree'Ar?"

The Ryn raised an eyebrow.

"Plenty of times."

"In person?"

Droma frowned.

"No?"

Jacen didn't know much about Ryn, but even in the short time since they set down on Duro, he'd learned a lot just from Droma and his father's good-natured ribbing back and forth. Droma had sniffed out dinner from the cafeteria building, halfway across the dome. Then commented on how astute a Ryn's sense of smell was.

Jacen's hand fell to his lightsaber, drawing Droma's attention.

Then the ceiling fell in.

Coughing, spitting out dust-clotted wads of spit, Droma bent over and planted his hands on his knees. Jacen pounded on the Ryn's back, helping him hack up the last of it. The tunnel came down, luckily in sections. The Force thrummed in Jacen's mind just before the first cracks appeared and he'd shoved Droma back from the lab's sealed hatch with the Force as several tons of bedrock slammed down. They raced out of the tunnel, more of it falling right at their heels. Choking dust swirled up and past them and Jacen had to guide Droma along, hands clasped, feeling his way with the Force and occasionally keeping the crumbling ceiling in place with a solid press of telekinesis.

"So what," Droma managed around a few more lung-racking coughs. "Did you notice there, Jedi?"

"I didn't sense anyone with the right emotions for Cree'Ar," Jacen said grimly. "Everyone inside was focused on other things and I couldn't pick up any indications they even knew we were there."

Droma spat one more time, clearing his mouth. Behind them, the entrance to the tunnel was a slumped pile and a slowly rising plume of chalky dust. "And that means…?"

"I don't want to guess, but…I think Cree'Ar might be a vong."

Droma swore, quite crudely.

"That's about the worst possible thing. You're sure?"

Both their comlinks began to beep at the same time - just as rising klaxons around the dome began to sound. Jacen felt a wash of sudden fear and then -

He felt Jaina's sudden fury, eclipsing a moment of surprise. They didn't need words through their bond. Between Jaina's emotions and what he felt rolling from his Aunt, he could piece together enough.

A few billion other beings in close proximity suddenly all gasping in terror was clue enough. He didn't need to see the asteroid field that appeared in orbit to know.

"Pretty sure," Jacen said solemnly. "Because the vong are here."

The com relay was down, for good. Master Durron reported that fact bitterly, stomping into Han's office, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. It wasn't a software problem anymore, it was physically broken. Missing critical components, though some enterprising Ryn and others were scavenging around to try to source replacements. With the toxic soup outside, it wasn't the easiest to punch a signal up and out without relaying through the main dome's big repeater.

Jacen fidgeted, sending Jaina as much support as he could through their bond, though his sister was keeping her own end clamped down. Probably not wanting to worry him, but not knowing what was going on upstairs in orbit had him tense enough.

Was this what his vision was about? Standing firm here, at Duro? The New Republic didn't expect a fight here and the garrison showed it. Everything would be on the Duro's own home defense forces with only a token Navy squadron present.

It didn't seem to fit.

"How's Jaina?" Han asked, worry making his voice tight and clipped. Jacen grimaced, reaching out for her -

He caught glimpses of corridors and a lit lightsaber. Security personnel in uniforms. His Aunt gesturing, bodies hurled aside - and then Jaina noticed him and-

Betrayal. Treason. Overwhelming treason. Hopelessness.

She was telling him a story through feelings. A flash of a CorDuro uniform with the megacorp's badge on it. Blasters set to stun. Yuuzhan Vong ships sailing right past Bburru, visible through transparisteel windows. Lumpen, rocky warships not even firing on the orbital city and moving toward the atmosphere uncontested.

Jacen's jaw dropped.

They'd suspected moles within the CorDuro organization. Sympathizers placed through it, to work under the table and sneak out the surplus ships for the Peace Brigade. They'd figured on maybe some higher officials being in on the take, either through ideology or simple bribery.

What Jaina was sending him, the impressions, the meanings -

It wasn't a few moles or traitors in CorDuro.

The traitor was CorDuro.

The entire megacorp. The surplus vessels hadn't slipped through the cracks, the company had been complicit in the entire thing.

