One Fulcrum to Another

Mirror and Image

"It won't be easy, there'll be... loss and sacrifice... but we can't back down just because we're afraid. That's when we need to stand the tallest."

Kallus listened to the transmission, Bridger's simple declaration of war, with only one ear as he filed through the reports. Ostensibly, listening to that transmission was to pick apart information – it had likely been made from the Ghost, and he had taken the transmission through every filter, every modifier and deconstruction program he could to learn more about the Lothal Rebels. Nothing he learned told him where the Rebels were, nothing told him how that damn ship always managed to slip passed Imperial blockades, nothing told him where the Rebel base was.

But... he had learned that the rest of the crew had been there when Bridger made the transmission. The detail had merit, and at first Kallus had thought it simply meant that the crew was just that: simply there, watching Bridger's plea to the galaxy, doing other tasks of terrorism. It was only now, after Geonosis, after seeing Garazeb Orrelios – after seeing Zeb – save his life and act honorably, after watching the Ghost crew welcome their lost crewman with open arms and warm smiles and...

Now Kallus thought the crew was there deliberately. The transmission had been made right after Kanan Jarrus' capture, a (temporary) victory for the Empire and a solid blow to the Lothal Rebels. There was the faintest crack in Bridger's voice ("... loss and sacrifice..."), a tone Kallus originally took satisfaction in, but now he listened to that transmission, listened to the barely audible sounds of the rest of the crew, and he felt... Zeb had shown him...

Kallus frowned and turned the recording off, ending the loop. The words were worming their way into his head, he had been listening too long. He grabbed his collection of datapads instead and stood, stretching his legs and arcing his back before leaving his office. Caf, he needed caf.

He couldn't understand what was wrong with him. The Lothal Rebels were worthy of respect, of course, he had put down enough rebel cells to see that this group was principled, disciplined. They were a delicious challenge at first, but when Moff Tarkin had arrived...

Grint and Aresco were hardly ringing endorsements for the Empire, certainly, and disciplinary actions were necessary for their slip ups, but having that dark creature behead them with a red blade was overkill. Demotion, certainly, reassignment definitely, both of which Kallus had recommended in his reports, but execution? And with Jarrus' capture, the dark creature again had acted... inappropriately. Inflicting pain to get information was one thing, but it was hardly a task to be enjoyed.

But this was a rebel cell, and a firm hand was necessary when dealing with it. Kallus had done his part, starved planets to get the Lothal Rebels' attention, tried to flush them out for capture and end the game. But it didn't feel... Captain Syndulla had defied everything, arrived in some unknown ship design and decimated his blockade, a show of creative flare and inspired flight that Kallus felt... No, he did not feel inspired, that was a poor choice of words.

At the commissary he got his caf and a protein loaf, utilitarian fare to replenish lost nutrients and get his head out of its rut. He didn't need to reverse engineer his feelings, feelings were irrelevant in the Empire and he needed his head in the game, in figuring out how to capture the Rebels.

The Rebels who's biggest brute, who's thickest crew member, who's Lasat had broken all preconceived notions and shown him kindness on Geonosis' moon. Kallus would likely never shake the memory of Saw Garrera's rebel cell (still not caught) and bloodthirsty Lasat, moving through bodies and finishing the job with his bo-rifle. He had never seen a Lasat before then, had hardly even heard of the species, and that one moment crystallized what they were: brutes. Blood-soaked, unfeeling, murderous brutes. He had volunteered for the Lasat campaign, eager to get his licks in and show them what for, so to speak.

He had not signed up for massacre. He had not signed up for genocide.

And he most definitely had not signed up for the last living Lasat to look upon him, to see Kallus rub the brute's face in the massacre, to fight that big oaf so bitterly, only to have that same Lasat show him kindness.

Like, it wasn't even a question: they were fighting in an escape pod, the landing was so rough as to break his leg, and the thought of finishing off the Impy who had slaughtered his people didn't even enter Zeb's mind. He just set the leg, calm as you please, filtered through the wreckage for a distress signal and offered him food and warmth. That damned moon rock was still in his room, his first and only personal adornment, a testament to... something Kallus wasn't ready to admit yet.

