Out of the Wreckage

Fear was the only thing Varman Hale could remember when he awoke in the smoking ruin of a Jedi transport. Fear is not the Jedi way, he thought as he recalled the words of his offworld master, but still fear suffused Varman as he came to, sinking deep into his bones and clouding his connection to the light side of the Force. The crash only came to him in fleeting memories: the shimmering pieces of an unfinished dejarik game, the cold ground against his stinging hand as Varman broke a sudden fall, and then—deep in the Force—a vision of great cairns bursting asunder as the earth shook, their stones spilling out never to be remade again.

Now the Jedi Knight sat in darkness, too fearful to feel for others in the Force and trapped under a safety belt that would not come loose no matter how much he struggled against it. He reached for the tool that had rarely failed him when he could not rely on his hands or the Force around him—and in an instant the blue blade of his lightsaber flashed bright before him, thrumming with power as it came to life. In a single stroke he destroyed the safety belt and then staggered to his feet. As he raised his lightsaber high and looked behind him, Varman gazed upon the wreckage of the belt and the chair he had been in, the newly-exposed faces still glowing orange where his blade had bisected the assemblage of support and cushion and restraint. He stared dumbly at the moment of swift carnage until he could look no more on that destruction he had wrought, turning as he noticed a Jedi Master revealed by the glow of his lightsaber: Master Nikdoris.

He had been playing dejarik with Master Nikdoris, Varman recalled, when the ship rocked in hyperspace and something terrible—though he did not know yet what—made the ship hurtle first into realspace and then to whatever far planet they had landed on. Now Nikdoris, the dejarik grandmaster, was pinned beneath the chrome hologame table, its pedestal leg pinning him to his chair and its massive projector face stained with blood where it had mangled his leg. The hologame table itself had been a luxury insisted upon by Master Nikdoris because the Twi’lek loved to dare young Padawans to defeat him in the game, lulling them into a false sense of victory before revealing the gambit he had planned all along. A part of Varman hoped that the injury was the same sort of trick, that Master Nikdoris was not as injured as he appeared, but he knew this was only wishful thinking.

Unable to pierce the fear that overwhelmed his senses, Varman did not trust in his connection to the Force—so he felt instead for the Twi’lek’s pulse. Injured and unconscious but alive. Thankfully. Not willing to waste the time to still his pounding heart before helping, Varman stowed his lightsaber away and wrapped his arms around the table’s leg, taking a deep breath before heaving it off of the Jedi Master by force. It took all of his strength to pull the table free and cast it to the floor with a heavy clang, careful that neither he nor the unconscious master touched the broken electronics that threw sparks at the table’s foot. As blood continued to gush freely from Nikdoris’ leg and pool on the floor, Varman made a split-second decision to slice off the master’s leg above where the bone had shattered to cauterize the wound and quell the bleeding. The Jedi Master cried out in pain as he awoke only to slip back into unconsciousness once more—thankfully without losing more blood.

Dim red lights flickered in the wreckage of the ship as Varman passed through the broken ship, cutting through debris he could as he searched for others and counted up the living and the dead. He called out as he moved from compartment to compartment, searching for his fellow Jedi, only to find death all too often. They had left Ilum with fourteen including the pilot; after the dead were cremated, there would only be seven left—and that was if they were lucky. Master Nikdoris still hadn’t woken up again and Master Yen was still unconscious after a panel had detached from a central bulkhead and slammed into her skull. In the blue light of his lightsaber, he had recoiled slightly from the two—their faces seemed half-dead already, as though they were ancient masters of the Jedi Order long-since dead and only seen now through holograms. But as he searched, he found too many truly dead. He committed their names to memory, struggling in the fog of his fear: The pilot Sodi, a lighthearted member of the Jedi Service Corps and a friend of many Padawan learners; Master Kaltic, a confidant and sparring partner of Varman’s on Coruscant when the two had both been knights; Master Taspul, a proud champion of the Republic who gave his all across frontier planets to ensure the equity of all its members; their young Padawans Sukti and Guf, whose untimely deaths dredged up the bitter memory of his own late Padawan; and Master Welck, a scholar and spiritual healer whose death now left his former student Quillow masterless. After first gathering together the five Jedi living with what stores of food and other supplies they had and helping them bear out the injured and the dead, he led the way out into the open air.