Was that the meaning? To stand firm in the face of such widespread betrayal? Hold true to himself, don't despair?

"It's CorDuro," Jacen gasped. "It's all of CorDuro."

He didn't expect his father's expression to go blank for a moment before he laughed out loud. A real laugh, real humor.

"How about that, Kyp? You know, it's actually reassuring it wasn't incompetence but real malice. Somehow I'm better with that."

The Jedi Master snorted with dark humor too. "Explains all the late supply drops and missing supplies from each manifest. They were always hanging us out to dry."

"Worse than that." Droma looked between them, from Kyp to Han to Jacen. "We're the offering. Am I wrong? What kind of deal could CorDuro make - I mean, hello? They're technologists. They live in a giant space station. That's all super evil to the vong. We're the payment to look the other way."

"Won't work," Jacen knew. "They'll turn on CorDuro after they round us up."

"Couldn't happen to more deserving people. Alright. Kyp, think you can run interference?"

Durron rolled his head, cracking his neck.

"I can be in the air in five. It's going to be shit to fly in, but the Force is my ally."

Han nodded.

"Then keep the vong dancing before they can touch down. We're going to need to take the Shadow with us, or Mara'll kill me. It'll also fit at least a few dozen too."

"I'll help gathering everyone together." The klaxons had panic rising in the dome and Jacen knew that people in cramped confines and panic was a recipe for disaster. "Are there enough ships to get everyone off-world?"

Droma winced.

"Maybe. It'll be tight. Get everyone to line up by the airlocks and don't let them bring any luggage."

Jacen nodded. "On it."

"Then Kyp, get going. Droma, get the captains out to their ships and warming them up. Jacen-" His father stepped close, taking Jacen's shoulders in his hands. "Be careful. Tell Jaina to be careful."

"She's okay," he said with certainty. She was sending him snippets and flashes of things and despite her anger, she felt confident and unafraid. They were on an orbital city, there were a thousand starships they could commandeer between his aunt's skill at slicing and his sister's piloting. "But I will."

Han met each one of their eyes and Jacen saw General Solo for a moment.

"Move it," he ordered. They did.

Jacen wondered how his father handled it. He could feel Master Durron as he chased and dueled coralskippers in the sky outside. He felt Jaina's focus as she and Aunt Mara held off CorDuro security, securing a small hangar along with a growing crowd of concerned citizens of Bburru. He could follow the texture of the refugees as they thronged through the camp's streets, hands and graspers interlaced and trying to put on brave faces for younglings.

He'd feel so blind without the Force, without being able to know his sister was still safe. Coms were down, so there was no news, no way to coordinate outside the three domes. Domes 2 and 3 were reporting to be loading up already, the administrators at both cowed into obedience by Han's own brand of 'diplomacy'. Droma volunteered to fly the Jade Shadow, remarking that having flown the Falcon, he was looking forward to flying a ship that wasn't a pile of junk.

"There's enough space for everyone! Line up here - I'm sorry, you have to leave that behind."

A Gand gabbled at him, clutching some sort of complex instrument to their chest. It was clumsy and large, needing both arms to hold.

"I'm sorry. We need all the space we can get." The Gand rose their voice and Jacen felt their indignation. The temptation was there to alleviate it - he let it pass.

"Look," he gestured toward a young Vor just a few meters away. "It's as big as she is. Would you tell her she can't leave because you have to keep that?"

The Gand wavered, a new feeling of shame building in them. Then they hissed something and tossed the device aside, shoving past Jacen.

It wasn't the first he'd had to talk down and it was definitely not going to be the last.

But he felt good. This was what he could do. What Jedi should do.

He found the right words to calm down a crying youngling and encourage their parents. He shouted through a broadcaster and moved crowds along. Part of it was his name - whatever Droma might say, Solo was a name known across the Galaxy. And a Jedi on top of that, well, it had people sitting up and listening.

Responsibility.

When there were tussles or arguments, he diffused them in moments.

It was like a symphony, where everyone wanted to play their own piece, but he was the conductor and he rapped metaphorical knuckles with a stern glare, always well aware of how faintly ridiculous it was that a seventeen year old was ordering around people twice, three times his age with a word and a pointed finger.

