PART II: ALLEGRO

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IV: Apt Metaphors

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Sharing dinner from across the galaxy wasn't exactly the definition of a romantic evening but with Mara on Coruscant, Luke didn't have much of a choice. For her it was also more of a brunch, but it warmed his heart that she took the time to sit down. When he said so, she'd fixed him with a flat stare, almost tangible despite the flickering hologram.

"Really, Skywalker? Thanking me for getting to have a conversation with my husband that I haven't touched in weeks? Okay, sure."

He winced - not at her words, but at the thought of the reasons behind it.

"Is Doctor Oolos any more hopeful?"

Mara sighed, shaking her head and rippling her hair - aquamarine instead of red-gold, washed out by the hologram and tinted by the stable light.

"He's taken half my blood and still hasn't been able to make anything of why I'm suddenly better. No luck synthesizing what's left of Vergere's tears, either."

Neither of them said what they were both thinking, but both knew each other well enough that the words hung in the air, unsaid, between them. Luke took a careful bite of Kam's cooking, not tasting the nerf-steak at all, thinking only of the unspoken for now after 'I'm suddenly better'. If Vergere's tears had a timed effect, if the disease was only in remission and even now fighting to overcome them - Doctor Oolos had chastised Mara for taking the tears immediately, speaking of how some pathogens and viral infections came back all the stronger if they weren't eradicated, and since no one had even been able to find what Mara was sick with…there was no way to tell if it was merely a ticking clock.

Luke thought of her worst days, after the first battle of Obroa-skai, after Ithor, and felt gooseflesh prickle his arms. If it came back, but worse -

"Anyway," Mara continued, dragging out the syllables, gesturing with a mug of recaf. "Senator Shesh is, unfortunately, completely right."

"You really don't like her, do you?"

Mara pulled a face.

"She's faker than a three credit chit, but I can never actually catch her out on a lie. It gets under my skin. But she's right - there's a leak in her office."

Luke paused, glass of water halfway to his lips. Carefully he lowered it back down to the table.

"So that's how they knew to wait for us on Obroa-skai."

"Afraid so. Shesh wasn't just paranoid."

Sitting back, meal momentarily forgotten, Luke crossed his arms, frowning deeply. A Senator's office was no mean feat for the Vong - or Peace Brigade - to infiltrate. If Mara was right, and Luke would bet the world on his wife's word - then the number of possible leaks had to be below a dozen. Obroa-skai was classified at some of the highest levels. Viqi Shesh, Victor Pomt, their aides, the Wraiths, Director Scaur of NRI - not even Fey'lya had known until it was all over. Mara was sure it was in Shesh's office, which cut out NRI, winnowing the candidates further. Given Mara's mistrust of the Senator, he had to ask:

"And it's not Viqi?"

"Triple checked. She brought me on to root out this mole, remember? She's one of the best actresses I've seen, but she's not that good."

"And no masquers?"

"None. Every single person in her office is bright and clear in the Force. Of course, most of them are also almost impenetrable to anything but picking up half-heard surface thoughts, but of course Viqi would hire only the most mentally disciplined staffers. It's like she doesn't trust Jedi or something."

Shaking his head and forking another bite, Luke smiled as he chewed.

"Well," he said, out of the corner of his mouth. "You are trying to read their minds."

Mara threw up her hands.

"It's my job! It's not like I'm begging to hear what kind of dry, flaccid thoughts those drones have. Now I'm stuck on doing it the old-fashioned way." She thought for a moment, idling twirling her fork in sauce-soaked scrambled protein. "It's actually a little nostalgic. I even called Karrde."

"Any luck there?"

"Aside from catching up?" Somewhere along the line months turned into years as the elusive intelligence broker stayed out on the fringes, pursuing his work. When was the last time Karrde had poked his head above ground? Or rather - out from the increasing snarl that Karrde's organization had become as he divested of the 'less than legitimate' enterprises he'd once been known for. Probably that whole Outbound Flight debacle. Three years ago, now.

Luke shook his head of memories as Mara continued.

"He's been butting heads with Peace Brigade in the Outer and Mid Rim, trying to stamp out their influence, but he's had nothing from Coruscant. So no, no luck." Mara sat back, grinning, and folded her arms under her breasts. "Guess what else he's been keeping an eye out for?"

Her amusement was palpable, as was the refreshing undercurrent of how deeply touched Mara felt. Luke had an idea, but humored her.

"What else?"

"Oh, strange diseases, the kind without known sources that can't be treated…"

The old smuggler pretended, he really did, but the man still cared about everyone who'd ever worked for him. Even after they went and became a Jedi, got married, and never looked back. Woe betide anyone who crossed his 'people', and Talon had long memory for who those people were.

It was why Talon Karrde, who'd once helped capture Luke to sell to the Empire, was one of the few who had full permission and access to the Praxeum outside of the Order.

"We've had good luck with smugglers," Luke said.

"The best, apparently." Mara took back up her mug of recaf, sipping quietly while Luke continued his dinner. "You know, with Jaina ground for the time being, I was thinking of asking for her help."

His niece's injury had worried him, but the call she'd made, linked to Coruscant so that Jacen and Leia could join in, had banished those fears. She had been so righteously irritated, more upset about how she had been spaced, rather than being spaced at all. Being taken out not by some canny and respectable Vong hotshot pilot, but by the impersonal explosion of the Star Destroyer. Underneath her irritation, as she hauled her leg, wrapped in a flexible cast, into view to complain, he sensed what really lay beneath it all.