Outside, the planet’s air was breathable but thick with a pink mist that blanketed the purple canopies of the jungle surrounding them. Their ship had crashed through the trees into a field of flat rocks, their towering white trunks bent and broken beneath their vessel’s keel splayed out now like the phalanges and metacarpals of a disarticulated skeletal hand. It was humid and sweltering beyond the ship, Varman’s robes already drenched with sweat from the effort of gathering the others and now exacerbated by the planet’s sun. It could have been a fine place in a different time, Varman thought to himself, but now it might spell our doom. It was daytime, at least, with a few standard hours left till nightfall by his judgement. The ship could be repaired given the proper equipment—given that he hadn’t sliced through anything important in his way—but that required a repair station on this planet in the first place.

“We’ll leave the dead behind for now,” Varman said, “but we should look for help if there’s any to be found here.”

The Jedi swiftly built coffins for the dead and stretchers for the injured, their blades shining through the mist as they lopped apart the jungle’s trees their ship had felled and lashed them with yellow vines that glowed bright even after they were cut. Many of the trees were white-barked but red on the inside when they were split, filled with a thick jam-like sap—but in the moment Varman could only think of Nikdoris’ blood. The sap burnt like hard candy against the lightsaber blades in a way that disconcerted Varman though he said nothing of it. The sun was going down and the Jedi needed two more important things than assuaging his mind: guidance and shelter.

“Meditate with me,” he bid the others after laying the injured Jedi Masters into their makeshift stretchers. “The Force will show us our way to safety.” He was saying it to himself as much as he was saying it to them.

It felt dutiful to lead and only fair given that Varman had been relatively unscathed by the crash—but in truth, when Varman reached out into the Force he saw precious little save those around them. When he peered into the long valley of the Force, he saw nothing save those few directly around him—he felt nothing from the jungle teeming with life or from any inhabitants there might happen to be. In truth, he spent the most of his time centering himself as the others searched, trying to find calm in the case of danger and trying to hide the feelings of shame which his weakened connection to the Force brought on. At last one of the others spoke up about civilizations eastward with a massive ruin at their heart—and Varman let out a sigh of relief, letting them show the way as he marched onward, the other four carrying the injured masters as Varman cut a path before them. The forest grew dim as they passed into the dark shadow of the jungle’s canopy, until the only light to be had was from the Jedi’s lightsabers and Varman could not tell whether it was night or if the sun had been blotted out by the trees entirely.

Varman hewed through the local vegetation with perfect form as he led on, careful to damage only what was necessary with precise and measured cuts, but still they splattered his clothes, a dark purplish-red against the white of his robes and his old boots. Tired but persistent, he trudged on into the strange jungle filled with a myriad of species: amongst the bleeding trees and yellow vines were plants among the underbrush with strangling tendrils and hungry maws, huge insects with a thousand eyes beating great wings as they moved from tree to tree, and in the underbrush thorny plants. He did not think; all he focused on was the march through the thick vines and heavy brush of the forest, staining his boots and the bottom of his robes with purple splatters as he trudged with the other Jedi deeper into the jungle, helping the others fend off the creatures which they had disturbed and cutting a way forward until at last they found a path into the jungle—civilization at last, he hoped. As they moved onward and darkness gave way to the dim light of filtered sunset. A singular mantra burned into Varman’s mind as he pushed forward: We will repair the ship. We will heal the wounded. We will bury the dead.

Suddenly, a blaster shot blared in the air and two figures stepped out of the pale mists. One was a male Twi’lek wearing a dark blue sarong and a cybernetic implant glowing yellow in his left eye, a gilded lever-action blaster rifle in his hands; the other a Human woman with a girded dress and a similar implant, brandishing a bowcaster of gleaming silver. Both of them were tattooed from head to toe in a series of symbols that Varman only later recognized as Aurebesh, though they did not seem to make any words the Jedi could recognize. They called out in a language Varman could not understand, but their intent was clear enough when they motioned towards the lightsaber in Varman’s hand. Thrusting their fingers at the band’s lightsabers, the woman blew a horn that echoed through the rainforest. Varman immediately dropped his weapon, jerking his head toward the two injured Jedi Masters until at last the indigenous shooters lowered their own weapons.

