VIII: No More Colors
Once upon a time, the ghostly blue-grey shape of a Super Star Destroyer was a mark of immediate terror. Beings upon the surface of a world would look up and quake in fear at the sight of its behemoth size filling the sky like the shadow of intent. Arrowhead shaped, spear-tip shaped, it was a naked blade only sheathed when sated by the blood of malcontents and those the Empire turned its implacable gaze towards.
Irony of ironies, then, that the bulk of Guardian lived up to her name, coasting high over Coruscant and filling each and every being on the capital world below with a swell of comfort each time they turned eyes toward the sky. Returned to the heart of the New Republic after her deployment along the southern front of the Yuuzhan Vong advance, Guardian rubbed shoulders with her long-lost cousin Malaghi Shesh , surrounded by entire squadrons of Imperial Star Destroyers, rubbing shoulders with MC90s and Bothan Assault Cruisers. Nebula Star Destroyers, Corona Frigates, Belarus cruisers, and Endurance Fleet Carriers stacked in squadrons. Fleet tenders nosed alongside capital ships like remoras, Prowler recon vessels ranged out wide keeping tabs on the endless and bustling local space around the capital.
The assembled fleet dwarfed the forces pulled together for the catastrophic ‘Corellian Gambit’. Fifth Fleet, mauled at Fondor, even with the Battle Groups on loan would’ve matched perhaps half of the assembled armada.
First Fleet, pride of the New Republic Navy, made rendezvous in bold, public sight.
Deep within Guardian gathered the best and brightest of the New Republic Defense Force. General Etahn A’baht, advisor to Supreme Commander Sien Sovv, both attending in the flesh. Admiral Turk Brand, remotely attending from where he kept peaceful but watchful eyes on Fondor and the Tapani Sector alongside the Exiles. Ayddar Nylykerka, the Director of Fleet Intelligence, with arms crossed and air sacs trembling. Admiral Kre’fey, his pure-white fur pristine and shining, rocking back and forth with scarcely repressed energy. General Wedge Antilles, seated already at the conference table, leaning forward with shoulders hunched and elbows planted on the durasteel surface. Admiral Suskafoo, head of Technology Section fiddled with one antenna, speaking in low tones with Admiral Ragab, Chief of Staff of Fleet Command while Admiral Horton Salm of Starfighter Command gestured with a datapad.
Within Guardian ’s flag conference chamber, at least a square acre in size, were perhaps the most powerful beings in the known Galaxy. Veterans of the Galactic Civil War, the Black Fleet Crisis, campaigns against warlords and fringe recalcitrants, of the Reborn Emperor’s depredations, they served at the pleasure of the Chief of State and the Senate of the New Republic; yet it was ultimately their commands, their tactics, their strategy that could save or condemn a thousand worlds.
Which meant: no pressure.
“I appreciate all of your attendance,” Sien Sovv began, black eyes scanning over the chamber. “It’s an understatement to say that the last month has been…eventful.” Murmurs and a few grim chuckles rippled through the officers, more than a few glances cast toward Turk Brand’s hologram.
The Sullustan paced back and forth at the head of the conference table, a blank hologram humming pale and blue behind him, covering most of a wall. Projection screens recreated the starscape and planet beyond as if the chamber were high up in one of Guardian ’s many dorsal towers, recreating the incredible vista of nearspace around Coruscant. The capital hung half in shadow, the entire globe glowing with permanent golden light. Traffic bands stacked high past Guardian and well out to geosynchronous orbit and beyond, filled with freighters and bulk haulers, civilian liners and industrial galleons. A sleek Nebula slid past Guardian , toylike against the sprawling cityscape of the Super Star Destroyer.
The itinerary was obvious enough. The Battle of Fondor, the fall of Duro, Ando, Kalarba, a dozen others. The attack on the Exile world of Eboracum, the Vong Warmaster’s ‘ceasefire’.
Admiral Brand gave an abbreviated breakdown of the mood in Tapani and Fondor itself, now that the dust had quite literally settled. The Exiles were there to stay, comfortably invited in by the Guildmasters of Fondor and by the populace of Tapani itself. They were digging fingers into every area they could, ‘leasing’ entire sectors of Fondor’s surviving factories and running patrols out to neighboring systems with their cruisers. Their dreadnought stayed on station over Fondor, likely as a deterrence, Brand suspected, and their Admiral had been more than willing to handle continued joint coverage of Fondor while Fifth Fleet’s crippled vessels were restored.
The Exiles had even offered assistance on those repairs, though politely declined.
After Brand, Wedge Antilles and Traest Kre’fey broke down what it had been like constantly engaging the Yuuzhan Vong along the southern and Rimward front. Elements of every Fleet had been active from Bestine in the Inner Rim to Svivren in the Outer Rim; from Mimban and Manaan to Contruum, skirmishes and sudden clashes kept the NRDF running nonstop across tens of thousands of lightyears.
Kre’fey explained how the greatest struggle against the Vong wasn’t their biotechnology, but the total unpredictability and true alien nature of their target selection. They might skip past a dozen settled worlds to crash into a one a hundred lightyears towards the Core, but then spread out and secure a sphere of territory well ahead of the ‘lines’. They attacked in metastasizing fits and starts, following a method known only to their madness.
Nylykerka agreed. The Fleet Intelligence spooks were driving themselves insane and climbing the walls trying to create a comprehensive dossier of Yuuzhan Vong tactical and strategic thought.
Suskafoo presented the latest findings from Technology, about, obviously, Technology. Or: Biotechnology. After so many battles in the void and in the dirt, there was a true glut of Yuuzhan Vong biots, alive and dead, ripe and ready for examination. Yorik coral’s properties were basically as well known as durasteel now; the mineral make-up of Vonduun armor’s crystalline inner layer had an official name. Yet for all that, some remained beyond the understanding of even the best technologists and geneticists.
