A note from the authors:

With this epilogue, the journey of Star Wars Episode I: The Looming Force is at its end. Thank you so much for joining us for this adventure! More exciting things are on the way.

Following this conclusion, there will be a brief hiatus while the two of us authors collect our thoughts and prepare to bring you the continuation of the story: our alternate Star Wars Episode II.

Before we begin posting Episode II, you can look forward to a collection of one-shots which take place after The Looming Force. Titled "The Skywalker Legend: Fragments," this group of short stories will explore some of the events taking place between the first and second episodes of our prequel trilogy. Furthermore, if you've enjoyed the archive entries at the end of each chapter of this work, we'll also be posting all of them in a separate collection. "The Republic Archives: 1152 Edition" will be available today!

Make sure to follow our author page so you don't miss any of this upcoming work! Thanks again for following along with this story from a galaxy far, far away. May the Force be with you.

Your authors,

GoodHunterAnais and Slippin_Jimmy

Epilogue: Masters

The view from Bail's office remained beautiful. As the sun set, its glow bathed the skyscrapers in brilliant flares of white and orange light. Speeders soared lazily through the air, their occupants headed home to family or off to see friends after a long day's work. If you squinted, you could barely make out the occasional flicker above the clouds—the planetary shield briefly ceasing its embrace to let another vehicle through.

Beautiful. But tarnished.

Elsewhere on the planet, Bail knew, preparations were being made. Soldiers were saying goodbye to loved ones; children sat huddled around viewscreens, asking their parents to explain what was going on; manufacturers were going over scenarios for shortages.

There was, after all, a war on.

It had happened without him even being present. The Defense Committee had met, minus their Chancellor, and voted to declare war on the Confederacy now that things had clearly gone past the point of no return. And he, Bail Organa, had been the one to bring them there.

He was under no illusions as to how the vote was going to go.

Nor was the man who sat across his desk. Palpatine of Naboo had an air about him that Bail had never seen before. The man reeked of smugness, the faint smile that hung about his lips that of a cat that had just devoured a very large mouse. It was the complete opposite of his usual persona; that he was careless enough around Bail to drop the pretense of modesty showed exactly where he thought the Chancellor stood.

The senator spoke, and Bail dragged himself back to the conversation. ". . . to thank you for meeting me, Chancellor Organa," Palpatine said, inclining his head in deference to his colleague's generosity in defeat. "It seemed the right thing to do."

Bail waved his hand, a gesture that might have meant Not at all but might also have meant Knock it off. "My days in this office seem to be numbered, I might as well make use of it while I can."

"Quite." The senator took a sip of brandy and settled back in his chair. "Well, at least you've . . . what's the expression? Gone out with a bang?"

Ignoring this, the Chancellor took a more sizable sip of his own brandy. "I have confidence in my replacement, at least," he said, doing his best to keep his voice just the right amount of casual that he'd have plausible deniability for any offense that the senator happened to take from an . . . unfortunately misconstrued statement. "Sapir will be a good leader. Those who strive to hold off war are the ones you want to have when the war arrives, or so the saying goes."

If his choice of predicted successor needled Palpatine, the senator didn't show it. "Sapir?" he asked mildly, raising his eyebrows. "You're so sure, then?"

"Oh, my numbers seem quite concrete," Bail replied, careful not to slip and say Mon's numbers—true to her word, she'd distanced herself from him since their last meeting, and he intended to make sure she stayed that way in the eyes of others. "Bel Iblis can't very well win now that we've declared war. And anyone else . . . well, it just doesn't seem to be in the cards."

"Well, we shall see." Palpatine took another pull at his snifter, his eyes staring not at Bail's face but at the window a few feet behind him. "I should like to think I've made good friends in my time here."

Self-satisfied prick, the Chancellor thought to himself. "So then, Senator," he asked, putting his snifter aside. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well, Chancellor Organa. As a matter of courtesy, I thought it best to let you know the path your successor—forgive me, your potential successor—will be taking with the government." Palpatine put aside his drink and steepled his fingers. His eyes changed, then; something in them turned flinty, hard.

"First things first, Chancellor. You have led us to the brink of disaster. The people did not want this war. The government did not want this war. I did not want this war. This, of course, you already know." He paused, as if to leave Bail a window to respond; when Bail did not take it, Palpatine continued. "However, a war is what we have. And though I did not ask to be saddled with it, I intend to win. And I will not allow rogue elements to stand in my way." He inclined his head forward, mock-magnanimously. "I cannot, of course, have you impeached from your Senate seat at the present time. But if you should go against the will of this august body again, I needn't tell you consequences will be forthcoming."

Bail wanted to narrow his eyes, to again simply think to himself Self-satisfied prick and push aside the words. But he felt something prickling at the back of his neck, something that felt an awful lot like fear. This Palpatine was not the man who'd sat in mild silence through most defense committee meetings, nor was it the smirking gloater who'd been present in this office til just a few moments ago. There was something poisonous in his voice, a venomous conviction. His earlier barbs had been nothing, little needles intended to annoy. He meant this.

