Private Nobody's Fool

[Inanna Harth]

Three hours. That’s how long they had been singing. Showtunes, nursery rhymes, campfire songs—they sang almost without pause, and for long enough to give an Ersansyr a run for their money, filling the cockpit of the Surrey with their music.

Heaving a sigh, Inanna leaned over and tapped Bithia's shoulder. “Can you make this thing go any faster? I don’t know if I can take much more of this.”

The biot shook her head. “This vessel is several thousand years old. I don't wanna risk it flying apart with us inside.”

“Ugh.” She turned around to face the offending singers. “Can you two at least keep it down back there? There’s only so many renditions of ‘Do Re Mi’ you can come up with, you know.”

Behind her, Miri looked adorably tiny perched on a seat beside her father—who had yet to shed the outward appearance of the late Adrian Vandiir. He refused to go back to being Nimdok until after Inanna had found an antidote to the Sith poison. Inanna saw it less as an act of kindness or poetic justice and more like Nimdok was simply taking his role on The Totally Real Adventures of Auteme a little too far.

“All right, I’ll stop,” Not-Adrian said. Turning to Miri with a mischievous smile, he added, “...but I’ll sing one more song first, if Miri wants me to.”

“Yes!” Miri exclaimed. She hopped down from her chair and climbed into his lap.

“Adrian” laughed at her antics. “Okay, what song do you want me to sing?”

“Uhhhhhhh…” Miri considered her options, then hummed the first few notes of “Pure Imagination”. Her father immediately picked up the melody.

“Come with me, and you’ll be, in a world of pure imagination…”

As he began to sing, Inanna felt her flesh creep unpleasantly. It was weird enough hearing the voice of a dead man (a dead man that she sorely doubted had ever sang anything while he was alive—not even in the shower), but this particular song had always seemed melancholy to her. Mournful, even. Maybe because she associated it with childhood innocence and more carefree days.

Then there was the sight of Miri on his knee, a child that Vandiir never would’ve dreamed of having. When "Adrian" looked at her, that paternal love and warmth shone through those eerily symmetrical features. When the song finished, he kissed the girl's temple and then blew a raspberry on her cheek, making her giggle.

Inanna turned away, but what lay ahead of her—ahead of all of them—was no less overwhelming. “How much time is left until we get there?” she asked Bithia.

“About two hours,” Bithia replied. “Just try to relax. It’ll be over soon, and then you can go and be with Hal.”

Hal Yomin was currently with Ayreon aboard the Starburst, Inanna's courier, which was en route to meet up with them on Atrisia. The idea was that, once they finished the ritual, Inanna would leave in her own ship with Hal, flying off into the sunset. She had banked everything on this plan working out. Wedding plans, honeymoon reservations, the house they would live in... if it didn't work, she didn't know what she would do. Kill herself, probably. Of course, she hadn't told anyone that.

 

[Inanna Harth]

Tower Vandiir, Dromund Kaas
In a dream, forgotten upon awakening...

Before she ever hatched her plan, Inanna had decided she must hate Adrian Vandiir. Of course, this was not strictly true—she didn’t really hate him. But pretending that she did warmed her, soothed her nerves, and helped to fill the emptiness that she felt. Certain Sith might approve of this petty and self-serving behavior, interpreting it as a sign that Inanna was embracing her true nature, but even Inanna knew that the comforts of loathing another being could only take her so far.

So when he walked in and she finally laid eyes on the man himself, she found that she didn’t hate him after all.

“Did you design this?” she asked, gesturing to the photo of the Mirror-class star yacht on display in his office. “If so, you did a fantastic job. I’ve never seen a finer ship in my life.”

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow, his question obvious.

“I do have a reason for coming here,” she said. “But first, I’ve got to properly thank you for trying to save me.” She smiled at his bewilderment, her eyes alight with mischief. “From Vanessa Vantai, my former master. It was your likeness, your ship, your transponder codes, and your habit of wearing amulets which almost rescued me from her. I admit that I thought it was really you at first. It sounds stupid, but I was touched. I didn’t think you cared about me. Of course, it was really just an old shapeshifter friend of mine impersonating you…” She heaved a sigh. “And even after Vanessa figured out the ruse and threw us all in prison, it was your demon that saved us. The one you sent along with Faya. My father had captured it in an old Sith amulet, you see, and my friend’s daughter had it hanging around her neck for protection. The moment that harpy tried to take her away, the demon lashed out at her. Vanessa decided we were more trouble than we were worth and sent the lot of us on our way aboard a shuttle. We can never return, under threat of death.” A giggle escaped her at the thought. “Not that there’s anything worth going back there for.”

He didn’t seem to find the story funny. In truth, neither did she.

“I’m here because, on my first day of training, almost a year ago, Vanessa forced me to drink something called Sith poison,” she explained. “I came here to ask if you could help cure me of it.”

“Why should I help you?” he replied. “In the past, you’ve caused me nothing but trouble.”

“Then I want to start over,” she persisted. “As if Pygar and the datachip never happened.” She took a step toward him, her gaze pleading. “When you first saw me at Passion…” As she spoke, her flesh crawled over her bones, taking on the form she had worn that night: the brunette in the silvery green dress.

He shook his head and smirked. “I don’t even like you, Inanna. You have nothing to offer me.”

Turning his back on her, he moved away, headed for his desk. She closed the distance between them, her feet bare against the polished floor, and reached for his arm. “Wait—I’m begging you—”

He whirled around, staring her down, but she stood her ground. This was her only chance to change his mind.

“I… got disowned by my father over a few files stolen from a stranger’s computer,” she began. “He wanted to release them to the public, or sell them to the Jedi… it was suicide. He would’ve been killed. But he was so determined to do it…” She knotted her fingers in her hair. “I took the datachip from him by force. He probably knew more about the Lord of Doubt than you do, Adrian, so my decision wasn’t about you and what you could offer me. It was the fact that he was going to sacrifice his life over this… piece of plastic and metal and bits of computer code. I couldn’t let him do it.” She swallowed the lump growing in her throat. “He disowned me for it. Because I stopped him from throwing his life away.”

“That is his own affair,” Adrian replied coldly. “He should’ve been grateful. But then, what should you expect from a Jedi?”

She couldn’t reconcile the immense disappointment she felt at Adrian's lack of empathy with her sense of dignity. What did she expect from him? Did she want him to listen to her woes, dry her tears, hold her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be okay?...

No. No, she just had to get through to him somehow. Sithspawn or no, underneath it all he was still only a man. A vain, twisted little man.

“You think that just because you have pretty blue eyes and a lopsided smile, the galaxy owes you your due pound of flesh?” she snapped. “Now you’ve got adjustable parts, too. All the wine and women and wonders you could ever ask for are yours to use as you please, and you don’t deserve any of it!” A grin cut across her face like a knife through frozen flesh, spilling her guts out through her mouth. “But you’re going to lose everything you ever worked for. I can see it now.” Her smile of mockery abruptly faded. “I can see it… You’re still just a frightened boy with a power he can never hope to fully understand. That’s how you’re going to die, Adrian. At the hands of a power that, in your arrogance, you thought you had mastered.”

He advanced toward her, his face a mask of fury, electricity sparking across his fingertips. But something stopped him. His brow furrowed in confusion at what he saw before him.

“No…” Inanna whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Adrian, I’m sorry. I’m sorry but, you were my last hope. If you don’t help me, I’m going to die.”

“What of it?” he snapped. “You said it yourself. I’m going to die, too. Why should I save you?”