Yammosks, for example, were a complete and total mystery. Few had ever been killed, and even fewer even seen . Their sign was everywhere, marked out by the eerie coordination of the Vong in each engagement, but the fleshy ‘War Coordinators’ were guarded so jealously and so preciously that when the Wraiths had attempted to isolate and board a ship suspected to be carrying a yammosk, the Vong had been willing to collapse an entire flank of the raid over Molavar just to defend the miid-roic cruiser. As Colonel Loran put it: “Well, at least we could say we did find one.”
Captured villips were still inscrutable as ever, leaving the uncomfortable reality being that the Vong could broadcast into the holonet, but the New Republic were still quite locked out from the Vong’s own communication systems. In fact; it wasn’t even known exactly the manner of communication among villips - were they a distributed nodal network, like comms? Were they linked, one to another, like an entanglement system? Could any villip call any other? Theories, but no answers.
And lastly, Ragab and Salm declared that Fleet-wide doctrinal changes were paying dividends. Stutterfire and shield pairs among the starfighter corps were slowing the bleed of talent and expertise as starfighter jockeys lived longer. Adjustments of inertial compensators were having a marked difference in preventing dovin basals from snatching shields. Quite simply, the bloody tolls and slanted ratio of losses from the earlier war were stabilizing and starting to tip.
“The demonization of the Jedi is unfortunate, but the Warmaster’s ceasefire couldn’t have come at a better time.” Sien Sovv reclaimed the floor, quite some time later. “We’ve been struggling to get our feet under ourselves since essentially Dantooine. The blows kept coming and all of us here know how stretched the Navy has been.” The Sullustan huffed a sigh, rubbing at his broad forehead. “The only reason we can all be here, right now, is because the biggest of all surprises is that Tsavong Lah apparently wasn’t bluffing. Attacks and advances have completely stopped. The Vong are consolidating their positions, but they aren’t moving a micron except in Hutt space.”
“Let them bleed in there,” Admiral Firmus Nantz, First Fleet, sniffed. “The Hutts are triple dealing; this is a reckoning that has been a long time coming.”
Sien Sovv nodded.
“And they are bleeding. Supreme Commander Nas Choka is tied up in the depths of Hutt territory and from sources high in the Kajidics we know that the Vong are poking at the Bootana.”
“How high?” Admiral Thaneespi, Second Fleet, asked, giving a wall-eyed Mon Calamari stare.
Nylykerka cut in.
“Very high. We’ve been getting nearly real-time intelligence out of the Besadii Kajidic from a source that has to be within at least Borga’s inner circle - whatever is left of it. Nal Hutta fell almost immediately along with Nar Shadaa and Nas Choka rampaged across most of Hutt space before the Kajidics managed to get over themselves and push back. Everything says it’s only a matter of time until the Vong crack the Bootana and finish up the sweep, but until then, they are bleeding and they are distracted.”
“Hutts aside,” Sovv cleared his throat wetly, “Supreme Commander Malik Carr in the galactic north seems to be respecting the Warmaster’s declaration.”
Wedge Antilles frowned.
“Didn’t Yavin 4 just get hit? Last night?”
Word of the attack swept through the higher echelons of the Navy, especially in the starfighter corps. More than a few Admirals and Commodores had requested clearance to take a squadron or two for support when the news broke. General Antilles and Admiral Kre’fey had been among them.
“Yavin 4 isn’t New Republic territory, or even any territory claimed at all. The Jedi are, for better or worse, kept to their own. Given the Warmaster’s demand for Jedi in return for the continued ceasefire…I’m sorry to say it, but it was a given, sooner or later.”
“ Children ,” one of the Admirals growled.
“Yes, children,” Firmus Nantz echoed. “How many millions of children now, across the galaxy? Tens of millions? If the Jedi had integrated into the New Republic better, we could’ve been there. They didn’t; we weren’t.”
“That’s unfair, Nantz,” Thaneespi countered.
“It’s honest. I told Calrissian the same years ago. I respect Luke Skywalker and I’ll admire him until the day I die, but our hands are tied. Be glad the Exiles weren’t as hamstrung.”
“A fine enough segue, thank you.” Sien Sovv nodded to an aide who tapped away at a datapad, replacing the previous hologram showing a general breakdown of all five Fleets with one displaying a double-headed avian symbol, along with a terrestrial world and large, baroque warships. “The Exiles. If the Yuuzhan Vong are a black box, the Exiles are the complete opposite. They’re shouting to everyone around them what they want and what they’re going to do.”
“Kill Vong, kill Vong, and I believe when they’re done with that: kill Vong.” Kre’fey said drily. The Bothan cocked a fluffy brow, nose twitching once. “They’ve done damned well at that so far.”
“On top of subverting democratic and republican principles, shoving out New Republic influence in key sectors of the Galaxy and getting into bed with Kuat, but yes, that.” Wedge Antilles spoke low, but heat filled his voice. A’baht tugged at his fleshy, aubergine lip and nodded emphatically.
“Pellaeon came crawling out of the Remnant to them, hat in hand. Imperials snuggling up to Imperials.”
Sovv cut off a rising buzz with both hands, waving down his subordinates.
“Let’s put the politics aside for a moment. Suskafoo, Aydar? What does Fleet Intelligence and Technology have to say about them?”
Nylykerka spoke first, expelling air from his sacs with a low whistle.
“We’ve been working with NRI. The Exiles are proving hard to get any real levels of penetration into. It’s simplicity itself to get agents into Eboracum or onto crews of some of the Exile-owned freighters, but upwards? We run into duranium walls left and right. NRI has different priorities than we do, of course, but we can both agree that the Exiles don’t seem to be hiding much. There’s a peculiar kind of pride they wrap themselves up in. They don’t want to keep secrets.”
Nantz huffed a laugh.
“I could’ve saved you all the time and pay. Just watch their ‘Primarch’ proudly tell the New Republic Senate that he’s comfortable with exterminating whole species. I daresay that’s a bit of a bellwether for the amount of shame they can feel.”
