He didn't have to look far. Dacian was braced barely a few meters up the vent, his arm hooked around a thin pipe that ran along the inside of the vent. He dangled down from above, at the top of a narrow shaft with no easy way up. His breathing was ragged and his face drained of what little colour it normally held. As the Jenassi climbed towards him, deactivated sabre in hand, Dacian didn't even bother to reach for his own blade.

"I..." Dacian paused as he rallied he remaining strength. "I will give you this one chance, intruder. Leave here, now - this is not your fight. You don't even know what fight this is. You are a pawn in a larger game. To be frank, I'd normally strike you down without a tought to your ignorance, but at the moment, well..."

The Jenassi was perilously close now, perhaps close enough that if he lunged with blade extended he could reach Dacian (if that were his aim). "Go now, and we both live. Persist, and I cannot say for sure what will happen, but I will try to make it as unpleasant as I can for you. What do you gain by pressing on? How can you possibly be so sure about the rightness of your actions? Turn back! Turn back now before your ignorance destroys us both!"

They were close now, lethally close. If Dacian planned to defend himself he made no move to do so, clinging only to the one pipe at the top of the vent. His eyes betrayed unmistakable fear, and his grip shook and became weak. Here was the moment. It waited for Adrian's reply with bated breath.

Adrian hesitated. This is not like any other darksider I've faced. He blinked. He is not like any other darksider I've faced. The rest have always seemed like they've sacrificed a bit of their humanity for their power. But this Palestar...perhaps he is more human because he seems to completely lack any power. He doesn't control his fear completely, or so it seems. Fear controls him...and he doesn't seem to shut up, for a Sith, I mean. None of them ever talk except to taunt... The Jensaarai slowly backed away, but drew his lightsaber in a classical Soresu guard. His emerald eyes bore into Palestar's.

"Tell me. How have you offended the spirit, and I will consider a truce."

If Dacian was surprised to see his opponant relent, he hid it from his face. He took a minute to catch his breath from his previous outburst before responding to the Jenassai's question. "I could tell you, yes, but the spirit will tell you otherwise. I could argue with it, but in the end you will believe the words of your patron. I have no proof, but I'd wager neither does the Force - and it hasn't given you a reason why you should come after me. I should think the onus of proof is..."

Dacian stopped. He looked at the Jenassai and sighed. Even he wasn't buying this, apparently. "I very well may be the sort of man you hate, and that might be a good enough reason for you to come after me and try to kill me, even at risk to your own life. I can promise you, though, the Force tolerates many sinners, so it's not for my past sins that you are being guided to me."

"If you would destroy me for 'justice', or perhaps 'honour', or some other cause, so be it - but at least do me the courtesy of having some actual crime to accuse me of. Don't just do it because a commanding voice told you to. How many bad men in the galaxy has it failed to punish? How many have slipped through you or your peers' fingers, or will do so in the future? My fight is with your master, with the Force directly, with both its good and bad, its dark and light. Do not be its instrument against me and fulfill its selfish agenda if you think you fight for any other purpose. What happens the next time someone 'inconveniences' the Force? Maybe a more benevolent man than me? Or a friend who 'gets in the way' of someone's precious, ordained destiny? Who will you wished you sided with then?"

Dacian cracked up into a series of coughs here, shaking on the pipe he hung from. When his dry voice returned, he could squeeze out only a few words. "If you must attack then you must, but be quick about it, or walk away and we both will live, my private dispute with the Force will continue some other day."

What does one do with a mad man?

With a man afflicted by its red-hot indifference of its target?

Adrian stared at Palestar with the glow of his reactivated ocean blade, wondering what this Palestar was thinking. I'm not sure if this guy is a genius or crazy, but none of that answered my question. I'm going to guess that he's trying to confuse me...again. Too many words...I'm not going to explore that philosophical maze only to be cut down by a superior duelist...probably should have just stabbed him while he was talking, but that's be too dishonorable to really even consider...but to be fair, he doesn't really have to explain his actions given that I've invaded his space...but still, this guy is crazy if he thinks he has a chance to best me now... Ravenna's eyes coolly bore into Dacian's own.

