XII: A Little Faith

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This moon, so named 'Yavin' by the original inhabitants, stupefied and awed Nen Yim in ways that never ceased. If it was not the sounds of the humming, calling, droning nightlife; it was the sight of swirling murmurations of avians blotting out whole portions of the sky. If it was not the scent of clean rain as it fell in straight, soft lines; it was the feel of cool wind on her cheek and arms as she stood on the walls of the damutek compound in the morning. If it was not the rich violets, crimson and pinks of the sunset; it was the great bloat of the gas giant glowing and gleaming and pressing down on the world.

Now was another full night, and the stars overhead twinkled. She had seen stars, yes, Nen Yim knew stars well. She knew nebulas and she knew sprawls of accretion disks, she knew cometary tails and she knew the look of a glowing stellar nursery. All seen through clear, crisp ocular membranes, held at arm's length remove by the thick corneal lens of a worldship.

She had never seen a night sky spread above, from horizon to horizon, from bruised indigo at the edges to deep, impossible velvet black above. She had never seen the trailing hints and faintest gauzes of clouds, stripped and striped and slipping easily across the celestial dome. The ways stars winked and blinked and glimmered, a trillion distractions, a billion diamonds, all catching and drawing her eye from here, to there; hither and thither, until tears welled in the corners of dry eyes and she remembered that she must blink, for all that she did not wish to, to spare even a millisecond without the sight.

Already, Nen Yim was naming constellations.

The moon had turned a dozen and a half times since the damuteks settled. Such a short time, yet for the constant wonders offered by the moon, in some ways Nen Yim felt as if she had always lived here, with her bare feet in the rich loam, with breezes tickling and teasing the tendrils of her headdress. Trying to imagine living in the cramped, stale confines of a worldship again brought actual nausea to her stomach. Smelling air cycled through the guts of the maw luur, tasting water made dull by a thousand cycles. Living by flickering glowmoss and dying lambents.

She was partially through her nighttime walk, when she stumbled across her Master. Each day was a whirlwind of activity, from early rise until Mezhan Kwaad released her Adepts for evening meal and personal time. Nen Yim cultured ganglia, she catalogued synapse patterns, she employed her now-seated and functioning hand to braid protein strings. Even turned loose in the evenings, the Master expected her Adepts to engage in complementary projects of their own. Self-driven study. Her nighttime strolls gave Nen Yim a time to decompress and order her thoughts; sometimes envious of more senior Adepts and their qah-nol implants. To be able to simply sequester an entire day's memories aside for later review, in perfect clarity…ah, even with a Shaper's hand at so young an age, still she fell to the sin of envy.

She made a mental note to excruciate a finger on her non-dominant hand as penance.

Master Mezhan lounged beside the waters of the succession pool: the heart, lungs and liver of the damutek. The waters were drawn from deep within the soil, brought forth with rich minerals and circulated through the thirsty minshals and grashals of the damutek, satiating the living domiciles before surging through the pneumatic capillaries of the damutek structure proper, cleansing away toxins and waste to circulate into the soil itself, enriching it with phosphates and nitrogen and potassium salts. Mezhan delicately swirled her fingers in the calm waters of the succession pool, long Shaper digits tracing ripples that trembled reflected stars above.

"Master," Nen Yim greeted, genuflecting. Mezhan Kwaad lazily waved away the formality with a flick of her birth-hand.

"We meet by the succession pool, Nen Yim. There is no hierarchy by the replenishing waters. Sit."

No hierarchy, but the invitation - or command - of her Master was not to be ignored. Nen Yim gathered her robe and sank into a cross-legged repose beside Mezhan Kwaad's boneless sprawl. The Master seemed even more lithe and tall laid on her side, propped up on one elbow with her head tilted and peering into the trackless depths of the pool as if seeking some hidden secrets. A drip of ink caught starlight and winked for a moment, splashing soundless into the pool.

Nen Yim started to see a single track of dark liquid trickling from Mezhan Kwaad's nostril, beading on her lip.

"My vaa-tumor matures," the Master murmured. "The pool brings some respite."

"I see."

"Do you?"

She considered, while silence drew between them.

"Forgive me my interruption," Nen Yim offered. "I will leave you-"

"The pain is educational. You will not amplify it. Stay, Nen Yim. Tell me; you had your first vaa-tumor implanted two days previous, yes?"

Implanted was a strong word - the seed of the tumor was but a fleck against the nail of her smallest finger, introduced through the nasal cavity in a few short minutes. The pain was, indeed, educational as the implantor punched through the sinus bone. She had seen a very different sort of stars, then.

"Yes, Ma- yes, Mezhan."

Speaking her Master's name sent a thrill of wonder up her spine, the syllables illicit on her tongue.

"This is a dialogue, not an interrogation," Mezhan noted, her tone dry enough to dessicate the succession pool.

"Yes, Ma-" Nen Yim snapped her mouth shut, flushing. "I don't yet feel it," she confided.

"You would not. The vaa-tumor grows slowly, but comprehensively. Ah, but it is a wonder of our caste. You know what it does, of course?"

"It prepares us," she recited. "The vaa-tumor is a fragment of Yun-ne'Shel, most ancient and first of Her gifts."

"Rote, but correct," Mezhan drawled. "I'm envious. This is my fourth tumor. The first is an experience like none other, and though I welcome each new ascension…you can never quite match the first."

"I will cherish it then."

"Mmm," Mezhan hummed, then winced and her face contorted in sudden agony. A fresh surge of blood trickled from her nostril - nostrils both, this time. "Ah, the pain is always sublime. It cuts away, brings us closer to perfection. It will change you, Nen Yim. It will change your thinking; it will change you."

"We are Shaped, as much as we Shape," she replied.

Mezhan snorted. A glob of congealed mucus and blood splattered into the succession pool.

"Spare me, Nen Yim. Beside the pool, there are no secrets either. If I wished for lauding of the Shaper, I would seek a priest. Now, I would prefer to speak with my Adept."

Nen Yim dipped her head, not as an Adept to a Master, but as a youth to a respected elder.

"How fares our subject?"

The Master had been in seclusion for the previous two days; in meditation and preparation for the removal of her vaa-tumor. To Nen Yim's great surprise, it had been she who was left in charge with the Master's authority, and not one of the older Adepts. A few begrudged the privilege, and in scowls and curled lips made their displeasure clear. Nen Yim bore them no mind, of course; walking light and proud with her Master's trust in her.

