Eyrie Productions, Unlimited

                              presents:

                UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES FUTURE IMPERFECT
                    -=WARRIORS OF THE OUTER RIM=-

			 THE FULCRUM OF FATE
				Part I

                         Benjamin D. Hutchins
			      Anne Cross

         with the invaluable assistance of the Usual Suspects
		and standard thanks to all the sources

                (c) 2006 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited


		       FRIDAY, OCTOBER 12, 2412
			  THEED ROYAL PALACE
		 THEED, NABOO, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

	Leonard Hutchins woke up a little early on his thirtieth day
on Naboo, then rewarded himself for his initiative by staying in bed
until the time when he had planned to get up.  This was, perhaps,
unproductive, but he was under no great obligation to be productive
today.
	Finally, though, he faced the prospect that he could not
simply lie there any more, pushed back the blankets and got out of
bed, stretching his six-foot frame and yawning expansively.  In bare
feet and yellow pajamas, he padded to the high window, pulled back the
curtains and let the bright sunlight spill across the mosaic tile
floor of the bedroom he had occupied since he'd helped Queen Amidala
take her palace back from the Federation invaders.
	It was a grand bedroom, to be sure, with the soaring ceiling
height common to all the palace's interior spaces and a row of windows
facing the cliffs and the sea, a great soft canopied bed and all the
modern appointments discreetly worked into the ancient contours and
fittings.  He knew he would be welcome in it as long as he chose to
stay, assuming the current government stayed in power, which seemed
likely.
	Still, he was beginning to think it would be better if he had
a place of his own.  The palace was lovely and the staff made him as
welcome as they could, but he felt out of place in such a grandiose
structure, as if he were staying in a grand hotel.  However long he
stayed, he would always be a guest, never feeling quite at home.
Having a place to feel at home in was important to him.
	Exactly where that place was to -be-, since he was effectively
a vagrant at the moment, he wasn't sure.  He didn't even have a
suitcase to live out of since the Federation's invasion force had
totaled his old scoutship.
	Ah, well.  Time enough to worry about that later; there was no
sense in wasting a nice day puzzling over those matters.  They would
take care of themselves, or not, as events unfolded.  That was the way
of the Force.
	Len went into the well-appointed private bathroom off to the
side of the bedchamber, brushed his teeth, shaved, showered, and
dressed in one of the several sets of Jedi robes the royal tailory had
provided him.  He had worn the traditional garb of his order for so
long by now that he felt oddly conspicuous in ordinary clothes.  He
pulled on his boots, buckled on his equipment belt, put on the
lighter-weight of his two cloaks, and went down to the kitchen, where
he was greeted cheerfully by the staff.  He had intended to just raid
the refrigerator for some provisions, but Rabe, the royal chef,
wouldn't hear of it and carefully packed him a lunch.  He secured it
in his field pack, made sure he had his communicator, and left the
palace by a postern.
	Now that he was out of bed, Len felt restless.  He knew the
Jedi Council wanted him to present himself to them on Alderaan as soon
as he could and give them a first-hand account of the Federation
attack on Naboo, but the royal physician, Dr. Tane Gisala, wanted him
to give himself another week to build strength before he tackled
interstellar travel.  The palace doctors only let him go on these
long, unsupervised walks at his insistence, and under the condition
that he carry a communicator to summon help with if he needed it.  He
supposed he could have 'persuaded' them to release him earlier, but
that wouldn't have been sporting.
	So he built that strength through these constitutionals,
walking the trails and pathways etched into the forests and grasslands
at the tops of the seacliffs ringing Theed's harbor.  The city, with
the palace at its center, sat at the bottom of a U of steep cliffs
twenty miles or more long, leading to the Harkon Sea.  Len was
exploring the right side of the U.  Today, it was his intention to
reach the point of it and observe the Harkon itself, where he and the
rest had fled from the Federation's forces aboard the Sun Queen -
astonishingly, less than a month ago.
	It was a good day for a walk, and Len's spirits were high.  He
felt good, steady and strong, with no trace of pain or weakness
remaining from his terrible injuries at the hands of the Sith Knight
named Darth Maul.  His endurance still had a bit of recovering to do,
but overall he thought himself much further along than the palace
medical staff believed.  Well, he could hardly blame them for their
conservatism.  A genetically normal human, even a Jedi Knight, would
have been killed by the wounds he'd suffered.  They could be excused
for failing to fathom the true speed of Detian regeneration.
	He sat on a rock at noontime and ate his lunch in the open,
sunny air, with the sound of the Harkon surf crashing on the rocks far
below and the cries of seabirds for musical accompaniment.  The lunch
was worthy of its surroundings.  Leonard hoped he was never forced to
decide whether Rabe or his Jedi partner Emmy Kyn'o'bi was the better
cook.
	He lay back on the flat rock and soaked up the sunlight for a
few minutes after finishing his lunch, wondering about Emmy.  She'd
left Naboo for her home planet of Hyeruul not long after he'd emerged
from his healing coma - and, to his surprise, she'd accepted Darth
Vader's offer to take her there in his ship.  Given that Emmy was
markedly skittish around the ancient Sith Lord, that seemed either a
bold or a foolish move to Len, and he wasn't entirely sure which.
Something had passed between the two of them during that chaotic day
when the Federation invaders had been driven from Naboo, but whatever
it was, Len had missed it and Emmy hadn't talked about it.
	He hoped she was all right.  He briefly considered trying to
reach her through the Force, but decided against it; this was clearly
something she thought she had to do herself, -whatever- it was.
	When he finished his lunch, Len estimated he had two hours
before he would have to turn around and head back if he wanted to get
back to the palace before dark.  There was nothing particularly
dangerous about staying out past dark, and he could certainly find his
way back by starlight, but certain of the palace staff were inclined
to worry, so he'd decided at the outset to try to be back by then.
	That meant he'd have to pick up his pace a little bit and
march it if he wanted to reach the point, but that was all right - a
brisker pace would help his digestion.  He whistled tunelessly and
struck out for the coast.  Before long, the path he trod was joined by
another, wider but less-traveled-looking one.  He noticed, after this,
that the surface he walked was harder-packed.  A closer examination
revealed that it was paved with interlocked stones, like the grand
boulevards of Theed, but unmaintained for a very long time.  He was on
an ancient road.
	It became obvious after an hour and a half that he wasn't
quite going to make it in time.  He intended to keep to his plan, turn
back, and try it again tomorrow, but as he stopped on the trail, a
strange feeling crept into his mind and caused his first frown of the
day.  He closed his eyes and gave the feeling his full attention.
	Yes - it was a curious vibration in the Force, a soft but
insistent beckoning... 
	Whatever it is will still be there tomorrow, he told himself.
Why worry the Queen and everybody?  Go on back, come out early
tomorrow - borrow a speeder if you must - and check it out then.
	A prudent and sensible plan, he told himself.  Then he pulled
the communicator from his belt and flipped it open.
	"This is Len," he said.
	"Go ahead," replied the voice of the palace comm operator.
	"I'm checking out something near Mobar Point," he said.  "No
danger, but it'll keep me out a bit late.  I'll most likely miss
dinner."
	"Are you sure there's no problem?"
	"No, no, I'm fine," said Len.  "Just a bit intrigued."
	"All right.  Call if you have any trouble."
	"Will do," he replied.  "Len out."
	He put the communicator back on his belt and kept walking.
	An hour later, he came upon it, and for a moment, it took his
breath away.  He wondered how it was he'd never noticed it from the
sea, before remembering that on the way out he'd been preoccupied with
being miserable over Achika's sudden return to his life, and on the
way in he'd been below decks.
	Mobar Point was not an empty jut of land at the corner of
harbor and sea, like its twin Habor Point a mile away to the north.  A
beautiful domed and pillared edifice surmounted it, all gold and red
stone and greenish metal, in a very familiar style.  It was like the
Palace of Theed in miniature, and given the sprawling scope of the
palace, that made it not very miniature at all.
	This was a respectably-sized castle in itself, a square stone
heap with four narrow towers jutting into the sky at the corners, and
a central dome with a cupola at its top, perhaps five stories high in
total.  The road, surmounting a small rise, debouched into a plaza like
a smaller version of the one before Amidala's palace.
	There was no telling how long the fort had been abandoned, but
as he mounted the eight steps to its huge main doors, Len felt the
same sensation that he had experienced when he'd first entered the
Duelists' Castle on Jeraddo - a building which, now that he thought
about it, resembled this one, modulo the distinctively Naboo design
features.  It felt as though the old pile of stone were welcoming him.
	The doors, closed for unknown centuries, opened smoothly and
silently at his touch, and he walked into the main hall, his bootheels
echoing against the stone of the floor.  The hall was of a scale
suitable for the building that contained it, and though dingy with
grime and disuse, and plainer in appointment than that of the Theed
palace, it showed the promise of a considerable, if simple, beauty.
	Len closed his eyes again and let his feelings roam, searching
for some clue to the place's history.  What he found told him nothing
of fact, but the feeling of welcome was compounded.  In that moment,
he realized that, just as in the Duelists' Castle, at one time there
had been Jedi here.  The Force clung to the walls as thickly as the
dust of ages.
	He opened his eyes and smiled at the empty room, feeling its
history pressing close against his skin.
	Welcome, indeed, he thought.  Welcome home.