He kept an ear to his comlink, listening to his father coordinate with the other domes, calling up status checks with freighter captains. Part of Jacen wanted to go after 'Cree'Ar', but he had to bite the blasterbolt and accept that that vong was in the wind.

He felt a surge of triumph from Kyp. That had to be the sixth 'skip now. All four Jedi were leaning hard on the Force, entwining their senses with each other, making up for the cut communications lines. It was nothing close to the near-perfect link he'd forged with Jaina and Anakin at Dubrillion and Destrillion, but it helped. Kyp could warn Jacen if he saw landers coming. Jaina and Aunt Mara shared with him their support and belief in him and let him know that they would be heading for the surface soon.

Jacen let himself think that everything might work out. He was standing firm.

Then, as if summoning it by thinking it, from Kyp's presence Jacen felt a swell of concern, then desperation, then warning.

"Everyone down!" Jacen shouted, enhancing his voice with the Force to a ringing call, echoing through the avenues of prefab shelters. Beings dropped as if commanded, instincts honed by months living in fear after fleeing innumerable worlds. Jacen pulled the Force to him, gathering it about him, ready to respond -

Thunderous reports banged from above. Objects punched through the skin of the dome, dragging swirling clouds of murk behind them. They fell a touch under terminal velocity and Jacen's teeth clenched at the look of them. Off-white, seed-shaped and mottled with texture and scorch marks. Chunks of the dome fell and he shoved several aside that might have struck crowds, letting them crunch and collapse shelters instead. The seed-shaped pods decelerated rapidly just before striking the ground, vanishing from his sight out among the one and two-story sea of shelters.

Bitterly, he reached for his lightsaber, despairing that it would come to this. There were some weapons that Droma had distributed among the most trustworthy (and trained) in the dome. Former constabulary, local defense forces from fallen worlds. SELCORE didn't usually keep weapons around, but this was a SELCORE facility run by an ex-smuggler and his fringer sidekick. Jacen was glad for his father's foresight.

He hoped that between him and them, it would be enough.

Warriors were coming.

With the dome filling with Duro's choking air, there wasn't much point trying to work through the airlocks. Already beings were coughing, pulling up the necklines of shirts and tunics to cover mouths and gills and other respiratory organs, hoping to keep the reek at bay. Jacen could hear the sounds of combat further toward the center of the dome where the Yuuzhan Vong landing pods came down. Blasters rang out and distant shouts mixed with guttural bellows. There couldn't have been that many vong in those pods. Hopefully they would be taken out before they could get close to the crowds now pressing out onto the landing tarmacs.

It was like watching water drain - the crowds swirled and pressed and slowly funneled out through the opened cargo doors. All of them would probably need at least a week to recover from breathing Duro's atmosphere, but if they survived to have that week, Jacen figured it was worth it.

A man jogged up to Jacen, blaster slung over one shoulder. He had on a rebreather mask and held out one by its strap.

"Take it, Jedi. I know you're gonna say you shouldn't if everyone can't have one, but we're the ones who can fight."

The logic made sense, but he still scowled as he accepted it, slipping it on and settling it over his mouth and nose. It was harder to breathe through, having to forcefully inhale to suck air in through the mechanical filters, but the dry, tasteless air was an admitted relief. He nodded his thanks and the man jogged on, unslinging his blaster.

Fighting sounded like it was creeping closer. Jacen felt the deputized guards as they moved and fell back. He felt shocks of pain and gut-wrenching sudden silence as beings died. They were contracting, being encircled and retreating. He grabbed his comlink, clicking it on.

"Dad?"

A moment, then-

"Jacen? Are you in trouble?"

"No, I'm - I'm at the loading docks. I think -" he rose up on his toes, craning his neck to peer over the crowd. "I think we have about half out so far. It'll go faster the less there are."

"Good. Good. The vong are focusing on surrounding the admin building."

"That's what I was afraid of. How many people are still there?"

His comlink was silent for too long.

"Dad?"

"Uh, not too many."

He couldn't sense many beings left toward the center of the dome. Near the center of the contracting circle was Han's presence. None others. Jacen swallowed down a knot in his throat.