"Well!" Nen Yim exclaimed, then winced as Mezhan's eyes narrowed at the noised. "I mean - well! I have finished mapping the subject's nervous system and brain structure. I have stored the pattern in your secured qahsa."

"This is good news, and very commendable."

Nen Yim preened.

"Tell me then, how would you proceed from here?"

In her short time with the Master, there was one most evident preference that she held dear: do not speak without thinking. If Mezhan Kwaad asked a question, she would prefer an Adept spend minutes in silence, contemplating and considering before offering an answer. The obvious reply would be to begin the process of installing restraint implants; yet that would not have required such a comprehensive study.

"I believe…that it would depend on our goal."

Mezhan's half-lidded eyes sparkled.

"What would that goal be?"

She took a deep breath, and voiced the theory that had been building since the first time the subject was revealed within the vivarium.

"We have mapped the subject's brain structure," Nen Yim ticked off one finger. "We have traced the shape of her nervous system, from brainstem to the end of the spinal column." Another finger. "We have cultured hybrid cells from cloned neurons of the subject." A third finger. "We have not bred or even begun to breed any restraint organisms," a fourth finger, "and we have retrained from any invasive examinations of the subject."

Mezhan idly waved her birth-hand for Nen Yim to continue.

"There are no protocols for what we are doing," she admitted in a rush. "We have used many, yes, but there is no master pattern for this study…"

"There is not." Mezhan confirmed. "So, hypothetically: what goal might we be pursuing?"

Nen Yim felt as if she were standing just above the digestive villi of an active maw luur. Her toes hung over the edge and her balance teetered. She could almost smell the distinctive, sour smell of the digestors. She recalled her first true conversation with Mezhan Kwaad, when the Master had praised her inventive repair of the endocrine cluster of Baanu Kor. There had been enough uncertainty there for Nen Yim to put the implications from her mind or rather, to explain them away as being some prerogative of a Master Shaper that she was not privy to. For surely, no Master would ever, ever countenance even the whiff of heretical invention.

Yet-

Yet!

"We are going to remake the subject. Not as a slave or as a tool, but as a comprehensive being. We are going to Shape the Jeedai. To do this, I would modify the provoker spineray. It has been efficient. But there are too many differences between the subject's physiology and what the spineray can adapt to. I would modify it to fit our expectations of the subject's nervous system, to give us fine control."

Mezhan Kwaad said nothing, the dark pools of her eyes boring into Nen Yim.

"All we have are educated guesses. The protocol we followed gave us the beginning, but we need to decide the end. We cannot map knowns onto unknowns. Our only knowns are for the Yuuzhan Vong basal form, not the Human one."

"So the ancient protocols are meaningless."

"Not meaningless, but only a start. It asserts things, and some are true, but some are false. We must now test those assertions, so that we can complete our understanding of the subject."

When Mezhan spoke, her voice was whisper-soft, but wrapped about a core of purest yorik coral.

"In other words: question the Gods."

"Yes, Master."

Mezhan Kwaad did not correct the honorific.

"And you understand this is heresy of the highest order?"

"Yes, Master."

Silence hung taut between them, with only the distant cacophony of nocturnal life in the jungle intruding. The succession pool burbled. Her Master's eyes were dark and oily pools, revealing nothing. Nen Yim held her gaze without flinching, back straight and shoulders set.

"I have searched long for an apprentice like you," Mezhan Kwaad said at last. "Understand: you profit nothing if you are not what you appear to be. You will not gain from any betrayal."

Not once had Nen Yim considered her Master might be afraid of her instead.

"I would never. I am your Adept! My life is in your thirteen fingers."

"It is well placed then, Adept. Proceed as you have described. I will attend our subject with you on the morrow, before the vaa-tumor has truly reached its peak. Speak to no one of our intention. Not even the other Adepts. If our results are to the liking of our masters, none will look too closely at the methods. Discretion is our shield. And never forget this: what we do, though some might call it heresy, we do for our people."

Even laying beside the pool in a most undignified position, with pain etching tension in her features and blood dribbling from her nose, Mezhan Kwaad was the most impressive creature Nen Yim had ever seen. She bowed her head low, then genuflected fully, rocking forward onto her knees, her forehead to the ground.

"Don't kowtow," Mezhan Kwaad chastised, but with humor in her words. "Rise instead, and retire to sleep. There is much to be done."

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The subject watched them warily from behind the clear membrane of the vivarium. Awake and alert, the subject, at first glance, might seem otherwise untouched from their stay. Only the snaking tail of the provoker spineray, creeping from behind the subject toward the far wall of the vivarium betrayed the efforts of Nen Yim, her Master, and other Adepts. That, and the hairless scalp of the subject, cradled by the upper appendages of the spineray like splayed fingers about an egg. The subject was motionless, crosslegged, and only their green eyes tracked them closely, wary like a beast seeking the throat of another.

"I would refrain from using your Jeedai powers to attack us," Mezhan Kwaad told her. "The spineray has been told to stimulate you to great agonies should we become afflicted in any way. You seem to dislike pain at the moment, though in time you will come to appreciate its truth again."

The subject bared their teeth in a snarl.

"I'll figure something out."

"Perhaps you will," Mezhan Kwaad allowed. "I would be very proud if you did."

Nen Yim saw confusion blossom on the subject.

"Why would - you know what? I don't care. You're all freaks and…"

Confusion gave way to something approaching terror. Mezhan Kwaad smirked, a rare genuine expression of amusement and leaned closer to Nen Yim.

"She realized swiftly," the Master muttered. "Harmae had the luck of a devil catching this one."

"I understand you? I'm - what am I speaking?" The subject actually touched fingers to their lips as they spoke, feeling the shape of the letters and sounds. Green eyes widened all the more, now shining with unshead tears.

"Our language, of course," Mezhan Kwaad replied. "Restored to you, for if you are to be one of us again, you must speak the sacred tongue."

"One of you? One of you!" The subject hissed and curled in on themselves, from a crosslegged repose to clutching their knees to their chest. "I'd rather be slime under a Hutt."

"That is because you still perceive yourself an infidel. The Jeedai's manipulations were thorough, but are nothing before the grace of the Gods. Already, we have restored some of your memories."

Nen Yim could see the precise moment that the subject understood - understood - what Mezhan Kwaad meant. Already pale, their skin blanched to grey. Their pupils contracted. Sweat broke across their scalp.