If she had gone down to another pilot, it felt almost right. Like losing a 'saber duel, knowing that if you had been better, you could have won. Learning the lesson and taking it to heart, so that the next time, you would be. Being spaced like this - he could imagine how she felt, because he had felt the same before. It was the moment of realization of the real size of the universe. The impersonal, infinite scale of it. The truth that life was not a story, life was life, complex and unplanned and unplotted. There was no path ahead of you, there was no chapter break.

You could be the greatest Jedi to ever live, but a hypermatter explosion too close and you were as dead as mynock would be.

He knew Anakin had faced that ugly truth and suspected it was on Dantooine. His nephew hadn't spoken of it, but it was more in the way he carried himself now. Careful, attentive. The childish freedom was wiped from him and Luke ached to see it.

Mara's idea was a good one. He told her so. Jaina would need something to do, to sink her teeth into, to help her right her ship. The universe was vast and uncaring and cold, yes. But the Force, the Force was always there. She would recover and remember that no matter what, she would never, ever be alone. Not with her family around. Especially not with her brothers.

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Malik Carr smelt the nostril-searing tang of combustibles, felt tackiness of drying blood beneath clawed toes, the sharp stink of apocrine sweat on his long and forked tongue. In both hands he bore coufee, cousin to the amphistaff, though simpler, duller and shorter. Already the bladed biots were stiffened and hooked into their classic form, ready to catch limbs or gouge eyes and Malik Carr's heart pounded in anticipation. Prickles of guidance flickered through his spine, soothing and familiar, so easy to surrender to. The great rikyam mind of the ship guided him through its labyrinthine ways, outraged at the interlopers and reacting like a body to infection. Malik Carr and his fellows were the white blood cells, the immune response, surging through capillaries of wending corridors to root those who did not belong.

It was a satisfying metaphor that he indulged, imagining, as he let his body move of its own accord, that the coufee in his hands were the spike protein, ready to rupture hostile cells, to burst lymph and flush out the wound with cleansing pus. The taller warriors that shepherded Malik Carr and the others like him, they were the hunter cells, the advanced lymphocytes in the response ready to denature protein and snap membranes between their teeth.

His time with Shaper Qesh taught him more of the body, the microbiological biome and its interactions. His grafting progressed well, but such a rare implantation required tending and tending she gave happily. Engrossed in her work, she would ramble. It would irritate him, but for the clear mastery she demonstrated with every stroke of her long and mutated fingers, soothing in an instant spasms and nerve twitches, cajoling disparate flesh to more beneficially marry.

But that was not for now - now was to join in battle. Now was to shriek past his sharp cage of teeth, howling in anticipation, leaping through a widening hatch-sphincter to see many figures-

The chazrach's life ended without it ever seeing what struck the blow and Malik Carr sat in silence and darkness a moment, dysphoric confusion rippling his limbs as he was, once more, of the Chosen People, and no longer riding the sense-form of the diminutive slave-caste. Wet-ice tingled the nape of his neck, rippling up his skull and across his scalp and he reached up with one hand, gently lifting the encompassing, squirming masque that covered his face.

Lambent light banished the darkness and Subaltern Harmae stood by at the ready to receive the cognition hood.

Much like the hoods that allowed the pilots of the yorik-et to command their starfighters, this relative accessed memory qahsa and replayed sense-echoes for elucidation. Often a training tool, during the great diaspora, when fuel and supply was sharply rationed, they fell out of favor once the worlds of this galaxy were thrown open to feed the Yuuzhan Vong war machine. It was a dishonor to play at false war through the cognition hoods; better to hone craft in plays of true danger and death, when a false move would prune the weak from the ranks. The great shipwomb of Sernpidal and the yorik-et fields of Belkadan and other worlds made the fleet replete with replaceable hulls.

Now the hood let him step into the mind of one aboard Redshriek, lost but days ago. Tricked and trapped by the Republic, in a rare display of mettle by the infidels, the ship had not died easily but slowly, doomed to ignominity by paralyzing ions and then boarded to complete the insult.

Subaltern Harmae passed off the cognition hood to a waiting Shaper Adept, who would tend the device and refresh it. None others were present, giving the Commander time to brood on what he had seen.

Aistarteez, again. Not content with befouling his works on Obroa-skai, now they stole from him a squadron and worse. The chazrach's memories agreed with the villip-calls from the doomed ship. Shipmaster Anchul declared the boarders few in number but acting strangely. Communion had been live - Subaltern Harmae himself had roused Carr from his chambers with news of the urgent villip-call. Now the Subaltern was one of the few inducted into the knowledge of the aistarteez and their ilk. Such was the reason Carr bade him attend while he perused these memories. The Shaper Adept was one of Mistress Qesh's get and would hew to the command of the Master Shaper, and thus was of no concern.

"Aistarteez indeed," Carr murmured, the tip of his arm-tooth gently gouging a line through the yorik coral decking. The long, bony fang married to his left elbow through a constructed wrist joint, so that it might be tucked back like the long, grasping claws of the kitaak slasher. As the graft settled and with each passing day it did moreso - he had better and finer control over the new limb, the kinesthetic sense more akin to that of a hand without fingers than a clumsy arm. Such was the mastery of Qesud Qesh's art.

"They dared?" Harmae's words were quiet but incensed, heat in the young warrior's tone. Good, but it should not master him.

