Order One [Star Wars AU]

Chapter Eight
It is clear to me now that the Republic no longer functions.
​

Coruscant was a monument to eternal change. Layer over layer of half-hearted development and graft shaped the daily lives of the public, the one constant being utter devotion to growth over well being. Palpatine had promised to change things, but Palpatine was gone, just one of countless victims of the endless hubris that made beings believe they could reshape their own destinies. Most protests over this had died down months before, replaced by speciest tensions and fierce competition over which union would win the right to construct automated factories that would drive more of their workers into joblessness. Industry left some places and returned to others, spurred by the first of many new cloning facilities spreading like honeycombs in capital that completely relied on the drones it produced to function.

No mention of this or the Pyke-Mandalorian turf war happening twelve miles below their feet was made by the Republic’s politicians, who were more interested in how best to divvy up budgetary allocations. Padme turned off the holofeed. There was no conscience or vision in that room. It was also literally quite empty; She hadn’t seen a drop off in the percent of senators in attendance since the start of the separatist crisis. She herself hadn’t returned since her rescue. She didn’t plan on going back; no faith could be placed in those who applauded the rise of a dictator.

There were other matters to attend to. A homecoming soiree was being held in Padme’s new apartment suite. The undercity was still chaotic, but those who remained in the Senate Residencies had been able to resume their lives of comfort and luxury. Laughter and the scent of Corellian Brandy filled the room. Padme sipped it and thanked the Force that her pregnancy was at an end.

Jar Jar was in the nursery entertaining the twins. They were just beginning to crawl, and between them and Threepio’s constant flustering, any day that didn’t end with a small house fire was considered a success. Senator Bail Organa would occasionally glance in their direction, horrified at the prospect of him being in the vicinity of younglings. Padme watched him and the crowd while pretending to listen to one of her handmaidens’ scripted gossiping, a common ploy of the nobility that allowed one to eavesdrop on matters of state and scandal, two topics that easily mixed.

When the soiree was over Padme stood by the door and exchanged final pleasantries with her acquaintances as they filed out. Some of these guests were dear friends while others were rivals that had not yet earned her public ire. They were treated with the same veneer of mirth and poise taught to all queens of Naboo. Representative Binks was one of the last to go, bounding out the room straight into a priceless vase in the process. The Gungan grinned sheepishly as Padme closed the door behind him, her wry pout a sign that she was no longer truly phased by such accidents.

Bail and Mon Mothma shared in a quick sigh of relief and beckoned her to sit. As the leaders of the Delegation of Two Thousand, they had much to discuss. The faction’s political position was promising but tenuous. As vocal leaders of the loyal opposition in the run up to the Declaration of the New Order, their principled protests of Palpatine’s excesses had garnered them many new followers from lobbyists and power brokers looking to save their skins. The Kaminoans made a point of loudly acquiescing to minor facets of the Delegation’ platform, an easy means of beginning to building legitimacy for their regime. With worlds loyal to the Imperial Remnant retreating inwards and Palpatine’s more pragmatic sycophants scattered, they now controlled the largest voting block in the fractured senate. Yet they had also once been adamant in their desire to reduce war budgets and begin a negotiated settlement to the Clone Wars, which was a dangerous sentiment to hold while ruled by a military junta.

Due to the importance of such topics, their conversation first drifted to drivel about healthy eating and the newest media from their home planets while their aides swept for surveillance bugs, a precaution as common in political circles as washing a dish. Padme swished the drink in her cup as she waited. The choice of spirits had been intentional, a subconscious means of steering discussions toward a sensitive topic. Mothma had noticed the ploy from the onset, and made a point of widening her eyes in mock surprise and gesturing towards the drink while they pretended to discuss how best to feed a picky eater like Leia or Bail’s newly adopted daughter, Satine.

"Padme Amidala, you are a skilled manipulator. You should enter politics."


Mothma downed her second glass after the aides signaled that there was indeed a recorder in the room. The Corellian Crisis would have to remain taboo. All three of the politicians were partially relieved; they all knew Mothma was on the verge of calling Iblis a stubborn fool. The Contemplanys Hermi privilege that kept Corellia autonomous and functionally neutral during the war without ceding any of the rights afforded to Republic worlds wouldn’t let it escape the consequences of open defiance or the harboring of offworlders. He was provoking another war they could not yet win at a time when Organa and Mothma had agreed to at least try to reform the system from within.

Sensing the weight of everything that would have to go unsaid, Organa tactfully steered their conversation towards its end.

"In any case, senators,” he said, “we have a long day ahead of us. I hope to see you both tomorrow."

They stood. Mothma grasped Padme's hand.

"It is good to know that your family is well. If Leia has half your fire, she'll make for excellent royalty."

"I'll notify the matchmakers."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The door closed. Padme put her head in her hands for a brief moment then removed it, revealing a expression that was more stoic than she liked. They had their schemes, Padme had her own. The handmaid nursing Luke and Leia put one of the babies down and pulled a level hidden in their toy trunk as Padme approached, revealing a secret office space that doubled as a panic room. Acoustic dampeners in the wall would protect her privacy. Once closed, a transmitter blinked to life, connecting Padme with her main contact in the lower levels of Coruscant. Ahsoka had remained fiercely loyal to her former master during her time away from the Order. That love and respect had passed on to his widow.

"We were successfully able to reprogram 8 full shipments of the droids assigned to the new cloning program.” Ahsoka said, relaying the results of a mission Padme had asked her to complete a week before. The Togruta had quietly entered young adulthood in the past year and looked like she could maturely handle any task. That being true, she also could still wield temperamental fire of youth against those who annoyed her.

“It would have been ten, but someone had to go overboard wasting time installing a class-conscious subroutine."

"Clankers of Coruscant, Unite!" Yelled someone off screen. Padme missed the ability to make even the most dangerous tasks feel like an adventure. The idea of R2 or Threepio at the head of a guerilla army was amusing even to Ahsoka, though she feigned seriousness.

"In any case, they'll prove useful once we're ready to call for a general strike." Ahsoka said. Even the most apolitical laborers would likely join a work stoppage if the machines they relied on did so too.

"And what of the agents?"

"Less luck there, I'm afraid. The ones that didn't shoot at me on sight or run off to Black Sun say they only take orders from Yularen. Judging from how they looked at my lightsabers, it's likely he's joined the imperials.”

Ahsoka's voice changed. She had served with that man once, it was hard to believe he could willingly be in league with bigots who hated her just for being nonhuman.

"There's one more thing" Ahsoka said with hesitation. “I was approached by a senator named Mon Mothma. Can I trust her?"

"With your life, but you mustn't let her know I told you this.” Padme answered. “For now we must follow our own paths and trust that they eventually intertwine."

Ahsoka nodded and the feed cut out.

Padme sat alone for a bit, saying nothing. Then she reached for a second, more sophisticated military grade holoreceiver. On the other end of the encrypted channel was a creature too close to the Hutts in disposition and appearance than she liked, but just selfish enough to reliably strike a bargain that would serve both their interests. Toonbuck Torah had no ideology or loyalty, but neither did she have any hate in her heart. It was totally rotten; for just one extra day in the lap of luxury, she could be trusted to side or turn against just about anyone.

"Have you read the report?" Padme said, straight to business.

The sound of artillery fire could be heard muffled in the distance. "Front to back twice, your majesty" the alien said drolly, stroking the tufts of hair on her second chin. "The cloners seek to take the place of the Trade Federation once the war is done. This proof will bring great sympathy to our cause."

“Your cause” Padme said tersely. “At least for now. And Gunray?”

Padme frowned at the thought of the viceroy still willing to pay millions of credits for her head almost fifteen years after their first encounter on Naboo.Toonbuck waved away the seriousness of the question.

“Lording over somewhere remote I’m sure, making promises to his corporatist allies. We will make sure he is too marginalized to seek control if he crawls out from his hole.”

The second feed soon cut off as well, leaving Padme alone with her thoughts. Separatists, neutralists, reformists and the odd imperial respectful of the role she unwittingly played in Palpatine’s rise to power all had their own demands, offers and agendas to lay at her feet. The multitudinous diplomatic channels open to her were promising, but she would never again let herself be dependent n their answer like she was after first coming to Coruscant as a girl and watching the galaxy’s ruling class bicker while her people slowly died. Her career since then had been defined by futilely trying to hold back the tide of their greed and hunger for power. Playing by their rules wouldn’t cut it anymore, the future of her children, like the future of her planet so many years ago was at stake.

 

Chapter Nine
"Cor'ika, we've got a hundred and fifty shabla contingency rules, everything from arresting the Chancellor if he goes gaga to reducing key allied worlds to slag if they switch sides…"​

The Corellian Crisis was coming to a head. Pulling the Republic 2nd Sector Army away from its blockade over the Neimodian Purse Worlds hadn’t been an ideal way to deal with the situation, but Garm Bel Iblis had made that move unavoidable. The Republic could not allow another wave of secession to sweep through its systems, at least not before the first batch of Separatist scum were wiped out.

As both a senator and a gifted military tactician, Bel Iblis had anticipated such a response, though only as a worst-case scenario. Proximity smart-mines were floating through Corellia's upper atmosphere. Frigates impounded in the Corellian Shipyards were being converted into anti aircraft batteries on the surface. Crucially there was an umbrella shield generator hung over the defenses, making the handful of Republic Acclamators already in orbit unable to rely on threats of orbital bombardment.

