Nine years, seven months, and the sixteenth day after the Battle of Yavin…
Or the forty-fourth year, seven months, and the sixteenth day after the Great Resynchronization.
(Three months and one day since the arrival)
They say one shouldn't trust first impressions because they can be misleading.
In CorSec, they train you for this professionally. Whatever anyone tells you – do not believe it until you confirm their words with objective facts. But more often than not, you have to refute these words.
By now, Corran Horn had come to a simple conclusion: the Jedi who had been toying with his mind for a solid week was insane. And if he was a typical representative of the old Jedi Order, then Corran, against all his convictions, had begun to feel something akin to gratitude toward Palpatine. It was terrifying to imagine what a whole Order of such individuals might have done to the galaxy…
— So what is the place of the Jedi in the galaxy, Jedi Horn? — inquired the silver-haired old man sitting opposite him in a meditative posture.
Corran, whose back had stiffened from sitting in such a pose for hours every day, whose joints ached, and whose mood soured even more, found the endless philosophical musings the biggest nuisance. They were about as useful as pumping oxygen into the vacuum of space. Sure, you keep yourself busy, but society derives no real benefit from it. Easier to scoop out an ocean on Mon Calamari with a spoon or manually shovel snow on Hoth. Or pluck a Bothan.
— To guide and instruct? — Corran ventured. — To serve as an example to others?
In the next moment, he sensed irritation emanating from the Jedi Master. It was always like that—just as Corran tried a deep-sounding, lofty philosophical statement, hoping to get a response, the old man would inevitably lose his temper upon hearing it. And so Corran realized he had done something "wrong," something the Jedi Master did not approve of—but not necessarily something incorrect. Why would a Corellian who had only held a lightsaber a couple dozen times assume the answers he gave were necessarily wrong? For the simple reason that the old man never gave any answers himself—he only criticized what he heard from Horn.
Corran knew next to nothing about how Jedi training was conducted in the past, but he was quite sure it didn't consist solely of reprimands.
— You learn nothing, Corran Horn, — the elderly Jedi said with unconcealed contempt. — How long must I wait before you finally grasp even a shred of my lessons?
— Perhaps a bit longer than you think, Master C'baoth, — Horn replied, at the very edge of his diplomatic composure. — We Corellians are not a particularly perceptive people. We don't need these sermons. We act, not ruminate…
— A foolish notion, — the old man said with a hand propped on his hip. — That mindset is what doomed the Order in the past. An unwillingness to think is the Jedi's downfall, exploited by Palpatine and his Dark Jedi accomplices. Those who cannot see beyond their own noses are destined to be destroyed!
Ah, precious new bits of info. Corran put up with all these sermons mainly for that reason. Naturally also because he couldn't leave. And somewhere out there, Mirax was waiting while he was wasting time on this planet.
But the Force—or at least the part Corran had identified with "intuition" for decades—told him his beloved wife was safe. Unless that was merely hope, and in fact his Force abilities were so meager that he couldn't perceive it if something bad happened to her?
But his father, once a Jedi Padawan, had always taught him to heed his intuition, which always warns of danger. Corran had used that gift more than once to protect himself and others.
Maybe, right after they took Coruscant—before all that mess with Isard and the Krytos virus—he really should have accepted Skywalker's offer and learned at least something from him? Even the basics. Because he wasn't gleaning anything practical from C'baoth.
How many times had he already realized that? That Tatooine kid, whom Wedge Antilles had once held up as an example to Corran when Corran first joined Rogue Squadron, at least wasn't a pretentious snob like this old man.
— Are you thinking that this is a waste of time, Jedi Horn? — C'baoth asked him mockingly.
"Not at all," Corran thought, "I'm absolutely delighted that I flew here to search for my wife, only to spend day after day squatting like some monk, waiting to be taught something remotely useful," was what ran through Corran's head.
— I would prefer we do something more practical, — Corran said, barely holding onto politeness. — Like sparring with lightsabers, or learning how to connect with someone across thousands of light-years…
Staying on Jomark was a waste of time. Corran had concluded he'd been lured here just so he wouldn't get in anyone's way. But by whom? And who would he have inconvenienced so much that they'd spend this much effort?
He found no answers. It all looked like some private initiative on C'baoth's part, as if the old man wanted to "share his priceless experience" with a Jedi who'd found himself in dire straits. Or, put simply, it looked like the old man actually had no real skill beyond long-winded speeches and had merely latched onto the entire affair. Useless—at least for Corran's search for Mirax. Maybe he knew something extraordinary, but clearly wasn't in a hurry to share it. Why? Maybe he was waiting for Horn to puzzle it out on his own? Fine. Then what was Corran supposed to do with C'baoth?
Just then, the Jedi Master's gaze drifted off somewhere in the distance before returning to the present. He stared at the pilot and then said:
— Get up, Jedi Horn. It's time to dispel your doubts and display the Force's greatness!
What a crowning moment for those many days of pleas to shift from these vapid, unproductive lectures to at least some semblance of instruction. Perhaps the Jedi was not as useless as Corran had first thought? He wondered if that had anything to do with the notion that Jedi could invade others' thoughts? Possibly not. C'baoth probably couldn't literally read what Corran was thinking—otherwise, that look of all-consuming serenity wouldn't be on the old man's face. In that scenario, he'd be seething with rage. Likely he was only sensing Corran's emotional background, something Corran could do occasionally himself.
— Master C'baoth, — Horn called after the Jedi, right at the gates of the castle where Corran had spent his time in fruitless meditations and speculations. — Could you at least give me a hint as to what we're about to do?
— Why? — the old man said suspiciously.
— I always like to hear a preview of the upcoming event, — Corran said with a smile. — I find it motivating. I'd be thrilled if you showed me how to contact someone who might be thousands of light-years away…
So he could finally get away from this wretched rock.