The senator spoke again, and where before Bail had pushed the words away he now paid exquisite attention. "General Kenobi and Typhoon Division are, of course, heroes, heroes who were appallingly misled. But there will be no place for that kind of heroism in our military anymore. The Republic can no longer afford an armed force whose members owe loyalty to patrons and local figures rather than the State as a whole. General Kenobi is the Republic's. Typhoon Division is the Republic's. They, as well as you, would do well to remember that."

A bit of fire rose within him then, to meet the iron in Palpatine's voice. "General Kenobi's memory is not the subject of this meeting," he snapped. "You would do well to remember that, Senator."

This was met by a simple, reptilian smile. "Oh, believe me, Chancellor," Palpatine said. "I forget nothing."

Bail found himself distracted, once again. Without bothering to hide what he was doing, he stared at Palpatine's eyes. A trick of the sunset's orange light, no doubt, surely nothing more than that—but hadn't the senator's eyes turned suddenly jaundiced? Hadn't there been the briefest flash of . . . yellow?

"There is one other subject I'd like to address." The senator from Naboo held his smile, which looked uglier and uglier the longer Bail watched it. "As of late, there have been rumors swirling through the Senate chamber. Rumors of sorcerers and secret agents, of puppet masters pulling strings. Rumors of Jedi."

A lead weight, freezing cold and burning hot at once, plummeted into the Chancellor's stomach. Not Obi-Wan, he can't go after Obi-Wan, not after all I've done.

Remarkably, Bail managed a snort. "I wasn't aware you believed in bedtime stories, Senator. Not especially a promising trait in a future executive."

This was ignored. Bile had leaked deeper into Palpatine's voice, but there was something else, too, something very like triumph. "I take extralegal conspiracy very seriously, Chancellor," he said. "Whether the Jedi really move objects with their minds or wield lightsabers, I don't care. But influence upon this government from within, by a group that does not belong there . . . that concerns me."

He leaned only a fraction of an inch closer, but his shadow seemed suddenly to swell, towering over the room. "And if agents of that group are uncovered, they will be met with the most extreme solution."

Bail opened his mouth to retort. Found that he could say nothing. Something in the room, some overwhelming feeling of dark, seemed to have stolen his voice away.

And then Palpatine leaned backward, and the shadow retreated, and the sunset was streaming through the window once more.

As the Chancellor continued to sit there, stupidly trying to think of something to say, the senator from Naboo rose. "I will see myself out, I think," he said pleasantly—he was no longer the iron Palpatine, or even the smug Palpatine, but the Palpatine everyone knew, the Palpatine who had made enough friends to take a run at the Chancellorship. "And of course, I'm sure you're right. Senator Sapir will make an excellent Chancellor."

Just as he turned to go, he seemed to remember something. "Oh, by the way—I believe from what I hear that Anakin Skywalker and his wife are still on Coruscant, yes? Do let them know that I've extended an invitation to dinner to both of them. I should like to meet our latest, brightest heroes."

And with that, he simply strode out of the room, not once looking back.

Slowly, tremblingly, Bail exhaled, the sensation of a weight leaving his chest growing more pronounced with every passing moment. For several long minutes, he simply stared at the hole in the room where the senator from Naboo had sat.

Please, he thought to whoever out there might be listening, let it be Sapir when the time comes.

Dagobah had grown more wild in the time Obi-Wan had been away. The planet was going through a rainy "season" of several years, one that had begun in the midst of Obi-Wan's training ages ago. The last time he'd come to see his old master, the swamp water at the periphery had left plenty of room to land a shuttle. Now, it lapped dangerously close to his ship's landing gear, though the automatic pilot had fortunately been able to handle it—Obi-Wan didn't fancy landing a ship himself any time soon. The next person to visit the Jedi Master, he thought to himself, would be lucky if they didn't plow straight into the water.

His master's hut, fortunately, was warm and dry as it had ever been. The "guest bed," as Obi-Wan had wryly referred to the thin spare bedroll during his time here, served as a welcome bit of padding to sit on; a fire crackled in the nearest corner of the room, serving both to heat the inhabitants and cook their dinner. The rootleaf was an acquired taste, but the general had almost come to miss it in his time away.

"Mmm, yes," his master said, carefully ladling the stew into two bowls. "Waste away, you will, on the rations you are fed. Spices are what you're wanting."

"You'll have to write down the recipe for me while I'm here," Obi-Wan replied, the corner of his mouth twitching as he tried to suppress his smile. "If only you had the paper."

Chortling at this, his master turned from the fire. "Respect, I see, you have yet to learn."

As lovely as it was to see him, Obi-Wan couldn't help but worry at his former teacher's condition. The green was slowly fading from the alien's skin, leaving an uneasy sort of grey; the tips of his ears had begun to droop gently downward. It wasn't a large change—when you'd lived to be almost 900 years old, age did not attack so much as it simply leaked in—but it was a disquieting reminder. Even Yoda's time was not infinite.