Urging the Twi’lek to go first, the woman collected the Jedi weapons and walked behind the Jedi as they finally made their way out of the wilderness, crossing vast aquaculture fields and entering a city of over a hundred dwellings of wooden walls and durasteel roofs, many people peering out at the Jedi as they came but retreating as soon as they were noticed. A diverse collection of species were gathered together in the village, many in the same dark blue as those who had captured them but a sizable minority clothed in red and yellow patterns. At this hour, none were working, the majority of the people primarily gathering together over meals or drink or games that looked like Shah-tezh, but the evidence of their work was everywhere, from communal kilns to skinny water nerfs to a steaming parcel of leaves a cook dug up from the ground, strong and fragrant spices filling the air after hours of cooking a snake. All of the local people, from Human to Twi’lek to Selkath were tattooed from head to toe—save the Wookiees and other species whose skin would not take to ink among them, who wore Aurebesh markings upon their clothes instead. Even Sunao with his markings of Mirial stuck out without the markings each member of the indigenous population wore, Varman noted.

At the largest dwelling in the city, the Human shouted to its guards, bidding them to step aside as the Twi’lek ushered in the Jedi with the butt of his blaster rifle. It took a moment for Varman’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, revealing the walls lined with rich hangings and neon designs as well as drying meats and herbs hanging from the roof’s durasteel frame. A dozen of the locals joked and told stories to each other all around the room, falling quiet for a moment as they watched the newcomers before returning their attention to their friends. Around a roaring fire squatted two untattooed women in utilitarian jumpsuits typing into datapads—the first a tall Twi’lek woman with blue skin and bright eyes, the second a female Abednedo with a cheerful if haggard expression. After a short conversation in the same language they had heard earlier, one of the younger locals, a Selkath boy, returned the Jedi’s weapons to them by placing them on the floor and then scurrying back out the hut.

“Well,” the Twi’lek with a datapad said as the Jedi entered the dwelling, “it’s not every day we have the pleasure of meeting Jedi.” She spoke in soft tones with a faint trace of a Rylothi accent beneath her Coruscanti delivery.

“To be curt, we’ve got trouble on our hands,” Varman interjected as he stepped aside to reveal the injured Masters in the wider building’s entrance. “We need parts for our ship to get offworld and medicine for two of our own—and proper burials for those of us back on the ship. We crashed here and I don’t know how long we have. Can you help us?”

“I—I’m sorry for your loss,” the Twi’lek replied, her expression faltering as she stood up to properly greet the Jedi. “I’ll fetch the healer and they’ll look after the wounded. Don’t have bacta or juvan and kolto’s in short supply but… as guests, the locals will help you as is your right. You—can you come with me and tell me how to prepare the dead? I’ll translate to the priest of the Force. I’m vaguely familiar with the practices from articles by some of yours, but… best to get them from the source, right? My wife will take care of the others.”

“I know them by heart. I’ll help,” Varman quietly agreed, leaving the hut with a solemn expression and without another word.


They were a pair of anthropologists from the University of Bar’leth, the female Abednedo explained to the rest of the Jedi—the Twi’lek was Dr. Lamenk’srey, conducting fieldwork with a special interest in the native religious practices of the people of the village—the Onethi, robed in navy blue; the Abednedo woman was her wife, Dr. Mapur Astulli, with an academic focus on the economic and social structures of the neighboring Shenai, those locals the Jedi had seen in red and yellow. The planet itself was called Bunum, she said, though she joked darkly that the local governor—Selaré Prem—might have plans to rename it given the way that she’d been treating it.