	M'yl'ya Kyn'o'bi couldn't sleep.  She lay on a bunk so narrow
it barely accommodated even her slender shape, looking up at a gray
metal bulkhead, but neither the padding nor the scenery were at fault;
she was simply too uncomfortable in her situation.  She wondered what
had possessed her to accept an offer of transport from Naboo to
Hyeruul from Darth Vader.
	It wasn't that Vader had done anything to alarm her, injure
her or in any way put her on her guard; quite the opposite.  Since
they'd left Naboo four days before, and Emmy had become progressively
more nervous and irritable, she had hardly seen him.  The Sith Lord
knew that she had not yet adjusted to the understanding of him she had
gained beneath Theed Palace, and was giving her all the space he could
manage in the somewhat cramped confines of the Shadowstorm.  With his
support suit, he had little need of the facilities contained by the
ship's lower-deck living quarters anyway, so he spent almost all his
time at the controls.
	What he did to occupy himself, she couldn't even guess, but
with him confining himself to the control deck, Emmy had the living
deck pretty much all to herself.  It wasn't much to look at either;
three curtained bunks set into rectangular notches in the curving
walls, each with a small locker next to it; a dining area with a tiny
table that could be converted to a hologaming table; and miniscule but
adequate fresher and galley facilities walled off from the rest of the
cabin and each other.  There was enough open space in the middle of
the room to get a bit of exercise if you were careful not to bump
against the table.
	Behind the curtain of Vader's bunk, special equipment had been
added.  A plasteel panel could seal the bunk enclosure off from the
rest of the ship, and equipment hidden in the bulkhead could provide
that tiny environment with its own hyper-oxygenated, heavily medicated
atmosphere, so that the automated systems could shut down his support
suit in order to attend to its periodic maintenance and repair
requirements.  The closet next to that bunk contained a complete set
of spares for the suit.
	Emmy's awareness twinged, and she felt her heart rate pick up
a little as she realized that Vader was descending the lift to the
living deck.  She remained where she was, breathing shallowly, as if
hiding from him.  She could hear his boots on the deck and the
rhythmic hiss of his breathing as he emerged, and she braced herself
for confrontation; but he didn't approach her bunk.  Instead, it
sounded like he had gone to the galley.  She was puzzled by this, but
couldn't bring herself to open the curtain and look.  This, she knew,
was ridiculous; but since the glow of the heady rush of insight, under
the influence of which she had agreed to this trip, had faded, she had
spent the entire voyage grappling with her fear of him.
	Her problem was simple: when Master Gajic had told her to let
go of all fear and hatred, she had cheated.  Rather than do as her
master said, she had unconsciously selected something to put all of
her fear and hatred into, an icon to attach it to, instead of
abandoning it altogether.  Why strive to understand and accept, for
example, the memory of Darth Vader?  If she feared him and hated him,
so what?  He had been dead for three thousand years.  She would never
have to face that fear or conquer that hatred; she could nurture them
in secret, and releasing those feelings about all other subjects would
then be easy.  She had never thought this out consciously - it would
have appalled her - but nevertheless, she was now realizing that it
was exactly what she had done.  She had cherished her childhood
loathing and terror of the most infamous Sith Lord too much to give it
up, and now she was paying the price for her failure.
	There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it.  She had
made a mistake, and now she had to face up to it and correct it.  On
some level, that was probably why she had accepted Vader's offer,
before her phobia could grab hold of her again and make her shy away.
Now that they were in hyperspace for the long haul to Hyeruul, she was
committed to making it work.  The only alternative was giving in to
the fear, and she would rather die than fail her ancestors that way.
	None of which was of much help against the irrational spasms
of dread that marked her aversion to Vader as a genuine phobia.  Every
time he moved, she had to stop herself from jumping.  She could hardly
stand to look at him.  When she closed her eyes, the vision of his
black and merciless form cutting her down in that icy crevasse on
Halloran V raced across her mind's eye.  In the near-silence of the
Shadowstorm's cabin, his breathing seemed to lurk in the corners like
the Dh'kuul'ynn of myth.
	She lay in her bunk and listened, wondering what the Sith Lord
could be doing in the galley.  She could hear the clatter of a pan,
and the sounds of something being mixed.  Could he be cooking
something?  Darth Vader, cooking?  The thought was so ludicrous that
in spite of her stress level, Emmy almost laughed out loud.  Darth
Vader was a warrior, a destroyer - surely he couldn't cook.  And
anyway, why would he bother?  Eating in his condition would have been
a joyless procedure, if it were even possible.  Better to take on
basic nutrients in the privacy of his hyperbaric bunk-chamber and have
it over with as fast as possible.
	Nevertheless, it did seem as though he -was- cooking;
presently the smell of something sweet drifted through the curtain.
	A few minutes later, there was the clatter of the pan again,
some unidentifiable movements and sounds, and then Vader moved across
to the lift, entered it, and rose.  Momentarily, Emmy drew back the
curtain of her bunk and peeked out; he was gone.  She slipped out,
quizzical, and looked around, wondering what was different.
	Then she noticed it, sitting on the tiny checkered table in
the restaurant-booth-like dining/lounge area: a plate, heavy and
glazed a beautiful bright blue, on which was a neatly arranged stack
of small, golden-brown discs.
	Emmy stepped closer.  Surely they couldn't be - 
	They were.
	It was a plate of Hyelian chvi'ta cookies.
	Emmy felt her eyes filling with tears.  The gesture was so
utterly unexpected, and so bizarrely sweet, that she was touched clear
to her heart.  She sat down at the table with tears running down her
cheeks and just stared at the cookies for several minutes.  They were
silent, of course, but to her, they said so much it took her mind that
long just to catalogue it all.
	He's sorry.  Not that he did what he did - he believes it was
the only thing he could do - but that it hurt me.  He's asking me to
forgive him... forgive him on behalf of my ancestors and myself.
	Can I do that?  Can I forgive the man who destroyed the Jedi
Order of old, no matter what sense of rightness he felt in doing it?
He ended so many lives, ruined so many more... who am I to say that
his remorse for my pain balances the scales?
	"Who indeed?" asked a calm and kindly voice.  Emmy started
violently, jolted from her reverie, and looked toward its source.
Across the table from her, glowing softly, sat her most revered
ancestor.
	"Master O'bi-Wann!" she gasped.
	"M'yl'ya," said O'bi-Wann matter-of-factly, "you are living
proof that Vader did -not- destroy the Order.  You, and Leonard, and
the man who trained you, and the others like you.  The Jedi live on -
in reduced numbers, certainly, and reduced status, but they are in no
real danger of extinction.  In fact, I would say the Order's future
looks especially bright today."
	"But Master - he killed so many.  He killed -you-!"
	O'bi-Wann nodded.  "And punishing him forever will not bring
any of us back.  I admit, before my death, I abandoned hope that there
could be any good left in my former student, but... "  The ancient
Jedi's ghost regarded the cookies.  "... now I am not so certain.  I
never really tried to understand him, to find out his reasons for
doing what he did.  He tried to tell me once, but I refused to listen.
I see now that that was foolish."
	"Are you saying I -should- forgive him?"
	"I'm saying you have the right to do so, if you choose.  You
are a Jedi; you are a Kyn'o'bi.  You may speak for either."  Kyn'o'bi
smiled.  "But, for now, have a cookie."
	Emmy took a cookie and carefully bit into it.  The sweetness
spread across her tongue and seemed to warm her, erasing the chill
that had taken hold of her the past several days.  She smiled back at
her ancient ancestor.
	"I was very proud of you when you stopped yourself from
taking his life," O'bi-Wann said.  "You must choose for yourself
whether to go a step further.  No one can make that choice for you."
	Emmy nodded.  "I understand, Master."
	The Jedi Master gave a satisfied nod and faded away.  Emmy
looked at where he had been for a long moment, then finished the
cookie she held, went to her bunk, and composed herself not for sleep,
but meditation.
	Soon it would be time at last for Vader and Kyn'o'bi to have a
long conversation... but not yet.  She wasn't ready yet.  She had
recognized her error, and that was important; but it would take more
than that to overcome the problem.
	Perhaps after visiting Hyeruul...