“Adrian, I tried to stay away. I thought that I would never see you again. That you were out of my life…” She covered her face with her hands. “I didn’t want to have to come to you, but it seemed like there was no other choice. You were the only one who was reasonable… who wasn’t mean-spirited or evil, not really… You were never really evil, Adrian. You didn’t deserve to die. You had so much more to give, still some promise of goodness left in you…”

“Goodness?” he echoed in disbelief. “After all that, you still think there’s anything good left in me? You’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”

In answer, she wiped the tears from her face, leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek. It was a chaste kiss, brief and full of meaning. Retreating again, her eyes searched his face, wondering if he understood the gesture. She hoped he did.

“I’m nobody’s fool,” she said, then turned and left the Tower.

 

[Salamander]

Test Site Verdant Pasture, Dahrtag

Messala opened a fresh carton of cigarras and breathed in the earthy scent of tobacco. With the air of a well-practiced ritual, he carefully plucked one cigarra from the bunch, placed it between his lips, flicked open his lighter—

“I thought you stopped smoking.”

The Half-Bothan’s eyes flicked toward Errol, who had just entered the room. He lit the end of the cigarra and took a long puff before he gave a reply.

“Thetis has been captured by the Jedi. My biots are gone. The Bryn’adul have destroyed my home, and now AMCO is dead. Given the circumstances, I think one conciliatory smoke to soothe my frazzled nerves is perfectly in order.”

“At least you aren’t doing it around the kids,” Errol muttered under his breath, heading for a nearby sofa.

Messala leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke from his nostrils like a dragon. The lab’s lounge surrounded him, air conditioned, the furniture neatly arranged. Caf brewed on a counter against the wall, the sound of the machine and the warm aroma it produced comfortingly familiar. Windows along the walls let natural sunlight in. The landscape outside was white with snow.

Dahrtag had been left untouched. A creepy planet of perpetual mist, the ground filled with graves robbed by lamprey-esque boneworms eternally hungry for flesh… What could such a world offer a star empire? Not much. If or when the Bryn arrived, they would annihilate it, of course. But that day was hopefully a long ways off. For now, Dahrtag remained forgotten, peaceful, undisturbed as an undiscovered tomb. His dark sanctuary.

Taking another deep drag of flavored smoke, he tried to content himself with the knowledge that he had gotten them all out alive. His Children were safe. He had taken the evacuation notice for Cophrigin V seriously as soon as it was alerted, and saved everyone and everything that he could, including his copy of Westenra Mina , still locked in stasis. Whatever he left behind had been expendable. He could always make more biots, more creatures, more machines…

But he couldn’t make another Tintagel. His castle was gone, burned by an invading army and then desecrated with their filthy footsteps. He sighed. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t do him any good. He needed something new to give him purpose and hope.

He had just gotten back from Chaldea. The newborn Bamarri he had stolen there was now in stasis, its crystalline body stagnant until his goals for it could be met. Not as interested in seeing what he would do with the strange being as she had been in the hunt for it, Nefretiri had gone her own way afterwards, returning to her people. Leaving Messala to his own devices.

Errol poured himself some caf. The lines in Messala’s leathery brow multiplied and deepened. What would become of the Primyn Group, now that its illustrious founder was dead? Hell, if the Sith Empire toppled, he supposed it wouldn’t matter anyway…

Rubbing his eyes with his free hand, he got up and left the room in a hurry, as though suddenly remembering that he had forgotten to do something very important. In reality, he had just sensed a ship entering the upper atmosphere above the facility...

 

[Salamander]