C'baoth lingered a long while at the door, scrutinizing Horn, then gripped the medallion hanging from his neck in his gnarled fingers. His face suddenly lit up, as though he had downed half a mug of some old-fashioned lum-ale. He even took on a bit of a flush. Huh… Perhaps the old man was nipping at something strong while Corran snored through these so-called meditations?
— I'll show you the Jedi's place in the galaxy, — C'baoth said firmly.
By the black sands of Kessel!
— Maybe we should practice lightsaber combat first? — Corran gently patted the cylindrical hilt belonging to his actual grandfather. A weapon he'd stumbled upon almost by accident on Imperial-occupied Coruscant—guided only by his hunches and the Force. The same Force that, from the moment he landed on Jomark, had screamed at him not to trust C'baoth and to flee at once. That sense had grown even more insistent since the X-wing and Whistler—his loyal astromech—were destroyed.
Except he had no clue how to escape. With no means of communication or a way to contact his squadron, it was impossible.
— Swinging a blade is the lowest rung of Jedi skill, — C'baoth said scornfully, pushing open a heavy wooden door and stepping outside. — Such pursuits are for those too witless to command others. That is not your path, Jedi Horn.
Really, now?
— I heard that all Jedi in the old Order knew how to fight with lightsabers, carried them with them, — Corran retorted, cobbling together contradictory rumors overheard somewhere. Luke Skywalker had said it was the traditional weapon of a Jedi Knight, so presumably everyone carried one. Right?
— And where are "they all" now? — C'baoth sneered, heading for a roughly constructed cart with two front rails clutched by a sturdy young man, whose expression was an anxious tangle that instantly made Corran suspicious. And that suspicion crystallized when C'baoth—groaning—climbed onto the cart, settling onto a seat upholstered in coarse cloth like some clownish petty king in a cheap holo-drama. — A lightsaber is a Jedi's weapon, but you use it only when you have no other choice, when you cannot defeat an enemy by force of intellect. Palpatine destroyed the Jedi without having to personally duel each one—he outwitted them, and cast them down. That is what you must learn, Jedi Horn.
Learn to overthrow Jedi? No thanks, not interested. Whatever greatness Palpatine might have accomplished in the old man's eyes, idolizing him is poor form.
Once more, Corran found himself convinced that there was something wrong with his "teacher." Maybe the old man was powerful in the Force, perhaps he could tie Luke Skywalker into a knot with a single sneeze, but the geriatric clearly had serious moral issues. Sure, the definitions of "good" and "evil" can be subjective, but in Palpatine's case, Corran was confident the Emperor fell squarely into the latter. No matter what the dead man had done, it was all undeniably "evil," no matter how one tried to spin it.
You'd have to be completely deranged to claim the massive purge of the Order, the years-long persecution of the Jedi, the annihilation of any mention of them from galactic records, and the transformation of the Republic into a dictatorship was something to be admired. No thanks, truly. We're Corellians, after all.
— Why are you standing there? — C'baoth snapped irritably, patting the empty spot beside him. — Sit at once. We haven't all day.
Corran met eyes with the local man who, per the crazed Jedi's plan, was effectively used as a beast of burden for two men, and Corran found himself trembling.
— Thank you for the offer, Master C'baoth, — he said absently. — I think I'll just walk down to the village.
The local shot him a look full of gratitude. Corran felt a hint of sheepishness. Poor fellow, does he really expect me to be so callous as to accept that?
— My lessons are doing you some good, — said the old man unexpectedly, a smirk playing across his lips. — You've grown more perceptive, since you guessed our destination. I'll expect you in the village in fifteen minutes—don't be late, and don't you dare show me disrespect! Now move! — he barked at the villager. The man bowed his head submissively and, gripping the rails, dragged the cart away.
Corran watched them, shaking his head.
No, you senile fool, all I did was notice that I'd spotted this cart in the village at the base of the mountain earlier. I realized there's basically nowhere else in this corner of Jomark to go.
Even if they needed to cross a desert or sail an ocean to get there, Corran Horn would never ride in such a contraption, using a living, thinking being as a draft animal. That wasn't just the height of cynicism, but an outright, disdainful disregard for sapient freedom.
Apparently C'baoth had totally gone off the deep end with his theory of Jedi superiority over common folk. That sure set him apart from, say, Skywalker, who never used his influence to garner special perks. Wedge once told Corran that the Tatooinian had spent a solid week in an Echo Base bunk with a faulty heater, being unable to fix it himself and unwilling to bother a tech for "nonessential tasks." A truly modest guy—and at the time, he'd already destroyed the Death Star and held a command rank in the Rebel Alliance.
No, such a teacher as C'baoth was definitely not for Horn.
Watching that cart vanish into the distance rather quickly, Corran was suddenly confronted by a stark realization:
Why had he ever assumed C'baoth had any clue where Mirax was, or possessed any actual Jedi skill to help him find her? Sure, telepathy across star systems was neat—makes for a good anecdote. But ever since Corran arrived on Jomark, C'baoth had yet to display a single real Jedi technique. Not so much as drifting a pebble through the air, nothing.
Would be nice if Corran had some sense of what Jedi can actually do. Luke Skywalker once talked about a sense of danger—Corran had chalked that up to "intuition." Luke had demonstrated using the Force to deflect blaster bolts. Corran once tried that—nearly took his own head off, ended up having to buy a new couch. And closet. Plus twenty-seven new dresses for Mirax to replace the ones he'd sliced. Skywalker also attempted telekinesis around him—some "gimmick" to lure Corran to become more than "just a pilot." Corran's attempt had accomplished nothing except fueling his doubt that Luke truly knew how to teach. That became yet another reason to turn down an apprenticeship. Another factor was Corran's pride—Luke had tried to read his mind, but failed. Corran, untrained, had done something Luke apparently couldn't. Corran scoffed, thinking "What do you have to teach me if you can't do that, and yet I can?"
