Star Wars 1. All That Was to Come

1

All That Was to Come

22 Tsédíth, 1,018 DÉ (Deralín Calendar)

14.7.20375 (Republic Standard)

The feeling was always the same, being rather like a blast of hot, dry air on the back of his neck, only without the air, if that made any sense. Or maybe it was more akin to having a file dragged swiftly across one's collar, not that he'd ever experienced that. No matter that he'd never be able to adequately describe the sensation, though, since he knew precisely what it signified, and that was all that counted: a premonition of imminent danger.

"_Ardig-brechad!"_ the curse slipped past his pale lips as little more than a cold hiss as his breath hitched in his throat.

A man clad in black and green whirled about with electric rage flashing in his slate-blue eyes as he looked upon a tiny reflective shape more than fifty kilometers distant. It was the cruiser _Colossus,_ flagship of the 50th Fleet, and it was training its main battery on him. Treason of the highest order! A second later, the cruiser's side lit up with the flashes of turbolasers as a volley was hurled directly at him. There was no time for him to return to the bridge, but he was able to take comfort in the fact that his own cruiser, _Conqueror,_ was graced with a clever, experienced, and (equally important at a time such as this) unswervingly loyal captain.

Upon hearing the clash of blades behind him, he turned about to face a still-more-immediate threat. A team of Jedi had boarded his flagship, (how they had done so, he did not know and could not fathom, though perhaps it was a part of Malak's coup) and four of them were presently hacking down soldiers of his Imperial Guard. Those loyal servants of his had been assigned to protect the bridge, which was a short ways down the passage to his left, and which he had so recently vacated to deal with this…distraction. Yes, there was little better word for it, as he was supposed to be the C-in-C of the Imperial Armed Forces, and not a foot soldier as he was now compelled to serve.

One of the raiders, a brown-haired woman dressed in earthy tones of tan and reddish-brown, was the first to break through the human barrier, only to halt when faced with her objective.

Bastila Shan had met Revan once before, many years ago when they were both still children, but it was from the holonet images that she knew his face best: not the face of an adolescent boy, nor that of a gifted Jedi, but that of a murderous tyrant. Revan had achieved a command of the Force by the age of twenty that had taken the greatest living masters an entire lifetime. He had been known as the finest, most powerful, and most promising padawan in the history of the Jedi Order; and even after he had defied the orders of the Council and fought the Mandalorians, he was still revered by many young Jedi. His cunning stratagems brought victory upon crushing victory, and he was hailed as the greatest hero ever to have served the Republic. Indeed, he was the man whose genius had _saved_ the Republic. But it had all been a lie.

Once the Mandalorians had been defeated, Revan had turned on those he claimed to serve. He accused the Galactic Senate of corruption on a vast and criminal scale, denounced them as traitors to their constituents, and calling for the arrest of nearly the entire body. He proposed a new regime, one which he vowed "would be founded on absolute individual responsibility from top to bottom." There were many throughout the Republic who found little in his message to disagree with, and even Bastila was not entirely at odds with some of what he had said, in particular his charges that justice was too often trumped by bureaucratic procedure, the influence of money, or weak-minded sentiment. He had seemed at the time to share her own view that justice must be valued above such petty concerns, that the innocent must be protected and the wicked punished, but he had also claimed that the Jedi Order had itself become a pawn of a corrupt political machine, and demanded the resignation of the entire Council. This was too much for her and many others, but there were all too many Jedi (mainly those who had followed him to war) who had agreed with him and broke with the Order. He shortly thereafter departed with his fleet and his followers, and vanished into uncharted regions beyond the Outer Rim, to return not as the hero he had been, but as the Dark Lord of the Sith and the enemy of all he had once defended.

And while Bastila herself was very strong in the Force, even a prodigy, she knew that she could not face this man alone and win. No one had ever stood against him in single combat and lived, and those who had fled to preserve themselves had told of his terrifying powers. But then, as the ship bucked under the impact of heavy gunfire, the two remaining Guards fell by her companions' blades, and the odds shifted in her favor.

"You cannot win, Revan," she defiantly proclaimed as the bridge was rocked by another salvo, it dawning on her immediately thereafter how patently foolish the statement must have sounded.

The Dark Lord gave her a look of mild bewilderment that marred what was otherwise a somewhat handsome face, not that Bastila in any way thought of him as handsome at the time. In his favor, he did possess a strong jaw, a rakish moustache that tapered down to the corners of his mouth, and sandy-brown hair slicked over to one side, though his nose was slightly crooked, as if improperly set after an injury. His skin, unlike that of many Sith masters, was clear and unscarred, though strikingly pale, and leant him an air of stark coldness. His eyes were aglow with the thrill of battle, the irises not sickly yellow, but a clear, sparkling blue, as if reflecting the flash of lightning.

"I have a traitor to deal with, and no time for this," he said sharply, almost irritably. Bastila's entire field of vision was filled with searing, blinding light as brilliant as a star, and her ears rang from a thunderclap; through the Force, she could no longer feel Gillad Wenett, one of the Jedi Knights who had accompanied her on this mission. Then there was a sudden rush of movement accompanied by…well, by an absence of any real emotion to be sensed in the Force, which struck her as peculiar for a Sith. Revan felt to her in that moment like a man acting not out of rage, but out of cold, lethal instinct, and she found that somehow discomforting. Still visually blind (though perfectly aware of her surroundings), she turned to strike out at him as he came rushing past her like a human missile, but he rolled aside in mid-air, using the Force to alter his trajectory into something that seemingly defied the laws of physics. She felt a sudden rush of fear from Master Oliij, heard the telltale sizzle of a lightsaber meeting flesh, and then he, too, was gone, his presence in the flaring up for af moment before dispersing into the background current of the Force.

The attack had lasted perhaps half a second-not even enough time to draw breath-but Bastila had felt every horrible stage of it stretch out into an eternity. Her vision was returning, a splotchy red and white image of Revan drawing a lightsaber and raising his left hand superimposed over what she now saw as she turned to face him. At her side was her own Master, Ildra Ylantelo, projefcting calm serenity in the face of what seemed to be death incarnate. Speaking of which, he now stood with his right arm outstretched and the crimson, almost sanguinary blade leveled at a point midway between Bastila and her Master. Bastila ignited the second blade of her double-bladed weapon, and at the same moment saw the first flicker of blue on Revan's left hand. Time slowed as he dropped his lightsaber and swung his left arm forward, and a terrifying combination of fear and rage raced through Bastila's heart as she realized that he was aiming for Ildra. Her Master had raised her from the age of six, and had been a far better parent than her real mother. She deserved better than this.

Bastila charged, but long before she could even reach her quarry, or even before he could unleash another deadly bolt, she was thrown off her feet to the tune of a cacophonous roaring din. The air turned thick with shrapnel that slashed at her face and hands and clothing; her lightsaber was ripped from her grasp; and, just as suddenly as she had been flung down, she felt herself hauled back up off the deck by a massive, irresistible force. Rising over the overwhelming roar, she thought she heard a keening wail, and then she was upside-down in mid-air and saw Revan clinging to an exposed conduit in the ceiling. Their eyes met as she shot past him, and she thought she saw in his gaze a deep sadness and regret, as if mourning for something precious lost. It was only for an instant, however, before he lost his grip and was hurled backwards into another conduit that caught him at the base of the skull and sent him tumbling, with limbs flailing limp in the gale, end over end after her. And then, just as suddenly as the maelstrom had begun, there was utter silence, Bastila connected with some unyielding surface that forced the breath from her lungs (or what little remained in her lungs), and all was still. Her entire body ached, her head most of all, and stars swirled before her eyes as she struggled to her feet. In this she failed miserably at first, toppling back onto the deck, only to lift herself onto her hands and knees and survey her devastated surroundings.

The corridor was a shambles, now devoid of any and all debris, and also of the bodies of the Imperial Guards and her slain comrades. Revan lay a few meters from her, blood streaming from his head and neck, but Ildra was nowhere to be seen, and it was only then that she realized the significance of the stifled scream she had heard. A ragged hole three meters broad, now sealed by an emergency containment field, told the remainder of the story. She felt as though a massive weight had been laid upon her chest, and tears began to well in her stinging eyes. Her lightsaber had landed on the deck, presently resting up against the containment field, and she called it into her waiting palm with a surprising rush of energy.

_No, do not give in to hate,_ she admonished herself as she crawled over to Revan. He did not move, or even breathe, and only through the Force could she tell that he was still alive. _He was once a great and noble man._ The ship shuddered under another impact, and the lights went out, to be replaced by amber emergency lamps, as she leaned over him.

"Why?" she asked aloud, as if there could be any reasonably expectation that he might answer. _Why did you do it? All of it?_ She was to take him alive, if possible. That goal would have been impossible had the corridor not been breached, for he would surely have killed Ildra and herself, but now it was rapidly slipping away along with his life. There was a great opportunity here, she sensed. Indeed, she felt as if she had arrived at a crossroads not only in her own life but in history; that all that had come before had been but a prelude to this moment, and that whatever her choice, it would affect all that was to come after. Laying her hand over his forehead, she sought to do whatever might be within her power to save him. _Yes, save him,_ she told herself, certain of her choice._ He may yet be redeemed: there is good in him._

In a sea of black, Revan knew that his time had come. He did not fear death, only the death of his dream, and of all that he cherished and fought for…bled for...killed for. _No, all the plans are in place,_ he tried to reassure himself as his thoughts began to drift and dissemble._ Malak will die here, this day, and his kind will soon follow him…and the Jedi…and the Republic… They all will perish... and Deralí will rise again…_ And then he could see it: mountainsides carpeted with evergreens, rising up on either side of pure blue water to form a craggy fjord. Grey and white facades grew out of the slopes, and a great spire arose at the base of the fjord, as if an outgrowth of the mountains, of the very planet itself. A broad avenue ran along the shore, and on it were marching men and women in green and grey and black. Banners flew in the fresh sea air, caught in a stiff wind that set them snapping and fluttering to and fro, and there was music playing… joyous music… Rank after rank marched past, their faces flushed with pride and elation, their step light and steady, on and on and on… And then, quite unexpectedly, there was a presence with him, and he was sitting on a cool rock on a slope in the hours before dawn-that magical time just before the world woke-looking down upon a sea of fog dotted with the emerald islands of hilltops that poked up out of the mist. Above was spread an innumerable multitude of stars that lingered as the first pale glimmer of sunlight crept up in the east, and beside him was… _Who are you?_

She reached out into the Force, drawing upon the energy generated by every living being in the universe, and simultaneously reached into Revan. When she touched his essence, however, it was…indescribable. This was not the raw, unchecked, tainted power that she had felt from other Sith, but something refined and purposeful: a perfect night without end, absolute and infinite and beautiful in its clarity. Above all, it was _pure._ And then she found a power within herself that she had never known was there, and she poured it into Revan's wounded body.

Astonishingly, she could actually feel the cracked vertebrae knit back together, the nerves rejoin, and, a second later, Revan's consciousness flare up like a suddenly-kindled fire. She recoiled in shock and stunned amazement at what had just transpired, feeling a peculiar rush pass through her that made her head swim. Fortunately, the Dark Lord remained motionless, apart from the subtle rise and fall of his chest. As Bastila took him by the shoulders and started to drag him back toward the door, his eyes snapped open, and he gasped, drawing in a long, ragged breath, then lay back and shut his eyes once more.

"_O cina ílíth rethér_," he rasped. "_Lín…lín._"

What he said, she did not know, but then his breathing fell back into a steady rhythm, and she resumed pulling him to safety.

"I just lost starboard thrusters one, three, four…"

"Starboard ahead flank! Bring us around, bring us around _fast!_"

On the bridge, Line Captain Grier was rushing from one station to another, trying to salvage some kind of victory from this fiasco. Why in hell was the _Colossus_ still firing? There was no way they couldn't have realized their mistake by now, and there were no Republic vessels close enough to the _Conqueror_ for this to be a targeting error.

"Captain, port shields restored!" exclaimed an engineering lieutenant while still frenetically typing commands into her console. "It may be temporary."

"Comms?"

"All green, sir, but still no reply from _Colossus_," replied another junior officer.

"Dammit, weapons status," Grier growled through clenched teeth.

"Sir, I've got red across the board. Their second salvo took out the primary generators, and there's no hope of restoring power in less than…"

He wasted no time in giving the order: "Signal all ships to fire on _Colossus_. Do not, repeat _do not_ destroy her! Shoot to disable only."

"Aye, sir!"

"And where is Lord Revan?"

"He should have defeated the Jedi by now, sir," said Senior Lieutenant Arno, head of the ship's Marine contingent, in a cautious half-whisper.

"Take your men and find out if he's all right."

"Yes, sir." Halfway to the blast door, Arno turned back and said, "I do have every confidence that he has the situation well in hand."

How she had managed to move him at all in her state, she didn't know, but Bastila had dragged the semi-conscious Revan fifty meters down the hall and was nearing an open set of blast doors when heavy footfalls and shouting made her look up. A dozen men in blue-grey fiber armor, with a uniformed officer leading them, were bearing down on her with assault rifles at the ready.

"Let him go!" roared Arno in a voice like a lion.

Bastila lowered Revan onto the floor.

"Don't…shoot…her," he ordered the officer hoarsely.

"We'll get you to the infirmary right away, sir!" said one of the marines as he helped lift Revan.

"Lieutenant," said Revan firmly, the authority returning to his voice as his hand seized the front of Arno's uniform with a bloody hand, "If she is…_in any way… _mistreated…I will have your head."

"Yes, My Lord," replied Arno, fear in his eyes. He snapped to attention and saluted as his commander was whisked away.

"And as for you, you should consider yourself very lucky," he snarled at Bastila as two of his men seized her by the arms. "If it wasn't for that order-and I'll be damned if I know why he gave it-I would have shot you dead here and now. Who knows? He might rescind it when he comes around and I'll get to shoot a Jedi after all." He addressed his men: "Put her in a holding cell, but by all means be gentle."

As the woman was hauled off, Arno holstered his sidearm. Revan's words still echoed in his mind: _…I will have your head. _Whatever the Dark Lord's reasons, this woman had to be treated as precious cargo for Arno to be safe. Arno returned swiftly to the bridge, trying to divert his mind to other matters.

"Lieutenant, report!" Grier barked.

"Lord Revan was wounded, but is conscious and on his way to the infirmary. Three Jedi are missing, presumably killed when the hull was breached, and the fourth has been taken prisoner. There are no signs of the Imperial Guards assigned to guard the bridge."

"They must have been sucked out along with the Jedi," Grier grumbled. "Serves the louts right, for all the use they were."

"Captain, incoming signal from _Colossus_!" reported the comm officer.

"Patch it through."

The main viewscreen flickered with static for a few seconds, and then the face of Admiral Karath appeared. The admiral looked pale and very shaken.

"What the freg is going on over there?" Grier demanded, ignoring Karath's rank. (He was confident that the man wouldn't be an admiral after Revan returned from the infirmary. He would be most fortunate, indeed, to even be granted a firing squad.)

"We are experiencing some difficulty with targeting systems," said Karath in his slippery voice. "I am very sorry if…"

"You didn't have any difficulty targeting _us!_ We're dead in space, all weapons are down, and shields are at twenty percent. If the Republic wasn't on the run, we'd all be _dead_ right now!"

"Again, a targeting error, Captain. Our computer mistook you for a Republic cruiser and…"

"And no one bothered to look out the blinking window? Karath," Grier said, once again deliberately omitting the man's rank, "I'm finding your story very difficult to believe. We have I-don't-know-how-many dead, and their blood is on your head! Lord Revan himself was wounded, but thankfully is in good condition from what I hear, and I'm damn sure that once our doctors finish patching him up, he'll want to hear an explanation from you _in_ _person-_-a _better_ explanation than the pitiful excuse you just gave me."

The mere fact that Karath did not object to the manner in which Grier was speaking to him was evidence enough that he was guilty. Grier could see it plainly now: Malak, who did not now have the courage to show his face, had attempted a coup d'état with Karath as his accomplice.

"No one is to leave your ship. Any shuttles, fighters, or escape pods will be halted with extreme prejudice. That is all."

He signaled to the comm officer, who cut off the transmission.

_Admiral Grier,_ he mused. Karath was a dead man walking, and Grier was the hero who had saved the day against both the Republic strike force and the coup. He was sure to get a fleet command for this.

The ship shuddered lightly from a glancing blow, abruptly refocusing his attention.

"From a Republic destroyer, sir," said the sensor chief in anticipation of his next query. "They are on the run, however… There! Two of them just jumped away."

"Good," Grier breathed a sigh of relief. "Comms, signal _Assurance_ to concentrate her fire on that destroyer's hyperdrive. I'd like to scratch off one more, if possible, before they all bolt for it."

"Frankly, sir, I'm at a loss to explain how you're even alive," said the ship's doctor while staring at his diagnostic terminal in disbelief. "I see evidence of three broken vertebrae, all of which are now almost completely healed. More remarkable is this…" he pointed at the display. "Do you see this blue here? That shows recent nerve regeneration…very recent, and _very_ extensive, and it runs clear across your spinal cord right in line with these broken vertebrae. In other words, your spinal column was completely severed. You…"

"Should be dead. You said that already."

"My apologies. Anyway, apart from the gashes that I've closed, the only serious complication remaining is a concussion, and for that…"

"I can heal that myself," Revan cut him off.

"Of course, My Lord. It would be best, however, if you returned in…"

"Tend to those who need your care, doctor," he replied, raising his voice over the moans and screams of other patients. "I'll live."

He sat up abruptly, and, in spite of the anesthetic, was struck by a sudden swirling wave of sickness, and a fiery, stabbing pain crashing through the base of his skull. His hand, instinctively touching the area, felt the quasi-rubbery texture of a kolto patch on the back of his neck. _A severed spine. I ought be dead,_ he thought as he swung his legs over the edge of the cold medical table and dropped to the floor. There was only one explanation for his survival that he could conceive; and it meant that the female Jedi was something special, and had he succeeded in killed her along with the others, not only would her gifts be lost, but he would now be dead. He had sensed her in his mind when she healed him, and thought he felt her even now, though that was likely just a side-effect of the concussion.

Swinging his legs over the side of the table, he let his boots drop to the floor and reeled from a sudden swirling dull ache in his head. A heavily-muscled Imperial Guard, a man of about Revan's age but far larger, immediately rushed forward to steady him, but was halted by a contemptuous wave of the hand. It was bad enough that he had been wounded in the first place, but to have people tend to him thusly was absolutely intolerable. Summoning all his will, he steadied himself, pushed away the pain, and then suddenly patted down both sides of his waist. A lightsaber hung on his right hip, but the one he normally wore on his left was gone, lost in the maelstrom of the decompression. Reaching around to the small of his back, he found the comforting shape of a PM-04 blaster-useless against Jedi, perhaps, but at least an honest weapon. Should his good fortune ever run out and he fall in this accursed war, he sincerely hoped it would be from a good, clean blaster shot, rather than from being hacked apart by an energy blade.

"Now get to work on my men," he ordered the doctor irritably as he strode out, not pausing long enough to hear the clipped reply of "Yes, sir!" He could never bear hospitals, particularly in wartime. It tore at him greatly to see those he led into battle-those who served him, who _believed_ in him-suffer so.

_They follow me, they fight with me, but they do not fight_ for_ me…do not _die_ for me…and for that I must be grateful. They have a cause, as I do._

On leaving the infirmary, he was immediately shaken from his introspective gloom by Major General Wallen, commander of the Imperial Guard. Wallen, like his men, wore straight black trousers tucked into riding boots, a black tunic with a leather belt fastened about the waist, and a black visored cap. On each side of his collar was a silver runic device, and on his right shoulder a series of silver diamonds indicating rank. He was a particularly large and physically powerful man, in addition to being well-versed in the ways of the Force. He wore a lightsaber on his left hip, which was of a distinctly plain and businesslike design. Upon seeing Revan, he clicked his heels and saluted, then proceeded to walk alongside his leader.

"My Lord, I beg your forgiveness…" he began.

"There is no need, General. I trust that you and your men have dealt with the last of the Jedi strike team."

"We have. They were all disposed of, save the one you took prisoner. The ship is secure. I must apologize for allowing her and her companions to reach you. I have failed in my duty, and if you so wish it..."

_You offer your life in payment only because you know I shan't accept,_ he scoffed after reading the remainder of Wallen's thoughts. The man was still loyal, but it was an ill omen that he should resort to such disingenuous exaggerations.

"I said there is no need for that. You have not failed, General. Your men did their best, but this female Jedi was more than a match for them. She is exceptionally strong in the Force…and perilously close to the dark side… She is unlike anyone else I have ever encountered."

_Though I feel I have met her before…but when, and where? And what is her name?_ _Both are puzzles to be solved in time: right now I must do what I ought have already done, and was too arrogant not to. I must be more cautious in the future._

"You believe you can turn her?" Wallen interrupted his train of thought.

"Perhaps. I want her likeness checked against our database and identified: I have a feeling I may have met her once before. First and foremost, however, I want you to take the entire 1st Company to the _Colossus_ on the double. You are to arrest Admiral Karath and Darth Malak and deliver them to me, preferably alive."

"As you command, My Lord. Oh, and we found this, sir."

Reaching into his pocket, he produced Revan's lightsaber, which had miraculously not been sucked out into space along with most everything else in that corridor.

"Thank you, General," he said as he clipped the weapon to his left hip. "Good hunting."

Wallen smiled thinly in return, then turned off sharply at the next junction, leaving Revan with the Imperial Guard who had been standing watch over him in the infirmary. A few minutes later, after a short turbolift ride, they stepped onto the bridge.

"Attention on deck! Hail Revan!" proclaimed Grier.

"Hail Revan!" roared the bridge crew.

"Spare me the formalities, Captain. What is the status of the ship?"

"The main reactors are down. We're maintaining life support and twenty-percent shields with the emergency generators."

"And the outcome of the battle?"

"Two Republic cruisers and three destroyers have been destroyed, and the others driven off. _Avenger_ was lost with heavy casualties; _Striker_ was hit badly, but all primary systems are still operational; _Colossus_ is dead in space at the moment, but I'm told that she can be underway again within a few hours. Finally, I have managed to contact _Invincible_, which is ninety minutes away as of now."

"And still on her shakedown cruise," Revan pointed out. "She was kept back from the front for a reason."

"Yes, but she reports all systems fully operational and ready for battle, should the need arise."

Revan gazed out the windows briefly before returning to the conversation.

"Republic forces are certain to return in the very near future. How long will the repairs take?"

"Perhaps two weeks…if we can reach a shipyard, and, even if we can be towed, there is no guarantee that our inertial dampeners will handle the jump to hyperspace."

Revan ruminated on it for several moments, reluctant to concede the loss of his flagship but also admitting the impracticality (if not impossibility) of salvaging it. "Very well. Order the evacuation of the ship: everyone is to be off within two-and-a-half hours, if at all practicable, with the exception of the Jedi in the brig, whose transfer I shall attend to personally. When _Invincible_ arrives, you are to transfer your flag to her, Vice Admiral Grier."

Grier was speechless for a second, then drew himself up straight and replied, "At once, My Lord. You have my deepest gratitude."

"As you have mine, but thanks and congratulations can follow when we both find ourselves in lesser peril. See to your duty, Admiral."

"All right, you heard him," boomed Grier as he swiftly turned to his crew. "Signal _Stormwind _to come alongside and dock. I want standard evacuation procedures put in effect immediately. I want to see the _orderly_ transfer of personnel begin the instant those airlocks are opened. On the double!"

"Senior Lieutenant Arno and Captain-Lieutenant Delaan," said Revan, addressing the marine and _Conqueror_'s first officer, "you are to lead a boarding party to _Colossus_. Take command of the ship and place the bridge crew and command staff under arrest."

"Yes, sir!" barked the two officers in unison.

"And you needn't concern yourselves with Malak: I've sent the Imperial Guard to deal with him," he said as he settled into the captain's chair with slightly less than his customary grace. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply, again willing away the pain and weakness, and forcing his body to heal faster.

"Sir!" exclaimed a familiar female voice from behind.

He spun the chair slowly about to see a young woman race out of the turbolift towards him. She was pale and blonde, with narrow grey eyes and plain features, and a physique that could only be described as strapping. She wore the uniform of the Security Directorate: a grey shirt with a tall pointed collar, black breeches, black jacket with green facings, and a black peaked cap bearing a small emerald insignia. The latter came in the form of five four-pointed stars set in an arc, over which swooped the likeness of a diving falcon. On her right thigh was strapped an all-black PM-04. When she saw Revan's ashen face and the bloodstains on his shirt, her expression grew even more alarmed than it already was, and she sprinted across the few meters that separated them.

"I heard that you were wounded. Is it bad?" she asked as she knelt by him.

"Not particularly. I suspect it looks much worse than it is, what with all the blood. I don't suppose you could bring me a new jacket?"

"Of course, sir."

"Thank you very kindly, Céle."

She smiled briefly and awkwardly as she stood.

"And we'll be evacuating the ship in two-and-a-half hours, so pack your things and mine."

"Yes, sir."

She clicked her heels and was about to turn to carry out her orders when she was stopped by his voice.

"And thank you for checking on me."

"It was the least I could do, sir."

With a subtle nod, he granted her permission to leave, then turned the chair back around to face the viewscreen, only to shut his eyes and slip into a healing trance.

On board _Colossus_, in a darkened chamber bordered entirely by windows on one side, a man of impressive stature and bulk stood in his archetypal brooding stance. He was robed in tight, rust-hued clothes that showed off his powerful physique, and his shaved head was heavily tattooed (both fashion statements that he knew thoroughly repulsed Revan). The lower part of his face was dominated by a bulky, metal prosthetic jaw, necessitated by the skillful swipe of a Mandalorian's beskad during the last war. While there existed the rumor that Revan had been responsible for his own apprentice's disfigurement, there was no truth in it, and it rankled both men, albeit for different reasons. Had Revan ever had cause (before now) to punish his apprentice, he was wise enough not to leave a vengeful man free to exact retribution; and had he ever actually raised his blade to Malak, the latter would have turned on his master long ago.

Malak had few illusions about the fate that awaited him now. He knew that his master had little love for the Sith philosophy, however much he might pretend otherwise, and wouldn't see the attempt to depose him as anything other than a despicable act of treason. Most likely, he would even use the incident as an excuse to execute anyone in a position of power who didn't see eye-to-eye with him. He had thought of escaping, of stealing a hyperdrive-equipped shuttle and jumping away, but he could sense the hundreds of guns trained on the cruiser, and knew that he would be dust the moment he cleared the hangar. No, if he was to die, better to die on his feet, rather than fleeing like a miserable coward.

Still, perhaps he could yet save his head. After all, Karath was the perfect scapegoat: he had once served the Republic, and had turned his allegiance to Revan with surprising ease. Revan had never really trusted the man, and often seemed to loathe him, and had kept him in his service thanks solely to Karath's knowledge of Republic tactics and technology. He could say that Karath had turned his coat once again, only this time against the Empire, and it was he, Malak, who had stopped the attack in time and killed the traitor. But no, Revan would see through that before he even got the words out, and he knew it, which meant that the admiral's headless corpse was more the byproduct of his impotent rage than a viable scapegoat.

Through the windows, he could see the cruiser _Stormwind_ interposed between himself and _Conqueror_. Just visible to his left was _Striker_, parked off the bow of his own ship, her main batteries still locked on target. A much smaller ship, dark gray and of a boxy design, was now approaching _Colossus_ at speed, quickly disappearing below the line of Malak's windows. It was an Invader-class assault shuttle, and Malak knew that it was coming for him. He reached out in the Force, wondering if Revan himself was aboard, but sensed only a contingent of Imperial Guards. While none of them, Wallen included, could begin to match Malak's power, their weight of numbers was power enough. He thought again of running, or at least of sending a signal to Korriban, where there were still loyal Sith…_real_ Sith and not pretenders to the name like Revan. On the other hand, if they were too weak and too blind not to realize what their so-called Dark Lord would do in the aftermath of this day, then they deserved the fate that awaited them all.

As he awaited the arrival of the Imperial Guards, he cursed himself for having placed his trust in a man like Karath. At the crucial moment, the admiral's stupidity and cowardice had let him down. Had they been closer to _Conqueror_, as Malak had repeatedly demanded, the attack would have succeeded, but Karath was reluctant to hazard a collision.

The double doors chimed but did not open, Malak having locked them. A second later, he heard the buzz of multiple lightsabers as they slashed furiously at the door, which promptly collapsed inwards in many pieces. Wallen now rushed through the open doorway, brandishing his saber, with two dozen Guards at his heels. They swiftly formed a semicircular cordon around Malak, each one with his lightsaber drawn. As strong and skilled with a blade as Malak was, he knew that he stood no chance against twenty-five mad fanatics. And that was precisely what the Imperial Guards were: each and every one of them would gladly, even eagerly, lay down his or her life for Revan.

"Darth Malak, you are under arrest for high treason against Lord Revan and the Empire," proclaimed Wallen.

"Are you so stupid that you cannot see what happened here?" asked Malak in his deep, metallic voice, gesturing to the corpse that lay a few meters away. "Admiral Karath was the traitor here. It was _I_ who stopped…"

He was cut off by twin blue beams that converged on his head and threw him into wild, convulsing spasms. Two of Guards armed with neural disruptor rifles had emerged from behind the main line and fired before Malak could react. Even after he had fallen to the floor, his mind a twisted mass of disjointed thoughts and images and ferocious pain, they continued firing.

"You do know those things will cause brain damage if the target is exposed for more than a few seconds," a subordinate cautioned Wallen over the general's shoulder.

"I don't see how that's an issue here. You don't suppose Lord Revan will want to have a chat with him, do you?" replied Wallen callously.

The younger man chuckled. "I suppose you're right. This bastard's just going to be burned to a cinder anyway."

"That's enough," Wallen casually ordered the shooters after another few seconds. His own lightsaber still drawn, he took a thick metal collar from his belt with his left hand and cautiously approached Malak, who moaned quietly as he lay upon the deck. He treated his prisoner like a poisonous animal that may or may not be playing dead, kicking him hard in the ribs and then backing off quickly to await a response. When none came apart from more moans, he closed in once more and flicked off his lightsaber. He fastened the collar around Malak's neck as quickly as he could, then breathed a sigh of relief.

"All right, get him up."

Bastila lay on a hard and narrow bunk in her cell, which measured a scant two meters on either side. The light was dim, the air stale, and the guard in the corridor outside kept eyeing her in a most disconcerting manner through the tiny viewing slit in the door. She could, of course, suspect the reason for this, being aware that she was an attractive woman, or at least when her skin wasn't crisscrossed by thin cuts made by flying debris. Her face was pleasantly proportioned, her eyes a sparkling blue, her skin fair and smooth, her lips full and red, and her figure athletic-yet-feminine. In short, she was cursed to having men from outside the Jedi order make advances toward her at every opportunity. She had, of course, always brushed them off, due half to her strict training, and half to her own natural feelings of superiority. She had always retained a measure of arrogance about her in spite of the near-continuous admonitions to the contrary, and her own understanding that it led to the dark side. After all, Revan's confidence in his own superiority no doubt contributed to his fall, and she often reminded herself of his example, but nevertheless found it to be a disturbingly enduring trait.

At the moment, however, she was more concerned with the unwanted attentions of her guard than she was with her own attitudes. _Certainly he's been given Revan's order not to harm me,_ she thought. Prying into the man's feelings, though, she was relieved to find that he was more afraid of her than anything else, presumably because she was a Jedi. Still, she couldn't help but wonder at the reasoning behind Revan's order. She vividly recalled the expression on Revan's face and the tone of his words as he threatened the lieutenant's life. He had meant that very, very seriously. Maybe he knew who she was. Her rare gift of battle meditation, which she had used to enable the strike team to board the _Conqueror_ in the first place, would be a powerful weapon in the hands of the Sith, and tilt the balance of power irrevocably in their favor. If Revan did know her identity, then he would certainly make every effort to win her over to his cause. He would, of course, fail in this endeavor, she being far too dedicated to ever turn to the dark side, but he was sure to make the effort.

"Attention: This is a fleet-wide broadcast from the Imperial Naval Vessel _Conqueror_," said a female voice from out in the corridor. Bastila had recalled seeing a viewscreen out there when she first arrived. "A short while ago, in an act of treason and cowardice not seen in a thousand years, Darth Malak fired upon Lord Revan's flagship while in the heat of battle with the Republic Navy. Thanks to the genius of our leader and the skill and bravery of _Conqueror_'s crew, the Republic forces were beaten and the traitor Malak apprehended. Though wounded in the attack, Lord Revan continues to carry out his duty with unflagging devotion, having returned to the bridge within minutes of being treated for his injuries."

"Here begins a new era in the history of the Empire," spake Revan thereafter, who sounded to Bastila to be in remarkably good health. "It has become painfully clear to me that there are those within this Empire who do not hold its best interests at heart. They do not share the selfless dedication of those who fight and die every day at the front, and fight only for their own contemptible gain. Infighting…infighting can lead only to the absolute and irremediable defeat of our ideals, our aspirations, and our way of life, and for what? Petty personal ambition, an unbridled lust for power for its own sake, and unabashed avarice: these weaknesses are what today came within a hair's breadth of destroying all that for which we sacrifice…all that for which so many have given their lives. And so it shall be that, henceforth, those weaknesses will not be tolerated.

"The start of this new era will be marked by the elimination of a danger that has long lain dormant within certain elements of the Empire. This danger has, until now, been the greatest threat facing our cause: this threat is one man who allowed his own personal ambitions to blind him to the greater cause, and even to victory itself. Not only has this man betrayed me, he has betrayed the tens of millions who have spilled their blood in service of their own heartfelt convictions. And for this he will pay with his life.

"I felt the touch of death this day, but it did not claim me. Nay, it _could not_ claim me, for my purpose is not yet fulfilled. I vow to you that I shall never tire, never rest, never relent in the execution of my duty to you, to the Empire, and to the principles upon which it was founded. I mean to see this war through to its victorious conclusion, and to do so _at your side!_ Long live the Empire! To victory!"

There were cheers of "Victory!" from what sounded like a thousand different voices before the broadcast ended, and Bastila fought down a chill that rose up her spine.

Malak was escorted into a disheveled conference room by Wallen and four other Imperial Guards, who muscled him around the long table and toppled chairs, and between the rows of Imperial Marines who stood with assault rifles charged and ready.

"Vermin," Revan hissed as he slowly approached Malak. "You had not even the courage to face me in personal combat. You are nothing but a conniving, spineless coward!"

His pace was clearly the result of injury, and not of fear, for there was nothing but pure hatred on his face and in his voice; and an electric glow shone in his eyes, hinting at a terrible power waiting to be unleashed.

"_Ámenín, draitsûlín, áthin!" _he cursed, switching to a tongue better suited to disparaging someone's very existence, even though he knew Malak couldn't understand a single blessed word of Derals, not even the profanity.

"My Master, I know what you must think," Malak began as he dropped to his knees, an act which immediately had every weapon in the room trained on him, "but it was not I who gave the order to fire. It was Admiral Karath who betrayed you, just as he betrayed the Republic. He was complicit in the plot by the Jedi to assassinate you, and when he saw the Republic attack faltering, he took matters into his own hands and gave the order to fire."

"Senior Lieutenant Arno!" snapped Revan, never averting his contemptuous stare from the giant kneeling before him.

"Sir!" Arno answered with a click of his heels.

"What results have you obtained from the bridge crew and the late admiral's command staff?"

"Unanimous results, My Lord. They all agree that it was Malak who gave the order to fire on this ship. Karath acted in complicity, but was only second-in-command."

"So, then, my apprentice," he said that last word mockingly, for Malak had never been anything more to him than a weapon, "it is your word against that of thirty-four others."

"Those men would say anything to save their necks!" Malak retorted.

"If that is the case, then their efforts have been in vain. Lieutenant, you know the punishment for treason-have them all shot," Revan ordered curtly.

"Yes, sir."

"And as for you," Revan addressed Malak in a harsh, gravelly voice, "it has been a long time since I had either trusted or respected you as a subordinate or a sentient being. You are a barbarian in the guise of a warrior, a criminal and an inferior in every way I can conceive, a…human pestilence."

"And you have become a weak-minded…" Malak started, having regained his courage in the face of what was now certain death. He brought himself back up to his full, imposing height, but did not long remain on his feet.

Revan said not a word as lightning flashed from his hands. Rather than firing a single bolt, he sent dozens of spidery tendrils of blue energy into the Sith Lord, deliberately seeking _not_ to kill him instantly. Consequently, Malak let out a hideous shriek as he fell to the floor, writhing in agony, his scream swiftly morphing into a metallic howl as his vocabulator shorted. His skin charred and peeled, and his limbs twisted into grotesque poses. After a time, his cortosis-weave bodysuit burst into flames, and his entire form began to shrink and shrivel. The howl ceased, but he continued to twitch for another thirty seconds or so, and it was only when the now-unrecognizable mass on the floor lay motionless that the lightning flickered out. Breathing heavily and doused in cold sweat, Revan staggered backwards to one of the few chairs still standing on four legs, and collapsed into it.

_Fool,_ he thought, realizing the utter stupidity of doing such a thing while recovering from a near-fatal wound. _How did I recover, anyway? It must have been _her-_-there can be no other explanation._ He shut his eyes as his head was stabbed by a white-hot knife, and his stomach clenched and churned spasmodically. _A flamethrower would have done just as well, but no, I had to show off,_ he chastised himself as good-humoredly as he could manage at a time such as this.

He thought of sending for a doctor, but swiftly scrapped the idea on principle. There was no new injury, merely the after affects of his brush with death, and discomfort and pain were foes to be conquered by the will, not dismissed with drugs. Sitting up straight in the chair, he fixed his eyes on the end of a broken cable that was hanging from the ceiling, and took long, deep, cleansing breaths. _In…and out…in…and out. Pain is just another enemy, and one that I have beaten before._

"My Lord?" Wallen's voice broke through his vertigo, and he knew the remainder of the question before the general had even properly formed the words in his head.

"Eject it out the nearest airlock," he muttered. The pain and nausea faded slowly, steadily, growing fainter with each breath he took. Then he made the mistake of glancing up at the source of a scraping, squishing noise, which was, of course, Malak's hideously-disfigured corpse being dragged from the room. Acid burned his throat, water streaming from his eyes as he forced it back down, the pain in his digestive tract nearly matching the pain in his head. It was the melted eyes that did it. _You thrice-cursed idiot! Why do you always look at the eyes? Blood, brains, guts, never a problem, but you're damned weak stomach _always _turns at the _hwaichín _eyes, and you _always_ look! Now breath, you moron. In…and out… in…and out._


	2. Upended

Thanks are owed to GinsengH for pointing out an error I missed. (Having completely rewritten this story several times over, often with significant alterations to the plot and timeline, a few are bound to slip through.) It has now been corrected. (Incidentally, at the beginning of the story, Revan is 32 and Bastila 27.)

* * *

2

Upended

Precisely two hours and three minutes after Grier sent the distress signal, and forty-eight after the corpse of Darth Malak was shot into hard vacuum, a flash of white signaled the arrival of _Invincible_, the sight of which boosted the spirits of all within the battered flotilla. She was not one of the standard cruisers that formed the bulk of the Imperial Navy, but rather the lead ship of a new class of battlecruiser. Shaped like a four-sided arrowhead, she measured nearly nine kilometers in length-five times that of even _Conqueror_ and her sisters-and bristled with armament from stem to stern. No longer was there any fear of the Republic returning to finish what they had begun, not with such protection at hand.

The evacuation of _Conqueror_ proceeded smoothly and with little sense of urgency, but remained on schedule. A large contingent of the crew had already been transferred to _Stormwind_, while the rest were in the process of boarding _Striker_.

Revan, having been outfitted with af clean jacket, was now ofnce more in the captain's chair on the bridge, and was perusing a datapad when Grier approached.

"Sir."

The C-in-C looked up.

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Sir, with your permission, my staff is ready to transfer to _Invincible_. I should, naturally prefer to have my old comrades with me in my new command."

"Of course. You are at liberty to organize your new command as you deem proper, Admiral."

"Thank you, sir."

"Once the evacuation is complete, you are to proceed with _Invincible_ and the destroyer squadron to the rendezvous point, where you will take command of the 50th Fleet." He turned off the datapad and slipped it into a pocket. "What is the status of _Colossus_?"

"Her crew have restored limited hyperdrive capability. She will be able to make the jump to Vinsoth, where she can finish repairs."

"Very good. I shall lead _Stormwind_ and _Striker_ to Vinsoth as well, to offload the survivors, and then return to the Star Forge."

"Understood, My Lord."

"And, Admiral, the timetable for Operation Drumbeat still stands. Good hunting."

"Thank you, sir."

Grier snapped to attention and saluted, then turned on his heel and returned to overseeing the evacuation of his dying ship.

Revan took a deep breath and pushed himself up out of his chair. Every muscle ached, and every joint felt as though it had been shut in a door, and he again cursed himself for having been bull-headed enough to even consider frying Malak while in his condition. _Oh, well,_ he thought, _at least I can walk._

"General, would you please accompany me to the brig," he ordered Wallen, who had been waiting attentively nearby like a faithful attack hound.

"Of course, My Lord," he barked with a click of his heels.

Wallen followed him into the turbolift, where Revan leaned against the wall throughout the ride to the detention block.

"How do I look?" Revan asked.

"Much better, sir-like yourself again, sir."

"Good…very good."

In spite of the discomfort involved, he straightened his posture to parade perfection as the turbolift came to a stop and the doors hissed open. He strode out into the detention block, past the checkpoint (the sentry there unhesitatingly came to attention and saluted, rather than requesting identification as he did of everyone else), and down the bare corridor connecting the dozens of cells, all of which were empty save one.

Inside, Bastila lay on her bunk, her hands folded on her flat stomach and her eyes closed. She was immersed in a state of peaceful meditation, with all thoughts of death and pain banished from her mind. The little shard of steel embedded in her cheek was just a point in the universe, and one not even in her body, she told herself. There was no pain, yes no pain whatsoever as she focused her thoughts on it, seized hold of the offending debris, and drew it up and out of the wound. She sent it drifting away, then let it go, and heard a faint tinkle as it landed on the deck. _No pain._ Now she focused on the flesh itself-not her own flesh, of course, just a wounded patch of muscle and skin somewhere in the universe that needed mending-and channeled energy from the current of the Force into the requisite cells, willing them to divide and multiply, diverting more antibodies to the area.

She could hear faint voices then, and knew that they were outside her cell. More disturbing, she could feel a kind of presence within her mind. It was faint, but tasted of passion and…curiosity. A man loudly said something to which she paid no heed, only to be scolded by another man and swiftly leave in a swirl of shame and fear. A hand rocked her arm, and she opened her eyes to see Revan leaning over her. The door was open, and no one stood outside.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a voice that was acoustically sharp-not really rough, but sharp-and yet all the same quite polished and elegant.

She was taken aback by the question, and had to gather her thoughts before responding, "Yes, I'm fine."

"No, you're wounded."

"Not seriously…and I'm already healing those cuts myself."

"You're as stubborn as I," he chuckled, then gestured to the bunk. "Do you mind if I sit here, or are you going to make me use the head as a chair?"

"N-no, go ahead," she said with mild confusion as she sat up.

Exuding pain through the Force, Revan gingerly lowered himself onto the bunk beside her, appearing more frail than menacing, and in fact looked nothing at all like a Sith, and forcing Bastila to remind herself precisely who this man was.

"Have you been treated well?" he queried.

"No one has hurt me, if that's what you mean."

"You are safe under my protection," he said slowly, as though turning over the idea in his own head.

"I heard you threaten your own officer. Do you enjoy killing that much?" she sniped at him, uncomfortable with his supposed kindness.

"I value justice," he corrected her. "And your well-being is…important to me."

"Why? I suppose you know who I am."

"I do indeed, Bastila Shan, and according to records which an agent of mine pilfered from the Jedi Academy, you seem to be rather important. That's beside the point, however, as I spared your life for two very simple reasons. The first is that you saved my life, though I imagine that your motivation for doing so was far from noble."

"I did it because I thought there was still good in you. I thought there was still a chance to redeem you," she snapped.

"Redeem me, hmm? That would presuppose that I am in need of redemption, and that is a point I shall contest to no end. No, what the Jedi term 'redemption' I call brainwashing, and had you succeeded in taking me prisoner, I would only have fought on, to the death, as a soldier of Deralí, rather than submit to so horrid and dishonorable a fate," he declared with genuine fear creeping into his voice.

"You would really rather die than return to the light?" she asked, shocked by his statement, spoken with such conviction as it was.

"Ask yourself which is worse: to die in body, and pass into restful oblivion; or to die in spirit, living on as another person who is but a pale imitation of your true self?"

"Is that how you see it?"

"How else can I see it? During the Mandalorian Wars, when I was away from the influence of other Jedi, I realized that the Order was turning me into something that, deep in the core of my being, I knew I simply cannot be, and did not wish to become. I was ten years old when I joined the Jedi, and even that was considered rather old for training, for the sound reason that a child of that age has already developed a sense of self. The Jedi ideal is to erase the self and to become a servant of the light, and to that I do not hold. I am Revan, I am _me_, and nobody and nothing has any right to rob me of that. Tell me this: how old were you when your parents gave you to the Order?"

"Don't try to bring me into this."

"Oh, no, because you are a true Jedi, a selfless guardian, a servant of the light," he said scathingly. He leaned back against the cold wall of the cell and let his eyelids droop, arresting their progress halfway down. "The second reason I spared your life is because, when you saved me, I could feel your presence in my mind, and I sensed something…exceptional in you."

"Did you?"

"Yes, something of immense…" he groped for the words, his thoughts and feelings unclear just then. _Damned concussion. _"…value…and I don't mean your power, considerable though it is."

"Spare me your mind-games, Revan. What else could you mean?"

"I was not speaking of something valuable _to me_, but of something that…that gives you immense value…_as a person,_" his soft-spoken words were rife with confusion. "What that is, I do not yet know, but I knew then and know now that it would have been terribly wrong of me to kill you."

"And since when does a Sith Lord care about the right thing?" she asked arrogantly, even disdainfully.

"I am not a Sith Lord," he said with a conspiratorial air as he leaned closer. "I lead the Sith, I command them, but I do not count myself among their number. They are useful servants, and nothing more; their philosophy nothing but a pernicious pack of lies, and one which I reject as vehemently as I do the Jedi Code. After all, they give themselves over to anger and hate just as readily as the Jedi give themselves over to compassion. They are all servants, whether they admit it or not, and I refuse to serve anything other than my own conscience."

"So then what are you, assuming that you're not pulling all this out of your arse?" she sniped back at him.

"What am I? Ah, now there's a good question. If you're speaking in terms of philosophy, as I assume you are, then even I don't hold the answer to that, because I don't seem to fit into any named system of belief that I know of. If, however, you are speaking in terms of personal belief, then I can say that I consider myself a moral man, and I hope that, given time, you'll come to understand my morality. You certainly needn't accept it, but I hope that you will at least be able to comprehend it."

Bastila felt genuinely uncomfortable discussing morality with Revan. Sith or not, any man who waged a war of aggression and mass murder must necessarily possess a warped view of morality. Furthermore, the dark side was inherently corrupting, and regardless of whatever philosophy he believed in (if any), he had to be a twisted individual. This was all some manner of ploy on Revan's part, she was convinced. He was, after all, renowned as a highly charismatic man.

"I'll never follow you, Revan," she said defiantly. "I know you want to use my battle meditation in your war, but I would sooner die than turn to the dark, just as surely as you would sooner die than turn back to the light."

"You are very brave, Bastila," he said with a smile, "bravery lying, after all, not in being fearless, but in facing and overcoming one's fear."

"Jedi do not fear death."

"So then you're saying that you did _not_ perform an act of bravery when you fought me? I felt the fear in you. I can sense your power, and that you have the potential to become the second most powerful Jedi in history…after myself, of course." He flashed a sideways smile at the end. _There is a terrible power within her, of that I am certain, and that is what she fears, is it not?_ he pondered.

"You are no Jedi," she shot back contemptuously.

"But I once was. Did anyone ever tell you why I was accepted into the Order?"

"Because the Council made a grave error in judgment?" she replied scathingly.

He laughed merrily and slapped his knee, the first time he had done so in a very long while. "That they did, but there is more to the story. I was born, with the name of Revan Shairen, on the beautiful Outer Rim world of Deralí. Have you've heard of it?"

"I've heard of _Deralia_, and then only in your personal file," she jibed.

It took a deliberate act of will to conceal the indignation he felt at hearing her use the corrupted Basic version of the name, but conceal it he did.

"And I can't particularly fault you for that, not when she has spent the last thousand years laboring in obscurity, her former greatness all but forgotten by the galaxy at large, and even by far too many of her own children; not when her language and culture have come within a hair's breadth of extinction, and her very name is unknown to the galaxy at large.

"Anyway, when I was a lad, I discovered that I had remarkable reflexes and coordination. At the age of eight, my father taught me to shoot, marksmanship being something of the national sport of my folk, and to both our amazement (and my father's considerable pride) the very first shot I ever fired went clean through the ten-ring (that's a bull's eye in layman's terms). Anyhow, I was soon surpassing far more experienced shooters, even hitting moving targets with uncanny precision, and at great range. Were I not so young and still with many years of school left before me, I could have become a professional competitive marksman, or so I was told. By the age of ten, I had also learned that I had a kind of 'sixth sense' about people: I could anticipate their actions with astounding precision, much as I could anticipate the motion of a target. People began saying that I was a genius who would go very far, up until something truly remarkable happened.

"One day, I was at the local spaceport, where my father worked as a hyperdrive mechanic. I had a holiday from school, so he took me there to see all the ships at the port, and even let me watch as he repaired a power conduit aboard an old freighter. At one point something went horribly wrong, precisely what I do not know, and just as my father turned to retrieve a tool from his kit, the conduit overloaded. I somehow _felt_ surge building up, almost as though I could feel the fire before it ever came, and naturally got the idea to grab my father and pull him out of the way, even though I weighed less than half as much as him. Instead, before I ever laid hands upon him, he and I both went flying through the air and landed about five meters away a mere blink of an eye _before _the conduit blew. None of the other mechanics could figure out how we survived, but a woman who happened to be making a stop-over on Deralí that day was able to explain. She was a Jedi, and she knew at once that I was strong in the Force.

"So my parents took me to Dantooine, where the Council tested me in every way they could devise, and found that I was _very_ strong in the Force. Now, ordinarily, they would not accept a child of my age, but never before had they seen someone who was able to use the Force without training. In the end, they decided that it was better that I receive training and become a Jedi, however difficult that might be, than stay on Deralí and develop my powers without proper guidance."

"And let me guess: you didn't much care for Jedi discipline, did you?"

"On the contrary. My parents had never been particularly effective in the field of discipline, and I had largely been stuck with the task of whipping myself into some kind of shape up until I entered the Academy. It was actually a relief for me to be in a controlled environment for a change. I had always respected willpower and discipline and hungered for it…I thirsted for control…and the Jedi gave me that control. They taught me to control my emotions and channel the power within me, and my training progressed quickly-much more so than my teachers thought possible, or cared for, I think. I excelled at nearly everything I tried, but there was always a problem: I was too independent, too willful, and too idealistic."

Bastila doubtingly raised her eyebrows at the last word.

"Permit me to explain: I grew up reading stories of great heroes who battled injustice, righted wrongs, and generally set things right. Deralí was, at that time, rising out of a long and grim age of decay and disorder, and so I was a boy who respected order, but who instead saw chaos and crime, and was deeply offended by it. That was why I had seriously considered a political career, even at the age of ten…by the age of nine, in fact, the idea had occurred to me. I saw myself as having a purpose in life, a clear and defined and noble purpose, which was to lead my people, to set things right, to restore the glory of Deralí."

As he spoke, his voice rose, as though lifted by the majesty of his dream.

"But as a Jedi apprentice-and later padawan-I fought no battles against injustice, slew no villains, and set nothing right. 'Were not the Jedi guardians of good?' I was soon asking myself. I caught glimpses of events beyond the Academy, and saw that the galaxy was more horrible than I had ever suspected, and that even when emerging from centuries of decline, Deralí was a far better world than most. Can it be any wonder that I grew increasingly impatient to go forth and _do_ something, and ever more disillusioned with the Order?

"When the Mandalorians attacked, I was convinced that at last my time had come, but no, I found myself, as always, behind the halls of the Academy, despite the fact that I could hold my own with the best Masters of the Order. The worst part of it was not that they would not let _me_ do what needed to be done, but that _no one_ acted. Not one of them made a stand, and I began to wonder if none of them could even see what was so clearly before them? Had none of them the courage to see justice done? I requested permission to lead a group of volunteers in defense of the Republic, and the Council told me that now was not the time, that I was unready."

"You mean they knew that you would turn to the dark side if you were let out on your own."

"What Jedi Masters think they know is neither here nor there," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "For _two years_, the Mandalorians assailed the Republic's defenses while the Council sat and did nothing. I couldn't believe what I was being told! They were preaching patience while the war was being lost!

"My twenty-sixth birthday came and went, and now the Mandalorians were threatening Deralí herself. I do not expect you to understand this, but to a true Deralin, the homeworld-the seas, the mountains, the trees, the animals…the very soil upon which we tread-all is sacred. We are a part of her, and she of us, and our fate inextricably bound up with hers. Above all, she is not to be sullied and despoiled, but is to be defended by her folk to their very last breath, and in spite of my time as a Jedi, I was still a Deralin, skin to marrow. That world is in my heart and in my blood, and there could exist in my mind no room for debate as to whether or not I should disobey the Council, for my first duty was always to Deralí. That was _always_ the higher calling."

"There lies a further argument for why only the very young should be accepted for training as Jedi," Bastila sniped back.

"Yes, undoubtedly so. The Jedi are so very afraid of love, and I love Deralí. I loved her then, enough to die for her, and, having since returned to her and renewed my ties to her, I love her still more today."

As he spoke, a look came upon him that thoroughly surprised her: his gaze focused on infinity, and there was a twinkle of contentment in his eyes and a softness to his face, all of it so genuine that she could scarcely doubt him.

"Being a reasonably persuasive fellow, I managed to gather a small number of Jedi and set out for the front without further ado.

"My first action was at Bespin, where I led a destroyer wing under the command of an admiral named…Daashyn. Even before my first taste of battle, however, I quickly learned much of the reason why the Republic was faring so poorly: half of its officer were amateurs, and the other half who knew their business were under relentless pressure from the politicians to either 'never yield a meter of ground' or to 'attack, attack, attack!' I was, admittedly, something of an amateur, having been given a rank out of all proportion to my training and experience thanks to a widespread shortage of officers. For his part, Daashyn was somewhere in between, being a professional officer entirely lacking in imagination, and constantly badgered by Coruscant. In this instance, he was being ordered to hold the system ('to the last man,' of course) and to keep the Mandalorians from damaging the gas refineries on the planet.

"Now then, even I knew that it would be better were we granted freedom of maneuver, but there was no telling that to Coruscant…"

"You don't need to tell me the story: I've heard it before," she confessed with some reluctance.

She had, in fact, assiduously followed every report of his exploits throughout the war, secretly admiring his bravery and conviction even while openly disparaging his insubordination whilst among her fellow Jedi. There had even been a few times-always in the dead of night when her mind would race in circles and she would lie staring up into the darkness of her chamber for hours on end before sleep eventually took her-when she went so far as to think of joining him. It was just a wild fantasy, she told herself, but she had thought of it. She would never forgive herself if he learned of that secret, but at this particular moment in time, spoiling his proud retelling of his first victory seemed worth whatever price she might later have to pay.

"I suppose you would have," he answered curtly, chalking it up to merely academic study of the war, and mercifully taking the issue no further.

"Anyway, it suffices to say that my career was on the ascent from the very outset, and that it was not long before I was leading an entire fleet from one victory to the next, sweeping the Mandalorians from the Outer Rim. What matters, for our purposes, was that in the course of this crusade, I saw for myself how the Republic had abandoned so many worlds to their fate, and allowed so many people to become victims…and not only victims of the Mandalorians. When I set foot on far-flung worlds, even those that had been spared the enemy's conquest and occupation, I found a truth that had been kept from me as a Jedi. The Republic does not exist to protect liberty, nor to uphold justice: like so many of those unfortunates who live under its thumb, it exists for the sole purpose of existing. While it lacks the overt tyranny of the Sith or the unabashed brutality of the Mandalorians, for the vast majority of its citizens, it is nonetheless a system of tyranny and brutality. From the cradle to the grave, it regulates what they do, what they eat, how they live; it steals and squanders the fruits of their labor; it indoctrinates them through the mass media that is at once both the puppet and the great puppeteer of democracy; and those most vulnerable and desperate are enslaved to a system that gives them a pittance in return for their independence and dignity. All the while, it coddles vice, subsidizes theft, and showers infinite mercy upon those who have earned only wrath."

Having become visibly agitated, he stopped, took a cleansing breath, calmed himself before continuing.

"I had gone to war to preserve Deralí and all she stood for, which was the diametrical opposite of this. Immediately after the war, I returned to Coruscant, and there I told the High Council of all I had seen and done, and urged them to take action to right the great wrongs of the Republic. After all, were they not the guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy? The Republic is a despicable mockery of justice, I told them, but they would not hear of it. 'It is not the place of the Jedi to impose our views on others, only to defend them,' said Master Konnuff himself. What masterful hypocrisy!

"It is an inescapable truth that to enforce justice is to impose _someone's_ _view_ of justice, be it your own or that of another to whom you have opted to defer the responsibility of sorting right from wrong. I told him then and there that I may not always be in the right, but that some view-_one view-_-must inevitably be chosen and imposed, and that I shall forever trust my own sense of justice over that of morally bankrupt politicians. I left there not only embittered, but convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that my future did not lie with the Jedi."

"But what gives you the right?" she indignantly pressed.

"What gives anyone the right? What gives the Senate the right?"

"They represent the people of the Republic."

"Come now, how deep is your head in the sand? Wealthy career politicians who've never lived a day in the real world represent the people of the Republic? They represent the close-minded cliques into which they were raised, and the organizations that fund their campaigns; if they harbor any ideals, these are but hollow fantasies far divorced from reality. So what right have they to govern the lives of others? None whatsoever, but they have the _opportunity_ to do so because their 'constituents' are, by and large, ambivalent cowards who do not challenge their rule. It is a universal truth that anyone unwilling to stand up for himself will invariably be ruled by tyrants. Consequently, if I possess the right to define justice, I do so because I _am_ willing to stand up for myself and my values."

In reply to this she only pursed her lips and folded her arms, silently granting him permission to finish his narrative.

"Now, then, where was I? Ah, yes. On my way home to Deralí, I stopped at Dantooine, that I might recruit as many decent persons as I could. While there, however, I was drawn to an ancient ruin buried deep below a hill to the east of the Enclave and untouched for untold ages. Inside I found evidence of a long-buried civilization, and a star map that would lead me to an ill-defined, though reputedly very powerful, artifact called the 'Star Forge.' The map was incomplete, but it did indicate that there was another map on Kashyyyk. I traveled there, where I found a second incomplete map, and so on and so forth, until I had pieced together the entire puzzle, which guided me to an uncharted planet beyond the Outer Rim. It was the homeworld of a race called the Rakata, who ruled the galaxy up until twenty-five millennia ago. They were a despicable people (even in comparison with the long parade of despicable cultures that have flourished since), killing for the sake of bloodlust and enslaving for the sake of cruelty. Worst of all, however, was their…their _butchery_ of ecosystems."

He visibly shuddered, and his lips curled.

"In their volumes of lore, I found hundreds of examples of their appalling disregard, and even violent disdain, for nature, and of the rapacious greed with which they pillaged her, often quite literally to death. I can easily provide you with a detailed history of their crimes, and shall do so if you grant me the opportunity, but being pressed for time right now, I shall present a single example: prior to the Rakata, Tatooine was a vibrant, living world with verdant fields and lush forests and clear oceans teeming with life. Do you know what it is now?"

"I can't say I've ever heard of Tatooine, much less seen it."

"It's a desert! One vast, endless desert, nearly devoid of life. Murderers and despoilers, I name them!" He again drew breath, calmed himself, smoothed his jacket. "Their empire eventually fell through a combination of disease, rebellion, and endless civil war, until there were only a few thousand of them left. The only measure of good they have ever done-and it was done with the worst of intentions, mind you, and only put to noble use in recent years by myself-was the creation of the Star Forge. This is a space station, the largest in the galaxy, orbiting the Rakatan star, from which it draws matter and energy to fuel replicators of a scale not even imagined by modern engineers. It can build guns, armor, tanks, warships faster than any conventional factory, and at virtually zero cost."

"So that's how you were able to amass a fleet large enough to challenge the Republic."

"That is how I was able to _build_ it. I was able to _crew_ it because the Republic has betrayed its citizens. Good government has but two fundamental, legitimate purposes: to provide for the common defense, and to uphold equal justice through the rule of law. The Republic has failed on both counts, and has instead invented a vast and ever-growing collection of _illegitimate_ purposes, all of which serve only to expand its own power, whilst simultaneously and inextricably diminishing the quality of lives already burdened by the constant threat of victimization at the hands of villains both from without and from within. Is it no wonder that when I offer them a new path, I win more and more volunteers each day?"

"Your arrogance will be your downfall," she countered with a stubborn shake of her head, only to find herself thinking just how hollow that statement must seem.

"A predictably and flawlessly doctrinaire Jedi response. In any case, you aren't one to lecture on arrogance, or so I'm told."

"I beg your pardon," said Bastila, setting her hands on her hips.

Revan produced his datapad and scrolled through a few selections before clearing his throat.

"'…her progress in recent years has been nothing short of astonishing…her power is extraordinary…I fear that young Bastila may be growing too confident in herself. While she is all too aware of the responsibility that presses on her shoulders, she remains very proud of her abilities...' That was taken from the records of Master Vandar."

"You can't fool me that easily, Revan," she said condescendingly. "Is that pad even on?"

He handed it to her, that she might read the text in full with her own eyes.

"With Jedi defecting to my side on a somewhat routine basis, it would certainly seem a valid concern for him to possess. You know the difficulty the Order has experienced in keeping many of its members-particularly its younger members-from straying to the dark side, and it seems that you have struck them as a potential defector, and I must say I can understand why. Anyone with the strength of will to master the art of battle meditation, to sap her enemy's courage and concentration and strengthen her own side, must be eminently powerful. Certainly you can see how Vandar and the other Masters would be much alarmed by any signs of pride in you. They saw what happened to me. To lose one such promising pupil was disastrous enough, but to lose two…"

"I shall never fall to the dark side," she sneered as she tossed the pad into his lap.

"Bastila, your battle meditation is of no concern to me so long as you cannot wield it against me. The balance of power is already in my favor, and so your conversion would serve only to hasten victory, not to actually bring it about. I can manage perfectly well without your talents."

"Yes, but your victory would be much quicker and far less costly if I was at your side, would it not?" she posited. "I can't see how you could pass up that opportunity as casually as you suggest."

"Then you admit that I care how many people are killed in this war? I truly do, you know, but I'm not going to spin you some formulaic speech about how many lives you could save if you joined me and we crushed the Republic here and now. I can tell that you're too canny to fall for something like that.

"But enough of this bickering: I am curious about you. I've spent all this time selfishly rambling on about myself, when I know nothing of you beyond what little my agents managed to steal from the Academy's records. What was your family like? What do you read?"

She again folded her arms, and looked away. "I refuse to play your games, Revan."

"If you insist," he said with a shrug. "The ship is being evacuated, as you must have heard from the intercom announcements, and we shall have to be leaving soon. If you wouldn't mind coming with me…"

"Where are we going?"

"To the cruiser _Stormwind_. It will take us to my new flagship, which is nearing completion at the Star Forge."

He stood and, to Bastila's great surprise, kindly took her hand. He tugged gently, beckoning her off the bunk, and led her out of the cell and down the corridor. Along the way, he maintained scarcely any grip on her hand, and eventually released it altogether just before they came round the bend to the checkpoint where Wallen waited, along with a plain-looking blonde woman in a dark uniform. Those two fell in behind Revan and Bastila as they made their way to the turbolift, and from there to the hangar deck. There they found that all of the ship's fighters and assault transports had left, and only two shuttles remained in the cavernous bay. These were both of a lifting-body design, more than thirty meters long with flowing curves and four large engines bulging slightly from the stern. Five Imperial Guards waited beside one, while Grier and Delaan stood by the other, and it was, to Bastila's surprise, to the second shuttle that Revan initially veered.

"Do you know this is the second time I've done this, Admiral?" he asked as he returned Grier's salute.

"Yes, sir, I… I am aware of the fact."

"I'm not ashamed of it, if that's what you're thinking." (Which was precisely what Grier was thinking, as Revan could easily read.) He frowned, felt another wave of dizziness wash over him, blinked it away.

"I suppose what I'm trying to say is that there is no shame in this, Admiral. You fought well, and did all that you or any other officer could have done, and it is thanks in no small measure to you that this day was not so tragic as it could have been."

Grier's eyes wandered away, the man letting the words sink in through the gloom that had settled over him as soon as the last of his crew had left, and he found himself waiting by his shuttle with far too much time to think.

"Yes, sir," was all he managed to say in the end.

"There will be another time…another battle." A sigh wafted from Revan's lips. "Too many more," he muttered in a voice too low for Grier to discern the words. "For now, you must look to this day."

"Yes, sir." Grier snapped off a textbook salute. "And thank you, sir."

There followed a momentary pause before Revan led his little party over to their own shuttle. Once aboard, he and Bastila sat side-by-side in the front row, with Wallen, Céle, and the Guards in the rows behind them. As she was fastening her safety belt, Bastila couldn't help running over in her head Revan's mumbled comment, which her own ears had been just keen enough to pick up. She listened to the ramp close and seal with a hiss, and felt a slight pressure change in her ears, and looked out her window, away from Revan. Though she couldn't feel it, she could see the shuttle lift off, heard the landing gear retract with a muffled clunk, and watched the grey walls of the hangar blur for a split-second before being replaced with the pitch black of open space.

The shuttle flew out ahead of _Conqueror_ for a while, then wheeled around and came back past the side of the dying cruiser. From her seat just behind the cockpit, Bastila had a clear view out the panoramic canopy, and could clearly discern the other ships hovering around. They were clearly on course for one of the other cruisers, the _Stormwind_, but off to the left was a ship unlike the others, the sheer size of which gave Bastila a great feeling of unease. She found herself immediately assessing its design, noting the large, flattened barbettes that were spaced evenly along its sloping surfaces. Matched to the scale of the ship, the guns must be larger than anything else flying, and, equally significant, they were arranged such that all could be fired forward at once, rather than in the obsolete broadsides still favored by Republic tacticians. She found herself envisioning it as part of a larger fleet, pondering how best such a revolutionary design could be employed.

"Behold _Invincible_, may she live up to her name," said Revan with all the enthusiasm of a tour guide describing the same landmark for the thousandth time. "If she looks at all familiar, it's because she's based on the Republic's own G3 design, which was conveniently brought over by a defector during the peace. She's the first in a new line of battlecruisers, and there are nine more presently under construction at the Star Forge, thanks to which we've managed to beat the enemy's launching date by a solid five months, or so Intel says. When they and the other new capital ships are all operational, the final offensive will begin."

"And the Republic will fall, and so shall begin the glorious reign of the great Emperor Revan, liberator of the galaxy and hero of the oppressed," Bastila mocked him.

"Watch your tongue," Wallen snapped from behind, only to be abruptly cut off by a wave of Revan's hand.

"Your sense of humor is almost as scathing as my own," he said wryly as he patted her hand. "Almost. But if you don't feel like being civil, then we may as well not speak at all."

Holding true to his word, Revan remained silent for the rest of the trip to _Stormwind_, and throughout the subsequent march to the detention block therein. Once again leaving Wallen waiting at the checkpoint, he put her in a cell more than twice the size of the one she had occupied on _Conqueror_, and one which possessed proper sanitary facilities_._

"This is normally reserved for flag officers and other high-ranking prisoners, but should you desire finer accommodations, I'll try to arrange a cabin for you, despite the present shortage of space aboard. However, I doubt that I'll ever hear such a request from you," he said with a knowing smile. He then scanned the room, eyes locking on an insignificant spot of ceiling. "Do you see that?"

She followed his eyes, saw nothing, then focused on the spot in the Force and discovered a tiny object little bigger than a grain of sand, emitting a faint electrical aura. "A camera. I'd be surprised if there _wasn't_ one in here, so what of it?"

With a clench of his fist, the camera was ground into powder. "Good day, Bastila."

He clicked his heels, bowed deeply from the waist, then shut the door and strode off down the corridor. After a few steps, he turned back, opened the door. He hesitated a moment before speaking again in a cryptically soft tone, "And you were right that you will never fall to the dark side. You are far too pure for that."

Again he bowed, only this time he left for good.

Alone with her thoughts, Bastila had much to contemplate. She could dimly recall seeing Revan, the great young apprentice, when he had visited Dantooine, and remembered being outraged by the attention the Masters had lavished on him. She had been only twelve at the time, and felt thoroughly neglected during the brief time he was there, and was decidedly relieved when he returned to Coruscant after a week or so. Jealousy and pride lead to darkness, she had reminded her young self in an effort to accept the situation. But why did the Council hold her back on Dantooine, rather than sending her to the Temple on Coruscant, as they had with Revan? she had asked herself then, and asked herself again now. Was it that they didn't want two such powerful young students together in one place? After all, Revan had managed to lure many others away on his "crusade." Had she been there at the time, she may well have gone, too. She was so certain she could never fall to the dark side, but so many of her fellow Jedi had undoubtedly thought the very same, and yet fallen. Wallen had once been a respected guardian of the light, and now he was Revan's right hand man. It was all too possible that, had he ever spoken with her face-to-face in those desperate days, she would have gone with him.

She could already see just how perilously persuasive he could be, and recalled how Master Vandar had taken her aside before sending her on the mission to capture Revan, and had issued her a warning.

"_Revan is a very charismatic man, whose lies have already corrupted far too many Jedi. If you succeed in taking him captive, you must take great care when you are in his presence, and shut your ears to his words, lest he forever poison your mind."_

Why had Vandar said that to her alone? she pondered now. Did this not apply to the others just as much as to her? She had assumed the words on Revan's datapad to have been written by the Dark Lord himself, but what if they were Vandar's? No, this sort of thought was exactly what Vandar had warned her against! She had let Revan's talk get into her head. Clear your mind, she told herself as she lay down and closed her eyes. _There is no passion, there is only peace._

_You will never fall to the dark side_. Those words came shooting into her brain like a bolt of Revan's lightning. Why would he tell her that? Did he think it would make her overconfident? It must have been a subtle link in his lengthy chain of deceptions designed to make her give in to her passions. The more she tried to clear her mind, however, the more she came to believe that he had been speaking truthfully. He was somehow certain that she would not fall. But then why had he kept her alive?

Her life had been upended in a single day, and in no small part by her own decisions, and her mind reeled with questions. There was a very deeply-hidden meaning in his words, and one that frightened her for reasons she did not know.

She lay back, and shut her eyes, and tried to focus on healing her wounds.

Eleven hours later, with lids drooping over bloodshot eyes, Revan ran a comb through his damp hair a few times before dropping it onto the counter of a bathroom so cramped that he could scarcely stand sideways between the sink and the shower door. He looked at his weary reflection, his face still marked by ugly red lines here and there. Having spent more than six hours in a healing trance, the concussion was gone and the wounds were healing well enough so as not to leave permanent scarring, but the back of his head still throbbed as he switched off the light and dragged himself into the bedroom. This was the side of the C-in-C that no one ever saw: the exhausted young man utterly spent by a far-too-long day of grueling work, who longed for nothing more than to curl up in a soft bed and let sleep overtake him. At least he enjoyed his work, which was more than could be said by most people in the galaxy.

As he was crossing the floor of the cramped bedroom (far smaller than what he had grown accustomed to), his thoughts turned to Bastila, and a smile formed on his pale lips. The more he thought on it, the more she reminded him of himself as a padawan: far too self-assured and willful and emotional to ever be a true Jedi. A true Jedi, after all, surrenders herself to the will of the Force. _('Will of the Force.' What humbug! But since when have science and reason been permitted to spoil the absurd 'mystery' of religion?)_ From what he had seen of her and felt from her, Bastila was equally as quick to anger as he, though she made a strong effort of suppressing it. She wasn't entirely successful, however, and for a twenty-seven-year-old Force-prodigy to still be a Padawan was a sure sign of some "failing" on her part. _(What the Jedi would call a failing, that is.) Oh, yes, she has great potential._

He turned down the blue covers of his bed and climbed in, only to find the mattress and pillow were only slightly softer than bare ground, but there was nothing that could be done about it for now, and he was too tired for it to matter much this night. _Have Céle requisition something at the next port,_ he mentally noted. Céle Diric, his aide-de-camp, was very good at finding things, be it suspects or information or lavish furnishings, and possessed more than enough experience at kicking down doors and knocking heads to ensure that she got what she was after. She served him well, and could provide agreeable company when he was in the mood for something other than quiet solitude. He took great care, however, that she never stayed in his quarters with him for too long at one time, so as to discourage any vile and baseless rumors from forming. As agreeable as he found Céle to be, he didn't love her.

"Lights: out," he ordered as his head hit the pillow, and plunged the room into blackness.

There was one person he almost loved. Well, perhaps he actually did love her platonically, but his definitions of love were decidedly blurry, and he couldn't be sure whether he loved her or only revered her, or if there could even be any meaningful difference between the two for a man such as he.

After his discovery of the Star Forge, and while his new military was being assembled, he had held a secret conference of planetary and sector leaders from across the Outer Rim, and there negotiated a treaty of alliance. Embittered by the Republic's failure to protect them from the Mandalorians (an infamous betrayal if there ever was one!), they had turned to the one man who had risen to the challenge, and whose genius had defeated the hated enemy for all time. Thus the Empire was born in secret, with Revan as Commander-in-Chief of its armed forces, while the real governance was to be conducted by a hierarchy of professional civil servants ruled by a council of Imperial Ministers. While Revan preferred not to be bothered with trivial minutiae (and wouldn't have been granted total political authority anyway by his backers, on account of his age and their own desire to retain power), he nonetheless quietly exercised totalitarian control of his realm, by way of a historian and novelist-turned-civil servant.

Her name was Meric Cíam, or more properly Meric-Méthnin as of last year, as she had been granted a peerage in return for her long and exemplary service. She had, in point of fact, served for six years as the Deralín Minister of Culture, and for another five as Prime Minister, before rising to the rank of Imperial Minister of the Interior two years ago. A brilliant and thoroughly ruthless administrator, she had devoted herself to the restoration of Deralí as she had been before her defeat. It had been the one passion in an otherwise ascetic life, and when she first met with Revan, he had sensed that she went into that meeting thinking of him as little more than a charismatic hero who might be useful in the realization of her dream. By the end of what developed into a five-hour meeting, however, he had given her an entirely new dream, which went far beyond her loftiest aspirations. Working together, they would not only rebuild the old Deralín Empire, they would spread its ideals to every corner of the galaxy.

Now she was the de facto civilian ruler of the Empire, and while she still wouldn't take any outright orders from him, she would forever be open to his advice and suggestions, and the two rarely quarreled. Whereas they got on splendidly, and shared the same driving force in their lives, the same ideals and dreams, it would seem to make rational sense for him to possess feelings for her. He deeply respected and admired her (he had, after all, read some of her books even as a boy, and thought them the greatest ever written), and even trusted her, which set her apart from all others who held power. In spite of all that, however, both of them somehow just knew that there would never be anything more than comradely friendship between them.

_But what of Bastila?_ the startlingly bizarre thought flashed through his addled brain. As a matter of course, he knew it was perfect madness to be thinking such things about a woman he didn't even know, let alone one who was his enemy, and he could only attribute it to a combination of injury with extreme stress and fatigue. _I never even spoke to her when I was a Jedi, and couldn't have seen her for more than a few minutes before today, _he reminded himself. …_and yet I cannot shake the feeling that I know her. _Such thoughts left him feeling deeply confused, and that was a decidedly unwelcome sensation for a man who preferred to be perpetually certain. Perhaps his thoughts would sort themselves overnight. _If I can get a decent rest for once. In other words, if I'm lucky._ Right now, his exhausted brain was in the process of shutting down, whether he wanted it to or not.

He fell asleep, knowing that his rest would not be nearly long enough.

* * *

For those of you so interested, here's a concise guide to the pronounciation of Deralsbanif. (lit. _Deralín speech_, commonly shortened to Derals.)

**g** Always hard, as in "gold."

**c** Always hard, as in "can."

**th** Always soft, as in "thin."

**ch** Soft "ch," as in Scottish "loch" or German "Bach."

**ts** As in "cats," or Russian "tsar."

**tch** Hard "ch," as in "church."

**hw** Pronounced exactly as it looks, rather like an ultra-soft "w."

**r **Hard following a consonant or short vowel, rolled following a long vowel.

**i** Short "i", as in "sit."

**í **Like the "i" in "machine."

**ü** Fronted "u", as in French "rue", or German "fünf." (Counted as short.)

**u** Like the "oo" in "moon."

**û** Sounds like English "you."

**e** Rather like a "breathless" version of English short "e." Try saying "e" farther back in your throat.

**é** Like the "ay" in English "day."

**ö** Front rounded "o", as in German "schön." (Counted as short.)

**o** Long "o", as in "open."

**a** Broad "a", as in "swan", unless it is in the last syllable, in which case it is shortened to a sound halfway between broad "a" and a schwa, as in "along."

**ai **Sounds like English "eye."

**au **As in German "haus."

**á** Similar to the "aw" in "law" or the "ou" in "ought."

- The accent always falls on the first syllable.

- In nearly all vowel clusters, the vowels are pronounced separately. (Thus _naion_-arrival-is pronounced NEYE-on.) The sole exception is "ía," which is commonly run together to form "ya," though never after "r" or "l," in which case the two vowels remain distinct.

- The cluster "ah" is pronounced as a softened, slightly longer version of broad "a."

- When forming compound words, such as _Deralsbanif_, the attributive ending _-ín _is replaced with _-s _when an impermissable consonant cluster (such as "nb") would occur.


	3. The Dream Burned Bright

3

The Dream Burned Bright

23 Tsédíth, 1,018 DÉ

15.7.20375

Bastila dreamt of her parents that night. It was back when she was a little girl living with them on Talravin, the last year she was with them before leaving for the Academy. She had never seen or spoken to them since, having been forbidden any contact by the Jedi Order. She understood their reasoning, of course: to be emotionally attached to someone, even to one's family, opened the way to all manner of perils. Love, hate, grief, and jealousy were all equally dangerous to the Jedi. And yet she had never forgotten, and could never forget…

Her mother was badgering her father, as she often did. This time it was about money, as it often was. There was never enough for the family, or so her mother insisted, though Bastila couldn't see any real problem. Yes, they were far from affluent, but they were comfortable enough. Why didn't her mother just leave her dada alone? If he didn't want to go out and hunt now, then why should he? She understood, even at that young age, that treasure hunting was an inherently dangerous occupation, so why did her mother insist on him doing something so perilous? Why couldn't he earn a living some other way?

She woke unrested, even though the chronometer on the wall said she had been asleep for just over eight hours. She was both hungry and thirsty, but felt no guard outside. She splashed her face with water from the tiny sink beside her bunk, and managed to drink some of it in the process, then laid back down. Ten minutes later, a drawer in the wall opened, and in it was a divided tray bearing some kind of soup, two slices of bread, and a glass of water.

While far from gourmet fare, the breakfast was better than she would have expected a POW to receive: the bread was fresh and fluffy, the soup aromatic and filling, and the water pure and cool. As she ate, her thoughts wandered to the war, pondering what was transpiring beyond the walls of her cell and the hull of the ship. Though she was never told anything about the larger strategy surrounding her mission to capture Revan, she had assumed the Republic had planned a general offensive to capitalize on the confusion and infighting that would have ensued had she succeeded. They would have planned such an operation if they had any sense at all, but what would they do now? Based on the scraps she had been able to pick up and piece together over the past few months, she didn't think they had the strength to launch a major offensive unless the Imperial Navy was first weakened, as it would have been had she succeeded. Yes, it all inescapably came back to her, and her failure, and the realization made her feel as though her heart was being squeezed inside her chest.

She finished the meal quickly and returned the tray to the drawer. A few minutes later, the drawer was pulled shut from the other side by the guard.

From examining her surroundings through the Force, Bastila had already determined that the cell was shielded, and that the controls were not only coded, but biometrically-sensitive, which meant that there was no way she could release herself. There did remain, however, the possibility that she could make the guard do it.

She reached out with her thoughts, into the mind of the marine outside, taking care not to alert the woman to her presence. For someone as strong in the Force as herself, it wasn't especially difficult to read or influence a mind, particularly the mind of someone already conditioned to obey orders. In fact, she had always been exceedingly effective at this sort of thing, or rather she was when she could do so without feeling ashamed of it. She had to admit, even to herself, that it was a sort of "dirty trick," and one that she was most thankful she had never been the target of. Nevertheless, there was a time and a place for it, and this woman in the corridor was her enemy, so she couldn't feel too low about manipulating her like this.

She didn't have to go back too far in the marine's memories, the woman having been assigned to guard duty only a few hours ago, to learn that she didn't know the door code, only the code to open the drawer and the gun port in the door, and escaping through either of those was a physical impossibility. She had wondered why ordinary soldiers were assigned to watch her instead of Imperial Guards, and now understood that it was because there was no practical way of getting out.

_Of course it couldn't have been that bloody easy,_ she chided herself. _They're not stupid, you know._ Even had she been able to stroll out the door, she now admitted, she would also have needed to disable the ship's tractor beams, reach a hangar undetected, and acquire the access code for a hyperdrive-equipped shuttle. No, escaping that way was out of the question, at least for now. In the meantime, she thought it a halfway-intelligent plan to at least try to communicate with her captor, and hopefully establish some kind of rapport. She might not be able to walk out the door, but other possibilities could still present themselves.

The only trick to mind control (at least from Bastila's perspective - for many Jedi, the entire thing was a sizable feat) was to not allow the target to _know_ that he or she was being manipulated. If she just popped into somebody's thoughts and said aloud "Do such-and-such," the natural and predictable response would be fear and panic, and, in this case, probably a spray of stun bolts fired through the gun port. No, subtlety was the key to success, and so once she had slipped effortlessly into the mind of the guard, she kept quiet, and planted the suggestion that maybe she should go over to the cell door. It was such a simple and innocuous thing that the marine did just that, feeling little more than a sense of idle curiosity about the prisoner she was assigned to guard.

"Hello?" a female voice said over the intercom in short order.

"Yes?" Bastila replied, immediately realizing that she had no idea what to say. Making friends had never come naturally to her… For that matter, it had never really come to her at all.

"Pardon me, ma'am, but are you really a Jedi?"

"Are you really an Imperial Marine?" she retorted, since it had, after all, been a rather stupid question, though she ought have let it pass. _Good job, truly brilliant. She's sure to want to help you now,_ she told herself.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' I've never been this close to one of you, you know."

"I don't suppose you would have."

"Never even seen one, besides ex-Jedi."

"You mean Revan?"

"Yeah, and I only saw him in person for the first time last night. Remarkable man. _Great _man. I can't imagine anybody else pulling this all together like this."

"Are you going somewhere with this?"

"Well, maybe not. Sorry if I ramble, ma'am. This isn't exactly the most exciting assignment I've ever pulled, you know. I've seen EVA combat twice, I made my first underway boarding and hostage rescue two months ago, and executed three orbital free-fall insertions in the last year, among other things…and now I'm stuck on sentry duty making sure that an unarmed woman doesn't bust through a shielded door."

"How do you know I can't?" Bastila quipped with a smirk invisible to her captor.

"The C-in-C can probably blow out the shield emitters and crumple this door like a playing card, but you're not him," the marine laughed.

Fresh memories of Revan shooting a full-blown lightning bolt from his hand and flying through the air like a missile flashed through her mind. _You're right - I'm _definitely_ not him._ Oddly enough, for someone who usually struggled to control her emotions, she didn't find herself hating him for killing Wenett and Oliij. Maybe it was because they had, after all, been armed and intent on doing something that, at least in Revan's backwards mind, was apparently worse than killing him. It had been a fair fight, at least in the sense that he hadn't killed them in cold blood. Ildra, however…the memory of the woman who had been her only real mother brought tears to her eyes. _There is no death, there is only the Force,_ she reminded herself. _Ildra is one with the Force now…I should not feel sorrow at her passing._

"Hello?" the marine's voice broke through the haze of mourning.

"What?" Bastila snapped as she wiped her eyes.

"Can I ask you something, ma'am?"

"That depends on what the question is."

"Why are you fighting this war?"

"I'm fighting to preserve the Republic, of course," she answered indignantly, the answer being so blindingly obvious to herself that she couldn't imagine anybody else having to ask the question. "Why are you fighting this war?"

"Well, I can't speak for you, but to me and a hell of a lot of people back home, the Republic's just a damned bully that screws you over every chance they get. You see, I'm from Duytol, which isn't even in the Republic, but that didn't stop them from slapping an embargo on us twenty years ago because my homeworld was exporting some hot new assault rifle the Senate had decided was 'against the laws of civilized warfare.' First off, war isn't civilized, and if I'm gonna get shot, I don't care what with. Second, the embargo had a lot more to do with Duytol Arms Corporation stepping on Systech's toes than it did with our guns being 'evil.' Third, I remember standing in a breadline with my mother for eight hours a day thanks to that damned Republic embargo, which made things a living hell for every regular working family on Duytol."

Bastila could all but see the marine ticking off her arguments on her fingers.

"And finally, when we got the shit bombed out of us by the kriffin' Mandos, they didn't lift a kriffin' hand to help, not until it was their own asses in the fire.

"I doubt you can understand what I'm talking about, but to people where I come from, that's what the Republic is all about: when the little guy's doing good for himself, they come and in kick him in the ribs, but when you actually need them around, all they give you is the finger.

"Why am I fighting this war? I'm fighting for an equal chance. I'm fighting for my rights. That's what _I'm _fighting for."

Revan was, at that same moment in time, just waking from a deep sleep to the incessant tune of a comm-alert chiming on his nightstand, and did so feeling as equally unrested as his prisoner.

"C-in-C," he groggily answered the call without checking the ID.

"Sir," said Céle's familiar voice, "I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, but I've just finished speaking with Minister Meric, and while she won't tell me the details, there appears to be some kind of emergency brewing."

"Very well, put her through."

"Yes, sir."

While he waited, he pushed himself half-upright and felt his head throb. However much he had told himself the night before that he had healed his concussion, it was now painfully obvious that he hadn't been entirely honest with himself, and while the injury was better than before, it was by no means banished. While a firm believer that "the one person to which one ought never lie is oneself," he always tried to convince himself that any illness or injury which might be troubling him simply didn't exist. He never could tolerate being at anything less than one-hundred percent; the slightest infirmity became the object of passionate hatred. _I must rest today. Yes, rest and heal. If there is no major action or open rebellion, I must rest._

There was the nagging worry that the Republic might attack today, as the same concern had loomed large in his thoughts throughout the previous afternoon and evening. In the past week, he had sensed preparations on the other side, building tension and apprehension in their upper echelons, uncertainty and guesswork on the part of the junior officers and other ranks, as they waited and readied themselves for something momentous which they all knew or suspected was coming. When he plumbed the depths of the Force now, however, the predominant sentiments amongst the enemy were confusion and frustration. _No, they won't attack. They know they haven't the strength, and they know they've lost the opportunity._

"Good morning, My Lord," came Meric's ever-confident voice, the final consonants softened by her Félenmarcín accent.

"Good morning, My Lady," he replied, doing his best impression of a man wide awake and in peak physical condition. "To what do I owe the honor of this call?"

Ever since the two of them were awarded their titles just a few weeks apart, they had taken to using them as a greeting, though they were otherwise on a first-name basis.

"It's about the arrests from yesterday, and especially the military arrests. You see, I thought my files were more than thorough, but some of the prisoners have been naming names that haven't previously come across my desk."

(When the Interior Ministry was formed, Meric had quietly slipped into its table of organization a department tasked with combating sabotage and espionage. It was named the Security Directorate, and in addition to its official mandate, it assumed the responsibility of amassing detailed files on every person in a position of authority within the Empire. As Minister, Meric was also the Director of the SD, and as Director, she held the power to intimidate, blackmail, or flat out arrest virtually anyone within the civilian government. The military, however, lay beyond her official jurisdiction, and hence she had to call upon the C-in-C to arrest officers.)

"Names that weren't on the original list?" he asked, referring to a list drawn up months ago of persons to be arrested in the event of an attempted coup.

"Names that hadn't even set off any alarm bells until now. Now, I'll be the first to admit that perfection eludes me, and my ability to monitor the military has always been restricted, but it's a bad sign if this many people slipped through."

"How many are we talking about?"

"Two-hundred, sixty-three."

He was awake now. "High-level?" he asked.

"No, only one admiral and two generals, though one of the latter is on the General Staff. The bulk of them are quite junior, and supposedly have some sympathy for the Sith, or at least their way of thinking. You know the type - the ones who wish they could just shoot their commanding officer and take his place.

"Now then, most of the accusations were pretty vague, usually centered around a single incident or conversation, but some are more substantial."

"And you have sound reason to believe that they weren't merely seeking a scapegoat, or hoping to settle a personal grudge by naming an innocent colleague? 'If I go to the wall, you're coming, too,' and all that."

Somehow, over what was an audio-only link, he could see her shrug and spread her hands.

"I had reliable people perform the interrogations - real professionals who can follow the book and know how to use all the right drugs and brain scan techniques. The results _should be_ ninety-nine-point-nine-nine… Well, I know you've read the same studies I have, so I needn't go on."

"I have read the studies."

"We can't all just pick through memories like you," she chuckled. "Pity."

"Yes, a pity, though I suspect that the average person wouldn't put that kind of talent to the most constructive of uses."

"Well said. Anyway, I'd like to follow up on this with another round of arrests, at least to ask questions and clear up a few matters. If it will make the General Staff feel better, almost all of them will probably be released within twenty-four."

"They still won't like it, especially if one of them is on the list."

"I suppose he - that's General Ga'nura, by the by - could be 'interviewed' rather than arrested, at least until and unless he says something wrong in the interview."

"Yes, yes, that should work. You know I'll still need to have Military Intel handle it, at least up to the actual interrogation part - I can't say that I trust all of them, or at least not to do a proper job of questioning people with whom they might sympathize. The point is, though, that we really must tread carefully here. I can ill afford to lose skilled officers in the middle of a war that is far from won, anymore than I can afford to alienate loyal officers who see this action as going too far. So long as we keep this quiet and keep it _reasonable_, however, I don't foresee any difficulty.

"By and large, our officers are smart enough and professional enough and _loyal_ enough to know when there's a problem in their midst. When I sent a copy of the list to Hrask yesterday, he told me: 'It's never good to make personnel changes in the middle of a war, but it's still better than having to look over your shoulder.' The vast majority of the military sees the Sith as we do, and anyone who's gotten too close to those vermin is a source of suspicion. They understand what has to be done."

"Even so, I will be…as discreet as I can."

"That's very good of you. Send me the new list, and I'll have every person on it either under arrest or at least in a room with your agents before the day is out."

"It should be in your terminal already. As for the vermin themselves, as you so justly described them… Well, I know you've drawn up your own list, and thirty-one is a decent start, but…"

"It is not the finish. You know it's not nearly the finish."

It wasn't the first time she had asked him the question, or rather implied the question, and nor was she the only one to ask it. Nobody within the civilian government or the military had any liking for the Sith, and many feared them, and it was only because they were useful for killing Jedi that anyone tolerated them. It was one more source of discord within this patchwork Empire of his, and one that, like all others, was best resolved sooner rather than late.

"Patience, Meric," he said warmly. "This isn't like arresting questionable officers or making crooked politicians disappear, you know that."

"Yes, and I'm glad you're the one taking care of it, but we all knew they'd turn on us one day, and now that one of them has…"

"Sith don't think like us. It's probably even more difficult and unnatural for we Deralinv to understand their ways than most other people, but, to use your own words, the study of history is the best tool for understanding the present and predicting the future. Malak tried and failed, and the others will read this as an opportunity lost, and wait for the next one to come along. When I have thirty-one of them killed, the others won't come looking for revenge, they'll think me a stronger leader even more worthy of their allegiance…for a time. If I give them the time, they would eventually find some excuse for striving to depose me, for that is the only way they can advance in life."

He laid back and smiled in the twilight glow of the comm display.

"On the other hand, if I give them _all_ a chance at personal power and advancement, then they'll bring about their own destruction as surely as a moth that strays too close to a flame."

"Good evening," he said with a weary smile as he entered the cell. She could tell in spite of his facade that something was weighing upon him, and that he found this evening far from good. Before taking a seat, he bent down and leaned in close to her - too close for her liking - and proceeded to push aside a lock of hair that was falling down across her forehead. She instinctively slapped his hand away, only to cringe ever so slightly as she thought better of it.

He closed his eyes and sighed, slumped down on the bunk as far from her as possible, then opened his eyes and said, "I told you I am a man of honor. I shan't hurt you or do anything improper. I wished only to check on your wounds…which I see are gone."

"I saved your life - closing a few gashes was simple enough by comparison. And since when do you care about the welfare of your prisoners?" she asked defiantly as she straightened her hair.

_And how did I save his life? I've never been all that good at healing. Closing a few gashes, certainly, but putting a bloody spinal cord back together? How in the name of the Force _did_ I do that?_

"I…" he trailed off, and momentarily squeezed shut his eyes. "Never mind. I came here to talk, if that's all right by you."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course you have a choice. What part of 'I won't hurt you' didn't you understand? If you don't wish to talk, I shan't compel you. If you wish me gone, I shall take my leave and you return back to brooding in silent isolation."

"I wasn't brooding, I was meditating," she corrected him.

"Semantics. Anyway, I shan't force you to do anything against your will." He leaned forward and began to tug at his boots. "So, do you want to talk or not?"

"What are you doing?" she asked, her confusion about this man growing.

"It is customary on my homeworld to remove one's shoes upon entering another's home. Granted, this isn't your home, but it is still the proper thing to do."

Bastila watched with disbelief as he removed his boots and set them neatly by the door. His demeanor was almost melancholy this morning, his voice soft and subdued. _Was this the real Revan?_ she wondered. No, this was certainly one of his feints, an attempt to gain her sympathy through some elaborate scheme.

"And what do you want to talk about?" she asked him.

"Does it matter? It's my understanding that most people just seem to like talking, particularly when they're troubled, and I can scarcely imagine what your frame of mind must be right now. I've been told I'm a good listener. I could probably have been a therapist, except that I can't imagine a more disagreeable vocation than listening to others' problems every day."

She decided it best to steer the conversation away from his life story, knowing that he would only use it as propaganda again. So instead she told him about her own life in the Order, about all the good she had seen in the Jedi and the evil she had seen in the Sith. Every time she made a jab at his side, a part of her feared that he would strike her or electrocute her, for she could sense a cold hatred rise up in him. The odd thing was that it was never directed at her, but somewhere else far away, and he would patiently remind her that he was not a Sith, which she consistently had trouble believing. He sat on the bunk in silence, patiently listening to her every word, and would sometimes shut his eyes for long minutes on end, and in doing so make her wonder if he was blocking her out or even sleeping. Once, after he had been in this state for an particularly long time, she asked him to repeat what she had just said.

"Oh, I heard you," he replied quietly with a knowing smirk, still not opening his eyes. "I may still be recovering from a near-fatal injury, but I can still listen." And he proceeded to repeat all that she had just told him in perfect detail before allowing her to continue.

When she at last ran out of ideas, she saw from the chronometer that she had been talking for nearly three hours.

"You have certainly led a very interesting life," he said softly as he rolled his head around on his shoulders, his neck cracking. "You still have yet to say anything of your childhood, but very interesting, nonetheless."

"Why are you so curious about my childhood?" she asked suspiciously.

"Because you make no mention of it. Sometimes, what someone _doesn't_ say can be just as informative as what they do."

"And you want to know me better so that you can devise a better way of turning me, isn't that it?"

"Not only do I not need to turn you, I don't _want_ to turn you into another servant of the dark side. I have plenty of those already, and each and every one of them is nothing more to me than an expendable piece of ordnance no different from, say, a torpedo. Do you think of yourself as expendable?"

"I am willing to die, if necessary."

"Under what circumstance? For what will you trade your life?"

She had to think on that. She had spent so much time being told, and telling herself, that death is not to be feared, that it is an inevitable part of life, and that to die is to become one with the Force, so that she hadn't given due consideration to the question he now posed. It was a significant matter, after all.

"To defeat evil."

"A worthy cause," he concurred. "Those who serve the dark aren't willing to die for a cause, because their only cause is power, and the dead can't wield power. But die they will, for the sake of _my_ cause, because they are worth more to me dead than alive."

"They and how many others?" she asked with disgust.

"How many others will die or how many others are worth more dead than alive?"

"Both."

"Only the evil are worth more dead than alive," he declared earnestly.

"So then how many innocents will die?"

"How many sentients do you know who are truly innocent? Is not a crime committed without thought of wrongdoing still a crime? How many millions of species across the galaxy have been wiped out by overpopulation, murdered by sentients who never gave a thought to the consequences of their actions? On hundreds of worlds, everyone who conceives a child could therefore be deemed an accessory to genocide, from a certain point of view…but does that merit death for them?"

His hands were folded in his lap, his elbows braced on his thighs, his back bowed, his eyes wide open and focused on infinity as he asked questions that might well have been rhetorical. What it all boiled down to, ultimately, was, "However debatable the innocence of some may be, I know all too well that I am responsible for the deaths of millions of innocents."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because I must," he said simply, softly.

"That's not an answer."

"Then because some wrongs are greater than others."

"So the ends justify any means, is that it? Do you really believe that? How can you believe that your…crusade is worth the price?"

"I would not have gone this far if I did not. There are a great many means which can never be justified, just as there are a great many ends which can never be justified, but others can be. It is all a question of balance."

She shook her head and asked, almost sorrowfully, "What happened to you, Revan?"

Turning to her with a look of tired perplexity, he silently asked for clarification.

"I mean, how did a Jedi turn into…_this? _If you're not a Sith, if you haven't fallen, as you say you haven't, then how did you come to this?"

"There is more in this universe than light and dark," he said slowly after a while. "When you refuse to serve either, you find yourself with all the blessings and responsibilities and burdens of freedom. More to the point, you find yourself with the freedom to _choose_, and with that freedom comes the responsibility to make a choice when choices are called for."

"You mean that there are hard, painful choices that need to be made in the universe, and you've elected yourself to make them."

"I _volunteered_ to make them because no one else has yet done so."

"And so you made your choice, and now you can't go back on it."

"I did, indeed. I may forever lament the side-effects of it, but I do not regret the choice itself, as I know it was the best that could be made, and, above all, it remains a choice I would make again," he said with great care and deliberation. "And what of you?"

"What of me?"

"Did you _volunteer_ for the mission to capture me? Did you _choose _to be there?"

"Yes," she answered unreservedly. "I needed to go on that mission, or it would have failed."

"But it failed anyway," he countered as he began to pull on his boots. "So why did you feel the need to go?"

"Because I didn't know that it would fail," she answered irritably. "How could I?"

"Perhaps you didn't, but the possibility also exists that, on a subconscious level, you did. Ordinary people wander through their lives half-blind, deprived by their limited senses of a larger view, a _deeper_ view, and what they call intuition is their subconscious making its best guess. People like ourselves, however, are open to so much more than what can be seen, heard, smelled, or touched. _Our_ intuition is our deeper senses guiding us, and presenting us with opportunities."

Organizing his thoughts, he tapped his toe on the floor.

"I suppose what I am trying to say is this: did you feel the need to go for the sake of a doomed mission, or for the sake of something else? I, for one, believe you are wiser than you credit yourself with being."

"You're saying that I wanted to be captured," she scoffed. "Don't be absurd."

"Make of it what you will, but in the meantime, take this." He produced a datapad from his jacket pocket. "It's a collection of literature and historical texts - I wouldn't want you going mad from boredom in here."

That said, he stood, bowed deeply with his hands at his sides, and left.

_Yes, there is no such thing as chance,_ he mused, _for people such as us._ There was, of course, chance and coincidence in large measure throughout existence, but for those with a strong connection to the Force, chance took a back seat to intuition. He had _chosen_ to be at that place, at that time, to fight that action, though at the moment he had not known why it was important. He intuitively knew only that it _was important _for him to be there, and so he went. What the Jedi misinterpreted as the "will of the Force" (as backward a notion as the "will of gravity") was really their own subconscious guiding them, and in their thirst for something greater than themselves, they attributed their own wisdom to a vast and mysterious quasi-deity. The truth, in this case as in many others, was not for the weak: there was nothing greater, no higher power, nothing at all upon which to rely except oneself. And, for people like him and Bastila, he knew that there didn't have to be.

Thus the days went by, and every day, at the most unpredictable of hours, Revan would come in and sit with her for as long as his duties permitted, always removing his boots and setting them by the door. Sometimes he would let her do all the talking, while on other days he would expound on his own philosophy at great length. On those days, their conversations would frequently degenerate into shouting matches as she vociferously contested his every point, even those with which she secretly agreed. Never once, however, did either of them descend to the level of personal insults, both preferring to keep the arguments on a purely philosophical plane. She could no more despise him for doing what he believed he must, than he could despise her for having been brainwashed all her life. Throughout it all, he displayed a remarkable intensity of speech, mannerisms, and facial expressions that imbued his every word with immense sincerity; throughout it all, she evinced a glowing strength and nobility that shone through the rhetoric of her words.

It was through these heated debates that she came to realize that he genuinely saw himself as a soldier in a noble cause, and even admitted to herself that he wasn't truly dark. Oh, yes, he was very much in love with power, but there was a genuine method to his madness, and he was a thoroughly moral man (albeit, in her opinion, a man with a very warped morality). Regardless of how good his intentions might be, however, as she repeatedly chided him, there was no end that could justify his means.

1 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

29.7.20375

The pounding of his heart was even louder than the crunch of his footfalls on the loose layer of rust-colored rock. He was sprinting downhill, down into a narrow crevasse with a lightsaber clasped firmly in each hand, his boots struggling for purchase on the gravelly surface. In spite of the difficulty of his progress, however, he could feel himself closing on his quarry, now perhaps a hundred meters ahead, somewhere in that morass of shadows and jagged rocks. A sense of danger pressed on the back of his mind: the enemy had stopped running. _Why stop now, when they have fled for two weeks across three sectors? Do they at last see the inevitability of it?_

He slowed at the bottom of the slope, where the gravel was piled up thicker than on the incline and his boots sank in if he trod too heavily. He could sense three signatures ahead, around a corner in what was a veritable labyrinth of little canyons and tunnels worn into the rock by eons of erosion. Somewhere out there was a fourth, of that he was certain, but that man knew how to hide in the Force. A maddening talent, and one for which Revan seemed to have little aptitude himself, but also one to which he was not altogether vulnerable. This was, after all, a living planet, and not the vacuum of space, and for a man as attuned to the natural world as he, an unnatural void could be nearly as visible as a solid presence when one looked hard enough.

Stalking down a side-passage, the gravel gave way to exposed bedrock. He made no effort of silencing the echoing clack of his boots, there being no point. The enemy knew he was there, as he knew of them.

The crevasse widened, the walls here made of a softer mineral that had been worn back farther and smoother than the rest. The sunlight barely reached into these depths, well below sea level, and in the shadows he could see shadows darker still, which he recognized as the mouths of tunnels. His breath slowed, a calm settling over his being as he foresaw the next instant.

Two beams of deep emerald exploded to life. He ducked, pivoted right, left arm coming up, blade level and pointed at eight o'clock; right arm swinging out and up, blade at forty-five degrees; left blade turn to six o'clock and angle down, let the blow slide off. He saw his right blade slash through the emitter of a lightsaber, extinguishing the crimson beam that would have come down through his skull, kept turning right. His left blade batted aside a thrust aimed at his heart, his right now carrying on toward the assailant - a male nikto - who had originally been to the left of him. A reptilian scream reached his ears along with the sizzle of burning cloth and flesh at the same time as he brought his left saber back over his shoulder to block a slash to his neck. Without even bending his knees, he launched himself straight up, planted his right boot against an outcrop, and rolled sideways through the air as he descended upon a lethan twi'lek. The Sith was turning to amputate his legs as he came down, and might even have cut him in half at the waist had he not pushed away from the wall with the Force. The twi'lek's slash missed him by centimeters, but his own aim was true, and his left blade stabbed between a pair of violet eyes that swiftly rolled back in their sockets.

In an amazing display of relentless determination that he could almost admire, the one-armed nikto, having drawn a knife with his remaining hand, now lunged in from the left while Revan's left saber was still embedded in the twi'lek's skull. Seizing the corpse in a Force grip, he flung it into the path of the knife, then lunged hard, thrusting his blade clear through the backside of the skull and into the nikto's chest, while simultaneously parrying a slash coming from his right. A human woman with close-cropped black hair, whose own weapon he had earlier cut in twain, had recovered the nikto's saber. While still blocking her cut with his right saber, he dragged his left blade sideways through both the twi'lek and the nikto, fully intending to follow through into the woman's neck.

Instead he found himself compelled to somersault forwards over the two corpses as the fourth Sith, this one a human male with a shaven head and a dark goatee, fell upon him from behind. Narrowly missing being bisected by the man's double-bladed saber, he ducked to one side, then the other, blocked a vertical cut from the woman, then suddenly hooked his left arm around her own and held it in a lock as he plunged his blade into her sternum and watched her eyes bulge and her breath hitch in her throat. His right saber, meanwhile, remained free to defend against the expected back-and-forth slashes of Bandon's weapon, but no attack came. When he turned to look with his eyes, the fourth Sith was gone, without a sight or sound of him to follow.

_Discretion is the better part of valor, as they say,_ he mused as he let the woman's body crumple to the ground. _But you shall not survive this day._

He set off in the only direction Bandon could have taken, his eyes briefly caught by a flower growing in a crack in the rock, admiring the beauty of it. He had never before seen a flower with petals of quite that shape, or of quite that shade of indigo. Sadly, this was not the time for him to be sightseeing.

Onward he pressed into a narrower portion of the canyon…too narrow for his liking. Shutting his eyes, he focused on his surroundings, the rocks, the turquoise lichen and fuzzy amber moss that grew upon them (or, at least, he thought of the growth as lichen and moss, though it may well have been something entirely different). It was all one, all interconnected in a perfect harmony, except for…

Before he opened his eyes, his feet had already left the ground on his way to a hole in the rock face ten meters above. It was a superb ambush point, the canyon too tight for him to use his normal tactics, the tunnel offering Bandon a vantage point from which to drop in behind him when he had advanced far enough. He had to admire that, however little he thought of Bandon himself. The man had been Malak's favorite, would probably have become his apprentice had the coup succeeded.

Revan was just below the tunnel entrance when the Sith leapt out.

"Traitor!" Bandon snarled as the two met in mid air, blades clashing with a crackling rattle and the stench of ozone as they fell back into the canyon.

Revan pushed off as neared the bottom, landing softly…softer than Bandon. The man stumbled when his right foot hit, and one backhanded stroke of his left-hand blade cut clean through the Sith's left bicep and right thigh, followed fractionally later by his right blade burning through the remaining arm and slashing partway into intestines. With a hoarse scream, Bandon toppled backwards onto the unyielding stone.

Catching his breath, Revan deactivated his sabers and hung them on his belt, then reached around to the small of his back. Sweeping his jacket aside, his fingers closed on the familiar contours of his PM-04, drew it from the holster, brought it around front. He saw the dim sunlight glint off the polished barrel, felt the grip safety disengage, touched his fingertip to the cool steel of the trigger.

"Traitor," Bandon sputtered between the moans of agony, flecks of blood flying from his lips. "You are no Sith."

"A brilliant deduction," he scoffed in reply.

The weapon sat low in his hand, perfectly shaped for an instinctive aim, leaving no need to align the sights at this close range. He let his finger glide smoothly to the rear, the trigger safety effortlessly disengaging, the crisp and predictable break coming right where it ought to. A tiny hole appeared in Bandon's forehead at the same time as a spray of red and grey painted the ground beneath him.

"That makes thirty-one."

Revan turned, walked back to the other three, put a shot through the skulls of the woman and the nikto for good measure, and then began the climb back out of the crevasse. Not far into the ascent, the flush of adrenaline wore off, and he felt a dull ache in his head as the world started to tilt. Reaching out, he braced himself against the wall and drew deep, steady breaths.

Once out of the canyon and atop a craggy summit, he was able to take the time to rest and admire the beauty of this world, not all of which was stone. Looking down from this vantage point, his eyes were met with a vista of saffron grass and golden trees and a peach-colored sky. He paused to sit on a rock, and to watch a strange bird of prodigious size soaring far overhead, until it abruptly folded its wings and dove like a missile onto an unsuspecting creature in a valley to the south. He had spent far too much time in space of late, confined to prisons of durasteel, with artificial air and light. He missed the feel of living ground beneath his feet and the touch of wind on his face and the smell of trees after a soaking rain. Running his fingers through a patch of grass, he found it coarser than that to which he was accustomed, but that was his problem. Assuredly, the grass was just as it ought to be.

A little under an hour later, he stepped into the _Stormwind's _operations center, where he was greeted by the usual formalities of "Attention on deck!" and salutes, and so on. Everyone had already been standing, rather than seated at their stations as usual, for the large digital chrono on the wall read 1431, Deralín Standard, and he was expected. The war was largely quiet this day, with only several protracted ground engagements providing any cause for concern as they wore on much as they had the past weeks or months, depending on the particular case. Every year he always feared the Republic would launch a major offensive on the 1st of Lüindel as a sick, poetic insult, but the date had passed twice now in the course of the war without such an action. In fact, the first year, he had made good use of it himself. Oh, how he had made use of that date… The Republic seemed not to grasp the significance of it, though, as if so dismissive and contemptuous of history and culture as to ignore the obvious.

In her cell, Bastila was seated on her bunk, her back resting against the wall, the datapad in her hands as she read an internal report from the Judicial Department that had been written by a likely-now-unemployed underling. Far from the typically dry, distant, and staggeringly dense output of a vast bureaucratic machine, this was a passionate outpouring of conviction; the last, outraged gasp of a noble heart long crushed beneath a mass of mechanistic indifference. It spoke of what she knew deep in her own heart was wrong with the Republic, and did so with such poignancy that she had to wonder if Revan had written it himself as a trap for her. _No,_ she told herself. _He is many unpleasant things, a liar amongst them, but he wouldn't lie like this; he believes too strongly in his cause to lie about it._

"Attention all hands," said a female voice over the intercom.

There was a pause, and then Revan's own all-too-familiar voice, though the words were not his own, and were spoken with a soft and deliberate reverence.

"'From the day we enlist, we're all told that we must always fight to win, and only to win, and forget everything else, up to and including death. Next to victory, everything else is supposed to shrink to insignificance. I know you, and I know that you are the finest fighting men and women in the galaxy, and I don't think there's anyone among you who would hesitate to die so that Deralí might triumph this day. But there can be no victory this day. I don't know how it came to this, but we find ourselves in a situation where, no matter what we do, we won't win. We can't win. There: that's the truth of it.'

"'We've all been told that it's our duty to think only of victory…but we've also all sworn an oath, and that oath binds us to serve our folk, to serve our principles, and to serve Deralí unto death. We have a duty to do all we can to ensure that Deralí survives, that her principles live on, and that our folk live free. There will be another day…not for us…no, not for us…but for Deralí,'" his voice was hushed, and unsteady, as though he was confronting his own mortality.

"'When that day comes, our descendents will be able to look back at _this_ day, and know what they have to do. So…we fight. We must. There is nothing else we can do, and live with ourselves tomorrow.'

"Those immortal words were spoken by Admiral Relaginth 1,019 years ago today, as she found her fleet surrounded and outnumbered, the victims of the most craven betrayal in our history. The Republic commanders who faced them had every reason to expect her to surrender when they gave her five minutes to make her decision. She replied after just three…with turbolaser fire. At 1435, there were nearly half a million Deralinv in the 3rd Fleet…when the _Aithlínnel's_ last gun fell silenttwo hours and nineteen minutes later, there were less than six thousand."

Hearing his voice crack, she amply felt the peculiar blend of mournful grief and exultant pride that must have been brewing in his heart.

"They fought with all they had, with every measure of their will and love and devotion, _knowing_ that they had no chance to win the battle before them, and no likelihood of living through it; and still they fought until they had nothing left with which to bloody the enemy. Relaginth herself died when she flew her flagship, the _Deralí_, into a Republic battlecruiser. Never has there been a finer example of the strength of conviction that can rise up in the hearts of a noble people than that set by the men and women - the _heroes _- of the 3rd Fleet.

"There have been those cynical persons who have, throughout the intervening centuries, claimed that those heroes were, in fact, victims. They charge that Relaginth sacrificed her own people on the altar of glory. Yes, to someone who does not understand patriotism, who cannot comprehend selfless love of one's homeworld, who has never felt the spark of _idealism_, that could be the only possible explanation for what happened on that distant day. To those of us who have chosen to walk the path laid out by those selfless souls, however, there is no confusion as to why they died. Each and every one of them fought to the bitter end, when they could have taken to their escape pods and surrendered, because they could do nothing less when the future of their home was at stake. We understand that, and I speak not only for my fellow Deralinv, but for all of us: we who fought the Mandalorians, and we who now battle the Republic. We all know.

"To my fellow Deralinv, I shall add that in the bleak years that followed that day, our enemies strove to rob us of our pride, our dignity, our freedom, our language, our identity…but they always left us our dead. They left us the heroes of the 3rd Fleet, and for so long as we could lay claim to their memory, our spirit could _never_ be broken! Our identity could never fade! Those heroes gave their lives not to win on that day, but to leave us an example, that _we_ might one day rise up with the same unshakable conviction of old! We have held dear their example, for all these years and through all these generations, with their memory growing like a seed within our collective hearts and minds, and now, at long last, their sacrifice has born fruit!"

His voice, which had risen to a fever pitch, overflowing with passion as he spoke, now dropped down to its original somber softness.

"As we fight on even now, let us remember. Let us remember those who died then, and those who have died in _this_ war, and all those who have ever died for the sake of that which is good and noble and just. Let us remember."

A bell tolled…and again…and again…and again… On and on, its slow rhythm echoed through the little cell, twenty-five times. Then there was silence.

It was half an hour later that he joined her to tell her of his successful hunt, sparing her the details of the chase and merely relating the barest facts of the outcome.

"You really mean to kill them all, don't you?"

"I truly do, as surely as I mean to continue breathing."

It was probably a poor choice of simile, for it gave her sharp tongue the opening it needed.

"Ah, so then you are just killing them before they have a chance to betray you again," she said smugly with a defiant set to her face. "I knew it."

"Oh, I am killing them before they have a chance to betray me again, most assuredly. If I could trust them to go on killing Jedi like they're supposed to, rather than plotting against me, then I might suffer them to live until the war is won, but only a fool allows himself to be twice betrayed. That aside, that I let them live for as long as I have is a black mark upon me, I freely confess, and one that I feel with each passing day. I did it out of pragmatism, as an act of military expediency, when my conscience has always protested that they have no right to exist. The Jedi at least fight for what they misguidedly believe to be right, but the Sith cannot claim even that saving grace. They are an evil, through and through, and I shall live better with myself when I have consigned the last of them to oblivion."

Bastila felt her shoulders slump, and looked away from him, disappointed on some level that he had been able to so easily and earnestly meet her challenge. It would all have been so much easier if she could have caught him just once, found just one instance that made him something like the Sith Lord he was supposed to be. A part of her _wanted_ him to be evil, wanted this to be a straightforward issue of black and white, light and dark. Instead, all she got was a moral conundrum, and one that came in the form of a living, breathing man.

"Are you willing to die for your cause, like your heroes of the 3rd Fleet?" she queried, seeking another route. "Would you sacrifice yourself like that?"

"I would," he answered without reservation. "If there comes a time when my death can accomplish more than my life, then die I shall."

"You know," he went on, absently smoothing a non-existent wrinkle on his breeches, "when I sensed Malak's treachery, I could not help but be reminded of that horrible day 1,019 years ago, when one man's greed brought the end of an era."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the betrayal that necessitated the last stand of the 3rd Fleet. It's in the datapad," he said, gesturing to the one had given her, which now sat on the edge of her washbasin.

"I have been reading up on your people's history, but I didn't get to that part yet," she explained.

"Fair enough, for it is a long history. Anyway, in the waning years of the 1st Age, Nörgrist-Érilin (you might call him our Emperor) was expanding the Deralíntséch - our empire. Though we had at that time one of the strongest navies in the galaxy, apart from the Republic's own, this was done largely without bloodshed. We were a great power, prosperous and just, and, to many impoverished worlds, a shining example. But there were naturally some whose rulers would not sacrifice their own power for the sake of their people, and there were battles fought and won, and it was this that gave certain belligerent persons within the Republic excuse to rise against us.

"Their constituents having no appetite for war, they were initially compelled to content themselves with economic warfare, (which wasn't particularly effective against a self-sufficient empire) until an opportunity for more decisive action came their way in the form of an officer of the Deralín civilian government. His name was Ardig Hanil, and he presented to them an irresistible offer: data on the Imperial Navy's computer systems, in return for wealth and power when a new order was formed. (He was, incidentally, appointed Governor-General of occupied Deralí, and served in that post for all of two hours before being shot forty-seven times by a group of loyal officers.) His treachery allowed the enemy to transmit a virus that crashed the mainframes of every ship in the Imperial Navy…with the exception of the 3rd Fleet, which had, in one of those providential twists of fate, been passing through a nebula at the time, and was therefore in radio blackout. And so, when the Republic 10th and 22nd Fleets dropped from hyperspace, expecting to find a crippled enemy, they were instead met with fury."

He let out a long breath.

"'The dream burned bright, in every heart ablaze. With fury they fought, and with love they died.'"

There were tears in his eyes.


	4. The Face of Evil

4

The Face of Evil

15 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

8.8.20375

His daily visits continued, their debates raging on, albeit with what a faintly-lessening degree of animosity. For every point in favor of the Jedi and the Republic that she could name, he could rattle off a whole slew of complaints against them, and back these up with hard evidence. With seemingly-infinite patience, he could painstakingly dismantle her every argument, until she almost believed that she must certainly be in the wrong, and it was her inherent stubbornness as much as her training that kept her disagreeing with him.

She came to discover that he was a highly learned man, well-versed in history, sociology, philosophy, literature, and the arts. He could quote lines from great authors and poets, and offered commentary on instrumental pieces that he would some days play over the cell's intercom. (He even meant to learn to play the flute one day, after the war when he had the time, or so he claimed.) It was at times such as those when she thought that he would have been far better-suited to a life as an author or a musician (or both), living in peace on his homeworld, taking long walks through the countryside with a datapad on which to jot his thoughts. Then there were those days when he would make such bitter and scathing criticism of nearly every culture in the galaxy, and even of sentient life itself, that she could tell him to his face that he was the greatest misanthrope in history, and that it was little wonder he could justify his war to himself.

When he wasn't around, she whiled away her time reading from the datapad he had given her, spending long hours pouring over works on history, politics, sociology, economics, philosophy. Bastila was far from uneducated (very far, in point of fact), and had read enough to recognize a great deal of fact in the materials, but she could never be entirely certain that Revan hadn't somehow manipulated the truth to suit his own purposes. When he spoke with her, though, she never sensed any deception from him, only fierce conviction.

Eventually, she found herself increasingly at ease when talking with him, as though she might actually be starting to accept some of what he said; and that realization, in turn, always put her ill at ease as soon as he left. On some days, she tried telling him that she didn't want to talk, and he would leave for a while, as per her wishes, only to invariably return with some absolutely engrossing topic (which had always just occurred to him, naturally) and draw her in once more. And in spite of deep meditation between their conversations, she found her mind opening ever more to his words as time went on.

He told her more of his homeworld, her history and culture; of the noble, epic struggles of his people against insurmountable odds; of their ultimate betrayal and oppression, their long struggle to reclaim their heritage, and the recent resurgence of the old ways. In many ways, he said, he was a soldier in a war that had begun millennia ago, and had raged on and off ever since. Deralí was as much an ideal as she was a planet, and one worth fighting, killing, and dying for. She was justice and dignity, valor and honor, wisdom and discipline, and, above all else, beautiful, unspoiled nature.

So it was that the days started to blend together, and she grew curious as to why it was taking so long to reach the Star Forge, which he always insisted was still their destination when she took to asking him. When she finally asked him where they had really been traveling, he replied that they had, in fact, been taking a highly circuitous route with numerous stops along the way. First, they had stopped to offload the survivors of the _Conqueror_, and after that had gone on a tour of the front. The war had grown eerily quiet, he told her, and he wanted to see it for himself, that he might better gauge the nature of the situation.

The air was thick with smoke and dust, though she couldn't smell or taste it as she should have, and she found herself clambering over piles of crumbled permacrete and twisted durasteel. It was almost as though she was watching herself, as if she was merely a character on a holonet program, and one that jumped and skipped without clear sense of time. She wandered aimlessly through a seemingly-endless field of debris, grey and brown shapes, all of it covered in a pall of dust, until she came upon a flash of color in an otherwise monochromatic world. There was something blue half-buried by a piece of rubble that she sought to move, pushing on it with all her might (why she didn't use the Force, she didn't know) until it rolled aside and uncovered the battered form of a young girl. She was probably five or six, with auburn hair and fair skin, and was wearing a blue dress.

"Oh, Force, no," she gasped. "No, no, no, no!"

She knelt down beside the girl, sobbing, "I'm sorry. I… I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She kept repeating it until she woke with tear-stung eyes.

Though it was still early, she didn't try to go back to sleep, fearing what further dreams might come upon her if she did. Instead, she seized the datapad from its resting place on the floor beside the bunk and immediately delved into a collection of poetry from somebody named Déothne Aihoren, trying her best not to dwell on the nightmare. She did so with only limited success, of course, the symbolism of it being too obvious to ignore. _I'm too much like him. I'm _becoming_ too much like him. I've only wanted to do what's right, but so does he, I think. If I take it as far as he has, I'll have blood on my hands. How could I ever live with that? How does he live with it?_

After switching from poetry to prose and on to history, she ultimately gave up on reading and turned to exercise. Being an athletic woman unaccustomed to inactivity, she exercised daily to fight the atrophy of captivity, but she made today's regimen especially rigorous and exhausting. _Get yourself so tired you can't think-that's the answer,_ she told herself.

Wearing just an undershirt and breeches and dripping in sweat when Revan entered that afternoon, her first thought was to stop and dress herself properly, but he barely took notice of her. His demeanor was positively depressed, which was something she had never before seen in him. With barely a "hello," he slumped down on the bunk, braced his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Rising from her 110th deep-knee bend, with calves and thighs burning, she stretched, and then sat down beside him.

After a long silence he looked up, though straight ahead and not at her, and quietly asked, "Do you believe me to be evil?"

"What do you think?"

"Please answer the question."

Now it was her turn to be silent as she realized that she did not have an immediate answer. It was not so long ago that she would have told him that he was without putting any thought into the statement, but the more time she spent in his company, the more she came to see that he was a man possessed of an incredibly strong morality that just so happened to be at odds with the views inculcated in her own mind.

"I'm no longer certain."

"That's a very good answer, for it is true, is it not, that you are uncertain?"

"Has something happened, Revan, or is your depression an act?" she asked, growing weary of his mind games.

At last he turned to her, and it was with a deeply offended hurt burning in teary eyes.

"An act?" he said with a disturbing calm. "You think this an act, do you? Very well." He rose abruptly from the bunk with newfound energy and opened the door. "Come along."

"You're letting me out?"

"Yes, though you'll soon enough wish I hadn't. You wish to know what has happened? I'll show you!"

She reluctantly pulled on her boots and over shirt and rose to follow him, her legs weak from her exhausting regimen as she struggled to keep pace with him. In spite of his unimpressive stature (he was little more than a centimeter taller than herself), he moved with astonishing speed, covering ground in great strides. He did not shackle her or even hold her, but expected her to keep pace at his side, and if she fell back at all would push her along with the Force.

"So there is still a part of you that believes me to be evil, is there? Stop listening to the accursed Jedi and their teachings, and start listening to your _own_ mind and your _own_ heart, Bastila. Someone has to decide right and wrong, and if you have the courage and the will to do so yourself, then by all means do it. The freedom to make up your own mind is the ultimate freedom, and can be taken from you only if you let it be taken, which I do not think you have, or at least not entirely."

"Where are you taking me?"

"To show you why I fight...and to look into the face of evil."

She wondered ominously just what it was he meant by that, but she had not long to wait before discovering the terrible answer. A few minutes after leaving the detention block, they came to an infirmary, and there she found a scene unlike anything she had ever viewed before. Some were seated, but most were lying on the medical beds, a picture of absolute misery and despair: human and twi'lek women and children, some of them mercifully unconscious. Those who were awake stared into infinity with dead eyes that served as windows into spirits long past the point of fear, now lapsed into insensible despair. Theirs were broken spirits residing in abused bodies. Many of their faces were badly bruised, or marked with cuts and abrasions, as were all their necks and wrists, but those whose hospital gowns rose up as they sat showed marks their thighs as well, and Bastila felt a terrible chill grip her spine and a sickness twist her midsection when she comprehended the horrifying significance of this.

"Four hours ago the ship's sensors detected an unidentified vessel at extreme range not flashing Imperial codes. It showed no signs of having sighted us, and we jumped, dropping out of hyperspace right on top of it, that we should give the crew no time to plot a jump of their own, or even to fire back before we disabled their hyperdrive and weapons," Revan said quietly. "They didn't put up much of a fight for our marines, though they did make an effort of it. Four of them were killed, seven wounded, no fatalities on our own side, mercifully."

Her eyes riveted on the people before her, unable to turn toward him, she whispered, "Slave traders?"

"Yes, and some of them worse than mere traders. Some, from what we got out of them…took liberties of their own."

Revan meandered slowly through the room, stopping at the side of a young boy, no more than five or six, who lay motionless with an IV in his arm.

"Some of their clients like to hear the screams, the pleas," he mumbled, "take a sick pleasure in beating their victims into submission. Others are just squeamish enough for that sort of thing to bother them, and so the victims are drugged. And drugged again…and again…made to lie there…awake…unable to fight back…"

Bastila choked back a sob as tears welled in her eyes as she watched Revan kneel at the boy's side.

"Who might he have been? What future would have awaited him had he lived in freedom, in a galaxy where no life is a commodity?" he asked of the universe as tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Is there nothing you can do?" her voice came from behind him.

"Wounds can be healed, organs transplanted, but his mind… Tell me what you feel in his mind."

Hesitantly, she reached out to the young boy, touching his thoughts, and was struck by a nearly overwhelming sense of hopelessness, despair, pain, fear, screaming terror that obliterated every thought save one. _Make it stop! Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop! _She had never before thought that someone, particularly one so young, could lose the will to live, but there could be no mistaking it here. Viewed through the Force, he was a swirling tempest of suffering, and she couldn't pull back quickly enough. Had she stayed in contact with his mind, she felt, she would surely have gone mad herself.

"How could anyone," her voice cracked, "do this to a living being?"

"I do not know. I hope I never shall."

He leaned closer, squeezed shut his eyes, and tried to speak, only to swiftly bring his hand to his lips. He shuddered, and wiped at his eyes, and whispered in the boy's ear, "_Duníf fare íl ahlér._"

She waited until he had left the boy and returned to her at the doorway before speaking.

"What what was it you say to him?" she said with faltering speech.

"'I wish you peace.' That is all he can hope for now." He buried his hands in his pockets and looked at the deck. "For the survivors, can they ever be the same? Will they ever find peace in life after so much unbridled cruelty?"

That such hideous crimes were perpetrated, she had known before (Revan had certainly spoken enough of them), but she had never been so boldly confronted with evidence of it, and certainly never seen the faces of the victims, nor touched their minds. She supposed that most Jedi never did, since that sort of thing was general the province of local police and departments of justice and the like. But now that she thought on it, acts of everyday evil, committed by ordinary sentients, were far more hideous than the grandiose tragedy of war.