“There’s a mineral called Sparstite—You’re familiar with it, Master Quillow?—that grows here in these big beautiful crystals. Lovely, really, especially when the light catches them. It’s good for producing Vratixian barley—and would, by the estimates of Prem’s people, astronomically increase bacta production and help them get out of the aging juvan market. Only problem is that they’re right underneath the stupas that the Onethi and every other one of the indigenous peoples here put the bones of their ancestors in—yeah, they’re not kyber, but they’re sacred. Lamenk’srey mentions something about the Force but I’ll let her talk about it—isn’t my expertise. Don’t get it twisted—I get the importance of the bacta. But… it’s not all that republican if a Republic doesn’t listen to the people it represents, is it? We are all the Republic, as the saying goes.”

Dr. Astulli continued to discuss the local peoples at length: the Bunumi believed that they came from an ancient temple, the Tower of Senlev (where the stupas were), whose eponymous master had in ancient days become a father to the Bunumi in the days before there was any distinction in tribe or clan. They were not ruled, she explained, by senators or by nobles, but rather by elders who made decisions unilaterally with the consent of each of their peoples save in times of war. Where irreconcilable disagreements between elders arose, new clans were found on the basis of descent from differing followers of Senlev, but all Bunumi recognized their descent from the patriarch Senlev, consequently always making peace to bury their honored dead beside the temple, even in times of war.

After Dr. Astulli offered a black bittersweet fruit with a bitter rind (a local delicacy, she said), Varman and Dr. Lamenk’srey returned with both a promise that their Masters would be brought back and an elder in tow, a wizened man leaning on a cane with clothes much like those the rest of the Onethi wore save that where others were merely woven of different colors, his sarong was richly brocaded and the respirator mask he wore was decorated with glittering beads. He began to speak, his eyes turning between each of the Jedi as he spoke.

“Thuda says he can help repair your ship,” Dr. Lamenk’srey translated.


“And he says… that you should come with him while you consider.” With that, Thuda smiled warmly and leaned on his cane hobbled out.

“Come on,” Dr. Astulli said, “let’s show you what we’re looking at.”

After checking in on the healer’s hut where the two masters were still unconscious but slowly recuperating, they trekked with the two anthropologists and the elder Thuda to the highest point in the village, a metal tower atop a tall tree that was invisible from below, its shape shadowed by the dark fingers of a thousand trees. There, Thuda pointed out different landmarks, starting first with the place where their transport had broken through the rainforest. Then, the shining pillar demarcating the western boundary of the Republic’s encampment—and beyond an endless stretch of jungle, the Tower of Senlev, that ancient temple which Thuda had spoken of perched high on a mountaintop. Pointing out his respect for the dead, Thuda mentioned that he had honored Varman’s requests by sending swift runners in the morning to retrieve the bodies and cremate them in Jedi fashion.

“Well,” Varman said as he regarded each of his companions in turn, relinquishing the role of leadership he had taken on their journey to the village, “what are our plans?”

Death, Remembered

Quillow had awoken with a start- a rising heat had been gracing his eye-stalks, and a dull, throbbing pain thrummed in his ribs. Getting a bearing on his surroundings, he quickly realized he couldn't move. A large, rigid, and flat piece of durasteel pressed on his chest and legs, leaving only his head and most of his arms free. A growing flame ignited from sparks continued to fester to his right, begging attention. His breaths were short and labored. The piece of steel that trapped him was too heavy to move conventionally, protesting any amount of thrashing or struggling. With tired arms, Quillow centered himself- steadied his breathing. His mind took him to the banks of an autumnal river, while a wave of his four-fingered hand saw the hunk of metal gently raise itself, just enough to afford the Ithorian freedom. Quillow noted something felt off, but for now it was no matter. He stood and squirmed out of his dirtied tabard, pressing it to the flame until it was quenched. Awkwardly pulling the singed garment back over his head, Quillow took stock of himself- everything seemed to be where it should be, and save for some bruising on his ribs, there wasn't any lingering pain- at least, not physical.