“Yes, well, besides that, we’ve had time to do a full analysis of the Fondor action report and recordings from Eboracum’s stations and surface during the attack there.”
Nylykerka projected holos of his own over the conference table: detailed wireframes of Exile warships, starfighters alongside stills of each in action.
“The Exile’s naval doctrine focuses on raw tonnage over anything else. The smallest warships we’ve seen them field are roughly the size of an Imperial Star Destroyer, while the largest would’ve eaten Eclipse . We’re confident that this is a technological limitation-” Suskafoo nodded emphatically in support. “-given that there’s undeniable benefits to escort classes for capitals.”
“A technological limitation? I was given to believe that the Exile’s technology was flat better than ours.”
Suskafoo fielded the question from Admiral Ragab.
“Not as such. Exile technological base is different , very radically so. In some ways, it is better. In some ways, worse. They cannot use reliable FTL here and must rely on either Jedi or painstaking scouting as if it was the earliest days of expansion down the hyperlanes. That alone is a tremendous flaw. They also cannot hide their avarice for holocomm technology; one of Eboracum’s leading imports are holocomm transceivers and components.”
Suskafoo paused, peering around the conference table, seeing generally uncomprehending faces.
“You don’t see? They did not have faster-than-light communications! .”
That got a reaction. A ripple of surprise; shock.
“You can confirm this?”
Nylykerka nodded. “NRI supports this too. The Exiles are too overt in what they’ve wanted, especially from Kuat. They’re treating hyperdrives and holocomms like they’re corusca gems.”
“This is my meaning,” Suskafoo continued. “In some ways: better. In some ways: almost primitive.”
“Primitive or not, their dreadnought battled two Vong grand cruisers to a standstill.” Brand countered.
Suskafoo waggled a chitinous hand.
“Analysts suggest that the Vong could have destroyed the Exile warship, if they had concentrated on it.” The Verpine cycled to another holo, zooming in on a succession of magma missiles slamming into an Exile cruiser in a stroboscopic ripple of blinding detonations. At the same time, plasma splashed harmlessly against crackling bolts of violet lightning.
“Their shields are not like our own. They are strong, very strong, but they do not stop slower moving projectiles at all. At Fondor, coralskippers were able to strafe at close quarters and magma missiles proved slow enough to bypass their protections.”
“Like they only have ray shields…”
“Instead of unified deflector arrays, yes.” Suskafoo nodded sharply. “This is a tremendous weakness. General Antilles, I am told you have had Rogue Squadron running sims against our programs?”
Antilles drummed knuckles on the table.
“Colonel Darklighter and Colonel Fel both, yes, along with the other three squadrons on Ralroost . Gavin’s said that the first few rounds gave the Rogues a sobering shellacking, not too different from the first sims against ‘skips. Since then, they’re getting the Exile’s number. That latest update with the shield bypass…”
That had been a full wargame on Ralroost , looping in the starfighter wing and the command crew, Kre’fey himself indulging in participating and commanding droid-run capitals as part of a squadron. A cunning Thrawn pincer brought Ralroost and several Nebulas in at point-blank range with Opolor’s Vow , dumping out their wings practically under the Exile dreadnought’s guns. Concussion missiles and proton torpedoes slipped right through the Exile’s shields as if they didn’t exist and the tiny, agile missiles proved hard for the sim to track and shoot down.
“The sim managed a full accounting of all the ships at Fondor.” Antilles seemed perversely pleased about it, sitting back with a small smile.
“It’s good to know we can fight them, but that won’t be a concern.” Nantz steepled his fingers, thick black eyebrows drawn down over his deep eyes. “If we know this, the Vong know it. And I hate to give the scarheads credit, but they adapt fast. The Exiles have Malik Carr tied up in the north and giving us breathing room all along Hydian up there. I’d hate to see the Vong pull another attack and go for the kill. Don’t much like the Exiles' ideas about some things, but so far, they’re not painting their ships with blood.”
“That’s the critical issue, in fact,” Sien Sovv agreed. “The Senate, or at least Senator Shesh’s faction, is enamoured with the Exiles.” The Sullustan’s broad lips narrowed. “So: our final item on the itinerary.”
From the edge of the chamber, where aides and junior officers attended the Admirals and Generals, a particularly recognizable Bothan rose to his feet. He waved a hand immediately, stopping several from rising to their feet to salute.
Borsk Fey’lya joined Sovv at the head of the table.
“I’d like the room, please,” the Chief of State of the New Republic asked amicably.
The chamber emptied of all but flag officers in surprised silence broken only by booted feet on decking and rustling of uniforms.
The last out sealed the chamber.
Borsk Fey’lya wore an unmarked formal Navy uniform without any rank tabs. As ever, his fur was impeccably groomed and carefully brushed and he made sure to meet each Admiral or General’s eyes, even those in holo.
“Right now,” Borsk began, “I’m not here. This meeting hasn’t happened.”
Sovv quietly took a step to the side, giving the Chief of State the full floor.
“Tsavong Lah has given us breathing room. All he’s done is given us rope to hang ourselves. Jedi are being hunted up and down the Galaxy. Local governments are capitulating out of terror. We saw it on Ando. The Ploo and Plooriod sectors are considering petitioning Coruscant to be released under the Exiles. The Hutts are collapsing. Hapes plans to lock their doors. The Remnant has a half-refit Super Star Destroyer and a Moff Council that thinks the Vong are scared of the ghost of a memory of an Empire.
I have one order for you all.”
For a moment, Borsk Fey’lya slumped. Age suddenly piled onto the Bothan, exhaustion etching into his face and expression and he seemed humbled. Then it was past and he pulled himself together, the consummate statesman again.
“Admirals, Generals. Give me a victory. Anywhere. Anyway. Find a world, find a Vong fleet, and crush it .”
Mouths, oral orifices gaped in surprise.