Everything had started with the Chu’unthor. Its ambush over Corellian airspace had violated the Contemplayns Hermi, legally allowing Iblis to intervene and offer the mobile Jedi Praexium safe harbor while it made crucial repairs. Many worlds were starting to question if the Jedi had really rebelled. There were eye witness accounts of the Council moving to arrest Supreme Chancellor Palpatine to be sure, but the vids mysteriously cut off before Windu and the Council made their intensions clear. And besides, hadn’t the Clones done the same thing?

Even if the Army wasn’t lying, even if Jedi survivors had turned to piracy and sabotage, that didn’t mean the Chu’unthor needed to be destroyed. Few non-force sensitives appreciated the distinctions between those who accepted the Ruusan Reformation and those who did not. Altis sighed. It was starting to feel like he had lived a hundred lifetimes too many. A time would come when his body would grow too frail to go on, and he’d finally transfer his essence into a holocron to be teach and be forgotten by future generations. Until that day came, the Altisians were his responsibility.

Sometimes Altis felt like the Council had been right to brand him a heretic. He still believed in everything he taught his students over the years, but letting them help define their own versions of right and wrong might have been a mistake. Teachings new and old were starting to take root in his community that were not as tolerant. With one master allowed to take on as many padawans as he or she desired, sectarian cults of personality were beginning to form which Altis couldn’t control.

The technicians busy repairing the Chu’unthor fashioned themselves ‘Gray Paladins’ and minimized their usage of the Force in a misguided attempt to grow more attuned to it. The Teepo Palladins on the other hand relied on the force but deprived themselves of everything else besides anonymity and a weapons cache to complement their lightsaber proficiency. More worrisome was the Potentium doctrine, the erasure of the divide between darkness and light which made even Altis apprehensive. Though he himself believed that passion was a source of great strength (the prime tenant of the Sith), he never went as far as believing that amassing power in all its forms was synonymous with knowledge.

Worst of all, Altis now was stuck dealing with Corellians. The older gentlemen escorting Altis was alright; he was a CorSec officer and accustomed to hunting down the smugglers and ruffians that called the core world home. His stepson however was a stereotypical Corellian rogue, albeit a rogue stuck in the vague middle ground between boy and manhood. Valin Halycon had lost his father, Master Neeja Halycon, early in the war. There were many precedents for Corellian Jedi bearing children, but Neeja had never pressed the matter, meaning Valin never lived in the temple. His training came piecemeal, sometimes supplied by Neeja but mostly from his innate instincts being fed by overheard CorSec techniques and quick-witted urchins playing in the streets.

Altis’ escort left him at the gates of the Green Enclave. The Green Enclave was once named after the ancient moniker of the Corellian Knights, a suborder from the era in which Jedi Lords ruled personal fiefdoms during the Great Sith Wars. Now it was known mainly for the oxidized ruins visited by the corellian middle class during vacations and holidays. The Corellian Green Jedi that had stood the test of time had modern lodgings within a cultural center to the south, but they had relocated here in order to make the civilians around it less of a target.
Foreboding hung in the air as did ecstatic hopes for a Jedi renaissance. Altisian youth slyly nudged each other into approaching the reclusive beauties standing by their part masters part fathers, blissfully unaware that the 'best' girls were Ensterites, thus socially barred from copulating with any who lacked pure Corellian blood. The girls in turn sought to tease any helmeted Teepo Palladin who crossed their path in an attempt to figure out how much they could see behind their special visors. All tried to celebrate life, well aware that they might soon meet the same fates as the Orthodox Jedi on Coruscant.

Altis sat in a place of honor at the head of the gathering’s impromptu high council. He was the closest thing these castoffs had to a grand master. He smiled at them, and silently vowed they would continue on long after he passed on. Altis cleared his throat and began to review their battle plan.

Valin followed his stepfather away from the enclave. He had never seen so many Jedi in one place. The thought of them making Corellia their permanent home pleased him, unlike his having to make another trip to CorSec Central Precinct. The officers on duty there always made fun of him for his unusually rushed puberty. Valin smirked; no one believed he was thirteen, not even their daughters.

They returned to the precinct by mid-day. The mood there was very serious, and drained of the unchecked confidence that came with being untouchable embodiments of law and order. Interceptors were being prepped in its vicinity. Officers were being armed with weapons meant for war, not law enforcement. Even the prisoners knew to keep their heads down.

Valin could hear Bel Iblis screaming in the captain’s room. His stepfather gave Valin a look and went inside, knowing full well that the boy would press his ear against the door. Rustek Horn saw Bel Iblis fuming at a holoprojection. Other screens showed star destroyers nearing the shipyards and surrounding the Correlian affiliated Five Brothers Defense Fleet. The clone he was speaking to had had a tattoo surgically removed judging by slight skin discoloring below his temple thanks to the sterile Kaminoans’ re-uniformization initiation, and he looked like he was eager to take his frustrations out on someone.

"I’ll say this for the last time, if you don't want this situation to escalate, you will stop harboring those pirates."

The clone speaking to Iblis was presumably a high ranking figure going by the palladium he wore on his shoulder. That didn't mean Iblis was going to respect him.

"Don’t shout ultimatums at me, you Kath-Mutt, no-one bosses around a Corellian!"

Iblis cut the line.

***

Marshall Commander CC-5052 took that to mean negotiations had failed. He hesitated before giving the attack order. Only after the Kaminoan on deck nodded did he unleash the Z 95 headhunters.

 

Chapter Ten​

“Damned slag-slime.”

Garm Bel Iblis slumped in his chair. This wasn’t the first holocall to drive his staff into consternation, but it might be his last, Ibis thought, judging by the incredulous infuriated glare pointed at him by Director Rostek. No-one had expected him to take his defiance to its logical conclusion. After four years of refusing to join the war, he had brought it to his home’s doorstep.
Rostek wanted to call Iblis a fool. He wanted to collect his family and cower while Corellia faced certain defeat. But Rostek was a Corellian, and understood why his people thrived when the odds were stacked against them. He had been around the Halycons long enough to know that if someone needed to stand up for the underdog, the Force would pick a Corellian to do it.


Rostek saluted the senator. People in CorSec were more than law enforcement. They were warriors and fighter aces and whatever else Corellia needed them to be. Sirens sounded as officers hurried to their posts, Rostek included. A Lancet Interceptor had already been set aside for him. After he said goodbye to Valin, that Interceptor would send Rostek into the fray.


Rostek opened the door to his office, but the boy wasn’t there. Rostek’s heart dropped; he wasn’t the only person who knew about the ship. Rostek rushed to the garage strip, just in time to see it begin its wobbly ascent. Rostek lunged at the Lancet and clung to it in a vain attempt to hold it down.

“Are you insane, boy?!” He said through gritted teeth as wind and dust as overcame him and broke his grip.

“I’ll learn on the way.”

Valin wasn’t being totally serious. His older friends often let him ‘borrow’ speeders when they had the chance. He knew the fundamentals, and reliance on the astromech already aboard could get him through takeoff. Opening himself to the Force would do the rest.

When R3 gave him the go ahead, Valin jerked the yoke and sent the ship hurtling skywards. Lancet Interceptors were swift and nimble vessels that sacrificed precise maneuverability for speed. That had made it feared by smugglers but not so much by sane pilots. Without someone with heightened reflexes at the reins, the Lancet Interceptor was vulnerable, especially if turret fire was at its back and shifting minefields were in its path. The Interceptor would also be at a major disadvantage in a dogfight, as attested to by Tactical Response teams just above him being thinned out by Republic forces.

Valin could compensate for the Lancet’s weaknesses though. With the Force guiding his hand Valin swerved into trajectories the Z95s hadn’t yet decided on at lightning speeds and gunned the z95s down before they could take out his allies. He could tilt the Lancet Interceptor at just the right moment, unblocking the way for stray antiaircraft fire to strike mine clusters, setting off chain reactions that eliminated entire enemy squadrons. The odds were not on his side, but so far that wasn’t stopping the boy from almost single handedly changing the course of the battle.

Valin edged the Lancet alongside a group of orphaned strays attempting to form up into a new squadron. The comms went abuzz with confoundment when R3 told the other astromechs who was strapped inside.

“By the Celestials, is that you, Valin?”

“Anyone need a wingman?” Valin said.

“Seasoned aviators only, kid. Now get out of here before I call your mom.”

“C’mon man, you saw what the brat can do.”

“He’s sloppy!”

“At least he isn’t dead. Okay Valin, stay on my tail and do exactly as I do.”

The battle was intensifying around the Corellian Umbrella Shield. Valin had stopped thinking; he moved on impulse, sometimes allowing easy kills to slip passed him if it meant getting the right Z95 in his sights. If the Umbrella Shield went down the battle would end in a hurry. They needed to keep it functioning long enough for reinforcements to arrive or barring that, until Garm Bel Iblis came to his senses and surrendered.
Missile fire rained down from the upper atmosphere, forcing interceptors to scatter and watch helplessly as anti aircraft platforms and the city blocks around them were reduced to ash. Even if the main generator held, there simply weren’t enough counter batteries to protect everywhere. On top of that, the first wave had just been a show of force. Now the Republic was taking the Corellian defenses seriously and was determined to destroy them. Valin was just a kid, he didn’t belong in a dogfight . As soon as that fear arose, Valin pushed it down. It was too late to back out now.

The battle chatter grew more desperate. A horde of red dots appeared on radar sensors.

"Y Wings inbound."

Valin pressed a few buttons, giving his targeting system a new priority. If they passed through the shield crest, it would all be over. Republic capital ships could destroy whole cities in seconds.

"I'm breaking off in pursuit."