His head snapped to attention as he thought of Master Welck. Quillow couldn't see him in the wreckage, and he hadn't come to his pupil's aid. The Ithorian shook his head at a dour assumption. Surely he was instead helping others, knowing Quillow was capable on his own right. But his vision of the force moments ago- the river was still. That's what had felt off. A knot of panic wound its way around Quillow's stomach and heart, tightening as the Ithorian lumbered through tarnished wreckage with trunk-like legs, finding naught a sign of Welck. Quillow was thankful his translator had survived the crash as he called for Welck.

Quillow's eyes finally came to rest on a still figure; another survivor hovered above him- Varman, Quillow believed the Jedi's name was. They acknowledged each other, but Quillow didn't need to take another step forward to recognize the body. It was the mangled, lifeless Welck. Varman continued on searching for other survivors as Quillow approached his Master's remains. Fruitlessly prodding, he felt no pulse. A flood of emotions settled over him like a cloak. Bewilderment, anger, a tinge of acceptance- but the most prominent was loneliness. It was at this moment that Quillow realized that there had always been someone in his life- Welck, the other Initiates, a member of the research team on Felucia that he had briefly befriended; Quillow knew of Varman and could make out the movements of some other survivors, but he had never felt so alone. The emotion began to bubble over.

The sound of an Ithorian wailing is a wretched noise- like the moaning of some gnarled and twisted tree before its branches snap. In the remnants of the hull, it shook the metal and the earth, reverberating and amplifying until even Quillow's own ears rang. The knot of panic loosed itself and sank into Quillow's gut where it oozed into sorrow. The Ithorian wailed again as he gripped his Master's clammy shoulder. "There is a light," Welck would say, "at the end of every bout of darkness," but this one felt like it had no end.

"If I had been faster- if I had talked you out of coming here- if I had confronted you about the woman-" Quillow accused himself. The autumnal river began its flow once more as tears welled below his spherical black eyes.

"Death is nothing to us, for when we are here, it has not come- and when it does, we are no longer here." Quillow swore he could hear Welck's words. A soothing kindling of wisdom ignited in his chest, assuaging his sorrow and regret as logic and rationale began to take root once more. The edges of his vision no longer seemed blurred, but Quillow had trouble taking his eyes off of Welck. A part of him wanted to believe he'd suddenly burst back to life, full of hope and answers. "Your fear of death comes not from knowledge of an inevitable, but in your belief that in death, there is awareness." Quillow muttered to himself, completing the thought from earlier. Quillow finally ripped his gaze away from his late Master- it fatefully came to rest on a faint blue shimmer buried amongst twisted metal. Welck's datapad. It was remarkably unharmed. Quillow plunged his hand into the detritus to retrieve it, dusting off the loose flecks of burnt material. The Ithorian stared at it a moment. Within were catalogued the memories Master Welck had taken from others, memories whose trinkets were now destroyed. This datapad would be all that remained of them.

Quillow looked from the datapad to Welck's body once more. Lowering himself so their foreheads touched, Quillow repeated the mantra-

"I would take these memories from you, that you might find peace."

Slowly standing, Quillow took a deep breath before taking stock of his own collected memories. Feeling around his belt, a few perhaps perished in the crash, but three remained: a string of tiny beads, a burnt scrap of another datapad- the rest was destroyed, and a section of black leather. Quillow tugged on their strings to make sure they were securely fastened, and walked amongst the wreckage, knowing there was nothing left for him there.



There were seven survivors. This planet was temperate- perhaps a little warm for Quillow's taste- but not unpleasant. The next few hours passed by Quillow almost autonomously; he was still in shock over what happened, and continuously harried by questions over what to do with Welck's datapad. A few times he found a finger hovering over the delete key, only to be unable to do so. On one hand, Quillow knew bearing the troubles of Welck would be a burden itself- however, he could not delete them or offer them as a token to someone to bear away, for the memories were not his to forget. On the other hand, Welck dedicated his life to their collection, and now that he was with the Force, no memory could haunt him- perhaps it was for the best that these, too, passed on with him. Would their mere presence hold him here, unable to pass forward? Wasn't the prevention of such the very thing Quillow and Welck sought?