“If you think we can retake Obroa-skai? Do it. If you think we can retake Duro? Do it. Tynna? Belderone? If you have to sail into Hutt space and stab Nas Choka from behind while he’s tripping over Borga the Hutt’s entrails, do it .”
“Sir…that will be breaking the ceasefire.”
Fey’lya pinned General Rand Talor, Marine Command, with a glare.
“Tsavong Lah is going to break that ceasefire as soon as he wants to. When he’s ready and when he’s got his next target lined up, he’ll do it himself. This ceasefire is a farce . These are your orders. Admiral Sovv, find me a victory. General Antilles? I’ve doubted you in the past, and you have an irritating habit of proving me wrong in embarrassing ways. Do it again.”
“They’ll string you up by your guts in the Senate,” Nantz observed without rancor.
“If there’s a Senate to string me up in, I’ll take it as the victory it is. You have your orders. They don’t leave this room. You don’t talk about it except over a secure holocomm connection to those you’ve personally vetted . I don’t need to remind you about all the moles NRI is winkling out.”
Borsk Fey’lya again stared down each and every Admiral and General, eye-to-eye, demanding any argue. None did. The surprise was too complete.
“Oh, and one final requirement. Don’t bring in the Exiles. The New Republic needs a win, gentlebeings. That will be all.”
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It was easy to forget how big the plateau was where the Great Temple stood. Ersham Ridge was a spine of the local range, flattened out and spread out over more than a thousand square kilometers of rolling hills, sharp ravines, meandering rivers, oxbow lakes and hidden waterfalls, all buried under ancient jungle. Temples and ruins poked up almost everywhere you looked. The Great Temple, of course, was the fulcrum of it all, in the center of the entire Temple complex, proudly ruling over the rest. He never thought much about the scale of it all, always coming or going on a ship with his mind elsewhere. Thinking on the past, or the future. And when he was there, he had other things to occupy his attention. He was dragged off on adventures or working through lessons or taking the small moments of quiet to himself.
Anakin perched on the rear of the capsule shaped escape pod, right leg drawn up and hugged to his chest. Cool, brisk wind bit at his cheeks, matching wispy and thin clouds that scudded swiftly along in a deep blue sky above. Yavin was a sliver across the horizon, still hiding away after the true night. The air smelled of petrichor and fresh sap.
The escape pod had cratered down into a muddy flat that had been a small meadow once, punching most of its mass deep into the soaked soil and spraying out a slump-sided crater. They stayed inside while the storm collapsed without the tether of Alebmos, listening as hail and rain hammered the pod and the howling wind slowly died out. It took the better part of the day, time passing by in the red-lit emergency lights and acrid smell of sweat and urine.
It had still been drizzling lightly when Anakin chanced popping the hatch, relishing in the fresh air swirling in. Sunlight fell easily through breaking clouds, unimpeded by branch-stripped Massassi trees - where the trees still stood.
Anakin perched on the rear of the capsule with leg drawn up, boot pressed to the durasteel skin to keep from sliding and he looked out over raw devastation. As far as he could see, one in five ancient trees were shattered and tumbled down. Gigantic rents in the canopy let sunlight down to emerald depths that hadn’t suffered the glare of Yavin’s primary in centuries. Bushes were shredded to bits of twigs and leaves. Water pooled, trickled, streamed.
The jungle looked like an ag thresher had ripped right through it, sparing nothing. Anakin stared off into the middle distance without seeing much at all.
Sannah’s presence burned in his mind. He tracked her every single second. She was just out of sight, down at one of the many brand-new creeks and streams, stripping down to clean her reeking jumpsuit. The inside of the escape pod aired out a little so they could pull out the emergency supplies.
Anakin sat on the rear of the escape pod and very carefully poked at…what, he could not define.
Master Ikrit was dead.
His Master was dead.
When he first saw Ikrit, Anakin thought he was just an animal. A precocious and intelligent one, but an animal. He thought of his brother, thought of what Jacen would do. He’d take in the little critter, who bounded around with bright eyes and bushy fur and cried ‘Ikrit! Ikrit!’. He and Tahiri adopted the little rascal and smuggled him back into the Praxeum like it was some great adventure, having a secret pet.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He’d blushed for days after Ikrit revealed the truth. Years later, his cheeks still heated thinking how he’d tried to teach a Jedi Master how to do tricks.
Master Ikrit had loved the deception. He let Anakin in on a little more of his reasoning, just before the Vong arrived. He’d wanted to see what sort of person Anakin was. Helping an old Jedi Master? Well, that was an easy question to answer. Who wouldn’t? Helping a helpless and silly little animal? Now, that was a better question.
And, Ikrit had shared with a wink, he’d had quite a bit of fun for the first time in a great many years, bounding around and squeaking out his name.
Uncle Luke was Anakin’s true Master, in basically all ways. Uncle Luke taught Anakin the basics of lightsaber styles, he led Anakin on meditations, he guided him through his early steps with the Force. Master Katarn was more of a Master than Ikrit in ways of the lightsaber. Master Tionne gave Anakin the meanings of what it was to be a Jedi through her ballads and her lessons on the ancient Jedi of the past. Master Solusar instilled in Anakin greater concepts of balance and calm, how to feel his emotions but to let them pass.
Compared to them, Master Ikrit wasn’t much of a Master. He taught no lessons. He told no tales of the old Order.
But he was Anakin’s Master, all the same. He listened when Anakin had words. He curled up and demanded no words when Anakin had none. He gave quiet advice that never told Anakin what to do; but instead, how to consider his actions. To find what he needed, instead of telling Anakin what he needed.
And Master Ikrit was dead.
He supposed he should be sad. He could feel Tahiri’s grief through their bond, though muted. His friend had thrown up a wall between them, balling herself up and curling away from him in a way that worried Anakin.
In this quiet contemplation, in the stillness of the savaged jungle as fauna emerged blinking and shocked from burrows and drenched nests, Anakin poked at the wound in his heart and found not sorrow but anger.