Now, drawing near the village outskirts, Corran saw that these ordinarily kind, inoffensive people—who had never displayed hostility toward him—were staring as if he were a rancor ambling up to a herd of banthas. That had never happened before. Sure, they weren't exactly on best-friend terms, but prior to this, whenever Corran sneaked away from C'baoth to scout the territory (or locate the Jedi's ship), they'd never shown him this suspicious hostility.
He quickened his pace, heading toward a house where that same cart was parked. With no sign of C'baoth, the cart driver (if you could call him that) crouched behind a wheel, glancing fearfully at something happening inside… while the door lay twenty meters from its hinges, scorched as if struck by lightning.
His heart pounded faster.
He'd heard rumors, supposedly from Skywalker, that Palpatine could hurl lightning from his fingers aboard the second Death Star, an ability said to belong to the Dark Side. If that's the case…
Then we're forced to wonder: "How could the Emperor and Vader not find such a crazed hermit on this planet?" The question was taking on a more ominous shape. Maybe C'baoth hadn't hidden from the Empire at all? Maybe he was so dangerous that not even Palpatine and Vader had dared cross him?
That, in turn, implied… what? Realistically, Corran Horn had no idea.
He took a heavy breath—"Sith, maybe you do, but I sure don't."
From inside the house, came the crackle of more lightning, joined by man's screams. Then a woman's wailing joined. Each from a single representative of that gender.
Corran dashed inside like a nexu, noticing along the way that people in the nearby houses peered out, too frightened to come any closer.
He froze in the threshold, hair rising at the back of his neck at what lay before him.
In that wide living room, writhing on the floor, bathed in snapping, sizzling arcs of bluish-white Force lightning, were two bodies—a man and a woman. And several meters from them stood C'baoth, a look of utter contempt and savage glee on his face. The lightning coiled from his hands, precisely the power that, according to Luke, was used by the Sith.
— C'baoth! — Corran hollered, grabbing for his blaster. The pair's howls sounded dangerously close to their last. — Stop!
The Jedi Master didn't even hear him, fixated on the grim procedure and apparently gaining more and more pleasure the longer it lasted.
Corran reached for his weapon.
— Stay where you are, Jedi Horn, — hissed C'baoth, menace in his tone. The hatred in his voice almost drowned Corran. — I'm showing you the punishment for those who break the law.
— You're killing them! — Corran shouted.
— And what of it? — C'baoth returned indignantly. — They are my people, who violated the rules I set!
— Like I care! — Corran took a step forward but instantly felt a powerful, invisible barrier as C'baoth lifted his left hand, still torturing the screaming pair. Corran felt pinned, every muscle refusing to obey. His finger locked on the trigger… — W-what in stars are you doing?!
— Giving a lesson, — C'baoth said in a deep voice, glancing his way, eyes brimming with madness. — You doubted my power, Jedi Horn? Now you see it. These people broke my laws, — he motioned to the charred bodies, reeking of burned hair, cloth, and flesh. Corran forced himself not to glance. — And so I punished them.
— By what right do you kill them?! — Corran demanded, breathless with rage. — If they're criminals, they deserve a trial!
— I have given them one, — C'baoth ceased electrocuting the bodies. Corran's own entrapment, though, did not ease. — I am a Jedi! I rule these people, and they obey me. I decreed that this world have no contact with other planets, so it shall be. And more so, I won't allow them to steal from me again! Let none challenge my power!
— What was their crime? — Corran's initial burst of indignation gave way—like it always did— to the calm logic of a CorSec agent confronted with wrongdoing.
— I had my eye on them ever since your starfighter exploded, — C'baoth flicked his wrist, hurling Corran onto a chair. — They salvaged parts of your ship, tinkering with them. I gave them ample time to come to their senses. They defied my laws, so I punished them.
— They might have just been rigging some food warmer, — Horn said, scoping out the interior with a professional eye. Possibly they had bits of outdated technology, maybe for cooking or heat. Why did that enrage the old man to that extent? — You can't rebuild a starfighter from scrap, and I wouldn't mind if they…
— It doesn't matter what they were building. They took something lying on my land without my permission. Lesson one, Jedi Horn, — the old man's voice grew even more pedantic and vile. — When you set rules for your subjects, they must obey them, and you must see that they do. If someone breaks them, kill them by the cruelest means at your disposal, so their deaths warn the rest.
— Maybe they didn't realize the wreckage of my, — Corran stressed that it was actually his, — starfighter had crashed on your land?
— Everything on this planet—the ground, the crops, fruit, trees, grass, houses, people, life and death—belongs to me! — C'baoth roared. — I control it all!
A chill ran along Corran's spine. "Intuition, hey, are you squealing 'I told you so!' right now? Didn't you lead me here in the first place?"
— Lesson two, Jedi Horn, — the old man smoothed his beard, clutching that medallion again like a child with a cherished toy. — If you can't see outward signs of the might of someone who rules and teaches you, that doesn't mean it's absent. Under any other circumstance, I might have shown mercy and had their hands cut off while letting them live. But you complained that you do not see Jedi magnificence in me. So I demonstrated it to you.
Cutting their hands was "mercy"?! In a place with no clue about cybernetic replacements? That's basically dooming them to live as invalids…
— Force lightning is a Sith trick, — Corran pointed out, still in investigative mode.
— Jedi, Sith, — C'baoth said with disdain. — What difference does it make? Two sides of the same coin, too nearsighted to grasp the true nature of the Force.
— And what is that nature, Master? — Corran seized the chance to flatter the old man, recalling that he'd requested that form of address at their first meeting. The pair on the floor was beyond help, but it was crucial to find out just how deep the pit Corran had fallen into truly went.
— The Jedi say the Force is a counselor and an ally, whose guidance must be heeded. — The madman's voice rasped with irritation. — The Sith claim it as a tool to achieve their aims. Both are fools who fail to see that the Force is both adviser and instrument at once. Keep your ears open to sense its call, but be ready to bend it to your will if your goals demand it. Only fools label Force abilities "Dark Side" or "Light Side." Fools like your precious Skywalker, — Corran's mouth went dry. So the old man could read thoughts, after all?