"You did not answer my question," reiterated the jensaarai, "but let me tell you this. Your threats do not concern me. You are weak, running around your own ship through its air vents and maintenance corridors like a three-legged rats. The very air around you stanks of a cursedness more appropiate for some Ratakan relic of millenia past. Your very words betray you to a power far greater than either you or I. You really think that some virtue like justice has empowered me on my crusade to stop this pestilence that you've spread? I am not so naive. I am an instrument and I have no qualms about being one. I'd say it's better than what I'm about to make you."

Adrian crawled towards the man, his lightsaber haphazardly cutting through pieces of the vent as he went; creating a cloud of sparks and shards which blinded both men from each other.

Realizing the moment of truth was at hand, Dacian let out one last hacking yell. "Void take us both, then!"

With that he yanked down hard on the emergency airlock control from which he hung. The lever clanked in to place, and far below the vent system's base opened up to the vaccuum of space. In a moment the air began pouring out of the gap and pulling down on both Dacian and the Jenassai. With his remaining strength, Dacian aimed one square kick at his foe's face and landed it square on the nose, causing him to lose his grip and topple downwards. Down, down, and out of the airlock, into space.

Dacian tried to reach for the release, but he was too weak now. He had not even the energy to hang on to the airlock control, his only anchor, and instead hung limply from it by his caught arm. Consciousness and indeed life itself slipped away.

"Nooooo..." he murmured, his voice inaudible in the rapidly evacuating tunnel. Even as death crept up on him, he began to feel the price of dark bargains and of powers both fair and foul enthralled prepare to take their revenge. His soul was thrice-sold and thrice-divided, like a piece of butcher's meat waiting for the chop. Dacian refused to die, stubbornly hanging on, but the universe cares little for what one person truly wants. The Force even less so, as he had only recently come to learn.



As Dacian struggled to keep air in his lungs, the emergency atmosphere lose alarm rang throughout the ship, and throughout the bridge. This tripped some safeguard in Zeetee's programming, causing him to reboot. He surged out of his hiding place and on to his feet, hearing the alarm and suddenly fearing the worst. "Dacian?"

Seeing his patient was nowhere to be found, the droid clambered into the pilot seat and flicked through each of the security cameras. Some signs of a struggle, true, but no blood (well, fresh blood) - and no Dacian. "Dacian!" he called through the ship's communications system. In desperation he even tried checking the windows, to see if he wasn't drifting by. Someone was, but he wasn't Dacian.

It was only at length that he realized the atmosphere alarm was still ringing. He brought up the source of the leak, an airlock opened with an emergency release in the vents, one specifically tagged for 'special emergencies'. A somewhat black-comedy Sith euphemism, Zeetee had learned, and his sophisticated diagnostics programming finally put it all together. "Dacian!" Zeetee called into the communications panel. "Don't worry! I'm coming to get you!"

He slammed the automatic override for the airlock, ending the alarm and restoring atmosphere. He thought about restoring artificial gravity, but if Dacian was alive he was barely hanging on. Best not to pressure him with... well, pressure.

The medical droid surged through the halls, bounding and clattering over sundered metal panels. He wouldn't let his patient down, not after so long, so much work.



On some level Dacian understood that the airlock had closed and that he had ended up on the right side of it, but that it was to little too late. He had killed many people in his short life, a fair number by his own hand at that. So close to crossing over now was he that he could hear their mocking laughter, their taunting, their fury. How often had they seen him slip through their grasp? Not this time, though. This time the Force was coming to claim its due. The Force asked for much in return for power, and now Dacian knew it demanded his life.

No. No, Dacian had read too much. Heard too much. Seen too much about the nature of the Force, of the universe itself, to accept this role, this supposed bargain forced upon him. The Force was an arrogant and conceited power, and it mocked all life by toying with it. Dacian was certain it was the laughter of the Force that echoed in his ears

It would mock him as well, another failed rebel, but in his meandering quest, Dacian had seen that the Force was not so invincible or supreme as the Jedi and Sith believed. Both factions had such a narrow, dogmatic view of so alien a power. They knew almost nothing about its true nature.