Seeming to catch his student's line of thought, the alien chortled again, though more wistfully this time. "Pointless to worry about what is left to us or what is already gone, Obi-Wan. What we can do in the here and now—that is what matters." Leaning on his cane, he shuffled forward, extending a bowl of stew in his tri-fingered hand. "And what we can do now is eat."

Nodding gratefully, Obi-Wan accepted the bowl and blew over the bubbling contents. "It's not just the rations making me waste away. I ate . . . twice on Had Abbadon, that I can recall. And had a couple of Hapes Clusters. You're fortunate I didn't collapse across your doorstep."

The twinkle did not leave his master's eye, but it dimmed to a more somber level. "Well you did on Had Abbadon, Obi-Wan. But only the first of many battles, I fear it was. And more than just the Republic hangs in the balance." He paused to take a mouthful of his own bowl. "The Jedi of today have known no war. Change us, it will."

The gentle, matter-of-fact way his master noted this made Obi-Wan feel worse than any politicians' diatribes back on Coruscant could have. He swallowed a spoonful of stew, burned his throat, and shook his head. "I'm sorry. Sorry I couldn't have done better."

Before he could continue, he yelped—the sharp point of Yoda's cane had jabbed at his elbow, almost spilling his stew. "Listen to nothing do you. Ahh, young Kenobi." Affection played across the corners of the alien's mouth. "Missed you I have."

Rubbing at the point of impact, Obi-Wan smiled ruefully. "Fine, fine. No more worrying about what's already gone."

After a few silent mouthfuls of stew, Yoda spoke again. "Qui-Gon's old master should be told about her condition."

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Obi-Wan blew on his next bite of rootleaf; fortunately, this one went down at the proper temperature. "Isn't reaching out to him a bit unusual? I don't know that even Qui-Gon has been in touch with him since he left."

Yoda firmly nodded. "No more can we afford to keep so closely to ourselves. Secret, the Jedi were meant to be. Not isolated. Need all our friends we will in the fight to come." He tilted his head slightly, ears at odd angles, and looked his former student in the eye. "Proof of that, you are. The Chancellor, your fleet, your new friends—none of what you accomplished could have been done without them."

As good a time to bring up why I'm here as any, Obi-Wan thought to himself. Knowing Yoda, this was not exactly a coincidence.

Resting his bowl of rootleaf on the bedroll, the general leaned slightly closer. "As lovely as it is to see you, that's actually why I've come. Before Qui-Gon and I fought the Sith warrior, she let me know she'd been having visions about a growing darkness. At the time, she thought it was the Zabrak."

"Mmm." His master's eyes drifted somewhere outside the hut, somewhere past Obi-Wan's vision. "Felt it growing for some time, I have. Who, or what, hard to say. But there can be no doubt, the creature you faced was a lord of the Sith."

"But Master, there's more. She and I . . . spoke, after everything. And she told me she realized she'd been mistaken. Her visions weren't about the Sith we faced at all. They were about Anakin."

Yoda considered this. "Never fixed, the Force's warnings are. Qui-Gon's uncertainty is proof of that."

"But he himself is frightened of what he's capable of. It's why he insists I tell him how to cut himself off from the Force."

Narrowing his eyes, Yoda leaned closer. "Beware of fear, Obi-Wan. Act in fear, and serve the dark side you may."

"Qui-Gon agrees. And so do I. Which is why I came here. I need your advice." The general paused, inhaled, and breathed outward in a sighing rush. "Qui-Gon thinks we should train him as a Jedi. But I can't convince him. If there's anyone I can think of who can help us face the Sith head-on, it's him. And I worry what he could become outside our influence. I need your advice. Help me make him see reason."

While Yoda did not laugh, amusement danced through his eyes again. "Make him see reason, no one can. If that easy it were, your training would have been much shorter."

Acknowledging this with a self-deprecating bow, Obi-Wan continued. "I told him he'd learn from you, but the absolute solitude is too much for him—I can't ask him to leave Padmé. I thought maybe, if we could promise them she could stay here too, it would be something—I know that's breaking the rules, but she's a lovely person once you've gotten to know her."

This time, Yoda did laugh. It went on for several seconds, with Obi-Wan simply staring in bemusement. Surely the idea of Padmé as a nice person isn't that funny. All right, maybe a little, but still—

Finally, his master brought his laughter under control, looking his former pupil in the eye. "So like you, Obi-Wan. Look for an answer hidden in the bushes when the real one is right in front of you."

Obi-Wan pretended to know what this meant for a moment, then asked, "Pardon?"

"Train the boy, I cannot. No Master can. Only you can."

It took several seconds for this to sink in—Obi-Wan's first instinct was that this had to be one of the alien's elaborate jokes. "I—me? But Master Yoda, surely you—"

"Old I am, yes, and wise. Old and wise enough to know that Skywalker does not need age and wisdom. Need a friend, he does."

Incredulity won out over respect, and Obi-Wan raised his voice not in anger but in alarm. "But I haven't even passed my trial!"