Tintagel, Cophrigin V
A dream to some, a nightmare to others...

~~~​

Cophrigin had “never been a planet of much note”, to quote the imperial records. The habitable world’s domination by the Sith Empire had been overshadowed by the invasion of nearby New Alderaan, which was considered of far greater importance by the Imperial war machine. Still, the lush garden world had harbored some secrets and intrigue. Rebels had hid in the forests, and a Jedi had sought to protect the legacy of the “Dark Woman” who had gone into exile on the planet centuries ago, only to be defeated and captured by the Lady of Secrets, Taeli Raaf.

Now it held the private residence of Messala, Darth Transitus, the Lord of Doubt.

It was early morning on Cophrigin, and the garden world was still shrouded in darkness. Cloaked in shadows, the abode of the Sith Lord looked quite unreal. A scraggly techno-castle topped by an enormous crescent-shaped structure, it both imitated and clutched at the moon, as though harboring ambitions of dethroning the pale satellite and assuming its place in the night sky.

The peace and quiet was disturbed by the arrival of a starship. Having called in ahead of time to announce its arrival, no weapons trained upon the vessel or tried to impede it as it alighted on the large landing pad, rustling the leaves on the trees at the edge of the clearing.

Upon arrival, the visitor was greeted not by servants or workers (or armed guards, for that matter), but by the lone figure of Messala himself approaching across the field. The Half-Bothan was known for keeping his appearance obscured on the few occasions he appeared in public, and in the shadows he remained indistinct. The distinct gait of his equine legs as he made his way across the uneven grassy ground was his most prominent feature at this distance.

At last, he reached the landing pad and took a single step onto the platform. Not only was his head uncustomarily uncovered, he had obviously come directly from his bed—treating his guest to the rather comical sight of an old faun wearing a bathrobe over a pair of striped pajamas.

“You arrived earlier than expected,” he said. “Everyone else is still asleep. But no matter. Welcome, Councilor Vandiir, to my home.”

Adrian Vandiir, stepping down from his star yacht, looked Messala up and down. Up close, Messala was still a comic figure, but the joke had become mean-spirited. His was the gnarled, primitive face of a caveman, and the horns of a devil jutted from his leathery brow. Though he was indeed a Half-Bothan, his satyr-like appearance seemed unnatural as a curse; the animal parts might as well have been sewn on in a mockery of man’s ascent to bipedalism. He was deformed, unfinished, sent before his time into waking life only half made up.

Any pleasure he might have taken in catching his fellow Sith off guard disappeared as soon as he tried to see beyond the limits of the physical realm. In the Force, Messala was a void. Strange—he had never felt this way before, at least not in Adrian’s presence. Something was different now, something making him appear as a blankness. A device of some kind that he now wore, perhaps?

“Do you like my ring?” Messala held up a claw for Adrian to see the dull metallic band around his left ring finger. “It’s meteorite metal from the original Void Stone. I wear it as often as I can, to remind myself of what it is like to be deprived of the Force. To be ordinary, with no magic to prop me up. I’m quite powerless so long as I wear it—but if it offends your delicate sensibilities, I can take it off, boss.”

Adrian didn’t care. Good. That said...

“I’ve heard that your telepathic powers are no longer limited to the realm of the Force. I’m afraid I must ask you, for the sake of my privacy and you own emotional well-being, to stay out of my head.”

Adrian looked bemused. “It’s simply not worth it,” Messala went on. “There’s nothing of value to be gleaned. The only bright spots are a few bits of sentimentality and the occasional odd glint of inspiration. The rest is just fear and loathing, and an old monster’s regrets.”

“Oh, certainly,” Adrian said, all but rolling his eyes. “Rest assured, though, I didn’t come here to probe your mind.”

Messala nodded. “We can talk inside. Follow me, Councilor.”

It had rained some time during the night. Messala’s hooves walked easily across the wet earth; depending on whether or not he was wearing real shoes or going (technically) barefoot, Adrian might find the mud somewhat difficult to navigate. At worst, it could prove an annoyance.

At the other end of the field, they would reach the walls surrounding Messala’s home. Built only to keep out the planet’s wildlife, they were dwarfed by the electric castle beyond, which towered into the night sky in an iridescent blur. Messala touched his clawlike hand against the gate, and it swung open.

The courtyard was filled with strange shapes. Indistinct in the semidarkness, if Adrian were curious enough to employ nightvision, they would be revealed as gargoyles, sphinxes, and other misshapen mythical monsters, their parts combined together from several different species. They were constructed from brass or bronze that, left exposed to the elements, had long since turned green.

“These are my sentries,” Messala commented as they passed the statues. “They guard the place—can tear an intruder limb from limb. But don’t worry. I’ve told them you’re a friend.”

Moving on, Messala’s equine legs completely bypassed the two stone steps leading up to the front door, which was more ornate and carved from local wood rather than durasteel. He pressed his palm against the grain, triggering a mechanism which caused the panels of worn wood to part like intertwined fingers.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you eaten yet?” Messala inquired, glancing back at Adrian as his guest passed through into the spacious main hall. “If not, I can have something prepared for you. Otherwise, where we go from here will depend on the nature of your visit.”

“No thanks.” Adrian’s upper lip curled. “I’d prefer not to stay here for very long.”

“Sure thing, boss. Right down to business.”

Messala led him down the hall. Adrian followed until they reached a corner. Directly ahead of the turn was not another hallway. Instead, there were seven rooms, each decorated in a specific color. The first six were bright and lovely: blue, purple, green, orange, white, and violet. The last however was black and dreary, full of ebony furniture, onyx and obsidian. The only light within came from a stained glass window, each pane of scarlet like a drop of blood in a Petri dish. As Adrian observed this, he might find himself drawn forward, through the rooms toward the black chamber—but Messala was faster. He shut the dark double doors before Adrian could so much as pass through the blue into the purple, then stood with his back pressed against them and a strange smile on his face.

“Oh no, Prospero,” he said, for the first time referring to Adrian by his Sith name, yet leaving out the Darth title. “You must not go into the black room.”

Instead, he led them into an elevator. Adrian stood beside Messala as the lift descended, closer in proximity than he had yet been before. Hair like sheep’s wool covered his head, arms, and legs, growing in a reddish brown color for the most part, though it was beginning to go gray in some places.

“You’ve been keeping secrets,” Adrian said suddenly. “About your experiments. You haven’t shared the results with your fellows in the Primyn Group.”

“I haven’t taken you personally into my confidence, Councilor. Why then should I have revealed to you my deepest secrets?” There was no malice in his voice as he spoke; he merely gazed quizzically at Vandiir. “Besides, I had thought your interests lay elsewhere… In the making of creatures far more useful to the Empire than anything I could possibly dream up.”

“You’ve found a method of creating permanent Force sensitivity without using alchemy or manipulating genetics,” Adrian pressed. “That is far beyond anything I’ve done so far.”

“Really, Adrian. You underestimate yourself.” In fact he vastly overestimated himself, but Messala’s goal was flattery, not truth. “Your achievements and progress in the field of science have already far outpaced mine. I have little to offer you, so why waste your time?”

“I’ve also received reports that you’ve been experimenting on children.” The distaste in Adrian’s voice was plain.

Messala pursed his lips. “The situation with the girl was… unfortunate. I made the mistake of entrusting the project to my former apprentice, Thetis Suzerain. She took far too many liberties with the girl’s treatment. Frankly, I am appalled by her behavior.” His eyes narrowed to slits and his voice became a low growl. “She ought to have known better.”

Adrian sighed impatiently; the lift was taking longer than he felt it ought to. “You’re already something of a pariah among us, you know.”

“Of course I know. The last time I became involved in one of your projects, it was a colossal failure. But then my heart wasn’t in it from the very beginning. So I have retreated here and devoted much of my time to manufacturing droids and biots… and to raising my Children out of the shadow of the Empire’s propaganda machine.”

Adrian finally relaxed as the doors slid open. Messala stepped out of the lift and met Adrian’s gaze. His eyes were a shade of dusky blue very easily found in nature; it was the same color of a cloudy day, the sea in winter, and the veins that had once crossed the inside of Adrian’s wrist before he shed his old nature. “Welcome to my lab.”