"They dared and they succeeded." Carr snapped, his Subaltern bowing his head. "To dare is righteous, to succeed is holy. Even the infidel may grasp at glory, though it will ever elude their fingers. Do not underestimate our foe, or you weaken the hinges of our own keep."

"I hear and obey, Commander."

Carr rose, raising both arms and Harmae hung his command cloak once more from the Commander's shoulders, the living drape gently writhing as it settled against its master's back. As per his preference, he went with his torso bared, exposing gnarled scars and knotted burns, smearing across his pectoral like reshaped wax. A broad belt in greens and golds and reds wound about his waist, emphasizing his musculature. Without his long tresses, burnt away on Obroa-skai, instead he favored a tasseled skullcap, which he slid back on, feeling the tiny hooks anchor to his scalp and tickle his fuzzed regrowth.

"Follow," he ordered. "Shaper, have the qahsa devoured. There is no further need for it."

Harmae fell in step beside and just behind Carr, hands clasped together before him, hidden in the sleeves of his voluminous robes.

"With the villip-calls and memories of the chazrach, the waters clear to reveal the depths. Just as we seek knowledge of them, they too seek it of us." From snippets of other chazrach's memories, relayed by the doomed ship's rikyam shortly before annihilation, Carr saw the actions of those the aistarteez escorted. Stomach-churning machine-men, they gathered trinkets and trophies from the honored dead, despoiling warriors and insulting Redshriek. But Carr mastered his anger and saw the truth: these trophies were specimens, collected like a Shaper might peruse a new world.

"They will learn nothing," Harmae declared, zealous in tone. "The Gods will not allow it."

"'The Gods will test us in all things'," Malik Carr quoted. "'To be Chosen is to be Blessed, but to be Blessed is to understand trial. Pain is the lash of learning and the Gods wield it well.' You may beseech the Gods that they give grace to our fallen and punish the infidel, but if they did so themselves: what need they of their Children? No, Subaltern, I am sure the Gods will allow it, for it was by our mistake that this came to pass. We do not beg the Gods to solve our problems for us. That way lies only bitter and rightful laughter."

Little was recovered from Obroa-skai in truth. The immolating bomb the last aistarteez triggered wiped clean the final battlefield. Yet the physical was not all there was to study. Warriors that fought and survived recounted tales. Memories of chazrach were delved, though it left Malik Carr feeling unclean. Twice he sacrificed a slave to banish the unpalatable weakness of the chazrach more thoroughly from his senses.

Contrary to the claims of Shipmaster Anchul of Redshriek, aistarteez were no abominable intelligences. They were men, of some sort, who bled and who died. In some unsettling fashion, they reminded Malik Carr of his own warriors. They were faster than the humans of this galaxy, taller, stronger and far more doughty. Their armor was thick and their weapons keen and he wondered, not for the first time, if they were the 'Republic's' attempt to level the battlefield.

Nearing a year since the bumbling of the Praetorite Vong at Helska and Sernpidal, there would have been time sufficient to create these warriors. It answered cleanly why that fool executor Nom Anor had never spoken of them nor why in the annals of history they appeared not once. A martial kind such as them would leave a mark, even in this degenerate, effete galaxy.

No, Malik Carr was sure they were a new invention of the Republic and one that need be stamped out as soon as possible. The Supreme Commander would arrive soon, no longer required to pass along command by villip-choir, and Malik Carr wished to have a plan of battle drawn up to find and destroy these aistarteez by then. It would heap much glory on him and his Domain and only further secure his ascension to, dare he dream it, Supreme Commander himself. His left hand - claw - flexed as he imagined it: elevated by the grim Warmaster himself. Qesud Qesh would have yet more implantation for him, unlocked by his standing and suitable to his glory.

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It started life as an optimistic business enterprise when Lando Calrissian, known for his daring endeavours, bought up a kilometer wide bubble of the Coruscanti undercity. Refurbished and rebuilt, turned into an airy, dome-shaped community, the idea was the attract hundreds of thousands of disillusioned citizens from the cramped and frenetic activity of the surface, enticing them down to a secluded paradise with open boulevards and a shocking amount of elbow room. Of course, the expected diaspora never materialized and so-called 'Dometown' languished until creditors and lenders repossessed the neighborhood. Quietly purchased for a song from sellers eager to discharge the money pit from their books, now the New Republic military called Dometown home as a hardened, centralized nerve-center deep beneath the crust of the world-city.

"With Gyndine, Randon and Daalang fallen, along with most recently Tynna, there's serious concerns the Navy can do anything to halt the yuuzhan vong advance."

The silence that followed Admiral Etahn A'baht's words was pronounced, beings grimacing and casting accusatory glares left and right. High in one of Dometowns many central 'skyscrapers', the chamber was sealed and hardened against all imaginable surveillance, swept regularly for bugs both cybernetic and organic. It meant those present could speak their minds, though whether or not that was a true positive remained to be seen.

"Tynna does prove the Hutt's intelligence is reliable." Admiral Brand countered.

"And that makes it an acceptable loss? The world's oceans have been poisoned before the very eyes of the tynnans and we didn't lift a finger to prevent it." the Dornean countered, looking up and down the table. "You've heard my arguments enough times. Every time we surrender a world, we strike a blow at the faith our people have that we care about anything but the Core."

Admiral Sien Sovv, his dark eyes shining, opened his mouth to rebut but Brand beat the Sullustan to the punch.

"If we lose the Core, we lose the war," the dour Human admiral said, as blunt as his reputation. "I'd rather defend Bilbringi, Kuat and Fondor. We lose the shipyards and we might as well surrender to the vong now."