At first he tried to see if he could have changed anything. Done anything.
Yes: he could have been more careful with Sannah. She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. She wouldn’t even face him. He could have made sure she was on board a ship.
He could’ve been faster, returning to the Praxeum. A little more speed. He could’ve been more careful ascending again, he could’ve flown in the storm a little longer. The difference of half a kilometer - that’s all it would have taken.
He could’ve done what Ikrit did. Why didn’t he think of it? Why didn’t the Force guide his hand to peel away that Vong transport and free the Lady ?
At the end of his ruminating, of rerunning it all again and again, Anakin came face-first up against the undeniable.
Master Ikrit was dead, and Master Ikrit had planned for it .
He’d sensed only peace from the Kushiban when he clung to the capture tendril as it swept out of the Lady’ s ragged corridor. He’d sensed only pride in the last words of his Master. He’d sensed only determination before Ikrit’s life went out.
Anakin only felt surprise during the night, when the Vong warrior had caught Ikrit by the throat.
His Master had planned to die.
Master Ikrit had known. And he’d chosen to let it happen.
Anakin couldn’t find sorrow, but he could find anger.
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Sannah waited outside the escape pod, her jumpsuit soaked and hanging on her petite frame. Anakin rifled through the emergency supplies, the pod’s hatch thrown wide. He kept a sense of the Force wide and open, ready for surprise, fear, fury from creatures at interlopers into their territory. For the static-laced, muted presence of chazrach. He didn’t expect Vong, not with the storm only just passed, but the universe never cared about what Anakin Solo expected.
Lady Starstorm had her escape pods maintained, at least, since she was one of the active freighters that the Praxeum used on missions. He drew out a small vaporator, still in its case and the factory seal unbroken. A medpac, a small holdout stun blaster. He didn’t need that, not with two lightsabers, but he tucked it into a pocket all the same. Magnesium flares, condensed rations.
Lady Starstorm had two escape pods and an expected crew of twelve; there was supplies enough for six in here.
“Sannah,” he said. The girl flinched, sidling closer. Her brown hair, undone from her normal braids, fell over her face and she kept her head turned to the side. That was fine. There was nothing to say. He held out cast-plast boxes of rations; she took them silently. There was a bundled up hard-wearing synthweave pack and webbing for it. Anakin shrugged on the webbing, clipped the pack on his back.
“Load it,” he said, turning to present it to Sannah. One by one, the ration boxes dropped in. Then a small tent, the vaporator. Flares went to his belt. One medpac into the pack, the other in a smaller pack for Sannah to wear. It was smart for each of them to have one.
Anakin checked the interior of the pod one last time. Nothing else.
No reason to stay.
“Let’s go,” he said. Sannah mutely followed behind him, their boots squelching in the mud.
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In the sky, in the far distance, just barely above the horizon, Anakin could see moving craft. Alien shapes that didn’t belong on Yavin rose like stubbed spires. They were on one of the shallow rises in the plateau, high enough that from the ground and through gaps in the canopy he could see out. Normally, there’d be not a single view of anything but dense green, but - storm. A tornado might have passed through here, leaving a huge slash across the crown of the hill. He had macrobinoculars in his pack. Anakin didn’t bother going for them.
It was the Vong, obviously. Temerity was leaving with them on board or not.
Besides, he sensed Tahiri in that direction.
He wasn’t sure quite where on the plateau they were. All bearings had been lost tumbling through the storm, hammered and buffeted every which way by the hundred-kilometer-an-hour winds. The pod had decent repulsorlifts, which saved them from an unpleasant return to the surface, but it wasn’t exactly meant to be flown.
Going by Yavin’s sliver on the horizon and the rising sun, Anakin could lead Sannah east, toward the downward side of the plateau that led toward the sea. North or south led into the rougher parts of the range where the plateau gave way to true mountains. West went toward the Vong. Toward Tahiri.
It was the hardest decision of his life to turn his back and walk the wrong direction down the hill.
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Night fell. Anakin shrugged off his pack, pulled out the tent. It popped up on its own, once the ties were released. Camouflage colored, thankfully. Not some stark, bright, neon rescue color. He wasn’t sure why a tent in an escape pod would make it easier to not be seen. He set the vaporator up, flipping it on. The little device hummed quietly, immediately dripping fresh, clean water from Yavin’s returning humidity. The cool wind from earlier had passed on by, Yavin’s warmth returning just in time for night to fall.
While they hiked, Anakin made sure to eat. His stomach was hollow and he didn’t feel an ounce of hunger, but he ate mechanically, bite after bite of tasteless ration bar. He made Sannah eat too. The Melodie silently took the wrapped ration bars from him with just the tips of her fingers, like she was afraid to touch him.
They both needed the energy. Neither of them had eaten in the day they rode out the rest of the storm in the pod.
Anakin gestured with the Force, sinking stakes deep into the mud. Aunt Mara at his shoulder muttered something about never hearing the Force if he was always shouting. He ignored the memory of another time camping.
“You take the tent,” Anakin said. “I’ll keep watch.”
Sannah didn’t argue, vanishing into the flap and sealing it behind her.
There wasn’t much need to sleep, not with the Force within him.
Somewhere across the plateau, Tahiri sobbed in pain and held herself away from him.
And Anakin sat with his back to the tent, eyes open and staring at the broken jungle around him.
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They passed the Temple of the Broken Arches on the fourth day after the storm.
They had a routine. Hike. Eat. Drink. Sleep.
Hike. Eat. Drink. Sleep.
The plateau and the Temple Complex wasn’t safe. The Vong had to know they were down here and they wouldn’t ever stop if they thought there were Jedi out and about. Two cruiser-analogues could carry a lot of warriors. They had reaped a toll during the storm, but there could still be hundreds left. Plus biots, plus fliers. The second day he saw contrails high above. Coralskippers on patrol.