"Negative, Horn. I repeat, negative. We won't be able to keep those bogies off your tail."
Arc snub fighters were escorting in the bombers alongside the regrouped z 95s. Odds for survival based on a few common and unorthodox flight maneuvers fed into the cockpit’s computer systems, none of them looking good.

"Understood."

Valin switched to full manual control before the sputtering R3 could intervene. He jerked the yoke again, his hands a blur of motion between it and the throttle. The Y Wing Bombers were coming in hot. Valin launched his reserve of missiles at the first wave and banked hard to avoid the seeker mines approaching from the right.

A few pilots on the comms cheered. The Y Wings flew like sloths when compared to the Lancet. Their energy weapons weren’t as dangerous as the g-force pressures Valin subjected himself to in dodging them. Not a lot of Y Wings had made it through the mines and the antiaircraft fire, so when they went down there weren’t many replacements to take their place. The celebration quickly stopped, replaced by new frantic calls for Valin to retreat. With fewer and fewer bombers to escort, z 95s began to amass on his position and swarmed Valin as though he’d just punched a hornet’s nest.

Valin took one hit, then two.

Valin switched the comms frequency over to mission control.

"I wanna talk to my step father."

There was brief static on the line, almost imperceptible comparable to pops and noise filtered sonic booms Valin could hear in the cockpit.

"I'm here, boy."

"I met a girl, Rostek."

Valin didn't sound nervous. Horn was too afraid for him to feel pride.

"So you're a teenager."

"It's a little more serious than that."

The three remaining Y wings were closing in on the shield. Val swooped backwards in chase, ignoring the z 95s on his tail.

"My friends will help you find her. Thank you. You were always there for me after Dad died. Do the same for Corran."

"Corran? Who's Corran?!"

Valin Halcyon turned off the comm. Emergency sirens bleated in his ear as his ship was peppered with shots. Valin closed his eyes and let go of all the distractions around him. His hand flicked the trigger, taking out the last Y Wings before he himself disappeared in a puff of fire.

The Clone pilot who shot Valin down wasn't happy. The Y Wings he had been escorting were gone. More would have to be sent into the Corellian meat grinder.

"The bombing run failed, Tin leader. Moving to withdraw."

Tin Leader didn't acknowledge. A Kaminoan spoke to him instead.

"Stay on course, pilot. Do what must be done."

The Kaminoan's voice was cold. There was only one thing a clone could do: obey it.

"Yes, milord."

***

Laat’s burned alongside AT- ATs and Corellian armored vehicles. Altis had just held off the latest ground assault on the Umbrella Shield Generator. He and his closest apprentices meditated atop it, none having been injured in the skirmishes aside from Callista Ming, who had taken some shrapnel to the knee after getting too near to a doomed landing craft. The other Altisians fought elsewhere under Corellian command, keeping the Republic's Self Propelled Heavy Artillery well away from the shield generator.

Altis opened his eyes. Everyone needed rest, including Jedi. As a centenarian Altis needed it more than others. He envied Yoda's ability to draw obscene amounts of energy from the living force as he came to terms with his aching knees.

Rest would have to wait. Altis sensed danger. He slowly struggled to his feet just in time to see Z95s on the horizon. Altis was tired. He'd stay in place after ordering the other Altisians to move inside, confident that the antiaircraft guns would take care of most of the ships. If they didn't he knew the umbrella shield wouldn't be compromised by the impact of their relatively low grade weaponry.

A few z95s stayed in position and flew low. Initially it seemed like they were trying to confuse Corellian radar, but the way they picked up speed the lower they flew could only mean one thing. By the time Altis realized what they had planned, he realized that his body was locked in place. The old man laughed; he had thrown out his back seconds before a kamikaze attack. The frail heretic yelled for his followers to run then returned to his meditations as the Z95s made impact.

***

Bly didn't like sacrificing the lives of his brothers. Yet he had done it a thousand times before, in rearguard actions and desperate last stands in the name of a government that had bought his undying loyalty long before he came out of the pod. Although distasteful, the suicide tactics his Kaminoan General had advised worked; the umbrella shield was damaged and beginning to buckle.

"Move the Acclamators into attack formation" he ordered. "Ignore the mines and focus fire on Coronet City."

His flagship unloaded on the weakening shields. Bel Iblis or the senator's successor would surrender after his capital was ablaze. The rest of the 2nd Army would deal with Correlia's reinforcements. Bly smiled under his helmet; he had won.

Blys wasn't worried when two dozen Jedi starfighters came out of hyperspace. This was an added success: the Jedi pirates had taken the bait. About thirty jedi starfighters were arrayed against him mostly of the older module, with unwieldy hyperspace rings that would be of no use during a hasty retreat. The Delta 7s and Eta-2s looked like they had realized their mistake, and made no attempt to rush to the Corellian lines. Then without warning two hundred dreadnoughts appeared behind them. The Katana Fleet moved as one. No allowing the Republic forces to retreat, no calls for the enemy to stand down, just a barrage of ion cannons and shockwaves in the force caused by unexpected death.

 

Chapter Eleven​

The fortress world of Bys had recently been a place of madness and failure. Now it played host to refugees, ambassadors and the biggest wildcard in galactic affairs since modifiers were added to sabaac. The vaunted Katana Fleet hanging in orbit over the eerie blue green tinged planet had just upended the status quo of the Clone Wars, and by the look on Moff Tarkin’s face, its Imperial masters wished to gloat. His eyes could be chilled and distant when required; the result of a special kind of military discipline that demanded steadfastness even in the face of superiors or choices that might repel lesser pedestrian sentimentalities. In times like this however they were like methane ice, and a single spark could set them alight.

Tarkin took stock of the odd menagerie of guests before him, forcing his forced smile not to appear too much like a sneer. It couldn’t be helped, even the warmest expression looked oddly strained and sinister when touched by Byss’ teal shadows. He sat on one of eight prominent seats situated around a round durasteel table shaped like the spoked Galactic Roundel, otherwise known as the Republic Crest. Attaches and advisors stood slightly behind and to the side of their superiors, with all under the watchful eye of crimson imperial guards and the darkly clothed visored cadets of headmaster Gentis. Ortasil and Moff Yularen were on standby in the other room, ready to share intelligence about Kaminoan capabilities should an alliance be formalized.

Admittedly Tarkin had initially opposed the Imperial intervention over Corellia, wishing instead to hit the Kuat ship yards first than move on the stubborn world after the battle was over and reduce all parties involved to slag. By all rights Tarkin and Iblis were natural enemies, but Moff Disra had convinced him that the propaganda coup that would come with helping the unreasonable Corellian was too good to be rejected out of hand, even at the potential cost of a few ships. Like it or not Corellians were human, therefore armed intervention granted the imperials two key symbolic triumphs early in their insurgency, the first being a bold realization of their humanity first agenda, the other an open declaration that the Cloners could not put down internal dissent. As expected, balance between hope and fear successfully led worlds like Eriadu to quickly swear allegiance to the Imperial cause in the wake of the attack. Siennar had also been impressed, leading to it fast tracking the production of drone models of Tie fighters which would make up for the Imperial’s continued man power shortages.

Those in attendance would make for strange bedfellows; some were more reserved than others, yet none completely able to hide old contempt for their saviors. Bel Iblis was quiet so far much to Tarkin’s chagrin; he may have pestered Palpatine past the acceptable parameters of an elected official during the slow march towards the new order, but he was also the leader of one of the largest diasporas of mankind in the universe, and as such could pull many strings within what COMPNOR had termed human high culture. Before Tarkin could have him assassinated, the scoundrel had taken full control of the dreadnought that had ushered him and his people to safety and was unsubtly keeping it primed for a kamikaze run into imperial headquarters if negotiations soured. Leaving privates, training droids and impassioned merchants to take charge of the Corellian home fleet so experienced officers and naval veterans could sneak aboard evac ships and help pilot Kattana vessels left undermanned after by the Spaarti incident had been a stroke of genius on his part: it was always useful to bring underlings willing to sacrifice their lives if so ordered.

Tarkin couldn’t expect the same from his own people. To his left was a patrician looking Chandrilian with a pronounced gut and a ridiculous curled mustache. Tarkin surmised by his outdated male affectation that his thoughts were proudly stuck in the past, which would make him a useful pawn to turn against the soft progressivism of Mon Mothma. Every oligarch, no matter how just was at all times surrounded in a morass of privilege and lesser houses envious of their status. So long as she was paid in ships, Admiral Zsinj would find little difficulty in corralling those ambitions for the benefit of herself, her boy and her benefactors. To Tarkin’s right was a young photogenic COMPNOR fanatic pulled straight from the throng of disillusioned navy cadets being retrained in General Gentis’ growing list of hidden academies. This was another pet project of his fellow Moffs, the first in a long line of fools who would espouse the dignity of throwing away their lives in the name of honor and heroics. This was another bit of foolishness Tarkin would have to stomach for the time being; he’d much rather rally on simple impressment, which would both expand operations and give him the means to demonstrate the folly of resistance should anyone not comply.

The new officers reeked of entitlement and idealism. Tarkin had also come from wealth, yes, but it had always been coupled with one hard reminder: his privilege was conditional. One embarrassment too many and he’d be cast aside, forsaken amongst the beasts and savages that made his home planet so inhospitable to all those who could not retreat to the protection afforded by his social class’s patrician opulence. Being reared in such a way taught a man to be utilitarian and brutal, which was quite unlike the leisurely camaraderie that was beginning to infect his navy. It would be some time before he could act with the needed levels of severity towards those who were more loyal to their own idealized versions of the New Order and personal warlords than the Moffs that were to rule it. Until that time came Tarkin would have to turn a blind eye to their pride and lack of fear: It was already hard enough for each ship to stay manned properly without descending into brigandry.