"If we surrender the rest of the Galaxy, we deserve to. Isn't it disturbing to anyone else? Threatened worlds are starting to surrender without a fight. They know we can't protect them. Isn't that what the New Republic was founded on? The agreement of support in return for defense? How can we expect anyone to listen to Coruscant when we tell them their world doesn't matter as much as others?" A'baht narrowed his eyes, daring anyone to contradict him. "Even a cursory look at the situation reveals the populations who, at our urging to mount a defense, have seen their worlds devastated or poisoned or worse, while those that, like the Hutts, struck a deal with the Yuuzhan Vong have escaped bloodshed entirely."

"The Hutts, a shining example of moral authority," Brand hissed. "You shame us all by bringing them into this. Who would have ever doubted they would show their bellies at the first Vong to come snarling?"

Director of Fleet Intelligence Ayddar Nylykerka waggled a hand, puffing up his air sacs. "I don't entirely agree, Admiral. The Hutts, while cowardly, have proven willing to fight before. Or did anyone forget the fate of the Tionese? No, I think the Hutts are a bellwether. Mercenary and practical to the end and look at what it's bought them: Nal Hutta is untouched and the Vong even allow them to continue the spice trade."

"We can't allow our fear of losing a grip on those less loyal to the New Republic dictate defense policy. Tragic as Tynna, Gyndine and others are, they were the right choice."

The third admiral present, the Sollustan Sien Sovv nodded his jowled head.

"Admiral Brand is correct. Deploying a fleet to Gyndine wouldn't have halted the Yuuzhan Vong at all, and only lost more worlds besides."

A'baht rubbed his fleshy mustachio, looking ill-pleased to agree but slowly nodded.

"It's true that Gyndine is proof of the change in the invader's plans. Clearly, they are probing weaknesses, perhaps even looking for routes into the Core. The Northern Line keeps the Vong held at bay on that front, but through Hutt space, they can threaten much of the Mid Rim and even as far as the Colonies. At the same time, there's been detected a marked increase in their mining of select hyperspace routes which has narrowed our access to outlying sectors."

"In other words," Brand supplied, "they're boxing us in."

Sien Sovv rose, gesturing to the holotank in the center of the table, attracting all attention as he keyed a remote. The room darkened slightly, windows shifted tinted, and a glowing representation of the galaxy shimmered to life.

"This is what we have been able to piece together from direct reports, in addition to stasis probe reconnaissance."

The Sullustan clicked his remote again, activating new lines and icons to sprout in a swathe through the Mid Rim and Expansion Region.

"With Tynna fallen and Kalarba under attack, we can see how the Yuuzhan Vong mean to encircle the Core. Right now, the majority of their fleets are centered between Ord Mantell and Obroa-skai, under, we believe, the command of one 'Malik Carr', who the Jedi encountered during their ill-fated mission. New fleets are sighted between Nal Hutta and Gyndine, securing the gains there. Should these fleets move Coreward from Obroa-skai, they can threaten Bilbringi, Borleias, Venjagga and Ord Mirit. From Gyndine, Commenor, Kuat and Corellia are vulnerable."

"Gyndine gives them the springboard for a two-pronged attack. And this is meant to argue that not protecting the world was the right choice?" A'baht shook his head.

"When - not if - Kalarba is lost, Gyndine won't matter anyway." Brand pointed into the hologram and Sovv highlighted the world for the other Admiral's benefit. Druckenwell, and then Kalarba, and they can threaten Fondor, Yag'dhul, Bestine…most of the galactic south."

"That is my estimation as well," Sovv added, inclining his head to his human counterpart.

Nylykerka huffed a breath, emptying his air sacs and eying the display. The Tammarian rose to his feet, arms folded, joining Sovv before gesturing widely at the glowing representation of all known space.

"I'm concerned we may be looking for a strategy when there is none. The Yuuzhan Vong are waging a psychological war as much as a practical one. They've made a pointed effort to destroy libraries, centers of learning, natural wonders. The way they pursue refugees who mean no harm and pose no threat - such tactics are meant to confuse and dishearten us. They are not declaring war just for territory, but to make a point that the civilization we built means less than nothing to them."

Brand rolled his eyes.

"Pretty rhetoric, but if we assume the Yuuzhan Vong are crazed zealots, we could make just as great a mistake as thinking they are three steps ahead of us. We have to take what comes and make sense of it first, then act."

"Which is why we're all here," Sovv cut in. "Arguing only serves the Yuuzhan Vong. This is nothing that hasn't already been discussed. Are we still in agreement on the next targets, even with the new developments of Tynna and Kalarba?"

A'baht shifted in his seat.

"I still believe Bothawui and Kothlis are the most likely targets, but…I admit that with the warning the Hutts were able to supply about Tynna, my concerns are…less."

"Then Corellia still remains the priority target. Chief Feyl'ya will never allow any defenses to be pulled away from Bothawui. With the Senator's help, the vote already passed handily. Bothawui will be reinforced, along with Bilbringi and Borleias. Kalarba has sped up our plans, as we can be certain that when that world falls, the Yuuzhan Vong will be ready for their next target." Brand looked to Nylykerka. "And Centerpoint?"

"Nearing functionality. We've reached out to Anakin Solo. With his assistance, our scientists expect it can be brought online far sooner."

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"Using Centerpoint still unsettles me," A'baht confessed. "There was a reason we forbid attempts to restore the station."