And that was the problem. He wasn't ready to admit this... this thought he had in his head, as he watched Konstantine barely acknowledge even his closest crew members, saw Governor Pryce look down her nose at her subordinates and relish the idea of torturing the Lothal Rebels, witnessed Moff Tarkin execute members of the Empire in loyal standing for being less than perfect. The thought that something wasn't right.

"I remember when things were better... maybe not great but better than this..."

Kallus shook his head. If it wasn't critical evidence necessary to find the Rebels he would delete that transmission and never listen to it again.

He could still remember the Lasan campaign, the heat of the day, stormtroopers moving per his command, the orbital bombardment before the Lasat came up from underground caves from... somewhere... and fought like the fabled Jedi of old – taking down dozens of men with swift and efficient sweeps of their bo-rifles. He remembered the retreat that night, dragging bodies back to the encampment, being forced to leave men behind. He remembered the order to use the T-7 ion disruptors. He remembered someone asking command, "Have they been field tested yet?"

"Consider this the field test, trooper."

Dawn broke already hot, the only thing in the skies were the star destroyers, blockading escape. He remembered going down into the caves, armed with the disruptors, remembered the stormtroopers jumping at every shadow, the minerals in the soil interfering with their sensors, forced only to trust their eyes.

It was a scout trooper who first fired. A group of Lasat fell upon them from above, and the trooper was just perceptive enough to notice and aim up to fire, the sight clear in Kallus' mind, the stray thought of will it hit without targeting, and he remembered the smell. Smoke and cooked meat and instant decay all rolled up into one as the other Lasat continued to fight, more stormtroopers firing, some hitting, some not. Kallus was shouting orders, was trying to keep the troops calm amidst the surprise attack, and then commanding them to follow when one of the Lasat managed to escape. It was a harried chase, echoes of other engagements in the caves.

So many screams.

So many... puddles.

That was the effect of the ion disruptors, the Lasat were not simply killed, they were reduced to puddles of matter and armor, bo-rifles littering the ground and several stormtroopers taking them to use as savagely as they were used against the soldiers. Kallus' pace slowed as it finally dawned on him what the weapons were doing. He watched as the Lasat screamed bloody murder at the pain, watched the... the bubbling and the smoke, watched them fall as their deaths consumed them.

Kallus was in a tunnel, heaving at what was transpiring around him, sick with the weapon in his hand. He glared at the monstrosity, pulled the strap over his head and threw it away. He would not be responsible for that kind of death, that brutal savagery, that lack of honor. War was messy business, but it was not this kind of business...

"Agent Kallus?"

The ISB agent snapped out of the memory, blinking and looking up. Lieutenant Lyste was there, with a tray of food, looking down.

"May I sit with you?"

Kallus blinked slowly before nodding, moving his pile of 'pads. He hadn't touched his protein loaf.

"Any luck in finding the Rebels?" Lyste asked.

Kallus shook his head. "They have always been elusive, more so now that they have taken up with others. We were close on Garrel, but I have not heard much since."

"Oh, then you haven't heard the most recent report!" the Lieutenant said. He glanced through the pile by Kallus and pointed out the one he needed. The ISB agent pulled it out and opened it, and his eyes doubled in size.

"Vader?" he said, eyes scanning the relevant points.

"Indeed! In person if you read the report. The Jedi leadership is finished, and so were the ones with them."

Kallus stared at Lyste, unbelieving, mind unable to comprehend what he had just heard. The Jedi leadership? Kanan Jarrus? The ones with him? The crew of the Ghost? Ezra Bridger? … Zeb?

"Apparently I need to catch up on some reports," Kallus said curtly.

"I quite understand," Lyste said. "I don't mind the quiet. I've heard I'm being reassigned soon, my work as Supply Master at the Capitol might have at last been noticed. If it has then I can put my good work in other areas. I wonder if we'll work together?"

"Who can say...?" Kallus muttered, eyes raking over the datapad. Vader's report was terse to the point of reticent, there were hardly any details. The ISB training in him chaffed but Kallus had long understood that not every wing of the Empire was used to being thorough. A planet Kallus had never heard of: Malachor, an underground temple of some kind, collapsing the temple on top of the Rebels – all dead.