"Dad, how are you getting out?"

"Let me worry about that, sprout."

With a groaning rumble, an entire distant section of the dome shrugged in on itself, tumbling down and a roiling wall of oily fume swirled with duracrete dust. Something moved in that plume, something huge.

Refugees screamed. Wailed. Panic rose and Jacen winced as he felt Jaina's sharp concern. He could almost taste the fear in the crowd and in moments, it wouldn't just be panic - across the dome, in the torn opening, a massive yorik-coral lander parted Duro's smog. It would be terror and a stampede and beings would die, crushed -

Anakin made his decision on Centerpoint. His brother didn't talk about it and didn't elaborate, but Jacen wasn't an idiot. He could read between the lines. Anakin decides not to fire the station and at the very same moment Centerpoint stops responding to anything?

Jacen believed, believed in his bones that Anakin made the right decision. But Jacen's belief wasn't absolute. It wasn't the truth. It was just what he believed.

He swallowed down his fear, his nerves and shut his eyes. He breathed out, taking the Force in hand and taking his enforced peace, the calm he mastered, and pressed it outward. It rippled from him and the wailing crowd…quieted. Beings blinked and came back to themselves. They were still rushing, surging to get out of the cargo doors and to the waiting ships, but they helped each other. They hooked fallen comrades under limbs and helped them back to locomotion appendages. They scooped up confused younglings and aided elderly.

Jacen shared his peace with them, a peace that he crafted. A peace that was a lie.

"Dad," he called again. "You need to go, now. I don't know if you saw it-"

"I'm not blind. I saw it."

The huge yorik-coral craft, big as a light cruiser, nosed further into the dome before settling lower, crushing prefab buildings under its bulk. It had to carry hundreds.

"Get onto the Shadow. I'll be there."

He wouldn't. Jaina railed at him to do something, screaming nonverbally through their bond. He could feel her hunched over the controls of some shuttle, dodging swarming coralskippers. She couldn't make the surface. They had other Duro on board, those who didn't believe in selling out their fellows to the Yuuzhan Vong. They couldn't risk coming down to the surface, past the growing blockade.

Aunt Mara was going to take the controls. It's what Jacen would say to do.

Master Durron, in his X-Wing, radiated controlled anger. A crucible of it, bubbling and seething in ways a Jedi shouldn't feel. He was too far away.

Jacen hadn't killed since Ithor. Even then, it had tugged at him.

"Jacen, don't-" Han started. Jacen cut his comlink and dropped it.

He lit his lightsaber, took a deep breath, and ran.

All things considered, the guy wasn't that impressive. He looked like he took a tumble into a basketful of vibroblades, face first, then went a couple rounds with a wampa. He was all scars, all the time, across every bit of exposed skin. Not that there was all that much.

The vong commander, because he had to be since all the others threw themselves flat on their faces the second he strode into Han's office, peered around imperiously. His eyes glowed red and white and his nose was cut away, leaving open nasal passages like a skull. Definitely not the most visually appealing thing, but Han had seen more styles and trends than he could name. Honestly, Nar Shadaa had uglier.

Rust-red scales started as a dusting of tiny ones at the vong's neck, growing closer and tighter and larger until they became a coat of mail that covered his entire over-muscled chest. He still had on the ubiquitous living armor, but a suit that left most of his scaled chest exposed. Didn't need the armor there, Han supposed.

Tattoos filled in everywhere there weren't scars, leaving any guesses as to what the vong's original skin tone was up in the air. Probably pallid and corpse-like, like most of the others.

The vong extended a clawed gauntlet, accepting a wriggling, fleshy tube in his palm. Gently, he pinched it with his other hand, tilted his head, and then let the thing squirm into his ear. Han blinked, nonplussed.

"Ah," the vong rumbled. "You are the leader? Yes?"

The vong's voice was thickly accented and rumbled like a misfiring engine.

"You know, I never actually asked to be. That's gotta be worth something-"

The vong next to him, standing over him and unfortunately not prone and face-down, cuffed Han in the face. A gentle sort of hit, which meant it only almost sent him sprawling, instead of flattening him outright.