Much larger than a Death Star and unimaginably more dangerous, the ancient relic in the center of the Corellian system had woken only once in living history, when the radical Thracken Sal-Solo commandeered it to pursue Corellian independence. The hyperspace repulsor platform, beyond the imagining of any hare-brained technologist, wielded unparalleled power. It could shatter stars with concentrated gravity bursts or wipe out entire fleets with blasts of repulsor energy. It was even theorized, according to information gleaned from its computers and the story of Anakin Solo, to have been the tool used to build the uncommon system of Corellia, with its five habitable worlds.

And the last was the final hurdle in the Corellian Plan. Anakin Solo. Only a child, he and his siblings had fallen into Sal-Solo's hands as a bargaining chip, but the precocious Jedi youngster had, either through his relationship to the Force or the mysterious workings of the ancient spacestation, imprinted himself on the entire Corellian network of ancient relics. Centerpoint, the planetary repulsors, all of them spoke to an accepted the youngest Solo as a bonafide operator.

The damage done by misuse during the Corellian Crisis was mostly repaired and undone, but to actually activate the station? It could be none other than Anakin, unless the Admirals were willing to gamble that a makeshift interface would suffice while the fate of half the New Republic fleet hung in the balance.

"Desperate times, General," Brand muttered. "Besides, the only use of Centerpoint will be to interdict the Vong fleet. As agreed, there will be no release for using the repulsor, if it even could work."

"Correct, Admiral." Nylykerka gestured to Sovv, who shifted the hologram display from the Galaxy to an intricate wireframe of the discussed station. "Our technicians are guaranteeing that an interdiction field can be managed. They're much less certain about the repulsor emitter. Glowpoint is, after all, famously unpredictable."

All around the table mulled the concept in silence, opinions as varied as their species. It was hard to deny that Centerpoint, if truly weaponized and reactivated, could be a complete game-changer for the war. Putting aside all other concerns, the ability to reach across the Galaxy and snuff out a star could immediately force the Yuuzhan Vong to the table to negotiate, or even pause their invasion altogether.

The problem, of course, lie in what came next. Brand considered the answer obvious: lock down Centerpoint and keep it under strict New Republic control with heavily vetted access. A'baht, if the unthinkable happened and it was weaponized, imagined secret sabotage, leaving the station defanged but discretely, so that it could remain a sword, but one without an edge.

Such superweapons, such power, was the domain of the Emperor, of Palpatine. Even if it could end the war, could the cost be borne? Could the New Republic survive it? The Death Stars, the Galaxy Gun, the World Devastators…Centerpoint couldn't become the first of the New Republic's own horror-weapons. That, at least, all present agreed on.

"Which leaves us with the last component of this plan." Sovv wiped the holo display and returned to his own seat, lights brightening again, windows turning transparent to reveal the mostly empty, expansive avenues outside. "The Imperium. The 'Exiles'. Admiral Brand?"

"On that front, we have…mixed news."

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Sannad Optarch, Sergeant, found him in the training cages. He was bare to the waist, wearing fatigue trousers and steel-capped boots, laced tightly. His hair, grown longer, was held back by a leather thong in a tight knot, kept clear of his face. Optarch waited patiently, watching his superior dismantle blade-servitors. The cage rattled with each blow, electricity humming in the air on wings of ozone, like a threatening thunderstorm. His longsword, shimmering, slender, darted and span in sure grip, matching cudgel and glaive and lashing barb-whip that strained for the Astartes' flesh. Light perspiration shone from flexing deltoids and pectorals, providing evidence along with the heat-shimmer above the cage that spoke to the length Optarch's superior trained.

Aeonid Thiel paused just after cleaving clear the armored limb of a servitor, tossing aside a sparking electro-mace. Optarch tensed, watching the downward arc of buzzing chainblade, stroking straight for the Lieutenant's exposed back. Yet Thiel froze, stock-still. The words formed on Optarch's lips, to call cessation, knowing that at the level of extremis his Lieutenant preferred to trained on could make such a blow a crippling one.

Thiel snarled, whirling on his heel at the last possible moment, gnawing teeth microns from his flesh and the edge of his longsword sprayed hardened ceramite teeth as it bit into the chainblade.

'Cancel,' Thiel growled, and the servitors arrayed around him, built into the frame of the cage, froze before the syllables could even echo in the large chamber. Optarch waited patiently, hands clasped before him, as Thiel extracted himself from the cage. From a bench nearby, the Ultramarine snagged a sleek cloth, running it along his now quiescent blade, wicking away oil and hydraulic fluids. Another cloth he used to sponge away perspiration before tossing it aside, running fingers through blond hair.

'Sergeant,' Thiel greeted, slipping his longsword back into a simple, utilitarian leather sheathe.

'Lieutenant.'

Thiel jerked his head, beckoning Optarch along.

'Ill progress?'

'Progress implies a degree of success.' Thiel's lip curled. 'I have found none. Whatever commands this 'Force' answers to, the Librarius does not know it. I have tried their mnemonics, I have memorized their cantrips, but the sense eludes me.'

'Thus the danger,' Optarch observed.

'Quite.'