— You're broadcasting them so loudly that I needn't bother, — C'baoth scoffed. — All your desires, anxieties, fears… they're trivial dust beneath my feet. You flew here seeking your wife. I told you that you'd gain all my power to accomplish that. Yes, I'm old, but never have I been a fool. I foresaw the Order's downfall and made sure all its knowledge was preserved. I'll pass it on when you are ready—when you cast aside moral illusions and the trappings society imposes, and accept your true self.
It seemed the old man forgot they'd had this discussion at least once or twice.
— So… where is that knowledge, Master? — Corran asked.
— Here, — C'baoth tapped his own skull with a clawed finger. — I might have simply planted it in that thick head of yours, but your ancestors gave you an inconvenient knack for resisting mind control. So I must teach you the old-fashioned way, like an ignorant child. The same method, I suppose, they used on your Skywalker, — he spat derisively. — I once met a cocky youth with that same surname. Likely some relative. Equally rash, not short on brains but drowning in the Force. A wretched sight indeed. Now I see why Thrawn never even mentioned him. If that alienish flunky disregards Skywalker, then so do I. But you, Jedi Horn… you're different. Yours was the first name to come to the Imperials' minds when they wanted my help. You should feel honored they esteem you that highly.
What?! C'baoth knew Luke's father or some paternal relative? That's a shock.
But that wasn't the main point. Corran had just had his suspicions confirmed: C'baoth was connected to the Empire, likely behind Mirax's and Booster's disappearances, hooking Corran as well. Yes, the Empire… That changed everything. So it was not just personal, but a genuine military matter. He needed to…
— You keep trembling for a chance to leave this place faster, Jedi Horn, — the mad Jedi pressed on. — That's typical of you Corellians. You run around, "doing" things on luck, refusing to reflect. That's why the Green Jedi guarding the Corellian system were so disliked by the Order. Coruscant brooded too much, you people leapt in too swiftly. But you— you might combine both approaches and become the greatest Jedi. Stop fretting that someone might harm your loved ones. For the Empire, they're mere placeholders to lure you here. They won't kill them or cause harm. On the contrary, they'll keep them alive as leverage. They fear me—imagine the dread that you, with my power, now inspire? Naive Thrawn, he thinks he's been tricking me with his quaint little intrigues. As if I never saw from the start that he needed me, but planned to do away with me once my usefulness ran out. All that talk of restoring the Jedi Order… nonsense to secure my loyalty. If that were real, Jomark would be crawling with students, for I'm the last true Jedi…
Which only made it more terrifying. Just minutes ago, Corran had thought of C'baoth as a grouchy elder with mental quirks and a bag of Force illusions up his sleeve. Now…
Now no doubt remained.
Apparently, C'baoth was that same weapon that had inflicted heavy defeats on the New Republic months ago. The Imperials used him to kindle a new wave of conflict. They promised him a "new Jedi Order," loads of apprentices, stashing him away on Jomark, throwing him a "scrap" named Corran. Meanwhile, they lured him with the bait of Mirax and Terrik. They also probably liked Terrik's Star Destroyer as a bonus.
Only one question remained…
— If you no longer serve the Empire, and I'm just a concession they made for you, why are we still alive? — Corran asked. — The simpler approach would be killing us all.
— Not so fast, Jedi Horn, — C'baoth laughed. — The Imperials remain as stupid as you were a minute ago. You've a bright mind—tell me, why did they send you for me, not Skywalker? What difference is there?
— He's obviously the stronger Jedi, — Corran guessed.
— Precisely, — C'baoth smirked. — "Stronger," supposedly. The only one to knight him was some old, dogmatic fool from the Order. Another blinkered halfwit, like those that caused the entire Jedi downfall. Lacking the right teacher, Skywalker would need decades to grasp the Force as I do. Then he'd be invincible— assuming he survives. Until then, he's a naive whelp wearing a Jedi badge. And you… I'll train you properly. I'll show you both the Light and Dark. Then you'll wield enough power never again to worry about sending a hidden comm to your "fake grandpa" on Corellia. You'll go right into the Dictat's palace in Coronet, beat the spirit out of him, and restore freedom to Corellia—teaching your people to become better than they are. You can easily track down your wife and demand retribution from Thrawn or any other Imperials. You've seen my power, so don't doubt me: your wife and father-in-law live. As do the others you left behind. No harm will come to them, trust me…
— Suppose so, — Corran muttered, — But I don't plan on toppling or ruling anyone. The dictatorship in the Corellian sector is their own concern. Everyone there is content.
— Think bigger, Jedi Horn, — C'baoth recommended. — When you're weak, you follow the rules. When you're strong, you make them. How many more times will your loved ones face abductions, threats, beatings, until you accept your destiny? Dozens? You dream of crushing all enemies and living free, never fretting over your children's future. How many foes will you slay flying your X-wing? Ten? A hundred? But with the Force's might and my knowledge, you could collapse stars into supernovae, wiping out enemy bases. Each day your victory edges closer. Instead of waging war for decades, you'd do it in a year—alone. Or faster with loyal allies. You'd bring peace to the galaxy, forever remembered as the greatest Corellian who ever lived. Everyone—Corellians and aliens alike—would admire you.
Corran flushed. Frankly, this version of C'baoth—crystal-clear in logic, well-reasoned, explaining his methods and effectively motivating him—unnerved Horn far more than the grouchy codger who'd telepathically summoned him halfway across the galaxy.
— You didn't have to kill these people to show me your so-called truth, — Corran said, pointing to the bodies. — There were other ways to get my attention.
— But you wouldn't have heeded any of them, — C'baoth retorted. He locked eyes with Corran, evidently trying to drill into his mind through the gaze. A sharp headache stabbed Corran. — Remember this lesson, Jedi Horn: a demonstration of power and cruelty is what ensures you show unstoppable punishment just once, instead of repeating your words over and over.