"If this is why you fight, then how is it that you can kill so many?"

He answered softly, "I am fighting to build a galaxy in which this does not exist, and if anyone sees fit to stand against me in the name of some damnable principle, then I shall fight them, too. I am under no illusions that it is solely the fault of my enemies that innocents die in this war, but for so long as they resist, I _must_ fight them, for I can do naught else. The technology exists, and the plans exist, to create a galaxy in which this cannot happen, and the Republic has the funds to make it fact (its citizens ought rightly get something in return for the taxes they pay), but no politician will listen, and this in the name of what they dare to call freedom and 'sentient rights.' What freedom can there be when justice is denied, and to what rights do monsters lay claim? What is more, I am certain that if any did listen, they would only twist the resulting power to their own ends. No, action must be taken now, for the sake of those who will come after."

Bastila found herself wandering over to a twi'lek woman who sat on her bed with a grey sheet wrapped around herself up to her throat, her arms clasped tightly about her chest. She recoiled at her approach.

"Leave her be for now. They all have a very long journey before them." Revan was beside her then, his hand laid supportively between her shoulders, ushering her from the room. "Let us go."

"Where?"

"I already told you: to look into the face of evil."

"I have seen evil before," she replied, forcing some measure of strength into her voice.

"And what evil have you seen?"

She found herself unable to answer, for no crime committed on Revan's orders could begin to compare to the suffering inflicted upon these people. He killed, plain and simple, and always out of military expediency rather than malice. No, there really could be no comparison between the two; and, moreover, she could simply not reconcile the image of the sad and compassionate man she had just seen with that of a mass murderer. There was clearly good in him, of that she was now far more certain than when she had saved him, and perhaps he was even fighting this war for noble ends, but… _But what? What else is there?_

They soon reached a set of doors guarded by a pair of Imperial Marines, who promptly admitted them into a large square room housing an array of crates and storage cylinders of every size and shape, some of which had been hastily shoved aside to clear a space in the center.

Inside it was a squad of marines surrounding seventeen individuals from a variety of species-human, trandoshan, aqualish, twi'lek-all bound hand and foot with stun cuffs. Some were badly injured and barely able to stand, but all were held in place by nooses of bare wire twisted around their necks, the upper ends of which were tied off to winches on the ceiling. Most of the prisoners were ill-kempt and clad in mismatching yet expensive-looking clothes, the men evidently having more income than taste. Half of them were bleeding from blaster wounds, and all were severely beaten, but this time Bastila felt no trace of pity. She knew straight away who they were and what they had done. Even had Revan taken her to this room first, she would have known from the empty malevolence they radiated in the Force. They were death without purpose, cruelty without excuse, creatures so repugnant that she found she had difficulty thinking of them as living beings.

"Have you seen them before?" he asked.

"Of course not."

"No, of course not. _This_ is evil. This is evil that is never recorded in the history texts, and rarely if ever makes the news, but which is perpetrated _every day,_ in peace as surely as in war. If you are ever again tempted to think of me as evil, remember these faces, and remember what _they_ have done."

Instead, she could only see the faces from the infirmary, at least at first. He was right: this was far beyond anything he was capable of. What these…these _monsters _had done was infinitely worse than bombing cities. Now she could see them, faces before her, bruised and bloodied but inspiring no pity whatsoever, only fury. She felt a cold hate spread through her chest, and suddenly she was standing directly in front of a man, a human man with black eyes that betrayed only the fear of his impending demise. There was no remorse.

"How could you?" she hissed. "How could you!"

There was no answer. She peered into his mind, uncomprehending of how anyone could do what this man had done. Indeed, she found he had done it many times for many years, selling innocent people into a fate of unimaginable pain and suffering, sometimes 'sampling the product' (his own euphemism for it), and he would have done so again had Revan not stopped him. She knew he would not answer her, had probably not answered any of the marines, as evinced by the multitude of bruises and slashes on his face.

She felt something rise up in her heart then: it was something that had lain dormant there for many a year, always buried deep beneath layer upon layer of training and discipline. She had felt it before, or at least the hint of it, but had always pushed it back, buried it deeper, denied its existence. Now she didn't stop it. It was a part of her, perhaps even the real core of her, and in that moment, she would not lie to herself.

She didn't even realize that she had formed her hand into a fist, or drawn it back, or thrown the punch until she felt her knuckles connect with his nose and send his head snapping back, arrested by the bite of the wire into his throat. She paused, saw the blood running down from his nostrils onto his lips, felt neither regret nor shock, and hit him again. And again. And again. It was only when the skin of her knuckles broke that she stopped and turned sharply away, storming past Revan and out the door. With a flick of his hand, he signaled the marines to leave as well, and was, himself, the last out the door.

"Seal it," he ordered, and the doors were shut. "Leave us."

With practiced precision, the marines formed ranks and marched away, and he and Bastila were soon alone at the door controls.

"I can…" she half-stammered, half-sobbed as she massaged her aching hand. "I can see how you…"

"See how I what?"

"See how you can execute people."

Revan remained impassively serious, without the faintest trace of condescension in his voice or heart as he spoke, "I thought the Jedi believe that no one deserves execution, no matter what their crimes, and that all should have a chance at redemption?"

"Redemption?" she asked with surprise, even disgust, her voice rising against him. "How could anyone like that," she sharply aimed her hand at the doors, "ever be redeemed? They're _monsters!_ They don't _deserve_ a chance at redemption!"

Revan nodded somberly. "So now you see the truth. This is the world beyond the Jedi teachings: this is stark reality. Any true morality must be based upon reality, without regard for sentiment and wishful thinking. Anything else, and you're not only fooling yourself, but making a mockery of justice."

Bastila braced her hands against the cold durasteel of the bulkhead and hung her head.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he tried to tell her.

"I hate them," she whispered. _An impersonal hate, a product of moral outrage, but still hate_. "I hate them with all my heart. That anyone could do these things without remorse…and there really is no remorse in them… I…"

"What would you have done with them?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked what you want done with the prisoners?"

"You want me to condemn them to death, is that it?" she asked quietly, still not looking up.

"No, I want you to make a moral decision, regardless of what that decision proves to be." Revan regarded her with the utmost gravity. "You are intelligent and you are wise, and when the occasion calls for it, you ought be able to make a moral decision, and I don't mean one based on an abstract code written millennia ago by misguided spiritualists. We all have choices, and the responsibility to make them with what wisdom we possess. What does _your rational morality_ tell you?"

Without ever looking up at him, and without any great inner debate, Bastila answered flatly, "Kill them."

A chill stinging her cheeks, she could scarcely believe that she had spoken the words, though both her head and her heart told her that it was the right decision.

Revan shut his eyes for a moment, and Bastila could feel it as he activated the cargo winches, taking up the slack. She almost thought she could hear the strangled, choking screams and the scuffle of feet on the deck, though she knew it was only her imagination filling in the details. The fact remained, however, that it was a slow, grisly, agonizing death, and no more or less than what they had earned.

She and Revan returned to her cell in silence, Bastila trying her best not to think, not to _remember_, focusing primarily on Revan in an effort to sort out the truth of him. When she allowed herself to, she found that she was able to read him in astonishing depth, as though he made no effort to keep her out. What she felt in him was great passion, and while there was a terrible cold hate in his heart, she could identify it as a hatred of corruption and evil, for she shared it in spite of her long efforts to bury, crush, and purge any hatred from her heart; and in Revan that hate was matched by sorrowful compassion, and even profound love. It had been far easier to think of him as a Sith, as a fallen and evil man, rather than as the individual he genuinely was, and she found herself suddenly uncomfortable staying in contact with his mind.

"Do you wish me to leave?" he asked when standing in the doorway of the cell.

"I," she began, only to leave the thought unfinished. She slumped onto her bunk and buried her face in her hands, her voice coming through heavily muffled. "I killed them, didn't I?"

"Strictly speaking, _I_ killed them."

"On my order."

"I was under no obligation to obey your order, and I would have killed them in any event, even if you told me to spare them."

She drew in a deep breath.

"I wouldn't have. I don't think I could have told you to spare them, not after what I saw, and… And I know that if you hadn't killed them, I would have done it myself, so what does it matter if you were the one who actually did it?"

"Do you regret that?"

Again a long pause ensued while she searched herself for the answer. She was shocked by her action, shaken to her core that she had committed an act which the Jedi regarded as murder, but it didn't feel wrong to her. If anything, the minute or so that it took them to die was probably far less than what those people had deserved in payment for their crimes. On the one hand, it seemed dangerous for her to be making such judgments, while on the other, was she not a rational person with her own conscience? She had grown so accustomed to acting in accordance with a code written millennia ago, rules that took away the need to sort right from wrong on her own. She had spent her whole adult life following someone else's conscience, but did she not have a responsibility to follow her own, and what did her conscience tell her now?

"No, I don't regret it. I suspect I would do it again."

Looking up at him, she found him visibly ill at ease, leaning against the doorframe with his ankles crossed and his eyes refusing to meet her own.

"And that frightens you."

"Of course it does," she shot back.

"It is always easier to follow the morality of another than it is to find your own, but believe me when I say that, deep inside, you know what is right."

Only now did she notice that she was shaking-for how long, she did not know-and crossed her arms tightly across her chest to conceal it as best she could, though Revan certainly knew of it already. Empty faces and broken spirits flashed through her mind, and her stomach twisted again.

Just then, a soft chirp sounded from Revan's jacket pocket, and with a sudden flare of displeasure he pulled out a tiny commlink and popped it into his ear.

"Yes?" he snapped.

He listened then, and Bastila watched his brows knit, his lips purse together until they turned almost white, and his fists slowly open and close.

"Where is Saaryu now?" he asked with remarkable calm. "Establish an uplink with him at once, and I'll be in the ops center as quick as I can. Revan out."

Plucking the commlink from his ear and dropping it back into his pocket, he regarded her with deep regret, and, crossing the meter of floor that divided them, knelt down and laid his hands on her shoulders.

"I wish I needn't leave you in this state, but a…situation has developed."

"In the war, you mean?"

"Nothing I can't sort out," he answered, as though that was supposed to reassure her.

"I am still a Jedi, Revan," she reminded him, "and I still oppose your war."

Then he did something very peculiar: he smiled at her. It was not a sign of mockery or amusement, and she was at a loss to explain it, but then he took his hands from her and stood.

"Ask yourself why," he said before he shut the door.

She fell back on her bunk and let the tears come.

It was more than fourteen hours before Revan left the ops center, exhausted and relieved and disappointed all at once.

The Republic had struck in force against Grand Admiral Saaryu's 5th Group in the Stenness Node, initially throwing him out of twenty systems. One of these was Onderon, where the 13th Army Group had landed not four days ago, and was now in danger of being cut off. The enemy had come on in good order, his movements well-planned and properly coordinated, and Saaryu and his subordinate commanders found themselves caught off guard by the strength of the offensive. It was an hour before they had a full grasp of the situation, and even then it was thanks in part to Revan's Force insight. He could find little fault in the Republic's plan, the initial attempts to halt it were unsuccessful, and he began to consider bringing up elements of Grand Admiral Hrask's 2nd Group. He could sense meager Republic forces to Hrask's front, and so such a move would have been relatively safe, but events soon rendered it unnecessary. The Republic commanders, while skilled at planning a set-piece battle, were almost invariably lacking in daring and aggression. It was in exploiting a breakthrough that they predictably failed, and, sure enough, five hours into the battle, they began to show indecision.

At the critical moment, when Saaryu's forces could have been broken, the enemy hesitated, slowed, regrouped. They were cautious, uncertain, and all the while 5th Group had been pulling back so that the lead elements were now right on top of their own reserves. For nearly an hour the battle seemed to wane as the Republic admirals considered their next move, and Saaryu massed his forces for a counterattack. Then the Imperial upper flank surged forward around the Republic's 31st Fleet, smashing it from the rear and throwing it into the lines of the 38th. The entire counterstroke was made in the general form of a sweeping turn that was driving the enemy toward Hrask, who was now ordered forward into the fray in hope of trapping and destroying the enemy en masse. The plan would have worked to perfection had the Republic not panicked so thoroughly, and gone flying in hasty retreat before they could be encircled. By then, they had brought up reserves of their own, and Revan sensed that the opportunity for a decisive victory was lost. He would settle for a favorable stalemate, the enemy having lost more ships than the Imperial Navy this day.

His chrono read 0327 when he found himself wandering the corridors of the _Stormwind_, his mind replaying every phase of the battle, obsessing over every detail, unforgiving as ever of the slightest mistake. Why had he not seen the attack coming? Why had he not sent in Hrask sooner? Why this and why that and what could have been. It was always the way, without fail, after each and every action however minor or epic in scope. Perhaps it was merely a sign of a good commander, forever analyzing his past mistakes, but Revan could and did carry it to extremes. He was by no means infallible, and lacked a formal military education (though it was some good that did the Republic's commanders), and yet he always expected perfection from himself. He would never-could never-tolerate anything less.

At 0403, he passed the infirmary, and stopped with a cold dread in his heart. For what felt like an hour, he stood frozen to the spot, glancing at the door, returning the salutes of those who passed him, unwilling to go inside and yet unable to leave. At last he steeled himself and went in, and found the room all but void of its previous occupants, with only two women lying asleep in their beds. A doctor and a nurse were on duty, and immediately took notice of him, stood to attention, and saluted.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked the doctor, undoubtedly wondering why Revan had come there.

"Yes, thank you, I'm well enough. How are the patients?"

A look of understanding came over the woman then, though it was the nurse who answered, "Stable. They'll make a full recovery in a few days."

"No, they won't," he said with a sad turn of his head.

"Yes, I know what you mean," said the doctor. "Physically, they will heal, but beyond that…only time will tell."

"And what of the boy?"

The nurse just bit his lip, and it was the doctor who answered this time.

"He died-quietly-at 2214."

Revan nodded, met their eyes. "Could you find who he was? What his name was?"

"No, sir. We asked the survivors, or at least those who are talking, and they wished they could help, but none of them knew his name or where he came from."

"Probably best that his family doesn't know what happened to him, anyway," he said as he thrust his hands in his pockets and left.

It was 0409 when he stepped outside, checked his chrono again, and headed off to the detention block. He stopped himself halfway there, thought better of waking Bastila at this hour, though it would have made him feel better to speak with her, or even to just see her. She was so very alike to himself, and there was no more denying what had happened when she saved his life. They were forever one.

Bastila slept fitfully that night, plagued by nightmares of the women and children in the infirmary, whose minds she wished desperately she had never touched. She heard screams and cries and horrible low sobs, cruel, repetitive grunts and twisted laughter, the dull smack of knuckles on already-bruised flesh. She saw the remorseless faces of the men in the airlock, found herself punching the black-eyed man over and over until his face was an unrecognizable pulp, and for some reason her hand went unscathed. Then she was hauling on the wires herself, watching the condemned writhe in indescribable agony, eyes bulging in bloated faces. She bolted awake, covered in sweat.

For a long time, she lay awake in the darkness of the cell, certain she would never get back to sleep on the hard mattress and flat pillow. She eventually did, though she knew it only because she eventually found herself dreaming again. This time she was outside on a cool, sunny day amidst a grove of trees, short of breath, with tears on her cheeks and fear in her heart. No, fear and _shame_. She felt like a coward, but she didn't know what else to do. When she could see no one around, she ran out of her cover, nearly tripping over a fallen branch, catching her balance, carrying on across a clearing and into more trees. Dead leaves and dried twigs crunched and snapped beneath her shoes as she struggled up a hill, a cold tightness gripping her throat, but she kept running, looking over her shoulder every few steps. She could see a house through the trees ahead: home, safety. She stumbled now, scraped her hands on the undergrowth, picked herself up, struggled up the last few meters to a flat terrace of land behind the house.

That dream was more confusing than anything else, for it was far more detailed than the usual products of her imagination, and felt to her like a memory of something she had never lived. On waking and checking the chrono, she saw that it was 0824, or at least 0824 according to whatever time Imperial warships ran to. Regardless of what standard it was based on, her own sleep patterns had fallen into rhythm with it by now, and so it was time for her to be up anyway, or at least it would have been were she in more civilized surroundings. In the brig, all she had to occupy herself was the datapad Revan had given her, which contained a varied wealth of reading material.

With nothing better to do, she got up and washed, feeling miserably damp and filthy. Of course, as soon as she dressed again, the feeling largely returned, since she had not yet been able to bring herself to request a change of clothes. In spite of her attempts to wash them, her Jedi robes by now possessed a permanent sticky sensation and unpleasant odor, but they felt like her last connection to her identity. She felt herself beginning to forget the words of her masters, her friends.

What friends had she ever truly known? Ildra had been a strong and stern mentor, teaching Bastila all she knew, guiding her; but the older woman had been a surrogate parent more than a friend. Perhaps she could have befriended the other padawans at the Academy, but she had always shut them out, kept her distance, as though she was better than them. She was told how special and important she was until she was sick of it, and yet she had been perfectly willing to believe it. The sad truth struck her just then that Revan was the closest she had ever had to a friend, being so much like her and so willing to hear her out.

_A classic brainwashing technique,_ she reminded herself, _befriending the subject._ In the moment when that thought ran through her head, she hated him again, until she calmed herself and regained her focus and recalled what she felt in his heart, as well as in her own. On some peculiar level, in his own bizarre fashion, he deeply cared for her and truly believed that he was helping her.

In spite of having finally gone to bed at 0502, Revan woke at 0829 that morning following a troubled sleep, slammed his head back into the pillow, tried to will himself asleep, and, in spite of the wonderfully fluffy mattress and pillows Céle had procured, failed miserably. At 0848, he resigned himself to another long day and dragged himself from bed to dress. After fixing himself a breakfast of beans, apple slices, toast, and a towering glass of Thalassian citrus, he slumped into the chair by his desk, the vinyl cushion squeaking irritatingly as he did so, and flicked on his computer terminal. Eating as he read the morning's reports, he found the Stenness front quiet once more, though he had already arrived at that conclusion based on the fact that he hadn't been roused by an emergency call during the night. The entire war was quiet, actually, aside from a few minor ongoing ground skirmishes that caused him no sizeable concern.

Switching to political matters, he found a message from Meric regarding the President of Bonadan, who had perished yesterday in an air crash. An investigation was already well underway, but she assured him that the official cause would be a manufacturing defect that resulted in main power failure, and since the late President's airspeeder was an Aratech model (and Aratech had sided with the Republic), the investigation would end there. Fortunately, the Vice-President was alive and well. He was new to office, having been appointed to the post eleven months ago after his predecessor had become mired in scandal, but was thoroughly qualified to fulfill his new duties. In fact, he had served with great distinction in the Imperial Interior Ministry prior to his posting to Bonadan.

After swallowing a spoonful of beans, Revan allowed himself a good chuckle. Meric could always be relied upon to not only perform her duty with unrivalled efficiency, but to write the most cleverly tongue-in-cheek reports on her work.

It was just as he finished his breakfast that the door chimed. Switching off the terminal, he dragged himself from his seat and went to answer it, slapping the door control with his open palm.

"Sir! Troop Leader Diric reporting for duty! Sir!" she barked with a volume entirely unsuited to a sleepless morning.

"At ease, Céle," he said wearily, and she was suddenly all smiles. "I think we're past the 'every sentence out of your mouth will begin and end with sir' phase."

"Well, in that case, good morning to you. Sir. (Notice I only said it at the end this time.)"

"I noticed that," standing aside, he waved her in and shut the door behind her, "but what's so good about this morning?"

"You won last night, didn't you?"

"No stalemate can ever be called a victory, except by slippery political bastards who've never so much as bloodied their knuckles in a fistfight. You know that."

"Well, I wouldn't so much as call it a stalemate, based on what I read. The enemy suffered heavier losses than us, and they won't be able to attempt another offensive for a good while, right?"

"Hmm, yes, I suppose you can look at it that way," he conceded with a shrug. "We're in at least as good a position as we were before. It's still not really a victory, though, and… There was the other matter of yesterday."

"Oh…" Céle stammered. "Of course."

"So what brings you here?"

"Right. A message just came in, and instead of just patching it through to your terminal, I thought you might want this one delivered in person. It was from Lieutenant-General Hoxan of the 88th Corps, who reports that that five Sith on Mygeeto attempted to desert."

"Desert?"

"Well, that's the word he used, though I would have said it differently. You can see for yourself," she said as she produced a datapad from one of the four large pockets on her jacket. "Essentially, I think they realized their number was just about up, and tried to make a break for it. Four soldiers were killed and a shuttle stolen, but that was as far as they got."

"The shuttle was shot down, I presume," he concluded without bothering to consult the datapad. Céle was…well, something like a sister to him, not that he knew what having a sister was actually like, and he had no reason to doubt her reliability.

"Of course. Hoxan scrambled the entire 2nd Group of HW52 and both the shuttle and its occupants were, and I quote, 'obliterated in their entirety.' The kill was awarded to," she looked down to consult the datapad, "Senior Lieutenant Jilka Fental, officer commanding 2nd Element, 1st Squadron, 2nd Group, HW52."

"Well, that's five more we needn't trouble ourselves about, though it's a pity about the soldiers. Did Hoxan include their names?"

Céle reviewed the entire report in detail, but came up empty-handed.

"Afraid not."

"Well, write back to him and have him award them all a posthumous Order of Valor, 2nd Class. Fental gets a 1st Class."

"Yes, sir," she said as she tapped out his instructions.

"And as for me, I'm finally going to write that recall order for all remaining Sith.

"'In light of recent, and entirely avoidable, losses…brought about by foolish and pointless acts of treason, we must alter our present strategy… We are, at present, spread far too thin to effectively engage the Jedi, and…must consolidate our strength if we are to attain final victory. Furthermore, I now realize that I have gone far too long without filling the vacuum left by the traitor Malak. I therefore…call on all Sith still committed to the war to report to the Academy on Korriban…' How does that sound so far?"

"It was alright," she replied kindly.

"Yes, it rots. I'll have to polish it a bit, try to smooth things over, convince them that I'm still on their side, or that they're still on mine, or…whatever. So long as I tell them that one of them will be my new apprentice, they'll be there waiting for me." He sighed. "You know, war can become very confusing when you're fighting alongside enemies."

"Well, then, you haven't much to worry about, have you? Once they're all at Korriban, the war is going to become a lot simpler."

"That it is, Céle," he laughed. "That it is."

The message having been written and edited and re-written and re-edited to his satisfaction and finally transmitted, he entered Bastila's cell at 1111 with, of all things, a worn paperback book in his hands and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. When the light from overhead glared off the lenses, they obscured his eyes in a way that made him appear at once enigmatically indefinable and coldly distant. It was the most peculiar of affectations, thought Bastila, while at the same time seeming to dovetail perfectly with the remainder of him, Revan frequently striking her as a man from another time. Inserting a slip of paper between the pages, he closed the book and slipped it into one of the larger pockets of his jacket.

"You wear glasses?" she asked with an incredulously raised eyebrow.

"I can't stand the thought of surgery," he explained with a sneer and a shudder as he folded them and slipped them into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Besides which, I only need them for reading."

"And what were you reading?"

"Oh, this?" He patted the lump where the book sat in his pocket. "A collection of folk tales from Deralí. I have always been fascinated by the mythology of my pagan ancestors, even if I'm too much of an atheist to actually believe any of it." He flashed a wry smile as he flopped down onto the bunk beside her. "You look a bit off this morning."

"I…I didn't sleep well. What can you expect after yesterday?"

"I know what you mean," he said as he rubbed his eyelids.

"I couldn't get it out of my head. There was one dream, though…"

He waited for her to finish, and when she never did, bade her, "Go on."

"Oh, it was nothing-just a strange dream. It was better than the others, at least."

"What was it about?"

"Well, I was running through a forest, and up a hill. I was afraid. There was a house… I was trying to reach a house…"

Revan pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That dream was a memory."

"I never did any of that. I don't remember that ever happening."

"No, but I did. You see, as a lad, I was always small for my age, and not particularly healthy, and was frequently bullied by the other children. Too often I had to run home from school, had to run away…"

"And now you never run away."

He chuckled. "I suppose not."

"That's why you felt ashamed."

"You could sense that?"

"Yes, but how did I share your memory at all?"

"A just question. Eight nights ago, I had a peculiar dream that felt like a memory that was not my own, and naturally set about researching what could have caused such a peculiar and singular occurrence. As best I can tell, you have yourself to thank for the situation. You did it when you saved me four weeks ago."

_Four weeks! Is that all it's been? It could have been four months for all I knew._

"What are you talking about?"

"When you saved my life, you tapped powers beyond anything you knew you had in you, and you unintentionally forged a powerful link between our minds: a Force bond, as the Jedi call it. We can feel what the other feels, see into each other's hearts…for two individuals as strong in the Force as we, it very nearly amounts to sharing one's mind."

"That can't be right!" she instinctively protested, though it made perfect sense. She knew of Force bonds, understood the full import of what he had just told her, and knew how difficult such bonds were to break. In fact, from what she had read, it was impossible to break them deliberately, except by killing the other person. At least she had no reason to doubt Revan's vow to never harm her, especially now that she knew he couldn't lie to her and conceal it.

"But of course it is. I know you're right in this, just as you always seem to be right when I wish you weren't. When were you planning to tell me?"

"I…I really wasn't sure what would be a good time. Maybe when I thought you would be less…repulsed by the idea of being joined to me like this?"

"I don't find you repulsive, Revan."

"Nonetheless, I'm sure you don't care for this at all," he said, trying his best to be comforting. "What more terrible irony could there be than for us to share a Force bond? Regardless of how inconvenient this may be to us, however, it is a fact of our lives, and now we must live with it."

He fidgeted, obviously struggling with the situation, said haltingly, "Which brings me to the following: I must ask you a very serious question, and I need you to answer truthfully, because this is terribly important to me, beyond what words can adequately describe. Would you ever consider taking your own life?"

"Certainly not!" she exclaimed without hesitation.

He leaned closer and looked into her eyes. "I would never let you if you did. You…" There was something different in Revan's voice now, something which Bastila had never sensed in him before, and which she couldn't quite put her finger on. "You have become a part of me, and I would rather that part remain."

She didn't speak, and even leaned away from him ever so slightly, frightened by the thought that he might love her.

"So how is it you can kill innocent civilians?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject to something that might possibly reinforce her old perceptions of him. "You claim to be fighting evil, and, after what I saw yesterday, I can believe that. I can even believe that you are, at least in part, a decent and compassionate man, and yet I know what you have done in this war. How can the man who wept at the bedside of a complete stranger be the same man who has ordered entire cities bombed flat?"

Revan inhaled deeply, shut his eyes, tried to compose his thoughts in a way that would make sense of something he could never rightly explain to himself.

"It's easy to kill the wicked, those who rape and torture, who drive species to extinction and devastate the beauty of worlds. There is no doubt beforehand, and afterwards, there comes only the sense of a worthy deed done. On the other hand, the killing of someone who is just…in the way…will always leave an ill feeling in its aftermath, however necessary or unavoidable it may seem at the time. There will always be the 'what-ifs' to haunt you…the regret to gnaw at you."

"The Republic is wrong to try to shield themselves behind civilians, I can't argue that, but the ultimate responsibility still rests with you: you started the war."

"You are absolutely right, for I did start this war, and I must bear that responsibility unto the day I die. Answer me this, though: when a system has permitted evil to endure for _twenty millennia_, be it out of impotence or avarice or high, hollow sentiments; when that system has become so entrenched as to be incapable or unwilling to effect any meaningful and positive change; when that system has attained such a grip on its subjects that the majority of them are unwilling to resist it; how realistic is the prospect of reforming that system through lawful means? More importantly, at what point is the cost of war exceeded by the price of peace, when peace means that countless future generations must suffer as their forebears have?"

As viewed with cold logic, the argument was undeniably sound, but the real difficulty in accepting it lay in being able to view the problem with cold logic at all. She knew that even he often couldn't, but so strong were his beliefs that they carried him through the times when he mourned the passing of the dead.

"When a forest becomes overgrown to the point where deadwood retards new growth, a fire is both inevitable and necessary, even though it will burn healthy trees as surely as it burns the rotten." He frowned, took a deep breath, let it out. "Even knowing that, I did wrestle with the decision to go to war. After all, what sort of a man would I be were I able to do such a thing lightly? Nay, I considered for some time merely constituting the Empire on its own, as a new entity apart from the Republic, where justice would be done. But, in the end, I could not let it rest at that and still live with myself. Evil endures because it is _permitted_ to endure by the _inaction_ of ordinary people, and I could not be one of them.

"The overwhelming majority of people of this galaxy aren't wicked, but they do enable evil to exist. They watch news stories of depravity and murder, read of the extinction of yet more innocent species, and shake their heads and mutter 'how awful;' and then they change the station, divert their minds to some empty drivel concocted for that very purpose, and carry on. The especially inured amongst them can even walk past a dying person on the street, pausing only to stare with horrified curiosity, even snap a holocapture or two, before scurrying past. There are good ones, of course, that I do not deny: there are those noble few who stop and help, or who see stories of suffering and are inspired to act, but they are few. Far too many look no further than their own lives, their own petty desires, and shrug off the evil around them, salving whatever conscience they possess with thoughts of 'What can I do?' or 'You cannot change sentient nature.' Well, they can _try_, and they can _change_, because I have done it.

"I'm not delusional-I don't fool myself into believing that I can 'destroy evil forever,' or anything so preposterous-but I do believe that we who have the power to fight evil also have the duty to fight it with every means at our disposal."

It wasn't an attempt to justify his actions (either to her or to himself), she knew, merely a statement of unpleasant truth (which, she observed, seemed to be Revan's favorite kind of truth). But however much he disliked the masses, or even despised them for what he saw (perhaps justly) as moral cowardice, he knew that cowardice didn't merit death, and so, as a man who valued justice, he felt a sense of inescapable guilt. She saw the image of the girl in the rubble, again feared that she, too, might one day have innocent blood on her hands.

Revan had a conscience, and a very strong one at that, but while it said that he ought not kill those who didn't deserve it, it also said that he had to consider the future, and for the sake of the future, he had to act. While she now admitted that she agreed with his aims, and even acknowledged that there was no other realistic means of bringing radical improvement to a thoroughly rotten society, the sticking point was _actually doing it._ It was one thing to analyze a problem and devise a solution, but to carry it out, knowing full well the side-effects, was another matter entirely. _And maybe I am a coward, no better or worse than the trillions of others who are too afraid to act. _

"Revan," she began almost timorously, changing the topic yet again, "you spoke to me before about better accommodations."

His face, which had been so grave that it might as well have been chiseled out of stone, now suddenly brightened into a warm and endearing smile.

"I thought you would never ask," he said as he sprang to his feet. "It was beginning to depress me, seeing you in here, for you are no criminal and do not deserve to be locked away. Come."

Helping her to her feet, he whisked her from the cell, out of the detention block, and into a waiting turbolift as fast as her legs could carry her. It was stunning, the degree of joy (yes, _joy_) she could feel from him through their bond, as though he had been waiting every minute of these past four weeks for her to say that, as though there was some momentous significance to her request beyond a simple desire to stretch her legs and take a proper shower and sleep in a real bed. _Is there a greater significance?_ she wondered before the turbolift stopped and they were hurrying along once more. _I should have thought he would be far more pleased at my admission that he's right in his war._

Soon they were at an unassuming door bearing the number 115, Revan entered a code into the lock, and Bastila was standing in a cabin not much larger than her cell, and only moderately cheerier. The décor was all grey and green, and blue-grey and grey-green; the bed was another narrow bunk (though, on inspection, far softer and with finer linens than her cell bunk); and there was still no window. It did have a separate bathroom, however, with a real shower, and in the main room was a chair and a desk and a computer terminal.

"So much for stretching my legs," she quipped.

"You won't be staying here long, anyway. We shall reach the Star Forge in six days' time. There are clean clothes, however."

He paused, as if about to say something more, only to evidently decide against it and turn for the door.

"Revan," she stopped him with her voice, "for what it's worth…you're not evil."

"Thank you, Bastila," he answered softly.


	5. Lies and Revelations

Greetings and thanks to all my readers, and in particular to those kind enough to take the time to leave a review.

First off, for those of you worried that I (like so many other authors on this site) will abandon this story, I'll let you know right now that you haven't much to fear, as I've already written it (and re-written _ad nauseum_) all the way through to the end; and that all I'm doing now is going back and editing it chapter by chapter, so unless I drop dead in the near future, you'll eventually get to read the ending.

Second, in case anybody's been wondering, Derals is actually a functional language (a product of one of my more esoteric hobbies) with a vocabulary of over 1200 words as of the time I write this.

And, finally, I have to say that I'm pleasantly surprised to find people who actually _enjoy_ it when I throw out major elements of established canon!

Cheers!

* * *

5

Lies and Revelations

22 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

15.8.20375

In those six days that followed, she found herself finally asking him questions about himself, which she had once promised herself she wouldn't do, and growing increasingly comfortable around him, which she had once feared more than death itself. Throughout much of his life, she learned, he had gotten people to accept him largely through deceit: it was at a young age that Revan had learned the art of deception, and as a result, he had become highly adept at it. But it was neither easy nor healthy to grow up pretending to be something you weren't, and he freely admitted that his efforts to make people like him-which had been born out of a misguided desire for happiness-left him feeling only hollow and bitter. It was by putting on false pretences, though, that he was able to see the true and distasteful nature of those around him. There was something resembling fear in his voice when he spoke of his youth, as if he was reliving his past by telling her of it.

Of course, things didn't really improve for him in the Jedi Order, since it quickly became apparent that his masters didn't share his most treasured beliefs, though at least there emotional attachments were forbidden, and he therefore didn't have to try to form any. As early as sixteen, out of disillusionment with the pacific Jedi philosophy, he had been tempted to leave the Order, but his sense of honor demanded that he see his training through to the end, whatever the personal cost. In the end, it was only the call to arms that drew him away back home.

For his own part, Revan found himself amazed each time he left Bastila's quarters, for throughout his adult life he had always hated and dreaded speaking of himself, and zealously guarded even the most inconsequential personal information behind a curtain of silence and fabrications; and yet he had not the slightest reservation or difficulty in telling her all she asked. It was as though he could deny her nothing, as though he didn't want to, and he spent a few hours mentally chewing himself out for this apparent weakness before the reality of the situation dawned on him. For a man accustomed to keeping himself as emotionally distant as possible from those around him, it came as a decidedly uncomfortable realization. The truth was inescapable, and he knew that he ought to be happy about it, but it was nevertheless so far beyond the realm of his experience as to be uncomfortably, unsettlingly novel.

* * *

The flight off the _Stormwind_ was the same as the one to her, with Revan, Bastila, Wallen, and Céle taking the same shuttle they had a month ago. This time, however, upon leaving the hangar, Bastila was at once treated to an singularly spectacular sight: high above a yellow giant orbited a space station the size of a small moon. It was in the form of a central sphere, from which three blade-like wings protruded in line with its central axis, this being aimed at the star. A stream of glowing hydrogen stretched out from the star, drawn up from its surface to the lower apex of the three wings, where it split into several finer streams and was drawn into the station.

"Now you see why I don't need your Battle Meditation to win this war," Revan whispered in her ear, his breath warm against her skin. She could only nod in agreement as she watched the unparalleled display of power in silent amazement.

The shuttle was not headed for the Forge itself, though, and turned aside well before reaching the station, instead making for a warship parked several thousand kilometers away. This warship, while of similar configuration to the _Invincible_, was clearly much larger than even that mighty battlecruiser, though nonetheless still dwarfed by the station from whence it came. Out of a necessity born of scale, her hull was left bare, and the multitude of durasteel panels each varied slightly in hue from one another, yielding an effect rather like vast fields of crops as viewed from the air. Her surface was otherwise almost perfectly uniform, being disrupted only by a multitude of flattened, faceted gun barbettes. Eight of these were truly enormous, Bastila estimating them each to be nearly a kilometer in length, and were arranged with two on each of the ship's four triangular sides.

"My new flagship, the _Deralí_," Revan informed her. "Twenty-one kilometers in length, 3.7 billion tons in mass, and carrying enough armament to destroy an entire Republic fleet. There are three more like her in the queue, all slated for the final offensive."

"Three-point-seven _billion?_ How many cruisers could you have built in place of just one of these?"

"Hundreds," was his reply, "And, yes, there are a number of officers who vehemently argued that we should have built thousands of smaller vessels, rather than a handful of these battleships. Quality, though-quality and _power-_-are far preferable over mere quantity in my mind, and there are a good many more who agree with me. The capacity to bring concentrated force to bear upon a single point, as sudden as a bolt from the blue, will decide a battle just as surely-and with far greater economy of lives and resources-as will overwhelming numbers. That is what will decide this war."

Faced with that concentrated power made manifest, she could scarcely argue.

On their arrival in the hangar of the _Deralí_, they were met by rank upon rank of uniformed men and women. The uniforms here were different, though, noted Bastila, the hats being of a peculiar style and the jackets of being of a more angular cut, and all of it in shades of green and grey, albeit with a few scattered accents of crimson and white, silver and gold. She was puzzled for a few moments, until she recalled a briefing from some time ago, in which a Republic Intel officer pointed out that the Imperial Armed Forces did not originate as a monolithic body, but had been pieced together from dozens of local militaries across the Outer Rim. It made sense that new, standardized uniforms would rank low on the list of production priorities in the midst of the largest war in history. These uniforms were, presumably, of the Deralín Navy.

A band played a rousing march as they descended the boarding ramp, and Revan was immediately welcomed aboard by Captain Tanen, commanding officer of the _Deralí_, who was all formal words and polite bows, and spoke softly with a broad Deralín accent. He cast a brief but suspicious glance at Bastila in the midst of the formalities, clearly confused as to who this civilian was, and why she was aboard his ship, but otherwise paid her little heed. For her own part, she spent most of the time staring straight ahead at Revan's back, hearing none of the words that were spoken around her.

Given their bond, how long could she remain true to the light? _As if I haven't slipped already,_ she reminded herself. It was strange, feeling Revan through their bond, for he was not in any way what she expected. Oh, yes, there was darkness in him-that cold, hard capacity for hatred and violence-but it was directed only at those who had earned it, and he could not rightly be termed either cruel or selfish. She understood his reasons, his motives, and even sympathized, for those were her own motives as a Jedi. It was only their paths and their methods that differed. In spite of knowing all that he had done, she couldn't help feeling…warm…when he was near.

Revan had his back turned to her, his lightsabers and pistol openly visible on his hips. It would be a simple matter to take one… He was laughing at some joke of Tanen's, perhaps out of mere politeness, she did not know, for she was entirely deafened by her own thoughts. _Now!_ a voice screamed in her head. _You must strike now unless you want to end up like him! Do you want to betray everything you believe in? Now! Take it now!_ _This is your last chance to stop him!_ Revan was chatting with a captain-lieutenant, and Tanen frowned disapprovingly at Bastila again, though he couldn't possibly have possessed any idea of what she was thinking. Revan, of course, must have had some suspicion of it, but evinced no reaction. He knew she wouldn't do it. For that matter, she knew she wouldn't do it. A month ago, she would have killed him in battle to save the Republic, to save the entire galaxy from a villain bent on conquest, but that villain wasn't the man standing in front of her now. That villain didn't even exist, and never had except in Republic propaganda and the lectures of Jedi Masters. That, she understood, was the voice she heard, the voice telling her to murder him: not her own, but the manifestation of a lifetime of propaganda and brainwashing.

Reality came upon her like a long-held breath, ready to burst her lungs, suddenly released and followed by the welcome inrush of clean air. Her head swam, her legs shuddered, and she felt suddenly bereft of energy.

"Then why are we standing around? Let's be on our way," Revan said to his officers, and started to follow Tanen. He stopped and turned to address Céle. "Escort Shan-Lait to her quarters and see to her personal effects."

"Yes, sir. Follow me, ma'am."

Bastila though that the remark about "seeing to her personal effects" was decidedly unusual, as the taller woman was already carrying the small bag of her belongings, along with a larger bag that most likely held Céle's own. With Bastila all but dragging herself along in a daze, still stunned by her revelation, the two made their way out of the hangar and into a turbolift, wherein the blonde quickly relaxed her rigid military posture.

"For some reason, I imagined you…I don't know…somehow more…impressive?" she rambled, breaking through the haze.

"I beg your pardon?" Bastila retorted.

"Oh, sorry. No manners, I'm afraid. My name's Céle…er…Troop Leader Céle Diric, Security Directorate, Detached Service," she recited with a simultaneous bow and click of her heels.

"Bastila Shan, J…" She caught herself. That word didn't apply to her anymore.

"Yes, I know. Please forgive my earlier impertinence. I'm not a real officer, just a Field-Com, or at least that's what the snobbish career officers call people like me. Almost as intolerable as the Hundred-Dayers, or so they say. No discipline, no culture, damned amateurs, the list goes on. They don't say any of those things about _me_ personally, of course, me being Revan's aide-de-camp and all that, but they'll say it about anybody else with a field commission."

"I wonder why," Bastila said under her breath.

"Ha! He never told me you had a sense of humor."

The turbolift stopped and the doors opened onto a claustrophobic corridor occupied by men and women in black coveralls who were engaged in esoteric repair work.

"Revan's been telling you about me?" she asked as Céle led her through a maze of toolkits and hanging wires.

"Oh, now and then. It seems to me he thinks the world of you. I reckon you could say he made you out to be larger-than-life."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not exactly at my best right now." There followed an uncomfortable silence, in which she was left alone with her thoughts, and that was something she couldn't bear.

"So you're his aide-de-camp?" she asked, even knowing that the answer was blindingly obvious.

"Yes, which means that in addition to copious paperwork, I'm often running errands for him, playing courier, requisitioning things-damned strange things sometimes. It's still better than Enforcement, though, in a manner of speaking. That is to say, if I had to kick down the door of one more blubberous politician who sleeps in the nude, I do believe I would've gone mad."

"That's what you did before?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, part of it. Enforcement essentially means rounding up traitors, sell-outs, profiteers, gang bosses, and any other worthless _draitsûlinv_ who pose a threat to Imperial authority, or civilization in general. The gangsters were the only dangerous ones, but we invariably have thicker armor and bigger guns, which is what comes from nigh-unlimited military spending.

"I have to admit, though, I do feel a touch guilty at times about not being back there with my old comrades, even if this is supposed to be an honor and a reward for outstanding service, and all that what. Too strong a sense of duty for my own good, I suppose."

"For what it's worth, I'd feel the same were I in your position," Bastila offered politely. "I've always wanted to be doing something important, and could never stand to be left out."

"You've got the disease, alright," laughed Céle. "Personally, as soon as this war's over, I'm getting a transfer back to my old outfit, but then that's hardly going to work for you, now is it?"

Bastila flinched, blinked hard, and Céle noticed and bit her lip, realizing how tactless she had been. By the end of the war, there would be no "old outfit" left.

"So, how long have you been in the…Security Directorate, did you say it was?" Bastila queried, trying to ignore the other woman's gaffe.

"Most call it 'SD' for short, except for we Deralinv, who use 'HC.' Two and a half years, though, to answer your question-I was one of the first to enlist-but I was also a municipal police officer on Deralí for six years before that. Got my field-com just under two years ago. Thirteen months ago is when my record came to Revan's attention when he needed a new aide, and I was promoted to troop leader."

"Why, what happened to his last aide?"

"KIA, 2nd Battle of Charros, when Revan's first flagship was shot out from under him. He was Navy…Lieutenant Barten…Braten…Bretan…something like that. I never actually met him, for obvious reasons." Céle stopped at a door, set down both bags. "Here we are. Oh, and before I forget, Revan wanted me to give you this."

Unzipping the side pocket of her own duffel, she produced a long cylinder of polished metal with diamond-checkered grips and notched ends.

"My lightsaber," Bastila said aloud in surprise and bewilderment as she took hold of the familiar weapon.

"I never will understand the appeal of those things-with holosights and stabilizers, I can make a headshot at seventy-five meters with my -04," she said with an affectionate pat of her sidearm. "Anyway, here's your quarters, ma'am. Enjoy."

Céle opened the door and then left as though this was all just a part of her daily routine.

Lifting her bag with her free hand, Bastila stepped into a small room not too dissimilar from that which she had briefly occupied on _Stormwind_, although this one was brighter, with off-white walls rather than drab grey_._ The door shut behind her, and she stood there for a minute or two in silence, unbidden thoughts suddenly flooding her mind. Eventually, she set down her lightsaber on a small writing desk and her bag beneath it, before flopping down onto a small but well-padded chair.

"Lies," she whispered to herself. "It was all lies."

Her chest racked with heavy sobs, the tears came freely now, running down her cheeks, stinging her eyes, as she buried her face in her hands.

Somehow, it had been the thought of killing Revan that had finally shattered the illusion. Looking down at herself, at the white shirt with the pointed collar and loose-fitting sleeves fastened tightly at the wrists, the dark green breeches buttoned above the knee and tucked into black boots, she knew that she was no longer a Jedi. _And maybe I never was._ _They always said I was too quick to judge, too quick to anger, even berated me for it._ Releasing a pained scream as she sprang to her feet, she whirled about and kicked the chair over in blind frustration.

"All for nothing!" she cried, her back thumping against the wall, then sliding down it until she was sitting on the floor with her head in her hands. "It was all for bloody nothing!"

_There is no emotion, there is peace,_ she recited the old mantra, only to again burst into tears. _No emotion!_ She would have laughed were she not crying. _I'm a damned fool if I believe that._ _And just what am I? Light…? I executed seventeen unarmed prisoners, and I know it was right, and I'd do it again! I hated them, with every fiber of my being I hated them, and for that alone, the Masters would tell me that I have fallen. Revan said I would never fall… and I don't believe that he has fallen, not from all that I've felt in his heart. For all his faults, he is still a decent man._

She cried out again, struck the wall with the side of her fist, dug her fingers into her scalp, all in a vain effort to vent her impotent despair. Her world was crumbling around her, her old sources of certainty and purpose stripped away, leaving her with only herself. _And Revan, of course, and I have only myself to blame for that. I reached out to him, I forged this bond. Did I want to? He said that I might have known what would happen when I volunteered for the mission, and maybe I did. Did I also know what would happen when I saved him?_

There were, she supposed, worse people to be stuck with, though she was coming to strongly suspect that he might love her. That he cared for her, there was certainly no doubt. _A byproduct of our bond?_ she wondered.

"I was under the impression that the tests had come up green, that this ship was ready for action," Revan said, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice as he picked his way with Tanen through a knot of engineers tearing apart a section of the ship's innards.

"The tests were successful, My Lord, but when we ran our final diagnostic, we began to see new problems cropping up."

"What manner of problems?"

"It's the conduits, the relays mostly, sir: they're not all holding up. We're getting glitches, local failures, having to re-route power all over the place. It's a rotten mess."

"I know that there can be problems with components in a vessel as complex as this, that contractors can make mistakes, but this ship was not built in a yard, no component supplied by contract. The Star Forge does not make mistakes."

"No, but designers do."

Fighting the urge to raise his voice over the din of the repair crew that was now behind them, he tried to keep what he was about to say between just him and Tanen.

"Are you saying the design is faulty?"

"I know only what my engineering staff tells me, and they're saying that there is so much new technology on this ship, so many systems that go way beyond the limits of anything done before, that…well, that not all problems could have been anticipated. You and I both know the design was rushed into production. Why, we're running reactors exponentially more powerful than anything ever put aboard ship before."

Revan let out a huff of frustration. Not only was Operation Drumbeat about to commence, but he had also received confirmation that the last of the Sith had arrived on Korriban early that morning. There could be no more delays.

"This ship was supposed to be ready for action three weeks ago," he said tersely. "I know that corners were cut in the design process, that there was never enough time for thorough evaluation, but we can delay no longer."

"I am aware of the urgency of the situation, sir…"

"No, you are not, Captain. Events are already in motion which cannot now be stopped. Too many decisions have been made, too many other people and ships are in place, that we cannot delay. Whatever repairs must still be made, can they be accomplished by your own crew, or do you require a shipyard?"

"The problems are all internal, all quite minor on their own, actually, it being the sum of the parts that's causing the real delay."

"Can we jump?"

"Well, at the moment, we've had to take some conduits off-line, but I believe in about," Tanen consulted his chrono, "six or seven hours, the hyperdrive should be fully operational.

"If I may ask, though-and I ask only that I might better gauge the ship's readiness-where do you mean to go, sir?"

"Not into combat, not yet."

Tanen breathed a sigh of relief as they rounded a corner, the sounds of repair work fading behind them.

"How long, then? Before we do see action, I mean."

Revan had to think about it, considering just how long he could delay. "Ten days, no more. Your people have ten days to make this…this marvel of engineering…work like it's supposed to."

"Again, my apologies sir."

"Not your fault, Captain. After all, have you ever known of anything designed by civilians that works like it's supposed to?"

The captain visibly relaxed as he allowed himself a good chuckle. "Actually, sir, I've the same holoset for twenty-five years."

"Well, praise be," Revan quipped sarcastically, trying to hide the pain that gnawed at his heart. It was Bastila, her sorrow seeping through their bond. He thought of rushing to her at that very moment, but thought better of it, this being something that she needed to sort out on her own. He would see her later.

She was grateful that he didn't visit her while she was in that miserable state, though she knew he must certainly have felt it through their bond. When he did call on her nearly three hours later, the redness around her eyes had all but faded, and she had largely composed herself.

"Are you alright?" were the first words from his mouth.

"No," she answered hoarsely and honestly.

"Do you want to talk?"

"I'm not sure I'd know what to say. 'Thank you for destroying my life?' Or maybe I should genuinely thank you, since it was all a sham, after all."

She tossed up her hands in exasperation, then sat down on the long-since-righted chair, propped her chin on her hands, and stared pensively at the corner of her writing desk.

"What do I do now?"

He stayed by the door, clasped his hands in front of his belt buckle, blinked. "Whatever you want. I know you don't want to kill me, though it would have made rational sense were you still fighting to save the Republic."

"So you did feel that."

"Of course, and I also sensed that I wasn't in danger. Take no offense-you could likely best me if you devoted your entire self to the effort-I merely knew that you didn't want to."

"You've shown me nothing but kindness. You've tried to help me, in your own strange way, even if that does mean that I'm slipping into darkness."

"No, no, not at all," he said quickly, taking a few steps closer only to halt before reaching her. "Well, yes, I have shown you kindness and tried to help you, but what I mean to say is that you're not slipping at all. You see, what the Jedi and Sith call the dark side is all the negative emotions and impulses swirling around in the Force, emanating from living beings throughout the galaxy, and that _will _twist you up inside if you let it in. You haven't let it in, though. You aren't close to letting it in. In fact, I think you'd die before you did, which is why I said a month ago that you are too pure to fall. No, what you're feeling is what's always been in you; and what I've been trying to do is to bring you to this point you're at now."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, no, I didn't set out to reduce you to tears, though I should have anticipated it. I wanted to show you both the lies and the truth, so that…" His customary eloquence was failing him now as he stood there awkwardly before her. "I wanted you to be able to learn who you really are, because when you forged our bond, I could feel that person, and I…I could feel that she is…remarkable. All I want for you is to put aside the Jedi and be the woman you truly are."

"Why?"

"Why?" he echoed, perplexed.

"Yes, why does it matter to you? Why do _I_ matter to you?"

"Because… Because I…" There followed a very long pause, Revan seemingly unable to go on, though he eventually did with much difficulty, sounding as though he, too, might soon be reduced to tears. "Because we are so very much alike. You're a kindred spirit, Bastila, and I've…I've never before been able to say that about anyone. I've always been very alone in the universe." He looked away, his voice now so hushed he likely thought she wouldn't hear him repeat the words, "Very alone."

She stared at him in silence, a part of her wanting to offer him some measure of comfort, but she was still reluctant to pity him. He was alone because he tolerated little and forgave nothing, and because nobody could ever measure up to his perfectionist standards, including himself.

Why, then, had he called her a "kindred spirit?"

"What am I to you, Revan?"

His gaze snapped back to meet her own, though with surprise in his blue-grey eyes. "Did I not answer that just now?"

"You called me a 'kindred spirit,' but what does that mean to you? Am I your equal? Your friend?" _Do you love me?_ She thought it, but couldn't bring herself to ask it, as she couldn't bear to hear him confirm her suspicion.

"Equal? Yes, most certainly. Friend?" he gave a hollow laugh. "I'm often unsure if I know what friendship really is. I can play the part of a friend well enough, but do I really feel it in my heart?"

"But you do see me as your equal."

He nodded.

"That has real meaning for you, doesn't it? You're not inclined to see anyone as your equal."

"Not inclined, no," again, the hollow laugh. "I find that, generally speaking, the better I come to know people, the more I find objectionable about them. There has been one notable exception, though."

"Me."

"The better I know you, the more I come to _respect _you."

"Respect me?" she asked incredulously.

"You'd rather I didn't?" he chuckled.

"No, it's more that…"

"Do you suppose that, with this bond of ours', I can successfully lie to you?"

"I don't think you're lying, either."

"What then? Is it so unfathomably odd that I should find you respectable, even admirable? I know that you're far more than what the Jedi tried, and failed, to make of you. And please don't be cross with me for saying that last part," he added as a hurried afterthought.

"No, no," she laughed softly to her own surprise, "but it does seem unusual for you to hold me in such high esteem."

"And why shouldn't I?"

"I don't know. I should think that you would think me weak for remaining a Jedi, for trying so thoroughly to stay true to their ideals in spite of…" she looked down at her feet and shook her head in resignation, "my true nature."

Revan resisted the urge to go to her, to lay his hand on her shoulder then, dismissed it as inappropriate. _I do love her, though,_ he thought with a warm smile that went unseen.

"That you retained your true nature in spite of their efforts is admirable, as is your strength of will and the purity of your heart. Tell me, Bastila: what is your greatest dream?"

"My greatest dream?"

"I know I sometimes speak too softly, but I'm fairly certain you heard me this time."

"To be perfectly frank, it was very recently that my dream was to defeat you."

"Is that all?"

"Well, I guess there was more to it than that, though I always thought it awfully vain of myself to think that way. I thought that I could use all this power I have to put an end to the war…to destroy evil." She pursed her lips, nodded slightly, the bitter admission resolving in her head: _Like him. I'm _exactly_ like him._ "Just like you, when you went to fight the Mandalorians."

"And now. That remains my dream, too."

A glimmer of hope sprang into her thoughts, and she remarked that, "The difference is that I always worried about what I might do afterwards, that I might be tempted to impose my own views on the galaxy, and end up just like you."

"I could repeat what I've already told you about somebody having to impose his or her view, but I think you know that, and besides, that isn't entirely pertinent here. What does count here was that I was once dreadfully afraid of falling to the dark side, of giving in to the temptation to abuse my power and becoming the very evil I sought to destroy."

"So what changed?"

"During a lull in the fighting, when the Mandalorians were in obviously dire straits, I took a few days to return home, to visit my beloved Deralí. You must go there yourself one day, walk the wooded paths of southern Estenmarc, hike the slopes of the Calshogavaiv, sit on a beach and watch the moon rise over the ocean on a starry night," he said with a wondrous gleam coming into his eyes.

"Returning to the point, on the second day, I went climbing in the Hiníngavaiv, and by dusk was making my descent back to the moors below, when I came upon awaterfall. It was so majestic and so serene that I was compelled-positively commanded, as if by Deralí herself-to stop there and sit on the edge of the rock face beside the falls, and at that moment, the moon came out from behind a cloud and shone on all the land and upon the crashing water, and I could _feel_ the perfect beauty of nature. As I sat there, I experienced a profound revelation, even a moment of perfect clarity, one might say, and I knew then, in that instant, that there was another path."

"What other path? By your own admission, the dark side is corrupting."

"Yes, it is altogether so. If you call on that power, if you let it in, then it _will_ poison you, and so I don't. No, when I was on that mountain, I realized that nature herself has no light and dark; plants and animals know neither, aside from those unfortunates who have been tainted and corrupted by people. There is power above and beyond light and dark, unspoilt and unlimited, and I could feel it in myself, buried deep down, the very essence of me. The Jedi reflect on the beauty of nature, it is true, but they do not embrace her: they would have you stifle your own nature, just as the Sith would have you exploit it.

"Nature ought not be stifled nor exploited. Nay, she is beautiful, and she is pure, and that purity is in _us_, just as much as it is in the softness of the grass and the clarity of the water and the majesty of the night sky. You need only forget the trappings of light and dark, and let that purity shine through. Call on your own strength, on your own power and passion, and do not fear that which is already in your spirit."

She could feel it as he spoke, his confidence, his strength, his love radiating through their bond, and recalled a pleasant memory of her own. Only when she was alone in the tranquility of the pastures on Dantooine had she truly been able to find peace. Only there could she forget the evils of the galaxy that so inflamed her, forget the Mandalorians whom she had been forbidden to confront, forget everything that battered at her veneer of control, if only for a while. _We are so very alike, aren't we?_ It was a thought that granted her hope.

_Hope for the galaxy, that it would not be so horrible if he wins? _She was seriously coming to believe that it would be best if he did win this war, for he was a good and noble man at heart. That admission did, of course, make a mockery of her prior declarations that she would never side with him, but had those been her own words or those of her teachers? _He is right that we share the same dream._ When she reflected on it in detail, she could no longer contrive reasons to despise him, no longer heard the stern voices warning her.

_Hope for myself, then? He's been so convinced all along that I'm special like him, so what if he's right? If he has this power and remains incorruptible, then why not I?_ There was one last question gnawing at her, however.

"Do you hate the Jedi?"

It was so off-topic that Revan was at first taken aback.

"Do I hate them?" he repeated as he collected his thoughts. "I most certainly hate the Jedi Order, and there are at least a few individual Jedi whom I have hated, but however foolhardy and misguided those people are, they generally mean well. In another reality-a reality in which their minds were never poisoned-most of them could be allies, comrades, but in this reality they fight against me, and that makes them my enemy. So, if your ultimate question is not whether I hate them, but why I fight them and kill them, then I shall answer that they are, for all their good intentions, a negative force. They retard the progress that people like us seek to bring to the galaxy, and those who stand in the way of good, whatever their intentions, must be removed; and since they will never simply fade away of their own accord, 'removed' consequently means 'fought and killed.'"

He pursed his lips, looked down at his feet, added, "How tragic a thing is war."

"I don't know that I could ever kill a Jedi."

"What if he or she meant to kill you?"

She shook her head in silence, but not as a negative sign, merely one of uncertainty. A month ago, she wouldn't have had to think about the answer, would never have had to think about the prospect of killing Jedi or unarmed civilians who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any of the unpleasant matters that Revan dealt with. He possessed a remarkable moral clarity that gave him his answers, and for that she envied him.

"I suppose I would have to find myself in that situation before I could ever really know," she answered.

"So did I, once." He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. "You always have choices, Bastila. A tipping point has already been passed after which your participation will make no difference to the final outcome. You can choose to sit out this war in peaceful neutrality if that be your desire."

It was a tempting offer, and for a moment she actually thought of what she would do, how she would spend her time, and considered following his recent advice and touring his homeworld. _It must truly be a wonderful land._ But then, as easily as the thought came to her, it faded away, displaced by her consuming sense of duty.

"Were our places exchanged, could you do that?"

"No," he answered without hesitation. "I mean to see this through to the end, whatever end, and whatever the price to myself."

"I know the feeling." In a feeble effort to distract herself from the crushing burden she felt then, she pushed a stray hair behind her ear (she had given up on tying back her hair into pigtails anymore, it having grown considerably in the last month, and had taken to leaving it straight), but to no avail.

She had a choice and, as Revan had told her a while back, the responsibility to make it with what wisdom she possessed. If she couldn't bring herself to stand by and do nothing while the galaxy was gripped by the most widespread and destructive war in its history, then she must choose a side. She had entered this war as a Jedi fighting for the Republic, but that had not been by her choice. Nothing about that life had been by her choice: her mother, selfish witch that she was, had sent her away forever, had _gotten rid of her_,by giving her to the Jedi. The woman had probably never wanted children, having never shown Bastila the kind of warmth that her father had. _Enough of that._ The point was that she had never chosen to become a Jedi, and that now she had at last reached a point at which she had a choice. _I've passed that point, though, haven't I? I had my chance to save the Republic when I stood behind him in the hangar, and I made my decision then. So…I side with him._

Her eyes were drawn to him, to the passionate, idealistic, misanthropic, melancholic man standing in awkward silence a couple of meters away. On one level, it felt eminently right to join him, while on another, it remained utterly unthinkable. How could she take up arms against all that she had once believed in, even now that she knew it was a lie?

"Would you rather I left you alone?" he asked softly. "Left you time to think?"

"I think so."

"As you wish," he said with a thin, forced smile, wishing to stay with her in this difficult time, though he knew it was a choice she must make on her own. He dug into his pants pocket, retrieved an identichip, and tossed it to her. "And you are no longer a prisoner."

"I'm free to go?" she asked as she regarded the little card.

"You are free to roam the ship."

"What about sensitive compartments?" she thought to ask.

"Should I not trust you?"

It was a rhetorical question, since they both knew that she wouldn't do anything harmful, and she didn't bother to answer.

Seeing her seated in the chair by the wall with her head down in deep and silent reflection and her hands folded in her lap, he was overcome by a sudden wave of emotion. Walking over to her, he knelt before her and, to her great surprise, took hold of her clasped hands and reverently bowed his head to touch his brow to her knuckles. In his eyes, she was a goddess of the old sagas, resplendent in her purity and magnificent in her power, who needed only to reach out and claim what was rightfully hers.

"If you need to contact me for any reason, activate any comm-panel in the ship and request me by name."

And so, in understanding accordance with her wishes but reluctantly nonetheless, he tugged on his boots and took his leave of her. The door hissed shut behind him, and he leaned back against it and squeezed shut his eyes. Never before had he loved another person, and for some time had wondered if he was even capable of it, not that such a prospect troubled him, since he knew that he was at least capable of feeling the emotion. No, the problem was that he had never before known any _person_ whom he could genuinely love, nobody who could inspire such admiration and adoration. _Is it merely a result of our bond?_ he postulated briefly, before laughing it off. _It doesn't matter. By all that is sacred, I do love her so._

Composing himself, he set off down the corridor, wishing he could have spent more time with her. His chrono read 1357: fifty-three minutes until Operation Drumbeat commenced with the 24th Task Force's attack on Leritor. If all went as he anticipated, then this would not be another long night, the battle ending in a swift and decisive victory. Perhaps he could see her again before retiring.

Bastila, sadly, felt just then as if she was being torn in two by the impossible decision before her. She knew the right course, but could not yet bring herself to follow it. His cause was just and his ends noble, and she had even found herself in agreement with his means on one occasion thus far. _There really was no remorse afterward. How did he describe it? "The sense of a worthy deed done?" Yes, that was how it felt after I told him to kill those vermin._

The sticking point was the idea of having innocent blood on her hands, and of taking up arms against those amongst whom she had once counted herself, even if she hadn't really been one of them at heart. She had tried so hard to believe and to behave, to be the perfect Jedi, though it never came naturally. _Because it wasn't in my nature._ She could have told herself that this was all a piece of masterful manipulation by Revan, that he was the greatest deceiver ever known, but that would, itself, have been a monumental piece of self-deceit. He had done nothing but help her in spite of her repeated attempts to push him away. He had seen her for who she truly was, and had even come to love her for who she truly was. There was no denying that now, either, not after what she felt in his heart when he knelt before her mere minutes ago.

_And is that such a terrible prospect? He's a decent man: brave, wise, noble… I can feel his heart break at the thought of causing me pain. _She had always though of love in terms of wild, uncontrolled passion, and as a danger that clouded one's judgment and must be avoided, but what she felt in Revan was not remotely like that. In his heart, there was no such thing as blind love or unconditional love, and certainly not a trace of lust. He loved her for reasons that made perfectly rational sense to him, as peculiar as that concept seemed at first glance. Love wasn't supposed to be rational, yet his was, while at the same time being deep and joyous. _Then again, _she thought with a smile, _he is a very peculiar man._

Opening her eyes, she found herself looking into a mirror set into the wall by her desk, and for a fraction of a second, she could see herself in a long black coat with a pointed collar and silver trim, her eyes glowing like phosphorescent sapphires. The illusion swiftly faded, the elegant coat replaced by her plain white shirt, but her eyes didn't change, and at that she gasped in shock. Slowly, fearfully, she rose from her chair and walked over to the mirror, leaning close and peering with morbid curiosity at the flashes of electric blue in her irises. As she did so, the electricity flickered out, and sapphire faded into blue-grey, and the tears came again.

Again, she found herself sobbing uncontrollably, though this time she was far from certain why. Perhaps it was all too sudden and drastic a change in the course of her life-everything upended and turned about all at once until there was no more sense of direction-for her to process. She had become something entirely different and opposite from what she had once wanted to be, and yet was what she had really been all along. And she was afraid: afraid of unlimited power, and positively terrified of what it might do to her. So many dire warnings over so many years clawed at the back of her mind, along with the knowledge of how much evil had been perpetrated by the Sith over the ages.

She reminded herself that there was more to power than light and dark, Jedi and Sith. As she sat crying, she let all that slip away, and turned deep inside, and there she found something she hadn't known before. She focused all her attention upon it, and tore down the walls that had been built up around it, and found a power great and wondrous and ancient that went above and beyond either dark or light. It comforted her and gave her strength, and there was no taint in it…as there was none in her.

_Look at you,_ she scolded herself as she sat hunched over on the floor, fingers entwined in her tangled tresses. _You're better than this. _Her breathing still coming in hard spurts, she wiped at her eyes and nose as she picked herself up off the floor. _This is beneath you!_ She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, held her chin high, set her jaw, and felt a little surge of pride. Going to the 'fresher, she took a quick, cool shower that relieved the swollen redness about her eyes and smoothed the knots from her hair. _There's nothing to be gained by wallowing in self-pity just because you can't bear the truth. You know the right thing to do, so bloody well do it! _That didn't really make it all that much easier, but at least she wasn't crying anymore.

Regarding her reflection whilst toweling dry, she took hold of her hair and pulled it up and back, then turned this way and that. No, it wasn't quite right. She pulled free two long strands, one hanging down on either side of her face, all the way down to her collar. The remainder she gathered into a loose bun and secured with a plain silver clasp, one of many various clasps, hairpins, and the like in her drawer. In fact, she had also been supplied with a surfeit of clothes, soap, shampoo, toothbrushes, and such, all of varying styles, as though Revan was determined to ensure that she would find at least one of each that was to her liking. He was being thoughtful again, as usual.

Now looking in appreciably better shape than she had been an hour ago, she slipped the identichip into the pocket of a clean pair of breeches, and threw on a burgundy waistcoat over a white shirt. She wondered in passing why this ship was noticeably cooler than the _Stormwind_, as though the heaters weren't working properly, then stepped into her boots and went to the door. It was almost a surprise when it opened, and it was somewhat cautiously that she stepped into the corridor beyond, and the sound of the door hissing shut behind her set her jumping forward a step. Once outside, she found herself somewhat at a loss for where to go. _Just walk-you could certainly use the exercise._

For all its fantastic size, the interior of the great battleship was extremely confined, positively claustrophobic, even, when taken in comparison with the Republic vessels she was accustomed to. (That included Imperial cruisers like _Conqueror_ and _Stormwind_, which were modified Republic designs.) The ceilings were very low, with exposed pipes and conduits running overhead, and the corridors scarcely broad enough for three to walk abreast. It was as if every cubic meter had been stuffed with armament, shield generators, reactors, and engines, and then, as an afterthought, space was provided for a crew. It was clearly not a vessel intended for long deployments. _A pure fighting ship,_ she reflected while meandering through its passages. _No patrols, no cruises, just attack._

Bastila was far from ignorant on military matters, though one wouldn't have guessed it from her record, having never been granted even the smallest command. She held the rank of captain in the Republic Naval Reserve, but only over the objections of the Jedi Council. When she had discovered her talent for Battle Meditation, she felt it prudent to study strategy and tactics, military history, and military technology so that she might put her ability to more effective use. Ildra and the other masters had seen this as little more than an unnecessary diversion of her attentions, but she had managed to squeeze in time enough for both Jedi and military studies, at the expense of sleep. _Why, then, were they so reluctant to allow me in combat?_ she wondered.

It wasn't until three months ago, when Revan had encircled and destroyed a Republic fleet near Serrenno, and was threatening to break through to Dantooine, that she had been allowed on the front line. At the Battle of Bimmiel, a tiny Republic fleet held back the Imperial 16th Task Force in spite of overwhelming odds and staggering losses. It was only her Battle Meditation that kept the Republic lines from breaking, and made the Imperials give up the attack in spite of holding every advantage. Tactically, it had still be an Imperial victory, for they destroyed far more ships than they lost, but it had halted their strategic offensive. If given adequate forces, surely Bastila could have won a proper victory. _I could still. With this battleship and my power, we could smash an entire fleet at a single blow. _It should have been a terrible thing to think of, leading the Empire against her former comrades, but the prospect didn't cause her half as much distress as she would have thought.

Instead of regret, she felt something else that made her chest tighten and her skin crawl: a sense of being _used._ She hadn't been given a command, and wasn't even sent to the front except in the direst emergency, because she hadn't been _trusted._ She was wise and clever and learned, but they had refused to see any of that, focusing only on what they believed were weaknesses that made her dangerous; valuing only her power; calling upon her only when there was nowhere else to turn. _I was just a weapon to them, and a very dangerous weapon to be used only in their darkest hour._

As she walked, she frequently passed crewmen and -women, all dressed in grey trousers and short zippered jackets over olive turtlenecks, and she assumed it was because she stood out in her civilian clothing that she drew questioning glances from many of them.

_What would have become of me there? Whisked from one battle to another, plugging gaps in their lines, most likely._ Of course, in that scenario, she would necessarily have succeeded in capturing Revan, which begged the question of what would have become of him. To that, he had already given her the answer: he would have fought back, to the death, rather than submit to the disgrace. And what of the Empire? Without Revan's leadership and with Bastila as an enemy, but still in possession of immense firepower, the Empire would have fought to the bitter end, the war dragging on for years to come, consuming billions more lives, until one side or the other exhausted itself. Which side would that have been? Moreover, in that scenario, would it even matter who won in the end?

But it had not happened that way, and for that, she now decided, she was most grateful, indeed. _Maybe Revan was right, and I made a deliberate choice, even if I didn't know it at the time. _This_ is where my heart truly lies._

At last she found her way to the outer hull, and found what seemed to be an exceedingly rare commodity aboard this ship: a window. She could see an endless field of stars amidst the black, some of them larger than the rest and drifting slowly across her view. A great many ships were out there, waiting, preparing. _I could help end this,_ she told herself, _Fight with him._

Two new stars came into focus now, directly in front of her, pinpoints of blue. She watched them awhile, wondering what ships they might be, noting that they never appeared to move, as if coming straight at her. Nor did they brighten or diminish, however, so they must have been perfectly stationary. Tiring of standing there, she shifted her weight to one side, and, to her puzzlement, saw the two ships move with her. She moved back the other way, and again the blue lights moved with her.

"My eyes," she whispered aloud as she touched her fingertips to the glass. Much to her surprise, the sight made her feel alive.

The strategic command center was a large, hemispherical room bustling with activity on all sides and filled with the muted radio chatter of the thirty comm officers seated around its perimeter. At the center of it all was a large open space, the ceiling bulging like that of a planetarium, and therein lay the room's dominating feature: a holoprojector that presently displayed a partial schematic of a star system. In the void above the orbital plane floated two cloud-like masses of green and amber icons of varying sizes and shapes. Far from the classical perception of a "line of battle," the formations more accurately resembled multiple swarms of angry insects milling about one another, jockeying for position, rarely engaging at ranges of less than a hundred thousand kilometers, and quite often at twice or thrice that distance. There were thousands of ships involved, the Imperial 24th Task Force squaring off against the 39th, 66th, and 68th Republic Fleets in an uneven contest. At the center of the battle was Grier's 50th Fleet, with _Invincible_ single-handedly decimating whole enemy squadrons.

Having begun nearly two hours ago, the battle ought rightly have been over by now, but the Republic had, mere minutes ago, retired the shattered 70th Fleet and brought up the 39th as reinforcements.

"Get me Morrett," Revan ordered as he paced back and forth in front of the projection, his eyes all but blind to the physical realm. His mind was out there, in the midst of the battle itself, striving to feel, rather than see, the developing situation.

Moments later, a miniature figure of Admiral Shev Morrett appeared in front of him, standing in mid-air such that his eyes were at Revan's level.

"My Lord, the battle goes well," said the tall, dark-skinned man somewhat anxiously.

"Not well enough. The enemy holds his ground, Admiral. He does not run."

"Yes, we hit him hard early on and threw him off-balance, inflicting very heavy losses on one of his three fleets. They were starting to lose cohesion, and I thought we had the business in hand, but then they brought up reserves. I don't know where they came from, but now we're pressing them, too. We can still break them," Morrett said flatly.

"The reinforcements came from Pii," Revan answered with equal nonchalance. "There are further reserves there, but I do not believe the enemy will commit any more-they are still uncertain if your attack is only a diversion."

"That would be very desirable, sir, if they went on thinking that way."

_Tell me something I don't know,_ he mused.

"Admiral, I want them broken, and I want it soon. I feel that, if you concentrate on the 66th in sufficient strength, then those people will give quickly, particularly if you can put a flotilla or two behind them. Their maneuvers feel…sluggish, clumsy, as though they have lost their commander, perhaps. They are not well-coordinated, and if you give them an excuse to panic, I am certain they will do so."

Morrett seemed to ruminated on this for a moment, his focus shifting as he consulted his own chart.

"Yes, sir, I do believe you are right. It will be done at once, sir."

"Then go to it, Admiral."

"Yes, sir!"

Morrett snapped off a salute just before his image vanished, leaving only the battle itself, the outcome of which was already certain in Revan's mind. This, however, was only the beginning.

The Imperial front was presently stretched out in a long bulge from Hutt Space to Bothan Space and the Abrion Sector. Leritor was the perfect point from which to launch a flanking attack that would cut off the "finger" and trap the bulk of 1st Group, not that the Republic possessed the strength there to do so. Its capture by Morrett's task force, however, would suggest that the Empire sought to secure its flank, as if in preparation for a larger offensive aimed at the Brak or Doldur sectors. These were logical targets, opening the way to the Core itself if they could be taken. The second phase-an attack against Blenjeel-would further reinforce this perception. When combined with weeks' worth of contrived hypercomm traffic, some of which Intel believed the Republic was able to decrypt, it would convince the enemy beyond any shadow of a doubt that he meant to charge straight up the Correllian Run. Naturally, he would instead do the very opposite, swinging round to the left to hit the enemy on his flank in the Cadavine Sector, where his forces would be thin. The axis of attack would then pivot to strike the main body (which would be highly disorganized as it reversed direction to meet the threat) with overwhelming force.

He wondered if Bastila might not play some part in the coming campaign, only to dismiss it as quickly as the idea had entered his thoughts. She had already come remarkably far in so short a time, and he had no desire to push her. It tore at him enough to feel her anguish through their bond, to know that he had played a part in her suffering, even though it was only with the intent of reversing what unjust harm had already been done upon her. She didn't blame him, that much he could feel, and his own guilt was mingled with pride, but it was pride in her, in what she had done in freeing herself.

_Focus, dammit,_ he admonished himself, forcing his attention back on the battle. _You can afford no distractions._ Grier was by now heavily engaged with the Republic's 68th Fleet, _Invincible_ cutting a swath ahead of her, and he expected that Morrett would soon make his attack on the 66th and break their defense. There was little for him to do at this point, but it was still only proper for him to maintain his focus on the battle.

At no time since he had met her had he slackened in his attention to the war effort, instead sacrificing sleep and leisure that he might spend time with her. No, it was her pain on this day that distracted him, not Bastila herself. He had been careful not to pry, to let her private thoughts and feelings remain private, but her more powerful emotions still filtered through. Reaching out to her through their bond, seeking to assure himself that she was well and thereby remove the distraction, he was relieved to find her remarkably at peace. Not happy, per say, but at peace; her pain was gone and, consequently, so too was his own.

The 201st Flotilla was in motion now, freed from its engagement with the 68th Fleet, rapidly regrouping into a tighter formation. He could see a gap opening between the enemy formations as Grier intensified his attacks, and now the 201st was racing through, exchanging only moderate fire along the way, ignoring any threat to its flanks, before wheeling about to attack the Republic 66th. _That's the style!_ he thought with a subdued, but unmistakably exultant, punch of his fist, wishing very much right then that he was there in the thick of it, instead of observing from half a galaxy away. Within minutes, heavy fire was being directed at the ships of the 66th from three directions, and he could actually _feel_ them breaking, sense the fear, the desperation behind the movements of those little amber specks.

Slipping into the depths of the Force, he reached out across the infinity of space and time to the area of the battle; not to the battle itself, but nearby, where the Republic reserves sat waiting for orders, where the rest of the 1st Armada lay in wait for a chance to attack. Concentrating on the enemy, he felt frustration more than danger, the orders to support the failing defense not coming, the ships still idle, their crews on alert for an action they were not to fight this day. _Patience: we are coming, _he mused with a smile. _We are coming._ The Republic commanders understood that Leritor was lost, and also that the main battle had not yet come, an eventuality for which they knew they must conserve their strength.

So intent had his focus been that he did not hear the doors open behind him as he stood engrossed in the action, but there was no ignoring the approaching presence in his mind. Turning on his heel, he was met by a sight that sent a pleasant cool flowing through his body. Her pale face was confident and stern, she carried herself with a proud bearing, and moved with a stately, even regal, grace that bespoke a great lady of authority. Her royal countenance softened when their eyes met, and she quickly strode over to him, boots clacking on the deck plates in flawless rhythm.

"Hello, Revan," she said softly, simply, a thin smile forming on her lips.


	6. Extinction

Firstly, in the event that anyone has wondered where I got the idea for Revan and Bastila's eyes to turn electric blue at times, blue has long been associated with such qualities as independence, intelligence, responsibility, power, and divinity, so the symbolism seemed apt to me.

Secondly, I'd like to clarify something from Chapter 1: _All That Was to Come_, which is that Revan's deepest anger and hatred springs from impersonal sources. What Revan called Malak in Derals translates to a "corrupt, diseased person unworthy of life." While he naturally felt a healthy measure of anger at the time, that anger was due far more to the fact that Malak had imperiled the cause, rather than that he had tried to kill Revan himself, and the brutality of the execution came in no small part from his hatred of what Malak was. Note that the execution in Chapter 4: _The Face of Evil_ is conducted in an equally painful fashion (albeit not with his own hands, having learned that lesson), for though he had absolutely no _personal_ reason for doing so, he most certainly had a _principled_ reason. Rest assured, he's not perfect, and has faults that will get him into a hefty piece of trouble in due course, but pettiness isn't one of them.

Thirdly and finally: yes, I am a fan of Tolkien, as well as of Heinlein and Traviss, so I suppose it's natural enough that I'd develop the hobby of creating my own languages.

* * *

6

Extinction

23 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

16.8.20375

She was surprised that she felt no guilt at observing the denouement of the battle, standing idly by, watching the Republic being swept from the system with heavy losses in a disorganized retreat. Granted, she hadn't been there, hadn't seen the explosions, the puffs of vapor from decompressing hulls, certainly hadn't seen and heard the dead, dying, and wounded. It had all been mere icons on a holoprojection, but she knew precisely what they meant, what they all meant, and it still didn't much bother her. The victory at Leritor had brought this ghastly war one step closer to its end. _Victory. Our victory,_ she permitted herself to think the words.

They had remained in the command center for some time thereafter as Revan reviewed the other fronts and read briefings from at least thirty different commanders. Chairs were provided, and dinner was brought in for them both, though it appeared that the crew had simply made doubles of Revan's request for the night, as both plates were piled with identical fare. It was an eclectic mix of sweet fruits; vegetables, both leafs and roots; and some kind of thick, near-flavorless mash that Bastila had never seen before. It was hearty fare, and she found it quite agreeable, though Revan himself seemed to pay it little heed as he absently cleaned his plate with all possible speed, his eyes rarely wandering from the reports in front of him.

He allowed her to see all of it, to read the reports herself, and for the first time she found herself with an overall picture of this war, and fully grasped why the Jedi had become so desperate as to exploit her power. The Empire was in a very strong position, and its forces well-supplied. In her opinion, Revan could successfully launch a major offensive at any time, with losses being the only variable in the outcome. He was being methodical about it, taking no chances at this point, now that victory could be squandered only through a blunder on his part.

When the day's work was at last complete, she and Revan had strolled the corridors of the ship, not precisely hand-in-hand, but quite comfortable with each other nonetheless. She did rather enjoy his company, and not just because it had been the only company she had had in the last month. He was so incredibly alike to herself in sentiment and temperament, sensitive and polite to a fault, endearing if not exactly charming. She would have suspected him of being the galaxy's greatest actor, were he able to conceal his heart from her, but it was all genuine, including his reverent love for her. He viewed her in a light that nobody else ever had, as though she was the most superlative woman who had ever lived. She thought it rather odd, and yet eminently enjoyable. _I suppose there are worse people to have smitten with oneself,_ she reflected as she watched him in silence. _If only I could return the feeling…_

Their quiet solitude was shattered by the chirping of Revan's commlink, which he at first responded to with no more than closed eyes.

"Are you going to answer it?" she asked after several repetitions of the urgent sound emanating from his pocket.

With some reluctance, he fished it out, put it to his ear, answered, "Revan here."

"Good news, sir," came Tanen's optimistic voice. "All systems check out, the ship is green across the board. We are ready to jump on your command."

A quick glance at his chrono: _Seven hours, fourteen minutes. You weren't that far off, after all, Captain._

"Superb. Stand by to jump."

"Yes, sir."

Removing the commlink from his ear and closing his hand around it, he then stopped at a nearby computer terminal and keyed in an access code.

"Revan, Commander-in-Chief. Authenticate."

The terminal scanned his retinas and biosigns, before chirping out a reply of, "Revan, Commander-in-Chief, identity confirmed."

"Lock all external comms, my clearance exclusive."

"All external comms locked, exclusive clearance set for Revan, Commander-in-Chief."

Satisfied with the precaution, he returned the commlink to his ear and spake,

"Captain, set course for Korriban and jump as soon as ready."

"Set course for Korriban and jump ASAP, aye, sir."

"Carry on, Captain."

"Yes, sir."

An old fire flared up in him again as he returned the commlink to his pocket. _One more enemy to be eliminated. One step closer to the end._

"Korriban?" Bastila inquired, curious.

"I recalled the remaining Sith to the academy there, and there they all are now gathered… The last living adherents to that accursed religion all in one place."

"All hands secure for jump," a male voice ordered over the intercom, briefly interrupting the conversation.

"We're going there to kill them," she said in a half-whisper with excitement creeping into her heart. _Long have I dreamed of defeating the Sith - I never imagined it would be like this._

"Yes, and erase every last trace of them in the process. The Sith have risen from defeat before, even from extinction, but not this time: I mean to be thorough, to burn even the roots and _finish_ the job that should have been done millennia ago. This time they will pass into history, as a pestilence finally eradicated from the galaxy."

She could feel a driving energy welling up in her, for the first time shared Revan's enthusiasm for this revolution he had launched. And this war really was a revolution, aimed squarely at reshaping the very fabric of civilization and the fortunes of all. She had come to feel a part of this great enterprise, in spite of playing little part thus far, though she intended to change that quite soon. Revan wanted her at his side in this, even desired to share power with her, feeling that it was her right and her destiny with such ardent conviction that she almost believed it herself. _And I want to believe it, don't I? I _want_ to take that path, and I always have. I was too afraid before, too afraid I would fall, but now that I've come to know him, and understand him…what have I to fear?_

"When do we get there?"

"Assuming the hyperdrive doesn't fail, approximately 1630 tomorrow."

A horn blew a low, undulating note over the intercom, startling her from her introspection.

"Jumping in five…four…"

She felt the deck quiver beneath her feet, the oscillations rapidly building into a low shudder.

"…three…two…one…_jump!_"

It felt as though the ship had been struck from behind by something even more massive than itself, and she reached out to seize hold of a vertical pipe to steady herself. Revan was not so lucky, his hand finding no purchase on a smooth section of wall, his fall somewhat painfully arrested when Bastila's free hand clamped onto his upper arm.

"Thanks," he said as he regained his footing and massaged his shoulder, which burned as though it had very nearly been pulled from its socket. "'Minor jump interface cavitation.' That's what they called it in the test reports. Minor my arse."

"Then that's normal?"

"Evidently so. It's not standard Navy procedure to make so much fuss about 'securing for jump' and counting down and all that."

"I didn't think so. Lovely new ship you've got."

"Thanks. And she's _our_ ship if you're interested."

She knew the offer was coming, had certainly thought about it, but there was still the old, ingrained resistance to the idea.

"You're offering me far more than this ship, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Why?"

"I know your quality," he said warmly. "Did you not believe me when I once told you that, in this Empire, it is only virtue and ability that matter? You _deserve_ to reign as a great sovereign, and make your dreams fact."

She walked with him in silence, searching his heart and feeling no lie or exaggeration in him. _He truly believes that I'm…extraordinary and…superior._ Were he any other man who loved her (not that she had known any other men who did so), she would instantly suspect that his feelings were clouding his judgment, and that this offer was made out of desire instead of reason, whereas with Revan, the very opposite was true. While she felt slightly uncomfortable examining his feelings for her, what she found was what she already suspected: he loved her _because_ she deserved to rule at his side, not the other way round.

"Do you fear power?" he asked, which was the real issue here.

There was still a part of her that said she had no right to impose her views on others, and that power would ultimately twist her good intentions. To the first, she could counter that there existed a clear and urgent requirement for someone to reshape galactic civilization, there being far too much wrong with it to ignore, and that she had at least as much right as anyone to assume that responsibility. After all, what granted or denied anyone that right beyond one's own conscience? To the second, she did not have so logical an argument, only the memory of the glow in her eyes, the same as Revan's. She was pure.

"I'm supposed to," she answered at first, "but I don't, not anymore. Or, at least, not afraid of my own power."

He smiled then, so immensely happy and relieved, and she sensed that he was slowing his pace at the same time she realized that she had been leading them back to her quarters.

"I am happy for you."

"As if I couldn't tell."

The comment had been innocent enough in her mind, but he instantly turned sheepish and looked down at the deck in a seemingly out-of-character expression of embarrassment. As soon as it came over him, though, the discomfort was replaced by a rigid military posture and confident speech.

"And what of my offer?"

"I need time to think on it. I still…" She clenched her fist, released it, stopped and faced him.

"Please don't take this as a criticism of yourself. I understand why you've done all that you have, and I no longer fault you for it. The trouble is, I don't know if _I_ can do it."

"I shan't lie to you: this duty I have taken upon myself, whilst immensely rewarding at times, is also a terrible burden. There are times when there is no right way out, and you go to sleep that night - if you sleep at all - feeling no satisfaction, only relief that it is over with. The only constant that keeps me going is my certainty that this _needs_ to be done, and that, in the end, I shall have done a great service, and that that is how history will judge my deeds. So, I suppose, the question you need ask yourself is this: do you possess that certainty?"

They stopped in front of her door, both of them silent, both knowing that the question could not be answered tonight.

"I'll see you in the morning," she said. "Good-night, Revan."

"Good-night, Bastila, and sleep well."

He bowed to her, spun on his heel, and took his leave as quickly as he could before he did or said anything hasty. He had been tempted to tell her that he liked what she had done with her hair, for it really did look quite lovely in a prim-and-proper sort of way, and he adored prim-and-proper. Shaking such thoughts from his head, he marched away around a corner and glanced at his chrono: 2127, still early. It was unusual that he would have finished the day's business at so reasonable an hour, rather than sometime in the wee hours of the morning.

In short order, he was inside his own quarters, positively bursting with exuberant energy, and wasted no time in stripping down to his undershirt and breeches, and exchanging his jackboots for a pair of running shoes.

The sitting room was bright and airy, mostly white and beige, with light-hued wood flooring and furniture, and was decorated with paintings and holocaptures of majestically tranquil landscapes. Set into nooks in the walls below and between these soothing scenes of nature were glass cases housing a copious collection of rare printed books, for which he had acquired an affinity bordering on adoration. (There was something almost spiritual about the touch and scent of paper, the sound of turning pages, that would, at least in his mind, forever eclipse the experience of reading from a datapad.)

On his command, a section of floor dropped down and slide aside, and a treadmill rose up to take its place, and after a stretching regimen, he sallied forth on a hard uphill run while rousing martial tunes blasted from speakers hidden throughout the room. In the span of an hour, he worked himself to the point of absolute exhaustion, until sweat poured down his body from head to toe and the air entered his lungs in rough, labored draughts. At about eight or nine points in the course of the workout, he felt as though he couldn't go another solitary step, only to press on with redoubled determination to outdo his standing record, if only by another hundred meters. That was, of course, the very point: to endure, to persevere, to overcome, to achieve. In the process, the physical effort compelled his mind to focus no farther than the next minute, even the next step, and stripped away all the troubles and cares of life, if only for an hour.

Ten minutes were spent walking it off, regaining his ability to breathe properly and shaking off the creeping nausea that threatened to overtake him, before he went to his kitchen and downed two tall glasses of cool water that felt like liquid ecstasy cascading down his parched throat. Then conscious thought began to return to his brain, and he ventured into the bathroom to shower.

As the lukewarm water and thick lathering soap swept away the sticky grime that clung to his body, his thoughts drifted back to the one place he wished they wouldn't. Greatly had she worried him in the last month, her struggle tearing at his heart the same as her own, and doing so in the way that only the pain of a loved one could manage. _When did I start loving her? Surely not the day we met, but shortly thereafter, or else I am much mistaken. And how could I not love her, for she is ideal in every facet. Ha! Listen to me! She doesn't love _me_,_ he soberingly reminded himself, _or at least not as far as can be told._ He didn't feel it through their bond, and he certainly wasn't about to pry into her thoughts deliberately. _At least she thinks well of me, even admires me. _Just to be in the company of a woman of such strength and wisdom and integrity, and to serve with her in this noble crusade, was a great honor. _I ought content myself with that._ According to his understanding of it, love was supposed to be a myth, or at the very most a flawed experience that rarely worked and even less often endured. However, he couldn't keep from reminding himself that he and Bastila were far from normal, and that most anything was possible.

Only when he had dried off and started to dress was he struck by a sudden wave of weariness, though it was still early by his standards. _Even I can't carry on like this indefinitely. It would be very good to get a full night's sleep for once,_ he thought as he changed into a set of grey and white nightclothes. _When was the last time? Mégteníd, most likely, if not last year. _He sat on the edge of his bed, glanced at the thick, well-worn tome and reading glasses that resided on his nightstand, but his eyes were too tired to read, and so he lifted the green satin sheets and settled in beneath them. _Leaf and branch, has it really been that long? Little wonder I'm so tired._

"Lights: out," he commanded with a yawn, and plunged the room into blackness.

This night there was no complication in the war to occupy his mind, no problem to solve, and, above all, no pain in his heart. He shut his eyes to the blackness and was immediately, mercifully, blissfully overtaken by slumber.

For Bastila, the evening had been one of meditation, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, clearing her mind in search of the peace that had eluded her for many weeks now. She disliked uncertainty, feared and loathed it, in point of fact. She was a woman who was used to knowing the right thing and then doing it, but in her time with Revan, she had discovered that her old notions of right had not been _hers_ at all. They were somebody else's, foisted on her in her youth, and to which she had clung for the comfort of easy certainty. Now she followed her own moral instincts, only to find that there wasn't so much certainty in them, which she took as a sign that they must be right. _Why is it that being right is never quick or easy?_ Every time she tried to resolve herself to accept Revan's offer, apprehension reared its ugly head. _There'll be plenty more of this in store for you: trying to sort out the right course and then working up the nerve to actually follow it. Actually, that's pretty much all the job is, isn't it?_

That must have appealed to some part of her, a part that wanted to take on a challenge that would overwhelm most others, for it didn't daunt her as it should have. Her trepidation came instead from the years of training, from the lectures and warnings that had been repeated ad nauseum until she could hear them inside her head, which was, of course, the very purpose of her teachers. Now the old lessons came back, no longer holding any rational meaning for her, coming merely in the form of a nagging hesitation each time she tried to commit herself to a decision. It was obvious that she _wanted_ to accept his offer, but a restraining tension gripped her chest when she thought of telling him. She kept herself awake late into the night with this maddening train of thought, until at last she rose from the floor with a new sense of determination to resolve this matter once and for all.

_Just tell him, and tell him now,_ she told herself as she started to pull on her right boot. Reaching out through their bond, she searched for his presence, meant to find his quarters the same way she had found him earlier when he was in the command center. Unfortunately, when she found him - and quite nearby at that - he was blissfully calm, relaxed…and asleep. Setting the boot back down by its twin, she turned to consult the chrono on the wall: 0103. Releasing an exasperated sigh, she turned from the door and slowly, dejectedly, unbuttoned her shirt. _It wouldn't be fair to wake him, not when he gets so little rest as it is. I'll tell him in the morning…if I still have the courage then._

The idea of going through this all over again in the morning held little appeal for her. _Get up, get dressed, and go see him straight away as soon as you're up. His quarters aren't far, maybe two minutes' walk, so don't think about it, just go and tell him. You would have done it a moment ago, so there's no reason you can't do it in the morning,_ she reasoned as she changed into a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a button-down nightshirt, both of sea-green satin. It was an elegant costume, if rather plain, as were all of the nightclothes Revan had given her.

She found herself wondering just then what he wore to bed, felt herself blush, tried to think of something else as she let down her hair and fluffed it out. _Probably the same as I'm wearing right now,_ she laughed silently to herself. It was really very difficult to picture him in anything less, the man being so impeccably proper and decent. She turned back the covers and climbed underneath, commanded the lights out and shut her eyes. For the first time, a peculiar sensation crept into her being: a pleasant sort of excitement, a cool rush, a feeling of lightness. Through their bond, she felt his presence, shared his peaceful contentment, let it lull her to sleep. _It will all be…more clear in the morning._ She pulled the sheets up snugly around her body, settled into the welcoming, cushioning softness of her mattress, and hugged her pillow, her thoughts muddled by sleep. _More clear…in the morning… Tell him then… Revan._

It was not long after she fell asleep that she was wandering the ruined city again, though this time there remained the shells of buildings, standing like blackened skeletons of a dead civilization. _A civilization I destroyed._ Again she came to a spot at which the monotonous shades of grey and brown were interrupted by brilliant blue peeking out from beneath a block of permacrete, and she stopped. This time, she didn't try to shift the block, didn't try to see what lay beneath, wouldn't subject herself to that again. But she did know what was there, remembered the dead girl's crushed body.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she knelt there with her palm pressed flat against the block. "You didn't deserve to die. So many don't."

And then she looked up, and the smoke had cleared and she could see an end to the drab devastation of the city; and beyond it lay a wondrously fair green land that stretched on and on for as far as she could see.

"I'm so sorry," she wept. "I'm so sorry you didn't live to see it."

And with that she drew back from the block and stood.

She jerked awake then, though not drenched in cold sweat and with her heart racing, as she had on prior nights. She shut her eyes, laid her head back upon the pillow, and focused on breathing. She did not realize until morning that she had gone back to sleep.

It was late morning when she slowly woke, feeling half-rested, and yet strangely at peace with herself. Her stomach rumbled, and she thought to fix herself breakfast, only to remember her resolution of the night before: _Go to Revan straight away and tell him. Don't dawdle, or you'll lose your nerve again._ Instead of ordering something from the synthesizer, she flung open her locker-sized closet and quickly changed into a set of day clothes. Before shutting the door, however, her small traveling bag on the floor caught her eye. There was one last set of clothes in there, one which she had not hung up, had no intention of wearing again, and yet heretofore unable to dispose of. Picking up the bag, she opened it roughly and froze, eyes uncomfortably locked on the poorly-folded mass of brown and beige cloth within, as though it was something horrible to behold.

_How long did you wear that? _she asked herself. _Far too long._ She stood there for several long minutes, until finally she seized hold of the robes and pulled them from the bag, the latter tossed back into the closet. _Time to be done with it. A clean break._ Marching across the cabin, she flung open a small hatch on the wall by the door, only to halt yet again with eyes transfixed. _That was me: Bastila Shan, Jedi._ _That _was_ me. Now… _Regaining her focus, she felt a great power deep within her, the very core of her, so long unused. _Now I'm me._ Without further delay, she laid her old robes in the open receptacle, shut the hatch, and punched the glowing green key beside it. There was a barely-audible whoosh of air, and it was done.

A smile formed on her lips as she turned to her mirror and fixed her hair, pulling it into a bun as she had the day before. Satisfied with her appearance, she quit her room, taking swift strides through the corridors, guided by Revan's presence in her mind, until she came to a door, identical to all the others in the ship save for its lack of identifying marks. Every other door she had passed had a number, and many a nameplate indicating what lay beyond, but this one was completely blank. Not surprisingly, her identichip's transponder wouldn't unlock it, and she was obliged to use the chime. She didn't think about it, didn't hesitate, just reached out and pressed the button as if automatically, before she could turn back. She knew that Revan was waiting for her, that he had sensed her coming, and she couldn't bear to be thought of as a coward, certainly not by him.

No sooner had she released the button than the door opened, Revan standing before her with one of those sweet, sympathetic looks he often gave her.

"Good morning, Bastila," he said amiably. "I would say I'm surprised to see you here, but…well…we can't exactly sneak up on each other, now can we?"

She thought he looked warmer than usual, with no jacket on, his hair not yet gelled (she was surprised at just how much lighter it was dry, being very pale brown, almost dirty-blond), and the top button of his shirt undone. _Stop looking at him and just say it!_

"I accept," she blurted out, and for a moment or two he seemed not to have understood her words, so quickly were they spoken. "Your offer, from last night, sharing power. I accept."

Now she realized that he had understood her the first time, and was simply left speechless, for he just stood there with a kind of bittersweet expression as though about to cry. "Please do come in," he bid her as he stood to the side.

She exhaled deeply, the strain of the decision flowing out of her now that it was made. To her relief, there was no immediate sense of regret or remorse. _Because it was the right choice._

"To be honest," he said as the door hissed shut, "I feared it would have taken you longer, days perhaps."

"I couldn't bear another hour of the tension, let alone another day. I even thought to tell you last night, but I had stayed up well past yourself, and didn't want to wake you."

Recalling Revan's own custom, she stopped just inside the doorway to remove her boots, setting them beside his.

"Thank you for your consideration, though I would hardly have faulted you for waking me with so valid a reason. Do you wish to sit down?" he asked somewhat abruptly as he remembered his manners.

She had to think about it, the comfort of her feet being the least of her concerns at the moment. "I suppose I should," she answered as she made herself comfortable in the remarkably plush armchair. For his part, Revan leaned against a bare section of wall, arms folded across his chest, seemingly pleased beyond measure.

"So what now?" she inquired.

"That's up to you, My Lady."

"So, just like that, I'm…well, what precisely?" _I did like the sound of "My Lady," didn't I?_

"Well, you cannot officially be a Lady of Deralí until you've proved your worth through loyal service, and for the time being I doubt that I can warrant commissioning you as anything above a Flag Captain. That said, you certainly won't be the only person in this Empire who wields power well beyond her strict legal authority - like the others, you'll just need to wield it through somebody else, in this case myself. Until I can promote you to the manner of position you justly deserve, you'll be obliged to pass orders through me for the most part."

"So I would be the power behind the scenes?" she said with subdued laughter.

"That's about the size of it, at least for the time being, but you have my solemn vow that it will be different after the war."

"How so?"

"On Deralí, in the old days when we had our own empire, the government was far from the labyrinthine creation that this present Empire currently resembles. It was clear, straightforward, with everyone in charge of and responsible for a particular, well-defined area of activity. There were distinct levels, each with a leader who held a sworn duty and was answerable to those above _and_ below; and at the top of this pyramid was the Prime Minister, superior to the other Imperial Ministers, and answerable only to the Érilin."

"The Emperor."

"Or Empress, though that is but a loose translation. Power on Deralí is not inherited, but awarded, and the Érilin was appointed by his or her predecessor based on virtue and merit. The post, you must understand, was one of great _moral_ authority, the Érilin being responsible for guiding the overall course of the Empire and the Folk, while the Prime Minister managed the details."

"You and Meric," she said with a sly half-smile.

He returned the smile and nodded.

"When this war is won, the Council will appoint Meric as Imperial Prime Minister, and myself as Érilin, in return for which the lesser Ministers will receive far greater authority over the system and sector governments. The Deralíntséch will be reborn a scale never imagined by my forebears, and you will be at the top with me. You ought to know that there have been seven instances in which two Érilinv reigned simultaneously."

She could almost glimpse that future, and there came upon her a pleasantly cool sensation of lightness and excitement, and suddenly she saw Revan's face light up with pure joy.

"Your eyes!"

Reflexively touching her hand to her cheekbone, it took her a moment to comprehend his meaning.

"They're glowing, aren't they?" she asked him.

"You mean to say this has happened before?"

"Yesterday, twice. Once was as I was taking a stroll, and I think I quite surprised several of the crew."

"I have no doubt that you thoroughly amazed the lot of them, you being only the second Force-user in recorded history whose eyes…change like that."

"Can it be controlled?"

"From all that I've been able to deduce, it is an expression of purity, much as the yellow eyes of the Sith are a symptom of corruption, and from my own experience the glow is triggered by strong emotion. Ergo, in order to control one's eyes, one must control one's emotions, which is something we ex-Jedi have a good deal of experience in doing. It certainly proved useful when I had to deal with Sith - they doubted my convictions enough without seeing the purity in my eyes, quite literally staring them in the face."

_Ex-Jedi._ The term should have stung, but seemed to have lost much of its potency.

"Hmm, I wonder why they doubted you. Perhaps because you were plotting to kill them all along?" she asked mischievously.

"I cannot begin to imagine," was his sarcastic reply, before he reverted to softly serious. "In any case, you needn't worry about hiding your true nature. By tonight, they'll all be dead."

_And your eyes are so very beautiful,_ he added to himself. While he had paid it little heed until recently, likely noticing the fact only when she had stopped dressing as a Jedi, she was wondrously fair to behold.

"I told you last night that I'm not afraid of my own power," she said, mercifully interrupting his train of thought. "You never told me, though, how far this power goes."

"How far do you want it to go?"

"It's up to me?"

"As near as can be told. The Jedi and Sith both teach their students to use the Force as though it's a set of skills…like playing an instrument…and for them it is. Their use of it is unnatural, and so they must work at mastering it, struggling to overcome obstacles of their own making. They, like most people, are fond of ignoring or denying obvious truths, and in this instance the obvious truth is that, at its essence, the Force is the ultimate expression of _mind over matter._ Tell me: how did you discover your talent for Battle Meditation?"

"I…" she had no firm answer for him, being far from certain herself. No one had set out to teach it to her. "I just…did. I wanted so desperately to be able to play some meaningful part in the war…" (And here was where it suddenly made _perfect_ sense to her.) "…and so I did."

"Then you already know how the Force is supposed to be used." Damn, if he wasn't proud of her beyond measure. _I needn't teach her a thing, only show her what she already knows._ "You _will it_."

"Yes," she said with a subtle nod, a smile of understanding creeping onto her pale lips. "Yes. I wanted that power, and so I just…willed it into being. I shouldn't have been able to master it so easily, but I did because _I willed it._

"I shouldn't have been able to save your life, either, but I did because I wanted to. But why did I want to? Was it really because I thought I could redeem you, or because I knew deep down that you didn't need to be redeemed at all? I certainly wouldn't have admitted it to myself then, but it's possible that I knew, just as it's possible that I knew that my mission to capture you would fail, as you said. All along, in all those years as a Jedi, I wanted to bring justice to the galaxy and destroy evil, to be something _more_. On _Conqueror_, I had a choice, and that choice brought me here because I _desired_ to be here."

She said it all with a mounting enthusiasm, until by the end she was positively ecstatic.

"You have no idea how it cheers my heart to see you happy," he said with a trace of tears in his eyes.

"For once you're wrong," she said sweetly. She could feel his joy flowing freely through their bond, the kind of relief that could come only from the happiness of a loved one. "I have a very sound idea."

"I suppose you would," he chuckled, then suddenly looked and felt almost embarrassed.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," she assured him, rising from the chair and crossing the floor to stand face-to-face with him. She almost reached out to touch him, to at least take his hands in some gesture of closeness, only to stop herself, being just as shy as he.

"No, I… Oh, surely you must find this discomforting in some fashion."

_You like him, admit it! And why shouldn't I? He's nice. Well, not really, but he's nice to _me_. We're so alike that we obviously belong together, so why not? If we're to take responsibility for the entire galaxy, then don't we deserve some measure of happiness for ourselves?_ "Actually, I…I think I rather like it."

"You do?"

_Just do it, you bloody coward,_ she told herself, and suddenly she had clasped her hands around his own. "Can't you tell?"

"To be perfectly honest, I've been trying to give you your privacy, or at least as much as I could in spite of our bond. It…it struck me as improper to be reading so much of you, as though I was spying on you."

"You mean you deliberately shut me out…out of respect?" she asked with a kind smile. "As if I would have even known."

"That's beside the point, isn't it? _I_ would have known."

"And, knowing you as I do, you would never, ever have forgiven yourself."

He shook his head with a good humored smile. "How could I?"

"And I thought _I_ was harsh on myself," she teased.

"Oh, you are, and no mistake."

"We're a bloody fine mirror-image of ourselves, aren't we?"

"So then you know?" he asked, breaking the levity of the moment, and at last she released her hold on him, gentle though it had been. "How I feel, that is?"

"I know, and, yes, I do enjoy it." She wrung her hands nervously, uncertain right then of precisely how _she_ felt about him. "After so many years of denying my emotions, of keeping everything bottled up, trying so hard _not_ to feel, I…I just want… Well, I don't know - isn't it supposedly normal to want to be loved?"

"So I've read," he said in all seriousness. "And I do know the feeling, try as I might not to."

"My mother…well, I'm not sure that woman ever loved anybody. I thought my father loved me, but who's to say, when he was so eager to give me to the Jedi? Maybe he thought I'd get a better life, and maybe not. Does it even matter any longer? I know you love me."

He stood there, with arms folded and ankles crossed, which seemed to be his standard pose when ill at ease: a cavalier façade that was so utterly transparent to her.

"Why can't you say it? I understand why you kept silent before - I didn't _want_ to hear it then - but why now?"

"Because it doesn't feel right."

"Why not? Because you're afraid that I don't love you; that I _won't_ love you?"

He responded with affirmative silence, head hung in shame at his own cowardice. _She's right: you are afraid. You have no fear of death, but you're deathly afraid of her._

"I do have feelings for you, you know," she forced the words out in spite of her own fear of admitting the fact. "I've read so much of you through our bond, and in doing so have come to see you as a… In any case, the idea of you sharing my emotions…no longer troubles me at this point."

"And you're sure of this?" he asked, meeting her eyes with a sadly sweet look in his own.

"As sure as I can be."

Taking a cleansing breath, he released it along with the barrier he had erected in his mind, and he could feel her there in his thoughts. It was that same wonderful, pure presence he had first felt when she saved him and forged their bond, only now it was no longer smothered by layers of Jedi control. She was hard, stern, and proud; intolerant of failure and hateful of evil; her wrath was reserved only for the wicked, her compassion for the good. Beside that all, there was also a gentle affection in her heart, like a cool breeze drifting in off the sea.

"How long have you felt this way?" he asked very softly when he had regained his composure.

"How long? I really can't say. Not until the past few days would I have wanted to accept or admit it. Now I'm free," she said happily. "Thanks to you."

"I only showed you that path: you're the one who walked it, and trust me when I say that I know how difficult that journey is." He laid his hands upon her upper arms then, the closest he had ever been able to come to embracing her.

"Just say it," she told him, savoring his gentle touch and the sweet sensation of intimacy brought on by their bond. _Who else could be so close? _"I won't think that you offered me power because of your feelings for me, because I already know that you didn't. If anything, it's more accurate to say that you love me because you offered me power."

The last sentence, though completely true, sounded peculiar enough when spoken aloud to loosen the tightness that gripped Revan's throat, and he quickly blurted out, "I love you." There followed a profound relief, and he repeated it, softer and more deliberately, "I love you."

"I know." She laid her hand on his cheek, the touch of her slender fingers a tingling caress.

If one were to take the novels he had read as any sort of guide, they ought to have kissed then, but neither of them could manage that step, and so they stood there frozen in a half-embrace. On a deeper level, though, they were so much closer, far closer than ordinary lovers could ever be. For a time, there was only them, separate and insulated from the war - their war - the outside reality being eclipsed by the internal world of their shared minds.

He didn't need to ask, though, if she loved him. There was affection there, most certainly, but neither of them could yet call it love, even though she wanted to love him. _Give it time._

"We must have a good bit of work to do today, mustn't we?" Bastila at last reluctantly pointed out.

"We do, indeed," he said as he took a step back. "No emergencies today, thankfully, but there's still a fair amount of hypercomm traffic that I've been reading since shortly after I woke."

"And you want me to look it over?"

"Two brains are better than one in these situations, and in spite of appearances, I'm hardly infallible."

"I'll see what I can do," she said with a slightly awkward smile. "Do you mind if I eat while I work?"

"I can't recall the last meal I ate when I wasn't working. The kitchen's in there."

"Thanks."

Revan sat at his desk, one of a long list of reports still floating in mid-air where he had left it when she rang the door, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. It was strange to have somebody here with him, sharing his work, sharing his great dream, and especially when that somebody was an incomparable lady. This sort of good fortune simply didn't smile upon him. He was accustomed to life as an burdensome labor punctuated by moments of triumph and satisfaction, but never happiness. Another man might have asked himself if this was a dream, but Revan's dreams were rarely pleasant, and certainly never like this, leaving little room for doubt.

"Revan," Bastila called from the kitchen, jolting him from his introspection, "how am I supposed to order breakfast?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your synthesizer doesn't speak Basic."

"Oh! Right!" he exclaimed as he sprang to his feet and hurried to the other room, where Bastila was standing before a display covered in characters that, to her, were thoroughly indecipherable. He punched up a few commands, and the words were instantly translated into familiar Basic.

"There you have it: the Language of the Enemy."

"Sorry," she said, knowing that he did genuinely despise Galactic Basic, and almost certainly hated having it in his "home." "I promise I'll make an effort of learning Derals. I'm not that bad with languages."

"Nor am I, though usually I cheat," he quipped.

"What do you mean?" she asked without looking away from the now-legible display. "Cheat?"

"I mean that I can effectively communicate with anybody, provided their thoughts aren't overly difficult to read."

"Oh, so you read their thoughts as they speak, then telepathically pass them the meaning of your words."

Though nearly all the dishes available on Revan's synthesizer were foreign to her, she selected one from the top of his breakfast menu. (She found it notable that he bothered to organize his food selections by time of day, as though running a restaurant.) "You're right: that is cheating. Pity I hadn't thought of it - I can think of more than a few times when it would have come in useful."

In little time, the two of them were sitting together at the desk, Revan having fetched a second chair from his little dining area, and were pouring over reports and plans while Bastila dug into a plate of sliced fruits and warm bread smeared with a wonderfully sweet jam. The Republic was holding steady on the Southern Front, its commanders uncertain of their next move, well aware that they were too weak to mount a counterattack. The 332nd Flotilla had successfully raided a Republic supply depot above Konnuffx, destroying an estimated 1.3 million tons of munitions; the 46th Army Group was close to routing the Republic forces on Vinsoth; while the invasion of Leritor was proceeding largely unopposed, with resistance coming largely from local irregulars, as had been anticipated. The 13th Army Group was having a rough go of it on Onderon, however, as the Republic's naval offensive in the Stenness Node, while failing to gain ground, had at least succeeded in maintaining a supply corridor to the embattled system. Revan began searching for some means by which to break the deadlock, but kept grousing about "horrible ground" and "no room." It wasn't his sort of battle, not by a long shot, he being the acknowledged master of maneuver, but typically quite stymied in set piece engagements. This was the sort of action he left to officers more adept at such a thing, but here even they seemed to be having difficulty with it.

"Have we no reinforcements to send?" she queried as she listened to him fume.

Revan was already scanning more files, his face creased with frustration, until he came upon what seemed a possibility. "The 110th and 127th Armies are presently resting on Chalacta, but they're both assigned to the invasion of Umbara, and that's been scheduled for the 22nd. Beyond that, there are no other units above division strength that aren't presently engaged. The campaign on Sneeve is wrapping up, however, so in another week or so, we ought to be able pull out one, maybe two corps from that sector."

Leaning forward with her elbows propped on the desk, Bastila shut her eyes and pondered the situation. "Why do we need Umbara?" she asked.

"The General Staff feels that leaving it in Republic hands could slow our advance later," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Intel believes the Republic has fighters based there deep in underground bunkers, and while they might be useless against our main fleets, there exists the concern that they could harass our supply lines. The consensus is that if we are to advance past Umbara into the Core, we must either take that planet or destroy the bunkers through orbital bombardment, the latter requiring significant firepower that the Navy is reluctant to devote to the task."

"Given the choice, I say we bomb it."

It was so obvious a conclusion, and the words came out so easily, that she did could immediately see the line that had been crossed. Revan actually seemed more surprised by her decision than she did, pushing back in his chair as he turned to look at her.

"There may well be civilian casualties," he pointed out.

"More than if we invade?" She gave it further thought, tried to push away images of blackened ground and piled rubble, of the dead and maimed and orphaned, focusing only on the numbers. _Think: how many were killed in the ground campaign for Serrenno? You followed that, didn't you? A million, wasn't it? Or maybe even one-point-two?_ Furthermore, if they invaded Umbara, Imperial soldiers - _her_ soldiers - would need to spend weeks flushing a determined enemy out of a well-fortified position, and how many of them would die? How many more would die on Onderon if the campaign there bogged down into a protracted stalemate: a slow, grinding battle of attrition rather than a rapid battle of maneuver? _Are their lives worth any less than the people on Umbara? Of course not! You have a duty to them._

"Cancel the invasion of Umbara and send those two armies to Onderon, where they'll give us an overwhelming superiority and end the fighting quickly," she said decisively.

Revan nodded with cold resolve.

"The Republic propagandists will make use of it, I'm sure, in spite of the fact that it's _their_ military that chooses to base itself in proximity to civilians, and the admirals will moan about diverting capital ships to bombard ground targets, but you're inescapably right. We simply cannot permit Onderon to turn into a quagmire - that was supposed to be a quick victory over local defense forces, not a drawn-out fight with the Republic Army. Those two armies will bring our strength there to sixteen million, which will be more than enough to crush the enemy."

"And Umbara?"

"We bomb it, destroy anything and everything of military value, and bypass it." He was already composing the orders, agile fingers flying over the holographic keys, the words plainly visible to Bastila as they formed. A knot of guilt formed in her stomach, not unlike indigestion, but she knew that, from a purely rational point of view, she had made the best choice available to her. She didn't like it, had to fight to keep from thinking of those who would die because of her suggestion, had to force her brain to think of other things, and sincerely hoped that she would never grow comfortable with this kind of decision. Still, she would do it again.

_It was so easy to see him as a villain, and yet here I am, no different from him. We don't make these decisions out of malice or cruelty, but because they're the best way out of a bad situation_._ What a nasty business I've gotten myself into. He did warn me, though,_ she thought of Revan as she watched him type. For the first time, she felt sorry for him, for having spent five years in this nasty business and never forgiving himself for a single misstep taken. And he, too, would do it all again, she knew, for the inescapable reason that it needed to be done.

Pushing back the cuff of his jacket, Revan discreetly spied the glowing blue numerals of his chrono: 1621:17. He sat at the transparisteel desk in his ready room, Bastila pacing nearby, now dressed in a black Deralín suit not dissimilar from his uniform, with her hair done up as it had been the night before. The two of them radiated a palpable nervous excitement, the buzzing energy of enthusiasm mingled with fear that came before a great battle, only today there was to be no mighty clash of fleets or armies. This day's action was to be waged on a far smaller scale, but nevertheless one of immense historical impact.

Sensing the approach of Céle and Wallen, Revan stood and moved around to the front of the desk, where Bastila stood at his side. She pressed the door control with the Force before the chime ever sounded, an act which, interestingly enough, surprised the general of the Imperial Guard more so than it did the SD officer. Wallen was further confounded by her presence there, standing as she was beside Revan and looking every centimeter his equal.

"My Lord," said both guests as they stood to attention and saluted. Céle, however, followed this by making eye contact with Bastila and adding, "Ma'am."

Though there was no outward sign of it, this in particular perturbed Wallen, from whom she could feel something alarmingly close to resentment. If there was one skill at which Bastila excelled, it was peering into the minds of others and influencing them, and in this situation she needed only achieve the first half. She did so subtly, taking care that he couldn't detect her as she slipped past his defenses, and what she found disturbed her. The man distrusted her, even disliked her; he would not forgive her for the death of his fellow Imperial Guards on the _Conqueror_, and was deeply suspicious of Revan's trust in her. He was still committed to the cause, however, and would not allow his personal feelings to jeopardize the conduct of the war as had Malak, but she still had ample cause to be wary of him.

"Captain, please report to my ready room," she heard Revan speak into his commlink, his voice coming through to her like a distant echo on the wind.

She pulled back from Wallen's mind, the man never having known that she was there, and waited patiently until Tanen entered shortly thereafter.

"Yes, sir?" asked the captain after the customary exchange of salutes. By now, the ready room was growing rather crowded, particularly for Revan's taste, but the ceremony wouldn't last long.

"I require you as a witness, Captain," Revan informed him.

"Very well, sir."

Turning to Bastila, Revan stood ramrod-straight with shoulders squared, a posture that she at once mirrored.

"Raise your right hand," he instructed her. "Repeat after me: 'In the presence of these witnesses, and bound by honor, I hereby swear this sacred oath…'"

"In the presence of these witnesses, and bound by honor, I hereby swear this sacred oath..."

"…that I shall render absolute loyalty to the Empire, fidelity to the principles on which it was founded, and service to its citizens…"

"…that I shall render absolute loyalty to the Empire, fidelity to the principles on which it was founded, and service to its citizens…"

There was a pause, ever so brief and yet ominously heavy, before Revan spoke the final line: "…unto death."

"…unto death." _Nothing short of that can dissuade me now: I know my purpose._

"Bastila Shan, as of this moment, you are an officer of the Imperial Navy, and you have my congratulations," he said as they bowed to one another. When they straightened up, they shared a secret, affectionate smile for a fleeting moment, and then Revan turned to Wallen and said quite plainly and without emotion: "General, see to the Company. There may yet be work for you and your people this day."

"Yes, sir," answered Wallen with a click of his heels before he took his leave.

"And to you, Captain, I should like very much to properly introduce Bastila Shan, formerly of the Jedi Order and a captain in the Republic Naval Reserve. During Malak's failed coup, it was she who saved my life," he said with obvious pride.

Tanen's eyes widened slightly at those words. "I have heard rumors of your 'miraculous survival,' sir, but so far no one had been able to explain to me precisely how it happened. You have the thanks of us all, Captain," he said, addressing the second sentence to Bastila. "Were it not for you, our cause would have suffered an irreplaceable loss."

"Thank you, Captain. And I don't believe I'm an RNR captain any longer: by now, I've almost certainly been listed as killed in action, although I mean to dispel that belief soon enough."

"Ah, yes," Tanen chuckled. "However, according to Regulation 98-1B: 'Any personnel formerly of the Navy of the Galactic Republic, who have been nominated by an officer of the Imperial Navy and who have taken the Oath of Allegiance, shall be admitted into the service of the Imperial Navy at a rank not less than that held in Republic service.' In short, you are now a fellow captain."

"And I believe we are now," Revan again consulted his chrono, "two minutes out, so if you will both excuse us, Captain Shan and I require quiet privacy for what is to come next."

"Yes, sir," said Tanen and Céle simultaneously.

"Oh, and Captain, when we drop from hyperspace, place us in geosynch above the Academy and sound action stations. Nothing leaves that planet alive." Though he deliberately said it almost as an afterthought, the words had a profound effect on Tanen, whose face brightened as though he had been waiting and hoping for this, which he undoubtedly had.

"Yes, sir!" he said with obvious pleasure before departing.

"Good luck," Céle wished them excitedly on her way out. "Sir, ma'am."

The vast majority of Imperial servicemen and -women despised the Sith, most regarding them as demented mystics useful only for killing Jedi, and there was the unspoken belief that, after the war was won, "something" would have to be done about "those people." The Sith, in their turn, had resented the power of the military, whom they viewed as inferiors and pawns who were unfortunately needed to crush the Republic, and were convinced that the day was fast approaching when Revan would let them seize "their rightful destiny." If they had only known their destiny, as he had fashioned it, they would not have so eagerly desired its coming.

"So I'm a captain now?" Bastila asked as she pulled up a chair beside Revan's.

"Flag Captain. I think that more appropriate for an officer attached to my personal staff."

They settled into the plush comfort of their seats, tried to quiet their thoughts, only to be interrupted by Tanen's drawn-out command of, "Stand…_to!_" over the intercom. This was followed momentarily by a deep, rhythmic drum roll that sounded not merely like a call to arms, but the calling of a cause, and hard was the heart that went unstirred by the sound.

Fear crept into her own heart then, thinking as she was of what was planned, and she could feel it in Revan as well. She knew that there were powerful, dangerous spirits on Korriban: the disembodied minds of long-dead Sith who had, in a mad quest for immortality, resorted to binding themselves to their own tombs, trading a brain of flesh for a prison of stone. Personally, she would rather die a thousand times over than spend eternity trapped in a cold tomb as thought without form, without freedom, utterly alone through the passage of ages until madness consumed her. Minds already twisted in life became truly deranged in endless living death, and anyone foolish enough to venture into those tombs was either destroyed or corrupted by the darkness within. Except for Revan. In his quest for the Star Forge, he had ventured into the Valley of the Dark Lords in search of a Rakatan artifact, and had survived with body and mind intact. If he had succeeded once, then he could do so again, and so could she.

A low shudder ran through the ship as she dropped into realspace, and Revan could at once feel the sickly taint of Korriban. It was difficult to say what disturbed and outraged him more: a world like Coruscant, polluted and despoiled by industry, or one twisted by the dark side. Either way, it was a criminal act on a sickeningly vast scale. It would not be sufficient to vaporize the Sith and their Academy if the taint remained, lingering, forever tied to that world. He remembered it vividly, the cold, clammy clawing at the fringes of his mind; the malevolent will to destroy his sense of self, of purpose, of morality; the darkness dredging up the old fears, the self-doubt... It had ultimately proven unable to defeat him, and he had emerged untainted and in possession of his prize, but nor had he been able to defeat it, however mightily he had striven to do so. He had focused all his righteous hatred on the singular task of annihilating the evil in that place and cleansing the poisoned planet, but even that had been insufficient. They were too many and too desperate to escape the oblivion that should have claimed them long ago. And so he had left them to rot, satisfied at the time that they would remain there and languish in an eternal torment that they wholly deserved. But, prisoners though they might be, they remained immensely dangerous, and so long as their spirits survived, the spirit of the Sith religion itself would endure. And so now he returned, only this time, he was not alone.

Together they reached out through the Force, stretching their senses down to the world below them, a cold, arid planet stripped of indigenous life. Everything that thrived there was warped and unnatural: monstrosities in every sense of the word, animals whose only joy came from slaughter. As for the people, the Sith themselves, their aims were at once grand in scope and staggeringly petty in substance; their sentiments harsh and hollow; nearly their every thought selfish and devious and cruel. They knew that Revan and Bastila had arrived, the more astute of them being unsettled by their twin presences, and an uncertain fear began to creep into their hearts. Revan paused on them only long enough to count them. _All have come,_ he thought, almost surprised at their willingness to obey.

They were of little concern at the moment, however. The imminent objective lay deeper, buried beneath mountains, a sickly presence simmering in the depths. They drew closer to it, fighting the natural instinct to pull back, as one would recoil from a noxious odor or a naked flame. Then that flame suddenly leapt up, growing and spreading until it was blazing all around them.

Wispy voices screeched at them from all sides, while an insidious power crept upon them, demanding their submission, their surrender. Icy fingers picked at their thoughts, sought to worm their way inside, violating, corrupting... It was horrifying, and Bastila wanted to flee, wished she had never attempted this, wished desperately to retreat somewhere safe, but where could she go? She had come too far, had passed the point from which there was no going back, no going back anywhere! Above the keening of the spirits rose the admonitions of the Jedi, the warnings about the dark side: warnings that she had chosen to ignore, following Revan out of…out of what? Now he had led her on this foolhardy quest to vanquish the spirits of Sith Lords who had cheated death itself. Now she would fall and be twisted into a monster, and there was no way out!

Glimpsing her fear, Revan tore at himself, cursing himself for having brought her into this…this madness! He should have known that she wasn't ready yet. _He_ wasn't ready! He hadn't been able to destroy them before, and he couldn't now! _Did you think they wouldn't remember you, wouldn't be ready in case you returned?_ _Idiot! Weakling! Failure!_ Above all, that last word rose up like a demon in his brain, blotting out all else. _Failure!_

But as Bastila retreated inward into a chasm of despair, she touched something else, something older and deeper than her doubts and fears, and far more powerful. _I don't want to go back, and never will. I shan't fall, either. So why am I afraid?_ Bastila asked herself. These were not her fears, but something artificial: flimsy fabrications meant to ensnare her, for fear was the only weapon these empty, tainted _things_ could wield against her with any chance of success. Centering herself, she focused on the endless power that dwelt within her, that went far beyond what any Sith could comprehend. To them, purity was a myth, a fallacy, a delusion, but for her it was a tangible, beautiful reality. They were the very incarnation of corruption and evil, everything she was fighting to purge from the galaxy, and they would not defeat her.

_And I haven't failed yet,_ Revan reminded himself, forcing back the scathing self-criticism, the obsession. _I'm a fool only if I stop thinking…weak only if I stop trying. _He shut out the voices, the screaming, the unthinking terror that surrounded him, and turned inward. Going deeper, past the superficial layer of irrational self-loathing, he found himself, his purpose, his power. He could see Deralí, her beautiful green vistas untouched by war and unspoiled by the greed of men, watched over by decent folk who loved her and all that she represented, and who were willing to kill and to die for her. He was one of those folk, one of a long line, and only he had the power to alter that fact. Turning back to the voices, this time he did not listen, he spoke. _You have no power over me. You could not defeat me then, and this time I have not come alone!_

They could feel each other with crystal clarity across their bond, nothing separating their minds as they shared a euphoric rush of power. They let it flow with all their righteous hatred, channeling it, willing the annihilation of vile creatures who should, by all rights, have long since passed into oblivion. They were altogether evil - horrid abominations without a single redeeming quality - and needed to be destroyed, obliterated, purged from existence. The screaming about them turned from cruel, malicious torments to cries of disbelief, agony, and stark terror as the spirits were rent apart like smoke in a gale. They fought back, clung desperately even to the living death that had for so long been their only existence, frantically seeking to hold together a fragile consciousness that had long ago descended into dementia. Then one of the voices rose to a shrieking crescendo before trailing off into the low howl of the current, to be followed by a second, third, fourth. The stronger amongst them held on, one still uttering spiteful, incoherent curses that they were nothing compared to the power of the dark side, until it, too, was inevitably torn asunder. One by one, they flared out and faded, none with the dignity to pass quietly, but resisting to the bitter end, and then… silence. The screams were gone, the taint that surrounded them like a cloud of smog had lifted, and the firestorm was extinguished.

_Gone…all gone…_


	7. A Simple Gesture

I recently discovered that this site has been turning all my dashes into hyphens, and since I can't figure out a way to get around that, I hereby apologize for my seemingly-bad punctuation.