He is eyes soaked in the letters, the aurbesh barely recognizable. All dead. All dead.

Bridger... Zeb...

Zeb...

The massacre on Lasan had turned his stomach, quite literally. He had staggered through the tunnels, ion disruptor kicked aside, trying to unhear the screams, trying to unsmell the scent. He'd lost his troopers, everyone following orders but him, trapped in the chaos going on around him.

A meaty hand had grabbed his shoulder and twisted, Kallus nearly snapped his neck at the turn, and was lifted up easily, held by the grey-purple hand of a Lasat, green eyes wide and filled with rage. The enemy...!

Fighting instinct took over after that, Kallus grabbed the fist holding him up and wrapping his legs around the arm, twisting his entire body and breaking free. He landed in a handspring and kicked out, using the momentum to roll up to his feet. The Lasat had staggered back, holding it's chest, but also reaching back for its weapon. Kallus wouldn't survive unarmed, and he rushed forward, crouching to make himself even smaller and angling his shoulder to hit below the waist. The Lasat squawked and took another step back, Kallus wrapped his arms around the waist and struggled in earnest. The two fought for footing – the Lasat had height and mass but Kallus' brain was on fire, overstimulated and desperate to stay alive.

Without footing the ISB agent changed tracks, instead swinging his out and between the Lasat's, sliding under his enemy and then scrambling up the creature's back. The bo-rifle was still there, had not yet been pulled out, and that was Kallus' objective. The Lasat swung him off, though, and Kallus landed on his back and rolled out to his feet as fast as he could. Not fast enough, the weapon was out and extended into its bo setting, ends sparking with electricity. If that touched him he would be dead.

Someone screamed up the tunnel, a high pitched gurgling sound, the result of the ion disruptors and Kallus' stomach turned as he rushed for the rifle. The Lasat guardsman had excellent form but Kallus had trained in all forms of weaponry, ducking under a swing and his muscles calculating the next blow. The fight was intense, the guardsman with superior size and range, Kallus with agility and ingenuity. Kallus got on its back again and finally managed a choke hold, legs wrapped around the Lasat's waist to prevent being knocked off. It bucked and roared, tried to strike Kallus without shocking himself, but all beings had to breath, and as the oxygen ran out it stumbled to its knees.

Kallus was panting from his exertion, hair askew and in his face, waiting, waiting for the right moment.

The bo-rifle dropped, and Kallus immediately let go, diving for the weapon and throwing it aside. Now they were on even footing. He turned to the Lasat guardsman, watched it struggle for air before standing. It glared at him, green eyes indignant that Kallus had given it the chance to get back up again. The Lasat gave a great roar, arms spread out and intimidating, and Kallus realized it might have been a stupid idea to hand out a second chance at an honorable fight to a species that was so savage. It lumbered forward, faster than Kallus had yet experienced, and grabbed at his breastplate, lifting him up in the air as another Lasat barged in, bubbling and screaming as it fell to its death. Kallus saw the body liquefy, what had once been a moving, living organism devolving into a puddle of goo, the smell overwhelming in the small cavern. The ISB agent thought he would be sick again.

The guardsman saw the slaughter and turned hate-filled eyes to Kallus.

"Murderer!" it shouted.

"I'm sorry!" Kallus shouted. "I had no idea the disruptors would do this! I had no idea this is what would happen!"

"But it did!"

"I know! I know! I have no right to beg forgiveness for this! This is inhuman! Barbaric! Lacking all honor!"

Kallus never understood what had made him speak so freely. Fear was of course part of it, but Kallus was a soldier, he knew what fear was and how to defeat it, how to compartmentalize it and stand strong in spite of it. This was something else that had loosened his tongue, something he didn't have a name for, didn't know how to identify. But it was that thing, whatever it was, that the Lasat noticed. Kallus' raving had triggered something in the Lasat, and the ISB agent was slowly lowered to the ground.

"Run, Child," the Lasat said, "Before the Warrior tries to take you."

Kallus stumbled under his own weight, weak in the knees, but got his feet under him. He looked up to the Lasat, and the green eyes were no longer filled with rage, but rather something else. The lumbering creature grabbed its bo-rifle from where it had landed. Kallus stiffened, wondering if the bid to run was for sport rather than mercy, but the Lasat held it out, expecting Kallus to take it.