Senator Amidala was also in attendance via holoprojection. She was a beautiful woman to be sure but Tarkin still held her in contempt, not because of duplicity or greed but rather due to the self stymieing hypocrisy her foolish convictions were steeped in. It could be admitted that the Naboo Crisis over ten years prior had spurred Palpatine to power, but if not for her planet’s naivety it would never have been victimized in the first place. Naboo was liberated by a backwards subspecies and their Jedi cohorts, not because of her leadership. Upon election to the Senate she had bafflingly argued against the collective response to disorder that a grand army would allow, preferring instead to fruitlessly negotiate with tricksters and charlatans that had already failed her once before, damning a thousand other backwaters in the outer rim to suffer an even worse fate than that of the briefly yoked Naboo. One fleeting victory had made her a pacifist, and despite her histrionic appeals for harmony and compromise, in the end she always seemed to find herself reliant upon men of action who knew their way around a conflict, and who were willing to do the things she would not.
Tarkin scoffed and turned away from the senator. He hadn’t yet decided if she was more afraid of loss of life or how her set of ethics could be rationalized if they needed a few deaths in order to survive. If not for liberal weakness, the clones wouldn’t have been needed to save her and a sizable portion of the Jedi when the Separatists’ obvious intentions to conquer the galaxy were revealed. Conscripts from across the core, mid-rim and beyond would have put down any nascent hostilities through strong preemptive force, and it would have been uncompromising men like Tarkin who’d have led them. History would have absolved him of any excesses he committed to secure a lasting peace.

Yet even she would have her uses. Amidala’s incessant protests of military spending was already a war of attrition all its own, albeit not one that Tarkin saw as valuable on its own merits, but rather as a practical means of weakening the resolve of collaborationists while slowly shrinking the enemy’s war chest. Tarkin turned his attendance to the others in attendance. A few sycophants and apparatchik bartered away whole systems on one side of the room while half listening to weapons manufacturers jealously criticize the designs of Rothana Heavy Engineering, which had come to nearly corner the market in regards to the Republic war machine.

Then there was young Lux Bonteri, son of traitors, former separatist and foolish boy who’d wasted more time casting quick sidelong glances at his slim hooded aide than he did paying attention to those appraising him. In his youth Tarkin had shared that carnal weakness, at least until he learned to stay clearly on one side of the line between attraction and affection while interacting with those of the opposite sex. While marked out for eventual purging once the Empire regained power over the cosmos, Bonteri had admittedly driven the separatists from Onderan without overt Republic assistance, making his insurgency methods of some interest to the other moffs. The boy was obviously afraid that he’d lose her like he had his parents and comrades but had brought her along because he understood the suffering his planet had suffered after foolishly believing it could choose neutrality in the midst of a galactic war.

Tarkin could read the fear of insignificance, future turmoil and being wrong in all of them. He could use that fear and time tested gunboat diplomacy to carve a niche for himself while the galaxy collapsed, then pick up the pieces and become the emperor Palpatine should have been. There was just one real obstacle presented before him. The Moff and almost everyone else in the room glanced at Master Shaaday. All Jedi were still technically enemies of the late Emperor and by extension the Imperial Remnant, yet she had come alone and uncloaked, the light saber on her hip in full view, and her demeanor very confident for someone whose order was supposed to be nearing oblivion. The Imperial Guard kept their weapons trained on her at all times, some almost giddily awaiting a pretense to fire while more experienced soldiers gritted their teeth behind their crimson face masks. She was not afraid.

The Jedi feigned disinterest during the proceedings so far, which was strange for someone who was neither invited to nor officially informed about the location of the meeting. Her starfighter being able to follow the Katanna fleet in and out of a dozen classified hyperspace lanes without following any beacons was an unheard of feat even by the standards of mystics. More unheard of was how she timed entering the fray during the Corellian skirmish mere moments before the arrival of Imperials who had given her no reason to believe her Jedi cohorts were expecting rescue. Saving the lives of force users had been an unfortunate caveat of the successful operation. Either she could read minds or the Jedi also knew how to access the deep core hyperspace routes charted in Palpatine’s secret files. It occurred to Tarkin that like the young Onderani, Master Shaaday was also fixated on the Bonteri boy’s aide. Tarkin did not understand why it had taken this long for him to realize that she was Ahsoka Tano. He punched an order in his datapad for her to also to be targeted.
One by one the attendees fell silent, no longer able to ignore the tense half movements of the guards.

“Before we begin in earnest,” Tarkin said stiffly, “let it be said that I do not expect your gratitude. The old adage stating how the enemy of my enemy is my friend was composed by a desperate liar. It will however serve our collective interests.”

“We both know cooperation is unfeasible, governor.” Shaaday responded stoicly. “You will never share power and we will never give it to you.”

A few cadets gripped their gunstocks. Sensing a brewing confrontation, the other moffs slunk away like the cowards they were, ceding authority in this matter to Tarkin, their de facto leader. He raked a finger over his medals, a disparaging gesture in military circles that signaled being below the criticisms of an inferior.

“There is no need for histrionics at this time, master Jedi, the embers of your religion have little left. The Empire could lend your people the resources and sanctuary needed to recover and serve a modern galaxy, but a non-aggression pact will suffice.”

“There will be no deals, governor.”

Tarkin sighed and tapped the table, signaling his enforcers to ready themselves.

“Then why, pray tell, are you here?”

“To speed things along.”

As if on cue, a few battered frigates and corvettes exited hyperspace. The feint over Arkania had failed exactly as planned. What was left of this portion of Kota’s militia had allowed itself to be tagged by a homing beacon and the courageous skeleton crew still on board were soon shredded by the pursuing five o’ 1sts turbolasers. Both sides seemed to need a moment to digest what they had stumbled into, then the sky was awash in missiles, bombing sorties and a mad dash to gain an advantage before reinforcements could arrive.

Panic then rage swept through the defenders. The Imperials had enough dreadnoughts and Carrack cruisers to survive an engagement, but Tarkin knew the victory would be pyric. Shaaday wanted to whittle down his ranks before they could become a threat and seemed to not mind putting the Altisians in danger in order to do it. Byss would have to abandoned.
It occurred to him that Shaaday had an edge to her that her kind usually repressed and a willingness to rationalize any sacrifice as the will of the force. This made her dangerous. Even the portly noble had his weapon pointed in the Jedi's direction.

"You have violated a flag of truce, maddam."

Shaaday's smug expression turned stoney.

"Do not speak to me of traditions, we created most of them millennia before your house stopped toiling in the mud. The tyrant Palpatine bent them for evil in ways you cannot even imagine, that time has passed. Before we begin, let me show you."

Shaaday paused when a guardsman's glove touched her shoulder, lending her some of his power. Removing his cloak and cowl, it was revealed to be Arana. Other Jedi such as the Dark Woman also removed their disguises, causing the cowed Corellian to slowly place his blaster on the table. A rush into and out of the room took place as both Tarkin and Shaaday remained motionless facing each other.

Flashing images raced through their minds. They watched Jedi, aware that their connection to the Force was clouded, nevertheless rush to devote themselves to the institutions and ideals of the Republic. It in turn burned away their ethics and dignity, every sacrifice second guessed by resentful careerists, every victory another step towards their own destruction. Sidious' greatest enemy was his favorite weapon, and he used it until it broke, gunned down by the same warriors they had treated with dignity over the course of the war. Ahsoka scowled as Tarkin, the lecher who had accused her of treason, showed no signs of pity or remorse as he typed away at his datapad, undoubtedly calling for more reinforcements.

The images cycled again and again back to Palpatine’s unhinged cackling laughter. If Palpatine really had secretly masterminded the conflict, all claims to his legitimacy were worse than discredited. The Imperial remnant, like the Republic and CIS, would splinter and collapse into shock and disbelief, in effect cutting its own wrists. The COMPNOR youth could not tolerate his beloved leader being slandered in such a way. Thinking better than to take the first shot at a Jedi though, he instead aimed his blaster at Lux Bonteri in an attempt to use the sympathizer's death to throw his enemies off balance. Ahsoka reacted by instinct, jamming her lightsaber through the fanatic's wrist deep into his chest. The choice had been forced upon her, but after being once again feeling the wound in the force caused by Order 66, she doubted that she would have maintained her neutrality. Whether it was their way or not, the revenge of the Jedi had begun.

Ortasil ran as fast as he could away from the slaughter. Blasterfire and explosions rang out in all directions. In the courtyard below him, a stray Altisian similarly fled towards the Chuunthor, and was gunned down in the crossfire between ARC landing parties and ISB marksmen. V wings dive bombed refueling fighter squadrons and danced in the night sky with the personally modified uglies naïve pilots had hobbled together to get to where they’d now die. Everywhere was fire and pain and it was all his fault.

Ortasil’s fawning allegiance to the new order had triggered order one. The clones were going to destroy everything he had devoted his life to, just as they had destroyed the temple. Ortasil stopped running. Rather than heading for the escape craft, he had somehow doubled back towards the conference chamber, taken a left and was now at an obvious dead end. It made less sense than why he was so fixated on trying to remember the minor details of Operation Knightfall, from the names of the politicians who knew of the operation to its participants and those marked out for capture rather than termination. Instead of trying to save his own life, Ortasil was wasting time concentrating on the brief glimpse he had of the one codenamed Vader marching up steps. Only when he heard the snap hiss of a lightsaber behind him did Ortasil realize that Shaaday was controlling his mind. She had drew him back to gather information, and by the look on her face it was obvious she had siphoned all the information he could give.