The lab beneath Tintagel was surprisingly small. It was divided into two areas. The first and smallest of the two was the workplace; it included numerous scientific machines and devices, as well as tools and implements typical of a medical bay. The second area was long and more like a hallway than a room. The walls were lined with alcoves containing large blocks of beautiful solid amber, each one containing a prisoner. These were the Amber Prisons which Messala had designed to hold his enemies and those which he needed "out of the way" but couldn’t simply kill.

Passing by several of the prisons, he reached an alcove which was different. Instead of amber, this one had a more traditional stasis field. The device currently held what appeared to be a young woman clad in only a white hospital gown. A silver dagger jutted out from her chest; the physical contact with the pure silver had severely weakened her, but she had not died from the wound. Well, perhaps “died” wasn’t the proper world, given that she was never truly living to begin with. Indeed, to Adrian and any other Force User, the “woman” was obviously some sort of droid—a biot, in fact—and her body was noticeably resistant to the Force, appearing as almost a void to their senses.

In addition to the biot, a robot stood near one of the worktables, holding a datapad. Its appearance, while clearly modeled after a human woman, was not realistic. Quite the opposite—its mechanical nature was on display, metal parts brightly painted, seams and wires exposed. Its white face resembled a doll’s, petite and serene, long lashes curling from aquamarine eyes that glowed with an inner light. A round incubator was mounted at its waist in imitation of pregnancy; the unborn creature gestating inside was hidden from view by layers of soft gray tissue-like material and cloth, though the fetus’ presence in the Force was strong and clear. Messala, who was used to seeing the droid wandering the halls of his lair, didn’t remark upon its presence. Not thoughtlessly, of course—he knew it was impossible for Adrian to not notice the droid and deduce its purpose, but he wanted to observe the young man’s reaction.

Adrian was good at hiding it, but something like horror passed over his gaze like a filmy sheen. Resisting the urge to smirk, Messala pointed to the robot with a clawed finger. “Growing living beings in stationary pods is more efficient. But I prefer quality over quantity. So I built an artificial machine that mimics the natural processes so closely, there might as well be no difference.”

“I still find your methods… inelegant.”

“What you are so fond of describing as ‘elegant’ is merely the easiest and least off-putting method available.” Messala gazed down at his hands, admiring his claws. “I am intimately familiar with all the inelegance life has to offer… but I digress.” His rubbery lips pulled back in a snarling grin, sharp white fangs exposed. “What is it you want from me, arbiter of elegance?”

“I’d like for you to work with us,” Adrian replied with a shrug. “You are a member of the Primyn Group, but your isolation means that membership is more ceremonial in practice. I don’t like waste, and I don’t like secrets being kept from me.”

“I would be happy to work with you, Councilor, but there is one problem. I don’t understand your vision.”

Adrian blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“You must have a goal for all your wild pursuits. The creation of your Sithspawn was done for the purpose of some higher calling, was it not?”

“Of course. I’ve envisioned a utopia where mindless Sithspawn do the dying and unpleasant work, while sentient uber-refined socialites study the mysteries of the galaxy in decadent luxury.”

“But how have your methods served such a goal? Would it not make more sense to devote your efforts to improving already existing species, rather than crossbreeding them into these… chaotic amalgamations of creatures?” He was half-hoping that Adrian would just come out and admit that he did this sort of thing because he thought it would be cool. Messala could respect that. It was at least a satisfying answer.

Adrian could offer no proper answer, because Adrian, in reality, was dead. So Messala changed the subject.

“You wanted to know about my experiments with Force sensitivity, right? I have a clear goal for that.” He leaned against a worktable. “Ever heard of Darth Traya? She despised the Force, because to her perception it seemed to have a will of its own, controlling individuals like the pieces in a game of dejarik, playing out the struggle for balance at the cost of countless lives. So she sought to destroy the Force by creating and exploiting its wounds. The Chaldean Potentium, of which I used to be a member, teaches a philosophy that isn’t much different. To them the Force is a curse that only the cruel would pass on to their offspring. After all, children did not ask to be conceived, let alone born with a power that would automatically make them feared, loathed, and deified by the galaxy at large. Such is the shared burden of the Jedi and the Sith.” He idly twisted the strange ring on his left hand. “I believe there is a season for everything,” he said. “But I too have my ideals, my goals and desires for a better galaxy…” He turned away. “I understand Traya’s hatred, but I don’t think trying to destroy the Force altogether is the solution. I want to give the Force to anyone and everyone. To end the privilege of the ‘space wizard’ over the ordinary citizen, and truly even out the playing field, so to speak.”

“That is my goal as well,” Adrian said. “So we are on the same page, then.”

“Mmm. Would you like to have a sample of the formula I use?” Messala asked. “Of course you would. C’mere, boss.” Turning to a panel on the wall, he hesitated. “Before we begin, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“It depends on the favor, and I make no promises.”

“I know that you will want my research and the secret of my methods. I will give them to you, if you will deal with Inanna Hoole.”

Adrian quirked an eyebrow and snorted. “Inanna Hoole? Why would you ask me to kill her?”

“Because you can deal with her in ways that are closed off to me. You could persuade her, threaten her, seduce her… why, you could make her forget I exist.” On the last word, his leathery lips pulled back, exposing sharp teeth; not quite a smile. “I’m sure it would be easy for you. Enjoyable, too, if what I hear about your new body is true.”

Not bothering to gauge Adrian’s reaction to the implications, Messala turned his attention back to the panel. At the press of a hidden button, a rack full of test tubes rose out of the floor, cold air turning into mist upon contact with the warmer air of the lab. Messala plucked one of the tubes from the rack with his clawed fingers and faced Adrian. “This is entirely a symbolic gesture, rest assured. I will send the data and formulas through whatever medium you prefer,” he said. Gesturing for Adrian to hold out his arm, he pressed the tube into his hand. “I give you the key to this door with a warning. The scientists who first isolated this enzyme were careless in their application of it. The effects were not immediate, but in time they all became convinced that their actions contributed to a catastrophe—the event which has since come to be known as the Netherworld Crisis…”

He closed Adrian’s fingers around the vial, the skin-to-skin contact permitting Adrian to feel the hairs growing at the center of the satyr’s palm. His next words were spoken softly and full of meaning.

“...I trust that you will exhibit a greater level of care and responsibility in this matter, knowing their possible involvement in that tragedy.”

 

[Ishani Dinn]

The Surrey rattled as it emerged from hyperspace, the blurred lines of the stars becoming twinkling dots again. Directly ahead was the planet Atrisia, the greens and blues of its surface signaling that it was habitable.

Atrisia was an ancient world brutalized by a recent invasion. The signs of the destruction were faintly visible from orbit—cities had been leveled by bombs and the citizens slaughtered by soldiers. But time had passed, the soldiers and ships had left, and the people were recovering, slowly but surely, bit by bit.

Inanna stiffened in her seat. Noticing, Bithia frowned. “You okay?”

“I… I can sense the remnants of the destruction through the Force,” she murmured. “It’s like… the whole landscape is dotted by cold, gaping wounds.” Her gaze darkened. “All because some Sith Lord named Mythos felt like invading a planet.”

Not-Adrian rested a hand on her shoulder, and Inanna seemed comforted by his touch. “We won’t be here long,” he said. “Can you stand it for a few hours?”

Inanna nodded. “I’ll be okay. It just… startled me, that’s all.”

Movement through the viewport caught Bithia’s eye. The Starburst was already there, speeding ahead of them past Atrisia’s orbit. She flicked a few switches, and the Surrey followed a little ways behind them…

An hour later, they had landed. Inanna was the first to get up, hurrying out of the cockpit and down the loading ramp. The others followed close behind, gathering their things and filing out.