"I... I don't understand."

"You are a Child now, but one day you will be a Warrior, and you should have a weapon suited for a Warrior, rather than a weapon of a Fool."

Kallus reached out, hand shaking, and took the bo-rifle.

Then there was the sound of a shot, and a disruptor bolt hit the Lasat. The creature grunted, falling almost immediately, and behind him were two stormtroopers, half running towards them. "We found him, report to the commander; he had been captured by a Lasat!"

"You fools!" Kallus shouted. The Lasat started screaming, the pain of the ion disruptor overtaking whatever Kallus was about to say. The ISB agent crouched down, bo-rifle forgotten, gloved hands roving over the injury, trying to do something, to fix something.

"Bogan take you...!" the Lasat growled.

"Shh, it'll be alright," Kallus said, holding a shoulder and unable to think of anything else. It would be anything but alright, the wound burned through the Lasat, Kallus could feel the heat through his gloves, the insides were beginning to melt, he could feel the rib cage turn to slush. The Lasat screamed while he still had lungs, eyes wide with pain, but right before the end, the noise faded away. And eerie calm settling over agonized features, and those haunting green eyes turned to Kallus.

His last words were,

"... Ashla will save you..."

Something inside Kallus shifted, sitting there in the commissary with Lyste across from him and reading a 'pad. The face of that doomed Lasat being overlaid with Zeb's face, the body melting away into a puddle. He shivered.

"Are you cold, Agent?" Lyste asked.

The blond looked at the Lieutenant, unable to comprehend that he was still there, and only nodded, mute.

"It's not just me, then, I know heating the Imperial Dome is expensive but even two degrees more couldn't be that bad, and then we wouldn't have to wear long sleeves all the time. The uniform is certainly snappy, I'll grant you, but... Agent Kallus?"

"Sorry," Kallus said quickly, standing and taking his reports. "Lunch is over and I've much to do."

"But you haven't eaten..."

Kallus ignored the man; well meaning or not Kallus did not want an audience as his body reacted to the death of the Ghost crew. Weakness was a private affair, and his office was as good a place as any. He palmed the door and once he was in he locked it with his code cylinder. Relatively safe he exhaled, a wet sound in his own ears, and moved to his desk to sit down. His eyes glazed over the datapads, but didn't really see them, his mind far away on Lasan. It had taken him two months to be debriefed of the campaign, going over every action, every thought, every detail of his time missing from his troopers. He had told his superiors that he had captured a Lasat, was negotiating with it to tell him where the enemy was massed – he'd said it so often he believed it himself, suppressed the memory to a dark corner of his mind. The nightmares persisted, but Kallus was nothing if not thorough in his mental compartmentalization. It was a military campaign. Nothing more. It was nothing personal.

It was a dark mark on his record, a time he was not proud of, but he had rationalized and theorized and manipulated everything, even his own memories, to make it make sense. It was nothing personal.

And now Zeb was gone.

And nothing made sense any more.

He turned on the Bridger transmission, setting the loop, trying to get his mind back to work. Trying to get back to the Empire. Trying to rationalize the loss of the Ghost.

That night he had nearly forgotten his erratic behavior at lunch, convinced himself that old memories were seductive mistresses and that he had conquered the demand of their time. He finally managed to read reports – that had taken several hours, and he would pay for it that night as he tried to catch up. He took the 'pads with him.

The moon rock shone on the empty shelf in his room, bringing it all back to the forefront, and he grunted and threw his blanket over the cursed thing. Out of sight out of mind. He turned his back to the distraction and pulled out the most recent 'pad, intelligence report on communications and theories on encryption algorithms. He cross referenced it with known Rebel communications out of habit than any thought, letting the program run while he looked through another report, this one charting the drop of rebel activity in the sector with Vader's report of the death of the Jedi leadership.

Zeb...

Was it really true? How could he know? How could he find out unless the Lasat made an appearance somewhere? And if he never did?