Ahsoka watched her from the other end of the hallway. A few more Jedi had been lost during the firefight along with many delegates and high ranking imperials, Tarkin included. Thanks to Ahsoka’s intervention Bel Iblis and Lux had made it out in one piece, though their respective entourages were less fortunate. As a service to Padme, Ahsoka slashed the holoprojector that linked her to this ill fated negotiation. The senator didn’t need to see Shaaday cut down a helpless man.

 

Chapter Twelve​

All life requires energy. All energy, like life, must transform, and through its own decay feed into new transformations. The Living Force pulsed through the roots of vegetables as it did the veins of livestock. Once the ego was factored out, those in touch with this power no longer fretted over which biologic kingdom could or could not be consumed. Everything was sanctified, from the smallest leaf to the fattest cattle.

The Agriculture Corps had come to Dantooine to farm. After the battle won by Master Windu in the early days of the Clone Wars, they instead spent most of their time recycling or disposing of all the weapons and scrap that coated the planet’s otherwise idyllic prairies. A contingent of Republic clones had always been nearby to protect them from scavengers and other criminals looking to try their hand at becoming arms dealers. After Order 66 the clones were looked at very differently.

The Agriculture Corps had a reputation for filling its ranks with Jedi washouts. It took many years for some to give up on their dreams of becoming Padawans. It had been hoped that being fated to mind the soil would bring them a sense of oneness with nature that they had failed to grasp during their childhood of austere contemplation. Jolne was one such example, a human boy only 14 years of age already resigned to a lifetime of a job he felt he needed but did not in any way desire. Jolne had wanted to be a hero, and for this reason Jolne idolized those who fought in the war and thought little of the lives lost to it. For that reason, no master had chosen Jolne to be their apprentice, their existential weariness of the conflict and its futility having reached its apex in the weeks before Sidious revealed himself.

Jolne was one of the last discarded cast offs dumped on the farming world. He had been brash and ready to pick on any who questioned the war effort here as well, but even in his humiliation Jolne remained utterly loyal to the Order. News of what had happened could not be kept under wraps. The Agricultural Corps was now in a dangerous limbo. Not Jedi enough to be culled but too Jedi to be left unattended, Jolne spent the following weeks wondering what his clone heroes would do to him if he tried to leave.

He put down his hoe. A ship was touching down, but not the one that usually brought supplies. The clones watched it without too much concern. They’d follow orders one way or another, and either accept the goods or send the merchants on their way.

Two Zabrak women came down the ramp. They both looked athletic, the younger one carrying an air of moodiness about her that transcended teenage rebellion. The girl obviously hated clones, but the clones were getting used to that and elected to focus on their tractor repair manuals rather than confront her. The commander had chewed them out enough times for not looking for something useful to do rather than loitering around intimidate the traders.

The older Zabrak approached the clone in charge.

"We have the seeds you requisitioned."

The Commander, who had been given the nickname GreenThumb by his bored men, looked at the datapad he cradled.

"Hold on, there might have been a mix up in the last order. My logs say the seed banks won't need to be replenished until the following harvest. We could always use more fertilizer though if you have it."

"Regular seed rotation is a must if you want to keep these fields fertile, not chem baths."

"That's what the last trader said, and now I'm sitting on a stunted crop yield that didn't grow right without -you guessed it- fertilizer. I don't care if we take shortcuts, the next batch needs to bigger."

Jolne noticed that while they bartered the younger Zabrak was scrutinizing every inch of the terrain. She winked at Jolne and pointed a small laser at the largest concentration of troopers.

They noticed, but before they could do anything about it, Jedi Starfighters were diving into view and taking shots that danced around the Agriculture Corps and straight into the clones. Yellow lightsabers ignited in the hands of the Zabraks, quickly piercing a few armored chests. Zolne did his part, calling a droid’s old blaster to his hand and using it to shoot retreating stragglers in the back.

Bol Chetek turned back into the ship, disgusted with herself. Maris Brood on the otherhand was elated at having finally gotten some well deserved revenge. Master Shaaday passed Chetek on her way out of the vessel and patted the younger Zabrak on the back, as if to say she had done well. Shaaday then went to praise Jolne’s initiative. She would need it in the violent days to come.

The Chu’unthor touched down nearby. It wasn’t alone; dozens of ships large and small had answered the beacon and were also converging on Dantoine. Flying Thranta Rays landed on their hulls as they descended, a power sucking nuisance now but a steady supply of meat for later. Rolling hills and golden fields for as far as the eye could see played host to Corellians and Altisians, a band of younglings under the watchful eye of K'Kruhk and Alderaanian dotors. The acres of wreckage still on the ground would supply them with cover. Even the Altisian Rangers, a blue capped paramilitary strictly loyal to but dismissed by the Council for centuries had made an appearance. Their devotion would no longer be rejected by those who preferred to set themselves apart from the galaxy and meditate rather than do real good.

Shaaday watched the tearful greetings between friends lost to each other since becoming padawans. She bowed to Rahm Kota and nodded to potential fighting men who once resigned themselves to a life of quiet farming. She met with Quinlan Vos plus every other survivor that had come and looked with compassion on the physical and mental scars they’d sustained. The pain they had suffered was still raw, but it had unexpectedly reminded them of connections to the Force they had forgot existed, and the potentialities the old jedi order had forgotten amidst the aftermath of the Russan Reformation and the slow machinations of the Sith.

Their next destination was the Prism. The hidden ghost prison was a foreboding jagged space station long hidden in the depths of space, a secret repository of the enemies of the Jedi that had been kept hidden from the Senate, the Chancellor and even most Jedi Knights since the forebears of the Sith first threatened to cast the galaxy into darkness. With the Emperor dead there was not much reason to hide their force presences, but unfortunately Shaaday and the other members of the new Council knew they could not return to their familiar haunts while still at war with the rest of the galaxy. Therefore it was decided to trade off the least dangerous war criminals to the Confederacy in order to make room for survivors.

***

The Prism conclave was stacked with Shaaday’s people. Khota and Arana were eager to strike more shatterpoints like they had done at Byss and accelerate the collapse of future enemies. Visions of the future were coming to them more clearly than they had in a centuries, but as always there were in flux, a multitudinous array of possibilities seen all at once rather than sorted by cause and effect. Sia-Lan Wezz would support their strategies and gambits while focusing on establishing places of reclusion for the decimated knighthood.

The others had a say as well: Wounded Callista Ming had become the leader of the Altisian movement after the death of its founder, Altis. Some had insisted that she and her people be cast out, but there were historical precedents for the rules against child rearing being laxed whenever a species was nearing extinction, and from a certain point of view that line of thinking could be extended to strong force users. To make sure the pendulum did not shift too far in one direction, The Dark Woman had all but demanded to be on the Ghost Prison council as a counterweight. She was brutal and venomous when she needed to be, but also deeply adherent to rules against attachment and the never ending mission to crush the dark side wherever it burst forth. Only Master Luminara wholly adhered to the restrictive doctrine of the old Jedi Order, which had already compromised most of its ascetic pacifist ideals in the name of expediency.

Dogma and tactics would be sorted out in time. Master Shaaday had not lost the pride Yoda had warned her about, nor did she feel the need to. As she saw it, the Old Jedi Order had failed because it had surrendered its knowledge to the ignorance of the mob, its peace to the emotional sectarianism of politicians and its harmonious defense of the light to the worldly chaos of the Dark Side. The New Jedi Order had to evolve. It would serve only the will of the Force, no matter the cost.

****

Twin suns burned low over the deserts of Tatoiine. If they could think, they would spare no sympathy for the civilized wretches living on the planet. Like the Bantha, most of the inhabitants were beasts of burdens for criminal cartels, spending their life scrounging for enough to buy their freedom, only to slowly lose it to extortion. Their only hope in life was to be left alone and live in peace, no matter how unjust.

Justice was not necessary on this planet. The Bantha Bull that won his mates through strength did not have to be stronger or more fit than his rival, just lucky enough to have recently been favored by the unreliable water sources that shifted with the planet’s sand dunes. The largest beasts were the ones must likely to end up on a dinner plate. Those who survived took, and no scum took more than the Hutts.

Slimy, grotesque and vile by nature, lack of justice made the Hutts strong. Strength and stability helped them to maintain and spread their hierarchy into the galactic underworld, and through it straight into the halls of states and polite society. Societies were always filled with petty tyrants and unwashed masses willing to rationalize this simple cut throat reality. Gangsters became governments and protection rackets became publicly celebrated treaties again and again over the course of galactic history, and in the tens of thousands of years since the expansion of the Hutt space, it was common for corporations and politicians to come before the Hutts with bargains framed with the empty ethics of legality. This time it was the Republic bearing gifts, eager to pay for the expansion of their alliance.

A'Sharad Hett had been given a carte blanche to punish this relationship. Hett had been brought up in the merciless culture of the sand people and had left them when his father had passed and their strength had been broken, an action that was as acceptable in their culture as leaving a straggler to die of thirst on a dune. The Jedi had once turned their nose at this reality, but times had changed. By allowing himself to be both a Tusken and a Jedi, Hett had quickly amassed a warband capable of taking cities like Mos Eisley in hours.

The Force was so raw in this arid place. It did not punish predators for consuming prey. Falling into the jaws of the krayt dragon was as natural as succumbing to old age. Shaaday and the others could tell themselves that they were knights on crusade reestablishing a great and terrible covenant with the light side, but Hett did not need such self deceptions. Destruction was of the Dark Side and the Dark Side was of the Force, life without either was impossible.