	Len arrived back at the palace at ten-thirty that night with
buoyant spirits and a delicious tiredness, not the fatigue of injury
but of a day's worth of healthy exertion.  He would have scrounged a
sandwich in the kitchen and retired to his quarters, to take the
matter up with the Queen in the morning, but one of the handmaidens,
Eirtae, had been stationed in the kitchen to take note of his return
and usher him to Her Majesty's library.
	There, with the official functions of government done for the
day, Queen Amidala was divested of her elaborate robes and makeup,
sitting before the fire in a great brown leather armchair - a quite
ordinary-looking girl reading a quite ordinary-looking book.
	She looked up and marked her place as Eirtae shooed Len into
the library and installed him in the chair opposite.
	"So you've returned intact from your rambles about the
countryside," she said in the curiously stilted tones she always used
when conducting official business.  Then she smiled and added in a
normal voice, "What did you find that was so interesting?"
	"There's a building on Mobar Point," he replied.  "I'm not
sure what it was.  A harbor fort, maybe.  It's smaller than the
palace - about the size of the west wing."
	Padme - without her makeup and harsher tones Len always
thought of the Queen as Padme - nodded.  "I know it.  It's been
abandoned for centuries.  It was never rebuilt and lived in by the
colonists the way the palace was."
	"Who owns it?" Len wondered.
	"I suppose I do, or rather the government does," she said.
"Why?"
	"I... I'd like to buy it."
	Padme blinked.  "-Buy- it?  All of it?  Mobar Point and all?"
	Len nodded.
	"Are you serious?"
	"Perfectly."
	"What would you want with an abandoned fort on a backwater
planet like Naboo?"
	"I've become very fond of Naboo," said Len.  "I do have to get
back to the Inner Galaxy for a while - we'll talk about that in a
minute - but it's my intention to come back here, make a home here.
If it can be arranged, I'd like that home to be Mobar Point."
	Padme gave him a thoughtful smile.  "I'll have to discuss it
with Governor Bibble," she told him.  "Mine is an elected office, so
the property is not really mine to sell.  It may need to go before the
Assembly."
	"I understand.  Do you think it'll be a problem, though?"
	"I don't see why it should be.  As far as I know, no one has
ever used that place for anything.  What's so special about it to
you?"
	Len shook his head.  "I can't really explain it.  I think I
was guided out there by the Force, like the place was calling to me,
and when I stepped inside I felt as if I'd come home after a long
trip.  The Force is very strong there.  I think there were Jedi there
once... that it was a Jedi temple.  At least, it gave me the same
feeling that I've had when I visited others."
	"Could the castle at Mobar Point have been -built- by Jedi?"
she wondered.
	"I think it's very likely," Len replied.  "I've seen another
old Jedi Temple - it's used as the Duelist clubhouse at the Satori
Mandeville Institute on Jeraddo.  It's built in a remarkably similar
style."
	"Well, if that's the case, then it seems to me that -you- have
the prior claim.  In the modern era, humans have only lived on Naboo
for five hundred years, as far as we know.  The Jedi were long gone by
the time the first modern colonists arrived."
	Len smiled, then bowed his head and said formally, "I am in
Your Majesty's debt."
	Padme grinned.  "I still have a long way to go before I pay
back you and your friends."
	"I've told you before, you don't owe us anything.  We did what
was right for us to do, that's all."
	"And I've told -you- before, I -do- owe you."  In an eyeblink,
she straightened almost imperceptibly, her face became almost wooden,
and Queen Amidala said harshly, "And on Naboo, Master Jedi, until the
people say otherwise, my word is law."
	Len chuckled.  "As Your Majesty says."
	"You mentioned leaving," Padme said, switching back to an
older thread in the conversation.
	"Yes," said Len.  "I walked to Mobar Point and back in ten
hours today.  My strength and endurance are fine.  I respect your
doctors' judgment, but they've never seen a Detian.  It's not pride
but simple fact: They've underestimated my powers of recovery.  I need
to go to Alderaan and speak with the Jedi Council, then get back to
New Avalon and find out what's happening in the Inner Galaxy, and with
your permission I'd like to leave tomorrow."
	She gave him a measuring look.  "Are you -certain- that you're
up to it?"
	"I wouldn't ask to go if I weren't," he replied.
	She nodded.  "All right, then."
	"I'll need to make travel arrangements.  Hopefully some
freighter or another will be leaving for a trading run to Sullust or
Tarumon; maybe I'll even get lucky and there'll be one bound for New
Avalon."
	"If the situation is so serious that you have to leave before
Dr. Gisala thinks you'll be ready, then you'll take one of my ships."
	"I couldn't impose - "
	"Don't make me pull rank again," said Padme wryly.  "It's too
late at night."
	Len considered protesting again, decided it would be futile,
and simply accepted with good grace.  He was considerably moved that
she would entrust him with one of the royal yachts.  There were three
of them, sleek silver ships with Nubian running gear, each unique and
all very, very fast.
	Rabe appeared out of nowhere and announced that the Jedi's
dinner was ready, then chided him for staying out so late.  She didn't
seem put out that she had had to stay up and fix another meal for the
laggard guest, and she certainly hadn't stinted on the preparations.
He took the meal at a table in the kitchen, and he and Padme talked
for another hour or so, discussing the rapidly darkening outlook for
the galaxy as a whole and the chances that Naboo would again find
itself swept up in the chaos.  Finally, Padme announced that they had
spoken of gloomy subjects for too long, issued a royal command that he
dream of pleasanter things, and retired for the evening.

	Emmy handled Vader's presence a bit better for the rest of the
haul to Hyeruul, but she still didn't really feel at ease until she
walked down the Shadowstorm's ramp and smelled the air of home for the
first time in years.
	The spaceport looked just the same.  It wasn't really very
different from the hundred others she'd seen on the Rim, but for one
key factor that took a few moments to register on her consciousness:
almost everyone here was Hyelian.  Most other ports on the Rim were a
bustling mishmash of different races and cultures, everyone passing
through en route to someplace else.
	Here, there were a few alien traders, but all the port
staffers, technicians, and whatnot were natives, and so were most of
the spacers.  Scouts and explorers coming and going, trading
expeditions returning from other worlds or preparing to leave... 
	Several passing people nodded to Emmy, taking little notice of
her other than simple acknowledgement.  A few moments later, though,
passers-by started pausing to stare for a second or two as the
vessel's owner joined his passenger at the foot of the ramp.  Here
even more than almost anywhere else, the armored Sith Lord stood out
like a pounded thumb.
	"I'm not sure how long this will take," she told him.  "I need
to pay my respects to my family, but I doubt they'll want me staying
long.  Then it's a question of tracking down my Uncle J'er'nyth."
	Vader nodded slightly.  "I will be gone four days.  After
that, you will find me here," he said, then turned and strode off
across the grassy landing field without a backward glance.
	Emmy watched him go, then sighed and went to hire a beastrider
to take her across town.
	Half an hour later, she alighted outside the gates of her
family's estate, paid the beastrider, and stood dithering for a few
minutes.
	This is silly, she chided herself.  You might have had some
small justification for fearing -Darth Vader-, but you've no such
excuse to fear your own father.
	She went through the gates and up the walk, made certain her
robes were just so, and rang the bell.  After a few moments, the
massive timbered door swung back a couple of feet and a liveried
servant looked out at her.
	Emmy smiled.  "Hello, Gileas," she said.
	Gileas, the family's ancient manservant, stared for just a
second, then gave her a deep bow.
	"Lady M'yl'ya," he said.  "Welcome home."
	"I wouldn't be so sure," she mused with uneasy humor.  "Is
Father here?"
	"Alas, no, m'lady," Gileas said.  "He's at a session of the
Council of Lords, but he plans to be home for supper.  Will you be
staying?"
	"That depends," Emmy replied, "on whether he asks me to
leave."
	Gileas smiled and shook his head.  "Oh, I doubt that will
happen, m'lady," he said.  "Please, do come in."

	Given his choice of the three royal starships, Leonard had
selected the smallest, a speedy little chrome wing not much bigger
than Vader's old Atlantean gunboat, Hydrargyrum by name.  In it, he'd
made the run from Naboo to Alderaan in blazing time, considering the
former planet's remoteness.
	Now he stepped forth onto one of the rooftop landing pads of
the great Jedi Temple of Alderaan, headquarters of the reconstituted
Jedi Order - a much grander affair indeed than the modest pile he'd
found on Mobar Point - and watched as ground crewmen in the blue
coveralls of International Police technicians secured the ship and
fitted fueling hoses and diagnostic leads.  As he did so, a person
emerged from a rooftop door nearby and strode toward him.
	He was a Rodian, green-skinned and snouty, and he wasn't
dressed like an IPO tech or a traditional Jedi.  Instead, he looked
more like a smuggler - snug-fitting trousers, high boots, a ribbed
thermojacket over a T-shirt, and the obligatory heavy blaster pistols
in thigh-tiedown holsters.  He walked like a gunfighter, too.  A
person to be wary of, if one weren't meeting him on the roof of a Jedi
Temple, perhaps.
	"Leonard Hutchins, I presume?" he said in slightly-accented
Standard as he drew within hailing distance.  Len admitted it, at
which point the Rodian bowed and said, "Bixloromenti Semivaniotis.
Call me Bix.  Will you come with me, please?  The Council eagerly
awaits your report."
	Only mildly puzzled as to why the Council would send a Rodian
gunslinger to conduct him to their presence, Len nodded cordially and
followed.
	Inside, the Temple was an interesting combination of sleek
modernity and a sense of immense age in perfect harmony.  It didn't
have the slightly Moorish flavor of the Duelists' Castle on Jeraddo,
nor the studied elegance of the major buildings of Naboo; instead its
interior was of calm grey stone accented with chrome and glass.  It
had something of the air of a college about it, and something of the
headquarters of a big corporation - a sense of impassive, rational
purposefulness.  It was a little more impersonal than Len had been
expecting, but then, the Order had just retaken possession of it six
years ago; perhaps that would wear off with time.
	Bix led him through the halls of the massive building to a
large, tastefully appointed room in which a semicircle of seven padded
bowl chairs faced an eighth set apart a little way.  With a decorous
click of his bootheels together, the Rodian bowed and said,
	"Learned Masters, your guest has arrived.  May I present
Leonard Hutchins of New Avalon, Jedi Knight."
	Another Rodian, this one wearing Jedi robes and seated in
one of the seven chairs, nodded.
	"Thank you, Bix," he said.  "You may withdraw."
	Bix bowed again and left the room.  Leonard stood in a neutral
pose, neither formal nor informal, and surveyed the seven as they, in
turn, sized him up with their eyes.  Three of them - Faloon, the
Minbari archivist; Mace Windu, the Order's principal liaison to the
Experts of Justice; and Atin-Vae Springsteen, the youngest of the
current Jedi Masters - were represented by holograms, their real
selves off in the field somewhere.
	Len knew them all, at least by reputation, and also the ones
who were there in person: Zaerdra Kinshasa, the twi'lek dancer-Jedi;
the Irken Master Vert; Bolo Burke, who had spoken; and Yoda, of course.
	Yoda had presided at his Trial on Ruusan, in the ruined temple
complex where the ancient Jedi had served out his long, long exile
before Windu and Leonard's father had at last persuaded him to help
them reconstitute the Order in public, five years before.  His
slightly reluctant agreement to take part in the exercise had given
the newly reorganized Jedi Order a lot of credibility among the
scattered itinerants who had been all that remained of the Jedi.
Without him, Len knew, they would probably still be scattered.  There
were those, like Master Gajic, who still thought they'd be better off
that way, but Len was keeping his own counsel on that point until he
came to know the "organized" Order better.
	He nodded respectfully.  "Learned Masters," he said, echoing
Bix's opening words.  "I'm honored."
	"Please," said the hologram of Mace Windu, gesturing to the
empty chair facing the Council.  "Have a seat."
	Leonard sat, arranging himself comfortably, hands on knees.
	"Come to report you have, on the incidents at Naboo, I
believe," Yoda prompted him.
	The redheaded Jedi nodded.  "Indeed I have, Master Yoda," he
said.  "Of course, you already have the broad strokes from the written
report Jedi Kyn'o'bi transmitted while I was incapacitated, and no
doubt you've heard parts of the rest from my father - but there are
details we felt you needed to hear first-hand... from a Jedi."
	"Such as?" asked Bolo Burke, one of his antennae crooking with
interest.
	Len looked from Master to Master, then settled his gaze on
Yoda and said,
	"Darth Vader is alive."