"M-memories - is that why -"

Mezhan Kwaad spoke over the subject.

"In time, we will excise the false memories the Jeedai implanted. We will restore all that they stole from you and repair the grotesque modifications they made to your body. You will be who you always were, before you were stolen from us."

The subject was hyperventilating now, digging fingernails into their bare scalp.

"Do not be afraid, Riina of Domain Kwaad. You are among your people again."

The subject wailed, high and broken, loud enough that a ragged edge slashed into their voice. For the first time Nen Yim heard her voice true despair.

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Days passed and the Jedi girl came back to life. Zalthis was the one for this; his brother had the head for talking and understanding. Once again, he sent scathing thoughts toward wherever Zal might be, seasoned liberally with inventive invectives picked up from Army soldiers. Because as the Jedi girl came around, she started talking. And talking, and talking, and talking. He had his tasks, each and every day. The Thunderhawk required further mechanical maintenance, which he could do. He was no techpriest or techmarine, but one didn't need an education from Mars to understand how to clean carbon scoring from aileron joints or scrape patching paste over punctures in the cabin skin.

Then he worked through the small armory aboard. There was no such thing as too much maintenance of weapons, especially in the humid environment of Yavin 4. He checked off stocks of supplies, as they slowly dwindled, he topped off fresh water stores from the vaporator.

Housekeeping.

Solidian was an Astartes, for Throne's sake, and now he played nursemaid to a Jedi girl.

She still had distant look in her eyes sometimes, but unfortunately, Sannah seemed to be coping with separation from her friends by asking about each and every imaginable thing she could. And pestering him to take her and go after Zal and Anakin.

It didn't help that he kept the same desire buried, but not so deep as to forget about it.

'What's this?' she'd ask. 'What's this?' she'd ask again.

'There is no universe where you could handle a bolter,' he retorted, lifting the rifle that was roughly half as large as she was from the girl's hands. Captain Thiel kept the Thunderhawk stocked with a basic assortment of gear: three bolters, five bolt pistols, two chainswords and a selection of krak and fragmentation grenades, along with ammunition, replacement parts and cleaning accoutrements. Sannah had a habit of ambushing him while he was maintaining the weapons.

'Just point and pull, right?' she said, miming holding a much smaller rifle and pulling a trigger.

'Then the recoil shatters every bone in your tiny body,' Sol shot back. Sannah stuck her tongue out.

'What if I used the Force to hold it?'

Something itched between his shoulderblades.

'I wouldn't pretend to understand your witchery.'

And so it went.

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En route to Eboracum, shortly after True Night

During his stay at the Praxeum, which sometimes felt brief as a blink and sometimes as long as an entire Crusade deployment, Aeonid Thiel had attended the lessons of each Master that taught. Kam Solusar taught ethical foundations as well as basic bladework - a combination of violence and the theory of violence that strangely appealed to his Ultramarian sensibilities. Ciglhal, in recovery, taught healing and concepts of a 'living' Force, which was so much esoteria. Kyle Katarn, when he returned, handled the most mature and older students in deeper principles of bladework, combined as well with an interesting and unexpected angle into paramilitary applications. Luke Skywalker taught a myriad of subjects, across the breadth of the 'curricula', such as it was.

And Tionne Solusar taught of the history of the Jedi. He could admit; the time he attended a lesson of Tionne's, he had been more focused on analyzing the reactions and interest of the other trainees than on the content of the woman's lesson. It had not helped that she had chosen to relay the tale in the form of sung poetry, a form of iambic heptameter.

Those who shun the lessons of history are fated to repeat them: this was a truism that had roots in the sprawled cultures of humanity, implying either an easily understood universal truth, or that the idea had spread wide before Old Night. The Primarch stressed this fact often and heavily, it formed, after all, a core component of critical analysis. Practicals could be shaped from what had gone before, and theoreticals informed by experience.

It spoke well to the Jedi that they aimed to remember and preserve their histories, but it had not held the greatest of his interest at the time.

A terrible oversight.

Though aboard for only a few days, the Jedi made themselves comfortable. The chambers given over them were spartan, little more than an armsman barracks near the embarkation deck on Temerity, but the Jedi adorned the cramped spaces with shimmering holograms above compact silvery cubes, with hand-painted canvases and not a few potted plants, saved from the gardens of the Temple. Only a few days, but already a strangely homely feeling that Aeonid could sense the reverberating peace from, in the minds of the youths.

Bunks were shared without argument; indeed, he sensed the ease that the trainees felt in such close proximity to one another. To be able to reach out grasper and hand and feel a friend in the bunk below or above. Footlockers with keepsakes and personal property were stacked here and there, some left open to show changes of clothes, carefully folded. No doubt under the watchful eye of the Jedi Masters; Aeonid did not remember his own youth with any clarity, but he understood from cultural osmosis that the young had a tendency toward untidiness.

Tionne Solusar claimed one of the smaller chamber, one normally used for officers, with four bunks of larger and more luxurious style. There was a pressed metal table with wireframe chairs, lockers along one wall and a small ablutorium adjacent. This was the one claimed by the Solusars; there were enough spaces for the Masters to have some privacy.

Prosaically, Tionne Solusar did not invite Aeonid in to a candlelit chamber, nor invoke ethereal strangeness with incantations: after regaining her composure, she ushered him out of the corridor, offering one of the chairs - he declined, kneeling instead by the table - and taking one herself.

Thus they sat - and knelt - two beings of utterly different character. He imagined the image might be faintly ridiculous, seen from outside. Tionne Soluar was a willowy woman, not overly tall, with slightly overlarge eyes and unnaturally silver hair. She was expressive and emotive: he imagined even without his 'gifts' of the Force, she would be easy to read indeed. Her Jedi robes were charcoal grey, with a silver tabard overtop, soft-looking and likely some manner of silk equivalent. A nymph, perhaps, of Macraggian myth, one of the Myrianos who lingered in the tall forests of Illyria, who strummed on harp and played the triple pipes as they lured the unsuspecting to trances in the deep woods.

She sipped at a cup of caf, streaming between her fingers.

And there he knelt; a transhuman warrior of Ultramar. A soldier shaped by genescience beyond the imaginings of any in this lost galaxy, instilled with purpose by the Emperor, Beloved by All, given purpose to prosecute the enemies of Man, to corral the recalcitrant, to condemn the witch and mutant, to make war across the stars. He wore the roughspun version of the same robes Tionne Solusar wore, in brown and tan, tent-like on any other, but fit well to him despite his frame. They could not hide the lethality of his limbs, the exaggerated proportions of his physiology.