* * *

7

A Simple Gesture

24 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

17.8.20375

Pulling back to the physical world, they opened their eyes and saw the wood-paneled walls of the ready room. They were breathing heavily and covered in cold sweat, lightheaded and nauseous from overexertion, but they were alive and - equally precious - _untainted_. They had won, had done the impossible, and had survived it. Taking hold of each other's hand, their eyes met with weary warmth as they drew comfort from their bond. Several minutes passed, the sickness and vertigo fading with each breath taken, and they stood and threw their arms about each other, and stayed lockefd in a warm, almost desperate embrace. Finally, only after the sense of danger had given way fully to triumph, did Bastila reactivate the room's comm system, which was flashing with a message from the bridge.

"Bridge, Flag Captain Shan here," she said, the words rolling off her tongue with surprising ease as she settled back into her chair.

"Captain," replied Tanen's voice, "we're being hailed from the surface."

"I would expect so. By Uthar Wynn?" asked Revan.

"Yes, sir."

"Put him through to this station in thirty seconds, and charge main batteries to one hundred percent."

"Yes, sir."

Producing a tissue from one of his desk drawers, Revan dabbed at the remaining sweat on his face, Bastila doing likewise, before the holocomm crackled into life, bringing forth the repugnant visage of a heavily-tattooed man with a shaven head. Frightened disbelief squirmed in his sickly golden eyes, and his grayish lips parted ever so slightly.

"Master Wynn," began Revan in a condescendingly level voice. "Already knowing what you are about to ask, I can tell you that the predictability of your question is exceeded only by the obviousness of the answer."

"What have you done?" the Sith demanded in a half-whisper, shaking with rage and fear.

"If you didn't already know what we've done, then why contact us?" asked Bastila. She sensed panic, hurried action, scores of people in motion. Their blindness finally shattered by reality, they now sought desperately to save themselves from the trap into which they had climbed.

"Perhaps what you truly mean to ask is _how,_ or even _why_."

Wynn's stare shifted from Revan to her and back again. "Who is she?"

"_I_," she answered for herself, "am Bastila-Érilin, co-ruler of this Empire."

It was narcissistic, she knew, and she was speaking of the future, but what did that matter now? It was a future assured by their actions this day.

"Co-ruler? You…you _share power?_"

"And why not? We're not Sith…and never were," said Revan scathingly. "I _used you _- all of you. After all, what better way to kill your enemies than to send them off to kill each other?"

"And the Valley…the spirits…they're gone, all of them. There's _nothing!_ No dark, no light, _nothing! What have you done?"_

"This does not appear to be a productive conversation," Revan addressed Bastila, completely ignoring Wynn.

"It doesn't seem so."

"Master Wynn," Revan deprecatingly drew out the name. "You may call yourself 'Darth Wynn' now if you like. You are the most senior of your Order, after all…the last Dark Lord of the Sith, for what little that distinction is worth."

"Your time has reached its end," Bastila coldly informed him.

"Captain," said Revan into his personal comm, completely ignoring the Sith for the moment, "weapons status?"

"Main batteries charged, sir."

"Set firing pattern P10, centered on the Sith Academy."

"P10. Please confirm, sir."

"P10, Captain. Korriban begins anew with a clean slate."

"Acknowledged. Firing pattern P10, centered on the Academy."

"And transfer firing control to this station."

"Yes, sir."

"You can't destroy us so easily!" Wynn growled in impotent rage, then rephrased his defiance. "Mark my words: one day, the Sith will rise again."

"Denial in the face of death," scoffed Revan. "All records of your teachings, your beliefs, your skills and techniques have been or will soon be eradicated, so from what source will your pestilential kind be reborn? Do not underestimate the power of a totalitarian regime to control and destroy knowledge."

A panel slid back on his desk, from which arose a holographic computer terminal.

"All that tripe you've been spouting to the masses…you meant it all along, you idiotic child! All that you believe… Your regime will fail, and your empire crumble into ruins, and it will be the darkness that takes hold in the end!"

"More empty threats," Bastila mocked him. "I've heard enough, haven't you?"

"Indeed." Without so much as a 'goodbye,' Revan cut the feed, and Wynn's face was banished from the ready room.

"There isn't anything he can do now, is there? I mean, do any of them know how to trap their consciousness in the planet?" she asked.

"Not a chance."

They shared a cheerful smile before turning to the holoterminal, which was sporting a replica of the bridge firing controls.

"The honor is your's," said Revan as he gestured to the console.

"Oh, no, you set this all up, you've been planning it for years, you've more than earned the right to finish it."

"And I thought this was your dream," he countered as he changed the projection from a targeting schematic to a live image of the planet.

"I've already killed enough Sith today to satisfy my dream…even if they were already half-dead."

"Then we press it together," he offered in compromise.

"Fair enough."

She lay her hand on his, their index fingers side-by-side just above the flashing firing button, waited, savoring the moment, then pressed it. She initially thought that it hadn't worked, that the ship had malfunctioned, but it was just her own perception of time stretching out. In reality, there was virtually no delay between their pressing of the firing button and the eight monstrous main guns firing. The lights in the room dimmed, and on the projection she saw eight simultaneous flashes of brilliant white light on Korriban's surface. Through the Force, she heard a cry of terror mingled with rage, and saw dark forms swallowed by the void of eternity.

A single shuttle had arisen from Korriban's surface some thirty seconds prior to the cataclysm, and was climbing away with engines straining to overcome gravity's pull. Revan could all but see it streaking skyward, trailing a cone of blue plasma, until a brilliant white light erupted from the ground thousands of meters below, and rose up with inexorable certainty to meet the fleeing craft. One instant, there were eight lives aboard, and then there was nothing, their signatures erased from the Force.

He felt a nigh-overwhelming sense of relief as the Sith were vaporized on the atomic level, a sensation of having weathered a storm and looking up to see the clouds break and reveal the light of day. It was over and done with, finished in an unalterably, irreversibly permanent resolution. Then followed a fleeting sense of triumph and elation, only to be eclipsed by an instinctive shame at the unprecedented devastation he saw unfolding on the projection. He had to remind himself that there was no natural life on that planet, that any and every species left there had been corrupted millennia ago. He watched clouds evaporate instantly in temperatures higher than those of any star; stupendous ground waves radiate outwards from each blast point at thousands of kilometers per hour, crumbling plains, hills, and mountains in their path; great fissures tear open in the crust, pouring forth a sea of magma; palls of dust and ash rising to blacken the sky. According to the simulations, it would take forty minutes for the ground waves to encircle the globe and devastate every square meter of its surface, leaving Korriban a molten orb.

Sensing his discomfort at the hellish spectacle, and not entirely at peace with it herself, Bastila switched off the projection.

"Thank you," he said quite sincerely. "It needed to be done, and could not have been done any differently, and yet still," he sighed heavily, "this is not a thing I mean to repeat."

She laid a supportive hand on his shoulder. "I know. You're a good man, Revan."

In his relatively brief career, he had been awarded medals from a hundred worlds and granted titles of nobility; he had been treated to grand parades, reviews, and parties (and always found an excuse to escape the latter as quickly as politeness permitted); he had been proclaimed the greatest hero in Deralín history, the most brilliant strategist of all time, and a visionary leader. All those accolades were welcome, but only insofar as a reassurance that he had the support of the citizenry, and they paled in comparison to Bastila's simple compliment. The opinions of trillions of faceless strangers could have no effect upon his sense of self-worth; he always did only what he thought was right, and what made her judgment matter was that _she knew that_. She was an equal, and she understood, and so her opinion actually counted. And she was proud of him.

"Thank you, Bastila." He looked into her sparkling eyes and smiled longingly back at her. "I needed to hear that."

Several minutes passed, after which Revan commed the bridge.

"Bridge here, sir," Tanen answered.

"Captain, maintain action stations until total destruction of the surface has been achieved, then stand down the crew and run a complete diagnostic of the ship."

"Yes, sir."

He switched off the link, then sat back, chewed his lip for a moment, turned to Bastila.

"I must speak with Wallen," he said softly, "and it would be best if I did so alone."

"He doesn't trust me."

"No, I do not believe he does. Like the rest of the Imperial Guard, he is not a Sith, but nor is he remotely akin to us: he is too close to the dark, too tempted by power. I should wish that at least a few of them would find the fortitude to resist the darkness, to hold true to themselves, but how can I hazard the undoing of all that for which we fight, in exchange for a slim hope? They are the only possible source from which the Sith could one day be reborn, and for that reason, their days must assuredly be numbered."

She felt a degree of sadness as she listened, sadness at the inevitability of it, the same as she did at the prospect of killing the Jedi.

"This war will claim them all," she said.

"That it will," he grimly concurred.

"I am reminded now, as I too often am, of a proverb of my folk: 'Honor is a luxury of peace.' In war, when all we hold dear is at stake, decent people cannot always afford to be decent."

Nodding in silent assent, she stood.

"I take my leave. I shall be in my quarters."

"And I shall see you soon," he said with a smile.

She bowed, he lowered his head, and before the door even shut behind her, he had his commlink in his ear and was summoning Wallen.

It did put a pit in his stomach, the thought of one day ordering the general to his death, but there was no avoiding it, no escaping it. The man had been a loyal follower, had been among the first to answer his call to fight the Mandalorians, and had served him well in countless engagements ever since. Somehow he was utterly, sickeningly certain that, when the time came to send him off to die, the response would be a crisp salute and a "Yes, sir!", and away he would venture on one final mission at the head of his men, perhaps even knowing that it was to be the end. He had abandoned the light, and lacked the fortitude to resist the darkness, and would one day be consumed by it, but that day would never come. Wallen would die while there was still good in him, and that tore at Revan.

Within minutes, the door opened and the general entered, marching to the center of the room, clicking his heels, and raising his hand in salute. Revan stood, returned the salute, commanded, "At ease."

"You summoned me, My Lord."

"I did," he sat back down.

"General, one phase of this war has drawn to a close this day. One enemy has been defeated in his entirety, but others still remain, and we can no longer rely upon the Sith to fight them for us. The time has come for the Imperial Guard to take up the fight, and to take the fight to the Jedi, wherever they may be found, just as we had always planned for."

"Yes, sir. Naturally, I was expecting this, and I've been consulting our latest intelligence reports on the whereabouts of all Jedi who can be accounted for."

Revan smiled, pleased with the general's initiative, his loyalty to his task.

"I understand that this will not be easy, killing those whom we once knew as friends and comrades. I have done it enough by my own hand to know the bitterness of the task, but it must be done irregardless of our personal feelings if this war is to be won."

"Yes, sir."

To his surprise, Revan could find no apprehension in Wallen's heart then, no real distaste at what must be done, and he had to make a conscious effort to conceal his disappointment. _I thought you stronger than that, General. I thought you better than that._

"You have updated your deployments?" he asked, carrying on as though unaffected.

"Yes, sir."

"I should very much like to see them."

"Naturally, My Lord. I shall transfer a copy to your terminal here as soon as possible."

"Before we depart the system, you and the 1st Company are to transfer to the _Neftali_ anddeploy to the front, to engage in offensive operations against the Jedi whenever and wherever possible. I leave you autonomy in the planning of these operations, and you personally are free to attach yourself to another unit as you may or may not deem necessary, but, as with the rest of the Guard, I expect a report from you prior to and following every operation."

"Yes, sir."

_Something troubles you, _Revan thought but did not speak. Wallen's suppressed agitation was nearly palpable. The man may have been controlled enough to keep his thoughts hidden from Malak and the other Sith, but compared to Revan, his mind was undisciplined. Exercising the uttermost caution, he peered into the general's thoughts, and found only further cause for dismay.

"What weighs upon your thoughts, General?" he inquired, wishing to hear it from the man's own mouth. _I certainly cannot imperil all that I treasure for the sake of a false hope…and it is undeniably false._

When Wallen hesitated to answer, he added, "Please do speak freely."

"Sir, it is about Captain Shan."

"What of her?"

He kept his eyes locked dead ahead, and spoke slowly and with evident trepidation, "I was of the impression that any Jedi choosing to defect would serve in the Guard. After all, that's what I did, and everyone else who has come over up to now. She is undeniably powerful, but I fail to see how that alters the arrangement."

"While she is a formidable opponent in combat, her true talents are far better suited to the strategic than the tactical, and it is in a strategic capacity that she will serve." He folded his hands on the desk, trapped Wallen in his gaze, watched the man as he almost imperceptibly fidgeted. "You disagree?"

"I… It's not my place to dispute your judgment, sir. Forgive me if I have spoken out of turn."

_You're jealous of her. You won't admit it, because you have yet to admit it to yourself, but you are. You wish her to serve in the Guard only so that she will be subordinate to you._

Leaning forward ever so slightly, he kept his expression perfectly serene, his voice even.

"Know that she has done an immense service already today, and will do so again in the future. Her integrity and her commitment are beyond question."

"Yes, sir," said Wallen, straightening up and re-squaring his shoulders. "If there is no further business, sir, may I depart?"

"You may, General, and I wish you victory."

He stood then, and both men saluted before Wallen turned sharply on his heel and marched out.

"Pity," he muttered after the door sealed shut.

In the evening, he and Bastila dispatched a bulletin informing the Empire of the final extermination of the Sith. It did not fail to mention her involvement, and went into as much detail as a layperson could be expected to fathom when explaining that the very _spirit_ of the Sith had been forever expunged from the galaxy.

When transmitting it, they found that there was something equally momentous about revealing her participation as there was in announcing the deed itself. They had debated somewhat over the wisdom of (indirectly) announcing to the Republic that she was alive and fighting for the Empire, but in the end the agreed-upon decision was that whereas they would know this as soon as she fought her first action, and whereas they had no effective countermeasure to her talent, it was strategically irrelevant. And so, with much nervous excitement, they transmitted the bulletin to their citizens, and anyone else who listened.

After this, they spent the better part of three hours conferring with the senior officers of 1st Group, including Grand Admiral Kechel, a prim woman with bobbed grey hair and remarkably-alert hazel eyes set in a well-lined face. In spite of her rank, she was pleasantly approachable in demeanor, possessing no pretensions of status. She was, naturally, pleasantly surprised by the news of what had just transpired at Korriban, being one of the many officers who fully intended to "do something about them" after the war. She was further surprised when introduced to Bastila, recognizing her name from yesterday's bulletin, though it nonetheless struck her as peculiar that a mere flag captain should be privy to such a discussion, whatever her other skills might be. In fact, for much of the conference, Bastila found herself with little to contribute, primarily asking questions until she felt the beginning of annoyance from the senior officers, and otherwise making her best effort of voicing such insights as came to her. At one point, however, as she was staring through a hologram depicting the unfolding stages of the coming offensive (codenamed Operation Impulse), she was struck by the sudden absolute certainty that, "We should hit them at Chommel."

Revan and the admirals all turned to her at once, though the impression he made in the Force was far different from their's: he was pleasantly surprised and, moreover, proud of her. Unfortunately, she now found herself in a position to explain a decision that had simply sprang to her through the Force with no rhyme or reason to back it up. It was one of those bits of unconscious clarity like when she had decided to go on the mission to capture Revan, albeit without the same weight of monumental significance. Nevertheless, it felt important to her, as though an attack at Chommel would have an impact on the course of the battle. _But why? Think, dammit, think! Make up something!_

"When we break them at Cadavine, they will panic, and they will run. If we can block their escape route, we'll force either their complete surrender or else crush them."

"Yes, but it's far more likely that they'll retreat up the Corellian Run, which is why 2nd Task Force will move out from Leritor to block them," Kechel replied.

An idea came to Bastila then.

"Precisely: it's _all too _obvious that they'll retreat up the Corellian Run, and they're not stupid, you know. I may not have been privy to much of their grand strategy, but I did manage to speak with a number of Republic staff officers, including admirals, and I can read people. They'll go a different way, most probably toward Chommel, then back toward Seswenna or thereabouts."

Kechel and her admirals seemed to muse on the argument, and clearly saw some merit in it, for Morrett spoke up quickly.

"Furthermore, if the main body can get around them as far as Chommel, it's going to draw off some of the forces in my front. Even if they do change their mind then and make for the Corellian Run, they'll be too weakened to hold that sector: I'll push them out and cut them off, and any attempt they might make to retake Druckenwell will almost certainly be too disorganized to succeed. Either way they turn, we'll bag the lot of them."

There remained a reasonable doubt that, even with _Deralí_ in the van, the 22nd Task Force could actually penetrate far enough to circle around to Chommel in time to block a retreat in that direction. Privately, Bastila hoped that her battle meditation would enable them to completely shatter the Republic flank, and slash through to their rear in short order, but she was reluctant to make any such promises. She'd never used her talent on so vast a scale, and had no idea if she could manage it. _Then again, you did just annihilate the spirits of the Ancient Sith - don't underestimate yourself,_ she reminded herself with a little smirk. In the end, it was decided that, should the initial breakthrough exceed expectations, an attempt would be made to completely encircle the Republic's 1st Armada; otherwise, the plan would proceed as originally envisaged, with the 22nd and 23rd rolling up the enemy from Cadavine to Druckenwell.

Afterwards, while working off the stiffness that the chair had put in his back, Revan complimented her, "Good show. It took me much longer to get the knack for explaining to others decisions that I don't fully understand myself. Or do you actually know that the 1st Armada is going to pull back toward Seswenna?"

"Not a clue," she laughed. "It makes sense enough, in light of what we need to do. If we need to reach Chommel, then the Republic is going to be there for some reason, and I couldn't think of anything better at the moment. Strange, though, isn't it: working backwards like that?"

"Very strange, and damnably scary the first few times you find yourself doing it. A commander is _supposed_ to base his decisions on his knowledge of the situation, or at the very least his best educated guess, but here we are making a decision on a hunch and then sorting out what's going to happen that might justify our chosen course of action." He rolled his head around, loosening his tensed neck muscles. "It's no way to fight a war, and yet we're winning precisely because of it."

They dined late that night, the time being 2003 when they sat down at the small table in Revan's kitchen. After the historic events of the day, their conversation was a light one, centering largely around assorted questions that had been forming in Bastila's mind, such as: "Are all Deralinv vegetarians, or is it a choice of your's?"

"At one time, we all were, though that fell out during the depths of the present Age, around six centuries ago. Since the rise of the nationalist movement, however, more of us have been returning to the old ways, and I happen to be one of them."

"As if I didn't already know that."

"I suppose I do make it obvious enough, don't I?" he chuckled as he scooped up a spoonful of beans.

"So what other cultural nuances are there that you haven't been telling me about? I've noticed that you bow, so I assume that's the standard greeting."

"Yes and no. You bow in a formal setting, or to a superior, be you indoors or out. To do it right," he set down his utensils and rose from his chair, "you stand at attention, and bend at the waist, keeping your neck straight and your eyes locked dead ahead, so that your gaze ends up pointed at the other person's toes. If you're wearing a hat (which you're free to wear indoors as you like), you first doff the hat with your right hand, then bow as normal. In a more informal setting, you may simply hold your right hand aloft, or, if wearing a hat, hold the hat aloft with your right hand."

"That's quite a mouthful."

"It is that. Oh, and you don't bow to foreigners, though, you clasp both hands instead."

"Why's that? You don't respect off-worlders?"

"We don't trust them," he answered with his mouth half-full. "You won't find this written in any textbook, but I think I have it all figured out. You see, the handshake originated as a way of showing someone that you're unarmed, but all true Deralinv are always armed, or at least whenever we leave our homes, so for us that would be a pretty hollow gesture."

Bastila laughed softly and shook her head in feigned reproach.

"By bowing, you're taking your eyes off the other person, which is a sign of trust, but we're not inclined to trust foreigners, so we clasp hands."

"What else should I know before I inadvertently offend one of your folk?" she asked jovially while he was making himself comfortable again in his seat.

"Well, let's see…avoid standing closer than one meter from someone who's not close family. Avoid prolonged eye contact, because that can be read as confrontational. You should make eye contact when you start talking to somebody, but don't keep at it, or they might take it as a challenge. What else? Well, if you cough or sneeze, you're supposed to say 'I beg your pardon.'"

"After I cough or sneeze?" she asked quizzically.

"An apology for spreading germs - I don't understand why it's not a more commonplace custom. In any case, that raises the matter of asking forgiveness. Never say 'pardon me,' as that would be construed as a demand to forgive oneself, which never helps one's case; instead, say 'I beg your pardon,' or 'beg your pardon,' or just 'sorry.'"

"Ah, and is there a guidebook to all this, perchance?"

"Naturally_._ We seem to have started codifying and recording these rules of etiquette way back around the same time we created the Militia: I reckon it's only sensible to be polite when most everyone carries a gun. In fact, I suppose the two go hand-in-hand."

And so the evening wore on, the two of them going so far as to exchange personal anecdotes, or at least the ones that weren't grim or depressing or violent, which didn't make for a very lengthy conversation. Then a report came in from the General Staff, which proved to be of little importance and led to equally little work, but was sufficient to spoil the mood; once they had sent off their reply, they both had the feeling that it was time to part ways for the night. After Bastila had tugged on her boots, they stood at the door for an awkward moment or two, the declarations they had exchanged that morning hanging over them.

"Well," said Revan wistfully, "good-night. Sleep well."

"And you, Revan."

They stood there a moment longer, Revan's blood pounding in his ears. He was sure that he was probably blushing, for he was thinking of kissing her, though he couldn't seem to actually manage it. _She loves you, you witless fool,_ he told himself. _She said so, and you know she meant it, so stop dithering and kiss her!_

"Bastila, I…" He didn't know why he had said that, and had even less idea of how he was supposed to finish it, and was only spared from making a complete fool of himself by Bastila.

As they were standing there, she couldn't help thinking how dear he looked just then, this being the only venue in which the man could be called innocent. She was fairly certain she was sweating, or else about to catch fire (she really wasn't sure which), and there was a tightness in her chest telling her: _Go, just go. You're not going to work up the courage to do it, so just go._ Of course, the tightness in her chest didn't really say that, and it was actually her own inner monologue's roundabout way of prodding her into action, for she then resolutely told herself: _No courage? Hmmpf! We'll see!_

Precisely as Revan was starting to speak, she leaned in and kissed him. It worked out to be merely a soft peck on the cheek, a simple gesture of affection, but nonetheless felt like a prodigious achievement.

"Good-night," she said softly afterwards.

"Good-night."

And so she left, and once outside, found herself frozen, wide-eyed for a moment or two, and scarcely able to believe what she had done. Her look of astonishment quickly melted into one of amusement as she set off down the corridor with a spring in her step. _I really did kiss him, didn't I?_ she was compelled to ask, for it was little more than a month ago that she couldn't have conceived of such a thing. _I do feel something for him. I don't know if it's love - how could I? I have no…frame of reference._ She had done so much today that was supposed to be wrong, forbidden, or blatantly impossible that it could have all been a bizarre fantasy had it not been so utterly real. This was her life now, she had to remind herself, and in no way did she regret it.

On returning to her quarters, she spent roughly ten minutes in front of the mirror as she practiced bowing and saluting, then sat down at her computer terminal and called up an educational program on the language of Deralsbanif. The first lesson covered the alphabet, which was conveniently organized with the consonants grouped and listed phonologically and all the vowels together at the end. The letters were mostly composed of smooth curves with few straight lines but lots of sharp ends, and she practiced writing them all several times, though she was more eager to learn to speak the language than write it. After a while, she grew impatient, and skipped ahead to try a few phrases. Naturally, the program started off with lots of things useful to ordinary people, like names of foods and words for everyday items, such as _Mai tsédín dauthér danets íl. _(I'm looking for a green coat.) One phrase in particular jumped out at her, however, and that was _Thíle íl dur _- I love you. She repeated it several times until the program assured her that she had the pronunciation correct, and by then she was feeling her eyelids growing heavy. It wasn't very late, but the battle of minds with the ancient Sith had worn on her greatly. _And would have destroyed anyone else_, she reminded herself with pride.

She washed up, changed into her nightclothes, and climbed into bed with a deep yawn. This had truly been a day to remember, the greatest of her life, now that she thought on it, but it had all been a bit much. She had come so far so swiftly, and now it was time to rest.

"Lights: out," she ordered somewhat indistinctly, stifling another yawn. After a pause to fluff her pillow, she lay down and shut her eyes, and let sleep overtake her.

She hadn't been asleep long when she was roused by a sharp jolt, sat bolt upright in the darkness, and commanded the lights back on. There was no sense of danger, however, and nothing in her room out of place, and her breathing slowed as her mind got underway. _It's only the bloody ship. We just made the jump to hyperspace, that's all._ She ordered the lights out and laid back, lamenting that, _I'll never get back to sleep now_, only to do so instantaneously.

After she left, Revan felt like he could have danced had he possessed any inkling of how to dance. This day was, far and away, the happiest yet of his life, for not only had he vanquished the Sith, not only had he done the impossible by exterminating their very _spirits_, he had done so at the side of the woman he loved.

There being no more business to deal with, he found himself with an unusual amount of spare time, the time still being only 2137. He ought to sleep, he knew, having racked up a colossal "sleep debt" over the last five years, but he was still too excited. Consequently, he threw himself into exhausting calisthenics that started with a comprehensive program of stretches and ended with him sprawled face-down on the floor, unable to do one press-up more. Every muscle in his body now thoroughly exhausted, he took a cold shower before collapsing onto his bed with his glasses and a good book.

He had been reading for half an hour, and was reaching the point at which he had to fight to keep his eyes open, when the intercom chimed.

"Revan here," he answered it.

"Bridge here, sir, Captain-Lieutenant Aimirdel speaking," came the voice of the ship's XO. "The engineering staff reports the ship go for jump."

"What of weapons and shields?"

There was the slightest hesitation before he answered. "They haven't finished yet, sir. The latest estimate is another seven to eight hours, and that's assuming that no issues are discovered."

Revan stuck a scrap of flimsi between the pages of his book and set it on the nightstand, along with his glasses, and laid back on his pillow.

"The ship is green across the board as of now, is she not?"

"Aye, sir. It's merely a precaution."

"Yes, and a well-warranted precaution at that." He shut his eyes, focused, probing for any possible incursion along their route, and could see no danger. "Set course for the Roon system and proceed with the jump when ready."

"Aye, sir. Setting course for Roon system and jumping ASAP."

"Revan out."

He picked up the book again, not bothering to try to sleep until after the ship was in hyperspace, and wishing to finish the page on which he had stopped. He had just finished it when the "prepare for jump" warning sounded, and quickly folded his glasses and tucked them into their padded case. Moments later, he felt a low thrum rise up through the mattress.

"Jumping in five…" The vibration grew stronger, the ship shuddering as the hyperdrive spooled up. "…four…three…two…"

It was just as bad lying down as it had been standing up, his head nearly striking the wall as the ship reluctantly lurched through dimensions. _What a way to travel._

"Lights: out," he yawned, and the computer obligingly blacked out his quarters.

It was a relief to leave Korriban behind him, even though that world was now cleansed of its ancient taint. He had always had an aversion to graveyards, not because the thought of death disturbed him, but because he always thought they were a terrible waste of land. The land was supposed to nourish life, not serve as a monument to the dead.

Turning onto his side, he drew the covers up over his shoulder, shifted about slightly as the mattress and pillow conformed to his shape, and shut his eyes against the black. As his mind began to wander in the delirious state between wakefulness and sleep, he could almost see Bastila lying peacefully beside him, already fast asleep. He could almost feel her warmth, her soft embrace, and his eyes snapped open, but all he saw was darkness. Her presence didn't fade, however, and then he understood that he was feeling her through their bond. Comforted by the thought, the intimacy, he shut his eyes again, let out a contented sigh, and promptly nodded off to dream of the highlands of Calshomarc…the wooded slopes, the mountain lakes, the rolling green hills overlooking the sea…

He woke at 0636, the lights in the room now already on at a low level, simulating the glow of early morning. He would much rather have been home, in the newly-built house in which he had never spent a night, waking to a real sunrise, breathing fresh air scented with wildflowers and conifers. The dreams were becoming a source of depression, the longing for home gnawing at him in the night. Turning over, he shut his eyes and tried to picture it, but his waking mind could see only charts and numbers, orders of battle and logistics data. There was work to do this day, as there was every day. _Get up, dammit. Three…two…one…Go! _He threw back the covers and rolled out of bed. At least now the end was in sight: he had vanquished one foe, and the remaining two were on their last legs. And, more importantly, he was no longer alone.

Even now, she was with him, their bond having grown perceptibly stronger in recent days. Until he met her, he would never have wished to share something so intimate with another person, would have been positively horrified by it, would even have killed to rid himself of such a bond. But to be with her… To be with Bastila was an honor and a pleasure, and he was infinitely thankful that she had forged this link. After all, would either of them have trusted - let alone loved - the other without it?

He dressed and made himself presentable, then went to check the morning's reports and messages, which had only just arrived according to the time stamps. (The signal had had to be sent first to Korriban, and there relayed by satellite onward to the _Deralí._) Much to his relief, he found that the volume of hypercomm traffic was lower than normal, though there were several messages pertaining to the change in plans for Onderon and Umbara. There being nothing marked urgent, he opened those first. _Relieved agreement from the Army, and complaints from the Navy, both predictable._

Bastila woke slightly later than him, got up, dressed, fixed her hair, and headed out, eager to see Revan, who she could tell was already up and about. _I'm being silly, rushing off to him like a schoolgirl,_ she scolded herself. Of course, she had never been a schoolgirl and had never had any teenage crushes. She had been taught that emotion and attachment were dangerous, and so she fought them at every turn. She didn't doubt that emotion and attachment could be perils if left unchecked by reason and conscience, but to deny them utterly was to deny one's own nature. There was strength to be found there, she had learned.

She had not gotten far from her door when she ran across Troop Leader Diric, who was marching smartly toward her carrying a dark grey garment bag.

"Captain Shan, good-morning, ma'am," said the younger woman as she stood to attention and brought her hand up in salute.

"Good-morning, Troop Leader," Bastila answered while returning the salute, thankful for having practiced it the night before. _That's something else to get used to. I've never had to salute before._

"For you, ma'am: your uniform."

"Ah, yes, of course. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, ma'am. Would you like me to deliver this to your quarters?"

"No, that won't be necessary. I'm on my way to confer with Revan right now - I'll bring it along with me." She winced inwardly when she realized the implication that she would be changing clothes in his quarters.

"Very well, ma'am," Céle said as she handed over the bag, giving no sign of having reached the same conclusion.

She undoubtedly had, of course, being a clever woman, but was far too professional to let it show. In any event, she already seemed aware that Revan held some affection for Bastila, so it probably didn't come as too great a shock. Still, Bastila felt a flash of embarrassment and wanted to blurt out that she wasn't sleeping with Revan, but naturally thought better of it.

_Sleeping with Revan._ She felt herself begin to blush at that lascivious thought. _Not that it would be inappropriate: we're probably already closer than most married couples, and certainly better suited to each other._ A sudden memory of crying in her bedroom with the door shut while her parents waged a blazing row outside instantly killed the unwelcome flow of blood to her cheeks.

"Troop Leader…"

"Call me Céle - Revan does."

"Very well, Céle. There was something you said to me two days ago when we came aboard this ship, about my not being able to go back."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that."

"No, I wanted to tell you not to worry about it."

"Well, I suppose after yesterday, I should have figured that you weren't planning on going anywhere. I never did congratulate you on your commission, either. No manners, remember."

"Thank you, all the same. I really should be going, though."

"Of course. I have paperwork to deal with, anyway."

"Me, too. Carry on."

The two women bowed to each other (Bastila was fairly certain she had gotten it right) and then parted ways. It was a thirty-second walk to Revan's door, which this time opened for her. Revan was, predictably enough, seated at his desk, already hard at work.

"_Lé calach,"_ she greeted him, to his pleasant surprise.

"_Lé calach. Dun ger atsa?"_

The door shut behind her as she tried in vain to translate the second sentence.

"Sorry, I didn't get very far in the tutorial last night," she admitted.

"No need to apologize. Too many Deralinv still can't speak their own language," he said with some bitterness. "And I asked only how you slept."

"Quite well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Likewise. What have you there?"

"My new uniform, courtesy of Céle. Is there some place I can change?"

"Oh, er…yes…the bedroom is through there," he half-stammered, temporarily flustered by the thought of her changing clothes in his room.

"Thanks," she replied casually before leaving, though she cast a slightly worried glance over her shoulder on her way out.

He had not expected her to kiss him last night, had not expected things to move so swiftly, but, to be honest with himself, any pace would have been too swift for his comfort. It was so much easier to be the revolutionary so dedicated to his cause that he had no personal life, and the thought of having a real life with the woman he loved was disorienting. For the time being, there would be little time for each other - short nights and stolen moments of privacy during the day, amidst the grueling work of managing the war - but the war would not drag on forever, especially not now. Operation Impulse would break the back of the Republic Navy, would be the point of no return after which the Republic would have no further hope of survival. _It could all be over before the year is out,_ he told himself. _I mean for this to be the _last_ year…the last year of the Second Age._

And so why should he not follow his feelings through to their conclusion, as Bastila seemed to wish? There was a great resolve in her, along with great passion, and it was a resolve to _make this work _between them. She wanted something more than either of them had been allotted in life, something more than duty, and, he had to confess, so did he. Did they not deserve happiness?

While undressing in Revan's plain-yet-plush bedroom, Bastila's thoughts inevitably turned to Revan. On his nightstand was a sheet of flimsi covered in handwriting that looked to be a poem, with each line having been repeatedly erased and re-written. She recognized some of the letters, but was still a long way from being able to read it.

She subsequently found her attention drawn to the bed, which was large enough for two, and wondered if he simply enjoyed having extra space, or if it was a sad piece of wishful thinking on the part of a man who had resigned himself to a life alone. _It doesn't have to be that way, for either of us,_ she told herself with a smile. Before slipping into her uniform, she sat down on the pliant mattress and savored the touch of the satin sheets under her thighs. Sensing Revan still at his desk, and in any event quite certain that he would never walk in on her, she lay back and rested her head on the pillow, and tried to picture him beside her on the bed. She wasn't particularly knowledgeable about such things, her limited understanding of…intimate matters…being derived from a few love scenes in novels she had read and her own experience of pleasuring herself. Even so, she was surprised to experience no embarrassment or trepidation at the thought of making love to Revan. For one, he was no more experienced than herself, of that she was certain, but more importantly, it felt right. _Perhaps I do love him. Who am I to say that I don't?_

She got up, smoothed the duvet, fluffed the pillow, thinking, _It's ironic, really, that I should be the one moving this forward_. Shaking herself from her daydreaming, she reminded herself that there was work to be done, and proceeded to dress in her crisp new officer's uniform. She took the time to regard her reflection only so as to check that everything was neatly in place, from the crease in her sleeves to the silver aiguillette hanging from her shoulder. She wondered if she ought to acquire a sidearm as well, though she was untrained in marksmanship, decided to leave that for another day, and hurried back down the corridor, driven by the guilt of having wasted precious time.

"So, then, what news from the General Staff?" she asked eagerly on her return to the study.

"Nothing much," Revan said idly as he sat at his terminal, a seemingly-chaotic array of text projected in front of him. "Status reports from theater commanders, production tallies, logistics figures… Our reinforcements should begin reaching Onderon in three more days, four at the most, with the full contingent on the ground within a fortnight."

"That's wonderful. I was wondering about that one, you know," she said as she sat down beside him.

"I know." He tapped at the projections, sliding one communiqué aside to make room for another, closing some, opening others.

"The Republic is doing nothing new, no buildups anywhere that I can see, striving largely to hold what it has. Those people know they haven't the strength to start a major fight right now, only to hold, to delay, to harass."

"If they are that weak, then we'll break them," she said with a touch of anticipation. It wasn't bloodlust by any stretch of the imagination, but anticipation of moving closer to ultimate victory. Like him, she wanted to see this war won, nothing more.

"The attack on Blenjeel will step off on schedule at 0510 tomorrow, and there is little in its way. The Republic has only two flotillas there, and those will be brushed aside with a minimum of difficulty. I sense far too much fear and uncertainty on their part for them to commit their reserves to propping up the front there, not when they're convinced that we could mount a major offensive at any time."

"And they're right, of course."

"Yes, they're right about _what_, but horribly mistaken about _where_." He shook his head and smiled thinly. "Horribly mistaken..."

The remainder of the morning and early afternoon was passed with breakfast and a review of the overall war situation, searching for potential opportunities. Revan was concerned about Saaryu's position, but highly doubted the Republic's capacity to mount another offensive this soon. In the wake of Operation Impulse, they would be stretched too thin to mount a major offensive ever again. _If we succeed,_ whispered the persistent voice of Doubt in his head.

After a subsequent hour of meditation that passed as five minutes, Bastila finally voiced a sentiment that had been fermenting in her mind for some time now:

"Revan, would you have killed me…onboard _Conqueror_, I mean, when I fought you?"

He had not yet opened his eyes, still sat in his chair with his hands resting palms-up on his thighs, and he didn't open them when he answered.

"Yes," he barely whispered. "I would have done that."

"I don't hold it against you," she replied, trying her best to be comforting. "I understand now why you would rather have died than be taken prisoner, I really do. At the time, I fully intended to either take you prisoner or kill you trying, so I can't fault you for trying to kill me…or Gillad and Oliij."

It was the first time she had spoken their names since that day, and the first time she had made mention of their deaths. She felt a little pang of mourning, but more so for Ildra, and it had been Malak who killed her.

"Were you close to them?" he asked, eyes open now but his voice still scarcely above a whisper.

"Not particularly, but they were good comrades, good Jedi." She managed a little snort. "Good Jedi. That doesn't mean so much to me anymore, now does it? My master, though…Ildra… I do miss her, I must confess." Her voice hitched in her throat; and she felt the formation of tears in her eyes, and struggled to stifle the impulse. "She was a good mentor and a dear friend. If she could still speak to me, I know she would tell me not to mourn her passing, and if she were still alive, then she would now be my enemy, but I do miss her."

"She must have been a kind woman."

"Kinder than my mother…but she never loved me." Perhaps that was even more difficult than admitting her loss. "She was a Jedi, and she shunned emotion, and she shunned attachment, so she couldn't love me. She couldn't let herself."

She pursed her lips and looked at one of the landscapes on the wall, her eyes randomly focusing on a rock jutting up out of the surf on a beach. She shook her head.

Revan was standing over her now, his hand on her shoulder, looking down at her with sad eyes and that endearing, soulful expression of love. She met his gaze, reminded herself of what she had now, what she had taken for herself, and forced a smile.

"Will you do me the honor of fighting me?" she asked politely.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We never did see how our fight would have played out."

He laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. He knew she was just trying to change the topic, to displace sorrow with action, but it would be as good an opportunity as any to teach her a few of his secrets, and those might very well one day save her life.

"I would have won," he answered, tactfully omitting the words "killed you."

"Yes, so perhaps you would have won," she said with a roll of her eyes, which were beginning to take on a faint glow. "What about now?"

"Now is another matter entirely."

The _Deralí_ was equipped with no less than eighteen rec rooms for the benefit of the crew, who were otherwise confined to a highly claustrophobic vessel that offered little opportunity for exercise. Consequently, each gym was well-stocked with treadmills, weight machines of every description, and, naturally for a warship, a large sparring ring. When Bastila and Revan arrived, the latter was in use by a squad of Imperial Marines delivering full-force blows and mercilessly flinging each other to the mat, sufficiently insulated by their armor as to be largely unscathed by the ordeal.

"Train like you fight," Revan muttered to himself with an approving smirk. Then, to Bastila he said slightly louder, so as to be heard over the shouts and grunts of the marines, "I'd appreciate it if you don't do any of that to me."

"Don't worry," she replied just as a gauntlet made contact with the side of a helmet, "I'm not wearing armor, either."

Revan had no intention of interrupting the training match, but that was done for him when an attentive sailor saw him and belted out, "Attention on deck!" with a voice out of all proportion to her size. All at once, every treadmill came to a screeching halt, punches were pulled in mid-swing, helmets were whipped off and tucked neatly in the crook of their owners' arm, and boots came together with a sharp clack from every corner of the room.

"As you were," he said after returning the salute. He started unfastening the silver buttons of his jacket as he addressed the squad: "Feel free to finish."

"If you want the ring, sir, it's all your's. We would have gone on another half hour," replied their petty-officer, a man who would undoubtedly have looked massive even without a suit of plate armor. Turning to his squad, he signaled them with a swipe of his hand. "Clear off, you lot."

"Thank you, Petty Officer. We shan't take up too much time."

"Yes, sir."

The marine snapped off another salute for good measure before making way.

Their jackets hung on a nearby rack, Bastila and Revan now stepped into the center of the ring, each carrying a training lightsaber requisitioned from the Imperial Guard arms locker. Hers was, naturally, double-bladed, while he wore a second clipped to his belt. Picking up where they had left off more than a month ago, they stood facing each other some four meters apart with weapons drawn.

She really didn't expect him to attack when he did, though in retrospect she knew that she ought have. There was no raising of blades in salute, no formal declaration that the match had begun, just what looked like an explosive rush of black and green illuminated by the white beam of a training saber. The attack was utterly without grace or finesse, Revan having launched himself forward in one horizontal leap like a human projectile. Her own moves were pure instinct, her feet spreading out into a proper fighting stance, her saber coming up and around in a move that should have brushed aside his blade and then caught his neck or torso on the follow-through. Should have. The problem was that, just as he had done on _Conqueror_, Revan didn't behave in a way that the human brain expected a flying projectile to behave. He didn't carry on a straight path, or slow, or turn: he _shifted_ upwards, and she was moving too slowly to properly compensate. In that moment, time seemed to slow, visibly stretch out, and she could see him with crystal clarity: she wasn't sensing the impending danger, wasn't just acting on intuition, but could actually _see_ him with her own eyes, her senses sharpened a thousand fold. She could hear the rustling fabric of his clothes, could even hear the heartbeats of the awestruck marines watching, and watched him sail over her with a centimeter to spare. Then she felt the electric sting of the training saber on her back, and time sprang back into full tempo.

Whirling about, she saw him already standing firmly on two feet, facing her with his blade held defensively out in front.

"You're too bloody fast," she said good-naturedly.

"That's beside the point. What really counted was that I struck when you were unprepared. You were still getting ready for the fight when it started."

"Bad Jedi habit, I know. Fighting fair and all that." She said it as something of a joke, not knowing how close to the mark she was.

"Never fight fair: fight to win. If your opponent isn't ready, if his back is turned, if he's distracted, if he has no idea that you're there, then, by all means, attack, attack, _attack_."

"Surprise him, in fewer words."

"The best time to kill someone is when he doesn't expect it."

And the very instant he finished that sentence - perhaps even before he had finished it - he flung himself at her again, and this time she was at least somewhat more prepared. She already had the proper stance, and he came into focus much sooner than before, his entire seemingly-impossible flight observed with her own eyes. Again she tried to deflect the attack, but she seemed to be moving as if neck-deep in water, her limbs terribly sluggish in comparison to Revan's effortless speed. She didn't try to block his strike this time, and instead aimed straight at his body, or rather at the spot where she judged he was going to be by the time she managed to move her wrists and forearms. It was a closer-run thing this time, as she actually would have hit him this time had he not parried her thrust. She had expected this, and brought her second blade around to swipe at him as he passed her, but he was too fast, and struck her on the back of her neck.

"Better," he said on landing, "but still too slow."

"That's as fast as I can move," she replied, though even she thought it had been a stupid thing to say. That was an excuse, not a fact.

"That's as fast as you _could_ move. You have access to far more power now than you ever did before."

"So use it," she told herself aloud.

This time, she struck first, though within two seconds, she had learned that it didn't make a difference.

Ten minutes were whiled away in one-second fights, all of which ended in victory for Revan, interspersed with brief rests in which he tried to her encouragement. From their audience of Imperial Marines, however, she could feel amusement coupled with respect for her persistence. She must have lost thirty matches in those ten minutes, and was already growing terribly sore from the numerous shocks of Revan's training saber. She was channeling the Force through every muscle and tendon and ligament she possessed in an effort to go faster, but no matter how hard she focused, it was never quite enough. Sometimes he would come in more methodically, never leaving the floor at all, and often it would be she who attacked, but always he was one move ahead, always too swift for her to overcome.

Now thoroughly determined to at least land a hit on him, she attacked with redoubled intensity, and for the first time Revan drew his second blade, and again he easily parried her attack while striking back with greater effect than she could manage. His blade caught her already-stinging neck, and she bit her lip to keep silent.

"How do you do it?" she demanded during the lull in the action.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "There's no method or trick to it, I just… do it. And compared to what you did at Korriban, this is nothing."

She thought he said that last sentence a little louder, perhaps so that their audience would be sure to hear it clearly. _He wants them to respect me, would probably love to see the entire galaxy to bow down to me, but I can't even hit him once._

Without warning, as always, he came racing in, covering the space between them in two long strides, his left blade slashing down and brushing aside her own weapon. Now his right was coming forward, aiming for her heart, and she could see it all in perfect clarity, and tensed for the coming shock, which she knew would hurt, as she had been hit in the chest several times before. She knew he didn't want to hurt her, but it was a question of muscle memory, and he had practiced so many times striking the critical points of the body that it was automatic, and she couldn't fault him. She took the hit, bit her lip hard this time, almost drawing blood, and cursed herself for not being able to do something which she knew perfectly well she ought to be capable of.

"These things hurt, you know," she said softly enough that only he could hear it, and a look of pained regret darkened his face. The man was so terribly sensitive when it came to her, fretting over the slightest trouble he caused her, as she supposed any loving partner would.

"I'm sorry. If you wish to stop…" he at once apologized.

And that right there was her problem: he was too nice to her, she bore him no ill will, and she didn't really _want_ to hit him. But she was stubborn, and if she had to find some other motivation, than that was what she would do.

"No, I'm going to get this right if it kills me. Again!"

On command, he charged again, using a totally different strategy than before, weaving left, then shooting over to her right, and this time he used his right blade to parry and his left to strike. Maybe it was simply a weariness of being hit over and over again; maybe it was a yearning for respect, for recognition; or maybe it was her stubborn, determined will to succeed, but something suddenly freed her limbs from the invisible drag that had clung to them previously; and just when Revan thought he had an opening, she brought her second blade around in an arc close to her body and knocked aside his saber before it could hit her neck. She turned as he passed and caught the back of his leg with a sharp crackle of energy, and he stumbled.

Though they hadn't been able to clearly discern any of the action, the outcome was clear enough to the marines, and their stunned amazement was palpable.

"You did it!" Revan jubilantly exclaimed, more excited by the fact than Bastila herself, who was more relieved than anything else at the moment. "You see, you can do it!"

"Yes, yes, I see," she said merrily. It would have been almost comical - how proud of her and how happy for her he was - were it not so wonderfully genuine. "Now I believe it's high time I got some payback."

That playfully said, she sprang forward, catching and brushing aside his right blade first, bobbing to the side to avoid a counterattack from his left, and delivering a sharp smack to the back of his neck as she skirted around him. She at once felt rather bad about it, hurting the man who loved her, and blurted out an automatic, "Sorry."

"Don't apologize - I had that coming, and then some. Feel free to whack me a few extra times if you fancy it."

A few of the marines had to fight to keep from chuckling, but all of them were more than impressed by Bastila's ability to best him. Besting Revan in combat was a known scientific impossibility, and yet she had just done it twice. Though Revan won the next match, she managed to win roughly half of the next several contests (they didn't keep score), and by the time they were both thoroughly tired, it was plain that they were evenly matched.

"All your's," Revan told the marines as he left the ring. "Sorry we took so long."

"Don't mention it, sir," replied the petty officer. "I've been in the service for twenty-two years, and fought in more actions than I care to remember, and that was the most damned impressive thing I've ever seen. Sir."

Once outside in the empty corridor, away from the eyes and ears of their crew, Bastila let out a muted groan and put a hand to her neck, which was positively raw. At least her clothing had given the rest of her some limited protection.

Revan at once stopped and checked her: the skin just above her collar was swollen and bright red, and guilt reflexively stabbed at his heart.

"You're burned," he said with a shaking voice. "I'm so sorry. I… I didn't think…"

"I'll be fine," she assured him as she turned around and held his hands. "I healed you, didn't I, and you were half dead. And, besides, it was worth the pain."

"You know I would never deliberately hurt you."

She smiled sweetly, touched by the pained regret in him, and nodded. "I know."

The moment was soon broken when Céle briskly rounded the corner with a datapad in hand.

"Sir, ma'am," she greeted them formally, "this just arrived."

Revan was at once brought down by the all-too-familiar dread that came when one first learned that something had gone wrong and was waiting to learn what had happened.

As it happened, the news was far from ill, the communiqué being a feasibility study conducted by Grand Admiral Hrask and his staff regarding an offensive along his front. It raised a number of very interesting points, and most of the remainder of the day was occupied with a serious review of the situation. Hrask was not, however, privy to the details of Impulse, being aware only that a large offensive was coming, not where or when, and much of the details he cited were certain to change after Kechel's breakthrough was achieved. Still, it did call attention to the fact that major operations remained possible in other theaters.

"Poor Hrask," Revan quipped in the privacy of his quarters as Bastila sipped from a mug of steaming, freshly-brewed tea. "I've never known a commander so keen, and he's been holding his position for the last two months. It must be torture for the man."

While he had intended to use whatever free time they might be granted by the fortunes of war that evening to teach Bastila Deralsbanif, he instead spent the hours after dinner aiding her in healing the bruises and burns suffered in their training session. Even after the red and purple had faded back into pristine ivory, he still felt terribly guilty about having injured the love of his life. He had to continually remind himself that what he had taught her could mean for her the difference between life and death, and that her pain would be gone by morning, but forgiveness did not come naturally to him.

By 2230, they were both terribly weary from the intense concentration - which was just as well in light of the hour at which they would have to rise in the morning - and so wished each other a peaceful night's rest, and parted ways once again with a kiss, this time on the lips, though still fleeting. When she had gone and he was alone in his quarters, he felt a dreadful feeling of loneliness that was utterly alien to him. He had never craved the company of others, had even come to avoid it, finding most people contemptible in one facet or another. But he could find no fault in her, or at least nothing that he would call a fault. She was perfect, and he adored her for it, and took comfort from the bond that meant she would never be far from him.

So tired was he that he contemplated going straight to bed in spite of the sticky sensation that clung to his body, the byproduct of their sparring and subsequent healing, but the itch was as much psychological as it was physical, and in the end his obsessive mind won out over his exhausted body, and he treated himself to a rushed shower. He knew that it was a weakness of a sort, and one of many little eccentricities he suffered, but he would always find it difficult to sleep unless he was clean. His hair was still damp when it hit his pillow and he pulled the covers up over his shoulder.

"Lights: out."


	8. A Work of Art

8

A Work of Art

26 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

19.8.20375

Bastila woke herself at 0428 - two minutes before her alarm was set to do so. There was no gradual transition between sleep and consciousness, just an instantaneous change of states that had her eyes wide open and her fingertips tingling. The lights were scarcely on, nothing more than a faint glow that was barely sufficient for her to see her surroundings, and for the first few seconds, she could not recall why she had woken herself, especially at so early an hour. Then the memories came flooding in. She cancelled her alarm, threw back the covers, and swung herself upright and out of bed, her feet finding a pair of slippers she had left at her bedside the night before. The air was cool, and without the thick blankets above her, her white nightgown offered little warmth, and so she at once ordered the lights on and went to the closet.

One layer at a time, she donned her uniform: the dark green shirt with ten little gold buttons; the black knee socks; the grey breeches fastened with a button below the knee; the grey jacket with two rows of five silver buttons, silver aiguillette, and the crimson cuffs of a staff officer; and, lastly, the broad black belt with silver buckle stamped with the soaring eagle of the Imperial Navy. All the while, and throughout her subsequent breakfast, she found her heart quickening, her every thought concerned with the day ahead. She didn't even know what it was she ate that morning, and couldn't remember combing her hair and tying it back, though it was impeccably-styled when she stood before the mirror brushing her teeth. She tried to remind herself that she had done this before, that she had seen combat before, even personal combat in which every moment could bring death. She tried to recall how she felt before Bimmiel, how great the pressure had been on her then compared to now, even the terror of fighting the Sith spirits on Korriban, but nothing helped.

She stopped and stared at her reflection, tried to picture herself as she had once been, as the perfect Jedi, if only to see the contrast. She failed. The image would not crystallize, for there was no such person, and never had been. _I was never that person._ _Oh, how I did try, but that was never me._ A smile graced her visage, a warm and happy and contented smile that stemmed from the reminder that she was, at long last, walking the right path.

* * *

"I didn't know you could do it from this distance," Revan said with surprise as she settled into her chair in the ready room.

"For one, you never asked; but in any event, _I_ don't know if I can do it from this distance, though I would appear to be capable of many things I never knew about. Above all, I have the duty to try."

"Not to question your abilities or judgment, and bearing in mind my own inexperience in the realm of Battle Meditation, but could anything _negative_ occur in consequence of the attempt?" he queried as delicately as possible.

"I can't botch it and cost us the battle, if that's what you're asking," she returned with a slight edge to her voice. "If I can't manage it, it will be as though I did nothing at all."

"Sorry. I am sorry. Know that I don't doubt you, merely that I have grown accustomed to foul-ups in general, and to working around them."

"Well, either this works to some degree, or it doesn't," she said, trying to sound a little lighter this time, knowing full well that she could be oversensitive on occasion. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure that it does."

"I know you will. I have never known one so determined as you."

He leaned down and kissed her, smiled as he met her gaze for a few seconds afterwards, then stood tall.

"I'll see you again after the battle."

"Until then," she replied as sweetly as she could.

That said, he quit the ready room on his way to the command center, while Bastila shut her eyes, slowed her heart rate, and let her surroundings slip away. Though she had practiced the technique hundreds of times, drilled in it relentlessly until exhaustion overtook her, she had used it only twice in battle. The first time had been so costly a victory that the Republic couldn't have afforded many more like it, and the second time, she had done little more than confuse and distract the Imperial crews long enough to permit her shuttle to board _Conqueror_. She meant for today to be something entirely different. Today, she was going to finally have an impact on the course of this dreadful war, and she was going to do so on the right side.

Reaching out across the vastness of space, she felt the Republic's 204th Fleet idling below the mean orbital plane of the Blenjeel system, spread out between the orbits of the fourth and fifth planets. The ships were like islands in the Force, little clusters of life enduring amidst a sea of lethal vacuum. She could all but see them, could nearly taste the pent-up energy and fear of crews who sat anxiously at their stations, or tossed and turned on hard bunks, or whiled away the time with games and idle banter. All were waiting for a battle they knew would come at a time of which they had no inkling and even less control. Once they had been her allies, though she did not know them, and many were probably little different from what she had once been: soldiers in a cause they did not comprehend, fighting in the name of lies. She could not permit that to dissuade her, however, could not pity them, for so long as they continued to fight for a diseased system, they were her enemies. She did not hate them, as she had hated the Sith and would continue to hate the criminals whom the Republic harbored, but she would fight them with all she had.

Revan sat down before a sprawling projection of the Blenjeel system, presently set at wide scale so as to encompass the 97th Fleet as it conducted its approach. The Republic's 204th (weakened to only two flotillas instead of the normal three) was marked as an orange cloud, with no ships yet defined. Its position had been designated by Revan himself, his Force senses more accurate than the day-old reports from a recce flight - evidently, the craft wasn't so stealthy as its designers claimed, and its detection had prompted the Republic to move the fleet to almost the opposite side of the system from where it had been. _Those people probably expect to have ample warning when our ships drop into the system,_ he mused. Instead, the Imperial fleet would appear on their screens as a huge hyperspace wave a scant thirty-three seconds before dropping into realspace. _They have good deployment, though: a good, solid formation. They could still make trouble for us._

The ships of the 97th were in enemy sensor range now, as shown by a flashing icon on the schematic. _Thirty-three seconds._ As the projector zoomed in so as to display only the battle area, he stopped looking at it entirely, and instead focused on the underlying currents that flowed through the Force, listening to the ripples that went unseen by sensors. The enemy was alert now, crews mustering to general quarters, but they hadn't sufficient warning, and the first shots would be loosed before many were even finished dressing. _Come on, come on,_ he thought, as if he could will his ships to fly faster, though he knew that their hyperdrives were already straining at redline. Some of the Republic ships started to move in the last few seconds, and his fingers started to fly across the holographic keyboard floating over his lap, but he checked himself. _No, no, still too soon. They won't hear yet._ Then there was a great flash as his fleet dropped into realspace, followed by a few horribly drawn-out seconds while the targeting computers established a firing solution. _Now! At them now!_

He was not to be disappointed. The Imperial ships loosed the opening salvos of the battle, the enemy fatally slow to respond. Now he sprang into action, composing orders as he felt the enemy's weaknesses revealed, directing units to what he knew would prove the key points of the action. Beyond that, he could generally trust his officers to conduct the fighting independently as the professionals they were. His role, as he saw it, was to do the impossible: to strip away the fog of war and remove guesswork from military planning. That was the theory, at least, for in practice, even his insight failed to eliminate every variable once the fighting started; and it was only by acknowledging that it would have been foolhardy to expect that the chaos of war could ever be completely replaced with precise calculation, that he could forgive himself this shortcoming.

As the battle developed, he searched the fabric of the Force for those converging threads that marked crucial points in time, waiting patiently for the inevitable mistakes that would be made by both sides, his brain a human sensor suite attuned to otherwise-invisible spectra. Those errors committed by his own people would need to be corrected, those by the enemy exploited, and all with the greatest possible celerity. And so, staring blankly through the projection, he would sit silently still for long minutes on end before abruptly launching into a flurry of typing as he fired off updates. Today, however, the threads all looked _straighter_ than normal. His own people acted without hesitation, swiftly responding to every counter-move made by the enemy, coordinating their maneuvers and attacks with flawless precision. There were still mistakes made - the inevitable errors committed by fallible beings caught in the chaotic stress of battle - but there was no mistaking the masterful efficiency of the Imperial crews. And all the while, the Republic radiated an increasing aura of despair, a growing certainty that the battle was already lost.

_I have seen this before. _It had been on 13 Mégteníd, at Bimmiel, when it had seemed that no matter how much punishment his ships inflicted on the Republic, the enemy would not break. They had fought like men possessed, until his own commanders eventually lost heart and abandoned the offensive, when in hindsight they had already bled the enemy white, and need only have pressed home the assault. He had witnessed it again, on 22 Tsédíth, when his crew was unaccountably confused and disorganized, and didn't arm the point-defense guns until after a Republic shuttle had already docked. But today was different. Today, they fought together, and none could stand against them. _Well done, émhwelin_.It brought a tear to his eye._ Well done._

Seated placidly behind the desk with eyes shut and all senses dead to her surroundings, her hands resting limp on the arms of her chair, Bastila felt far away from her body. She was lightyears distant, floating in the void below the Blenjeel system, fighting in a realm of thought and emotion. She was surrounded by clouds of tension, aggression, numb fear, the rush of adrenaline; racing currents of thoughts, words, and vague ideas; and everywhere blazed the imperative of action. If one peered deep enough into the chaos, however, there could be glimpsed a semblance of structure, of patterns. To disrupt the enemy, one needed to alter the structure, to disrupt the patterns, and they key to that was fear. No sane person was immune to fear in the heat of battle, but the majority learned to work around it, stamping it down long enough for the instincts born of training to kick in. If the fear was allowed to rise up, the training would begin to break down, and discipline and confidence would crumble.

_Fear…a little extra fear…strip away the numbness…expose what's deep down._ It had been difficult in the beginning for her to project an emotion that she had trained for most of her life not to feel. She had had to study the hearts and minds of others, get a sense for what fear was like without actually feeling it herself, before she could even begin to utilize it as a weapon. After her battle of minds with the ancient Sith, she had a far better grasp of fear now than she ever had before, however, and drew upon the recent memory as she seeped like morning mist into a million minds. It didn't require much to tip the balance, rather like nudging a rock that already sat on the crown of a hill, but to spread it across so many minds so far away demanded all of her concentration and will.

From her own people, she tapped the fear, drawing it out, siphoning it into the hearts of the enemy, and she felt the balance inexorably shift. All the effort was in the initial move, after which it became a case of allowing momentum to take over. As the enemy's confidence faltered, so would follow his rationality; and mistakes would be made, and confidence would crack still further. The inverse would apply to her own sailors, whose morale would only swell with their success.

This she could aid as they coordinated their maneuvers and attacks. She melted away indecision, hesitation. The plans and commands flowed freely, every order being executed instantly. She even went so far as to pass along a few ideas of her own, planting hints and stratagems in the minds of her commanders, guiding them to where the enemy was weakest. As the invisible structure behind the Republic's efforts became increasingly weak and disjointed, that of her own side grew ever stronger and more streamlined. She had seen this process before, but today it all looked vastly different to her. Today, it was not a struggle; for all her supreme concentration and exercise of will, it was not a burden. Today, it was a work of art. _Beautiful,_ she thought above the effort. _Beautiful._

Republic tacticians had always been preoccupied with maintaining tight, orderly formations in battle, a proclivity dating back to a time when actions were fought at far closer range, and existed was the real danger of an enemy getting into one's midst. In modern naval combat, it at least served to concentrate their firepower, albeit at the expense of maneuverability. It was this inflexibility that Revan had consistently exploited throughout the war, but now he saw the formations of the 204th loosen as they jockeyed for position, and this initially gave him cause for concern. For ten minutes or so, he fretted that perhaps the enemy had at long last learned to adapt, and was trying something new; and in response, he ordered his commanders to advance, press home the attack, not allow the enemy to organize a new defense. It was when they did so that he understood that the enemy was not reorganizing at all, but losing his cohesion, for in response to the redoubled aggression of the Imperial attack, the Republic formations began to come apart.

At the crucial moment, Fleet Admiral Duyor, C-in-C of the 97th, split his force in twain, dispatching the 505th and 506th Flotillas to sweep round the enemy. It was a daring maneuver, and one that would have been hazardous in the face of a more confident foe. Moreover, it was conducted in Revan's own style, but with no given order from himself. He was as surprised by Duyor's initiative as the enemy commanders, and wondered if this, too, might not be attributed to Bastila. Whatever the source, the result was that the 204th was now being fired upon from multiple directions, and its losses began to increase exponentially. He could actually feel the exact moment when the battle was won, when the enemy lost all heart. He watched ships and even several whole squadrons vanish from the schematic in the blink of an eye, jumping to hyperspace in panicked retreat.

Bastila felt their spirits break like a flash of flame, a brief blast of heat followed by cold despair. Besides this, she had felt many die in the course of the fighting, some with sudden cries of fear that rippled through the Force, others meeting their end so suddenly that they never knew of it, and were simply gone from the universe. Some of them were her own people, though far more fought on the other side…which had once been her side.

It still didn't all seem wholly real to her at times, as though it were a dream. _But it's my dream. This is my purpose in life: the purpose I chose, and not the one that was forced upon me._

At 0621, Admiral Surayan, C-in-C of the Republic 204th Fleet, signaled his surrender, marking the end of the battle. (The action would be recorded as the 2nd Battle of Blenjeel, Kechel having successfully raided and destroyed a Republic repair yard above the third planet in the system some three months prior.) It had been a brief fight culminating in an entirely lopsided victory, with Imperial losses totaling a remarkably light 9% of the 97th Fleet, and a sizeable number of enemy ships captured in addition to those destroyed. Revan was, therefore, hardly surprised when he was hailed almost simultaneously by Admirals Kechel, Morrett, and Duyor. All three were in a state of baffled elation, similar to what one might expect from a person who was handed a large sack of credits with neither conditions nor explanation.

"If given permission, sir, ma'am," Morrett's life-sized hologram addressed Revan, then turned to his immediate superior, then back to Revan, "I would throw in my entire task force right now: if the rest of what's in front of me is even half as inept as the bastards Duyor just trounced, we'll run them out of the damned sector by day's end."

"Hell, we'll run them all the way to Coruscant!" Duyor chimed in.

The Arkanian officer, while he had not made that boast in all seriousness, was palpably elated and eager to continue the fight in any way possible. _Presumably a lingering after-effect: heightened confidence._

"In due time, comrades," Revan chuckled. "I'd much rather bag a Republic armada than that overpopulated cesspit any day. You will remain at your hold lines, and advance no farther today."

He all but choked on the words, which came so unnaturally to a man whose maxim was "press on." It was unnatural to command that no exploitation be made in the wake of so shattering an attack, but in this instance, it was necessary. No plans nor preparations had been made make any further advance at Blenjeel, and, more significantly, such a breakthrough would assuredly disrupt their chances for achieving a more significant victory later. Victory on the scale he sought required patience as much as daring.

"With all due respect, sir," said Morrett, "we _can_ push through into the Doldur Sector, and cut the Corellian Run."

"Yes, I do not doubt that your people could, Admiral," he replied curtly.

"That, however, is _not_ in accordance with the larger design here," Kechel finished his thought for him.

"No, but we do have an opportunity here," Duyor countered.

"And it pales in comparison the opportunity that we'll have six days from now," she reminded him. "I must agree with the C-in-C that any further advance today will only disrupt the carefully-laid plans for Operation Impulse, which will eclipse any potential gains we might make today."

Duyor shut his eyes, drew breath, and a calming change seemed to fall over him as he nodded slowly and subtly.

"Yes, ma'am. You're right. And you, sir. My apologies - it isn't like me to get this carried away with my own success."

"It happens to us all at times. Might I say, however, that I have never before seen any attack carried out so smoothly, and with such devastating effect on the enemy's morale. Had I not seen it play out in real time, I would scarcely have believed it. You have my commendations, Admiral," Kechel congratulated him.

"In all fairness, ma'am, I'm every bit as astonished as you are. I certainly mean no disrespect to my people, but _nobody_ has ever performed _that well_, not that I've ever seen. It was perfection."

Kechel cocked her head briefly, furrowed her brow, then fixed her piercing stare at Revan.

"Might I ask, sir, if you had anything to do with this?"

"I played my usual part, as you must all know from the stream of reports and orders I was firing off. For anything beyond that, and beyond the training and experience of yourselves and your crews, you must thank Flag Captain Shan."

"Captain Shan? She was somehow responsible for that?"

"In addition to being a rather adept tactician, the captain has a particular talent for influencing minds, specifically as in helping to coordinate military operations…or _un_coordinate them, as the situation might call for," he replied with a sly smile.

"So she made our people sharper, and turned the Reps into a mob of green recruits?" laughed Morrett.

"I can assure you that it is a good deal more complex an effort than that, though you have grasped the essentials of it. I could feel much of what she was doing, and she was not only altering the balance of morale, she was helping guide our people out there."

"If she can do this reliably, then she's worth a task force," Kechel commented more soberly.

Revan held up a hand in a gesture of caution, said, "She is not a miracle-worker, Admiral, no more so than myself. We each have a gift, yes, but we are neither omnipotent nor infallible. Like myself, and like yourselves, she is an officer of this Empire who will do all in her power to help bring this war to a swift and favorable end: no more and no less. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," answered all three in unison.

"Make no mistake: the future hinges upon us _all._" Rising from his chair, he stood at ease with hands clasped behind his back. "For now, look to securing your positions, though I foresee no danger of a Republic counterattack. I do not believe I need go into specifics, for you all know your business, and know it well. As always, I thank you for your service on behalf of our citizens, and all those whom we have yet to liberate."

In closing, he smoothly brought his feet together and his right hand up in salute, to be returned by the three admirals before their holograms flickered out one by one.

Scarcely a minute later, he was in the ready room, where Bastila was still seated in her chair, hands now resting in her lap, eyes still shut. There was a sheen of perspiration on her face, which had taken on a slightly ashen hue. He didn't ask if she was alright, or anything so obvious, for he could tell from their bond that she was exhausted, but otherwise perfectly healthy. Instead, he took her hands in his own and kissed her softly, and then knelt down beside her.

"You were incredible," he whispered.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"You did very well..._very_ well."

She opened her eyes slowly, almost reluctantly, as though it were an effort.

"Would you care for a drink?" he asked.

She shut her eyes again, ran her sandpaper tongue across parched lips. "Please." It seemed almost instantaneously that she was handed a glass of cool water, which she downed swiftly, the glorious sensation of it running down her throat doing at least something to restore her.

"Does it always do that to you?" he asked.

"It was worse at Bimmiel." A hot pit of shame formed in her stomach then, and she set down the glass on the desk and looked Revan in the eye. "Do you blame me for having fought against you before?"

"Blame you? How could I fault you for having been taken from your family and lied to all throughout your adolescence? I _commend_ you for having chosen your own path when given the opportunity, which is a thing most people in your position would have lacked the courage to do. As for the lives lost there, the Republic suffered more than us, foolishly attempting, as they were, to hold an arbitrary line in the face of overwhelming odds. No, no, you have no cause for guilt."

The heat melted away, replaced by a cool, calm confidence. "No matter how much I told that to myself, I still needed to hear it from you. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it. It's the truth."

"Verminous scum," he cursed under his breath as he leaned over the computer terminal in his quarters.

Bastila looked up from her own work. "Who?"

"A Velusian gangster named Rolen Heb." As Revan read on, a smile graced his countenance. "Ha! He was attempting to reach Serrenno to cement a business deal with some compatriots of his operating within the Empire. Evidently, he was of the impression that, as past wars had done little to hamper his business, crossing the front wouldn't be too challenging, just a matter of bribing the right officials. His delusions were shattered when his shuttle was intercepted and disabled by the frigate _Elraden_, and he was taken into custody under suspicion of espionage. He then attempted to bribe the _Elraden's_ captain to no avail, and, after further investigation revealed his identity, he was handed over to the SD for interrogation. With his arrest, Meric is confident of ultimately exposing and exterminating a sizeable criminal organization."

"I expect her people are experienced at interrogating prisoners." There was no trace of reproach in her voice, and she seemed not to be feeling much of anything at the moment, so he was uncertain how to take that.

"Experienced, yes, and very good at what they do. The very best, in fact. If you're wondering about their methods, though, torture makes people talk, but not necessarily the truth. Someone in pain is liable to say anything to make it stop, whereas a well-researched combination of drugs and brain scans has proven a most effective means of obtaining factual information," he said nonchalantly. Immediately afterward, though, his brows dropped a fraction, and his voice turned more somber.

"Moreover, until certain of a person's guilt, must not we treat them as though they may be innocent, for what if our suspicion proves to be in error?"

She made no immediate reply, but when she did speak, her words were somewhat unexpected.

"That is very true, though to be honest, I hadn't actually thought of that when I asked… Torture, I mean. No, I was thinking of whether or not the SD could get him to betray his organization, or whether someone from the Imperial Guard would need to influence his mind." She sort of trailed off at the end, and looked back to her own work.

"Does that upset you? That you weren't concerned about the SD's methods?" he asked.

"Upset? No, I don't think so. After all, did I really need to ask? I can trust you to do the right thing."

Having finished reading an update on the occupation of Honoghr, which seemed to be proceeding smoothly enough, she switched off her terminal and stretched her arms.

"This talk of the SD reminds me that I should probably speak with Meric one of these days if I'm to have a chance of being Érilin after the war."

"Not a bad idea."

"Is there anything I should know about her first?"

"She's a good deal like us: moral, responsible, reasonable, committed to the cause. In all fairness, she may be a hair more rational and less emotional than myself. She's also an obsessive record-keeper, so don't say anything around her that you wouldn't want recorded for posterity. Beyond that, just be yourself."

"Original advice."

"No, I mean it: she'll like you."

He slipped his glasses into his breast pocket and took a moment to button his shirt up to the throat and smooth out his jacket. Bastila made a point of doing likewise while Revan was opening a comm channel. In a few moments, the 3D image of a thirty-something SD officer with black hair and a long face appeared, the man doing his level best to conceal his awe at speaking with Revan.

"Sir, good afternoon, sir," he said in a voice that sounded slightly too high.

"Good afternoon, Staff Leader. I wish to speak with Director Meric, if she is about."

"Yes, My Lord, the Director is in her office. One moment, sir."

While the duty officer was occupied contacting Meric, the projection changed to a 3D version of the SD's swooping-falcon insignia, and Bastila took the opportunity to raise a question that had belatedly occurred to her.

"Should I address her as 'Director' or 'Minister'?" she asked in a hurried whisper.

"'Minister.' Only the SD are in the habit of referring to her as 'the Director.'"

She nodded silently just as the insignia was fading into the image of a prim, elegant woman seated at a wood desk in front of an enormous window that offered a view of dark water and a forested mountainside not far in the background.

Even without anything of known size to lend her scale, and seated in a chair that had undoubtedly been custom-tailored to her, Meric somehow came across as a small woman. Her features were generally diminutive, including her piercing grey eyes, though she could certainly be regarded as reasonably attractive in a matronly sort of way. Her coppery, collar-length hair showed only the faintest beginnings of grey, hinting at her advancing age. All of this was offset by an impeccably-crisp SD uniform adorned with exquisite silver knot work running along the green facings of the jacket.

"_Lé calach, ílíd méthnin,"_ she said in a quiet soprano voice.

"_Té lé calachér hwe fent, ílíd méthnin,"_ replied Revan. "If you would suffer it, though, might we proceed in the Language of the Enemy, as we are not alone in this conversation? This is, naturally, assuming that you are free to speak this morning, and not already occupied with your duties."

"Oh, I can speak as I please, but 'not alone,' is it? You mean to say you have a guest?"

"A good comrade-in-arms, and a dear friend to whom I am deeply indebted. It is my deepest honor to present Flag Captain Bastila Shan."

On cue, and feeling rather self-conscious after that introduction, Bastila stepped into the camera's field of vision with her hands clasped behind her back.

"Captain Shan," said Meric as her eyebrows climbed a notch.

"Minister."

Coming to attention, Bastila bowed, held the pose for three seconds, and returned to "at-ease."

"Captain, Revan told me several weeks ago of your actions aboard _Conqueror_, in what was certainly the darkest hour yet of this war, and, naturally, I have also read the dispatch about the events at Korriban," she said with slow yet steady deliberation. "I do wish that this first meeting could have been in person. You are a friend not only of Revan, but of the cause itself, and we are all deeply in your debt."

"Thank you, Minister."

While this exchange was underway, Revan had subtly shifted to the side, out of the main focus, leaving Bastila to assume center stage, as it were. Unfortunately, it was no sooner had he done so than Meric chose to return her attention to him.

"Now then, you did say this is a _very_ good morning, so am I to conclude that the Battle of Blenjeel went well?"

"_Second_ Battle of Blenjeel," Revan corrected with exaggerated solemnity. "And, yes, it was an overwhelming victory. We achieved at least partial surprise over an outnumbered foe, and would certainly have driven him off with substantial losses…were it not for the work put in by the good captain here. It is to her unique skills that I must attribute the utter capitulation of two Republic flotillas."

He spoke with such unabashed pride that Bastila found herself genuinely discomfited by the praise, at once doubting that she deserved the accolades, and that Meric would believe all that he said. The older woman looked back and forth between her and Revan with eyes that grew subtly wider, then noticeable narrower.

"Is this true?" she addressed Bastila.

"I played a role in the battle, yes, but I can't accurately judge what might have happened if I didn't," she protested.

"What role? From what Revan has told me of you before, you have a very singular set of skills, even for an ex-Jedi. Something called Battle Meditation?"

"That's true, but..."

Meric leaned back slightly in her chair, her hands moving to the armrests, and the corners of her mouth turned up a degree or two.

"So you're actively fighting with us, as one of us."

"Minister, I am an officer in the Imperial Navy," said Bastila sternly, and she felt an urge to straighten her posture still more, though that was a physical impossibility, "and I know my duty."

"I humbly beg your pardon," Meric said with genuine contrition, her demeanor changing instantly. "I did not mean to question your sense of duty, nor impugn your devotion, Captain. Revan has already told me of your quality, and I trust his judgment implicitly."

"Many thanks, My Lady," Revan said with a smile as he leaned into her view.

She smiled back, suppressed the urge to laugh. Were she a normal woman, unable to read Revan like she could, Bastila might have felt the onset of jealousy at this apparent flirtation, but she knew better. There was admiration and respect there, and affection based upon that; there was the tightly-knit bond between comrades in a great crusade, and she could understand that, sympathize with it.

Fractionally raising her chin, she calmly addressed Meric once more.

"My Lady, I was drafted into the Jedi Order, trained to follow their Code, and _raised_ to believe their teachings. I did not choose to be one of them. When confronted with the choice, I _chose_ to be here, serving on what I know to be the right side in this war. And I do forgive you, Minister, for your doubts. In many ways, it is your duty to doubt, is it not?"

That question piqued Meric's curiosity, though she evinced no outward sign, being far too experienced to wear her sentiments on her face.

"It is my duty to doubt, you say? A most intriguing observation, Captain."

"Is it not true? You've assumed the responsibility of safeguarding the Empire from enemies within, enemies who pretend to be our friends and allies when they're really only concerned with their own gain. You have to be suspicious, especially of those with power. I'm also well aware that anyone who switches sides in a war is always the object of suspicion, and understandably so. Now here I am, a person possessed of considerable power, having rather abruptly gone over to your side, and just as abruptly positioned in the forefront of the war effort. I'd be…" (she thought to say "disappointed," but reconsidered) "…shocked if you weren't duly suspicious of me."

Meric smiled and chuckled softly, and said, "You are exceedingly perceptive. Is that thanks solely to education, or can you read my thoughts from even this great distance?"

"I wish it were the latter, since then I could learn what the High Command on Coruscant is planning, but no, I'm just very well-read."

"And clever - never undervalue cleverness, especially your own." She shifted her weight, leaning on one elbow.

"I must wonder at what you spent your free time reading, though. I know that Jedi devote a great deal of time to learning, but I didn't think that they ordinarily took interest in matters of political relevance. Certainly not enough interest to have a grasp of my…problems."

"There are Jedi besides myself whose interests extend beyond the ordinary curriculum."

"Yes, there will always be exceptions to rules. What I suppose I'm driving at is that you must clearly have been by far an exception amongst Jedi, in much the same way as Revan himself."

As usual, her first instinct was a self-effacing one, an urge to dispute Meric's compliment, to say that she wasn't truly that special. She had to remind herself that, modesty aside, she had accomplished the impossible, had elevated herself above all other Force-users save one, and that therefore, by definition, she _was_ exceptional.

"I never did fit in. I…I tried to… Oh, how I tried to," she laughed mirthlessly. "But I was never really one of them, not deep down. I never could be."

Meric cocked her head slightly, curious.

"You tried to?"

"I wanted to be a Jedi. Rather, I _thought_ I wanted to be a Jedi, and not just because that's what I was raised to be. I wanted, more than anything else in life, to make a difference, fight injustice and evil, and make the galaxy a better place… Silly fantasies..."

"Hardly!" Meric protested, sitting up straight. "Those are noble dreams."

"What I meant is that they are nothing more than silly fantasies for a girl growing up as a Jedi. For all their talk and good intentions, the Jedi make so small an impact. You're right, though, that those are noble dreams - the very noblest."

It was only then that she realized that Revan was no longer standing beside her, but had wandered away to his bedroom with a datapad and was at work on some plan or other. Meric, however, was clearly most interested in speaking to her, which was precisely the plan, after all.

"Is that why you saved Revan's life?" asked the Minister as she resumed a more casual posture.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did you save him because he shared your dreams?"

"In a way. What I mean is that, at the time, I didn't really _know_ how alike we are, but I…knew. You see, people like me can know things we have no empirical way of knowing, and not even know that we know them. I suppose that doesn't make much sense, does it? I've never been all that good at explaining the workings of the Force. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, at the time, my conscious mind knew only what the Republic propaganda says about him, but on a subconscious level, I knew he was…a good man. Does that make any sense at all?"

"From what I understand of the Force, it makes perfect sense," Meric said with suppressed amusement.

"If you don't mind me asking, My Lady, what was _your_ first impression of Revan?"

"My very first impression? That he was a reckless young man who read too many old war novels and would most likely get himself killed within six months," she chuckled.

"When he stepped into my office, I saw a smart, clever, ruthless soldier who was tearing through the Mandalorians, but I didn't see a leader." She shook her head with a smile. "How wrong I was…we all were.

"I am the one building the framework of this Empire - I'm not going to be modest about it - I've spent my entire adult life preparing for this, working towards it, and now I spend every waking hour making it a reality. In many ways, I am its architect, and I know that that is how I shall be remembered. Yet for all my toil, I would still be Prime Minister of Deralí, and Deralí alone, and as honorable an office as that is, I would never have had the opportunity to be anything more, were it not for him."

She folded her hands on the desk.

"I may be building the Empire, but he gives it life."

Meric's eyes took on a wistful sheen, and focused on something far away, perhaps infinity, perhaps the future, and Bastila could not help being moved by the other woman's passion. It was a passion she shared, a love for her dreams, and for the first time it truly dawned on Bastila that she was making her dreams fact. Everything she had ever wanted to do with her life, all those impossible fantasies she had entertained in her youth, would all come to pass, and more.

"I know _exactly_ what you mean," she said as she felt a pleasant warmth well up in her chest.

At that, Meric leaned forward and fixed Bastila with her gaze in a fashion that a lesser person would have found intimidating. She saw it for what it truly was, however, which was not intimidation but intensity, and when the Minister spoke, her voice was laced with excitement.

"Now, then, I'll understand if this is difficult to explain in words, being related to the Force, but tell me, Captain, for I've been burning with curiosity about this: what was it like to destroy the Sith? Those old spirits hiding away in their caves? How did it feel to annihilate something that was pure evil?"

In the meantime, Revan had been sitting in on the floor of the bedroom with his back propped against the wall, reading the morning's largely-predictable reports, jotting down notes, and composing orders. Soon the figures from the 2nd Battle of Blenjeel began arriving: casualties, damage to ships, and estimated repair times, set against the number, type, and condition of captured vessels, and number of enemy prisoners taken. All this had to be factored into the plans for Impulse, as well as the grand scheme that was forever evolving in his mind. Every piece, however small, had an impact on the whole, a rippling cascade effect that reached far and wide.

Setting aside the datapad, he closed his eyes and calmed his mind, and tried to focus on the flow of history, to feel the events and choices causing the current to split into innumerable tributaries. He saw the ripples radiating from Blenjeel, saw looming ahead the great rushing cataract that was Impulse, and beyond… Every day, he scoured the Force for a warning, and every day his instincts gave him a clear message in response: Go! Attack!

Impulse was presently scheduled to commence at 1100 on the 30th, which could be pushed back as far as the 32nd if additional time was required to make _Deralí_ ready for combat. There were ongoing problems with power distribution and the hyperdrive, though he was always assured that they were minor. Four days, maybe five or six, but even so… Attack!

He was shaken then from his meditation by a peal of vibrant laughter from outside the bedroom. Besides her obvious amusement, Bastila was relieved, relaxed, confident, strong, all of it shining through their bond like warm sunlight. On checking his chrono, he saw that the time was 1012, which was more than an hour and a half after he had originally commed Meric. _Another auspicious sign,_ he told himself.

Returning to his work, he set to reviewing the situation of 2nd Group, pondering what might become possible in that area in the wake of Impulse. Again he perused Hrask's report on a possible offensive to be launched in his sector, taking from it what points he deemed most poignant. He knew there would certainly be an opportunity to attack immediately after Impulse, but he feared that the Republic might be so demoralized as to rapidly withdraw in the face of any major attack. He wanted to entrap and destroy them _en masse_, not drive them back to positions where they could shorten their supply lines and consolidate their defenses.

_But if the enemy tries to hold along the Corellian Run, moves to reinforce whatever remains of 1st __Armada, and moves in haste and panic, he may split his 4th__ Armada. Should that come to pass, how can I not release Hrask to attack? If he suddenly gains numerical superiority, he can crush them._

"How goes it?" asked Bastila from the doorway.

"Well," he answered simply, then shook the datapad for emphasis as he said, "There may be a possibility for 2nd Group to exploit the breakthrough."

"If we do manage to destroy 1st Armada…and if the Republic lacks the reserves to shore up their defenses…then they'll have to draw ships from elsewhere," she mused slowly, haltingly. "If they strip away too much of 4th Armada, then we might be able to deal a blow to them there, too."

He couldn't keep from beaming at her.

"My thoughts exactly, though," and it was here that his customarily sober-bordering-on-grim expression returned, "there are too many 'ifs' for my comfort."

"Yes, I know what you mean," she sighed as she slumped down on the floor beside him.

"So how went your talk with Meric? I've known her to be amusing, but never in the 'laugh-out-loud, knee-slapping' sort of way."

"Well, I can't say I actually slapped my knee, but she is a good deal more personable than I expected. While I'm acutely aware that I'm not what you - what anyone - would call a 'people person,' I think we got on well enough."

"If she was making jokes, I'd say you got on famously."

"Oh, she wasn't telling jokes. What had me laughing was this story about when she was at university, and her professor of…anthropology, was it…?"

"_Cultural_ anthropology," he corrected with exaggerated solemnity.

"Ah, I see you've heard this one before. Anyway, her professor of _cultural_ anthropology was, in her words, a…'a traitorous, strutting…'"

Here Revan could not restrain himself, having heard the story several times before, and joined her in reciting the familiar line, "'…progressive pea-wit who had rotting tenure, which still counted back then.'"

They both laughed aloud, and Bastila found herself having another one of those moments when she wondered whether or not this was all real. Here she was sitting on the floor of Revan's cabin, almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him, laughing with him at some silly anecdote, when they had, just hours ago, took part in the destruction of a Republic fleet. _And why should we not be happy together?_ she reminded herself.

"The laws hadn't been remedied yet, so the Board couldn't bloody well fire him, and so she and a few friends took matters into her own hands."

"Then she told you of the…prank."

"Prank? She destroyed his career," she replied. "That said, it was bloody hilarious, and he had it coming."

"And he was most fortunate to lose only his career. Bear in mind that that was thirty years ago, when the nationalist movement was in full bloom and there were gun battles in the hills and fields between nationalist patriots and pro-Republic 'progressives.' The latter were horrified by the resurgence of traditional Deralín culture, their idea of 'progress' being to destroy all that we are. They had spent centuries trying to dismantle our way of life piece by piece, and the nationalists had risen up determined to restore it or die trying. At the time I…left to join the Jedi, there were still bombings and assassinations by both sides. That was all finally cracked down on in the last couple of decades, but when Meric was a student, it was a very dangerous thing to make the kind of statements that professor did. He was a traitorous wretch, but at least he had nerve, I'll give him that."

Bastila gave him a sideways smile.

"He had nerve."

"Oh, most certainly. Those people weren't foes to be taken lightly. It is a cliché, but one that can never be repeated too often, that the enemy must never be underestimated.

"So, beyond the levity, how went your 'interview'?" he asked quietly.

"Very well, I think. At least I think I impressed her. She certainly likes me well enough."

And she found Meric quite likeable in her own way. There was nothing particularly charming about the woman, nor was there any real warmth about her, and yet she was endearing in spite of it, if only because she was so pure. This was a person who would absolutely never compromise her principles, who loved her folk and her homeworld with every ounce of her heart. She was truly noble in spirit.

"She asked me a lot of questions about myself, and you, and the cause. I guess she was trying to…feel me out, as it were."

"Don't expect the Director of the SD to not know something about interrogation, even if she was never formally trained in it."

"Yes, I suppose I shouldn't. Nor should I really blame her for being suspicious of me. I think I have her convinced, though. I told only the truth."

"Then you have her convinced. She knows the truth when she hears it, and the truth of you is…wonderful."

He dithered for a moment or two, then reached over and laid a supportive hand on her shoulder, drew her to his side. In reply, she slipped her arm around his waist and held him, and the pair savored the moment in silence. It felt so right, for both of them.

"I never thought…" Bastila started to say after a minute or two, only to be halted by a chirp from one of Revan's pockets.

Ignoring the commlink, he regarded her expectantly, silently imploring her to finish, but she didn't honestly know how she would have finished, anyway, and so instead bade him, "Answer it. It's probably important."

Taking his hand from her, he fished out the commlink and put it to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Sir," said Céle, her tone all business, "we've just received a signal from 4th Group. There has been a skirmish at Velmor, and Mal'cave and her staff are of the opinion that something may be building to their front."

Taking the commlink from his ear, he turned up the volume so that Bastila could hear.

"What forces were involved?"

"Our own 341st Flotilla was engaged by a Republic flotilla, or at least part of one: ninety-two vessels of theirs against one-hundred-nine of our own. The enemy broke contact after just seven minutes, only a few ships were lost on each side, and Mal'cave is calling it a reconnaissance in force."

He thought on it for several long moments, stared absently into space before replying, "Yes, that does sound plausible. The enemy is probing our defenses there, not looking for a fight."

_And why didn't I see this coming? Perhaps it's insignificant, merely a nuisance raid with no larger purpose behind it. If the enemy plans an attack against 4__th__ Group, surely I would sense it._

"I have a detailed report of the action. Do you want it sent to your cabin?"

"Yes, and connect me with Mal'cave herself as soon as possible."

"Will that be all?"

"For now, Céle."

"Very good, sir."

Stuffing the commlink back into his pocket, he pressed his head back against the wall and chewed his lower lip.

Bastila knew exactly what he was thinking, could feel the doubt and self-recrimination through their bond, and quickly stood, offering him her hand as she leaned over him.

"You should probably get up," she tried to encourage him. "It sounds as if we have work to do."

He looked up at her, felt her strength, couldn't help smiling at her like a smitten schoolboy, took her hand and got up.

As it transpired, their work consisted of little more than waiting and second-guessing. Conferences were held, intel reports scoured, and the depths of the Force plumbed in long meditation, and nothing could reveal any genuine threat to 4th Group. By the time they retired for the night, the universal consensus between them, Grand Admiral Mal'cave, and the General Staff was that the morning's skirmish was not a prelude to an imminent attack. If it was a reconnaissance in force, then it was in preparation for something still distant and undeveloped. More likely, it was a commerce raid that had the ill fortune to blunder into a combat flotilla. Both sides frequently engaged in commerce raiding, after all, particularly when they were disinclined to venture any major operations.

They occupied the remainder of the day by reviewing the situation elsewhere along the front, issuing orders so as to make such minor corrections as were necessary. Dinner was held in the strategic command center, just before a brief conversation with Hrask, in which Revan expressed undue concern over the action at Velmor and scheduled a face-to-face meeting in two days' time. It was, of course, a ploy to deceive any Republic analysts who might be monitoring Hrask's activities, the real purpose of the meeting being to discuss Operation Impulse.

When Bastila finally went to bed that evening, having spent her final waking hour studying Deralsbanif with Revan (at last an opportunity to rest and enjoy herself), she did so on the brink of mental exhaustion. As she fluffed the pillow and ordered the lights off, her weary mind was ruminating on the events of that morning, recalling the strain of influencing so many minds, questioning how much farther she could push herself. Mostly, however, she was relieved: relieved that she hadn't let down herself and Revan, that she contributed something to the victory, that the day was simply over. The day was over, and she had made it through.

The thought lulled her to sleep.


	9. Arise Like Thunder

Technical Note: The main battery turrets of the _Deralí_ are designated Turrets B through F, and there are eight turrets - while this would initially appear to be a discrepancy, B through F correspond with the first eight letters of Deralsbanif. By contrast, the turrets of most other Imperial warships are designated using Aurabesh characters.

* * *

9

Arise Like Thunder

30 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

27.8.20375

The intervening days were passed with a strange mixture of long work broken by periods of anxious tedium. On the 27th, Kechel and her staff flew out to the _Deralí_ to discuss the final preparations for Impulse, and while the conference lasted for much of the day, the level of discussion was sufficiently engrossing as to make it pass swiftly. Furthermore, by speaking with Kechel in person, Bastila had the opportunity to read her, and gauge the admiral's impressions of her. Understandably, the veteran officer viewed her as young and inexperienced, though she was favorably impressed with her grasp of strategy (for an amateur), and still more impressed with her involvement at 2nd Blenjeel. Beyond that, Kechel gave her little thought.

On the 28th, they met with Hrask, albeit not at such length as they had with Kechel. This Grand Admiral was a wiry, balding, hawk-nosed man with a powerful voice and an even more powerful will, who, in spite of his age, struck her as being perpetually bursting with energy. While he was the very model of military discipline, he was also a man who fought not only because it was his duty, but because he loved it. War was his purpose in life, and she was reasonably certain that he would greet the inevitable peace with utter dejection and disappointment.

For his own part, Hrask clearly didn't much know what to make of her, thought her too quiet (though she read in his thoughts that he also thought Revan too reserved), and spent much of the conference expounding upon his own theories. In the end, Revan was forced to curb the admiral's exuberance and impress upon him that he was to attack only if the Republic drew away at least a third of its 4th Armada from his front. Only if he could be reasonable certain of enveloping the enemy was he to advance. In response, he offered a counterproposal to overwhelm a small portion of the 4th Armada even if that force remained united and intact. To this, Revan granted his assent, but only on the condition that the timing of any attack would be left to his own discretion: it was critical, he stressed, that any offensive by 2nd Group be properly coordinated with the operations of 1st Group. He went on to assure Hrask that, whatever his involvement in Operation Impulse, he would very soon be going on the offensive, one way or another, and it was on that cheerful note that the meeting was adjourned.

The following day, a third conference was held, this time with the Imperial General Staff via encrypted hypercomm. The focus of this discussion was the overall conduct of the war beyond Impulse, though obviously no really specific plans could be crafted until the outcome of that operation was known. Whatever the outcome, however, the Army was dead set against any advance for the sake of gaining ground: as Grand Marshal Idanos, Army Chief of Staff, remarked (and not for the first time), 91% of fit-for-service units were already engaged or committed to future operations. There could be no consideration of swallowing up whole sectors. The Navy was in agreement that any offensive operations should be focused on weakening the Republic Navy, though they expressed some muted skepticism that Impulse would be so successful as to permit any substantial exploitation by 2nd Group.

It was at 2105 on the evening of the 30th that Captain Tanen and Senior Lieutenant Fahn, Ship's Chief Engineer, entered the C-in-C's ready room, came to attention, and saluted. The latter was shorter than the captain, being about Revan's height, and possessed black hair, dark eyes, and a robust build. Both men wore the zippered, cargo-pocketed, rough-and-ready service uniforms that were standard garb aboard ship, and which stood out in marked contrast to the elaborate formality of Revan's own uniform, but they nevertheless painted a picture of absolute military efficiency and professionalism.

"At ease, gentlemen," Revan ordered. "Report."

"My Lord," said Fahn, "we have conducted every possible test since Korriban. We've run the reactors from minimum criticality straight on up to emergency combat power and back down again, tested every power conduit and transfer station, gone through the main battery emitters with a fine-toothed comb, opened up all ten motivators and put them back together. All issues with the hyperdrive have been resolved and it is, at present, operating well within normal parameters. The operative words here, however, are 'at present.' Sir, permission to speak freely."

"Granted."

"Sir, this ship is an engineer's nightmare. I've had my entire staff, along with any other crewman who knows his way around a wrench, working around the clock for the past six days to ensure she's fit for combat, and that's on top of the work we did at the Star Forge…and the work done during the shakedown cruise. I'll vouch for her combat-readiness, but only with this caveat: she's as ready as she can be made before the war is over. It's my professional opinion that it would take at least a year in spacedock to bring this ship up to an acceptable standard of reliability."

Revan stared at him a moment with eyebrows raised in obvious incredulity, and blinked. He could tell that Fahn was at least partially of the opinion that it would have been wiser to build several of the smaller battlecruisers in place of a vessel that was, at least in his opinion, a white elephant.

"At least a year in spacedock?" he repeated flatly.

"And that's a shot in the dark. The overall design is a decade beyond that of the subsystems being used to support it."

"I am aware of that, as I am aware that the design was rushed - considerably rushed - in order to ensure that the ship would be launched before the war was over. However, I am _acutely aware_ that this ship is essential to winning the war, and it is therefore essential that she be operational sooner rather than late."

Tanen was radiating a simmering impatience with his subordinate, being displeased with just about every aspect of the situation in which he found himself. While he may have done wonders at keeping his face as emotionless as a statue's, it was obvious to Revan that he judged Fahn to be merely covering his arse, and was eager test his new ship in battle. The ship's departure and, by extension, Operation Impulse, had already been delayed a day by Fahn's insistence upon replacing several "suspicious" power conduits.

"My Lord, it is our professional opinion that the ship is ready for action at any time," the captain placidly stated. "The real issue, I believe, is her long-term reliability."

Revan nodded, folded his arms across his chest.

"And I do not see that being of overriding significance. As you ought to know, this ship was never intended to be used in continuous action, but rather to inflict maximum losses on the enemy in the course of a decisive engagement. If she must spend a month undergoing repairs between such engagements, so be it."

Fahn breathed a sigh of relief, and Revan felt his unease soften.

"In that scenario, My Lord, I believe I can safely state that we can maintain an acceptable level of combat readiness."

"Good. And, before we go any further, you and your people have my gratitude and my admiration for your efforts: you've had to put up with far than any engineering staff ought to, and you have done so without complaint."

He allowed himself a friendly smile as he leaned back in his chair.

"That said, I want you both to turn in early tonight. As you are undoubtedly aware by now, we shall be going into action tomorrow. Captain, when you leave this room, you are to lock all external comms and then unseal your orders."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Revan stood, the three men saluted one another, and the two officers subsequently took their leave. After they were gone, he activated his computer terminal and transmitted the phrase "Climb the white peak." It would be received by all Imperial units, as well as any Republic listening posts, although they didn't have the cipher to decrypt it. Even if they could, the phrase held meaning only for the commanders of 1st Group, signaling them to unseal their orders and maintain radio silence until Zero Hour, which was now set for 0800 on the 31st.

Zero Hour. It felt as though years had elapsed since last he had been in combat, when in reality, it had been six and a half weeks. _And how long must it seem to Bastila? A lifetime, surely. So much has happened, so much has changed._

He hurried from the ready room to his quarters, which were but a minute away, even at the reduced pace necessitated by the burning tension that presently plagued his left calf. He and Bastila had been sparring again earlier that day, as they had the day before, and she had rather painfully gotten the upper hand on him toward the end.

Inside his cabin, he found her reading the latest report on the Onderon operation, which, with the benefit of overwhelming numbers, was now swinging solidly in favor of the Imperial Army.

It had not escaped his notice that she now spent far more time in his quarters than her own, generally using the latter only to shower and sleep. It was a strange experience for him, like coming home to her, though he would certainly never call this cabin "home." Prior to meeting her, he had felt no desire for companionship, no longing for a partner with whom to share his life, nor the expectation of ever finding one, but now he found it difficult not to think of her in that capacity.

"_Ro hevésha,"_ she greeted him in a voice like an autumn breeze that cut straight to his heart. "What's the word?"

"The ship is ready," he answered whilst removing his boots, eyes turned down toward the floor, "and I've sent the 'go-code.' It's all in motion now."

"When do we jump to the IP?" she asked, her eyes following him on his way through the room.

"2119," he replied, raising his voice on his way to the bathroom. "Tomorrow we jump at…"

"0706, I know!" she called out to him, shouting to ensure she was heard over the sound of running water as he washed up. "I can't very well forget that one!"

"Sorry," he sheepishly apologized upon his return.

"Oh, no need to apologize," she laughed. "And I know I'll need to retire early tonight."

He went over to her, stood close by her side.

"You'll need your rest, more than any of us," he said with deep concern radiating through their bond as he laid a hand on her shoulder. "I saw what it did to you last time, and tomorrow you'll be working on a far greater scale."

"I shan't kill myself_,_" she assured him as she took his hand.

"I know. You're a soldier in this cause, though, the same as I, and as such you inevitably place yourself in harm's way. You know I shan't insult you by asking you to 'take care'-you know your duty, and will permit yourself to do no less. I cannot act on sentiment, but nor can I not worry for the one whom I love."

"Thank you, _gíal_,_"_ she said breathlessly.

_Gíal _- darling. It had slipped out so naturally that it caught her by surprise. _But it is natural. I…I do think of him that way now, don't I?_ She fought the old, accursed impulse to release his hand and retreat back into herself, as she always had when she felt the slightest affection or attachment. Instead, she held him tighter still, and when she spoke, it was through a clenching throat.

"And thank you…for everything. Thank you for your patience, and for giving me the…the opportunity to be here…to realize my dream."

"You are most welcome. It was, however, only what I owed you in recompense for saving my life, and saving my own dream. I don't think I've ever thanked you properly for that."

Their eyes met, and they smiled lovingly in mirror image of one another, and she told him lightly, "Then I suppose we're even."

They were both roused the next morning by their own internal clocks, both short minutes before their alarms would have done so. Almost in parallel, they washed and dressed, and then Bastila ventured over to Revan's quarters for breakfast, though she possessed little appetite. She was gripped by something that, if not outright fear, was certainly anxious apprehension at the very least. She had _wanted_ to feel that before Bimmiel, and again before the mission to capture Revan, but as a Jedi she had dutifully quashed her emotions and gone forward like an automaton. It had been present five days ago, too, only not so strongly.

Today she could only push it aside, busying herself with the morning's intel reports that came in before the ship lurched into hyperspace at precisely 0706. The next fifty-four minutes were an intolerable eternity, and she found herself desperately wishing that the ship could fly faster, or that she could accelerate time itself, or anything else that would put an end to the torturous waiting and plunge her into the coming struggle. All the while, she was acutely aware that, in spite of having been through this dozens of times, Revan was suffering through his own lingering discomfort and doubts, second-guessing the details of the plan and playing out nightmare scenarios in his head.

There was one report from Wallen, informing them that a squad of Imperial Guards, having successfully infiltrated as far as Malastare, ambushed several Jedi on that world. Eight of the enemy were killed, three escaped, and three Imperial Guards were lost. Wallen himself had tracked another party of Jedi to Tholatin, where he was planning to hunt them down with the 1st Company.

With the chrono nearing 0743, Revan remarked, quite absently and entirely out of the blue, "She's out there."

Bastila had to take a moment to replay the words in her head, so out of place did they seem to her, before asking the obvious question, "Who?"

"Dodonna."

He turned to her then, blinked a few times.

"Sorry. Of course I knew that she's in command of 1st Armada, but I only just now sensed that she's right out there, right there ahead of us. When we drop from hyperspace, she'll be there, and we are going to kill her."

"Fleet Admiral Dodonna?" Bastila still didn't fully understand where he was going with this. Yes, Dodonna had command of the Republic's 1st Armada, and so what if she was out there?

"I served under her for a time. We fought the Mandalorians at Cyphar, Eriadu, Kerest... She's a good officer, one of the best they have. I tried to persuade her to come over to our side, of course, in the beginning when so many were leaving the Republic, but she would hear none of it. She told me that if I truly wanted to right the wrongs of the Republic, I ought do so from within, and that no good could come from division. Pity." He shook his head sadly.

"That hurt, didn't it?" she said as she laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Not even I am so cold as to be entirely immune to the bond that forms between soldiers in war, and it hurt to know that a friend had just become my enemy."

He pursed his lips, let out a hard sigh. At last the steady march of time tore him from his philosophizing.

"But we should be going," he said as he pushed himself up out of his chair, all traces of melancholy banished from his mien.

And so they donned their boots and set out for the bridge, stepping through the doors little more than a minute later.

"Attention on deck!" rang the strident voice of Captain-Lieutenant Aimirdel as they entered.

Buried deep in the heart of the great battleship, the bridge was as claustrophobic as most of the rest of the vessel, being packed with closely-spaced concentric rings of stations nestled beneath a low ceiling. In the center of the circle were two chairs for the captain and XO, and a holoprojection of the ship's surroundings, which at the moment consisted of a mass of hyperspace distortion.

On command, the officers and NCOs seated about the room sprang to their feet with a synchronized clack of boot heels.

"Salute!"

The salute was smartly returned, and Revan ordered them at ease.

"Good morning, My Lord," said Tanen. "Ma'am."

"Good morning, Captain, and a good morning to you all. Yea, I trust that this will prove an historic morning."

"History is on our side," Aimirdel remarked. "After a millennium, we are long overdue our victory."

"Superbly said," Bastila concurred.

"Gentlemen, I wish that I could have addressed the entire Group prior to the jump, but was obliged to sacrifice sentiment in the name of surprise, and so I should like to at least speak to the crew now, before we begin," Revan said in a voice brimming with pride.

"Certainly, sir."

Tanen gestured to his chair, to which Revan stepped with considerable solemnity. Tapping a few keys on the armrest console, he then straightened up, squared his shoulders.

"Comrades," Revan began, "my fellow Deralinv…my folk. I need tell none of you your duty this day. I know your quality. I know your bravery, your devotion. Above all, I know that you bear with you the spirit of those who came before: of the 5th Army at Estenmarc, the 19th Flotilla at Laicesten, the 3rd Fleet, the Patriots of '53. Throughout all the long years of darkness, their memory has sustained us, and has illuminated our way forward, and so, too, does their memory serve to guide us today.

"I do not doubt that you have all heard rumors of what we are doing here today, and many of them are undoubtedly false. What is to transpire today is the largest naval battle in history: a combined total of more than twenty-three _thousand_ warships from both sides will be engaged. Our 1st Group, under the command of Grand Admiral Kechel, will aim to entrap and utterly destroy, or else force the abject surrender, of the Republic's 1st Armada. We are to be the spearhead.

"My comrades, I believe that while this attack will not immediately bring an end to the fighting, it will decide the outcome of the war. If we achieve our objective today, the Republic will never recover: it will be doomed, and this war will end before the year is out. A partial victory, or a stalemate, will mean that the fighting with drag on, and for how long I do not know. Defeat… Defeat is not an option."

He paused, gathered himself, a pale glow shining in his eyes as he continued with mounting zeal

"As I stand here this morn on the brink of what must assuredly be a great tipping point in history, I am reminded of a passage from the saga _The Will of the Queen_: 'O, noble spirits, awaken and harken unto me, in these hours when the sun is in the west upon the last eve of summer, and a cold wind blows from the north. Awaken from the toils of peace to gird yourselves for the trials of war, fearing neither darkness nor cold, not when in your hearts burns a fire imperishable. Arise, I bid ye noble folk! Arise in this hour of evil, in this hour of decision, when our doom lies before us! With love and your hearts and death on your lips, arise like thunder! Up! Up, and into the crashing storm!'"

His voice having risen to fever pitch, pouring forth the great depth of emotion that had welled up in his heart, and he paused to draw breath prior to uttering the command: "Crew of the _Deralí_, stand…_to!"_

Switching off the intercom, he tapped a glowing key that played the recorded drum roll.

"Captain," he said on turning to face Tanen, "we are nine minutes out, you have your orders, and I shall leave you to your work."

Upon the captain's face was deeply written proud determination as he brought his heels together and saluted.

After leaving the bridge, they found Céle waiting outside the ready room, serenely at attention and yet all nervous excitement and uncertainty in the Force.

"Sir, ma'am," she greeted them, saluting.

"Céle," replied Bastila. Revan merely nodded.

"I know you especially dislike this time," he offered sympathetically, referring to the last moments before a battle.

"Forgive me, sir, but is there nothing I can _do?_ It's blindingly obvious that I'm a police officer, not a sailor, but…well…would you mind assigning me to a station?" she asked with a trace of desperation in her voice. "I don't think I can be a spectator again, at least not today."

He had to sympathize with her. In the time she had served as his aide, she had been in several battles, but had never _fought_ in one, had never been able to contribute to the outcome of one. For one who served that she might make a difference, it must have been maddening, and he thought on it for several moments. Céle, along with everyone else who was stationed aboard an Imperial warship in any capacity, was trained in fire-fighting; and, like any former Deralín municipal police officer, she was also trained in emergency first aid.

"It isn't much, and you'll be serving under someone your junior, but you may report to Compartment 102 Damage Control."

"Damage Control 102," she said, nodded. "Yes, that… That will be fine. Thank you, sir."

"Then to your post, Troop Leader."

"Yes, sir."

He and Bastila watched her jog away to her station, racing to get there in time, then stepped into the ready room.

"That was very good of you," she told him.

"She deserves to have an opportunity this day."

Bastila settled into her chair, engaged the maglocks that would secure it to the floor in combat, and tried to make herself comfortable. She ordered the lights down to a soft twilight, and forced her breathing to slow. Kneeling before her, Revan took her hands in his own and looked up into her eyes with a kind adoration that made her already-racing heart beat faster still.

"Please forgive me for saying this, but do take care. Don't try to influence the offensive in its entirety: find the critical points and concentrate on them."

She smiled back softly at him, slipped one of her hands from his grasp to gently run her fingers along his cheek.

"As I said last night, I shan't kill myself."

"I know," he said, managing a little laugh. "I have faith in you."

"And I in you."

As if to deliberately break the intimacy of the moment, Aimirdel's voice sounded over the intercom, warning the crew that they were now five minutes out. Not wishing any distractions or interruptions during the battle, Bastila quickly disabled the intercom with a flick of her wrist.

"Until after," he said, and gently kissed her pale lips.

"Until after," she echoed after they had parted.

Revan went to the door, looked back at her longingly for a moment, and stepping outside. He had to consciously commanded his legs to take each step away from her, to place distance between them, all the way down the corridor to the strategic command center. Along the way, his mind was already reaching out across the vastness of space and time, looking ahead to the coming fight, the only thing that could eclipse her in importance at this time. He saw the Republic's 42nd, 44th, and 45th Fleets, fifteen hundred ships, sitting in open space between the Tatooine and Pii systems. Not far distant were the 43rd and 46th, rounding off the enemy's 51st Battle Group.

On entering the command center, he was expecting the usual "Attention on deck!" followed by a round of stamping boots and hands raised in salute, only to be greeted with a thunderous cheer of "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" All present were standing at their stations, hats off and held high above their heads as they continued to cheer him while he stood in the doorway, struck speechless by the display. It was a spectacle that would have been unthinkable in most militaries, but there was something undeniably and quintessentially Deralín about it. There were, after all, famous paintings of still-more-famous heroes of old, who stood surrounded by throngs of loyal soldiers with hats or helmets held high in salute, voicing their praise for, and confidence in, their beloved commander.

"I thank you all," he said humbly as he swept his gaze across their faces. There was such pride there, and not only in him, that he found it truly a struggle to fully retain his composure.

"Now, then, all to your stations, for we have much work ahead of us," he forced out the words as he took his seat.

On the bridge, Tanen and Aimirdel sat side-by-side in their respective chairs, each of which was covered in an array of compact consoles and displays that would have baffled an untrained mind. Above and about them, their bridge crew was double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking every system of the battleship, all of them dreading that something might still fail at the last crucial moment. For all her staggering power as displayed at Korriban, no one was especially confident in her battle-worthiness.

"Three minutes to drop," the navigator called out.

By this point, the lights were dimmed and the ventilators brought down to the barest minimum, the ship being configured to pour every available watt of power into the weapons and shields.

Turning to Aimirdel, and with the highest gravity etched in his face, Tanen commanded, "Arm main battery."

"Arm main battery, aye," was his XO's acknowledgement.

Each man drew from around his neck a long chain, at the end of which hung a cylindrical key that fit into a socket in the armrest of each chair. A yellow glow then briefly ensconced the two of them as the ship conducted a full-body biometric scan to confirm their identities. In the third and final step, each officer entered a separate code into his armrest console, and a computerized female voice announced: "Main battery primary safety disengaged." The voice, speaking with unnatural calm, was designed to be soothing, though it came across as more ominous than anything when warning that one had just unlocked enough firepower to destroy a world.

There then followed the usual long exchange of orders issued and repeated, not unlike a chant, even a prayer, as the final preparations for combat were made:

"Weps, confirm main battery arming."

"All primary capacitors tied to MBEs B through F. Turrets B through F unlocked and slaved to CTC. MBEs B through F now open. Primary safety disengaged," the weapons chief read off her displays.

"MBEs B through F charge level to auto."

"MBEs B through F charge level to auto, aye. System awaiting target data."

"Target priority by range then mass."

"Target priority by range then mass, aye. System awaiting target data."

"Arm secondary batteries, slave to CTC."

"Arm secondary batteries, slave to CTC, aye." A longer pause than before. "Secondary batteries armed and slaved to CTC, all turrets unlocked, primary safety disengaged."

"All SBEs charge level to max, secondary battery target priority by range then mass."

"All SBEs charge level to max, secondary battery target priority by range then mass, aye. System awaiting target data."

"Arm point-defense batteries, slave to CTC."

And so on and so forth until the sequence was interrupted by the crackle of Tanen's comms coming to life.

"Bridge, SCC," said Revan quite calmly.

"SCC, bridge."

"I am assigning a new drop point. Be aware that it will place us within firing range."

"Yes, My Lord."

"SCC out."

A quick glance at his console revealed the new drop coordinates, which he then transferred to the navigator with a few keystrokes.

"Nav, adjust drop point to the coordinates specified by the C-in-C."

"Adjust drop point, aye… Drop point adjusted, new drop time 0800:01."

_One second,_ thought Tanen. _One second to make the difference._

"Weps, charge MBEs B through F three percent," ordered Aimirdel.

"Charge MBEs B through F three percent, aye."

"Sixty seconds to drop."

"Seal all blast doors, fire suppression to auto."

"Seal all blast doors, fire suppression to auto, aye," echoed one of the engineering officers, whose fingers danced across her console, and a low horn sounded thrice throughout the ship. "All compartments sealed, fire suppression armed."

"Sir, MBEs B through F are charged at three percent."

"Disengage secondary safeties all batteries."

"Disengage secondary safeties all batteries, aye… Secondary safeties all batteries disengaged, all batteries hot."

"Thirty-three seconds," came the navigator's callout.

Seated on his bridge, in the heart of the mightiest warship ever launched, Tanen at last began to feel the cold traces of fear that still crept into his heart each time before a battle. He had been at war for five years now, and still he felt it, but, as the old adage went, one would need be either a maniac or an idiot to be immune to fear. His duty was to overcome it, and overcome it he would, just as he had since the first day he had flown into battle against the Mandalorians as a weapons officer in the Deralín Navy. Those had been desperate days fighting for the very survival of his people, a tiny force only just rebuilding after centuries of neglect facing a vastly superior foe. They had suffered terribly then, and Deralí was saved as much by the Republic fleet under Revan's command as she had by the sacrifice of her sailors.

Serving on this ship, named after his beloved homeworld, named after Relaginth's flagship, serving with a crew made up entirely of his people, it was as if he was still serving in the Deralín Navy, and perhaps he was. This new Empire was, after all, ruled by Deralinv, by Revan and Meric. As it existed now, it might not resemble in all respects the Deralíntséch of old, but it was still young, and after the war was won, most anything was possible. But now was not the time for romantic dreams of the past made present, as he was reminded by the next callout.

"Ten seconds!"

"ECM to full," he said crisply.

"ECM to full, aye."

"Five…four…three…two…one…"

A shudder ran up through the floor, into Tanen's chair and on into his spine, and his eyes locked on the tactical display that reached from floor to ceiling in front of him.

"…drop!"

"Shields up," Tanen ordered at once.

"Shields up, aye."

"Contacts!" came the sensor chief's call. "Multiple contacts off the starboard bow, range to closest: two-six-six thousand. No IFF. Additional contacts now aft-starboard, range to closest: one-one-eight thousand, IFF confirmed on aft-starboard contacts."

"Shields full forward."

"Shields full forward, aye."

"Targeting lock on multiple hostile contacts," reported Weps. "I have a shooting solution."

This was the point, at least for Tanen, at which the fear was altogether displaced by the rush of adrenaline, and however much he tried to retain the stoic calm expected of a Deralín officer in face of the enemy, the next order came from his lips as an exuberant call to arms:

"Weapons free! Commence fire! Commence fire!"

"Weapons free, aye. Main battery firing now."

It was anti-climactic, really, the lights not flickering as they had at Korriban, the ship offering not the slightest physical indication that her guns were firing.

"Secondaries firing now."

It was only on the tactical display that he could witness proof that his ship was engaging the enemy, as seven amber icons abruptly changed from a triangle to a square, indicating they were now classed as disabled, and one vanished altogether.

"Incoming!" the DSO exclaimed at roughly the same time, and though Tanen was certain that if the man said there was incoming fire, then there was, he felt no jarring impacts. It was like sitting atop a cliff as it was pounded by waves, and he couldn't help feeling a little lightness in his chest.

"Bring us head-on to them," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Aimirdel took a glance at one of his seat displays before passing along to the helmsman, "Helm, steer two-niner-zero, plus zero-zero-eight, hold position."

"Steer two-niner-zero, plus zero-zero-eight, hold position, aye."

Slowly, the ship swung its bow to starboard and slightly up, until it was aimed squarely at the center of the enemy formation. On the tactical display, Tanen saw the ships of the 22nd Task Force, now under way at flank speed, racing to close to within firing range of the enemy. It wouldn't be long before they opened up, a small clock counting back from 2:11.

Revan watched on his own holoprojection as the 9th Task Force dropped from hyperspace just outside the Ryloth system not far from the Republic 52nd Battle Group. They immediately relayed the enemy's position to the 23rd Task Force, which had stopped short of Ryloth and would now execute its own jump into attack position. When they dropped from hyperspace some seven minutes from now, the 9th would already be engaged, and the enemy would suddenly find himself outnumbered by two-to-one and coming under heavy enfilade fire. Furthermore, the nearest Republic units capable of coming to their aid were an hour's flight distant. In keeping with his designs, Dodonna had shifted the bulk of her forces to the vicinity of the Doldur Sector, leaving the right end of her line too thin. _Perfection. Glorious perfection._

As for Dodonna, she was out there, a couple of hundred thousand kilometers from where he sat now, undoubtedly in a command center not unlike his own. It was intriguing that she would be here, though, if she expected an attack in the Doldur Sector. He reached out to her across the deadly space that divided them, felt fear, frustration, raw anger…but it was anger aimed not at him. _You knew better, didn't you? You fought with me, you know me, you know a feint when one is played upon you, but not those fat great idiots on Coruscant. They overruled you._ He felt sorry for her then, and not only because, by finding her, he had managed to pick her flagship out of the hundreds of Republic heavy cruisers in the fray. _There can be no greater tragedy for a commander than to foresee a disaster, and yet be compelled to take part in it, to even help it along; and afterward, even though it be no fault of your own, you would have been blamed for it._

She had told him this in the beginning, had taken him aside and told him, with great bitterness tearing at her heart, of the Battle of Ord Mantell, when she had been the chief of staff of the 101st Fleet. They had received orders from Coruscant to attack the Mandalorians, though everyone on the fleet staff knew that it was impossible, and that it could only end in terrible losses and little gain, if any. Her commanding officer had pleaded with the High Command to reconsider, but their orders stayed firm. And so the 101st valiantly attacked the Mandalorians, as ordered, and was butchered for their bravery, and when it was over, her commander had told her that at least they could say they had done their duty. Then he went into his cabin and shot himself. Revan had never forgotten that story, could remember Dodonna's every word, the tone of her voice as she spoke, the tears that came into her eyes at the memory of all who had died in vain.

He had pitied her then, had hoped more than anything that he would never find himself in the same position, but he could not grant himself the luxury of pitying her now. She was the commanding officer of the formation he sought to annihilate, and, as such, she was a primary target. Deprived of leadership, the 1st Armada would be all the more vulnerable.

"Bridge, SCC," he said as he magnified the display and highlighted a single icon, "designate Contact Four-Seven-One a priority target. Confirm."

"Designate Contact Four-Seven-One a priority target, aye."

_Is it not better this way? _he asked, projecting his thoughts across the void. He felt a sudden pang of shock from her: confusion and bewilderment at what she heard as a disembodied voice in her head. _Goodbye, Admiral._

Of all the myriad displays before him, none actually showed the status of the _Deralí's_ guns. They offered no indication that the central targeting computer was establishing a lock on the cruiser _Republica _- known to its firing program only as Contact 471 - and calculating the minimum level of charge required to cripple the vessel based on its mass. There was nothing to say precisely when T Turret fired, but he knew the exact moment when the shot impacted the _Republica_. It struck amidships on the port side, overloading the shield emitters on contact before slamming into the hull, whereupon it lost cohesion and blossomed into an ever-expanding sphere. The blast tore through deck upon deck, compartment after compartment, until it had broken the ship's back. Great clouds of atmosphere vented from the gaping wound, instantaneously crystallizing on contact with cold vacuum. Secondary explosions erupted from the hull in cascading chains running away from the point of impact, the cruiser twisting as if in agony as it tore itself apart. Through it all, he felt no fear from his old comrade: she had seen death too many times, had escaped it on many days, and quietly accepted that it had at last caught up with her. Thirty-four seconds after the initial blast, the forward torpedo magazine detonated and rent asunder much of the bow, and it was then that her presence vanished from the Force.

_There is no time for that,_ he suddenly chastised himself. _There is no time for sentiment. Go to work. _And so he did.

The 22nd was now within the outer limits of its engagement envelope, and the massed heavy cruisers in the vanguard were unleashing a withering fire upon the enemy. Fanning out from the perimeter of this formation were swarms of light cruisers and destroyers, the latter in particular moving swiftly away from the center so as to deliver fire from as many angles as possible. It was a beautifully-executed attack, there were simply no other words to describe it. Revan, however, was obligated to look beneath the obvious, past the physical, to the minds of the enemy. They were so many that it was impossible to focus on any one, to differentiate an admiral from the greenest sailor (that he had found Dodonna was thanks only to his familiarity with her), and he was left instead to study a general aura of jumbled thought and emotion. There was not yet panic - not yet - but the enemy was deeply shocked by the brute force of the assault. He had to remind himself of how many more windows there were on a Republic warship, and how much closer together they flew, and that many on board must be able to witness nearby ships being split open by a single shot from the _Deralí, _or else pummeled by converging fire from the ships of the 22nd. What horror and awe must there be in witnessing the terminal effects of the power he had unleashed?

Soon the enemy was wavering. The remainder of the 51st Battle Group was on its way - he could feel it as they jumped - but those who were here now were outnumbered and, even when reinforcements arrived, they would still be _outgunned. _Blended in with fear and shock, there was great surprise and bewilderment that they were under attack at all. _You were told by Coruscant that we might conduct a diversion here, and by your admiral that we might make our main thrust here, and now you wonder which this is. You wonder if you ought to retreat, and - if so - where to?_ The three fleets before him were coordinating their defense was well as could be expected under the circumstances, but the battle group commander was hesitant to do anything for the moment besides unite his forces.

He fired off orders to High Admiral Padoulene, commander of the 22nd, advising him of the approach vector and ETA of the two incoming Republic fleets. For once, the enemy would be using one of his own favorite tactics: that of delivering converging fire. Fortunately, Padouline's formations were loose and fluid, and easily reshaped to meet the coming counterattack. Just to be safe, he would, when the time came, order Tanen to change his heading so as to split the _Deralí's_ fire between the two enemy forces. Beyond that, there was little further need for him to interfere in operations that were proceeding so favorably.

On the right flank of the attack, the 2nd Task Force was conducting limited attacks against the Republic units around Ando, though not yet seriously committing itself to battle. Immediately behind them waited the 24th, ready to reinforce them the moment they began their advance in earnest. For the moment, they just waited. Among the enemy there, he felt a good deal less confusion, as they had been under attack quite recently, and had consequently expected the offensive against them to be renewed at any time. They were holding their own, but nor were they bringing up any reserves, the attack being less than overwhelming for the time being. He thought to order pressure to be increased against them, lest they realize that they were the object of a diversion, but reminded himself that the battle was scarcely underway, and that there remained ample time to allow the situation to mature.

Immersed in the currents of the Force, Bastila was nearly overwhelmed by the staggering scale of the task before her: there were tens of millions of minds here. She couldn't hope to work upon them all, had to focus her energies on the critical points in the fighting, had to first decide where those were. She knew that the enemy had strong reserves on his left flank, which would cause serious trouble for her own right flank were they committed there. It was desirable that these should be kept back until a breakthrough was achieved here and it became obvious to the enemy where the true threat was. So, at least for now, she focused there, upon men and women who were not yet engaged, sowing all the doubt and confusion she could manage, sapping their confidence and, with it, much of their good judgment.

Later, she became dimly aware of a more immediate threat, and diverted her attention back to her surroundings, only to find that the Republic had brought in reinforcements that were aiming to flank the 22nd. It was intended that both prongs of the main attack should break through as close to simultaneously as was practicable, as well as with a minimum of losses, and so she could not permit this setback to endure, and set her will upon the crews of the newly-arrived enemy vessels.

On the bridge, Fahn reported, without measurable concern, "Shields at eighty-eight."

The _Deralí_ was receiving a disproportionate concentration of enemy fire, but her shields were holding well, and Fahn had been subjected to far worse (relatively speaking) bombardments in years past. Of far greater concern to him and his engineering staff was the status of the ship's subsystems. If anything was to bring about disaster, it would be an ill-timed power failure. Half an hour into the fighting, however, the ship was still operating almost flawlessly, with but a few problems cropping up here and there: localized glitches and the like that affected some of the secondary turbolasers. Even these were being attended to by crew and droids with laudable speed and efficiency.

Ensconced in his command chair, leaning forward with eyes boring into the tactical display, Tanen mused on the enemy ships trying to skirt around the 22nd. They had occupied a sound position from which to deliver enfilade fire, but were now losing their nerve and moving to unite with the same battered formations they had come to rescue. He saw an opportunity here, the chance to split the enemy. His hand moved to the comm controls, only to have the comm come alive before he ever touched a key.

"Bridge, SCC," came Revan's words.

"SCC, bridge."

"Do not aim for the center of that line crossing ahead of us, aim for the tail, then come up behind them after they pass."

_Damn, if he doesn't know exactly what I'm thinking._

"Aye, sir. I'll make for the tail end of that fleet, drop in behind at at least one-five-zero, and we'll chew our way straight up the line."

"That's it, Captain, that's it. Now, to it!" were Revan's enthusiastic orders.

"Yes, sir." Cutting the line and turning to Aimirdel, he said, "You heard him: take us in."

"Helm, steer three-five-two, minus zero-zero-seven, ahead full."

"Three-five-two, min zero-zero-seven, ahead full, aye."

Tanen again consulted the display, waited for the ship to swing to her new heading, said, "Weps, concentrate fire ahead, max spread point-zero-one."

"Max spread point-zero-one from zero, aye."

With that command, the _Deralí's_ guns were now all firing only at those enemy ships within a thirty-one kilometer sphere directly ahead of her. One by one, as the main guns fired sequentially at six-second intervals, enemy contacts were marked by the computer as "out of action." Few were destroyed outright, the computer carefully calculating the charge of each shot so as to inflict crippling damage with the minimum power required, thereby maximizing rate of fire. Some, like the _Republica_, were unfortunate enough to suffer from devastating secondary explosions, or even so cursed as to take a direct hit to the reactor. Others, thanks to a liberal use of jamming and decoys, took only a glancing blow, one which would have been survivable had it been delivered by a normal turbolaser, but which in this instance was sufficient to blow off an entire bow or other portion of the ship. These wounded vessels then automatically became the target of the _Derali's_ secondary batteries, which finished them off while the main guns engaged new prey.

"Fire in Compartment 377!" cried the damage control officer. Eyes and fingers moving rapidly across her console, she then added, "Fire alarms tripped on decks 223 through 226, suppression systems active, rescue crews alerted."

"Cause?" asked Fahn.

"One moment," replied another of his staff. "Ruptured power conduit… It supplies Battery 83. I'm attempting to reroute power."

"Weps, reduce rate of fire from secondaries in that area," Tanen ordered at once.

"Reducing rate of fire, Batteries 80 through 87, aye. Sir, I should also like to report that CTC is shifting our beaten zone to port."

"That's fine."

As he could see on the tactical display, the computer had run out of targets directly ahead, and was automatically seeking new targets, steadily moving its fire up the line of enemy ships.

"Sir, be advised that those ships ahead of us are now concentrating their fire primarily on ourselves," reported the DSO.

"Thank you, and I shall take that under consideration. Decoy status?"

"Down to eighty-two percent."

"Increase deployment rate, bearing in mind we still have a long day ahead of us."

"Increasing deployment rate to…nine per minute, aye, sir."

"Helm, steer three-four-four, min zero-zero-three," ordered Aimirdel, turning the ship to follow the path of the enemy.

"Three-four-zero, min zero-zero-three aye."

"Shield status?"

"Eighty-five."

Tanen's first instinct was to slow off, keep his distance, but something checked his caution and urged him on, and when he paused to give it thought, he understood that the best course would be to get behind the enemy as soon as possible. Their ships fired broadside, and once behind them, he would be under very limited fire.

"XO, get us in behind them and expedite it," he instructed Aimirdel.

"Aye, sir. Helm, ahead flank, continue accelerating. Hold this course."

"Ahead flank, holding course, aye."