	As it happened, Emmy Kyn'o'bi was mulling over that very same
fact in her father's library when the door opened and His Grace
K'yr'wan Kyn'o'bi, the eleventh Duke of Kyn'o'bi'rith, entered.
	Emmy rose to her feet facing him, keeping her stance and
expression carefully neutral, and inclined her head respectfully.
	"Father," she said.
	The duke stood gazing at her for a few seconds.  His face,
which looked just exactly as Emmy remembered it - round, fleshy,
florid, heavily mustached - defied interpretation while he examined
her.  If he was unchanged, there could be no mistaking the changes in
his youngest daughter.  The archaic white and pale grey robes she
wore, the sturdy leather boots, the silver cylinder hanging from her
belt, and the calm, unruffled poise she displayed let no doubt what
she had become.
	A Jedi Knight.  The very thing he had said - well, roared,
actually - he would never have under his roof when last they'd seen
each other.
	After using a few seconds to take all this on board, the Duke
seemed to make some internal decision.  Bowing deeply, he said with
perfect courtesy,
	"Master Jedi.  You honor my humble house with your presence."
	Emmy blinked.
	"I hope you will do me the further honor of joining my
household at dinner this evening," the duke went on.
	"Er... of course," Emmy said, doing her best to at least match
his politeness.  His behavior baffled her.  He was acting as though
she were an unexpected, honored guest, which was surprising enough,
but he was -also- acting as though they'd never -met-, and that was
even more disconcerting.  Even sensing his resonance with the Force
couldn't help her get a handle on his true feelings.  A long-time
veteran of royal court politics, K'yr'wan Kyn'o'bi had long since
learned to keep those very close to his vest indeed.
	His attitude remained precisely the same throughout the
ensuing dinner - incredibly cordial but ultra-formal, with a stiff,
cool reserve that was perfectly correct but very hard to take.  Emmy's
mother, the Duchess Yz'mr'ylda, was constrained by custom and her
husband's own behavior to do likewise, but at least in her case Emmy
could tell that she was just as nonplussed by the Duke's behavior as
their guest was.
	The occasion was thus perfectly civil on the surface, but
crushingly awkward underneath.  By the time Gileas served the vipti
soup, Emmy had to suppress a very un-grown-up urge to fidget
uncomfortably and make excuses to get out of the glacial atmosphere of
the dining room.  Here was a situation for which she would never have
anticipated using her Jedi training in the endurance of discomfort.
	I knew coming back was going to be hard, she thought ruefully,
but this... I wasn't expecting this.

	It was nearly midnight in Aldera when the Council dismissed
Leonard.
	"Digest what we have learned we must," Yoda said.  "Come back
to the matter tomorrow we will."
	"Quarters have been prepared for you on the academy level,"
Bolo Burke told Leonard.  "Master Kinshasa will show you the way."
	As they walked through the corridors of the temple, Len asked
the twi'lek master, "Academy level?"
	Zaerdra nodded.  "We take a collegial approach to training
here," she said.  "Our padawan learners are still apprenticed to
specific masters for their advanced training, but that mainly applies
to field work.  Master Windu and his padawan Ray are in the Tetrageon
system assisting with an IPO operation right now, for example.  There
are a number of subjects in the training curriculum that work well in
group-teaching settings, though, and when at the Temple, the learners
apprenticed to masters who are based here will all study together.  I
can show you around tomorrow, when classes are in session."
	"I'd like that," Len said.  "The formal structure of the Order
is something I've not had a lot of experience dealing with.  Before
coming here, apart from Emmy and Master Gajic, I'd only met a
half-dozen other Jedi."
	Zaerdra smiled, a trifle sadly.  "We hope that one day Master
Gajic will come to realize that the re-establishment of the Order as a
public entity is a -good- thing... but he's free to practice the Code
in any way he likes, of course."  Then she laughed lightly at herself,
stretched her arms back until something in the middle of her back
cracked, and said, "Listen to me, I'm talking like Mace.  Too much
time in Council sessions."
	"I'm told Master Windu is a great swordsman," Len offered.
"I've met his brother, but never him."
	She chuckled.  "They're as different as brothers can be, in a
lot of ways.  Morpheus was my teacher.  He's another one we'll
probably never see coming in from the field."  She stopped by a
door.  "Well, this is yours," she said with a graceful flourish.  "I
doubt it measures up to your accommodations in the Naboo royal palace,
but it's got everything you need."
	Len laughed.  "They do spoil me on Naboo," he admitted.
	"Sounds to me like you earned it," Zaerdra said frankly.  "You
two have made quite a name for yourselves, driving off Palpatine's
fleet from his old homeworld.  I wouldn't be surprised if you get
permission for your satellite temple."
	Len arched an eyebrow.  "How did you know I was going to
request it?" he asked.
	"I'm afraid Queen Amidala tipped your hand," Zaerdra said with
a laugh.  "She called while you were on your way here, asking if we
had any record in our archives of the ownership of Mobar Point.  All
that information's been lost, of course - it was all the ancient Jedi
could do to preserve the actual teachings of the Force - but she
mentioned you were interested in acquiring it."
	"It wasn't necessarily my intention to start another -temple-
there," Len said, "though the idea had occurred to me.  It'd be a
pretty small operation, though, since neither of us has a student."
	The twi'lek gave him an enigmatic smile.  "Such things have
been known to change," she said.  Then, with a decorative bow, she
said, "I'll leave you to your rest, then, and be by in the morning to
take you on that tour.  May the Force be with you."
	"And with you," he said.  He leaned on the doorframe, arms
folded, and smilingly watched her saunter off down the corridor before
turning and tabbing open the door.  Interesting woman, that one.

        Unfortunately, thanks to the intricacies of Hyelian social
customs, Emmy's painful evening wasn't finished with dinner.
Tradition required that, once the meal was finished and the Duchess
(seeming quite bewildered by the whole affair) retired for the
evening, the Duke and his guest would repair to the library for
conversation, and perhaps a bit of brandy.
        There was rather more brandy than conversation, and not a lot
of either.  Now that it was just the two of them, K'yr'wan seemed to
become even more remote.
        Emmy was mentally reciting a mantra against pain and wondering
when the torture would ever end when the library door burst open and a
man she didn't recognize entered in a state of some excitement.
        He was tall - a head taller than the duke, at least - and
slim, with long, curly chestnut hair and a big gold hoop earring in
his left ear.  He was dressed in a flowing shirt, riding breeches, and
high boots - the very picture of a rakish young gentleman - and his
skin was deeply tanned.  It wasn't until she took a closer look at his
face - looked past the tan, past the rough-cut little beard and
mustache, past the thin scar on his left cheek - that she realized who
he was, and the shock of it was doubled when he spoke.
        "Father!  Is it true?  Has - it IS true!  M'yl'ya's come
home!"
        Emmy rose from her chair and blinked at him.  "Or...
Or'lyn'do?" she said.
        When last she'd seen her elder brother Or'lyn'do, the Duke's
son and heir, he was a pale and ineffectual young man with a fussy
toothbrush mustache and a perpetually bored expression, the very model
of the feckless young nobleman.  He attended court, rode to hounds,
and did all the various things that cemented in the public's
imagination the idea that the nobility was a largely useless but
vaguely amusing institution.  He never showed the slightest interest
in anything, for that would be unseemly.
        Apparently that had changed, for there was nothing pale,
feckless, or uninterested about the man who swept Emmy up in a
powerful hug, then plopped her back in her chair and rounded on the
duke to point an accusing finger.
        "And this is the way you comport yourself today?" he demanded.
"Gileas told me about the way you treated her at dinner.  You old
fool!  First you mope around for a year snapping at everyone like an
old dog because you're upset about the way you handled her leaving,
and now, when she finally comes home, you act like she's a stranger?
Get up out of that chair and welcome your daughter home!"
        K'yr'wan blinked at his son, as though too surprised to be
angry at his disrespectful tone.  Then, to Emmy's astonishment,
instead of regaining his wits and blowing up at Or'lyn'do, the duke
tried to temporize.
        "You, you know Jedi leave behind their family ties when they
join their order!" he sputtered.  "It would be disrespectful to treat
her with familiarity now that - "
        "Oh, bosh!" Or'lyn'do snapped.  "You never treat Uncle
J'er'nyth this way.  You're just -embarrassed-.  You said some
-stupid- things when she left and now you feel like the -idiot- you
are.  T'ch'nn-k'luongo!  Just apologize and put it past you.  Why must
the old make everything more complicated than it is?"
        The duke stared at his son for a few seconds, his expression a
complete blank; then, to Emmy's shock, he gave just the faintest hint
of a -smile- before collecting himself and rising from his chair with
an immense air of wounded-but-unbowed dignity, shooting Or'lyn'do a
half-heartedly dirty look.
        "(You don't have to be such a -savage- about it,)" he grumbled
stuffily at Or'lyn'do, who just grinned.  Then he turned to Emmy, gave
her a thoughtful gaze for a moment, and said,
        "M'yl'ya... your brother, for all that he lacks any sort of
social grace, is... correct."  He paused again, then said without
further buildup, "I am an ass."
        "!" said Emmy.
        Now that he'd said it, K'yr'wan seemed to warm to the subject
a bit.  "Asininity is a common failing among men of my generation, I'm
afraid, and as we get older it becomes more and more difficult to
shake off.  I said some heartlessly foolish things to you when we
parted, and... and I'm sorry for them.  They were not spoken in truth
or fairness.  Whatever our disagreements, you are my daughter and
I... I'm proud of what you've achieved.  What you've... become."
        Emmy could do little but stare at him for a few moments, since
what he'd just said was so unexpected.  There was an awkward pause in
which the duke seemed to be expecting her to say something, while she,
for her part, was dumbstruck and unable to provide.
        At length, Or'lyn'do leaned to his father and murmured,
"(... -and-?)"
        Duke K'yr'wan scowled.  "(And -what-?  I - ah.  Of course.)"
Smiling, he held out his hands to his daughter and said, "Welcome
home, M'yl'ya."
        Slowly, she took his outstretched hands, then let him draw her
into an embrace - a rare enough happening -before- she'd defied him
and left her homeworld to tread a path he'd declared disgraceful.
        "I hope," he said quietly, "you can forgive an old fool for
the sharpness of his tongue."
         "Of course I can," she replied, feeling her eyes flood with
tears.  She was glad Master Yoda couldn't see her; it was really a bit
of an unseemly display.
        "Well!  There's my wrong righted for the day.  I'm off to
bed," Or'lyn'do said cheerily.  "Good to have you home, Emmy.  Come
riding with me tomorrow?  I'll fill you in on all that's gone on
around here since you left.  That should take about 30 seconds... "
        Emmy laughed, releasing her father and wiping her eyes with a
sleeve.  "I'll do that, Orlyn.  Thank you."
        Or'lyn'do sketched a courtly bow, grinned, and left the room.
        "Well," said the duke after a few moments.  "I'm all in
myself.  Come, I'll show you to your room."
        In light of the startling reversal he'd just shown, Emmy
couldn't resist needling her father a little.  "I half-expected you to
have bricked it up," she said with an impish half-smile.
        K'yr'wan chuckled.  "Your mother wouldn't have it," he
mock-grumped.