They had to get off the plateau, then find a place where Anakin could leave Sannah. That was ironic: all this because Sannah was left behind. Now he was going to do it again, on purpose. Between the vaporator and the rations, Sannah could easily last a month or two on her own, as long as she didn’t do anything idiotic again.
He didn’t notice Sannah shiver beside him.
Then he could go back for Tahiri. Then he could go back.
The Temple of Broken Arches was a good sign; it was one of the most far-flung temples in the whole Complex, close to the downward roll of the plateau to where it led into the Ersham Escarpment that fell about five hundred meters to the coastal plains.
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The jungle woke up as the days passed. Stintarils capered around, runyips lowed and wallowed in massive new mud holes. Spined pucs croaked and groaned and leaped into new formed ponds with long skreees when they passed. Woolamanders barked and howled, flashing color through the canopy. It was a nice reminder - for as artificial as the monsoon was that Alebmos wrestled control over, weather was just weather. A once in a millennium storm still happened uncountable times across the geological lifespan of a world. The world bounced back.
A day past the Temple of Broken Arches and Anakin reckoned another and they’d hit the Escarpment. They didn’t cover a lot of distance each day. Their boots were caked in mud and heavy, their jumpsuits sweat-stained with rings of salt around the underarms. His hair, for once, he swept back from his eyes and corralled with a billed cap out of the emergency supplies. Sannah tied her hair back with a length of stretchy cord. Mud, fallen trees, brambled undergrowth; they were lucky to make ten kilometers per day.
He kept his sense of the Force spread out, eyes half-lidded as he trudged along by rote. The only offended creatures were those they passed; nothing to indicate pursuers. No chazrach minds.
For Tahiri, Anakin left all walls, all barriers down. He left himself open, entirely open, almost begging.
Tahiri, please. Let me be there for you.
She stayed curled up, just a dull aura of vague emotion.
So caught up in the feel of the jungle and the depths of his thoughts, he didn’t notice the small, white shape until Sannah gasped - the first noise she made in days.
“Sannah,” Anakin said. He found his voice sounded alien. Old and tired. He sounded like his father. “Please go and find a spot for the night.” She was behind him; she had stopped when she gasped and he’d taken another step or two. Anakin waited for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. He kept his eyes on the shape, his back to Sannah, until he heard the sucking and squelching of her boots as she moved away. He kept a mental eye on her all the while, but had only eyes for what was in front of him.
There were a trio of Massassi trees that had grown up together. Their trunks were melded together until some five meters above the ground - it might have all been a single tree with three codominant stems. They were wrapped tight in vines, encrusted in moss on the shadowed side. Branches were missing and broken, but the damage had been steadily diminishing the farther from the Praxeum they went. Alebmos must have focused the fury of the monsoon there - given how devastating it had been, the Astartes must have compressed a lot of the energy to make that happen.
Storms were never this bad, even on the coasts.
Enough limbs had fallen, though, that shafts of sunlight still speared through the emerald roof. The triple tree shone in one particular beam, hazy motes dancing in the bright sunlight that fell across its tangle of roots and gnarled, joined boles.
At the base, in a little basin shaped by twisting roots, rested a small and colorless form.
Anakin marveled at the stillness in his chest as he climbed over a cracked log, ducked under a tangle of hanging vines. He searched for his feelings and found them fled.
Beneath the triple bole of the ancient Massassi, Anakin knelt down beside the body of his Master.
Ikrit looked like he was sleeping. The Kushiban was curled, one paw laying across his chest. His fur was damp, but not sodden. His coat was a color Anakin had never seen before. Pure white, silver, black, red, swirled green and yellow - every color in the rainbow could smooth and spread across Ikrit’s expressive fluff. But this - this was colorless. Translucent. He’d never seen Ikrit’s fur like that.
Anakin knelt at his Master’s side for a long time, still as a carven statue.
Under the Golden Globe beneath the Palace of the Woolamander, he’d found Ikrit sleeping. Slumbering away the centuries until someone could come and solve the curse he was never fated for. What kind of faith, was that, in the Force? He left everything behind, everything he ever knew. His own Master, his whole Order. The Republic that he knew and loved and protected.
Did Ikrit have anyone, then? Anakin knew the old Order frowned on marriage and families like Uncle Luke and Aunt Mara had, but did Ikrit have a family still on Kushibah? What friends had he left behind, what other Knights and Masters?
All because the Force guided him to lost souls that needed rest.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Anakin whispered. “I don’t know if I can trust.”
Ikrit never said a word if he did, or if he didn’t.
Anakin realized, then, as the knees of his jumpsuit grew damp, that he never really knew his Master. Ikrit sacrificed everything he had. All of himself, all he could have been. What other fate had been in store for Ikrit of Kushibah? What Apprentices could he have trained? What lives could he have changed?
The Force asked something else of him and Anakin’s Master answered.
Anakin reached out and placed a trembling hand on his Master’s side. His fur was cool. His body was still. There would not be color again.
Alone, Anakin wept.
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He dug the grave himself. Sannah found a dry clearing a hundred meters or so east. He left her his pack, the tent, the vaporator, the rations.
Maybe there would have been meaning in doing it by hand. Maybe he could have found a fallen log and cut it into shape, into a spade to turn the soil.
Ikrit had lived and died for the Force. All Anakin could do was honor that.
Among the roots of the triple Massassi tree, Anakin took a deep, trembling breath and cupped his hand. Soil parted. Water wrung from the loam, left it turned and soft.
Ikrit did not need a large space.
Jedi burned their dead. Tradition said that after they returned to the Force, that burning the body returned the form to energy that all life came from, no different from the Force itself. The end of one cycle, the beginning of another. After Desann’s attack on Yavin 4 and after Korriban, there had been pyres on the cleared grounds outside the Praxeum. Mei’s own brother had his own. The Memorial Grove bore their ashes in buried urns.
On Endor, Uncle Luke burned the body of Darth Vader - or Anakin Skywalker, from another point of view. A Jedi funeral for a Jedi.