A lump formed in Corran's throat.
C'baoth held Horn's gaze for a few more seconds, then turned to the door.
— We've finished here, Jedi Horn, — the old man said offhandedly. — Let us go.
— I'll remain for a bit, Master, — Corran said. — I'll bury these poor folks out back.
— Why? — C'baoth inquired with scorn.
— I'll do it slowly enough so that every villager can see the results of disobeying your authority, — Corran said, licking his dry lips.
— At last, you grasp the basics of ruling, Jedi Horn, — the old man nodded as if in approval. — See it done. I'll be at the castle, preparing a more comprehensive training regimen for you.
With that, the old Jedi left for the cart. Moments later, the wooden contraption rattled down the road.
Corran eyed the two lifeless bodies, then began rummaging through the house.
C'baoth had let slip a few things, including what these two had been working on.
He had to find those starfighter parts, gather missing components, assemble a comlink, and get out of here fast.
Before the "master" unleashed a new lesson on the entire population. The old man apparently never heard that Corellians can be ridiculously stubborn, especially when they aren't keen to dance into a trap.
***
After a brief chime, the door of my quarters slid aside with a hush, and two sentients stepped in. I studied the robust Zabrak, tattooed and shackled. The moment he crossed into the ysalamiri field—its cage set in a special alcove—he stumbled, eyes darting with confusion, apparently searching for what severed him from the Force.
I glanced at a monitor listing the detainees from Tiberos's crew—at least those captured or identified. Locating the name I needed, I opened that file, scanning the text. It was all so "clean" that it must be fake. This man's identity was forged, as were the documents he carried. No need to wait for the tech analysis.
— Grand Admiral, — said Sergeant TNH-0297, commander of Fourth Squad, addressing me. — The prisoner is delivered.
— Thank you, Sergeant, — I answered, turning from the data on my screens to the figure before me. — You are dismissed, Sergeant.
— Aye, sir, — the stormtrooper said crisply, spinning on his heel and exiting. Leaving the Zabrak in the office side of my suite.
— Please, take a seat, Mister Eymand, — I offered, indicating a chair some distance away.
— Thanks, but I've sat plenty, — he said drily.
— As you wish, — I shrugged. — Are you and your comrades satisfied with your confinement conditions?
— Well, the cells on an Imperial Star Destroyer can pass for single-star-hotel suites, — he had no insolence in his tone, nor was there undue politeness. He was well aware that he was at our mercy; it would be foolish to antagonize me. — So yes, thanks. Could be worse.
— Under the circumstances, indeed, — I folded my hands. — For instance, we could have kept you severed from the Force the entire time aboard the Star Destroyer.
He tensed, shooting me a wary look. Not young. Middle-aged, an air of experience. I had certain suspicions gleaned from the search of Tiberos's ships that told me who this Zabrak truly was. The mere fact that he instantly reacted to the Force cut-off meant he was trained in using it. Deliberately, not by happenstance.
Yet apparently not powerful or reckless enough to try Jedi mind tricks on the stormtrooper guard. Pity—I'd have liked to test whether these clones were immune to mental manipulation. Possibly I might have used one of the Force-sensitives under my command for that, but then they would also learn the outcome—and there's no need to reveal such sensitive details unless absolutely necessary.
— So now what? — the Zabrak asked warily.
— That depends on how interesting your story is to me, and how useful you can be, — I warned. — I can't say the same for most of your crew; they're criminals wanted for hanging in no fewer than three sectors.
— Until recently, that didn't concern you, — the prisoner said carefully.
— Denying that would be pointless, — I admitted. — But in light of recent events, we've decided to adjust our personnel policy a bit.
— So why me? — Eymand braced himself. That, at least, was the name he gave.
— We'll see after you tell me what I want to know. First question: Are you a Jedi?
He paused, weighing whether to respond. I suspect he realized he'd basically confirmed it anyway.
— I used to be, — he finally said with evident reluctance. — A Jedi researcher, specifically.
Could be worse, but maybe not so bad. He might have been a Padawan or some half-trained, but apparently he'd studied properly. Too bad I lack thorough knowledge of the Order's internal structures. I'd have to question him carefully, analyzing his answers.
— How did you escape Order 66?
— You want to finish the job? — he asked humorlessly.
— I simply wish to clarify your escape, — I said coolly. — Rest assured, being a Jedi is not a capital offense in my domain. Neither I nor my subordinates plan to kill you for that.
— Tiberos did mention it, — Eymand said. — That you're collecting a private menagerie of Jedi?
— You could phrase it that way, — I replied noncommittally.
He sighed and briefly laid out the facts. That fleeing the Temple while the 501st Legion and Anakin Skywalker wiped out his fellow Jedi had left him with bitter memories. A heartbreak carried with him for decades. Surprising. I've read about dozens of Jedi who, after losing everything, roamed the galaxy in vengeance. This one simply sank into the shadows. Intriguing. Was he broken, or just cautious?
— After that, I settled in the Outer Rim, keeping a low profile, — he went on. — Then encountered Aurra Sing's family… that's how I met young Tiberos. When his parents died, I took him in, hoping to raise him as a Jedi… Didn't turn out so well.
— We'll leave Tiberos's family history aside for now, — I suggested. — Back to you. What tasks did a "Jedi researcher" do?
— Anything the Order and its affiliates deemed interesting—finding new data or rediscovering old. — he explained. — Our group was broad: archaeologists, geologists, biologists, astronomers, linguists… all within the Exploration Corps, so we "worked in the field."
— And your own specialty? — I asked. A minor disappointment. I had hoped for a battle-hardened Jedi. Then again, that might still be workable.
— I'm an archaeologist, — he answered.
Well… it could be worse. Jedi ruins are scattered across the galaxy. A "Jedi geologist" might have been less helpful.
— Fascinating, — I said, leaning back in my chair.