	True to her word, Zaerdra appeared at Leonard's door the next
morning, ready to give him a tour of the academy wing.  He found it an
impressive facility, doubly so for the number of students in
evidence.  There had to be at least three dozen of them, ranging in
age from small children to early adolescents.  Most were human or
humanoid, with a sprinkling of more exotic species here and there.
That so many had been found in such a short time boded well for the
Order's future.
	The learners studied some subjects together, while others were
broken up by age group.  Zaerdra showed him a room in which Yoda was
instructing a half-dozen small children - the humans were about five,
Len figured - in basic lightsaber techniques.
	"Awfully young, aren't they?" Len mused quietly.
	"In the old days, the Jedi used to seek out their recruits at
birth, or shortly after," Zaerdra told him.  "They thought that only
those who could remember no life but that of a Jedi could succeed.
Those who were taken later in life had to sever all ties to their
families and former lives."
	Leonard frowned.  "Like the Psi Corps," he said.
	Zaerdra nodded.  "The philosophy was similar," she agreed.
"Some of the more traditional Jedi Masters still follow that method
with their personal Padawan learners, but at the Temple we only accept
underage aspirants whose parents understand what's expected of them,
and they can leave at any time."
	"Do they?"
	"Rarely.  We don't force them to sever their family ties.
They can go home for holidays and whatnot - as I said, it's a sort of
collegial model."
	Len gave a crooked smile.  "Jedi boarding school."
	Zaerdra laughed.  "In a manner of speaking."
	"Doesn't that make it harder to teach them detachment?"
	Zaerdra nodded again.  "Yes, but we feel the benefits outweigh
the costs... and detachment itself isn't given the emphasis it once
was.  And there again, this method is still relatively new; we only
implemented it in 2410.  The first group we inducted were humanoids,
all about 12 - we started with the most difficult age to see if it
could be done at all."
	Len raised his eyebrows.  "And?"
	Zaerdra grinned and led him to another classroom.  "See for
yourself," he said.
	In the next room - a big, circular chamber without much in the
way of embellishment - the diminutive form of Master Vert was holding
court with about a dozen teenage humanoids in grey students' robes.
	"The Sith," he was saying as Zaerdra and Leonard slipped
unnoticed into an observation alcove, "are the most dangerous
Force-using foes you will face, and you must always be wary of them -
both in and out of battle."
	"Bah," said a blond-haired, sharp-featured student.  "I've
already defeated a Dark Jedi."
	Vert smiled slightly.  "A Dark Jedi is not necessarily a
Sith," he said.  "But since you are an expert in defeating the Dark
Side, perhaps you will demonstrate to me your prowess."
	The student looked puzzled.  "I don't understand," he said.
	When the Irken Master spoke again, his voice was like a
whipcrack.  A frightful intensity built in his glossy eyes and he
seemed to expand slightly as he snapped,
	"I am a Sith Lord.  You are all that stands between the galaxy
and my evil plans.  Come and defeat me!"
	The boy blinked.  "Wha - "
	"Don't just STAND THERE, boy!" Vert roared, his jagged teeth
glinting in the overhead lights as he bared them in a snarl.  "The
fate of BILLIONS is in your hands!  COME!  FACE ME!  -DESTROY- ME!"
	His furious exhortations had their desired effect.  The
student seemed to make up his mind, then drew his lightsaber, thumbed
its scarlet blade to life, and charged at the little green figure with
a bellicose roar.
	Vert raised a hand.  Lightning arced across the space between
himself and the charging student.  The young man, his face going blank
with shock, tried to interpose his lightsaber, but the stream of
lightning passed around the blade and struck him full-on, sending him
hurtling across the room.  He crashed into the far wall and slid down
into a boneless heap, his robes smoldering gently.  His lightsaber,
dropped when the blast struck him, deactivated automatically and
rolled across the floor to bump gently against Vert's foot.
	The Irken lowered his smoking hand, then turned back to the
rest of the class, his perfect Jedi Master's impassivity back in place
as though someone had thrown a switch.
	"And that, students, is why you must never mount a frontal
assault upon a Lord of the Sith," he said in a pleasant tone.  At a
moan from his erstwhile attacker, he went on calmly, "Mr. Stavak, you
will please conduct Mr. Malfoy to the Infirmary."
	A Vulcan student, probably selected for his strength, went to
his fallen classmate, hoisted him effortlessly into a fireman's carry,
bowed slightly to Vert, and left the room.  Zaerdra and Leonard
slipped out after him, but she led Len in the opposite direction.
	"That was a bit harsh," Len observed matter-of-factly.
	Zaerdra chuckled.  "It looked worse than it was," she said.
"Vert would never seriously harm a student, and Draco had earned a bit
of practical demonstration.  He very generally does," she added
ruefully.  "I don't know but that Vert will have to take him as a
Padawan personally if we're to have any hope of straightening him out.
The Force is with him, but his is a constant flirtation with the Dark
Side."
	"Vert seemed to step over the line a little himself," Len
noted.
	She nodded.  "Vert has the unique ability to turn his natural
Irken intensity on and off pretty much at will.  He -has- experimented
with the Dark Side, which has tainted him permanently in the eyes of
some of his fellows - but which makes him perfectly suited to teach
the students to defend themselves against it."  She laughed.  "That
little incident aside, it's a very popular class.  The younger
students can't wait until they're old enough to attend.  Its official
name is 'Advanced Topics in Force Duality', but the youngsters all
call it 'Defense Against the Dark Arts'."
	Len snorted in amusement.  Zaerdra gave another merry laugh
and said, "Yes, our first group has a bit of a romantic temperament.
I expect their example will set the tone for this place for quite some
time to come."  She brightened at the sight of a couple of figures
approaching the other way in the corridor.  "And speaking of romantic
temperaments, here's Master Poirot."
	The shorter of the two figures was a stout little man in Jedi
robes with an egg-shaped, balding head and stiffly waxed black
mustache - Master Poirot, no doubt, since the other man, tall,
sandy-haired and honest-looking, was dressed in an ordinary suit of
slightly military cut and carried himself like a soldier.
	"... really don't see why you'd choose -her- to be your new
Padawan, Poirot," the miliary man was saying in a very English voice.
"She's... well, she's a bit of a bore, isn't she?"
	Poirot tutted, shaking his head.  "You think so?  Ah, mais
non, mon ami.  Miss Granger, she has -method-, Hastings.  The
orderliness of her mind, it is quite extraordinary.  None of her
classmates can approach her in that."
	"I can't see why they'd -want- to," Hastings grumped
good-naturedly, then dropped the subject as they drew even with
Zaerdra and Leonard.
	"Ah, Master Kinshasa, so good to see you," said Poirot with a
deep bow.  "You are well, I trust?"
	"Quite well, thank you, Master Poirot," Zaerdra replied.  Her
fondness for the funny little Jedi was plain in her voice and the
sparkle in her eye as she returned his bow, then said, "May I
introduce Leonard Hutchins."
	"Ah, indeed, indeed," said Poirot, his own eyes twinkling.
"I, Hercule Poirot, am very pleased to make your acquaintance," he
added with a bow to Len.  "Your reputation precedes you.  Your defense
of Naboo, it was well-done."
	Len blushed a little.  "It was Queen Amidala's defense," he
said.  "To tell the truth, I did little but nearly perish."
	Poirot made an airy gesture.  "The Queen is a remarkable young
woman as well," he said, "and I fancy your destiny and hers have not
diverged quite yet, eh?  But I am being unforgivably rude," he added,
abandoning the topic.  "M. Hutchins, this is my associate, Captain
Arthur Hastings."
	Hastings stuck out a hand and gave Len's a firm shake.
"Delighted," he said, and seemed to mean it, with the sincere
heartiness peculiar to the British soldier.  "I met your father once,"
he went on, "at the Battle of Debney Ridge."
	Len smiled.  Everyone, it seemed, had met his father
somewhere, but once again he had the impression that Hastings was
quite sincere about it.  He struck the young Jedi as a solid,
incorruptible sort of man - not, perhaps, the sharpest bayonet in the
company, but a good, reliable soldier.
	"You are staying with us long, M. Hutchins?" Poirot asked.
	"No, sir," Len replied.  "As soon as the Council has finished
debriefing me, I go on to Babylon and New Avalon, and then back to
Naboo.  I plan to make my home there."
	"Ah!" Poirot said, looking triumphant and amused.  "You see,
my little idea about your destiny was correct.  My little ideas, they
usually are."
	Len chuckled.  "I don't doubt it," he said.
	"But we have held you up long enough," Poirot said.  "Please
feel free to call upon Poirot at any time before you leave us.  My
chambers are here in the temple.  Que la Force soit avec vous," he
added with a grave bow.
	"May the Force be with you, Master Poirot," said Len,
returning the bow.  The two pairs resumed their courses, and when
Poirot and Hastings were out of sight around a corner, Len observed to
Zaerdra, "What a remarkable fellow."
	Zaerdra grinned.  "He's an awful old pompous dear," she said
fondly.  "Under all those old-fashioned manners, though, is one of the
Order's most brilliant minds."
	"I liked his friend, too," Len said.
	"Oh, Arthur's a love," Zaerdra agreed.  "Terribly
old-fashioned, of course, just like Poirot - one of the reasons they
get on so well.  He was invalided out of Earthforce after the Kilrathi
War in '95.  One of his legs is fake, but you'd hardly know it."