They continued in silence from the training hall, past two bowing crew who bore between them a large hamper and toolkit. Optarch knew not this 'Force' firsthand, though he had met in brief the Jedi Eryl Besa who even now spoke in confidence with Navigatrix Likentrix on the vagaries of the Warp. Direct experience or not, all Ultramarines knew of the extra-worldly apparatus and its known capabilities, given shockingly freely by the Jedi Order and their leader, Luke Skywalker. His Lieutenant had, with some discomfort, requested materials on the Force and the training of a 'Jedi' through the Republican holocom, receiving only minutes later a wealth of guides and pamphlets. According to Skywalker - this was commonly given to those sensitive to the Force who professed interest in joining his Order. Some Jedi even pursued their own training remotely, receiving lessons in holographic and textual form.

In Optarch's own squad, he had two whose minds he had picked to learn of the Jedi and their Force. Zalthis and Solidian, though newly elevated, betrayed a wisdom and thoughtfulness that spoke well of old Ascratus. He had been Optarch's own sergeant, decades ago, and it seemed that Ultramarine had lost none of his pedagogical touch. A great loss, and one Optarch still mourned.

The two, however, had been forthcoming and comprehensive. Their testaments dovetailed cleanly with clear vidthief recordings taken from their wargear, matching theoretical analysis with practical evidence.

What disturbed Optarch the most, and he suspected Lieutenant Thiel as well, was the simple inoffensive and unobtrusive presence of the Force. When the young Jedi Solo made a gesture with his hand, eyes blazing with emotion, and Zalthis was forced to his knees, there was no other sign. No crackle of uncolor, no sudden frost that rimed the duracrete underfoot. Jedi Solo's veins did not blacken, his fingers did not twist and crack. Brother Zalthis spoke only of an immense weight and pressure that drove him to the ground, but none of the oil-slick touch of the Warp.

Perhaps a year ago the young Ultramarine could be speaking from ignorance, but after Calth, all knew the cruel and cold touch of the Warp.

Optarch observed Jedi Taral hurl stones with the alacrity of bolts, knocking reptoid aliens from their feet and dazzling Yuuzhan Vong warriors. Again, there was no mark of unearthly powers. The rubble merely gave up, meekly, giving the Jedi warrioress her ammunition, which she flung with unerring precision by only pointing a single accusatory finger.

The Jedi and their Force would have been reason enough for the Primarch to enact his License. That the knowledge of the sect came after the mysterious circumstances on Eboracum that delivered an athame, of all things, to the Ultramarines, merely served to further prop up the Primarch's theoretical. Only a handful of the Librarius escaped with the 4711th - nine in total, eight of the Lexicanium rank and one of the Codicier. Under sufferance of the Primarch and strict guidelines, all were elevated again, given psychic hoods from under lock and key aboard Macragge's Honour and bade investigate the spoor remaining from whatever unclean ritual had taken place in the wilderness of Eboracum.

Nothing had turned up as weeks became months. Missing soldiers were catalogued, cross-referenced and a rough estimate of missing victims compiled, indicating between ten and twenty sacrificed in that farmhouse. Where their bodies went few wished to speculate aside from dark mutterings.

Surveillance continued and the nine psykers, along with the Navigatrix, her cadre, and the Astropathic choir, kept the Primarch informed of any disturbance in the local immaterium. So far, as far as Optarch knew, there had not been another incident. After Calth, even a single hint of corruption could not be ignored and would not be ignored. Their watch would continue until the culprit found or the universe burned out. There would never be another Calth.

His Lieutenant plied the Codicier, named Tylos Rubio, with questions. Rubio admitted to having never trained a Librarium, but of course could remember perfectly his own elevation and training many years ago and patiently passed on what he knew to Thiel. Which, regrettably, proved entirely ineffective.

'And what of Master Skywalker's teachings? Do those bear better fruit?'

Both dressed down, Thiel still stood half a head taller than Optarch, tall for an Astartes. Though no giant like Drakus Gorod, the Lieutenant would loom in Terminator plate. Contrasting Thiel's trousers and boots, Optarch wore a simple tunic, blue trimmed in white, over his bodyglove. The thought that his wargear was always but a brief stint in the armourium away was a measure of comfort, even in the halls of Macragge's Honour, safest in the galaxy.

Thiel's teeth set and he breathed out between them in a hiss.

'It's ironic, in a way.'

'Quite,' Optarch agreed, touch drily. Thiel barked a laugh.

'Let me speak, brother. I gained this plume and this cape for my willingness to propose the unconventional and break protocol. From Red-marked to Lieutenant, but I feel to take the teachings of a foreign witch to heart and act on them is perhaps a step too far.'

'Brothers Solidian and Zalthis vouch for the honor of Skywalker. As does, I believe, our father.'

Thiel grunted.

'Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Sannad. Leave it to Solidian. Damnably right, though. If Guilliman can trust the Jedi, why can't I?'

Optarch considered carefully his words - not that his superior would take offense, as Thiel encouraged all in his nascent company to speak mindfully but freely - but rather to weigh, theoretically, the correct nudge needed. What was the purpose of a Sergeant, after all, if not to ably guide their officer true? Captain or Lieutenant, it made no difference.

'Speaking of our Primarch, if you show no progress in learning the Force, he had threatened to send you to the Jedi's own scholam, did he not?'

Thiel actually recoiled, appearing entirely betrayed.

'I imagine it might be beneficial, to be surrounded by foreign witches and xeno practitioners. Theoretical: from a myriad of techniques, you might find one that suits best.' Optarch observed, mild.

'I…' Thiel exhaled, clenching his fists. 'I will take another look. The Primarch's orders.'

Optarch nodded, sagely, as if the Lieutenant had made the decision all on his own.