"And Had Abbadon was what? Practice?" A snort of laughter interrupted Yoda's speech. "Rescued a planet, you did. Confront a dark lord of the Sith, you did. The first one only a few Jedi living could claim. The second, none could. You are worthy of Mastery, Obi-Wan."

Sputtering, the general tried to form words. "But—I've not prepared for it. I'm not ready."

"No one is ever ready when they begin. If ready they had to be, no beginnings would be made." His master settled back on his cane, and nodded once, firmly. "If you cannot train him, he cannot be trained."

For a long minute, the general simply sat there, stunned, thoughts churning through his brain. "And . . . if he still refuses?"

"Then you will give him what he asks for. Do your best, and honor your word. No more can be asked."

Eyes still wide in amazement, Obi-Wan absently took a spoonful of stew and chewed. After swallowing, he asked: "And can you . . . see anything about what is to come?"

Again, the tip of Yoda's cane prodded at his arm, this time a chiding reminder rather than a rebuke. "What will be is not to pass. You know what you must do. Do it. That is the Jedi way."

Nodding, Obi-Wan tried to accept what had just happened. I'm a Master. And a teacher. If Anakin says yes. If, if, if . . . "Thank you, Master Yoda," he eventually said. "For everything."

"And you, Obi-Wan." The alien twitched the tip of one ear, and smiled. "No need to say goodbye in the morning. See to your student, you must."

When the fleet above Had Abbadon had dropped out of radio contact, Valis had assumed two things: that they had lost the system, and that Maul would not be coming back. A few hours' silence had passed before the latter had been disproven; after what had felt like days of impotent fretting, Maul had sent a coded message to the Charybdis. The three-word comm burst had ordered the Confederacy's flagship to a rendezvous point Valis never would have chosen herself.

Now the admiral stood, fist clenched, at the entry to Maul's private chambers. One guard was notably absent from his post beside the door, and the other made no acknowledgment of Valis as she moved toward the entryway—did not even turn to look at her as the door slid aside.

As Valis stormed into the room, a strange sensation once again rolled over her, though it was not the soul-sucking chill that had marked her last visit to Maul's chambers. Instead she was overcome by an unsettling sense of warmth, as though someone—or something—was going out of its way to make her feel at home. She brushed it aside with her newfound fury.

"Maul. What the hell are we doing here?"

The warlord, who had been standing with his back to the door, silently turned to face her. She gasped slightly as she took in the state Maul was in. The Zabrak's usual arrogant stature was gone; he instead slumped over slightly, gingerly cradling his right arm. His charcoal robes were stained with dirt and torn in several places, the edges tattered and shredded. His teeth looked even worse than usual—cracked and chipped from an apparent blow to the face. His chin was crusted with the darkened hues of dried blood, and one of the horns adorning his head seemed to have been sliced clean off.

No need to ask who'd done that to him. When the battered Zabrak did not answer her question, Valis continued. "You'd handle it yourself, you said. And instead, you're beaten to a pulp by Kenobi and the Republic takes the system."

"Not Kenobi," Maul hissed; Valis felt the energy in the room flicker into coldness, and the warlord's eyes blazed amber. "There were more."

"Exactly the sort of unforeseen circumstance that would have been dealt with if you'd brought in backup. And instead, you have to make some bloody point of honor and go in alone? The entire operation compromised. Because of you."

Silence.

Whether this was an acknowledgment of his own fault or a warning not to go further, she couldn't tell. She also didn't care. "And 'Rendezvous at Kamino'?" she shouted, spitting Maul's transmission back at him. "In what world is that a good idea? You came here straight from Had Abbadon, too, there hasn't been time enough for you to take an indirect route. You could have led the Republic right to our cloning facility. What were you thinking?"

In response, the Zabrak wordlessly stretched a hand out toward Valis. In his palm sat a handheld holoprojector—Maul squeezed the device, and a blue-tinted image of a plant appeared in the air between warlord and admiral.

"The memory lichen," he finally spoke aloud, his voice gravelly. "Is it not the reason we sought to capture Had Abbadon?"

Some of her anger deflated, but only a little—the warlord's childish answer, as though this solved everything, was almost as bad as if he'd come back emptyhanded. "Capture being the key word, Maul," Valis hissed. "It doesn't grow offworld. We were supposed to build a facility there. The first step of our battle plan, remember?"

"The fleet was nearly gone," Maul rasped. He deactivated the holoprojector, returning it to a small pocket within his tattered cloak. "I was unprepared to face more than one Jedi. Recovering a sample seemed better than nothing. If the Kaminoans could clone a man, they could just as easily clone a plant."

Valis fought to keep her mouth from dropping open. A lone thought rattled around in her head as she processed Maul's words: What?

This was not same Maul that had left her ship. The impulsive animal who acted only on instinct was nowhere to be found. He'd just expressed a coherent thought that required a strategic decision made by him and him alone—no hidden master of any kind. What had the Jedi done to him?