Tapping at his console, Tanen calculated when they would be in position: at the new rate of acceleration, it would take just under seven minutes. Seven minutes…

_Just a little longer,_ thought Bastila as she continued to fan the flames of fear in the hearts of the Republic crews ahead of her. They were in a poor position now, for in order to keep the _Deralí_ from falling astern of them, they would need to execute a sweeping turn towards her, which would then put them head-on with the bulk of the 22nd. Their only choice was to fly faster along their current route, unite with their comrades as soon as they could, and then wheel about. Truthfully, the best option before all the Republic forces in the engagement was to retreat, to jump to hyperspace and regroup elsewhere. She had, after all, seen to it that their flanking maneuver came to naught, betrayed by their own ingrained fear of splitting up their formations.

_Just a little longer, and then I can turn away from here,_ she told herself. Though she didn't know the time, she knew that the battle had been raging long enough for the Republic to have reorganized its command structure. While chaos might be taking hold here, the overall picture was starting to assume some semblance of order, and that she could not have. The enemy must not be permitted to gather his strength, had to be kept off-balance, jumping from one crisis to the next, if the offensive was to achieve its objective.

So she pressed harder on the crews of the Republic 43rd Fleet, assuring them that death was nigh, urging them onwards ever-faster. The 46th, which was ahead of them in that long, strung-out line of battle (she never thought she would ever see a real line of battle, but here it was) was maintaining a more orderly pace, and now some of its rear elements were being overtaken by the 43rd. What had begun as an organized maneuver to unite two separate forces was developing into a rout.

In the strategic command center, Revan was faced with a life-sized hologram of Kechel, who was physically aboard her flagship _Bela Vistal,_ and not far from the Pii system.

"Admiral, I am becoming concerned about the situation on the right," he said quietly. "I feel some measure of aggression building in the enemy, as though he might counterattack there."

"Surely not," replied Kechel confidently. "Those people aren't stupid - they have to see the mauling we're giving them here."

"Yes, but they might believe that if they hit us hard enough along the Blenjeel-Leritor-Kothlis line, then they can bypass our main body, perhaps even reach the Abrion Sector."

Kechel took a deep breath, her eyes flitting away to something out of camera, certainly a display in her own command center.

"There would be logic in that," she said with a nod of affirmation. "You and I know that we could still maneuver back around them, return to a place of strength, but they think in terms of geography. Their concern is always with taking or holding systems."

"It would look very good for those fat politicians on Coruscant to have it on the newsfeed that they retook a couple of hundred systems, even if it does cost them a few battle groups in the process."

"Well, that part would never make it on the news, now would it?"

"Not very likely, no."

"If they do attack there, however, I shall order Morrett and Orsk to move counter to the enemy's advance and link up with us."

"Hopefully, we'll break through here in short order, and in doing so dispel any notions the enemy might have of advancing at all, but if they do indeed hit us on the right, I concur that that would be the sound course to follow. By then we shall have already destroyed a third of their strength, and in conducting an unplanned offensive, they may well spread themselves out."

"Agreed. Wherever the enemy is, we shall concentrate against him and destroy him."

Revan flashed a predatory smile, a rare thing for him, but he saw such opportunity before him that he couldn't restrain it.

"Carry on, Admiral," he said cheerfully.

"Sir."

They saluted one another before Kechel's hologram turned to static, and then empty space.

Returning to his seat, Revan shut his eyes and searched the Force once more, hoping to find something more definite than he had before. The enemy here and at Ryloth was in despair and disarray, his position clearly untenable, and yet…had they been promised no support? He sensed none of the expectant hope, the determination to hold out, that was characteristic of those awaiting reinforcement. _Surely they cannot still be trying to divine our intentions - it's been more than an hour, and we've torn their right flank to shreds. Why would they not move to reinforce… _Only then did the explanation dawn on him: Gíal, _is that not your work I see?_ he thought with a warm smile.

Bastila felt Revan with her for several long, lovely moments, his adoring confidence in her bolstering her spirit even as she was tiring from her strenuous efforts. She had delayed whatever plans her opposite number was considering, and had now turned back to her more immediate surroundings, where it was high time that the enemy broke and ran. The 9th and 23rd had shattered the defenders of the Ryloth system, and it was only because of their interdictor frigates that the enemy had yet to escape. A breakthrough there was imminent.

"Hold this distance," Tanen said sideways to Aimirdel.

"Helm, back one quarter, slow by four-five thousand," the XO's voice rose above the low procedural chatter of the other bridge officers.

"Back one quarter, slow by four-five thousand, aye."

Having successfully fallen into trail with the 43rd Fleet, the _Deralí_ had methodically blasted through their tail end. The enemy had initially held his course for a few minutes, deliberately sacrificing those in the rear in the hope that the rest could escape, then realized the hopelessness of it and broke formation. Enemy ships peeled off in every direction, squadron and wing commanders taking matters into their own hands as they desperately fought to save their units from total annihilation. Capitalizing on the situation, the Imperial 71st Fleet had joined in the fray and was delivering spectacular punishment on the scattered Republic units.

"Shields at seventy-six percent," reported the DSO.

"Sir," Fahn chimed in, "I would advise that we reduce the rate of fire on Batteries 40 through 45 to fifty percent, at least for the time being. We're seeing some potentially dangerous heating of the power conduits there, and I don't want another fire."

"Very well. Weps, reduce rate of fire, Batteries 40 through 45, to fifty percent."

"Reducing rate of fire, batteries 40 through 45, to fifty percent, aye."

No sooner had she finished that sentence than Weps gave a visible start and exclaimed, "Sir, target disappeared!"

"Confirmed," the sensor chief added to the exchange. "They've jumped away… I just lost another wing of them… And there goes another."

"Do you have a vector?"

"Working on it…two-six-niner, min zero-zero-two."

"Relay that to the rest of the Task Force."

Tanen tapped at his comm panel, calling the strategic command center.

"SCC, bridge."

"Bridge, SCC," Revan answered at his end. He had not needed Tanen's call to know that the enemy was retreating, had not even needed to see it on the strategic map. He had felt it, just minutes after the 52nd battle group abandoned Ryloth.

"Sir, the enemy is in retreat, jumping to hyperspace. We've plotted their course."

"Copy that, Captain. I am sending you jump coordinates now," he said as he selected a point a few light-years from the Lok system on the Cadavine side.

"Coordinates received."

"Plot the jump and stand by. Revan out."

He quickly typed a set of near-identical orders to High Admirals Padoulene, Redon, and Jalesk (the latter two commanding the 9th and 23rd, respectively), instructing them to disengage and rendezvous outside the Lok system, and to initiate their jump at 0929:00, which was now seven minutes away.

While he waited for that time to elapse, he tried to see the fleeing enemy in his mind. He had originally expected them to abandon the front sooner and with fewer losses, had thought that they would link up at or near Cadavine, where the real break would occur. Instead, that coming action would be a mopping-up operation, unless of course the Republic could bring up more forces in time. He rather hoped they would, that he might destroy those, too. _Yes… There is some…motive energy to their thoughts. There is more than panic, there is purpose._

"Bridge, SCC," he said.

"SCC, bridge."

"What is the status of the ship?"

"Fully operational and ready for continued action, sir. Our shields are currently at seventy-six percent, though we might improve on that some by the time we reach our destination. All main batteries are green, and roughly ninety percent of secondary and point-defense batteries are operating at full capacity. Engines are at full capacity. Overall, we've taken only minor damage, sir."

"I am glad to hear it, Captain. Execute jump at 0929:00."

"Execute jump at 0929:00, aye."

"Revan out."

He wasted no time in pushing up out of his chair and making for the door.

"I may be reached on my personal commlink if there are any developments," he ordered on his way out.

Down the corridor he sped to the ready room, stopped and composed himself outside, opened the door and stepped softly through. Bastila was seated where he had left her, with her hands resting in her lap, back straight, head held high, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids as if dreaming. She was not dreaming though - very far from it. Sweat was beaded on her forehead from exertion, her alabaster skin paler even than normal, and her chest rose and fell heavily, albeit slowly. In spite of all appearances, he could feel her strength through their bond, her power as gloriously brilliant as a summer sunrise.

He dared not disturb her, and contented himself with kneeling beside her and holding her right hand, whispering soft words of encouragement to his beloved.

"Revan," she murmured almost inaudibly without opening her eyes.

"I'm here," he answered.

"How are we doing?"

"Perfectly. It couldn't be going better. We'll be jumping soon, following them, and I expect to hit them again somewhere in the Cadavine Sector, just as we planned. You should rest until then."

"The 2nd…"

"The 2nd is doing fine. The enemy may yet move against them, but now that we've broken through, that's becoming less of a danger."

"I should…" her voice faltered, "I should hold them. If they come in…piecemeal… we'll have them."

"Rest for now. We've yet to reach the decisive moment, and you need marshal your strength for then. I'll see to it that they remain off-balance for now."

She nodded her assent, opened her eyes a sliver to look upon his loving face. She was now fully back in the physical world, and drew a long, deep breath.

"Would you fetch me a glass of water?"

"Of course," he said with a warm, sweet smile.

In spite of the ship's life support systems running at the bare minimum and the air temperature steadily dropping in any section of the ship not adjacent to the power systems, Céle was beginning to sweat. She wasn't doing anything besides sitting about on her backside, but the reflective-yellow suit she wore wasn't the most breathable of garments ever invented. Its outermost layer was airtight, non-conductive, and fireproof to 2000 degrees Centigrade, and beneath that lay a thick layer of insulation. There was a self-contained thermal regulation system, but that was only rated for three hours' continuous use, and she therefore couldn't activate it until and unless she went into action. For now, she had to settle for sitting on a bench in the staging area with her helmet on her lap, waiting for an alarm that she didn't really want to hear.

Around her sat forty others, all Navy, including her temporary commander, Chief Petty Officer Cálen. He was a powerfully-built man of about thirty who, with his pencil moustache and slicked-over hair, looked like he was trying very hard to resemble an officer. Early on, he'd asked her a few idle questions about serving with Revan, what he was like, and all that - the usual questions she got from almost everybody these days - but most of the time he had mutely sat and waited with the rest of them. At times, he tapped the heel of his right boot on the floor in steady rhythm, a nervous tic which Céle found thoroughly obnoxious.

"So you're HC," he clumsily remarked after a while.

"What gave me away?" was her sarcastic retort.

Instead of coming up with an equally-sarcastic answer, he asked that old question asked by many a young police recruit, if not always in precisely the same form: "Ever shoot anybody?" From an experienced NCO like Cálen, however, it didn't carry the same morbid enthusiasm, just morbid curiosity.

"Lots," she answered truthfully. "You?"

"Never even pushed a button that fired a gun that shot somebody," was his deadpan reply.

"Mighty bloodthirsty, eh?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Just eager to have at 'em, isn't that right, sir?" a young woman offered in his defense from the opposite row of benches.

He looked down at his boots, tapped his heel again, leaned closer to Céle and lowered his voice in the hope that his crew wouldn't hear. "I don't know how much longer this war's going to last, especially if today turns out to be all it's supposed to be. I guess I'd just like to be able to say, when this is all over and done with, that I did something besides sit around waiting for something to go wrong."

"Well, buck up, anything can happen. We might even have a hull breach," she said optimistically.

He looked up at her quickly as if to say, _Sea and sky, I hope not!_ and she laughed.

"I'm sure there's plenty of war left," she assured him.

Their banter was interrupted then by the jump alarm's low moan, and the announcement of, "All hands secure for jump!"

Céle already had her lap belt fastened, which was standard procedure in combat, or so she was told, though she couldn't imagine a ship this big being knocked about by anything. Jumping into hyperspace was another matter, however, and so she tugged on the belt, cinching it tighter than it already was. The familiar low, undulating horn sounded, followed by the countdown.

"Five…four…"

Then she heard something shouted in the background, and the countdown abruptly ceased.

"Bridge, SCC! Abort jump! Abort jump!" Revan shouted frantically into the microphone of his chair in the command center.

He waited unbreathing for what seemed like minutes before Tanen replied, "Jump aborted, sir!"

"Stand by," he ordered.

It had been at the last moment that he felt the sudden burning breath of warning, and knew that the enemy was in motion. He had barely succeeded in stopping the _Deralí_ from making the jump to hyperspace, which would have rendered communications all but impossible. They would have had to immediately drop, re-calculate their jump, spool up the hyperdrive all over again, costing precious time.

"Get me Kechel," he ordered to the room.

Her holographic likeness returned surprisingly soon, and he stood to address her.

"Admiral, the enemy is underway," he spoke quickly.

"Against our right?" she asked anxiously.

"No, no, they're coming this way. They're sending reserves to support the 51st and 52nd."

"Then we have them," she exulted.

"We may, Admiral, we may. I think they might have dispatched only one battle group, perhaps slightly more, and if that is the case, then it would be best to persuade them not to send more for the time being. There is still something waiting out there, and it would be ideal if that last force remains where it is."

"I'll order Morrett forward at once in support of Orsk - that should give them something to think about."

"Yes, we've split them almost perfectly, but we must preserve our strength on the right. They could still concentrate and outnumber us there, and we cannot afford any appreciable losses from such a scenario. Do not commit yourself to an equal fight if at all possible."

"Agreed. We must continue to destroy them in detail as we are doing now, or else break off the engagement. As for their reserves, I suspect they're just outside Zolan - we've triangulated numerous transmissions to that area."

"While in transit to the Cadavine Sector, I shall meditate on this, and attempt to confirm your suspicion."

"Very good, sir. Have you any further orders?"

He paused, searching for any further signs of warning and finding none.

"None at the moment. If absolutely necessary, I'll drop from hyperspace to contact you again, but I trust your judgment, Admiral: you have never lost a battle, and I know that you will not let your record be tarnished today."

"No, sir, I don't intend to," she chuckled. "Good hunting to you, sir."

"And to you, Admiral."

As before, they saluted one another, and then Kechel was gone.

_Glorious perfection_, he thought again as he called up the bridge.

"Bridge, SCC."

"SCC, bridge."

"Proceed with jump."

"Proceed with jump, aye."

He sat back, tried to relax, knowing that he would have little effect on the battle for the next forty-three minutes. _Kechel knows her business,_ he reminded himself. The jump alarm sounded again, followed by the countdown, and he tightened his hold on the armrests. He felt the shudder run up into his spine.

"…two…one…jump!"

* * *

Here follows a list of Derals words and phrases, with translations, that have appeared thus far:

brechad: treason

O cina ílíth rethér: My will be done.

lín: magnificent

ámenín: corrupt

draitsûlín: worthless, without value (applied to a person, it implies being unworthy of life)

áthin: rotten person (associated with disease and decay, i.e. somebody sick and twisted)

hwaichín: accursed

méthnin: Lord or Lady (literally "honorable person")

Duníf fare íl ahlér: I wish you peace.

Mai tsédín dauthér danets íl: I'm looking for a green coat.

Thíle íl dur: I love you.

émhwelin: dearest

Lé calach, ílíd méthnin: A fine sunrise, My Lord. (A fine sunrise being Derals for "good morning.")

Té lé calachér hwe fent, ílíd méthnin: This is a very fine sunrise, My Lady.

ro hevésha: "well returned" (i.e. welcome back, welcome home)

gíal: darling


	10. Press On

Note: I have now corrected a few errors in this chapter and those preceding it, regarding the numbering of Republic naval units. I hope this hasn't caused too much confusion, and apologize for my oversight.

* * *

10

Press On

31 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

28.8.20375

When Bastila opened her eyes, she was almost shivering with cold, her entire body damp beneath the layers of her uniform. Her head swam and her vision blurred in the dim light of the ready room, and for several long minutes she couldn't so much as lift a finger. She had been working upon the fighting on the right flank, which had greatly intensified some ten minutes after the _Deralí _made her jump to hyperspace, only to abruptly cease just a few minutes ago. It had been going superbly at first, with the 2nd and 24th concentrating against a smaller Republic force and dealing out substantial losses. Then the enemy had brought up reinforcements, and the fight became more balanced; and although she did all in her power to discourage the foe, and was certain that she could have regained the upper hand given time, somebody on her side decided to break off the engagement altogether. The two Imperial task forces jumped away at 1009, and quiet descended all along the front, and she was left with nothing to do besides recover her strength.

_And you could certainly stand to do that, you silly idiot. It's only two hours into this business, and you can barely move. Get up!_ she silently shouted at herself as she struggled mightily to shift herself from her seat. It was not physical exhaustion as she was accustomed to, no ache or burn in her muscles, but rather a paralyzing numbness, as if her nerves had taken a holiday. She had to will the feeling back into her body, focusing on a pit of strength deep in her chest and imagining it expanding, diffusing into her blood and her nerves and spreading all throughout her. Only then could she grip the arms of the chair, plant her feet firmly on the floor, and push upwards. It seemed to happen in slow motion, her limbs reluctant to respond to her command, but stand she did.

With the intercom still disabled, she couldn't hear the navigator's warning of the impending drop to realspace, but she didn't need to.

"Oh, bollocks," she cursed the quivering sensation rising up through the deck and into her rubbery legs. She maintained a firm grip (or as firm a grip as she could manage) on the chair as she waited for it to subside, only to be shaken by a sharp jolt, which was repeated a half-second later. She lost her grip, reeled, caught the edge of the desk, and arrested her fall.

It was several minutes more before she had regained sufficient control of her body to stagger the few meters across the room to the synthesizer and refill her glass. As before, the water was an elixir of life, pure refreshment that restored some semblance of wellness to her being. She refilled it again, this time only halfway, and carried it back to the desk, where she returned to her seat with a heavy sigh. _It's not over,_ she told herself.

"Bridge, SCC, report," Revan spoke, surprising himself with the hoarseness of his voice. He had spent most of the flight to Lok meditating on the enemy's whereabouts - both the forces he was pursuing here and the reserve units Kechel believed were hiding near Zolan - and the effort had had much the same effect on him as Battle Meditation did on Bastila, albeit not on so depleting a level.

"SCC, Bridge," Tanen answered. "Null Quantum Field Generator 8 cut out early - we're diagnosing that as I speak. We also have Task forces 22, 23, and 9 on sensors, all in our immediate vicinity."

Turning away from the microphone, Revan cleared his throat before asking, "Shall we have any difficulty in jumping again?"

"All other generators are showing green. I'll have a go-no-go report in five minutes."

"Very well. This ship must be ready to jump in no more than fifteen, and the sooner the better."

"Yes, sir."

"SCC out."

_They're there,_ he thought as he locked his gaze on the Maill system. He could almost see them, lurking beneath the orbital plane, between the orbits of the first and second planets. Almost… Try as he might, he couldn't _actually_ see them, however, and therefore could not discern their numbers. _Certainly fewer than us, maybe two-thirds._ Was that knowledge, though, or was it hope? No, he didn't sense the kind of danger that he would have were they a more significant threat.

As for Kechel's problem…

The moment he let his eyes wander from Maill, he realized that Kechel had disengaged on the right flank. In fact, there was no right flank remaining whatsoever. As the display updated for the first time since the ship dropped into realspace, it indicated the 2nd and 24th Task Forces in hyperspace on their way to Zolan, ETA 1031. _And there's no one in Zolan - I searched there._ There were two Republic battle groups in the Ando system, though their icons indicated only an approximate position.

"Get me Kechel," he rasped. "And a glass of water."

As ill-fortune would have it, he was in the middle of draining the glass when the admiral appeared, obliging him to hastily finish and set aside the glass.

"Sir," Kechel greeted him simply.

"Admiral, what has happened at Ando? Why was the attack broken off so soon?"

"Immediately after I last spoke with you, I ordered Orsk to throw in his full weight, and Morrett to come up fast and encircle the enemy. We were concentrating against a single battle group - we believe it was the 16th - and we really had a twist on them. I mean, it looked to be a repeat of what happened at Ryloth, that we would crush them, right up until 0950, when a second enemy battle group dropped in. I hoped that we might at least encourage them to retire, but they had a good position, and they showed no signs of going anyplace. Bearing in mind the necessity not to squander our strength, I decided that the business could go on for some time without a decision being reached, and ordered our people to jump to Zolan to hunt for the enemy reserves. Obviously, there can be only one battle group left there, and when we catch it, we'll tear it to pieces."

He resisted the initial impulse to tell her that she should have forced the issue at Ando. He had felt Bastila at work there, and was certain that she could have sent the enemy into retreat if granted time. It was, after all, his order to preserve the strength of the 2nd and 24th, and he certainly couldn't fault Kechel's logic in preferring to destroy an inferior foe, rather than face one on more equal terms.

"They're not at Zolan," was all he said in the end.

She frowned, nodded subtly, was clearly concerned that she may have gambled and lost.

"Yes, just after we broke it off at Ando, there was a flurry of comm traffic, and then nothing more from Zolan. They're clearly on the move, so the only question is: where to? I have an idea that they're still near Zolan, but it is, as yet, only an idea."

"I suspect you're correct. Now that they've lost contact with us, they have no idea as to where we are, or what our designs may be. They do not know if we intend to renew the attack, or if we are disengaging from battle. At this end, they are most definitely regrouping at Maill, for they have suffered grievous losses here, and must consolidate their forces. On the right, however, they are lounging about at Ando, and debating whether they should stay put or withdraw and consolidate their forces on that flank, as well. They must begin to suspect that the attack on the right was a feint, and so I believe that their reserves are drawing back from Zolan, coming this way, but not very far, mind you, not very far."

"No, they're still too confused to commit the last of their reserves, but that's going to change. If they're smart, they'll pull out of Ando altogether, and soon, and unite with that group near Zolan. As soon as our people reach Zolan, I'll order them to disperse into a search pattern," Kechel moved to bring a map projection into Revan's view, and highlighted a section of space, "here. The instant one unit makes contact, all others will converge: I mean to find that reserve battle group and destroy it before it can be rescued."

Revan studied her search field, which partly overlapped with the area where his sensed believed the enemy to be.

"I should like to expand that search area more this way," he told her as he highlighted a section of space on his own display for her to see. "This locale would position that reserve group more evenly between Ando and Maill."

Kechel struck a contemplative pose, with the knuckle of her index finger held to her chin, as she regarded the proposal.

"Very well, sir. We'll be a tad thinner, but all units will still be within a few minutes of one another. I'll make it so. What are your plans, however, for moving on Maill?"

"I should like to hit them immediately, but I'm obliged to delay until Morrett and Orsk find that reserve group, or else it's liable to move before they can engage."

Kechel paused to consider the situation, likely weighing the risks that the enemy might leave Maill even before then. The plan had been to maintain pressure on the enemy at all times, or as nearly so as possible, in order to prevent him from concentrating in any one direction. He was spread far and wide at the moment, but that could easily change during this lull in the fighting.

"With all due respect, sir, it's my advice that you should time your attack on Maill for 1045, or thereabouts. Hopefully, the 2nd and 24th will locate the reserve group quickly."

"Agreed: I shall time my attack for 1045 exactly." He clasped his hands behind his back, stared past Kechel to the display. "Bear in mind, Admiral, that by the time we are finished at Maill, 1st Armada will be at or around half strength."

At last she managed a smile as she said, "Yes, sir."

"Carry on."

"Yes, sir."

He all but fell back into the chair, biting his lower lip in frustration with himself. It was too late to do anything about it now except press on, and move swiftly before the enemy got himself organized. _It will take those task forces a few minutes to calculate their new jump, and another eleven or twelve to reach that reserve group, so that puts them in action at…1044, assuming the enemy is still there. They have interdictors with them, they can hold the enemy there and destroy him completely. That _must_ be the 39__th__ lurking around Zolan, and they are very much weakened from Operation Drumbeat, which is why they're so far back from the front. They won't last long. I must wait…1045, yes, the timing would be perfect. But do I have the time to wait? Will they let me wait?_

He wished desperately to go to Bastila, to tend to her, but he needed to be certain of the 39th's position, and the chrono was reading 1019, which left him with just thirteen minutes, eleven to be sure he could comm Kechel again if need be.

"SCC, Bridge," Tanen's voice broke disrupted his inner monologue.

"Bridge, SCC."

"Sir, the ship is green across the board."

"Understood. The next jump is fixed for 1032. I'll send you the coordinates momentarily."

"Yes, sir."

"SCC out."

He took half a minute firing off the Maill drop coordinates to both the _Deralí's_ bridge and the thousands of other ships presently floating nearby. Then he shut his eyes and sank back into the Force, the command center fading away as though eclipsed by a dense blanket of fog. _So little time…but I've done this before under identical constraints, and succeeded. Concentrate…concentrate and see._

The genuine difficulty, after all, lay in gathering the slightest sense at all for where one's target lay within the near-infinite expanse of the cosmos. That was a process akin to sitting perfectly still in the middle of an exceedingly large field and trying to locate an insect by the sound of its buzzing wings. Once you actually _heard_ the insect, you knew that you must be close, and had only to take a good thorough look around. _Look, dammit, look!_ He returned in his mind to the patch of open space which his intuition had earlier decided was special enough to cause a little tingle in the part of his brain just behind his eyes; and there he tried to picture the empty, deathly void. As viewed through the filter of the Force, he saw something there, like a star, except that stars didn't look like stars as viewed through the Force. Stars were pure white, masses of energy without life, but this was more like a flame. Drawing closer, the solitary point divided and resolved into many, and then each of these into a dense cluster of warm, glowing lights, each one of which was a life. _There! _There were unquestionably starships there, at any rate, and with time pressing upon him he could not afford to determine how many were actually present, but what else could be there if not the 39th Battle Group?

His eyes snapped open and his fingers flew across his keypad, entering the new coordinates along with the instructions: "To Grand Admiral Kechel, C-in-C 1st Group: Center your search pattern about this point, and keep it tight. Revan." Only after he sent it did he take the time to check the wall chrono, which, to his infinite relief, read 1031:37. _Cutting it close again, and altogether too close for comfort._ A few seconds later, the jump alarm wailed.

The moment the ship was back in hyperspace, he hurried from the command center to the ready room, where Bastila was leaning forward over the desk with her arms serving as a pillow beneath her head. Through their bond, he could feel her exhaustion ebbing as she rested, and her strength welling up anew; and when she lifted her head to look at him, there was a set to her jaw and a glow in her eyes that starkly contrasted with her otherwise-worn appearance. Sitting all the way up, she leaned back into the chair and stretched her arms above her head.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Tired," she yawned. "_Very_ tired."

"Is there anything you need?"

"I…well, yes, actually," she began a bit sheepishly. "Could you help me back to your quarters?"

"My quarters?"

"It's closer than my own. I've been very thirsty and…well…nature takes her course," she said rather quietly.

"Oh. Right. Well, come along."

She could stand well enough on her own, though it required some conscious effort to stay upright, but she couldn't guarantee that she could make it all the way to his cabin without mishap. In fact, she made it most of the way without need of his aid, keeping herself balanced with her arm sliding along the wall, until she was actually trying to go through the door into the cabin. There, when she stepped inside and the wall fell away, she staggered and would have fallen had he not been there to steady her with a firm grip on her shoulders.

"Thanks," she said groggily. "I feel like I've been awake for days."

She stooped to remove her boots before going any further, but he gently stopped her with a light touch on her arm.

"No, don't trouble with that," he said softly.

All she could think of at the moment was that it was impolite to go tramping through his quarters in her boots, but there seemed to be some sense to his words.

"Why did Kechel call it off at Ando?" she asked. "I would have broken them."

"She's trying to catch the enemy reserves - the 39th - and destroy them."

"Oh."

Bastila forced her brain to pick up its weary pace, and understood the logic of the move. Kechel couldn't have known what effect Bastila was having, but she did know that her objective was to attain the highest possible kill-to-loss ratio, and that was not, under ordinary circumstances, feasible against a roughly-equal foe. Given her knowledge of the situation, the admiral's decision to pursue the inferior force was the wise and proper one.

"If you'll excuse me," she said as she made her way down the little hall to the bathroom.

After washing her hands, she splashed a healthy dose of cold water on her face, into red eyes that burned with a longing for sleep. _I was at Bimmiel for five hours, but that was nothing like this, nothing at all. There are so many minds spread out so far… In ten minutes, the whole of 1__st__ Group will be engaged, all eleven thousand ships, or what's left, anyway. And how many have we lost? For that matter, how many have _they _lost? Certainly more than us - a lot more - but this is hardly over. How much longer can I go on? _she asked herself as she shut the door behind her. _However long it takes,_ was the only answer she could accept from herself. She would demand nothing less.

And so it was that, at 1043, she was seated back in her chair in the ready room, wishing Revan success as he reluctantly left her again. There was a part of her that dreaded going back into the discomfortingly out-of-body state that was Battle Meditation, and dreaded the feeling of being utterly spent that was sure to follow, but there was no escaping it. Like every other woman and man in 1st Group, she had a part to play, and hers was one with far greater impact than that of almost anybody else, and she could not shirk her duty. She could not live with herself if she did. She would do her duty, and at the end of the day, the war would have drawn closer to a victorious conclusion, and her dream would be closer to reality.

As before, the _Deralí_ lurched hard into realspace as she dropped into the Maill system, only this time Fahn and his people had no time to troubleshoot the hyperdrive. The first word spoken on the bridge after the drop was uttered by Tanen, who ordered the DSO to raise shields. After that, it was the sensor chief's turn.

"Contacts! Multiple contacts throughout the whole forward hemisphere. IFF confirmed from contacts across the board… Hostiles confirmed, range to closest three-two-zero thousand…"

"Copy that, Sensors, I can see it," Tanen cut him off rather abruptly.

In fact, the entire three-dimensional expanse of the tactical display was filled with contacts. The schematic jumped and skipped for a couple of seconds, changing scale, shifting its focus, until it showed all contacts currently on sensors. Clustered together in the center were the amber "hostile" icons, vaguely divided into two amorphous clouds, one slightly larger than the other. Surrounding them on all sides were the three Imperial task forces, though the 9th was presently some distance outside of firing range. The other two, however, were no more than a minute away.

"XO, take us in."

"Helm, steer three-one-one, neg zero-two-six, ahead flank."

"Three-one-one, neg zero-two-six, ahead flank, aye."

"DSO, shields full forward."

"Shields full forward, aye."

"Targeting lock on multiple hostile contacts. At present rate of acceleration, we'll be in range in thirty-nine seconds," reported Weps.

"Copy that, Weps, weapons free. Commence fire the moment we're in range."

"Weapons free, aye. All guns to auto-fire."

On the display, Tanen saw all the Imperial ships in motion, slowly building speed as they converged upon the cornered enemy, with the exception of a couple of squadrons from the 23nd Task Force, which were hanging back of the main body. Tanen didn't need to call up their ident codes to know that those were interdictors, and that this time, there would be no escape for the enemy. This was to be a fight to the finish.

"Sir, be aware that Null Gen 8 is off-line," Fahn announced during the wait for the ship to close with the enemy. "No details yet on repair time, and I expect that I shan't have any for a while now."

"Understood. So long as we can still jump."

"Affirmative, sir. All other generators are still green, and we are within operational limits for hyperspace flight."

"Ten seconds to firing range."

"DSO, stand by on decoys."

"Standing by on decoys, aye."

"Five seconds."

"Helm, all stop. Hold present course and speed."

"All stop, holding course and speed, aye."

"I have a shooting solution…main and secondary batteries firing."

Leaning forward in his chair, Tanen watched the display intently, waiting, waiting… There! An amber contact changed to a square, followed six seconds later by a second. For the second time this day, he felt a sense of power such as he had never before known. For all her faults, this ship was a marvel - a deadly, overwhelming, terrifying marvel.

Two minutes after the _Deralí_ dropped into the Maill system, Revan switched his strategic map from a view of the battle taking shape before him to a schematic of the 2nd and 24th Task Forces as they dropped into realspace. More so than the outcome of his "own" engagement, this filled him with a dreadful anticipatory anxiety. If the 39th Battle Group escaped, the other two enemy units still loitering near Ando would likely survive as well, which would render Operation Impulse only half-successful. It would still be a victory, but by no means the devastating blow he had intended.

Then his eyes were met with a sight which lifted a crushing weight from his chest, as little amber triangles winked into view, one by one, until the full compliment of the 39th Battle Group was displayed. Right on top of it sat the Imperial 50th Fleet. _Why, if it isn't Grier,_ he thought with a little rush of pride. The man was a superb officer, clever and loyal, who had served with him for the year leading up to Malak's failed coup. Revan had every confidence that Grier would do well there, and hold the enemy until the 2nd and 24th had united in five or six minutes. Unfortunately, he also had to remind himself that the Republic would be reinforcing the 39th in approximately thirty-eight minutes, which would not leave them sufficient time to finish the job. _Ample time to wreak havoc, though._

Leaving the conduct of that fight to Kechel, he switched back to the view of Maill. The 9th was still out of range, but closing at maximum acceleration, while the 22nd and 23rd had joined the _Deralí_ in meting out a terrific thrashing. While one of the Republic battle groups present was fresh, the remaining two were already well below half strength, and their crews badly dispirited, both as a result of their earlier actions.

The following hour of his life was wholly occupied with the task of coordinating six thousand warships in a battle that was steadily degenerating into a melee. He could feel Bastila hard at work (too hard, though he couldn't very well ask her to stop or ease up), and felt for himself the increasingly hopeless sentiment of his foes. Unlike in the earlier fight, their fire was directed more against the Imperial interdictor frigates than the _Deralí,_ escape clearly being their chief concern. This posed a problem in and of itself, as Jalesk struggled to preserve his limited number of the vital-but-vulnerable ships while still positioning them close enough to keep the enemy firmly anchored in realspace.

At around 1120, he witnessed a shift in the enemy's strategy, which, out of sheer desperation, turned increasing aggressive. An attempt was launched to break out of the encircling cloud of Imperial warships, with several fleets lunging hard at a gap between the 9th and 22nd, only to find the opening slammed shut against them. Desperate fighting ensued, and for ten minutes or so, there was some question as to whether or not the breakout could be contained. The moment the breakout attempt had begun, however, Revan had ordered all units not under attack to advance. Under pressure from behind, the enemy's counterattack faltered and turned back, and by 1135, the outcome of the battle was altogether obvious.

In the meantime, the Republic had brought its two remaining battle groups - by now positively identified as the 16th and 55th - into action against the 2nd and 24th Task Forces at 1129, which was too late for most of the 39th. By the time Revan had the opportunity to speak with Kechel at 1137, that unit had been reduced to a shell of its paper strength.

"By all measures, sir, this battle is developing better than we had hoped," she addressed him with considerable pride evident on her face and in her words. "I do wish we could have had more time alone with the 39th to finish their destruction, but Orsk and Morrett estimate that unit's losses - both destroyed and out of action - to be somewhere on the order of eighty percent, if not more."

"Though we now find ourselves slight outnumbered there, is that not so?"

"Unfortunately, but we'll be pulling out imminently - quitting while we're ahead, as it were. Any ships with an inoperative hyperdrive are already under tow."

"Yes, you may proceed to withdraw the 2nd and 24th as you will."

He wished desperately that he could have somehow reinforced them, held the enemy there and finished the job, but there was no one left to send, so instead he watched Kechel press a few keys on her armchair console, after which she informed him simply that, "It's done."

She then visibly relaxed, and continued, "Based on all I've seen, it appears that the action at your end is close to wrapping up on an even more positive note: the enemy there is completely finished. They have to surrender, or else we'll butcher them to the last."

"You are right, of course. They cannot possibly endure for very much longer, I can feel it. I must ask, though if it is your intent, after withdrawing, to unite the full strength of 1st Group here, or else hold to the 2nd and 24th near their present position, but out of the fighting."

"I was leaning toward the former."

Revan paused to consider her words, and also the strategic display. He zoomed it far out, well past the confines of the Maill system, until he could see the Chommell Sector. _Bastila is so certain about Chommell, that how can I possibly doubt her as to its importance? Those two battle groups must retreat somewhere. They could go back to the Doldur Sector, but would that not be better held by units of 4__th__ Armada? In that scenario, the 4__th__ will be spread out, and in need of someone to guard its flank._

"I would be more comfortable if we were all united," she elaborated, "especially since Hrask recently sent me a communiqué expressing his concern that 4th Armada might be moving to defend the Corellian Run. He argues that if they do that, they'll be in a position to cut us off from 2nd Group."

"He sent me the same message some twenty minutes ago," he replied nonchalantly. "In fact, not long after the fighting here started, I received a warning from him that he was monitoring a large volume of comm traffic from 4th Armada. While I do not begin to doubt the accuracy of Hrask's reports, I do not, however, believe that the enemy is seriously contemplating a major counterattack at this time."

"That would appear unlikely, I agree, especially given the developments of the last hour. At this point, getting between us and 2nd Group would be foolhardy at best."

"There's also a distinct lack air of panic about the enemy's movements. This is a maneuver designed to prevent us from making a dash into the Core - a knee-jerk reaction - rather than a prelude to a well-planned counteroffensive. I expect they're spreading out 4th Armada, rather than concentrating in any one direction, at least until the arrival of their strategic reserves."

"Yes, Hrask does exaggerate at times," chuckled Kechel. "All the better to give him an excuse for action."

"I'm not averse to him making a show, however, in order to buy us the time we need, on the sole condition that he doesn't overly commit himself, which is, of course, another one of his proclivities."

"Then you intend to finish the job with 1st Armada?"

"Of course. Once this business here is concluded, and 1st Group is together, we shall search for the 16th and 55th, and hopefully entrap and destroy them."

Kechel was all but ecstatic at the idea, though she remained silent for several long moments while she thought on it.

"If 4th Armada is holding the Corellian Run, or soon will be, then those two groups will likely be positioned to guard its flank…most likely in or near the Chommell Sector."

"Chommell," Revan echoed with a solemn nod.

"Yes, just as Captain Shan suggested," she replied with a thin smile. "It's not lost on me, sir. Wherever we hunt for them, though, I don't think we can afford to wait too long - as you mentioned, their strategic reserves must be on the move by now."

"Those people on Coruscant know all too well by now that they have a disaster on their hands, and must consequently act to prevent us from advancing unopposed. That must certainly be the one great fear dominating their thoughts: that we shall push onward into the Core itself."

"Losing systems hurts their chances of re-election," she quipped. "Can't have that."

"No, not at all," he laughed.

At that moment, he felt a faint shudder run through the deck, felt a matching sense of alarm through the Force, and said, "Shall we speak on this again later? I daresay I still have a battle on my hands."

"Yes, of course, sir."

"Until later, Admiral."

"Shield overload!" exclaimed one of the engineering officers on the bridge. Searching his displays, he elaborated, "Generator S5 overload, sir."

"Grid S5 failure," the DSO confirmed. "Doubling up on surrounding grids."

"Helm, roll port one-sixty," Tanen ordered at once.

"Roll port one-sixty, aye."

"Fire! Fire in Compartment 102, Decks 66 through 71," came another callout.

There was a long pause, during which the damage control officer should have announced that fire suppression systems were engaged, but there was only silence.

"Suppression?" Fahn asked at last.

"Automatic systems are down, emergency crews have been alerted."

"Shields overall down to sixty-one," reported the DSO.

"C Turret didn't fire," Weps broke in with a trace of confusion in her voice.

She checked her displays, fingers dancing across her keypad, confirming that the CTC still had automatic control of C Turret, that the turret was tracking, that its emitter was charged. All came back positive. Turning to one of her subordinates, she ordered, "C Turret to manual."

"C Turret to manual, aye." The ensign worked at his own console for several frenetic moments before reporting that, "C Turret is on manual, and remains locked on target, but the crew can't fire. The controls don't respond."

"Ma'am," reported a petty officer, "I'm getting some…unusual readings from MBE C."

"Specify," Weps ordered tersely.

"It's…open, ma'am…but it isn't. I mean, it's still charging."

"Fine, then close it."

"Closing MBE C… No response, ma'am. It must have been damaged when the shield generator went."

"Keep working on it. It's nothing but a damn power drain now, so get it closed."

"Yes, ma'am."

Céle didn't know which startled her more: the distant thud and the accompanying jolt she felt through her bench, or the subsequent alarm wailing in the confined room.

"Fire in this compartment," announced an all-too-calm recorded voice. Then the lights flickered once, twice, and went out, replaced by the dim emergency lighting.

"Helmets on!" Cálen barked.

Pulling the well-padded helmet down over her head, Céle twisted the collar and felt a sudden rush of cool air envelop her face as the suit automatically pressurized.

"Systems check," Cálen's voice sounded in her ears.

Céle pressed a key on her wrist-mounted console, and her HUD displayed the status of her suit's life support systems, all of which were presently running at full capacity.

Then they all just waited, everybody expecting that the automatic fire suppression systems would make short work of the blaze. The status display on the wall, however, was noticeably black, leaving them with no idea of what was transpiring outside the staging room.

"…respond… Damage 102, respond!" said a crackly female voice after a minute or so of tense inaction.

"Damage 102 here, ma'am," Cálen replied calmly.

There was a burst of static, then, "…your compartment. Do you copy?"

"Repeat, ma'am," he said.

"Suppression's out in your compartment!"

There was another burst of static, but that was all anyone in the staging room needed to hear, and Cálen immediately gave a quick, "Yes, ma'am!" as he unfastened his safety belt and leapt to his feet.

Unfastening her belt, Céle stood up along with everyone else as Cálen opened the hatch and, on the command of, "Forward!" they all set forth.

The staging room was on Deck 75, so they had to go up a ways to reach the fire, and the turbolifts were, naturally, inoperative. They were therefore obliged to climb a ladder up through an emergency access tube that Céle found to her discomfort was apparently designed to be just barely large enough to accommodate a person wearing a fire suit. When they reached 71, Cálen was the first one out of the shaft, and reported over the comms that he was reading a heat signature nearby. Céle, being the last in line, wasn't able to see it for herself on her helmet's HUD until some time thereafter. When she did, it was visible as a yellow glow down a corridor darkened with smoke.

"Gold and Blue Sections, get the hoses," Cálen ordered. "Everybody else check for survivors."

Positioned conveniently near to the emergency shaft was a large panel painted reflective yellow with a glow strip about its perimeter, and behind it were stored several five-hundred-meter hose reels. Céle, however, was part of White Section (she even had a big white stripe painted around her helmet), and was carrying a collapsible stretcher strapped to her back alongside a tank of retardant foam. She therefore followed a junior petty officer down a corridor, sweeping her head from side to side so that her thermal scanners could search for lifesigns. For some distance, she found nothing, concluding that most everyone here must have evacuated as soon as the fire started, but then she spied a wavy orange line on the other side of a wall, not far from a brilliant yellow glow.

"I've got one!" she announced, and was soon joined by a crewman who assisted her in prising open the nearest door.

Stepping into a machinery space claustrophobically crammed with pipes and power conduits, her HUD was almost whited-out by a rush of flame, and she instinctively leapt back, shielding her face with her arms as she did so. Even knowing that she was perfectly safe inside her suit, which prevented her from even feeling the heat of the fire, she couldn't help being terrified on a primal level. She froze for a moment, then took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and stepped forward straight through the flames. She stopped again, realized that she had to see where she was going, and forced her eyelids to open. The crewman was beside her, spraying white foam at the base of the fire, while she moved in the direction of the person she had glimpsed through the wall. She was able to see their heat signature again as she emerged from the flames, and moved toward them, only to catch her foot on something and stumble, seizing hold of one of the myriad conduits nearby to steady herself. Looking back and down, her headlamp barely piercing the pale grey smoke, she saw what she had tripped on and nearly vomited in her helmet: there was a shriveled, blackened, eyeless face staring up at her, and one shrunken arm extended rigidly outwards with its fingers curled into a claw. She turned quickly away and found the survivor, who was a woman lying face-down with her arms covering her head.

"Over here!" she shouted as she opened the first-aid kit on her belt.

Switching her HUD with the press of a key on her wrist console, she set it to scan for heartbeat and respiration, both of which her suit's sensors detected, albeit at a low level.

"She's alive! Get over here!"

Turning her over, Céle found that the woman was burned on her face and hands, though not nearly so badly as her fallen comrade, her primary ailment being smoke inhalation. With a solid regimen of kolto patches and injections, there probably wouldn't even be that much scarring, or so Céle told herself as she strapped an emergency breathing mask over the woman's nose and mouth, setting the associated oxygen canister beside her head.

"And you get over here, ma'am!" the crewman shouted back at her. "We can't move anybody with this fire here!"

Céle turned and dimly saw him continuing to spray the fire, but knew the amount of foam in his backpack was limited. Grasping the sense of his words, she got up and forced herself back to the flames, unclipping the nozzle from her belt and spraying more foam onto the blaze. As soon as they had cleared a path to the door, they hurried to the fallen woman and unfolded a stretcher.

"Alright, lift on three," Céle ordered as she took hold of the woman's shoulders. "One, two… You shithead! Lift both her legs!"

"She's only got one leg, ma'am!" the crewman protested.

To her horror, Céle saw for the first time that he was right, and that one of the woman's legs ended above the knee in a bloody tangle of torn flesh.

"Do what you can!" she all but screamed at him, though, at the time, she had no idea how she sounded. "One, two, three!"

They lifted the wounded woman onto the stretcher and hastily secured her to it with the webbing straps. Céle slipped the oxygen canister into a pouch at the head of the stretcher, then took hold of the handles.

"Again on three," she ordered somewhat more calmly. "One, two, three!"

This time they lifted the stretcher and, with the fire regaining strength, raced back out into the corridor, where they were met by neon yellow figures lugging a fat hose toward them. Seeing Céle and her comrade carrying a casualty, they stood aside just long enough for them to pass, then unceremoniously thrust the nozzle into the machinery space and unleashed a torrent of foam.

"You'll be fine," Céle found herself saying. "You'll be fine. Hold fast, you'll be fine."

In the heat of the moment, it didn't occur to her that, even had the woman on the stretcher been conscious, she couldn't possibly have heard Céle through the airtight helmet. For his own part, the man carrying the other end of the stretcher kept reciting to himself, "Come on, let's go. Keep it up, keep it moving. Come on, move it!" as if reliving basic training.

They stopped at the end of the corridor, where Céle bandaged the woman's severed knee. She did it all automatically, sprinkling on a packet of a combination sterilizing/cauterizing agent, wrapping the bandage neatly around the leg, and securing it with pre-cut strips of tape. Her comrade, meanwhile, had tied a tourniquet halfway up the thigh, and then they were back in motion. After several minutes, over the course of which the smoke grew ever thinner, they reached a blast door leading to the next compartment. With a click of her teeth, she switched comm channels.

"This is Troop Leader Diric at Hatch," she checked the ident panel on the door, "1071R requesting access to Compartment 103. Please respond."

There being no answer, she repeated herself twice more, during which time three more pairs of stretcher bearers showed up.

"This is Troop Leader Diric at Hatch 1071R…"

"Troop Leader, access granted," replied a garbled voice.

The blast door slid open and the eight rescuers stepped quickly through, met by a very young man whose face turned white at the sight of the wounded. One of them had half the skin peeling from his face, was still conscious (though, mercifully, heavily-drugged at this stage), and let out a long mournful wail as he tossed against the webbing of his stretcher.

Seconds later, they were met by a team of medics, and Céle switched from her commlink to her helmet's external speaker and microphones.

"We'll take them from here, ma'am," one of the white-clad orderlies told her.

She just nodded silently as she and her comrade set down their stretcher. It was immediately picked up again, and the woman whisked away around a corner and out of sight.

No sooner were they gone than they were replaced with a large number (she presumed forty) of crewmembers in the same neon yellow as herself moving at as fast a jog as anybody could manage in those suits. They came to a halt just short of her, and their commander, as identified by a double stripe on her helmet, seemed to make a cursory visual inspection of Céle's own party.

"Who's in charge here?" a female voice entered her helmet.

"Troop Leader Diric, HC, under temporary command of Chief Petty Officer Cálen, ma'am," she replied briskly.

"Is he inside?"

"Yes, ma'am, and we need all the help we can get."

"That's why we're here, Troop Leader. Lead the way."

"Yes, ma'am."

Switching back to comms, she turned to the group of reflective figures around her, visually confirmed that one member of each pair still had a stretcher, and ordered them, "Move out!"

Slouched in her chair in the ready room, Bastila was deaf and blind to the ordeal transpiring aboard her own ship, her every thought and sense being focused upon the conduct of the battle. She had worked the enemy into a panic, and when their desperate attempt at escape had failed, she had sent their spirits crashing into the hopeless black depths of despair. They were convinced that there was no help coming, that they had been abandoned to their fate, that they would surely die if they fought on for another minute, and it was with the greatest satisfaction that she felt what little remained of their resolve crumble into dust. She set all her will against them, and was rewarded by cool little cracks radiating through the Force as, one by one, the enemy began capitulating. One by one, ship captains broadcast their surrender and ordered their crews to cease fire; then it was squadrons, wings, flotillas. The effect was cumulative, like a pebble tipping a stone that nudged a boulder that started a landslide. Then, finally, the admirals of the three Republic battle groups signaled their surrender, the guns fell still, and the Battle of Maill was over.

She didn't even feel her face strike the desk as she toppled forward.

The next sensation of which she was consciously aware was Revan's presence through their bond: he was at once proud and terrified. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders, felt him pull her up off the desk until her head settled back against the padding of the chair. She heard him speak, but the words were a jumble, unable to clearly pierce the ringing in her ears. Forcing her eyes open, she saw swirling doubles of him leaning over her, his lips moving, his face brightening as he watched her come around. Then her stomach convulsed violently and, tearing away from his grip and leaning over the arm of the chair, she wretched hard onto the floor. Tears dripped from her eyes and acid stung her throat and sinuses as her innards clenched over and over, continuing to do so even after there was nothing left to come up. At last it came to a merciful end, and she sat back upright, her vision still blurry, although there now appeared to be only about one and a half Revans in front of her.

"Bastila," his voice broke through the whine in her ears. "Can you hear me?"

She tried to speak, but nothing above a soft hiss would emerge, so she just nodded.

"Oh, Bastila, you…you had me worried."

Bending down, he put his arms around her and hugged her close, and she feebly returned the embrace.

"Just a moment," he said suddenly as he released her.

He reached the synthesizer in just a couple of strides, both of which looked to her to be longer than a man of his stature ought to be able to take, and filled a glass with sparkling cool water, which she subsequently felt gliding over her lips and down her stinging throat. She drank it slowly, savoring every last drop, even those that trickled down her chin.

"More," she was able to whisper when the glass was drained.

She downed three glasses before her thirst was sated, and by the time she was finished, Revan had resolved into a single figure that was only slightly out of focus.

"We won," she said with a smile.

"Due in no small measure to yourself."

"Thanks."

"Shall I take you to the infirmary?"

Taking stock of herself, she quickly decided that there was nothing wrong with her apart from extreme exhaustion, and shook her head in the negative.

"Just tired," she said. "N-nobody gets a…a wound badge for that."

"No, I suppose not," he said with a little forced levity.

"What's next?"

"For you: rest. In the broader sense, we're staying here until the 2nd and 24th link up with us, which will take place in about twenty minutes. After that, we shall leave here the 24th, along with any ships unfit for continued operations, to guard the captured ships, while the rest of us jump to Chommell to find the last of 1st Armada."

"We can't wait. Jump as soon as we can. Their reserves…" she said, thinking of the distant warning that had been whispering in the back of her mind.

"I know. While I hope that we may yet capture or destroy 1st Armada in its entirety, we may also be left with insufficient time in which to finish the job."

"What about…" she had to pause to catch her breath, "Hrask?"

"As soon as I'm done here, I'm going to speak with him. I'm certain now that 4th Armada has spread out to keep the front from collapsing, so he has his opportunity."

"Time it with Chommell."

"That's the idea."

"And fetch a bloody cleaning droid."

"Yes, My Lady," he said with a little chuckle.

While he did precisely that, she let her eyelids droop shut under their own weight and tried to put the battle from her mind, and focus only on restoring her strength. She was so very, very tired - more tired than she had ever been in all her life. It was as if she had been awake for a solid week, her brain as well as her body mutinying against her will to keep going at all cost. She drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware that the door opened and a softly-whirring droid trundled in to vacuum her ex-stomach contents off the deck and scrub the spot to a mirror finish. For a time, she thought she heard Revan's voice, though he wasn't addressing her - she could always feel now when his thoughts were of her. Eventually, however, he did speak to her, bringing her as close to wakefulness as she was capable of being.

"Bastila?" he whispered, careful not to wake her if she was asleep. She felt his warm hand on her own clammy one. "Are you awake?"

At that moment, however, she was at least partially awake, and so answered, "Hmm?"

"I mustn't delay any longer. I must speak with Hrask."

"Go," she said with a subtle nod, and felt him take away his hand.

She heard his footsteps as he went to the door, but he stopped before it opened.

"I love you," he said softly.

Though it wasn't the first time she had heard those words, they sent a warming rush of energy through her, or at least enough for her to open her eyes and turn her head to face him.

"_Tho th__íle íl dur_," she told him truthfully.

He was held there, temporarily riveted to the spot by her words, and struck by the weight of emotion behind them that came flowing through their bond. Words failed him, and he could do naught but bow to her before taking his leave.

After he was gone, she reclined the back of her chair and let her eyelids fall shut once more. It had been almost a surprise to her, telling Revan that she loved him, but she had meant it with every fiber of her being. It felt right, so very right, and it was a relief to have told him, and to admit it to herself. What the revelation meant for the future, she didn't know just then. _There's no time for that now,_ she told herself. _Get some sleep._ She sat there, leaning back in the soft chair, enveloped in cool, silent twilight, and let herself fall into the deepest slumber of her life.

"Ma'am, there's nothing for it," a master petty officer addressed Weps as he smacked his palm against his console. "MBE C is totally unresponsive. It won't close."

Swiveling her chair to face him, she pursed her lips before asking, "Have you tried routing the commands through Program 11E-9?"

"Yes, ma'am. I've also tried 11É-3 and 6N-9, all with no effect."

"Weps, what exactly is the status of C Turret?" Tanen interjected.

"C Turret is completely operational, but the emitter's unresponsive. The sensor lines are obvious intact, since we're getting data from it, but every command line to MBE C must have been severed when that shield generator went." "So MBE C is continuing to charge and you can't stop it, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. For now, that means we're drawing power that could be diverted to the other turrets to increase their rate of fire."

"And, if I'm not mistaken, it means that in twenty-six hours, MBE C will overload and vaporize the ship, is that not correct?"

"That is correct, sir, but there's always the option of closing the conduit at the associated primary capacitor. The trouble is that once we do that, we won't be able to open it again any time soon, which is why I wanted to avoid that option if at all possible."

Tanen tried to recall why it was that they couldn't reopen that conduit, tried to picture the paragraphs and words from the pertinent section of the operations manual, and failed. As if reading his mind, Fahn turned and offered up an explanation.

"A shortcut in the design, sir. Those actuators can only close, not open, leastways not without sending a team in there to do it manually."

"Can we redistribute power from that capacitor to the other emitters?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then close the conduit to MBE C and redistribute power."

"Closing Conduit 45C, aye," said Fahn, the only one on his staff with the authorization level to shut down a pain power line. "Conduit 45C is closed."

"Weps, please confirm."

"That's affirm, sir: MBE C no longer charging. I still have no control, but at least it's not charging."

"Rerouting power."

Tanen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still on edge in spite of the battle having been over for nearly twenty minutes.

"What's the status of the fire in Compartment 102?" he inquired.

"The latest report from damage control has all survivors evacuated, and right now, I have only one alarm still lit."

"Good enough," he said, then, raising his voice to address the entire bridge, added, "I'm going to need an operational status report soon, people - the C-in-C won't wait on one indefinitely."

That sentence seemed to lower a smotheringly-thick blanket over the bridge crew, who had undoubtedly been thinking, or at the very least hoping, that the fighting was over for the day. Truth be told, Tanen himself had no idea whether or not it was, since it was obvious that they had already won a smashing victory. Being thoroughly familiar with Revan's past actions, however, he had to acknowledge the very real possibility - even probability - that they weren't finished yet. Where other commanders might pause to rest their forces in the wake of a major triumph, Revan could be relied upon to seize the opportunity to further hammer an already-reeling foe. Tanen certainly hoped this would be it for today, but he wasn't holding his breath.

"Number eleven pipe, one meter!" Cálen barked over the comms. Céle, her facemask fogging as she dragged a gnarled, tangled mass of wire and sheet metal out of the way, watched him turn and point his whole arm at a crewman whose name she couldn't have remembered even if she could see his face. "Yes, you, go and fetch a meter of number eleven!"

"Yes, sir!"

While Céle struggled to clear the working area of debris, the chief petty officer was engaged in cutting away a section of a ruptured pipe. The twisted, peeled-open steel tube reminded her of the unopened cans she once used for target practice as a girl, back when she thought it was the funniest thing in the whole wide world to watch whatever beverage was inside go spurting out in a frothy geyser. Her parents had soon put a stop to the wasteful-if-hilarious sport, and made her use only empty cans from then on. She was altogether certain, however, that there had been nothing to laugh about when this pipe had blown. This was, after all, the room from which she had carried a woman with half a leg blown away.

She had helped carry a total of five men and women from Compartment 102, all of them badly wounded in one way or another. Fortunately, she had seen only four dead in her search of the compartment, which meant that most of the crew stationed there must have been able to evacuate quickly. By now, so far as she could tell, most if not all of the fires were out. She guessed that many had, in fact, probably burned themselves out quickly, since there was a minimum of flammable material on board, and all gas lines running through the compartment had been shut off within seconds of the explosion that started it all. What that explosion had been, she could only speculate. A blown power conduit, or an overloaded shield generator, most likely, for she fortunately saw no evidence of a direct hit anywhere.

"Troop Leader, get over here and hold this!" Cálen shouted to her. (It didn't make any sense for him to shout, since she couldn't even hear the cutting torch through her helmet, but he was shouting anyway.)

She dutifully ran over to him and took a firm hold on the piece of pipe that was about to come free. When it did, she suddenly discovered that it weighed about forty kilos, and fortunately for Cálen (and especially his feet and shins), she was in peak physical condition; and though she might have stumbled slightly under the sudden and unexpectedly heavy load, she maintained her grip. Hefting it up into a firmer hold, she carried it away and unceremoniously deposited it amongst the other scrap. At all times, she quite deliberately kept her eyes away from the spot on the floor where she knew the burned and mutilated body had lain, though there was nothing whatsoever there now.

"Well," she said as she rolled her shoulders as much as she could in the fire suit, working out the kinks that had developed from working in the bulky garment, "it would appear that you can at last say that you did something in the war."

With no section of replacement pipe yet in evidence, Cálen took the opportunity to lean against the nearest wall and rest. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she was well-trained in reading body language, and had no difficulty in telling that he was troubled.

"You're right there," he said, "but here's the catch: now that I've actually done something, I wish I'd never had to. Including this one, I've served on four ships now, and all of them took damage in battle, but until today, the shit always hit the fan someplace where I wasn't, and so I never had to deal with it. I never saw…what happens. Well, afterwards, in the infirmary, but that was only when the survivors were all bandaged up. That's bad enough, but… Well, you saw. I mean, I'm glad I could do something this time, but what if…"

"What if you didn't do enough?"

He turned so that she could finally see his face through his visor, though still not well enough to read his eyes.

"It's stupid, isn't it? I got people out of here, got them out alive. I did _exactly _what I was trained to do. I shouldn't have anything to feel guilty about."

"I've been there before, back home when I was a police non-comm. There was one day - 17 Dûlif, '12 - when I was off-duty, at a pharmacy. You see, I'd sprained my left ankle a few days before when tackling a speeder thief who'd decided to make a go of it on foot, and so I had to go pick up an anti-inflammatory for it. Anyways, not five minutes after I left, a junkie went in, stabbed the pharmacist and the clerk to death, and made off with as many pills as could fill his pockets." She kicked a piece of scrap metal across the floor. "If I'd been there a few minutes later, they'd still be alive."

Naturally, Cálen could offer her no answer, just stood there leaning against the wall and holding his cutting torch.

"I spent a long time asking myself if there was some way it could have turned out differently," she went on, "but in the end, I realized that sometimes you just don't have the chance to make a difference. Sometimes, it all comes down to dumb luck. So, whenever you can, you have to put everything you are into doing your job, in order to make up for those times when you can't do a damned thing."

"I reckon you're probably right," he said very quietly.

There was a long silence between them, eventually broken by the arrival of two crewmen hauling a section of pipe.

"About time," he told the men with the pipe, all traces of melancholy instantly gone from his voice.

It was with the utmost reluctance that Revan departed the ready room, his natural instinct to keep watch over Bastila while she was in her weakened state being only amplified by her parting words to him. Those words had cheered him immensely - even more so than the historic victory unfolding - but she could scarcely have chosen a more inopportune time to utter them. Standing in the corridor outside the SCC, he shut his eyes, slowly drew and released a cleansing breath, and reminded himself in no uncertain terms that he had a greater obligation before him. His wrist chrono read 1203, the entirety of 1st Group would soon be assembled in the Maill system, and Hrask with his 2nd Group were awaiting the order to go. Now was not the time for personal sentiment.

Just as he was stepping into the SCC, his commlink chimed.

"Revan here," he answered as he brought it to his ear.

"Bridge here, sir," said Tanen. "I have the status report you requested. Most critically, shields overall are at fifty-seven - we'll begin to see partial penetration by heavy turbolasers at forty-three. Generator S5 is gone - not temporarily down, but physically gone - and while we can double up on surrounding grids, that still leaves a weak point on our central-port-dorsal area. C Turret is off-line and will not be restored for several days at least; eighty-three percent of secondaries and ninety-two percent of point-defense guns are still operating at full capacity. Our stock of decoys stands at thirty-nine percent. Main engines are all at full capacity, and all hyperdrive field generators except for 8 are operational. There were fires associated with the shield generator overload, but those have all been extinguished. Apart from that shield generator, we have sustained no significant damage, all other failures, including C Turret, being attributable to technical malfunctions."

"Is she fit for continued operations, Captain?"

"Sir, it is my professional opinion that she is fit to _continue_ operations, but by no means fit for _continued_ operations. Assuming that we encounter the same level of fire as in the past two actions, the shields will hold for twenty-five, perhaps thirty minutes, before the ship begins to suffer from hull strikes."

"This ship is too precious to the war effort to risk any significant damage, and she has already inflicted upon the enemy a volume of destruction that, prior to this day, would rightly have been deemed inconceivable. We are going back into action on the condition that you have not only my permission, but my express order, to withdraw when our shields reach forty-six percent effectiveness."

"Very good, sir. What is to be our destination?"

"I shall have precise coordinates for you soon."

"Yes, sir."

"SCC out."

Revan took the comm from his ear, slipped it into his pocket, and took but a few seconds rest before ordering contact established with Grand Admirals Hrask and Kechel.

The golden summer sun filtered through a network of branches as Bastila climbed a forested hillside, digging her boots into the soft floor of dry needles, occasionally finding solid purchase on an exposed root or protruding rock. Her ears were entertained with unfamiliar birdsong and the soft creak of swaying trees, and a faint rushing sound in the distance. The higher she climbed, the thinner the woods became, the more the sun's warmth fell upon her, and the stronger the breeze became. Soon she could see beyond the trees to a grassy slope dotted with grey slabs of bare, weathered rock, and the breeze grew to a genuine wind. Tilting back her head, she looked up at the azure sky, across which raced strung-out white clouds. Onward she strode, with boots clacking on rock, and as she crested the hill, she was struck by the wind's full might. Her hair was whipped back and her clothes flattened against her body, she could hear only terrific roaring of the gale in her ears, and it was all she could do to hold her ground against the onslaught.

A peculiar compulsion drove her onward, however, and though it demanded all her strength just to take one more step, she pressed onward until she was met with a sight so beautiful that it left her more breathless than even the tempest that assailed her. She stood atop a mountain, and from her perch could see for what seemed an infinity in all directions. She gazed down over green valleys through which rushed wild rivers; waterfalls that cascaded down mountainsides, plummeting off one rocky precipice after another; sparkling lakes at the foot of grey cliffs, some of them quite large and elongated and home to thickly-forested islands; rolling hills blanketed in flowers of white, yellow, and violet; and in the distance, the blue-grey waves of the sea pounding sandy beaches. She could still feel the wind buffeting her, but no longer was it a labor to stand against it, as if she had become immune to its power. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes as she stood there, basking in the majesty of it all.


	11. Beyond Expectation

11

Beyond Expectation

31 Lüindel, 1,018 DÉ

28.8.20375

The conference with Kechel and Hrask had been brief, even rushed, lasting barely fifteen minutes. It had begun largely with the two Grand Admirals debating with one another how best they could support their separate operations, and subsequently establishing an understanding that 1st Group could not and would not continue its offensive for any significant length of time. It was expected that, for some time after they had disengaged, the enemy would continue to stay on his guard against a renewed attack, but that he would ultimately feel free to shift his weight toward 2nd Group. Finally, it was agreed between the two officers and their C-in-C that 1st Group would resume the attack at 1325, with 2nd Group following at 1337, as it was deemed unwise to delay any longer.

The 2nd and 24th Task Forces then dropped into Maill at 1213, whereupon Revan ordered Kechel to reorganize 1st Group in preparation for the resumption of the offensive. She was therefore absent from the remainder of the discussion which, in any event, consisted in the main of Revan detailing to Hrask the objectives and limitations of his attack. It was to be based on the admiral's earlier plans, which meant concentrating nearly the entirety of 2nd Group in one spot against a small portion of 4th Armada and thereby overwhelming it. Having spent all morning monitoring enemy comm traffic (much of which Imperial intel couldn't decrypt, but which could still be triangulated to provide the position of enemy units), Hrask had already decided upon his convergence point. What Revan needed most to impress upon him was that he must be ready to disengage at any time, which was not something he was ever keen to do. Like any good soldier, though Hrask accepted his orders, and the conference was concluded with a salute and a "yes, sir."

Once Kechel had completed her reorganization of her command, transferring any ships not fit for action to Morrett's task force and temporarily attaching _Invincible_ to the 9th, the order was given to jump at 1228. Revan spent the few intervening minutes in meditation, striving to pinpoint the enemy's two remaining battle groups in the Chommell Sector, but the _Deralí_ lunged into hyperspace before he was able to make any headway. He continued his search even after the jump, as insurance in the unlikely event that no unit made sensor contact when they dropped into Chommell, and ultimately pinpointed the enemy's location as being above the orbital plane of the Karlinus system. On consulting his charts, he saw that Karlinus was the destination for a part of the 23rd Task Force, and was also but a few minutes' flight from the _Deralí's_ own drop point.

He then reached beyond Karlinus, probing for the source of the mounting unease that lurked in the back of his thoughts. He knew it to be the Republic's strategic reserves, which had been guarding the Core, perhaps even Coruscant itself, until the disaster befalling 1st Armada compelled their deployment. If they had been at Coruscant, it would take them many more hours to reach the battle zone, which would make them entirely too late, but he felt certain that at least some were coming from a much nearer source. If so, they could arrive at any time. Sinking deeper into the Force, he followed vague threads as they twisted and branched, all too often losing track of them; and even when he could follow them, too many lead to nowhere at all. Nevertheless, he was certain that he was drawing closer until…

"Sir," said a vaguely familiar male voice that, when accompanied by a firm hand on his shoulder snapped him back into the physical, waking world.

The sensation was similar to that of being instantaneously woken from a very deep sleep, only greatly magnified: his head spun, his heart hammered in his chest, and panic seized him. His immediate, instinctive reaction was to roughly seize hold of the wrist connected to the hand upon his shoulder, but that was, fortunately, as far as he went before regaining his senses.

"My apologies, Ensign," he said as he released the young man who had roused him.

"No need, sir, no harm done," said the officer, who clearly had no inkling of the danger in which he had placed himself. "I thought you should like to know that we're four minutes out.

"Yes," he said, thoroughly surprised at the news, for he had lost all sense of time. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Ensign. Would you please fetch me a glass of water?"

"Yes, sir."

Plagued with lingering vertigo, Revan fixed his eyes upon the juncture of two pipes that ran along the wall while he listened to the sound of running water filling a tall glass. Soon he had the glass in his hand, and whispered a brief "thank you" before raising it to his lips. He wished at once that he had specified that the drink be lukewarm, for he was already gripped by a chill, and the nearly ice-cold water filling his stomach left him positively frigid inside and out. He thought briefly of Bastila, reached out to her, found that she, too, was stirring. He felt her resolve renewed, an hour's sleep having granted her at least a temporary burst of energy.

"Bridge, SCC," he commed Tanen while typing on his armrest console.

"SCC, Bridge."

"I'm sending you the coordinates for our next jump. Plot it and execute the jump as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir, coordinates received."

"And be advised that, upon dropping into the Karlinus system, we shall be immediately in action."

"Yes, sir."

He whiled away the two minutes preceding the drop by obsessively rethinking his instructions to Hrask, second-guessing himself as he always did when deprived of certainty. _How long do we have? How far away are their reserves, and how many are they? If only I had the time._

Shutting his eyes, he again sought to stretch out across the vast emptiness of the cosmos in search of his enemy, following the fragile threads.

* * *

"Nav, confirm drop coordinates," said Tanen immediately following the ship's realspace reversion.

"Checking, sir." There was a long delay while the navicomputer calculated the ship's position, followed by the navigator's callout of, "Coordinates confirmed."

"Proceed with jump."

"Aye, sir…processing..."

"Helm, engage autopilot, slave to navcomp."

"Engage autopilot, slave to navcomp, aye."

"Autopilot engaged, navcomp has control of the ship," reported the navigator. "Coming about to new heading zero-seven-three, plus zero-zero-niner."

"Go-no-go status?"

"Hyperdrive green across the board," reported Fahn.

"Proceed with jump. Hyperdrive to auto, slave to navcomp."

"Hyperdrive to auto, slave to navcomp, aye. Sixty-three seconds to jump."

The countdown continued smoothly until it reached fifteen seconds, at which point one of the engineers spoke up with an edge in his voice.

"Motivators spooling up… Belay that… Motivator Five fluctuating."

"Go-no-go?" Tanen at once demanded.

"Ten seconds."

"All other motivators are one-hundred. If Five fails, we can still jump," said Fahn as the vibration began to build.

"Five…four…three…two…one…jump!"

There was the usual sharp jolt, followed by an even harder bump, almost as if the ship had struck a solid object, and then all was smooth and calm.

"Report!"

"Five is out," Fahn remarked with an obvious lack of surprise.

"Power conduit failure!" exclaimed a woman on his staff. "Locking it down now… It's contained."

"Damage?"

"The breach was in an uninhabited compartment," answered the damage control officer with a sigh of relief. "No casualties."

"What's the status of the other motivators?"

"Still green, along with nine out of ten null gens. We can still jump."

_That's good,_ thought Tanen somewhat sarcastically as he watched the display counting back to their drop time. It was presently at 00:03:41. _Just over three minutes until we're back in it, and we'd damn well better be able to get out._ While he naturally held reservations about the coming battle, especially given the state of his ship, he was eager to finish the job. By Weps' reckoning, the _Deralí_ had already inflicted more losses upon the enemy than could reasonably be expected from an entire fleet of conventional warships. Furthermore, as he reminded himself, such a fleet would have lost a good many ships in return, while his casualties had been comparatively light thus far, and that was the real difference. Tanen had been enthralled with the idea of the mammoth battleship ever since he had first heard the idea proposed a decade ago, when it was nothing more than the fanciful dream of a handful of Deralín naval architects. It had since been derided as a waste of time, a waste of resources, and a waste of the Star Forge's production capacity, which should ostensibly have been devoted to building vast fleets of smaller, less capable warships. _Ships that we would have lost by the hundreds today,_ he thought with cold certainty. Clearly, this day's events would silence all those who had ever criticized the "big-gun theory."

* * *

With eyelids fluttering, Bastila woke from her wonderful dream to find herself in the darkened ready room. Shivering with cold, she drew her arms tight around her chest, to find that it made little difference. She had expected the temperature in the ship to be dropping, but suspected that much of her discomfort was due to her physical state. Her head was still terribly light and tingling, her extremities almost numb, her vision a touch out of focus. Above all, however, was a prickling at the back of her neck that was not a genuine physical sensation, but the physical manifestation of her higher senses. The fighting had resumed.

It was almost reluctantly that she let herself sink back into the depths of the Force, dreading the horrible exhaustion that was certain to ensue, and yet more determined than ever to see her task through to the end. She was, after all, an officer in the Imperial Navy, the call of duty took no account of weariness, and it was her duty to fight on to whatever end.

There was nothing difficult about finding the battle at Karlinus. It radiated through the Force not mere ripples, but waves-churning, burning waves like an oil fire on a stormy sea - as the Imperial 200th and 201st fleets were confronted with a vastly - superior foe. Her people knew that they need not hold for long, however, that time was on their side as seven thousand Imperial warships converged on their position from all directions. Her own ship was almost there, and more were on their way. _Soon, very soon…_

She could feel the enemy's anxiety, his mounting fear that now that he had been found, he would imminently be set upon by far greater forces than those he presently faced. Drawing the fear out of her own people until all that remained was the grim resolve to fight on, she channeled it into the hearts of the enemy. To her people's defense, she added strength and clarity, while infusing the Republic with indecision.

Though she couldn't feel the _Deralí_ shudder her way into realspace, she could easily sense the sudden flare of alarm from those people on the opposite end of battleship's guns. She felt their horror when the first shots were fired, when six Republic warships were crippled, and one vanished in a flash of blinding light as her reactor was breached. Still, however, the enemy did not entirely panic, clinging to the hope that they would receive their own reinforcements before the end. They knew that help was coming, they had been assured that they would be relieved, and yet they had also been told… _What have you been told? That you must hold until the last? Stand or die, is that to be your fate?_ Though she couldn't read the individual thoughts of any one person, she could read the general sentiment of the Republic commanders well enough. There was doubt, even resentment. _And why should you not resent those who have cast you to your doom?_

She was tempted, however, to search out the coming reserves, to divine just how close they were, for their existence remained as a vague discomfort creeping at the fringes of her thought. That would, however, require too much time and effort, she knew. Her work demanded all her concentration, and would call upon all her strength, and anything beyond that would need to be left to Revan. She intensely disliked relying upon anyone, but knew that she could rely upon him completely, in this situation as in any other.

As the battle developed, she felt one Imperial fleet after another drop into the system, and sometimes three or four arrive in the span of a single minute. Within ten minutes of the first shots being fired, four Imperial task forces had enveloped the Republic battle groups, and she no longer needed do anything to dispirit her enemy. Her task shifted to one of coordination, as fleets dropped from hyperspace often with little relation to their task force. Every emphasis had been placed on reaching the fight with all possible speed, and many navigators had simply plotted their jumps for a point where they judged they were least likely to collide with friendly forces. As a result, the chief obstacle before her people was the near absence of coherent formations. From chaos, it was her mission to force order, to impart harmony to the collective effort.

While deep in her meditative trance, Bastila had been altogether unaware of the battering her own flagship had endured in the first minutes of the fight. As always, the obvious danger she posed combined with her sheer size to render her a priority target for a high proportion of enemy ships, and her shields had withstood a severe trial for several minutes before additional forces arrived. Only now, as she sought to organize the developing action, did Bastila become aware that her ship was turning.

* * *

"Shield Generator H3 nearing overload," reported an increasingly-concerned engineering ensign.

"Grid H3 is down, doubling up… H4 buckling!"

"Get the bow down, dammit," said Tanen through clenched teeth.

"Helm, full negative pitch. Ahead flank, Engines 1, 2, and 3," ordered Aimirdel.

"Full negative pitch, ahead flank, Engines 1, 2, 3, aye."

With her uppermost engines straining at maximum power, the _Deralí_ at last began to pitch down, turning her weakened ventral shields away from the heaviest enemy fire.

"I'm losing field of fire on all ventral guns," cautioned Weps.

"Helm, roll starboard sixty."

"Roll starboard sixty, aye."

"What's the status of Shield Generator H4?"

"Near-critical. Reducing power to twenty percent."

"Decoy deployment to twenty per minute," Tanen ordered.

"Deployment to twenty per minute, aye. Decoys are down to thirty-two percent."

Speaking over the DSO, Aimirdel addressed the helmsman, "Helm, all stop, stop your swing."

"All stop, reversing thrusters, aye."

"Shields overall?" inquired Tanen.

"Fifty-two. Ventral starboard at forty-four."

No sooner had the DSO offered that alarming news than one of the sensor operators called out, "New contact: enemy fighters at two o'clock low."

"Point-defense engaging."

Dwarfed by the main turrets and even by her secondary turbolasers, hundreds of small point-defense turrets studded the _Deralí's_ hull. Each housing its own targeting sensors and five laser cannons possessing a phenomenal rate of fire, they were ideal for engaging small, nimble targets. When every turret on the ship's underbelly opened up on the incoming wing of Republic fighters, they erected a solid wall of fire. In spite of however much they might weave and dodge, in spite of the steady stream of decoys spewing from their dispensers, Tanen could watch on the tactical display as the fighters were shredded one by one. It was only by weight of numbers that any survived long enough to launch their torpedoes, and even some of those were detonated by the _Derali's_ defensive fire before reaching their mark.

"Grid Ts2 down. Ventral starboard at forty-two."

"Hull breach! Hull breach in Compartment 434!"

"How bad?"

"Two decks… Emergency containment shields in place."

Tanen bit his lip, then said sideways to Aimirdel, "Back us off."

"Helm, full astern."

"Full astern, aye."

Tanen could still see hostile icons change to "disabled" or "destroyed" as his ship continued to bloody the enemy, but her own position was increasingly perilous. For all her might, she was not, after all, indestructible. No ship was.

"SCC, Bridge," he said as he activated his comm.

"Bridge, SCC," answered Revan.

"My Lord, ventral starboard shields have been compromised, and we've suffered a localized hull breach. I've turned that quarter away from the enemy, and am backing us away."

"Understood, Captain," was all he said, but Tanen could hear the hard disappointment in his voice. "Anything further to report?"

"Only that we now have only five main guns firing, and that primary capacitors are nearing zero, which means that in another two minutes, we'll have only secondaries firing." (In and of itself, that would hardly render the _Deralí_ ineffective, as her secondary batteries were equal in firepower to half a cruiser squadron, but there could be no avoiding the issue of her compromised shielding.)

"So be it, Captain. You are at liberty to disengage. SCC out."

They had been engaged for only seventeen minutes, and the 200th and 201st Fleets for several minutes beyond that, but even that was sufficient time for Tanen to judge that there could be only one outcome to this fight. It was another slaughter, just as at Maill, and the Republic forces here would be able to survive only by mass surrender. In spite of the damage to his ship, in spite of his most powerful guns falling silent for want of power, hope crept into Tanen's heart, and he asked himself how the Republic would be able to carry on in the aftermath of this battle.

* * *

Revan, meanwhile, was no longer watching the battle at Karlinus, but had turned both his attention and the strategic map to a patch of open space near the Qorlun system, where four task forces of 2nd Group had attacked three Republic battle groups. He had been hoping for them to find a weaker force, something on which they could inflict significant losses before the enemy brought up his reserves, but at least they enjoyed some numerical advantage. Before either side had closed to firing range, Hrask had already sent an order for his fifth and final task force to join the fray, though it was nineteen minutes away.

If 2nd Group could inflict sufficient losses, however, before the arrival of the Republic reserves, then they might still achieve a breakthrough. It wouldn't be the same level of stunning victory that 1st Group was enjoying, but it would be a breakthrough nonetheless. If that happened, why stop there? His thoughts then wandered beyond even Qorlun, to Mal'cave's 3rd Group, which was strong and largely rested. They certainly couldn't attempt such a venture today, but perhaps tonight or tomorrow… _The war could be over in a week._

It was that sentence in his own inner monologue that put a stop to his rumination on the subject. _Beware wishful thinking_, he cautioned himself. _How many of history's great schemes came to ruin because ambition exceeded potential? How many disasters were launched with the promise of triumph? We have won a great victory, it is true, but we mustn't permit ourselves to be swept away by our own success - above all else, we must not overreach. _He reminded himself that 3rd Group had made neither plans nor preparations for a major offensive, and not even he knew what lay in front of them, or at least not yet. If nothing else, to commit more than eleven thousand warships to an attack without knowledge of the enemy's disposition was madness.

As if to further remind him of this, what had been an unsettling warmth on the back of his neck now rose into a blast of hot, dry air. _Yes, their reserves are coming, and they are close. You were right about the Chommell Sector, Bastila, but if only I had been quicker in getting us here._ He felt her at work as resolutely as ever, her strength holding even in the face of overwhelming exhaustion. _There is no stopping you,_ he thought with a warm smile. _You fight to the end._

A minute later, he was speaking with Kechel, who was doing a masterful job of containing whatever optimism was running through her veins. In spite of the apparent triumph, she knew that this business was by no means concluded.

"Admiral, 2nd Group is now engaged at Qorlun," were the first words from his lips.

"What kind of opposition?"

"Three battle groups - Hrask only sent in four of his task forces, and is now bringing up the fifth, but the rest of 4th Armada won't be far away."

"No, they won't, and those reserves are still out there somewhere, and probably coming your way."

"Oh, there can be no question that they're coming my way. If 4th Armada regroups swiftly enough, I would expect that they ought be able to hold Hrask, but here they have nothing left with which to hold. They must reinforce here, and soon, or risk total ruin."

"I'd been intercepting comm traffic from near Triffis up until a few minutes ago, but not in the volume I'd expect from substantial reinforcements. Presumably, the bulk of them are in hyperspace somewhere, and they may be very close now."

"They are. Whereas we do not yet know their strength, I feel it most advisable to take in tow now any vessels with inoperative hyperdrives."

"I'll issue the order at once, sir. We have, after all, already exceeded our original objective of inflicting at least two-thirds losses on 1st Armada. In point of fact, my staff's latest estimate of their losses, either captured or destroyed, stands at somewhere above seventy percent. Eighty percent would certainly be preferable…" she chuckled.

"_One hundred _percent would be preferable, Admiral. What pain it would bring to the hearts of the enemy if they lost an entire Armada in a single day…in just six hours." He sighed. "Sadly, that is not to be."

_It is entirely my fault,_ he told himself. _We should have united not at Maill, but right here in Chommell - we would have saved half an hour. _Instead, he had chosen the safe option. He knew that he had made the wiser decision at the time, and that any other commander would be elated to have inflicted such disproportionate losses upon an opponent, but even so, he could not content himself with this success, could think only of the mistake.

"Take the damaged ships in tow, and should we find ourselves at a disadvantage when their reserves arrive, we shall withdraw," he reiterated.

"We are still to withdraw to Maill, correct?"

"Yes, though I don't personally intend to remain hyperspace that long. The _Deralí_ will have to drop just outside the Chommell Sector so that I can monitor the situation with 2nd Group."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"

"Yes, Admiral, carry on."

"Until later, sir," said Kechel as she stood to attention and brought her hand up in salute.

With a sharp clack of his boot heels and a rigid, parade-ground salute, Revan bid her farewell.

The burning sense of danger continued to loom in his thoughts, growing hotter with each passing minute, and it was with anxious anticipation that he watched the map as damaged ships were taken in tow. Even then, there was no solid guarantee that all would escape, for dragging a vessel along into hyperspace was by no means a simple operation, even under ideal circumstances. In combat, it was all too easy to lose hold of the damaged ship during the jump. Overall, however, the battle was proceeding very well, with the enemy continuing to suffer heavy losses, and Revan could feel their morale crumbling. _A little longer, just fifteen minutes,_ he told himself. _They begin to think that they have been abandoned to their fate, begin to doubt that there are any reinforcements coming at all. I can feel it. They are so close, so very close to breaking…_

He ordered the attack intensified, advised Kechel to press harder on the enemy's 71st Fleet, which was already a shell of its original strength. They were sure to break there. They _had_ to.

* * *

Bastila was no less aware of the urgency of the situation, and redoubled her efforts accordingly. If only she pressed them hard enough, she could persuade them to surrender as she had at Maill, if only she had the time. They were close - so painfully, tantalizingly close to their breaking point - that she could feel it like cracks radiating from a great weight seated on a sheet of ice. Eventually, the whole thing must shatter, if the weight remained in one place for long enough, or if the weight was sufficiently increased. Lacking the luxury of time, she had no choice but to exert greater force. On doing so, she was rewarded with a sudden snap, could almost hear it, and knew that at least someone had surrendered. _Yes,_ she thought happily, _it's starting exactly as before. One by one, one by one. Just a little longer._

Oddly enough, the vast tableau of the battle seemed to be blurring, although she knew this to be impossible. Her eyes were closed, and she was not physically _seeing_ anything at all, but rather sensing it through the Force, and the Force did not blur. How could it? _There!_ Another snap, another unit signaling its capitulation, at least a flotilla or two, possibly an entire fleet this time. _Why can't I tell how many? I should be able to tell._ Her field of vision seemed to be shrinking, even as she poured ever greater energy into the effort, even as the cracks grew deeper and longer and began to merge with one another in preparation for total collapse.

Then she felt a sudden blast of heat, the danger no longer approaching, but right there before her. The enemy reinforcements had arrived, and the prevailing sentiment she felt in their minds was one of cold determination. It would take a long time to break them, too, and she was tired. _But I just slept._ It didn't seem to make sense, any more than her growing inability to clearly discern the situation around her. _We're not done yet, and 2__nd__ Group has barely started. I must…_

Like a runner nearing the finish line with her competition at her heels, she threw herself into the final sprint. She was beyond thinking at this point, acting automatically, hurling herself forward with reckless abandon, unable to see or care about anything beyond the finish. For whatever reason, she was convinced that she had made it, that she had won, but her vision closed off completely just then, and all thought left her mind.

* * *

Revan stabbed the armrest comm panel with his knuckle.

"Bridge, SCC, is our next jump plotted?"

"Almost, sir. Another minute."

"Start the countdown, we jump at 1402 even."

"1402 even, aye, sir."

Though the remnants of several battered Republic fleets had surrendered, those still fighting were now bolstered by three fresh battle groups that had dropped into the system at just past 1358. Thirty seconds later, Kechel transmitted the withdrawal order, and though Revan wished that they could have done something to prevent the escape of those ships that had already surrendered, he did nothing to countermand her order, there being no other practical course to be taken at this point. Many ships besides the _Deralí_ were in considerably less than pristine condition, and the numbers had now shifted slightly in favor of the Republic. They had no other choice.

On the display, a faint blue haze that had enveloped the battle area abruptly vanished, signaling that the surviving interdictor frigates had shut down their gravity wells. Though he had not the time to check on 2nd Group's progress, he imagined that they, too, would soon find themselves compelled to withdraw. There was, at least, not the remotest possibility of a Republic counterattack, the enemy having suffered so heavily this day as to be incapable of contemplating anything other than defense. Nevertheless, after barely six hours, his great offensive was drawing to a close.

Watching his formations turn away from the enemy in preparation for their jump, he was surprised to see the enemy turning away as well, with the exception of those that had surrendered. They had already transmitted their remote control access codes, and had had their weapons and propulsion disabled, and so naturally remained stationary.

"I don't believe it," he whispered under his breath as his heart leapt.

With fingers flying across the keypad, he typed out the command "All ships 1st Group: abort jump," and transmitted it just as an overwhelming pain slammed through his forehead. It was worse than anything he had felt aboard _Conqueror_, worse than the lingering concussion that had plagued him for weeks thereafter. It was as though his brain was on fire and his eyeballs trying to burst from their sockets, and he automatically buried his face in his hands, biting his lip to keep from screaming. In spite of his effort at restraint, there was no escaping the fact that anyone who happened to be looking in his direction (and there were crewmembers who had stolen a reverent glance at him in this moment of triumph) saw him double over in agony. The pain faded as quickly as it had arrived, and he sat up, but it was now fear that beset him. _Bastila!_

Though he still felt her presence, and knew that she still lived, he could read not a glimmer of thought, as though her mind had turned blank, and that concept sufficed to all but freeze the blood in his veins. Without a word to anyone in the command center, he leapt from his chair and sprinted out the door and down the passage, willing himself to move faster and faster until he burst into the ready room.

"Bastila!" he cried as he reached her side.

In that moment, horror was transfigured into unbridled relief when he heard thoughts like a feint whisper in his mind: _Did we win?_

Laughing openly with joy, he embraced her. Rapture was succeeded by a feeling of guilt at having brought her into this, and he had to remind himself that she had chosen this path, lest she take it upon herself to tell him so. He knew that she would, even when she was so tired she could scarcely think, and could feel the admonition rising up in her. _Again you have done the impossible,_ he told her. _We won._

He felt her relax, satisfied and happy with the news. _I just…blacked out,_ she told him. Nevertheless, he sat by her side for several minutes, channeling all the strength he could into her, much as she had done for him on that fateful day, though this time the effect was not the same. This wasn't a question of healing, it was a question of rest. Little was wrong with her body, but her mind was weary beyond measure. _I'm just tired… I'll be fine,_ she assured him. _Go._

He could not refuse her, no more so than he could neglect his own duty and ever again think well of himself; and so he clasped her hand for a long moment, kissed her, and then carefully lifted her from the chair. _You bade me go, but you did not forbid me from taking you with me,_ he told her as he carried her from the room. He brought her to her cabin, where he laid her on her bunk and rather awkwardly set about removing her boots and jacket. In fact, so difficult did he find the business with her jacket that it was only by using the Force that he was able to accomplish it while still preserving her dignity. This was paramount in his thoughts throughout the whole affair, and though she would likely have been more comfortable in something less than her dress shirt and breeches, he couldn't bring himself to undress her any further. Instead, he put her atop the sheets and beneath the blankets and, satisfied as to her arrangements, returned to the SCC.

On speaking with Kechel, he was informed that, while she was thrilled with the battle's outcome, she was far from comfortable keeping the bulk of her group so far forward when in its weakened state. Too many ships were damaged and in need of repair, and in the unlikely event that the Republic mounted a counteroffensive, the situation could rapidly turn against them. With this he could not agree more, and consented to her plan to return to Maill forthwith. Now that the withdrawal could be conducted with less urgency than it would have been in the heat of combat, every precaution would be taken to ensure that no ships or escape pods were left behind. All captured Republic vessels fit for hyperspace would be brought as well, while the crews of all disabled ships were ordered to evacuate immediately, as their ships would be destroyed in fifteen minutes - nothing of use was to be left for the enemy. Lastly, the jump was set for 1426.

Leaving Kechel to organize the withdrawal of her group, he turned his attention at last to 2nd Group, which, though they appeared to be dealing out more damage than they received, was far from smashing the enemy. The Republic had, in fact, already brought up a fourth battle group at 1359, and at 1404, a fifth and sixth joined the fighting. When that happened, any possibility of a breakthrough evaporated, and Hrask set about disentangling his forces from the engagement. In a marvelous display of his characteristic élan, he sent forward his heaviest units in a ferocious attack that threw the enemy off-balance, then immediately wheeled about and jumped away with his entire group at 1411.

Thus ended Operation Impulse, which Revan himself had accurately billed as the largest naval battle in history, though for some time thereafter he could not completely assure himself that the fighting was truly over. When the _Deralí_ jumped away from Karlinus (with some difficulty and a notably rough ride), he immediately sent himself into a trance in search of danger. His great fear was that the enemy would take Hrask's withdrawal for a retreat and take up the chase, but he could sense no aggression on their part. Indeed, all he could feel was a kind of numb reluctance to accept that their ordeal was over. Having played spectator to the annihilation of 1st Armada, the commanders and crews of the 4th had expected to find themselves the victims of a similar fate. Now that the guns had fallen still, they could only wonder what would come next.

_They're not coming. They're organizing a new defense, in the expectation that we shall renew the attack, that this lull is part of the plan. They cannot yet believe that it is over. They are right, in a way, for it is far from over, merely over for today. This war is far from over._

And because of that, he could feel little beyond simple relief. There was no elation in his heart, in spite of the titanic victory, for he knew that war raged on all around him, and would continue to do so for months to come. He knew that, on hundreds of worlds, there were hundreds of millions of soldiers fighting and dying this very moment, while he sat meditating in a chair in a battleship flying through hyperspace. There was so much more that remained to be done, and so many more who would fall, before the war could end. And even then, how many would continue to resist and to die fighting that resistance, and for how long? No, this was not the time for celebration, though many throughout the Empire would assuredly celebrate. There would be congratulations offered, medals and promotions awarded, and within a few days there would undoubtedly be sculptors commissioned to design monuments to the great victory. But for Revan and Bastila and, most of all, those on the front lines, the war would rage unabated.

He spent the afternoon and early evening ensuring that the situation was stabilized, and subsequently conferring with Kechel, Hrask, and the General Staff. If there was anyone amongst them who was in any way disappointed, it was Hrask, who faulted himself for not having sent in his entire group together, and lamented that he had not been able to destroy the first half of 4th Armada before the second half came to its aid. He had, of course, succeeded in inflicting disproportionate losses and, of equal importance, had prevented the enemy from committing any further reinforcements against 1st Group. The General Staff, however, was more than satisfied with the results of Impulse, and as Grand Admiral Udel, Navy Chief of Staff, could not keep from pointing out, they now enjoyed a numerical advantage over the Republic for the first time since the outbreak of hostilities.

At 1903, having checked on Bastila, who was still sleeping soundly in her bed, he made his way to the Compartment 103 infirmary. There he found Céle, her eyes bloodshot, her hair disheveled, the odor of perspiration clinging to her creased and rumpled uniform. She stood vigil beside a hospital bed in which lay a woman with kolto patches across more than half her face, and beneath the grey sheets, he could see where one leg abruptly ended above where her knee ought to have been. He felt a pang of guilt as he always did when reminded of the price paid by those who fought in service of the cause. He fought the compulsive urge to blame himself, to start asking if there was anything he could have done differently, knowing that there wasn't.

"Céle," he said simply.

Obeying instincts hones by years of training and discipline, she wheeled about, brought her feet together with a sharp clack, and saluted.

"Sir!"

"At ease, Céle."

"Yes, sir," she said again, much softer this time, as she clasped her hands behind her back.

"Do you know her?" he asked sympathetically.

She gave him a rather quizzical look before turning to the woman in the bed and shaking her head.

"No, I never saw before her until this morning, when I saved her life. I pulled her out of there," she said with mechanical calm.

"Will she recover?"

"The surgeon says she'll make a full recovery, apart from the leg, and prosthetics are so good nowadays that she shouldn't have any trouble."

He clasped his hands in front of his belt buckle, looked about at the rows of occupied beds, drew a shallow breath.

"I learned only recently that we took damage here. I… I'm sorry…for what it's worth."

"No, no, don't apologize. We fought well, from what I've heard. Everybody did. We didn't come off too badly, did we?"

"Not in strict military terms, no. In fact, we well and truly made a difference today."

"Good. I expect she'll want to hear that when she wakes up."

A petty officer came walking down between the rows of beds, a large man who looked every bit as worn and unkempt as Céle, his voice calling out, "Troop Leader, are you…"

That was when he saw Revan standing with her and came to attention with a salute and a, "Sir!"

"At ease, Petty Officer."

"Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir, if I'm intruding."

Céle was regarding Cálen with a look of pleasant surprise, and, concluding that he, too, had been involved in the rescue and damage control efforts, Revan pondered if perhaps she had been worrying after him.

"There is no intrusion," Revan said politely as he stood aside. "If you wish to speak with Troop Leader Diric, who is presently off-duty, you are free to do so."

"Yes, sir. Troop Leader," said Cálen in a rather hushed tone as he drew closer to Céle, "I just wanted to tell you… Well, ma'am, it has been an honor and privilege to serve with you."

"Thank you," she replied with a faint smile, "and likewise."

"Céle, you heard me say that you are off-duty, yes?" Revan asked in the pause that followed, forcing a smile.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"I bid you good-night."

He then bowed to her and Cálen and left the infirmary, left behind the antiseptic stench and the oppressive fog of misery that hung in that place. He loathed infirmaries, hospitals, and the like, dreaded ever setting foot in them, and was horrified at the possibility that he might die in one. Often sickly as a child, he had spent his entire adult life assiduously avoiding illness and injury out of an abhorrence of the very concept of being unwell. Now that aversion was multiplied by his inescapable guilt he experienced whenever he was confronted by the price of war. The sight of good comrades-in-arms wounded and in pain could never render the war any less necessary in his mind, but it did make it more painful.

He turned his thoughts instead to Bastila, whom he found a source of comfort. She was stirring once more, her presence in his mind strengthening as she woke, and he stepped into the first turbolift he came upon. This he shared with a trio of engineers, a man and two women, all with faces and coveralls blackened by soot and grime, and one of them with a bandage stuck on her left palm. They naturally saluted when he joined them, and though he bade them to relax for the journey's duration, they regarded him largely with silent reverence, speaking only once to voice their pride in him. It was much the same words he had become so accustomed to hearing: that they were so very grateful to have fought with him, that he had restored Deralí to her rightful place, that it wouldn't be long now before the enemy was beaten at last. At long last.

Several minutes later, he stepped from the turbolift and walked briskly down a long passage to Bastila's cabin, where he stopped to ring the door chime.

"Come in," her voice beckoned him via the intercom as the door hissed open.

On entering, he was greeted by the sweet aroma of warm bread mingled with that of a panoply of fruits and vegetables. She was sitting at her desk with a full plate before her and a fork and knife in her hands, though her slouching posture betrayed her enduring weariness.

"You're well enough to eat?" he asked, knowing at once that it was a tactlessly stupid question, as she would naturally know better than he.

"Well enough," was her answer before she stabbed a slice of _íom_. "And starving - I haven't had a bite since breakfast."

In fact, she felt not the slightest irritation at his concern as she chewed the crisp, violet root and savored its tangy flavor. He loved her, and it was natural that he should be concerned for her well-being, but she thought she read a twinge of self-recrimination in him, as if he was afraid of offending her.

"Thanks for asking, though," she offered after she had swallowed. "I really am feeling better than before."

"Yes, you must be if you have an appetite."

Shutting her eyes, she momentarily propped herself on her left elbow, asked, "How did we do?"

"Better than was hoped for. Our casualties in 1st Group were twenty-three percent destroyed outright or unfit for further service, and another twenty-eight percent damaged and in need of repair, including the _Deralí._ Our best estimates for the Republic 1st Armada stand at forty-four percent destroyed or unfit for further service and forty percent captured. Of the remaining sixteen percent that escaped, most if not all are believed to be damaged. 2nd Group suffered twelve percent destroyed, unfit for further service, or captured, with another twenty percent in need of repair; and 4th Armada is estimated to have suffered about one and a half times those losses. In brief, it was an overwhelming victory."

Only once she forced herself to move past her own casualties to the truly staggering losses suffered by 1st Armada, could she properly appreciate the enormity of what they had achieved. It tore at her, when she allowed herself to think of it, to know that so many had died, but how many lives had she saved by her actions? By how many months and how many lives had she helped to shorten the war?

"I do not believe - no, I am altogether certain - that those numbers in the 'surrendered' column would not have been nearly so high under ordinary circumstances," he went on to say. "The original numbers as calculated by the General Staff were that we should expect thirty to thirty-five percent casualties in 1st Group, in return for sixty-six percent to 1st Armada. Now then, those serving on the General Staff have the benefit of years of experience, and know what to expect from both our people and the enemy; and therefore, barring unforeseeable disaster, their predictions have proven to be most accurate. That our losses were relative light and the enemy's so unexpectedly high can only be attributed to a factor which they had not considered in their calculations."

"You mean me," she said with a lopsided smile.

"In brief, yes."

Opening her eyes, she stabbed another slice of her _íom_, stirred it around in a cup of sweet _post_ sauce, and popped it into her mouth before it got any colder.

"It's nice to be an unaccounted-for variable," she said with a full mouth.

It was nice to hear him laugh at her joke, it being too rare that she ever heard him laugh in earnest.

"The very finest sort of variable," he said with joy in his heart as he leaned against the wall just beside her.

She took his hand, met his eyes, which were faintly shimmering, and wondered if hers were, too as she told him, "What I said earlier - that I love you - I mean it, you know."

"How could I not?"

"We're two of a kind, Revan: I doubt that if we both lived a thousand years, we'd ever find as perfect a match."

"Yes," he said with great solemnity, "I believe that is a near-certainty."

She wanted to say something more, thought that she ought to say something else sweetly romantic, but no ideas came to her. Whether it was because she had spent her entire adult life quashing the slightest stirrings of her heart, or merely because she was so tired that her brain would no longer cooperate, she couldn't be entirely sure; but just then she did feel the overpowering urge to yawn. Though she tried to fight it, the unwelcome reflex won out in the end, and spoiled the moment.

"Sorry," she said as she drew away her hand to cover her mouth. "I suppose I really should finish my supper before it's cold."

"Yes, and then you really ought to get back to bed."

She bolted half a slice of thick, fluffy bread, which was barely lukewarm by this point, and washed it down with a gulp of water.

"Yes, sir," she replied, and took another bite of the bread. "Though I was hoping to stay awake long enough to shower first - I'm feeling a mite sticky. Unfortunately, I'm also feeling like I might fall asleep before I even stand up."

She at least managed to stay awake long enough to finish her meal, after which she pushed herself into a standing position with her hands braced on the desk, and held that pose for a few seconds before daring to let go. Revan was right there, ready to catch her, and followed her all the way to the bathroom.

"I think if I can manage to get under the water, I'll be fine," she said on the way there.

"Just set it nice and frigid - that always gets my blood moving."

"Yes, I've done that before."

Though she had been awake for only fifteen minutes or thereabouts, her eyelids were already enormously heavy again, her every thought and movement sluggish. She stopped just inside the bathroom, momentarily at a loss for what to do, then sprang back into action and retrieved a washcloth from the locker (it was really too small to count as a closet).

"You're certain you'll be alright? I still say you ought to go straight to bed."

"Do I really look that awful?"

No sooner had she asked than she caught her reflection in the mirror, complete with waxy complexion and heavy bags beneath bloodshot eyes.

"Ah, I see. Well, all the more reason to clean myself up."

"If you insist - I suppose it is dreadfully hypocritical of me to argue, since I can never sleep in my own bed without washing first," he chuckled.

"So now I'm catching your compulsions," she managed a laugh as she wet her toothbrush.

"I sincerely hope not."

"That passage you quoted this morning," she began, her beleaguered brain jumping topics while she squeezed the toothpaste tube, "from the…the…"

"_The Will of the Queen_?"

"Mmm," she said with a nod, the toothbrush being already solidly in her mouth as she looked at him in the mirror.

Standing in the bathroom doorway with his arms across his chest and his back against the doorframe, he made some visible effort of gathering his thoughts, tiny alterations of posture that she had learned meant that he was sorting his words.

"It was written six thousand years ago, give or take, in the early period when Deralí was still being colonised. It's a classic - a legend, really, at this point - and part of a dense mythology that's still being added to even now. The sagas concern people who supposedly inhabited Deralí long before her colonisation, civilizations that rose and fell long before the start of recorded history. Some of these folk were ordinary mortals, while others wielded great and mystical powers, and a select few were nothing less than goddesses and gods.

"You must bear in mind that none of the old sagas were originally meant to be taken literally, though there are some who do so. They're tales designed to entertain and inspire."

"Nnnd," she mumbled a little more forcefully, giving him a reflected look that she hoped communicated her desire to know something of the plot, and not just a vague description.

"To provide you with the appropriate background, there once lived in the land of Galtenmarc a mortal, albeit powerful and long-lived, race that called themselves simply the Vacht, meaning 'Folk.' The Vacht as a whole had long been suffering a gradual decline, losing the fire that once drove their endeavours. The wisest, noblest, purest of heart amongst them, however, refused to diminish, and were saddened by their people's lapse into weakness and idleness; and these exceptional few boldly struck out across the sea to explore the rest of the world they so loved. After a long journey through many perils, they reached the island of Aingist, and there came upon a small lake that they named the Fídéothsél, or Starry Lake, for the light of stars seemed always to shine in its water, even in daytime. This water was imbued with the very energy of Deralí herself, and when they drank of it, they were granted great power and eternal youth, becoming the first gods and goddesses.

"On returning home to Galtenmarc, they told their fellow Vacht of their discovery, in hopes of restoring their people to their former greatness, and even persuaded some to travel with them back to Aingist. When the first of them so much as touched the waters of the Fídéothsél, however, they were instantly struck dead, for they had come to Aingist in seeking power, rather than knowledge, as the gods had done. The surviving Vacht were then filled with suspicion and fear of their former kin, and shunned them until need drove them back to plead for their aid.

"_The Will of the Queen_ begins some millennia after these events, during which time many of the gods of Aingist repeatedly came to aid the Vacht in their periodic wars against the Leritorinv, a race that had begun to migrate from the east into Galtenmarc. Eventually, however, the Vacht lost so much of their strength that they ultimately relinquished all claims to Galtenmarc and retreated into the farthest corners of the land: to remote promontories and mountain peaks, to deep ravines and the cliffs that lie behind waterfalls. You see, it was precisely because they had come to rely on the gods to fight for them that their decline was so rapidly accelerated. Realizing their mistake, the gods who had fought for the Vacht lost faith in their own wisdom, and when they did so, also lost their powers and became mortal. Others, who had chosen not to fight, now judged the mortals of Galtenmarc to be weaklings unfit to manage their own affairs, and therefore the rightful subjects of the gods.

"The goddess Sílshe, however, had deemed from the outset that the Vacht, unwilling to fight for their own land, had been unworthy of aid, and that by tyrannizing the Leritorinv, her fellow immortals were only debasing themselves. The gods' rightful purpose, she argued, was to safeguard Deralí herself, and to study and treasure her beauty and her mysteries. This she preached, and for it she was derided by her kin as weak and foolhardy, when she was, in truth, the strongest in spirit and mind of any of her kind. Knowing her own strength and purity, she named herself Queen of Aingist, and commanded her kin to mend their ways, but to no avail. So she alone remained in Aingist, while the rest of the gods left to sit on high thrones across Galtenmarc, built with the labor of slaves, and there lorded over the mortal races."

While Bastila was reluctant to interrupt the tale, she nonetheless rinsed her mouth and spat rather loudly into the sink basin.

"Please do go on," she urged as she retrieved a bottle of shampoo from the locker.

"Seeing the depths into which her kinsfolk had fallen, Sílshe's enmity grew until she could tolerate their ways no longer, and she flew into Galtenmarc in a storm of fury. One by one, ten goddesses and gods she cast down from their thrones and slew, each time with the admonition 'By your own deeds is mine rendered necessary.' By the time she called upon the eleventh, the others had learned of her rebellion, and united against her in the Battle of the Harvest Moon, and for all her strength, she could not overcome their combined power.

"She turned then to the Vacht, seeking to remind them of their former greatness, and thereby rekindle their power, and it was a part of her impassioned call to arms that I quoted this morning. After much debate, many of the Vacht did, indeed, arise in answer to her summons, and together they cleansed the land of the fallen gods. In return for their aid, Sílshe welcomed into Aingist all Vachtinv who had fought beside her, cautioning all who chose to remain in Galtenmarc that, should they desire to regain their land, they must do so by their own blood and valor, for only thusly could they earn their freedom."

As eager as she was to shower and go to bed, Bastila was disappointed that the story was over, had almost expected him to keep going.

"Though I've already made you give away the ending, I do plan to read the whole story someday," she remarked, feeling momentarily enlivened by the tale.

"You should read all the sagas, in order, for there are many that precede _The Will of the Queen_, and hold just as much wisdom," he advised her. "For now, though, you really should be getting some rest," he told her quietly.

"You're right. _Aithlín cían,_" she replied.

"_Aithl__ín cían,"_ he echoed just before they kissed.

He departed quickly, leaving her alone to undress and run the water. Contrary to his advice, she didn't set it cold, though she did keep it well below any temperature that could be called warm. As she washed, she thought again of the story, the symbolism fairly obvious to her. Most overtly was the demonstration of the principles on which Deralín government and society were founded: that power must be earned, that freedom must be won and defended by one's own valor, that those who abuse their power must be overthrown as a moral imperative. Somewhat more subtle was the concept that a single individual could be right when the majority was entirely in the wrong, and now she could comprehend why the story had wiped away some of her exhaustion, for it served to reinforce her conviction that she was in the right, and that all that she had done this day was worth the price paid.

By the time she had dried herself and changed into her nightclothes, however, sleep was again threatening to overwhelm her, and so she quickly turned over her pillow and climbed beneath the sheets. The very moment she ordered the lights out and shut her eyes, she left the waking world for a dreamlessly-deep slumber.

It was only when she woke later in the night that she realized that she had fallen asleep at all, the little glowing chrono on the wall reading 0042. Though still tired, she was no longer deliriously so, and when she shut her eyes again, she didn't instantly return to sleep. Instead she lay there for several minutes, pondering why she had woken at all, then falling into the dreadful trap of replaying the day's - scratch that: the _previous _day's - battles in her mind. She had think of something else, something soothing, and thought of Revan.

She could feel him still awake, though at last winding down for the night, undoubtedly having kept himself up late studying plans for the next offensive. For all the magnitude of their victory, he wasn't satisfied. She knew that he couldn't be satisfied with anything short of the Republic's surrender, no more so than she could relax until the war was won. They had both wanted to push on that afternoon, to keep up the fight, until hard reality slammed the door in their faces.

She lay there for another ten minutes, a peculiar idea forming in her mind as she stared into the blackness of her cabin, after which she threw back the covers and climbed from her bed. Most of those ten minutes were spent debating whether the idea had occurred to her because she was tired, or whether this was simply the right time for action - in the end, she decided upon the latter. She therefore changed into a plain white civilian shirt and a pair of beige trousers, and, carefully folding her nightclothes, tucked them under her arm on the way out.

_Hurry up,_ she told herself as she marched down the corridor, _before you change your mind._ Her heart was hammering in her chest, her hands faintly shaking when she pressed Revan's door chime. Having sensed her approach, he was standing right there in the doorway the moment it opened, clad in a lightweight, tan pullover shirt and loose trousers. His eyes took not a second to register that she was carrying her own pajamas as she stepped inside.

"Bastila?" was the only word of inquiry he initially managed to think up, to be followed by the equally straightforward, "What brings you here at this hour?"

"To be perfectly honest," she said once the door had shut behind her, "I… Well, I was awake and… Well, I thought that…"

_Out with it, dammit!_ she shouted inwardly at herself. _He won't think you needy - he knows that you're not-and he's too bloody proper to ever suggest it himself, so out with it!_

"I wish to stay here," she finally blurted out.

"Stay here?" He almost jumped as he said it. "You mean as in…"

"My bed's too small for two," was the best phrasing she could think of.

She felt him strongly through their bond as he stopped to gather his composure, as if he was searching her to make absolutely certain that she meant it and wasn't delirious or sleepwalking or anything else along those lines. After all, she could hardly believe it herself, though she knew it was altogether right, and that this was precisely what her heart desired. Satisfied that she was of her right mind (why he thought it so impossible that anyone would ever love him, she couldn't quite fathom), he visibly relaxed.

"Are you alright?" she asked him.

"Yes, I'm…perfectly alright," he answered as a smile spread across his face. "I was actually just getting ready to retire."

"Then I couldn't have timed it better."

Together they left his study for the bedroom, where Revan went about turning down the covers. Bastila, meanwhile, ducked into the closet to change, though it wasn't really large enough to accommodate both her and Revan's hanging clothes, and she repeatedly struck her knees and backside against the walls. Though she and Revan were both fully-clothed, and though they wouldn't be doing anything besides sleeping together in the most literal sense of the term, her heart was fluttering when she crossed the little room to climb in beside him. They turned to face each other, Revan's face fairly aglow with contentment, but neither could manage the step of putting one's arm around the other.

"_Th__íle íl dur, Revan," _she said softly, and kissed him good-night.

"_Hai th__íle íl dur, Bastila. Ro atse."_

She turned onto her back, ordered the lights out, and shut her eyes. She fretted that she would have had difficulty getting back to sleep, that she would be overwhelmed by the novelty of the experience, but only for a minute, after which she peacefully drifted off.

As for Revan, he, too, had far less difficulty falling asleep than he imagined would be possible when sharing his bed with her. _Nay, it is _our_ bed now - hers as well as mine._ So unexpected had this turn of events been that he was initially in a state resembling shock. Once that wore off, however, he found himself remarkably at ease, as though lying beside her was the most perfectly natural experience there could be, which perhaps it was. Her presence was soothing, and while his brain wanted still to obsess over the war, he could remain awake no longer.

The next sensation of which he was aware was that of her warm body held close against his own, her bosom pressed to his chest, his left arm draped over her with his hand resting on her upper back. In that first waking moment, he wasn't consciously aware that it was her, only that he was in bed with someone else, which was something altogether beyond the realm of his experience. His first instinct was therefore one of alarm, and in a flash, he released his hold on her and attempted to recoil, only to find himself restrained by her arm about his waist. By that time, he was fully awake and aware of the situation, namely that Bastila was sleeping beside him, that they had been in each other's embrace, and that there was no cause for concern. Quite the opposite, in fact, as a profound happiness washed over him.

He put his arm back around her and hugged her close, basking in her warmth, the subtle scent of her silky hair, the steady rise and fall of her chest. There was no denying his natural physical reaction to this intimate contact, but the idea of actually following through with it… Well, it was a subject that had never before been of any relevance to him, and his knowledge of it was derived solely from love scenes in novels he had read. In his mind, the physical act of making love was altogether inseparable from the emotional state of being in love, before he met her, he had never loved anyone. _One step at a time,_ he thought. In any event, he adored the wonderfully novel experience of just lying there in her arms.

As these thoughts were running through his mind, he felt her shift slightly. Slowly, reluctantly, her eyes fluttered open, focused on his face, then closed again, and she sighed softly.

"Good morning," she murmured.

"Good morning."

"How did you sleep?"

"You mean I'm awake?"

She almost added, "I thought I was still dreaming," but that wouldn't have been true, since her dreams were never this pleasant.

He laughed. "You can stay in bed if you need to."

"No, I'll manage, provided I can turn in early tonight."

She stretched and yawned, pushed her hair back out of her face, and then stopped and held perfectly still as she gazed into his eyes. She put her arms back around him, drew him tightly to her, and kissed him long and lovingly, an act which he more than gladly reciprocated. _We belong together, darling,_ she thought, hoping her could hear her. Her heart quickened, her face flushed, but she pushed aside the shy anxiety, and thought only of him.

Revan was pleasantly surprised to feel her hands slowly sliding down his back, down to the hem of his shirt, and slip underneath; and the touch of her fingers on his skin was as a rapturous shock to him. As she deepened the kiss and eased his shirt slowly upwards, he banished from his mind what remained of his trepidation, of his ingrained aversion to intimacy. He let his hands find their way under her shirt to her firm, toned abdomen and work their way up to the inviting swell of her breasts.

"With all my heart, I love you," he whispered to her.

"As I love you," she returned.


	12. Reunion

Admittedly, as bluefalcon1138 pointed out, Revan really doesn't change much over the course of the story, but nor did I intend for him to do so. When I listed Bastila's name first in the story summary, I did so because the story is in large part about her journey, as set against the backdrop of the last year of the War. Revan, on the other hand, has already walked that path, and by this point in time is pretty well settled into his chosen role in life, so any changes in him are therefore going to be very slight. As to Revan's deliberate formality of speech, I'm glad someone finally pointed that out. I wrote his dialogue with the idea in mind that he's a man who is in love with the past, and who spends his free time consuming old novels and legends, to the point that he tends to think of himself as a gentleman from a nobler time.

And in case notices an apparent discrepancy between the two dates at the start of this chapter, the Republic Calendar includes three festival weeks of five days each. Since I could find no information on precisely where these weeks fall within the year, I chose to place one between the 8th and 9th months.

* * *

12

Reunion

8 Thilnuth, 1,018 DÉ

2.9.20375

First Sergeant Baydo Kwinn hated sand. Having grown up in one of the more arid regions of Majoor, he had learned at a young age to despise the coarseness of the substance; the way it bit your skin and burned your eyes whenever the wind blew; its goddamned propensity for working its way into anything and everything. By his teenage years, he had learned to loathe the very sight of sand. In fact, while he was well aware that his homeworld was a victim of unfair Republic trade practices (the spiraling cost of goods and the increasing paucity of jobs ensured few Majoorians weren't aware), it was a desperation to escape the sand, more so than any sense of moral outrage or national pride, that prompted him to enlist. A few months after Majoor's parliament voted to join the Empire, and one week after he had been laid off by the latest in a long line of factories to shut its doors, he had been approached by a man in a brown and khaki uniform working the lines at the local unemployment office. The man was an officer in the Majoorian Army, now serving with the 467th (Majoorian) Division of the Imperial Army, and, after not too much deliberation on his part, Kwinn gave the officer his autoprint.

Now, through the thick plates of armored glass that formed his canopy, Kwinn could see nothing but sand and sky, sky and sand. _I joined up to get away from this shit, and this is a hundred times worse than home,_ he couldn't help thinking_._ Hell, at least home had stunted, gnarled trees and low, thorny bushes, along with an occasional stream that ran down from the mountains. This place was totally dead, without a single scrap of vegetation to disrupt the endless yellow dunes. It was almost enough to make a man puke.

"Reminds you of home, don't it?" chuckled his front-seat gunner, Sergeant Jerem Tenn, who had grown up in the next town over from Kwinn's.

"Ha-ha," Kwinn drawled in reply.

"Yeah, I know, it isn't really the same. Nothing much here, not even compared to Holem. Still, kinda hoped you'd never have to look at sand again, didn't you?"

"Why don't you just shut your trap and keep watch before somebody gets one up on us?"

"Who? A bunch of savages wavin' axes at the sky?"

"Cap'n said they scavenge Czerka guns, remember, so keep an eye out. We're supposed to be gettin' close."

Tenn went silent and "put his head on a swivel" as he scanned the area ahead and to either side of their A29R1 speeder, better known to its crews as a Sentinel.

The Sentinel was a squat, khaki-colored craft with an ugly purposefulness about it: stubby wings bedecked with ordnance, a revolving turret sporting a pair of heavy blasters protruding from a bulbous chin, a slab-sided construction of transparisteel serving as a canopy. What it lacked in aesthetic appeal, however, it more than made up for with its rock-solid construction and ability to loft almost any ordnance a beleaguered footsoldier might wish to call in. It wasn't exactly fast, but when ninety-five percent of its missions were flown at less than twenty meters' altitude, that wasn't of paramount importance. Just doing a few hundred kph, particularly in mountainous terrain, left Kwinn swimming in his flightsuit. Even these dunes could reach up and grab a man if he wasn't sharp.

"Cap'n also said they think torture's an art form," said Tenn rather quietly. "They make a fuckin' ritual out of it - take pride in seein' how long they can drag it out."

"Which is why we're out here," Kwinn reminded him. "Find the camp and kill every living thing in it."

"Then why don't we just climb? I'll find it inside of ten seconds from a few hundred meters."

"'Cause that's not how we fight. We're supposed to stay sharp, so even if it's just some savages with a few rifles, we fight like it's the Reps out there. Now shut up."

Kwinn wished his gunner hadn't brought up Captain Otten's warning about the Tuskens. Hell, he wished Otten hadn't showed them that gruesome slideshow of mutilated corpses recovered from the dunes, even if it was meant to show the flight crews why the sortie was important. Reaching awkwardly over his right shoulder with his left hand, while still taking uttermost care to hold the speeder level, he lifted a bright red safety cover and flipped two switches, disarming his ejector seat. If he got shot down on this one, he'd much rather auger in than get flayed alive by some barbaric freak.

"White One, White Three, possible contact at two o'clock," said the leader of the second element in the formation. The words came in and out, weak and then strong, being telegraphed via a laser link that was occasionally broken by intervening dunes. (Unlike normal comms, the laser didn't broadcast their presence, and couldn't be intercepted.)

"You got anything?" he asked Kwinn.

"That's a negative," said the gunner as he stared at two o'clock.

"White Three, White One, what's your range on that?" he heard Lieutenant Paefeck ask in reply.

"Sorry about that, sir, false alarm. Just some wildlife."

"Copy that."

According to Kwinn's map display, they were supposed to be ten kilometers from the Tusken encampment, although the creatures were nomadic and weren't known to stay in one place for too long. He raised the speeder's mast sensor, a sort of electronic periscope that extended seven meters above the fuselage. In combat, it was never raised for more than a second at a time, just long enough for to take a sensor snapshot of the area, and so that's precisely how long he kept it up.

"Got 'em!" Tenn announced almost immediately. "One o'clock, eight kay."

"White Two to White One, objective is eight kay at one o'clock."

"Copy that, Two. White Flight, slow to hover, combat spread."

Kwinn hauled back and left on the stick, flaring sharply while fanning out away from Paefeck and the rest of the formation. He eased the Sentinel into a hover just below the crest of an especially tall dune.

"Masts up, White Flight," he heard the crackly order.

He raised his speeder's mast sensor again, this time long enough for Tenn to establish a missile lock, which was announced by a steady tone in his headset.

"White Flight, engage," Paefeck said with perfect calm, as if he'd done this a hundred times. (In reality, it was closer to fifty, which still gave him a forty-something lead on Kwinn.)

Easing up on the throttle, Kwinn popped above the dunes, and in the distance, through the shimmering heat haze, he could faintly discern a cluster of low structures. As soon as they had cleared the dunes, Tenn loosed a salvo of four missiles, selected new targets, and fired again before the first four had impacted. To either side, flashes of light and streaks of smoke told of more missile launches. It had taken barely three seconds, and then they dipped back behind cover, keeping the sensor masts raised so the gunners could spot the impacts.

"Good hits," Tenn proudly announced. "Damn good hits. Fires all around."

"Alright, White Flight, stay loose, stay fast, shoot anything that moves. Napalm on the flyover," Paefeck instructed them. "Here we go."

Tightening his grip on the controls as he simultaneously hauled up on the throttle and pushed forward on the stick, Kwinn climbed above the dunes while rapidly accelerating. Closing at nearly 300 kph, he could now easily see the Tusken camp, most of its tents already ablaze. The range narrowed to just five kilometers, and the speeder shook under the recoil of its grenade launchers as Tenn unleashed a hail of explosives. Three kilometers, and it was on to the blasters, hosing down the target area with a rapid and steady spray of bolts. A few solitary shots rose up from the camp, pinging off the Sentinel's armor as White Flight streaked overhead. Kwinn felt the Sentinel lurch upwards, which, together with Tenn's exclamation of "Bombs away!", signified the release of the two 1,000-kilo napalm tanks.

They were low enough that Kwinn could see tan figures lying in bloody pieces on blackened sand, others with their strange bandage-like clothes on fire, some still alive and running for cover. All were swallowed by a roiling cloud of flame that seemed to chase his speeder.

"Anybody hit?" asked Paefeck.

Kwinn scanned the cockpit's extensive glass displays, saw no warnings of damage, answered, "White Two, a-okay."

"White Three, fine here."

"White Four, nothing serious."

"Right, back we go. Break!"

The flight peeled off, with each speeder wheeling around in a hard turn and slowing to 200 kph, and within a few seconds, the shooting resumed. Amazingly, there were still survivors, and a shot came up and glanced off the nose. In reply, Tenn fired a pair of grenades at its source, followed by a half-dozen more into a cluster of collapsed tents. Not satisfied with that, he sprayed the whole ground ahead of them with the blasters as they passed over.

"Everybody check in."

"White Two

"White Three."

"White Four."

"Any more return fire?" asked Paefeck while Kwinn was craning his neck to look over his shoulder. He saw no shots chasing him or the others.

"Looks clear, sir."

"Yeah, nothin' here," said somebody else - it was hard to identify voices over the laser link.

"Alright, back around, take it easy this time, make sure there's nothin' left."

And so they turned a second time, this time slowing almost to a hover, and plastered the entire camp from end to end until their grenades were spent and their blaster barrels glowing. They cruised low and slow over a scene of complete devastation, White Four suddenly loosing off a few shots at something far to the right: a solitary Tusken making a break for it across the dunes, only to have his torso obliterated in a red mist.

"White Flight, any life signs down there?" Paefeck asked.

"Nothin' on my scope," said Tenn. "Just fires."

"Nothin here, sir," White Three checked in.

"That's a big negative, sir. Big ole graveyard now." (Though the voice sounded as digitized as everybody else's, Kwinn thought that had to be Rajet, the pilot of White Four.)

"Well said, Four. It's back home, then, everybody."

An hour later, the eight members of White Flight, 3rd Squadron, 2nd Group, (Majoorian) Attack Wing 503 were gathered at the local cantina. While they were billeted in the compound of prefab structures the Army had erected outside of town, there was no rule against them going into Anchorhead, so long as they did so armed. Ordinarily, military regulations prohibited any combination of sidearms and alcohol, but the division commander had evidently decided that the danger to his soldiers outweighed any potential trouble they might encounter. Kwinn, for one, certainly wouldn't go wandering anywhere on this hellhole of a planet without his sidearm.

"Turn that shit off!" Paefeck barked at the Rodian barkeep, pointing with his whole arm at an obsolescent holoset bolted to the wall. Cutting through the smoke and general gloom of the cantina, it was airing Republic News Net, one of the Republic's top "infotainment" stations.

"And why aren't we jamming that yet?" asked Rajet as the group sat down, all of them facing the door.

"'Cause we've only been here a week, that's why. Navy's got better things to do than jam that bull," answered Goren, aka White Two, as she leaned over the bar. "One Chagarian ale!"

"Hey, doesn't that thing get any of _our_ stations?" asked Joffen, Rajet's gunner.

"Yeah, bartender, put something _decent_ on!" hollered Tenn. "And get me a Dressellian beer!"

The soldiers sat down and the remainder of them ordered drinks, which the harried barkeep rushed to pour while trying to find an Imperial station on his holoset. He settled on a news broadcast, which was showing some kind of ceremony being conducted in a large hangar. There were nice, straight ranks of crisply-uniformed naval officers and enlisted personnel, as well as a number of stretchers on which lay men and women who were bandaged to varying degrees. The shot soon changed from a wide view to a close-up of none other than Revan himself, who was kneeling beside a stretcher.

"Turn it up!" shouted several airmen at once.

The barkeep hastily obliged, first cranking it to an ear-bleeding volume, then correcting and bringing it back to a more moderate level.

"…I present to you the Order of Gallantry, 1st Class," said Revan as he laid a medal on the stretcher beside a woman with her neck swathed in white, who, clearly unable to speak, weakly smiled her thanks.

Seated alone in the corner of the room, clutching an amber glass in her lightly-trembling hands, sat a woman with thinning, light brown hair and blue-grey eyes, who found it almost difficult to believe that she was looking at Revan. This portrayal was so different from that to which she had grown accustomed, though the skeptic in her said that this probably held at least as much truth as the Republic newsfeeds, which were, at times, downright laughable in their demonization of him. To what extent she bothered to watch the news, it always depicted Revan in one of three ways: as the imperious dictator reviewing untold masses of marching soldiers; as the violent maniac delivering an impassioned speech about crushing the evil of the Republic; or as the malevolent ghoul in a partial suit of Mandalorian armor. (The last image, while perhaps the most iconic in Republic propaganda, was also the least accurate, as was to be expected. Only thrice in the course of the Mandalorian Wars had Revan experimented with wearing Beskar'gam, but somehow a few grainy holocaptures had been leaked to the media, who made ample use of these in their skewed reporting. A few stations even took the liberty of digitally adding flashes of red to what had, in reality, been flat-black armor, as if to suggest blood.)

"Here's to the C-in-C," announced Paefeck as he raised his glass.

"To the C-in-C!" thundered the others.

There was a clinking of glasses, followed by the swift downing of alcohol, and orders for a new round. Kwinn savored his Bespin Port while watching Revan move down the line, handing out one decoration after another. After a while, he came to a striking woman with marble-white skin and cold blue eyes, and Joffen remarked, "She's hot."

In reply, Paefeck's gunner, a tall, dark woman named Milijo, cuffed him across the back of the head.

"Is that all you think about?" Rajet asked his gunner, who sheepishly hunched forward over his drink.

"Isn't she a spy?" asked Tenn.

"Don't be stupid," Kwinn told him. "She wouldn't be getting a medal if she was a spy, dipshit."

"I mean she's spying for _us_ - _was_ spying for us, that is."

"Nah, she's just another defector is all," Milijo chimed in. "Good one to have on our side, I'll admit."