He worked his jaw, counting his teeth with his tongue. Still had all of them, which was a nice change of pace.

The leader vong raised a hand though, stymying a second blow.

"Cease. The prattle of heathens does not offend me." Mutters filled the room as the commander stepped closer to Han, then lowered himself into a squat to be closer to Han's eye-level, kneeling as he was. "I am Tsavong of Lah. I am Warmaster to the Supreme Overlord and Most Beloved of Yun-Yammka. You will speak your name."

Rolling the taste of blood around his mouth, Han supposed he might as well keep it going, if for the joke of it at least.

"Roaky Laamu," he offered. "I'd say I'm happy to meet you, but…"

"Roaky Laamu. This is not the name I was given."

Han shrugged, or tried to with the two vong flanking him keeping him in place.

"You know, people keep telling me that."

"Death approaches you. You should face the True Gods unburdened by falsehoods. So: for your soul, as meagre as it is, I ask one more. Speak your name."

Han racked his brain.

"Jenos Idanian." That was an old one, one he barely even remembered. Practically Jacen's age, last time he used that. He'd almost coughed up a lung laughing when Luke shared that Corran had used the same name, not even knowing the connection.

The vong - Tsavong - exhaled.

"Be damned entire, then. Han Solo, mate to Leia Organa Solo, who was Supreme Overlord of the New Republic once."

Han squinted.

"Oh, I didn't know you were a fan."

Tsavong spoke over him.

"You have children numbered three. Anakin Solo, Jaina Solo and Jacen Solo."

Han fought to keep his poise as the monster in front of him named his kids one by one.

"Maybe this Han does, but old Roaky here, he never settled down."

Tsavong snapped his fingers and an oddly familiar vong approached, attending the Warmaster to his left.

"Executor," Tsavong growled. "You spoke with the Jacen child this day."

The vong nodded. He had a black orb in place of one eye and his tattooing and scars were a pale shadow of Tsavongs. Some underling. But he'd spoken to Jacen? When could that-

"Indeed. Both Solo twins are present today. Most fortuitous, honored Warmaster."

Dead stars, he knew that voice. That tone.

"Cree'Ar," Han snarled. The vong smiled, a ghastly look on his face.

"Ah, we do indeed meet at last, Administrator 'Laamu'. You'll forgive me for my solitude. The inhabitants of this galaxy are…taxing to be around."

"Hold your tongue, Executor, save if worthy thoughts spring to your mind." Tsavong stroked claw-tipped, armored fingers across his angular chin. "Twins…" The way he spoke the word sent a shiver down Han's spine.

"Long gone," he blustered. "Jaina's in hyperspace already and Jacen's long gone from here. I sent them both away. Real sorry, if you'd made an appointment beforehand-"

"I think not." Tsavong rose from his crouch, towering over Han like a wall of tense muscle and living armor. "Twins. Jeedai Twins. Other voices, trustworthy voices, whisper the same, Executor."

Nom Anor straightened in pride.

"I have studied Jeedai," Tsavong murmured. "Naive. Weak. Fearful of death. Avoidant of pain. I will sacrifice these Twins on the Altar to the Many Armed. You will bring them to me, Han Solo."

Bitter laughter spilled from Han.

"I'll be dead before I let my kids within a thousand lightyears of you."

A serpentine creature flexed and writhed around Tsavong's right arm, coiling into view.

"You will allow nothing. I will draw them by the beacon of your pain. Embrace it, infidel, and find purity in your last moments."

The amphistaff hissed and yawned a wide, snow-white mouth. Fangs uncurled.

"Hold him," Warmaster Tsavong Lah ordered.

Jaina railed across their bond. Aunt Mara had her restrained and removed from the cockpit, the woman feeling sick even as she did so. Starships of all size and stripe were fleeing the orbital cities. They were lost in the crush of them, moving out and away from the Yuuzhan Vong blockade of the world that loomed large over the huddled cities. There was more going on, but he caught only impressions, feelings. He couldn't afford to sink any deeper.

The Force sang in Jacen. Since Ithor, he had withdrawn from using it in any greater measures, allowing at most passive sense. To listen to the Force, but not direct. He wanted to hear without shouting out the Force's voice.