Valis stumbled over her words: "You . . . thought—"

"I'm told the first attempt was promising," Maul interrupted, wincing as he breathed. "The cloners will want to test it more. Refine it before integrating it into the wetworks. We may wind up behind schedule, but we'll get our improved army. Just as planned. This may even work better. We would have had to commit defenses to Had Abbadon once a base was in place."

The wrath was slowly leaking out of her like air from a punctured hull, confusion rushing in to fill its place. "You were unprepared, you said." She leaned in, trying to muster the anger she had left, pushing away her consternation at herself for changing the subject. "Unprepared to face more than one Jedi. Back when I was asked to lead this fleet, I was under the impression killing Jedi was a specialty of yours. If you can't do that, what good are—"

"You traitor!" a third voice called out from the chamber door.

Valis and Maul alike whipped around. Standing in the doorway was Gammeth Melko, the ship's executive officer, pointing an accusatory finger at his commanding officer. "Lord Maul, she's planning to overthrow you."

This, a detached part of Valis' mind whispered to itself, is too many surprises for one day.

She'd thought he'd been spying on her for nothing more than petty grievances. The no-smoking announcement, the smug cracks about the archives. Sure, he despised her, but after she'd saved his life surely he was too cowardly to actually do anything about it. She'd been so busy with Maul that she'd completely forgotten that other actors existed on board this ship.

Swallowing, Valis glanced back at Maul just in time to see him reach down and grasp the lightsaber hilt dangling from his belt. The Zabrak's eyes narrowed; his mood visibly shifted, becoming something much closer to the Maul Valis had gotten to know during her time with the Confederacy. Once again, she felt the room flicker cold.

"Explain," the Zabrak growled.

"She was searching our database for information," Melko said excitedly, gesturing with his hands as he talked. His gaze shifted toward Valis; an expression of the utmost smugness was plastered to his face. "Trying to find where your ship was manufactured. Looking for weaknesses, I'd assume. Perhaps so she could kill you and get away with it." As the executive officer continued, he stepped fully into the chamber and walked toward Maul and Valis. "She was looking into your past. She even made a call and hired someone to fly to Naboo. She's searching for connections to the planet Korriban, of all things."

At this news, Maul detached the lightsaber hilt from his belt and gripped it firmly in one hand. Valis watched the Zabrak intently as the fingers of his other hand twitched slightly. The door to the meditation room slid shut—as it closed, Valis could just make out the lone guard outside moving to stand in front of it.

"Have you told anyone else about this?" Maul growled. His eyes, Valis noted, were fixed not on Melko but on her. They did not blink.

"Of course not, sir. I thought it best to bring it to your attention first." Melko shot another glance at Valis. "And who knows who else on the ship is working for her."

Maul nodded slowly, glanced at the floor, then twirled his lightsaber hilt in his hand once. "Valis?"

The admiral kept her poise and chose her words carefully. She'd done well so far in not reacting to Melko's accusations—an outburst now, following so soon after her attempts to chasten her superior, would not end well.

She spoke in a measured tone, barely above a whisper: "Lord Maul, it's not—"

"Valis. Step aside."

Glancing toward Melko, then back to Maul, Valis realized that she was now standing directly between them.

She locked eyes with Maul, and something clicked.

With a slight nod, Valis took a step to the side.

She felt a rush of air move past her, heard the distinct snap-hiss of a lightsaber activating—and the telltale sizzle of its blade connecting with flesh.

A wet choking sounded from behind her—the muffled gurgle of her executive officer's last breath. When she turned around, the warlord hunched over Melko's limp form, dark against the crimson flame of his blade.

The scenario was so similar to how it had been before, when she'd saved Melko's ass, that Valis almost felt sorry for him. After all that, he still hadn't known what Maul would do as soon as the saber had left his belt.

Smoke still rose from the hole in Melko's throat as Maul's guard entered the room to drag the body away. As the armored figure exited the chamber, Valis noted that Maul had not yet deactivated his lightsaber.

Twirling the hilt in his hand—the ruby blade hummed as it sliced through the air—the warlord cleared his throat. "Talk. Was he telling the truth?"

"Not exactly," Valis said, slowly selecting each word; her eyes did not leave the saber. "I sent a man to Naboo, but he isn't searching for anything about Korriban. He's not even searching for anything about you. I'm after your boss."

Maul's thumb, which had been slowly circling the activation switch on his lightsaber hilt, finally depressed the button. The crimson plasma blade winked out of existence. "My what?"

"During the operation, it became clear to me that you were taking orders from someone else. Orders you didn't always want to follow." Orders that you weren't capable of coming up with yourself, she did not add. "I just wanted to know who I was really working for."

"You work for me," Maul hissed, reattaching the saber to his belt. "Melko served his purpose, but now that we've cast him aside we can do the work we are meant to do. No more spies. You will pick your new officer."

The latter barely registered. "We?"

"I may have had to flee today, but I still dealt a blow to the Jedi—"

The warlord's presumption in naming their alliance, coupled with this delusional attempt to wipe away his defeat, were enough to free her from the careful paralysis she'd held since Melko burst in. "It wasn't enough," she snapped.