"You know, I heard that spy story, too, and it's not half as dumb as it sounds," said Goren, who gestured with her glass, sloshing the dark amber liquid within. "I mean, what're the odds that a woman with pro-Imperial sympathies will be sent on a mission to capture Revan, and end up saving his life? No, I think whether or not Malak turned traitor, that mission would have failed, 'cause she was there to make sure it failed."

"And she was at Bimmiel," added Rajet.

"So?" asked Paefeck.

"Well my sister was at Bimmiel - 109th Fleet, you know - and I remember her telling me about that fight. She said it was the damndest thing she'd ever seen: they had the Reps outnumbered four-to-one, and so what did those fuckin' idiots do? They just stood their ground for no damned reason and let themselves get butchered until our people got tired of it. Now, either the Reps just plain forgot to retreat, or somebody on their side made sure they got chopped."

"You might be onto something there," said the lieutenant.

"And don't forget Revan didn't off the Sith alone - she was there, too," said Kwinn with a pointed wave of his glass.

"Yeah, and anybody who wiped out those scum is good in my book," Tenn agreed.

By now, the camera had moved on to another officer, but that didn't stop them from raising their glasses.

"To Captain Shan!"

Amidst their revelry, none of them took any notice of the woman seated alone in the corner, not even when her glass slipped from her fingers and emptied its contents on the table's already-well-stained surface. Her eyes were moist with incipient tears, and her mouth hung fractionally open in stunned disbelief.

"They told me she was dead," Helena Shan whispered to nobody but herself.

* * *

9 Thilnuth, 1,018 DÉ

3.9.20375

"You want your hand as high up on the grip as possible," said Revan's patient voice. "Try turning your hand anticlockwise just a fraction - you want it nice and centered, so that it sits smack in the hollow of your palm… There, that's better. Now wrap your thumb around, keeping it straight so that it points in line with the barrel… That's it. Keep your finger outside the trigger guard."

"Sorry," she said, having let her index finger wander to the trigger for the second time since drawing the pistol. It was set to minimum power, just enough to pierce the target, but it was the principle that mattered.

A flat-black PM-88, it was the standard-issue sidearm of the Deralín armed services (there not yet being a standardized Imperial sidearm), and she had taken to carrying one at all times, even though she had little idea of how to properly wield it. It was a robust, purposeful-looking weapon of similar size to Revan's treasured -04, but with a thicker, slab-sided barrel and a larger magazine that protruded from the bottom of the grip. In spite of the twin facts that it weighed no more than her lightsaber and that the grips had been matched to fit her hands, the weapon felt distinctly foreign to her touch. For a former Jedi, it was a very peculiar experience to be holding a blaster of any type, even one that was perfectly balanced and naturally pointed in line with her forearm.

"Now place your left hand over your right so that the fingers of your left rest in the little valleys between the fingers of your right… Does that make any sense?"

"Of course."

"Good, you've got it. Now lay your left thumb just below your right, so that both are pointing in line with the barrel… By all means keep your thumbs off the mag release… And there you have it: a perfect shooter's grip."

"So that's all there is to it," she quipped.

They stood together in a little clearing amidst a grove of tall, straight trees with long, pointed pea-green leaves that drooped diagonally downwards. A chill hung in the air and a thin layer of snow lay over the squishy ground, and they were both wrapped in boot-high greatcoats, Bastila with an officer's cap seated tightly on her head. They stood atop a wooded hill, not far inland from the rocky eastern shore of a remote island in the southern hemisphere of the planet Gibad. The _Deralí_ was currently undergoing repairs in a spacedock drifting in a remote corner of the interstellar void, to which Gibad was the nearest habitable planet. As such, it had quickly become a popular shore-leave destination, though transportation for the crew was highly limited.

"How does it feel?" he asked with a smile.

Her first instinct was to say that it felt strange, until she paused just long enough to let her palms and fingers acclimatize themselves to the shape and texture of the weapon. Yes, the manner in which she held it was unusual by her standards, but there was a certain precision about how it sat in her hands.

"Not bad," she said after several seconds.

"Assuming a fighting stance, left foot forward, and take aim."

She raised the pistol at the simple target which Revan had driven into the ground ten meters away: a tall stake topped by a simple white plastic sheet bearing a black X in the center. While she had yet to make use of them, Bastila had at least seen the shooting ranges aboard the _Deralí_, and compared with their holographic targets and simulations, this was low-tech in the extreme. She didn't have to wonder at the reasoning behind Revan's choice of venue, however: the island was a remote, pristine environment with ample fresh air, far removed from the cramped sterility of the battleship. As she stared down the length of the weapon at the target, she decided that there was something more fundamental, more _pure_, about training out here. The memories of being here would surely be deeper and more vivid than those of standing in a high-tech range.

"Keep your arms straight, but don't lock your elbows… Don't use the holosights," he said, adding the last part when he saw her index finger brush the switch at the front of the trigger guard, "and don't trouble with the backups, either. You should be able to _feel_ where the shot will strike, the same as if you were swinging a lightsaber."

When she concentrated, she could, indeed, feel the aim point, even felt it slowly bob up and down in time with her breath.

"Now put your finger on the trigger, just the pad of your fingertip, just like that. Breathe slowly," he said soothingly from behind. "In…and out… In…and out… Hold it. Now don't _pull_ the trigger, squeeze it. It's a light trigger, so squeeze it gently and…"

Doing as he said, she gently pressed the trigger to the rear and was surprised by the report of the pistol when it fired. At virtually the same instant, a small, black-rimmed hole appeared on the end of the lower-right arm of the X.

"Brilliant!" he proclaimed.

"Not quite centered, though," she said with a subtle frown. _Not perfect._

"No, low and right means you weren't quite smooth enough, but that's still an excellent beginning, and almost identical to my own first shot, in point of fact. Mine was better centered in the horizontal, but a little lower than yours, if I remember correctly - just on the edge of the ten-ring, I confess."

"Do you want to keep talking, or may I try again?" she asked with good humor.

"Sorry."

She did the same as before, breathing slowly, holding it on the exhale, feeling where the shot would hit as she gently, _smoothly_, squeezed… Another startlingly sudden shot echoed through the clearing and another hole appeared in the target, this time just to the right of center, almost touching the center of the X.

Not quite fifteen minutes later, there no longer was an X on the target, it having been replaced by a ragged hole measuring between two and three centimeters in diameter. Bastila felt a tingling warmth in her chest as she holstered the pistol and watched Revan tramp across the snowy ground with a second target plate in hand.

"You're a natural, of course," he called back to her while unfastening the ruined plate from the stake. "Just like you're a natural at everything else you try!"

"You do know you don't need to flatter me, right?"

He fixed the new plate in place and answered her question with a question: "Since when does the truth count as flattery?"

She just smiled and shook her head.

While it was true that she excelled at most everything she tried, it was usually thanks to effort and dedication. In the two weeks since Operation Impulse, when the war had grown quiet enough to grant them some free time, Revan had spent much of it instructing her in the use of Force lightning. Though she had experienced some initial discomfort at the idea of exercising a power that she had always been told was a hallmark of the dark side, she quickly realized how absurd that fear was. Lightning was a force of nature, and no more intrinsically good or evil than any other. As Revan had told her as they stood on a rocky hillside overlooking a beach on the island, anger only made it _easier_ to channel the energy of the Force into lightning, but was not necessary; and he proceeded to prove his assertion by quite serenely leveling his arm and sending a bolt streaming into a metal rod he had previously driven into the sand. It had been a challenge at first, trying to make the energy do anything more than arc between her own fingers, but with practice, she was soon shaking the beach with mighty thunderclaps as she fired into the spike.

For all her facility with the talent, however, it had felt much more of a labor than the martial skill she was practicing today. She had no reason to expect she would ever need fire a pistol in combat, but she couldn't deny that there was something viscerally enjoyable about it. It was actually…fun, and she couldn't recall the last time she had done something which she could call fun.

"Right, then," Revan declared as he returned to her. "Check the mag."

She smartly drew the pistol, turned it over, and felt the little indicator bar on the bottom of the magazine. It was a mechanical sliding bar with a textured surface, the pistol having none of the digital indicators in vogue with the civilian market, nothing that might reveal a soldier's position at night.

"Almost out," she said.

"Change it."

She pressed the mag release with her right thumb and let the combined gas/power cell fall to the ground as her left hand found the mag pouch on her left hip. She drew one of the long boxes, fitted it into the grip, and rammed it home with a firm slap.

"Very good. This being but a practice session, however, please do recover the mag."

"Right," she said while stooping to fish it out of the snow and slip it into the pouch.

"Before we get any further, though, I want to see you take a shot," she told him. "All this talk of being a brilliant marksman, and I've never seen you shoot."

"Fair enough," he said with a mischievous smirk.

What happened next was so fast that anyone other than herself would have seen only a blur. Drawing his weapon as he turned, he fired from his hip and put a smoldering hole dead center on the X.

"How's that sate your curiosity?"

"Just fine," she said.

"Now your turn. Engage."

Doing precisely as she had before, she wrapped her left hand over her right, raised the pistol at arms' length and held her breath. Feeling as if a soft, cool breeze was blowing squarely on her forehead, she squeezed the trigger, and was rewarded with the sight of a little black hole touching the one made by Revan's shot, creating a sort of diagonal figure-8.

She proceeded to exhaust an entire magazine on that target, continuing to fire even after shooting out its center. As Revan had suggested, she fired a single shot at an unblemished portion of the target, and had then proceeded to use that as her aim point.

"Excellent work," he proclaimed when her pistol finally ceased to fire.

"Yes, not bad, I have to admit."

"Care to try from farther out? Say, fifteen meters this time?"

"Why not?"

She holstered her sidearm and watched as he replaced the target for the second time.

"Is this how your father taught you to shoot?" she asked to break the silence, and saw him visibly stiffen, if only for an instant, before he finished attaching the new target.

"I've never thought of myself as a particularly skilled teacher, but at least I'm better than my father," he answered as he started back.

In their time together, Revan had rarely spoken about his life before joining the Jedi Order, and Bastila had politely avoided the subject, but she thought that surely this would have been a safe area of discussion.

"And, no, I don't mean to say he was abusive," he added after a few steps. "Well, not exactly. He'd tell you how to do something, and that was it…no passion behind it, merely rote instruction. There wasn't any shouting when you did something the wrong way - which was any way besides his own - but he made it amply obvious that you didn't get it."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Like I said, my father wasn't _cruel._ He was… He was a _distant_ man, emotionally very distant, if there were any emotions in him at all. He… Well, when I left to join the Jedi… To be honest, I didn't miss him all that much, since I never got very close to him to begin with. I missed my mother bitterly…up until I'd been apart from her long enough to realize just how…_off_ she truly was."

He was standing even with her now, passing her as he paced off the distance, and she turned to follow. She really wished she hadn't broached the subject, but now sensed that he was almost relieved to tell her this, and so asked the obvious:

"They're dead, aren't they?"

Without turning, and without breaking stride, he nodded.

"Not in the war, though, right? Deralí was never attacked directly, and they weren't soldiers, so…"

"It was an accident," he said flatly as he stopped and dragged his boot in the snow to mark the new firing line. "A speeder accident when I was fifteen. The Jedi never did tell me: I learned of it only after I left the Order and returned home. I even visited their graves once."

With his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, he idly kicked at the soft ground beneath the snow, digging a furrow with the toe of his boot.

"I cried, but to this day I don't know if it was because I missed them, or because I didn't."

She laid a pale hand on his shoulder and drew him tightly to her, not knowing what to say.

An hour later, after much cathartic shooting by the both of them, they trudged up a steep and rocky slope as dark clouds thick with the threat of snow rolled in from the southeast, driven by a stiffening wind. Only the northern side of the island was forested, the remainder being composed of bare, jagged hills that dropped off in sharp cliffs to the south and west, and which moderated into little sandy beaches along the northeastern shore. The majority of the island's inhabitants were birds that ranged from little white and black avians the size of one's hand, nesting in the tall, weedy grass that grew between the rocks; to great speckled-brown creatures with a wingspan of 130 cm or more, that took to roosting atop the cliffs, that they might better plummet upon their unsuspecting prey. Atop a round-topped hillock, however, were perched a pair of far larger birds, of a sort: huge, gull-winged predators fashioned of composites and alloys, with two engines bulging from the wing roots and four heavy laser cannon buried in the shark-like nose. They were painted in splinters of stone grey and sky blue, with green noses and tails, and, at slightly more than eighteen meters from nose to tail and just under thirteen in span, dwarfed the largest wildlife.

Reaching out with the Force, Bastila pressed a key that opened the canopy and lowered the boarding ladder of her Si-47 starfighter, and simultaneously initiated the startup procedure. Wriggling out of her coat, she folded it into a neat little bundle before climbing aboard, stowing her coat and hat in the tiny cargo compartment beside the seat. The biting wind at once cut through her relatively-thin jacket, and she wasted no time settling into the form-fitting ejector seat and shutting the canopy. She fastened and drew tight the array of safety webbing, including a pair of "stirrups" that looped around her ankles. (In the event of an ejection, these were to draw her legs in tight against the seat, immediately after which, a clamshell-like cover would slam shut, enclosing her in a capsule which was not only airtight, rated to survive a high-velocity atmospheric entry.)

Lastly, she took her helmet from the center console and slipped it down over her head. On command, the wraparound glass displays and visor-mounted HUD came alive, displaying the status of the fighter's reactor, ion engines, hyperdrive, life support, weapons… _What's that one? _she asked herself as her eyes stopped on a particular icon. _Oh, right, repulsorlifts._ She knew how to fly well enough, but she still wasn't altogether comfortable managing the fighter's systems, even knowing that most of them were automated and the rest designed to be intuitive.

In fact, because they had both devoted so much of their lives to other studies and pursuits, neither she nor Revan had ever been regarded as more than average pilots by Jedi standards, though that still made them quite skilled by the standards of normal beings. She felt almost ridiculous making use of a half-million-credit, "next-generation space-dominance fighter" (in the theatrical words of a Sienar Systems representative) for these casual excursions, but at least it was only a temporary arrangement. Technically, she and Revan were "testing" the new fighters, which were scheduled to be transferred off the _Deralí_ to a front-line squadron on the 11th.

"Revan, how do you read?" she said. (Strictly speaking, his call sign was "Green One" and hers "Green Two," but it didn't feel right to address each other in such anonymous terms.)

"Loud and clear," he answered.

She called up a checklist on her HUD and ran through it item by item, leaving nothing to chance. While she knew a couple of combat-rated pilots could have had these fighters airborne from a cold start in ninety seconds, it took her and Revan closer to four minutes.

"I'm go for takeoff," she announced after finishing the list.

"Same here."

"Then let's be going."

She rolled her thumb and forefinger on the end of the throttle, engaging the repulsorlifts and climbing vertically off the rocky landing site. _Gear up. _Turning her head to the right, she saw Revan's -47 hovering nearby, its undercarriage tucking up into the belly. She eased forward on the throttle while rolling back the repulsorlifts, and the fighter leapt forward, squeezing her into her seat. A slight rearward pressure on the stick pitched the nose up, and she was skimming over the top of the island. She had intended to swoop down the other side to get a good view of the beaches, but sensed a flock of birds gliding and wheeling up ahead, and instead pulled into a near-vertical climb.

"Gibad Control, Sector Four-Four-Besh, Imperial Green One climbing through one thousand, do you copy?" she heard Revan's voice over the comms.

Over this isolated part of the planet, there was a near-total absence of air traffic, and it was more for politeness' sake than safety that he ran through this procedure every time. Gibad, though somewhat blatantly sympathetic to the Imperial Cause, was still officially neutral, and he took care to adhere to proper procedure at all times.

"Imperial Green One," said a dull, businesslike male voice, "Gibad Control, I have you climbing through one thousand, five hundred. Please state your departure heading and intentions." (That the controller was asking for their departure heading, rather than assigning one, was a clear indicator of just how vacant this airspace was.)

"Gibad Control, Green Flight departing on zero-seven-one. We'll be jumping as soon as we're clear of your gravity well."

"Understood, Green One. I have no traffic along that vector. Enjoy your flight."

"Thanks, Control. Green One out."

Bastila turned her head from side to side as she advanced the throttle and climbed, watching the tempestuous waves recede, the clouds shrink beneath her. They were climbing almost parallel to the advancing front, and to her right she had a perfect view of the huge dark mass of clouds stretching for hundreds of kilometers south across the sea. She sliced effortlessly through a thin cirrus layer at eleven thousand, and, seeing Revan begin to pull ahead, accelerated still further. She watched the flat horizon curve into an arc, and the sky darken from azure to midnight blue, and finally to star-speckled black.

(Though it didn't occur to her as she plotted her hyperspace jump and lamented that it was a shame to put Gibad behind her so quickly, the fact that she had just flown into orbit without once consulting her navigation display was probably a fair indicator that she wasn't as mediocre a pilot as she was usually judged.)

"Ready for jump?" she asked Revan when she had her course plotted and locked in, and was clear of the planet's gravity well.

"One moment," he said hastily. "Ready."

She lifted a safety cover and lightly touched her finger to the glowing green key that lay beneath it.

"We jump on one. Three…two…_one._"

She pressed the key at the same moment she said "one," and the stars in front of her immediately began to stretch and swirl, and then space was swallowed by a chaotic blue haze. Being one of those people with no love of hyperspace, she wasted no time opaquing the canopy.

The flight took thirty-eight minutes, which she whiled away with a datapad containing, among other things, a report from Meric regarding a recent apprehension conducted behind enemy lines. It concerned a member of a society of assassins and bounty hunters which had spent millennia growing fat off the corruption of the Republic, and which naturally did all in its power to preserve the system that fed it. This organization, which called itself the GenoHaradan, had so far made thirteen failed attempts on Revan's life - three of these being thwarted by Revan himself - and nine on Meric's. Revan had, of course, told her of the GenoHaradan early on in their relationship, the very existence of the organization serving as damning proof of the Republic's subtle tyranny, but she had paid them little heed since. Whatever their track record might be when it came to dispatching politicians and corporate magnates, they clearly weren't up to the task of dealing with more dangerous foes.

According to this report, though, the SD might very well have gained a decisive edge on them, as a crack Enforcement troop had infiltrated the Core in pursuit of a Rodian who was believed to be one of the four GenoHaradan Overseers. They tracked him all the way to Humbarine, where they had successfully ambushed him and taken him captive as he slept, although, regrettably, with the loss of one agent to a booby-trap. Difficulties aside, the target was now securely in Imperial space, but he was, of necessity, being kept under heavy sedation, and could therefore not be interrogated. The problem was that, having evidently foreseen just such a scenario in which he would be captured and forced to divulge all that he knew, the Rodian had had a small explosive implanted in his brain. The bomb was, presumably, thought-activated, which mandated that he be kept comatose until a way could be found of removing it.

Alerted by a soft beeping in her helmet, she un-opaqued her canopy just in time to watch the nauseating kaleidoscope of hyperspace explode into blackness. She felt Revan a hundred meters to her left, right where he had been all throughout the flight from Gibad, and, faintly visible as a metallic blob in the distance, she could see the spacedock. Comm contact was established, and she and Revan went streaking in, rapidly closing the distance until they were braking hard as they passed between the service rings of the massive structure. One of five that had been secretly assembled in deep space behind the front lines, it wasn't equipped to perform significant structural repairs, but did offer all the facilities and equipment necessary for most any other work. In fact, it was more of a space-pier than a true spacedock, being comprised of a number of loosely-spaced "ribs" that encircled the _Deralí_, each connected to a "spine" of open girders.

A few minutes later, she was safely aboard and powering down her fighter. She popped the canopy, pulled the central quick-release on her harness, and stood up, placing her helmet on the seat before descending the ladder. She felt Céle's presence before she even heard the hatch open and the SD officer's boots clicking on the hangar deck. For some reason, she felt a little tingle in her stomach, rather like an ill omen, though at least not a particularly potent one.

"Sir, ma'am," Céle said while Bastila was fitting her officer's cap neatly in place.

Bastila snapped off a salute almost in synchronicity with Revan, who had been slightly quicker than her in disembarking and was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

"Welcome back."

"Thank you, Céle."

"You have word for us?" asked Revan.

On none of their prior visits to Gibad had she been waiting for them the moment they returned, and there was no other logical explanation for her presence this time.

"Yes, sir."

"Good or ill?"

"Two messages: one good, the other…indeterminate."

"The good first, then," Bastila told her.

"Very well, sir," she said, temporarily brightening as she brought a datapad up to her eye level, "The first is a message from the General Staff. It states that Grand Admiral Kechel has recommended Flag Captain Bastila Shan for promotion to the rank of rear admiral, and requests the opinion of her commanding officer. To quote a portion of the admiral's recommendation, 'In these actions, Captain Shan has repeatedly and consistently displayed a tactical aptitude above what could normally be expected of an individual of her experience, as well as the very highest level of loyalty and devotion to the Empire, and commitment to the prosecution of the war.' Might I say that she also goes into some very flattering detail about your participation in Blenjeel and Operation Impulse, ma'am."

"I… Well, I don't know quite what to say," Bastila stammered. "I certainly hadn't been expecting… Not so soon, at least."

"With the recommendation of the C-in-C guaranteed, I think it's safe to congratulate you on your promotion, ma'am," said Céle with a quick, formal bow.

Far from a shameless sycophant, the troop leader had taken a genuine liking to Bastila in the last couple of weeks, and was developing a strong respect for her. It was a new experience for her, being the object of admiration.

"Thank you, Céle," she said as she felt a slight flush in her cheeks.

"And as for this 'indeterminate' news?" asked Revan.

"Well, sir, that is addressed to Captain Shan directly, from Major General Lakmar, commanding the 503rd (Majoorian) Division."

"Who?" was Bastila's immediate reaction, as she felt the tingle in her stomach suddenly magnify.

"That was my initial reaction, as well, so I started to read the message, assuming that it was somehow misrouted - a clerical mistake."

With an unreadable expression, and radiating a mild unease in the Force, Céle handed her the datapad.

"It isn't."

* * *

16 Thilnuth, 1,018 DÉ

10.9.20375

Not a day had passed that Helena Shan hadn't made the trek across Anchorhead and out the main gate, to the Imperial Army base. A sprawling compound of prefab buildings half-buried in the sand, it was ringed by wire entanglements and five-meter-tall metal walls topped with gun turrets, and she couldn't imagine wanting to even approach the place under normal circumstances. From the moment she had glimpsed her daughter on the cantina holoset, however, she had thought of little else besides contacting her. Eight days ago, she had hurried straight from the cantina out to the base, where she had spent half an hour baking in the sun while arguing with the sentries and waiting for someone to grant her access. She had pleaded with them, had told them that her daughter was in the Imperial Navy, that she had just learned she was still alive, and that she wanted desperately to contact her. Finally, a barely-sympathetic lieutenant had come out, taken her name, address, and other information, and told her that he would have to confirm her identity.

When she heard nothing the next day, she ventured out late in the afternoon, returning home at dusk after having been told that they were still waiting on confirmation of her identity. The day after that, the story had been that a message had been sent to Bastila by the division commander, and that he was awaiting a reply. It had been the same the past five days, and now, with the supply of remaining daylight rapidly dwindling, Helena was growing impatient to the point of rage. She paced the living room of her house, a small, simply-furnished domicile with low ceilings and beige-plastered walls, on several of which hung portraits of her daughter. Most were of Bastila as a child, but there were a few rare holocaptures of her as a teenaged Jedi, covertly taken by a family friend who worked on a bulk carrier that had made a few stops on Dantooine years ago.

"You're not going alone this time," said Sedret Shan as he emerged from the bedroom. A tall, lanky man with Bastila's chocolate-brown hair and soft features, he was dressed in the loose-fitting white and khaki robes he wore out on the dunes.

He had been on a hunting expedition when Helena saw the broadcast in the cantina, and though she had commed him immediately when she was on her way to the Army base, it had taken him more than a day to make the return journey. Having been attacked by a wraid during the night, he was lucky to have made it home at all, and was now walking with a pronounced limp. Helena had insisted that her husband stay home and rest ever since, the incident having inflamed her persistent old fears about his occupation. At least, he had tried to reassure her, they wouldn't have to worry about the Tuskens for much longer, not with the way the Army was going after them.

"Don't even think about it," she told him sternly. "It's six kilometers to the base, and six back, and your leg is never going to heal if you don't rest."

"I'll crawl if I have to, if it means I have even a chance of talking to Bastila again. Dammit, Helena, it's been _twenty-one years_!"

"You think I don't know that!" she shot back. "And they told us she was dead. Those kriffing Jedi told us she was _dead!"_

"Well, they did say 'presumed.' They never knew for sure."

Roughly snatching a cloak from its hook by the door, Helena threw it around herself, grumbling, "Oh, yes they did. They knew _exactly_ what happened. Maybe not right away, but they found out eventually, and they never told us. They never said 'Sorry, we made a mistake, your daughter's alive,' did they? They probably even wish she _was_ dead."

Sedret looked down at some spot on the floor, some speck of dirt, anything to keep from meeting her eyes. There had always been times when one or both of them had regretted sending their daughter away and had lain awake all night second-guessing the decision, but never more so than after that horrible, crushing, world-ending message from the Jedi. If only they hadn't sent her away, if only they had kept her gifts a secret, she would still be alive. She'd be poor - a spacer on a freighter at best - but she'd be alive if only they had made the right choice, they had told themselves again and again. The relief at learning that she was still alive had been overwhelming, almost unbelievably fantastic, and it hadn't mattered one iota that she was serving in the Imperial Navy. Later on, they took to wondering what had happened to her, why their daughter was fighting against the Republic, against all the Jedi would have raised her to defend. Had she been a spy, as Helena had heard the soldiers debating in the cantina?

"I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't want to talk to us after all these years," Sedret whispered under his breath.

With no other sound in the little house, Helena heard the remark quite clearly, which was enough to make her stop on her way to the door. _No, I won't be surprised at all if she doesn't._

"I'm going to the base," she said resolutely when she had restored a semblance of composure to herself, "and I expect you to show some good sense and stay here."

Sedret took one big step towards her and the door and nearly fell in the process, steadying himself against the wall. Helena whirled back to him, but it was with sadness written on her face rather than her more common petulance. Then she turned again, reached for the door handle, only to be startled by a ring of the bell. She and her husband both froze for several long seconds, reminded of that awful day when the message was delivered, not even by an actual Jedi, but by a lowly underling from the Republic Diplomatic Corps.

"Who is it?" Sedret spoke up, breaking the taught silence.

"Mr. Sedret Shan? I'm with the Imperial Navy. May I have a word?" asked a woman in a prim, authoritative voice.

Helena's hand reached out and touched the door handle, while her eyes remained locked with those of her husband. He blinked once, then nodded, and she turned the handle. There was no possible preparation that could have alleviated the shock that shot through both of them when she opened the door.

Standing on their stoop was a young woman, pale and stern, clothed in the perfectly-pressed dark grey jacket and light grey breeches of the Imperial Navy, her jackboots polished to a mirror finish and a pistol on her belt. She carried herself with a proud bearing, her shoulders back and her chin high, and in her eyes there was strength and wisdom. Helena felt the blood drain from her head all at once, and her extremities turn numb, and it was only her hold on the door that kept her upright.

Though she was at least not surprised by the reunion, Bastila was scarcely less shaken by it than were her parents. She stood in the doorway for what felt like an hour, mustering all her discipline to maintain a stoic façade.

"Hello, Mother," she said at last. Looking past Helena, she added, "Father."

"Bastila," they both gasped, almost as one.

"Is that really you?" asked her mother.

There were no embraces, certainly no kisses, not after so many years. They had grown too far apart for all that.

"Of course it's me," she answered rather brusquely.

"Well, it's not as if we've had pictures of you, not in thirteen years. When I saw you on the news last week, I don't know if…" Helena's voice cracked, "if I would have even recognized you without hearing your name."

"Bastila," said her father, who was now also standing in the increasingly-crowded doorway, "I can hardly believe you're here. They said you were missing and presumed dead."

"Who?" she snapped.

"The Jedi, more than a month ago. We got a letter of condolence from the High Council on Coruscant. They said…"

"They lied to you, though I presume out of ignorance. May I come in?"

"I'm sorry. Yes, of course you can come in," said Helena as she backed out of the way and ushered Bastila inside.

The house was cramped and dingy, the decorations a tastelessly eclectic jumble of styles collected from far and wide; the air was oppressively dry, and the ceiling at least as low as those aboard the _Deralí_. The floor creaked beneath her boots as she followed her parents deeper into the room.

"Before we go any farther," she said after a cursory reading of her parents, "you might as well ask me your questions."

"Questions?" asked her father. "Well, yes, of course we have questions, but how…"

"I know you're shocked, and not just that I'm here. You're happy I'm alive, overjoyed, even, but you're shocked by…this…" She swept a hand down the front of her jacket.

"I wanted nothing more than to speak with you - I didn't think I'd actually get to _see_ you again, not in person," said Helena. "I don't care that…"

"Yes, you do," she said. She could feel the vague hint of fear and disappointment in her mother, in both of them. "You care. You have hundreds of questions, but the foremost are: 'Why?' and 'What?' Why am I in this uniform, and what happened to me?"

"Bastila, we really don't…" her father began.

"Don't humor me," she tersely cut him off. "Don't you dare, either of you."

"Well, isn't this a lovely reunion?" said her mother defensively.

Bastila felt the creeping sensation that said she had made a mistake, and reminded herself of why she had come in the first place. As much as she had dreaded this moment, she had also known that she would forever regret it if she hadn't come. It was something she needed to do, needed to get out of the way, if nothing else.

"Where should I begin?" she pondered aloud as she leaned against a wall. "Should I tell you about my time as a Jedi? I could spend _hours_ on that, and I can't stay here nearly that long - there's a war on, in case you hadn't noticed, and I have a very full schedule - so I'll summarize. I spent my childhood in the Order being thoroughly miserable, being trained day in and day out to be something unnatural, until I almost forgot who I was. I received lectures and admonitions and warnings until I thought there had to be something wrong with me, because how could I be right when everyone else said that I was wrong? I was too willful, too emotional, too judgmental, too this and too that. I was supposed to be serene, and surrender myself to the will of the Force, and become a devoted servant of the Light."

Anger flared up in her heart as all the bitter memories came flooding through her mind, and it was a relief to not have to fight the anger, to not have to tell herself that every stirring of her heart was dangerous. She let it run its course, and contrary to the warnings of old, it did not consume her. Anger was a part of nature, of her nature, and she had learned that she had nothing to fear from herself.

"Eventually," she continued, "I became convinced that I actually belonged there, that it was my destiny, my purpose, my place, etc.; and I heard so many lectures that I started repeating them in my own head whenever some part of myself said otherwise. I became determined to be the perfect Jedi, my own dreams and desires be damned, because I didn't know what else I could be. What else could I do? You'd sent me away, after all, so it wasn't as though I had a home to go back to. What else was there for me except the Order? Nothing! Or at least that's what I kept telling myself."

Her father slumped onto a worn and faded sofa, while her mother stood almost aghast with a hand to her chin, both of them put thoroughly in their place by her impassioned diatribe.

"Bastila, darling," said Sedret slowly, "we only wanted what was best for you, you have to understand."

"Best for me? Hmm, yes, shipping me off to be brainwashed by misguided mystics was very charitable of you. Thank you so very much, the both of you."

"Bastila!" her mother indignantly protested.

"In all fairness, I suppose I would not have come so far otherwise," she postulated. "I'd probably only be a lieutenant right now, and one capable of little more than a few Force parlor tricks."

"We gave you to the Jedi because we wanted you to have a better life than anything we could hope to give you. Look at us, look at this place! Can you tell me you aren't better off than this?" Helena implored.

"I _am_ better off, but not thanks to you, and certainly not thanks to the Jedi. I've made it to where I am now because of _me_, because through all those years, I never let them completely strip away who I truly am deep down, and when I finally had a chance to live my dream - my _one true dream _- I took it.

"Two months ago, I was given the chance to volunteer for a mission that would end the war, or so I was told at the time, and I knew right away that I had to go. Something in me urgently told me that I had to go, and I assumed at the time that I had an important role to play, and that the mission would fail without me. So I took part in an operation to capture Revan, and I expect that, even living on this rock, you must have heard how that turned out."

"Well, of course we did," said her father. "We were told that it was a disaster, that Darth Malak betrayed Revan and fired on his ship, and that that was how you were…killed…presumably."

"All true, except that I quite obviously survived. Revan would have died, too, if I hadn't been there to save his life, and so I was at least half right when I told myself that I would do something of great importance on that day. If I hadn't been there…" She halted, her words sticking in her throat, for it was too a terrible scenario to contemplate. "Anyhow, I have spent every day since…rehabilitating, so to speak. Life outside the Order gave me a new perspective, from whence I could see what I'd become, and how different that person was from who I wanted to be. This," she struck her chest with the flat of her hand and spoke with fierce conviction, "is the woman the Jedi couldn't destroy. This is who I am."

"But…the Empire?" said her father with a mixture of bewilderment and distaste. "Why would you fight for them?"

"Do you think I have no sense at all, or no conscience, or that I would be fighting for something I don't believe in with every last measure of my spirit? This is my cause, and I'm willing to fight for it and, if needs be, die for it, and you dare to question my integrity? The Empire isn't what you've been told, Father, and neither is the Republic, not even _close_. I fight for the future, and for _justice_, and for my dreams. If you can't understand that, or if you can't accept that, then I can say only this: keep your eyes open, and watch. Watch what happens when this war is over, because that is going to vindicate everything we've done_._"

"We've?"

"All of us," she answered quickly, though she was really thinking only of Revan and herself. "Everyone who's put on the uniform."

_Is this why I wanted to come here? To tell them who I am?_ Maybe it was. She hadn't expected them to accept her or be proud of her, though some tiny part of her probably wished they would, but she did want to show them what she had made of herself.

"You're right, Bastila," said her mother. "I don't understand…neither of us do, I don't think, but…we do _trust_ you. If this is your…cause…then there's nothing either of us will say against that, isn't that right?"

Sedret looked to his wife, then back at Bastila, a tear in the corner of his eye.

"That's right. You… You have to do what you think is right, and know that we will always love you."

It would have been easier if he hadn't said those last few words, or if she hadn't read the sincerity behind them. Damnation, it would have been so much simpler and easier had she been able to leave before either of them said "I love you." It would have been easier not to feel anything at all for them, because she wasn't about to crush her emotions like a damned Jedi. Instead, she would just have to deal with them.

"I know you…love me," she forced herself to say. "Whatever else you might think of me, you do still love me…both of you."

The last part was obviously addressed to her mother.

"Did you ever think I didn't?" Helena gasped.

"For most of my life," she replied with a solemn nod. "I don't have many memories from before I left you, but those I have are…unpleasant. I remember moving every few months, I remember crying every time we left home… I remember the fights."

"Do you think I didn't know how that all affected you? Do you think I liked that life…this life?" Helena corrected herself. "I never have, and I knew that you deserved better, which is why I sent… Bastila, I always wanted what was best for you, or at least what I thought was best for you, even if it turned out I was wrong."

"And what about Father?"

"What about me?" he asked for himself.

"Is that the life you wanted, either, or did she push you into it?" She turned back to her mother, said coldly, "Even as a little girl, I saw how you spent money whenever you had it: clothes, jewelry, the new speeder. If you'd saved it instead, would you be living in this place now?"

"Is that how you remember it?" Helena asked sharply, taken aback by the accusation. She softened then, and hung her head as she fell back onto the sofa beside her husband. "But how else could a child see it?"

"Of course that's how I saw it! It seemed perfectly obvious to me that you used him."

"Your mother never used me, Bastila," said her father sadly as he laid a supportive hand on his wife's back. "Those were _gifts. _Your mother was always the responsible one, the very soul of caution, and I was the one spending every credit I made."

"And you had nothing whatsoever to do with that?" she pressed her mother. "You never tricked him into lavishing you with luxuries he couldn't afford?"

"You think that I manipulated him? Oh, Bastila, I… I'm so sorry that's what you thought all these years."

"That's what we were fighting over all the time: your mother telling me that I had to learn some responsibility before we went broke, or before I got myself killed," Sedret sadly informed her.

"And that's what I was really afraid of," Helena added. "It wasn't money. Whenever I was cross with your father, it usually had a lot less to do with the money than it did with his life."

"We even…separated…after you left. It was almost four years…" said her father, his shame at the memory wafting off of him through the Force.

"And he put himself through school, and became a mechanic, and, in time, we got back together," Helena quickly finished the story on a more positive note.

"And yet here he is injured - don't think I didn't see your limp, Father. What was it this time?" Bastila fired back.

He fidgeted under her inquisitional glare, answered, "Desert wraid."

"Then it would appear that I'm the only person in this family who's ever grown up," she told them with thinly-veiled condescension.

"Actually," said her mother with obvious trepidation, and Bastila felt a tingle of anxiety gnawing at her as she waited for the rest of the sentence, "your father did retire from treasure hunting…for awhile. He started again last year when… when I…"

"When you what?" she asked, the contempt evaporating into concern.

"When I was diagnosed with Kiran's Syndrome," Helena spoke rapidly. "It's a degenerative disease of the nervous system. It's treatable so long as it's caught in the early stages, which it was, except that we… Well, between the multiple surgeries, the rehabilitation, and the lifetime of prescriptions afterwards, we couldn't begin to afford all that."

Bastila felt as if the wall behind her had given way and she was toppling backwards into an abyss. Sensing her alarm, Revan responded instantly, and she could feel him racing from the speeder parked outside up the gravel footpath, only to stop at the bottom step when she sent him a wave of reassurance that she was quite safe. This was hardly the time for him to burst in on the conversation.

"You're dying?" she asked, forcing strength into her voice.

"Slowly, but…yes. In another four months, give or take, it will be inoperable."

There was some shameful part of her that wondered if this was all some masterful piece of trickery, but then the rational part of her brain took over from the years of simmering animosity, and she remembered that she could read minds. When she searched those of her parents, she found no deception. She had been told no lies, this was not an act, it was all true. _Why didn't I ever understand? I was too young when I left them, but later on, all those times I thought back on it, why couldn't I piece together the truth? Maybe I didn't want to. If I understood the truth, I would have missed them._ _Now that I finally understand, I find that mother is… No, she said four months,_ she repeated to herself. _There is still time._

"What if I were to tell you that I can have you in a hospital within a week?" she said.

"Within a week?" asked Helena.

"Or thereabouts. I suppose I can't guarantee an exact day, but I can get you treatment."

"You mean that?"

"Would I be saying so if I didn't? Do you expect me to be cruel?" she asked with wounded honor.

"No, of course not, but how…? I mean, I know you're a captain, but…"

The obvious idea of simply using her authority to arrange for her mother's treatment did, of course, occur to her, but was so blatantly unethical as to be dismissed out-of-hand. The citizens of the Empire had no responsibility to provide for the medical care of Helena Shan - her family did. Furthermore, without her mother, Bastila knew that she would not be where she was today, however much she may have disliked the journey on which Helena had sent her. Therefore, her mother's survival was her personal responsibility.

"Actually, I'm being promoted to rear admiral, and admirals are well-paid, from what I'm told. Moreover, I expect I'll be well-taken-care of regardless of money, so the hospital can dock my pay for the rest of my life if need be, but don't you worry about that. Just be grateful that you found me when you did."

"Oh, of course I am!" Helena said as she stood from the sofa and seized Bastila in her arms.

Bastila stood there, stunned into silence as her mother held her, to be joined soon by her father. She was uncomfortable in the extreme, having little concept of what to do in this situation, and stood awkwardly rigid, as if at attention. She had spent too many years apart from them, and too many years bottling up her bitter childhood memories, for her to honestly say that she loved them. She did not, in the end, regret coming to see them, especially in light of her mother's illness, but nor could she share in their outpouring of emotion.

She remained with them for another half-hour, in which time she tried again and in greater detail to explain her motives. They awkwardly asked her questions about her participation in the war, on both sides, and she answered as truthfully as she could while being mindful of the blanket of military secrecy that covered much of her current work. She tried to describe what she had done at Korriban, reasoning that there was no way they could react to that with anything short of pride, but evidently a battle of minds against ancient spirits was too arcane a matter to make a solid impact on them. In all fairness, most non-Force users had difficulty wrapping their heads around the concept. It was frustrating for her, though, not to have them understand. Her mother then made a reasonably discreet effort of asking her why she had taken so long to respond, or why she hadn't simply commed them if she hadn't been able to secure leave.

"I've been very busy," she had explained. "If you've been watching the news, you'll know that there was an attack made by our 2nd Group three days ago. We had to work up the plans in just a few days, after we discovered that the Republic was planning an offensive of their own, in order to disrupt their preparations. I wasn't in that battle personally, but I am rather high up, and I had an immense amount of work until just the day before yesterday. I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you."

In actuality, she could have at least found a few spare minutes in which to comm them, but it hadn't been until the day before yesterday that she had finally resolved to make contact with them at all, there being a decidedly large part of her that dreaded the reunion. In the end, it had just felt too cowardly to spend the rest of her life avoiding them, and so she had taken the first opportunity of flying out to Tatooine.

By 1200 (Imperial Military Time - it was twilight at Anchorhead), she had satisfied her sense of honor and decency, and was searching for an excuse to leave, thinking as hard as she could: "_While I know I told you that I needed to do this alone, I wouldn't mind if you came in about now."_ Within twenty seconds, she was thoughtfully provided with an excuse in the form of a sharp rapping on the door.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said as she rose from the dinette chair she had brought into the living room, "but I really must be going. It's a bit of a long flight back to… Well, you'll understand if I can't say where to."

"Yes, yes, military secret," her father said.

"You will keep in touch," added her mother.

"Yes, of course. First, however, I'll have to make arrangements for you both to be relocated, and for your treatment, Mother. Until then, good-bye."

Her father hugged her first, followed by her mother, who whispered in her ear, "You keep safe."

"I'll try," she half-lied. It sounded better than the full truth, which would have been something more along the lines of "I'm not looking to get myself killed, but I have my duty, Mother, and I'm not going to keep myself out of harm's way when tens of millions are dying." That was what she wanted to say, but, not being entirely without tact or social graces, she didn't.

"And you take care of yourself," she added in parting.

"I will."

Bastila went to the door, perhaps a bit too hurriedly for politeness' sake, and opened it to admit Revan, and a blast of air even hotter and drier than that already inside the little house.

"Forgive me, Bastila, but something has come up," he said as he held aloft a datapad. In the brief instant she could see the screen, she could also see that it was blank.

"Yes, of course," she replied apologetically.

She almost cringed when she then heard her father's stifled exclamation of "Good heavens!"

"You're…" her mother trailed off when she saw who it was standing in the doorway.

"Revan-Méthnin, Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Armed Forces," he introduced himself with a formal click of his heels. "And you must be Helena and Sedret Shan."

They both nodded and mumbled their affirmatives.

"I would tell you not to be so shocked, but of what avail would that be? Suffice it to say, then, that it is an honor to meet the parents of the finest officer - the finest _woman _- whom I have ever had the privilege of knowing."

"Thank you," replied an altogether flummoxed Sedret Shan.

"Yes, it is…an honor," added Helena. She might just as easily have finished with "I guess," but evidently thought better of it and held her tongue.

"Good-bye, Mother, Father," said Bastila with a sad sort of smile, and then stepped outside into the blazing sun.

She followed Revan down the little gravel path to a dusty, angular, heavily-armored landspeeder.

"I truly am sorry to have taken so long," she told him sympathetically as they climbed into the front seats.

"Think nothing of it - I would never think of begrudging you this opportunity to see your parents again after more than two decades. Besides, I had plenty to read, and kept cool in here," he replied.

Sure enough, the interior of the climate-controlled cabin was quite comfortable, at least in terms of temperature. In all other respects, it was pure military utilitarianism, with non-reclining crash-resistant seats and no concessions to luxury. She settled into the passenger seat and fastened her safety straps while Revan powered up the craft, which smoothly rose out of the dust and assumed a steady hover.

She sat there in uncomfortable silence for perhaps twenty or thirty seconds while Revan piloted the speeder through the narrow, meandering dirt streets of Anchorhead. Then she told him. She told him, at least in brief summary form, of her conversation with her parents, of her mother's revelation, and of her offer to pay for her mother's treatment. At all times, he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but when she told him that last part, she could see the corners of his mouth turn up into a warm smile.

"That was very good of you," he said when she was finished. She thought she saw a sheen of tears appear in the corners of his eyes, but it was difficult to be certain from this angle.

"Yes, very good of you."


	13. Too Far to Lose

13

Too Far to Lose

23 Thilnuth, 1,018 DÉ

17.9.20375

It was the low gravity which he noticed first, followed quickly by the damp chill that hung in the air. The hangar was a bleak and unwelcoming place, even more so than most warships, its metal surfaces having been left unpainted and its lights being just bright enough to cast gloomy shadows about the place. His nose caught a whiff of hydraulic fluid and cleaning agents, and his ears were struck by the uneven thrum and rattle of ventilation fans.

With Bastila at his right, he descended the boarding ramp toward assembled ranks of black and green, at the head of whom stood a small woman of enormous presence. Wisdom and dignity were written on her face, and she carried herself with precision and pride: her shoulders square, her jaw set, her head held high.

"Hail, Lord Revan, and well-met, Admiral Shan," she greeted them as they stepped onto polished stone floor, "though I do wish it were under more pleasant circumstances."

"_Ro f__íra, Féstin,"_ Bastila greeted Meric, to the Minister's surprise.

"It is always an honor," added Revan in Derals. "Even in such a place as this."

"My apologies for bringing you here at all," said Meric as she ushered them between the ranks of SD, across the landing pad, and through an open doorway, "but it would appear that time is running short."

"There is no need to apologize, Minister," Bastila assured her.

"If that bomb in his head is showing any signs of instability, then there can be no delay," Revan concurred. "We must have his knowledge, one way or another."

"I suppose I could, theoretically, have summoned someone from the Imperial Guard in your stead, but…" Meric gave a little laugh. "Need I really say more?"

They were now passing through an oppressively low and narrow corridor carved into solid rock, moving past numbered, windowless doors. In fact, even the prison itself had no name apart from the designation "Facility 1-18." Dug into the bedrock of a moon that orbited a gas giant in an uninhabited system of the Kastolar Sector, it was about as far removed from civilization as any place could be. Furthermore, the moon was too small to retain an atmosphere, so in the unlikely event of an escape, there was quite literally no place to run. It was, in summary, the ideal site for a prison.

To break the disturbing quiet that seemed to cling to them, Meric spoke.

"We're no closer to removing the bomb than ever, and I, personally, suspect that it has a fail-safe timer. Apart from fearing torture, our guest may very well have a Deralin's dread of a lingering death, and set the bomb to detonate should he ever be in a prolonged coma. Quite frankly, we don't know half as much about the device as we'd like to, and the chances of it killing him only increase as time wears on."

Revan kept his mind shut, safely barred against the misery and evil of the detestable creatures sealed behind the doors. This was a place, he knew, where the SD sent their most dangerous and irredeemable prisoners to die as slow and horrid a death as they had earned. One man, however, whilst undeniably dangerous, was here for an entirely different reason. He was being held in this particular facility because it was virtually impregnable, and because its very existence was a closely-held secret.

The corridor then sloped markedly downward, delving deep into the rock, and tributary passages appeared on either side, dimly-lit tunnels whose ends could not be seen by waking eyes. Down one of these, Meric led the way.

"On a somewhat unrelated subject, I must confess I'm quite excited about this coming offensive of yours," said the Minister. "If it proves to be at all similar to the last, then the end is well and truly in sight."

"Well, that yet remains to be seen, does it not?" he replied.

"But of course. Forgive me, I didn't mean to put a curse on the whole enterprise," she laughed it off.

At the end of the corridor, five SD agents in matte-black plate armor stood watch, and at the approach of three so distinguished visitors, stood to attention. Passing between them, Meric entered a code into a terminal beside a blast door, and was scanned from head to toe. Her biometric signature confirmed, the door then opened for the trio, and through it they stepped into the most soul-crushing place in which Revan had ever set foot. It was an infirmary, but the architecture made no claim that it was a place of healing, appearing for all intents and purposes more like a tomb than a medical facility. Every device and piece of furniture had an industrial heaviness about it, everything being utterly devoid of soft surfaces or soothing colors. The claustrophobia-inducing smallness of the room was further enhanced by the glow of amber lights set into a low ceiling of smooth rock. In the corner lay a Rodian on a metal-framed bed, his every limb restrained by thick webbing and tubes running from his arms. A holographic projection of his brain hovered over him like some bizarre piece of conceptual art: a disembodied mind watching over its own body.

"So this is a GenoHaradan Overseer," he said with undisguised hate.

"So we believe, though we cannot, as yet, confirm it."

"We shall soon see," Bastila declared as she brought a chair flying across the room to the Rodian's bedside and took a seat.

From the pocket of her greatcoat, she produced a datapad, and opened its word processor. Drawing up a chair of his own, Revan sat beside her, and they exchanged a brief look that said they were ready for the unpleasant task ahead. One could not expect to enjoy reaching into the mind of a professional assassin, no more so than any other criminal. She shut her eyes and, in company with her beloved, reached into the unconscious mind that lay before her.

His mind was disciplined compared to that of the average non-Force-user, with walls of secrecy erected at every turn, jealously guarding even his very name. It was there that they began their work, exerting their indomitable will against him, chipping away at his defenses until his resistance crumbled and a name floated up from the blackness: Hulas. From there, successive walls were reached, each stronger than the last, but each inevitably torn down. All the while, Bastila typed, filling her datapad with names and places, dates and times, facts and figures. They picked their way through his memory in exacting detail, leaving neither stone unturned nor avenue unexplored, until they had recorded even what he ate at supper the day of his capture. The only saving grace to the whole unsavory business, thought Bastila, was that, as amoral an opportunist as Hulas was, he was not so unfathomably evil as the slavers she had faced aboard the _Stormwind._

Their task complete three hours after it was begun, they left his mind and rose from the cramp-inducing chairs with stiffened backs, to find Meric sitting at the other end of the room reading. She looked up at the first sound of their movement with eager anticipation etched on her elegant features.

"They are all yours, the GenoHaradan," Revan softly proclaimed.

"This datapad holds the names and personal details of virtually the entire organization, including the three remaining Overseers. Not even Hulas here was supposed to be privy to those three names, but these are not honorable persons we're talking about, and they aren't inclined to trust one another. I should say your people couldn't have done better in capturing this particular…individual," Bastila elaborated.

With a few keystrokes, she copied the file she had just finished writing and transmitted a copy to Meric's pad. The older woman immediately began reading through the lists, smiling broadly as she quickly grasped the enormity of what she held.

"This is brilliant work, Admiral," she declared without looking up. "You have done a very great service…again."

"Thank you, Minister, though I didn't do it alone," Bastila reminded her.

So engrossed was Meric with the powerful knowledge she now held that she did not even see Revan take Bastila's hand in his own.

* * *

25 Thilnuth, 1,018 DÉ

19.9.20375

The Corellian system was a puzzle that had occupied the minds of astrophysicists, historians, and xenoarchaeologists for generations. That it was comprised of five planets was far from remarkable, but that all were clustered within the system's habitable zone, and that two revolved around one another while simultaneously orbiting a third, was one of the great mysteries of the galaxy. As if this weren't enough of an enigma on its own, there sat parked at the Lagrangian point between Talus and Tralus - the two worlds orbiting Corellia - an immense space station even larger than the Star Forge. Known to locals as Centerpoint station, its origins and purpose were the object of as much speculation and cogitation as the origins of the system itself. Over the millennia, every square centimeter had been studied and recorded, and what was known for certain was that, at least at one time, it had been capable of generating a hyperspace tractor beam of incredible power. While it was widely theorized that the station had been used to arrange the system into its present form (an obvious enough conclusion), no one had yet to offer any coherent answer as to who had done so, when, or to what end. Above all, nobody had yet devised a means by which the station could be reactivated, let alone controlled. In light of the station's destructive potential, this was, in the opinion of many, entirely for the best.

That was a sentiment with which Revan could not be too deeply in agreement. To reorder entire star systems, or to crush planets or even stars, was a crime against nature so appalling that not even Derals held a curse of sufficient magnitude to justly describe it. Centerpoint was an abomination that must be neutralized. That was why, when the _Deralí_ dropped into the system at 0920 that morning, the hundreds of Republic warships docked in the CEC shipyards were not the only target assigned to the newly-promoted Line Captain Tanen.

"Shields up!" Tanen ordered the moment they were in realspace.

"Shields up, aye."

"Start the clock."

"Clock started: twenty minutes and counting," said Aimirdel as he brought up a countdown at the top of the tactical display. The attack, which had officially been named White Diamond but was known to the crew as simply "the Corellian Business," was scripted to last not a second longer than twenty minutes. At that time, Tanen was to order the jump to hyperspace regardless of all other concerns.

"Contacts," the sensor chief called out, followed by a list of bearings and ranges.

They were close to the shipyards, well within range, while the station was too far distant to yet be engaged. According to the timetable, they were to disengage the yards at T-10, close with the station at flank speed, and obliterate it just prior to leaving the system.

"I have a shooting solution," Weps reported calmly. "Main and secondary batteries are locked."

"Weapons free, commence fire!"

"Commencing fire, aye."

Seated in the SCC, Revan had replaced the strategic map with a visual of a portion of the yards, and watched as little flashes of white appeared in rapid succession. Many of the targets were damaged warships undergoing repairs, and as such were incapable of raising their shields; others were in operational condition, but had their reactors running at low output while docked. In consequence, the _Deralí's_ firing computer was able to assign a lower charge to each main battery shot than it would in a normal engagement, and thereby more than double the rate of fire.

He zoomed in on individual piers and ships, scrutinizing the destruction with the trained eye of a professional, observing vessels of every class and description shatter into fields of twisted and shredded metal, and judging the degree of collateral damage being inflicted on the yards themselves. While it was desirable that the repairs should occupy the remainder of the year, he was also keenly aware that Kechel was not the only Corellian with no love for the Republic, and that it was therefore diplomatically unwise to cripple a substantial portion of their economy.

He clicked on the comms.

"Bridge, SCC."

"SCC, Bridge," Tanen answered.

"I'm seeing too much collateral damage."

"Yes, sir. We'll reduce charge per shot accordingly."

"Very good. SCC out."

_Damned politics,_ he thought as he pushed back in his chair and tried to focus instead on the enemy's state of mind. _Panic, _the answer came to him. _But what else could occupy their thoughts at a time such as this? _The crews were scrambling to bring their ships online, and many now had their shields up, but he expected that few would be returning fire before the _Deralí _disengaged. Of slightly greater threat was the Corellian Navy itself, which was moving to engage, and there were already several score vessels in range and firing upon the battleship, though to little effect. The true threat, however, had yet to emerge. It would take them not quite eleven hours to reach 2nd Group, in which time the Republic Navy would be hunting for them relentlessly, or so he hoped.

To have penetrated the Core at all was a prodigious achievement, and one that would have been impossible until this very month. In the immediate aftermath of Operation Impulse, however, the Republic Navy had concentrated its forces to prevent a repeat of that unprecedented catastrophe, but in so doing had left gaping holes in what had once been a tightly-woven defensive net. Hrask's pre-emptive strike against a part of their 4th Armada had put at least a temporary hold on the Republic's hopes for a counteroffensive; and this was immediately followed by a series of ever-deeper raids against supply depots, repair yards, and communications nets, many of them orbiting heavily-populated worlds. Consequently, the news broadcasts of the last few days had showed impassioned Senators excoriating the Republic Navy for its failure to safeguard the homefront. When word of this attack reached Coruscant, there would be an immediate outcry, and a call to seal the front, to intercept the _Deralí _and destroy her.

And that was the true objective of this raid, not merely the destruction of a couple hundred enemy warships, or even the neutralization of Centerpoint Station. (The latter was, after all, by no means an immediate danger, and one that could easily have been left until after the war.) No, this raid was designed to sow panic and chaos, to spread out the Republic Navy in a (hopefully) futile hunt, and thereby render it vulnerable to destruction in detail.

Switching from the visual feed to a schematic of the combat area, he wondered briefly if Tanen would succumb to the temptation to return the Corellians' fire, but the captain did not disappoint. Maintaining proper discipline, he kept the guns firing on the docked Republic ships instead, methodically working down the line one by one. The rate of fire was slackening now as more targets raised their shields, compelling the computer to charge the guns longer than before. He briefly debated with himself whether to continue according to plan, or else to engage the attacking Corellian ships. After all, the countdown was only just past T-13, and they had already destroyed more than a hundred enemy warships as they sat helpless in port.

"Bridge, SCC, shift main battery priority to any vessel presently engaging us," he ordered. "Secondaries will continue to fire upon any vessel whose shields are inoperative."

"Aye, sir, main battery returning fire."

Compared to the ordeal of Impulse, Bastila found this action to be little more than a casual exercise. The forces opposing them were scattered, disorganized, and entirely unprepared, and most of the enemy crews would have been terrified even without her influence. All she was really doing was encouraging a few extra ships to keep their distance, or a few more to get out of range, or slowing the reaction times of the skeleton crews aboard the vessels docked in the yards. There was no question of winning or losing this fight, not unless they waited about until reinforcements arrived, and that would take hours. The only question was how much damage the _Deralí_ might sustain before she made good her escape, and Bastila was doing a highly effective job of minimizing that.

So confident was she that, as soon as she felt the ship turning, she allowed herself the luxury of slipping from her meditative trance to call up a status report on her desk terminal. The countdown was at T-9:53, the shields were at 98 percent, they had yet to deploy a single decoy, and they would be out of range of the enemy's guns in seventy-one seconds. In eight minutes, Centerpoint Station would be bombarded, and then they could leave.

_But it won__'t stop there,_ she cautioned herself. _You'll get a rest after that, assuming that we aren't intercepted on the way out, and you'll be needing every minute of it._ She couldn't sense any serious danger in the immediate future, but the warning signs were cloudy, being partially obscured by the obvious danger of the titanic struggle still to come. The _Deralí_ had flown almost straight up the Corellian Run on her way in, but would be taking a much more convoluted route out.

She had had a hand in its design, plotting some of the numerous course changes intended to avoid pursuit and slip past the likely choke points. She and Revan had spent long, sleepless nights pouring over star charts, staring at the holographic projections until their eyes lost focus, straining to find some intuitive clue as to the proper course. Once in a while (sometimes a very long, mind-numbing while), an idea would suddenly manifest itself in her head, as if from nowhere, when her eyes stopped on a seemingly-insignificant point in space; and it would be with the greatest urgency that she would plot a waypoint there, hurrying to do so before the idea dissolved back into the nothingness from whence it came. The work had been completed only the night before, the jump set for just three hours past that, the last-minute orders being transmitted to Hrask and Mal'cave. She and Revan had turned in late, had willed themselves to sleep as their flagship launched into hyperspace on the eve of another decisive battle.

For the next seven minutes, she focused on discouraging the enemy's pursuit, though a squadron of Corellian heavy cruisers did nevertheless take up the chase. At T-3:57, they closed to within firing range of the slower battleship, which had only twenty turbolasers on her stern, these being squeezed into the narrow perimeter surrounding her colossal engines. While Bastila was perfectly well aware that they could scarcely dent the _Deralí's_ shields in four minutes, any damage whatsoever would subtract from her ship's future time in action, and so she redoubled her efforts. She sent thoughts of a torturous death in hard vacuum into the minds of the Corellian crews, though it was difficult to persuade a trained serviceman that he was about to die when he had only a few guns shooting at him. In the end, only one ship turned back, and she almost pitied the captain who had succumbed to her trickery for the bollocking he was sure to receive. _Almost._

"I have a shooting solution on Centerpoint," Weps announced amidst reports of incoming fire.

It was somewhat earlier than Tanen had expected, but the target was large, stationary, and doing absolutely nothing to confuse the ship's targeting sensors, making possible a solid lock well outside the normal engagement envelope. The timer was only at T-1:39.

"Fire."

The eight main guns let loose in a single volley, the shots spread along the axis of the station, and Tanen called up a visual feed of the target in place of the tactical display. He witnessed brilliant flashes of pure white light erupt along the station, briefly obscuring it from view, though he knew that it had not been destroyed in its entirety. The guns were firing at low output, but even so the force of the bombardment was such that the entire station bent and buckled under the impacts. When the display corrected for the brightness, he could see clouds of ruined debris billowing from blackened, gaping wounds in the station's side.

"That's good enough," he declared. "Nav, jump status?"

"Course to first waypoint plotted."

"Helm, engage autopilot, slave to navcomp."

"Engage autopilot, slave to navcomp, aye."

"Autopilot engaged, navcomp has control of the ship," reported the navigator. "Coming about to new heading one-five-four, neg zero-two-niner."

"Go-no-go status?"

"Hyperdrive green across the board," reported Fahn.

"Proceed with jump. Hyperdrive to auto, slave to navcomp."

"Hyperdrive to auto, slave to navcomp, aye. Eighteen seconds to jump."

"Sound warning."

On command, Aimirdel triggered the jump alarm, and spoke into his armrest comm, "All hands secure for immediate jump."

"Motivators spooling up. Still green."

The now-familiar oscillation ran through the ship, building in amplitude and frequency as the stars began to stretch and twist.

"Three…two…one…jump!"

Tanen gripped the armrests of his chair as the battleship slammed through dimensions.

"Damage report."

"Aft shields at ninety-six percent, forward at ninety-eight," said Fahn. "No damage to generators, only heating. Reactors 1 and 2 are steady at 0.9S, hyperdrive is green across the board, no fluctuations."

_Let's hope that's finally been sorted out,_ Tanen said to himself as he breathed a sigh of relief. The weeks devoted to repairing the ship's damage had also been spent improving the hyperdrive, hopefully bringing it up to a more acceptable level of reliability. Their modifications had also been passed along in exacting detail to the crew of the _Belderone_, the _Deralí's_ new sister, which had entered service with 2nd Group on the 5th of the month. This would be that ship's first action, her first true test, and any help her crew could get was most welcome.

After the jump, Bastila joined Revan in the SCC, where they spent the next hour doing little more than waiting and brooding, and searching the Force for warning signs. The ship reached her first waypoint at 1014, executing a turn that took them sharply away from the mean galactic plane into a thinner region, where stars were few and far between. At 1058, another turn was made, and still they could feel no ill omens, no one giving chase; and so, reasonably assured that the ship was safe for the time being, they retired to their quarters.

"That went well," were the first words out of her mouth as she removed her boots.

"Yes, I dare say it couldn't have gone better," he concurred. "We could easily have stayed longer, inflicted more damage, but that wasn't the point, was it?"

"No, our mission was accomplished as soon as we fired our first shot. The fact that we reached the Core and destroyed something - anything - is enough to throw the Senate into fits. For all they know, we could be on our way there now."

"The only concern now is that they may disperse their forces before we can rendezvous with 2nd Group."

She made herself comfortable in a plush armchair and took up a datapad from the adjacent end table. "We'll just have to wait and see."

"Do you think the General Staff was right?" he asked as he sat opposite her, and she looked up with a single raised eyebrow. "That we ought not have gone on this mission, ought not have been here in person?"

"Hardly. We know what we felt: we have to be here, for whatever reason."

They shared a knowing smile, secure in the knowledge that their intuition had served them superbly in the past. It had, after all, brought them together.

"Bridge, C-in-C!" Revan said into his commlink with greater urgency than his voice normally betrayed.

The time was 1828, and he and Bastila were hurriedly pulling on their boots by the door. As the hours had slowly ticked away, they had initially passed the time by ploughing through intel reports and proposed plans for future operations. Late in the afternoon, she had taken to quiet, restful meditation in preparation for what would certainly prove to be a grueling labor in the coming battle, while he had tried to read one of his favorite novels. As engaging as the story was, his mind had difficulty focusing on it, his eyes wandering almost aimlessly across words and paragraphs without absorbing any meaning. He had turned increasingly restless, and then it had both struck them at once: a faint presence, a prickling heat, a surety of danger.

"Bridge here, sir," Tanen answered.

"All stop! Drop immediately!"

"All stop, aye!"

They were out in the corridor, sprinting toward the bridge, when the ship dropped into realspace with enough of a jolt to make them both miss a step, and it was only by pushing off from the deck with the Force that they kept from falling. Onward they ran, bursting onto the bridge to find that it had become a scene of moderate confusion.

"Shields up!" Revan ordered before anyone had the opportunity to order "attention on deck."

"Shields up, aye!"

"Any contacts?" Bastila inquired.

There was a momentary pause as the sensor crew ran every possible scan of the surrounding space.

"Negative, ma'am, all scopes are clear."

"They're out there," she informed the crew.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am?" asked Tanen.

"There's an ambush point ahead," she explained.

"We're certain of it," added Revan.

"How many?"

"We don't know, but presumably at least a fleet with a squadron of interdictors - enough to hold us in one place long enough for reinforcements to arrive."

Tanen nodded his agreement with the conclusion, pursed his lips in thought.

"Do you have a recommendation on a new course?"

"We shall require nav control."

"Yes, sir."

Tanen turned to the navigator and, with no more than a look, signaled the lieutenant to vacate his station.

Side-by-side, Bastila and Revan stood over the glass console with half-lidded eyes, their fingers sliding across the touch screens in a synchronized ballet. Though they saw none of it, the tactical display flashed through star charts, zooming, panning, changing perspective, and for several long minutes, Tanen and his bridge crew were transfixed by this nigh-mystical presentation. At last, course lines began to appear, only to disappear and be replaced by a new plot, a process which was repeated a half dozen times.

"There," Revan said firmly as he and Bastila stepped away from the console. "There is the next waypoint. Execute that jump at once."

"Yes, sir. Nav, confirm our coordinates and plot that jump. Helm, engage autopilot and slave to navcomp."

Within minutes, they were back underway, reaching the new waypoint and then resuming their original course, only to find themselves obliged to stop again at 1916, their course straying too close to another Republic search group. Somehow, the enemy had predicted their escape route with a discomforting degree of accuracy, and was evidently concentrating a large number of ships in that area. In light of how much effort they had devoted to the planning of this stage of the operation, the situation was, for Revan and Bastila, every bit as frustrating as it was perilous. _At least now we understand the need of our presence on this mission - without us, this ship would have fallen into their trap by now._ As potent a weapon as she was, not even the _Deralí_ could have fought on indefinitely against a Republic battle group or more.

On the suspicion that there were more units hunting nearby, they elected to sit adrift, concealed from any possible sensor sweeps by an arm of a resplendent amber and turquoise nebula. There was no opportunity to admire and reflect on the beauty of the luminous plumes of gas and dust - the birthplace of stars and, by extension, life itself - as they waited in suspense for more than half an hour. By 1948, they could at last feel a cooling sensation of relief, their higher senses' oblique way of telling them that the threat had passed. At 1957, the _Deralí_ emerged from the nebula and made ready to jump away, now forty-one minutes behind schedule.

In just four minutes, 2nd Group would jump, and make contact with the enemy at 2033, leaving them no choice but to break radio silence. The signal was sent in the clear, in the form of a contrived distress call, with the vessel's name, malfunction, and number of injured persons aboard serving as a coded message that the attack was postponed to 2110. That done, they immediately jumped away on a course that would, if followed to its end, take them to a rendezvous with 3rd Group; and, in the process, one of the ship's ten hyperdrive motivators malfunctioned and shut down. After ten minutes on that heading, they made a radical course change and, from there on, trusted to hope that they would not be intercepted again.

As it happened, their ruse was largely successful, for the _Deralí_ was very nearly at the rendezvous when trouble finally struck. At 2105, Bastila had left the bridge for the ready room, where she dimmed the lights and settled into a deep trance, and Revan had likewise taken up his post in the command center. Five minutes later, Bastila felt the first hard ripples in the Force as the battle was commenced. (Though she was unaware of the precise units involved, at just past 2110, elements of the 7th Task Force made contact with the Republic 36th Battle Group at Nal'Giffex, and immediately alerted the remainder of the 7th, along with the entirety of the 8th.) No sooner had she set herself the task of disorganizing the enemy's response to the attack, however, than she felt a shocking breath of heat that had her eyes wide open and her hand flying to her commlink. Revan having sensed it at the same moment, their intermingled voices filled the bridge together as they ordered, "Emergency stop!"

It was too late, however, and the ship was pulled from hyperspace by a squadron of Republic interdictors. The shields were raised immediately upon the _Deralí's_ realspace reversion, as she found herself completely enveloped by a Republic fleet. At the same time Tanen was ordering flank speed, Bastila was doing her own work to clear a path through the cordon, mentally disordering the fragile threads that bound together the enemy's designs, shattering the cohesion and resolve of those people directly in the path of the charging battleship.

Revan, meanwhile, had established contact with Hrask, who was directing the battle from a position slightly to the rear of the action.

"Admiral," he said calmly, as if finding himself surrounded behind enemy lines was a commonplace occurrence, and no cause for alarm, "I must inform you that we have made an unplanned contact with the enemy: an enemy fleet to be precise, though I have already felt something of a disturbance which would suggest they will be reinforced imminently. I am sending you our coordinates."

There was a pause, a look of mild perplexity crossing Hrask's face for a second or two as he compared the coordinates on his display with Revan's nonchalance.

"I'm dispatching reinforcements to your position at once, sir," he resolutely declared whilst returning to his command chair and rapidly composing orders on a holographic keyboard. "The 13th Task Force will reach you in…twenty-one minutes. Can you hold that long?"

Searching the Force, Revan could not honestly feel any great imminent peril, the prickling heat having largely vanished from his mind. It was as if, regardless of however the situation might appear at any given time, there existed an absolute metaphysical certainty that everything would sort itself out in the end.

"Yes, I see no reason why not," he replied. "Alternatively, we shouldn't have too much difficulty shooting our way out."

His attention was temporarily won by the sight of the 6th Task Force engaging a Republic battle group between the Yijev and Qorlun systems.

"Will you look at that, Admiral?" he asked with joyful optimism ringing in his voice. "Have you ever seen the like of it?"

Even in grainy holographic form, Hrask's image partially blurred by the enemy's attempts at jamming the signal, Revan could see the admiral's eyes light up as he, too, began to grasp what was transpiring.

"Signal the 4th and the _Belderone_, tell them to converge on the 6th with all possible speed," Hrask ordered someone off-camera.

"Yes, sir!" came the reply from an invisible comm officer.

"May I ask, sir, if you have a clear idea of how spread out the enemy is, and, specifically how far the rest of 4th Armada is from here?"

"We narrowly avoided enemy units more than an hour's flight from here. Some of those were under way prior to 2110, having surmised that we had successfully bypassed them, but I do believe that a large portion of 4th Armada is still some distance away, and may take perhaps as much as forty-five minutes to reach us. Naturally, we should plan according to the assumption that they may be here in as little as half an hour, but I have reason to hope that we shall have more time than that in which to work."

"Very good, sir."

At that moment, Revan felt a disturbance in the Force which drew him away from the conversation, a distraction of which Hrask took note.

"Sir?" he spoke up.

"A minor complication has just arisen here, Admiral: there are Jedi who have chosen to involve themselves in this action. This may well present us with an opportunity, however. If you will excuse me, Admiral, I shall leave you to your command."

"Yes, sir."

Bastila felt their presence as an unwelcome veil that was being drawn about her as the Jedi aboard the newly-arrived ships labored to negate her Battle Meditation. She could see them as bright lights in the Force, some burning hotter than others, but all working in concert against her. She saw them clearly and distinctly enough that she could count them, all twenty-eight of them, and even recognized a number of their signatures. She felt Pala, a Twi'lek two years her senior with whom she had frequently sparred; and Taronel, the old Master who had taught her to fly, and had once caught her trying to sneak off the Academy grounds when she was nine. These were people with whom she had once trained and lived, beings who had once looked after her…and who had once filled her head with falsehoods and distortions, and had all but crushed her true self. Now they fought against her in a losing battle to preserve a deplorable system of government. They fought against everything she treasured and believed in. These were her enemies.

_I destroyed the spirits of the ancient Sith, and you think you're a match for me?_ she thought with steadfast coldness, hoping that they might even hear her in their thoughts. She knew she couldn't kill them that way, couldn't wipe away spirits still tied to living bodies, but if they believed they could deter her from influencing the battle, then they would soon receive an unpleasant education. Temporarily ceasing her efforts, she reached deep down, into the innermost core of her being, and found that pure, comforting, enlivening power that transcended mere light and dark. It radiated from her, tearing through the veil with which the Jedi tried to contain her. _You won't stop me,_ she told them firmly. _You cannot._

What they could do, however, was tire her, for she could feel the added strain that stemmed from overcoming their unified power. It was like running in thin air - one could run just as fast for a time, but would inevitably tire much sooner - and she needed no reminder of large-scale Battle Meditation's effect upon her in even the best of circumstances. While she was working to shatter the cohesion of the Republic's 33rd Battle Group as it was pounced upon by the _Belderone_ and the 4th Task Force, she began to consider the question of time. _How long before Republic reinforcements arrive? Thirty minutes? Thirty-five? We have them massively outnumbered here, so how long before these people surrender? That depends in no small part on me, doesn't it? So how long can I sustain maximum effort before I pass out?_ That was certainly a cheerful prospect to which she could look forward.

"Bridge, SCC," Revan spoke into his comm.

"Bridge here, sir."

"Shield status?"

"Eighty-seven overall, lower in some grids. We're taking one hell of a pounding, sir, but we've taken out all the interdictors ahead of us, and are almost out of range of those behind. Permission to retreat, sir?"

"Denied, Captain. Reinforcements are," he checked the chrono, "eight minutes out. We hold until then."

"Yes, sir."

"Furthermore, alert Weps to stand by to receive priority target assignments."

"Yes, sir."

"SCC out."

_Don't worry, darling,_ he passed the thought through their bond, _I'm working on the problem._

He, too, could see the Jedi, each and every one of them, shining like torches in the night. _Which is why soldiers take care never to light an open flame on a battlefield,_ he mused. _It reveals their position, and gets them killed._ So long as the Jedi were straining to combat Bastila's Battle Meditation, they stood out clearly in his mind's eye whenever he shut out the physical world. He rested his fingers on his console, shut his eyes, and saw them all. They were grouped in pairs - a Master or Knight accompanied by his or her Padawan - with each pair aboard a different ship. _Fourteen targets_.

His fingers moved of their own accord, guiding a cursor across the tactical display that went unseen by his eyes, zeroing in like a heat-seeking missile. The cursor stopped over an amber triangle and, with a tap of his thumb, highlighted it. Then it was in motion again, singling out a Republic light cruiser and marking it, too, for destruction. This continued for the next few minutes, during which time two Jedi abruptly vanished in a flash when they coincidentally found their ship fired upon by the _Deralí's_ targeting computer. The very moment he had eight ships designated, however, he stabbed a key that transmitted the list to the bridge, and the shooting then began in earnest. The main guns swung into alignment and fired in sequence as each reached its necessary charge, shattering six vessels in steady succession. He was trying to pinpoint his ninth target, had narrowed it down to a specific squadron, when the last ten signatures suddenly dimmed almost to nothing, until they shone no brighter than the hundreds of thousands of other beings in the Republic fleet. The Jedi had belatedly grasped the danger in which they had placed themselves, and were now hiding.

For eight of them, though, it was too late, their fates already decided. At 2127, the Republic commanders received a most unsettling surprise when the _Deralí_ pivoted about her axis, continuing to coast along her original course, but now firing back at her pursuers. Four more ships were obliterated, and eight Jedi with them, and then her guns resumed firing at whatever was largest and nearest to her. Her shields, though weakened, continued to withstand the deluge of turbolaser bolts pelting them from all directions, whilst her guns fired on, inflicting a terrible toll on her assailants.

Revan was no longer overly concerned with the fight here, his attention having leapt far away to Mal'cave's 3rd Group as they stormed the Republic battle groups at Thisspias and Cartao. There, too, the enemy had dispersed himself in his furious determination to intercept and destroy the _Deralí_, had allowed sentiment to override sound military judgment, and was now paying the price. _They will find that price all too high. This is the end,_ he told himself. _It must be._ Maybe not the last day of the war, but if they could repeat the success of Operation Impulse, the Republic Navy would be finished, and without its navy, the Republic would be open for the taking.

At 2130, a second Republic fleet dropped into the action, and for two minutes the _Deralí_ was the victim of extremely heavy and well-concentrated fire. Then, in accordance with Hrask's assurances, the two thousand ships of the 13th Task Force arrived at 2132 and the tables were dramatically shifted in their favor. Over the next twenty minutes, additional Republic fleets managed a piecemeal reinforcement, but remained persistently outnumbered and outgunned. Throughout it all, deep in contemplation of the currents of the Force, he had begun to sense an air of desperation from the other side, and not only from those people facing the _Deralí_ and the 13th, but from all around, near and far. He could also feel something gathering, building, readying for action.

At 2142, he contacted Grand Admiral Saaryu, commanding 5th Group, and ordered him to immediately begin preparations to strike the enemy at Umbara, pushing on to Tarhassan if possible. According to the plans for Operation Motive, 5th Group was to have been a mobile reserve, but in the spirit of being prepared for any contingency, Saaryu and his staff had conducted studies for a direct attack as well. He was therefore able to inform Revan that he could be in action as soon as 2215, to which Revan replied that "time being of the essence, sooner is better." Throwing in a third group, and thereby bringing the total number of Imperial ships engaged to a staggering thirty-four thousand, was a thing unheard of, he knew, but it didn't feel to him like a gamble. In fact, in spite of all the apparent risks he had taken throughout his military career, Revan was about as far from a gambling man as one could be, his every decision based either on cold logic or Force intuition.

Bastila, of course, could not be everyplace at once, could not spread herself too thinly, and, forty five-minutes after the battle had commenced, was already feeling the weight of her efforts pressing upon her. A fresh Republic battle group had reached Nal'Giffex, and more were coming, she knew, and she did all in her power to delay, to confuse, to disrupt. At the same time, she was aiding her own people, coordinating the thousands of ships out there, clearing away any doubt or confusion plaguing her commanders. The Jedi weren't resisting her any longer, hadn't been for some time, not since Revan had taken to hunting them down. She knew there were still a few out there, lurking, waiting for…what? For an opportunity, for the Force to tell them that it was time to act? What could they do? How could ten Jedi possibly alter the outcome of this battle?

At 2157, under overwhelming pressure from two Imperial task forces, the _Belderone_, and Bastila's mental onslaught, the Republic 33rd Battle Group capitulated. Without delay, the _Belderone_ and the 4th Task Force jumped away to reinforce their comrades still fighting. Yet more Republic units had been thrown in against the _Deralí_ and the 13th, and had once more evened the odds, at least for the time being, but something told her that this was it, that no more would be committed to the fight. Indeed, those already engaged seemed more intent on extricating their comrades than actually winning the fight.

Meanwhile, 3rd Group had likewise compelled the surrender of a single battle group, only to then find itself without further opposition, and Mal'cave was now casting about in search of the enemy. She could feel Revan hunting for them, searching the depths of the Force, and wished that she could aid him, but had too much to occupy her mind as it was.

She saw to it that, when the 4th Task Force reached Nal'Giffex at 2211, the Republic defenses there swiftly collapsed. Anyone who could still do so jumped away in a mad dash to preserve themselves, while those ships that were either too damaged to do likewise, or else trapped by Imperial interdictors, began to surrender. At 2218, 5th Group struck at Umbara, finding three Republic battle groups concentrated there, having not yet received any orders to move against 2nd Group. By 2224, the battle at Nal'Giffex was over, the _Belderone_ was fighting alongside the _Deralí_, and any Republic units that could do so were jumping away.

She was working herself at the limit of her capacity, aiming to finish this quickly and decisively and not permit it to drag on as had Impulse. _Two hours,_ she told herself. That was her goal for bringing an end to the fighting, at least in this place. 5th Group would be at it for some time past that, and she could barely feel 3rd Group at all, those people being so far removed from herself.

Sensing danger creeping up on her just then, Bastila redoubled her efforts against the foes nearest to her. She knew that two task forces were on their way, that soon this battle would be won, but, in the meantime, there was danger here. True, the _Deralí's_ shields were lower than she would have wished, but they were nevertheless fully intact, and the hull unblemished. It was also true that losses to the 13th Task Force had been higher than she was ready to accept, and for that she blamed herself, but the Republic had suffered considerably more. _What is it, then?_

She received her answer in the form of a resurgence of light as the Jedi made their reappearance. They were close, very close to her physically, and grouped together within…what? A single ship? It was inconceivable that any Republic vessel could have come so close to the _Deralí_ without being torn asunder, so where were they? _Fighters - that's it. They're in their own fighters, attacking us. _It wasn't like Jedi to make a suicide charge, but that was how their action certainly appeared at first glance. There were only six of them, she noted. Not all of them were willing to so callously throw away their lives.

Then she recalled something Master Jal had once told her in flight training: that, much as a Jedi could anticipate and avoid incoming fire, so, too, could he anticipate that split second when a ship's shields cycled. Every time a shield generator absorbed a shot, it would cycle. Improvements in technology had reduced the down time to less than a millisecond, but a Jedi could, with sufficient focus, exploit that ephemeral weakness.

Opening her eyes to a blurry world that pitched and reeled around her head, she fumbled with her commlink, contacted the bridge, rasped the words, "Bridge, Ready Room."

"Bridge here, ma'am," Tanen answered.

"Target the six fighters…" she could scarcely force the words out, "closing on our port stern ventral quarter. Everything you've got."

"Yes, ma'am."

In the SCC, Revan had only occasionally opened his eyes to look at the map projection, spending nearly the entire battle in deep meditation, searching the invisible threads and currents, identifying the weakpoints. The situation was not developing quite so well as he had hoped, the enemy being not quite so spread out as he had intended. Then there came the alarm within his own mind, the brilliant presence of the Jedi nearly upon him. At face value, it was patently absurd to think that six fighters could inflict the slightest harm upon the great battleship, but these were not flown by ordinary pilots. He was about to alert the bridge, his finger a centimeter from the comm key on his armrest, when he felt Bastila beat him to it. _There's nothing to do now save wait,_ he told himself.

He could see them, the six fighters weaving in and out of the streams of fire as they closed at full throttle, one of them clipped on the wing, tumbling, recovering. The wounded ship was struck again, this time squarely in its center of mass, and disintegrated in a shower of debris. A second was hit, either in the reactor or the torpedo launchers, for it simply vanished in a flash of white, but four more pressed on. He could not help admiring their skill, their determination, their devotion. A third was blasted apart by a direct hit, and then the survivors fired. The guns automatically changed priority from the fighters to the torpedoes themselves, detonating one, then another, and another… _Why? _Revan wondered. He, too, knew that some of the most talented Jedi pilots could slip through shields, and that Taronel Jal was probably one of them. _Why waste their ordnance?_

He was provided with the unwelcome answer when, following behind his own torpedoes, Jal himself flew through the momentary gap in the shield. His last two comrades were not so skilled, however, mistiming their attempt and instead ploughing head-on into the shields.

With fingers moving as a blur, he overrode the targeting computer and assumed manual control of the point-defense guns, tracking Jal's fighter as it skimmed the hull. Having been caught in the torpedo blast, it was already damaged and flying on one engine, and made for an easy enough target: in under a second, he had forty-three guns locked on. Then, a scant instant before he would have fired, the lock was broken, the fighter was gone, and a klaxon was blaring in his ears.

"Bridge, SCC, report," he said as he entered the commands to return the guns to automatic control.

"Sir, he's entered Hangar Two," was Tanen's answer. "We've sealed the compartment, and…"

Revan was already halfway to the door, no longer hearing the captain's words. He sprinted to the nearest turbolift and ordered it to Hangar Two, which was three kilometers away, meaning that the lift would take a little under two minutes to reach it. In those two minutes, he felt lives lost, the lives of good and loyal men and women who were fighting to defend their ship. _I'm coming, damn you. It is I for whom you came, is it not?_ He realized that he was without his lightsabers - he no longer troubled to wear them about now that the Sith were extinct and the Imperial Guard light-years away - and carrying instead his PM-04. _No matter,_ he thought as he rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers. Sparks danced between his fingertips as the lift slowed, the sudden deceleration pressing him into the floor.

He was in motion before the doors had even parted, slipping sideways through the opening and taking off down a short hall that ended in a blast door. A squad of Marines knelt beside the walls with assault rifles trained on the door.

"Pull out," he told them. "I'll deal with this."

Their initial reaction to the command was one of disbelief, until they turned and saw who had issued it, whereupon they dutifully evacuated the corridor. Now alone, his hands became engulfed in electricity, filling his nostrils with the scent of ionized air as he mentally activated the door controls. He was not prepared for the figure he saw standing in the doorway.

Master Taronel Jal was a tall, slender Wroonian with thinning cerulean hair and stylized tattoos on his neck, and with his left hand he maintained a firm grip on a lightsaber with a deep violet blade. It was none of this which caught Revan's eye, however, and certainly not this that made his breath to hitch in his throat, but rather the bulging pack Jal wore, and the small black cylinder clutched in his left hand.

"Not a move, Revan," said the Jedi smoothly and with a disturbing level of composure. "Besides the trigger, it's wired to an EKG - if I die, so do you."

Taking a deep breath, Revan extinguished his electric fire and remained precisely where he was, his mind already leaping ahead, plotting how he could kill Jal without triggering the bomb. He knew the man wasn't bluffing, for he could sense the warhead in the backpack.

"W56 proton warhead?" he inquired.

Jal nodded.

"You took a sizeable risk that you wouldn't be killed before I reached you."

"There wasn't much opposition in the hangar, and I was trying to locate your comm channel and tell you that I had the bomb - I wasn't going to come through those doors otherwise."

_Not much opposition,_ Revan seethed. This cretin had the audacity to insult those who had nobly died in service of the Cause.

"You're probably wondering right now about this dead-man's switch I'm holding, aren't you? You and I both know I'm not a match for you, and that you _can_ breach my defenses. That's not in question. What _is_ in question is whether or not you can do it before I let go of this switch, and I'm betting that you're not willing to take that risk."

"You seem to have thought this through quite thoroughly."

"Truth be told, it only came to me during the battle," Jal confessed. "It seemed to me to be our last chance."

"An act of desperation, then. As to it being your last chance, you're probably right, though it is but a slim chance at that. The Republic has passed the point of no return, and whether I live or die will no longer affect the outcome of this war. My dream will live," he said with stern resolve. "But you have clearly thought of that, too, or else I would already be dead."

"Yes, I have."

"You should know that I shall never surrender. I shan't live as a prisoner, and certainly not with the knowledge that I have sacrificed all that for which I fight in return for my life. I should rather die a thousand times over," Revan told him with chilling resolve.

Jal had maintained unflinching eye contact with him thus far, but on hearing those words, he blinked. _There may be an opening here._

"You still don't understand, do you?" he asked the Jedi. "You've accepted by now that I'm not a Sith, sorted out all the things that I am _not_, but you still cannot grasp what I _am_, and, therefore, why I am willing to die. Is it that the truth lies so far outside the scope of your worldview as to be incomprehensible to you?"

_Now I've really given him something to think about,_ he mused as he gauged his opponent's momentary confusion. When he slowly and smoothly took one step forward, Jal evinced no signs of having noticed.

"There is another way," said Jal after a brief silence. "A negotiated peace."

"A negotiated peace?" he echoed. _You hadn't thought ahead to this scenario, had you? You hadn't expected that I'd be willing to die._

"Why not? You're right that your death won't save the Republic - not now - and you say you value the victory of your cause above your own life. There is a third way out of this, though, a way for both the Republic and your Empire to survive: order a cease-fire and open talks with Coruscant."

"I have presented terms to the Republic twice already, and twice have they been rejected with much vitriol by the Senate," he replied dismissively.

"Those terms amounted to the dissolution of the Republic in all but name. They were a joke, never meant to be taken seriously. No, this time you're going to offer them peace, _real_ peace, in which the Republic will remain intact."

Revan was only half-listening to Jal's proposal, however, for in his mind he felt Bastila's presence as she drew near. She was in the turbolift, in point of fact, less than a minute away. He should have feared for her safety, he knew, should have told her to go back to where at least she couldn't be caught in the blast radius should the warhead be triggered, but he didn't. She was coming to him because she wanted to, because she had to, and because she had some part to play in this.

"The Republic will remain intact," he scoffed. "The Republic is a diseased organism - it _deserves_ to die."

"I know the Republic isn't perfect, but neither is your Empire. No system is."

"The Empire is but minutes old in the grand scheme of history, and has not yet begun to realize its potential. This is a new system, built on a new set of rules, and while mistakes will undoubtedly be made, they will not be the mistakes of the Republic."

Again Jal hesitated, had to think out his next move.

"Then let the people decide," he offered. "If the Empire and the Republic coexist side-by-side, then the people will see the differences for themselves, and they will decide which is best. Isn't that be preferable to this war, or are you too far gone to see that?"

Bastila was almost there now, only seconds away.

"Too far gone. Gone to what? Look at me, Jal, and what do you see? Do you see darkness?"

"I do," he answered in a low tone.

"There is darkness in us all, but what else do you see? What is it that drives me? Yes, there is hate, for it is with all my heart that I hate the evils which the Republic enables, but there is more in me than the will to destroy and to punish. Can you not see that? Can you not see the will to _create?_"

He took another step that went unnoticed, and then the turbolift doors hissed open, and Jal's eyes widened.

When Bastila stepped forth, she did so looking tired and wan, and moving with a weary gait, but there was no mistaking the strength that rolled off of her in the Force, nor the weapon she carried.

"Hello, Bastila," said Revan without taking his eyes from the man in front of him. "He has a bomb."

"So I see."

"He has also offered us the chance to negotiate an end to the war."

"In return for your lives, yes. It would be a fair and equitable settlement, I can assure you."

"There is neither fairness nor equity in any of the dealings of the Senate," she countered.

"The Jedi would see to it," he answered quickly.

"Now you're grasping at straws," Revan told him as he glided forward another half-meter. "The Jedi would need take control of the Senate, and we both know that will never come to pass."

He couldn't be sure how long it would take him to breach Jal's Force defenses and clamp down the trigger, but he knew exactly how fast he could cross three meters of deck. Once he was close enough, he would jump and physically grab the trigger. Bastila would follow and cut off Jal's sword hand, or so he hoped, thinking that thought as loudly as he could.

"If we called a cease-fire," she asked, "what would stop us from attacking once your threat is removed, or do you intend to stay with us indefinitely? Last I checked, Wroonians need to sleep, too."

Jal's attention was on her now, and he didn't notice as Revan continued to slip forward.

"Revan will come with me, back to Coruscant, until a lasting peace is brokered, not as a prisoner, but as…"

"A guest? A _hostage? _Spare me your euphemisms, for I already told you that I shan't be taken prisoner."

"And I shan't lose him," Bastila added with ice in her words.

A look of bewilderment came upon Jal, then transmuted into one of shock when he grasped the meaning of her words. That distracted moment of realization was the opening.

The next half-second was utter chaos. Revan and Bastila sprang forward in the same instant, her lightsaber igniting with the telltale _snap-hiss_. As Revan closed with Jal, he could observe the Jedi's reaction as if in slow-motion, his left arm - and the blade at the end of it - beginning to move. There was a delay as he hesitated, as most anybody did when about to commit suicide, and then, from a distance of barely a meter, Revan could see the musculature of Jal's right hand flex. There was a fiery rush of fear, and he seemed to cover that last meter instantaneously; and before Jal could ever raise his thumb, it was crushed down onto the trigger by a pair of strong hands that suddenly closed around his own. Revan's momentum was pushing them both down the corridor now, and he could hear the sizzle of energy blades burning through the air. The stench of ozone stung his nostrils, but there was no thought of defending himself, only of maintaining a death grip on Jal's hand and the trigger within, even as he felt the heat on his arm. There was pain, if only for an instant, and the sound of a lightsaber slashing through flesh and bone, and then time returned to normal.

He, Jal, and Bastila tumbled to the deck in a heap, Revan heard the distinctive crackling pop of a joint being dislocated, along with a man's scream.

"Revan?" Bastila asked anxiously as she staggered to her feet.

Looking down, she saw him lying on the deck with both hands around Jal's right. The Jedi's right arm was twisted around behind his back at an unnatural angle, and his left was truncated at the elbow. He moaned loudly, then was silenced when Revan swung his leg up and brought his boot down onto his forehead.

"Are you alright?"

"Well enough," he said through clenched teeth, fighting to shut out the burning pain in his right tricep while struggling to sit up.

"Bridge, this is Admiral Shan," she spoke into her commlink. "The threat is contained, but we need a medic and a weapons tech at Hangar Two right away."

"Copy that, ma'am. I'll have a team down there on the double."

The Marines who had waited outside were surrounding them now, and one of them, a very large man standing two meters tall, offered to take over the task of holding the trigger. Revan, however, didn't dare to risk transferring the device, and retained his grip on it.

"It appears I'll be stuck here for a little while," he told Bastila. "See to the battle, Admiral."

"Yes, My Lord," was her reply.

She reluctantly snapped off a salute, held there for a few seconds, if only just to look upon him for that much longer, and then turned and stepped into the turbolift. _Much too close,_ she thought. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, her face cold and damp, her hands all but shaking. _I've come too far to lose it all._

"Compartment 150, Deck 133," she ordered, and the lift shot back up its tube.

After returning to the ready room, she spent the next fifteen minutes focusing on the battle and trying to banish from her thoughts the near brush with death. By 2150, the last Republic ships fighting against the _Deralí_ had either surrendered or made good their escape, and 2nd Group's fight was over.

Hrask issued orders to regroup outside the Nal'Giffex system, but Saaryu was still locked in battle with a large part of 2nd Armada, and Mal'cave had attacked orbital installations in the Pengalan system in hopes of drawing out the enemy there. Bastila was tired, and 5th Group was at the extreme limit of her reach, and she wished that Revan were anywhere other than in a lonely corridor clutching the trigger for a bomb that could vaporize him at any moment.

Taking a brief rest, she dragged herself across the room to the synthesizer, fetched herself a glass of water, and commed the bridge.

"Status report," she requested after the standard exchange of greetings.

"Ma'am, shields overall are at sixty-five, and as low as fifty-three in some grids. All main guns are operational, however, and the hyperdrive is green except for Motivator One," Tanen reported. He went on to list the ship's other various maladies, which included two ruptured power conduits and a problem with some of the point-defense targeting sensors, concluding with the assessment that the ship was still fit for continued operations.

"Plot a course for Tarhassan and stand by," she instructed.

"Yes, ma'am."

It was a few minutes later, not long after he had been informed via commlink that Bastila had ordered the _Deralí_ and the _Belderone_ to the aid of 5th Group, that Revan at last breathed a sigh of relief, albeit for an altogether different reason. Bíaric Filig, a soft-spoken lieutenant who knew everything there was to know about explosives, had just announced that she had disconnected the last detonator from the warhead. At that moment, he felt the danger melt away like ice beneath the spring sun, and was finally able to relax the now-painfully-cramped fingers in his left hand. His right had long since released the trigger, having done so when a medic started treating his arm. Filig's singular habit of talking nonstop about explosives whilst working to defuse a bomb had been a welcome blessing for him then, distracting him from the work being done on his wound.

Now that the warhead was inert, Filig removed it from Jal's back, hefted it into her arms, and set off to the nearest airlock to jettison it. Revan, meanwhile, rose onto his feet, his right hand moving out of habit, as if to sweep aside the jacket that had been cut away by the medic. In defiance of the local anesthetic, his tricep howled in protest, but he pushed past the pain as he closed his fingers around the grip of his sidearm and drew the weapon. The medic had deliberately re-opened the wound, cutting away the cauterized flesh so that the muscle could re-grow properly, then packed the wound with kolto before bandaging it. _Later,_ he promised his body. _I can focus on healing it later, after the battle._

"Stand clear," he ordered the Marines, who put ample distance between themselves and the unconscious Jedi. To ensure that he wouldn't come to whilst Filig was performing her delicate and dangerous work, the same medic who had tended to Revan's arm had dosed the Wroonian with enough sedatives to keep him out for hours. The reality, of course, was that he would never come to. _One fewer enemy in the galaxy._

At this range, taking aim at the base of his skull was effortless simplicity. The trigger broke crisply and predictably, a shot echoed in the passageway, and Taronel Jal was dead.

"Dispose of it," he ordered the Marines as he holstered his weapon.

He was already taking long strides toward the turbolift, anxious to return to the command center. This day was far from over.


	14. Going Home

14

Going Home

34 Thilnuth, 1,018 DÉ

28.9.20375

She was a blue world, her vast oceans broken here and there by expanses of green and brown and white, and in her atmosphere swirled cloud systems of every size and shape. That was Bastila's first glimpse of Deralí, taken from low orbit as she made her descent. From this altitude, the planet didn't appear so different from many other habitable planets Bastila had seen, and when she began the long plunge through the atmosphere, her vision was obscured by the plume of plasma that engulfed her fighter. On descending into the stratosphere, all she could see then was a vast sea of cloud that stretched out beneath her, almost to the edges of her vision, where it evidently began to thin out. Her course took her not into the clear, but straight into the dense overcast, however, and for another five minutes, she saw only pale grey.

She broke through the ceiling at 1,200 meters with water droplets streaming back along her canopy, and was met by a turbulent grey sea churning below. Revan was a hundred meters off her right wing, his grey and azure fighter trailing a vapor cone in the damp sea air. By this time, they had slowed to 1,400 kph and were continuing to glide with idling engines, continuously decelerating as they neared their destination.

"There's a small island chain coming up, the Cargist Islands," he said in her headset, and she noted the tiny "landmass" icons on her visor.

"Very lovely place," he went on, "with lots of birds and farms. We ought make a few S-turns to go subsonic before we overfly, lest we disturb the locals."

There was no need for him to tell her when to execute the first turn, or in which direction, as she could feel precisely what he would do, and their maneuvers were perfectly synchronised. Their bond had been growing stronger and closer with the passage of time, and that was a thought that filled her with a pleasant warmth.

After four broad, sweeping turns, her airspeed was down to 900, and she could now plainly see with her naked eyes four green islands flanked by several small, bare rocks, one of which was little more than a jagged thorn rising seventy or eighty meters above the waves. Of the four larger landmasses, the greatest of these was not more than twenty kilometers in any one dimension, with the others being slightly smaller and of varying shapes. She dropped down to five hundred meters as she flew over, feeling slightly guilty as the noise from her engines scattered a tremendous flock of brown and white birds, even knowing that they would return to their roost soon after her passage. They numbered in the hundreds, and watching them take wing was like witnessing an entire section of the ground suddenly lift up. Past the rookeries, she flew over houses painted in colors ranging from drab white or grey to gaudy peach or emerald; over hangars dug into hillsides; over a herd of stocky, tawny animals cantering across an open field.

"How many people live down there?" she inquired.

"Oh, no more than a few hundred per island, and I believe around a hundred on the smallest of them."

"And they're all farmers?"

"Most of them. The animals of which you see so many are _pathaiv_, and they have the softest wool you can imagine - it's softer than any silk I know of, and, unlike silk, harvesting it doesn't involve killing."

"Aren't our bed sheets…?"

"Woven from _path_ wool? They are, indeed."

The islands were gone now, left behind the fast-moving fighters, and emerging from the haze ahead were mountains clad in a dark green coat of evergreens. In the midst of the towering landmass opened steep-walled fjords, and it was down one such valley where the land met the sea that Bastila guided her fighter. Between walls of green, studded in places with rugged slabs of exposed grey rock, she cruised at the leisurely pace of 600 kph, following the water's meandering course through the mountains. She passed a small town nestled in a little inlet on the north side of the fjord, a pleasant-looking little hamlet that was there and gone again in seconds. To her right, she glimpsed a little white tower atop a mountain, that seemed to her mind to be of little purpose.

After flying down the fjord for little more than three minutes, her eyes beheld a new sight: emerging from the base of the mountains on either side of her, hewn into the living rock, were the facades of buildings both grand and beautiful. Though formed of stone, the architecture was neither blunt nor heavy in appearance, but elegant and flowing, with the only straight lines being vertical. It was as though the buildings had been designed not only to follow, but to enhance the natural contours of the land, and this they achieved to splendid effect. Banners of green, black, and silver flew above curving staircases, drifting lazily in the late-summer breeze, and on an avenue that ran along the shore cruised elegant landspeeders flying a variety of little pennants. Rounding one final gentle bend, she came within sight of the base of the fjord, from whence arose a sweeping grey spire that climbed a hundred meters above the tallest mountain peaks. Set two-thirds of the way up its western face, the side which she now approached, was a great gleaming silver four-pointed star, at the center of which was a flower with diamond-shaped petals. The former had become the symbol of the Empire, while the latter had ever been associated with Deralí, being the likeness of the ubiquitous _vastínhaig _flower.

"Welcome to Tséchsnol," he told her, "otherwise, the Imperial City. To our left now is the Interior Ministry, bordered by the SD Headquarters, appropriately enough. The last two are the Army and Navy Headquarters, on the right and left, respectively."

"And the Érilínash, the Sovereign Tower," she finished for him. "Although it is not yet officially home to a sovereign."

"Not yet," he replied flatly.

The Tower was, however, home to the General Staff, and as such also housed a suite of offices for the C-in-C at the top. It was also, at least for the time being, the meeting place of the Imperial Council of Ministers, though their offices were slated to ultimately be converted into the offices of the Prime Minister, once Meric assumed that role. So far as Revan was concerned, the day when the government was reordered couldn't come soon enough.

It went against all his concepts of proper government for there to be a council of anything - there was something deeply ingrained in him that distrusted any grouping of powerful persons. Insofar as he could trust anyone at all, it was easier to trust an individual than it was an organization or a body or a council. Such groups were dangerous, and the very concept unseemly. It was often argued that a large group was less prone to the errors and excesses of a single individual, when in practice, the lowest members of any group invariably polluted the whole, and dragged their more noble colleagues down to their own level. Unlike an individual, a group could be a nameless, faceless entity, devoid of responsibility or accountability. It was thanks only to Meric and her SD that decency prevailed within the Imperial government.

At ground level, the Tower was entirely buried within the mountain, from which it emerged only at a height of a few hundred meters above the waves, and access was via a stone façade similar to the others about the fjord. Artfully concealed beside the great stone steps was a landing pad and hangar door, and there they alighted. Bastila drew off her helmet, smoothed her hair, and popped the canopy to receive a deeply refreshing taste of salty sea air. In spite of the overcast, and the latitude, the temperature was very mild, and she felt invigorated as she descended the ladder.

She had expected (though not eagerly) a grand reception, but was instead met by only a handful of aviation techs from the Army, who offered their salutes before attending to the parked fighters. A few even set about unloading their baggage from the missile bays, which had been the only place to store personal effects. (Not quite so large as the Si-47, and possessing a more rugged aesthetic than the Sienar fighter, the Xg-33 was an older design with weaker shields, lighter armament, and no hyperdrive. In brief, it was yesterday's technology, but still perfectly adequate as the personal transports of two VIPs.)

"No parade to greet us?" she asked Revan as his boots touched permacrete.

"You would rather a great pageant? An entire division, perhaps?" he joked.

"Hardly," she laughed, "but I did rather think there would be some show involved in your homecoming."

"Oh, everybody here knows how private I am, and they understand that I prefer my homecoming this way."

A modest cobblestone walkway ran from the hangar to the base of the steps, and Revan stopped halfway there. He stepped off the path onto the well-tended grass that grew alongside, and knelt, running the fingers of his right hand through the soft green blades. She saw his lips move, but could hear no words, and nor did she need to, his sweet elation flowing clearly through their bond. She knelt beside him, likewise touched her hand to the ground, and observed a moment of silence. When she did so, she feel almost as if the planet was welcoming her, felt its purity run through her.

The short ritual complete, they climbed the one hundred white steps, at the top of which they stood beneath a massive cantilevered overhang that curved and flowed like everything else. There were no columns to support it (and indeed Bastila had noted a total absence of columns in the city as a whole, as if they were for some reason hated), and it seemed to defy gravity. Into the walls of stone were carved exquisite designs of interwoven branches and flowers, amongst which stood and perched and flew a menagerie of animals both magnificent and stately. Tall, narrow windows reached up before her, twenty-five on either side of a pair of towering grey doors.

Sentries stood watch on the flanks of the doors, dressed not in battlefield armor but in crisply-pressed parade uniforms. They wore dark green jackets that sported black facings adorned with silver knot work, and gold cuff-bands bearing the title "1st Guards Regiment." Their obsidian boots and belts were polished to a mirror finish, and their hands were covered by grey gloves. Atop their heads rested broad black hats with the left side of the brim turned up and pinned back by a silver medallion, into which was engraved the likeness of a springing cat and the inscription _"Nai ûltín elth salitse mín."_ (At the moment, the translation eluded her, only the words "with," "loyal," and "we" jumping out at her.) Against their shoulders, however, in contrast to the formality of their dress, rested FL50 assault rifles with fixed bayonets and fully-charged magazines.

These sentinels did not speak, did not make eye contact, their only response to the arrival of two such distinguished visitors being to click heels and present arms. The doors parted automatically, and Bastila found herself entering a grand hall at least a hundred meters in length. The jet-black floor upon which she trod with endlessly-echoing steps seemed to shimmer as she crossed it, while the walls and vaulted ceiling were adorned with murals of heroic figures not only from Deralí, but from scores of cultures and races, all of them rendered in bold lines and vivid colors. They engaged in heroic deeds, or else stood, proud and lofty, as if nobly watching and directing the course of history. Over the ringing sound of their footfalls, she could hear a kind of white noise, almost a muffled roar, which grew progressively louder as they proceeded down the length of the hall. When they neared the far end, which clearly exited into some vast open space, she found her curiosity rising, for she could have sworn the sound was that of rushing water.

"Surely that isn't…" she started to say as the relative confines of the hall, expansive though it was, opened into a grand new vista.

With Revan beaming from ear to ear and herself all but gaping in awe, they emerged into the west end of an immense cavern. The inwardly-sloping walls were of rough, unfinished rock, except for a series of staircases and walkways that spiraled up and around them, some of which branched off into elegantly arched bridges that spanned the entire room. Her gaze drawn upwards, she beheld holographic constellations, nebulae, and distant galaxies projected onto the ceiling in an ever-changing artificial night sky. Shafts of light poured in through windows above and behind her, or at least what appeared to be windows, for she was well aware that they were inside a mountain, and on a cloudy day at that. The floor was covered with unending, interwoven designs formed by tiles of black, white, rose, and emerald. There were lush gardens, groves of trees, and little green parklands, all of them cut through by a fast-flowing stream. The most arresting feature of all, however, was the towering waterfall that plunged more than a hundred meters down the east wall, its cascading surface shining almost golden in the artificial sunlight.

"The conceptuals truly failed to do it justice," murmured Revan.

She was aware that Tséchsnol had still been under construction the last time he was home, and that therefore he, too, was experiencing this place for the first time, but she still found it difficult to imagine that he found it as stunning as herself. On her rare visits to Coruscant, she had seen structures far larger than this, but never had she beheld any building or monument that moved her so. For all its sheer size, it was a place not of grandeur, but of beauty and purity - a place meant not to intimidate or impress, but to inspire and uplift.

"It's…beautiful," she said, knowing that the word fell far short of the mark as tears formed in her eyes.

"Perfection," he declared.

Though conscious of the time, and the fact they had a purpose there beyond admiring the marvels of this place, they strolled through the cavern for some time. Along the way, they passed a great many persons in military uniforms and businesslike civilian suits, all of whom stopped to bow or salute. At length, having taken a decidedly less-than-direct route, they reached one of the multitudinous lifts that lines the perimeter of the room. Even this was a work of art, its polished steel doors framed in sea-green marble, and themselves engraved with dynamic patterns that spoke of upward movement, and not necessarily just in terms of ascending the Tower. Once inside, the ride to the top took a little under three minutes, which were well-spent studying the exquisite landscapes painted on the walls of the car.

At the top, they stepped out into a bright corridor dominated by the colors black and white, wherein every doorframe and light fixture was accented with silver. The doors themselves each bore a simple brass plaque with an alphanumeric designation, there being neither names nor ranks nor titles anywhere in evidence. In fact, this section of the building appeared to be effectively deserted compared with the ground floor, and was occupied by a handful of military personnel, all of whom took the time to stop whatever business might be concerning them and salute.

After a minute or two of walking, during which time Bastila had to wonder if Revan truly knew his way about from the architectural plans, or was simply exploring the place at his leisure, they came to a lobby of sorts. Black and white gave way to soft color here: blues and greens, and pale reds like that of the sunset, with some grey thrown in for caution's sake. At the far end was the door to another lift - another stylized work of art - and this one guarded by a pair of sentries. Revan was admitted by a full-body scan, and there followed a very brief ride up several more levels.

A short walk down a broad hall and up a single flight of curving stairs brought them into a bright, airy, and elliptical office. A geodesic dome served as both walls and ceiling, and offered what should have been a panoramic view over the peaks of the tallest surrounding mountains. Unfortunately, the weather today was deteriorating, and visibility was quite low, but on a clear day, the views must surely have been spectacular.

"Pity," Revan remarked, clearly thinking the same. "May tomorrow's weather prove fairer."

Here there was no cold stone, the floors being of pale, yellow-tinted wood. Much of the furniture was fashioned of the same, with the chairs being upholstered in bright crimson and the desk being a large, curvilinear affair with a glass top. Lamps took the form of tall white cylinders that either rose from the floor or hung from the dome, not unlike the stalagmites and stalactites of a cave; bookshelves were fashioned out of glass, and stocked with rare and obscure volumes; the solitary holoprojector was encased in brushed steel. On the south side grew silver-petaled vastínhaigaiv in pots that were as unconventional in shape as the rest of the room's accoutrements.

"You saw from the air what lies west, north, and south: sea, mountains, and the neighboring fjords. To the east, however, we should be able to glimpse the Lakes of Aithlínnel, were it not for this confounded murk. Back to the west…" Striding rapidly to that side of the office, he strained his eyes to no avail, "Blast. Did you, perchance, note a little white tower on our way in?"

"I did," she confirmed, far more engrossed with the view down at the city, which she could see easily enough even in the worsening weather.

"On the summer solstice, the sun will appear to set directly behind that tower, as viewed from here, and on the winter solstice, it will rise over those lakes to the east. It should prove very lovely, indeed."

Resting his hands on his hips, he took one good look about the office, and stated pleasantly that, "Yes, I do believe we shall find this a fine place to work."

At that, she could not keep from laughing as she threw an arm around his shoulders. Perhaps she was merely tired, which made perfect sense in light of the last three weeks' worth of sixteen-hour (or more) workdays, but it struck her as a gross understatement.

"I should think so," she assured him.

Seven minutes later, Revan stepped through a pair of tall double doors into a very long, rectangular room with a soaring ceiling and banks of tall windows at either end. The wood-paneled walls were hung with painted landscapes, abstract sculptures were perched on steel pedestals, and in the center sat a long wood table, around which were seated sixteen individuals of varying species. Present were the ten Imperial Ministers, the Chiefs of Staff of the Army and Navy, their Quartermasters-General, and their Chiefs of Intelligence. At the near end of the table, a seat had been left open at the head, while at the opposite end sat Meric, splendidly attired in her SD uniform. All assembled stood and bowed at his approach, and on reaching his chair, he, too, bowed, and then all were seated.

There then followed, quite unexpectedly, a round of applause, and for a moment or two he was struck dumb with humility.

"Welcome home, My Lord," Meric greeted him when all had fallen silent.

"Thank you, My Lady, and thank you all."

"It is we who must thank you, sir," said Grand Marshal Idanos, a tall, pale Zabrak with bright orange eyes and greying black hair. "Without you, we could never have come this far - we wouldn't have even begun."

"I should like to state that anything I have done would likewise not have been possible without the service of billions of others willing to stake their lives on this cause. Moreover, while I have delivered considerable victories in this war, I have yet to deliver the _final_ victory."

"True, yes, but we are very close now," Grand Admiral Udel chimed in with firm conviction. One of the younger persons in attendance, he was a short, broad-shouldered man with crew-cut black hair and dark, narrow eyes, and sat with his fingers interlaced on the table in front of him.

"I know I was skeptical of Impulse, and only slightly less so of Motive, but the results speak for themselves: the Republic is finished. We've dealt them losses they can't replace."

"And now the Senate has done the unthinkable," chimed in the soprano voice of a Gossam from the far end of the table, Foreign Minister Min Kori.

"Which brings us to the purpose of this conference," spake Meric.

Early the previous morning, the Republic ambassador to the neutral planet of Adarlon contacted the Imperial Embassy on that world, and delivered a message from the Senate's Subcommittee on Foreign Relations. This had caused a considerable stir in Tséchsnol, for it proposed nothing short of a cease-fire, and it was only this that had drawn Revan away from the front.

"Yes, the Senate's proposal," said Revan. "For the benefit of those here who have yet to hear it, I believe it best that it be expounded upon at this time."

Naturally, Meric had sent him a copy of it when she commed to notify him of its existence, and he and Bastila had already made up their minds against it. There was a powerful force in both of them that wished they could have accepted it and brought an end to the war immediately, yet this they could not do. They had debated it at some length, in fact, and in the end had always arrived at the same truth: the terms offered by the Republic were not the aims for which they waged this war, and fell far short of the victory for which so many had died.

"Yes, My Lord," said Kori. "Firstly, I wouldn't say that this is the _Senate's_ proposal, but rather that of a single subcommittee. According to our intelligence from Coruscant, the document was brought up for debate on extremely short notice, and voted on by only a tiny fraction of the Senate body. Nonetheless, the Senate did approve the language, if only technically speaking, which makes it legally-binding should we accept."

"And what terms, pray tell, do they offer?" he asked with obvious skepticism.

"Now, you must bear in mind that this is not an offer of surrender, but an offer of a cease-fire, and so the terms themselves are somewhat vague. The true purpose is to stop the fighting and establish a dialogue, from which might be crafted a lasting settlement."

Revan sensed in Kori a weary impatience to have this over and done with, the Foreign Minister feeling that this was a complete waste of his time. His Ministry was, after all, involved in dealings with hundreds of neutral worlds that the Empire sought to court. Concrete results could be achieved via such negotiations, whereas the possibility that this present matter could bring peace was positively microscopic.

He withdrew a datapad from an inside pocket of his dark turquoise suit and, with a few keystrokes, projected the text into the air above the table.

"Broadly speaking, they're prepared to offer territorial concessions and monetary reparations, on the condition that we agree to an arms-reduction treaty. Beyond that, they refuse to go into specifics, and it's far short of the terms we've offered them before."

"Yes," said Meric darkly, "they make no mention of extradition, nor half of our other demands, all of which we have emphatically stated are non-negotiable."

"Are they in any way specific about these 'territorial concessions?' How far are they willing to go?" asked Idanos, with her arms folded skeptically across her chest.

"As I said, the language used is somewhat vague, I expect because no Senator was willing to cede his or her home system. The precise wording is 'territorial concessions amounting to no more than fifty percent of those systems presently occupied by the Empire, which are legally member states of the Galactic Republic.' To put that in visual terms," Kori replied as he tapped a few more keys, replacing the text with a star chart, "that could equate to something along these lines."

"Or nothing at all," Idanos scoffed. "Bear in mind, Minister, that those systems were taken and held with the _lives_ of _our soldiers_."

"Yes, I do certainly sympathize, Marshal. I know all too well the price of this war," said the Minister with bitter sorrow behind his words. One of his sons had been killed on Togoria early in the year, and another was serving in the Navy, and so he understood as well as anyone the price paid for every victory.

"Forgive me, Minister," said Idanos as she cast her eyes down into her lap. "You do have my sympathies."

Idanos had attended the funeral personally, had even delivered the eulogy, though she had never known Xiri Kori in life. She had spoken of devotion, of selfless love of one's homeworld, of fighting for something greater than one's self, even a goal which one would never live to see. She was no orator, but it had come across as deeply moving and heartfelt, for she had seen enough good soldiers fall in battle to know well the pain of loss.

"Personal matters aside," said Udel brusquely, "I must side with my comrade on this: to yield anything which we have already won is an insult to the memory of every single person who has died in this war. I'll be the first to agree to a cease-fire if it means that the post-war border is drawn along our current front line, but to accept anything less is…unconscionable."

"I must concur," Revan added in a sedate tone that seemed to lift him above the passion of his subordinates. "We declared war with a very clear and specific set of aims - _necessary_ and _noble _aims - and all who have fought and died have done so on the understanding that their sacrifice was made in furtherance of said aims. One such goal was the complete and permanent destruction of the Republic's political system, and this cannot be achieved if we accept the terms offered in this document.

"What is more, the Senate knows our aims with perfect certainty, for we have never made them a secret, and they know that we shall not stop until these are attained. They also know that were they to offer us generous terms, such as something along the lines of that which we have previously offered them, that we would have a strong obligation to accept, for were we to reject those, it would weaken our standing with our people. Instead, they offer us something which they know we cannot in good conscience accept, and which the majority of our people would likewise reject. I therefore believe that this proposal is disingenuous throughout, and that it was offered with no expectation of producing concrete diplomatic results, but rather results of a different kind."

Meric leaned back in her chair and nodded.

"I couldn't agree more: the terms are completely unacceptable, because they were never meant to be accepted. This document is a hollow gesture, diplomatically speaking.

"In less than a month, we've dealt them military defeats on a scale so vast they stagger the imagination. From every indication we've received, their public is in a state bordering on outright panic. Just watching their news broadcasts, I see rioting on hundreds of worlds, looting in the streets, mobs storming government buildings. It's pure chaos. This…sham of a peace offer is nothing more than a transparent attempt to mollify public outrage," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"But, then, surely they must understand that their only chance now is to negotiate?" Kori spoke up. "I may not be a strategist, but even I can see that their navy is a shell, and their armies are being cut off on hundreds of worlds. Without naval superiority, how can they hope to keep us from flying straight into the Core at will?"

"They can't," Udel said firmly. "The past week demonstrated that."

Operation Motive had not ended the war in a day, largely because after the initial devastation of 4th Armada, the Republic had refused to give battle on a large scale. For a week thereafter, Revan had pushed them, jabbing like a boxer, trying to open them up for a knockout blow. There had been small engagements across the entire front, from Malastare to Ord Biniir, but always the enemy retreated whenever possible, unwilling to commit any reserves. It had been maddening, and he had begun to contemplate another massed attack, with two or even three groups working in concert, when he was informed of the "peace offer." He still was considering such ideas, of course, had stayed up late last night with Bastila, the two of them sorting out where and when to strike next, and how best to isolate a portion of the Republic Navy. The problem would require innovative thinking, but, then, what two individuals could be better suited to devising such a solution?

Again, the high voice of the Foreign Minister was lifted in the room.

"I won't argue that this was a very poor effort at diplomacy, and that it was almost certainly meant more for the consumption of their own public than it was meant to end the war, but what if it's an opening? After all, this is the first time that they've ever made any offer at all."

"That is true, but I still hold out no hope that the Senate or the Chancellor will accept our terms until they've been driven to unconditional surrender, if for no other reason than they fear that they're on the Extradition List," said Meric with her trademark smirk. "Which they are, of course."

In their previous peace offers to the Republic, they had stated only that one condition would be the extradition of wanted criminals to Imperial custody, without offering any specific names. In fact, the SD's Extradition List exceeded seventy thousand names, including those of the Supreme Chancellor and a third of the Senate.

"There is a natural lull in the fighting at the moment," said Revan, "whilst we prepare for our next major offensive. This would be as fair an opportunity as any to again present our terms for their surrender, should we desire to do so."

"The original terms?" asked Kori.

"Not entirely, no: now that our forces have advanced past the line originally proposed, we must make adjustments accordingly."

"Forgive me, sir, but why stop there? There are still systems behind their lines that would defect - or at least secede from the Republic - in a heartbeat, if given the chance," said an impassioned Idanos, who was surely thinking of her own homeworld. "We cannot abandon hundreds of billions who yearn for a better way of life."

"Bear in mind, Marshal, that one provision of our proposed peace settlement has always been that the Republic must grant full sovereignty to any system that seeks it," replied the Foreign Minister.

"And what chance is there that the Senate will agree to that, or to anything at all," scoffed Fa'ale Taaresh, the Twi'lek Minister of Justice, with a swish of her lekku. "These are not reasonable people we're dealing with: they'll watch the whole Republic burn if it gives them a chance to slink away and save their own hides."

Revan was inclined to be a pessimist, and didn't expect that the Senate would grant any more serious consideration to the proposal than they had in the past, even with the Republic collapsing around them. As Taaresh had said, many would rather sacrifice all else before relinquishing power, but there were also many who honestly saw the Empire as a backwards, evil entity. None other than Supreme Chancellor Oberreck had stated in the first month of the war that he would settle for nothing less than the Empire's unconditional surrender, assuring his people that he would stamp it out of existence. The sheer vitriol spewed via the Republic news media was proof enough of the strength of their hatred.

"I hold out little hope that they will surrender in the immediate future," he replied. "Indeed, I should warrant that were we to agree to the terms they just proposed, they would use the negotiations only as an opportunity to buy time, and would never ratify any sort of permanent treaty."

"Well, when the Senate rejects this offer, we'll make them very sorry they did," Udel quipped. "Given another month, we'll be on the outskirts of the Core."

"Then why offer them anything now, when we can be demanding their unconditional surrender by year's end?" elaborated Thrynn Vaccor, Minister of War Production. "Why offer a counter-proposal at all? Suppose they do accept, and we lose our chance to finish this?"

"Because every day costs lives," Kori answered. "If we can wring from them a settlement that leads to the peaceful collapse of the Republic within ten or twenty years, then we should do so."

Revan could scarcely deny the moral logic of the argument, yet he likewise had to acknowledge the hard reality that the Republic would not crumble overnight, and that as it did slowly disintegrate, the result would be a decade or two of utter chaos. No, it was better to be done with it swiftly, rather than prolonging the agony for those who would be caught in the midst of it.

"And because they won't accept," he stated the truth as he knew it. "In the end, it will be the Republic's military that surrenders, not its government. Nonetheless, we shall do what is right, as we always have."

Though he had hoped to have decisively ended the discussion, the conference instead dragged on for nearly another hour. Various new issues cropped up, including the recurring unconditional surrender debate. Ever since Oberreck's vow to settle for nothing less, there had been those in the Empire (invariably civilians) who had proposed responding in kind. Though the total destruction of the Republic as a sovereign state had ever been among his chief objectives, Revan had opposed the idea at every turn, reminding its proponents that Oberreck's own challenge had served to galvanize the will of the Imperial armed forces. Now, however, he was beginning to warm to the concept, in his own fashion.

Silencing the circular debate that had risen around him, he suggested that, when the Senate rejected their proposed conditions for surrender, the Foreign Ministry should then issue a public declaration. This would be to the effect that, henceforth, the Empire would accept from the Republic nothing less than complete and unconditional surrender, but that any system or sector wishing to negotiate a separate peace would be welcome to do so. Delivered at a time when the enemy was reeling from a string of catastrophic defeats, such a declaration would divide, rather than unite, the people of the Republic. With any luck, the Republic would begin to fracture, and the end of the war would be brought closer still.

No one could particularly disagree with his logic, and at last a consensus was reached that, if only for the sake of posterity, a negotiated peace should be offered, to be followed in due course by a demand for unconditional surrender. The Council of Ministers voted unanimously in favor of the plan, to which Revan and the Chiefs of Staff granted their assent. (The Council did not, after all, hold any legal authority over the military, with whom rested the ultimate responsibility to decide an end to hostilities.)

The solitary chair in the C-in-C's office was so incredibly comfortable that Bastila could easily have fallen asleep by now had she let herself. The last week had been grueling, with every day including at least an hour of Battle Meditation to aid a ground campaign on one world or another, frequently at extreme distances. When she wasn't exhausting herself with that, she was obsessing over every intel report that came her way, or drafting operational orders, or staring at star charts until her eyes lost focus. Each night, she would collapse into bed, only to wake in the morning feeling as though she hadn't slept at all. She knew Revan was faring little better, for he spent several hours per day scouring the depths of the Force for answers, an exercise which left him just as spent as Battle Meditation did her. If they hadn't had cause to visit Deralí, they would have been obliged to rest anyway, or else surely suffer a total collapse.

_And it isn't as if we've made much progress,_ she lamented. After the 25th, they had done little more than chip away at an enemy who refused to give battle. It was as frustrating as it was wearying. _We'll take a rest, for we're not the only ones who need it._ Already, as she sat at the desk manipulating icons on a star chart, she was toying with ideas for the next big offensive. The Imperial Navy now held an estimated 1.3-to-1 numerical advantage, but even so, the Republic Navy was still dangerous, could still cause considerable harm, and therefore could not be treated as a beaten foe.

The meeting adjourned, the Ministers and officers filed out, save for Revan and Meric, who remained seated as they had throughout the whole tiresome affair.

"Is this to be your cabinet room," he asked lightly once they were alone, "or is it fated to be your personal office?"

"Cabinet room," she replied. "My office is upstairs, although it's not finished yet. Half the building still isn't, you know."

"I haven't been keeping track - I've had more pressing matters to tend to, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, in case I hadn't noticed," she chuckled.

Her demeanor turned serious then, her hand thoughtfully cupping her chin.

"How much longer do you suppose?"

"Victory is certain at this point, the only variable affecting its time being whether the Republic fights to the bitter end, or bows to the inevitability of defeat. Either way, they are losing ships far in excess of their rate of production, and so long as we sustain our current pace, the war will be over by year's end - it's simple arithmetic."

"Oberreck _will_ fight to the end. He's a believer - a sick, distorted mirror image of you and I - and he knows this war for what it is. He knows that if he loses, he will lose everything. Everything he believes in will be washed away…down history's drain."

"And he will be in the docket to answer for his actions," he added pointedly.

"Assuming he doesn't make a run for it in the end, which I rather hope he does, provided we eventually catch him without too much bother. From a public-relations viewpoint, that would be ideal."

"Yes, it would be a pity if he met defeat with grace and humility."

The door chime sounded then, a single clear ring of a bell.

"Yes?" Meric called out.

"This is Admiral Shan," Bastila replied.

"Do come in, Admiral," Revan beckoned her, and the doors parted momentarily.

She strode briskly into the room, stopped short of the table with a click of her heels, and bowed.

"My Lord, beg to report, I've been reviewing the situation around the Brak Sector, and I think I may be onto something."

He knew very well that she was lying, and not to him. There was nothing of note happening in the Brak Sector, she merely thought that there existed a convenient opportunity to further impress Meric, and this was her way of sneaking into the conversation. _Very clever, darling._

"I've scheduled a conference with the General Staff for 1230, which is," he checked his chrono, "twenty-three minutes away. We may discuss this then, if that is acceptable."

"Yes, sir, that would be acceptable."

"Would you care to take a seat, Admiral? The Minister and I were just discussing the end of the war.

"Certainly, sir."

She took the still-warm seat that had been occupied by Idanos, and folded her hands neatly on the table in front of her.

Meric leaned on her armrest and looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment or two, before speaking quietly, "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but do the two of you always address one another so formally?"

An awkward silence reigned in the chamber, to be broken by Bastila.

"Force of habit, Minister," she said with a smile. "A carry-over from staff meetings and such."

"I suspected as much. The two of you are quite close, or else I'm not nearly so good at my job as I've been led to believe. After all, you spoke very warmly of Revan in our first conversation, Admiral."

"Admittedly, we have grown close to one another, as you say," said Revan.

On reading Meric, he could tell that she was unclear just how close, whether they were dear friends or something more, and he was not about to reveal any more than was necessary. Céle was the only person who knew of their relationship, but she never spoke of it, not even to them, as though it simply didn't exist. He knew that Meric, above all others, could certainly be trusted to keep a secret, yet still felt uncomfortable with the idea of her knowing it. There always loomed in his thoughts the fear that Bastila would never receive her due credit were she seen as his… Well, were she unjustly seen as an object of favoritism. Unjust though it may be, it was the conclusion too many would draw.

"That's perfectly understandable, given how much alike the two of you are. Sometimes…I almost have the sense that I'm looking at twins," Meric chuckled. "Again, I ask you to forgive me: I've gotten us well off-track. We were discussing our mutual friend, Mr. Oberreck, and the end of this damnable war."

"And what of that guttersnipe?" Bastila queried.

"Well, Meric was stating that it would be preferable if he fled justice at the end of the war, and was ultimately captured like a common fugitive, rather than turning himself in," answered Revan.