Kallus' stomach turned, and he knew that the uncertainty would drive him insane, because he could picture a very detailed, very ugly way for the Lasat to die and that would only feed him more nightmares. He had to know. He had to know if Garazeb Orrelious had survived. If Ezra Bridger had survived, but mostly he needed to know about Zeb, to erase that one image in his past with an honorable Lasat who had shown him kindness when it was not only unnecessary but also antithetical to their respective positions.

The communications 'pad blipped, Kallus picked it up and found three different frequencies that weren't yet monitored for abnormalities.

He stared at the datapad, looking at the three frequencies. Protocol dictated that the frequencies be turned over to the Communications Division of the ISB, to add to their already sizeable list of monitored frequencies. Kallus had started there when he entered the ISB, almost a year of picking through data logs and encryptions, sending his own encryptions to ensnare possible defectors and submit them to the education centers. He knew what he had to do.

But he didn't do it.

Kallus stared at those frequencies well into the night, knowing what he had to do and somehow… unable. Three frequencies suspected to be Rebel communication bands, three frequencies that were as yet un-monitored. Three… possibilities.

He wasn't sure where the idea came from. No, that was a mis-statement. He knew where the idea came from: his dislike at the knowledge that he may never know if Zeb survived Vader's assault and unwilling to submit himself to several months of nightmares as his mind helpfully filled in the gaps in the most lurid way possible. But the actual thought, the actual thing he planned to do, he didn't know where it came from. All he really knew was that he was leaving his quarters, exiting the dome and taking a speeder, driving through the capital and then out into the grassy fields, a map of the area listing all the old communication towers. He found the one closest to the city, climbed the tower to the actual station.

Under the light of Lothal's moons Kallus could tell a squatter used to live here. There were old ration packs and bedding, a collection of stormtrooper helmets lining one of the shelves. Signs dictated that no one had been here in some time, however, and he ran his fingers through the old equipment. He could only do this once, the star destroyers would see the transmission and wonder what it was. Kallus would have to be careful, make it look like some kind of natural phenomenon: solar burst or radiation cloud, something that could be ignored.

There. An old shortwave transmitter for local communications. That would do nicely, give just enough static that it could be a stray home station. Kallus dusted it off and pulled it apart, checking the wiring and digging up a rusty tool box. He left the door to the tower open, not daring to use any light other than the natural light of the twin moons. It took perhaps an hour of tinkering to get it to do what it needed, and he hooked it up to the tower. He almost turned it on when he realized what he was about to do.

Could he do this? Was he really so crazy? This was bald, inexcusable treason, there was no going back from this. Could he really do it?

Togetherness.

That was what Zeb had given him on Geonosis moon.

What the Ghost crew had welcomed the Lasat with when they saved him from that ice planetoid.

What Ezra Bridger offered with his transmission.

"It won't be easy, there'll be... loss and sacrifice... but we can't back down just because we're afraid. That's when we need to stand the tallest. That's what my parents taught me. That's what my new family helped me to remember. Stand up together. As one."

Kallus turned on the frequency.

"This is Joreth Sward. Is someone using this frequency?"

Kallus had been dozing, he startled awake and realized the sky was becoming lighter. The sun would be rising soon.

"This is Joreth Sward. Is someone using this frequency?"

Kallus jolted, realizing what was happening and fumbling to turn on the communicator. "Yes," he said, rubbing sleep sand out of his eyes. "Yes, I am using this frequency."

"I don't know your voice. What's your clearance code?"

Kallus stared at the old, weathered transmitter, shocked at what he was hearing. One half of his brain was flooding with adrenaline and waking him up. After years and years of searching for Rebels he found one in the span of a few hours. The Empire would be pleased of this success and… and the other half of his brain scrambling to come up with a clearance code, would it be alphanumeric or a phrase or sentence? How could he worm his way to the information he wanted, how much could he glean from just a voice?

And, somewhere else, in a tiny corner of Kallus' mind, he thought of Zeb, the Lasat's forthrightness, the honor of being given a bo-rifle that he did not even know was an honor before Zeb had explained it on the Geonosis moon. His Security Bureau brain finally shut down, and weight of what he was doing settled on his shoulders. This was where he had to stand the tallest.