They couldn’t risk any fires. No smoke for the Vong to see, no light for them to follow.
Anakin sat beside the grave, holding Ikrit in his arms. Bandages from a medkit wrapped the Kushiban and he felt so very light. There was nothing to say. There shouldn’t be anything to say.
“I’m sorry. It should’ve been in your garden. In the Palace of the Woolamander.”
It should have been a pyre.
Gently, by hand, Anakin interred Ikrit. The soil closed. A smooth stone, moss and lichen brushed aside, settled over top.
Anakin stood. His mouth worked, his throat bobbed. He had no words to say.
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Another day and they reached the Escarpment. The plateau fell away in sharp drops and slides, the jungle drawn in a sharp line. Landslips here and there showed in shrugged off trees and topsoil slid down the bare stone. It would be tougher going; there were no trails or paths to follow.
Sannah, still mute and silent, waited next to him.
Anakin reached for Tahiri - felt the same walls. Pain leaked out. Fear. Worry.
I’m here. I’m still here.
He didn’t know if she heard him, sensed his message. He kept sending it anyway. Wave after wave.
The Escarpment showed a cross-section of the plateau. Striated rock made up cliffs, sandwiched sets of darker bands and lighter bands. Erosion over millenia piled up mounds of scree and deposition that sometimes climbed halfway up the tall Escarpment. Seams, cracks, eroded cuts and gulleys textured the face of the cliff. Anakin led Sannah to the nearest weathered ravine, some old river or creek bed. Together they picked down the sharp slope, bracing with coiling vines or against spindly young trees springing up and clinging stubbornly to life among planes of rock and tumbled granite monoliths. The ground was still muddy, but the days of sun dried out much; trying to pick their way down on slippery rocks would be a quick ticket to twisted ankles or broken bones.
If Tahiri was here, they could have done their falling trick, right down the cliff itself-
He helped Sannah down a few of the steeper parts, reaching up with his hands and the Force to ease her down to the next flatter area. She tensed each time he caught her hand or guided her shoulder.
They followed the ravine until it opened up and ended at the cliffside and Anakin nodded. They’d bought about fifty meters of height, here. Below, when water once flowed, a winding, snaking path of erosion and weathering had left scars and a narrow trail they could follow.
“We’re Jedi,” he told Sannah. “It’s just a cliff.”
They picked their way down over the next few hours. More than once, he or Sannah drew on the Force to arrest a slip or correct a misplanted step. They switched back again and again, wending downward toward the coastal plain. The canopy of the jungle below crept closer. More than once, impatience told him to grab Sannah and jump. Catch himself. Every minute they took, every day that passed, Tahiri was alone with the Vong.
She kept blocking him out. Sometimes, at night - and he had not slept for more than a few hours each night - he could feel her lose focus. There would be moments when she was there , with him, like they had been and he would reach for her - and she would slam the walls back up again.
She was blocking him out. Guilt pooled in his gut. She was blocking him out like he blocked her out, when he was hurting. Because he didn’t want to hurt her. To worry her.
Sithspawn, Tahiri, it wasn’t the same! This wasn’t being sad about Chewbacca, this was - she was captured! Held by the worst monsters the Galaxy had ever seen! The things they could be doing, the torture -
He wished Jacen hadn’t told him about Belkadan. Anakin fervently wished Danni never had shared what happened to Miko Reglia on Helska. He didn’t need to imagine Tahiri in the Embrace of Pain. He didn’t need the vivid images of those scuttling coral-implanters crawling all over his friend’s body. Or a yammosk-
A yammosk had broken Miko Reglia in a day. Shattered the Jedi Knight so thoroughly that Reglia chose to stay behind and die on Helska. If they had a yammosk here, if they let a yammosk do that to Tahiri…
They never had time to try to find out just how Anakin killed the yammosk on Obroa-skai. If the sithspawned Vong had one here, Anakin would find that answer. He didn’t sense one, but neither he nor Uncle Luke or Mei had sensed one on Obroa-skai. If they dared, if the Vong dared-
Was this what it had been like, for the other Anakin? Had he been afraid of losing everyone he loved so desperately and so much that in his madness and his confusion, he decided that there was no cost too high? Uncle Luke never spoke about why Anakin’s grandfather had fallen, but he knew what had brought his grandfather back. Love for his son; the redemption of Anakin Skywalker. Love for his family still lingered there after decades and all the horrible things Darth Vader did.
Did he drive away Obi-wan Kenobi so that he wouldn’t have to feel the pain of Obi-wan’s death?
Did he know how hollow he would feel? Did he fear the pain of his friends and their suffering that he couldn’t do anything about?
All of his young life, Anakin Solo measured himself against Anakin Skywalker. The namesake he had never asked for, the gift given by a mother who could spare one act of forgiveness for the father that had tormented her. Anakin Skywalker was everything he would not and could not ever be.
He eased Sannah down the last stretch of the Escarpment with a careful grip in the Force, lessening her weight while she scrabbled down finger- and toe-holds and he realized that instead of denying anything and everything that Anakin Skywalker had been; he felt for once an uneasy understanding for his infamous grandfather.
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Camp, again. In the shadow of the tall Ersham Escarpment, another night spent dozing outside Sannah’s tent, mind on the Force, ears sharp and lightsaber at hand. Ikrit’s lightsaber hung from his belt on the right side, opposite where he carried his own. The sounds of the jungle at night wrapped him up, the half-night of Yavinglow spreading warm, dim crimson light across the moon.
He dozed, senses mingling with dreams. Sannah slept and her nightmares were sharp-edged and loud, enough that he pushed away the girl from his senses. She was two feet from him; he’d know if she needed anything through more mundane means. Now and then stones slipped and skittered down the cliffside, a new note in the orchestra of nighttime Yavin that Anakin now knew intimately.
Strange, to live much of his life here, but never spend quite so much time in the world. Always he returned to the Praxeum for dinner and comfortable sleep in his quarters.