"Agreed, but I wouldn't be altogether surprised if he does surrender. If there is one overriding quality in that man, it's his ego, and I'm sure the idea of being viewed as a common fugitive holds no appeal for him. Even in defeat, he could still appear noble and lofty if he offers himself up as a prisoner."

"Hmm, I fear you may be right," Meric conceded. "He's an accomplished master of spinning a situation to his favor, and I wouldn't put it past him to try that with even an unconditional surrender. That won't do."

"No, but what if he signs the treaty that formally dismantles the Republic?" posited Revan. "If he surrenders, he will, as Supreme Chancellor, naturally be obligated to sign the peace treaty."

"And the only way he could avoid signing would be to resign from office, leaving somebody else to sign in his stead, which would be a transparent act of cowardice," Bastila finished the thought for him.

"Then it would appear as if we have him cornered no matter what," said Meric.

"Yes, by damn, we have him," Revan echoed.

* * *

The General Staff conference lasted for much of the afternoon, during which time various options for the next offensive were laid out, and their merits weighed and debated. Revan put forward a plan of his own, which threw caution entirely to the wind: that 4th Group attack the Raioballo Sector in a mass diversion, while 3rd and 5th Groups converge on and destroy 3rd Armada. There was some quiet disapproval, concerns that Motive had not lived up to its full potential because it had simply been too vast in scope, and it was politely suggested that this new operation be scaled back. There were many on the General Staff who had never been comfortable with Revan's grand "battles of annihilation," and favored instead a gradual wearing down of the enemy. They felt that involving so many units in a simultaneous attack created significant command and control difficulties, and would reduce the chance of success.

It was with considerable wariness that Bastila then voiced an idea that had been percolating in her own thoughts, namely that 4th Group attack at Raioballo as Revan proposed, but with 3rd Group sweeping into the Atrivis Sector in parallel. 5th Group, meanwhile, would act purely in a reserve capacity, should the Republic make any move to sweep in behind the main body.

Perhaps predictably, her plan was met with even greater skepticism, if only because she was not Revan, and had no track record of delivering impossible victories. It was without hesitation that he came to her defense, of course, pointing out that "the greatest gains always carry with them the greatest risks." Furthermore, it was arguably less dangerous than his own plan, though it would admittedly leave an opening which a cunning adversary might exploit.

"I was of the impression," he lectured in response to that very concern, "that, unlike our opposite numbers, we were not plagued by an infernal obsession with the integrity of our lines. It is fluidity and maneuver that have brought us this far, and it is the very same that will carry us through to the end. Now that we are closer than ever to victory, there can be no excuse to suddenly yield to over caution."

Ultimately, her plan was taken under advisement along with a slew of others, all of which her instincts told her would prove disappointing if put into practice. Revan assured her, however, that he nearly always prevailed upon the General Staff, and that some combination of their ideas was sure to be accepted in time.

As eager as they both were to finish with the day's business, it was not until 1723 that the weary couple strapped into their fighters on the landing pad, while a driving rain battered their canopies.

"Tséchsnol Departure, Navy 39-07 departing to the east," she identified herself to the controller.

"Navy 39-07, Tséchsnol Departure, altitude and destination?"

"Departure, -07, altitude minimal, destination classified, are you reading my transponder code?" she asked with a slight edge to her voice. Flipping up her visor, she rubbed her tired eyes.

"Copy that, -07. Security code confirmed. You're clear for takeoff, ma'am."

"Departure, -07, clear for takeoff."

She eased up on the repulsorlifts, raised the undercart, and opened the throttle. The fighter climbed steeply up the green mountainside and straight into the clouds, which had by now descended to 350 meters, engulfing much of the terrain. On her visor was projected a digitized image of the landscape, not that she needed it, being perfectly capable of sensing the ground passing by beneath her. Once clear of the Érilínash, she banked to the east, popped over the peaks, executed a half-roll, and eased back on the stick to make the descent down the opposite slope, then righted her fighter. She took care to control her speed on the way down, aware of the great many houses and apartments nestled along the lower slopes. There was, in fact, a whole other city on this side of the mountains, housing a portion of the million men and women employed in Tséchsnol. She glimpsed a part of it when she emerged from the low clouds: a carpet of low buildings, none higher than seven or eight stories, nestled amongst the trees. She knew that there were other cities like it in the neighboring fjords, linked to Tséchsnol by tubes that ran through the mountains.

Once clear of the houses, she weaved down a valley that veered away to the south, bringing her closer to her true course. After a few minutes more, she popped up and out of the valley, and ducked down low over the coast, skimming the waves at a height of twenty meters. She felt a familiar, welcome, loving presence in her mind, and smiled.

"On your six!" Revan called out in her headset, his fighter darting up alongside her a second later.

"Nice to see you, too."

"Care to see something amazing?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

He laughed, cautioned her, "Slow up, or we'll miss it."

"Miss what?" she asked as she throttled back.

"Move closer to shore, and you'll see."

She eased the fighter left, and peered through the rain at the rocky beach and the green hill that climbed away from it. Suddenly, there appeared black angular columns rising from land and sea. She fearlessly cleared some of them by less than ten meters, all the while admiring the remarkable beauty of seemingly-unnatural rock formation.

Leaving the basalt columns behind, they weaved their way down the coast, past rugged mountains and jagged stone promontories, and over sheltered coves home to tiny villages. Along the way, the mountains became smaller and sparser, the fjords giving way to little inlets, and the rain was reduced to a drizzle; and after twenty-five minutes, patches of blue began to peek through ragged clouds. They passed a little island just off the coast, and then Revan led the way inland, climbing steeply over jagged grey-brown cliffs backed by a tall ridgeline clad in thick grasses, slabs of exposed bedrock, and strange, gnarled little trees that appeared as though perpetually buffeted by a gale, even in still air. On crossing the ridge, she beheld a broad, green valley through which meandered a little river on its journey to the sea. Along its banks grew tall, slender trees with golden leaves, and on the opposite side there sprawled a vast, undulating moor dappled with green grasses and rust-colored heather. Rocky tors jutted up from the landscape, and more of the peculiar trees grew at odd angles from cracks in the bare rock. As with every other part of this world she had seen thus far, it was lovely beyond compare.

"Here we are," he announced.

He had told her that, on being awarded the title of Méthnin, he had also been granted a plot of land here, and that a house had been built, though this he had yet to set foot in. Looking down and seeing no house, she wondered if he had been given the wrong coordinates.

"Here we are at what?" she asked.

"Look ten o'clock low, just above that large swath of indigo flowers, facing southeast. I'm opening the hangar now, do you see it?"

Only then, watching an opening appear in the slope itself, could she readily identify anything that resembled a structure, and understood that she hadn't seen a building before because there was no building to be seen. Instead, there were triangular panes of glass set directly into the hillside, and an unobtrusive grey stone slab overhanging the door. Beside the house itself was a hangar that had probably been designed to accommodate only a single fighter, but which proved spacious enough to hold two, at least when their radiator wings were swept fully back against the fuselage.

The hangar door was already shut by the time Revan climbed from the cockpit and set foot on the smooth stone floor with nervous anticipation squirming in his stomach. As spectacular as Tséchsnol was, its emotional impact could not match that of this house. It had been a very long time since he had lived in a house, or any place he could rightly call home. In fact, time had turned bitter his memories of living with his parents as a youth, so to set foot in a house of his own was a wondrously novel and enlivening experience. He had originally intended not to live in it until the war was won, that he might have only happy memories of this place, but now that he would not be living alone, he no longer felt like waiting. War or not, any time spent here with Bastila would forge pleasant memories.

When he opened the door connecting the hangar to the house itself, and entered into the living area, he found that, though working from little more than his verbal description and a few hasty sketches, the architect had succeeded admirably in transforming his vision into physical reality. The front of the house was a large, open space, with each floor being in the form of a large balcony, and all three enjoying splendid views through the bank of triangular windows. It was elegant and simple in style, its floors made of the same pale wood as was in his office, and the far wall an uninterrupted face of dark grey rock into which were anchored the floors.

Feeling Bastila's presence beside him, he slipped his hand around her waist and held her close.

"Welcome home," he said softly.

* * *

It was just past midnight when he pulled a light blue nightshirt over his head on the way out of the bedroom's walk-in closet. A simple effort that would all too recently have sent a current of pain shooting through his right arm now yielded only a mild stiffness, the muscles having knitted back together thanks to a combination of Force-healing and kolto patches. There was now only a thin pink line where the wound had been, nothing that would even remain as a scar. When he looked at what remained of the gash, he could instead see Jal's thumb on the detonator in that split-second when the Jedi belatedly committed himself to oblivion.

Right now, however, his eyes were met with an infinitely more pleasant sight: that of Bastila turning down the covers. She wore a prim black nightie with a hem and neckline that toed the line between modesty and allure, and her dark, wavy hair flowed freely down to her shoulder blades. Sitting on the bed, she then kicked off her slippers and swung her pale, athletic legs under the sheets.

"How does it feel?" she asked as he crossed the room, the wood floor cool beneath his bare feet. "Being home, I mean?"

"Home on Deralí or home in this house?"

"Both," she said with a shrug.

Climbing into bed, he drew close to her, held her softly in his arms, and answered, "Words fail me."

"Overwhelming?"

"No, I wouldn't say that."

"Well, it is for me. It's all so…welcoming and…so beautiful. I know that doesn't do it justice, not even close… I've never been here before, and yet I feel as though I've…come home. I don't know quite how to explain it."

"It's because you've made this your home," he told her warmly. "Remember when I told you that Deralí is not only a planet, but an ideal?"

She nodded.

"She is home to all who embrace that ideal."

Bastila smiled sweetly, pressed herself tighter to him, murmured, "You still haven't answered my question."

"I expect you already know, but I feel as if, in spite of the war, everything will be alright, because how could it not be when I'm living _here_…with _you_?"

"I know what you mean. For all my dreams, I never imagined that this would be a part of my life: love, I mean." Unable to hold back the reflex, she interrupted herself with a yawn. "Sorry. What I'm trying to say - and I'm sure it's unnecessary, but I want to say it anyway - is that I'm glad it turned out this way."

She ran her soft fingers along the side of his face, from his temple downwards and along his jaw to his slightly-cleft chin. His own hand found its way to the back of her head, his fingers combing through her silken hair, and he leaned in closer, and tenderly, lovingly, longingly kissed her.

* * *

He was sailing through the air, his open hand outstretched, his eyes riveted on a pale blue hand clutching a metal cylinder. His fingers were only a few centimeters away, nearly there, so very close…when Jal's thumb moved. In agonizing slow motion, the digit was raised, and the trigger sprung up. _No… _He had never feared his own death, had come to accept it beforehand, as any good Deralín soldier must. Of his many personal heroes, most had died heroically for their beliefs, and there was a part of him that expected to meet the same fate in the service of his cause. After all, as a great philosopher had once said, "Death should be the culmination of life's endeavours." He should not have been afraid, and yet sheer terror gripped his heart. There was a flash of white, and he was no longer looking at Jal, but rather behind himself at Bastila as she was engulfed in the expanding sphere of light.

"_Bastila!"_

Oddly enough, he heard his own name screamed, very nearly into his ear, as he bolted upright in bed. He was cold and damp, and his breath came in hard gasps as he sat in the darkness.

"Lights: low," he commanded in a voice he scarcely recognized. He had never known his voice to shake, nor his hands, for that matter, and yet both did.

The lights came up, and Bastila was sitting beside him in much the same state as himself, with wide eyes and a few strands of damp hair straggling across her forehead. Shivering, she silently lay back down and drew the covers up tightly around herself.

"It was but a nightmare," he mumbled as he followed suit.

They instantly fell into a desperate embrace, neither daring to loosen their hold, lest they lose one another. The tears came freely.

* * *

6 Celeth, 1,018 DÉ

2.10.20375

The warm summer sun beat down on Bastila, who was cooled at least in part by a strong westerly wind as her feet pounded the hard-packed dirt trail, kicking up little plumes of dust in her wake. Ever present in her ears, apart from her own heavy breathing, was the rustle of the leaves in the wind, and the languorous lapping of the river at the near bank. In a way, she was reminded of Dantooine, where she often went on long runs to not only strengthen her body, but clear her head. Everything from back then felt surreal to her now, though, almost as though she had never lived it, but rather was recalling a film she had once seen. In her more reflective moments, she hypothesized it was because she had never truly _lived_ at all until she broke free of that existence. _I'm alive now,_ she thought joyfully as she passed a moss-covered boulder sitting beside the path, one of many stones and stumps turned green near the river. _I've never been so alive as I am now._

While it was true that the work was mentally and emotionally draining, and she at times found herself silently weeping when she let herself think of the dead, she knew at every turn, deep in her core, that she was on the right path. Her cause was just, and her purpose crystal-clear.

Furthermore, the time she had spent on Deralí had proven deeply restorative. Every minute spent on these trails, or lying in bed with Revan, or even the long hours studying plans and reports with a good cup of hot tea in hand, had breathed new life into her. For every kilometer she put behind her today, she felt as if she could run yet another. It really was a shame that they would be leaving tomorrow, to return to the front, but duty called.

In response to the Imperial counter-proposal, the Senate had offered a counter-counter-proposal, which was nearly as offensive as their original, and which was summarily rejected by the Council of Ministers. The demand for unconditional surrender, coupled with the offer of more favorable terms to any secessionist systems, had then been sent. Rather than being formally delivered via the embassy on Adarlon, it was publicly broadcast on every Imperial news network, thereby "throwing down the gauntlet," as Revan had phrased it over luncheon. He wanted every citizen of the Republic to know what the situation was.

As they had discussed with the General Staff, they expected the Republic to attack as soon as possible after the declaration was broadcast, perhaps within a few days. The enemy's only chance to avoid losing the Expansion Region and possibly even the Inner Rim would be a show of strength: a daring offensive to demonstrate that they were not yet beaten. Consequently, she and Revan spent hours per day trying to discern where and when the enemy's attack would come. At the same time, they were still working with the General Staff on their own offensive, for whilst its final form had been decided upon, there remained many details to be sorted out, particularly by the Army, which was at last committing itself to invading new systems. (As for the naval offensive, much to Bastila's disappointment, the decision had been made that 5th Group, with 3rd Group in support, would attack along the Perlemian Trade Route. If the enemy subsequently began a large-scale retreat, then 4th Group would attack the Raioballo Sector, but that was to be little more than a sideshow.)

She watched Revan jogging ahead of her, dressed in Navy-issue dark blue shorts and a sweat-stained grey-green shirt identical to her own. _To think he's been at this for five years._ A lesser individual would surely have resorted to drink or some other vice long ago, but Revan was a man of unbending principle, and he would tolerate no weakness in himself. It was therefore natural that he had developed certain eccentricities, she concluded, not that she found those anything but endearing. When the war was won, he could take a much-needed rest here, spend his days hiking across the moor, stopping to sit on a rock someplace with a good book.

_When the war is won,_ she turned the words over in her head. _When will that be? No, it doesn't pay to ask yourself that. Just keep going, one step at a time._ Yes, that was it. This war was like a marathon, the key to finishing being to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. _Don't think about the finish, just pick some point up ahead that you know you can reach and focus on getting there, then repeat the process._

Unexpectedly veering off the path, Revan darted up a large, slanted slab of exposed rock that overlooked the river. She followed him up it, noting as she did so the colorful lichens and little golden flowers that flourished in the cracks in the rock. Stopping at the precipitous peak of the slab, she took the opportunity to unclip her canteen from her belt and take a healthy swig of water that was still passably-cool. She looked down into the slow-moving water, so clear that she could see fish swimming in it, some breaching the surface to catch a careless insect that had swooped too low. Big round rocks turned green by the ever-present moss sat embedded in the muddy bank, and pointy reeds sprouted up all around.

"Tired already? We've only done thirteen," she jibed as she drew her hand across her forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat and pushing back strands of hair that had come loose from her bun. Her entire body was soaked already, her shirt sticking to her back the instant she stopped moving.

Revan offered no reaction to her tease, however, was staring into the distance beyond the river.

"What is it?" she asked when he didn't answer.

"There," he pointed, his arm directing her gaze to a hill in the distance.

Atop it, silhouetted almost black against the sky, stood a mighty creature perhaps three meters tall. Its head, with broad, flattened antlers protruding from the sides, was held high as it surveyed its surroundings.

"A _seraich_," he explained, "and where there's one, there follow more."

He sat down on the rock, hunching to present a low profile, and Bastila followed suit.

Evidently satisfied that the valley was safe, the seraich set off downhill at a slow trot, and over the crest of hill appeared another, slightly smaller than the first and with antlers that were smaller but sharply-pointed. (Bastila surmised that the males' were utilised primarily for settling territorial squabbles, while the females' were meant to protect the young, and therefore needed to be more deadly.) There then followed dozens of them, the adults stampeding down to the river in a near-perfect square that surrounded a cluster of little fawns. Their hoofbeats blended together into a solid rumble, and when they reached the river, Bastila could detect a subtle tremor in the rock beneath her. The alpha male, who had been the first over the hill, was likewise the first to stoop and lap at the water.

"Do they know we're here?" she whispered as she watched the huge, reddish animals drink from the river.

"Probably - their sense of smell is exceptionally keen. They know a friend when they smell one, though."

As if to confirm it, one of them looked up from its libation to stare at the couple with enigmatic brown eyes.

"_É, druch,"_ Revan called out to the doe, who lowed in reply.

"Hallo, to you, too," Bastila chuckled, waving across the river.

They sat there for several minutes watching the herd, basking in the fair summer day, and listening to the song of birds in the trees. Resting her head on Revan's shoulder, Bastila thought for a little while that there could not be a better day on which to be alive. At least she was able to savor the feeling for a little while.

"Damnation," Revan cursed under his breath at the commlink chirping in his pocket.

There could be no question of ignoring it, as there was no possibility that whoever was calling did so idly. A call meant business, which meant the war.

"Revan here," he answered.

"My Lord, there has been…an incident."

It took him several seconds to recognize the voice, not having heard it recently: it was Wallen. He had become used to not hearing the voice of the man who had fought with him against the Mandalorians, who had left the Order with him, and who had arrested Malak. Was Wallen still that same man, after all? How far down the dark path was he? None of that mattered. Revan would take no chances this time, as he had made the mistake of doing with the Sith. According to Wallen's own regular updates, the Imperial Guard was being very efficient in reducing the numbers of Jedi remaining at large, which meant the end was near.

"What manner of 'incident,' General?"

"We tracked the Jedi to the fourth moon of Yavin Prime, in the Yavin system," Wallen began, referring to an operation which he had been leading personally. Amidst the larger issues of strategy, it had all but slipped from Revan's mind.

"And the battle went ill?"

"Not entirely, sir, not the battle. The Jedi are dead to the last, although we lost four of our own in the action. It was afterward, sir…they're all dead."

It was difficult to be certain over the encrypted long-distance signal, but Revan thought that Wallen sounded fearful.

"Your entire section was killed? How and by whom?" he pressed.

"We found something…"


	15. Resolution

15

Resolution

8 Celeth, 1,018 DÉ

4.10.20375

He could feel the darkness of the place as a physical sensation of crawling flesh, a discomfort more oppressive even than the stifling atmosphere, and that was saying something. The air was almost unfathomably horrid, seeming to hold more water than breathable oxygen, and so dense as to be almost a liquid. His lungs rebelled at every breath, and he could actually feel the moisture saturating his clothes with each passing second, yet he paid little heed to it. It was the presence in his mind that held his focus, that steeled his will and stoked his hatred. He knew even before he set foot on Yavin 4 that there was work to be done here: pollution to be cleansed.

"My Lord," said Wallen as he stood to attention and saluted.

A kolto patch was taped to the left side of his face, and his bloodshot eyes betrayed marked fear. When he brought his right hand back down, it lingered near his lightsaber.

"General," he greeted the man, his voice cold and stern. "What news here?"

"None since we last spoke, My Lord, except that the Army's here, as you ordered, and that they've cordoned off the temple complex."

"So I see."

He surveyed a tank platoon parked in the jungle clearing, and a company of Brigian soldiers in climate-controlled armor hunkered in their foxholes. It had all the appearances of a siege, though it was technically more of a quarantine. Like a plague, the presence lurking on the other side of the dense vegetation had to be kept isolated until it could be properly eradicated. _Yes, a plague, for that is what lingers here: the last vestige of a plague that has too long infected the galaxy. We are here to eradicate it._

He saw Wallen's eyes move away from himself to a point behind him, to the source of footsteps squishing on the damp undergrowth. Dressed in her grey breeches and dark green uniform shirt without a jacket, Bastila appeared in his peripheral vision. Her lightsaber swung from her left hip, her sidearm seated in place of honor on her right.

"Ma'am," Wallen acknowledged her as he saluted.

"General, it's good to see you well. My sympathies for the fallen," she said with a bow of her head.

"I would not say I'm well, ma'am, but your condolences are appreciated. To lose men in battle with the Jedi is one thing, but what happened after the battle… We should never have gone into that place."

"But had you any cause beforehand to consider it dangerous?" Revan inquired.

"No, we knew only that it was strong with the dark side, but a residual taint was to be expected, and darkness alone is not something to be feared, is it?" returned Wallen as if asking for absolution.

"No, to fear darkness alone is to fear a part of yourself."

"Yes, sir, but what's in there…" Wallen radiated cold dread as he gestured toward the trees. "It's like Korriban, sir, like the Valley was."

Respectful of the memory of the dead, Revan did not smile at the mention of the name "Korriban," but stated quite matter-of-factly, "And what evil power does Korriban now hold, General?"

"My Lord?"

Revan clapped his hand on Wallen's shoulder and met his eyes.

"Darkness is but a part of the whole, and there is no evil that cannot be overcome by the strength of purity. The Sith of Korriban, the living and the dead, could never grasp that truth."

"Yes, My Lord," said the General with less than absolute conviction.

"This pyramid you described," Bastila began. "Has anyone been there since the deaths occurred?"

"No, ma'am."

Revan took away his hand, stared intently at the source of the pollution, his eyes aglow as if to burn a hole in the obscuring foliage.

"Take us there, General," he ordered.

"Yes, My Lord," Wallen dutifully replied. "This way."

He led the way between the foxholes and the parked tanks, hesitating for a moment or two at the tree line before plunging in. The underbrush was almost impassably dense, and every step a perilous one, with roots and vines perpetually threatening to ensnare one's ankles. The howling, chattering cries of scores of unseen animals assailed their ears in a discomforting cacophony, and Revan reminded himself that these were not natural creatures, having been twisted by the dark side. He stopped, drew a deep breath, and as he released it, lashed out through the Force in all directions. The silence that abruptly ensued left a ringing in his ears.

"Do not stop," he said on seeing Wallen looking back at him with an inscrutable expression.

The general nodded, turned, and trudged onward, his fear somewhat lessened.

After scarcely a minute, they reached a new clearing, larger than the landing zone, and stood on the shore of a pond. It was a near-perfect circle, its water crystal-clear and undisturbed by the slightest breath of wind, and yet the bottom was not to be readily seen. In the center rose a small island dominated by a steep-sided pyramid. Surrounded by square pillars, the peculiar structure of gleaming obsidian was split into four corners, in the center of which rose a platform bearing a statue. This was of a tall man with long hair swept back behind him and a sun tattooed on his forehead; his bearing was strong, his face harsh, and his eyes, even carved in stone, brimming with fury.

"Exar Kun," Bastila all but hissed.

"Yes, ma'am." Wallen turned to look her square in the eye, and added grimly, quietly, "He's in there."

"Yes," Revan said simply.

He could now clearly sense not only a dark taint, but a distinct individual that lurked amidst the cloud of vitiation that hung in the place. It was all predatory, cold-blooded malevolence - the desire to kill and corrupt, to enslave and destroy - without a single virtue. It was clever and determined, and yet entirely devoid of higher purpose, power being its only desire. In short, it was a Sith, albeit an undeniably dangerous one.

"There are steps just beneath the surface," Wallen told them. He walked quickly along the shore, stopped and pointed.

"Here."

Revan went over to the spot, looked into the water, saw the round tops of columns that receded into the invisible depths of the pond. Looking up, he saw that the length of the hidden "bridge" was watched over by Kun's statue.

"You have to watch your step as you cross," Wallen remarked. "In other words, bow before him."

The hatred flared up in Revan's heart, along with a refusal to play by the rules of the worthless vermin whose stone visage glowered at him. He judged the distance across the water to be approximately thirty meters, and yet something told him that he could jump the distance.

"What say you?" he asked Bastila. "Shall we?"

"We're going in, but I shan't go slinking across like a humble petitioner," she said in a voice thick with contempt.

"I could scarcely have said it better."

Facing Wallen, he sought the measure of the man, but found him strangely difficult to read. Fear, anger, resolve…little conscious thought.

"Wait here," was all he told the general.

"Yes, My Lord," Wallen replied with a bow.

What he did next did not feel quite like jumping. He pushed off with his legs, but it was his will that truly propelled him, lofting him high above the water and across the crystalline expanse. For a second, as he looked down upon the statue of Kun, he even felt as if he could fly, but then he was falling, and pushing off from the onrushing ground. His boots dug hard into the soil, and he landed in a low crouch, looking up just in time to witness Bastila land beside him. Standing tall, he smoothed his shirt and breeches, and was looking into a low, wedge-shaped doorway directly in front of him.

A cool wind exhaled from the passage, as if the temple was a living, breathing organism, and inside only impenetrable blackness could be seen. The presence in his mind had altered subtly now, its confidence shaken as it gauged the mettle of its visitors. _Not visitors, petitioners, nor victims, but executioners, _thought Revan intently.

They strode through the opening without hesitation, to discover that the room beyond was not entirely dark after all. Surrounding the gloom were walls that appeared to be fashioned of polished glass, and which possessed both a faint phosphorescence and deeply-etched Sith hieroglyphics.

"What do they say?" Bastila asked, her voice echoing off the bare walls with defiant strength.

Revan scanned the writing. He had once ripped knowledge of the old language from the mind of a Sith master, as distasteful an experience as that was, and could read the text well enough.

"Sith dogma, in company with Kun's own narcissistic ramblings," he scoffed after perusing a few paragraphs. "Nothing worth scratching in the dirt."

Out of the corner of her eye, Bastila saw a shape resolve itself from the blackness of the walls, like a puddle of oil on water, but in the shape of a tall humanoid. She sensed no new power or essence, however, as though this apparition was a part of the temple itself, but she knew precisely what it was, or, rather, _who_ it was. She and Revan turned to face it with perfect calm, secure in the knowledge that they had triumphed against far greater odds. The shape continued to sharpen, until it was unmistakably that of a tall, powerfully-built man. A deep, hollow voice laughed.

"Nothing worth scratching in the dirt," he intoned. "Such arrogance! Who do you presume yourselves to be?"

Revan took a step forward, gliding silently across the shimmering floor, edging closer to Kun.

"You already know who we are, or am I very much mistaken?"

"Yes, they told me you would come… before they died. They were weak, except for one." More laughter, empty bombast. "I offered him power beyond his wildest imaginings, and he fled like a coward, afraid of what he could become. None of them were worthy to be Sith - they still feared the dark side like simpering Jedi, even as they flirted with it."

_Perhaps Wallen isn't so far gone, after all,_ Revan mused briefly before his train of thought was interrupted by Kun's continued monologue.

"They all told me the same thing, though: that Revan and Shan would come. They said that these two had wiped out every last Sith in the galaxy, and that when they came, I would meet the same end. One of them said with her last breaths that I would know pain and fear when Revan and Shan came. It's obvious that they were speaking of the two of you, and I can hardly say I'm impressed - you've no more embraced the power of the dark side than your pitiful servants. There's darkness in you, but you don't give yourselves over to it."

"Your power is but the power to corrupt, to debase, to despoil," Revan declared.

"We have seen this power. We fought it on Korriban," Bastila seamlessly followed him, stepping closer to the shadowy man by the wall as she spoke. "We destroyed it on Korriban."

"A world forever silent, its spirits consigned to oblivion," Revan uttered in a menacing hush.

Kun watched them in silence, undoubtedly trying to sort out whether they were speaking the truth, or if they were merely masterful liars.

"You claim to have destroyed the spirits in the Valley of the Dark Lords?" he laughed at last. "Ridiculous fantasy, nothing more! Now, then, you are certainly not Jedi, but nor are you anything remotely deserving the title of 'Sith,' so answer me this: what are you?"

"We have not come to be questioned by the likes of you," Bastila told him as she advanced yet again.

"I was the greatest Dark Lord the Sith ever knew, I have survived death itself, and I do not take orders!" Kun's voice rose along with his ire, his form swelling until he stood nearly floor-to-ceiling. "Certainly not from the likes of you! I drained the life of the Massassi to preserve my own spirit here in this temple. Can you claim to hold such power?"

Now it was Kun who stepped forward, until he was looming directly over them, and yet the display somehow made him less imposing. It was the theatrical gesture of a frightened creature that sought to make itself appear more dangerous than it truly was. It was a gesture of _fear._

"You are nothing but weaklings afraid to use the true power of the dark side, and little better than the ones I've already killed!"

"You mean we're too strong to surrender to the darkness and become its servant," Bastila corrected.

"When power controls you, you have no power at all," said Revan as he began to circle the giant shadow standing before him.

"What are you now but a prisoner?"

"What awaits you, Sith, save long years of isolation: decades stretching into centuries that blend into millennia? Better to die than to linger so, I deem," Revan sneered.

"Silence!" Kun bellowed, his voice rolling through the chamber like thunder. "You will learn your place!"

With that, blue tendrils burst from his form, and Revan raised his hands in defense. There was a fleeting moment when he felt his fingers burn, but then the old power arose within him: the beautiful purity that was as old as time driving back the corruption. The lightning leapt back from whence it came, tearing into the shadow; and through the maelstrom, he could witness Bastila standing her ground, her outstretched hands redirecting the attack, her eyes shining as brilliant points of light. He was being battered by crashing waves of rage and fear as Kun lashed out with redoubled ferocity, could almost feel himself being physically pushed, but he did neither flinch nor blink. His foe was a monster unworthy of existence, and the object of his own righteous hatred. In addition to Kun's own redirected lightning, the spirit was now assailed with a power beyond his experience or comprehension.

As if crushed beneath an invisible heel, the shadow shrank, a keening wail filling the room as its lightning flickered out. As it continued to diminish, the murky figure lost all resemblance to a man, and was now more akin to strips of tattered cloth swiftly unraveling in a raging gale.

"You wish to know what we are?" Bastila asked mockingly.

The tables turned, the shadow barely coherent, Revan leaned over what remained, and, in a tone fairly teeming with the satisfaction of a worthy deed done, finished with, "The future."

A second longer, and the spirit of Exar Kun was torn from existence with a fading shriek.

Two sets of gleaming azure eyes met in the darkness, and they clasped hands for a short while, savoring their victory. Recognizing that there were better places to do so, however, they quit the now-lifeless temple and emerged into the sweltering mid-day heat. They did not repeat their earlier leap, but instead crossed on the submerged pillars.

"It's done," said Wallen with some awe as they approached the bank. "He's gone - I can feel it."

"You ever had any doubts?" Revan asked lightly.

"No, sir. I just… I never faced anything like him, and after what I saw… I don't suppose I ever truly appreciated what you must have faced at Korriban, where there were so many of them."

"I do not pretend to understand how it is that we do that which we do," Revan responded quietly. "Perhaps it is only that we restore the natural order of things."

"However we do it, it's not easy, General - do not think that we find it easy," Bastila added.

"No, I can't imagine that you do, ma'am. Beyond that…" He stiffened, squared his shoulders. "Regardless of how you did it, I thank you, on behalf of those who are not here today, for avenging their murders."

Revan was somewhat at a loss for words, said simply, "We owed them nothing less."

Two hours later, following the evacuation of the two Brigian battalions that had stood watch over the Sith temple, the Etti destroyer _Monddar_ and the Brigian assault ship _S56_ conducted a twenty-seven-minute bombardment of Yavin 4's surface. Not only the Temple of Exar Kun, but all other Sith structures on the moon were vaporized by direct turbolaser hits. The firing continued until the soil was fused into a sea of glass, and there was not the remotest possibility that a single letter of Sith writing remained. The threat eliminated, Revan then ordered the _Monddar _to rendezvous with the _Deralí_, which was undergoing repairs in a spacedock near Telos.

It was not until 2330 that they returned to their cabin aboard the _Deralí_, still feeling markedly invigorated by their victory, however small it might have been, relatively speaking. After washing away the grime they had accumulated in their brief visit to Yavin, they sat down to a light snack, intending to turn in immediately thereafter.

"When we fought Kun," said Bastila over a plate of crunchy green _osh_ leaves and hot toast smeared with sweet jam, "it felt…different…than at Korriban."

"Well, as abnormally powerful a Sith as he was in life, he was nonetheless alone, so it stands to reason that we did not overly exert ourselves when dispatching him."

"True, but there's more to it than that." She thought it over as she chewed, then went on, "It felt to me as if, even if there had been a hundred Exar Kuns, there would have been no question of them besting us."

He froze with a slice of toast in hand and regarded her thoughtfully.

"I've done things I never dreamt of - things I thought were impossible," she said with mounting excitement. "What if there's no limit to our power?"

"The thought has occurred to me," he said nonchalantly, and took a bite of his toast.

"I don't suppose it's a good thing to dwell on, though: we can't risk becoming overconfident," she conceded as she let her enthusiasm subside. "It's a damned good way to squander all that we've won."

"That it is," he smiled, "and it cheers me to be yet again reminded of your wisdom."

12 Celeth, 1,018 DÉ

8.10.20375

The columns of traffic clogging Coruscant's sky possessed a different energy than usual. He couldn't quite put it into words, but Supreme Chancellor Leor Oberreck was certain that the ships and speeders he saw through his armored window moved differently than they used to. It wasn't as if they were fleeing anywhere, or at least not yet. The front lines were still far from Coruscant, and, in any case, there wasn't any rational point in running, for if the Empire won, there would be no place to run to. Maybe it was the realization of this that he was observing: a slowdown in traffic as everyone came to accept that there was absolutely nothing they could do. Their fate was already written by others, the future shaped by events far beyond their power to affect. He was certainly coming to feel that way.

Guarded by a squadron of nimble grey fighters, his speeder flew an irregular course in complete defiance of establishes routes and corridors, and he found himself wondering if they were causing accidents by doing this. Then he reminded himself that most of the other air traffic was on autopilot anyway, the occupants not given the chance to panic and kill themselves as they were cut off by the frenetic procession. In any case, he wasn't granted the luxury of abiding by normal rules of safety, not when the Senate Guard was constantly warning him of plots against him.

First, when it had been learned that Imperial Military Intelligence was using modified protocol droids as spies and assassins, all droids had been banned from Senate buildings. Later on, a report had cropped up claiming that a "special attack squadron" had been formed with the intent of sneaking into Republic space with a seemingly-innocent civilian freighter and then crashing it into the Senate Rotunda. As a result of that, all air traffic near the Senate buildings had been shut down for a week, until it was determined that the report was most likely the product of deliberate misinformation. The latest fear was that a team of crack SD agents was out to abduct him, possibly in mid-air, so now he took to sleeping at a different residence each night and suffering through gut-wrenching rides to and from his offices.

Personally, Oberreck believed that the greatest danger to him came from his own pilot, as he was pressed against the padded door of the speeder. The Empire didn't need to go out of its way to capture or kill him, not when it was winning the war anyway. A year or two ago, that would have had an effect on the course of the war, but now it would make no difference.

At last the speeder alighted in a secure hangar of the Senate Office Building, and he was ushered out by a squad of guards in blue plate armor. They carried their rifles not on their shoulders, but at the ready, with barrels canted downwards and sweeping slowly from side to side as they rushed him through empty corridors at a pace that taxed his joints. He wasn't allowed to stop until he was inside his office with the door locked behind him, whereupon he immediately fell into the high-backed chair behind his desk and released a heavy sigh. _You'd almost think you're a prisoner._

He ran a hand across a widow's peak of stark white hair. It had been deep chestnut when he took the oath of office, but six years of brutal and desperate warfare had weighed on him heavily. When he looked in the mirror, he saw only a tired old man who could rarely sleep without the aid of pills anymore.

Thinking that he could delay the ordeal for a while longer, he postponed the routine military briefing that he suffered through every morning. He knew that Grand Admiral Wenz would try to put the best possible face on the situation, fearful that he would be sacked like so many of his predecessors. He also knew that, like his immediate predecessor, Grand Admiral Taduus, Wenz would most likely start making veiled suggestions that the Navy withdraw from this or that sector. Oberreck had heard so much talk of "redeployment" that the word had actually accrued an even more negative connotation than "retreat." He had publicly stated in numerous speeches (which were actually the same speech, more or less, his writers losing their originality as time and the war wore on) that the armed forces of the Republic would not abandon their people. Worse yet, how many times had he personally promised that such and such a system would not be allowed to fall? To go back on promises of such magnitude was political suicide, but, as he had to forcibly remind himself on occasion, Republic politics were becoming increasingly irrelevant.

The attack of two days ago, on which Wenz had staked the Republic's very survival, had proven indecisive at best. When the first reports to reach Oberreck had filled him with optimism, describing how minimal resistance had been encountered, how those few Imperial units that did put up a fight received no reinforcements as the main body retreated. Nearly two Republic Armadas was struck hard at Eriadu, proving that the vaunted Imperial 1st Group was far from invincible. For three hours, they swept aside all opposition and penetrated as far as Geonosis. Then the counterattack came as a ferocious blow from both 1st and 2nd Groups directed at the Republic flank. A massive engagement ensued near Melida, and Wenz, ever mindful of the recent past, quickly ordered a retreat. The end result was approximately five thousand Republic ships destroyed, damaged beyond repair, or captured, in return for an estimated seven thousand Imperial vessels. As even Oberreck knew all too well, however, estimates of enemy losses were invariably inflated, either deliberately or as a consequence of the chaos of battle, and so it was more probable that the two sides had broken even.

In lieu of bleak reports, he spent twenty minutes reading the autobiography of a great political thinker of years gone by, an Umbaran by the name of Nys Ebar who had gone largely forgotten by history. Oberreck thought him brilliant, however, and privately credited his own rise to power to the theories of Ebar. _It took me thirty years to get here,_ he thought as he looked around the office, his datapad falling into his lap. _How much longer before I'm hauled away at gunpoint?_

The chime of the intercom startled him then, as if the receptionist might announce that the SD was waiting outside, here to arrest him. Instead, as he knew from a glance at his desktop chrono, he would soon be playing host to a Jedi.

"Grand Master Konnuff is here to see you, Your Excellency," said a flat, slightly rough male voice.

"Send him in."

Seconds later, the door opened to admit a tall male Chagrian in robes of white and dark brown. He was deeply troubled, or else Oberreck had entirely lost his ability to read body language, which he doubted, and he wondered just how much emotion Jedi really permitted themselves.

"Master Konnuff, a pleasure as always," he greeted him in his deep, melodic voice.

"Your Excellency," the Jedi replied.

"Please, take a seat."

He waited until Konnuff had settled himself, sweeping his long cloak out from under him, before proceeding.

"We both find ourselves pressured more and more each day by our responsibilities, so I shan't waste time on the usual pleasantries. You submitted your request for an audience at a very early hour, and I do wish I could have accommodated you sooner, but now that you're here, I assume that you must have something of importance to discuss with me."

"I do. It concerns the war."

"Yes, I would have been surprised if it didn't. Most everything does, these days"

"Have you read the latest reports?"

"Not yet - I'm scheduled to confer with the High Command a little later."

"I do not expect they will have any positive news, Your Excellency. May I be frank?"

"Please do."

"The war is being lost, Your Excellency. In fact, I do not in all honesty believe that there is now any hope of it being won."

"I know perfectly well that there isn't the slightest hope of bringing the Empire to its knees - that stopped being a possibility when the mission to capture Revan failed so abysmally."

Though he spoke the words without venom, they still carried a scathing accusation. It had been Konnuff who had first proposed the mission, after all, even if it had been other Jedi who had gone on to plan the details, and still others who had carried it out…including one who had betrayed the Republic on that disastrous day.

"Yes," said Konnuff hesitantly. "What I meant to say is that it's…increasingly unlikely that… Forgive me for saying this, Chancellor, but I believe that this war will end in our defeat."

Oberreck frowned, felt a bitter frustration seize him by the center of his chest, thought of the pills he kept in his pocket. _Not now,_ he told himself, refusing to show any sign of weakness. _He's right, too._

"Several officers have suggested a strategy of creeping retreat, fighting the enemy every step of the way, in order to inflict maximum casualties on them. They hope to bleed the Empire, and thereby erode popular support for continuing the war," he said quietly, leaning back in his chair.

"And you favor this strategy?"

"Honestly, I do not. The moment we start falling back, those worlds we abandon will make a separate peace, and so, too, will any that expect us to abandon them at the first sign of trouble. Even if I somehow manage to hold the Republic together, how much longer will our own people support a fight to the bitter end? Did you see the riots last week? Over two hundred dead, and half a billion credits worth of property damage? And that's only the beginning. No, our public support is wearing out much faster than theirs."

"Then what do you propose?"

Oberreck let his eyelids fall shut, his head rest against the soft chair for a few merciful seconds, and sighed.

"We shall do what we must."

When he opened his eyes again and addressed Konnuff with renewed strength, he felt only coldness in his chest.

"This is not just a war, it's a revolution, and if the Republic falls, it will mean the death of civilization as we know it. They will drag us backwards, and everything that a thousand generations have built will be torn down by…barbarians."

"The reason I came here, Chancellor, is because I wanted to tell you that I believe there is still a chance."

Oberreck stared at him momentarily, blinked, said, "Did you not say just a minute ago that you think we'll lose the war?"

"Yes."

"Then what chance is there?" he snapped impatiently.

The condescension he heard in his own voice shamed him. He had once been a man who never lost his temper, who remained in perfect control at all times, elevating himself above the animal instincts of his species, but his stately calm had eroded along with his health. He was increasingly prey to outbursts of anger, frustration, even fear. In his lowest moments, when he sat in an armchair late at night, his brain gripped by insomnia, he told himself that he was no longer worthy of the power he wielded. He had always believed that it was the responsibility of the best and brightest to lead, to guide, to shape the course of history, and he had long believed that this was his purpose. Now, in light of the catastrophic events swirling around him and his own impotence to arrest the fall of the Republic - in light of his own failings as a leader and as a man - he couldn't help but wonder at times if his self-assessment had been in error.

Konnuff, however, seemed to think little of the Chancellor's minor loss of self-control, undoubtedly judging it perfectly normal for non-Jedi, and carried on unfazed by it.

"The Empire's aims, whether or not you agree with them, are undeniably vast in scope, while its political structure remains shaky at best. You called this war a revolution: no revolution is permanent, and if the Empire can't achieve its revolutionary aims, it will ultimately decay and collapse."

"Of course the Empire won't achieve its aims - they're the fantasies of people who have made a break with reality. Revan, Meric, people like them, they don't _understand_, they don't _get it. _They're going to tear the galaxy apart and drag it down into the muck, and all for absolutely nothing, and when they're on their deathbeds one day, they'll realize that their bloody stupid dreams can never come true."

With frustrated anger flaring up again, Oberreck struck his thigh with the flat of his hand. At this, the Jedi Master did exude an air of concern, only to shrug it off.

"What I'm getting at, Chancellor, is that this collapse will happen a lot sooner if Revan is removed from the picture. Without his popularity and his will, his revolution is all but guaranteed to run astray and destroy itself."

"Kill Revan?" Oberreck followed an incredulous stare with the reminder that, "That's been tried."

"Yes, but what I've come to realize is that its possible that the right opportunity simply hasn't come yet. I don't pretend to fully comprehend the will of the Force - I am merely its humble servant, not the keeper of its secrets - but I do know that there is no such thing as chance."

"So when is the right opportunity? Do you know that?"

"Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I do not. I expect I'll know it when it arrives, but not before then."

"Ah, when it arrives. And what do you propose we do in the meantime? What if your opportunity to kill Revan doesn't come until _after_ the Republic is defeated?"

"And that's why I came here to speak with you. If the Republic does not survive this war, as I fear it won't, then at least its _ideals_ can survive. If Revan dies, then the Empire will self-destruct, and there will come a time when the people of this galaxy will be free once more. _That's _our chance. Even if the war is lost, we can still win the peace."

At last, in his own rambling way, Konnuff had reached his point, and Oberreck could plainly see the sense in it. He had, of course, heard numerous proposals from the military concerning the creation of a resistance network. These were always described as being intended to "harass the enemy in the occupied areas," though, and never as a means of fighting on after a formal surrender, the possibility of such a scenario having never been openly acknowledged in his presence until now. What Konnuff was describing, however, went beyond guerrilla warfare, to the very future of the galaxy, and that was something that appealed to the Chancellor.

There would need to be individuals ready to assume power when the Empire fell, and such historic responsibility couldn't be left to just anybody. No, there would need to be a pre-existing nucleus from which a new government could be formed - a cadre of qualified persons. He even began to consider the possibility that such a government might be superior to the Republic in its current form. Massive socio-economic upheaval would, after all, provide a clean slate on which to fashion a new state free from the defects inherent in the Republic. Ever the consummate politician, he found that, even in the blackest hour, there might well be a great opportunity. _An historic opportunity, if only I can put it into practice. I can't do it alone, though._

"You may be right, my friend," he said cautiously as he steepled his fingers. "I shall do all in my power to ensure that our way of life does not perish."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

"Now, if you will excuse me, I have a great deal of work today."

"Of course."

Konnuff inclined his head respectfully, rose from the chair, and departed the office without a sound.

Watching the blue-grey doors slide shut behind him, Oberreck activated the computer terminal in his desktop. He felt the depression and the impotent frustration slinking away to the fringes of his mind. No longer was he a powerless spectator to the rampage of Revan's military juggernaut.

_Yes, I do have a great deal of work - more than I had ten minutes ago._

Once outside the Chancellor's office, the Grand Master of the Jedi High Council felt crushing disappointment descend on him like a suffocating shroud. He had come here seeking to instill hope, to inspire noble deeds that would shine through the darkness. It was his personal belief that a glimmer of freedom could be preserved throughout the years of darkness that seemed increasing sure to come, but now he knew that if this was to happen, it would not be Oberreck's doing. He could almost smell the rank opportunism in the Chancellor's thoughts, knew that the man had little interest in preserving freedom, or at least not freedom as Konnuff thought of it. Fundamentally, Oberreck was a man who believed in power and control.

Entering a turbolift, Konnuff leaned against the handrail and shut his eyes. What was to be done now? The Jedi were too few in number, would be obliged to hide in obscurity if they survived the war at all. Even if they could kill Revan, that would be no guarantor of liberty for the people of the galaxy. If the Empire eventually fell, would it only be replaced with another tyranny? What was to be done?

22 Celeth, 1,018 DÉ

18.10.20375

"All hands secure for jump," Revan heard Aimirdel via the intercom.

It sounded like a distant voice carried on the wind, however, for his thoughts were not on his physical surroundings. In his mind's eye, he saw 3rd Group overrunning a Republic battle group at Taris; he saw enemy fleets being scraped together outside Ord Biniir, to which the bulk of 4th Group was now bound; and he saw the Republic 6th Armada building up along the Hydian Way, just outside the Ploo system. From that quarter, he sensed no sizable threat, however. Those people were moving to counter an attack that would never come, Mal'cave's initial thrust being perpendicular to the true axis of advance. By the time the Republic held a clear picture of the situation, the 6th would be too far from the action to have any impact, and the damage would be done.

Following the Republic's offensive against 1st Group, the General Staff had been most reluctant about committing 5th Group to any attack, and so the plan for Operation Dynamic had been changed yet again. Its final form was, in fact, very similar to Bastila's proposal, with 3rd and 4th Groups engaging in a pivoting maneuver, the one notable alteration being Revan's idea that Mal'cave advance on the Core before executing a sharp turn toward the Atrivis Sector.

In practice, the attack had achieved complete surprise, with both advancing groups catching the enemy in spread-out positions, unprepared for a major action. He could see with perfect clarity the enemy's plan for defense here, and it had been crafted to counter either a thrust along the Hydian Way, or else a flanking maneuver. Either way, it had been assumed that any Imperial attack would be aimed at the Core, when Dynamic was heading in almost the opposite direction. The advance into the Raioballo Sector had to be scrapped, however, as the enemy had decided to concentrate his reserves in the Atrivis Sector instead, probably with a mind toward executing a pincer movement in conjunction with the 6th. It would actually have been a rather sound plan, he thought, were 3rd Group not about to change direction.

Mindful of the impending jump, he quickly fired off an order to Mal'cave, urging her to finish her present battle and join 4th Group's attack against the Republic reserves. Speed was of the essence. If the enemy surrendered at Taris, she could not afford to leave units lingering there to guard the captured ships, as they would be vulnerable to counterattack. Any captured vessels unfit for hyperspace would need to be evacuated and destroyed within… _How long? How long will they have?_ He couldn't be entirely certain, knowing only that the counterattack would be too late to stop 3rd Group. He backspaced, wrote: _…destroyed no later than 0613, after which your people must be in motion_. That was thirty-four minutes from now, and even if the Republic launched its counterattack now, it would take them that long to reach Taris.

"Jumping in five," Aimirdel announced, and Revan hurriedly pressed the "transmit" key.

"…four…three…two…one…jump!"

The ship slammed into hyperspace, her hyperdrive working at less than full capacity. It was known by all involved that she hadn't been fully ready for a major action this soon, but Revan had refused to delay any longer on account of one ship. The _Belderone_, which flew with 3rd Group, was having difficulties of her own, namely with her C Turret, which had been damaged at Tarhassan and had exhibited reliability issues ever since.

At 0547, eight minutes after Revan sent his orders to Mal'cave, the last Republic units still fighting 3rd Group signaled their surrender. He felt it like an implosion, like a flame that was stamped out, or a wind that stopped blowing in the blink of an eye. _Well done, Bastila,_ he thought warmly.

It would be approximately twenty minutes between the time that 4th Group reached the target area and the time that they were reinforced. He continued to search the Force, gauging the strength of the enemy ahead of him, what forces might reach them, how great were their numbers. He could feel no motion, no sense of purpose, from the forces assembling at Ploo, as if they remained uncertain as to the direction of the Imperial attack. _They believe that we mean to flank them. They expect Mal'cave to bypass the Hydian Way, and judge that 4__th__ Group is merely clearing her flank. How great a role did you have in leading them to this erroneous belief, _émhwelin_?_

He was tempted to go to her then, to see to her well-being, but they each had their own duty. He could neither abandon his own post, nor disturb her concentration, for even with the guns silent, she had work to do in the form of deception. Even now, she was planting false fears in the minds of the enemy. She had once told him that she couldn't tell an admiral from a crewman, and that she therefore had to cast a very wide net in order to have the proper effect, which meant that she was taxing herself quite considerably right now. That was not to say that his own work was any less draining, however, for when he pulled back from his deep meditative state, he felt as though he had just run thirty kay.

On opening his eyes, he saw that they were a little less than three minutes out, and fetched himself a tall glass of water. The last he had seen, there were still meager forces ahead of him, certainly less than an armada, and nothing that would cause serious trouble for 4th Group.

The _Deralí_ dropped into open space at 0626, the bridge almost immediately reported that they had nothing on scope, and seconds later, icons flashed on the strategic map flashed showing that the 19th Task Force had made contact. He dashed off an order instructing all units to converge, ordered the bridge to do likewise, and at 0631, his flagship joined the fight.

It was an unequal contest, with only three battle groups facing them, and as each Imperial task force dropped from hyperspace, it did so perfectly positioned so as to enfilade the enemy. At 0644, a fourth Republic battle group arrived, only to be overwhelmed three minutes later with the arrival of four of Mal'cave's five task forces. By now, of course, not even Bastila could persuade the Republic admirals that this was a diversion or a guard action. The enemy armada that had massed at Ploo had since moved to the vicinity of Ylix, obviously with the intention of intercepting a non-existent flanking maneuver. That still placed them an hour and a half away from the battle, and so they wavered. _They know they cannot reach us in time - a shame, for if they did attack here, we would still outnumber them. They may still try to attack later, possibly tomorrow, if we disperse at all. They know that we shall be withdrawing damaged ships, adjusting our positions, that we may then be vulnerable to a well-conceived strike._

That was not to be. At 0721, the Republic 29th Battle Group surrendered, bringing an end to the Battle of Ord Biniir and Operation Dynamic. With combat winding down for some minutes beforehand, however, Revan had already ordered Tanen to set course for Dantooine, and the _Deralí_ was in hyperspace when the battle was officially won. Accompanied by the 17th Task Force of 4th Group, she was due to reach orbit at 0754. Unfortunately, he was well aware that he was certainly too late to catch any Jedi at the Enclave, that they would have evacuated long before now, but what was done was done. He had won a tremendous victory, easily the equal of Impulse, and had thereby set the stage for the final act of the war. The Jedi would not sit idly and watch the Republic destroyed: sooner or later, they would take the offensive, and then they could be finished with.

This time, with victory in hand, he took advantage of the transit time to check on Bastila, whom he found barely conscious in the ready room.

"Bastila," he barely whispered, his heart heavy as it always was when he saw her in so pitiable a state.

All the same, he was so terribly proud of her, feeling almost unworthy of her when he saw her like this. She would, of course, remind him that his suffering had been long and slow, drawn out over five years, and joke that she was making up for lost time.

In response to her name, she murmured something inaudible, shifted in her seat, and cautiously opened her eyes. Her head felt inflated and unsteady, her stomach spasmed hard as she woke, and she tasted bile on her tongue. Fortunately, she had long since learned the lesson of not eating prior to engaging in this business, and had wisely skipped breakfast that morning.

"How are you?" he asked.

Feeling no worse than she did every time she practiced her talent on this large a scale, she nodded an affirmative. Given rest and water and plenty of calories (later on, that is, when her stomach was more settled), she would be fine.

"Tolerable."

She stretched her arms, which were sore in spite of their recent inactivity.

"Another smashing success," she elaborated with some forced levity.

As was usual, she was hardly in a celebratory mood, being relieved that the battle was over and won, and that they were that much closer to war's end. She tried not to feel too much hopeful excitement that this could mean the end of the war, having already been disappointed when neither Impulse nor Motive precipitated a general collapse of the Republic war effort. She knew that she ought never have held such unrealistic expectations, not when she had once fought for the other side, and had done so believing that she was fighting on the side of right. Many of those people over there would fight to the bitter end, and so she would have to do likewise.

As if to remind her of that former life, she was now bound to Dantooine, where she had resided in the days when she had called herself a Jedi. It was with little enthusiasm that she considered setting foot there once again, but rather with the idea in her head that she needed to confront her past. It would be supremely easy to order the Jedi Enclave obliterated with a turbolaser shot, and she and Revan had every intention of doing so, but first she needed to see it in person, one last time. The precise "why" was difficult to put into words, but she needed to do it.

Her confrontation with her past was delayed, however, when Revan sensed a distant threat in motion. On his command, the _Deralí_ dropped from hyperspace nine minutes early, and the moment she did so, he was in contact with Saaryu, ordering him to withdraw 5th Group from its current positions. Without being able to state any specific danger, he had made every effort of imparting to Saaryu the necessity of haste, but even then he was marginally too late. While most of 5th Group made the jump to its new positions uneventfully, the 10th Task Force was pounced upon by half the Republic 6th Armada less than thirty seconds before jump. In the end, all but the 105th Fleet managed to escape, but that unfortunate unit found itself trapped by Republic interdictors.

Revan had silently cursed himself, railed against himself for his failure to foresee the danger to 5th Group. It was, admittedly, very unlike the Republic to launch a major attack in the immediate wake of a defeat, and highly unorthodox by anyone's standards, but it was sound. 5th Group had been alone, spread out, and devoid of immediate support; and he doubted that 6th Armada had been alone, surmised that there were supporting units converging with them. It was much the same as the Republic attack against 1st Group earlier in the month, and whilst devising his next move, he couldn't help but reflect that, _Had they fought like this all along, the future would not now be so bright._

For the next hour and twenty minutes, 5th Group outmaneuvered the Republic while 2nd Group flew to its aid. 4th Group, minus the 17th Task Force, was likewise in motion, but was bound instead for the sector previously occupied by 3rd Group near the Hydian Way. Those ships were, after all, more than eleven hours from Saaryu's people, and therefore much too far away to make any impact. In the end - after nearly three hours of chaotic maneuvering by 2nd and 3rd Groups, and small, sporadic engagements that lasted no longer than ten or fifteen minutes - the Republic simply admitted failure and gave up, settling for the destruction of the 105th Fleet. That was, of course, small consolation for the enormous losses sustained by their 5th Armada at Atrivis, but Revan felt it acutely enough. It had been his fault, his failure. It was because of him that good men and women had died for naught. Worst of all, it was not the first time that such a needless tragedy had occurred, and he doubted that it would be the last.

* * *

Having spent those hours resting and recovering her strength, it was not until 1545 that Bastila looked upon Dantooine for the first time since she had left her former life. Through the canopy of her Xg-33, the blue and green orb looked much the same as it ever had, and yet not as she had always seen it before. It was no longer a place of comfort and security and certainty. It was a hostile world.

The long plunge through the atmosphere was uneventful, Dantooine having no military forces to speak of to put up any anti-aircraft fire. The 176th and 177th (Eredenni) Divisions had already landed and secured what few population centers there were on the planet, including the area surrounding the Jedi Enclave, though they offered that particular structure a wide berth. There had been no sightings of Jedi as of yet, and Bastila had no reason to expect that there ever would be. The Enclave would certainly have been evacuated long before the Imperial forces arrived, the Jedi knowing that there was nothing to stop an Imperial warship from vaporizing the structure from orbit. To remain on Dantooine at all, where one could easily hide in the vast wilderness, made no tactical sense to her.

While it was night over the Enclave, there were two full moons in the sky, and the landscape was illuminated almost as though it were day. She clearly saw the circular stone building nestled amidst farms and fields and streams, a remote sanctuary for study and contemplation. It was a peaceful world with a largely agrarian population, and it struck her as she flew over how similar it was in many respects to Deralí, although it did lack the quiet majesty and pride of her new homeworld. In that sense, it truly did suit the Jedi, she thought. _It's humble._

Feeling a pit form in her stomach as she swooped lower, her fingers drifted to the firing controls, and she turned her head to place the targeting reticule on the building. _No, no, that would be too easy, and when have you ever taken the easy way out?_ She broke the lock and instead lowered her undercart in preparation for landing. _You always have to take the hardest path there is._

Descending onto the landing pad, she searched the Force for the slightest hint of danger and discerned none. Even so, she opted to idle her engines rather than shut them down completely, just in case she and Revan should need to effect a swift escape, though she also took the precaution of locking the controls. She did not, in any event, intend to linger here any longer than was necessary to bid farewell to this place. _And just what did I come here to do, anyway? Walk these old halls one last time?_

She climbed from the cockpit, landing on the worn old stones with shaky legs, and caught sight of Revan flashing her a look of concern.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "This shan't take long."

Leading the way into the Enclave proper, she felt something akin to vertigo: an abrupt disorientation, as though she had been flipped upside-down. _It was real. I really lived here,_ she had to tell herself. Up until now, every memory of her life as a Jedi had felt like a bad dream, and disconnected from reality. Now her mind was flooded with memories when she reached the central courtyard, voices of the young and old alike, voices of those now dead and gone. How many times had she lost to Ildra in sparring sessions beneath that tree? How many nights had she lain back on one of those stone benches to look up at the stars, as if expecting them to answer the questions that plagued her? She had never heard an answer, not here at least. There were no answers in this place, only questions.

She loitered there for no more than a minute, wandering about the stone walkways and patches of grass, touching her hand to the rough bark of the big old tree in the center. _It was never so quiet here before, not even at night._ All the while, Revan stood near the entrance with his hands clasped in front of him, his head pivoting from side to side as he silently surveyed the courtyard. He had been here before, even lived here briefly, but the place didn't hold the same memories for him, nor exert the same effect. When she moved on, he followed, staying on the walkways, his footsteps echoing in the enclosed space.

Down into the sublevels she went, past a dining hall strewn with half-eaten dinners, and on to the sleeping quarters. Just as she had expected, the doors were all open, the bedrooms emptied of clothes and whatever meager personal possessions their former occupants had kept. Some were in a greater state of disarray than others, with drawers pulled from their slots, and socks and other minor articles lying abandoned on the floor. At last she came to the only bedroom door that was shut, and found that it was not only closed, but locked. With a flick of her wrist, she unceremoniously wrenched it aside, revealing a room completely different from the others.

Yes, it was of precisely the same dimensions as the rest, with the same little bed, the same closet, the same cramped lavatory, but all was in pristine condition. The bed was neatly made up, the white and reddish-brown covers tucked in precisely as she had left them the day she embarked on the mission to capture Revan. When she opened the closet, she found her spare robes hanging inside; clean, folded underwear and towels were stowed inside the drawers; a glass sat on the edge of the bathroom sink, and a bar of soap in the shower. Nothing had been touched since she had last been there, as if they had expected her to come back. Why? She could understand her room being maintained when she was missing, even presumed dead, but after that?

Whatever anxiety she had felt about coming here had stemmed from a fear that she might cry at this moment, when she entered this very room, and it was now that her anxiety evaporated.

"Did they think I was coming back?" she asked angrily.

"Did they believe that there was any possibility that, having come this far, I would throw aside everything I have and crawl back to them, begging their forgiveness? The life I had here was a lie, and this place," waving her hand at the cramped room, she saw that it was shaking, whether from fatigue or anger, she couldn't tell, "is a prison!"

She turned sharply on her heel, storming out into the corridor and back toward the surface.

Softening her voice as she passed Revan, she told him, "I've seen what I needed to."

Falling into step beside her, he laid his hand on her shoulder, and she felt the anger melt away. She let herself lean against him, put her arm around his waist, take comfort in the knowledge that she well and truly had no emotional ties to this place, or to her old life. _And _that's _why I came, isn't it? I had to prove it to myself._ Bringing her free hand up in front of her face, she watched it for a few seconds. It was perfectly steady, the tremor vanished, and her heart felt lighter.

They were nearly back at the landing pad when they sensed it. Faster than the blink of an eye, the embrace was broken, lightsabers were unclipped, and blades snapped to life. Bastila had, by now, managed to find the time to replace her old yellow crystals with a pair of emerald ones that Revan had previously kept as spares. They were artificial, having been crafted by Revan shortly after leaving the Order, and were of a deeper shade of green than anything Bastila had ever seen used by a Jedi. It was something further to set them apart, as neither Jedi nor Sith. She thought it fitting, therefore, that she should be seen wielding such a weapon by the Jedi who now stood in the courtyard.

"Good-evening," Revan greeted them politely.

Present were the four Masters of the Enclave Council - Vandar, Vrook, Dorak, and Zhar - along with five others whom Bastila recognized as Knights. One of them, a female Bothan named Lanys, was two years younger than herself, and Bastila had once wrestled with feelings of jealousy when Lanys was Knighted before her. It had been just under a year ago, and she had, naturally, berated herself for having succumbed to such a petty and vulgar emotion. She had assured herself at the time that the Council had their reasons, and that she must trust in their judgment, as always. Now, of course, it all made sense why they had passed her over.

"Bastila," began Vandar, "I…"

"Don't waste my time," she cut him off, in no mood for a lecture. "Whatever words you have for me would only be insulting."

"Yes, let us not pretend that you are here to converse with us," Revan backed her. At the same time, though, she felt his concern, heard the unasked question: _Are you able?_

"Let's be done with this," was her answer, and then she launched herself forward.

Aiming for Vrook, she covered most of the intervening distance in a single bound, and when her left foot came down, pushed off again, only this time vertically. The old Master brought his blade up, but she sailed overhead well out of reach. The arc in which she flew ought to have taken her some five meters past the line of Jedi, but she stopped her forward momentum and instead dropped straight down behind Dorak while he was turning around. He seemed to be moving so slowly, she thought as she swept her blade through his neck before his own saber could ever touch her. Without really knowing why, only that she absolutely must, she was then bending backwards at the waist, just in time to watch a blue blade slice the air where her neck had just been. She rolled right, pushing off from the ground with her right hand, pivoted in mid-air, and raised her lightsaber to parry a thrust from the left the instant she was back on both feet. The parry transitioned into a sideways lunge, and she watched the tip of her blade pierce the heart of an Echani woman whose name escaped her at the moment.

No thoughts passed through her mind, every movement being driven by training, muscle memory, and Force-heightened instinct. She was aware that her adversaries seemed to be speeding up, and was aware that this really meant that she was slowing down. That was to be expected, since she hadn't been able to so much as stand on her feet three hours ago, but it meant that the fight had to end very soon.

Fortunately, she saw that Revan had already felled Zhar and a Sullustan Knight, and caught a brief glimpse of him blocking a strike from Vandar as the diminutive Master cartwheeled through the air. She could ill afford to dwell on anything beyond her immediate surroundings, however, for now Lanys was coming in from the right, feinting low. She fell for it, and would have lost her right arm were it not for her superior speed - as it was, the fabric of her jacket was burned clean through, and she winced when she felt the heat on her skin. She rolled to the side, came up on one knee, raised her left hand at the Bothan. She felt raw power surge through her, down her arm and into her fingertips, and let it fly. Her ears rang, her eyes were dazzled, and though she couldn't see the outcome, she felt Lanys's end. She also sensed her own end near at hand, and flung herself forward into a somersault. A blade slashed down behind her, taking a slice out of her right boot heel. Rolling to her feet, she swept her saber low, stopped it vertically beside her to block a slash aimed at her chest, then pivoted it forward and down, maintaining contact with her attacker's weapon while plunging her opposite blade into the very same opponent's midsection. The attacking blade fell aside, and she wrenched her own upwards, withdrawing it after it had passed through the heart.

Her vision returned, everything still tinted red from the flash, and time resumed its normal pace. Her chest was rising and falling heavily, and her knees suddenly seemed to be made of rubber. On surveying the scene, she found Revan at her side, with eyes wider than she had ever seen them, but otherwise safe and sound. Vrook was the only Jedi still living, her low sweep having severed both his legs halfway up the thighs.

"Bastila," he grunted through the pain, "it's not…too late…"

Deactivating both blades, she was hanging her lightsaber back on her belt as she considered how formulaic that statement was. She couldn't really fault him for his lack of poignancy at the moment, however, given his physical state.

"For you or for me?" she replied as she drew her PM-88.

Knowing that nothing he might say would be of any value, she never gave him the chance to answer. The trigger broke crisply, and a single shot rang out, the bolt passing cleanly between his eyes.

The moment her sidearm was holstered, her legs finally gave way, but Revan had his arms around her, and she dropped scarcely a centimeter. It was fortunate, she reflected, that her fighter's autopilot was more than capable of managing ascent, rendezvous, and docking, because she was quite certain that she was in no shape to fly. All she was really in shape to do was lie down, she reflected.

It was only when they were walking up the ramp to the landing pad that she belatedly was struck by the enormity of what she had done. _I killed them. I killed Jedi - people I knew._ She knew that whereas they had tried to kill her, she shouldn't feel any remorse, and perhaps what she felt wasn't remorse at all, but there was an undeniably unpleasant feeling lurking in her chest. No, it wasn't remorse, definitely not remorse. She didn't regret what she had done, and knew that she would repeat it the next time she met her former comrades.

"It's pity," she murmured, unaware that she said it aloud.

"Pardon?"

"I had…a feeling…about the Jedi… The ones I just killed, I mean. It was pity. They fought on the wrong side, they never saw..." She shook her head, fixed a stray lock of hair. "Not very Deralín of me, is it, to pity someone who fought against everything I believe in?"

"Well, honestly, it's not. We fight for our beliefs, and we fight to the death," he answered as he stopped to check her burned arm by the light of the twin moons. "But as anyone who fought in our civil wars and rebellions could tell you, we do have a habit of pitying former comrades, even after they take sides against us."

Satisfied that she wasn't seriously hurt, he started toward the waiting fighters, and she knew exactly what he was thinking now.

"You didn't fail," she told him gently. "What would have happened without you? The whole of 5th Group would have been caught in that attack, so what you ought to be asking yourself is this: How many lives did you _save?_"

He pursed his lips, nodded silently, wiped at his eyes.

"You're right, of course, logically speaking. By anyone else's standards, I performed a great service this day, and yet…"

Turning to him, she laid both hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eye, and told him earnestly, "You do more - you _give_ more - than can be expected of any man. I'm so… I can't express…"

Perhaps if she wasn't so tired, the right words would have come to her, but instead she just held him, and he held her.


	16. To the Bloody End

16

To The Bloody End

3 Aihwirth, 1,018 DÉ

New Year's Day, 20376

A harsh buzz had Céle sitting up in bed and well aware that the time was 0500.

"Alarm: off. Lights: standard," she snapped.

She threw back the covers, yawned as her feet hit the cold floor, wondered how much paperwork had come in during the six hours she was asleep. Before turning to that tedious business, however, she threw herself into a programme of stretches and calesthenics, and was dripping with sweat after half an hour. With arms, legs, and abs burning, she showered quickly, the water cold enough to wash away what little sleep still remained in her. While still toweling off, she went to the synthesizer to order a hot breakfast, and was dressed by the time it was ready.

At 0545, she was sitting down to breakfast at her desk, reading while she ate. She was by no means the only officer on Revan's staff, there being a whole squad worth of them on Deralí, and yet it always seemed to her that the bulk of the work was dropped on her. At least the intel reports were condensed and written by the time they reached her, but she always found herself approving (or rejecting as the case might be) volumes of requests, as per Revan's standing orders. He had once told her that she was the only person on his staff whom he trusted to make decisions in his name, and when she had first heard that, she was flattered beyond description. By this point, however, making decisions in his name had become a tiresome chore, but somebody had to do it. At least the volume left to her had markedly decreased in recent months, coinciding with the arrival of Admiral Shan, but the more mundane questions were still left to Céle's discretion.

Quite honestly, she had little love for the work, and did it out of loyalty, understanding Revan's need for a trusted assistant to sort out the matters for which he had not the time. As she had once told Bastila, the assignment was supposed to be an honor, and to receive his trust was, indeed, a rare honor, but Céle had long since decided that she was fundamentally unsuited to office work. She belonged in the field, and had already told Revan that she would apply for a transfer back to Enforcement the day the Republic surrendered, and he understood. Enforcement was a dirty, nasty, and sometimes dangerous posting that she knew left some people with nightmares, and she had once thought that she would never miss that kind of work, but lo and behold, she did. She was born with a need for action, a need to be "out there" and "doing something," rather than signing off on mountains of documents.

At 0726, a call came in from home, specifically from SD Headquarters, and a procurement request was replaced by the three-dimensional likeness of a clean-cut, dark-skinned young man with sharp eyes and a resonant baritone voice.

"Good-morning, Troop Leader," he greeted her. "Director Meric wishes to speak with the C-in-C, if possible."

"Yes, sir. I shall see if he's available, and patch her through if he is."

The officer's face disappeared as Céle switched to audio-only. Revan never had his visual comms active in the morning, had not done so even when he slept alone, now, of course, he had a very substantial reason to desire all possible privacy in his quarters. It was no secret to Céle that he and Admiral Shan had been sharing a cabin for some time, and nor did she think anything of it. The admiral was a strong, smart, dedicated, and honorable woman, and a perfect match for the C-in-C. She could understand why they desired to keep it a secret for the time being, but to her it was a non-issue.

"Good-morning, sir," she said almost as a question, uncertain if she was waking him or not. He was almost always awake at this hour, but he had in the past stayed up until 0400 or so when at work on an especially vexing a problem, and consequently slept late on such occasions.

"Good-morning, Céle," he replied, sounding like he had probably been up for some time already.

"I have an incoming call from Minister Meric. Shall I put her through?"

"Of course. Thank you."

She typed in the necessary commands, switched off her comms, and returned to her work.

Next on the long list of documents was a report from Wallen on another successful Jedi-hunting operation, in which he expressed concern that the Imperial Guard's numbers may ultimately prove insufficient. He had, after all, always expected the Sith to remain in service somewhat longer than they had, and had planned accordingly. Without those _tchochaiv_ to serve as cannon fodder, the Imperial Guard were suffering higher-than-anticipated losses, though Céle, for one, didn't think it would be so bad if their numbers were depleted by war's end, never having fully trusted them. Granted, they were an improvement on the Sith, but that wasn't saying much, and the galaxy as a whole would probably be safer with them out of the picture. _And Revan must know that,_ she assured herself._ I doubt he's too worried about their casualty rate, either._

She forwarded the report to him, along with a lengthy file from Grand Marshal Idanos that was too highly classified for her to read.

By mid-morning, she was most of the way through what had come in overnight, only to find new arrivals in her inbox. These weren't too many, at least, and she estimated that she would probably finish around 1600 - 1700 at the latest. _Cálen's shift ends at 1600,_ she mused, contemplating paying him a visit when she was done. She had been making trips to Compartment 102 with increasing regularity, having grown rather fond of the man. Her thoughts then went back to her post-war plans, and the prospects for maintaining a relationship when they could potentially be posted to opposite ends of the galaxy. _Not that I'm in a relationship,_ she told herself. It had been quite some time since she'd been able to say that she was.

Much to her surprise, her door chime sounded then, and her train of thought was broken as she got up to answer it. She was further surprised when she opened the door to see Revan standing just outside with a datapad in hand.

"Céle," he said as they both bowed.

"To what do I owe this honor, sir?"

"It concerns the call from Minister Meric earlier this morning. You see, she wished to inform me of an opportunity that has come before us, and I concurred that it must be acted upon as quickly as possible."

"An opportunity?"

"Yes, to apprehend a criminal of some considerable significance before he has a chance to scurry into hiding. I might add that she was informing me of this, rather than simply acting upon it herself, because there are no other SD agents this far forward."

He presented the datapad.

"You have an assignment, Troop Leader."

"A _field_ assignment?" she asked with pleasant disbelief.

"I dare say so," he said slyly. "You're still current for HALO ops, are you not?"

She raised her eyebrows a fraction, then answered the question with an enthusiastic grin.

* * *

Six hours later, she sat on a folding bench in the hold of an assault shuttle, bundled in a suit of black SD armor with a Tseltrift Arms GGT rifle at her side and a ram-air parafoil strapped to her back. The latter was old tech - nay, _ancient_ tech - but it was still the only means of air-dropping onto a target that didn't radiate an energy signature like a repulsorlift or jetpack. Whereas the SD was tasked with apprehending powerful and often dangerous individuals, its Enforcement agents were trained in a variety of insertion techniques, including High-Altitude, Low-Opening airdrops, which were universally known by the acronym HALO.

Lined up with her along on benches lining the walls of the hold was an Imperial Marine Special Operations squad, all of them silent as they sat in their speckled-grey urban camo armor. She'd worked with Marine SpecOps before, and had no trouble meshing with them, especially when they were her fellow countrymen. After all, Enforcement had adopted much of its tactics and training from military sources, and, being a fairly small force, was frequently obliged to operate alongside the SpecOps. As was usual in these situations, Master Petty Officer Alvith remained in command of his squad, while Céle was merely overseeing the operation, even though it was she who had planned it. They were to secure the objective and neutralise all opposition, while she was to personally ensure that the priority target was taken alive, as per her orders from the Director.

"Ninety to drop, depress in sixty," the pilot announced over the intercom.

"Helmets on, systems check," Céle ordered.

She drew her own down over her head, clicked the seals into place, and felt a rush of cool air as the suit pressurized. Her HUD lit up, displaying critical system information on the far left and navigational data on the right. At present, her altitude was 12,000 meters, distance to target was 16 kilometers, her suit's power and oxygen levels were nominal, and her rifle's magazine was fully charged. She made a final inspection of her parachute harness, then tugged on her rifle and sidearm to ensure that both were securely clipped to the attachment points on her suit. The squad had just finished their comm check when a red light flashed five times, then went solid, indicating that the hold was being depressurized.

"Thirty seconds. Stand up, stand in the door," she ordered as she unfastened her safety strap.

She and Alvith stood closest to the ramp, though for opposite reasons: she was to be the first out, while he was to supervise the drop and exit last.

"Comm silence from here to landing," she reminded everybody just before the ramp to admit a veritable hurricane into the shuttle.

From inside her helmet, it sounded like a distant whistle, but she felt the wind slam against her, and clutched a hand grip on the wall for balance. Beyond the ramp, she could look upon the planet's surface far below, engulfed in lights as far as she could see. Most were stationary, some were moving, and while white was predominant, nearly every color of the rainbow was represented down there. This was her first glimpse of Taris, and, being a good Deralin, she could think only that it was a disgusting abomination. Every square kilometer of land buried in urban sprawl, the oceans poisoned with industrial runoff, this planet was a mass grave of nature.

Tearing her eyes away from the horrible spectacle of the endless city below, she focused instead on the red light on the wall. It started flashing again, and she bent her knees in preparation. She felt no fear or apprehension, hadn't suffered from that weakness since her first jump, on which she had found herself laughing with joy once she was in stable freefall. She had come to love skydiving, and when the light turned green, she eagerly released the handgrip and jogged forward onto the lowered ramp, and straight off its end.

Inside her armor, shielded from the slipstream, she had no physical sensation of falling, and only her altimeter gave her an indication of her downward progress. A little flashing green square near the upper center of her HUD identified the LZ, and as she fell spread-eagled toward the planet, she aimed for that point. A timer just above the square counted off the time to canopy deployment, which would occur at an altitude of just three hundred meters, which would be reached in two minutes, forty-seven seconds from the time she first looked. When she turned her head to either side, she could see none of the Marines against the black night sky, though she knew that at least a few had probably caught up to her by now. All there remained to do was to maintain proper free-fall position and keep the LZ centered in her HUD until her canopy opened.

That, and remember to start a mental countdown at T-00:30. She did so just before her HUD turned to static at T-00:28, and were she not dutifully reciting _twenty-seven one-thousand, twenty-six one-thousand,_ and so on, she would have thought of an appropriate diatribe against whomever claimed her suit was fully EMP-hardened. At _fourteen one-thousand_, however, her computer rebooted and the HUD flickered back to life. It was a damned good thing it did, too, because every single light below went out the moment the EMP hit, and she lost any chance of visually identifying the LZ. Now she switched on her night vision, and clearly saw a boxy, fortress-like estate surrounded with well-manicured grounds and enclosed by high walls. Figures moved about rapidly below, both inside the compound and on the streets in general, as confusion reigned in the blackout.

At T-00:00, she was wrenched out of her prone position, and her vertical speed shrank from a brisk 250 km/h to a relative crawl as her canopy opened. She took hold of the risers, manually steering to approach the estate's roof from the northeast as planned, then engaged her auto-approach system. Reaching somewhat awkwardly down and back, she unclipped her GGT from the mounting point on her cuirass and brought it around front. A compact, well-balanced bullpup design, it was ideal for close-quarters combat, and also those rare occasions when one had to shoot while hanging from a parafoil.

Setting the butt to her shoulder, she engaged the rifle's auto-stabilizers and switched her HUD to a 5x scope view. On the roof of the estate stood a man and a Duros, both of whom appeared decidedly nervous and were engaged in a heated debate. Both were armed with repeating blaster rifles, and both were completely oblivious to the squad of troops descending on their position. At an altitude of 200 meters, she steadied the reticule on the head of the man and fired, his skull exploding and raining grey matter onto the Duros, who scrambled and stumbled away from his recently-deceased colleague in unmistakable sheer terror. A second later, she put two shots through his chest, the panicked sentry still moving too erratically for her to attempt a headshot. The presence of the Marines was at last revealed when several of them opened fire on the guards patrolling the grounds.

Continuing to keep a careful watch on the rooftop, Céle stowed her rifle at 100 meters and assumed manual control for the landing. She steered for a spot as far as possible from the door to the roof, flared sharply, and touched down somewhat harder than she would have liked. _Definitely need to do this more often,_ she told herself as she yanked the quick-release on her harness and ditched the rapidly-deflating canopy. Her rifle was soon back in her hands and trained on the door, from which no one emerged. The only others on the rooftop with her were the five Marines landing all around and getting their own kit squared away.

"This is Diric with 2nd Element - roof secure," she reported.

"This is Alvith with 1st Element - south side secure," the petty officer replied.

The two remaining elements checked in, and Céle issued the order, "Stand by to breach."

She watched a Marine trot across the roof to a specific point indicated by his HUD, uncoil a tubular ring that had previous been clipped to his waist, and lay it at his feet. As Céle had learned in police training, most beings were conditioned to think of entering and exiting through doors or, in a pinch, windows. Consequently, anybody defending a structure would naturally be guarding the doors and windows, which made those points of entry extremely hazardous. Her instructor had warned her never to use pre-established points of entry unless there was no other option, and in this case, she had a very good option in the form of a shaped charge.

"Clear!" shouted the Marine as he sprinted away from the charge.

"3rd Element ready to breach," announced a voice in her helmet.

"1st Element ready."

"4th ready."

"2nd Element ready on three," she replied. "Breach. Breach! _Breach!"_

Even through her helmet, she heard the thud of the charge cutting a circular hole in the roof. While she couldn't hear beyond that, she knew with solid confidence that below her, the other Marines were punching similar holes in the walls of the estate.

"Go!"

Between the moment her feet touched the roof and the moment she dropped through the remarkably-neat hole in the roof, only sixteen seconds had elapsed.

She landed awkwardly on the rubble from the ceiling and roof, pain shooting up through her left leg. She took a few steps, judged that there was nothing broken, and moved down a pitch-black corridor, guided by a building schematic she had called up in the corner of her HUD. According to the best sources the SD had been able to draw from, the primary target would most likely be twenty meters away on this level. Viewing the world in a composite infra-red and thermal image, she saw two heat-signatures through a ghostly wall on her right. One was lying down a little less than a meter above the floor, presumably on a bed, and the other sitting at approximately the same level.

Stopping, she ordered, "Breach it. Two on me, three guard here."

The demolition man came forward and pressed a strip of adhesive det cord into a rectangular pattern on the wall, outlining the ad-hoc door that would soon appear. Everyone stepped back.

Being as short as it was, the GGT was easily held one-handed, and with her left Céle pulled the safety catch from a stun grenade and then unclipped the grenade itself from her belt.

"Go!"

The det cord went, sending a section of wall crumbling inwards, and she lobbed the grenade through the opening. There followed a second blast, and then she went in with two Marines close behind, entering what looked to be a large and lavish bedroom. On the floor was sprawled a human man - nude except for the trousers around his ankles - while in the bed was a nude Twi'lek woman partially covered by the sheets. Quashing her natural violent reactions, Céle stooped to check the man's face and compare it against the little portrait on her HUD. _Damn, not him._

"Secure him," she ordered a Marine, who retrieved a set of cuffs from his utility belt.

While that chore was being swiftly and roughly executed, she heard clipped shouts over her comms as the other elements engaged. Requiring no reminder that time was of the essence, she stepped back into the corridor at the same time that a pair of Rodians came around the corner with tactical lights shining from beneath the muzzles of their blasters. Céle fired a burst into the chest of one at the same time as the second returned her fire. With the fire of three GGTs tearing into his center of mass, however, he, too, dropped, but not before landing a hit on a Marine.

"Marine down!" came the cry.

"No, no, I'm fine," grunted the winded Marine as her comrades helped her up. "It didn't penetrate."

"You're sure?" asked Céle, visually inspecting the Marine's armor and seeing a large burn mark on the right breast.

"Yes, ma'am."

Sure enough, Céle could see that while there was a small crater blasted in the composite plate, it wasn't a hole. The armor had done its job.

"On me," she urged them on, advancing smoothly down the hallway to the room at the end, inside of which she clearly saw a man training a pair of pistols on the door.

_Amateur gangbanger,_ was what instantly came to her mind whenever she saw someone attempting to shoot two pistols at once. It was the hallmark of pinheaded criminals who spent too much time watching movies and not enough time at the range. Even so, it wasn't enough to make her completely dismiss the threat. With plenty of det cord left, she still had no intention of using doors, and crept past this one without a sound. Somehow, in spite of her caution, a flurry of bolts came tearing through the door and neighboring wall that sent her diving forward onto the ornate floor tiles. The five Marines instinctively responded with a hail of automatic fire, and her heart felt as though it had turned to stone.

"Cease fire!" she shouted loudly enough to make her own ears ring inside her helmet. "2nd Element _cease fire!"_

Looking up, though, she saw it was too late, the thermal outline of a man now lying awkwardly and immobile against an invisible object.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath as she kicked the door down and burst inside. "Shit, shit, shit."

Sure enough, there lay the riddled corpse of a man who had tripped backwards over a chair in his spasmodic death throes, a pair of pistols discarded on the floor nearby. Grabbing him roughly by the ear, she wrenched his head up to get a good look at his face and instantly felt cool relief wash over her. Far from her primary target, this was a stocky, swarthy man with eyes hidden behind a set of thermal goggles, whom she recognized from the intel report as a wanted bounty hunter and sociopath. There had been no requirement that he be taken alive.

All the while, she was dimly conscious of urgent voices in her headset as brief firefights raged lower down in the building. Then came a sinking feeling when she realized that this man - Nord, she thought his name was - had switched places with her target, which meant that the target's whereabouts was now completely unknown. Letting go of his ear, she hurried out the door.

"Ma'am, you're hit," somebody said, but Céle's brain couldn't make the connection that he was addressing her. _I'm not hit._

"Ma'am," the voice repeated, and a gauntlet closed on her right shoulder, halting her and turning her around.

"Dammit, Marine," she began, only to stop when the pain kicked in.

She looked down to see a furrow melted in her cuirass, and suddenly felt a red-hot knife in her ribs.

"Like I said - _shit. _Now let's move it."

Halfway down the next hallway, they stepped over a pair of sentry droid lying crumpled in a heap on the floor, their electronic brains fried by the EMP, when another thermal signature appeared just around a corner. They melted to the edges of the hall, took aim, and opened up on the Trandoshan who cautiously edged around the corner, and who never saw what hit him before his head and torso were pulverized by automatic fire.

"I've got him!" somebody exclaimed. "Target secure! Repeat: priority target secure!"

"This is Diric, please confirm," she said.

"Ma'am, Petty Officer Nerten here on the first floor. I've got Kang. Stunned and cuffed him."

"Flash your position - I'm on my way."

"Yes, ma'am."

She saw a homing icon flash on her HUD and moved out toward the nearest stairwell.

"Ma'am, this is Alvith. Ground floor secure."

"Copy that. Second floor secure. I'm calling evac."

She switched her comm channel and made contact with the shuttle, ordering the pilot to land on the roof. That done, and the mission accomplished, she sat down and let one of the Marines tend to her wound. From what the man could see, it looked like the shot had passed between two ribs, possibly taking a slice out of one, but had fortuitously missed her lung.

"First time one's gotten through," she remarked, pointing out the numerous scars on her armor to the young man.

Less than fifteen minutes after Céle had landed on the roof, she watched a pair of assault shuttles alight on the lawn. Into one was swiftly loaded the prisoners - consisting of Davik Kang himself and a couple of Tarisian nobles who had been taken alive - along with a Marine who had been severely wounded. He had been shot in the lower back by one of Davik's henchmen, possibly a Mandalorian, who had managed to escape in spite of himself being hit by return fire from the Marines. Also boarding the first shuttle were a number of Twi'lek women, a couple of whom were conscious and able to tell of their situation. They were, to nobody's surprise, "pleasure slaves," a euphemism which had set Céle's blood boiling when she heard it.

She waited until the first shuttle lifted off, then stormed across the artificial grass to the man whom she had earlier caught with his pants down, and who was just now coming around.

"You!" she barked at him, her voice emerging from the helmet with an artificial quality that entirely masked her gender and identity.

Bound hand and foot and held firmly by a pair of Marines, he looked up at her weakly, still suffering mightily from the effects of the grenade.

"Yes, you. The woman I found you with was a slave, was she not?"

He looked confused. "Woman? I wasn't with any woman."

"There was a Twi'lek woman in your bed."

"Oh, Twi'lek, yeah," he mumbled, his head swaying groggily.

Squeezing a button on the foregrip of her rifle, she extended a 30-cm bayonet and held its point just a few centimeters from his right eye. The man's reaction was instantaneous, the pain and disorientation instantly overpowered by the pure adrenaline rush of fear. He tried to turn his face away from the blade, only to have an armored hand clamp down on his head and turn it back.

"Was she a slave?" she repeated, slowly and carefully enunciating each word.

"Yeah, yeah, she's a slave," stammered the terrified Tarisian. "But come on, she's just a Twi'lek."

"She's a _woman,"_ Céle corrected through clenched teeth.

Without moving her rifle, she addressed the armored figures restraining the prisoner, "Marines, did you hear this man's statement just now?"

"Yes, ma'am," they answered in unison.

"You heard him confess to using an enslaved person for sexual purposes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You can therefore testify that he is guilty of rape?"

"Yes, ma'am."

With bulging eyes glued to the knifepoint hovering in front of them, the man was quaking uncontrollably now, and a dark spot spread across the front of his trousers.

"I'm a wealthy man - a _very_ wealthy man - just name your price and…"

It was a subtle movement, nothing resembling a textbook bayonet thrust, but it produced an ear-splitting shriek that Céle guessed could be heard at least three blocks away. Drawing back, she then lunged in properly, driving the blade into the nobleman's lower abdomen. She wrenched it sideways, twisted, and withdrew. The Marines let the man drop to the ground, where he thrashed madly like a fish out of water.

Switching back from external speaker to squad comms, she ordered, "Get aboard. Mission accomplished."

"Yes, ma'am."

Watching the Marines hustle toward the remaining shuttle, she bit her lip as the pain in her side flared up worse than ever in spite of the kolto patch that had been hastily slapped on the wound, and knew full well that she ought to follow them. She wasn't bleeding to death, and her lungs weren't hit, but it was still a good deal more than a scratch. Regarding the man spasming on the ground in front of her, the sight of the wounds she had inflicted made her stomach turn, and she had to remind herself that it was no more than what he deserved. The screams had already stopped, the Tarisian bleeding out quickly. He hadn't long to live.

Turning, she retracted the blood-smeared bayonet and shouldered her rifle on her way to the shuttle, already piecing together her action report in her mind. It hadn't been a perfect operation - two wounded and one enemy escaped - but the objective had been achieved, and she could still put it down in her lengthy Success column. Even more importantly, at least in her mind, was the rescue of those poor women, liberated from an existence of daily pain and humiliation. That went in her column of Things to Never Forget. _Yes,_ she thought as she climbed the ramp, _not a bad day's work._

It was 2332 when she rang the door chime to Revan and Bastila's cabin. Still in uniform, minus his jacket, he answered the call, and she bowed, albeit not nearly so low as was customary. Even leaning forward slightly caused her some pain in her ribcage.

"Good-evening, sir," she said formally.

"Good-evening, Céle. I assume this visit means that the prisoner transfer is complete?"

"Yes, sir. Kang and the others are securely aboard the SD corvette _Raykel_, now en route to Facility 1-7 - she jumped just over a minute ago."

"Very good." He clasped his hands behind him, blinked, asked cautiously, "If I may ask, the Marine wounded in the operation…"

"I'm told he'll make a full recovery. He needs a new spleen, though, and is being transferred off tomorrow."

It visibly relieved Revan to hear of the Marine's survival. While Céle doubted that he in any way knew the man, she knew that, like herself, he had a need to always finish the job, which he hadn't done three years ago. It wasn't been as though he hadn't given it his best effort, of course, but Mandalorians had always been highly adept at scurrying back into the woodwork whenever things went against them. As with so many issues, their final eradication was yet another unresolved problem to be left for after the war.

"And how are you feeling, Céle?" he inquired.

"Fine. I've broken ribs before, though this is the first time I had a piece of one shot away. I won't be going on any more field assignments for a little while, but given time, I'll be back in top form."

"I am very glad to hear that."

"Thank you, sir."

"You do understand, Céle, that I do not consider you solely in the capacity of an aide, but also as…a friend."

Though she had known perfectly well how he thought of her, she could scarcely have been more shocked by his admission of it. He was, after all, a man who, at least outwardly, carried the Deralín ideal of self-reliance to the extreme. Inwardly, of course, even he had his limits, but was loathe to admit them.

"Why, thank you, sir."

"He does have a heart, you know," Bastila teased as she stepped into view.

"Yes, of course, ma'am," Céle chuckled. "Sorry if I looked shocked at the idea of it."

"If you are, then the fault lies entirely with me," said Revan, who lowered his voice as he went on, "As in all other matters, though, I would naturally appreciate your discretion."

It remained unspoken, but she was sworn to secrecy regarding all aspects of her service to him, which technically included anything she learned about his personal life, not that she would ever betray him under any circumstance. Any matter that he wished to keep secret from the outside world, including his relationship with Bastila, she would gladly take to her grave.

"Of course," she said with a little nod.

Revan and Bastila both smiled warmly.

"Thank you, Céle," he said. "Now then, whereas you have had a trying day, and, more significantly, are _wounded_, I am _ordering_ you to retire for the night."

"Yes, sir," she answered happily. "Good-night, sir, ma'am."

"Good-night," they both bid her farewell.

Having never actually stepped into their cabin, Céle needed turn only ninety degrees, and then marched away down the passageway. Revan wasted no time shutting the door, lest anyone else walk past and glimpse he and Bastila together.

"It's in her blood," Bastila remarked as she flopped into an armchair.

Sitting down opposite her, he waxed philosophical:

"She believes in what she does, knows the importance of it, and excels at it. She has her purpose. Too many wander through life without finding one."

"We certainly found ours, didn't we?"

"That we did," he chuckled. "That we did."

He reclined in the chair, shut his eyes, contemplated going to bed. It was still early by his standards, but their work was complete for the day. While there was little naval activity to speak of, they had spent the entire day reviewing ground campaigns, shuffling forces from one world to another, and suggesting alterations to various strategies. Every day since Operation Dynamic had been occupied thusly, or else by settling disagreements between senior commanders, or fine-tuning plans for future operations. All of it was long, dull, exhausting work that dragged from early morning to late evening and left them feeling drained at day's end. Often times, they would wake at night second-guessing themselves, spend an hour or two revisiting something they had already poured over at great length during the day, only to hold to their original decision and go back to bed.

"What say you? Shall we turn in?" he inquired without opening his eyes.

"I can't argue with that," she yawned.

Twenty minutes later, they lay snugly beneath the sheets of their bed, fast asleep, when there appeared in their thoughts a vision of a host of warships in motion. Scattered among the thousands were a few arrowhead-shaped battlecruisers, largely resembling the _Invincible _class, yet clearly painted with the crimson stripes of the Republic Navy. They bolted awake, damp with sweat, Bastila ordering the lights on while Revan activated his commlink.

"SCC, this is the C-in-C. Emergency action: signal 3rd Group to withdraw to the Atrivis Sector immediately and prepare for defense, and 4th Group to jump to Er'Kit."

"Reading back: 3rd Group withdraw to Atrivis Sector immediately and prepare for defense. 4th Group to Er'Kit," repeated the duty officer.

"Correct. Transmit at once."

"Yes, sir."

Already out of bed and pulling an olive turtleneck sweater down over her head, Bastila waited for him to hang up before asking the obvious question, "When will those people call it quits?"

Knowing a rhetorical question when he heard one, he silently set about changing into his own uniform.

"They're ahead of schedule," he instead declared. "Their battlecruisers, that is. Intel was off by a month on their commissioning. And of course we have just transferred the _Belderone_ to Kechel."

Bastila buttoned her waistband, then roughly pulled a short grey jacket from its hanger.

"Of course. It's possible, though, that the Republic rushed them into service, and didn't test them properly," she suggested.

He pulled on a pair of straight trousers, concurred, "Very possible. We shall see."

Bastila stated the obvious as she buckled her belt: "This is going to be a long night."

It proved to be a _very _long night, and one that dragged on well into the morning. Having flown to Gaddria to rendezvous with the _Raykel_,the _Deralí_ was closer to the Atrivis Sector than 4th Group, but was still too far to provide immediate assistance. A way had to be found of buying time. So, while Bastila waited tensely for the battle to begin, Revan spent the next forty minutes in deep meditation, seeking the best way forward.

At 0038, one minute after 4th Group should have arrived at Er'Kit, the _Deralí_ dropped from hyperspace, and Revan made contact with Grand Admiral Vaegor, who commanded the 4th. He ordered the admiral to take his group onwards to a point just outside the Gricho Sector, from whence they would proceed to the rendezvous with 3rd Group. Mal'cave was then instructed to hold her position until precisely 0043, then execute a short jump toward the Gricho Sector. In short, she was to remain just out of reach of the Republic advance, drawing them toward the _Deralí_ and 4th Group. Finally, he contacted Hrask and Saaryu, both of whom were told to advance in preparation for an attack toward the Core. That business concluded, the _Deralí_ was underway once more, and rendezvoused with 3rd Group at 0124. Then they waited.

Stretching out across the vastness of space, Revan had great difficulty locating the enemy, whom he felt had now dispersed in search of their quarry. He sensed a growing threat from them, and yet not one aimed in his own direction, which he thought distinctly peculiar in a very disturbing manner. He was well aware that, by withdrawing 3rd Group, he had left the way to the rear areas wide open, including a number of systems that the Army was still bitterly contesting. At 0135, with 4th Group less than twenty minutes distant, he made the decision to delay no longer, but to engage. Reversing direction, 3rd Group jumped to Ord Biniir, leaving behind a single destroyer to inform Vaegor of their new destination when he arrived at the rendezvous point.

At 0207, they met the enemy in the Ord Biniir system, where a Republic fleet was bombarding the Imperial positions on the planet. In a blaze of wrath, the Imperial ships avenged their Army comrades, their vastly-superior force mercilessly tearing through the enemy. At 0213, however, the bulk of a Republic armada arrived, including three battlecruisers, and there followed a brief but violent clash. After savaging an Imperial cruiser squadron, the enemy's capital ships were engaged by the _Deralí_ and the battlecruiser _Intrepid_. In the action that followed, two of the Republic battlecruisers were destroyed and the third abandoned with critical damage. More enemy ships continued to arrive over the next fifteen minutes, and 3rd Group found itself temporarily outnumbered until 0228, when 4th Group dropped into the system. The tables having shifted heavily back in favor of the Imperial Navy, and their confidence shattered by Bastila's efforts against them, the enemy jumped away shortly thereafter.

2nd and 5th Groups now sallied forth. For the Republic to have committed so many ships to the battle at Ord Biniir, they must have stripped away units from elsewhere, and it stood to reason that there now existed an opportunity for significant gains on other fronts. Revan turned his gaze thence, hoping to find a target for Hrask and Saaryu, while 3rd and 4th Groups advanced to regain the systems they had so recently vacated.

Time passed, searches were conducted, tens of thousands of warships jumped here and there, casting about in the void. The _Deralí_ and the two groups that accompanied her reached Phaeda at 0411, but found nothing there, while 2nd Group only briefly made contact with the enemy near Manaan. Having failed to force a major action, he gave the order at 0515 for all units to assume a defensive posture. This remained in force until 0558, when he believed he had located a vulnerable enemy force near the Derra system, and then it was Kechel's turn to lead her group forward. An hour and a half later, she attacked two enemy battle groups and dealt them substantial losses before they, too, jumped away.

Though there was no official cessation of fighting, that was the last action of the night (or, rather, morning). By 1000, it had become apparent that the Republic was engaged in a mass retreat, abandoning a large swath of territory; and following a conference with the General Staff, the decision was made that there would be no sudden advance to take those systems vacated. It was estimated that the Imperial Navy now held a two-to-one numerical advantage, and the chief concern of the moment was securing those systems which the Army had invaded in the preceding weeks.

* * *

It just was minutes before 1100 that Bastila, dressed for bed once more but feeling far more worn than she had the night before, took the time to sit down at the computer terminal in their quarters. She called up a message from her father that had arrived the previous afternoon, in which he wrote of her mother's condition. The doctors said that she was making progress, and that there was an eighty-five percent chance of recovery, although Helena would need to be medicated for the rest of her life. Bastila started a reply, typed out a greeting, then sat there for a minute or two, her brain too tired for the proper words to come. She thought of telling them about herself, of how she was faring, of her experiences in the war, and even started typing something to that effect, only to abruptly stop and erase her work. Instead, she wrote an expression of relief at her mother's improvement, wished her and her father well, and told them simply that "the war is going very well, and shouldn't last much longer."

The message sent, she dragged herself into the bedroom, where Revan had already fallen fast asleep, probably having done so the very instant he had laid his head on the pillow. She knew that it was only exhaustion that let him sleep at all today, had seen the tears form in his eyes when he heard of the losses to the 30th Corps on Ord Biniir, and had felt his terrible burning guilt. She was no less immune to the feeling, and had to tell herself that there was nothing that could have been done differently, that had 3rd Group stayed put and held back the superior enemy force, the number of dead would have been roughly the same. It had been a situation with no favorable solution, and her rational brain knew it, but her heart ached all the same.

She ordered the lights out, lay down, and let merciful sleep engulf her.

21 Aihwirth, 1,018 DÉ

14.1.20376

Wherever he was, it was dark, though not completely so, there being light enough by which to see that he stood on a paved street strewn with refuse of every imaginable description. Strangely enough, however, no one item that littered his surroundings was readily identifiable, though perhaps that was only because he had not the time to stop and examine them in any level of detail. He was running, his legs pumping as rapidly as was possible, and yet he made agonizingly little progress through the bleak and repulsive place in which he found himself. He felt as if running into a body of water, wherein the farther he went, the deeper the water became, and the greater its resistance grew. Eventually, he could run no further, and, still driven by some mad impulse, he crawled upon his hands and knees, scrabbling over the rough surface. At last he came upon something other than filth and waste, blundering into what felt like a very large object that unexpectedly loomed up from the road.

It was a wall, utterly black in color, perfectly smooth in texture, and seemingly infinite in dimensions, for when he stood and felt along its surface, he found find neither end nor edge nor crack. There was no purchase for climbing, and no way around that he could discern, and then at last he heard something beyond the pounding of the blood in his ears: footsteps.

Whirling about, he was confronted by a distant figure emerging from the gloom and moving unsteadily toward him. Even as it drew nearer, he could not identify a face, or even the species of this person whose very existence filled him with horror. He reached under the long coat he wore, his fingers locating the comforting contours of his sidearm, and drew the weapon. Aiming it squarely at the forehead of the oncoming individual, he waited, though for what reason he could scarcely be more uncertain. Finally, he fired a single shot, watched the bolt pass through the target's head, but with positively no effect. They kept coming, kept drawing nearer, and he fired again… And again and again and again he squeezed the trigger with ever-greater rapidity, until the shots were pouring continuously from the muzzle like water from a hose.

The person was only a few meters away when his pistol overheated and ceased to respond to his urgent trigger pulls, and it was then that he realized why he couldn't identify a face. The face before him was not any one face, but a thousand, a million, even a billion faces blended together into a single jumbled image. There were a billion faces he had never seen before staring out at him without emotion.

"Be gone!" he railed at the figure, which was now almost within arm's reach, and pitched his sidearm at it with all of his remaining strength.

The pistol sailed ineffectually through the composite face, leaving no more mark than had the torrent of bolts that had preceded it.

"Away with you!" He woke, cold and dripping with sweat, and opened his eyes to look upon the familiar confines of his bedroom aboard the _Deralí_. Bastila was beside him, her eyes aglow with a fear that was not her own, then dimming back into cool blue. He turned away from her, ashamed.

"I'm sorry," he nearly sobbed. "I'm sorry I woke you. I'm sorry that you had to see that again."

"No, no," she said as she took him in her arms. "You don't need to apologize."

He tried to let himself relax in his arms, take comfort from her warm body pressing against him, to forget everything beyond her. When the war was going well, when great victories were won, he could sleep soundly…most nights. Right now, however, at a time when final victory should have been within their grasp, it was as elusive as ever. Pitched battles raged on a hundred worlds, and so-called low-intensity conflicts on a thousand more, and what should have been the death of the Republic Navy had been nothing more than an inconclusive skirmish.

The previous day, Kechel's 1st Group had spearheaded an attack code-named Operation Assurance, with 2nd Group supporting the advance much as it had during Impulse. The plan called for a "swinging door" offensive, with attacks being launched in series along the entire front, until the outnumbered enemy simply collapsed under the pressure, but little went according to plan. When Kechel's ships made contact with the enemy, it was with a mere picket line, which naturally alerted the main body. For more than two hours, 1st Group played cat-and-mouse with the Republic's 4th Armada, while 2nd Group aimed to intercept the expected reinforcements. The interception was made, but too many interdictors had been lost in recent months, and Hrask was unable to prevent the vast majority of the enemy from escaping. Kechel finally caught and engaged two enemy fleets, which put up a determined-if-suicidal resistance for seventeen minutes, before they realized that no help was coming, and surrendered. Saaryu's 5th struck next - more than three hours behind schedule - and after more than an hour of fruitless "reconnaissance in force," had settled for destroying a large orbital munitions depot.

To call an end to the offensive had been crushing blow for Revan, an admission to himself and to the galaxy that the war would drag on when it should have ended that day. He had little doubt as to the correlation between that admission and his nightmare.

"I just…" He clenched his fist, felt warm tears trickle down his face. "I don't know… What more can I do?"

"No more than you have."

"Then why…"

He dug his fingernails into his palm until he was sure that if he pressed any harder, he would break the skin.

"You're not alone," she quietly, gently cutting him off. "You're never alone, darling. I… I know what you go through…all too well."

"I know you do," he answered sadly, a part of him sorry that he had ever shared this burden with her.

"Well, you did warn me, after all."

He felt a cool rush as her slender fingers stroked his cheek, and her breath tickled his ear.

"I admit I didn't really, truly know what I was signing on for. I didn't know what this would really be like until I did it, and I don't think anybody ever does," she said softly. "What I'm trying to say is that, had I known what it would be - had I known about the nightmares and everything - I would still have accepted your offer…because it's worth it."

She held him tightly to her, and went on:

"I know you, darling, and I know that you would have made the same decision a thousand times over, because _it's worth it._ I'm more certain than ever that what we're doing needs to be done, that _somebody_ has to do this."

As he listened to her, he felt his mood lift, and his heart grow lighter, and he turned in her arms until their lips met.

"Thank you, love," he said once the kiss was broken. "I…needed very much to hear that from you. Very much so."

"I know."

She held him awhile longer, and he found his eyes drawn to the glowing numerals of the chrono: 0651.

"I suppose we ought be getting up," he sighed.

Leaning around him, she consulted the digital display herself, and likewise sighed heavily.

"Yes, there wouldn't be much point in trying to get back to sleep, would there?" "No, not much."

They both wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep or, better still, take a long holiday back home. (In spite of having lived there for only a week and a half, Bastila had already come to think of Deralí as her home. It was difficult not to, that being the only place in which she had ever felt truly _at home._)

She released her soft hold on him, and they swung themselves out of bed.

The morning and early afternoon were devoted to pouring through the seemingly endless reports that had arrived overnight, and to exhaustively meditating upon the situation in search of a solution. By all indications, the enemy was clustered together in little pockets, with yawning gaps between isolated armadas, and all that served to keep the Imperial Navy from flying straight into the Core was the threat of being counterattacked from the rear. They contemplated launching an offensive toward Kuat or Corellia, or some other system of great importance which the Republic could not afford to lose, that they might at last force the enemy into the open where he could be destroyed. After much reflection, it appeared to be the only way forward - the only way to force the decisive engagement that had eluded them the day before - and that was what they told Udel and the rest of the General Staff in conference that afternoon.

There was no disagreement from the General Staff as to the premise, but there did arise some considerable debate as to the ideal objective of such an offensive. The matter was eventually settled in favor of Corellia, as 1st and 2nd Groups were already prepared for a major action, and were the strongest in the Imperial Navy. 5th Group would act in reserve, flying parallel to the main body, while the 4th and 3rd would be on high alert and positioned to strike on short notice. The _Deralí - _although hastily patched together following Ord Biniir, and suffering from a myriad of minor technical difficulties - would fly with 1st Group for as long as possible, while the _Belderone_ was to accompany 5th Group.

By late evening, they had hammered out a detailed plan of operations, complete with courses and timetables, and the attack, now formally known as Deliverance, was scheduled for 1500 the following day. It had been a record for planning an operation of such scope and importance, and that alone left Bastila and Revan exceedingly anxious.

Following the conference, they stayed up late into the night, unable to sleep. Their thoughts were consumed not only by the preparations for Deliverance, but also by the deadlock on Mygeeto, where the Republic's 188th Army Group held out with remarkably tenacity. Their chances of relief or reinforcement were effectively nil, and yet they fought on regardless, as if to no end besides bloodying the Empire, which might very well have been their aim.

At 0251, as they were finally reading for bed, they felt a shift in the Force, like a slackening of tension, and instantly their eyes met in a look of shared concern. It felt nothing like danger, and enigmatic though it was, it was a definite sign that something significant had occurred.

"What was that?" the all-too-obvious question escaped Bastila's lips as a reflex.

"I haven't the slightest idea," answered Revan whilst hurriedly buttoning his shirt back up to the throat. "Something happened, but what?"

"We should be in the command center."

"Agreed. I expect that, whereas some significant event has occurred, more concrete data than we currently possess will be arriving in short order."

They were soon in the SCC, forsaking the comfort of their chairs that they might instead pace the floor as they anxiously awaited some word. Surely some news would come in from the front, from the picket lines, from the listening posts…somebody must have seen or heard something by now. Long minutes passed, and they sent a general request for any information regarding movements of the Republic Navy. For some time, the only replies they received were from the recce flights that had been shadowing the enemy, all of whom reported losing contact. By 0327, they were developing the sense that most, if not all, of the Republic Navy was in motion. They thereupon conferred with Grand Admiral Udel, who was naturally very concerned as to the direction of this movement.

The aggressiveness exhibited by the Republic Navy having increased in recent months, Udel theorized that they might be regrouping so as to deliver a blow with all their remaining strength concentrated in one place. To this, Revan answered that he saw no signs of aggression in the movements reported by the recce flights, and that at no point in the course of the war had the Republic Navy ever concentrated more than a quarter of its total strength in any one theater. It was his opinion that they were witnessing not the preparations for a fight, but rather a withdrawal, and that the best possible course now was to discover the enemy's new positions and then strike them as soon as practicable.

Without any disagreement or debate, Operation Deliverance was thereby scrapped, and the final decisive battle delayed yet again, and at this Revan could scarcely conceal his dismay. It was a repetition of the failure of Assurance, only perhaps even greater this time, when not a single enemy vessel could be listed as destroyed, not a single shot had been fired, and no measurable result whatsoever attained.

In contrast with the warning of his rational brain that there was little possibility of salvaging the situation, his heart still maintained the hope that he could yet deal the killing blow this day. He sank deep into the Force, searching with obsessive determination for the whereabouts of the Republic Navy. Bastila aided him with what strength she could, but he was searching a vast area of space, with no clear idea of where the enemy had gone, and when he abandoned the effort at 0415, he did so utterly spent.

After a great deal of waiting and listening to decidedly sketchy reconnaissance reports and comm intercepts, it was painfully clear by mid-morning that nothing would come of this, and that the enemy had pulled back yet again, this time into the Core itself. At the moment, consumed by his desire to destroy the Republic Navy, Revan didn't give pause to consider what tremendous harm the Republic had suffered by abandoning a thousand systems. All he could see was the escape of his prey, the cancellation of a sound plan mere hours before it was to have been executed, and the needless prolonging of a war whose final outcome was already decided.

He was consequently rather surprised by the call he received when he was changing into his bedclothes at 0910.

"Revan here," he answered in a tone completely devoid of enthusiasm.

"Did I wake you, sir?" Céle asked apologetically.

"No, Céle, I'm still awake."

"In that case, sir, I just thought you that might want to hear this before you go to bed - it might help you sleep a little better."

That had his interest. He stood up straighter.

"How so?"

"I have here a communiqué from Minister Kori, who states that his office is being deluged with surrender proposals," she all but laughed.

His brain reluctant to process what he was hearing, he stood momentarily frozen to the spot where he stood, with one arm halfway into a sleeve. Bastila, who was already in bed, was now sitting up, her bloodshot eyes not exactly wide, but less droopy than they had been a moment ago.

"Could you please elaborate on that?"

"The Foreign Ministry has been contacted by one-hundred ninety-seven systems in the past two hours, all of them desiring to discuss the possibility of a separate peace, and more calls are being received every minute," said Céle, who sounded as if she could barely contain her excitement, and spoke the next sentence in almost a whisper. "Sir, they're _collapsing._"

_Collapsing._ He ran the word over in his mind. _Collapsing. Two hundred systems in two hours, and we haven't fired a shot. It won't stop now, either._ Even still, he couldn't permit himself to think that this was the end, not when the potential for crushing disappointment still hung over him.

"Are there any details? Are these systems openly surrendering, or do they seek specific terms?"

"These calls are all coming from systems the Republic abandoned two weeks ago, and most are signaling their surrender."

"Yes, they were probably told that the Republic wasn't abandoning them, only regrouping, and now they see the truth of their situation."

"That would appear to be the case."

"Any word from Meric on this?"

"Ah…no, sir."

_She'll be the one running this, more so than Kori. She has the final say over accepting any terms short of unconditional surrender._ He began to fret that she might turn down perfectly acceptable offers, but chalked it up to the paranoia that he always suffered when exhaustion threatened. It was a maddening, if predictable, ailment, and it demanded an exercise of will to assure himself that there was no disaster here. _Meric can be trusted. She knows her business._

"Thank you for letting me know this, Céle."

"You're welcome, sir. You get your rest now: you won't be of any use if you run yourself down."

"Thank you for the advice," he chuckled. "Good-ni… Good-day, Céle."

"And to you, sir."

He silenced the comms, and finally finished pulling on his nightshirt.

"Well, there's something to ease one to sleep," said Bastila as she lay back down.

"Indeed."

"What's next? We're not following them into the Core, are we?" she yawned.

Proving the axiom that yawning is contagious, he found himself struggling to coherently answer, "No, not yet."

"Good," she said. "Too many ships are in need of repair, we'd be bypassing too many systems still occupied by the Republic, and the Core is too heavily defended for us to invade on a whim."

She lifted the sheets for him as he climbed in, and snuggled up next to her.

"I must reluctantly concur, and now seems as good a time as any to rest and regroup. I should like to think that the Republic itself may capitulate if the Senate sees too many systems fall, but that will most probably not come to pass. Curse them, but they mean to be stubborn, and to drag this out to the bloody end."

"Then the blood is on their hands now," she said as her eyes closed against her will. "Please do try to sleep, darling."

"You know I shall."

"I know," she barely murmured. "Sleep well."

"And you."

In spite of his exhaustion, his thoughts kept him awake as he lay on his side with his arm around Bastila.

_How many more systems will surrender? A few hundred? Five, six, seven hundred? A thousand? _He tried to picture the front, not that there was anything like a clearly-defined front line in space. _How many systems have they abandoned since the 4__th__? Fifteen hundred or thereabouts? The effect of that upon morale is inestimable. If we only wait now, secure and hold that which the enemy has forfeited, might they not disintegrate piece by piece? The Navy has lost more than a third of its strength since the end of Lüindel, and must rest. Focus on the Army for the time being… but they, too, are strained, have been fighting continuously at the limit of their strength. We must rest, but can we afford to? We ought to maintain pressure, break them now, but can we afford to do that, either? To attack the Core… We should have caught them in the open… They wouldn't fall for that, though… Too smart… So we wait…and rest…and repair… and then we attack… Then it ends._


	17. The Footsteps of Heroes

17

The Footsteps of Heroes

28 Aihwirth, 1,018 DÉ

25.1.20376

Brilliant golden sunlight shone in through the windows as the shuttle made its descent over central Vainach, towards the city that bore the same name. Situated on the opposite side of the globe from Tséchsnol, and much nearer to the equator, Vainach was the largest continent on Deralí, and was split by a mountain range running approximately southwest-to-northeast. North and west of the mountains lay predominantly dense evergreen forests, while the eastern and southern portions of the continent were dominated by vast open plains. It was there, on the northern bank of the river Eríol, that the capital of Deralí had been erected seven millennia ago. There being little terrain to conceal the buildings here, little effort had been made to do so, apart from limiting their height. There was nothing above thirty stories, and few structures greater than ten. Most were plain, modest buildings painted in soft colors such as grey, peach, or pale yellow, with large windows and open balconies and gently-sloping roofs. The only concessions to grandeur were two broad avenues that cut the city into four quarters, each one aligned with the points of the compass and bordered by lush green parklands. At the nexus of the two roads was a large square framed by four grey towers, each with sides that swooped up to a pointed summit, not altogether dissimilar from the Érilínash, except in scale.

Flying low and slow above the city, Revan looked down to see flags flying from spires and rooftops, and banners hanging from balconies. A great throng had gathered along the North Road, crowding the parks from Elthne Square in the city center all the way back to the spaceport on the northern outskirts. On side streets and in smaller squares that dotted the city were gathered large groups of soldiers - whose neatly-ordered formations easily distinguished them from the civilians along the North Road - and parked tanks.

"And to think that all this is on behalf of a man who loathes parties," Bastila quietly quipped from her seat beside him.

He turned to face her wearing a positively luminous expression. He thought she looked resplendently regal in her admiral's parade dress uniform, her left breast adorned with brightly-colored campaign ribbons and polished medals. She now wore a bar on the Distinguished Action Medal she had earned for Impulse, and beside it hung a Red Eagle awarded after Dynamic.

"Oh, but this is no party," he corrected her. "It's a parade, a review, a rally, and I do greatly enjoy those."

"Still a celebration, at any rate."

"True enough, but there has never been any public celebration of my birthday, and I do not believe that today's events rightly count as one. Superficially and in name, perhaps, but those people down there would not be gathered merely to wish me a 'happy birthday.' They are here because we have won greater victories in the last three months than in the two years that preceded them. Final victory is at hand, this is a celebration of that fact."

In response to his little speech, she just smiled and shook her head.

"And all of that is because of _you,_ sir," using the military formality that had become her standard when in public. "This war is drawing to an end because of _you."_

She had wanted to say something more, or to hold his hand, but they were not alone. Behind them were seated Tanen, Aimirdel, and Céle, and as always in public there could be no appearance of anything more than friendship between them. _For now,_ she reminded herself. Later, when she held a higher rank, when it was more than clear that she had earned her position (as if her service had not already made that clear enough), then they would be able to lessen their caution. After all, would it not be understandable enough that two people who had served together so closely in the war, who were equals and good comrades, should have developed an attraction for one another?

"I started the war," he said flatly, "and so I have nothing less than a sacred duty to finish it. That we have come so far is thanks no more to myself than it is to the countless heroes whose deeds will rarely be celebrated beyond their immediate families and friends," he said as he gazed out the window.

Shaking off his gloom, he turned back to her and added, "And, lest you forget, _you_ have not exactly been idle in those three months."

"Well, no, but I don't see anybody holding grand parades in my honor."

"Not yet," he corrected her.

The shuttle was banking now, flying only a few hundred meters above charmingly quaint neighborhoods of tall, narrow houses with little front lawns and, in many cases, vegetable gardens in back. A good many of them flew Deralín or Imperial flags, either from a pole by the front door or else hanging vertically from a second-floor window. He could see people enthusiastically waving up at him, everyone down there well aware of who was aboard the black and chrome shuttle being escorted by a squadron of blue and grey Xg-33s. As the shuttle slowed and swooped down toward its destination, the fighters overtook it, roaring past the windows before peeling off in either direction. He heard the undercart come down and lock, felt the nose lift up as the pilot flared for landing, but so smooth was the touchdown itself that only the sound of the engines winding down gave any indication of the event.

Without signal or command, they unfastened their belts and stood, Bastila retrieving her officer's cap from the vacant seat in front of hers. Céle, Tanen, and Aimirdel all bowed to Revan upon standing, then got in line behind him as they waited for the boarding ramp to be lowered. When it did so, it admitted the white noise of a great many mingled voices, along with a refreshing burst of cool, crisp air that blew in to replace the sterility of the cabin atmosphere. The sound grew louder, and as he took his first step onto the ramp, Revan felt the last of his melancholy fall away, and descended from the shuttle with a spring in his step and a genuine smile on his lips.

A stiff breeze blew across the spaceport, but it was a warm breeze, and devoid of the permanent dampness that clung to Tséchsnol. At the bottom of the ramp stood two columns, one of SD agents in black parade dress, the other of soldiers from the Army's 2nd Guards Regiment. At the end of the columns were gathered a number of high-ranking officers and ministers, and some ways back of them, a heavy presence of crimson-jacketed municipal police restrained a teeming, flag-waving crowd. Rifles were presented with a hard slap of flesh on composite, and bayonets glinted in the sunlight.

"_F__é, Revan-Méthnin!" _one voice rose above the others, albeit briefly.

Even before Meric had finished uttering his name, she was drowned out by a deafening unified cheer from the crowd.

"_F__é! Fé! Fé! Fé! Fé!"_

On and on it went as he stepped down onto the permacrete landing pad. That hail, spoken unchanged for thousands of years, was a greeting, an acclamation, a voicing of respect, and it stirred his heart as it always did. He stopped, removed the black Army-style hat he wore, and bowed, and as all present bowed in return, the cheers ceased as if a speaker had been switched off. When he straightened, the cheers resumed just as abruptly, and he resumed the walk between the lines of soldiers. Bastila and Céle were coming down the ramp behind him now, the former taking long strides to catch up with him, and by the time he had reached Meric and the other waiting dignitaries, she was nearly beside him.

"Well-returned, My Lord," said Meric as she swept off her hat.

"And a happy return, My Lady," he replied.

Beside her stood a wiry man with aquiline features and thin, grey-streaked brown hair and narrow brown eyes. His face was etched with deep lines, and his receding hairline revealed a scar that ran back along the upper left side of his skull. Long before he volunteered for public service, Néac-Méthnin had, at the age of seventeen, joined the Deralín National Army, which had been less of an army than a collection of revolutionary bands that fought the pro-Republic regime in those days. He had received the scar during an attack on a motorcade carrying the then-Minister of Defense in 969. While he hadn't been the one to fire the anti-tank rocket that killed the Minister, he had nearly been killed in the gun battle that followed. He had gone on to fight in many of the actions that led up to the eventual overthrow of the regime. Whereas he had come out on the winning side, he was now Prime Minister of Deralí.

"A thousand welcomes home, My Lord, and Happy Birthday," he said in his characteristically rough voice.

"Many thanks, My Lord."

"And it is a distinct honor to meet you, Admiral," added Néac as he turned to Bastila. "I have heard much of your achievements on the field, as I expect everyone has. I am honored to call you my countrywoman."

"Many thanks, My Lord. I do find myself thinking of this as my home, ever since the first day I set foot on Deralí."

"And so it shall be your home, Admiral. This very morning, I signed an order naming you a Citizen of Deralí. You have more than proven your loyalty, and your quality."

Visibly caught off guard, Bastila paused to draw breath and assume a properly humbled expression, while Revan felt his heart fill with a deep gratitude.

"I…don't know quite what to say, My Lord, apart from 'thank you.' This is a very great honor," she told him.

"I can assure you, it is I who must thank you. We all must thank you for your service, which has brought this terrible war so much closer to its end."

The exchanges of greetings and accolades continued, the proceedings not only observed by the massed spectators, but by several tiny camera droids that flitted overhead. So small as to be scarcely visible, they had been developed for the military, and a considerable number had also been sold to various news agencies within the Empire, including those filming the day's celebrations.

From their lofty vantage point, they recorded as Revan and Bastila finally made their way through the little cluster of officers and ministers to a waiting black landspeeder. Naturally, Revan took the front passenger seat beside the SD driver, while Bastila had to content herself with a seat behind him and beside Meric. Today was his day, his celebration, and he would be the one on whom all eyes were trained.

Invisible to the naked eye, a shield was raised around the open-topped speeder, protecting the three critically-important individuals riding within. Ahead of them were a line of grey-green Army speeders, while behind followed other limousines bearing Néac, Udel, Idanos, and others.

To the cheers of the civilians, the motorcade got underway, snaking its way past mammoth starliners parked on the ramp, all of them painted with the bright liveries of a score of different passenger lines. They skirted around the great terminal buildings, all curving glass and chrome, and out the main entrance between a pair of old starfighters carved from stone. Within minutes, they were on the North Road, surrounded by the clamor of the crowds, the chants of _"Fe!"_, the thunderous applause. Flags were waved with boundless enthusiasm, and flowers were thrown by some, most of these piling up in the road, while others sizzled against the speeder's shields. Taking hold of the frame of the windscreen, Revan stood with a broad smile gracing his features, whereupon the cheers only grew louder. Taking care not to touch the shields with it, he held his hat aloft by the brim, silently returning the hails of the adoring public.

Camera droids followed from every conceivable vantage point, some filming wide shots from fifty meters up, while others raced alongside the motorcade at eye level. Several swept the faces in the crowd, sometimes stopping to focus on one particular individual who had the "right look": healthy, clean-cut, respectable, not so attractive as to be unrealistic. One of them spent some time station-keeping right off the nose of Revan's speeder, filming back and up at him, before gliding around to get a shot of Bastila and Meric.

"Did you ever suppose you'd be riding at the head of a triumphal parade?" asked Meric without turning her gaze from the crowd on the side of the road.

"No, and I never wanted to, either," Bastila answered, likewise without facing the woman seated beside her.

"How do you feel about it now?"

"Oh, it's not so bad as I imagined - a little frightening, is all, instead of positively terrifying."

"I would say 'you'll get used to it,' except that I never have," laughed the SD Director. "He doesn't seem to mind, though, does he?"

"Me? No, not so much," Revan said from up front.

"Very humble," Meric remarked.

Throughout this little exchange, the camera droids had not only automatically filtered out their voices, but digitally altered the movement of their lips such that they would make no sense to those with a talent for lip-reading. It was standard procedure as required by both the military and SD, lest a civilian camera find itself recording sensitive information. In this case, the conversation was hardly a matter of state security, but it was erased from the public record all the same. The driver had overheard it, of course, but thought little of it, being Meric's personal chauffeur and well-accustomed to her surprisingly informal manner of private speaking.

The motorcade passed hundreds of thousands of spectators along the way, people of all ages gathered into the parks that bordered the road, some precariously perched in trees or on the edges of fountains to gain a view over the heads of those in front. A young boy tried climbing one of the stone statues that stood near the road, only to be quickly plucked off of it by his father. All eyes were fixed on the motorcade, everyone eager to see in person the heroes they saw so much of on their holosets. The only temporary distraction came when the squadron that had escorted the shuttle during the flight in made a low-level, high-speed pass above the parade route with ion engines shrieking.

Stealing the occasional glance astern of the procession, Revan saw tanks and bodies of troops emerge from almost every side street they passed and fall into trail behind the motorcade. Through it all, military bands standing here and there along the route played lively traditional tunes equally suited to dancing or marching, adding to the celebratory cheer. By the time they reached the square, the atmosphere was positively electrified, and so it was all the more arresting when the little convoy of speeders halted in front of No.3 Elthne Square and the bands fell silent.

The four government towers that bordered the square were largely identical to one another, and there was little to indicate that No. 3 had housed the Deralín Parliament during the Bleak Years, or that it was now home to the National Museum and the offices of the Ministry of Culture. What did set it apart from its three siblings were the fourteen square gold plaques bolted to its grey granite steps. They were set seemingly at random, scattered as they were over the whole length and breadth of the staircase without any sort of pattern or design.

With the speeder's door held by an SD agent, Revan disembarked from the limousine and began a slow, solemn march up the steps with his hat held low at his side. He kept his eyes down as he made the ascent, reading those plaques nearest him. _Éosan_ _Ghwenem, 910-953._ _Fenim Gröst, 927-953. Déothne Aihoren 914-953. _Each marked the spot where someone had fallen on that fateful spring day sixty-five years ago.

On a normal day, there would be tourists on these steps taking holocaptures of the plaques, or of each other standing on the historic spot made famous in film and song, or simply standing in silent reverence and contemplation. Today, however, the museum was, naturally, closed; and in place of hushed voices and beeping cameras, the only sounds were the footsteps of the party climbing the stairs and the flap of the flags overhead.