— Not as exciting as it sounds, — Eymand chuckled. — Scouring dusty ruins, half-buried relics, scouring entire planets for some obscure tablet describing a snippet of Jedi history. Hardly the best occupation for a Jedi Consular. But a couple years after my assignment, I resigned myself to it. And a bit later, I even started to enjoy it.
A mental click.
A Jedi Consular. So he is a Jedi Consular.
Common knowledge holds that the Order had battle-focused Jedi who took on direct combat roles. They might have been called Jedi Guardians or something. Meanwhile, Jedi Consulars, by design, embodied the path focusing on Force mastery. In broad terms. That said, I recall a game where the Consular literally tore foes apart with Force alone.
I doubt this Zabrak can do that, but the rank implies he studied advanced Force usage, perhaps more so than a Guardian would. Potentially, despite having a small personal skill set, he's an asset.
— I have a job for you, Jedi Eymand, — I said.
— Thank you, but I've already worked for you, — he retorted bitterly. — My captain and friend is dead, those of us left are in your brig, our ships seized, our funds confiscated. Frankly, when we agreed to do business with you, we hoped for profit, not ruin.
— Captain Tiberos made a fatal mistake roping me into his vendetta with the Lok Revenants, — I rebuked the Jedi.
— The boy was desperate, — Eymand said with a shrug. Boy? Tiberos is nearly two meters tall and broad as a door, leaving ships drenched in gore after his raids—some "kid." — And you saw fit to judge and execute without understanding the bigger picture.
— Are you condemning my methods? — I raised a brow, somewhat astonished at his calm. He surely knew I could end him with a word. He remained unflinching, rational, showing maturity. This man had a firmly anchored viewpoint and no reason to pretend otherwise.
— Not in the least, — Eymand assured me. — Just that, if time allows, I'd like to explain how Nym, the Lok Revenants, and Tiberos fit together more fully.
— Tiberos already told me he served under Nym, — I noted, implying I didn't wish to hear the same tale repeated.
— Indeed, — Eymand nodded. — Did he say what led him there?
— I'm sure you'll enlighten me on that detail.
— Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to whitewash him, — the Jedi said. — I know him well, see how rage gnaws at him from within, how that rage bars him from realizing his higher potential. He wasn't always like that—he grew up in a loving home, dreamed of fighting in Outer Rim arenas. Aurra Sing might not be an ideal mother, but she was caring enough. Tiberos's father spent his days bashing skulls in the ring for Hutt peggats. The pair of axes you may have seen Tiberos wield are replicas of his father's.
— So what happened to the original set? — I asked.
— Claimed as trophies by Tiberos's worst enemy, — Eymand explained. — He allied with the Alliance to attack an Imperial transport. Tiberos's parents were on board traveling home. When the boarding action began, Nym killed Tiberos's father…
So the father wasn't all that in the ring, it seemed.
— Not too difficult to finish off a wounded gladiator mourning his pregnant wife's corpse, — Eymand said, as though reading my mind. But that's impossible with the ysalamiri here. So Tiberos was to have a little brother or sister, both killed… personal indeed.
— The mother, father, and child were killed by Nym, the same Captain Nym? — I clarified.
— In person, — Eymand nodded. — We learned the details too late. There had been strife before. Aurra once worked for Nym as a hired killer. But she eventually had to choose which suitor was worthy of her. She picked Tiberos's father. Nym seethed, and Aurra, never known for diplomacy, made her rejection plain.
— Please clarify, — I said. The story was getting ever more interesting.
— Imagine you're the captain of a powerful pirate band. There's a celebration, you're quite drunk, and among your people is a woman everyone covets, — Eymand's voice carried hidden heartbreak and regret, reminiscent of a past unfulfilled. — So. Aurra spurned Nym's advances. She… let's just say with a single shot from her rifle, Nym lost the ability to father children, right in front of his entire gang.
Aurra Sing was indeed no slouch. Like that acolyte in the Clone Wars under Count Dooku, Asajj Ventress, something like that…
— So once Tiberos and I learned about the transport attack and the murder of his parents, we started hunting the culprit. A local info broker told us the father's axes and Aurra's sniper rifle had surfaced on Lok. We went there, spending months infiltrating Nym's band, until one day Nym walked out brandishing those axes. Tiberos snapped, tried to kill him, but failed. We escaped from the prison station and for years strove to build a gang strong enough to take out Nym and his Lok Revenants.
A tragic, dramatic story indeed.
— How sure are you it was Nym, not some random henchman?
— The older Lok veterans never hid it, — Eymand said. — The system sees constant turf wars, blood flows. But ironically, Nym is still unaware who Tiberos is.
— You managed to mislead him?
— He did it himself, — the Jedi said. — Word reached him that Aurra had a child. But they led a secluded life, so hardly anyone laid eyes on the boy. Nym thought by killing the pregnant Aurra, he'd finished them all. He bragged about it along with the father's axes. But when Tiberos and I ended up in prison, we realized Nym had no clue we were behind it, or he'd have finished us.
— This holorecording Tiberos and Nym mentioned—what was that about?
— One attempt to undermine the Lok Revenants from within and get to Nym, — Eymand explained. — We arranged a sham contract to humiliate the captain. Found a middleman who, for a hefty commission, contracted Tiberos for the job. He sneaked into the system, bypassed security outposts, infiltrated Nym's fortress, beat him silly in front of his personal concubines, and recorded it on holo. If the guards hadn't shown up, Tiberos would have ended him—but self-preservation took priority. Anyway, Nym executed anyone who knew about his humiliation. The recording is still with us.
— Why such an elaborate scheme? — I asked.
— Hiring ourselves? — Eymand shrugged. — No one kills a mercenary without learning the client's identity. That was our fail-safe in case Tiberos were captured. I would have freed him. Anyway, that's old news now.
— I see, — I murmured thoughtfully. — The Lok Revenants are held together by faith in their captain's invincibility, correct?