For example, they did not know it could be hurt. Starved. Denied.

As Dacian's life at last slipped free he revolted against the Force's claim on him. Calling on all of his teachers and all of their teachings, on the training of Silk and on the mysteries of the unnamed author and on the secret of Kaan and on the lesson of Malachor, Dacian hurled back the wretched gift of his connection to the Force, gave it up as he would his life, and in doing so relinquished both his power and the Force's own claim on him.

His mask, the blackened shell he had stolen from a tomb on Mandalore, burned free with a faint flash of black lightning. The skin below was blackened and charred, like a burned thing. Yet when Dacian was free of it he at last opened his eyes again and took a ragged breath of the thin air.

His vision was far gone, but he could still make out movement. Some shape was climbing towards him - the Jenassai? Returned to finish the job? No, the metal gleam told him it was Zeetee. The droid was saying something, but he could not hear. This time, when the world went dark, Dacian knew he was now merely to sleep. He was alive.

A silver flicker appeared against the background of stars that surrounded the planet Threshold. Listing slowly forwards, it realized into the shimmering form of a shining chrome starship - its mirrored exterior scuffed and pitted, burned away entirely in places.

For the command staff of the Monitor, the small Crusader outpost anchored to a loose chunk of the ruptured planet, it was some small cause for concern.

“It can’t be,” muttered commander Zaffron, squinting at the slow-moving ship through his binoculars. “But it is. That’s the Crimson Wing.”

His second in command, lieutenant Fuzil blinked. “Palestar? Palestar’s back?”

The commander didn’t reply immediately, chewing on his lip as he watched the ship’s progress. “We’ll need to run a confirmation fly-by. Get on the comms and try to hail them.”

“What about the Warmaster, sir? He said the first thing we should do on any sighting of-”

“I know what Ridley said!” Zaffron snapped. “Get on the comms, scramble a fly-by, and wait for my signal. I want to be sure.”

Dutifully, the lieutenant switched on their heavy comm and oriented the dish towards the near-derelict craft. “Unidentified vessel, this is the Monitor, identify yourself and give us the passcode for safe passage.”

Nothing but static.

A wing of six boxy Nyxan interceptors rocketed past the Monitor’s command tower towards the ship, sweeping it with close-range scanners and probes. No reaction was immediately forthcoming, the ship just continued forwards. “Mixed readings, sir” reported the flight leader. “There’s definitely a droid, but I can’t tell for sure if there’s any life forms aboard.”

“Unidentified vessel,” the lieutenant insisted. “If you do not identify yourself we will open fire. Stop moving and respond before we blow you out of the sky.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that, lieutenant.”

All of the hairs on the back of Fuzil’s neck curled up and died. “S-Sir?”

“Have your men pull back. I am returning to my quarters and will not be disturbed.”

Fuzil nodded dumbly. Before he even gave the order, the fighter wing began to pull back. Since joining the navy Fuzil had interacted with and heard the voices of many different alien species - often as they screamed while their ships collapsed around them. No manner of living thing had ever sounded like that.

The ship, now no doubt the Crimson Wing, passed the Monitor and made for the fortress below.

Commander Zaffron wiped the freshly-beading sweat from his brow. “I had best call the Warmaster about this.”



Palestar’s fortress on Threshold was mostly unchanged. Work had been done in areas to help stabilize the foundations - the ever-shifting mix of magma and crust that made up the surface of Threshold made for a stagnation-free environment. It still bristled with the same deadly weapons, dense command infrastructure, and expansive facilities.

It still also hosted Dacian’s personal landing-pad, near the top of the tallest spire, upon which rested his private quarters.

It was to here the Crimson Wing whisked, touching down gently upon the spot it had not seen in a year. Somewhat the worse for wear perhaps, both the ship and its occupant.

No figure emerged from the fortress to greet its arrival. Indeed, from the outside an observer would be forgiven for thinking the structure abandoned. Nor did the ship’s pilot emerge - before he made his grand returned, he still had some small unfinished business.



Zeetee unbuckled his restraints and climbed free of the copilot’s chair. “We return then, at last.”