Yet…

She spoke of Jedi and ages long past. Of a tradition spanning twenty-five thousand years and more, since before the founding of the Republic. Of an Order that spanned race and kind, whose heroes and celebrated figures were human and alien alike. United by intention, guided by the same purpose, who held in cupped hands the gentle light of peace and security against the encroaching dark.

Intellectually, Aeonid knew this all. He had read the briefings; he was Ultramarine. The Jedi were not a mystery. The Holonet alone provided ample resources and the questioning of Pirvien natives shed further light. The prosecutions of Palpatine's Empire could not stamp out all truth and in the years since the Sith's death, with the rise of Skywalker's Order and the ascendancy of the New Republic, the forbidden lore was public once more.

All the same, there was understanding a sterile briefing, and there was being bathed in the fascination and wonder that exuded from Tionne Solusar as she spoke earnestly. And what she knew, what she could speak of, went far beyond any basic practicals drawn from news reports and compiled intelligence packets.

'It is basic group dynamics," Aeonid argued. "The practical is that Jedi as an Order create a cohesive culture that rewards reinforcing and maintaining it.'

'Oh, of course Jedi care about each other. But, Aeonid, if it was just about who was part of the group, then why would the Jedi dedicate their lives to serving those who aren't Jedi?'

'The self-identification of a Jedi is one of martyrdom and public service. One could argue the idea of self-sacrifice is necessary to benefit from the social security of being member to the Order.'

'That's a cold way to see it," Solusar returned, not unkindly. "But isn't that how Astartes are? Kyle's told me that you'll never retire or settle down. What makes a life of service as a Jedi so different from a life of service as Astartes?'

An easy comparison, one he had considered at length.

'There is nothing moral, as a foundation, to being Astartes.' Aeonid tapped at his chest. 'Our enhancements are simply biological augmentations. They can't be measured by an ethical code. You mean instead, what makes a life of service as a Jedi different to a life of service as an Ultramarine. That is a better question, I think.'

Solusar nodded.

'Yes, that's right. There are different - what are they - Legions? Of Astartes.'

'Eighteen,' Aeonid confirmed. 'Each is different; some drastically, some less so.' He rubbed at his chin, returning to the original point. In some ways, Jedi were not dissimilar to the tenets laid out by Guilliman in particular. They would bear little similarity indeed to the likes of Angron's horde or Russ' brawlers, but the concept of a sworn order upholding civilization against encroachments of savages, barbarians and twisted despots? There was a kinship there, but it was one that shared shy glances, not shaken hands.

'Service to Ultramar is defined," Aeonid decided. "We follow Guilliman, who is both our sire and our ultimate authority. Our principles are codified. The Primarch has worked on notes toward such since he was found. There are practicals for most theoreticals. There are laws that we abide by and there are expectations that are as good as carven in stone.

If there is a single feature to the Jedi that I have seen, it is that you are not so organized. Dissent is rife within Master Skywalker's Order. There is debate and even argument. There is bad blood and there is even insubordination. You have guiding concepts, but you have no discipline. It is well and good to say 'violence is wrong' or 'life is worth preserving', but each member of your Order disagrees on the meaning, or even the choice of words.'

'Would you be surprised if I said you weren't the first one to voice those kinds of things?" Solusar smiled easily, and often, and did so then. "Corran argued with Luke when he came to the Praxeum and said that the Jedi should be more like soldiers, or maybe cops. He wanted Luke to have a harder line about what was and wasn't done."

'Surety breeds replicability. Clear guidelines prevent misunderstanding.'

The irony of speaking those words was not lost on him.

'If the Jedi had a big book of What is Bad, you might be more comfortable?' Solusar teased.

'I think I would,' Aeonid admitted. ''Trust in the Force' is unsatisfying. Every being is a moral actor, which means every being will translate that 'will' differently.' The silver-haired Jedi peered down at her caf, tapping at her lower lip for a moment. He felt it as her mind shifted and her expression brightened.

'Sometimes you have to give yourself over to that guidance. Sometimes - there's actions that in any other world, would be horrible. Unbelievable! But maybe they could be necessary, even as painful as they are, and the Force guides us to what is right.'

'If an ethical boundary is permeable, it ceases to be a boundary,' Aeonid retorted.

'What if it was killing a brother?' Solusar countered.

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Now…

Vua Rapuung poked at the oozing hole that was his ear, scowling and wincing.

"I don't know that word: shantee. You speak of where the Workers and slaves and Shamed ones live."

"Sure." Anakin had asked about the smaller sprawl of living buildings around the big ones, the ones Vua called 'damuteks'. Apparently, 'shantytown' wasn't something the weird worm in the Vong's ear could make out.

"A support colony," Zal said, managing more than a monosyllabic sentence for once. From the river, and catching the Vong, the Astartes had clammed up, radiating a powerful sense of mistrust and hostility toward the Vong while they walked him back to their 'camp'. It was too generous a word for a small depression mostly hidden under tall brushes, but there was enough space for a bedroom for Anakin and to drop some of their supplies while doing recon.

"If the tizowyrm translates rightly, yes."

"Workers and slaves I know - but what's a Shamed One?"

Vua snarled.

"They are cursed by the Gods. They work as if slaves. They are not worth speaking of."

"Cursed how?"

The Vong twitched his shoulders, like he had many times so far. If he was a betting man, Anakin would wager it was an urge to violence, given just how often Vua scowled and spit and glared at both of them. For someone who claimed to want to be an ally, he sure was showing it in the strangest ways. With his wrists bound in front of him, that urge would stay just that: an urge.

"When I say they are not worth speaking of, how do my words confuse you?"

Zalthis shoved the Vong forward rather unnecessarily.

"Answer."

And back to the one word retorts. The Vong let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Pointless frivolities. Do these questions put amphistaff in our hands and blades to the necks of our enemies? No?"

"Information is victory," Zal shot back.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"How droll. How simple. Are you a machine? I hear tell of many perversions."

"Enough," Anakin interjected. Not for the first time. "Vua, we're trying to learn about your people so we can make a plan."

"A waste of time. I have a plan."

Anakin could feel Zalthis' eyes roll.

"Alright Vua, what is it?"

The Vong stopped, turning to face both Anakin and Zalthis. Idly, he twisted his wrists against Zal's efficient bindings. His rheumy, dark eyes flicked between Jedi and Astartes, then into the far distance, toward where the Vong base was.