	"... so you see, my time on the high seas was hardly
ill-spent," Or'lyn'do Kyn'o'bi explained to his sister as they rested
their mounts on a ridgeline overlooking their clan's ancestral
woodlands.  "If for no -other- reason than the treasure I accrued made
me considerably less nervous about being cut out of Father's will for
my insolence."
	Emmy laughed, shaking her head in disbelief.  "I have to
confess I'm amazed, Orlyn.  I would never have envisioned you doing
any such thing."
	"Nor would I, until I did it," Orlyn admitted.  "After you
left, it just seemed like the thing to do."
	Emmy put her hands on her hips and gave him an incredulous
look.  "Or'lyn'do.  Are you saying -I'm- your -role model-?"
	Orlyn laughed again, a head-back, full-body laugh.  "I suppose
I am," he said.  "Seriously, though.  After you went head-to-head with
Father that way, then walked off into the unknown to chase a dream...
well, I had to take a long look at what I was doing with my life, and
admit that it basically amounted to nothing.  Sitting around at boring
parties, paying court to deeply tedious heiresses, waiting for the old
man to die - what kind of life is that?  Especially since he probably
has another 500 years in him?  No, much better to take some kind of
action.  I admit even then I didn't really expect to end up a sea
captain.  I thought I'd just work passage to someplace more
interesting on a ship, not end up taking it over."
	"Not only a sea captain, but a -pirate- captain," Emmy pointed
out impishly.
	"Privateer, -if- you please," Orlyn replied mock-stuffily.  "I
can show you my letter of marque from the queen if you like.  When I
handed the ship over to Black Jack, he got his own.  Just in case I
want to go back into the business some day.  And speaking of the
queen, you must stop by and see her before you leave, you know.
She'll want to congratulate you."
	Emmy's cheeks colored a little.  "Oh, I don't think that's
necessary, do you?  She must be very busy."
	Orlyn gave his sister an indulgent eyeroll.  "Emmy.  You're a
-Jedi Knight-.  Rulers make time for that.  Besides, she and Uncle
J'er'nyth are good friends; I'm sure he's told her all about you, so
she'll want to meet you anyway."
	"Do you know where Uncle J'er'nyth is?" Emmy asked.  "I hoped
I'd be able to track him down while I'm here."
	"Off-planet, I'm afraid.  On a mission for the queen.  Another
reason why you might want to go see her," Orlyn added with a nod.
"She might be able to tell you more about it... Emmy?"
	Emmy had apparently stopped listening to him some little time
before; now she sat staring off into the distance, her face pensive.
It took Orlyn calling her name again to jar her out of her reverie.
	"Oh... I'm sorry, Orlyn," she said.  "I just... felt strange
for a moment."
	"Something to do with your Force?"
	Emmy nodded.  "That building down in the valley there... you
can barely see it, the trees have grown up all around it... it was the
Jedi Temple, back when the Order was large and powerful enough to have
one in almost every civilized system.  Uncle took me there once, when
I was a little girl.  I feel a presence there, but... "  She shook her
head.  "Nothing to be concerned about.  It just took me off-guard.
Did you say Queen Ts'riinah might know where Uncle is?"
	"Yes, I did," Or'lyn'do said.  "She sent him on a mission -
some kind of expedition, I gather.  She'd probably be willing to tell
you more than she'd tell Duke K'yr'wan's ne'er-do-well son," he added
with a smirk.  "We should get back to town, in any event."  He
chuckled as he turned his mount.  "Perhaps dinner will be a less
strained affair this evening."
	Emmy laughed.  "Perhaps," she said.  She turned around as
well, but before starting off after him, she took one long glance back
at the temple's nearly-hidden roof, far off in the valley below.
	What in the universe was Darth Vader doing -there-?

	Whatever it was, he was finished with it by week's end.  After
an audience with the queen and a couple of days spent tramping around
the capital district visiting her various relatives, Emmy said her
goodbyes and returned to the spaceport.  She found Vader aboard his
ship, preparing it for launch.  It struck her as mildly odd, and maybe
just a little unsettling, that he had apparently known exactly when
she'd be ready to leave, then chided herself mentally and put it down
to coincidence.
	"Ready to go?" she asked as the lift delivered her to the
control room.
	"Nearly," Vader replied.  He regarded her for a moment from
behind his black mask, then asked, "Peace is restored to your father's
house?"
	"It is," Emmy replied, wondering why he cared.
	Vader gave an economical nod.  He had an air of satisfaction
as he returned his attention to the controls, but said no more until a
few moments later.
	"We will need to make a slight detour on our way back to
Naboo," he said as Emmy strapped herself into the copilot's seat.  "I
have... unfinished business in the Genda sector."
	Emmy gave him a curious look, but nodded.  "All right," she
said.

		      SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 2412
			NEW AVALON, ZETA CYGNI