"I don't have a clearance code," he said, "But I do have an identification number to prove my authenticity. You won't find it on civilian records or on standard Imperial lists, but if you have any competence you should recognize the first three letters and what they stand for. That will make you afraid, but it will show you that I am serious about communicating with you."

"That is very mysterious," the voice on the other end of the transmission said. Very light accent, not a Core accent, or an Outer Rim one.

"People in our game must be mysterious in order to survive," Kallus said. "I will transmit again in two standard rotations. I hope that is enough time for you to corroborate who I am."

"Ah, but you are mistaken," the voice said. "You are giving me the identification of one man, who is to say that you are that man?"

"Because, if he is still alive, I am the man that Garazeb Orrelios saved," Kallus said.

The transmission cut without even a by your leave, and Kallus, now bereft of the conversation, took time to notice that he was shaking. He had done it… he had really done it… betrayed the Empire, given his identity to the Rebellion, all in the hope of… of what? What did he really expect to gain from this?

… What was he thinking?

He had two days to spin himself into madness. Everything hinged on the Rebellion believing he was who he said he was, and it was all he could think about. It was a miracle he was able to do his duties, to read reports and sit in on meetings, listen to Pryce and oversee the reports on the factories.

He was not so crazy to not plan, however. He told Lyste of seeing a civilian boy in the dome that caught his eye, that he was going to see where the boy lived and pay him a visit. Lyste nodded eagerly, happy to share stories of his own conquests that were outside Imperial entanglements. Konstantine had even joined in, regaling them with the sheer number of women he had explored. Lyste lapped it up like the brown-noser he was, but Kallus made a point of saying his affairs were very small in number. That was true, technically, but between Lyste and Konstantine conversation had been thoroughly diverted, and if someone reported his absences at night, two people of the right security clearance would "know" where he was.

Kallus double and triple checked his trails, taking his three frequencies and shifting their bands by one or two degrees, making them useless to the empire and deliberately reading, replying and editing all the reports he had ignored. The catching up kept him busy, of course, but it also left him with free time when the two rotations were complete so that he could sneak out to the communications tower. He deliberately walked by Lyste, who smiled and wished him well as he exited the dome.

He did not breathe easy until he was at the tower, and when he was he set up the transmission and began the wait.

"Joreth Sward here," the transmission said almost immediately.

"I'm here," Kallus answered.

"We've confirmed your identity, but we should be using aliases and create a clearance code."

"The line is secure, I changed the frequencies in my report to my superiors. But you are correct; the frequencies may come up again. As for a clearance code… By the light of Lothal's moons."

"Very well. For now, we will call you… Fulcrum."

"As you wish," Kallus said. The name was familiar, he would have to look it up later. Perhaps it was a metaphor, holding some kind of meeting. "Do I assume Joreth Sward is an alias as well?"

"You're the ISB Agent. You figure it out."

That was fair, Kallus supposed. The accent was thicker there, perhaps a hint of emotion, likely incredulity. Mid-Rim, perhaps, something to work out later. The ISB part of his mind would never quiet, it seemed.

"As you wish, Master Sward," Kallus replied. "If you have confirmed my identity then can you trust what I say?"

"Orrelios had some stories about you," Sward said. "He wanted to know why I was asking."

"Then he is alive," Kallus muttered. "Vader's report was inaccurate about the events on Malachor."

There was a long, drawn out pause, then, "They released a report about Malachor?"

"Vader did. It was brief to the point of self-redaction. Only that the Jedi leadership - which I assume to be Kanan Jarrus - was disposed of as were the Rebels with him. I spent several years chasing the Lothal Rebels, I worried that Zeb had been one of them."

There was no response, which in and of itself was a kind of response. Sward was absorbing the information and deciding how to respond; either something had surprised him or he needed to word his next sentence very carefully.

"Parts of it are true," the transmission said.

Kallus nodded. "Master Jarrus was a formidable opponent. It was an honor chasing him, and I'm sorry for your loss."

"Are you really?" Sward asked. "Given what you did to him on Mustafar?"