Darting upward, the Zabrak's eyes fixed upon hers. "What?"

"Whatever you did," she repeated, carefully emphasizing each syllable, "it wasn't enough." Involuntarily, she felt her left foot take a step forward. Her voice echoed off the polished obsidian walls, resonating back into her ears. "The Jedi are a cancer, Maul. Stabbing one of them in the gut doesn't begin to repay what they have done to the galaxy. All the promises you gave me when we met, and you're still just a child playing with swords."

She began to pace back and forth, jabbing a finger in Maul's direction as she spoke—not because she was angry at him (well, not just because), but because her anger needed some sort of target. "They claim to be the guardians of peace and justice. But who gets to decide what that means? Them? They can drop in on some planet and destroy your way of life just because their ridiculous meditations told them it was 'wrong.' And then when you're barely scraping by on what scraps of your life the Jedi do leave you, the Republic shows up to shit all over it.

"Oh, they'll say they're uplifting you. Rescuing you from the harshness of the Outer Rim, building a proper colony that can thrive and prosper. All that's really happening is they're dumping a bunch of prefab housing and ration boxes onto a moon and somehow leaving the place worse than they found it. But now you've got representation in the Senate, they say! They don't tell you it's by some hapless junior senator who's juggling a dozen other colonies who got equally screwed over.

"The Jedi took almost everything from me. What they left, the Republic took later. Limping away after barely taking them on isn't enough, not after what you showed me. We need to make them bleed, Maul. We need—"

Blood roared through her ears. Months and months of pent-up anger had just released themselves. Calculated anger had given way to unrestrained rage. And it had left her with no negotiating position whatsoever.

Her hands shaking, she forced herself to stop. "I . . . I apologize. I got carried away. I'll call off the contact that's headed to Naboo."

"Don't," Maul said, holding up a hand. A warped grin crept up the edges of the Zabrak's mouth. "Why do you think I came to you in the first place?"

Valis stared. "What?"

For the first time, what she saw behind the Zabrak's eyes wasn't hunger. This was a new emotion, one that surfaced despite his ragged state.

Unadulterated satisfaction.

"Skilled mercenary leaders are a dime a dozen," Maul rasped. "We didn't come to you for your military expertise. We came because we can read records too." His grin spread wider, flecks of dried blood growing visible on the warlord's teeth. "The Republic destroyed your home. The Jedi were their way in. And that's why you're the one for this job."

Taking a step closer, he continued: "And don't call your man off either. Let him investigate it all. Even Korriban. His findings may serve us well. Help us destroy the Jedi."

Valis did her best to scoff. "'Us'? Maul, there is no 'us.' And taking the Jedi is your job. Handling the Republic is mine. I'm not like you."

"Oh, that's where you're wrong," Maul's voice rasped. "You're more like me than you know. Or you wouldn't have taken my offer."

Valis felt the invisible force kick her in the abdomen a split second before Maul stretched out his hand. The rush knocked her off her feet and sent her flying backwards toward the chamber wall. And as she was in the air, time slowed.

She forced her body to perform a complete backflip, somehow managing to rotate through the air just by thinking about it. Her feet now faced the wall that she was sailing toward. Time sped up again as her heels made contact with the polished bulkhead. Valis bent her knees and sprung back away from the wall, towards the chamber floor.

As she landed, she tucked herself seamlessly into a roll. In one smooth motion, she came out of the somersault and returned to her feet, standing to face Maul.

Without a word, the warlord turned to the chair set in the center of the chamber. The Zabrak pointed at the meditation throne, made a fist, then yanked that fist back in Valis' direction. A smooth metal cylinder emerged from the armrest of the chair and rocketed through the air. Instinctively, Valis shot a hand forward and intercepted the projectile.

The cold metal smacked into her palm—she felt the weight of the device, twisting and turning it as she observed it. Her thumb was drawn to a small black circle—a carved jewel—set into the cylinder. She traced her thumb around the outside of the jewel, then glanced up at Maul.

The Zabrak nodded. "Do it."

Valis depressed the circle, and the lightsaber in her hand came to life, bathing both her and the Sith Lord in a blood-red glow.

Heat flared through her arm, into her chest. And through the scarlet haze, Maul grinned.

"Just as . . ." he began, then paused, as though struggling for concepts. And then, as the heat within Valis rose to that of a roaring furnace, his eyes flashed.

"Just," he said, relishing the words, "as I have foreseen."

"Huh, Obi-Wan was right. These aren't bad," said Anakin, taking another, deeper sip of his Hapes Cluster.

Padmé wrinkled her nose. "Too sweet. It's like drinking fermented cotton candy."

"Hey, it's twenty credits per glass, that means it's gotta be good, right?"

Rolling her eyes, his wife gulped some more down. "Better get my money's worth, anyway."

Studying her, Anakin saw that the scar over her brow where she'd smacked her forehead on the control board had almost completely faded, pale white now instead of scabbed and brown. He flexed the fingers of his new right hand, the feeling weird but also vaguely satisfying; in addition to actually being capable of fine manipulation, his replacement hand had a much more robust sense of touch than Liz's old arm. It was almost like the old flesh hand at times—though the flesh hand hadn't had any extras installed by the Republic military.