Hett pointed his gaffi stick at the nearest homestead. In his way were ranchers, farmers and slaves determined to cling to the scraps of wasteland they had taken for themselves. These were the so called innocents the Old Jedi Order had sworn to protect before Sidious had clouded their connection to the war and dragged them into a pointless war. These unfortunates lived stubborn but honest little lives moisture farming for Jabba so he could enjoy the luxury of sweat. They didn't think about the morning dew being stolen from Tusken villages just over the horizon. They wouldn’t peaceably allow the gathered Tuskan clans to drink from their wells during the march on Jabba’s palace. If he tried to go around, the warband would be discovered. Sand lashed at Hett’s mask as he watched a childless couple be dragged from their hovel. He felt an echo of destiny go unfulfilled as he passed their corpses and hoped the Force had been with them.

 

Chapter Thirteen​

Ahsoka and the others were essentially out of danger once they made it to a ship. The Katana Fleet and the ragtag Imperial Navy had been caught completely off guard by the arrival of Kota’s militia and the Republic, but it had the numbers and firepower needed to ensure a successful retreat. That had been the plan all along: a partial decapitation strike wouldn’t be enough to end the Imperial threat on its own, but it would lay the seeds for a contested line of succession that would lead to bickering warlords and the stunting of the Remnant. Already some cruisers were breaking formation and retreating to their home worlds or the warm embrace of pirates scattered throughout wild space.
The raid been successful, but that didn’t mean Ahsoka had to like it. Now that the shock caused by the psychic images of Order 66 pulled from the Moffs’ minds had passed, she was beginning to question the necessity of what had happened. Ahsoka had only acted in self defense, she thought to herself, similarly to the desperate battle with the Trandoshan hunters way back on Kayshyk. Despite her righteous anger towards them and their crimes, she had still given their leader the chance to surrender, even when it was obvious that their struggle would be to the death. These people however were too confident in the justness of what they had to do to even consider offering Tarkin the option to come quietly.

It was obvious that Ahsoka wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Master Bultar Swan had reconstructed her lightsaber at least three times since entering hyperspace. Her partner Wilgrahm however was less bothered, an openly believed they had gotten what they deserved. The council had trusted in the will of the force and brought down agents of the dark side before they could enable more atrocities.

Ahsoka wouldn’t let the conversation end at that.

“In my experience, trusting the force and trusting the council are two very separate things,” she said somewhat bitterly. The transition from Jedi generals to Jedi guerrillas was getting too messy. Wilgrahm’s rebuttal was no less conciliatory.

“ I see you have not forgotten your master’s teachings, Padawan Tano, I hope in time you will reflect on the suffering they brought him.”

Ahsoka barred her teeth. Even after his presumed death, the other Jedi still resented Anakin Skywalker. The thought of them passing judgement after being wrong a million times before infuriated her. conversation was abruptly ended by Swan slamming the pieces of her lightsaber onto the crafting table. She had also not exactly been close to Skywalker, but there were unspoken rules against openly criticizing someone’s old student or teacher. She went to meditate in the sleeping quarters as Wilgrahm quickly apologized.

Swan parted ways with Ahsoka and Lux before entering Coruscanti customs. She and Wilgrahm were going to stay on the planet for awhile to check up on something. Ahsoka was a little relieved. With Saul Guerrera now a general in the Onderanian military (a military that wasn’t afraid to pursue members of the former Techno Union which had looted Onderan during the occupation) it would just be her and Lux spending time together, which was a nice change of pace. Just her, Lux, a few dozen collaborators, coconspirators and the horde of functionaries serving a underground vanguard party trying to whip up the support of almost a trillion beings and Wilgrahm sticking around for a few days to set up a safe house. The male jedi even addressed the elephant in the room when he thought they were alone a few hours after settling in.

“You are not the first young padawan to have a dalliance, Ashoka. Many lifeforms are actually jealous of our ability to choose partners without forming attachments.”
Ashoka rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to ask if the laser sword hidden inside his cloak was a short saber. As if on cue Lux joined them on the balcony holding two mugs filled with a steaming mixture of tea and Alderanian brandy. “It’s good to hear male fantasies have not been expunged from your order” he said with a smile and handed Ashoka the other drink. Name laughed and drew up his hood. “There is no passion, senator, only serenity. I would explain these things to you more clearly, but I have another mission to attend to tonight. The jedi Knight nodded to the couple and hopped into his speeder, quickly disappearing to the sea of neon traffic that acted as stars in the Coruscant night’s skyline.
She didn’t need to put labels on whatever it was that they shared. Where they were staying was admittedly romantic, a penthouse suite owned by the Onderanian consulate far removed from pedestrian concerns below. More importantly it was one of the only places on the planet that could be said to have real roof access; from this height she could reach out and attune to the heart of the world city, and in so doing zero in on his warmth. There was a reason why billions of sentients risked generations of abject poverty to come here. Anything was possible for people like her and Lux. Every moment was significant; every second the beginning of a new life. All she had to do was focus on their bond and not let it be tangled in the knotting whirlwind of strife that made the planet and the galaxy tick. Sadly the grandeur and the burden of sensing these things was not something she could give up in exchange for a simpler life, it blared too loud to be tuned out, especially now.
Ahoka sensed danger. “There is some sort of commotion a click or two from here,” Lux said after being told to check it out, shifting into the tone he had used during bouts of sentry duty in the Onderanian jungle. He handed her a pair of macrobinoculars and to her disbelief Ashoka saw through them a golden protocol droid stiffly make its way across a foyer. “Is that Threepio?” she asked, growing concerned by the implications of its presence. Sweeping the binoculars around the immediate area, she noticed a cloaked man waiting to be let in. A few guards who must have been arguing with him judging by the acoustic scanner built into the binoculars had gone silent and were waiting almost too patiently with him, as though they had been convinced he owned the place. Watching the droid open the door and be flung across the room by a force push was enough to draw her to her feet and rush towards Lux's ship as he told her through his coms about the black wrapped intruder used lightning fast unarmed techniques to dispatch the hapless naboo security in his path.

There was no time to plot a course. Ashoka simply let hopped in her parked antigrav schooner and let it rise up and fall off the high rise, trusting that her minimal steering would guide the vessel between throngs of air traffic rushing in all directions around her to Padme’s suite. Leaving the auto computer to deal with landing, she shattered the pilot's window and leaped through it into the room. Bodies lay groaning on the floor, none dead but also none without cuts and brutal bone breaks. Ahsoka sensed the woman in the panic room surrounded by security all believing she to be the target, all imploring her to not rush to what she knew to be true target. Ashoka also sensed someone slipping through a hidden door on the other side of the apartment. Gathering the force within her, Ahsoka slammed through it, the sound of the crash startling awake Luke and Leia. Ahsoka gasped when she realized that it was Wilgrahm who was looming by their side.


…
Wilgrahm appraised her sternly. He, his eyes haggard and his disheveled, he looked like something terrible had happened to him since he left. His weapon was visible and in striking motion of the twins, but he made no attempt to streak back and take them hostage. Instead he raised one arm towards Ahsoka in a gesture akin to a slow open palm strike. Ahsoka ignited the yellow lightsabers she had received on Kessel in anticipation of a blast of force lightning and left them on when Wilgrahm’s hand dropped and his eyes drifted back to searching the room. Ahsoka had been in enough battles to tell that he was exhibiting the symptoms of a man who was holding off shell shock by shutting down almost everything except his drive to complete a mission.
She wasn’t going to wait around for him to tell her what it was. Reaching out with the force, she attempted to grab away the lightsaber on his belt. Turning his attention back to her, he swiftly twitched his wrist and caught it midflight, still making sure not to activate the blade. They would come to blows soon if he remained silent.
“I have a gift similar to Vos’ telemetry,” he explained, “it helps me track the echoes of a person’s force signature; what they’ve done, where they’re going and the like. After what we felt on Bys, Master Shaaday sent me to investigate the Sith’s role in the attack on the temple. I don’t just collect evidence; I relive it. I felt his need to destroy us. The hate was cathartic and empowering in a way I can’t even describe.”
A round holoprojector became to flash on his belt. Ahsoka didn’t think he was ignoring it, he was just laser focused on why he had come.
“I thought the trail led here,” he said before once again falling silent.
Ahsoka loosened her stanced a bit but remained on guard. Something about the way he looked at her wasn’t right.
“Palpatine was here, he tried to steal Padme’s children after the attack. Their father…their father was strong in the force.”
Wilgrahm’s glower after she said that unnerved her. Just a few hours earlier he had been nonchalant about such things. Stamping boots interrupted their privacy. Padme pushed her way to the front, holstering her weapon only after noticing Ahsoka. Jaur raised his semi clenched palm again this time at the senator, causing a dozen guards to put him in their cross sights. Then, satisfied that she had been with him recently, Wilgrahm called the holoprojector to his hand. Twisting it, he rejected the call and started the recording. In it, Anakin Skywalker became a monster.


The holoprojector sputtered out then clicked back to life. Shaaday appeared on screen, visibly frustrated by Wilgrahm’s actions.
“We need to know if you’ve heard from him, senator.”Wilgrahm said.
The children’s force signature mirrored their father’s. It had also influenced Padme’s, the natural result of the bonds that form between husband and wife.
“We need to know if someone with your influence had known what he had become.”
To have done nothing in the face of such villainy would have made her a monster as well, Ahsoka knew, one that would need to be removed from power by any means necessary. As if from far away, Padme’s mind barely absorbed the fact that she could have been killed that night. She wished that Ahsoka had not interfered, and that they granted her a sudden merciful death. The emotions she was experiencing were beyond shamed grief. For a time Padme had hoped desperately that Anakin was a member of the Jedi splinter group that had been making things so chaotic. She lingered in the old clandestine meeting places waiting for him to suddenly grip her in his arms, but his touch never came. Now she was grateful that he was dead. Anakin was capable of many things, but he would have never been able to care for a cause more than he cared for her, no matter how taxing it was on his spirit. His love was an obsession, and it would likely fatally poison her if she was subjected to it again after this sickening revelation.