Now he claimed it back. He had to.

The Yuuzhan Vong warriors that circled the administration building were beyond his senses, of course. The last of the blaster-toting guards were dead. He'd felt them die, sacrificed together. Their bodies lay before the main entrance to the building in a spreading pool of crimson.

He couldn't sense the Yuuzhan Vong, but he'd talked with Anakin. His little brother, as always a savant, talked about some of his realizations about the aliens. The Force ignored them, one and all, but unlike ysalamiri, the vong didn't repulse the Force. On Obroa-skai, Anakin admitted to killing a vong by crushing it with a fist of air. He had been remorseful, not of the death, but of how he'd done it, wielding the Force as a weapon of death.

He'd feared the darker implications of using it in that way. His little brother hadn't quite said as much, framing instead the information as a way to stop vong, but Jacen knew Anakin well enough to know it troubled him.

The vong didn't repulse the Force, which meant they left impressions in the world. In the same way that Jacen could, at a gesture, toss aside chunks of duracrete, he too could feel the world in more subtle ways. Breezes, caused by the great breach in the dome as air currents whirled in from outside. Pebbles and rocks kicked by booted feet.

So far, he had killed not a single vong. He slipped past knots of warriors who policed bodies of the dome's brave defenders and dodged past patrols. He felt the shift in the air of their passage, he felt their tread in vibrations in the packed dirt. The Force was in all things. He only had to listen.

Thus was he delivered to the foot of the administration building, all four stories of it, soaring above the rest of the refugee camp. It was blocky, hexagonal in shape and made of prefabricated sections of wall fastened together. He knew from his brief time inside that his father's 'office' was on the top floor. There were conference rooms up there as well. The third floor held a communications suite, linked into the dome's repeater. The second floor was a cafeteria and the first floor held records and a few machine shops.

He felt his father up there, on the fourth floor. Jacen felt him from the agony that rolled down like waves, burning his eyes and catching his breath in his chest.

Darth Vader tortured Han once, long before the twins were born. Chewie and his mother had to listen to it and now he knew how helpless they had to have felt.

Unlike them, he was not alone, nor was he left without any recourse.

He pulled the Force close and leapt.

One, two, three stories blurred past and Jacen soared, light as a feather.

It was so easy. He lit his lightsaber and swiped once, twice, three times, just as he reached the peak of his leap. Heat-seared and lightly glowing, a triangular section of wall fell inward and Jacen dropped right through the opening.

It was so simple.

Responsibility.

Two vong were moving toward him already, flanking the closed door of his father's office. Amphistaves uncurled and straightened out, razor-sharp and jabbing out for him. His heart sat heavy in his chest as he sidestepped one of the vong, stepping right around the tip of the amphistaff and struck the vong with the pommel of his lightsaber, right over the temple. The vong fell, boneless. The second snarled, sweeping low.

Jacen leapt, tucking his legs and grabbed for the vong's helmet. He caught with just his fingertips, jerking the mask enough that the vong stumbled, suddenly blinded. The amphistaff hissed and snapped at him, but it was just an animal without its master's commands. This time, Jacen wound up and struck with the blade of his hand, right under the very rim of the vong's helmet, at the back of his neck.

The second warrior crumpled.

He knew what others thought of him. He knew people said he was naive, a bleeding heart. He knew that his fence-sitting drove Jedi like Ganner to distraction. They always forget that Jacen, like Jaina, like Anakin, had been fighting in one way or another since he could just about walk.

They never recognized why Jacen was so reluctant to turn to force.

He checked over the two unconscious warriors once, then faced the office door. His father's cries of pain had stopped - he wasn't sure when. Moments ago?

Jacen turned the handle - unlocked, and swung the door open.

Nine vong faced him. Han was held up by two, kneeling but unable to support his own weight. Blood soaked his chest and ran in rivulets down his face. Some strange, furred shape wrapped around the bicep of his left arm - Jacen swallowed, wrenching his attention away from the missing fingers on that hand.