"It is simplicity itself. You, Jeedai, will pretend to be a slave. I will say that I found you wandering. We will infiltrate the Shaper compound until we can find where the Jeedai girl is kept. Then you will use your dark Jeedai magics to call to the Astartes. From within and without, we sow chaos. You kill the Jeedai, and I claim my revenge."

"For the fourth time, I'm not here to kill Tahiri."

Vua cocked his head.

"She will not be Tayhir'ai, but that is your decision."

"Anyway, you keep saying revenge, but you still haven't told us what that is."

Vua scowled, if possible, even harder. Anakin wasn't sure that it wasn't simply how his face just was.

"Do you truly not see? Either of you? Never mind. My revenge is my own. Your mission is your own. They align, which is enough."

"Return to Anakin posing as a slave," Zalthis interjected. "Why? What possible purpose could that hold?"

"I do not know the damuteks. I cannot access them. A slave can, because a slave is meaningless. A tool. A slave goes where commanded, and they have tasks everywhere. A slave may find where the Jeedai captive is held, where I cannot."

"I merely find it convenient that when the Vong-" Vua visibly bristled and Anakin rubbed at his forehead "-seek Jedi, you think it wise to walk Anakin right into the compound."

"I find it convenient that the Gods did not bless you with brains," Vua retorted. "No Warrior would suspect a Jeedai willing to humble themselves as a slave. A Warrior is proud and the Jeedai have killed many. They will believe Jeedai bear the same pride as a warrior should. Their eyes will pass over him as though he is a meat maggot."

"And if you tell them?"

"Then may the Gods slay me for stupidity!" Vua roared. "This is exhausting! Jeedai, I pray that you are in command! The Aistarteez fills me with wonder for how thoughtless he is!"

Anakin gestured for Vua to get moving again - daylight was burning and his stomach was grumbling. The three fell back into step again, picking through the jungle.

"You have to understand our side here, Vua."

"I pray I never will. Your infidel perversions-"

"-are bad and evil yes, I mean that you have to understand how suspicious this all is. A friendly V- Yuuzhan Vong shows up-" he shot a glare at Zal, daring the Ultramarine to comment on the choice of the word 'friendly' "-who promises us just what we need to get in and get to Tahiri. Sorry, but we Jedi haven't exactly had the best experiences with a Yuuzhan Vong's word, you know?"

"I am Vua Rapuung," Vua declared, as if that was all the answer that mattered. He spat to the side, but the spittle was tinged with dark blood: clearing his mouth, not insulting, Anakin figured. Vua was very straightforward at being insulting. "Fine, then. Ask whatever you wish, if it will banish your irksome timidity."

It was somewhat incredible how much they learned, just in the time from the river to their small camp. Months - almost a year - the Yuuzhan Vong had been in the Galaxy, waging war, conquering worlds, and then an afternoon with a grumpy, crotchety Yuuzhan Vong and Anakin knew he'd have enough to make NRI faint with envy for the opportunity.

He told them about the castes - theorized, but never sure. How, 'ideally', all the castes save Worker were equal. Shapers and Warriors and Indentants and Priests, in simple words. 'Mystics of the Shaper', 'Adherents of the Slayer', 'Tendons of the People' and 'Those Humbled Before the Gods', if you were feeling fancy. All the castes worked in unison, equal but separate, with authorities that overlapped or superceded each other depending on the situation. In the compound, which Vua revealed was ruled by Shapers, Warriors were subordinate. They could advise, but couldn't command. Whoever the 'Master Shaper' was, their word was law in their little fiefdom.

Warriors were a caste everyone knew. They were the ones in the crab armor slinging bugs and amphistaves and killing people. Shapers were, like Zalthis had said, like scientists or engineers. They made and maintained all the biotech - and Vua visibly restrained himself from attacking Zalthis at that word - of the Vong.

Intendents were a caste Anakin hadn't considered, but made sense. They were sort of like the grease of the Vong. They were sort of like administrators, ministers, lawyers and diplomats, all rolled into one. They were go-betweens for the various castes and they handled the logistics of the whole culture. Once, his dad had joked about how until he'd become a General, he never quite grasped how nine-tenths of fighting a war was just getting everything in the right place; this made the Intendents maybe the most important caste, just for how they kept everything moving.

Then the Priests, which had been rumored plenty from captured worlds. They ministered to the populace, interpreted for the Gods, read portents; all the usual priestly things.

Workers, as Vua framed it, were sort of a casteless caste. They had most of the same rights as any other Yuuzhan Vong, but they hadn't risen into any of other four. They could, he'd said, if they showed skill and cunning for it. Workers could be taken in as Shaper initiatives, or Warrior aspirants, or Intendant apprentices.

Zalthis made a comment about myths of social mobility being essential to empires, which Vua hadn't bothered to reply to.

Vua refused to say more about Shamed Ones, only that they were the lowest of the low and even the Workers spat on them. As for slaves? He had not been exaggerating to call them tools. If a Shamed One was at the bottom rung, a slave didn't even merit a position on the ladder. They were property, tools, worth nothing and given nothing. Working them to death was common. Killing them for sport was not infrequent. Punishments were many and various. Slaves did not belong to any one Yuuzhan Vong; more like a shared resource.

And Vua wanted him to pretend to be one.

Carefully hidden at their camp, the Vong reclined against a large, mossy stone.

"I can place a false coral node on your forehead. It is stunted and cannot sprout. At worst; it will tingle. Then, you will act as my slave until I may send you on an errand into the damuteks. Then, no doubt, one of the Shapers will command you, and you will serve them instead."

"I'm still not getting where Zalthis or you fall into this, really," Anakin admitted. "If you can get me into the 'damutek', then I can just break Tahiri out and we can run."

"Do you never listen? Or does the wyrm mistranslate? You may enter the damutek, but you will die before you can 'free' the Jeedai girl. The Shapers are jealous and Warriors are many. I may open hidden ways that I know, while the brainless Aistarteez distracts and draws many guards away. I may quiet the siren-beasts and calm the alarm reflexes for a time."

Zal, laying out bolt rounds for his pistol, raised his head to narrow his eyes at the Vong.

"You can do that? You've spoken of revenge of some sort, but you would raise your hand against other Vong, even sabotage their alarms?"

"What is revenge without bloodshed? My belly is not so weak as yours. All those who stand between me and my vengeance will die. Their blood will baptise my righteousness."