	The Chief of the International Police, the man almost
universally known as Gryphon, sat in silent seiza in the middle of a 
decorative garden, his hands on his thighs, eyes closed.  A faint
breeze blew, ruffling his hair and the sleeves of his kenjutsu gi.
Apart from that, he was as still as stone.
	Suddenly one of his eyes opened to a slit, the pupil angling
outward, as a presence touched the edge of his zanshin.  Nothing else
betrayed that he had noticed anything.  His breathing didn't change,
his body didn't move...
	... until suddenly he flashed into motion, springing up from
his kneeling position, a katana appearing in his hands.  There came
the cracking hiss of a lightsaber igniting, his assailant's white
blade flashing to life.  Backstepping smoothly, Gryphon pivoted and
brought his sword up to meet it.
	The two weapons crashed together with a spray of white and
scarlet sparks, and their wielders regarded each other for a moment
through the sputtering glare of their intersection.
	Then Gryphon grinned, batted Leonard's blade away, and shaped
a counterstrike.  Father and son fenced back and forth, up and down
the gravel path in the middle of the garden for a minute or two,
taking each other's measure; then they parted, their weapons snarling
in air as they were swept through salutes before being put away.
	Gryphon grinned, strode to his son, and took him in a
backslapping embrace.
	"You haven't lost a step," he said.  "Last time I saw you, you
didn't look so good."
	Len laughed.  "That was before a month of the Naboo royal
chef's cooking," he said.  "Besides," he added archly, "I have good
genes."
	"Ha!  Speaking of food, are you hungry?  Come on in, I'll make
us a sandwich," Gryphon said, leading the way across the garden to the
back door of his house.  "I'm the only one here at the moment; Kara's
off terrorizing the city's criminal element with her friends.  Or
maybe she just went to the movies with Lex.  I can't remember.  It's a
terrible thing, getting old."
	"Who's Kara?" Len wondered.  "New girlfriend?"
	Gryphon snorted as they entered the kitchen.  "Hardly," he
said.  "You remember the Krypton evacuation?  I've told you about it,
it was one of my first big operations in the WDF."
	Len nodded, taking a seat at the bar counter in the middle of
the room.  "Early 2000s, I think?"
	"2005.  The Kryptonian scientists I worked closely with on the
planning for that operation were brothers, Jor-El and his older brother
Zor."
	Another nod.  "Right, I remember.  Zor-El was caught planetside
when Krypton's core imploded."
	"Kara's his daughter."  While he rummaged in the refrigerator,
Gryphon went on, "We thought she'd been left behind too, but it turns
out Zor-El was able to send her to safety - here, in fact.  There was
a problem with the drive in her escape capsule - she only arrived a
couple of years ago.  She didn't have anybody else, so I took her in."
	Len smiled.  "Serendipity.  -Are- you seeing anyone, though?"
	"As a matter of fact," said Gryphon, but instead of going on,
he gave his son a puzzled look and said, "That's an odd thing to be
curious about, first thing back from spending years on the Rim."
	"Well," said Leonard; he seemed to be searching for words,
then went on, "You ought to know that Mom's alive."
	Gryphon whirled, nearly sending the contents of the fridge-door
shelves flying with one arm.
	"What?!" he blurted.
	"I said Mom's alive," Len repeated.
	Gryphon stepped to the counter, leaned across, and took his
son's shoulders in his hands - not angrily, but as though confirming
that the younger man was really there.
	"How do you know that?" he asked.
	"On Naboo, I... made contact with her through the Force," Len
said.  "It's kind of hard to explain, but... when Corwin told me that
she was missing, I reached out into the Force to try and find her.  I
couldn't accept that I could have missed something like her passing.
I kept pushing, pushing, expanding the boundaries of my consciousness,
and eventually my mind touched hers.  It wasn't for very long -
wherever she is, it's almost unbelievably far away - but long enough."
	"You're sure it was her?"
	"Absolutely sure," Len replied.  "The contact was faint, but
we were able to exchange thoughts for a few seconds, until I couldn't
bear the strain any more and had to break it off.  She said to tell
you... "  The young Jedi paused, closing his eyes, to search his
memory.
	When he opened them again, Gryphon had the sudden and
unnerving sensation that his gaze was almost someone else's, and the
inflections of his voice were not quite his own as he recited,
	"'They can't break me, and they can't hold me forever.  I'll
be back someday.  This enemy is unlike anything we've ever faced.
Tell your father.  Tell them all.  Tell your father and the others I
love them.  I'll be back.'"
	Then he blinked, coming fully back to himself, and said, "That
was about all I could get.  She didn't know where she was or who had
her - just that whoever they were, they're powerful and hostile, and
unknown to us in this galaxy."
	Gryphon, sunk in stunned contemplation as he was, didn't miss
that.  Raising an eyebrow, he said, "'This galaxy'?"
	Len nodded.  "I don't think she's -in- this galaxy," he said.
"Her presence in the Force was... almost -impossibly- remote.  I had
to use all my concentration just to reach her, shutting out everything
else.  Corwin said later that he didn't think I was even breathing
during the time I was actually in touch with her."
	Gryphon took a half-step back, settled his elbows on the
counter, folded his hands together, and put his head down upon them.
For a few long moments, he stood that way, silent and unmoving.
	Then he raised his head, looked past Len with faint surprise,
and said, "Hello, Raven.  How long have you been here?"
	"I just arrived," said a quiet voice in reply, and Len turned
to see a young woman standing in the doorway to the hall.  She was
petite of build and elfin of feature, the kind of girl who could have
been any age from 14 to 24, with violet hair slicked back from a
widow's peak and tucked behind her ears, and she wore somber but
tasteful clothes and a long cloak.  Her large, dark eyes were
intelligent and reserved.  A scarlet gem glinted from the center of
her high forehead.
	"This is my son Leonard," Gryphon said, nodding toward Len.
"Len, meet Raven."
	Len noticed that his father didn't tack on any explanatory
title for her, but let it pass gracefully, rising from his stool to
give her a bow.
	"Pleased to meet you," he said.
	Raven made a small but courtly gesture and said, "Likewise."
She glanced past him at Gryphon, a well-restrained flash of concern
showing in her eyes, and asked, "What's wrong?"
	"Nothing's wrong," Gryphon replied.  "I've just had some
-good- news, actually... it's just... complicated.  Len, would you... "
	"Certainly," Len said, and he repeated what he'd just told his
father about his contact with Kei Morgan.
	"You were able to project your consciousness to another galaxy
through the Force?" Raven asked, a note of something like awe creeping
into her dispassionate tone.
	Len gave a wry chuckle and replied, "Not for very long."
	"Still, that you managed to do it at -all-... "  Raven cracked
a tiny smile.  "I'm impressed," she said.  Turning her attention back
to Gryphon, she said, "I just came by to tell you that I'm on my way
to Tamaran with Kori.  We'll be back... "  (A minute shrug.)  "... when 
we get back.  Unless you... need me to stay, now?"
	Gryphon shook his head.  "You go ahead," he said.  "I'll be
fine.  It'll take me a while just to figure out what to do with this
news."
	Raven nodded slightly.  "You know how to reach me if you
change your mind," she said.  "It was good to finally meet you, Master
Jedi," she added to Len with a touch of wryness in her formality.
"I'm glad to hear the news about your mother."
	"Unusual girl," Len observed to his father after she had gone.
	"Raven is a creature of enormous complexity," Gryphon replied
with a smile.  "I'll try to explain after we eat - it's not the kind
of story to tackle on an empty stomach.  Can you stay long?"
	"Only a couple of days," Len said.  "I want to look up as many
of the old gang as I can track down, but I have to get back to Naboo -
the Jedi Council has given me permission to set up a satellite temple
there, in a building that I think was a Jedi Temple in ancient times,
and I'm anxious to get started."  He gave Gryphon a mischievous little
grin and said, "I suppose you gave away my room."
	Gryphon shook his head.  "It's still right where you left it,"
he said.  He finished preparing the sandwiches, slid one plate across
to Len, then leaned against the counter and ate his standing up.
	"Good to have you back, if only for a little while," he said
at length.  "I'm proud of you."  He grinned.  "The family's first Jedi
Knight."  He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, swallowed, and then
added, "Have you seen your sister yet?"
	"I was hoping you could give me a lead on where she might be,"
Len replied.  "I've been out of touch for a while, you know."
	Gryphon grinned.  "She has a townhouse in Claremont," he
said.  "She's teaching music at NAU."
	Len laughed.  "I suppose I could've predicted that," he said.
"I'll swing over and see her tomorrow."
	"When you do, I suggest you don't repeat the entrance you made
here," Gryphon said.  "There's no telling who might be hanging around
over there, and you wouldn't want to be misunderstood by, say, the
Human Bomb."

			      ELSEWHERE

	Emmy followed Vader down a dark and sinister tunnel and
wondered why she kept doing this kind of thing.  She didn't even know
what planet they were on.
	It's all right, she told herself.  He's just testing me.  I'm
a Jedi Knight.  I can handle being in a creepy tunnel.  With Darth
Vader.
	Sure.
	She considered asking him where they were, where they were
going, but decided against it.  If he wanted her to know, he'd have
told her.  The fact that he hadn't meant he was waiting for something,
and he had a much finer sense for that kind of thing than she had.  At
any rate, there was no way she could -make- him tell her... so she
would just have to trust him.
	Trust... Darth Vader.
	An interesting sensation, to say the least.
	They came to the end of the tunnel.  Vader's handlamp beam
shone on a massive circular door, perhaps fifty feet in diameter.  It
had once been as grand in decoration as it was in scale - Emmy could
see the remains of elaborate bas-reliefs and precious metal inlays -
but centuries of neglect had left it as dull and characterless as the
vaguely chitinous walls of the tunnel itself.
	Then, and only then, did the Sith Lord turn to face her.
	"Three thousand years ago," Vader said, his voice echoing in
the empty tunnel, "this world was known as Santovask.  It was the
capital and seat of the Santovasku Empire, one of the two great powers
of what modern historians call the Second Epoch."
	Emmy's eyes went wide.  "Santovask!" she breathed.  The
Santovasku Empire was known to her people; Hyeruul's culture was one
of the few that had survived unbroken since millennia -before- the
Second Epoch, and legends still told of the cruelty and sinister
powers of the Santovasku rulers.  More than once, her homeworld's
defenders had been called upon to repulse their forces.
	Even if she hadn't been Hyelian, Emmy would have heard of the
Santovasku, because she was a Jedi - and it was well-known that Darth
Vader had been at the head of an army assembled by the Santovasku
Emperor when he destroyed Atlantis and nearly wiped out the Jedi
Order.
	Emmy was still turning over all that in her mind as Vader put
a hand to the door and bent his head in concentration.  Only when the
door creaked, then burst open with a great jarring BANG, did she come
back from her reverie and pay attention to her surroundings again.
	The room Vader led her into was vast and echoing, illuminated
only by a few dim glowstrips on a far-distant ceiling.  The shadows
lay thick within, obscuring the chamber's full dimensions and hiding
most of its features from view.  Emmy put aside her thoughts and gave
her full attention to her feelings, searching beyond the limits of her
senses for some sense of where they were.  Upon doing so, she became
aware of a darkness and coldness that had nothing to do with the
actual light or temperature.  This was a place where evil things had
happened... many of them... over a very long span of time.
	Vader strode without hesitation deeper into the darkness,
moving purposefully until he found the spot he wanted; then he
stopped, turned, and waited.  The shadows had swallowed him whole;
Emmy could see only the winking red lights of his chest panel.  The
harsh hiss of his breathing seemed to come from everywhere in the dank
and echoing room.
	She went to join him.  After a few moments' silence, he spoke,
his voice rebounding from the unseen walls so that it, too, seemed to
be coming from everywhere.
	"I sense your curiosity," he said gravely.  "You wonder where
we are.  Why we have come."
	She nodded, remaining silent.  In answer to her unasked
questions, Vader asked one of his own:
	"Have you ever heard of a ritual called Kamor Bakhva?"
	Emmy blinked.
	"No," she said.
	Vader nodded.  "Unsurprising," he said.  "It was considered a
dead art even when I was young.  It is a technique by which a person
who has become one with the Force may be recalled to corporeal life."
	"That's impossible," Emmy said.  "Not even the greatest Jedi
Masters can accomplish such a feat."
	Vader regarded her with his unchanging mask for a moment, then
replied, "I know.  The technique was lost because it relies on the
cooperation of two, one with command of the Dark Side, the other the
Light.  A Jedi may provide a beacon to guide the spirit back from
beyond the veil... but only the rage of a Sith can pierce that veil."
	"... Oh."  Emmy thought that over, then stared at him as her
face took on a look of astonishment.  "Wait a second, are you saying
you intend - "
	"I intend to address a miscalculation," Vader cut her off.
"One that threatens all my plans.  I need your help to do it."
	Emmy continued staring at him for a second, then turned away
with a thoughtful shake of her head.
	"I have a bad feeling about this," she murmured.