— Indeed. No one in the Outer Rim has been luckier for as long, — Eymand said.
— I need that holorecording, — I told him.
— I see, but what's in it for me? — Eymand asked. — You killed my captain and friend, imprisoned the crew, and I, a Jedi, am an outlaw in the Empire…
Leaning forward, I keyed in a code on the panel. A holo flickered on.
The Zabrak's face remained stony, but from his eyes, I saw my guess was right.
— A live feed, Jedi Eymand, — I said. — As you see, your captain is alive and well. The chest wound is healing nicely—my bodyguard is always thorough. I know about Tiberos's feud with Nym. I've ended up personally involved. And I fully intend to cut this Gordian knot and dispense justice. That's the only reason your friend, Tiberos, is alive in our brig. Considering that, we have two choices: I can hand him to Captain Nym with my compliments, so he won't trouble me further, or I can guarantee Tiberos's life—who, as the only child of your old unrequited love, means so much to you— if you agree to work for me.
Eymand gazed at the holo feed, showing Tiberos strapped to a med bay bunk, forcibly turning away from the camera in the isolation ward.
— How did you know about my feelings for Aurra? — he asked softly.
— Not every "family friend" would babysit an overgrown avenger who refused to heed a more experienced mentor, — I said. — It's personal. Transferred affection for the mother, a woman you never had, onto her son. One of those odd quirks in a sentient mind. Nothing complicated.
— "Nothing complicated" for you, perhaps, — the Jedi retorted bitterly. He paused, raising his eyes.
— Will I get to see the boy again?
— I'm not enslaving you, Jedi Eymand, — I specified. — I'm simply using the situation to coax you back to your roots. Right now, to accomplish certain missions, I need you on a short leash. Once you've met your obligations, no one will hold you. Honest labor is always rewarded. Attempting to cheat me is also "rewarded," but in that latter case—by death.
— Thank you for the reminder, Grand Admiral, — Eymand smirked. — I know how to learn from others' mistakes. I don't need that kind of lesson. I will work for you so Tiberos can live. Where do I sign in blood?
***
— Colonel Vessery, have you gathered the data I wanted? — Isard's right brow arched.
— Yes, Director, — the TIE Defender squadron leader answered, standing at attention with perfect posture. — Neither smugglers nor Rebels nor Thrawn's forces spotted our eavesdropping post in the Linuri system.
He placed a stack of info chips on the table.
— Everything from the installation is here, — the pilot said.
— Dismissed, — she said, and he departed, leaving her alone.
One by one, she inserted the chips into her computer, uploading the data for thorough analysis.
She had done such work all her life and was better at it than anyone.
But now, no matter how she hid it, Ysanne Isard felt uncomfortable on this base—a modest manufacturing complex commanded by a cowardly general who squeaked too much. He gave her the TIE Defenders she needed—and with them, a chance to regain what she had craved so long.
All was perfect… until it wasn't.
First, her rule over Thyferra collapsed, undone by incompetent subordinates. Reevaluating everything, watching from the sidelines, Ysanne realized that her meltdown was largely the cause: she was so petty, so prone to tantrums, that she lost sight of time slipping away—along with her hold on Coruscant and the Empire. She had gone from cunning and merciless to hysterical. And it cost her everything.
Still, even in that meltdown, she'd managed to set up a fallback by creating her own clone. She realized that once Corran Horn broke free of Lusankya, the Rebels would scour the galaxy for more of her prisoners, so she made a clone for a single mission: disperse the inmates of her personal prison so no one could find them, keep them guarded while Isard finished off Rogue Squadron. Then, once done, the clone, convinced she was the real Ysanne, would no longer be needed. She was made for that one mission, and her existence would end.
But things changed.
Through a spy among that ragtag bunch cooperating with Rogue Squadron, she discovered their base—a derelict station in the Yag'Dhul system. She dispatched two of her last four Star Destroyers with which she had once seized Thyferra. One was destroyed by Wedge Antilles and his Rogues, the second, under Sair Yonka, went over to the Rebels. The other two were caught in a trap at Yag'Dhul as Antilles assaulted Thyferra.
Rogue Squadron bested her, time and again—three times on straightforward manipulations. They ended up capturing both ships. Lusankya surrendered to the New Republic, slipping from her grasp. She was left with nothing of her old holdings. Nevertheless, she had her ultimate ploy, which had made her infamous: She used a remote-controlled shuttle so the Rogues, convinced she was fleeing in it, would chase and blow it up. Tycho Celchu, an Alderaanian turncoat from the Imperial flight corps—Wedge Antilles's best friend and one of the few who had resisted her mind-breaking programs while imprisoned on Lusankya—fired the shot that supposedly killed her. Overcome with vengeance, he miscalculated. In that final moment, seeing how hatred had undone her, Isard turned it back on them, making them believe her dead.
That let her fade into the shadows, turning to a new, more pressing matter. While she was locked in battle with Antilles and his gang, her clone—whom she had planned to kill as soon as she'd dispersed the Lusankya inmates—somehow dodged the attempt, escaped, and…
That alarmed her.
No one was searching for the real Isard, as the New Republic believed her gone aboard that shuttle, so no investigation was done. The Rebels, as usual, believed whatever they wished.
Two years had passed since losing Lusankya and Thyferra.
By then, she'd located coordinates for a secret Imperial base under a General named Arnotian, whom she executed, claiming the base for herself. Its best feature was two TIE Defender squadrons commanded by Colonel Broak Vessery.
And ever since, she had closely tracked every movement her clone made, as that lesser version clung to the halfwit Krennel, helping him remain afloat in that chaos the mad fool was stirring.
In time, the shape of her plan changed when, to everyone's shock, Grand Admiral Thrawn emerged from nowhere about a year ago. No one initially knew what the alien wanted from the Imperial Warlords, but each warlord quaked in fear, for Thrawn had the largest chance to unify the Empire once more.