Good as new, he thought. At least that's how it should have been.

"In the old days," the pilot said, rolling the glass back and forth between the fingers of his left hand, "we would have conned someone into buying us these. Told 'em we had an amazing new investment in Mon Calamari submarines or something like that. In the really old days I would've just swiped the money. That fancy-dressed Twi'lek at the bar has his wallet hanging way too far out of his pocket, I bet I could've picked it off him before—"

"Anakin," Padmé interrupted with a stern look, "just paying for the drinks has its advantages."

It did at that.

The pilot took a look around the Coruscant bar they were sitting in. It wasn't too swanky—the reward they'd received for rescuing Obi-Wan had been substantial, but it wasn't gonna last forever—but it was definitely . . . nice. The two of them had simply walked into the joint after departing from the airtaxi they'd called, gotten a table, and ordered drinks. If they looked out the window to their left, they could take in the view of a sun setting over a planet that was one big collection of metal spires. It was good. Great, even. But it felt so weird.

Well, everything feels weird. In the weeks post–Had Abbadon, the two of them hadn't talked much. It wasn't the kind of not-talking that had happened back on the Spice Dancer, the stubborn refusal to acknowledge each other's presence. Things were warm enough, but tentative. Unsure.

Neither one of them was the same person anymore. Heroes of the Republic, legitimate citizens, friends of a general. What did that even mean?

And of course, there was the other, bigger matter. What he'd done in the wreckage of the Helios.

"Well," Padmé said, dragging him back to the present, "lovely as this vacation has been, we're gonna have to go back to the real world before this money runs out. Suggestions?"

He gave a shrug, looked down and pulled at his drink. When he looked back up, she'd raised an eyebrow nearly to her hairline.

Chuckling, the pilot shrugged again. "You're the idea woman, I'm just a flyboy."

The eyebrow half-lowered but didn't fully leave its position. "I mean," Padmé said, "once the Dancer is all spruced up, there's always shipping. The Republic is gonna need a lot of material lugged back and forth if they've got a war to win. We could set it up on Junkfort—you know that place like the back of your hand, and I've got some connections back on Oseon. It'd be small to start, but if someone could get us some meetings with the right people in Republic military . . ."

A legitimate business, he thought to himself as Padmé continued to speculate on various feet in various doors. That had always been the endgame, hadn't it? They'd make it big and leave behind running and gunning for good. A quiet, middle-class life, with showers and a ship that didn't break and maybe a house on some green planet somewhere. Sure, they'd seen some weird things, but anyone who'd been trapped under Had Abbadon could say that, and it wasn't as if the entire planet was signing up to go off and have adventures. People move on. Live normal lives. It's not impossible . . .

"Skywalker? Skywalker."

He yanked his attention back to his wife—belatedly, he realized his eyes had wandered out the window. "Yeah, the right people in the Republic military. Sounds great."

Rather than the barb or pointed look that would usually be forthcoming, she simply reached forward and took his flesh hand with her own. "Anakin. We should talk about this."

Welp, here it is.

Taking a slow sip of his drink, the pilot swirled the berry flavors around on his tongue, considering. Finally, he swallowed and said: "Obi-Wan promised me on the Coelacanth that he'd figure out how I can block the Force."

Her expression remained inscrutable, but he thought her hand tightened around his a little. "And that's what you want?"

"I mean . . . yeah. It's what I've wanted for years. But . . ." He paused and waited for her to jump into the gap; when she didn't, he sighed and resigned himself to continuing. "A legitimate business would be great. Like, really great. But are we sure we want to go straight right when a war is starting up? People need . . ."

"Help?"

When he nodded, Padmé's face softened. "Anakin, you're an idiot. You're a lovely, wonderful idiot, and that's why I fell in love with you. But you always think you can save everyone."

"I mean, we did a pretty damn good job just a couple of weeks ago. Can you honestly tell me you wish we hadn't been there?"

"I . . ." After struggling to form words for a few moments, she sighed, "No, of course I don't. But you have to realize the number of times we almost died."

"But we made it, didn't we?"

"Sure we did, then. But Skywalker, when Obi-Wan delivers you what you asked for it's going to change everything."

"Huh? No it won't. I'll still be me, you'll still be you."

She leaned closer over the table, holding his gaze intently. "Sure, you'll still be the same. Except you won't be able to tell what someone's intentions are from across the room. You won't be able to rewire a swoop bike midflight. You won't be able to stop a bug from biting my head off without touching it. You won't be able to get in the way if another Sith king or whatever they're called decides he'd like to see us lying on—"

Anakin raised his hand, palm outward. "I get the picture."

"Do you, though?" Slumping back into her seat, Padmé drained the last of her Hapes Cluster. "Being heroes takes a lot of close calls, Anakin. And if they're too close, one of these days one of us isn't gonna be here anymore."

He started to say something in disagreement, but closed his mouth and let the realization wash over him. She was right. About everything.