Seven of the vong were warriors, interchangeable with the ones outside. Their vonduun was rust-red and pearly white, with specks and glints of bronze throughout, like crystal in mica. The eighth vong wore a living robe and stood behind his father. The ninth vong was the largest Jacen had ever seen, at least eight feet tall and enormous, covered in rust-red scales and holding a blood-flecked amphistaff as massive as a young sling-python.

"Welcome, Jacen Solo, Twin to Jaina Solo," said the giant vong, as if he had been expecting Jacen all along.

Through his mask of blood, Han's eyes were wide and he mouthed something. Jacen soothed at least the edge of his father's pain, keeping his focus entirely on the lead vong.

"Let my father go."

He was surprised at how gentle his voice was. His chest felt tight, squeezed in a vice and frigid sweat trickled down his back. But Jacen kept his spine straight, chin held high.

"You will call to your Twin, in the ways of the Jeedai. Then, I will release Han Solo."

Han's mouth worked again, bloody drool burbling around wordless sound.

Jacen could imagine only one reason why this vong wanted Jaina too. His vision spun - or perhaps the room did. The robed vong said something, but it didn't register. The amphistaves of the two vong flanking Han slithered down their master's arms, coiling at the wrists with their heads held close to Han's neck. The message was clear.

"Surrender your lightsaber, Jacen. You can't win this."

The robed vong spoke with almost no accent and Jacen's teeth clenched. He couldn't be sure, he'd only heard the 'Duro' once and through an intercom, but the easy vocabulary and perfect intonation led him to only one conclusion - this had to be Cree'Ar, or at least one of the orchestrating infiltrators.

The two amphistaves quivered in anticipation.

Jacen looked down at his lightsaber.

He'd made it with his own hands. The blade was a beautiful emerald green, refracted through a priceless Corusca gem from Yavin's own heart. It was a part of him, a knot in the Force that tied to his very being. It was never far from his side, through the highs and lows of his young life. He'd maimed one of his best friends with it in a moment of tragedy. It was a symbol of everything a Jedi was supposed to be.

He hadn't killed with it since Ithor. The two vong outside the office would live. A small thing.

The weapon of a Jedi. The first thing his uncle had experienced as a link to his inheritance.

Jacen held his lightsaber out. The vong leader stepped forward, plucking it from his grasp. A part of Jacen went with it.

The vong handed it off to one of his subordinates. The amphistaves menacing his father relaxed, retreating up their master's limbs to curl about their necks like torcs.

"By your surrender, I grant protection. I, Warmaster Tsavong of Lah." There were glances to his underlings as he spoke, as if to impress his command.

Jacen took a deep breath, refusing to look at his lightsaber. His father pleaded with him silently.

Waves circled him. He felt contradictory forces - he felt ephemerally light, he felt yanked down by gravity. Jaina cried out to him through their bond. He let her, let her helplessness and choking fear and agonized anger wash around him.

He chided Anakin, months - years - ago. He wanted Anakin to stop thinking of the Jedi as just martial warriors. That his lightsaber was more than just an instrument in his hand.

Jacen had been wrong. A lightsaber was just that.

He hadn't been wrong about listening to the Force and finding his place.

His place was here.

Now.

This moment.

Jacen exhaled, shaking his head.

"I didn't surrender," he corrected the Warmaster.

Red and white glowing eyes narrowed.

Jacen inhaled and the Force breathed through him.

There were nine Yuuzhan Vong in the office. Their Warmaster. Eight warriors. One who might be some kind of assassin, with who knows what kind of awful implants hidden away on him. One assassin almost slaughtered a dozen Jedi. His lightsaber wouldn't avail him here. He couldn't match blades with Tsavong of Lah. He couldn't take on a whole squad at once.

Maybe Anakin could. Jacen could admit that.

He wasn't Anakin.

He was Jacen Solo.

So he reached out to the Force. He opened his hand and he asked.

Han's desk ripped sideways, catching one of the warriors in the hips. The vong jackknifed over the surface, then slammed into the thin, prefabricated wall along with the desk. The desk and the vong were sturdy. The wall was not. They left a ragged hole.