Ahsoka in turn was locked between trying to scream and letting herself collapse, so she locked her lightsabers to her belt and sat down on a fallen pillar, struggling to process what had happened. She had held some of those younglings in her arms and had guided others through the milestones along their journey to becoming full fledged padawans. Her master couldn’t have harmed them, yet the holorecording played sequence after sequence of slaughter, starting with little Ganodi hiding behind a bookshelf and culminating with a group of small children. He had murdered them all.
The scenes were gruesome, but the worst thing about them was that she instantly knew it was really him in the videos. In a galaxy full of shape-shifters, camouflage droids and deep faked docudramas, it was wise not to put too much trust in one’s eyes. Yet the way Anakin carried himself was the same as how he’d been while under the influence of the Son on Mortis. No one could mimic such menace and fevered relentlessness. Her master had fallen to the Dark Side, and she hadn’t been there to bring him back to the light.
Horror had left her emotionally exhausted. Ahsoka looked up to see the holoprojection of Master Shaaday looking at her, waiting for her to make another realization.
“There’s more.” Ahsoka said, a statement rather than a question.
Wilgrahm tensed again.
“You sense the potential of the children. A power like that left untamed is dangerous both for others and for themselves.”
Ahsoka tried to get ahold of herself and looked in Padme’s direction. She had expected the former queen to make shouted threats that sounded like royal edicts, and to promise to bring war upon anyone who touched Luke and Leia. Instead she seemed far away: her pain had crippled her.
“I will train them,” Ahsoka said. Padme would never recover if someone else took her kids. This had to be her responsibility, she had to honor what Anakin once was and make sure his progeny never turned into what he had become.
Bultar Swan climbed through a broken window into the room and ignited her lightsaber. She was controlling her breathing, swiftly and silently incapacitating clones making their way to the group had been taxing, especially after being unbalanced by the day’s events. the Naboo guards breathed a sigh of relief when Swan advanced on Wilgrahm. His excessive break in must have not been a part of the plan, if there had been one. She glared at him until he relinquished his saber and left with her quietly. With him gone, the holoprojection of Shaaday turned her attention completely to Ahsoka. Though her words were harsh, they was a hint of pity in her voice.
“We will need to test the validity of Skywalker’s teachings before determining if they should be passed on to the next generation. Are you willing to submit to the judgment of the Order, and in so doing, return to it?”
Ahsoka assented via brief eye contact. All the self-assuredness had melted away. Falling back on the rigidity and guidance of the order, no matter how tainted, was preferable to dealing with this alone.
“Then, padawan Tahno, so begins your trials.”

 

Chapter Fourteen​

Time passes. Hopes emerge and are dashed. Lives are wasted in the pursuit of pulling strings that have already been cut. Wars rage on, mere harbingers of the devastation that is to come. In many ways no one learns from the slaughter, much is ignored and justified when done by an ally. In other ways, industry and ingenuity breed new dangers grown atop healthy feat of the threats that came before.
***
“He’s just a kid, Scorch.”

“Technically he’s older than both of us.”

A vibroknife quietly went into the chest of a test subject that had strayed too far from his cell. Before the captured COMPNOR youth could gasp for his last breath of air he was being dragged mouth covered into a crawlspace to die. This latest test did not necessarily involve those who were having their genetic code studied and rearranged, but it would be safer to eliminate them in case the true targets were nearby. Delta Squad knew that one should never take unnecessary risks while hunting Jedi.

The endless storms of Kamino were more vicious than they remembered. Wreckage from the last battle about 3 years ago still made travel to and from the planet perilous, making tractor beams necessary to clear the path offworld. Climatologists had concluded that all the energy expended during the attack had changed something in the upper atmosphere, which was the source of the stronger wind gusts and occasional torrents of acid rain.

On a positive note the endless thunder and huge splashes caused by space debris crashing into the anarchic world ocean muffled the sound of their movement, making stealth much easier. This section of the cloning facility was still undergoing repairs, and there were many blackout areas, ruptures and hollowed out spaces a Commando could make his way through undetected. Delta Squad moved to their next target one crevasse at a time using service tunnels and ventilation shafts that reeked of claustrophobia, sometimes having to stop and use special lasers to chip away at overly narrow paths.

Much had changed since Fixer, Boss and Scorch lost their pod brother Sev on Kashykk. Scorch had been the funny man of the group before that fateful day. Now his few attempts at jokes were bitterly acerbic. The last time Scorch authentically laughed had been when he and his squadmates were laying down suppressing fire on an advancing Jedi. The squad had expected the knight to force push an incoming incendiary grenade out of the way, giving them a pinpoint opening to pepper him with blaster shots. They didn’t think he’d try to use his blue lightsaber to bat it aside, or that contact with the grenade would set the Jedi’s cloak on fire. “That’s going in my highlight reel” Scorch had said as Boss put down the target.

The force users in this place were even less impressive. Their reflexes were barely on par with that of padawans, and they lacked the muscle memory to fluidly enact the techniques flash printed into them. In his briefing Boss was planning to recommend that the next batch be given at least an extra year or two to gestate, rather than four year accelerated process that was bringing down the quality of clones across the GAR. He was starting to think this Starkiller program was a waste of resources, but at least it was a good training exercise for his squad.
They was only one cloned Jedi left. Boss held up his fist, motioning for his brothers to hold position. It looked like another aberration. The rain hitting the exposed platform where it meditated was slightly caustic, but the pale skinned being did not recoil from the pain or move in any way as Delta Squad took up firing positions. The downpour and the raging sea were one, a primordial interchanging chaos.

Boss was starting to wonder why its type tended to corner themselves in this place, or why this was the only area of the cloning facility near completely obliterated by capital ship fire. His objective was combat training though, not behavioral observation, so he and his squad set aside their curiosity and prepared to fire. As soon as they did, the commandos were in the air being sucked forward. They had the wherewithal to pepper it with shots, which were stoically ignored like the crushing pain caused by Delta Squad’s armor being pushed through tendons and ankles. Soon Delta squad would be repulsed into the waters below or worse, obliterated. Luckily they had trained for this, and at the last possible moment opened up with blast canons at point blank range. The corpse collapsed immediately, just one of many identical copies ready for dissection.

****

This and a half dozen other scenes play on Lama Su’s viewscreen. Research and development was progressing far faster than he and his advisors could have anticipated. Acquisition of new genetic samples had slowed down thanks to the rise of the New Jedi Order drawing in most stragglers, but not before the Kaminoans had learned to reliably clone organisms with high midichlorian counts. Lama Su was sure these Starkillers would soon be the most profitable creations a cloner had ever sold, he just needed to be patient and wait until the right sequence of flash training, slave conditioning and partial lobotomies was ironed out to keep them obedient and sane.

It would be awhile before Lama Su could set them loose on a planet like Coruscant. The planet is dirty and anarchic, far different from the ordered sterility he has grown accustomed to on his home planet. While it rebuilds he will be stuck in places like this, ensuring the stability of his clientele as they bite and claw for more power. Expanding production to other worlds is not ideal, but it is a cheap and necessary means of making sure they feel safe and pay on time. He and they understand the symbolism and irony in headquartering his technicians and apparatchik in the old temple, a place of structure and reclusion far above the shortages and low intensity insurgency outside. It would no longer be a place of peace, but to those who cannot distinguish between defense and war, the change is irrelevant.

The leader of the Kaminoan war economy turns his attention to the screen showing a clone being fitted for a new shoulder, the only survivor of a explosion outside a nearby popular nightclub. The GAR would always be centered around the average trooper, but the compromises inherent in shrinking development from 9 years to 3 is reducing their prestige and effectiveness. With that in mind there is no reason to retire veteran seasoned units just because they are wounded or leaving their biological prime; the fast tracking of the Dark Trooper program and its cybernetic augmentations can keep them combat fit long after the onset of senescence. There is no reason to “win”. His regime benefits from the cost of war, every new weapon in his arsenal and enemy at the gates only increases his profits. Another explosion can be heard in the distance, just more terrorism meant to call out those who aren't listening.

 

Chapter Fifteen​

Count Dooku’s hand trembled over an autodefense master control panel. Even the most socially disconnected of Serennoan subjects had understood for some time that the separatist cause was lost. Embezzlement, normalized by the rigid divides of his oligarchal society had skyrocketed to unwieldy levels. Administrators and leaders of wealthy houses with centuries of lineage constantly disappeared in the night, fleeing retribution their part in the war. What no one expected was Serreno falling into the grip of revolutionary terror, and thanks to an accident of birth, he was suddenly expected to put a stop to it. As a distant relative of the great aristocratic houses, most of the decisions the new count had faced so far in life boiled down to when he should grace a masquerade with his presence, and whether he should court influential baronesses or the daughters and sons of exorbitantly wealthy off world industrialists. He wasn’t trained or suited for high stakes decision making, yet here he was, the last remaining member of his family, sitting alone before a series of levers and screens, doing the jobs of servants who had been summarily executed by the local tactical droid as a precaution. The yes men and the machines and the acolytes of his famous 4th great uncle expected him to push aside the corpses and captain a sinking ship. Glancing around to make sure there was no one but dim witted B1s in his entouraged, the Count deactivated the protective shields.