Distrust, accusation, subtle delivery. To a lesser man that would be a statement given out of anger, the bitter vengeance of a Rebel wronged, but Kallus heard the more subtle tract: another way to confirm his identity by detailing what had happened during the Jedi's capture. Even after handing over his ID number, the accented man on the other end did not trust him outright, and had very carefully maneuvered the conversation to a test. The pauses over Malachor, the hedged words, the bitter tone, the deliberate mistake of a detail, all spoke of a man who knew what he was doing.

"You are very good," Kallus said in approval. "I can confirm I was there for the first thirty-six hours of Kanan Jarrus' interrogation. It was my first experience with a torture table, but not my first with a mind probe, both of which were fruitless in garnering information. After thirty-six hours Jarrus was reassigned to the Grand Inquisitor, who ordered the interrogation be moved to Mustafar. Based on Lothal as I am, it was not deemed necessary that I accompany Moff Tarkin and the Grand Inquisitor."

"Very well. What do you have for us, assuming you aren't setting a trap?"

Kallus had spent two days deliberating on that. He had access to a large girth of information, but he could not hand out intelligence that only he would know. At the same time he could not hand out something small, that any Rebel cell with a hint of intelligence could learn about. Similarly, he was not yet convinced that this Joreth Sward was part of the main thrust of the Rebellion: it would have to be big enough that the Rebels would need a decent force to attack, yet small enough that the Empire wouldn't miss it.

"There is a shipping depot, at the edge of the Lothal sector, hidden in the Ublek Asteroid Field. Mostly it's used for commercial relay, but follow the finances of the Hyperspace Transport Conglomerate and see if you can find what I'm offering."

"You, are testing, me?" Sward asked.

"We're both intelligence people," Kallus said. "Trust, such as it is, has to go both ways. I will do what I need to garner yours, but I am not so foolish to hand myself over to space knows who without knowing they are part of the larger organization I wish to contact. Name dropping Zeb is not enough."

"... It would appear you have a brain in your head," Sward said.

"I'll transmit again in a standard week. Hopefully that will be enough time to get reports of your results."

If two days was a drive to madness, a week was a drive to delusional paranoia. Kallus kept a pad on the Ublek transport station permanently attached to his desk waiting for word of a Rebel strike; his muscles were tense and the gym did nothing to quell the anxiety. He did not talk to anyone, and only Lyste seemed to notice the change, asking if the "boy" he had discovered would drive him to distraction. Kallus offered a flat stare, using the look to transmit whatever Lyste wanted to see.

If chasing Rebels was a challenge that gave him job satisfaction, working for them would be an adrenal rush that would eventually kill him. That thought kept him up for hours at night, wondering if he was doing the right thing, worried that this would all be for nought, wondering when (and it wouldn't be an if, it would be a when) he would be discovered. He created contingency plans, made a go-bag and kept it at the tower, quietly put affairs in order in case he ever disappeared, planned for the worst even as he hoped for the best. He was not insecure with his abilities, he could ride this fit of insanity for a while, and if nothing else this was an excellent way to keep him alert.

He looked up the name Fulcrum – it was a title, not a name, suspected to be the head of the Rebellion. That gave Kallus pause: he had always understood the leadership to be Jedi, but Kanan Jarrus was not known by the name Fulcrum. A different Jedi? More than one survived? … Could Jarrus be alive? And Fulcrum now dead?

The week ended and he rode to the tower, opened up the transmission and gave his code. "By the light of Lothal's moons, I am here."

"Your intel was good."

"And yet nothing has been done."

"It hasn't, but that doesn't mean that it won't. Well done, Fulcrum."

Kallus took a deep breath. "Do I have the privilege of learning why I have been given so lauded a title?"

And, at last, genuine emotion: a laugh. "The name is not so exalted as you think. I am Fulcrum as well."

"... I see." Kallus ruthlessly muted the ISB Agent in his head.

"Let me give you some advice," Sward said, "From one Fulcrum to another: do whatever it takes to stay alive and don't think too hard about what that actually means. If you ever stop to think you'll never make a decision when you need to, and if you ever stop you will drown in how far you had to go."

…

"... That is a feeling I am already intimately familiar with," Kallus answered, old, dirty memories floating up in his mind. The smell, the sound, the sight. He gripped his bo-rifle close. Emotion bled into his voice, and he hated himself for the tell, knew he would never have been this careless at the Imperial Dome.