	How long the preparations took, Emmy didn't know.  Her part in
the effort was intricate enough that learning it from Vader took all
of her concentration.  Leonard was really better at this sort of thing
than she was; her talents lay more in the moment than the cosmic.
Still, she was all Vader had, and he seemed content, which was a
peculiar sort of thing to be feeling from a Sith Lord.  She wondered
who they were to be calling back, but somehow it didn't seem right to
ask.  Either she trusted him or she didn't... 
	... and, to her own private astonishment, she found that she
did.
	They began.  Vader stood in the center of the room, feet
planted firmly apart, his cloak thrown back over his armored
shoulders, open palms upraised.  Emmy knelt a few feet in front of
him, bent into an attitude of prayer.  The process itself was simple
enough: He would focus his wrath, the source of his Sith power, and
here, in Quevas XIII's throne room, where the fabric of the Force was
dark and rotten, he would tear a hole... 
	She swallowed, pushed down a surge of trepidation, and
recentered herself.
	Tear a hole, through which a departed spirit would come, drawn
by her light.
	What happened after that, she wasn't entirely clear on.
	It was, however, a bit late to wonder about that now.
	For a few moments, nothing happened.  Emmy began to suspect
that it wasn't working.  Perhaps Vader couldn't rouse himself to
sufficient heights of anger with nothing to get him going.  Was a
Sith Lord's rage something that could be switched on and off at will?
She had never heard of such a thing - but then, she had never heard of
a Sith Lord like Darth Vader, either.
	Then Vader's hands closed into fists, so tight she could hear
the synthetic leather of his gauntlets creaking, and she felt the
Force... -bend-.
	"Be ready," he growled, as if speaking through his teeth.  His
fists were vibrating with effort now.  His mechanical breathing
accelerated automatically as the strain he was placing on his ruined
body mounted.  The sensation of some invisible thing in the center of
the room being twisted ever tighter grew, making Emmy's head throb.
She shoved it all out of her mind and gathered herself.
	Then there was a sharp ethereal CRACK...
	... and all Ghan'uul broke loose.
	With a howling shriek like a Tatooine sandstorm, -something-
burst forth in the center of the room - but whatever it was, it wasn't
the benign, questing spirit Emmy had been expecting to welcome.
Instead, the whole chamber seemed to be full of a crazed fury that
made Vader's focused anger pale by comparison.  Swirling wind laced
with razor-cold mist lashed at Emmy's robes and set Vader's cape to
snapping like a flag in a gale.  The room shook, causing ancient
masonry to crumble and collapse - and then a spray of scarlet
lightning exploded from the swirling mists and struck Vader full-on.
	"AAARH!" the Sith Lord roared as the blast catapulted him
backward.  He crashed heavily to the stone floor on his back, slid a
few feet through the dust, and lay quite still.
	"Lord Vader!" Emmy cried, springing to her feet and whirling.
She couldn't hear his breathing, but then, she couldn't hear much of
anything over the shrieking wind.
	The swirling mist seemed to spiral in on itself, collecting
into a mass in the center of the room, and then took on a sort of
half-realized form - the upper body, arms, and head of a humanoid
figure, its lower half vanishing into tatter-edged shadow.  It had
fingers tipped with long, pointed nails, a wild and mangy-looking
tangle of black hair, a gaunt and sallow face with eyes that burned
like scarlet fire pits, and a pair of close-curved horns on its head.
	Though Emmy had never seen its like before, she knew
instinctively what it must be: all that remained of Quevas XIII, the
last Emperor of Santovasku.
	The spectre stared wild-eyed at Vader's fallen form for a
moment, then seemed to notice that there was another being in the
room.  Its hate-filled eyes locked on Emmy's, looking right through
her, and then it wheeled and swooped toward her, keening.
	Guided by sheer instinct, just as Master Gajic had taught her,
she rolled to the side, avoiding its slashing dive.  She wasn't sure
whether its immaterial-looking claws could actually harm her, but she
wasn't anxious to find out.  At the end of her roll, she tumbled to
her feet, her ancestor's lightsaber springing to life in her hand.
This, too, was an automatic movement; she had no idea whether the
blade would have any effect on the foe she faced, but she felt more
balanced, more comfortable, with the weapon in her hand.
	Quevas came back for another pass; she sidestepped and struck
at its outstretched hand.  The blade swept through as if cutting
smoke, but the spectre recoiled with a shriek that sounded like pain.
	Well, at least I can hurt it, she thought.
	The Santovasku emperor's shade seemed to be considering this
development itself for a moment.  Then it howled and seemed to become
slightly less distinct.  The tortured fabric of the Force in the room
rippled nauseatingly.
	Emmy held up a hand, willing all the calm she could muster
into her mind and voice.
	"Wait," she said evenly.  "I don't mean you any harm.  There's
no need for - "
	Slashing ribbons of the same cold mist that had filled the room
earlier laced the air all around her, driving her back; then the ghost
gathered itself and charged again.
	Well, so much for diplomacy, Emmy thought wryly as she dove
and rolled.  The spectre passed over her.  One of its claws clipped
her shoulder, sending icy numbness streaking painfully down her arm.
She nearly lost her grip on her lightsaber.  It was difficult to find
her center under these conditions.  Being attacked by the monstrous,
completely insane spirit of a long-dead dictator was unnerving enough,
but the thing's effect on the local Force made it almost impossible
for her to find the peace within.  It was as though reality itself
were poisoned by the thing's presence.
	Enough, M'yl'ya, she told herself sternly.  She whirled
O'bi-Wann's lightsaber into her good hand, flexing the numbed one to
bring feeling back into it, and squared herself as the howling spirit
came around for another pass.
	Let go of your horror.  Let go of your revulsion.  The Force
is here; this thing may distort it, but it is here.  It must be.  It
is everywhere, infinite, eternal.
	There is no death; there is the Force.
	Quevas dove, shrieking, its talons searching for her heart.
	Smoothly, effortlessly, she leaped forward, rolled, came up
to one knee, and cut it in half.
	The spectre's howling peaked in an ululating crescendo as its
visible manifestion explosively dissipated.  For a moment, Emmy
thought she had destroyed it - 
	- until that same scarlet lightning lashed out of nowhere,
nearly taking her head off.  She got her lightsaber into its path just
in time, catching it, turning it away, as Master Yoda had taught her
during one of his infrequent visits to her teacher's home on Bonadan -
but there was so -much- of it - so much more than any mortal Darksider
could hope to throw out - it was as though she were being attacked by
the living essence of the Dark Side itself.  The shade of Quevas
manifested again, right in front of her, trying to reach and seize her
past the bar of her lightsaber, the lightning pouring from its
fingers.  Red fire raced up her arms, drove her to her knees, as she
struggled to stay conscious, to push back against it.
	Without thinking, without looking, she removed her left hand
from her lightsaber's grip and held it out, open, to the side.  The
Force, even in its ravaged condition, felt her call and obliged.
Darth Vader's lightsaber snapped from its holding ring on his belt,
spun across the room, and slapped into her hand, its blood-red blade
snarling to life.  She swung it into position, crossed over the pure
blue-white of O'bi-Wann's ancient saber, and pushed back with all her
might.
	It wasn't going to be enough.  She could feel her slender arms
on the brink of giving way.  Lightning crackled all around the
bicolored X of her saber blades, licking agonizingly at her hands,
snapping around to lash her face.  Calm was very hard to come by
indeed in a situation like this, but she plunged into herself,
stilling her breathing, slowing her heart.  This hideous thing was of
the Dark Side, the lingering essence of a man so twisted by hate that
not even oblivion would embrace him.  She could not prevail by
struggling against it.
	As she sank into the peace within, the pain of her physical
body slipped away.  She became an island of light and calm in the
center of a red-edged black tumult, her own serenity smoothing away
the distortion Quevas caused in the Force.
	In that moment, -another- consciousness touched hers - one so
unexpected it took her breath away.
	Emmy's eyes flew wide open in surprise.
	Quevas poured past her defenses like fog and overwhelmed her.
Paralyzed, unable to breathe, she arched up and back, lightsabers
falling from her hands.  She tried to gather the Force to her and
throw the monster back, but she was enveloped in darkness, the howling
madness of Quevas XIII -inside her mind-, and there was nothing -
	"BACK!" a voice boomed, so deep and loud it even drowned out
the shrieking of the Santovasku emperor's hatred.  Emmy felt herself
falling - it was like falling through an icy waterfall, through a
curtain of flowing-hot tar - and then she was sprawled on her back,
coughing wretchedly, her lungs sucking the foul air, her head pounding.
	Darth Vader was on his feet, towering over her, his gauntleted
hands locked with the spectral claws of Quevas XIII.
	"This one is not for you, my 'master'!" Vader roared.  He
forced the spectre back, wrath rolling from him in palpable waves.  It
only seemed to increase Quevas's madness; the spirit shrieked louder
and doubled its attack, deluging the Sith Lord with scarlet fire.
	Vader never wavered.  With his ancient master's wrath tearing
at him, he gathered his strength, used the pain to fuel his fury, and
counterstruck.
	But not with lightning; Vader never had been able to perform
that most distinctive and expected of Sith techniques.  His bionic
limbs, replacements for appendages destroyed in a confrontation with
his Jedi teacher, precluded such direct channelings of the Force.
	Instead, Vader's counterattack took a much subtler form.
Indeed, at first it seemed to have no effect whatsoever - and then,
suddenly, the spectre faltered, seeming to become aware that all was
not right.  Quevas recoiled, trying to pull free of Vader's grip, but
the Sith Lord somehow held fast.  The ghostly shrieks of Quevas took
on a note of fear, of outright -panic-, as the spirit became ever more
indistinct... 
	... and then its coherence broke down entirely, and all that
remained was sucked away like smoke through the vents of Vader's
faceplate.
	Quevas's final wail caromed around the throne room and receded
away to silence.
	Slowly, as though underwater, Darth Vader fell to his knees.
Emmy, still pulling herself together, realized that the silence of the
room was complete.
	Great Triforce, she thought, it's killed him.
	Slowly, hesitantly, she approached the Dark Lord's immobile
form.  As she drew near, she reached out a tentative hand.
	Just before she would have touched his pauldron, there was a
click, then a hiss, and then the familiar hollow rasp of a mechanical
exhalation.  She drew her hand back quickly.
	"Lord Vader?" she said quietly.  "Are you all right?"
	For a moment, Vader didn't respond.
	Then, with an air of great weariness, he rose to his feet and
replied, "I... live."
	"As do I, apparently," another voice said, and Emmy jumped.
	Out of the shadows came a man - a Hyelian man, Emmy was
further startled to note - in Jedi robes.  He was youngish - no more
than 200 years old - with brown hair, a tawny beard, and laughing
eyes.  For a second she was completely mystified, until suddenly it
hit her that she knew him well.
	She could, perhaps, be excused for not recognizing him
immediately, since the last time she saw him, he had been both elderly
and spectral.
	With a twinkling grin, O'bi-Wann Kyn'o'bi offered Darth
Vader's lightsaber to its owner and said in a chiding voice,
	"How many times do I have to -tell- you, Anakyn - this weapon
is your -life-."

			   TO BE CONTINUED