A rustle of greenery. Distant, a Woolamander hooted. Quiet wings flapped leather-snap from tree to tree. Underbrush snapped as a sleepy herd of grazers adjusted themselves.
If his sense of the jungle was a dim constellation, drawing subtle impressions from the complex ecosystem that thrummed around him, a sudden new arrival was as a new star blooming in the sky, nearly drowning out all others. Anakin jolted in shock, wide awake like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. It wasn’t a new arrival - he knew that presence. He’d known it in the past, knew it now all the better because Anakin had been in the damned man’s head a week ago!
Zalthis! And… Solidian?
He was on his feet, stumbling on half-asleep limbs.
“Sannah!” he hissed, poking her ungently through the side of the tent. The Melodie squawked and flailed, choking down a shriek behind her hands. “Zalthis and Solidian are here! Stay still, stay quiet, I’ll lead them back.”
He set off at the fastest pace he could manage without sprinting. Zalthis and Solidian’s minds were bright and sharp, only a few hundred meters away and moving fast. They ate up the distance at double Anakin’s own pace, the two Astartes unerringly moving straight for him. Anakin sucked in shallow breaths, almost hyperventilating. How were they here? No - how did they find him? He and Sannah were all the way off the plateau! The two Astartes were coming from the east, up from the coastal plain, how were they here?
His chest ached. He didn’t notice wetness in his eyes.
Unmistakeable.
Anakin skidded to a halt, two huge shapes of men cloaked in shadow slowing as well from a long, loping stride. They were caught by crimson highlights on pauldron rim, on Ultima, on thick plates of armor at chest and knee. Their lenses were out, but Anakin knew they could glow with ferocious red to put Yavinglow to shame.
Zalthis stepped closer. His friend was helmetless, his dark hair longer but still just as curly. Solidian had his helmet. Both were in their full plate armor. They had bolters locked to their thighs. Long-bladed powerswords holstered at their hips.
Anakin barked a disbelieving laugh that rang out in the jungle, joining the calls and cries of nocturnal life.
“Zal? Sol? I’m not going insane, right? How are you two here?”
Zal thrust out his arm, palm up. Anakin took it and they embraced, clumsy as it might be with one in Astartesian plate and the other a mortal teen.
“We made a promise, Anakin,” Zalthis said softly. “I’m loathe to break it.”
Solidian carefully unlatched his helmet with a quiet clack of ceramite. The darker skinned Astartes, his scarred scalp catching the planetlight, radiated a sense of general exasperation mixed quite liberally with pride.
“What Zal means is that we’re here against orders. Captain Thiel is likely going to have us shot.”
Anakin snapped his head, feeling the matter-of-fact seriousness in Sol’s demeanour.
“Ah…?” He couldn’t find the right response to that.
“Ignore Sol; my brother is reassessing his choices. Where is Sannah? Where is Tahiri and Master Ikrit?”
The names punched Anakin in the gut and Zalthis must have noticed. He leaned closer, gently placing a broad gauntlet on Anakin’s shoulder.
“Sannah is back at the camp. Tahiri was captured. Master Ikrit…”
Anakin swallowed, fighting the knot and pressure in his chest. Zalthis and Solidian exchanged looks.
“Ah.” Zalthis slowly nodded. “I am sorry. For Master Ikrit, for Tahiri.”
Subtly, so subtly Anakin might not have noticed but for the irritation that washed through Zal’s emotion, the Astartes elbowed Solidian.
“As am I,” Sol added.
“Is Tahiri well? Does she live?”
Anakin nodded, sharp enough his neck twinged.
“ Yes . I can feel her. She’s hurting, she’s scared, she’s angry, but she’s alive. They wanted Jedi alive .”
Zalthis made a gesture of some sort to Solidian, who inclined his head, unclamped his bolter and stalked away.
“Let’s return to Sannah. You have a camp?”
Anakin clung to the questions.
“A tent, a water vaporator. Rations as well, and some medkits.”
“Excellent. Sol and I came down on the Thunderhawk .”
“You stole it?”
“Appropriated. We will return it to Captain Thiel. There is more supply there and it’s well hidden.”
Solidian circled them, alert and on patrol while Anakin led Zalthis back toward where he felt Sannah. The Melodie was tense still, but she surely could feel his pure relief. It felt unreal. Both Zalthis and Solidian here. The Thunderhawk , the one with the hyperdrive. Friends. Allies. A way off the moon.
“How did you find us? You were coming straight for me.”
Zalthis tapped at Anakin’s comlink, still clipped to his jumpsuit.
“We all linked into vox. You are still connected. The auspex can trace the signal; we have been able to track you since three days previous when you entered our range.”
His commlink . Anakin had considered leaving it behind. No one knew if the Vong could track comms, if they could hack them. The Warmaster managed to broadcast on the HoloNet and the Vong had a bad habit of coming up with things that shouldn’t be possible. He’d thought to chuck it into the escape pod and leave it because who was he going to talk to? He’d forgotten it, focused on the essentials like food and water. Such a little thing. Such a little difference.
Alright, Master.
Alright .
Sannah met them, blinking in wide-eyed surprise. Solidian confirmed what Anakin knew - no Vong around at all. His handheld ‘auspex’, just like they’d used on Obroa-skai, picked up a great deal of beings, but none it would categorize as moving with any intelligent purpose. Anakin showed Zal the pack he had, the vaporator set up, the ration boxes. Zalthis nodded as he took in each.
“Take a rest, Anakin,” Zalthis said finally, voice pitched low. Other Astartes had voices that suited their stature; rumbling and bassy, gravelly and coarse. Zalthis and Solidian sounded young. “We will take the watch tonight.”
The Astartes stood over him until Anakin relented, taking out the second sleeping bag for the first time. He watched as Anakin shook it out, watched as Anakin climbed in.
Zalthis nodded then, melting away into the nighttime jungle with Solidian, moving far too quietly for being so large.
Anakin slept.