At the top of the steps, he passed through a pair of double doors held open by soldiers of the 2nd Guards Regiment and into the lobby. It was a bright and airy room, with a soaring ceiling and tall, tapered windows, and all of it adorned in grey granite and rose-colored marble, with flashes of emerald and cerulean and silver filigree ornamenting the details. There were more gold plaques here, more names of the fallen. All was overshadowed, however, by the larger-than-life mural that covered the far wall, and it was thence that Revan led the way.

The painting depicted the exterior of the building, including the very same steps which they had just climbed, only the scene was not nearly so calm as it was on this day. Large and jagged holes were blasted in the stone façade, and smoke poured from shattered windows. Down the steps charged fourteen armed men and women clad in quasi-uniforms of grey, green, and black. Six of them wore bandages, some of these stained red with blood; one man's forearm was wrapped where his right hand had been, and was firing a pistol somewhat awkwardly with his left. A woman with long red hair and hazel eyes was shown taking a hit to her upper left chest, while continuing to fire her rifle in defiance of her wound, her face an image of perfect calm and acceptance. _Thelic Nel, 917-953_, he recited from memory. Not far from her, leading the charge, was another woman, smaller and darker than Nel, firing a pistol with her right hand, while in her left she clutched a flagstaff. Singed and torn, the Deralín flag flew over Déothne Aihoren as she led the doomed Charge of Patriots. Above the mural was a quote from the poet herself that read, "We do not ask to be given our rights: anything which is given can likewise be retracted, and is therefore only a privilege. The only rights we hold are those which we secure for ourselves."

There he stopped, and stood before the mural, pensively regarding each face upon it. Some were calm, others afraid, but none revealed a trace of doubt. Each and every one of them had gladly fought and died for their cause. Rising against the traitors who ruled Deralí at the time, thirty-five rebels stormed the Parliament House on 10 Venthil, 953 DÉ. They breached the building's defenses and killed forty-three Members of Parliament, only to find their escape blocked by security forces. After a five-hour battle, in which more than half of the rebels were killed, Aihoren led the survivors in a suicidal charge. That day had served as the shock that woke the Deralín folk, and signaled the beginning of the end of the collaborationist regime. Even now, after sixty-five years, it still served as an inspiration, and as a symbol of heroic defiance and self-sacrifice.

He bowed then, to the heroes whose deaths had helped free his homeworld, dimly aware of the camera droids hovering overhead, recording this solemn moment. _Yes, yes, it will look good on the news,_ he told himself irritably. _It's not altogether respectful, however._ He had grown up reading of the Patriots of '53, had idolized them, and in more recent years had striven to live up to them. On the eve of his first action against the Mandalorians, he had read Aihoren's poetry and hoped that, were he to fall in battle, he might do so such that his death would make as great an impact as hers.

Several minutes later, he stepped back outside into the warm sunshine, onto a black and white balcony overlooking the square. Below him, just in front of the steps, a large band had assembled, and now began to play the soaring, graceful air _At the Break of Day. _A proud celebration of renewal and awakening, of strength and honor, it had long been the unofficial anthem of Deralí. Whereas none had yet been chosen for the Empire (both conveniently and by design), _At the Break of Day_ had likewise become its unofficial anthem. As the song was played, the Imperial and Deralín flags were simultaneously raised over the building opposite. (Though invisible to the naked eye from the balcony, a trio of camera droids were following the flags up the pole, looking back across the square at No.3. It made for a very dramatic and moving shot.)

"Salute!" Revan's voice rang across the square, and hands were raised in tribute to the rising banners.

The flags reached the finial at the same moment that the song trailed off on its final note, and there was, for a time, silence in the square. It was as if the world was holding its breath…and then released it.

"Forward!" called a man from the North Road, where ranks of soldiers now stood.

"Forward!" echoed thousands of voices, all of them speaking as one.

"_MARCH!"_

In perfect synchrony with the first stamping footfalls, the band struck up the _Malachor Triumph March_, composed following Revan's defeat of the Mandalorians. In marked contrast with its predecessor, it was a rousing, invigorating, bellicose tune, rich with brass and drums, jingling bells and crashing cymbals. In flawless time with the beating of the drums, into the square marched a regiment in crisp parade dress, twenty abreast, with boots and bayonets polished to a mirror finish. In front marched the commanding and executive officers and a color guard bearing the regiment's flag.

"Eyes…right!" barked the regimental sergeant major, and every head in the formation turned sharply to the right.

"Salute!"

From their lofty perch on the balcony, Revan and the other assembled dignitaries received the salutes of the thousands of soldiers below.

And so the parade went on, with a full division passing of through the square. After rank upon rank of marching infantry followed the tanks: huge, low-slung machines fashioned of oblique surfaces, with six-meter gun barrels protruding well ahead of the hulls. The turret hatches were open, the commanders standing and saluting as they drove past. They were subsequently followed by the artillery walkers, lumbering and entirely lacking the deadly grace of the tanks, but compensating for it with naked brute force.

Following the Army was a large contingent of Navy and Marine personnel, and, in trail, the SD, with the entire parade lasting for an hour and a half. At a distance behind the last ranks came civilians as the police gradually dismantled the barricades to allow the spectators forward. It was an orderly process, with a manageable number of people being ushered into the square at any given time.

While this was transpiring, the band, which had, by now, played through most of its repertoire, fell silent, and Revan's ears were met with a distant hiss. The hiss rose, and built upon itself, until it assumed the quality of a strong wind whipping around the corners of a building. The crowd filing into the square was slowed as many looked about in search of the source of this noise, which now revealed itself in the form of starfighters flying overhead. There were fighters, bombers, and assault shuttles flying in formation, several hundreds of them in all, and they not only drowned out all efforts at speech, but blotted out the sun for a time as they passed overhead.

By the time the flyover was complete, much of the square had filled with spectators, and when at last there was no more standing room and the police had cordoned off the North Road, it was Néac who stepped forward to the microphone mounted on the balcony rail, receiving much applause from below.

"My folk, how many of you have come today?" he asked when the cheers had trailed off. "I look out from this balcony, and I see tens of thousands, perhaps a hundred thousand, here in this square. How many more stand out on the North Road? How many more watch these proceedings on their holosets, wishing they could be here? All of our folk, I wouldn't doubt, and a great many more on thousands of other worlds across this great Empire.

"Out there," he gestured to the sky, "are thousands of worlds that have chosen to cast their lot with us, whose people have made common cause with us, whose people are not only our allies but our comrades. They fight for the same cause as us, they share the same dream as us.

"Billions upon billions fight with us, and many have died to bring the Cause to this point. I feel it is, for that reason, especially appropriate that I should deliver this address from the site of the noble sacrifice that inspired me to take up this cause many years ago. On this spot, in the halls and on the steps below me, thirty-five men and women gave their lives to defeat a tyranny, to preserve their values, and to awaken their people. Right now, this very moment, how many thousands are doing the very same? To them - to all who sacrifice for the Cause - let us give thanks."

Revan bowed his head, along with Néac and everyone else on the balcony, as a minute of silence was observed. He, personally, needed no reminder of the price of the war, but far too many civilians did. Far too many thought of sacrifice only in terms of rationing, as something to be endured with grumbled complaints. They would never know what it truly meant.

"All of us who are a party to this cause," continued the Prime Minister, "who call ourselves citizens of the Empire, do so because we share common dreams. We dream of a future in which justice and honor and decency are the guiding principles not only of government, but of society. We dream of a future in which no one is dragged down in the name of equality, but in which all are given the opportunity to rise up. Equal justice, equal opportunity, and honor: these are the foundations upon which to build a civilization.

"These are not new concepts, and these are not new dreams, but what is new is the force behind them. For the first time in history, a great power exists for the specific purpose of turning these dreams into solid reality. For the first time in history, our cause stands on the brink of complete and total victory.

"There are many, myself included, who have worked for years to further our cause, but I do not believe that any of us ever seriously considered the possibility that we should have come so far. Certainly, none of us would have imagined that it could happen in our lifetime. Personally, I had only ever thought of restoring Deralí herself, not daring to hope for anything beyond that. I never dreamt that, today, she would be an integral part of an empire spanning not one sector, but the entire galaxy. I doubt that there are many people alive today who could have imagined the events of the past three years, but one man did.

"One man dared to reach higher, to strive harder, to go beyond everything that was allegedly possible or reasonable. This man who stands with me today recognized that it is the hardest-to-attain, most dangerous goals that are most worth pursuing. He envisioned something greater than what anyone thought possible, but he couldn't stop at that: he has made the vision fact.

"Too often, his skill as a military commander is spoken of with such esteem that his greatest quality of all is forgotten. It is true that, time and again, he has delivered the impossible: in scores of battles, he has won great victories, when by all logic he should have met with defeat. There have been other great commanders before him, however, and there will come others in future generations. What sets him apart is not _how_ he fights, but _why._ Long after the names of battles that today stir the heart with pride and grief have diminished to historical footnotes, it will be this dramatic shift in the course of history that is remembered. It is my hope that Revan is remembered not only as one of history's great leaders and strategists, but as the greatest of visionaries, the one who forever changed civilization as we know it. The dream is older than him, or any of us, but _he_ is the one who has, at long last, brought it to life.

"That is why so many have come today, and why so many more watch from afar: because they know that nothing will ever be the same again, and that none of this would ever have happened were it not for one man. That is why we celebrate his life. Hail, Revan! _Fé, Revan-Méthnin!"_

From the square arose a thunderous chant that carried on long after Néac had yielded the microphone.

Udel stepped forward next, received his own share of applause, and, being a far better staff officer than an orator, proceeded to deliver a rather brief speech. The words, which had naturally been composed by a professional writer rather than a professional officer, were projected in the air in front of him, and, having rehearsed it the night before, he managed to deliver them well enough. He praised Revan's qualities as a soldier, his selfless and unswerving dedication, his bravery under fire, and so on. A similar speech by Idanos followed, albeit one delivered with slightly greater passion and depth, the marshal proving more adept at public relations than her Navy counterpart.

The microphone was then passed to Revan's Chief of Operations. Until recently, that post on his personal staff had been occupied by a rear admiral from Sermeria, who had usually found himself with little real work to do, since Revan oversaw so many operations in person. The man had therefore harbored no love for the assignment, preferring instead to serve on a fleet staff, and had, in fact, applied for just such a transfer three months ago. Nobody had thought much of it, therefore, when the transfer was finally approved on the 17th, a suitable replacement having been located.

The new Imperial Chief of Operations, Rear Admiral Bastila Shan, had absolutely no experience in the field of public speaking. In fact, as she reluctantly stepped to the fore, she admitted to herself that she had little experience in any public affairs whatsoever. She had grown comfortable in her role as an officer, or at least as comfortable as one could be when tasked with the level of responsibility she held, but she suspected that she would forever remain socially awkward. When her ears were assailed by applause from the gathering below, she was nearly frozen and unable to react, or even to think. She felt as though she was standing in the open on a battlefield, with every reason to expect that she would be struck dead in the very next instant, and unable to do anything besides stand there and await the inevitable. Of course, when she wasn't struck dead, and the adulation began to wind down, (_Were they applauding _me_? _she had to ask herself) she knew that she would have to actually _say_ something.

Her mouth was suddenly parched, her heart racing, her skin tingling as she looked upon the hundred thousand faces below. She had to force her eyes to the teleprompter, focus on the floating blue letters that she knew were supposed to form words. _It's even in Basic, dammit,_ she thought, furious with herself for becoming so flustered by so simple an act as reading a prepared speech. She had rehearsed it the night before in front of a mirror, and then in front of Revan himself, and had even been confident enough at the time to insert several lines of her own. She had recited it flawlessly then, so why not now? _And at least try to carry yourself like a bloody hero,_ she fumed, _instead of a doddering fool. _Squaring her shoulders and forcing her face into a more stoic expression, she decided that, if anything, she should get a medal for this, as it terrified her far more than any battle she'd yet fought.

Now at last the words came into focus, and she drew a deep breath, and began to speak.

"I cannot adequately express the depth of the gratitude I feel as I stand here before you, here in this place so steeped in history, and at so remarkable a time in history. I find myself standing in the footsteps of heroes, and am humbled beyond description to think of the legacy I'm helping to carry on. A year ago, I couldn't have begun to imagine that I could possibly be where I am today, and doing what I am today. It would have been almost beyond comprehension to think that I would now be a part of…well, what is surely nothing less than the greatest revolution in history.

"As viewed from the other side, it is all very different, of course: the Republic paints this as a brutal war of conquest and subjugation, and us as bloodthirsty tyrants and mad fanatics. They are correct only insofar as war is brutal, for that is its nature, and to pretend otherwise - to glamorize war, as too many who are removed from the fighting are inclined to do - is far worse than to admit the truth. War is a harsh, violent, and tragic business, and it is incumbent upon all of us to do everything in our power to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"But to return to the point, this is not a war of conquest, it's a revolution. We're fighting not to subjugate and exploit others, not to win land, but to create a better galaxy, a better civilization, and, ultimately, a better future, and _that_ is what terrifies those people on the other side. Those with power and influence, who run - and _ruin _- the lives of trillions as though it were a game, know precisely what this war is about, and they know that when the Republic loses, they, personally, will lose _everything_. When this war has been won, their world will come crashing down, their power and wealth reduced to nothing. They fear the future we aim to build, because it is a future without their corruption and their tyranny…a future _without them_.

"All my life, I had dreamt of great things, great deeds. Even as a little girl, I imagined myself fighting for the innocent and slaying terrible villains," she said with a little laugh. "Later, I hoped that, one day, I might have the chance to fight in actuality, to fight evil and injustice throughout the galaxy. After all, as I'm sure most of you are aware, I was once a Jedi. I spent most of my life being raised as such, and I was always told that the Jedi are the guardians of peace and justice. I do not doubt their conviction, nor the noble intentions of many individuals within the Order, but what I eventually came to understand is that the Order itself protects a system that enables evil and injustice of the worst sort. For every tiny victory that an individual Jedi might win, the cause which he or she claims to uphold suffers _ten thousand defeats_ because the _system_ is allowed to endure. I finally understood that no matter what I might do, as a Jedi, I could never do anything to meaningfully further my dreams.

"When I said that I'm grateful to be here today, doing what I am today, I obviously didn't refer to delivering this speech. Quite frankly, the idea of having my words televised to the entire galaxy terrifies me," she managed another laugh, and actually felt some of her anxiety fading as her enthusiasm grew.

In spite of the words she had just spoken, she could almost imagine now that she wasn't being watched by anybody at all, and her palms felt not quite as damp as they had a minute ago.

"What I meant to say was that I cannot properly convey how grateful I am to be able to participate in this revolution, for this is _precisely_ what I have always wanted to do with my life, even if I didn't always know it. For too many years, I simply assumed that my fate and my purpose lay with the Jedi Order, because that's what I was raised to believe and expect. It took me far too long to accept that my calling might lie elsewhere, along a path of my own choosing, rather than along that down which I was being forcibly marched; but once I accepted that, my choice was clear. There is not a shred of doubt in my heart today that this cause is just. I found my calling in the form of this revolution, and for that I am immeasurably grateful. To be as deeply involved in these monumental events as I am, and to have the opportunity to contribute to the cause as much as I have, is an honor beyond compare," she said with a deeply heartfelt smile.

"Yes, I am most thankful that the events of my life have evolved in the way they did. That I took full advantage of the opportunities before me was by my own choice, but that the opportunities arose in the first place must be attributed to Revan. As the Prime Minister said before me, the cause existed before Revan, but he has brought it to fruition. Without him, I, along with so many others, would never have had the chance to put my dreams into action. Were it not for him, I would have lived out my life in bitter frustration, and died with my dreams unfulfilled. Thanks to him, I was given the opportunity to reach my potential, and to achieve great and meaningful deeds that I can look back on with glowing pride for the rest of my days.

"We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a man who has touched the lives of us all. That is why we honor him, and why we follow him."

She turned to Revan, and said in conclusion as she swept off her hat and bowed, "From the bottom of my heart, I thank you."

Hoping as he did so that the cameras didn't zoom closely enough to capture the tears in his eyes, Revan bowed in return. While his face was turned toward the floor, he blinked away the tears, wearing a decidedly stoic expression when he stood.

Bastila then turned back to the microphone and her audience, and let fly an exultant, _"Fé, Revan-Méthnin!"_

Secure in the knowledge that she'd made it through her entire performance without incident, it was a relief to step away from the railing as another round of cheers filled the square. She watched Meric take center stage now, and wait patiently for the applause to subside. She resisted the urge to look toward Revan, and share at least a smile with him, contenting herself with the love flowing through their bond at the moment.

Meric was, as it turned out, far more accomplished as a writer than she was as an orator, for although her words were quite inspiring, her delivery was far from it. When she finished, the applause that followed was undoubtedly more in thanks for the work she had done for her homeworld than it was in approval of the actual speech.

Finally, Revan himself stepped to the microphone, and the cheers rose to fever pitch. He stood there, smiling warmly at his people, and, after awhile, rose his hands in a gesture that bade quiet.

"My folk! My comrades! _Fe!_" he exclaimed in greeting, and held his hat aloft, and so shattered the silence he had just created.

When the applause had once more trailed off, and he began to speak in earnest, he did so with quiet solemnity. It was, in large part, a very thankful and humble address, in which he tried his best to share credit for his many successes, insisting that he could never have accomplished anything of note on his own. He urged his audience not to make this day a celebration solely of him, but of all those who were not at home to celebrate. It was they who were owed the applause and the thanks.

To Bastila, it was all rather predictable, for she had heard it all before, but to those watching from the square or on their holosets, it must have been refreshingly endearing. Here was a man who, for all his success, remained a loyal soldier at heart, and one who knew that he was a part of a much larger team. Here was a man who, for all his power, refused to succumb to the temptations of power, and remained fiercely devoted to his principles and his cause.

Toward the end, the topic turned to the conduct of the war, and his tempo and volume began a slow-but-steady increase.

"For nearly two and a half years now, we have prosecuted this conflict with every scrap of courage and resolve, every measure of sacrifice, and every drop of blood we have to give. In the beginning, and at many times since, when the outcome was by no means certain, the threat of defeat has hung over us. From the beginning, it was plain that defeat was not an option, however, and that death would be infinitely preferable, for defeat would mean the final and irremediable destruction of our cause, our ideals, and our way of life. From the beginning, all that which we treasure and, yes, _love_ has hung in the balance. Now, at long last, that threat has begun to lift.

"After two and a half years of unremitting warfare - of _total_ war - the enemy has at long last been brought to his knees. I need little detail to you the many achievements and victories of the past three months, so loudly trumpeted have they been by others. Suffice it to say, then, that the Republic's capacity to resist has been all but destroyed, its navy reduced to less than a third of what it was in Lüindel, and its army scattered and encircled on hundreds of worlds. Every day, we watch footage of riots on Coruscant, on Kuat, on Carida, and on how many other planets throughout what territory they still hold? The people of the Republic have had enough, and have conceded that whatever may follow surrender must certainly be no worse than prolonging the agony of downfall. They have already suffered too many privations, heard too many lies, lost too many friends and relations to carry on in support of their politicians' war!

"They can see for themselves that the Republic's fate is sealed, its doom near at hand. To all decent folk presently living in the Republic, fearfully awaiting an uncertain future, I say this: no decent, honorable, moral person need fear the coming age, for it is you who stand to gain. It is the corrupt, the abusive, the morally bankrupt who ought now rightfully tremble in anticipation of the future, as Admiral Shan said so eloquently earlier. It is they who are the true enemy, and when the dust of battle has at last settled, it is they who will meet with justice!

"This war is drawing to a close, but as the admiral so rightly stated, this is not merely a war, but a revolution. When the Republic has surrendered and the guns have fallen silent, there will yet remain copious work before us. I shall issue no claim that we may all, when the peace is concluded, rest on our laurels, for nothing could be farther from the truth. The war will have been fought and won for nothing, and every sacrifice made will have been in vain, if we do not continue our work with tireless persistence. The war was fought to bring down a diseased, pernicious system, and afterwards, there will come to the fore the task of raising a new system in its stead.

"But you, my folk, have already seen this new system, this new order. We already _live_ in it, as did our forebears in the First Age. This order has existed before, has _thrived_ before, and it has its roots in our most treasured ideals. Nay, our ideals _are_ the roots of the system, the very foundation from which it grows. Every day, by holding true to our ideals, and by _living_ our ideals, we are growing, spreading, strengthening the new order. You and I and all who share our ideals, all who fight for the Cause…"

Veritably bursting with enthusiasm as he spoke, he suddenly trailed off, drew a deep breath, momentarily gazed off into the azure sky, at an imaginary point high above the buildings. At no point before now had he ever removed his eyes from his audience, had never once stolen a glance at the teleprompter, but now paused to gather his thoughts before pressing on to the finish.

"The Cause lives within us!" he exclaimed. "It lives within all who believe, and so it shall live on long after ourselves! Through every grueling trial and every raging tempest - through every withering tragedy - the Cause has endured, and now, at long last, has sprung forth to bear its glorious fruit! At long last, our moment of victory, and thereby the victory of all that we treasure, all that we believe, all that for which we fight, is at hand!"

32 Aihwirth, 1,018 DÉ

29.1.20376

It was breathtaking. In the soft light of dusk, the land was covered in a milky sea of fog, out of which arose green and brown islands. The eastern horizon was indistinct, the land seeming to blend into the sky, so close in color were the two. A damp chill hung in the still autumn air, and Revan turned up the collar of his coat as he stood on the hillside above their house. Turning uphill, he trudged through damp knee-high grass, taking each step with care to avoid tripping on hidden rocks or sinking into soft ground. There was an art to hiking here, especially in spring and autumn, when the ground could often turn boggy in seemingly-random places. One could be standing on perfectly firm terrain, take one step, and sink in above one's knees. It took some experience to learn to recognize the solid ground, which usually featured the densest growth of grass: patches of short grass were best avoided.

"And it never gets much colder than this?" asked Bastila as she walked beside him.

"No, not much. Oh, we'll have snow in the winter, but it's rare to see more than two or three centimeters, and rarer still for it to linger."

Though their home was relatively far north, the ocean currents served to moderate the climate, and yielded generally pleasant temperatures year-round. It was one further reason why he had chosen the site, apart from its spectacular beauty.

Up they climbed, passing through a thicket of the seemingly-windblown _fantir_ trees that grew on the ridge. As Bastila had discovered, they bore dark blue fruits that ripened around this time of year, and that were wonderfully rich and sweet. They were also remarkably versatile, and apart from being eaten straight, they could be squeezed into juice, whipped into sauce, mashed into jam, or cooked into any number of other dishes. Not that either she or Revan had yet the time to try their hands at any such things, but she had certainly sampled the end products, and found them all to be exquisitely delicious. As she passed between the trees, she spied one particularly large and succulent-looking _fantir_ dangling from a lofty branch, and plucked it with her thoughts, sending it drifting gently down as if in slow-motion to land in her waiting palm.

"We're nearly there," declared Revan as he pointed with his whole hand to a spot about fifty meters beyond the edge of the grove. "That lovely great slab of limestone over yonder."

Emerging from the trees, they climbed the last stretch of hillside and stopped at the top of the ridge, where they spent a few minutes searching for a relatively dry section of bare rock upon which to sit. Pulling back his cuff, Revan checked his chrono, then looked out across the slate-grey sea to the western horizon, above which hung the salmon-tinted orb of the setting sun.

"Seven minutes."

Together they sat and admired the stillness, the serenity, the resplendent majesty of the land, the pastel colors of the clouds building in from the west. Those nearest the sun were gaudy shades of pink and orange, while the scattered clouds that were drifting lazily overhead were painted a deep grey-violet. They each put an arm around the other's shoulders, leaning close together as they watched the light play upon the waves far below them.

"It is as if we have only just arrived," he said sadly after a while.

"We _have_ only just arrived - eight days ago."

"And tomorrow we leave again." He shook his head in dismay. "All too soon."

"I know," she barely whispered.

"I had almost hoped the _Lianna_ wouldn't be ready. After all, she's had so many delays already that it wasn't unreasonable to expect yet another."

(The repairs to the _Deralí_ wouldn't be complete until the second week of Dûlif, and the _Belderone's_ No. 1 Reactor was mysteriously refusing to run at full power, temporarily leaving the recently-commissioned _Lianna_ as the only operational battleship.)

"Yes, she's only a month and a half behind schedule. At this rate, there's no chance at all of the _Almania_ seeing action," lamented Bastila.

"No, and I don't doubt that in years to come, there will be complaints issued that resources were wasted on a ship that never fired her guns in anger, even though this is by no means the first time that such a thing has happened."

He withdrew a datapad from inside his coat and found himself re-reading for at least the tenth time the revised plan for Operation Deliverance, which was now aimed at Fondor, rather than at Corellia. The objective had also been scaled back from the final destruction of the Republic Navy to merely denying the enemy the use of the Fondor Shipyards, as well as the destruction of any forces defending that system. It was not expected that the enemy would choose to make his final stand at Fondor, but that a blow could nonetheless be delivered that would facilitate final victory. As for when the killing blow would, in fact, be struck, it was now expected to come some time nearer to the end of Dûlif. By then, all three battleships would be fit for service, and the Army would have secured (or at least largely so) a good many more systems.

_Patience, _he told himself. _The time for daring has past, now that it is we who have everything to lose. _It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but it was the honest truth that time was now on their side, and patience the greatest virtue. Like a wounded animal, a foe on the verge of defeat could still be dangerous, if only because he was driven by desperation. To plunge ahead without due consideration was more likely to yield needless losses than it was to end the war. Furthermore, even if the fabled "decisive engagement" could not be fought against an enemy who refused to fight, victory could still be won by steadily chipping away at the Republic. The flood of surrenders had slowed to a steady trickle, but the Republic was still disintegrating a little more with each passing day.

Moving on, he scrolled through the morning's communiqués, and found the latest report from Wallen, which hardly served to lift his spirits.

Sensing his concern, Bastila laid a hand over his.

"An Imperial Guard squad infiltrated as far as Tapasi, where they met a number of Jedi in a rather disastrous engagement. Only two Guards escaped with their lives, in return for four Jedi confirmed dead. Furthermore, as Wallen points out, it is proving increasingly difficult to locate Jedi at all."

"They won't sell their lives cheaply," she observed. "You can be assured of that."

"That is very true. Worse yet is the prospect that they will go underground, vanish, only to reappear time and again in the coming years to disturb the peace. No, this business _must_ be finished."

He watched Bastila purse her lips, and looked out at the sun as it seemed to deflate on the horizon.

"I know. I'd like to think that the Jedi will allow us peace. They speak so much of peace, and yet…" She shook her head grimly. "You're right: we _must_ finish this."

1 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

35.1.20376

The star map projected in the middle of the palatial home office was depressing. There really was no other word for the schematic floating above an antique rug woven in white, gold, and royal blue. It sat like a hideous, menacing monster in the midst of elegant bronze statues and flowering plants, filling all the open space in the room. To so much as look at it was like staring down the barrel of a gun, with all fear smothered by the sheer overwhelming inevitability of what was about to happen. The outcome was so flagrantly obvious, so horribly certain, that he could no longer make the slightest effort to persuade himself to the contrary.

"I didn't think it would happen this way," he said with a remarkable degree of strength.

"Did anyone? It still doesn't seem possible," said a gravelly voice behind him, heavy with contempt for his adversaries.

"I mean the surrenders," Oberreck corrected his guest. "The whole Vivenda Sector…and without a shot fired."

"They've been cut off for two months. That marshal there - I can't think of his name - knows there's no point in putting up a fight. He's not going to sacrifice his men for a lost cause."

"But the Army hasn't suffered the same crippling defeats as the Navy, and if we fought for every sector, every system, every city and town and field…"

"If we did that, you'd be remembered as the bloodiest warlord in recent history, my friend," said his guest with far too much humor. "You'd be the man who not only watched the Republic burn, but poured fuel on the fire."

At that, Oberreck turned sharply to face an especially stocky Lannik with short grey hair and a craggy face not too dissimilar from worn leather. A considerably wealthy man, Garel Roos was known as either a great thinker and philanthropist, or as a callous and manipulative bastard, depending on whom one asked. He had accrued most of his lucre through clever financial dealings, and spent most of it on political causes, and had been accused of everything from collapsing markets to rigging elections. How much of that was true or exaggerated, Oberreck didn't honestly know, and nor did he care at the moment, for Roos was in many ways the perfect man to carry out his designs.

Though he and Roos frequently saw eye-to-eye (and Roos had generously contributed to the chancellor's campaigns), the two had never before met in person. All their prior dealings had been conducted via heavily-encrypted hypercomm channels, but now it didn't seem to matter all that much if they were seen together. Yes, Roos was at the center of enough conspiracy theories to fill the Jedi Archives, but it was only a matter of weeks or months now before Oberreck's political career was finished anyway. Even so, for the sake of security, they were meeting in the estate of a senator who had fled Coruscant the week before, and surrounded by bodyguards..

"And the people wouldn't stand for it, anyways," he admitted. "They've already folded. Why do you think I'm meeting you here, after all? It's because nowhere else is safe. I can't set foot in the Senate these days, not without having to worry about getting shot or blown up or Force-knows-what else. Why, I can't even get to the Senate, because it's under a veritable siege by protestors. Those bloody damned traitors have me wishing I had something like the SD at my disposal."

"Well, they are just ordinary people, after all. Take away their luxuries and leave them to their fear, and they turn on you in a heartbeat: it's the nature of the beast," quipped Roos as he studied the star chart.

"I wonder what they're waiting for," he mused.

"Our latest intelligence is that Revan's still on holiday on Deralia," Oberreck replied.

"Deralí," Roos corrected him. "You'd better get used to saying it that way, or they'll tack a few extra years onto your sentence."

It was rare that the supreme chancellor felt any sort of violent impulse, having always thought physical violence beneath him, but he could picture himself striking his colleague just then. He knew it was a joke, albeit a tasteless one, and yet still it made his blood boil. He tried to assure himself that his reaction was purely a result of extreme stress. He hadn't, after all, felt like himself in a very long time.

"Perhaps, but what's a few extra years on a life sentence?" he answered with frosty calm.

"Hmm, point taken," Roos chuckled. "Still better than what I'm sure to get if they take me. Shot in the head and thrown in a ditch, I expect, or maybe even the other way 'round."

He was right, of course, not that spending the rest of his natural life in a prison cell held any appeal for Oberreck. From what he knew of Deralín prisons, they featured around-the-clock solitary confinement, no exercise, and a subsistence-level diet.

"More seriously, though, there was an unsubstantiated report that the _Belderone_ suffered from reactor problems around the middle of the month, and has been out of action ever since. The Imperial Navy as a whole is tired, and their Army is gathering its strength for an invasion of the Core. Even still…we're doing far worse than them. They could have come right on."

"And when they do attack again? What then?"

"Wenz is proposing a fluid defense - fall back and counterattack and all that rubbish - but he's outnumbered two-to-one, and Revan won't move until he's ready."

He shut off the projection and wandered over to the bank of windows that overlooked the endless cityscape and bustling skylanes. There was beauty in it, magnificence. He had always seen Coruscant not only as the capital of the Republic, but as the capital of progress, success, culture. _And Revan calls it an abomination._ "The physical manifestation of a diseased civilization," were the words Oberreck recalled from one of the man's speeches. _What will this view be a century from now? _he wondered. Coruscant would no longer be the center of the galaxy, that was certain. It would be a world in decline, its lights going out one by one, its stately buildings slowly crumbling, and that was exactly what Revan intended.

"I called you here for a reason, of course," he said softly.

"I didn't imagine you only wanted to show me a map,"

"Have you considered my proposal?"

"Of course - I've had plenty of time."

Oberreck waited, but Roos was silent, save for his pacing footsteps.

"And your answer?"

"It could be done. In fact, it wouldn't be all that difficult. I already have a long list of people who could provide the initial nucleus. Granted, they'll likely all be dead and gone when the Empire finally implodes on itself, but then that's what children are for, am I right?"

"You have a list?" asked the chancellor as he turned to face his colleague.

"Not a physical one, of course. All the names are all up here," Roos said, sounding almost offended, as he tapped a finger to his temple. "They're…"

"By all means, don't tell me a single one of them," Oberreck blurted out, the tension in his heart rising to the surface again.

"I wasn't going to," chuckled the Lannik. "I'm not a fool."

"No, you're not."

"You can make this happen, then?"

"With enough money, anything is possible, my friend."

Oberreck turned back to the window, clasped his hands behind his back.

"I haven't spent my entire life working to create a new order only to see it torn apart by a band of thugs. The work might outlive me, but rest assured that it will be finished one day," Roos told him with cold resolve in his voice.

Oberreck nodded, wondering if those words were mere bravado, or wishful thinking, or if he truly had a realistic plan.

"I certainly hope so."

"I should warn you that you won't be able to contact me again after I leave here."

"Why not?"

"I'm leaving tonight, and I don't intend to be found…by anybody."

"Ah, yes…of course. I wish you luck."

* * *

It was two hours later when Verinia Krainen sat at her computer with a bowl of mixed nuts on the desk near her left hand, periodically popping a few into her mouth as she scrolled through page after page of data. Sitting in the bright light of the early-afternoon sun, her fingers smearing grease from the nuts on her keyboard, she let out a loud yawn, proclaiming her terminal boredom to the universe. Hacking into the Treasury database had been child's play by her standards, trolling through the files was a task entirely beneath a woman of her skills, and she found herself wishing for the umpteenth time that afternoon that Revan would hurry up and win the damned war so she could go back to being a normal civilian.

She had, after all, once been a software developer of some note, with a six-figure salary and a country house on Alderaan. Then the kriffing Mandalorians decided to start a war, and the galactic economy went down the drain, her employers went bankrupt, and her stocks were suddenly worthless. She'd then gone four years without a real job, being forced to work as everything from a sales clerk to a taxi driver, and live in an undersized hovel of an apartment. Then a new war got going and, paradoxically enough, provided her with a new opportunity. Had Krainen been of a more philosophical bent, she might have reflected on the irony that one war had destroyed her life, while another had renewed it, but her interests didn't go far beyond writing code and making money. That was why she didn't hesitate when an Imperial Military Intelligence operative offered to pay her to spy on the Republic. She didn't have a political bone in her body, and couldn't see any difference between the Republic and the Empire, except that the latter was willing to pay her to hack databases and write viruses. It was a no-brainer.

In recent weeks, though, the work had become decidedly less interesting than it had been throughout much of the war. She was turning up little in the way of useful data of late, or at least not anything that she could recognize as useful data. A part of her worried that the Republic might finally be catching onto her, and was feeding her garbage, which also meant that they might come and nab her any day now. She had expressed her fears to her handler, who assured her that she had nothing to worry about, and that this would all be over soon enough, but she was still worried.

Maybe that was why she almost jumped out of her seat when her comm rang. It was a voice-only call, and it didn't help that she didn't recognize the number.

"Hello, Verinia speaking," she answered as calmly as she could.

"Verinia Krainen?" asked a male voice with a faint accent that she couldn't pin down.

"Yes," she replied warily.

"You are on the payroll of Imperial Military Intelligence." It was a statement of fact, not a question, and was delivered without a trace of emotion one way or another.

Her heart stopped, and she felt the blood drain from her face in one of those "my world is ending" moments that brought back memories of watching her accounts drain down to nothing.

"Tell me if you recognize this voice," said the man on the other end.

His own voice was then replaced by a deeper, softer one, which Krainen was certain she had heard before, but couldn't match to a name.

"…wouldn't stand for it, anyways. They've already folded. Why do you think I'm meeting you here, after all? It's because nowhere else is safe. I can't set foot in the Senate these days, not without having to worry about getting shot or…"

"I…" Her voice was quaking with fear. _How did they find me? Was it when I hacked the comm net last month? _

"I…I don't know." It could have been her father's voice, and she probably wouldn't have recognized it in the state she was in.

"I'm sending you a couple of files that your handler will want to see. See to it that he does."

"Who are you?"

There was silence, and she thought for a second that the mystery man had hung up.

"Someone who's looking out for the people of the Republic… What I should have been doing all along. Good-day, Ms. Krainen."

This time, he really did hang up.

She sat there, frozen in shock for what felt like an hour, until her heartbeat returned to something resembling normality. With a shaky hand, she opened her mailbox, and found an audio file and a text document, and she forwarded both to her handler, then got up and went into the kitchen. She needed a damn drink.

* * *

It was 2203 when Garel Roos was shepherded by a quartet of bodyguards through his private hangar, past his small fleet of luxury airspeeders, and into a waiting shuttle. He had intended to leave shortly after midnight, but the Imperial 1st Group had attacked and captured the Tapani Sector, including Fondor, that afternoon (_so much for Revan being on holiday_), and he saw no point in lingering any longer than he had to. The enemy wouldn't be reaching Coruscant today or tomorrow, but the farther the Imperial Navy penetrated, the more difficult would be his escape. If the main battle fleets were on the edge of the Core, it meant that those marauding commerce raiders that were so adept at slipping behind the lines would soon be preying on shipping near Coruscant.

Hurrying up the ramp, he felt for the first time a sense of shame, as though he was a common criminal on the run. He had grown accustomed to being hated, vilified, threatened, even shot at by the occasional extremist nutter, but being hunted as a fugitive was something entirely new and distasteful. It was just one more sign that everything was being turned upside-down, he decided. It was as if a sizable percentage of the galaxy had gone mad.

The ramp was coming up before the trailing bodyguards were even off it, and Roos quickly took a seat and fastened his safety belt. Then he watched as his chief of security, a towering man named Vygh, froze while in the middle of sitting down, and touched a hand to his ear-bud commlink. A second later, he was back on his feet, launching himself forward to the cockpit door.

"Get us up!" he shouted with far too much urgency in his voice for it to be anything less than an emergency.

The emergency was confirmed roughly two seconds later, when there was a terrific bang, and the shuttle bucked as though having struck something, though Roos knew perfectly well that it had yet to even lift off. He sat there, wide-eyed and baffled, looking about for some indication of what was going on. His confusion was shattered by the sight of blaster bolts sailing past his window and tearing into the shuttle's polished chromium wing.

"Get us up!" Vygh was shouting frantically as he clung to the door frame.

"Fire on Engine Two!" a voice emanated from the cockpit.

"Get us up!"

"Fire suppression active!"

"Get up _now!"_

"On one engine?"

"Freggin' _go!"_

Roos felt the craft lurch into the air, swaying unsteadily on its repulsorlifts, saw more blaster bolts hitting outside the window.

"_GO!"_

Now he could feel the shuttle moving forward, was pressed back in his seat by the acceleration, watched the hangar flash past the window. They were almost clear of the maelstrom, almost out of the hangar, when he was deafened by a second explosion, and saw bodies tumbling through the cabin as the shuttle rolled. There was no time to brace before the impact, his head was thrown forward into the seat in front, then sideways against the window, and everything went black.

"…he alive?" he heard a woman demand with mixture of anxiety and anger.

He was vaguely aware of heat, flashing lights, and the sense that his head was being squeezed in a vise. Everything seemed to be spinning, including the man who knelt over him with a medical scanner in hand.

"He's conscious, ma'am," said the man. "Spinal column intact, major organs intact."

"Then pack him up on the double."

Strong hands closed on his shoulders and ankles, and he was lifted onto a stretcher. Straps were fastened around his limbs and torso, and then the stretcher was rather incautiously hefted off the ground. He felt something warm and sticky running down his face, and gagged on acrid smoke that burned his lungs and stung his eyes. At least the heat was subsiding, replaced by cold night air, and then he was suddenly inside a speeder that he guessed must have been parked just outside the hangar door.

"That was too damn close," said the woman as she climbed in beside the stretcher. A door was slammed shut.

"Secure! Go!"

With a hard acceleration that sent blood flowing into Roos's aching head, they were airborne.

"Don't just sit there, you're supposed to be the kriffin' medic," the woman said irritably. "If you don't get that gash closed, he'll bleed to death before he's even off-world."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Will…" Roos mumbled. "Will…I…make it?"

"You'll live," answered the woman as she leaned into his field of vision. Her soot-darkened face was plain and severe, with black hair scraped back into a bun, and her left hand was dripping blood. She wore a vaguely-military sort of outfit, including a vest of fiber-armor on which was hung various weapons and tools. When she met his eyes, her lips crooked up into a half-smile. "But you'll wish you didn't soon enough."


	18. Operation Moonrise

18

Operation Moonrise

23 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

22.1.20376

"Corellia caved during the night," said Fahn between bites.

Tanen as he washed down his own breakfast with a mug of steaming _dír_. "They sued for peace?"

The engineer nodded, his mouth full.

"Are they coming over?"

"Not sure. The news only said they sued for peace. Knowing Corellians, though, I doubt they'll be too eager to sign on. Probably rather be an independent system."

"Fine by me. I've nothing against Corellians."

"Same here, so long as they're not shooting at us."

"Right," Tanen concurred with a smile, then drained the last of the brewed beverage from his mug in a single gulp and pushed his chair back from the table.

"Drop in fifty-four," he said just loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the officer's mess.

Fahn nodded, a smile forming on his lips.

While depositing his tray and mug at the counter, Tanen caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished steel bulkhead, and thought that his collar looked peculiar. It was the additional pointed silver leaves pinned there, of course. He was a line captain now, would be in command of a squadron were he not already captain of a ship with the firepower of an entire fleet. He supposed it was natural enough for him to have been promoted again, even if he had started the year as a captain-lieutenant. It was far from unusual in this war or this service for promotions to come even faster than that, but it still felt rather sudden to him. When Deralí declared war on the Mandalorians, he had been a mere lieutenant serving as the weapons officer on a frigate.

He had little time to think on the matter, though, for the _Deralí_ had been on alert every day for the past five days. Every morning, he would dress for his shift expecting that this would be _the_ day, but for nearly a week now, the Imperial Navy had waged a fruitless campaign of maneuver as it pursued an enemy who obstinately refused to turn and give battle. Even flying into the Kuat system two days ago had yielded only a brief skirmish with local forces who surrendered after putting up a token resistance. Surely, though, today's outcome would be different. It had to be.

Quitting the officer's mess, he took a short walk down the corridor to a door from which extended a lengthening queue of men and women. On seeing their captain approach, the others stood aside and let him pass to the front, whereupon he entered into a modestly-sized chamber decorated not in the ubiquitous military grey and green, but in pale wood paneling and stone tile. Against the far wall was set a simple, heavily-built wooden table, upon which rested a _sér_ tree sapling planted in a green pot; two stones, one rough and the other smooth; and a bowl of water flanked by a large number of small glass cups. It was a shrine to his homeworld, and one of ten aboard the battleship. There were few of his countrymen who took literally the old sagas and myths, but all true Deralinv held sacred the homeworld, and every Deralín warship possessed at least one such shrine, where the crew could pay their respects to the sacred land.

On entering, Tanen removed his cap and bowed, then walked briskly across the empty space of the room. He picked up a cup from the left side of the table, filled it with water, and took a sip. It was cool and clean, having come from a spring on Deralí herself, as did the tree, the soil in which it was planted, and the stones. The remainder of the water he reverently poured onto the soil before setting down the cup on the right. Lastly, he took five steps backward, bowed once more, and turned to leave.

On stepping back into the corridor, he was greatly startled to find Revan himself blocking his path, and immediately stood to attention and saluted. He had seen Revan at the shrine before, and ought not to have been overly surprised by his commander's presence there, and yet for some reason he was. Perhaps it was because he had never before seen Revan there on the eve of battle, but only in times of peace and quiet. Personally, he most needed contact with his home on occasions such as these.

"At ease, Captain," said the C-in-C with reverent quiet. "Carry on."

"Yes, sir."

He saluted again, turned and set off for the bridge with a flame of hope kindled in his heart. _Yes, this is it,_ he thought. Today would witness in the largest naval battle in history, and the last naval battle of this war. He was certain of that now.

On his way to the bridge, he passed Admiral Shan, who also appeared to be on her way to the shrine. _She's a citizen now, after all, and she really has taken our ways to heart. _Rumor had it that she would soon be named a _méthnin_, likely after the battle was won. Personally, he couldn't object to the idea, as he regarded her as a decent and honorable woman with unquestionable devotion to the principles for which this war was being fought. She had performed remarkable service in the last four months, and, if other rumors were to be believed, had secretly been serving the Empire for some months prior to that as a spy within the Jedi Order. That story had been all but confirmed officially, though the details were all still classified, probably to protect other agents still working within the Republic. There could be no doubt that she had, after all, saved the Empire from unspeakable disaster on 22 Tsédíth. Were it not for her, there was no telling what the galaxy would look like today, and Tanen, for one, didn't care to imagine such a scenario.

There was, of course, yet another rumor about her, to which he gave less credence. It was obvious enough and understandable enough that she and Revan were good friends, but there were those on board and elsewhere who were of the opinion that their relationship ran deeper than that. Nobody could ever offer any evidence, of course, and Troop Leader Diric - the one person most likely to know of any clandestine relationship - had stated unequivocally that it was a myth. Personally, though, Tanen couldn't have cared less whether it was true or not, Bastila Shan having more than proven her quality to his satisfaction. What she or Revan did with their personal lives was entirely their own business.

The next forty-four minutes were whiled away as the engineering staff double- and triple-checked every system aboard the ship, and Tanen was left with little to do but wait. The ship was in peak condition, a far cry from the situation of four months ago, when she could barely make a hyperspace jump without trouble. The crew, though tired from five days of alerts, was still in high spirits and more ready for a fight than he had ever seen a crew before. They were all veterans, all knew what was to come and what was expected of them, and would all give everything they had to see the coming fight through to a victorious end. Anybody aboard that ship who possessed even the faintest knowledge of history also knew that the codename for the attack - Operation Moonrise - had been chosen by Revan in honor of a far earlier battle. As the Battle of the Rising Moon had been the death knell of the collaborationist regime on Deralí, so would Operation Moonrise bring the death of the Republic.

At 0639, ten minutes prior to their drop, Revan entered the bridge to a round of cheers and applause, and stood there humbly for a time, allowing the crew their moment of celebration. Then he walked to the center of the bridge, to Tanen and Aimirdel's stations, and exchanged salutes with the captain and XO.

"Captain, what is your report?" he inquired with stiff formality.

"Sir, beg to report, the ship is ready for action in all respects. Shall I order the crew to stand to?"

"I should desire a few words with them first, Captain."

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir."

Tanen took a step to the side, allowing Revan to activate the comm on the armrest of his chair.

"Crew of the _Deralí,_" he began, "I shan't burden you with any unnecessary words this morning. You all know what is at stake this day; you all know your duty; you know the importance of the task that lies before us, and the mettle of our foe. For five days now, we have hunted him to no avail, but today will be different. Today, we are bound for Coruscant, and if the Republic Navy will not stand and fight to defend its own capital, then it must concede defeat. I do not believe they will concede defeat, however, but that this day, we shall take part in the last great battle of this war, and the largest battle in history. All that has been done in the past, all that has been sacrificed, all that has been won, has been leading to this day."

He paused then, and Tanen thought he saw the C-in-C's jaw quiver ever so slightly, his stoic calm fractured by the depths of passion stirring in his heart, before he continued.

"My comrades…my folk… All those who have died in service of this cause, in the years leading up to this moment, are with us here today."

It was only the second time Tanen has watched Revan address the crew on the eve of battle, and this speech could not have been more different from the one given before Impulse, nearly four months ago. Where there had been theatrical bombast, there was now quiet assurance. The end had come at last.

"Stand…to!"

Revan cut the comm and broadcast the drum roll, and for what felt like an eternity, no words were spoken aboard the bridge. It was only Revan himself who could break the silence:

"Captain, I wish you good hunting."

"Thank you, sir."

Salutes were exchanged again, before Revan turned on his heel and departed for the command center.

The bridge crew returned to their seats, Tanen's eyes captured by the projection showing the position of the _Deralí _as she closed with her objective, as well as the estimated positions of the other units converging on Coruscant. The numbers involved were truly staggering, all caution having been cast to the wind. Gone was any pretense of finesse or subtlety, replaced with solid weight of force. Even if the Republic Navy threw at them every ship it had, they would still hold a two-to-one superiority in numbers, and an even greater superiority in firepower. They simply could not lose.

As the time to drop was counted off, both by the large chrono on the wall and verbally by the navigator, the tension mounted, and Tanen felt his palms grow slick on the arms of his chair.

"Three minutes," was announced, whereupon he turned to Aimirdel.

The XO met his eyes with dark gravity, and Tanen spoke the words, "We shall arm main battery."

"Arm main battery, aye."

The safety keys were inserted, the two officers received the obligatory biometric scan, and the arming codes were entered. A hush settled over the bridge, broken by the computer's warning: "Main battery primary safety disengaged."

"Weps, confirm main battery arming."

Senior Lieutenant Nílíane Drunin, the Chief Weapons Officer known more commonly by the moniker "Weps" than by her own name, read off the indications on her console.

"All primary capacitors tied to MBEs B through F. Turrets B through F unlocked and slaved to CTC. MBEs B through F now open. Primary safety disengaged."

They had all run through this before, had done it eight times in the past five days in preparation for actions that were never fought, but this time, every word carried an abnormal weight behind it. Lines memorized from manuals and seared into the brain by countless drills suddenly assumed a deep solemnity.

"MBEs B through F charge level to auto."

"MBEs B through F charge level to auto, aye. System awaiting target data."

"Target priority by mass then range."

"Target priority by mass then range, aye. System awaiting target data."

"Arm secondary batteries, slave to CTC."

_Will this be the last time we do this?_ he asked himself. _For real, at any rate? That's the difference, isn't it?_

"Arm secondary batteries, slave to CTC, aye," Weps acknowledged his order. "Secondary batteries armed and slaved to CTC, all turrets unlocked, primary safety disengaged."

The minutes passed swiftly now, as swiftly as the ship herself dashed through hyperspace en route to the very heart of the enemy. Every action was automatic at this point, and any sentiments stirring in Tanen had to yield to cool professionalism.

"Sixty seconds to drop."

"Seal all blast doors, fire suppression to auto."

"Seal all blast doors, fire suppression to auto, aye." The familiar warning horn blew its long, low, mournful note. "All compartments sealed, fire suppression armed."

"Disengage secondary safeties all batteries."

"Disengage secondary safeties all batteries, aye… Secondary safeties disengaged on all batteries. All batteries are clear to fire."

Without turning from his console, and without raising his voice a fraction more than was necessary, the navigator made the call, "Thirty-three seconds."

_We're in sensor range…if they're even out there._ But he had to believe that the enemy would be waiting for them.

"Ten seconds."

"ECM to full," he said without needing to think about it.

"ECM to full, aye."

"Five…four…three…two…one…"

He felt the familiar shudder, the vibration that ran through the whole mighty ship as she shifted between dimensions.

"…drop!"

"Shields up!"

"Shields up, aye… Shields at one hundred, all quarters"

Then there was silence. He waited, unaware that he was digging his fingers into the padded arms of his chair, unaware that he was leaning forward with eyes burning holes into the tactical display. The ships of 3rd Group flashed into being all around, and then 4th Group also appeared nearby. _The others will follow,_ he reminded himself. _They're out there._ The three remaining Groups - minus a relatively small contingent left behind to guard against any enemy incursions into Imperial space - were supposed to be holding at fail-safe points five minutes away from the Coruscant system, and were to converge only when the enemy was sighted.

Coruscant itself now appeared on the map, ringed by minefields and orbital defense platforms. It was expected that the Republic Navy would operate in conjunction with the latter, thereby adding to their firepower, although that still wouldn't come close to evening the odds. As there was no plan to invade, the mines could be ignored altogether.

"Contacts in all quarters, IFF confirmed."

"Hostiles?" he inquired.

"Orbital defense platforms... I have a number of civilian vessels breaking orbit…" The sensor chief's eyes were darting back and forth across his displays, his fingers tapping almost frenetically as he scrolled through the data. "No warships."

Tanen felt as though his chair had fallen out from under him, or that he had been struck in the chest and all the air knocked from his lungs. The disappointment was a palpable, crushing blow.

"Do we have sensor datalink with the other ships?"

"Sensor datalink is solid, sir. No hostile warships on any scopes."

It didn't make any sense. _They wouldn't really abandon Coruscant without a fight, would they? No, surely not… Not unless they're surrendering._ Could it be that the whole damn Republic was going to surrender? They had no hope of winning, after all.

"Bridge, SCC," Revan's voice broke the tension.

"SCC, Bridge," he replied.

"I believe the enemy to be inbound, so we would do well to make use of what time we have. Close to firing range and engage the defense platforms"

"Aye, sir. Engage defense platforms, aye."

"SCC out."

_He believes the enemy to be inbound, and he's never been wrong before._

Turning to Aimirdel with a hint of a smile on his face, he issued the command, "Take us in."

"Aye, sir. Helm, steer two-six-five, plus zero-one-one, ahead flank."

Settled into her chair in the ready room, Bastila could feel the moment of truth fast approaching. The _Deralí's_ main battery easily outranged the turbolasers on the platforms, and the drop had been sited such that she was less than sixty seconds from firing range at maximum acceleration. More importantly, she could feel the enemy closing on their position. She read in them a hard determination, but also profound sadness, and much fear. _They know this is the end, and, hopefully, that will make my job that much easier._

For the time being, there was little for her to do besides watch on her desktop display as the _Deralí_ commenced her long-range bombardment. One by one, her big guns shattered the Republic defense platforms with impunity, firing with the steady cadence of a drumbeat. Witnessing the one-sided destruction, Bastila found herself thinking as a strategist, chiding the Republic for its dalliance with fixed defenses. _How many ships could they have built in place of these, and what harm could they have done to us with them?_ The future of naval warfare as she understood it lay obviously with larger ships mounting larger guns and stronger shields, such as the _Deralí. Not that there will be much of a future to naval warfare,_ she reminded herself. With the Republic consigned to the annals of history, there would henceforth be only one great power in the galaxy.

The heat of impending danger was intensifying in her mind, however, and she could ill afford to be musing on the future when it still had yet to be written. The enemy was close now, very close…

At 0655, as a forty-eighth platform took a hit that tore open a third of its bulk and sent it spiraling on a course that would eventually plunge it into Coruscant if not stopped, the Republic Navy at last made its appearance. She watched on the display as amber icons winked into existence: great swarms of them appearing close to the planet, near to the defense platforms. It made tactical sense, of course, to combine their firepower, but if they wanted to do anything besides serve as targets for the _Deralí_ and - in the very near future - the two other battleships, they would need to close the range and lose the support of the platforms. _It won't take them long to sort that out, not if they have any sense at all._

Deactivating the projection, she shut her eyes, slowed her heart, and slipped free of her body. _And so it begins. _As greatly as she desired to do all she could to bring a swift victory, she dreaded the task ahead of her. The scale was truly overwhelming, the numbers several orders larger than anything she had dealt with before, especially following the arrival of the three remaining groups. She felt that same vast increase in numbers, however, beat upon the morale of the Republic crews in merciless blows, the enemy receiving a brutal reminder of the hopelessness of his position. As the battle developed, she found her talents needed more by her own people, who, though in the highest of spirits, were lacking in decent coordination. They had dropped in proper position, enveloping the enemy and trapping him against the planet's gravity well, but to coordinate the operations of so many vessels was a thing unheard of. Never before had so many ships fought together in one place, and she felt even Revan being taxed to his limits in managing them. He held in his mind a perfectly clear picture of what ought to be, yet transforming that into reality was proving all but impossible.

As viewed through the Force, the battle was a morass of tangled and twisted threads, which she poured everything she had into straightening. The situation was in constant flux, however, as her people reacted to the enemy's increasingly chaotic movements. Units would advance, only to be recalled back into formation when it became apparent that the enemy was not yet collapsing; or else shift this way or that so as to gain a better firing angle, only to find themselves drifting into another unit's field of fire. Revan was constantly dashing off orders to this or that unit, positioning them so as to best exploit the enemy's weaknesses, but these, too, were ever-changing. It was not long into the battle that the Republic formations came apart entirely, and the enemy grew increasingly desperate.

Only once did they manage anything resembling a rally, as four battlecruisers - the only capital ships left to them - formed up and made a run at the Imperial 14th Fleet. It was pure madness, its only conceivable purpose to exact the highest possible price in blood for the defeat of the Republic. She turned all her focus upon the crews of those four ships, setting all her will against them, but still they managed to inflict too high a toll. Concentrating their fire on the Imperial battlecruiser _Crusader_, they inflicted fatal damage upon that ship within the span of several minutes. By that time, the _Lianna_ had moved into position and, together with the battlecruiser _Vanguard _and a large number of heavy cruisers, let fly a terrible vengeance. The suicidal attack was halted with the total loss of all four enemy ships, and she read then in the enemy's hearts a crushing despair.

At 0628, she suddenly felt a need for somebody to move closer to Coruscant, or perhaps even to flank the planet. She couldn't say why, but she was quite certain of what ought to be done, and passed the thought through their bond. Revan was, at the time, concentrating on the Republic's 3rd Armada, or rather what remained of it, for reasons unknown to Bastila herself. _What do you see there?_ she wondered. _Something I've missed, _gíal_?_

Surrounded by the white noise of the SCC staff conversing with dozens of commanders across the battlefield, Revan found a nervous excitement burning through his veins as he sent the order to Kechel: _1__st__ Group advance and concentrate all fire upon 3__rd__ Armada._ He felt them breaking; actually, physically felt it like a crevasse splitting open in a glacier with a low rumble and a sharp cracking. Something told him that this was it, the very end, and so he was quite surprised when into his thoughts crept Bastila's idea that they must flank Coruscant. It seemed unnecessary at the moment, when victory was within his grasp, but he faithfully obeyed her wishes. After consulting the map, he came to understand that it might, in fact, still be possible for a limited number of enemy vessels to escape, and so commed Mal'cave.

"Sir," he was greeted by the slim, well-manicured Balosar officer.

"We would appear to be nearing the conclusion of this business, Admiral, in spite of the fanatical determination of some of those people over there. The majority of them have had enough."

"Just give me permission to follow 1st Group in, and we'll finish them," she said with hard enthusiasm.

"No, Admiral, you're much too far out of position to support the 1st. Instead, I want you to maneuver out this way," he indicated a course on the map, "and flank the enemy's main body. They are still very near to Coruscant, and Admiral Shan has suggested that they may attempt to escape in that direction. Even if they do not, such a maneuver will place them under additional enfilade fire, and surely hasten their capitulation."

He thought it only honest and proper to attribute the suggestion to its source at this time. It could easily be read by Mal'cave as an attempt to shift responsibility should the move prove ill-advised, but he harbored no doubts in Bastila's judgment, and thought only of giving her due credit for what was sure to be a success.

"Yes, sir," Mal'cave replied with a slight nod of her head. "It shall be done at once. I don't expect we have much time left to work with."

"Agreed. Speed is of the essence now, Admiral."

"Yes, sir."

At 0632, as the first calls for surrender were arriving, he saw Bastila's prediction proven true: nearly two thousand ships broke from the main body and made a run almost directly at Coruscant. Quite obviously, they purposed to skirt around the planet and, once clear of its gravity well, jump away from the far side; and there ensued a desperate race between 3rd Group and the fleeing enemy. He could feel Bastila spurring on their crews, and simultaneously weighing down the enemy with all the dismay and resignation she could contrive. As they came under fire from 3rd Group, some of them abandoned their efforts at escape and signaled their surrender, joining the ever-growing number of vessels from the main body. Others found themselves overtaken and trapped by Mal'cave's interdictors, and so were forced to concede failure.

At 0643, the survivors of two fleets made good their escape, jumping to hyperspace on the far side of Coruscant. That little more than six hundred ships slipped through the net was of little importance, however, when set against the overall picture. Not five minutes later, the Republic broadcast a call for a cease-fire, and the _Deralí_ was hailed Grand Admiral Najel, the newest C-in-C of the Republic Navy.

She was a Sephi with straw-colored hair and soft green eyes, and was really quite lovely, though that was not an assessment made by Revan at the time. What did strike him about her was the sorrow that weighed upon her features, and the weariness in her eyes. When he had learned that she had replaced Wenz following Operation Assurance, he had naturally read all that was known of her career. By all accounts, she was a competent, though not remarkable, officer, and one who had generally performed well in all her previous assignments. Prior to her recent promotion, she had held the rank of fleet admiral and commanded the 16th Battle Group, and thereby passed over a number of more senior officers to receive the dubious honor of commanding the entire Republic Navy. It was plain enough to him that she had been given the assignment only because no one else would accept it. After all, she would now be remembered as the officer who surrendered Coruscant and nearly the entire Republic Navy.

"Your Excellency," she acknowledged him.

It was the incorrect form of address, and indeed one entirely unused in Deralín practice, but he let it pass. In all likelihood, Najel knew her error, but simply couldn't bring herself to use "My Lord," and instead spoke as if to the Supreme Chancellor. She blinked hard, shut her eyes for a long second or two, stiffened her posture.

"Having observed the…progress of this engagement…" she said slowly, haltingly, "I must conclude that it cannot end favorably for the Republic. No amount of skill or…act of bravery…can alter the fact that we find ourselves in an impossible position. Just as importantly, I've been given no reason to expect that…to expect that the war in general can end with anything other than the Republic's defeat. I can't in good conscience order my crews to fight on."

She stopped then, and Revan regarded her with sympathy. She was the Republic's scapegoat - the officer chosen to lead a doomed cause in a hopeless battle - and now she was forced to do what had been expected of her from the moment she was given her command. As a professional officer and a woman of honor, she deserved better. _Even now, when they have nothing left to lose, they can show no decency._

"That you find yourself in this position is no fault of your own, Admiral," he addressed her with a trace of sympathy in his voice. "By all rights, it is your politicians who ought to be making this surrender, and not an officer who has done her duty to the best of her abilities. It is they who bear full responsibility for having drawn out this war beyond the point of reason or decency, and it is you who have acted rightly in calling an end to this."

She seemed to think on his words, likely did harbor some bitterness toward those who had placed her in this situation, and who had ordered her and those like her to fight and die for a hopeless cause.

"I do my duty," she said at last. "But it's not my duty to sacrifice good people to no end. It's only for their sake that I do this. I… I offer you the surrender…of the Navy of the Galactic Republic."

He rose from his chair, met her eyes, stood at attention.

"And your surrender I gratefully accept, Admiral. You have my word of honor that you and your crews will receive proper treatment."

"Thank you. With your permission, I'll signal the units that…withdrew…to cease action and report back here."

"Permission granted, Admiral. You may carry on."

With slow and deliberate precision, he raised his hand in salute and held the pose until the salute was returned. Strength and dignity appeared in Najel's bearing as she did so, and Revan cut the transmission with a turn of his thoughts as the two of them still stood facing one another.

The very instant her hologram vanished, his ears were overwhelmed with exultant hurrahs. No longer was anyone seated, every hat was held aloft, every voice strained to its utmost, and the initial cheers were superseded with cries of, _"Fé, Revan-Méthnin!" _and _"Fé tsíl!" _All the while, he could think of little beyond Bastila, whose exhaustion seeped into him, leaving his legs soft and his stomach weak.

"Thank you. I most sincerely thank you all, and not merely for the accolades you give me now, but for your years of tirelessly devoted service. Ever shall you have my gratitude, and the gratitude of every generation to come."

He bowed to them then, and they to him, and he found his heart awash with every emotion from pride, to relief, to a joy so profound as to bring tears to his eyes. He unashamedly wiped away the tears, composed himself, and departed the command center to the tune of one final "hurrah!"

Once in the corridor, he very nearly ran to the ready room, and once inside, was instantly at Bastila's side, gingerly lifting her face from the cold, smooth desktop and propping her up in her chair.

"Bastila," he whispered as her eyelids fluttered. "We've done it."

"…done it," she murmured back.

"We've _won._"

Strangely, the words didn't sound like his own, didn't sound altogether _real_, and he had to wonder if he had truly uttered them at all, or had only thought them. Above all, he couldn't quite believe that the words were true. It didn't seem possible. _And do not get ahead of yourself. Their Navy has surrendered, but their Army yet remains in the field. We're still not at the _very_ end, though it is now assured._

"They surrendered," she said with a little more force behind her words. "Didn't they?"

"Yes, they did," he replied as the tears returned.

Her eyes opened fully then, and she leaned forward far enough to put her arms around him. He did likewise, and kissed her tenderly, his hand finding its way to her luxuriantly smooth hair.

"Happy birthday, my love."

Regarding him with a thoroughly befuddled expression, she repeated the word, "Birthday?" before giving a tired little laugh.

"Oh, right, and I'd nearly forgotten. Not exactly at the top of my priorities list today," she said wearily.

"Admittedly, it hasn't been at the top of mine, either, but, with that said, I should sooner forget my own than yours. I do only wish that we could have been home today, that all this could have been over with in time."

"The Republic did it to spite me," she said with stern reprobation. "That's why they drew this out for so bloody long - just to make sure I couldn't celebrate my birthday in peace."

"As I've said before, they know no decency," he said with a smile forming on his features.

"None whatsoever," she concurred.

* * *

She watched helplessly as the spoon slipped from her fingers, bounced off her knee, and clattered on the wood floorboards, while her suddenly-limp hand flopped onto the table. _Not again._ An all-too-familiar anger and shame welled up in her, and she immediately leaned over and tried to retrieve the fallen utensil with her left hand, only to find that she couldn't reach it. _At least that was the first time in almost a week,_ she had to tell herself as her husband silently rose from his seat to retrieve the spoon and deposit it in the dishwasher. _That's not half as often as it used to be._

At one time, Helena Shan hadn't been able to go more than a couple of days without some sort of lapse of motor control. If she wasn't dropping something, she was stumbling over her own feet or slurring her speech, and that was at best. After enduring two nine-hour surgeries, however, she had to admit that she could see progress in her condition. A third and final procedure was scheduled for after the first of the year-or at least it was supposed to be final, though her doctor had warned her that a fourth might be required depending upon the results. After that, she could look forward to a lifetime of taking four pills per day. _But it's better than a slow death, and I have Bastila to thank for that._

Sedret laid a clean spoon on her plate, then leaned in and kissed her gently on her cheek before returning to his seat.

"You're improving," he reminded her as gently as he could.

"I know."

She also knew that she was being impatient as usual. Her doctors had certainly told her often enough that she needed to be patient, and that she shouldn't expect to see results overnight. Recovering from Kiran's Syndrome-and particularly after the disease had progressed as far as it had in her-wasn't something that could be rushed. It took time to rebuild the damaged nerves. Unfortunately, patience had never been her strong suit anymore so than humility, and she found the speed of her progress almost as unbearable as the continuing accidents.

As she returned to her porridge, she saw her husband fidgeting across the table. Not long after they moved to Serenno, where she was receiving her treatment, he had taken a job servicing engines at the local spaceport, and was due there in less than an hour. The time now was 0637, and he would have to leave by no later than 0710 if he was to be there on time. He looked up from his rapidly-cooling breakfast, clearly searching himself for the right words.

"When are you going to call her?" he asked after much ado.

Helena _knew_ that was exactly what he was going to say. She had told him she would call Bastila, or at least try to, so that they could wish her a happy birthday: after all, their daughter had been only six years old the last time they had been able to do so. In the months since their reunion, however, their only communication with her had been in the form of written letters, and even those were both rare and brief. At least Bastila had been kind enough to supply her parents with a comm channel, though. From talking to other patients in the hospital, she had learned that all military families were given discrete comm channels via which they could contact their loved ones in uniform, but that these channels could frequently be off-line depending upon current operations. Helena had finally tried to comm her daughter two days ago, but ended up speaking only with Bastila's aide. That hard-nosed young woman had curtly informed her that "the admiral" was occupied, that her time was precious, and that the situation was unlikely to change until the present campaign was won. As to when that would be, it was-like most everything else surrounding her daughter-classified.

"It's afternoon by her time, isn't it?" she asked.

"Er…yes. It's 1637 to her."

"Then I'd better try now."

She flexed her right forearm and fingers, testing their strength, before pushing back from the table and crossing into the living room. It was just a small flat they occupied, though it was quite high up, and ample sunlight streamed in through the front windows in the morning. The welcome, warming light fell upon her face as she sat down at the little desk and turned on her computer.

As had happened the last time, there was an inexplicably long delay in connecting her with Bastila, or even with her aide. She assumed that it had something to do with encrypting the signal, or ensuring that she couldn't trace Bastila's position, or something along those lines. The minutes ticked past, and Sedret turned on the holoset as he did every morning after breakfast. Every morning, right up until the last minute when he could procrastinate no longer and was obliged to leave for the spaceport, he searched the news stations for any word of Bastila. Personally, Helena didn't much care to watch the news, as it was always about the war. From what she saw and heard in the first few minutes, today was no different. Another naval battle had been fought and won, and there was much excited talk from pundits about this being the end.

"Don't they ever get tired of the sound of their own voices?" she irritably demanded.

Sedret said nothing, changed the channel, listened to a different anchor speaking of the battle. From this account, however, Helena soon formed the idea that something different and momentous had actually happened this time, even as she tried to shut out the words.

"Are you hearing this?" Sedret asked her, the words coming out soft and quick, lest he block out what was being said on the set.

Finally turning around, she saw a ridiculously-attractive and well-coiffed thirtysomething woman in an overpriced business suit. Ms. Standard-Issue Anchorperson was seated at a standard-issue Big Polished Desk, and behind her floated an image of warships floating above a planet covered in spiderweb lines of tiny lights. There were few people in the galaxy who wouldn't instantly recognize that worldwide cityscape as Coruscant, and equally few who, on seeing a vast fleet of ships in orbit around it, wouldn't draw the obvious conclusion. Even so, the anchor felt the need to provide some commentary.

"…not comment on exactly how many ships remain in the system, but as you can see from this live feed, it looks to be at least several thousand. I'm told that a lot of what we're seeing here are captured enemy ships, or ships of our own that were too damaged to leave the system, but that still leaves…at least a few thousand of our ships blockading the planet. That's against an estimated one thousand to fifteen hundred Republic warships that haven't obeyed Grand Admiral Najel's surrender order. Presumably, the rest of our Navy is out hunting those, but it's clear that the blockade of Coruscant won't be broken…"

Sedret turned to her, half-whispered, "There was a battle above Coruscant itself, and the commander of the Republic Navy surrendered."

"Surrendered the whole Navy?"

"Apart from the ones that didn't acknowledge the order, like she just said."

"So is the war over?"

"I don't think so, not if the rest still haven't surrendered. I haven't heard anything about Oberreck, either."

"He's right: the war still isn't technically over, but we have won, for all intents and purposes," they were both startled by the voice coming from directly behind Helena. When she spun about, she found herself facing a holographic bust of Bastila's aide.

"I beg your pardon if I frightened you, ma'am," said Céle with what sounded like genuine contrition.

"No, hardly," lied Helena. "I don't suppose I can speak with my daughter today, can I?"

"The admiral is understandably very busy today, ma'am. We've beaten the Republic Navy, but the war still demands her attention, especially in light of the enemy's chaotic situation."

Helena felt a surge of impatience well up from her core, and with a firm set to her jaw stared down Céle. Hearing her daughter referred to as "the admiral" again didn't help her mood.

"You are aware that today is her birthday, aren't you?" she asked curtly.

From the moment's hesitation, it was evident to her that Céle had, in fact, forgotten, although she answered with a clipped, "Yes, ma'am."

"Are you aware that I haven't spoken to my daughter in over three months, and that I haven't gotten to wish her a happy birthday in twenty-one _years?_"

"Yes, ma'am."

Céle's dispassionate, ultra-professional personality was rapidly grating on her nerves, and Helena started to wonder if there was any question the woman couldn't answer with "yes, ma'am" or "no, ma'am."

"Then do you think that I might be able to talk to her for just a few minutes?"

"I'll ask her right away, ma'am."

"Thank you."

Céle's hologram disappeared, and remained absent. Helena and Sedret sat there in expectant silence, the minutes dragging on: three, four, five… They tried watching the news broadcast again, but Helena found that she couldn't focus on the words being spoken on-air as her mind raced in anticipation. Only now did it occur to her that she had no idea what to tell her daughter apart from "happy birthday," which she knew would sound perfectly foolish on its own. _Do I congratulate her? I mean, what do I tell her?_ The few letters Helena had sent never went much beyond assuring Bastila of her improving condition (even when she wasn't satisfied with the pace of improvement) and asking her to look after herself. Sedret always managed to put in a few lines in which he tried his best to sound supportive, but even he had difficulty knowing what to say.

"Ma'am," said Céle when she reappeared after seven minutes, "in light of the present situation, which appears to have largely stabilized for the moment, the admiral informs me that she can spare a few minutes of her time. She will be with you just as soon as she reaches a private comm location."

Helena was left almost speechless. The way Céle had begun ("in light of the present situation"), she was expecting to hear that Bastila wouldn't speak with her. _And would I be all that surprised if she wouldn't? She has other reasons to want nothing to do with me besides her duties._

"Thank you…" She realized that she had no idea as to the name or rank of the woman she was addressing.

"Troop Leader. Er, Senior Troop Leader, now, actually," Céle corrected herself.

"Thank you, Senior Troop Leader," said Helena, though the title felt decidedly unwieldy to her.

"Don't mention it, ma'am."

Céle disappeared again, this time for good, only to be replaced less than a minute later by a very different face. She looked tired, and somewhat ill-at-ease, but nevertheless imposingly stern in a flawlessly-tailored grey uniform adorned with colored ribbons on her left breast.

"Hello, Mother, Father," said Bastila with her polished accent.

Sedret was on his feet at once, and hurrying over to the computer.

"Bastila, it's so good to see you again," Helena told her with perhaps a trace of hesitation. "Happy birthday."

"Yes, it's _very_ good to see you," Sedret chimed in with a distinctly higher level of enthusiasm. "And happy birthday."

"Thank you," said Bastila, who followed that with a brief-if-awkward silence, then, "So…how are you faring, Mother?"

"Oh, I'm…doing better. The doctor said that the last surgery was a complete success. I still have to go back nearly next year, but I'm told that, barring any complications, I'll be just fine."

"I'm glad to hear it. That's so good to hear. And what of you, Father? You said in your last letter that you found work?"

"Yes, I did. I got a job at the spaceport as a mechanic, and it was only the second place I'd applied to, to boot. Admittedly, I'd been out of the game for a bit, so I think it may have helped that I'm the father of a famous war hero," he laughed. (Though he was trying to make a joke, it probably wasn't too far from the truth.)

Bastila smiled awkwardly, subtly shifted in her seat, and was at a temporary loss for words.

"I'm sure you can stand perfectly well on your own merits," she said at last. "How is it working out for you?"

"Oh, fine, fine," he answered with a broad smile. "It's good to be back at a real job, coming home at the end of every day. Plus, I do love the work."

"That's good. You… You have to enjoy what you do with your life."

"Very true."

"And you, Bastila? How are you faring?" asked Helena.

"Oh, splendidly," she answered pleasantly. "I imagine you've seen the grand news by now?"

Helena wouldn't have called it "grand," not that she had ever held any particular love for the Republic. She supposed it was more that she had spent two years hearing about how terrible the Empire was.

"About the war, you mean?"

"Yes, it's all but won," Bastila said happily.

"And I suppose you had something to do with that."

"I played my part, yes," she answered modestly. "All that remains now is for that swine Oberreck to admit defeat and order the Republic Army to surrender, assuming that it doesn't do so on its own."

"What about the Jedi?"

Helena didn't even realize what she had said until after the words were spoken, by which time it was obvious that the question was about as tactless as could be. She had meant to ask if they were surrendering, but of course there was the implied subtext of "what is to be done with them?" In reaction, Bastila's eyes widened fractionally, and if it hadn't been so absurd a thought, Helena could have sworn she saw a pale blue light flash in them, if only for an instant.

"That depends on them," she answered simply without evidence of the discomfort the question had caused her.

* * *

_Is she trying to start a row, or is she merely dense?_ Bastila had to ask herself.

Of course, the reality was that the decision to exterminate the Jedi had been made long ago, and well before she had the opportunity to offer her own input. Whenever she thought on it, though, she couldn't devise an alternative, anyway, not unless her former comrades were so obliging as to calmly sit out the rest of their days in prison, which she sincerely doubted any of them would.

"It's my hope that the younglings may yet grow up to be productive members of society, albeit under the watchful eye of the SD. I don't know that they'll ever get to live normal lives, though, not for so long as they know what they are; they'll always be aware that they're different, and that they're not wholly trusted. It's a pity, when none of them ever had a choice."

She spoke the sentence with the same nonchalance as her mother had asked what was to be done with the Jedi, and watched her words take their desired effect as Helena swallowed and blinked. Her father's expression was more one of well-concealed disapproval, for he was undeniably unhappy with this sudden turn in the conversation.

"The important thing is that the fighting will be over soon, right?" he asked, trying to steer it back onto friendlier ground. "Well, without their navy, the Republic has to surrender, don't they?"

"Of course. We can blockade any planet at will now, Coruscant included. That poor paved-over planet has virtually no agriculture, and won't hold out long against a blockade. Oberreck and the rest of his gang have slunk away, presumably into the Deep Core, but they'll come round soon enough and call an end to this, and then we can all go home."

"Your mother and I have been lucky enough to stay out of the middle of it, but so many people are… Well, I think just about the whole galaxy will be very happy when this is all over, and it's good to know that you helped make sure it ended as quickly as it could."

What she heard next came as a total surprise, even a shock.

"Please know that we're proud of you, Bastila," her mother told her with the words almost hitching in her throat. Bastila was fairly certain she even saw a sheen to her eyes.

"Thank you. You…don't know what that means to me."

_But is it even true, or just hollow nicety? And just how much would it mean to me if it were true?_ She really couldn't say anymore. Ever since their reunion, her parents didn't exert nearly the emotional pull on her which they once did. It was satisfying to hear that they were proud of her, but it wasn't as if the words filled any void within her. _That's because it's already been filled,_ she decided. It had been filled by her calling, by duty, by love…by Revan.

"I suppose I really should be going now, though," she told them gently. "I still have a lot of work left today."

"Of course. You go and…look after yourself."

"And you do the same, the both of you."

"We will, Bastila. We love you," said her father.

"Yes, we both love you," Helena chimed in.

Smiling sweetly, she gave the perfunctory reply, "I love you, too. Good-day."

The very second after she had switched off the comm, she veritably collapsed back into her chair with a heavy sigh.

"Worse than battle," she declared as Revan entered the room with a datapad in hand and his glasses perched high on the bridge of his nose.

"Come, now, surely it wasn't _that_ terrible?"

"Honestly, I suppose not, but still unbearable. How am I to even know if they meant any of it? No, in any case, that doesn't matter anymore, and I really shouldn't be dwelling on this at all, not when we have more important things to do."

She slowly swiveled her chair from side to side.

"Such as this?" he asked, gesturing with the datapad.

"Yes, of course." She paused, smiled. "What is it?"

"Wallen's latest report, and it's very discouraging, I must say. It has now been thirteen days since the Imperial Guard last engaged in any action against the Jedi, and now he states that he has no concrete evidence as to their present whereabouts. There's ample speculation and conjecture, the theorists having divided into two distinct camps. One is convinced that the Jedi have already dispersed and gone underground, while the other is adamant that they are regrouping in the Deep Core along with what remains of the Republic's leadership and Navy. Wallen takes the latter view on the strength of a signal intercepted on the 17th."

"And what do you think?"

"I'm inclined to agree with him. If there is one business at which the man has excelled in life, it is hunting Jedi, and, furthermore, my own instincts tell me that those people are not yet ready to concede failure and scatter to the wind. There are still one-hundred sixteen Jedi whose deaths have not been confirmed, which represents a most significant threat."

_And there are only ninety-one Imperial Guards,_ thought Bastila, who had kept a running tally in her head ever since the day she accepted this duty.

"And what does he propose be done about this problem? The longer we wait, the more dangerous the situation becomes," she replied. "It's a basic premise that you should always take the initiative, and not permit the enemy to dictate the time or place of battle. The longer Wallen and his people loaf about, the more likely the Jedi are to take action of their own."

"Oh, they're not just sitting around on their backsides: they _are_ searching, but it appears that the Jedi truly have gone deep, so to speak."

"Then we flush them out."

He looked up from the pad with a glint of pride in his eyes.

"My thoughts, precisely. I'm beginning to believe that now may be an appropriate time to deliver to them our offer."

"I was wondering if we might do that tonight. With the Republic beaten, it seems obvious enough to me that we ought to deliver the offer now, while they're still reeling from the defeat."

"They still won't accept," he reminded her.

"No, but it'll give them something to really think on, and maybe one of them will come forward. It would only take one."

"Yes, that's the idea."

She watched him drop into one of the vacant armchairs and let his head loll back against the plush upholstery.

"They must wish to see an end to this war," he said wearily. "I know-_knew_-many of those people, and for all their accursed blind faith and fanaticism, they are not all completely insensible to reason. They must surely see that they're on the wrong side of history, and that to fight on now will serve no purpose apart from death and chaos. Jedi are many unpleasant things, but I have yet to meet one who could rightly be called 'bloodthirsty.' To carry on a private war when the Republic has ceased to exist would go against all they profess to cherish."

"Many of them are hypocrites," she remarked quietly, "if not most of them. I should know. Don't discount their ability to believe one thing and do another."

He sighed, crossed his arms over his chest. "You're all too right."

She shut her eyes and shook her head. "Some birthday."

When she opened them, Revan was standing over her. It didn't come as a surprise-nothing he did could any longer, so close had their bond grown-but it was most welcome to see him there.

"At least you got a most singular present out of all of this."

She cocked her head, frowned, could think of no present at all. "Did I?"

"It's not every lady who receives the Republic Navy for her birthday," he said with a smile.

"That's true," she laughed in reply. "That's very true."

He took her hands and all but lifted her from the chair, drawing her into a warm embrace until their lips met. It was a deep, longing, adoring kiss that left her legs soft and her every nerve tingling by the time it was broken.

"And there is one more present I have left to give," he whispered in her ear.

"Might it be in the bedroom?" she asked with a playful smirk.

"However did you guess?"

24 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

23.1.20376

_While I regard it as perfectly understandable that your opinion of me must be unfavorable in the extreme, you must honestly ask yourself if the breaking of vows may be found among my alleged crimes. Whatever else you think of me, surely it cannot be argued that I am either dishonest or dishonorable in my dealings, with the one notable exception of my dealings with the Sith, whom I trust you will agree were among the most dishonorable and untrustworthy persons in history, and undeserving of any honesty on my part. This vow, on the other hand, I make in good faith to people whom I regard only as misguided, and in no way evil, and shall hold fast to it unto death, bound to it by my sacred honor. Furthermore, you may rest assured that whomever may succeed me when I am gone will likewise be bound by this pledge._

_Even if you question my honor and integrity, I challenge you to call into question the fact that I have never intended or designed for this war to be perpetual. War is destruction, and perpetual destruction will mean total destruction, and that is a tragedy and a crime to which I shall never be a party. Rather, this war has ever been but a means to an end, that end being the creation of a new era which I earnestly believe and desire will bring about the betterment of all. Rising above even my drive to see the destruction of all that is evil and corrupt, is the drive to create something better, and new growth cannot spring forth amidst endless conflict. It is therefore my deepest desire of all to see this fighting brought to a conclusion, that destruction may finally give way to creation._ _If you truly value peace and justice, then you are obliged to lay down your arms._

_Therefore, any Jedi who surrenders now will receive full clemency, as will all younglings, who as yet have had no say in their allegiance, and cannot justly be charged with any misdeeds. Be forewarned, however, that any and all Jedi or former Jedi found at large at any time following the surrender of the Galactic Republic will be regarded as an enemy of the peace and an illegal combatant, and as such will meet with death. I shall brook no plots or attempts to undermine the peace, and shall take any and all necessary action against such._

_Again I shall state that I wish to see the fighting come to an end now, and that if you fight on either an Order or as individuals, you will achieve only senseless bloodshed. Appealing to the decency I know you possess, in the name of all which you profess to cherish, I ask you to surrender._

_Revan-Méthnin_

_Commander-in-Chief, Imperial Armed Forces_

It was the eighth time that Konnuff had read the message since having received it that morning, and yet he was still uncertain what to make of it. Secluded in a spartan cabin aboard a Republic destroyer, he set aside the datapad, shut his eyes, and let himself slip into the current of the Force.

The obvious conclusion to draw was that it was a trap, and that if the Jedi were to surrender, they would be slaughtered as unarmed victims. Most of his fellow Jedi were of the opinion that, as a dark-sider, Revan could never be trusted, and that his "sacred honor" was entirely worthless. He was deceitful in his dealings, fanatical in his beliefs, and, above all, a murderer whose hands were already stained with the blood of countless innocents. There were some, however, who had long questioned just how far down the dark path Revan had truly gone, preferring to refer to him as "grey," and arguing that he could still be redeemed.

As these Jedi pointed out, the victims of his deceit had always been persons who were, themselves, untrustworthy, as Revan himself had argued. Furthermore, if he was not wholly dark-if he was better than the Sith-then mustn't he be earnest in his wish to end the killing and see peace? What sane man, after spending five years at war, wouldn't want the horror to end? Finally, could they still call themselves Jedi if they committed themselves to a course of action that could lead to not only years, but generations, of unrest and violence on a galactic scale? Was it not their sworn duty to bring peace?

With those points, Konnuff could not argue, and yet neither could he reconcile himself to the idea of abandoning the galaxy to Imperial rule. That was, he supposed, what turned so many others so adamantly against Revan's offer: not that he couldn't be trusted to deliver on his word, but that he _could._ "…a drive to create something better." he had said. That was it, wasn't it? _He believes. He believes with all his heart that he's on the side of right, and he wants to reshape the galaxy according to his vision of the future, and that's what we can't accept. _For so long, the Jedi had been the light that battled against the dark and held it at bay, and now that they found themselves facing something different, they were out of their element. _It would be so much easier if he was a Sith._

_Even if Revan does mean to do good, though, he…_ Force, there wasn't anything simple or clear-cut about this. He knew his responsibility to the people of the Republic; he knew his duty to defend the innocent, to protect liberty; he knew in abstract terms what he was supposed to do, but not how to translate that into action. There still lingered in his mind the idea that he could face Revan in a final duel and kill him, thereby hastening the Empire's inevitable collapse, but how was that to be done now? How could he, or any other Jedi, come within striking distance of the man who had just conquered the Republic? And, even if he or someone else was to confront and defeat Revan, what would become of the other Jedi, and especially the younglings? Should they fight on, making themselves "enemies of the peace," as Revan phrased it?

He looked to the Force for guidance, for answers, but none were forthcoming. He sought a way out, a clear path to be taken, and instead saw only a black tunnel leading him inexorably onward toward…

His comm chimed.

"Master?" asked a voice, young and slightly timid.

Konnuff didn't open his eyes.

"Yes?" "We've been hailed by the _Protector_. Chancellor Oberreck wishes to speak with you."

"Very well."

Rising from his cross-legged position on the floor, he sat on a utilitarian little chair made of injected composite and activated his comm station. The man he saw appear before him bore scant resemblance to the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic who had been elected six years ago, or even to the man as he had been six months ago. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed by dark circles; his lower lip hung slightly open, as if he lacked the strength to hold it shut; and his hair was rudely combed, possibly with his fingers, into the barest semblance of order. He still wore an extravagant designer suit, but it was rumpled as if he had slept in it, though Konnuff doubted that he had slept in days.

"Your Excellency," he greeted the man whose dominion had been reduced to a scattering of Deep Core systems. A pang of guilt twisted his stomach. _I betrayed you,_ he thought, as he did every time he spoke with the Chancellor now. _But you left me no choice._

"Master Konnuff," Oberreck spoke in something only slightly more dignified than a mumble, "I need to discuss with you a plan that has just been brought to my attention. You know Admiral Wintae, don't you?"

"I know _of_ him." Wintae was the commander of what little remained of the Republic Navy, having led the successful-if-humiliating escape from Coruscant. Beyond that, Konnuff knew nothing of his service record, let alone his personal history.

"He's presented an idea that could save us."

"Save us?" he asked with disbelief perhaps a little too near to the surface.

"Save the Republic."

"Forgive me, Chancellor, but the Republic has been defeated," said Konnuff as carefully as he could.

A vein visibly twitched on Oberreck's forehead, and his face twisted into a mask of rage and shattered self-control.

"It has not! Its spirit is still strong, and if Wintae's plan is successful, we can still reach a negotiated settlement. Granted, we can't expect to return to the pre-war borders, but the Republic _will_ survive, one way or another. If the plan is to have any hope of success, we need the Jedi to do their part: all of you."

And then it came to him. There was a certainty in Konnuff's mind in that moment that the Jedi must take part in this plan, for all its seeming impossibility and insanity. It was a strange and terrifying certainty, though: the imperative that action must be taken coupled with a grim foreboding which suggested a steep price to be paid. There was no clear vision of the future, only that peculiar sensation looming in the forefront of his thoughts, and yet he knew now what was to be done. Whatever this plan entailed, it would end with the Jedi meeting Revan in battle, and striking him down.


	19. True Forevermore

Yes, we are finally nearing the end, this being the third-to-last chapter. I'd like to thank everyone who's taken the time to read this story, and sincerely hope you've been enjoying it, and maybe even gotten something out of it.

* * *

19

True Forevermore

31 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

30.1.20376

"Tséchsnol Departure, Navy 39-07 departing to the southeast," said Bastila as she sat in her Xg-33's cockpit with the engines idling.

"Navy 39-07, Tséchsnol Departure, you are clear for takeoff and southwest departure, ma'am."

By the time of this, her third leave on Deralí, the controllers were accustomed to clearing her without a flight plan, destination, or altitude. Tonight, her destination wasn't a secret, and was, in fact, probably known to the controller, but her travels nevertheless remained officially classified.

"Departure, -07 clear for takeoff. _Aithnln cían_."

_"Aithlín cían, valta."_

She arose gracefully off the pad, swung the nose clear of the tower, and advanced the throttle. She climbed steeply, parallel to the mountainside, and continued on past the ridgeline before leveling out and circling back to take in the view afforded her.

In the eastern sky hung a full moon whose soft light glinted off the still waters of the fjord, imbuing it with a silver sheen. From fountains along the main avenue leapt water columns that caught the pale light as they danced, while every façade was decked with colored banners and brilliantly illuminated by floodlights. Perhaps most stunning of all was the Érilínash itself, which was bathed in a soft emerald glow from lights along its entire height, and which also cast this light onto the surrounding ground. There was an ethereal magnificence about it that stirred something deep within her heart as she circled above, and it was reluctantly that she left it.

It was the first time that those green lights had been switched on since the Tower was built, having been done so only now in celebration. Strictly speaking, the Empire remained at war, but the past week had seen Republic marshals and generals surrendering one sector after another, whole army groups laying down their arms and marching into captivity. Almost overnight, the majority of the Imperial Army went from being locked in bloody battle to guarding more prisoners than they knew how to handle. The chief problem of the day was no longer how to defeat the enemy, but how to secure and feed him. Oberreck went on broadcasting impassioned appeals for his soldiers to fight on and exact the highest possible toll on the "murderous invaders," but ever-fewer listeners took heed of his words. The majority of soldiers on the ground knew there was no point in dying now, and so they did as any sane beings would.

Unfortunately, there were still those who listened, or else who fought for vengeance on their own initiative. The worst such example came on the 28th, when the Imperial 107th Army on Rendili advanced into the city of Ajinkor, mistakenly believing the enemy to be demoralized and ready to collapse, only to be met with stiff resistance on every block. More than three thousand Imperial soldiers were killed in less than twenty-four hours, after which the 107th withdrew and called upon the Navy for aid. Ajinkor was then subjected to a ferocious bombardment by a destroyer wing, and much of its center was destroyed before the enemy finally surrendered. She had felt utterly sick when she read the report, knowing that so many of her people had died needlessly. (And how many civilians? Did anybody even know?)

Further down on the scale of bad news - constituting more of a nuisance than a tragedy - there were still enemy ships hiding in the Deep Core, where the Imperial Navy continued to hunt them. The most recent estimate placed their number at eleven hundred, following the successful entrapment only yesterday of nearly three hundred Republic warships. The rest were continuously on the run, which at the very least ensured they could cause no harm, and it stood to reason that they, too, would soon be caught, or else see reason and surrender. The Jedi could only guide them out of danger for so long before a mistake was made and the Imperial Navy found them. Coruscant, meanwhile, was still under siege, was being torn apart by mass riots, and was expected to surrender within the next few days. It seemed incredible, even impossible, but all the evidence said that the end had finally come.

She banked away from Tséchsnol, climbing as she flew inland over dense forests that spread over and down rolling hills, and which were cut through with broad rivers. Here and there suddenly appeared the lights of a town spreading out along one of those glittering ribbons of water, invariably with at least a few open fields that lay fallow at this time of year. Scattered clouds appeared above her, but the night sky was largely clear, leaving her free to admire the stunning panorama of the stars.

At length, she came upon a long lake nestled among rugged rocky hills, with two rivers running from it and a town situated at the northern end. Gliding down, she aimed for a clearing not far from the west bank and alighted amidst a small gathering of other aircraft, including another Xg-33 painted identically to her own. Beside it were parked a trio of polished black airspeeders, two of them flying Deralín flags, and the other an Imperial flag and an SD pennant. When she climbed from the cockpit, she found nobody around, and took a minute to smooth her clothes and set her hair before venturing away from her fighter. The solitude was part of the ceremony: as she had risen in life by her own merits, she was to make her way to the summit alone.

Clearly visible in the moonlight was an opening in the trees on the east side of the clearing, leading into a tunnel of trees, for their branches arched over the trail from either side. It was through this passage that she made her way, with dried leaves crunching underfoot with every step on the ill-defined path that wound its way up the slope. The air on that clear night was cold and dry, and she fastened the top button of her coat as she followed a bend around a great boulder that protruded from the ground like a stone tooth. Then the trees began to thin out, the ground became increasingly rocky, and the darkness of the tunnel yielded to the moon's near-daytime brilliance.

From the tunnel she stepped into a vaguely circular open space atop a hill. From this vantage point, one enjoyed a view across the entire lake, all the way to the town on the opposite shore, as well as much of the surrounding terrain. In the clearing itself was a ring of grass with rough bare rock both within and without. Upon the rock in the center was built a modest bonfire that vied with the milky orb in the sky, its flames casting a dancing yellow glow across the clearing. Around the conflagration stood four figures in long coats: Néac, Meric, Revan, and Gerten, the Deralín Minister of Culture. (Bastila had never before met the latter, and they had no personal connection whatsoever, but tradition demanded five participants.)

She stopped at what her best guess told her was five meters from the fire, clicked her heels, and bowed to them, and they to her.

_"Fé, ílíd méthninv,"_ she greeted them.

_"Fé,"_ was their unified reply.

"Bastila Shan," spoke Revan in Deralsbanif with solemn formality, "loyal and revered comrade, faithful and honorable daughter of Deralí, I bid you welcome."

(Among méthninv, there was no official hierarchy, but anyone who held the title inevitably occupied some other rank or office, and it was on this basis that Revan held seniority here and so presided over the ceremony.)

"Step forward," he commanded, and forward she stepped.

Meric held a small white drum, and now sounded a steady rhythm of low, almost infrasonic notes that set the pace. Bastila marched to the edge where the grass gave way to stone, and there stopped, remembering to stand facing the moon with her heels on the grass and her toes on the rock. The drum fell silent.

There was a strict procedure to this, one steeped in ancient symbolism and tradition, and she had used her spare time in the last four days to memorize and rehearse every movement and line (the latter to be spoken entirely in Derals, of course). When reading about the ceremony and walking through it in her living room, she couldn't help thinking that it all sounded overly theatrical, but now that she actually stood before a bonfire on a hilltop beneath a full moon, she was struck by a definite sense of gravity. To mistake this for an initiation was to be far in error, for at the heart of Deralín thought was the concept that nothing of value could be given, only earned. The word méthnin literally meant "an honorable person," and to receive that title was only to receive the recognition that one had, through one's own deeds and virtues, already elevated oneself to a higher level.

"We stand here tonight to acknowledge the noble, the honorable, the devoted, the faithful, the pure of heart," Revan intoned as he faced the fire. "We stand here to acknowledge one who has shown her quality, and who has risen above._ Fe."_

_"Fe,"_ echoed the others, Bastila included.

He turned to her then, his stoic face betraying none of the soaring pride and adoration she felt radiating from him, and her ears thrummed as Meric beat out a single note.

"Bastila Shan, we stand here to acknowledge your quality, but never can you suffer recognition to swell into pride. Ever must you hold true to the virtues that have carried you here tonight."

She knelt then, and entwined the fingers of her right hand in the blades of grass, whilst placing the palm of her left flat on the cold stone. When she did so, she was certain she could feel the life of the planet, of every plant and animal that called Deralí home, and that this stirring connection to all of it ran up through her hands and into her heart.

"By sea and by sky, by root and by leaf, by stone and by field, I swear this night that I shall remain true forevermore," she recited with the utmost conviction while looking up past Revan, past the flames, to the shining moon high overhead.

Again, a single drumbeat reverberated across the hilltop.

"Bastila Shan, this night you receive a rare honor, but it is in honor of your devoted service, and so ever must you remain devoted."

"In the name of sacred Deralí, I pledge this night my devoted service, my unwavering fidelity, and my deepest love unto death."

One final drumbeat sounded in the still night air, and Bastila felt her heart quicken as she stood to await Revan's next words.

"With your quality proven, your service given, and your sacred word binding you, you are Bastila-Méthnin from this night henceforth, and for so long as you remain worthy. _Fé, Bastila-Méthnin!"_

_"Fe!"_ exclaimed the others.

All present bowed to her, and she to them, and for some time the only sound was the steady crackle of the flames.

The ceremony concluded, Bastila felt a lingering flush of…well, perhaps not excitement, per say, but elation. She lingered on the hilltop for a time, basking in the quiet serenity of the setting, before setting off back down the path as was expected of her. (The fire wasn't supposed to be extinguished until after she had gone, and she was amply aware that Néac and Gerten, to whom that task would be left, undoubtedly had more important business to attend to.) She had not gone far, however, before she heard footsteps following her, coming not at a run, but certainly at a brisk walk faster than her own, so as to overtake her.

"You have my deepest congratulations, My Lady," said Meric as she pulled alongside.

"Thank you," she said softly, almost sheepishly, in reply, being sure to add, "My Lady."

While Bastila couldn't be certain if she heard the older woman chuckle in her throat, there was no mistaking what she read from Meric: it was optimism. Her heart sang out with hope for the future, in joyful anticipation of the long-overdue fulfillment of the age-old dream. As for how the Minister regarded Bastila herself, it was obviously with high enough esteem to approve her declaration as méthnin, although there was more to her sentiments than just respect. _She sees me as a part of that future, as someone who will carry it forward._ Though that had been her own intention, and had been so from the very moment she accepted Revan's offer, the realization that someone else actually expected that of her was humbling. She knew that it shouldn't have felt any different from her responsibilities as an officer - which, after all, included the responsibility for millions, if not billions, of lives - but to have the responsibility for shaping the future placed on one's shoulders… _That's the role of a méthnin, though, let alone an érilin, and that's what I aim to be one day. That's what I will be, and then I'll have the entire galaxy looking to me for guidance._ The thought of it was almost enough to make her stumble on the darkened trail.

"What a lovely night, don't you find?" asked Meric as she strolled downhill with her hands buried in the pockets of her coat.

"It is beautiful, if a little chilly," she agreed pleasantly.

"I suppose you'll be asking for an estate someplace nearer to the equator, then?" Meric laughed.

"Oh, no, I'm not that thin-skinned," was her reply, "and I do love this part of the world."

"One would need have a heart hewn of stone to not love it," Revan chimed in.

"Well said," Meric seconded the sentiment. "All of Deralí is a treasure, but surely Calshomarc must be the crown jewel. I may have grown up in Félenmarc, but I'll happily spend the rest of my days here."

"Then how can I argue?" quipped Bastila. "Honestly, though, the cottage I've been renting does feel more like home than any other place I've ever lived."

She thought of it as only a half-lie, or even a sort of "composite truth," for while the cottage a little ways north of Tséchsnol was a fine little house with a lovely view, she had never spent a single night there, and rented it only for the sake of appearances; the house she shared with Revan, on the other hand, was truly and unquestionably her true home.

The trio walked on in relative silence for a minute or so, the only sound being that of their dry footsteps. In that quiet interlude, her thoughts turned automatically to plans and preparations, timetables and orders of battle. There was still fighting on hundreds of planets, and although she was a naval officer, her talents were hardly useless in ground campaigns. _I should have been at Rendili,_ whispered the old gnawing voice of self-recrimination. Until the final surrender was made, her work would not be done. _And a whole new set of challenges is just waiting for that day, isn't it?_

As if thinking in parallel to Bastila, Meric spoke up again as they neared the lower clearing.

"I'm sure you'll be interested to read the transcripts of Roos's interrogations," she addressed Revan. "There were some very interesting pearls of knowledge to be obtained from that man. Diseased though his spirit is, his brain remains most impressive."

"Well, there was never any disputing his cleverness."

"True, but we may have underestimated just how deeply he'd sunken his claws into the fabric of the Republic, not that that in and of itself matters any longer. What does matter is that he had connections everywhere it counted, and we were able to obtain a great many names from him."

"Yes, it amounted to upwards of seventy, did it not?"

"Seventy-four, and there were others he couldn't remember, though those were people with whom he'd not had dealings for quite some time, or were of little importance to begin with. Honestly, though, I'm impressed he could recall as many names as he did, and each of those persons, in turn, is certain to offer up still more names once we find them, and so on, and so forth. I expect we'll take down the entire self-proclaimed ruling elite of the Republic within five months to a year."

"Do we know where any of these people are?"

"A few are already in custody, and rest assured we'll find the others. We always do, and time is on our side."

"Yes, for a change. Those people no longer wield any power, and can do little harm for so long as they are obliged to run and hide." Emerging from the tunnel of branches, he craned his head back to gaze up at the star-filled sky, and drew a deep breath as if stunned by the sight.

"I suppose you've already scheduled Roos's trial," he said somewhat absently.

"No, not yet, not beyond the general idea that it should be at least a year after the official surrender."

"Naturally."

When the SD had drawn up a list of Republic citizens to be arrested and tried, it had been agreed by those at the top that the trials wouldn't be held until after the general situation in the galaxy had settled down enough for the people to give the matter its due attention. For some time to come, a significant percentage of the galactic population would be understandably focused on setting their lives back in order, and couldn't be bothered to watch the trials. There were, however, plenty on the list whose crimes weren't sensational enough to merit a public trial in the first place, and whose cases would be heard by a more ordinary tribunal. Contrary to what one might expect, a guilty verdict was by no means a foregone conclusion in all cases, many of those on the list being merely under suspicion, often by dint of association; and thus those trials would not be broadcast due not only to their relative obscurity, but also to the distinct possibility that the defendants would be judged innocent.

"Yes, a very lovely night, indeed," Meric said as she, too, took to stargazing. "When I stand outside at night and look up, it's always hard to believe what's going on out there. I always have to remind myself that there's a war on up there."

"Not for much longer," Revan declared as he looked back down at the Minister.

"No, I should guess that this will all be over in another week," added Bastila hopefully.

"And, for me, _that_ is what's difficult to believe," said Revan very softly as he stared off absently to the trees. "There were times when I wondered if it would ever end."

At that, Meric managed a smile.

"Not me. For me, there was never any doubt that this day would come," she countered. "There was never any other possible end besides victory."

"No doubt at all?" asked Bastila, although she could already read Meric's sincerity. What remained a mystery was the reason for that sincerity.

"None whatsoever."

"Then we both envy you, for the issue often appeared far less certain from the front," said Revan with good humor.

"I don't question that it did, or that it was; I just couldn't allow myself to think that way," she confessed. "I don't think I could have kept my focus if I worried that we might…lose it all."

Revan gave a subtle nod, looked about the clearing again for no reason in particular.

"I should be going now," Meric announced after a brief silence. "My work never ends."

"Then a pleasant flight, and a good night to you, My Lady," Bastila wished her.

"And to you, My Lady," she replied. "And you, My Lord."

"Thank you, My Lady."

Their farewells said, they bowed to one another and parted ways.

As she climbed into her cockpit and strapped herself into the ejector seat, Bastila couldn't help thinking how very different this was from the conventional image of how heads of state traveled. She, Revan, and Meric were the three most powerful people in the galaxy, and rather than being chauffeured in the backseats of limousines, they were flying themselves about alone, and two of them doing so in armed fighters. She couldn't imagine that Oberreck or ninety percent of the Senate had the slightest inkling of how to fly. _No self-reliance._ It was just one more contrast with the system they had torn asunder.

She was airborne within minutes, flying northwest without bothering to contact air traffic control, since there was no low-level control here. The area was so sparsely populated that air traffic was generally minimal, and pilots could manage perfectly well on their own. She was free to shoot away over hill and dale, quickly outdistancing Meric's speeder, whereupon she banked sharply away to the southwest and descended almost to treetop level.

It was exhilarating to fly at so low an altitude, watching trees and fields and rivers flash beneath her in a continuous blur, weaving between hills and darting down valleys. Flying more by instinct than by eye, she was free to sightsee as she made her way toward the coast. When she looked up, she could see clouds building in from the sea, obscuring ever-more stars and encroaching upon the moon. _They did say there could be rain in the morning,_ she thought while crossing over the moor. It stretched to the north and east of their home, which was located almost on the edge of that vast expanse, and she flew over much of it on that night, observing on the way a number of hills she hadn't seen before. They were most peculiar, indeed, being largely bare, weathered rock that appeared to have been twisted and turned, almost into spirals, as if by giant hands.

Not long thereafter, she crossed the river and spied the little lights of her house on the green ridge, and the open hangar door with Revan's Xg-33 parked within. Sweeping the radiator wings back flush against the fuselage, she squeezed her fighter in beside his and powered down. After removing her helmet and climbing down, she was about to step through the door into the house, only to have it flung wide and held open for her by Revan. He stood aside and bowed with a formal click of his heels as he let her pass.

_"Ro hevésha, ílíd méthnin,"_ he greeted her.

_"Tchéne, gíal,"_ she replied, laughing, as she stepped past him into the entryway.

She sat on a conveniently-located chair and removed her boots, whilst Revan shut the door and promptly vanished into the kitchen, from whence emanated the sound of boiling water.

"Do you mean to tell me you're coo_king?"_ she called out to him.

"Yes, yes, I can't say I blame you for your reservations," he replied amidst the sounds of sliding drawers and clattering silverware. "I used to fancy myself rather good at it, but that was when I had the time to cook, and it's certainly been a long while since I've had the luxury of time."

"What are you cooking?"

"Ah, but that would spoil the surprise."

"You're just hoping that I won't be disappointed if I don't know what it's supposed to be, isn't that it?" she teased.

"That's not beyond the realm of possibility."

"Well, there's always the synthesizer if you can't remember what to do."

"That sounds to me like a challenge," he said with mischief in his voice.

She leaned into the kitchen through the open door, watched him scurry back and forth between the stove and the cutting board.

"Yes, well, you always give your best when challenged, don't you?"

"Fair point."

He was kneading some kind of thick mash of indefinable color in a large bowl, and paused to shoot her a look.

"What part of 'spoil the surprise' eludes you?"

"Sorry," she laughed on her way out.

Wandered back out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the second level, she sank into a brilliant red armchair and picked up a book from the square wood end table. It was one of Revan's old tomes of mythology, and felt like appropriate reading on this night. As she picked up where she had left off that morning, and delved further into a tale of courage and sacrifice in the face of seemingly-insurmountable odds, her nose caught the first fragrant whiffs from the kitchen. For a moment, she actually felt as if the war was over, and they were resting at home and enjoying the simple pleasures of life. It was only for a moment, however, before the knowledge that the Jedi were still out there forced its way back into her consciousness, and shattered the beautiful illusion.

32 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

31.1.20376

She really did think that the cottage would have been a nice place to live if she didn't already have a home. Like her actual home, it was built in the traditional Deralín "low-impact" style, being dug into a south-facing mountainside just above a picturesque little corrie lake and facing an exceedingly steep-walled valley. It was twenty-nine kilometers north of Tséchsnol, and seven from the nearest town: Dalsfam, which was actually more of a village, its population numbering only 754 according to official records. Perhaps uniquely for a city of a million people, Tséchsnol had no sprawling suburbs, no "greater metropolitan area." There was the showpiece - the fjord with the monumental government buildings - and the three residential boroughs, and then nothing. Beyond the immediate city limits lay wilderness and little villages like Dalsfam, and the occasional cottage up in the highlands. This seclusion was not only refreshing for those who lived there, but perfect for her own purposes, since it meant that nobody would notice that she was never at home.

As she stood in the deserted entryway, somewhat awkwardly removing her boots, she though briefly of what Meric had said the night before about an estate. All méthninv received a grant of land, and funds to build a house upon it, in way of thanks for their services, but she had need of neither. Whereas nearly all her monthly pay from the Navy went toward her mother's care, however, she could certainly stand to have an extra source of income. She reasoned that a tidy profit could be made from renting out her estate, whenever she got around to having one built.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath her feet as she made a quick tour of the place, stepping into the sparsely-furnished little bedroom on the second floor. There was a bed covered in crisp white sheets and blankets, a wood dresser, and a burgundy armchair by the window, all of them with a fine coat of dust. It was to the window that she went just then, and opened the shades. There wasn't much of a view this morning, little being visible through the heavy rain that pelted the windows, but for some reason she felt like opening the shades anyway. She stood and watched the droplets running down the glass and the conifers swaying hard in the wind. A few minutes passed, and then she was heading down a staircase whose balustrade was richly carved with seabirds, back into the little vestibule by the front door, and was soon pulling her boots back on. There was an adjoining hangar, but it was designed with airspeeders in mind and was far too small to accommodate a fighter like an Xg-33, and so she was obliged to make a dash through the driving rain, opening the canopy with her thoughts along the way. Foregoing the ladder, she leapt straight up and into the cockpit and hastily shut the canopy over her, and even still, was dripping wet as she sat.

_That's what you get for not checking the weather,_ she chastised herself. What was only a light rain at home had proven to be a raging storm as one went north.

Anticipating every gust and updraft, she made constant corrections as she lifted off and powered away from the mountain. She flew across the valley, over a line of jagged hills, and then dropped down into a broad fjord bordered on the south side by the chalky cliffs that gave Dalsfam its name. The village itself was situated on the north side of the fjord, where the grade was gentler, and most of the buildings were strung out along a single road that followed the shore, though some others did climb the slope. She had been into town twice before, making a habit of buying groceries there so as to give the impression that she was living in the vicinity. Nothing too much, of course, since it would likely be assumed that she spent most of her time in the city, and thus ate there, but fruits and other snacks that she liked to eat in the evenings at home made for suitable purchases.

She alighted on the long grey landing pad at the seaside, located just opposite the village's central cluster of brightly-colored shops and restaurants, with her fighter looking decidedly out of place in the quiet, rural setting. She darted quickly across the street, surprising townsfolk who seemed mostly to disregard the rain, ambling sedately up and down the sidewalk wrapped in their trench coats. Of course, the act of landing a Navy fighter just across the street had already drawn ample attention, and more than a few gave signs of recognizing her. More than one stopped and bowed as she passed, or spoke a quick, "My Lady."

Walking quickly past a clothier's and a restaurant serving a late breakfast, she ducked into the village grocer's. The first time she had come here, it had been a completely new experience for her, wandering the aisles (and there weren't all that many) as if in a maze. Prior to her first stay on Deralí, she had never shopped for anything, and thought the whole business novel to the point of bewildering, which, in turn, made her feel perfectly ridiculous. After all, how screwed up must her life have been (beyond what she already knew) for so commonplace an act as grocery shopping to feel so thoroughly alien? Today, however, she felt slightly less out of place, and, armed with a memorized list of Revan's recommendations, efficiently filled her bags as she made her way up one aisle and down the next.

As she turned a corner, she was greeted by a thin, balding man in a white shirt with a dark blue sweater and slacks . He was probably in his mid-to-late sixties, which was probably the only reason why he was still at home running his store, instead of in uniform. If there was one thing that stood out when she went into Dalsfam, it was a near-absence of youth.

"Morning, ma'am. Ah, beg your pardon. I should be saying 'My Lady,' shouldn't I?"

"Good morning to you," she chuckled in reply, "and don't worry too much about the title."

The owner (whose name she tried in vain to remember) stopped stocking a shelf with cans of…she knew not what…and faced her squarely.

"Ah, but you've earned it. This war would be going well into next year if it weren't for you, isn't that so?"

Feeling an unwelcome warmth spreading in her cheeks, she made a point to not look away, and yet also to not hold eye contact, recalling the peculiar Deralín taboo.

"I did my duty," she answered simply.

"You did it well enough to be an admiral, and well enough to be a méthnin, and those are a good bit rarer than even admirals, I dare say," he told her with a kindly smile. "Then again, I suppose you wouldn't be a méthnin if you let it go to your head, now would you?"

"No, I wouldn't," she laughed again. "Part of the oath, you know."

"Indeed."

(Although the ceremony itself was exceedingly private, the wording of a méthnin's oath was public knowledge, on the grounds that the public needed to know the words in order to know if the oath was ever broken.)

Changing the subject, he asked, "So, how are you enjoying life up on the hill?"

"Oh, it's just grand," she started to answer.

Then a young man appeared at the opposite end of the aisle, walking with a slight limp, and with the words, "Beg pardon," drew the shopkeeper's attention.

"If you'll excuse me, My Lady."

"Certainly," she said with a smile.

When he turned to assist the other customer, Bastila saw the faint outline of a pistol beneath his sweater near the small of his back. On another world, that might have been a cause for alarm, or at least a sign that one was shopping in a high-crime area, but here it meant only that the shopkeeper was a good, traditional Deralin. It was, after all, a civic virtue to be ready at all times to defend one's self, one's family, and one's community. Granted, there were still plenty of people about whose mindset came from the dark years when the folk were kept down by their own government, but they were growing fewer in number. Bastila herself was openly carrying her PM-88 on her right hip, and none of the locals thought anything of it. It was a part of their way of life.

Her bags filled, she headed back out into the rain. (In contrast with the almost archaic appearance of the shop and village in general, all she needed do to pay was to walk out the door, and all of her items were automatically scanned, and her account debited.) No sooner had she stepped outside into the downpour, however, than she was stopped in her tracks by a column marching down the center of the road. Dressed in slightly less-than-uniform camouflage coats and trousers, they were men and women somewhat past their prime, but all of them bearing bulging packs and a variety of firearms. All were sopping wet, probably down to their underpants, and discomfort showed in faces of more than a few as they trudged along. They bore their trial with quiet dignity, however, surely feeling pride in the knowledge that they could still manage a march in full kit in foul weather.

Their sergeant, a rather stately middle-aged woman who looked more like a banker than a soldier - and probably was when she wasn't training her squad of Militia - needed only one look at Bastila standing outside the grocer's to transform from weekend soldier to parade-ground martinet.

"Squad…_halt!"_ she barked in a voice out of all volume to her size, and twenty pairs of boots stamped down hard. "Present…_arms!"_

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable being saluted whilst lugging bags of groceries, Bastila quickly crossed the street, shifting all the bags to her left hand and saluting as she passed the squad. She ducked under her fighter and loaded the bags into the vacant missile bay, hearing behind her the shouted commands, "Shoulder…_arms!"_ and the slap of gloved hands on rifle stocks. The sergeant's word, "Forward…" was echoed by her squad, then followed with, _"March!"_

The tramp of boots on wet pavement carried across the landing pad as Bastila climbed into her cockpit, not bothering to be all that quick about it this time now that she was thoroughly drenched. Already beginning to shiver with cold, one of the first systems she turned on was the cabin heater, and she immediately cranked the temperature to full power. As her fighter powered up, she took a long look at the village, musing on the simple peace of it, beneath which lay a fierce spirit ready at all times to blaze forth.

* * *

The rain tapered off in late afternoon, to be replaced with a grey veil of fog that rolled in off the sea. It seeped up the cliffs, drifted lazily across the top of the ridgeline, and sank down into the valley and around the low hills on the other side, where it mingled with the mist that so frequently clung to the moor. In fact, it had progressed so far inland as to be creeping up on the cluster of strange twisted hills not long after she and Revan reached the bald summit of the tallest of the group.

Being somewhat lopsided in addition to twisted, it went by the name of Saicreg, meaning "great rock," and while it was undeniably a large rock, Bastila didn't think that the name really did it justice, thinking that it ought to include some mention of the shape of the hill. In any event, Saicreg was one of the most singular and the most peculiar landforms upon which she had ever set foot, and the view from the top filled her heart with warmth and wonderment. It was made all the more remarkable by how sharply it contrasted with its surroundings, which were still visible to the north and east, where the fog had yet to creep. There, not far from this rocky aberration, stretched great swaths of green grass and auburn shrubs, and what would have been lovely wildflowers in the warmer months. At this time of year, it was all just green and rust and grey, but it was still starkly beautiful.

The same couldn't be said for the experience of actually climbing the hill. While it was not particularly high, rising only 290 meters above the surrounding terrain, there didn't appear to be any part of it greater than a meter square that could be described as "smooth." It surface was nothing but uneven, gnarled rock cut with channels worn into it by eons of erosion, and cracks split open by coarse grasses and little orange flowers that grew up out of it. The end product was a treacherous climb that had one not only weaving this way and that in order to find a passable route up the hill, but minding every step so as to avoid breaking an ankle. For Bastila, at least, the latter wasn't quite so tedious as it would certainly be for the average climber: she had no need to be constantly looking down, instead sensing precisely where to place each step as she made her ascent. Even so, the climb still called for some elaborate footwork at times.

"I should have expected this," said Revan as he stood surveying the land with his hands on his hips. "It appears that we shall be walking back in the fog."

"At least it's not as though we have to walk all the way back home, but just to the fighters," she offered.

"Yes, and we could make this walk blindfolded, you and I. It just would have been so much nicer had we been able to enjoy the view on the way down."

Smiling, she came up behind him, slipped her arms under his, and rested her chin on his shoulder.

"Then it's just as well that I savored every moment of the way up," she said softly beside his ear before kissing him on the cheek.

The light was fading in the west, and the fog was swallowing the eastern foot of the hill, but she felt so wonderfully, marvelously _alive_. Her eye was caught by a solitary grey and white bird flying by perhaps a hundred meters from where she stood, its wings beating furiously as it sped across the moor, most probably eager to be home before the sun went down, or before its home was shrouded in fog. _Take care, little friend,_ she thought. The sun wouldn't set for another forty minutes or thereabouts, though that meant that she and Revan would be returning to their fighters in near-total darkness, but the fog would be here far sooner. _Not a problem for those of us who don't need to see with our eyes,_ she reminded herself.

For the time being, however, the hilltop still afforded a superlative vista.

"You really couldn't have chosen a better site for a home," she complimented him.

"I know. Travel fifty kilometers in any direction, and you'll come to a place completely different from, and yet no less breathtaking than, whence you started."

In addition to the copious sightseeing conducted during the climb, they had spent nearly fifteen minutes loitering on the summit, but now with the fog and nightfall closing in, it was time to be going. The air was not exactly warm as it was, and Bastila, for one, didn't look forward to being chilled to the bone twice in one day. So it was that they turned about and began their descent, steadily homing in on their waiting fighters, though those were now concealed beneath the blanket of fog.

They were, in fact, scarcely more than halfway down the hill when the fog came up to meet them, wrapping them in a damp chill that swiftly penetrated their clothes. The deeper they pressed into it, the denser the murk became, until visibility was reduced to less than twenty meters. Picking his way down a remote hillside through dense fog, Revan couldn't suppress the feeling that he had wandered into a scene from one of the sagas of which he had grown so fond. _Like Haustídaith wandering the wilds beyond Galtenmarc…except that I've already found Sílshe,_ he thought in reference to the mortal hero who proved himself worthy of the love of a goddess, and who went on to drink of the Fídéothsél and gain immortality as a steward of Deralí. Not even in Deralín myth, however, did goddesses wear Navy greatcoats and polished jackboots, but that mattered little to him when.

It was certainly that very reverence that made him hesitate, and which spoiled the surprise of his "attack." Of course, it couldn't have been much of a surprise to begin with, since he had asked her to bring along her training lightsaber, which had made it wholly obvious that he intended to turn this excursion into a sparring session at some juncture. Well into the fog and a quarter of the way from the bottom of the slope, this struck him as an ideal place and time to go about the business, and so he had deliberately fallen back of her, until he trailed her at about five meters. When she slowed to pick her way over a loose rock, he reached into his coat and withdrew the two training sabers he carried within. Were he intent on truly testing her mettle, he should have attacked immediately, but instead he waited until she had cleared the obstacle before leaping forward.

He ignited both blades when he was only two meters from her, but she was already darting aside and drawing her own weapon, her eyes flashing brightly through the mist. A single white blade flared to life and parried a slash from his right, and then she was out of reach. Pushing off from the onrushing ground, they both landed with consummate grace and turned to face one another.

"And it was you who taught me never to hesitate," she chided him.

"Ah, but that's against an enemy, and I see here only my beloved."

"Fair enough."

She smirked as she stood facing him, still with only one blade active and the hilt grasped as though it were a single-bladed weapon. He knew that she had been practicing new techniques in the gym aboard the _Deralí_, had heard that she had been fighting fifteen training remotes at once, much to the amazement of the awestruck sailors and Marines who had played audience to her. Now when she attacked, she did so wielding her weapon not unlike a two-handed greatsword, with her right hand near the emitter and her left farther down. When she moved the blade, it was often with more of a pivoting motion than a swing, and with this leverage, each stroke came with great power as well as blinding speed, as he soon learned to his discomfort.

When he tried to deflect the stroke with his right blade, it was knocked aside. Bastila turned, the thrust from his left missing her torso by scant centimeters, and suddenly she had deactivated one blade and ignited the other, and was bringing it up in a diagonal cut to his ribs. At the last possible moment, he twisted and backflipped, and as he wheeled through the air with his back arched, he watched the white beam sweep up along the entire length of his chest and just past the tip of his nose. Then he was pushing off from the ground, tucking his legs, and came to land in a low crouch. No sooner had his boots touched rock than she was upon him again, this time with both blades humming through the dense air, right then left, though both easily parried.

He leapt vertically, but she followed, and as he lost momentum and began to fall, they passed one another and their blades met in a brilliant flash of light. He landed uphill of her, however, and, pushing off from a rough outcrop, was diving down at her the very instant she landed. He thrust with his right, pulling back just before their blades would have touched, then rolling aside in mid-air and slicing at her thighs. She had switched blades again, however, and blocked the slash as she turned.

"Very nice," he complimented her after a rolling landing that left his shoulder aching.

"Thank you. I found that if I'm fighting multiple opponents, I need to rapidly change my direction of attack or defense."

"Yes, the drawback to a two-bladed saber is that its range of motion is very restricted - too much danger of cutting oneself in half, and all that - but it would appear that you've found a way around that."

As if any further demonstration was necessary, she lunged in and thrust with one blade, then smartly pivoted the hilt, deactivating the first blade just before it would have struck her shoulder and igniting the second as it swept around. It was a move that defied conventional logic, and even Revan was hard-pressed to defend against it, blocking the attack with no room to spare.

Then, in a moment of inspiration, he made a cut with his left at her neck. She parried, letting his blade slide off of hers, and the instant contact was broken, he flipped the hilt around in his hand. She had naturally expected him to follow through with a thrust from the right, but instead he executed a backhanded stab with his left, and it was only by allowing her legs to fall out from under her that she avoided it. Now, her neck left open, he attacked with his right, only to see a white blade thrusting up at him.

"Ow!" they exclaimed in unison as his blade stung her neck and hers his chest.

There followed a lull in which the only sound was that of hard breathing and damp air sizzling on softly humming energy blades. Then there was a sharp hiss as all three blades vanished, and a round of hearty laughter.

"Another draw," he announced.

"How many is that now? I've lost count."

"As have I. Does it matter, though? Will either of us ever be able to claim a win?"

She hung her lightsaber back on her belt beneath her coat, and smiled at him sweetly.

"I can't see how to be beat a part of myself."

"Nor I," he agreed with a subtly joyful look in his eyes as he returned his own weapons to his belt. "And you are an indelible part of me."

He stepped close to her then, and, taking her hands in his own and meeting her eyes with a dear adoration, told her warmly, "Just as we have both vowed to hold true to forevermore to our principles, so I give my word that I shall remain true forevermore to you."

She smiled sweetly and blinked away a tear that was forming in the corner of her eye, and answered, "And I to you, my love."

She drew him to her and pressed her lips tenderly to his, and in that moment, all was truly right and well with the universe. She could forget about Rendili, and the Republic Navy, and even the Jedi.

_We are forever inseparable…one and the same,_ he thought after the kiss ended and they resumed the trek to their fighters. It was a comforting, uplifting thought, and one that carried him downhill with a newfound spring in his step.

33 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

32.1.20376

For once, his dreams were of peace and happiness: of standing with Bastila on a spire of rock that rose from the waves off the coast of a small island. The sun shone down in golden rays through breaks in fluffy white clouds, and the crashing sea was the deepest shade of blue-green he had ever seen, and all was well in the world. They stood in each other's arms, gazing into eyes ablaze with electric light, and when their lips met, it was as if they poured every last measure of love and fidelity through that kiss. He felt as if he weighed nothing and was about to float up off the rocky perch, and when the kiss was broken, they shared a knowing glance, and then they were actually flying up and away from that lovely little island.

An insistent chiming wrenched him from the dream, and his eyes wide open, as he sat upright in bed. Bastila was simultaneously awake, and looking equally as deflated as he felt at having been woken at such a time. He somewhat violently seized the commlink from its spot on the nightstand, ensured that it was set to "audio-only," and answered the call.

"Revan here," he said, careful not to let his irritation creep into his voice. _In the name of the sacred soil, what hour is it, anyway?_

"My Lord," said Wallen, "I have news."

"News?"

He looked to the chrono, and saw that it was 0554. Rather than being rude, Wallen had probably just assumed that he would be awake already. _He assumed wrong._

"About the Jedi, sir."

"What about them?" _Why can he not get to the damned point?_

"I believe I finally have a lead on their location, sir."

At last, Wallen had his undivided attention. He forgot at once the displeasure of being woken from a rare pleasant dream, and could think only of the opportunity to finally put an end to this wretched ordeal.

"Not quite an hour ago, I was contacted by someone within the Republic who wouldn't identify himself, but whom I believe is a Temple Caretaker who fled Coruscant along with the Jedi. He would tell me only that he'd read your offer of amnesty, and that he wants to believe it's true. He doesn't expect that the Jedi will surrender, and nor is he going to try to persuade them (honestly, I think he's hoping that they might still succeed in salvaging some kind of negotiated peace, probably by killing you), but he doesn't want to see the younglings hunted as fugitives, either."

"How very charitable of him," said Revan with biting sarcasm as he leaned against the padded headboard. "It would appear that he desires to insure against all eventualities."

"Yes, sir. He was pretty vague, but he did imply that he wouldn't give us the location of the younglings just yet. Anyway, he said that he'll make contact again in three days, but that next time he'll only speak with you directly."

"Perfectly understandable, as he has every reason to doubt my sincerity, just as I have every reason to doubt his. Tell me, though, did you actually see this man? Did you see his face?"

"Yes, sir, and I've already passed a screencap to Military Intel for identification."

"It may well transpire that this is a trap of some manner."

"Yes, sir, that thought has occurred to me."

"If this supposed turncoat is to be in any way believed, however, and if he can, in fact, deliver to us the Jedi younglings, then that will be one significant problem resolved, but it would still bring us no nearer to dispensing with the immediate threat, which is the one-hundred sixteen Masters, Knights, and Padawans who remain at large."

"Forgive me, sir, but I was getting to that. Naturally, this man's comm signal was routed through multiple nodes, and the routing instructions were heavily encrypted to prevent us from tracing the signal back to the source. Unfortunately for him, however, he obviously doesn't have access to the newest Republic ciphers, since he isn't a Jedi or high-level military officer. He was using the J9 cipher."

"Which we've broken," said Revan as a tingle of excitement ran through his fingers.

"Yes, sir. Unfortunately, I didn't record the very start of the conversation, not knowing that it was from the enemy when I answered the call, so Intel hasn't been able to make a full trace back to the source, but they've determined that it was from somewhere near Kalist."