He'd thought so long and so hard about getting the fear out of his life—about removing his capacity to hurt, to do evil, to lose control—that he'd never considered the alternative. How many times had he saved their lives through his gifts? Conscious or unconscious, intentionally or otherwise? There was no way to tell. And once that gift was gone, what would he be?

Who was Anakin Skywalker if he wasn't the best pilot in the galaxy? The luckiest con artist? The closest shave?

Building a new me from the ground up just as a war breaks out. Not exactly how I envisioned being a grown-up.

Looking back up at his wife, he searched for some kind of answer. Finding none, he simply said, "But shipping, though?"

Her eyebrow popped back up in aborted exasperation, but she couldn't stop the bark of laughter that escaped her throat. "Fine, then, Skywalker, you be the brains of the operation. What're we doing?"

He leaned back in his seat and considered. "Starship repair. Once the Defense Force's mechanics are done with the Dancer, we may never have to fix her again. Be honest, you'll miss it a little bit."

Padmé chuckled as she swirled the booze-soaked berries around the bottom of her empty drink glass. "No I won't, Anakin."

"Well I will," he replied indignantly. "We could set up a repair shop. Pick someplace that really needs it."

Padmé shook her head. "The Republic rewarded us with stay-in-a-decent-hotel money. Buy-expensive-drink money. We can't afford to start a business from scratch on some colony world."

"Okay, so we go mobile. Run the whole thing out of the Dancer."

As she reached for the neglected bowl of snack nuts in the center of their table, Padmé raised an eyebrow. "I love that ship as much as you do, Skywalker"—she paused to scoop a few nuts out of the bowl—"but I'm kind of over living in it full-time. Let's find a place to call home for a while, even if it means moving back to Junkfort." Padmé popped the handful of snacks into her mouth.

"That's the second time you've mentioned Junkfort," Anakin said, shaking his head. "We don't have to live there, you know. You've never really liked the place, and I can think of a handful of residents who'd probably try to stab me if they ever saw me again." He reached out to rest his synthetic hand on Padmé's arm. "Forget the money for a second. Where do you really want to go?"

Padmé took a deep breath. "I liked Alderaan. I mean, not the victory parade part. Could have done without being in one of those. But the planet itself was beautiful. The city seemed clean. Surprisingly peaceful, considering its chief export . . ." She let herself trail off.

A grin crept up the corner of Anakin's mouth. "You went from suggesting the crappiest space station in the Outer Rim to the most uppity Core World I can think of. I'm not sure we'd really fit in. Baby steps, Padmé. Maybe something more rural?"

"Okay, genius. Where?"

"What about Taanab? Not too far out there, not too close to the Core. Farming seems nice."

The laugh-snort Padmé let out was loud enough to cause a nearby table's Quarren occupants to turn their heads.

"Something funny?" Anakin asked.

"I grew up around farmers, Skywalker. I don't think you're really cut out for it."

"Well who says we'd be the ones doing the farming?"

"If you've come around on my shipping idea, I can tell you Taanab's not the place to break into the market," Padmé offered. "A few big companies have the offworld food exporting pretty much locked up. Besides, the Dancer's too small to really carry enough at once. They use huge haulers to ship food."

Anakin frowned, then perked up as an idea came to him. "And those huge haulers are probably relatively undefended, right? Foodstuff transports are a hot item for pirate raids. And with a war on, the export companies will want to beef up security to make sure all the food supplies get to where they need to go. We could use the Dancer as an escort ship, fly alongside—"

Without warning, something prickled at the back of his neck, and he froze.

A familiar aura had just insinuated itself into the bar without warning. It was tangible, present, solid—something here, in the flesh. Something, Anakin thought as it drew closer, that felt an awful lot like—

"Hello there."

Before he turned around, he knew who it was going to be.

Dressed in civilian clothes that were still a sight fancier than his Had Abbadon wear, his beard neatly trimmed and his ribs unbandaged, Obi-Wan Kenobi strode toward their table. His presence radiated quiet joy, and the smile on his face was easy, free of all cares. It was maybe the happiest Anakin had ever seen him.

He felt one corner of his mouth cocking upward in a grin. When his eyes darted over to Padmé, she was beaming despite herself.

"Kenobi!" she exclaimed. "What the hell are you—"

"Buy you a drink?" the Jedi asked, sliding into the booth next to her and depositing some credits on the table. "I have a new investment opportunity I'd like to discuss. Lots of work required, and I'm afraid it doesn't pay well upfront, but it's for a good cause."

Looking squarely at Anakin, the general raised his eyebrows. "Interested?"

The full meaning of this question washed over Anakin all at once, and something simultaneously inside his head and out there nudged him toward an answer.

Padmé watched something behind his eyes unlock. He tried to shoot her a question as best he could manage using nothing besides his facial expression; she rolled her eyes and nodded.

Feeling his grin start to widen, the pilot leaned forward. "You've got my attention. And I've gotta tell you, Obi-Wan, I've got a good feeling about this."