Zal's mood went suddenly hard and fragile as obsidian. Anakin looked to the Ultramarine in surprise, seeing a sudden mask of cold calm.

"Other Warriors?"

Vua scoffed.

"Warriors, Shapers, slaves or Priests. The Slayer guides me."

Zalthis unfurled to his feet with a rapidity that continually wrongfooted Anakin. Even after running across half a mountain range with the Ultramarine and across the capital of Obroa-skai, the way Astartes could snap into motion still surprised him.

"Anakin. We need to speak…privately."

Ultimately, unwilling to leave Vua unsupervised, Anakin talked the Vong into removing the tizowyrm from his ear. Zal guided Anakin by the elbow just far enough from the camp that they could still see the Vong, but far enough that a low whisper would still be out of earshot, should the Vong be lying about needing the biot to translate.

"We have humored him long enough. I can kill him and consume his memories. If he is telling the truth, then I may be able to learn what he knows about preventing alarms. If he was lying, then we have lost nothing at all."

"Zal! We're not killing a defenseless prisoner-"

"He is a Vong, he is definitionally not defenseless-"

"-and the brains thing?"

"He is lying to us and he will betray you-"

"Why would the Vong send someone like him if they knew we were around here-"

"Their thinking is alien, it is a mistake to assume-"

"Your thinking is alien, Zal, you want to eat a brain-"

"We've come this far-"

"Zal, stop." Anakin finally snapped, with more heat than he meant. His friend's mouth clicked shut. "What is this about? I don't really trust Vua either, but you're chasing Sith ghosts here."

The Ultramarine took a deep inhale, flicking his eyes between Anakin and Vua.

"If he is willing to kill his own people, to fight alongside the hated 'Jeedai' and 'Aistarteez', if he is willing to kill anyone just to chase whatever mad 'revenge' he has in that rotting head, then there is no boundary he will not cross. Anakin, what if he is offered a chance at that revenge, for the price of selling you out?"

"It's a possibility-"

"It's a certainty!"

But there was agitation beneath Zal's measured words. Nothing the Ultramarine said was wrong, and in fact, the angle of Vua being bribed with whatever his revenge was to give up Anakin hadn't crosses his mind. Put that way, he could see the prickly Vong flipping instantly on his word. Whatever he was after, he was single-minded about it.

He'd been in Zal's head though, just two weeks ago. He knew his friend all the better now and Zal was not good at hiding things. There was something else. Something that had him entirely on edge and almost violent toward Vua in a way he hadn't been, even when ambushing the Vong on the river.

"Zal," Anakin murmured. "What's this about? Really about?"

"I don't know what you mean-"

"I think you do. Vua said something that set you off. What's going on?"

The Ultramarine's fists flexed at his side.

Was that…fear deep in the depths of Zalthis' cocktail of emotion?

"You can never trust a traitor," Zal bit out. A traitor. Treason. The way Zal said it stirred Anakin's memories, but he couldn't place it.

"But if it's us that he's turning traitor to help…"

"You cannot break one oath." If looks could kill, Vua would be blasted down by bolts from Zal's eyes. "Cut one, and you cut them all. We shouldn't have even listened to him for a moment."

"Zal," Anakin repeated. "What's going on?" He brushed only a touch of the Force against his friend, trying to ease his sudden tension. Zalthis tensed, every muscle.

"Are you-"

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

Then…

'-in my head?' Aeonid demanded, rising and leaning forward, gripping the edges of the metal table. Solusar blinked, cocking her head.

'I'm sorry?'

''Killing a brother'?' Aeonid echoed, adrenaline trickling into his veins. Sorot Tchure, reeling back, clutching at his face-

'It's the story of Cay and Ulic Qel-Droma,' Solusar said. 'It's as famous as it is tragic.'

Aeonid settled back down.

'Apologies,' he managed. 'Continue.' Solusar cast him an odd look and he felt her concern and confusion. Let her be unsure; he had overreacted.

'Many thousands of years ago…'

Solusar had a way with words that would find her many friends among the Remembrancers. She spun a tale of the Old Republic, millenia ago, enjoying a period of relative peace after the Sith had been put down many centuries ago. Conflict happened, here and there, as would be expected. A small series of skirmishes on an out-of-the-way world drew the attention of the Jedi, who sought to settle differences and resolve the situation peacefully. The Jedi could not know that this was but the tip of a grander iceberg: tinder to spark off the next great galactic conflict as the Sith resurgent waged brutal war against the Republic.

She spoke of names with a weight that was tangible. Exar Kun, once a Jedi Knight, who turned to the dark side under mentorship of some dread Sith named Freedon Nadd. Of Vodo-Siosk Bass, his wise master, cut down in a moment of awful betrayal. Of the brothers Cay and Ulic Qel-Droma, Jedi Knights both; adventurous and boisterous, daring and cunning. How spirits of the Sith corrupted and drew away Jedi from the Order, whispering of arcane secrets and masterful powers, luring once-noble beings from the Force and into perversion.

Solusar lapsed into song, occasionally, though Aeonid scarcely noticed. She sang a ballad, restored from fragments and scraps, that was a paean to Cay Qel-Droma. It spoke of the love between the brothers, their long friendship, how it twisted until it snapped during that savage war. How they came to blows, how they clashed, how Cay begged his brother to turn aside, to return to righteousness, to cast out the dark that filled his heart.

He listened, rapt, as Tionne recounted the profound tragedy enacted by Exar Kun, when dozens of Jedi Apprentices, twisted and controlled by his powers, turned on their unsuspecting Masters. How Jedi died at the hands of their most trusted, beloved and promising Padawans in a rain of butchery and blood. Of Exar Kun's delight at the breaking of those sacred bonds, of how he gloated as he turned brother against brother, sister against sister, Master against Apprentice.

And the end of it all, when Cay Qel-Droma faced his brother, he fought with all that he had - and not enough. Cay could not strike down Ulic, who he still loved too much. And Cay died to the lightsaber of his own brother, cut down in the rain on the world of Ossus.

This, Tionne said, was enough to shock Ulic from his convictions, leaving him vulnerable to Nomi Sunrider, another Jedi. She severed him from the Force - an admission that shocked Aeonid and he made note to speak of it again, at a later time - yet still later fought with Ulic to slay the architect of it all, Exar Kun.