Not wanting to draw attention to them, Nimdok quietly slipped out of Adrian’s form and into his typical pointy-eared near-human appearance. “Atrisia has such a rich history,” he remarked. “And such deep lore! I could spend a lifetime studying this world.”

“You’re just saying that because your new girlfriend is from here,” Bithia muttered, though a smile graced her features. Leaning toward him, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “If you give me a minute, I can slip into something that’ll help us blend in easier.”

Once he nodded, she promptly disappeared into the ship’s ‘fresher. Three minutes went by, and she emerged looking quite different. The bronze-skinned woman of her Pilot Form had been replaced by a beautiful Atrisian woman with exotic green eyes. She had donned a black kimono and looked enough like one of the natives that they wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking at her that she was an offworlder. Not that they would have cared all that much, but blending in was always a boon.

She rejoined the others at the bottom of the loading ramp. Nimdok gave her a once over, nodding his head. “I had a feeling you’d go with that one.”

“It makes the most sense.” Looking around, she frowned. “Where’s Inanna?”

“She ran on ahead.”

Knowing the state of mind she was in, you let her go alone? Bithia thought. She pursed her lips in disapproval, but didn’t say anything.

The trio of Bithia, Nimdok, and Miri between them walked through the starport. It wasn’t long before they spotted Inanna standing in front of a transparent barrier. Her back was to them as she gazed through the glass, one hand raised in a wave. Bithia’s gaze pushed on past her, through the barrier until she saw what Inanna was looking at.

Two men stood on the other side. One was very tall, with a slim, athletic physique and dark brown hair—Ayreon, Inanna’s HRD servant. He stood guard beside the other man, a Zeltron with fuchsia skin, twiglike arms peeking out through an old and well-worn t-shirt, and blue-black hair in need of a stylist. Hal Yomin, Inanna’s betrothed. Bithia knew them both the way one knows a comrade whom they have fought alongside in battle. She had seen what was in their hearts, if not their minds or the idiosyncrasies of their personalities, and she loved what she saw, if an android could love.

Hal returned Inanna’s gesture before he was led away by Ayreon, to be processed by the starport’s security. Inanna’s raised hand closed into a fist as they neared the customs officer, exerting her will over the weak mind of the unsuspecting man. He let them pass without incident.

Inanna turned around to face her companions. “Well then,” she said. “Let’s get on with it.”

 

[Ishani Dinn]

A tiny drop of red blood trickled from Bithia’s metallic fangs as she released the man she had just fed upon. Her biot body required a constant flow of psychic energy to sustain it, and transforming from one form to the next was taxing. There was no way she could make it through Inanna’s ritual without at least grabbing a snack first.

Her victim remained paralyzed, unaware of what had happened. She left him in the stall of a public ‘fresher in the dingy bar she had picked him up in, then quietly snuck away.

Outside, evening had fallen upon the partially rebuilt city. According to Nimdok, they were supposed to meet this “associate” of his at a local sushi shop for dinner. She found the location and slipped inside, passing numerous dwindling piles of rubble from the invasion along the way.

She spotted her friends and family seated at a large table, along with two strangers—the “associate” and one of his associates, she presumed. Everyone appeared to have already ordered food. Since she had just eaten, Bithia grabbed a chair beside Miri and sat down.

“... they’ve really cleaned this place up since the last time I was here,” one of the strangers was saying. He was a man with boyish features, blue eyes and dirty blond hair. Noticing her, he immediately swept his eyes across her body. “Well, hello there.”

“Alyosha, this is my wife, Bithia,” Nimdok introduced her, clearing his throat.

Alyosha smirked to hide his disappointment. “Nice to meet you. I’m Alyosha Drutin. Y’know, the professor never mentioned you—in fact, I sort of got the impression that he was a widower.”

“You’d be forgiven for thinking that,” she replied. “I’ve been… away for quite a while. But now I’m back.”

“Glad to hear it.” Without asking any further questions, Alyosha popped a piece of sushi into his mouth with chopsticks, then gestured to the younger man sitting beside him. “Oh, and this is my brother Val.”

Val turned beautiful dark eyes framed by long, thick lashes upon her and smiled dreamily. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replied, raising an eyebrow at his dancer's costume.

“Anyway, now that the gang’s all here, we were just about to discuss the ritual,” Nimdok prompted.

“Oh yeah, right,” Alyosha said, smirking. “It’s pretty simple, really. My master Darth Themis did something similar, turning herself into an incredibly powerful being purified and imbued with the Light.”

“Sounds more like something a Sith would do,” Inanna murmured.

“Well, Themis is a Light Side Sith,” he replied. At the incredulous looks from most of the party, he grinned. “It’s a long story. But she’s devoted to fighting the Dark Side, and hates the chaos and pointless destruction so many Sith love to revel in.”

“Just tell us how the ritual will work,” Nimdok repeated.

Dropping his chopsticks, Alyosha leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “Don’t worry, it’s quite simple…”

Once he had explained the ritual, everyone looked at Inanna. She raised her eyes, glancing around, then shrugged her shoulders. “What choice do I have? All other options are closed off to me. This is the only chance I have left.”

“But the possible side effects are pretty hefty,” Nimdok said. “There’s a high possibility of failure. It might even kill you.”

“If it does, then I’ll at least have died trying to save myself.” She covered her eyes with her hand, then sighed. “And if it turns me into something else entirely… at least I’ll be a creature of the Light, not the Dark.”

“Then it’s settled.” Alyosha held out his hand to her.

Inanna stared at his outstretched hand, then clasped it in hers, giving it a firm shake. “Yes. It's settled."

“Great.” Alyosha sank back in his chair. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish up my meal first. Then we can go to the ritual site I’ve prepared—unless you need more time. Is there anything you need to do first?”

Inanna glanced at Hal, then turned back to Alyosha, shaking her head. “No. There’s nothing I can’t do after we’ve finished this.”

Bithia ran her thumb over her lower lip, deep in thought. “Alyosha, what exactly separates your master from an ordinary Shi’ido? What changes did the transformation cause in her?”

“Hm, I’m not completely sure. Her eyes are a mutated bronze color, but I think that has more to do with the way she uses the Light. She has a very high metabolism—she can’t get drunk—and she’s incredibly strong with the Force, but generally only with the Light. She avoids the Dark, but isn’t afraid to use alchemy.”

“I don’t mind any of that,” Inanna said. “I’ll never become an alcoholic again, at least.”

“But are there any drawbacks?” Bithia pressed.

“She does have Force visions. Constantly. To be honest, I think it’s driven her a little bit crazy.” Alyosha waved his hand. “But again, I don’t know if it’s the power doing that to her, or if it’s just the fallout from everything she’s experienced. She hasn’t been mentally well in a long, long time.”

“What exactly are you getting at, Bithia?” Nimdok asked patiently.

Bithia shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t going to wind up becoming a vampire, for instance, or developing any other weird quirks.”

“Ah. I see.” He smiled sadly. “No, we wouldn’t want to see you end up like that.”

Alyosha snorted. “Pretty sure Themis isn’t a vampire. She’s just… weird. Then again, aren’t we all?”

There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the table.

Bithia rested her chin on her hand, still deep in thought. She wondered if there was a way to create a buffer between Inanna and the energies she would be exposed to during the ritual. Or at least provide her with something that would strengthen her, if not shield her. Give her a chance to endure…

“Inanna, could I talk to you for a sec?” Standing up, she gestured toward the door.

Inanna blinked, then rose from her chair. The Shi’ido and the android woman walked out of the restaurant, found a secluded spot nearby, and faced each other.

“I’m concerned about you,” Bithia explained. “This Sith poison, does it weaken you?”

“In a way, it makes me stronger,” she replied, rubbing her arm self-consciously. “But only in the Dark. No, you’re right. The rest of me—the real me—is weakened by it.”

“If that’s the case, you may very well not survive the ritual,” Bithia pointed out. “You need something to make you stronger, spiritually and psychologically.”

“What do you suggest?”

“My psychic energies,” Bithia replied. “I’ll feed extra and transmit it to you, much like how an energy vampire can transmit energy as well as take it. Just ask Nim—I mean Arimanes, he’s experienced that before.”

“With his energy vamp girlfriend?” Inanna asked, making a face. “I didn’t need to know that.”

Bithia chuckled. “It didn’t happen the way you think. But if I can help you, Inanna, will you let me?”

Pausing for a moment, Inanna nodded. “Will it hurt?”