“This Dooku isn’t going to lose his head,” he thought, and nervously waited for the incoming mobs to pour inside and decide whether they’d let him keep it.


Few on either side knew that this turn of events was caused by an invisible fulcrum that had tipped the balance of power against centuries of coercion and resigned obedience. Ahsoka walked amidst the throng towards her objective, doing her best to keep foreign merchants fat from sucking wealth out of disadvantaged communities from being dragged into the streets while also ducking roving columns of clankers putting down unarmed protestors. She had known from the beginning that the premature nature of the uprising would lead to these kinds of casualties, but the council had been clear about why it needed Sereno to fall from within before the clones arrived. That aspect of the mission was clear: the republic was going to invade regardless of what was happening, and soon. From a certain point of view, every casualty since that decision until the invasion would be futile.


The old her would have endangered the council’s plans to find a better way, but that her had been forged by someone who listened only to his own compulsions, which was a dangerous path. The gift of prescience was becoming more and more accessible thanks to Palpatine’s demise, and through it Shaaday and the other members of the council had portended that this was where the false divides of the clone wars might be laid to rest, buried with those who’d stay behind to cover a desperate retreat. It was almost a romantic vision of the future, until one realized that those survivors came from a planet with a rich history of human high culture, and would gladly fall into the orbit of the Imperial Remnant if it meant revenge on the clones and aliens. The change of affiliations was already in progress; more than a few separatist veterans were taking part in the demonstrations, their frustration over being replaced by Palpatine loyalists due to their species having finally bubbled over.

The smell of tear gas and cries of freedom resounded all around Ahsoka and the growing throngs of marchers. Her focus narrowed to the B2 battle droids approaching from the west, then relaxed after hearing the shouts of triumph from the euphoric servant classes accompanying them. Quarren General Slegas had defected as expected, largely thanks to his fear of being stripped of rank and oppressed by human supremacists. With more time, Ahsoka would have also been able to reach some of the local gendarme too, but as things stood they remained loyal to the nobles, and annoyingly kept trying to slow the rebel advance through sniper fire.

Because of the nature of her mission, Ahsoka obviously wasn’t at liberty to use her lightsabers to parry incoming shots. This gave her some time to think as she waited for the militiamen Khota had planted in the crowd to triangulate the location of the hostiles and neutralize the threat. It had been Padme and Lux, not the Jedi, who had really taught Ahsoka to see those on the other side of a war as people rather than simply enemies. Still, the people huddling behind cover with her were CIS supporters through and through, a loyalty she had exploited for her masters. If the war had gone the other way, or if they realized she really was, these people would not hesitate in trying to destroy her. Yet here she was feeling guilty over coaxing them into fighting by her side. She knew that this way would be better; what was happening now would solidify their faith in national self determination, a necessary sentiment in the face of future occupation. Serenno would remain focused on its own freedom rather than escaping into the stars to serve the interests of far off moffs. She wouldn’t have to one day fight them and their children.

Regardless of what justification she used, the fact remained that she was using these people as cover for her true objective. Once given the all clear, Ahsoka and her men broke off from the main group and headed for a series of obelisks jutting out from the burning city’s skyline. It didn’t take long for her to set a series of explosive charges around the nearby church; so long as they pretended to peel off icons and precious stones from the buildings edifice like the other looters, they would be ignored. On its own the destruction of this place of worship would be a symbolic victory; for a time it had been believed that this place would be the epicenter of the real Dooku’s splinter order of Dark Jedi back before it was understood that he was only interested in assassins and marauders, anything more formal being a potential threat to the new order arising from the shadows. Now however, with Serenno courting the bigotry and endless credits of the remnant, it could become the foundation of a new knighthood of darksiders.

Even that was a minor threat compared to what she about to face. Masters Luminara and Arana waited for her within, silently watching her approach. Past the pews and precious medals destined for the black market, beyond a series of doors and catacombs only open-able through the force, was a treasure room of artifacts, a reliquary of the Dark side. Beyond that was a simple hallway, void of both adornment and light. Ahsoka activated her yellow lightsaber and took the lead, as had been discussed.

Oftentimes the presence of the dark side is described as immense coldness or putrid filth. In this place it was as if the air pressure had dropped, an omen of a coming hurricane. The walls narrowed as she drew closer to the source of the disturbance, making passage uncomfortable for someone even of her slender athletic build. In ancient times misguided devotees were known to keep going until the walls shrunk closer to the size of cracks, trapping them forever to remind others that not all were meant to reach their prize. Stopping in place, Ahsoka looked behind her and saw that the other Jedi were no longer in sight. She would have to face this trial alone; reaching out with the Force, Ahsoka called the Sith holocron towards her.

In every meditative session she had had since learning what had become of her master, she had feared that somewhere in the galaxy there was a trigger that might cause her to fall as he did. The holocron could very well be that cause, which is why she had come to face it.Her fond memory of Skywalker was an attachment she desperately wanted to cut, but she dared not submerge deep enough into her subconscious to sever it out of fear of what else might be lurking therein. She had been remembering more pieces of her time on Mortis in the past few weeks, the meaning of the supernatural morality she had participated in was now so clear. Shaaday and the others had told her something she knew to be true, that the actions of the ones mirrored the destiny of the so called chosen one and his inner conflict. The Son had attempted to reject the rigid and calcified rule of his father. In its attempt to defeat balance, Bogan slew Ashla, the light. The Father, Tython, then destroys itself, which weakens the son and leaves him open to a killing blow. Anakin had always resented the chains of fate, from slavery to the death of his mother and the potential loss of a love he was never meant to embrace. He tried to change things, to gain the power to stop people from dieing, but instead caused even more killing. The self loathing and grief he must have wallowed in after his turn left him unbalanced, and for all his strength, vulnerable to the blade of someone who once believed in him.

This was a clever interpretation to be sure, but how could she tell the others that she had been the one to hand the son the dagger of Mortis? How could she explain to them that Anakin might have learned of this destiny and tried to stop it, all the while being assured that the Jedi would stand in the way of peace, which for now was a strategic matter of fact? A vision of her future self, presumably sent by the daughter, had told her to stop being his student, which was an unspoken factor in why she had initially left the order. The son in the form of a ghoul had also given her the same advice. Everything was so confusing, and she feared that the holocron would seduce her into accepting the easy lies that crept into her head at night rather than a hard truth that her master had always had the makings of a monster within him, and every wrong decision he made had been his own fault.

He could have reached out at any time to master Obi Wan or grandmaster Yoda about his mother. Obviously he blamed them for what happened to her, and perhaps they should have pressed the issue, but with a bit of wisdom it was clear that he was the one who tried to hide his fear, all thanks to a misinterpretation of why the council first wanted to reject him so many years ago. With all their resources the Jedi would have had to check in on Shmi if asked. If he understood wanting to leave the order as he had said while trying to convince Ahsoka to stay, he could have done so and remained a valued piece of the war effort, rather than betraying everything he once stood for. The belief that she was even slightly responsible for his actions had now passed, replaced by assured realization that in his corrupted state he would have destroyed her too. She was ready to do as much when she was controlled by the Dark Side.

That bit of the story had been kept from the others, as had her death and resurrection thanks to the dying Daughter. Ahsoka had been subjected to both extremes of the Force, and it seemed that the only truth behind their existence was that the middle was just as fallible. If there really was no chaos, only harmony; if passion, ignorance and emotion were nothing in the face of serenity, knowledge and peace, she could finally lay her doubts to rest. Real masters had always taught their padawans that it was sometimes necessary to take one life to save another. If the ends justified the means she had to act, even if it meant drawing in others who were absorbed in their own their personal passions and relationships rather than the needs of the wider galaxy. She could focus on the bigger picture now; her rebel cells were needed stepping stones to victory, if she refused to tread on a few of them, she and everyone she guided would lose their way.

That thought snapped her out of her fugue. Ahsoka reflected on everything Lux had been through, of Steela’s sacrifice and all the Jedi who had died for a war built on a lie. She couldn’t justify manipulating more sentient beings in the same way, it reminded her too much of the poor clones she had served with then been forced to fight thanks to Geonosian mind control, a twist that had been replicated at magnitudes greater of a scale thanks to Order 66. She refused to become like the twisted creature that had stuck its fangs into Anakin. She refused to copy Sidious.

And with that determination, the levitating holocron that was eight inches from her outstretched fingers began to laugh inside her mind. Flashes of devastation and every injustice brought on by the onslaught of war tried to download into her brain and possess her soul. See the works of civilizations that deemed themselves free, it whispered, watch choice and servitude kill with the same weapons. Only those who can accept this and use it will survive. The scene shifted to her mother, her face long forgotten, being subjected to the defilement of slavery she had only pretended to understand on Zygerria. She saw herself hunted through the forests of Kashykk, this time ending with her head being mounted on the wall. Everything was horror, caused by inaction but paradoxically done with her own hands.

One lightsaber activated behind her followed by another, lighting the way towards safety. She realized that the holocron had been silently withdrawing back to its place of rest, sinisterly drawing her towards her doom. She could barely move now, if she had gone much farther, she would have been trapped. Luckily she had just enough room to swing the arm still holding the light-saber forward destroying it.

Ahsoka quickly headed back. She had made sure to bring the broken pieces of the holocron with her. Even while broken the pieces made her feel queasy, but she wrapped the shards for a later more careful disposal. Luminara’s green blade had been the first to activate, and for that Ahsoka was grateful. Arana's however had only appeared later and was still on, waiting for her to hand the remains over. Something told her that he would have let her fail and was still ready to make sure she’d never leave should she resist his demand.