'A fine practical, sir. Rubio might have insights of his own, if he examined the materials as well.'

Optarch left Thiel at the ablutorium, having finally passed along his true reason for searching out the Lieutenant. The Primarch requested his presence to discuss the Republican operational plan several hours hence. Muttering under his breath, Thiel retired to cleanse himself of the grime of sparring, while Optarch sought out his squad. They were running theoreticals on the vong bioforms newly encountered and the Magos Dominus had promised autopsy results by the late evening. Perhaps they had been delivered early.

----------------------------------------

By the peculiarities of foreshortening, Cornelius Regil appeared almost the height of the seated Primarch. Cleansed, refreshed and clad in his repaired and polished plate, Aeonid waited with his helm under one arm at the far end of the long, monolithic waxwood table. A rare survivor of the daemonic incursions, the Shipmaster Hommed had it removed from the tertiary officer's mess and gifted to the Primarch to restore his audience chamber. Inlaid with bleeding edge hololiths, courtesy of the Magos Dominus, the table now rested on a plinth, with elevated chairs for mortals along one side. Admiral Regil reclined in one, gesturing at the ghostly shapes of ships filling the air above the table, with Shipmistress Altuzer of Samothrace at his left hand and Shipmaster Tyber Sogan of Son of Iax, Commodore of the cruiser wing, at his right.

Meters away, Roboute Guilliman sat easily, hands in his lap, velvet toga draped over his superhuman frame. Green laurels sat at his brow, curled blond hair seeming to clutch at the leaves, and his blue eyes flicked back and forth as the Admiral and Shipmasters spoke.

'Mantallikes is a write-off, though Vaul refuses to accept it. Without slipways, the battleship will never sail again. Her armament is strong, which puts the wrath of a Retribution directly over Eboracum Civitas. Vaul will scream and bite about being relegated to an orbital platform, but the old battleship can serve that role well.'

The Primarch nodded slowly.

'Expected. Samothrace must remain at Eboracum, as our only battle-barge.'

'Just so, my Primarch.' Regil cleared his throat, then pointed to another ghostly wireframe. 'Numinus' voids are operable again, but the engineseer warns they are temperamental and flighty.' He pointed to another. 'As an Ironclad, Fourth Honour bore her ramming well, but there remains structural damage that the magi continue to find.'

'As before, then, the reliably operable warships remain: Samothrace, Macragge's Honour and Opolor's Vow.'

'Quite so.' Regil nodded to Guilliman. 'If Samothrace must remain, as, I would assume, Macragge's Honour, then it falls to Opolor's Vow along with an escort squadron to fulfil this task.'

A slight smile quirked the Primarch's lips.

'Your own command, Cornelius? Surely you would delegate.'

Regil harrumphed, age and experience making sharing a jest with a Primarch easy.

'Delegation is cowardice. I'm already on death's door, my lord. Keep me away from battle and I'm liable to turn to dust.'

Beside Regil, Shipmaster Sogan cleared his throat.

'If an escort is required, I can vouch for all cruisers save, ehm, Guilliman's Glory.' The man flushed slightly, reciting the name to the namesake. Seeing the Commodore's discomfort, the Primarch waved a hand.

'Not a name I would have chosen, but the magi of Konor are allowed their quirks. Continue.'

In contrast to Regil, Tyber Sogan had been merely a line captain for his service and his inexperience among the transcendent showed. Sweat stained the pits of his naval jacket, beading along his close-cropped hairline. Gooseflesh pebbled his neck and Sogan steadfastly kept his gaze fixed forward, across the broad waxwood table, never daring to even glance toward Guilliman.

'Born of Ashes, Sorpenton and my own Son of Iax stand ready to sortie. Sorpenton's bays have been refilled from Mantillikes aeronautic wing.'

'I'd take Vow along with Ashes and Iax, my Primarch,' Regil said freely. 'Perhaps a few destroyers for a screen. Any more is overkill.'

Roboute peered down the length of the table, Thiel stiffening slightly as he met his father's eyes. Though they still spent quite some time together - less so, then they had shortly after Calth and after arrival here - the lightning intensity of the Lord of Ultramar's azure eyes never failed to send a prickle of transhuman dread up his spine.

'Thoughts, Lieutenant?'

He considered the wireframe displays, the Yuuzhan Vong warriors and slave-warriors, along with the accounts of Optarch's squad. Gently, he placed his plumed helm on the table with a clak, careful not to mar the finely polished surface.

'I am no master of naval warfare and it is a weak theoretical, but should the naval strength of the vong xenoform match that of their warriors, then we might expect similar proportionality. One Astartes is worth a hundred of their warriors. One battleship, then, would be worth a hundred of their own. But it is a weak theoretical, and full of holes.'

Guilliman unfolded his hands, sitting more erect, brushing fingertips across the wooden surface before him.

'Numinus swept aside the warships that intruded on Eboracum. The Magos Dominus has spent time in review and assured me that such performance is replicable, even with the alleged 'voids' of the living ships active. Less efficacy, but from study of the Republican warships of 'Taskforce Mousetrap', comparisons could be drawn between lance battery and 'turbolaser'. Your analysis is more secure than you believe, Lieutenant.'

Regil, who had been nodding along, added his own thoughts.

'The Republican ships are matchsticks,' he declared, without arrogance. 'Their armor plating is thin, their engines underpowered and their gunnery is unimpressive. If breaking doctrine didn't stick in my craw, I'd take Vow alone.'