“Maybe a little at first. But it should definitely leave you feeling a lot stronger.” Bithia inclined her head toward the restaurant entrance. “Looks like I’ve got to go hunting again. Tell the others my plan. I should be back within a couple hours.”

With that, she left, heading for the center of the city’s bustling nightlife.

 

[Salamander]

Test Site Verdant Pasture, Dahrtag

The shuttle which arrived at the facility seemed much too large for its tiny passenger. Down the loading ramp there hopped a little batlike creature covered in white fur, dressed an awful lot like Aladdin, minus the pet monkey, the magic lamp, or the flying carpet.

“Hello Khayyam,” Messala greeted him. “What took you so long?”

“I got held up by Lord Dabo,” Khayyam replied with a dismissive wave of a claw. “He wanted to talk shop now that Adrian’s dead. Speaking of which, how have you been holding up here, my friend?”

“Extraordinarily well, given the circumstances.” Messala accompanied Khayyam through the entrance and down the warm hallway lined with heat lamps into the test site proper. “I managed to save almost everything.”

“Are the Children well?”

“Oh yes. Would you like to see them?”

Khayyam wiggled his snout mischievously in answer. Messala guided him to the personal quarters, several of which now housed the Children. They were currently engaged in a game of tag when Messala arrived; his presence caused them all to snap to attention.

Nineveh’s face lit up when her eyes landed on Khayyam. She rushed forward, throwing her arms around him. “Master!”

“You remember Khayyam, don’t you?” Messala asked, glancing over the rest of the youthful faces. “Well, some of you are too young to remember.”

“I remember,” Vaslav said, bowing his head respectfully. “Welcome, Master Khayyam.”

A Vindalian girl no older than two toddled over and placed her tiny hand on Messala’s hoof. She was young enough that the moment he reached down and lifted her up into his arms, she thrust her thumb into her mouth, gnawing on it nervously as her enormous vulpine eyes focused on Khayyam.

“This is the youngest,” Messala explained. “Maia, say hello.”

She tentatively waved at him with her free hand. Khayyam chuckled. “You grew her in one of your machine mothers, didn’t you? I never understood your scorn for exowombs.”

“Perhaps it’s because I never knew my mother that I can’t bear to see a child grow up without one,” Messala offered, though he said nothing further on the subject. One of his Dvirat Motina, or “machine mothers” had gone missing shortly before the invasion of Cophrigin. He still wasn’t sure how she had gotten out or where she had gone, but he assumed that she and the child she had been carrying must’ve perished in the wilderness.

Returning Nineveh’s excited embrace, Khayyam observed Messala as he interacted with his Children. The family portrait was absurd, a passel of wide-eyed, innocent children surrounding a hideous devil as if he were their beloved father or favorite uncle. It was hardly the stuff of Life Day greeting cards. Yet it was better than most of what he had seen elsewhere in the Sith Empire, and he couldn’t fault Messala for actually bothering to raise his creations.

“Messala, this new project you spoke to me of… will it, ah, add to the number of your offspring?” Khayyam asked.

Passing Maia on to her machine mother, Messala faced him. “No, definitely not, boss. I won’t count him among the Children.”

“You also don’t count your son among them,” Khayyam pointed out as Nineveh detached herself from him. “Speaking of which, how is Errol?”

“Errol is Errol.”

Khayyam looked up, detecting disappointment in the satyr’s tone. “Is he also here?”

“Yes, and sulking. He’s still upset about the loss of my last biot, not to mention Thetis’ capture and the destruction of Tintagel.” Messala heaved a sigh. “If you’re not too tired from your journey, let’s head to the lab. I’m half sick of shadows and waiting.”

 

[Inanna Harth]

While they waited for Bithia to return, the group returned to their ship and Alyosha and Val departed to prepare for the ritual. Inanna was undergoing her own preparations, albeit more emotional than physical.

Rather than going with the others, she boarded her courier, the Starburst. Ayreon was the first to see her enter.

“Hal is in the back,” he said, a note of warning in his otherwise level tone. “If you need something from this vessel, I can get it for you.”

“I just want to take a look around,” she replied, resting her hand against the side of the ship.

Nodding, Ayreon stepped away, letting her pass. As soon as she entered, the sound of water running rose to greet her. Hal must’ve been in the shower.

She ventured into what was normally her personal quarters. Everything was arranged the same. Not that she expected it to be different, but…

Her outstretched fingers brushed the soft bed sheets, traced the corners of a chair and a desk bolted to the floor, then pressed a panel on the wall to open the wardrobe. Inside was only one outfit. Given that she was a Shi’ido, clothing wasn’t technically necessary, but this particular item of clothing was of special significance.

She ran her hand over the cornflower blue silk and dark gold gauze. Only once had she tried it on, and that was when Bithia, acting as her mother would have, took her shopping for a wedding gown. Inanna had been content to be married in whatever she happened to be wearing at the time (even naked, if necessary) but Bithia, perhaps sensing how depressed and frightened she was, had insisted they go and find something special. It would serve as an heirloom to pass on to her own daughter—a daughter who didn’t exist yet, but whom Inanna could already picture in her mind—

The door opened. Inanna turned in time to see Hal jump slightly at the sight of her. He was naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist, his dark hair dripping.

“Oh, it’s you,” he mumbled. “Uh… I hope you don’t mind, I’ve sort of taken this room over.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied. When he continued to stand there uncertainly, she turned her attention back to the dress hanging in the closet, her black eyes tracing the shimmery leaf patterns in the fabric. She heard him moving around behind her, the sound of the zipper on a piece of luggage being undone, and cloth rustling.

“How are you doing?” Hal asked her.

“I’m okay,” she answered, keeping her back turned. “We’re waiting on Bithia. She’s going to get something that will help me.”

“Good.” He paused, then she heard the sound of a bottle being shaken. “Anything that can be done to help you through this should be done. Spare no expense, shirk no effort.”

The sound of something being liberally spritzed was followed by the pungent chemical smell of anti-pheromone spray. Inanna stared at the gown, saying nothing. The V-neckline would plunge all the way to her belly button, while a thin strip of fabric would be drawn between her breasts. Sheer fabric covered her shoulders, meeting at her throat, where a silk flower with a gleaming bead of amber set at its center brought it all together like a brooch.

“Is… is there anything I can do?” Hal asked.

In a moment of weakness she turned around, her gaze immediately landing on his bare chest and tracing down to his navel, where dark wooly hair disappeared beneath the… ha, the towel was hot pink. When her eyes met his again, his face was flushed roughly the same color.

“Please don’t spray that stuff at the wedding,” she said, smiling even as she waved her hand in front of her nose. "You'll give everyone a headache."

“I wasn’t planning to," he replied with a smirk.

She wanted to close the distance between them, but knew it was too soon. Too risky. “Just be there for me,” she whispered. “No matter what happens.”

He nodded. “You know I will.”

Hugging her arms, she started to inch towards the door. Pausing, she glanced back at him. “Hal?”

“Hm?”

“You’re a little more hirsute than I expected.”

He rolled his eyes. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, not at all. In fact, I love it.” Before he could sputter a response, she hurried out of the room, a small smile gracing her face.

 

[Salamander]

Messala was preparing the labs. While he waited, Khayyam called forth his traveling companion to leave the shuttle, then wandered the rooms just outside the entrance. A painting which had been laid out from among the packed items spirited away from Tintagel caught his eye. It was a portrait of a woman, surrealist in style, with a face that spoke of an altruistic goodness devoid of cynicism.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Messala’s voice at his back interrupted his thoughts. “Her name was Omie.”

So she was a real person, then? She looks like she never tasted bitterness in her life, Khayyam thought. Only sweetness. How disgustingly weak and spoiled she must have been. “Yes, very beautiful, in a… gentle sort of way.”

Messala strode into the room, gazing up at the portrait. His dark blue eyes were softened by what might have been withheld tears. “At first I had a picture of her in my mind,” he remarked. “Now I have a painting of her on wood. Perhaps someday I will have a relief of her in marble.”

Khayyam thought it unwise to deify any living being so, but he held his rodent tongue. “I’ve called Hera—she should be along soon,” he said. “Are the labs ready?”

Tearing his eyes away from the portrait and pausing long enough to compose himself, Messala nodded. “Yes. Follow me.”