"No matter, General. Were we to pursue now, by the time we were to reach Kalist, or wherever it is they may be, they will have moved on. What matters is that this man will contact us again, and this time we shall be ready."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm flying back to the Core today. I'll be able to inform you as to the exact system within the hour, and I want the entire Imperial Guard assembled by the time I arrive."

"Yes, sir."

"Three days, General," he said firmly, but with an unmistakably enthusiastic undertone. "In three days, we'll have them."

"My Lord, if you show us the way to the Jedi, you have my word that we'll destroy them."

"I have every confidence that you will, General. I shall contact you again when the rendezvous is decided."

"Very good, My Lord."

He flicked the commlink off, kept it clutched in his hand for a long few seconds, then set it on the nightstand as he climbed out of bed. There was no pleasure to be taken in killing those who meant well, but the Jedi had made themselves his enemies, and for so long as they remained such, it was his duty to kill them. This morning's news had brought him measurably nearer to that objective, and therefore to the end of hostilities, and he couldn't have been more awake than he was then.

By the time he was stripping out of his bedclothes, Bastila was speaking to Aimirdel via her own commlink, ordering him to recall all personnel on shore leave and prep the ship for departure.

_This is it._

37 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

1.2.20376

Soft instrumentals and a hauntingly beautiful female voice filled the cabin as Revan sat at the desk, deep in thought as his eyes wandered across a report from Idanos. He knew that it was good news, and that he ought to take comfort in it, but he found it difficult to focus on anything beyond his own thoughts, which dwelled inescapably on the matter of the Jedi. Military Intelligence had identified the man with whom Wallen had spoken as being Pholam Breeyor, a Caretaker who had been employed in the Jedi Temple prior to its evacuation. Based upon what personal information was available on him, it appeared plausible that he could be genuine in his desire to spare the younglings at the expense of whatever plans the elder Jedi might have for a long-term resistance. Being in daily contact with the young Jedi, and bearing some of the responsibility for their care, he was regarded by his colleagues as a very kind and compassionate man. Such a man would understandably want to spare the children regardless of any larger considerations of strategy, but would likewise be exceedingly cautious about turning them over to the Empire, which he would naturally distrust. _It would, of course, be far simpler if I could meet him face-to-face, and_ will _him to trust me._

Regrettably, though, that was not how this was to be, he knew, and for now there was no course of action open but to wait, and to try to read the reports projected in front of him.

The marshal in command of the Republic forces defending the Kuat Sector had surrendered during the night, and sixty million enemy soldiers had laid down their arms. It had been the last sector outside the Deep Core still defended by the Republic Army in any strength, although there did remain isolated pockets of resistance wherein individual units - and, in some cases, individual soldiers - refused to obey their commanders' orders to surrender.

Coruscant itself had surrendered the day before, to much fanfare from the news media, but there existed no plans to occupy it, and the planet was in a state of utter chaos. The relatively brief siege had produced panic and violence on an appalling scale, and hundreds of thousands were believed to be dead. There were strong suggestions from within the Imperial government that an effort should be made to stabilize the situation and protect innocent civilians, and with that basic premise Revan could hardly argue. What he could argue, and what Idanos had also written in her report, was that to assume control of the entire planet would require many times more soldiers than the Army had available, and was guaranteed to result in a bloodbath. To occupy any city of any size was a hazardous undertaking for an army (as the 107th had shown), and to occupy an entire planet covered in a city of a trillion inhabitants was absolute lunacy. The Imperial Army was not a police force, and its soldiers were trained to respond to any threat with overwhelming force. If the Coruscant Security Force couldn't (or wouldn't, as it appeared many of them had deserted their posts) maintain order, then the Imperial Army could hardly be expected to do better. In any event, Revan was hopeful that the situation would largely calm itself as soon as food and other goods started returning to the planet.

As for the Republic Navy, what was left of it had blundered into elements of 4th Group on the 35th, proving that not even the Jedi could keep them concealed indefinitely. A brief engagement had ensued near Vulpter, in which the bulk of the enemy force jumped away after the first exchange of volleys. Two-hundred thirty-one ships were trapped by an Imperial interdictor squadron, however, and fought with suicidal courage for nearly twenty minutes before surrendering to a vastly superior force. That left an estimated eight or nine hundred Republic warships of any mentionable size still at large, which was a truly pitiful force by anybody's reckoning. Revan truly had to pause and consider the logic behind the move toward Vulpter, however, for it suggested an attempt at breaking out of the Deep Core. If the enemy were to slip past the encircling ring of Imperial fleets, where did they hope to go? What could they possibly hope to achieve with so small a force, Jedi or no? It was a worrying conundrum, and one on which he and Bastila had meditated at considerable length during the past day and a half, in addition to searching for the enemy's whereabouts.

Not readily did an answer come, nothing beyond vague hints of danger, and they came to suspect that the Republic and the Jedi did actually mean to come for them, personally, or at least Revan. It would be a suicidal last act, and one that could not possibly rescue the Republic in any degree, there being naught left to rescue. Whether Revan lived or died, the Republic was finished.

The fact remained, however, that there were those within the remnants of the Republic who could not imagine yielding to the inevitable tide of history, and who believed in their cause with a fervor equal to that with which he and Bastila believed in theirs; and the Jedi were amongst them. He had to respect their devotion, even as he hated the cause for which they fought with such determination, but it also meant that he could afford to wait no longer. In the course of their exhaustive searches, he and Bastila had come to suspect that the enemy had moved somewhere nearer to Besero, and had therefore positioned their forces accordingly. Should Breeyor fail to make contact, that area would be converged upon at 1800 by eight thousand warships. Every interdictor in the Imperial Navy had been transferred here, regardless of unit, to ensure that there could be no escape this time.

"He couldn't have had the courtesy to tell us at what _hour_ he would make contact, could he?" Bastila groused from her armchair as she tried to focus on her own work.

"I doubt that he knew in advance when he could safely do so," he replied somewhat absently.

"True - if he is being honest with us, then he's running a tremendous risk of discovery by contacting you at all," she conceded.

Staring past the words on his display and tapping one finger on the desktop, he prevaricated, not entirely certain if the creeping anxiety he felt was a manifestation of his Force-enhanced intuition, or merely of his paranoia. In the end, he resolved in favor of voicing his concern, the idea of withholding the slightest detail from Bastila being too unpalatable to countenance.

At last he spun his chair about, leaning back in it with his arms folded across his chest.

"My doubts as to his honesty are growing, I must confess, and I fear that is not entirely a product of the wait," he told her rather quietly.

She, too, then turned, though since her chair was immobile, she did so by twisting around in her seat, and fixed him with a worried gaze.

"You feel it, too?"

"Then I'm not just losing my nerve?"

"I've never known you to lose your nerve, but if you are, then so am I. No, something's amiss. This may be a trap."

"Yet they can't possibly know where we are: no one outside of this ship has been notified of our position, and all comms are locked. If it is a trap, then surely we have yet to walk into it."

"Then where's this danger we sense coming from?"

"It must be from the Jedi…and perhaps also from the remnants of the Republic Navy. Had they been able to break out the day before yesterday, they still have enough ships that they could have bombarded a planet to terrible effect."

"But what would that gain them? We have the power to retaliate a thousandfold, not that I'd ever punish millions of civilians for the crimes of a handful of fanatics."

The question hung in the air as the two of them second-guessed the obvious answer, until Revan finally declared, "Yes, all it could gain them is another charge to face after the surrender."

She nodded at first, accepting the obvious logic of it, before slowly speaking, "It would only make sense that you're their target, but if you're the target, then why would they attempt to break out while we were in hyperspace?"

He finished the thought: "When they had no way of locating us…"

Standing, Bastila fished her commlink from her pocket and put it to her ear.

"Bridge, 1CO," she identified herself.

"1CO, Bridge," Tanen answered.

"Captain, I need a complete emissions sweep of the ship immediately."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Secondly, can you confirm that the 18th Task Force is holding in position?"

"They were there as of…twelve minutes ago, ma'am, which is the last time they broadcast."

"And do we still have a jump plotted to their position?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Tanen, his words thick with a blend of confusion and mounting concern.

"Stand to and prep for an emergency jump to that position. Execute that jump immediately upon receiving any sensor contacts."

"Yes, ma'am. Might I ask, ma'am, if I'm to expect an attack?"

"Not imminently, but just see to it, Captain."

"Yes, ma'am."

She stuffed the commlink back in her pocket and started pacing the small room until Revan rose from his seat and, standing in her path, halted her. Wishing he could offer her some degree of comfort, he laid his hands on her shoulders, but being far from calm, confident, or certain himself, he had only support to give.

A chime sounded from the computer terminal, to which they both turned in a single, lightning-quick reaction before realizing that it had been not the sound of an incoming transmission, but a text file. Just another report.

Bastila sat down, opened the file, read through the first paragraph.

"It's from Meric," she said. "The Foreign Ministry has been in communication with Xentorell this morning."

Revan's attention was piqued by the mention of the Republic Minister of Defense, who, though nominally the C-in-C of the Republic armed forces, was known to have taken a back seat to the Chancellor in recent years.

"He wants to negotiate a surrender," Bastila went on with some enthusiasm, then paused, and let loose a mirthless laugh. "Only he doesn't know where his own Navy is right now. If he can reach a 'reasonable accommodation' with Meric, then he'll transmit an order to surrender, but I don't see how there's any guarantee that it will be obeyed, and he all but admits to this. Possibly the Army will listen…hopefully…"

"Does he say what he would consider a 'reasonable accommodation?' He would need to be mad to expect anything resembling a negotiated peace."

"No, Meric says that he's being very reasonable about this, and that it appears he only wants to see Republic prisoners of war paroled quickly, and not punished for any acts by their political leadership."

"May I sit?" he asked politely, to which she responded by yielding the chair to him.

He typed a reply in which he agreed to the proposal, and gave Meric full leave to accept the surrender, then stowed the message in the queue of messages to be transmitted as soon as the comms were unlocked.

"Hopefully that's one more problem to scratch off the list," he declared with cautious optimism as he pushed back from the desk.

He looked to the chrono: 1627._ It will take twenty-one minutes for everyone to jump from their fail-safe points to their search zones, which leaves…seventy-two minutes before I must issue the order, if we're to commence the search at 1800. Seventy-two minutes for Breeyor to make contact. Should I even bother giving him the chance, though, when I feel increasingly certain that time is of the essence? If I at least know where to begin the search, do I need him at all? If he is willing to surrender the younglings, though, then it will be worth the wait… If he is being honest in his offer._

"That's the smaller problem we're scratching off, though," remarked Bastila irritably. "We can't go home until the Jedi are finished."

_Home,_ he thought with a glimmer of warmth in his heart.

Time slowed, almost stopping entirely, as the heat of danger exploded into a firestorm in Revan's head. His entire being was seized by a stark terror such as he had never before experienced, and he literally saw a wall of flame before his waking eyes. It was engulfing trees, fields, homes, animals, people… There was also snow, which was yet not snow, being dirty grey… Grey ash fell from a coal-black sky onto a scorched and barren land, and all was turned to death. His heart almost refused to beat, his skin turned so cold that it almost burned from the heat of the blood beneath it, and he was held temporarily immobile by his own fear.

It had always been the situation in the past that his deeper senses had manifested themselves as intuition: as vague compulsions to act without any clarity behind them. Now, for the first time, he could physically see, and he wished he couldn't. He saw with perfect, brutal clarity where the danger lay, and how dreadfully wrong he had been. It was not he and Bastila who were imperiled - no longer was there any sense of personal danger - but that was of small comfort.

Then the vision was gone as abruptly as it had come, and he saw Bastila reeling from the very same terror, bracing herself against the wall for support. Within a second, however, she had her commlink out, and he was working frantically at his computer to unlock the ship's comms.

"Bridge, 1CO," she nearly shouted, "plot a course for Deralí and jump as soon as the ship is ready, and I want the reactors brought up to emergency power."

"1CO, Bridge, plot a course for home and jump ASAP at emergency power, aye," answered Tanen.

"Everything you've got to the hyperdrive, Captain. We know the enemy's target now, and it's _home_, Captain. _Home!"_


	20. The End of Time

First off, since some didn't seem to notice, I stated at the start of Chapter 19 that it was the _third_ to last chapter, meaning that this is the _second_ to the last, and not the end of the story.

Secondly, I should like to remark that I always find it absolutely laughable to watch or read fight scenes in which the combatants actually hold some kind of debate or conversation in the midst of battle (although I'll grant that typical movie fights are so drawn out as to leave plenty of room for discussion). Consequently, I aim to write realistic (within the universe in question-i.e., much of the action in this chapter defies the known laws of physics) and, above all, _believable _fight scenes, melodrama be damned. The simple fact is that if you ever find yourself in a kill-or-be-killed situation, you really won't think about chatting with the person who's trying to kill you.

* * *

20

The End of Time

37 Dûlif, 1,018 DÉ

1.2.20376

Revan was transmitting the messages in the queue, and signaling 3rd and 4th Group, who had been poised to attack, to instead immediately fan out in hopes of thwarting the breakout. Lest they prove too late, he went on to direct 2nd Group to make for Ambria at emergency speed, and alerted every reserve force between the Core and Deralí. Every ship fit for action would be in motion soon, and while he was not yet certain of the enemy's position or course, Ambria was along the direct route to Deralí, and by the time he arrived there, the situation would be clearer. Right now, he had to act on the assumption that the enemy _would_ break out, or perhaps had done so already, and so his next move was to comm Wallen.

Almost leaping from his chair, he yielded the desk to Bastila, who hurriedly called up a list of all interdictors presently undergoing repairs. Throughout the rear areas, there had always been wings of cruisers and destroyers deployed to counter commerce raids and the like, and these were already receiving Revan's alert order, but there were no active interdictors available. _We have all of them _here_, because the enemy's supposed to be _here_,_ she fumed. _There must be something serviceable between here and home, though. There has to be…_

"My Lord," she heard Wallen's voice via Revan's commlink. "I take it Breeyor has…"

"General," Revan interrupted him, "it was a ruse, and we fell for it. They've broken out."

"How…"

_Be silent and let him speak, damn you!_ Bastila silently cursed him. _How dense can that lout be?_

"You and the entire Imperial Guard must depart for Ambria with all possible haste. There is no time to be spared, and none to be wasted. Get to Ambria, General, and I shall have new orders for you there."

Bastila felt a flash of hope as a name jumped out at her on the display: Anzat. There were thirteen interdictors undergoing repairs at the dockyards there, and nine of them were at ninety-five percent readiness and therefore capable of being underway within ten hours. Deralí was about as far from the Deep Core as any target could possibly be, which made ten hours amply sufficient response time. Toward that very end, she hurriedly calculated an intercept point, and transmitted an order for those nine ships to fly to a point along the Lesser Lantillian Route as soon as they were operational. That would place the intercept just over three hours' flight from Deralí, which provided them with a healthy margin of error.

"The Republic Navy has broken out? But how do you know…"

This time, it wasn't Revan who cut him off, although Bastila was keenly aware of his displeasure with Wallen's doubts. Instead, before her beloved could raise his voice, the ship's intercom blared to life.

"All hands secure for immediate jump!"

"The Jedi are with them, General," said Revan firmly, "you can be assured of that. What remains of the Republic Navy would never have slipped past our blockade without them: it was only with the aid of the Jedi that they evaded my sight for as long as they did. More than that, though, I _feel_ them, General. I _know_ that the Jedi are out there. They came very close to succeeding in their plan, but they could not elude me forever, and now I shall run them down."

The jump alarm moaned, and Aimirdel announced, "Jumping in five…"

"You have your orders!" Revan snapped, raising his voice over the XO's warning as he felt the ship vibrate beneath his feet. "You must reach Ambria!"

"Yes, My Lord!"

"…two…one…jump!"

The signal collapsed into static then, as the ship flung herself into hyperspace. There was a hard jolt, then stillness and silence, and Revan let out a heavy sigh.

"How could this have happened?" he lamented as he leaned with elbows braced against the wall and his head in his hands. "Yes, the Jedi most certainly worked all their will to keep us blind, but how could we not have pierced their illusion sooner?"

"We wanted to believe," she answered in a small voice. "We wanted to believe that it was over."

Breaking through the gloom and recrimination, he turned to her with grim resolve fixed in his features.

"And now it will be, soon enough. Those people will not harm a single blade of grass on Deralí, not for so long as I draw breath," he said with a cold fury that gave even Bastila a chill in her spine.

She felt that very same determined fury blossoming in her heart, though, and knew that there was only one permissible outcome here: victory. She would give the last measure of strength that was in her to defend her home, and to fail was a scenario that could not be considered. They would pursue the enemy, and entrap and destroy him utterly. Nothing else could be accepted.

And then a most queer feeling came upon her: one which baffled her initially, knowing logically as she did that she shouldn't have felt it. It was hope, and the thought that, _And maybe nothing else is possible,_ passed through her brain.

"Darling," she began, "every time you and I have stepped into a trap, we did so knowing - if only subconsciously - that we needed to; that it was all part of the journey. The trap the Jedi set for you, Malak's betrayal, the Dantooine Academy… What if history is repeating itself?"

On hearing those words, Revan looked up, and a calm settled over him, and he all but glowed with not only hope, but soaring pride.

"You are very wise," he said sweetly, "and instinct tells me that you're right…as always. Even so, we always step out of those traps thanks to our own efforts, so I think we'd best get to work."

"Agreed," she replied, and watched him settle into one of the armchairs, the plush upholstery conforming around him, his hands coming to rest upon the arms, his eyes falling closed. She watched his chest rise and fall with an increasingly steady and slow regularity, and got up, went over and sat in the chair beside his. Reaching out with her left hand, she took hold of his right, and with fingers entwined, shut her eyes and let herself slip away from her physical surroundings.

The flight out of the Core was tedium defined, as the battleship picked her way through the knotted labyrinth of gravity wells produced by the vast multitude of stars and other celestial bodies. Once clear, their progress would increase exponentially, but in the meantime, Bastila and Revan found themselves wishing desperately to fly faster, even as they were wholly consumed by the search for the enemy. Through the colorful splendor of nebulae, past the ordered ballet of star systems, and across the trackless voids they quested for the foe. They could feel the combined power of the Jedi still working against them to cloud their vision, but even when blinded by a light shone in one's eyes, one can still surmise its source. As the hours crept past and their heads began to swim from the effort, they at last began to focus upon the source of the obfuscation. It remained murky, and they could not see the individual lights, nor the clusters of light that signified ships, but they knew in their hearts that they had found the enemy.

_There! Nearly at Kuat,_ Revan's words entered her mind.

_And nearly even with us,_ she added.

_Our progress would be swifter were one of us to plot the course._

There was no disputing that either of them could plot the ship's jumps with greater efficiency than the navicomputer, which had to err on the side of caution when dealing with ever-changing celestial phenomena.

_Go,_ he bade her. _I'll manage on my own._

She couldn't argue with the logic of it, his sight having always been keener than her own, but she was loathe to desert him. When she opened her eyes, she saw his face covered in a sheen of perspiration that had begun to bead on his cheeks and forehead. She certainly didn't feel any better than he looked, and now they would no longer be working in support of one another. It needed to be done, however, and they each knew their duty.

"I'll be with you," she whispered in his ear before she kissed him.

Guessing that this must be how he felt every time he left her on the eve of battle, she picked herself up from the chair. Stopping first for a glass of water, she then departed their quarters for the bridge.

"Admiral on deck!" a lieutenant belted out within seconds of her entrance, and the entire bridge crew came to attention.

"As you were," she ordered. "Report, Captain."

"My Lady, the ship remains green across the board," Tanen informed her, still standing, albeit with his hands clasped behind his back instead of held rigidly at his sides. "The hyperdrive is functioning properly in all respects, and both reactors are being maintained below 0.96S. We're approaching the Kuat Sector, and another seven jumps will put us clear of the Core. After that, it will require only one further course correction to reach Ambria."

"Time to next correction?" she asked as she strode over to the nav station.

"Fourteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds, ma'am," replied the navigator, who was a petite blonde woman of roughly Bastila's age.

"Lieutenant, display our course as it is currently plotted."

"Yes, ma'am."

A few keystrokes and touches of the holographic display later, she was looking at a starchart floating above the nav station.

"Large scale," she ordered. "Put it on the tactical display."

"Yes, ma'am."

Another few seconds, and the center of the bridge was filled with a projection of the space between their present position and Ambria. Gazing at it for several long minutes, she saw beyond what was shown on the map, felt beyond what was stored in the navicomputer's files. She sensed every gravity well out there, and knew exactly where there was room to adjust the course and where she had to remain cautious.

"Lieutenant, I require use of your station."

With another clipped, "Yes, ma'am," the navigator yielded her seat, and Bastila let her fingers rest on the console for a moment or two. Then she shut her eyes and typed. When she opened them, the course on the tactical display had become straighter than before, and a course correction near Balmorra had vanished altogether.

"By how much did that reduce our transit time?" she inquired as she vacated the chair.

The navigator quickly dropped back into it and opened the appropriate screen.

"Thirty-three minutes, nine seconds. Ma'am, I should warn you, however, that this new course violates navigational safety tolerances at six separate points."

"Duly noted, Lieutenant. Revan has located the enemy, however, and we must pick up our pace if we're to beat them."

"Yes, ma'am," said the navigator with a newfound tone that seemed to say, "I'll skirt round a black hole in a heartbeat if it means stopping them from reaching Deralí."

She turned and started to leave, only to be stopped by Tanen, who stepped halfway into her path.

"My Lady, if necessary, Senior Lieutenant Fahn is of the opinion that we could increase reactor output to 0.97S, possibly even 0.98," he said in a low tone, as if he didn't want the rest of the crew to overhear.

For all other ship classes in the Imperial Navy, emergency reactor power was defined as a set figure somewhere between 97% and 98% of supercriticality, but the _Deralí's_ designers had never been able to guarantee safety beyond 95%, or 0.95S. That Tanen said they were holding below 0.96S meant that the engineering staff was already having difficulty controlling the level of the reaction. Any higher, and they risked going supercritical, which meant a runaway reaction and the complete destruction of the ship.

"No, Captain, that's one safety tolerance I'm not willing to violate," she told him in an equally soft voice. "We're of no use to anyone back home if we vaporize."

"Yes, My Lady. I just thought it prudent to inform you of the option."

"Thank you, Captain. Carry on."

1 Féel, 1,018 DÉ

2.2.20376

Konnuff was ill at ease as he shared the small ready room with Admiral Pershon Wintae, commander of the 100th Battle Group. The bland blue-grey walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of antique weapons, portraits of long-dead military commanders, and ancient artifacts that included strange and garish masks. Wintae, possibly the most physically-unremarkable and forgettable human in the galaxy, sat behind a very old and well-worn wooden desk with his hands folded on the lusterless surface and his expressionless grey eyes fixed on the Grand Master. There was something Konnuff found vaguely disturbing about that stare, almost as if he was addressing a machine rather than a man.

"Revan's out there," he told the admiral.

"Out there? As in…following us?"

"He may be following, or he may even be ahead of us; we can't be sure."

"You _can_ remember why I insisted upon Jedi participation, can't you? Your part in this mission is guide this battle group past the enemy patrols and through their sensor nets, and to keep Revan distracted long enough for us to reach Deralia, or, at the very least, long enough to slip past the bulk of the Imperial Navy. Now you tell me that he knows we've broken through, and that he may even be in the process of cutting us off. If he knows where we are, then so does the rest of the Imperial Navy."

The disquieting emotional void remained perfectly intact as Wintae continued,

"Those people aren't stupid - they know how to contain a breakthrough, because they've done it before - and Revan will already have everything with a gun on it moving to intercept. Furthermore, we have a _very_ long flight ahead of us, which only gives them more time to respond. This plan - _my_ plan - was based around the principle that, with your assistance, this battle group could evade detection long enough to penetrate deeper into Imperial space than far larger forces have ever managed. You do realize that our chances of success are now almost nil?"

He pursed his lips as though he had swallowed something intolerably bitter, but his eyes never wavered, even as he spoke in a half-strangled tone,

"You assured the Chancellor that we could break out, and both he and I took you at your word. This was our _last chance_."

While he still offered no physical indicator of his sentiments, Wintae radiated a boiling contempt, frustration, and animosity into the Force. The man didn't trust him, or any Jedi, and had taken an irrational set against them from the very outset of the operation, and this had magnified a hundredfold in the last minute.

"We've done all in our power to ensure the success of this mission," Konnuff replied with implacable calm, "and we'll continue doing everything we can to help your crews elude whatever's sent to intercept us, but now that Revan knows where we are, he's almost certain to have guessed where we're going."

"Then kill him."

"That's the other reason we're here, and when the time comes, we'll deal with him."

"He's only one man," Wintae said dismissively. "Kill him."

When nothing more was said, and the inhuman stare continued, Konnuff took that as a dismissal and made his exit.

_Madness,_ was the first word that sprang into his thoughts when he was in the corridor outside._ Him and the Chancellor have lost all touch with reality. _Bombing Deralia wouldn't win the war now, but Wintae would do it if he was ever given the chance, regardless of the immorality of it, and even regardless of the horrific retaliation that was sure to follow. _And even if we _could_ save the Republic now, what's even left to save? Does it even matter now which side wins? _It was a depressing line of thought, and one that he couldn't allow himself to follow any further. Fortunately, Wintae's battle group would never reach Deralia, and Konnuff hadn't even had to commit another act of principled betrayal to ensure that. There had never been any hope of it, besides a madman's hope. When the Republic Navy had seventy thousand ships at its disposal, it hadn't been able to penetrate all the way to Deralia, and it was beyond ludicrous to think that Wintae could succeed with eight hundred. No, Konnuff and his fellow Jedi had agreed to participate, but it wasn't to ensure the success of an impossible military operation.

_Revan _is_ coming for us. _There was no mistaking the presence that flitted at the edges of his thought. However unrealistic the threat might be, the metaphorical gauntlet had been thrown down, and Revan had taken it up with furious resolve. Today, Konnuff knew with all that he was, he would meet Revan in battle.

* * *

"_G__íal," _said a voice in the darkness. It at once called to mind love, comfort, assurance, and strength, and she was certain that she must have smiled as she slept in response to the word.

"_G__íal, naioné rai mith," _he elaborated, and she felt a hand gently caress her face.

_Yes, the time has come,_ she grudgingly told herself as she forced herself back into the waking world. It had taken an effort to force herself to sleep, though she was tired and needed the rest, and it required just as much self-persuasion to wake up again. The situation had still been less than wholly certain when she had turned in, but she knew as she stirred that they had done it: they had stayed ahead of the enemy, if only just, and would stop him as she had known they must.

Revan had insisted that she rest, just as she had insisted that he take a nap earlier after he had nearly exhausted him in his hunt for the Jedi. Neither of them would be of any use in the coming battle if they were on the verge of collapse, and so they had rested in shifts; and she, for one, felt at least moderately refreshed by her brief respite. She opened her eyes to look upon him in the twilight of the study, blinked away the slumber that clung to her lids, and sat up.

"How much time?"

"We're approximately five minutes ahead of them, and under way again - in company with the interdictors, the 264th Flotilla, and five independent wings - en route to the Saari Ha system," he spoke quickly, and she regarded him with some bewilderment, for it had been planned that they would intercept the enemy ten light-years _outside_ the system.

"During the last course correction, we lost two motivators, which allowed the enemy to partially close the range. Then, not long before we dropped at our original intercept point, I sensed a shift in the enemy's course, and I believe that he now intends to pass through the system. Our own drop is in two minutes."

She was already out of her armchair and collecting her jacket from the end table.

"Lights: medium," she commanded, and her eyes were momentarily stung by the brilliance.

"And 2nd Group?" she queried as she thrust her arms into the sleeves.

"Sixteen minutes behind us."

"Bloody hell! How are we supposed to hold them for sixteen minutes with only nine interdictors?"

"Actually, 2nd Group is only eleven minutes behind the enemy, although, in any event, it is my understanding that you and I are in the business of achieving the impossible," he answered with an empty half-smile.

"Fair enough," she said with a matching smile whilst buttoning her jacket on her way out the door. "What about home?"

"Three flotillas and an independent heavy cruiser wing are already there, with another five flotillas due to arrive within the next two-and-a-half hours. Should anything slip past us…"

"…those forces should prove adequate," she continued the train of thought. "Not that we'll be needing them…"

"…because not one Republic warship will ever reach Deralí."

Having covered ground in swift strides, they were, by then, entering the ready room, wherein Bastila immediately settled into her chair as per the usual routine, although this time she could do so without her usual dread. _There's less than a thousand of them, and as soon as 2__nd__ Group arrives, there'll be nothing for it. We have them._

"I feel as though I ought say something deeper than 'take care' or 'until after,' but time runs short," he said contemplatively as he stood over her. Then, leaning in, he kissed her, and finished after their lips had parted with, "I love you."

"And that's all I ever need to hear," she told him sweetly. "I love you."

She watched him turn and leave the room at a run, then ordered the lights down and drew a deep, cleansing breath. _One last time… This truly is the last time._

Seconds later, Revan entered the command center, where he was greeted with the usual hails and salutes before dropping into his chair in front of the strategic map. The latter was set to a wide view of the sector, and included the position of the _Deralí _and her entourage, the projected position of 2nd Group, and the enemy's position as estimated by Revan himself. He zoomed in until the map encompassed only the Saari Ha system itself, and called up two clocks above the map, the first counting back from 0:11 and the second from 16:05.

When the first clock reached zero and vanished (which occurred at 0619:22), the ship shuddered hard, and all but collapsed out of hyperspace. The second countdown continued with galling languor, Revan counting in his mind in time with the white numerals. _Fifteen, fifty-one…fifty…forty-nine…forty-eight…_ Green icons appeared on the map around the _Deralí_, which was parked well above the orbital plane of the fourth planet in the system. _Forty-six…forty-five…forty-four…_ A faint blue haze filled the immediate vicinity, and struck his eyes as disturbingly limited in its reach. _Just nine interdictors. If I misjudged the intercept by so much as a million kilometers, they'll fly right past us. But I haven't misjudged, have I? The danger is past. I know it, as certainly as I've ever known anything in my life._

"Bridge, SCC, report," he commanded.

It was Tanen who answered: "Shields are up at one hundred, all weapons charged. Null Quantum Field Generator 4 failed on the drop, but the ship remains fit for action in all respects."

"Acknowledged, Captain. I expect us to be engaged in less than five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

The seconds and minutes crept along with intolerable lethargy, and he sat with his eyes closed and his fingers digging into the arms of his chair as he waited. He felt them out there, the hated foe hurtling through the void, bent on senseless murder and devastation, and yet so close now, almost within reach, charging headlong into his reach… He felt a flash of alarm that was not his own, the urgent impulse to stop, to evade, to… _They're too late._ His eyes opened just in time to see the first amber icons appear, and his heart leapt. _That's it! That's it: we have them!_

_History repeats itself,_ the words sprang into his mind. It had not been since the first year of the war that Deralí was threatened, when a Republic armada had punched through the front at Kashyyyk. In response to that crisis, Revan had swiftly re-organized his forces, such that units that had been poised to attack were suddenly forming part of a fluid defense, just as they were now. More than a year and a half ago, he had launched a shattering counterattack at Boz Pity, just a short distance from here, and had thrown the Republic out of Imperial space with grievous losses. As he had so often done, he had transformed deadly peril into opportunity, and had emerged triumphant. _And today, it all draws to a close: the Republic, the Jedi, the Imperial Guard…the war itself… _It was suddenly all as clear as day, and Bastila's wisdom was proven right._ Had we attacked them in the Deep Core, would not the Jedi have scattered and fled, hidden and disappeared? We needed for them to break out, as we fight this battle here because we _need_ to fight it here._

And so it began.

The eleven minutes that followed bore witness to a conflagration whose ferocity was out of all proportion to its size or duration. Both sides fought with reckless abandon, the Republic in a desperate effort to obliterate the interdictors that entrapped them, and the Empire with equal desperation aimed at holding the enemy where he was. Throughout those eleven minutes, Revan was issuing orders at a feverish pace, directing his outnumbered force this way and that, perpetually countering the maneuvers of the enemy. It was a continual balancing act to keep the interdictors away from the heaviest fire while still keeping the enemy within their gravity wells, particularly after two were destroyed, and the well shrank correspondingly. All the while, Bastila exerted all her will to bring chaos and disorder to the Republic's every move, and heartening her own people as best she could, even as a third interdictor was lost and a fourth crippled.

The _Deralí _wrought a terrible toll in return, her guns hammering out death with steady rhythm, and even served as a shield for two interdictors that took refuge in her wake. In consequence, she became the target of a terrific bombardment, but though the decline of her shield strength could be seen as a very perceptible movement on the displays, the shields continued to hold back the torrent of turbolaser bolts.

It was notable that at no point in the battle did the Jedi make an effort of disrupting Bastila's efforts, evidently holding in their minds the disastrous error of their comrades on 25 Thilnuth, or else grasping that the battle was already lost. Revan and Bastila both sensed their presence, but neither could pinpoint the individual ships they were aboard. Not until just past 0614.

At that time, a number of enemy fighters made a appearance, sallying from more than a dozen different Republic capital ships, but none of them ever came within range of the Imperial point-defense guns. Instead, weaving and dodging the streams of turbolaser fire with uncanny grace and precision, they streaked for Bimmisaari, the only habitable world in the system. Revan immediately commed Wallen, who had been waiting with the rest of the Imperial Guard in their assault shuttles, all well away from the battle.

When the general's holographic visage appeared, the little green triangles representing those three ships were already in motion.

"I see them, My Lord," he announced before Revan had a chance to speak. He looked to be bursting with the enthusiasm of a hunter who had at last aligned his sights on an elusive prey. "They won't escape, I promise you."

"See to it that they don't, General. Not a single one of them can survive this day."

"They won't, My Lord, because I'll kill them to the last," Wallen all but growled.

_You're eager for blood,_ Revan thought rather bitterly. _I fight and kill for a cause, but do you even have a purpose anymore, or will you kill them merely for the sake of killing? Can you even recall why it is that you hate them? _There was so much darkness in the general, that he knew this moment had come none too soon. _Today will see more than their end, and that is a fate which you have called down upon yourselves._

"Then go to it, General, and good hunting. I'll join you the moment this business here is concluded," he said with professional cool.

"Thank you, sir."

He cut the signal, and returned his attention to the battle, where another interdictor had just suffered significant damage and was losing power to its gravity well generators. The blue field on the map shrank yet further, and some sixty enemy ships were now all too near to its outer edge. After ordering Tanen to close the range and concentrate all main battery fire on those sixty ships, he signaled the two interdictors sheltering behind the battleship to keep pace and stay as close as they dared. The countdown was now at 3:52, and there was far too much that could go awry in four minutes.

By the time the countdown neared its end, there were but three interdictors still operating at full capacity, and a very real danger that at least a part of the enemy could escape. That all changed in an instant at 0619:01, however, when Revan watched the map suddenly fill with green triangles. Within just a few seconds, there appeared scores, then hundreds, then thousands of Imperial vessels dropping from hyperspace: the seven thousand, two hundred warships of 2nd Group had arrived, and the game, as it were, was up. After 0619, there was no longer anything resembling a battle, for from that moment on an outright massacre ensued. Each Republic ship was instantly under fire from ten or more vessels, and many were unable to make their surrender calls before being simply torn asunder by the overwhelming fire. Those that did survive the onslaught all capitulated within a minute of 2nd Group's appearance.

No sooner had the firing ceased than he let himself fall back into the embrace of his chair and shut his eyes. Deralí was safe, the trap having been escaped as it had always been in the past, and so the journey continued. The Imperial Guard had chased the Jedi to Bimmisaari, where both would soon land and fight each other to the death, and all that remained was to finish off the survivors. _And that does still remain. Now is not the time to rest._ Reaching out to Bastila, he felt her shared relief, as well as her undiminished strength and zeal. She had exerted herself heavily during those eleven minutes, but was already recovering, and was eagerly determined to see this day finished. He activated his comm.

"Hangar One, SCC."

"SCC, Hangar One."

"Prep 50-05 and 39-07 for immediate departure."

"50-05 and 39-07, prep for immediate departure, aye."

That done, he rose from his seat and headed out the door. _It is but the final act that remains,_ he thought with hope springing in his heart alongside a cold hatred. _You dared take part in this mad quest for vengeance, and for that you will meet with justice._

* * *

Blue met red with a flash and a crackle, and the acrid scent of ozone stung Wallen's nostrils as his arms buckled under the force of impact. The Cerean Jedi had practically fallen on him, somersaulting through the air to strike with bone-jarring force, and nearly driving the general's own lightsaber back into his face. In retrospect, he would have done better to sidestep, to evade rather than meet the attack head-on. _That's what Revan would have done,_ he told himself as he took a step back and delivered a kick to the Jedi's midsection to buy himself both space and time. This fight had not developed at all as he had anticipated, and certainly not as he has planned. He had expected the Jedi to be scattered, disorganized, and disoriented following their hasty escape and subsequent emergency landing on an unfamiliar world; he had expected that he and his Guards would overcome their numerical superiority by picking them off piecemeal. By all appearances, though, the enemy was united in this one place, and was well-prepared for battle, and he actually began to fear defeat. He had come so far, and had been so certain that victory was at hand, and that it was to be _his _victory.

As he parried another slash from the Cerean, who was remarkably quick on his feet and had barely been touched by Wallen's kick, he glimpsed an opening and struck. Tired though he was, he still moved with ferocious speed as he plunged his blade straight into the Jedi's heart and withdrew it in a motion not unlike a snake striking its prey. The Cerean crumpled at his feet, but that was only a small victory. Up the slope to his right, another Guard was desperately holding off a human woman and an Ithorian (male or female, Wallen couldn't tell the difference). He dashed up the steep embankment and struck hard at the woman, whom he did, in fact, recognize from the years when he, too, had called himself a Jedi Knight. Her name didn't immediately come to mind, and he didn't expend the effort that it would take to recall it, but he thought there might have been some pleasant memory of her locked away in the back of his brain.

"Bared!" the woman called out in shock as he took a mighty swing at her head. She dropped low and swung her leg at his feet, but he would have anticipated that move even without the Force, and easily leapt over the trip. _She remembers me, too?_ he thought with surprise. _No, there's no room for sentiment._

As he was thinking this, he tapped into the pit of anger and hatred, and, yes, even fear, that simmered deep down inside his heart. Banishing all thoughts of familiarity and former friendship from his mind, he fed the hate, let it grow and swell within him, and the darkness filled his tired muscles with its strength. He could overcome this, could defeat any weakness, any pain, any foe.

Forgetting entirely that he had ever known this woman, perhaps had once thought of her as a friend, he attacked viciously, slashing at her from every angle. He felt the hate flowing into his arms, powering every stroke as he battered down her defenses.

"Bared, why?" the woman pleaded. "You were a good man! Don't do this!"

He was deaf to her words, forced an opening, and slashed in just beneath her saffron blade, his own crimson weapon cutting through her ribs, spine, vital organs. Her tortured scream rang in his ears as she split in two, and he felt no remorse or compassion, only the sweet flush of triumph.

Sensing a sudden flash of danger to his left, he pivoted swiftly and raised his blade just in time to deflect a blow that would otherwise have sliced vertically down through his skull. It was a Wookie who assailed him now, and he knew that no matter how strong his hate, he could not win this duel through physical prowess. When the Wookie struck again, he ducked low, swung his arm wide, and the Jedi tried to jump over it, but was marginally too slow. Wallen was moving faster than he ever had in his life, and the blade seared through hair, flesh, and bone. A massive brown foot flopped onto the mossy ground, and a staccato bellow split the air as the enemy landed and lost his balance, teetering on his remaining foot. Wallen stepped in, closing the distance, and sliced effortlessly through the Wookie's neck.

The fear was shrinking now, and was swallowed up by the high of victory. He gave himself over completely to his hate and felt unstoppable, invincible, as he sprinted across the open ground to the next foe, a tall Chagrian who had just cut down one of his best Guards. _You'll pay for that, Jedi._ _I'll have your guts for that._

The Chagrian turned and, not entirely to Wallen's surprise, revealed himself as none other than the Grand Master himself. Wallen feinted to his right, then ducked left and lunged in hard, aiming for Konnuff's neck. He could almost see the brain stem, knew exactly where to strike, but, much to his shock, his blade was turned away with centimeters to spare, and barely even singed the collar of Konnuff's robes. Then he felt it: a cascade of pain blazing through his right shoulder and into his chest, and an unexpected weight trying to pull his lightsaber from his left hand. It took him a moment to comprehend that the weight was his right hand still gripping the hilt, if only temporarily, and the partially-severed arm that was attached to that hand. Then the lifeless fingers loosened their hold, the arm flopped against his side, and he was standing there, staring blankly at Konnuff in disbelief.

_Impossible. I've never felt such power. How could he…? How…?_ He coughed, and thick, warm, coppery fluid coated his tongue. He knew the blade had pierced his right lung, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. Konnuff looked at him for less than a second before turning away to join another fight, but when he did, it was with an expression of sad pity and regret.

_You think I could have been 'saved,' don't you? You don't have the time to say it, but you would if you could! Predictable, weak Jedi…vermin!_ The hate blossomed anew, even as he fell to his knees, his left hand automatically clutching the gaping wound where his right shoulder had been attached, vainly trying to press the seared flesh back together. He swayed for a second or two, his ears filling with shouts and calls and screams from all directions, before toppling forward.

_This can't be how it ends, not after all I've been through. I've come too far for it to end like this. I was so close!_

As the pain engulfed him, threatening to swallow him entirely, he was suddenly back in that temple on Yavin IV. Then, too, he had thought he would surely die, yet he hadn't. He had proven stronger than Kun thought, and he had survived, and had exacted his just revenge, albeit indirectly. It galled him now that he had called on Revan and Bastila to do his work for him, though at the time he had judged it cleverness. _I don't need them,_ he snarled inwardly.

And then he at last saw the obvious: he had been sent here to die. _He sees us as no better than the Sith. We're his pawns… no, not even pawns, just tools to be used and discarded._ Just like Kun, however, they underestimated him, and he would survive yet again. The hate became an inferno in his heart, and as he let it burn through him, it took away his pain. He lay there motionless, his lightsaber within reach of his left hand, his heartbeat slow and pulse shallow, looking for all intents and purposes like a corpse. Now he would wait, and hope he didn't die before his work here was done.

Time passed, though how much he didn't consciously know. The power flowing through his veins was invigorating, even intoxicating, but he knew that it didn't make him invincible, as was all too obvious. He didn't know how long he could lay there before he would fall into a sleep from which he would never wake, and nor did he know how long he might have to wait for the opportunity he sought. He lay there, however, until he was barely aware of anything outside of his own body, focused as he was on only the hate which sustained him. He couldn't feel the spongy ground beneath him, or the heat of the sun beating down on his back, or the insects that landed on him and bit at his skin. What he did feel, after what could have been an eternity, was an unmistakable disturbance in the Force. It was power, but it was like neither the light of the Jedi nor the darkness with which he had enveloped himself. The shriek of ion engines penetrated the fog that filled his head, and, knowing that the time was drawing near, drew on a skill that had served him well in the past against the Jedi. It was one which he knew Revan held in low esteem, as he was allegedly able to see through it, but Wallen doubted that even Revan would look for a Force signature in a corpse. He would just have to do a very good job at playing a corpse.

* * *

It was almost subconsciously that Bastila had piloted her Xg-33 down through the Bimmisaari atmosphere, her focus consumed by the battle she felt far below and ahead. She struck the mesosphere on the dark side of the planet, and but dimly saw the stars disappear when a plume of luminous plasma engulfed her canopy. By the time the blazing light had flickered out, the sun was rising over the curved horizon, but this, too, largely escaped her attention. She could think only of the lives flaring up and burning out in the fabric of the Force, counting them off as they died one by one. Each death was a victory for her, she knew, one further step down the road to a future with neither darkness nor light, but one ruled by something altogether greater and purer. The day had begun with her heart gripped by dread, but it would end with joy, of that she was now certain. That same vague intuition that had sent her on her way six months ago sang out with hope, and assured her that she was still on the right path, still climbing.

It recalled to mind the dream she had had during Operation Impulse, when she imagined herself climbing a mountain in the face of a howling gale: just when the storm was at its fiercest, she reached the summit and beheld all the beauty of nature. As she punched through a thick stratus layer and looked upon a sprawling jade savannah that stretched as far as her eyes could see, she knew with unquestionable certainty that she was nearing the summit. It demanded only one final push, one last step against the raging storm, and she would reach that lofty goal. She had one last battle to win, and then she could take pleasure and satisfaction in the fruits of her labor.

As she descended through two thousand meters, she came over a broad river whose muddy waters cut an ever-deeper valley into the land, set amidst a swath of increasingly rugged hills. She saw great herds of dark brown animals roaming the land, flocks of birds that numbered in the hundreds taking wing beneath what here was the mid-morning sun. Away to the south, she saw a large town on the banks of another river, and thought that the Jedi may have meant to hide there, but that it was a long ways off, and she was nearly upon her quarry now.

Flying into view of a sparkling lake dotted with little green islands and surrounded by hills, many of which were so steep and rocky as to appear as row upon row of teeth, she thought it a lovely day, even as she felt one more life burn out. It had been a life tainted with darkness, now stained with anger and hatred and, above all else, _fear_ as it drew to a close. There was something else, though, and that was the bitterness of betrayal. It was the last Imperial Guard whose death she felt, and that person died knowing that he had been betrayed. This had been a person, however, who had let the darkness into his heart, and who had been corrupted by it, and who, in time, would have become a slave to it.

She could therefore no more pity the last Imperial Guard than she could pity those surviving Jedi who shone as luminous beacons in her mind's eye. There were eighteen of them, she counted, but their light was flickering, even fading, their strength having been taxed to its limit by the battle just concluded. In contrast, she was bursting with energy on the eve of this, her final battle. Her home was safe, the war was won, and all that remained was to dispatch this bare handful of enemies who remained. And they were her enemies. They fought against all she believed in, all she cherished, all she _loved_, and no longer could she pity them in the slightest degree. When she and Revan had offered them peace, they had responded with a final, hollow, belligerent act of spite. They were hypocrites, and they were her enemies, and she would kill them to the last.

"They're on that little round hill, just there above the stream," Revan's words carried through her headset.

"I know," she answered calmly. "They're scattering."

She watched Revan pull ahead on her right, and saw green bolts flash from beneath the nose of his fighter. The shots tore through treetops and tossed up plumes of dust and smoke on the ground, and one of the lights below winked out of existence

Looking past the HUD, ignoring the targeting cues, she aimed with senses that went beyond what her fighter's displays could provide and let loose a burst of her own. There followed more eruptions on the ground, and another two lights were forever extinguished. Her throttle now back at idle, the fighter gliding in a shallow dive, she turned slightly to port and lined up for another shot as the ground raced up to meet her. She was very low, very close, with Revan banking away sharply to starboard. He fired first, just as her own finger was tensing on the trigger, and she looked to see more bursts of dirt and smoke, and at the same time a bolt shooting back up from the ground. She fired, but was also climbing to avoid the return fire, and missed her target. Even still, the Jedi at whom Revan had fired was gone, which left only fourteen alive.

Then she beheld the terrible sight of scraps of metal tumbling through the air behind Revan's -33, followed momentarily by flames billowing from the fuselage like a flamethrower. He said nothing over the comms, (_Were his comms knocked out by the hit?) _and she felt her own fear far more than anything coming from him. Then something else blew off from the fighter, and a grey egg-like object went rocketing up and away from the stricken craft seconds before it plunged into a hillside, to vanish amidst a sea of flame.

"I'm alright," she heard him say as she watched the escape capsule floating down on its repulsorlift.

"You're not hurt?"

She was climbing under power, circling over the descending capsule, all too aware that Revan was deliberately steering it back toward the Jedi, landing between the separate groups into which they had dispersed and cutting off one band from the others. Such dispersal made sense following the demise of the last Imperial Guards, for it would have represented their best chance for evasion had she and Revan not arrived, but it now rendered them vulnerable.

"I don't question that the bolt was meant to hit my cockpit, but I managed to turn just such that it ran down the left side of the fuselage instead," he said somewhat breathlessly. "First time I've ever ejected."

"You mean to say that he actually deflected the shot back at you?" she asked incredulously, although she had witnessed the feat with her own eyes.

"One of them. I didn't think it possible, though quite obviously it isn't _survivable,_" he said with a forced laugh.

Then she heard a soft grunt as the capsule alighted on the uneven ground, followed by a clatter as he made a quick egress.

"Mind coming down to lend a hand?" he asked with unflappable calm. "I strongly advise against any further strafing."

"Advice taken," she replied. "I'll be right with you."

Braking hard as she swung back around, she programmed the autopilot to take the fighter back into orbit, setting it to engage in ten seconds. She slowed to fifty kph, descended to treetop level, then pulled the quick-release on her safety harness, opened the canopy, and leapt up and out. Darting in and out of view beneath the sporadic tree cover, she saw as she fell figures dressed in earthy tones and brandishing glowing blades, all of them converging on a solitary man in black and green.

A tall young man with wavy straw-blond hair above a handsomely angular face looked up at her with widening hazel eyes as she dropped almost directly onto him. He reacted as if in slow motion, his feet digging hard into the soft, grassy turf, his upper body pivoting towards her, his right arm raising a cerulean blade. It wasn't that he was actually moving slowly, however, for she didn't doubt that he was reacting with speed well beyond that of normal human capacities; rather, she was simply faster. Her deep emerald blade plunged down through his hand and the lightsaber held within, at the same time as lightning flashed from her left hand and tore into his chest. He was hurled backwards by the force of the strike, landing with a limp thud in the grass as smoke rose from his blackened tunic.

They were not all here, she realized when she saw the other Jedi closing on Revan. Besides the young Knight whom she had just slain, there were four still on their feet, including a Weequay and a Gran who turned to confront her. It was plain to her from their movements that they were Master and Padawan, so well synchronized was their attack. They came in fast from ten- and two-o'clock, one striking high while the other struck low. She blocked the high cut from the Weequay, the elder of the two Jedi (the Gran being, in fact, little more than a teenager), while jumping over the slash aimed at her thighs. Maintaining contact between her blade and the Weequay's, she lashed out hard with her right leg while still in mid-air, and a loud, wet smack and a cry of pain signaled the contact between her boot and the Gran's central eye.

On landing, she found a violet blade closing in on her neck and somersaulted forwards out of the way, letting her sword arm swing wide as she did so. In spite of her injury, the Gran was turning to follow, her pale green blade coming down, only to have her legs cut out from under her at the knees. Bastila rolled to her feet, and made a backhanded stab into the base of the Gran's skull as the Padawan fell backwards. Then the Weequay was instantly upon her, obliging her to parry a thrust to her chest. She brushed the blade aside to her left, followed through, let the opposite end of her saber sweep around, and swapped blades. The newly-energized beam plunged into the Weequay's left breast, continued diagonally up across his chest, and exited via the right of his neck. For safety's sake, she was about to finish with a backhanded thrust to the forehead, only to watch as one of Revan's sabers decapitated the unfortunate Jedi.

"Are you hurt?" he asked before the body had even crumpled to the ground.

"No," she answered without hesitation or consideration.

He was looking down now, and asked with palpable concern, "Your leg…?"

"What about my…?"

She followed his gaze down to her left knee, where there was a prominent cut in her breeches. Pulling at the fabric, she looked through and saw, to her and Revan's shared relief, only flawless ivory flesh.

"A close shave," she declared.

She couldn't think of when that near-miss occurred, or who might have delivered it, though it obviously had to have been either the Gran or the Weequay. No matter. All that counted was that she had been skilled enough and quick enough to avoid harm.

"Now, are we going after the rest of them?"

"Of course." He tensed his grip on his twin sabers, and with a cry of, "Onwards!" was sprinting through the tall yellow grass.

Beneath and between umbrella-like trees with white bark and long, pointed leaves, she ran at his side over the undulating ground, keenly aware of the lights ahead of her. They were fleeing now, or at least so it appeared, but she and Revan had landed with the Jedi between them and the lake, and had left them with nowhere to go. The town was many kilometers distant, and not one of them would ever reach it.

Then she saw the bodies. Men and women of a dozen species lay inert in the gently-swaying grass, their savage wounds leaving no question as to their fate, even to one who couldn't feel the yawning gaps they left in the Force. Coming upon a dry creek bed, she found the dead littering it like fallen leaves, so numerous here that they compelled her to leap across the shallow defile to avoid treading on them. Even in that brief moment when she sailed across the gap, she found herself piecing together the fight that had happened here: the Imperial Guard had driven a relatively small number of Jedi here, and, entrapping them in the creek bed, felled them to the last. By that time, however, more Jedi had come, and the Guards had tried to scramble up the slopes, where many now lay in dark twisted shapes. Those who made it up went on to slay several Jedi, who had tumbled down the slope to lie with those whom they had come to rescue.

At the speed at which she and Revan covered the ground, the creek was well behind them in short order. She practically flew up a hillside from which much of the soil had worn away, leaving exposed a cracked and crumbling slab of rusty brown rock. From the top of the hill, she glimpsed a man running with his back to her, down in the hollow below, darting away to the south toward a stream. In her heart, she felt others with him, and yet more carrying on to the west, in the direction of the lake.

"They're splitting up!" she called out.

"Shall we do likewise?"

_That's what they want,_ she knew all too well, and yet she read no danger in it. She knew they weren't invincible, that they should logically attack one group at a time, and yet in the stream of events that filled the near future, she could feel nothing but victory. If they let half the Jedi escape, she was certain that they would well and truly escape, just as they would have had they attempted to fight this battle in the Deep Core; and so just as certain was the knowledge that splitting up was the only course to be taken.

"Just take care," she cautioned him. "I love you."

"I love you," he called back before veering off toward the lake.

There had been no discussion or debate as to who would go which way, for she doubted that it would matter, the enemy being divided into two groups of generally equal strength.

Down the steep hill she ran, her boots sliding and sinking in the loose scree that lined the lower slope, and she came perilously close to falling. It would have been a punishing - and possible fatal - stumble, for amidst the scattered trees in the hollow sat fat boulders, but she exerted a mighty push away from the slope and sailed clear of the treacherous ground. She soared down the hillside, pushing again as she neared the bottom, and landed gracefully between a pair of lightly-speckled white trunks as the trailing Jedi splashed through a shallow stream. He was more than fifty meters ahead of her, and yet she could see the individual drops of water flying up and away from each step he took, so heightened were her senses as she pursued the foe. With every muscle working with a swiftness and strength beyond even her natural capacities, she pushed herself to close the gap.

The enemy suddenly vanished in a grove of trees, she believed by having ducked around a spur of the next fang-like hill, and she deliberately swung wide of that spot. _They're very close,_ she thought, their presence burning bright in her thoughts. When she cleared of the spur, she saw the man struggling up the precipitous hillside, lagging behind a female Iktotchi who was just reaching a plateau halfway to the summit. She raised her hand and let fly a bolt of lightning that set her skin tingling and sent a deafening thunderclap echoing through the valley. The man climbing the hill turned, raising his golden blade, and caught the bolt, but he was clearly exhausted from the chase and the battle that had preceded it. While much of the lethal force was deflected down into the rock, enough still coursed down the blade that he reflexively released his grip as the shock reached his fingers. He cried out in pain as he stumbled and fell, fumbling for his fallen weapon with burnt hands.

She was running again, then as she stepped from grassy soil to solid rock, pushed off hard and launching herself up the hill. Alighting below the plateau, she handily parried a thrust that was feebly meant to impale her as she landed, the Jedi too tired and too injured to put up an effective fight. The Iktotchi was racing back down, though, cried out the man's name, "Hoffet!" just before Bastila slipped past his guard and stabbed him between his black eyes.

The Iktotchi stopped, her own eyes wide with fear, and an Ithorian appeared over the edge of the plateau and called down to her, urging her on.

_They've squandered their strength, letting us pick them off like this, _she mused as she turned and ran across the slope. It wouldn't do to go charging up from the direction they had already seen her coming._ They should have taken greater care to stay together…not that I'm complaining._

After seventy or eighty meters, she came upon a sharp furrow that ran up the hill like a scar, as if it had been carved out by some primordial force long ago. She thought to make her ascent in this cut, which would shield her from view, but it would also exacerbate her disadvantage in elevation, and the Jedi would surely sense her coming. Instead, she crossed the furrow and ran up the hill on the opposite side, using it as a natural obstacle, for whatever that might be worth. The fact remained that she was by no means enthusiastic about attacking uphill, and…

Cresting a jagged rise, she felt the danger coming and ducked, flinging herself forward just above the rough ground and beneath a golden blade that sang through the air where her neck would have been. She was aware of somebody ahead and to her right, and continued to push against the ground beneath her, gliding over it for the half second it took to close the distance. Then she tucked and rolled, but instead of rolling forwards as her enemies would naturally expect, she used the Force to abruptly change her direction of travel and instead rolled _sideways. _When she came to her feet, she was ninety degrees off from where an Ithorian had expected her to be, and slashed upward through the Jedi's sword arm and head.

The ground was surprisingly soft here on the plateau, being covered in a carpet of thick black moss, and her footing felt mildly unsteady, but nevertheless solid enough as she whirled to confront the remaining Jedi. The Iktotchi was closing from her right, a male Togruta from her left, and another human man from straight ahead, while she was equally aware of a fourth presence attempting to flank her. She was also aware of the bodies: she had chased the Jedi back to another site where they had fought the Imperial Guard, and here lay the dead from that battle.

It was perhaps a quarter of a second from when she turned to when the first blow was struck by the Togruta. She blocked the cut, ignited her second blade to parry a thrust from the Iktotchi, twisted and turned to narrowly escape being cleaved in two by the man. Now she saw a Zabrak closing from behind, was deflecting a low slash from the Togruta and ducking under a stroke from the man. For the first time, fear reared its ugly head, although something deep in her heart still told her not to be afraid, for all would be right in the end. _It's all part of the journey._ Nonetheless, being beset on all sides demanded that she exert every last drop of skill and speed just to survive, such that she was left with no opportunity in which to attack.

She was beginning to grow truly concerned when at last an opening appeared. When the Iktotchi made a vertical cut to her shoulder, Bastila not only blocked it, but stepped into the attack, driving her left shoulder hard into the Jedi's chest and locking her left arm around those of her enemy. She plunged her blade through the Iktotchi's forehead, then swung back in the opposite direction as the Zabrak mounted a furious assault. After parrying a slash to her neck, she backflipped over the Iktotchi's body, finally placing some distance between her and the enemy. _Three left,_ she thought as her chest rose and fell heavily and beads of sweat trickled down her forehead.

Her thoughts turned briefly to Revan, whom she sensed was in much the same state as herself: tired and hard-pressed, but alive and winning. Soon it would all be over, and they could go home. _The journey is nearly at an end._

Refusing to fight on the defensive for a second time, she sprang forward, lunging at the Zabrak like a human missile. Just as she had learned from Revan, and had done so many times in practice, she waited until the Jedi moved to strike, then pulled herself sideways with the Force, her trajectory seeming to defy the laws of physics in the process. Once clear of the sapphire blade, she flipped around, sweeping the very tip of her weapon across the back of his neck. _That's two._

She flipped again so as to land on her feet, and that was when she felt a sudden searing pain rip through her left thigh. It was worse than anything she had ever before suffered, though at least her leg was still there when she landed. She didn't look down at the wound, keeping her focus on the man who had inflicted it as he struck again. This time, she blocked the cut, ducked under a sweep of the Togruta's blade, and swung upwards into the man's ribcage, through his vitals, and out his shoulder. She heard him hit the ground with two distinctly separate thuds as she threw herself sideways and clear of the Togruta, her thigh screaming at her brain as though it were on fire. When she got to her feet, her left leg refused to cooperate, and she nearly fell just as she came under attack once more. She parried, slipped her blade to the inside, and the Jedi leapt backwards, but not before she cut deep into his right bicep.

She should have pressed in for the kill just then, but she stopped, momentarily distracted by a sort of phantom pain seeping through her bond with Revan. He, too, was wounded, and she felt the overpowering compulsion to rush to his aid. _Soon, darling. Hold on._ With redoubled ferocity and resolve - and in flagrant defiance of the pain in her leg - she went on the offensive. She pushed off with her right leg, using the Force to provide most of her motive power, though even in that department, she found herself tiring. Even so, the Togruta was just as injured, far more exhausted, and less powerful to begin with, and she held the advantage.

Closing the gap, she went in straight at first, let the Jedi's pale green blade make contact with her deep emerald one, then ducked right as she reversed blades and pivoted the hilt. She felt the heat of the Togruta's lightsaber buzzing down through the empty air just to her left, and then she was watching her own weapon glide past his skull, slicing through his left montral. The wound was not fatal, however, and suddenly there was a shower of sparks as her hilt was cut in half. She hadn't fully grasped just how weary she was becoming until she was confronted with glaring proof that she could no longer rely on superior speed.

Without hesitation or consideration, and taking advantage of her enemy's considerable pain, she seized hold of his wrist with her left hand, arresting the momentum of his weapon. Dropping the now-useless lightsaber, she drew her sidearm as the Togruta fought to bring his blade back around into her neck. He was using both arms, and she only one, and he would have won a contest of strength in the end, but it was only a fraction of a second before he felt the barrel of her PM-88 pressed up against the underside of his jaw, and just a fraction longer before the weapon was discharged. The bolt went straight up through his head, blasting away the top of his skull, and she felt something hot and wet splatter her face.

"Revan," she said aloud before the body had even fallen, and set off as quickly as she could limp down the hillside.

* * *

Standing atop a bluff overlooking the lake, Revan felt Bastila's pain almost as keenly as he did the deep blackened gash cut lengthwise along his left forearm. One of his twin lightsabers lay shattered on the bare rock nearby, having been clipped by the same slash that had opened his arm. The arm hung limp at his side, the fingers of the associated hand obstinately refusing to do anything more than feebly twitch in response to the orders of his brain. He still maintained a firm grip on his remaining weapon, however, as he aimed it squarely at the face of Grand Master Konnuff. Beside the Chagrian stood a Kiffar whom he recognized as Master…Jeys? Yes, Jeys, although her given name eluded recollection. It wasn't important.

He threw himself into the attack, initially aiming at Konnuff until he saw Jeys moving to counterattack from his left. Exerting a tremendous Force-push against the solid ground, he threw himself upwards and sideways, arching his back like a high-jumper to clear her blade and then, with a flick of his wrist, slicing effortlessly through her neck from behind. The landing was awkward, however, and Konnuff was diving on him, and he was obliged to parry the slash only centimeters from his own face. At the same time, however, he struck out hard with his right leg, his powerful quadriceps driving the heel of his boot into Konnuff's kneecap with enough force to yield a satisfying _crack-pop_. The Jedi staggered sideways, his face contorted into a mask of pain, as Revan righted himself and made a cut aimed at his neck, only to swivel his wrist at the last instant before his blade would have been blocked. Maintaining the momentum of his forearm, he swept the blade down, then bent backwards at the waist as he saw a blue glow coming for his face. He didn't see the last fifteen centimeters of his blade slice through Konnuff's abdomen, but he did hear the guttural cry that followed.

When he had straightened his back, he saw Konnuff's inert lightsaber lying on the ground, and the Grand Master staggering backwards with both hands clutching his midsection, as if trying to hold his innards in their proper place. His knee collapsed after a few steps, and he fell onto his back to stare up at the sky.

At no point since making contact with the enemy had Revan spoken a word to any of them, but now, as he deactivated his lightsaber and hung it on his belt, he felt the need to utter something.

"You have done your duty, as I have done mine," he said flatly as he drew his sidearm.

"I gave you…Roos, you know," Konnuff choked on the words, his entire body quivering.

There were few sentences the dying Grand Master could have spoken that would have surprised Revan at this juncture, but that was one of them.

"You? Why?"

"I didn't do it for you," laughed the Jedi, with flecks of blue blood spraying from his lips as he did so. "I did it for…for the people…of the Republic, who deserve…better. Roos was no…no better than you."

Revan actually smiled then, told him gently, "I know you won't believe me, but, out of all of this, there will spring a better future."

"Yes, there will, bec…" he gagged. "…because you've…failed…"

Taking deliberate aim, Revan experienced some level of confusion at his fallen enemy's choice of words, for it could not be more plainly obvious that he had triumphed.

"You've failed…_her."_

Only then did he feel a driving need flare up in his thoughts. It was neither danger nor fear, but more the overwhelming idea that - even knowing that she, too, had prevailed - he must go to Bastila. For reasons unknown to his waking mind, it was imperative that go to her now, and so he whirled about, away from the bluff and the lake, away from Konnuff; and never before in his life had he run with such urgency, such haste, that his feet scarcely touched the ground.

* * *

Spurred on by a sudden twist in the pit of her stomach, Bastila all but flew down the hill, leaping over the bodies of Imperial Guards and Jedi alike. It didn't feel as though something was actually _wrong_, only that she needed to reach Revan, and that she needed to do so now. As strongly as her instincts had once told her to volunteer for that doomed mission, so now they told her to go to him. Strangely enough, she never did sense any actual danger, although she did sense movement just beyond her peripheral vision. There was nothing else, not even the presence of life, but there was movement, and that simply didn't make rational sense, and so naturally she turned with her pistol at the ready to meet…

She had turned far enough to see Wallen out of the corner of her eye in a sort of frozen still-life, for time seemed suddenly to have slowed to a nigh-imperceptible crawl. The man was standing on his feet, but with his right arm and shoulder almost detached from the rest of his torso. His haggard face was a ghastly pale grey, his eyes a sickly yellow, and the overall impression was of a man more dead than alive. He was also holding a lightsaber in his outstretched left hand, though she could see but a part of the crimson blade. As she watched his eyelids begin to move in a glacially-slow blinking motion, she belatedly grasped why she couldn't see the rest of the blade: it had pierced her right temple.

* * *

"_Bastila!"_

What should have been a keening wail never passed Revan's lips as he sped over the open ground. So all-consuming was his concern for her that he never sensed any danger to himself, not even when a blue glow inexplicably flashed just in front of and below his line of sight. Then he was no longer tearing through the blue-green grass, but frozen in mid-air as he understood that Konnuff had, with his last ounce of strength, reached out through the Force to his fallen weapon and thrown it. It had been a perfect killing stroke, a cut straight through the base of his skull.

_Bastila,_ the name passed through his mind again, though this time without fear or desperation or anguish. His heart was shattered, every other emotion swallowed up by grief. He had failed the Empire and the Cause, he had failed Deralí, and-most egregiously unpardonable of all - he had failed _her_, his beloved, his mérin. Bastila. He had won the war, only to fail now, in what should have been the crowning moment of triumph.

When his body had lain broken aboard _Conqueror _with the life flowing from it, he had dreamt of the inevitable victory, had trusted that Meric and others who shared the dream would see it through. _And they will,_ he told himself, _for the dream existed before I, and it will continue after we are gone. _That was small consolation, however, for he also knew that,_ I gave it life, and in the darkest moment, it was Bastila who kept it alive, and so what will become of it without us? Will it not fade in time, until it is again but a dream without form?_

He heard her heartbroken voice as she spoke through their bond, echoing his gloom, _How long can it live in our absence? How long before it falls astray?_

_Every empire throughout history has inevitably fallen to the weakness of its people, _he mournfully replied. _The Deralíntséch of old fell to the weakness of one man._

Though they should have considered it before, it crushed the spirit to think that some day, long after they had died, all that they had fought for, all that they had built out of their dreams, would be brought crashing down by a solitary act of weakness or avarice, or by the slow decay of time. And that, he finally understood, was where and when lay the true danger to his home: not in the present, but in a future _without them_.

No longer could either of them see, hear, smell, or feel anything of their physical surroundings. Bimmisaari was a long-forgotten memory lost amidst the infinity of history that stretched out ahead and behind, and was eclipsed by the vastness of the universe. They saw billions of stars and billions of worlds; watched stars fade and die, or explode as super novae, or unspool was they were sucked apart by black holes; they looked upon swirling pastel nebulae giving birth to new stars, new systems, new life. They saw quadrillions of lives playing out, moments of joy and tragedy flashing past in a blur. They saw even the Jedi younglings and the handful of elder Jedi who had been entrusted to look after them and continue their training; it was one further wound that they could no longer take any action now that they knew. Then even that sorrow was swallowed up by infinity and forgotten.

And then, when he found himself wishing more than anything that he could still cry, when in fact his body was slowly pitching forward, no longer heeding any commands of his fading consciousness, he saw Bastila as clearly as ever. His heart leapt with joy at the sight of her as she stood before him, as radiantly beautiful, as regally proud, as strong and stern and noble as she had been in life. They were no longer on Bimmisaari, they were home, on the ridge above their house, and it was night, with the full moon high overhead to cast its soft light onto all the world. The trees, the rocks, the fields, the sea, the river and the moor beyond it were all aglow in the pale white light. They heard the rush of streams and little waterfalls, the gentle creak of branches in the breeze, the chatter of the nocturnal creatures that shared this home with them. It was unbearable to think that they would never again stand there in physical fact, that they would never again hold each other as they did now, as they threw their arms about one another.

From the green lands of Deralí to the farthest reaches of the cosmos, they beheld nature in all her infinitely wondrous splendour: ancient and eternal, fair and pure.

Time stopped.


	21. To Go Beyond

21

To Go Beyond

1 Féel, 1,018 DÉ

2.2.20376

That final instant could have stretched into infinity had they let it.

_I did not come this far to lose,_ Bastila heard herself speak with a greater resolve than she had ever before experienced._Not to lose our dream, and not to lose you._

_Nor I, émhwelin. It cannot all come to this - come to nothing._

And, at that, the very same idea entered both their thoughts: the same mad, impossible idea that, _It cannot come to nothing unless we allow it._ Somehow it made sense, though, in light of all that had led to this point, that possibility and impossibility were defined only by one's will. It had all been a part of the journey: every triumph and tragedy, every success and every mistake along the way had been the steps that led them to this, their ultimate destination. They had done everything exactly as they had needed to that they might fulfill their dream. All that remained was the determination to take the next step, and to commit one crowning, superlative act of will.

Beholding nature's perfect and timeless beauty, she reached out into it, and took hold, and felt power and strength rise up out of her. She was a part of that power, as it was a part of her; as Revan was a part of her, and she of him. They were not servants of that power, though, not as the Jedi had served the light and the Sith the darkness, but rather stewards, for nature herself - the Force as it should have been, pure and unadulterated by the taint of either light or dark - did not enslave, but uplift. She held the power of life and death, and, as they now began to understand, the power to go beyond. It was not a power open to all, and nor, their hearts told them, did it come without a price, but was it not an honorable price to be paid? Was it not the same price they had been willing to pay from the beginning? They had already bound their honor to their duty, their purpose - now they would bind their very lives.

_When has either of us chosen the easy path? _they both inquired of each other.

That final instant could have stretched into infinity, but they didn't let it, and it was with a positively explosive suddenness and vigor that time resumed its onward march.

* * *

Wallen felt his fear break and exultation wash over him as his blade exited sideways through Bastila's forehead. He had lain there, waiting in vain for Revan to come, until he was certain that he would die where he lay if he waited even a minute longer. He had known that Revan was still elsewhere, still battling the Jedi, and…losing. It was just after that understanding had taken hold of him that he sensed the presence of that kark of a woman nearby.

He had never trusted Bastila Shan, not from the day Revan had spared her life, having known that act of charity to have been a contemptible error. She was powerful, and dangerously so, and there was something in her that left him at once resentful and afraid of her. He resented that she had risen to such power and prominence while he continued to toil in obscurity. He had followed Revan since the Mandalorian Wars, and yet it seemed his destiny to never be anything more than a servant, a tool, a weapon. Not from Revan would he ever receive any authority, any prestige, any power, and as time had worn on, he had come to understand that these things would have to be taken for himself. For all his sadism and incipient madness, Exar Kun had at least been right in telling him that.

And so it was that, when he felt Bastila run past him, he had woken from his trance and risen to his feet, calling his lightsaber into his waiting hand as he did so. His heart had been racing such that he thought it would burst, his pain eclipsed by an electric fear that ran through his every nerve as he ignited his weapon and lunged. In that instant when she had turned, he was all but certain that she would fire and he would die, but then he saw his blade plunge through her temple and knew that he had won. With a flick of his wrist, he wrenched the blade out through her forehead, leaving a glowing line that he knew would soon fade into blackened tissue as she fell.

As it appeared to Wallen, only the barest instant elapsed in the time that Bastila beheld all the wonders of the universe. His heart paused as he waited for her to fall, and then his eyes were met with so peculiar and ephemeral a display that he couldn't be sure of what he had actually seen, or if he had even truly seen it, or merely hallucinated it as a result of his condition. It looked to him, though, as if she…flickered. There was no other word to describe it, really. For the briefest of moments, her head and neck and hands appearing to flicker off and on - out of and back into existence - like a cheap hologram.

In the same instant, it was as if he had been suddenly plunged into a freezing ocean, as biting, piercing currents whipped around him and through him and stole away all warmth and strength. As the irresistible power cut through his very spirit like wind through cloth, he saw in it an incomparable, indescribable beauty, but it was a perilous beauty, and compared to it, he was an insignificant speck in the vastness. The darkness fled him, his hatred turned from a source of power into a hollowness that gnawed at his spirit, and he felt the sudden agony of his wounds with such intensity that it shut out all conscious thought. Then, like the passing shockwave of an explosion, the storm was gone, and all was utterly still, including his own limbs. He stood frozen with eyes riveted to the woman before him, whose head was unmarred by the slightest of blemishes. Then, weakly, numbly, with what must have been his very last drop of strength, he raised his left arm for a second time, watched his blade swing down toward the crown of her head, this time intending to cleave her in half.

She vanished in a grey blur before the weapon ever made contact, and he heard a scream. He didn't realize that it was his own, or even that he was sailing through the air, until he connected with a boulder with enough force to shatter his spine and most of his ribs. He collapsed in a mangled heap, staring up at the sky until it was blotted out by the face he so hated and feared. He tried to speak, but no words would form as blood filled his throat. _You can't be alive._

Bastila heard him anyway as she raised her left hand, slender white fingers held together and aimed at the center of his chest.

"But I have to be," she answered him just before she let fly.

Thunder echoed in the hills.

* * *

"You were wrong," said Revan softly as he turned.

He was no longer running, having stopped not five meters from where Konnuff lay dying, with his pistol still firmly in hand. In the tall grass by his feet was the Jedi's lightsaber, the blade now extinguished, and there he let it lie as he stalked back the way he had come. Raising his left arm, he was transfixed by the sight of his hand and forearm, which were no longer gashed and burned, and no longer the source of throbbing pain. He would have laughed aloud with the joy of being alive were it not for the stunning magnitude of events.

"I didn't fail her," he murmured, as much to himself as to the Grand Master. "_We_ didn't fail, and we never shall, not for so long as we don't stop trying. We have our duty, to each other and to our dreams, and we shall never stop."

Konnuff stared blankly skyward with the glassy eyes and tear-stained cheeks of a man who had just lost everything, as if his world was shattered and his very purpose in life had been stripped away. He turned to Revan, murmured weakly, "Then you…can never rest."

It was true, Revan knew in his heart, and that in no way troubled him. The idea that they would, some day, grow so weak-minded and weak-willed as to _want _to stop, _want _to rest, was abhorrent to him. They were the architects of history, and the guardians of dreams, and so they would remain.

"You do not understand," he replied. "And you never will."

He took aim for the second time, looked into Konnuff's glassy eyes, touched the pad of his finger to the trigger, but he never fired. As he first began to press it to the rear, he saw those eyes grow dim and distant, and felt life leave the Jedi's body.

It was done.

As he holstered his sidearm, it was as if he was taking his first breath after years of suffocation, so profound was the refreshing cool that broke over him. What precisely had just occurred, he did not rightly know, but nor did he care. It mattered not _how_ they were alive, only that they _were_, in fact, alive when they should have been dead. _And were we not dead for a time, however brief?_

He was running then, his boots stamping through the grass, bounding over bare rock, driven now not by terror but by love. Over a hill and down the opposite side he dashed, then up another rise, and there she was, her hair disheveled and her uniform torn and flecked with blood, but the latter was not her own, and there was not a mark upon her. Meeting at the top of the hillock, they threw their arms about each another, as if to make certain that they were both real, and discovered to their boundless mutual relief that they could still hold one another. The tears came, flowing freely down their cheeks as they sobbed unabashedly, even as they gazed into eyes glowing blue with rapturous elation. No words were spoken, for what could be said at such a time? What words could adequately give voice to the sentiments they felt on so momentous and unprecedented an occasion?

They didn't know how long they stood on that hill, holding on for all they were worth and sobbing on each other's shoulders, before the chime of Revan's commlink shook them from their tearful celebration. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he fished out the commlink with the other, paused to restore his composure before answering.

"Revan here."

It was Céle whose voice came through a filter of static.

"It's good to hear your voice, sir, very good. After the admiral's fighter returned on autopilot, we began to fear…" She trailed off, dithered for a second or two, then cautiously inquired, "Is she alright?"

"Quite alive, I can assure you, Céle," Bastila answered for herself, who could hear the other woman's relieved sigh.

"And the Jedi?"

"Finished. The Imperial Guard battled them to the death, and we felled those who remained."

"Then it's over."

"That it is, Céle," he said as he acknowledged the fact for the first time. "It's over."

There was a long pause, all three of them allowing those words to sink in, before practical concerns could return to the fore.

"If I may ask, sir, what's the terrain like at your position?"

"Predominantly hilly, and rocky in places. Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir, I thought that one or both of you might be needing a lift, and the pilot wants to know if there's any place to land."

He and Bastila made a cursory survey of their surroundings, and, seeing no level, open ground large enough upon which to land a shuttle, he answered, "We'll just have to climb aboard. We're on a hilltop that's clear enough to at least touch down on the main gear."

"Understood. I'll be there in…eight minutes."

"Very good. Until then, Céle."

Then he glanced about him at all the land, and up at the sky, wherein he saw no sign of a shuttle as of yet, and then he sat. He sat cross-legged on the cold stone and let his eyes fall shut, and breathed in the warm, clean, late-morning air. He heard a rustle of clothes as Bastila sat beside him, she being as exhausted and as overwhelmed as was he. They rested in silence, in a state resembling shock, too swamped by emotion to think coherently. His thoughts ran around in circles, asking questions to which he knew no answers, and which he knew were irrelevant, until the double crack of a sonic boom tore through the tranquility.

Little more than a minute later, a blue-grey Xg-40 assault shuttle made a half-circuit of the hillock before dropping down in a sharp flare. Touching down with only its main wheels and rear ramp on the rock, the pilot held the nose in open air, while in the cabin stood Céle in her black service uniform. Revan stood aside and, gesturing with his hand, let Bastila step aboard first before following her up the ramp and into the cabin.

"Ramp up!" Céle ordered over the shrill whine of the engines, and the daylight streaming in was slowly squeezed out until they were left with only the vaguely-orange glow of the cabin lights.

By the time it was closed and sealed, all three passengers were seated on the uncomfortably hard benches with safety belts drawn tight.

"All aboard and secure!" Céle called to the pilot, and the shuttle was almost instantly in motion. It was plain from the way they were fairly tossed about the cabin during the ascent that the pilot had flown so many combat insertions and extractions that, even when not being shot at, he or she flew the shuttle to the limits of its performance.

"Permission to speak freely," Céle said after awhile.

"Granted, as ever," he replied.

"You look terrible-both of you. Especially you, ma'am."

Bastila looked down at her blood-stained jacket, then back up at Céle, said, "It's not mine."

"Ah. From the pattern, I'd venture a guess that you shot somebody point-blank."

"In the head, yes," she answered flatly.

There followed another quiet interlude, and then Céle spoke again, her voice soft and solemn, "I almost didn't think it would ever end. Sometimes, I half-feared that it would somehow keep going, on and on, until there was nothing left."

Revan nodded subtly in agreement, while Bastila, with lidded eyes, just leaned back against the quilted padding of the cabin wall, looking thoroughly spent.

* * *

"A pleasure to see you, as ever, My Lady," Revan greeted Meric not long after his return to the _Deralí._

By now, he was outfitted in a fresh uniform, and as he sat at the desk in their quarters, was feeling slightly more grounded than he had been an hour ago. It was only slightly so, however, for he still felt moderately numb as his mind continued its struggle to process the morning's events. He should have been overjoyed, but instead he was just numb.

"I understand you have good news," said Meric in return.

She was looking more cheerful than he had ever seen her before. In fact, her expression was actually something approaching "radiant."

"Superlative news," he replied. "I expect you've already read the official report, but, to summarize, after we successfully intercepted the Republic battle group bound for home, the Imperial Guard pursued the Jedi contingent to the surface of Bimmisaari. The seeming flight of the Jedi proved to be a trap, however, and the Imperial Guard suffered total losses in the course of the subsequent action. Fortunately, Bastila-Méthnin and myself then engaged and eliminated those Jedi who had survived the initial battle, as well as Major General Wallen, who betrayed us in the end and attempted to assassinate the two of us. Overall, I deem it safe to conclude that this morning's events ended as well as was possible under the circumstances."

"There's an understatement. From what I read, you've wrapped things up as neatly as anyone ever could." She smiled thinly and shook her head in what might have been awe or disbelief as she continued, "I always knew that the Imperial Guards couldn't be fully trusted, and expected that they wouldn't remain around indefinitely, but Wallen actually tried to kill you?"

"Well, he only ever had the opportunity to make an attempt on Bastila's life, but I don't question that he intended to come for me as well, in spite of the…appalling wounds he suffered in his fight with the Jedi. It was really quite remarkable that he was able to stand at all, much less fight, but, in the end, he couldn't stand against her."

They had yet to decide to their satisfaction if, when, and how to relate what had really transpired on Bimmisaari, for how could one tell of such a thing without sounding like either a lunatic or - and this was far more likely - a self-aggrandizing liar? What was one to say? No, what had happened was firmly anchored in the realm of the fantastic and the impossible.

"And she's well, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, the very picture of health. In fact, I daresay neither of us has ever been better, although we have been feeling slightly overwhelmed of late."

"Perfectly understandable. Just as it's perfectly understandable what I hear about Admiral Wintae. I assume it is true that he shot himself rather than surrender?"

"Yes, entirely true. I ordered the body examined, and the identity has already been confirmed."

"Saved you the trouble, I suppose."

"That's one way of wording it, but before we get any further," he interjected, "I have some news on the Jedi children and their minders."

With the press of a key on his terminal, he transmitted to Meric the file which he and Bastila had spent every spare minute composing since their return to the _Deralí,_ recording from memory what they had seen when they died. He watched the SD Director's eyes flit rapidly from side to side as she scanned the names and places with mild incredulity.

"Where did you get this from?"

With a half-smile gracing his lips, he touched two fingers to his temple. He knew that he should have been more cautious, knew rationally that it could have been merely their neurons firing randomly as they died, but, on the other hand, how likely was that, when they had overcome death itself? _If we could manage that, then I think we can safely trust our insight, whatever our condition might have been at the time._

"You saw this?" she asked.

"We saw all of it."

"So long as this proves accurate, then you have my eternal thanks and congratulations for the… Well, I've lost count of how many times it has been."

"No need to keep tally," he assured her. "We do our duty, nothing more."

_And so we shall continue for as long as we're needed,_ he reminded himself. Then he leaned forward, and folded his hands on the desk in front of him, and said,

"Now, then, I find that I must ask, for I am most curious to learn if you have had any further communication with Xentorell since yesterday."

"Hardly, though of course I can't expect him to comm me when he's been arrested for treason. It was on one of the Republic news stations - GNS, I believe, as they're one of the few still broadcasting. Obviously, he wasn't careful enough about keeping his clandestine negotiations clandestine," she said with some derision. "Idiot."

"Though no more foolhardy than those who arrested him for trying to end a war they've already lost. Still, at least the Humbarine sector was handed over by Marshal Tepplan."

"Is that so?" she asked, her mood brightening once more. "I hadn't heard."

"Well, the report reached me not five minutes ago, and the surrender came scarcely twenty prior to that."

"Fair enough. Tepplan, though… I can't remember them having a marshal named Tepplan."

"He was a general until last month. Sullustan, former tank officer, a brilliant tactician, although he was always at his peak in smaller, more irregular actions. He's been out of his element ever since…"

It was then that a low tone beeped from Revan's terminal, indicating an incoming priority call, and he felt his heart quicken its pace, his first thought being that it might be word that Oberreck had surrendered. _It probably isn't,_ he told himself in an effort to quash any false hopes before whoever was calling had a chance to do so. _Not this soon. The man must first move past denial. Give him time._

"Begging your pardon, My Lady, but it would appear that my attention is in some demand from other quarters," he said offhandedly.

"Of course. Give my regards to Bastila-Méthnin."

"Assuredly I shall. A good-day to you."

"And to you."

No sooner had Meric's image flickered out than he switched channels, just barely seeing as he did so that the priority call was from Rear Admiral Votrun, who was tasked with overseeing and defending the Star Forge. Peculiarly enough, the call originated not from the Star Forge itself, but from the _Theenes_. When the admiral appeared, his mien was deeply troubled, even fearful, and he blinked rapidly and often as he stood at attention with his hand raised in salute. In his dark eyes, there was concern that he would be…blamed…but also outright fear, and not of censure by Revan. Something had transpired that had shaken him considerably, and, judging from the fact that the two unfastened buttons on his butternut-colored Tethan uniform.

Revan snapped off a return salute, bade him, "At ease, Admiral. What news have you?"

"Forgive me, sir, but we're experiencing… Well, to put it succinctly, My Lord, the Star Forge has suffered a total systems failure."

Revan stared at him for a moment, pondered the words he had just heard, and the wheels of his mind began to turn.

"When did this occur?" he asked quickly, almost automatically.

"Er…just over an hour ago, sir," said Votrun rather reluctantly, just before his speech became quite rapid.

"I really don't understand it at all. What I mean to say is, we've never seen anything more than a one or two percent fluctuation in power, not in _thirty-five months _of operation. Granted, we have been pushing harder lately in the hope of finishing off the _Almania _before the surrender, but everything _had _been running well within safety tolerances. I suppose it's possible that we haven't had as clear an understanding of the station's capabilities as we thought, but… Well, sir, to be perfectly forthcoming, there weren't any warnings at all. One minute, everything was running smoothly, just as it always had, and the next, as I was sitting in the officer's mess at breakfast, the lights went out. Just like that, like somebody had turned off the power. It was the damndest thing, sir."

Picking up his glasses from the desk, Revan slipped them on and called up the files retrieved from the flight data recorder on Bastila's Xg-33, hunting for the time that she had egressed the fighter and sent it back into orbit. He was surprised to see the letters blurred, however, and, removing the glasses, wiped the lenses while Votrun went on.

"I went to the command center straight away, of course, as soon as the emergency lights came on, but nobody could tell me anything. As soon as I started looking through the readouts - we still have battery power - I found that I couldn't blame them at all, because there wasn't anything to tell. We spent half an hour running every diagnostic we could think of, but the station's completely dead. Like I said, it's as if somebody just…switched off the power. If this station had a normal reactor, I'd say that not only is the reaction dead, but the fuel's been removed."

The admiral shrugged, shook his head helplessly.

"I don't know what else I could have done, sir."

Revan was devoting little attention to him now, however, for the mystery of his glasses had momentarily captured his attention. When he looked at the display with his naked eyes, he could read the words upon it with perfect clarity, and yet, the very instant he peered through the lenses, the world went out of focus. He nearly jumped when he understood the meaning of this, that it was not the glasses that had changed, but his eyes.

By this time, Bastila had heard enough of the conversation for her to be standing in the doorway, just out of sight of the camera. Though he didn't turn to look at her, he easily read the mysterious excitement that danced in her heart, which was so alike to what he, too, was feeling as he set aside the glasses and returned to the far more significant issue of the Star Forge.

"I have my entire crew working to find a solution to the problem, but in the meantime, I flew over to the _Theenes_, which isa light cruiser we launched just last week, because the Forge doesn't even have any comms operational."

Revan had spent much of the story waiting for Votrun to simply finish, for a question loomed large in his thoughts, even larger than the question of his eyesight, and it was only now that he could ask it:

"Admiral, can you tell me at _precisely_ what time this total failure occurred?"

"Yes, sir. It was…0648 if I'm not mistaken."

_0648! _Neither of them had thought to note their own time of death, but they knew that it had been sometime around ten minutes to seven, and the flight data recorder had confirmed it.

"If you could please confirm the exact time, Admiral, that would be most useful."

"Yes, sir," said Votrun, who looked more confused than afraid now, for there had been neither recrimination nor accusation in Revan's response, and this request clearly struck him as a puzzlement.

"Yet more important, however, is that you begin retrieving from the Star Forge all unfinished vessels and armaments that are at such a stage of completion as to make their salvage worthwhile."

"Yes, sir. Although, if I may suggest, we've barely begun to troubleshoot the problem, and there's still a good chance that we'll get the station operational again, given time."

"With all due respect to your crew and yourself, Admiral, I do not believe that the Star Forge will ever again become operational, and nor should it. I trust you haven't forgotten that it was never planned to be retained following the cessation of hostilities."

"No, sir, I haven't."

"The Republic is finished, and the Forge has fulfilled its purpose. Please do keep me posted as to the progress of the salvage operation, however."

"Yes, sir."

"Carry on, Admiral."

"Yes, sir. Good day, sir."

Votrun saluted again in parting, and then he was gone, his hologram absorbed back into the thin air from whence it came. Abandoning his stiff-backed posture, Revan sank into the chair as Bastila swiftly crossed the room.

"I wasn't expecting that," he remarked, even as he thought it a perfectly empty-headed thing to say.

"I'd be astonished if you were," she quipped in reply, then turned far more serious. "What do you suppose it means?"

He spun his chair around and looked up at her, and said earnestly, "I haven't the faintest idea. Obviously, we didn't consciously _do_ anything regarding the Star Forge."

He stood, ran his fingers through his hair in consternation, "Why, we didn't even consciously do anything to save ourselves apart from…"

"…_will it,"_ she answered for him. "We knew that we couldn't leave, not when we're still needed."

"And so we stayed. We bound ourselves here, to our duty…to each other… I doubt that we'll ever fully comprehend it."

"No, probably not," she conceded. "As for the Star Forge, it was a tool of the dark side, a corrupting influence. What if…"

She trailed off, shook her head. "No, we'll twist our brains into knots trying to sort this out, and we're tired enough as it is."

"Now there at last is a certainty: we really ought to rest."

And, with that said, they both suddenly felt the crushing weight of the past day bear down upon them, and there could be no further argument with their need for sleep.

* * *

They slept soundly that morning and on into the afternoon, and what few dreams they shared and could recall were filled with bright sunlight and moonlight, with warm breezes and cool water and the music of forests. They felt as if they had been awake for a lifetime, and had only now gone to sleep for the very first time, but there was no doubt that the time would also come for them to wake. There was still so much yet before them, and while there yet remained much hard and bitter labor, there was also the promise of joyful reward. When they were roused by a soft chime, they did so with none of the old fears that such a disturbance had once produced, for how could whatever news awaited them be ill when in their hearts, they felt only hope?

"C-in-C," Revan answered the call as, stifling a yawn, Bastila looked to the chrono, which proclaimed the time to be 1507.

"Good evening, sir." Unsurprisingly, it was Céle. Surprisingly, however, she sounded more enthusiastic than he had ever heard her before, and without further ado or explanation announced that, "I'm patching through a signal we've just intercepted."

There was a click, followed by a deep male voice, which was bereft of strength or confidence, barely above a whisper, and speaking in almost a monotone.

"…bravely, but I cannot ask you to fight any longer, not when there remains no possibility of winning even the most modest form of a negotiated peace. I thought for a time to drag this on no matter what the outcome, and…to make the enemy pay as dearly as we could…but I can't ask you to do that. There's no longer any point in that, because there's no Republic left to fight for… There's nothing at all left to fight for, except death.

"From the citizens of the Republic, who I had once promised this day would never come, who have had to endure more than any people ever should, I can't ask for forgiveness. I've failed you. I… I took an oath to protect the Republic, and I've failed completely in my duty. I can ask you only to…to live on…to move forward and be strong through these dark times that lie ahead. I know that even that's more than I should have to ask of you, when you've already suffered through so much, but I…"

Oberreck trailed off completely then, and Revan wondered if the Chancellor was actually crying. He could never pity the man, though, certainly not after he had ordered the attack on Deralí, and he wondered for what it was that his enemy wept. Was it for the people of the Republic, or was it for his own failure and the loss of all he had gained in life? Was it for the loss of all that he valued, for the loss of what little he genuinely believed in, and the death of the despicable system he had championed?

"In light of recent military developments, I have decided to order all units still fighting to cease fire immediately; and as of 8:00 this morning, Republic Standard Time, I am offering the unconditional surrender of the Galactic Republic."

If he said anything after that, neither Bastila nor Revan heard him. For the second time that day, they held each other and wept.

19 Féel, 1,018 DÉ

20.2.20376

She knew perfectly well that the Star Forge was built by the Rakata as a conduit for the power of dark side; that, just as it fed off the Rakatan star, so did it feed on greed, malice, and cruelty; that, most dangerously of all, this dark power fed back into Force-users, amplifying all their most negative emotions and proclivities. To use its power was to ultimately be destroyed by it, and Revan had once remarked that he treated it as a radioactive hot zone: exposure was to be avoided whenever possible, and strictly minimized when not. He said that it was an unwelcoming place, almost alive with an anger all its own, and that when he set foot in it, he frequently suffered from the maddening sensation of being watched or, far worse, of insects crawling beneath his clothes. At the same time as he made full use of its power to further his beloved cause, he hated the Star Forge itself to the very depths of his being, and, from the first day he set foot in it, had longed for the day when it could be destroyed.

Now that she set foot in it for herself, it was almost difficult to imagine the station producing such a primal reaction in him, for there was nothing here whatsoever. It was dark, hot, and, above all, cavernous on a scale that staggered the senses, but it was utterly still and silent. In fact, it was safe to say that it competed admirably with open space for its total absence of life. The air was so oppressively close as to give her a headache within a few minutes of climbing from the comparatively refreshing atmosphere of her fighter, and their footsteps sounded as loud as gunfire, so perfect was the silence that they shattered. Through the Force, she felt an absolute nothingness. In this place lingered no power, no darkness, no anger, _nothing._ It was dead. Granted, it was an inanimate object, but when compared with Revan's descriptions of it, the Star Forge was beyond inanimate.

That, she knew, was precisely why Revan had wanted to come here one last time: to be certain that it was dead.

Stopping on a catwalk that spanned a shaft extending above and below into pitch blackness, she reached above her head with electricity arcing between her fingertips, and cast a blue light into the space, to find that even that couldn't illuminate the entirety of it.

"Did we do this?" she asked, all the while knowing that he had no more answers than she.

"Hard to say, seeing as we didn't try."

"No, but we _could_ have, couldn't we? Would it have been so different from what we did at Korriban?"

"Not at all, but then would it not be a reasonable assumption that this, too, would have entailed considerable effort?"

"Unlike returning to life?"

He only shrugged.

"I could hypothesize that the 'death' of the Star Forge was, in fact, a direct consequence of our return to life; that the corruption of this place could not survive the power we tapped."

"As fair a theory as any," she granted him as she took his hand.

Looking about by the light of her free hand, she noted the bleakness of her surroundings. The creation of a savage race, the Star Forge was a pure expression of brute industrialization, without the least concession to aesthetics or comfort. Even the thoroughly businesslike interior of the _Deralí _had been designed to at least be tolerable by human standards, albeit not for extended periods of time. This, however, was a place to crush the spirit beneath a staggering mass of lifeless metal and machinery, and she loathed it down to her marrow.

"And to think there were some who wanted to replicate this," she remarked.

"There will always be those with the dreadful ability to consider an issue on purely technical or scientific grounds, and without due regard for morality," he replied with distaste as he, too, surveyed the expanse of dull metal.

"It is high time we be rid of it."

She laid a hand on his shoulder and said firmly, "I couldn't agree more."

The operation of extricating the _Almania_, the incomplete battlecruiser _Vigilance_, and the array of other unfinished military hardware had been concluded the day before yesterday, and the Star Forge was now deserted save only for themselves.

From the inside of his black jacket, Revan produced his surviving lightsaber, holding it in his open palm and seeming to study it in the blue glow of Bastila's light. Gently curved to fit the contours of his hand, the hilt was fashioned of unpolished steel and fitted with a subtly textured grip of black composite. The feel of the weapon in his hand conjured up ghastly images of those who had met its blade. War was a brutal and uncivilized affair, and, regardless of whatever the Jedi might believe to the contrary, a lightsaber was a brutal and uncivilized weapon. Reaching over the railing of the catwalk, he turned his hand on its side and let the hilt fall away into the abyss, never to be touched or seen again.

"Long overdue," he declared, and turned without waiting for the sound of the discarded weapon striking bottom.

For her part, Bastila couldn't have been more eager to be gone from this miserable place. A brisk minute's walk brought them to a hangar just as vast and oppressive as the rest of the station, only here at least there shone the landing lights of their parked fighters. Here, however, at the outer edge of the hull, onto which the sunlight beat heavily, the air was so swelteringly hot and dense as to be almost unbreathable. No time was wasted in getting sealed inside their cockpits, and the air conditioner was the first system which she activated. Almost immediately, she was greeted by a refreshingly cool breeze, and even the recycled air of the cockpit seemed fresh as it filled her lungs.

She ran through her checklists, tested her comms, checked the interface with the hangar door controls. Emergency battery power being limited, the hangar's magnetic shield had been deactivated early on in favor of opening and closing the doors, but by now, after nearly three weeks of activity by the station crew, all power had been nearly exhausted. There was just enough to open the doors one last time, and only halfway at that, and her fighter shuddered and rocked around her as it was buffeted by a hurricane-force wind. She watched what little moisture there was in the air crystallize on contact when it hit hard vacuum, and then all was calm.

Soon she was flying free of the Star Forge, rocketing away from it at full throttle with Revan on her wing, and watching the range open on her HUD. The Rakatan star was behind her, though even then her canopy was automatically tinted to shield her eyes from what would have been blinding light, while ahead of her shone the emerald icons representing the _Deralí, _the _Almania_, and a host of other vessels. Upon drawing nearer, she could observe small service craft hovering around the incomplete battleship, which was parked not far from her illustrious sister, the latter being aimed squarely back at the Star Forge.

Within minutes, they were safely aboard and in a turbolift bound for the bridge, wherein Revan put his commlink to his ear and called ahead.

"Bridge, C-in-C."

"Bridge here, sir," answered Tanen.

"Weapons status, Captain."

"Main battery is charged one-hundred, all safeties engaged."

"Unlock main battery and target the Star Forge, firing pattern A2."

"Unlock main battery, target the Star Forge, pattern A2, aye."

She watched him drop the commlink back into his pocket, and saw the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly. It was a sight that filled her heart with gladness, for he had been altogether too somber in the weeks since the ceasefire. Granted, so, too, had she, for the prevailing sentiment had been one of numb, almost disbelieving relief, rather than any measure of joy. It was probably normal, she told herself, for it to take some time to entirely relax from the constant strain of war. It would be especially difficult for him, she understood, as he had been fighting for so much longer than her. She also had to acknowledge that he might never be able to fully move past the war, and all that he had done.

She, too, could never forget her experiences. There were still nights when she lay awake in bed replaying battles in her head and asking herself the maddening question "What if?" There would always be the terrible lingering doubt that she could have done something differently, done it better, perhaps ended the war sooner. There would always be the knowledge that she had sent good people to their deaths, and that she was responsible for the deaths of civilians. None of it was pleasant to live with, but she had no choice in that, and the best she could do was to put it from her mind for as many hours a day as she could.

The turbolift stopped, the doors opened, and they stepped out into the bridge corridor. A crewman in olive coveralls ceased his work behind an open service panel to stand to attention and salute as they passed, and then the bridge doors were opening for them and Aimirdel was shouting, "Attention on deck!"

"As you were," Revan ordered. "Report."

With his shoulders square and his chin high, Tanen rather proudly reported that, "Turrets B through F are locked on the Star Forge, pattern A2, and all safeties are disengaged. We are ready to fire."

"Very good, Captain. Visual display of the Star Forge," Revan ordered.

In the center of the bridge appeared a live projection of the station as it sat adrift against the backdrop of the Rakatan star, the latter being automatically dimmed so as to be viewable.

"Magnify."

Now the Star Forge, as viewed from the top down and slightly askew, filled the entire open area of the bridge.

"Weps," said Revan.

"Yes, sir?" asked Drunin as she turned her chair to face him.

_We've already done enough deeds of renown,_ Bastila agreed with him via their bond. _It's good to let her have this to her name._

"Fire main battery."

Turning back to her console, Drunin all but exclaimed, "Firing main battery, aye!"

Bastila watched the senior lieutenant's finger stab a glowing key, the bridge lights dimmed, and a new light, brighter even than the Rakatan star, flared in the center of the projection. Eight white flashes temporarily blotted out the Star Forge while the computer struggled to adjust for brightness. When the brilliance had vanished, there was no longer anything in view that was recognizable as the Star Forge. Where the immense structure had been a moment ago now floated a dense-but-expanding cloud of swirling, tumbling grey fragments that collided with one another to yield still more debris. Though they appeared minute at this scale, many must easily have been hundreds of meters in length or breadth, but even by eye, one could see that a significant portion of the station's mass was simply gone, having been completely vaporized in the initial blast.

"Weps, secure main battery," Tanen issued the anticlimactic order.

"Secure main battery, aye. Primary and secondary safeties engaged, MBEs B through F closed."

"Track the debris and engage anything not on a descent trajectory."

"Tracking debris and arming secondary batteries 1 through 20. Targeting priority by trajectory."

More commands and acknowledgements were exchanged, but Bastila paid them little heed. What counted this day was that the Star Forge - one more relic of evil, one more corrupting force in the galaxy - was forever purged from existence.

38 Féel, 1,018 DÉ

4.3.20376

Marching briskly out of a turbolift with a bulging forest-green duffel slung over her shoulder, Céle's eyes alternated between the passageway ahead of her and the datapad she held in her free hand. On the latter was a list of names of junior officers, the vast majority being from the SD, although there were a few from the Army and Navy. She had spent much of her spare time in the past month narrowing the list, until now it encompassed just fourteen individuals, all of whom came highly recommended by their current commanders. It would now fall upon Revan and Bastila to interview those remaining candidates, and make the final decision. They were, after all, uniquely qualified judges of character, who could scarcely be deceived on any point. It was also just as well, in Céle's eyes, that she wouldn't have the final say in choosing her own replacement.

There had been something conflictingly bittersweet about the task, for whereas she indisputably wished to return to active SD service, she would always look back on these past eighteen months with fondness and pride. Even if she had at times lamented the dullness of her duties, it had truly been a rare privilege to work so closely with Revan, and to do so in the final months when the war was won. She had witnessed historical events of monumental scale and significance, had worked with the man who made the plans, had seen him wrestle with the decisions. She reckoned that she had come to know him better than all but one other living person in the entire galaxy, and that had to count for something. No, she would never forget these days.

She was nearly at the hangar, wherein waited a shuttle to take her and a number of the crew down to the surface, when she ran across a familiar face. It didn't come as a surprise at all that Cálen was waiting for her to see her off. On the contrary, she would have been rather wounded had he been absent.

"Céle," he greeted her with a short bow.

"Vílith," she returned as she inclined her head. "I thought I might be finding you here."

"I couldn't just let you leave without saying farewell."

"I don't suppose you're going on leave, too, are you?"

"Actually, I'm scheduled to rotate out in the morning," he answered with evident enthusiasm. "Naturally, I'll be visiting my family in Aitanir, but I'm getting an entire month's leave, so I should have plenty of time on my hands."

"Aitanir," she began awkwardly as she worked up her courage. (Why it was that she often found it easier to make a forced entry of a defended target than ask a man out, she would probably never know.) "If I'm not mistaken, I seem to recall passing through there when I was a teenager. Tiny little town at the mouth of Íthsgintraust, with about three streets in the whole place?"

"_Nine_ streets, as a matter of fact," he corrected her with a broadening smile. "But if you were only passing through, you never would see more than the three big ones."

"Ah, so that's it. Still, it doesn't sound as if there's all that much to the town, so if you ever find yourself bored, well… you might find Tséchsnol a little busier than Aitanir."

"I expect I will," he chuckled. "I'll probably get lost as all hell - I don't think I'll ever be able to find my way around any town bigger than a few thousand people - but I'm sure I won't be bored."

"If you're asking for a guide, it's only fair that I warn you that I don't think anybody really knows their way around Tséchsnol, whatever they might say; it's still under construction, and everything's changing from one week to the next."

"Well, better to be lost with a friend, anyways."

"That's the spirit," she said, giving him a friendly slap on the arm. "You know my comm channel if you're in town."

"I'll see you there."

Flashing him a smile as she walked past him, the weight of the duffel beginning to tell on her shoulder, she entered the hangar, wherein waited, among other craft, a boxy grey-green shuttle with its ramp down. A crewman stood at the bottom, clearly waiting for her with ill-disguised impatience, and immediately set about sealing up the shuttle the very moment she was aboard. She shoved the duffel under a vacant blue and white upholstered seat, then made herself as comfortable as she could and cinched her lap belt tight.

"All aboard and secure," said the crewman just before disappearing into the cockpit.

There was some muffled conversation from up front, and then she saw through her narrow window the rows of parked Xg-40s appear to move. It took her brain a moment to accept that, in spite of whatever her inner ear might be saying, the assault shuttles were, in fact, perfectly stationary, and it was she who was in motion. By the time she had overcome the vertigo that accompanied the illusion, the hangar was replaced by solid black anyway. They were on the night side of the planet, somewhere not far past sunset, although when they landed in Tséchsnol, it would be early morning.

As she waited for the shuttle to hit the upper atmosphere and the light show to commence, she found herself thinking on the matter of Cálen - Vílith - and what would happen when his leave expired. _Or mine, for that matter. Once I'm back in Enforcement, I could end up just about anywhere, including in the ground. There's a mountain of work to do, and all too few of us to do it._ There might turn out to be something between her and Vílith; or not; or something might develop, only to have it fade away with time and distance. It wouldn't be the first time she had played through that scenario.

_Take it one step at a time, the same as everything else, _she reminded herself_. Get the most out of life that you can._

It wasn't long before she was disembarking from the shuttle at the foot of the Érilínash, descending the ramp into the cold, damp sea air and a light snowfall. The mountaintops surrounding the fjord were already white, whereas the lower ground remained largely green, though she doubted that would last for very much longer. Her thoughts turned to the impending ceremony, which had been planned with a clear evening in mind, and thought that it would be a terrible shame if the sunset was veiled on this historic day, as there would only ever be one such evening.

_Well, whatever the weather does, history will be made,_ she told herself on her way up the steps. It was an encouraging thought: the knowledge that a new era was being born, and that she was helping usher it in. That was her duty, her calling, and her reason for being, just as it was that of her lord and lady, and she could imagine her life no other way. For that matter, she didn't want to.

Nearing the top of the steps, she put her commlink to her ear, and called ahead to notify them of her imminent arrival.

"C-in-C's office," answered a male voice, "Lieutenant Sincréd speaking."

"Lieutenant, this is Senior Troop Leader Diric at the main entrance. Could you please inform the C-in-C that I wish to speak with him if possible."

"I should notify you, ma'am, that he's presently in conference with Minister Meric. He should be able to see you as soon as they're finished, however."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

Rather absently did she salute the sentries on duty as she passed through the double doors, wondering if perhaps there was some news of great import that prompted the conference with Meric. _The last of the Jedi were caught?_ she hoped. A mere handful of adult Jedi had remained after Bimmisaari, and three of them had already taken the sane and decent way out by surrendering themselves and their young charges over the course of the past few weeks. There still remained a few out there, however, and nearly every last man and woman in uniform was hunting them. It was only a matter of time before they were caught, or else saw reason.

* * *

Revan had never felt Meric so tense, so anxious, so nervous. Something had greatly unsettled her, and it was something which she could apparently not sort on her own. In the time he had known her, she had always been the picture of rational calm, and he knew of no recent developments that could begin to explain such a state in her. She even fidgeted slightly as she stood near the entrance to his office, her eyes flitting between himself and Bastila, whom Meric had explicitly requested be present for this meeting.

"If I may be so bold, My Lady," he inquired following the usual exchange of pleasantries, "what is this news that you bring with such disquiet as I sense in you?"

"My apologies if I appear flustered," she answered quickly. "I just didn't know quite how to approach you about this…and I still don't. To be perfectly honest, I debated with myself if I should tell you at all, but I couldn't possibly betray your trust by keeping this to myself. You need to know what I know."

"Know what?"

"It's about the cameras - the ones that some members of the Imperial Guard wore on operations."

"Please do go on," he said when she hesitated, and suddenly felt as if his heart should have skipped a beat, except that it couldn't anymore, not ever since…

Bastila's mind, meanwhile, was racing back to that fateful day, trying to recollect events that were indelibly seared into her memory down to the smallest detail. She knew Wallen hadn't worn such a camera, at least not when he died, _(by then he had too much to hide)_ but there had been the bodies of other Imperial Guards about. At the time, she hadn't thought to check any of them for cameras, but on subsequent reflection, she could be certain that none of those bodies had actually _faced_ her when she…died. She and Revan had previously considered this possibility, had thought of it when they ordered those cameras retrieved and secured by the SD, but that had been weeks ago, and they had heard nothing since. It would have appeared suspiciously peculiar for them to order the cameras destroyed and, in any event, they were by no means certain that they wanted to keep this a secret indefinitely.

"My Lady, am I to assume that you found something significant in the footage recorded by these cameras?" she pressed.

"Yes, My Lady. Analysis of the footage was never a high priority, and many of the cameras were damaged in the battle, and many files had to be repaired in order to be viewable at all, so you must understand this was brought to my attention just last night. I was called in to look at a particular clip that had just been restored, because the tech who was working on the file said that he must have made a mistake. The camera in question had been knocked from the associated body and was damaged in the process, and the tech said that he _must_ have made a mistake in recompiling the data, because what it showed wasn't possible. The first time I saw it, I knew it wasn't a mistake, but I…" Meric answered in a voice choked with… What was it that lodged in and tightened her throat?

Then, sweeping her hat from her head, she bowed to Bastila as low as she possibly could in a gesture that left her utterly dumbstruck. Meric had always been cordial and respectful to her, but never before had she displayed anything like this.

Meric stood and continued, "I saw you… Forgive me, but it looked as if you died."

"I did die," Bastila whispered, feeling as if the floor was falling away from her.

_That explains why she's so unsettled. What must she think of me? _What she read from the minister was nothing short of awestruck reverence, and that, in turn, put Bastila somewhat ill-at-ease.

"That wound was instantly fatal. I don't understand…"

"Neither do we," Revan told her frankly.

"All that matters to us is that we're alive," added Bastila. "Both of us."

Meric then looked to him with near-disbelief cast into her elegant features, but he hesitated to elaborate, only to feel Bastila urge him on, to give himself the credit - if it could be called that - he was due.

"It was Konnuff who should, by all logic, have felled me," he said. "I am not infallible."

Pausing to catch her breath and restore her composure, Meric fitted her hat back in place and discretely moistened her parched lips with the tip of her tongue. She smoothed her jacket (which was already smooth) and exhaled hard.

"If I hadn't seen the holocapture, I would never… I _still_ can't believe it except for when I'm actually watching the recording. 'Shock' doesn't even approach what I felt when I first saw it."

"Try to imagine how we've felt for the past month," Bastila told her without criticism.

Meric gazed at her thoughtfully just then, the awe beginning to fade, and said soberly, "No, I don't think I really can. In fact, I'm sure I'll never know."

An awkward silence reigned for awhile, and the three of them stood there in the domed office, watching the snow softly fall upon the transparisteel, melt on its heated surface, and glide down the curved slope in long rivulets. Nobody knew what should be said next, but it was ultimately Meric who spoke anyway, saying,

"I'll keep this quiet for so long as you wish. The recording's sealed in my personal vault, and the tech who saw it has been sworn to secrecy."

"Thank you, though I know and understand that nothing remains secret forever," Revan told her gratefully.

There had never been any serious thought of making it public knowledge, certainly not through some egotistical proclamation, but if it eventually leaked out, then so be it. Most people would never believe it, in the first place, and would assume the recording to be a fake if they saw it, but from those who did believe, the reaction would probably not be to Revan and Bastila's liking. They had no desire to be worshipped, or to be thought of as anything other than what they were.

* * *

Anxiously had Revan watched the skies throughout the day, and repeatedly called up the weather reports with their satellite imagery, hoping all the while that he would be greeted with a clear evening. From his office at the pinnacle of the Érilínash, his gaze reached across the fjord, over the mountains with their fresh blanket of snow, and out to the dark expanse of the ocean. Finally, what had been a solid overcast was belatedly breaking apart, and slanting golden rays burst forth from between ragged strips of steel-grey cloud, which were, in their turn, painted with pastel violets and oranges.

"Magnificent," he softly voiced his praise as his heart leapt at the sight.

"And just in the nick of time," Bastila added as she crept up from behind him to lay both hands upon his shoulders. "We'll be late if you stand here sightseeing any longer."

"Sorry," he said with a trace of the sheepishness that only ever surfaced in her presence.

"You never have to apologize to me - you know that," she told him sweetly, and he smiled as he turned to face her.

"I know, darling. I know."

They left together, taking the lift a short ride down to the Imperial Council Hall, where they were greeted with much pomp and ceremony by the Imperial Ministers (Meric included) and the Chiefs of the General Staff. Also present were the grand admirals of the five Groups, and six grand marshals from the Army, all of them eager to sign their names to the Treaty as well. Added to these distinguished guests were a number of adjutants and aides, and for the first time in its brief history, the vast hall was actually crowded.

There were many formal bows and salutes, greetings and congratulations, comments on how serendipitously the weather had cooperated after all at the very last minute. The atmosphere was almost that of a party, being rich with subdued, dignified elation and celebration. Everyone was attired in their finest uniforms or, in the case of the civilian Ministers, suits, which filled the room with a veritable rainbow of color. Revan wore his usual black and emerald, but with the addition of traditional silver knotwork about the lapels of his jacket and a chest gleaming with medals accrued over the past five years. Bastila was likewise outfitted in her admiral's ceremonial dress uniform, complete with her own growing collection of decorations. Perhaps most notable on both of them, as well as on a significant number of other officers present, was a four-pointed black star with a silver vastínhaig at its center, worn like a brooch at the throat of one's collar. It was aptly named the Victory Medal, and had been handed out to senior commanders during the past week on the basis of "actions contributing to the overall victory of the Imperial Cause."

The sun was sinking lower still, now centered in the V of steep hills near the shore, when the general chatter of the gathered dignitaries was drowned out by a single voice that rose above them all.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, the time has come," Céle crisply proclaimed.

She stood to the side at the head of the conference table, one of the most junior officers present, but projecting no less authority than any other. On her command, all conversation instantly ceased, and neat ranks were formed either side of the table as though the conference room had become a parade ground. Revan took up station at the head of the table, with Meric immediately on his right and Bastila on his left. When he looked about at the faces that surrounded him, and thought back on all the years of toil, all that had been won, and all those who were lost, he fought to hold back the tears that welled beneath his eyes. He blinked a few times, hoping that the cameras wouldn't be focusing too closely on him, and stood steadfastly at attention as he waited. The moment he had so long dreamt of, and had so many times feared would never come, was nigh.

After what could have been hours, or even days, but was in reality scarcely a minute, the doors were opened, and there entered a small contingent of ruined and pathetic figures. In the lead was Oberreck, who, though suitably attired and well-groomed, was a shell of the man he had once been: a slouching, shambling ghoul with eyes sunken into an ashen face, and almost devoid of life or energy. With him were the Devaronian chief of the Diplomatic Corps, Tian G'Haaklen, whose chestnut fur was notably lackluster and whose gait was far from confident; Xentorell, who had conveniently been released from prison just in time to sign the cease-fire agreement nearly a month ago, and who now gave every appearance of an embittered and disillusioned man; and Grand Marshal Otragan, chief of the Republic Army, whose face was a blank mask and whose stare wandered aimlessly about the room. Last in line was Grand Admiral Najel, whose otherwise-pleasant face was shadowed with grief, but who, alone of the Republic delegation, still carried herself with professional strength and dignity. It was only she for whom Revan or Bastila felt the slightest pity, knowing as they did the position in which she had been placed against her will. In the others, they could only ever see the hated enemies of all they had fought so hard to create.

"Be seated," Revan bade them, gesturing to the chairs at the opposite end of the table.

The visiting delegation meekly took their seats without a word, and Revan waited until after they had done so to follow suit, taking a few moments to glower sternly down at them from where he stood. When all were seated, a captain of the Imperial Army stepped forward bearing two dark green binders, the covers of which were stamped with the Imperial seal in gold inlay. With slow and deliberate formality, these were set on the table in front of Oberreck and opened to reveal two documents, each comprised of two large pages; one copy was written in Basic, the other in Deralsbanif. The captain stood aside, and a Navy lieutenant carrying a wood box richly engraved with leaves and vines assumed her place. Pens were set out on the table, before the lieutenant, too, stepped to the side.

From his position at the far end of the table, Revan watched the Supreme Chancellor reach out and take up a pen with a hand that betrayed a subtle tremor. Oberreck looked down at the documents before him, then back up and across the length of the table, and for the first time, the two great adversaries actually met each other's eyes. What Revan saw was a broken man in whose heart still burned a vitriolic hatred of himself and his cause, though it was now but an impotent hatred. That hate, however, was all Oberreck had left to which to cling, and so he kept it alive even now as his hand hovered over the document that would end an institution that had endured for twenty millennia. The Treaty of Tséchsnol was not a peace treaty in the classical sense, in that it established no settlement or understanding between sovereign states, but rather agreed to the complete annexation of one state by another. To sign it was the ultimate act of capitulation, acknowledging not only the loss of the war, but far greater losses.

_It's over. All of it: your power, your schemes, your ruling "elites," your so-called Republic. You fought on the wrong side of history, on the wrong side of decency and _morality,_ and now you are being swept aside by the tide of a new age. Sign and be done with it,_ Revan projected his thoughts, and in Oberreck's eyes, he briefly glimpsed hatred swallowed by fear.

Then the Chancellor turned his gaze down to the treaty, and Revan could actually hear the tip of the pen touch the page and scratch across its surface. The process was repeated on the Derals copy, and then the pen slipped from his fingers and rolled a short distance across the table before being arrested by G'Haaklen. The Army captain then returned and moved the folders over, and it was Xentorell who signed next. The process was repeated thrice more, then the lieutenant blotted the ink, and the captain collected the binders, and a new participant stepped forward.

It was Céle who delivered the treaties to the opposite head of the table and laid them before Revan, who realized, only as he took up a jet black pen, that there was a solitary tear trickling down his cheek. He could feel the last rays of the setting sun on the back of his neck, and when he looked down at the pages, he felt almost weightless, almost unable to feel the chair beneath him. On each copy, the bottom half of the second page had been left void of type, and on the left side of this space were the five signatures of the vanquished foe, while the right side remained blank. It was to this open space, and in particular that on the copy printed in Derals, that his attention was drawn.

"With this signing, as the sun sets upon this day - upon the _last_ day of the _last _year of this age - we forever close one of the darkest chapters in history," he declared solemnly, deliberately, in a voice almost choked with sentiment. "May the next one be brighter."

He set pen to paper, and sharp, fluid letters took form on the pristine white surface. He paused at the end, read his own name at it appeared on the document, then turned to the copy in Basic and signed again.

Behind him, the sun at last sank behind the horizon, beneath a tattered canopy of deep violet, and, if only for a minute, the waves shone gold and amber.

1 Mégteníd, 1 ÛÉ

She was warm. The first physical sensation of which she was consciously aware (for she was perpetually aware of Revan's comforting presence in her mind) was that of pleasant warmth, which resolved itself into the warmth of Revan as he lay beside her. That was followed by the exquisite softness of the sheets and her nightie against her skin, and the subtle scent of soap that clung to her beloved. She opened her eyes and looked upon him in the dim twilight of their bedroom, and felt a refreshing calm wash over her.

She knew perfectly well that it was silly to the point of absurdity, but a tiny part of her had almost feared that they might fade away during the course of the night. At least it wasn't every night that she speculated about such a fate, or told herself that they were living on borrowed time, but with the signing of the treaty, she almost had to expect that something supremely terrible would happen to spoil what would otherwise be a crowning moment of triumph. Instead, they were at home, in bed, lying in each other's arms, just as they had been when they fell asleep the night before, and the same as they woke every morning. She thought Revan held her with just a little firmer grasp than usual, however, as if he, too, dreaded losing her, which he did.

_It will pass in time,_ she told herself. Eventually, their lives would find some kind of equilibrium, and they would forget about fading and borrowed time, and accept that they were here to stay. _And for how long, exactly?_ The idea had naturally occurred to them that they might have attained some level of immortality, and for all its supposed appeal, they both understood that forever would be a very, _very_ long time. She reassured herself with the thought that, _If it is to be forever, then at least we'll have each other._ As she had said to herself more than five months ago, they deserved a measure of happiness in return for the responsibility they had taken upon themselves.

Taking care not to move so far as to disturb Revan, she craned her neck to look at the windows, which admitted not a glimmer of light, then even further to see the chrono, which read 0810. _Eight hours of sleep - that's a novelty I could gladly get used to._ Revan stirred in her arms just then, murmuring something too soft to be intelligible, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning," she whispered to him as she disentangled her right arm from him and gently ran her fingers from his temple, across his cheek, and down to his chin.

"And a very good morning it is," he concurred almost dreamily. "Is it very late?"

"Late, but not yet dawn."

He shut his eyes briefly, and smiled sweetly just before re-opening them.

"Good. I do so love the time just before dawn."

She felt a cool lightness in her chest, smiled back, told him, "I know…and so do I."

They lay together a minute longer before pushing back the covers and rising from their bed into the invigorating morning air. The heat had been set low, and the vents were open, and the atmosphere within the house was pleasantly cool. She stretched her arms to the sides and above her head, fluffed out her hair, which had become somewhat matted in the course of the night, and padded across the thick carpet to the closet to dress for the day. It was forecast to be a chilly day, though not so cold as in the capital, where more snow could be expected that evening. Here, it was supposed to remain generally clear all day, although a passing shower couldn't be ruled out entirely. It would be lovely to take the day off, but there was renewed rioting on Coruscant, and acts of sabotage were being committed at the Kuat Drive Yards, and all manner of other difficulties were persisting throughout the occupied territories. _As if that will change any time soon._ At least she could remain home and work from there, whereas Revan would be spending much of the day in Tséchsnol. She was technically on leave, after all, and it still suited their purposes to be seen apart from one another.

She dressed in a suit of green and black, and looked quite similar to Revan once he was attired in his uniform. In fact, so acute was the resemblance (at least in dress) that she had to smile to herself when they passed the mirror on the closet door. She brushed her hair, although rather than drawing it up as per her custom, she chose to leave it loose today, in keeping with the idea of staying home for a change of pace.

As she was doing so, Revan drew open the blinds over the windows, and revealed a world just waking from its nightly slumber. The sky overhead was a dusky blue speckled with a few lingering stars, while over the distant hills in the east there shown a light peachy hue, and the scattered fluffy clouds that drifted slowly overhead were lit up in shades of pink and amethyst. Below, fog clung to the low places of the land, and over the river, while out on the moor, the craggy peaks of the tors protruded from the murk.

"Care to watch the sunrise?" he asked without turning from the vista that held him so enthralled.

Creeping up behind him, she wrapped her arms around him, and said softly, "I'd love to. Outside?"

"It's cold…but not so cold as to deter me," he remarked lightly.

She released him, and from the bedroom they ventured downstairs, stopping at the entryway to don their boots and greatcoats. Surmising that it was only a little above freezing, she took the time to fasten the rows of silver buttons all the way up to her throat, and followed Revan's suit in slipping on a pair of gloves for good measure. That ritual done with, she opened the front door and was at once struck with a wave of cold, damp air. As always, however, it was wonderfully clean and fresh, and proved ideal for waking one up in the morning as she stepped outside.

Immediately in front of and below the door were five stone steps, and it was on the second to the last that Revan sat, even though it made for a cold and clammy seat. The sun would be up soon enough.

"It's so peaceful," she commented as she watched a large grey bird soaring above the moor.

"Isn't it, though? As though none of it ever happened. When I'm here, with you, in these quiet times, I can almost pretend…"

Sitting down on the step above him, and just to the side of him, she slipped her arms around his torso much as she had done upstairs, and this time drew him back against her. Reaching up, he covered her hands with his own, and looked back and up with adoring eyes.

"I can almost pretend that none of it ever happened - that everything has always been this way, and that it always will, for ever and ever."

"I know what you mean," she murmured back. "I know that it wasn't always like this, of course, but I'd like to think that it always will be."

"Well…"

Resting his head against her, he stared off to the eastern horizon, where a warm glow was building just behind the far-off hills that rose above the mist. She felt him shift subtly in her embrace, snuggling closer to her, and felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands.

"I've been here before," he said after a while.

"Hmm?"

"Aboard _Conqueror_, when you saved me, I imagined myself sitting here, before dawn, with you. I saw this then as clearly as I see it now. I didn't know it then, but this is where our choices that day led us."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

The sun was cresting the hilltops as a fat, rosy orb, its rays spreading across the grey and green and white, and casting long shadows that vanished in the fog. As they sat, they watched the light creep steadily west toward them, crossing the river and finally climbing the slope below them. As the warm light touched her face, helping to banish the chill that hung in the still morning air, she felt also a warmth rising within her. _This is where we wanted to be; where we meant to be._

"I love you, Revan," she told him with all the depth and conviction that was in her. It was probably at least the three-hundredth time she had uttered those words, but they held no less meaning now than they had the first time, when she had spoken them in the middle of Operation Impulse.

He craned his neck again to look up at her, and never had she seen him happier than in that moment; and it was a look she would never forget, not if she really did live forever.

"As I love you, Bastila."

Then he turned his gaze back to the resplendent vista, and let his head rest against her chest once more, and together they sat in silence. She knew that there were matters of state demanding their attention, and that soon he would have to leave for Tséchsnol, but she knew also that he would return later in the day, and that they would be together tomorrow, and the next day... There was nothing that could part them from each other for so long as they remained true.

The sun was risen on the first day of the first year of the Third Age, and Bastila - decorated officer, revered noblewoman, loving and beloved mérin, steward of nature's power and architect of the future - knew in her heart that it would be a beautiful day.

* * *

Well, here we are at the end, at last. I must say that I well and truly enjoyed writing this, and, at the risk of sounding trite, hope that at least some of you enjoyed reading it just as much.

I previously posted a list of Derals words and phrases at the end of Chapter 9. Here are those that have appeared since:

Tho thíle íl dur: I love you, too.

vacht: folk

Fídéothsél: Starry Lake (literally: Lake Full of Stars)

aithlín cían: fair night

Hai thíle íl dur: As I love you.

Ro atse: Sleep well.

Ro fíra, Férdin: Well met, Minister.

Tséchsnol: Imperial City

Érilínash: Sovereign Tower

Nai ûltín elth salitse mín: We serve with loyal strength.

Aithlínnel: Fair Water

Valta: Admiral

É, druch: Hello, friend.

tchochaiv: literally "shits," as in plural of shit, being used in reference to people

Fé: Hail, though the word holds considerably more meaning than that (see Chapter 17)

tchéne: thank you

Dalsfam: White Harbor

Saicreg: Great Rock

Naioné rai mith: The time has come.

mérin: spouse (A loose translation - it refers more to a state of mind than to any state of legal matrimony.)

DÉ = Désh Émith: Second Age

ÛÉ = Ûlísh Émith: Third Age

The months and their meanings:

1 Mégteníd: of long shadows

2 Hindel: mist-month

3 Venthil: regrowth

4 Tsédíth: of green

5 Lüindel: warmth-month

6 Thilnuth: mid-year

7 Celeth: ripening

8 Aihwirth: harvest

9 Dûlif: fading

10 Féel: closure


End file.