'And the question is…should Cay have killed Ulic?' Tionne wondered, resting her chin on one palm. Her eyes shimmered with some wetness, unshed. The Master felt, deeply, driven to sorrows and joys just from recounting the tale. "Killing a brother is unimaginable, but what Ulic was doing was evil. Cay fought Ulic to defend himself and if Ulic hadn't struck that blow, would Cay have been the brother wracked with guilt instead?"

'Yes,' Aeonid declared. 'Cay should have. He could not have known his sacrifice would shake Ulic's certainty, or that Nomi Sunrider could bind Qel-Droma's sense of the Force. For all that Cay knew, his death at Ulic's hands would be yet another Jedi slain. Sunrider might have been next and the war could have continued.'

'But Ulic helped to kill Exar Kun and he revealed the way to Yavin 4 to the Jedi.'

Aeonid waved it away. 'Again, Cay could not have known that. He had to work with what was, not what could have been.'

'Then it would have been right to kill his brother.'

'Yes.'

Her small hands sought his own. He found himself leaning on the table, palms planted. Her fingers were cool, and very small.

'Who did you kill, Aeonid?'

He raised an eyebrow.

'Many.'

'What brother, Aeonid?'

'They were not-'

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

"-brothers, to us." Zalthis related, his tone flat and affectless. "The Seventeenth and the Thirteenth were not close. For all our differences, we were still Astartes. You have to understand, Anakin. The Crusade is everything. It is our triumph, over Old Night. It's reunification. It's security. It's…" Zalthis trailed off.

"The world was called Calth," Zal pronounced the name, funereal.

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

'They came to repair old rivalries. Lorgar swore it would be a new beginning for both Legions. Bury our differences and come out stronger for it. We invited them in.'

Solusar had one hand to her mouth, the other still placed over one his own.

'Oh, Aeonid…'

His hands balled into fists.

'We thought it was a mistake. Guilliman thought it was a mistake. The first message he sent, when vox was restored, was a plea. He begged Lorgar to stop. He promised that we hadn't attacked. He swore it was a mistake. My father pleaded with those motherless bastards.'

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

For so large of a man, Zal managed to seem small. Contracted in on himself. Unsure.

"They did not kill us. They butchered us. Entire companies, murdered where they stood. They bombed cities that were welcoming them. When we ran to them, thinking this was some attack from the greenskins, ready to rally with our brothers, they laughed and gunned us down. We invited them to Calth and they burned the world. A whole world of Ultramar and a hundred thousand Ultramarines. Billions of innocent citizens."

Sernpidal ran vivid through Anakin's mind's eye. The only world he had ever seen die with his own two eyes. The way the atmosphere lit on fire as the moon, Dobido, arced downward. The earthquakes that heaved and surged and cracked the crust, the tidal waves that could be seen from the Falcon as they flew away, that raced ahead of the shattering world.

All the same, it was impersonal. The moon itself came down, but the Vong weren't there. They killed Sernpidal in a single, shocking exclamation point, but what Zal described…

Hours of confusion and horror as trusted allies killed everyone they saw. And so senseless. For all the evils of the Yuuzhan Vong, Anakin felt he sort of understood them. Tried not to hate them, stood against them, but there was a twisted logic to them. They were here to conquer the Galaxy and they were fighting a religious war too. It was monstrous and their crimes could fill a whole holocube - but what Zal spoke of was utterly senseless.

Their Imperium had conquered their galaxy, or just about. He talked about how they had a million worlds living prosperously and safely. Their Legions, their Astartes and Primarchs, were basically heroes and legends in their own right. What could possibly drive someone to do such an awful thing, when they already had it all?

The dark side, he thought bitterly. After all, hadn't Anakin Skywalker had it all too?

"Zal, I'm…sithspawn, I don't know what to say to that."

"What is there to say? We were betrayed. I don't even know why. If the Primarch knows, he has not seen fit to share."

"Still…I'm sorry. That's horrible."

"I…thank you, Anakin."

He fiddled with the lightsaber at his belt, glancing sidelong at Zal and his brooding frown. So much, so much now clicked into place about the Exiles. Like a puzzle that suddenly he'd found all the right pieces for, slotting right in and the picture just jumped out. Now he got why they were so twitchy, why they had such a big thing about honour, and even why they'd stayed hidden for months on Eboracum. And he could place where he remembered Zal raising his hackles of the idea of treason again. Obroa-skai, talking about Anakin's father and the Rebellion's history with the Empire.

How Zal had been surprised - and even agitated - to learn that the whole Rebellion, basically, was just made up of former Imperials of some stripe or another. Which, well, when fighting a civil war, that was sort of unavoidable, wasn't it?

"It's not the same," Anakin said at last. "Vua…isn't like them."

"Isn't he?" Through the whole telling, Zal had stared fixed at the Vong, who was now either asleep, or pretending to be. Finally, he snapped his gaze to Anakin, folding his arms tight across his chest. "He feels wronged by some slight, real or imagined. He pride is wounded and he is furious. He demands revenge, but will not speak of it. He will betray his own people, his own caste, to get what he wants. He'll kill, he'll lie, and he'll allow an enemy into their midst. Isn't he?"

"Zal, you said yourself that no one is sure why the…the other Legion did what they did-"

"The Word Bearers always had a grudge against us. For forty years, they held that grudge. Whatever their reason, I am sure that they delighted in a chance to repay that, no matter what other reasons they had. If they had reasons at all." he said bitterly.

"Maybe. Maybe that's true, but Vua is one person. He's just one Vong and look at him, he's half dead." Anakin chewed on his lip. "His people, they make a point about honor, right? Corran - Master Horn - used that against Shedao Shai. Even though he killed Senator A'kla, Shedao Shai still sent his bones back because of his twisted beliefs about what was honorable. Maybe…maybe this is normal? Maybe this just is part of Vong culture. If you get wronged, you have to repay it."

"If honor demands that, then-"

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

'-anything can be rationalized.'

'Of course it can,' Solusar, he was finding, for all her more ethereal mien, was far from uneducated in philosophy. Aeonid would never claim any great talent at it, but in his decades of service, he had dutifully read, memorized, and applied what the Primarch ordered. Von Clauswitz, Adh Agentoch, Guilliman of course, Sigilite, Sokratis and others, all lived in his near perfect memory. 'This is why the Force is what guides us, ultimately. Calth? The Seventeenth Legion? What they did was dark, no argument. It was evil and I'm sure the Force screamed in horror at it.'