They walked together into the laboratories of Test Site Verdant Pasture. Messala had gone in not only to prepare the place, but to check and make sure all was well. The stasis fields which held two of his treasures, the copy of Westenra Mina and the newborn Bamarri, were still functioning, and the genetic matrix and cell substructure splicer had been booted up. A Soulstone lay on a worktable, colorless and empty, but that was more of a backup measure. He didn’t think he would need a Soulstone for this particular experiment.

“More than half the equipment in here was designed by the late AMCO ,” Khayyam noted wistfully. He turned sharply when he heard Messala chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“Even the people who hated him in life are compelled to mourn his passing,” Messala replied with a grin. “That was how great an impact he made. My, oh my. Maybe I should try being killed off for good some day, rather than making a stubborn ass out of myself by reincarnating endlessly into clone bodies just so that I can keep playing the game.”

“Uh, yes, you’re quite right,” Khayyam mumbled in half-hearted agreement. Messala said such strange things sometimes…

Just then, Hera arrived. The Dvirat Motina was as stately and regal as a noble lady, entering the lab with her head held high. Messala pursed his lips at the sight of the droid, remembering the one he had lost on Cophrigin…

“This lovely piece of equipment wasn’t designed by Adrian Vandiir,” he said aloud, applying a stringent balm to his wounded pride. To him Hera was beautiful, but it was the same way that the Elephant Man insisted that his mother had been so very beautiful, all while believing that her getting too close to a circus elephant while she was pregnant with him was the cause of his grotesque deformity. Motherhood, with all its primitive symbology of fertility and life, was an exquisite mystery to Messala. Few knew that he had been born a hermaphrodite, unable to mother or father children of his own. Natural reproduction was closed off to him, yet it remained a mystery cult to which he was a devoted disciple. The dark secret he had discovered from Dr. Daanruano—that at birth he had torn his way out of the womb, killing the surrogate who had borne him in the process—only served to turn his melancholy fascination into a dark obsession. Exowombs he found cold and meaningless. It was why he had made the Dvirat Motina, mechanical imitations of mothers that could not feel the pain of birth or die just because they were carrying a monster.

“She is easier to take on trips than an exowomb,” Khayyam agreed, though without much enthusiasm. Like so many of Messala’s creations, Hera was incredibly unnerving. Even more so now, given that the droid’s pregnancy was far enough along in gestation that it was impossible not to notice. “Anyway, before we begin, I’d like to clarify a few things.”

“Shoot.”

“You asked me to engineer one of Vandiir’s Doppelgangers for you, but you wouldn’t say why.” Hesitating, he blurted out, “Please tell me you’re not trying to bring him back—everyone and their mother has tried that already, and all the attempts have failed. His soul is shattered, fit only for capturing the fragments in lightsaber crystals.”

Messala chuckled again, louder this time; he seemed to find this a very funny idea. “I hear his widow means to grow herself a son using samples of his DNA. Do you think she’ll get one of those crystals and give it to him as a birthday present when he’s old enough? ‘Here, dear boy, have a chunk of the soul of the father you never knew, and who wouldn’t have wanted you anyway. You can use it to power your weapons.’ Ha ha!”

He broke into laughter at that point, cackling maniacally. Khayyam looked around, wondering if the stress of the situation had finally driven Messala mad. Well, even more mad than usual.

When at last Messala recovered from his mirth, Khayyam pressed, “What will you do with this Doppelganger body?”

Clasping his claws together in front of him, Messala softly answered, “I, too, want a son.”

“Then I’m afraid a Doppelganger would be a poor choice,” Khayyam said.

“What makes you say that?”

Doppelgangers were a cross between the Shi’ido and the Anzati, created by a mixture of DNA splicing and Sith alchemy. They had no true sexes, and could not reproduce on their own. They had to be created in a lab, either from scratch or by transforming an existing being into one, as Vandiir had done to himself. Child Doppelgangers were… well. They were never truly children in the way most sentients understood the term. Their telepathic powers meant that their minds were eternally open, always consuming. No parent could ever mold them. They molded themselves… and the results were frequently disturbing.

“Doppelgangers are not like ordinary children,” Khayyam answered. “If you sign up for this thinking that you’ll be just like any other parent, you are opening yourself up to a world of pain and suffering.”

“Ah, but this is different. Look—” Messala gestured to the stasis field which held the Bamarri. “This is a Bamarri. They are extremely rare and exceptionally powerful beings native to Chaldea, created when lightning strikes marble. If they die before their time, they are given a choice. Become one with the Force, or seek out a new vessel to hold their spirit. If they can find one within three days, the Force permits them to remain there. But it must be a dead, empty host, devoid of consciousness.”

“You… want to transfer its soul into the Doppelganger body?”

Messala smiled. “It will be my greatest creation yet.”

Khayyam sensed that this had less to do with wanting another child and more to do with Messala’s typical compulsive behavior—like Vandiir, deep down the satyr only created these things because he thought it would be awesome (or ‘neat’ as Vandiir would say). The difference was, Messala frequently did things that seemed idiotic, even reckless in their flagrant disregard for his own safety. He typically had no plans for his creations beyond a single task, yet he mutated and transformed the living into monsters, permanently altering them just so they could perform an easily completed mission (and thus led them to despise him), or brought new life into being for a singular purpose without thinking about how they would function in society (also leading them to despise him).

Which forced Khayyam to reach another conclusion: Messala simply loved chaos. He reveled in it. He was, after all, a raving faun. If that were the case, then perhaps a Doppelganger was perfectly suited to his needs.

With a sigh, the little bat consented. “Very well. I’ll give you this Doppelganger.”

“Excellent,” Messala purred. “When can you have it ready?”

“Well, since I already took the liberty of starting the process,” Khayyam murmured, glancing at Hera. “Provided you don’t mind it coming out the size of a newborn rather than an adult, it should only take a few days—”

“I need it full-grown,” Messala said. “And I need it tonight.”

Khayyam opened his mouth, prepared to argue, then realized that it was technically feasible. “We’ll have to transfer it into a big enough exowomb, then. Still, the Doppelganger will be rather small in size—it will need to consume a lot of proteins in order to grow larger and stronger.”

“We can produce plenty of that here.” Messala crossed his arms over his chest, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Will you stick around to see it through, my little friend?”

“Eh, why not?” Khayyam replied wiggling his nose. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, isn’t it? Since Bamarri are so rare.”

Messala nodded. “I’ll go get an exowomb ready.” Glancing at Hera, he held out his arm. “I modified one of them for transferral between units, though I’ll have to calibrate it to the current gestation period. How far along are you?”

“Approximately thirty-five weeks,” she replied, her feminine voice faintly vocoded. Hooking her arm in his as though the two were at a formal dance, she let him lead her into the nursery.

 

[Inanna Harth]

Near a fishing village still recovering from the invasion, Alyosha had selected an empty field in a local park as the site of the ritual. He looked over the setup one last time, then checked his chrono. Twenty minutes had passed since he last called them, informing the group that everything was ready, yet they still hadn’t arrived. Sighing, he glanced at Val, who was sitting on a lawn chair. “You know that you’re going to have to either sit way back away from the circle, or flat out leave, right?”

Val smiled. “Yeah. But I think I’d be fine either way—I’ve got a thread coming up soon after this, so I can’t die yet.”

Alyosha blinked, but before he could ask any questions his attention was drawn to the sound of an approaching speeder. “Here they come.”

The group spilled out of a cramped taxi onto the grass. Everyone had come along except for Bithia, who was staying on the ship with Miri—it was past the little girl’s bedtime. With his arm hooked in hers, Nimdok guided Inanna Hoole forward. Alyosha could sense something different about her immediately, and realized that she had grown slightly stronger in the Force, fueled by Bithia’s siphoned psychic energies. Trailing behind them were Hal and Ayreon. Hal kept clenching and unclenching his fists at his side, a nervous gesture, but Ayreon was immovable as a rock, as to be expected of an HRD.