Speaking up for the first time, Altuzer laid a hand on Regil's forearm, the much younger woman, who some whispered was as a daughter to the grey old Admiral, spoke up.

'We should balance risk with reward. Sending Vow alone is a strong message to the Republicans and the Vong, but maybe too strong. And if things go awry? It would be sore to lose you, old man.'

'A balance of showmanship and practicality. Take Sorpenton as well, but leave the destroyers. An Avenger and three Murders will be sufficient. I would not risk the lighter voids and frames of our destroyer squadron until the mettle of the vong has been tested.'

The Primarch's words were mild, but they had the weight of authority and command behind them. No argument was imagined. All fell quiet, imagining the battle to come. Too long the 4711th had waited, hiding in the shadows, warships wearing tracks in orbit above. The Imperialis Armada was not made to languish indefinitely and Thiel could see Regil's building excitement. A new foe and a new battlefield. He imagined the sensation for the Admiral was something akin to suiting into his own plate before battle, save that the admiral's wargear weighed a billion tonnes.

'One final theoretical, sire,' Thiel ventured, the thought of armor ringing discordant. Guilliman waved one hand and Aeonid continued. 'What if the vong are able to make landfall on Corellia or worse - Centerpoint station? As I understand it, the archaeotech device is the key to holding their fleet in the trap. If it is boarded, it could be lost. Not turned against us, as I imagine the vong would rather die than use technology, but if it is brought offline at the wrong time…'

Thiel shrugged his broad shoulders, pauldrons shifting.

'I would volunteer my company to travel aboard Vow, as insurance.'

'Granted. Sergeant Optarch has proven an able second.'

He frowned at his father's words.

'I had imagined-'

'You have another task, my son. While the vong are broken at Corellia, I bid you to visit the Jedi Praxeum.'

His stomach filled with ice, Optarch's words only hours ago thrown back at him, now mocking. Mouth dry, Aeonid took a moment to master himself.

'My lord, I am attempting to follow your command. Codicier Rubio has given me many insights, and together I am sure we can unlock the secrets in the materials sent-'

''My lord' now, is it Thiel? This isn't punishment, this is my trust in you. Optarch can handle your company until you return. You are not just to learn of the Force, you are to take a measure of the Jedi in their own home.'

Mutely, Thiel bowed his head, making the sign of the aquila, his tongue untrustworthy. Guilliman returned his attention to Admiral Regil, discussing the fruits of the Chief Navigatrix's liaison with the talented Jedi Eryl Besa. He tried to follow the words said, something about the Navigatrix managing to, with the aid of the Jedi, determine anchor-worlds like Bothawui and Coruscant, among others, feeling out the texture of the far calmer immaterium, but blood thrummed in his ears.

He fought Skywalker but once, in a friendly spar. The Jedi Master, he knew with absolute conviction, could kill Thiel without a single injury. If other Jedi compared, even partially, to the prowess of the deceptively unassuming man, the Jedi Praxeum was perhaps the most dangerous place in the entire galaxy. Aeonid Thiel did not fear death.

He feared failure.

The Primarch's command to pursue the Force, after Thiel's admission of that single, brief, shocking moment of connection he felt in deep meditation, worried at his gut. He could assemble a thousand theoreticals. He could run simulation on the ork, he could speak lectures of the eldar and the hrud, he could describe the nephalem and, even, speak on the proscribed rangda. In battle he trusted absolutely his skill - though middling - with a blade, his aim with a bolter.

The Force was none of those. It was not even the dangerous minefield of the Warp, filtered through the careful lens of the Librarius. Tylos Rubio wielded the power of the immaterium dispassionately, with calculae and rubrics, exacting cantrips and the clarity the Imperial Truth provided. There was no mysticism of meditation or 'searching the soul', at no point did Rubio mention spiritual dross. Thiel had flipped through the guidance Skywalker had sent.

It dripped with it.

If Skywalker had told him that day that he felt the touch of the Warp on his soul, Aeonid could have borne it. He would have reeled in disgust, hating that he was connected to the hostile plane that the Word Bearers, in their madness, unleashed. But he could learn it, master it, under the careful tutelage of Rubio and the others, who in turn had been led along the path by the masterful guidance of such infallible figures as Sanguinius and Jaghatai and Magnus, sons of the Emperor, from whose empirical wisdom their own techniques stemmed.

To learn this Force, Aeonid would have to do as he was instructed, as all other means had failed.

Theoretical: the Force does not respond to any experiments he has yet tried.

Practical: it is to the Jedi that he must turn.

To witches and aliens, to faith and belief and backward spiritual incantations.

The Primarch so ordered and so he must do. Information is victory. To do otherwise would be to fail, and the very thought of it - he glanced to his father, at the moment leaning to the side, waving a hand as he spoke, and imagined his patrician features hardening. His brows drawn together, lips thinning, shadows stealing across his sculptural features. Disappointment. Disdain. Repugnance.

At Calth, waiting for censure, he was ready to bear all that and more. His theoreticals were sound, his practicals valid. He was ready to argue his case even to a son of the Emperor. He was sure Guilliman would agree, when his own works were quoted back. He could bear the momentary disappointment, for he knew it would fade to understanding.

Aeonid imagined returning, the invisible power of the Force in both hands and his father turning away. He could not fail, but neither could he imagine success.

He cursed Luke Skywalker and his open, excited good nature. The damning words that, once spoken, could never be put back.

Begging dismissal, claiming need to prepare, Aeonid nearly fled the chamber.