But he chose compromise, and only a year later did Ysanne realize he was wise to do so. Having taken in money, ships, and supplies, the last Grand Admiral guaranteed his supply lines, then—like a dutiful soldier—began to carry out his master's orders. Specifically, launching an offensive.
She realized it had to be for a reason. Thrawn had lingered in the Unknown Regions during the meltdown, giving "advice" to Imperial chiefs, gleaning the best resources, technology, and personnel from them. It had seemed he was uninterested in the Empire's collapse—maybe forging a personal fief somewhere beyond known space.
Isard never discovered exactly why Thrawn chose this time and method to fight the New Republic. She was busier planning how to kill her own clone—and still destroy Wedge Antilles, Corran Horn, and the rest of the Rogues. Because vengeance is best served cold, correct?
She observed Thrawn's cautious attacks, puzzling over his true motives, until she learned that Palpatine had returned in a cloned body. He contacted her, demanding loyalty. She gave it readily, still enthralled by him. After all, he had conquered death…
But the resurrected Emperor was in no mood for sentiment. He intended to reclaim the Empire and obliterate all foes without mercy, incinerating planet after planet. He needed only two things: an advance guard and a way to draw all possible Imperial forces into the Deep Core, out of Thrawn's reach. Thrawn, apparently, would be that vanguard.
The Emperor had not stated that openly nor through go-betweens, when he told her to recapture Lusankya personally, then deliver it to a specified rendezvous. He withheld the coordinates from her, an affront implying mistrust. She had to re-earn his confidence. She devised a brilliant plan, but…
Suddenly, the Emperor's chosen weapon was "broken." Sure, Thrawn was attacking, destroying enemies, demoralizing them, severing their supply lines. On the surface, all well and good. But over time, her clandestine agents reported that the last Grand Admiral likely had deduced his intended role—to shatter the Republic but die in the process, for Palpatine tolerated no rivals, and a triumphant Thrawn would be a threat. Especially one forging alliances with various Warlords.
When Thrawn commenced negotiations with Krennel, promising to secure him more ships, Ysanne panicked. She had worked relentlessly so that the Ciutric Hegemony lacked enough troops to repel a Republic assault that would, firstly, give her a path to Lusankya (the Bothans were finishing it at breakneck speed), and secondly kill the clone who, in her ignorance, believed the best approach was to keep the Hegemony intact. Possibly, the assassination attempt had rattled the clone's mind.
Hence her operation to seize Lusankya was on the brink. She had to rush it. The clone orchestrated that stunt with Jan Dodonna as if from a script—Isard personally observed it on Christophsis. Meanwhile, she fed curated intel to the clone and Krennel, funneling the Republic toward Linuri, a base Thrawn seemed to have abandoned, yet…
The last snippet her spies gleaned before Thrawn's security purge was that the planet intrigued him deeply. Enough for him to remove all references from the Imperial network. Only civilian ships traveled there, minimizing alarm among the panicky New Republic. Yet the staff was purely military.
And now, after listening to captured transmissions from Republic officers, smugglers, and Imperials on that planet with inbound convoys, she realized she'd spent days sifting it.
Yet the results were worth it.
Thrawn, who always scorned superweapons, was building one. Or so it seemed.
She couldn't help noticing how elegantly, almost artfully, Thrawn fed disinformation to the New Republic. After the Rebellion removed General Cracken, their Intelligence had too few experts adept at countering such skillful misinformation.
Why did she consider the "three Death Stars being built" to be disinformation? Simple. At its prime, the Empire barely managed to fund two such behemoths. Sure, Thrawn tried hard, fragmenting the intel. She'd gleaned it, plus partial logs, from her own eyes among the New Republic's government. But even the laziest analyst could see how, if one "Death Star" in the Phantom Nebula supposedly used the near-complete shell of an orbital palace (once mistaken for a battle station by the Rebels), they'd logically retool that floating structure with a main superlaser and energy modules. Another "Death Star," allegedly under secret Imperial contract at Lianna, was basically "a skeleton," with a superlaser under calibration, meaning the Republic would need a huge fleet or a "super star destroyer" to handle it…
At that point, Isard recognized Thrawn's scheme.
The third "target," supposedly the Ciutric Hegemony, was in a similar boat as Lianna, building an imitation "Death Star" by inserting a superlaser into a Torpedo Sphere's hull.
Analyzing all that, Ysanne realized Thrawn obviously hadn't lost his cunning in the Unknown Regions. If anything, his intrigues soared to new heights, with heavier infiltration—like some renewed inspiration. Perhaps his obsession with art truly fueled him? Utter nonsense, though.
Yes, Thrawn didn't feed the Republic intel about "three complete, standard Death Stars," which would be ridiculous. The New Republic would never buy that, she knew.
But what enraged her was that Thrawn had outplayed her using her own method.
She'd planned to leave behind clues on Commenor, leading the New Republic to Krennel's territory. Where she had a lab preparing "Pulse Station" designs that could never be realized in actual durasteel. Then she'd spring a trap on Rogue Squadron. Now she had to scrap her own plan! Because that alien lizard overshadowed it all. Once the Republic discovered records on Linuri about the new "Death Stars," the small ruse she intended them to find in the Hegemony was laughable.
No one would believe it.
Hence her only option was to do… nothing. She couldn't sabotage Thrawn's data, because that would raise even more suspicion on Coruscant.
She'd just wait and see how it all played out.
For the first time, Ysanne had to admit: she'd been outmaneuvered, under her very nose, via her own signature strategy…
Up to now, Isard had admired only one being in the galaxy: Emperor Palpatine. Yet after this day, she concluded Thrawn wasn't half-bad either. She'd expected him to be vanquished by now, each new victory making him overconfident. But he lived on, weaving conspiracies and letting enemies faceplant exactly where he'd scattered the most mud.
A worthy foe. Perhaps he deserved her grudging respect… except he had eyes on what was hers. So he would have to die, no matter what.
Stepping away from the monitors, Isard pondered her next moves.