Inanna glanced at Alyosha and Val. “Sorry we’re late. There was one last thing to take care of.”

“It’s fine,” Alyosha replied with a wave of his hand. “Are you ready to start?”

She turned to Nimdok. Holding her gaze, he nodded and gently released her arm. She faced Alyosha again. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Alyosha gestured for her to come forward. Once she passed inside the circle, he stepped outside it and closed the barrier. To the others he said, “You might want to step back.”

Darth Themis had conducted her ritual on Korriban, the Sith homeworld, drawing upon the power of the Red Ankarres. Alyosha’s version of the ritual used a similar Ankarres Sapphire, a blue gem with a white flower or star blooming across its surface. It was charged with the first rays of the Atrisian dawn, which was rising now on the horizon. Fueled by the stone, a cone of light appeared at the center of the circle, glowing blindingly bright.

Shielding his eyes, Alyosha called out to Inanna, “Step into the Light! Whatever you do, don’t try to leave it until it’s done!”

He thought he saw Inanna briefly glance back, at him or her companions, he didn’t know. Then she flung herself into the funnel.

A scream of agony tore through the air. Hal took a step toward her, only to be stopped by Nimdok. “She has to survive it,” he said. “You can’t help her, so stay back.”

The bloodcurdling cries continued. Through the blinding glare, they could faintly glimpse Inanna, her flesh writhing and seething. Even Ayreon was affected, his expression showing the internal conflict between his programming and logic. He was needled by an overwhelming need to protect his owner, and yet he could do nothing.

After what seemed like an eternity, she burst out. Slashes of white lightning licked at her body, and her flesh still wriggled, resettling in the aftermath of the baptism in white fire. But she was smiling as she ran forward, passing through the barrier as though it were nothing, her arms outstretched.

She tackled Hal, wrapping her arms around him. He fell backwards onto the grass with her on top of him, laughing and kissing him. Anyone with the Force could see that her aura now burned pure, cured of the Sith poison that had tormented her.

Alyosha rushed forward and removed the focusing device which had charged the Ankarres, then broke the circle, smearing the wards with the toe of his boot. The cone of light faded away.

“So the baptism worked,” Nimdok remarked, his hands on his hips. “I knew it would.”

At the sound of his voice, Inanna pulled away from Hal and looked up at Nimdok. His eyes were bright and happy.

“You helped me,” she replied. “Thank you. Thank you, all of you!” She looked around at everyone, from Alyosha and Val to Ayreon and Nimdok, before turning her gaze back to Hal. “I can see my life before me,” she whispered. “I’m going to live, truly live… Oh, I can’t wait!”

As the two lovebirds kissed again, Nimdok rolled his eyes, though he was still smiling even as he looked away. “That’s a good place to end it, I think,” he said to no one in particular.

 

[Inanna Harth]

The Doppelganger dwelled in a dreamless sleep, floating inside the tear-shaped exowomb. Messala was reminded of his Amber Prisons. He had brought them along too, though they were still stored in the belly of his ship.

Khayyam was busy with the monitors, controlling the growth and development of the specimen. “And… That should do it,” the little bat declared his victory over nature. “I’ve aged it to maturity. Should I start the birthing process?”

“Not yet,” Messala replied. He turned to face the stasis field which held the Bamarri, went to the controls, and turned it off.

The Bamarri lay perfectly still on the floor of the machine. Messala approached it with gentle, silent steps, then stooped to pick up the crystalline creature, holding it in his claws as one might hold a newborn, one hand supporting its head and the other its bottom. Khayyam watched the scene out of the corner of his rodent eye, shuddering at the eerie sight.

“Yes,” Messala cooed. “You can hear me. Hear my thoughts…”

He slithered into the being’s mind as he spoke. The Bamarri had not been long in the world—it didn’t know how to count and couldn’t articulate itself with anything resembling language. Defenseless, alone, and frightened, it didn’t know what to do. So it just sat very still, hoping to preserve itself.

Cradling the Bamarri in his arms, Messala walked with careful steps toward the exowomb. “I have freed you, Kai. I wish to go on freeing you.”

Kai? He’s named it already? Khayyam didn’t dare pose his questions out loud for fear of disrupting the moment. Telepathy was not one of Messala’s strong suits, yet this creature used it as its sole form of communication. No doubt it required a great deal of concentration on Messala’s part.

Kai responded with images and emotions related to its lost kin, the other Bamarri whom Nefretiri had killed. Friend. What had become of its companion?

Messala answered with sorrow and regret, and the finality of Death.

This was a new concept to the Bamarri, one that disturbed it greatly. Why? Why? Why?

Sacrifice.

“There can be only one. Only one.” Messala soothed the Bamarri. Put you into the water to grow. Gave life so you could live. “Your friend gave you to me, so that I could take care of you now that their time has come to an end. You do want to live, don’t you?”

Live. Want. Afraid.

“Then I have a gift for you.” Messala held the Bamarri up so it could see the exowomb, round and full with the Doppelganger. “This is for you. A new body, one that cannot be harmed so easily.”

Safe?

“Oh yes.” There is more. You will discover this once you are inside. “But if you’re going to enter this body, you’ll have to leave the one you’re in now.”

Death! Afraid!

Messala shuddered, a choked sound escaping him. The Bamarri’s terror hit him like a sledgehammer, overpowering him with its intensity.

“Messala?” Khayyam took a step toward him. “Are you all right?”

Don’t be afraid. The Half-Bothan exerted his will, steadying them both. He was a father, a steady rock, a shield which his family took shelter behind. You will die, but you will be reborn. It is only a transition from one life to the next.

Alone!

It was a wail of despair in the void. Tears flooded Messala’s eyes, blurring his vision as his heart felt constricted with anguish, but again he steeled his resolve, comforting the Bamarri gently but firmly.

I am Transitus. I guide souls through the transition between planes of existence. I will guide you. You won’t be alone.

“Be brave,” he whispered. “It will only take a moment. You want to live, you will live.”

With that, he crushed the Bamarri in his claws. Khayyam jumped as the crystalline body shattered, pieces falling to the floor like broken glass. There was a burst of light from within, lingering in Messala’s hands and reflecting across the shards, creating rainbows.

“Go!” Messala urged, thrusting his hands toward the exowomb.

The light abruptly faded away, and for a few seconds Khayyam feared the Bamarri had become one with the Force. That was before his senses caught fire with the presence of the new life inside the exowomb.

He activated the birthing sequence. The amber sac burst, the water within flooding forth and into a drain directly below it. Out tumbled the Doppelganger, hairless and slippery with blood and other fluids, landing unceremoniously on the cold floor. Devoid of a mouth, its eyes were no more than two slits in its vaguely humanoid face. It twitched, then trembled.

Messala didn’t try to help it. “Stay back,” he warned Khayyam. “Let it get up on its own.”

Khayyam looked upon the newborn with pity, then shook his head and turned away, picking up a medical scanner. “Life signs are good,” he said. “Brain activity increasing steadily… no signs of stress yet…”

“Guard your mind, my friend,” Messala muttered. “Guard it well, or curiosity may kill the bat.”

Khayyam blinked, his face somehow growing paler. “You intend to introduce it to feeding on minds so soon?” he asked.

“I won’t have to introduce it, I think,” he replied. Khayyam was suddenly aware of how quietly he was speaking, the strain evident in his body. “It’s already reaching out blindly, seeking answers… answers from me.”

“Oh hell.” Khayyam scurried over toward the door. “Messala, we need to go. Don’t play around with these things. They’re mind-eaters—it’s too dangerous!”

The Half-Bothan took a deep breath, centering himself, then began to slowly back away, keeping his eyes on the spasming Doppelganger. When at last the door was within reach, he darted through it just as Khayyam slammed it shut.

Both scientists doubled over clutching their heads as a scream of horror pierced their minds, followed by a loud crash! The sound was followed by more noises of destruction, then silence.

They felt the Doppelganger’s presence grow distant, moving rapidly away from them. Rushing to a window, they looked out. “It escaped!” Khayyam whispered. “Oh, Force! No, no, no!”

While the bat pulled out his fur fretting over what would happen now, Messala smiled to himself. Kai was running from Verdant Pasture, bounding through the ice and snow unhindered by the cold. It would reach civilization, and there be forged into something he could not predict, wonderful or terrible, beautiful or hideous, good or evil. No matter what the result of this experiment, he was along for the ride and eager to see it through to the end.