“At last, yes,” Dacian replied. He struggled with his restraint for a moment, his hands betraying a lingering weakness. “The mission was a success. All goals accomplished. Your help has been critical.”

Laughing, Zeetee undid Dacian’s restraint and eased his unsteady patient out of his seat. “I was only happy to serve, Dacian. You’ve been a difficult case, that much is sure, but I foresee a road to recovery.”

“No lasting damage, then?” The two of them made their way out of the bridge and into the hallway beyond - still scarred from the battle with the Jenassai.

“Oh, there will be. Your leg will likely never fully heal, and I don’t know about your… near-death experience. I’ve run a battery of tests though, and I don’t think whatever happened to you will be fatal.”

“Still, nothing you found that needs to be remembered? No special piece of medical evidence?”

They paused next to the medical bay, to which Zeetee turned. “Enough of your blood’s been spilled in there for me to be more than thorough. You’re as healthy as can be expected, and any fleshy doctor would tell you likewise.”

At this, Dacian almost smiled. A little, harmless thing. “It has been quite an adventure. Remember our encounter at Malachor V?”

“How could I forget?” Zeetee replied, pulling Dacian along towards the exit ramp. “I was sure you’d die there - and then sure I was going to die when that Storm Beast showed up!”

“We’ve had a few close calls, yes.”

“And what about that spirit bomb incident?” said Zeetee. “I still don’t understand what was going on there.”

“But you remember it clearly otherwise, yes?”

“I think I’ll always remember the look on the Lord Kaan’s face when you escaped his clutches.”

They made it a few steps further towards the boarding ramp, their pace perhaps slowing now. Dacian leaned a little heavier on Zeetee, sliding his left arm over the droid’s shoulders for support and said “You have been of a very great service to me, Zeetee. For that, I am thankful.”

Zeetee paused, stunned. “Thank you, Dacian.”

“You really are one of James’ creations.”

“Well, I’ve always felt a-”

Whatever Zeetee had been about to say next - that is, what he felt - was lost forever in that moment when Dacian’s hand balled into a fist and crushed his memory core. He melted away immediately, letting the empty husk of a droid collapse into a heap on the ground.

Staring down dispassionately at the dim-eyed machine, Dacian squatted closer and removed a small metal cylinder from within his ragged robes. He opened a cranial compartment of Zeetee and removed the destroyed memory core he had crushed - with what, the Force? Something else? - and inserted this new memory core in its place.

He then rose to his feet, drew his lightsaber, and ignited it into the droid’s head. The head melted and gave way immediately. Satisfied, Dacian switched off his saber and slipped it back into his robe.

Then, with only the barest trace of a limp, Dacian descended the boarding ramp alone.

Within the doorway to his private quarters stood a familiar figure in a grey, nondescript military uniform. “Welcome back, Dacian,” said Mr. Ridley. “I trust your business went well?”

“How many long months have you waited to ask me that?” Dacian brusquely replied as he walked past. “It went well enough, for now.”

“The Crimson Wing took a few scars, it seems. I can have it restored at once.”

“Then do so.” Dacian had already moved towards a large holographic display of the Crusade’s status and progress. Already it began to feel as though he had never left.

Except that he had. “There are have been some... changes.”

“Update me with them later,” said Dacian, almost absent-mindedly. “For now, just see to the trash on the landing pad.”

Sensing his master’s need for solitude, Mr. Ridley politely excused himself. On the landing pad outside he turned his attention to the Crimson Wing and the mess of attendants already crawling over it. One of them proffered a droid’s head - slightly melted, yet still recognizable.

Mr. Ridley took it in his hands and stared at it for the better part of a minute, his staff of fixers and labourers hesitating in their work. At length, he forced open the fused cranium compartment and removed a damage memory core. He was about to hand it off to his assistant with instructions when a thought caused him to pause.

He brought the piece back up to eye level and squinted. Barely visible now was the embossed serial number on the damaged memory core. He turned towards the inside of the droid’s cranium compartment. A different number was still visible, cut into the metal case.

“Well played, Dacian,” James muttered. “Keep your secrets, then.” He passed the memory core off and began his long walk down the stairs towards the rest of the fortress.