Equipment lockers ripped from mountings. Cabinets popped off of metal tracks on the walls. Light sconces sheared loose. One of the vong guarding his father acted quickly, reaching for his amphistaff. Jacen saw this, and so did the Force. A locker blew the warrior off his feet, circling back around to catch the one to the other side of Han on its return. Unsupported, his father slumped, managing to barely catch himself before face-planting.

The walls were prefabricated, made of pressed plastic materials and false duracrete. They crumbled. The ceiling didn't fall, because the ceiling came apart into pieces too.

The top floor of the administration building eroded into a whirlwind of propelled debris and furniture. Jacen stood in the eye, arms at his sides. Wind howled. The Force sang through Jacen, and Jacen was the conductor.

His lightsaber was a tool. It removed him from the moment, from responsibility. It was like a blaster, or a vibroblade, like a proton torpedo or a world-splitting superlaser. It built distance from the actor to the object. Jacen was a Jedi. He bore the responsibility of all the awesome power on his shoulders.

He couldn't - shouldn't - stand at a distance.

Warriors were slung aside, battered back and forth, knocked prone and then toppled again as they tried to rise. The robed Yuuzhan Vong was nowhere to be seen, already fled. Jacen stood in the eye of the whirlwind, Tsavong before him, Han behind Tsavong. Cries and shouts echoed up from below. More warriors. All of them.

Tsavong snarled, grasping his amphistaff with both hands. It was as long as he was tall.

Then his red-white eyes flicked from Jacen, the Warmaster turning slightly-

First was a sconce, to Tsavong's knee. The Warmaster wavered. Metal bolts, once fasteners between roof and walls, streamed in and skipped off of Tsavong's back. Keratin scales bent and snapped under the barrage. Struck high, struck low, Tsavong fell to one knee. A chair swept out of the whirlwood, met by a hastily swung amphistaff. The chair split in two but lost no momentum.

Both halves struck the Warmaster in the temple.

The storm's eye shrunk, converging on Tsavong Lah.

Jacen watched the Yuuzhan Vong commander lash out with fist and foot and amphistaff, managing to brush aside or shatter or rend a surprising amount of what was directed toward him.

It could never have been enough. Han's desk, a heavy thing of metal, once a workbench on a freighter, punched up, bursting through the thin floor of the administration building. It lofted Tsavong up, launching him out over four stories of empty space.

Jacen let everything drop. He was at his father's side in an instant, the Force eager and waiting. He was no healer, but he knew enough tricks.

He ignored the sound of laser fire outside, the growing hum-roar of repulsorlifts. He ignored the perfect, three-hundred and sixty degree vista of the ruined dome around him with the entire upper floor of the admin building gone. He ignored Jade's Shadow nosing in, taking bright flashes of plasma on its shields from the big Yuuzhan Vong lander.

All his attention was on easing his father into a healing trance - a difficult enough task on a good day, without the assistance of the subject working from their end. He'd had enough practice recently, with Jaina's anxious desire to recover as quickly as possible.

"Good to see…you're…using…the Force…again…" Han gasped out, spitting blood aside. His eyes shut and Jacen kept his hand on his father's chest. The Jade Shadow swooped in close, so close he could see Droma's wide-eyed face in the cockpit.

An X-Wing coasted past on its own repulsorlifts, crackling out laser blasts at targets Jacen couldn't see.

It's okay, he sent to Jaina. It's okay.

Hands pulled him and his father onto Jade Shadow, pulled them apart, got him into a crash-couch, carried Han's limp body into the state-of-the-art medical bay.

He let his head tip back, thudding against his headrest. Phantom acceleration prodded at him. He knew, without seeing, that Duro was behind him. His thoughts felt overfull. The moment fled. The peace of the Force receded from him. The symphony grew quiet.

They'd looked for a Peace Brigade conspiracy. They found treachery beyond reason. Yet - if they hadn't come, would they have had warning to evacuate the domes? Would his father - injured, tortured, but still strong, still burning with life - be dead? And Kyp too?

There were no answers. Only possibilities. Eventualities. Paths not taken.

Jacen clenched his hand around the empty space his lightsaber had sat.

He'd stood firm.

That was enough.

Wasn't it?