"Then I'm sorry, Fulcrum," the voice on the other side of the galaxy said, genuine sincerity in his voice. "You're not the first, and you won't be the last."

A month later Kallus received a report on a Rebel attack on the Ublek station, and he held in a smile as he read through the details. It was exactly as he had hoped. He read his reports with two eyes now: one as an ISB agent and one as an undercover insurgent – he dared not even think the word Rebel. Word reached him that the Ghost crew was still in action; he found surveillance tapes of Ezra Bridger, now with his hair cut short. The Mandalore girl was rarely seen but her artistic work popped up on several jobs, the holos usually out of focus because the investigators didn't know their significance. That meant not everyone read Kallus' reports, and the professional in him chaffed but he made no move to correct them until at least two weeks after the fact. Zeb's distinct silhouette popped up and Kallus gave an audible sigh of relief before he covered it up with a hum and a frown. Syndulla was of course alive, no one could pilot the Ghost like her.

No sign of Jarrus, though. Perhaps he was dead.

The last of the factories were completed, and Kallus noticed there were wings that he did not receive reports on. What? His clearance level was comfortably high, and he was tangentially part of Moff Tarkin's inner circle, why did he not know every detail of the factory? He brought the concern to Governor Pryce, but the woman looked down her nose at him, saying he didn't need to know.

Then a report came across his desk about the Battle of Batonn, and he grimaced as he read the report. The work was masterful, of course, to be expected of Admiral Thrawn, but the casualties were reprehensible. Tarkin brought the name up in a meeting, a ringing endorsement, and Kallus dreaded ever having a meeting with the Chiss officer even as the ISB agent in his mind salivated at the machinations of such a man and the insurgent in him quaked at the idea of being caught by such a strategist. Pryce was easier to work with, more focused on her career and her ambition than the details. Many in the Empire were like that, and Kallus took advantage of it.

He finally came across a piece of information he could use – a plan to colonize an already inhabited planet in the Lothal sector. He checked the report, saw that it was forwarded to several ISB agents and the governor's office. Good, many people were privy to the information. He took a speeder to the communication tower and booted up his old transmitter.

"Clearance code."

"By the light of Lothal's moons."

"What do you need, Fulcrum?"

"A planet in the Lothal Sector, Loranth VIII, is to be colonized by the Empire for it's deposits of minerals used in making duracrete. There is already a settlement there, small and without hope of holding off an Imperial Dome. I would recommend an evacuation. The Empire lands in a week."

"Good. I'll let people know. If this works out, I'll give you your own frequency and a trajectory to transmit to. There's a base closer to you that you can use, they'll be able to mobilize faster than me."

"You honor me with your trust, Fulcrum," Kallus replied.

"You've earned it for now. In this business that's as far as it ever goes."

"Well, then I hope the day comes where I encourage complete trust in you," Kallus offered.

"That will never happen."

"A cynic," Kallus said, a soft smile on his lips. "Then instead I hope the day comes where I can change your mind."

Two months later Thrawn was promoted to Grand Admiral, and he brought the Seventh Fleet to Lothal.

Author's Notes: Oh, look, the twins are writing another Rebels fic. This should shock no one. It's not about Kanan - that should shock everyone.

And yes, while it's true we spent most of our time fangirling over a certain Jedi who was bereft of (Hera) us too soon, that didn't mean we didn't have other interests in the show. Kallus as villain was a might boring, but watching him turn to a Rebel was absolutely fascinating, and it was a shame there wasn't room for him in Season 4. The thought struck us that he is an intelligence officer... but more on that later.

The first seventy pages of this fic are meant to build up to the payoff of the last five pages, and in order to do that Kallus needs to meet someone. His name of course isn't Joreth Sward, but if anyone is connected to the EU they already know how this is. And since there's a lot to build up we've ended up semi-novelizing the last two seasons of the show in order to fit in all the small scenes necessary.

The fic itself is something of a character study for Kallus, we learned a whole lot about him writing for this, as well as the people around him.

Next chapter: Kallus was given a very specific trajectory, and he realizes very quickly just who he's transmitting to. Also, Thrawn.