'All the same, the Force still grants power to those you term dark, like the Sith. Like Ulic Qel-Droma himself, or Exar Kun. If the Force held some greater truth, should it not act accordingly? Withdraw its touch from those that act against it? Sunrider should not have needed to sever Qel-Droma, correct?'

'You're talking about free will. The Force guides us, but we have the blessing to act and make our own choices. Exar Kun, Naga Sadow, Freedon Nadd…Palpatine, Vader, were all masters of the dark side and truly evil, but they were countered by Cay and Nomi and Luke and all the other Jedi. This is why we are servants of the Force. Not slaves, but servants.'

'Then, because the Jedi have succeeded over the Sith, this means you are right? I have heard this argument before, Master Solusar. To consider yourself right simply because you are mighty is not a valid epistemological stance.'

'Because the Force can be felt, Aeonid.' Her tone leaned toward chiding. She wiped at an unshed tear, drawn by his tale of Calth, but Solusar was anything but unfocused. Her bright eyes held conviction, held steel. 'I don't need to explain that to you of all people. You felt Ikrit pass?'

'I did.'

'So did we, but I don't think as closely as you did. It hurt, but wasn't part of it beautiful, Aeonid? How peaceful he was and how proud? When you meditated on Yavin, didn't you feel the life all around you? How beautiful it was? Like a song! Or the sound of the younglings at breakfast, or how gentle Cilghal draws on the Force when she heals. Isn't that a truth?'

Or how he could feel the other Masters, in the other chambers. All the younglings and their blend of excitement over a new 'adventure', their worry over Anakin and the two girls, their sadness over Master Ikrit. Solusar was not wrong - she was the farthest from wrong she could be, and that was what unsettled him so. It was easy. He did feel the vibrancy of the moon. He did feel how closely even the most alien of the younglings was to the human ones. He did feel Ikrit's love, burning for Anakin and Tahiri. He felt it all, as clear and as passionate and as deep as his own emotions, burned right into his mind.

The Nephilim, exterminated by the Blood Angels, could induce entheogenic raptures into their slaves. The marauding Eldar breed could manipulate chemical reactions in the brain to induce agony beyond comparison or euphoria that could kill. The Anhedonites farmed stocks of specially bred humans, just to siphon their emotions as substitutes to their own. Even simple chemicals could induce hallucination, alter mental states - even those produced naturally by the body!

'I know what you're thinking. If it's in your head, how can you trust it?'

'So says the Jedi Master, as she reads my own mind.'

'You're shouting it, Aeonid. I don't need to listen hard.'

'It's not an answer!' He shook aside Solusar's hand, levering himself up and pacing, back and forth. She watched him, open and attentive. 'There needs to be some foundation. Some truth. It is the Uthyphrik challenge. The Iterators use it to tear down religion where they find it. 'Is this right because the gods favor it, or do the gods favor it because it is right?' There must be a baseline, some - measurable truth.'

'Because anything else is faith.'

'Faith! Faith and mendacity. Humans are driven by social demands; our morality is from evolution. The tribe survives as a unit. That is fact; but what of a species that evolved as a solitary hunter? What 'morals' might be built into their instincts? Would they be wrong? If what was just and true to them was to selfishly and jealously steal and kill and hoard, can we point at that and say they are incorrect? To them, they are right. To us, we are right. This, at least, is provable. This can be that foundation.'

Guilliman burdened him with this. Guilliman sent him out, away from his burgeoning company, to rub shoulders with mystics and philosophers and aliens. He could be arranging wargames, inducting neophytes, running theoreticals on Vong tactics and targets. He could have bolter and blade in hand, where things were simple.

'The Sith believed that the strong deserve everything,' Solusar observed in agreement. 'They fully believed this, with all their hearts. They built their culture on it. But - it was wrong. The Jedi stood against it, and always will. The Yevetha hated anyone who wasn't their species, the Ssi-ruuvi wanted to entech all the 'infidels' of the galaxy.'

'And the Republic made war on them all.'

'And the Republic will also defend them. As would the Jedi. If I saw a Yevetha being beaten on the street, I would stop those thugs. If I saw a Ssi-ruuvi being stolen from, I would return their credit chit.'

'And, in doing, impose your own belief on them.'

'Yes.'

Aeonid laughed. He laughed rarely, but it burst from him then.

'So easily.'

'So easily,' she echoed. 'Aeonid, I'm worried we're going to stray into solipsism. Are you afraid because what you feel matches what your cold logic tells you…or because it doesn't?'

He had shared Calth with Solusar. The Primarch had forbidden dissemination of any greater facts, not just to the Republic, but even among the Army. The duplicity of Lorgar and his Legion were to be kept quiet, because of all the madness Lorgar claimed. The line was that there had been corruption, potentially xeno, that caused the violence. Few who even saw the Word Bearers turn lived in the first place.

She was worryingly easy to speak with.

'Because it does both,' Aeonid admitted. 'And there is where I cannot see the path.'

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

Anakin sympathized. He really did. It was probably like his mom having to work with Imperials in the Remnant, knowing everything that they stood by and allowed. All the same -

"We're going to do Vua's plan," Anakin watched as Zal heard, as he processed the words. Watched as disbelief spread across his face. "Zal, those are good points. But I think you're…I'm sorry, but I think you're letting that cloud your judgement." He held up a hand, cutting off the Ultramarine. "Sorry, but let me finish. You were talking about how much you hate the Word Bearers for what they did to your Legion and to Calth. Zal, the Vong killed Chewbacca right in front of my eyes. They tortured my brother, they tried to kill my aunt and uncle. They almost tortured my dad to death.

I can't hate them. I can't let myself. I want to. I want to. I look at Vua, and all I see are the dead Jedi because of their sithspawned Warmaster."

"All examples of their treachery-"

"And all reasons that you better believe I'm going to be on guard. But we can't throw out something this good. Zal, Tahiri is…I'm losing her, I think. She's fading away and I don't know why and we don't have time anymore. We have to get in there and we have to get her back or maybe Vua will be right and she won't be there to save. He can do that. If they see us coming, they might just kill Tahiri anyway."

His friend studied him. His lips thinned, his brow furrowed, but Zal shook his head, not in negation, but in exasperation.

"I'll follow your lead," he said. "But I still think this is a mistake."

Anakin exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd held. The last thing he needed was for Zal to refuse or leave. He wasn't sure he could do it alone.

"Sometimes," he sighed, "you have to have a little faith."