This was what Quillow pondered as Varman and the other survivors gathered to meditate. The Ithorian wished not to burden the others with his conflict, so he sought no guidance from the others and spoke very little, only giving thanks for any condolences offered. To stamp the point, the Ithorian chose to doff his translator. Quillow's focus was only finally broken when a blaster bellowed. The Ithorian willingly gave his weapon when requested but retreated inward once more as he aided in carrying one of the injured Masters, spending the rest of the journey in thought. Quillow shared Varman's sentiment of wishing the bodies honored, but beyond this, his thoughts were all set on his future beyond this planet, which the Ithorian realized was fairly presumptive as squat wooden dwellings now rose around them. Now finally of a state of mind pertinent of a Jedi, Quillow thought it best he stay behind when Varman and Dr. Lamenk’srey traveled back to the bodies.

“There’s a mineral called Sparstite—You’re familiar with it, Master Quillow?-" He nodded. He had seen it throughout the village, and almost thought it kyber, but it felt different. Reclusive, almost. Frayed and wispy. Quillow listened intently as he plead his peoples' case. Quillow engaged in a brief inner debate once more, spawned from his earlier conflict. For a moment he weighed the importance of letting memories pass on as the elder continued his allegory, but quickly decided against it. They wouldn't be passed on, but destroyed outright. Plus, after the wizened one explained further, Quillow realized that this sparstite was even somewhat alike the bafforr trees on Ithor, though he had yet to explore sparstite's proclivity for telepathy, or more complex sentience. If the latter bore fruit, it was beholden to the Law of Life, and for each one taken, two would need to replace it. To Quillow, omnipresent laws, such as the Force, trumped those dictated by any nation, the Republic not withstanding.

Now on the metal tower, Quillow set aside his sorrows for the time being, it was time to be a Jedi. Welck was always so sure of his answers and wisdom, and Quillow hoped he could emulate. He donned his translator, pulling his green hood over his head.

"I believe that first and foremost we should gauge where we stand. I would aid Thuda in stopping the mining, but would also hear what others have to say."

The Gash

She was floating. Suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness, hardly aware of the world around her, Yerin reached out into the Force. There she saw a dry canyon—a barren riverbed, once deep, where the waters of life once flowed—a weeping wound. Her consciousness trickled out around the gash, following the branching paths of rivulets, rushing into vast pools and rivers that flowed out to the edges of her perception. Then the dull ache in her stomach blossomed into agony, pain drilling into her abdomen, and she awoke.

The smell of something burning reached her nose before she opened her eyes. Even with blurry vision, Yerin could see that she was barricaded by debris; red emergency lights flashed through the smoke, shining from somewhere deeper in the wreckage. She reached to touch her stomach only to find no wound; no blood dampened her leather vest. With the pain fading fast, she swept the debris aside with a single telekinetic push, loosening her safety belt and rising to her feet. Yerin tugged on her boots and picked up her fallen lightsaber, closing her eyes to focus on the movement she felt outside the door. A tremor in her horns, something ringing above the range of human hearing—something moving outside. Signs of life, she told herself, but she still couldn’t figure out whether or not it was a blessing. Taking a deep breath, Yerin forced the door of her compartment open; she held her lightsaber like a torch as she stepped out into the hall.

Patience, Yerin. Focus on what you can see: the ceiling, the floor, the walls, smoke, debris, the flashing of the lights, a door across the hallway, the shape of a person—a human...
“Varman? Varman Hale?”

Yerin followed him through the wreckage of the transport, the ache in her chest only growing as she silently counted the survivors and the dead. Master Taspul in particular had been well-known to her; she and her former Master had accompanied him in some of his missions to frontier planets in the last years before she was knighted. She remembered following him as he had marched into an embassy with a dozen locals in tow. The planet’s two suns had set and risen again before he had decided that the day’s work was finally done. Some of Taspul’s colleagues had called him argumentative; Yerin inwardly lamented that the Jedi Order would never get to see him argue again. As the five living Jedi gathered and carried the two wounded through the ruins of the transport, Yerin found her gaze wandering back toward them again and again until they all walked into the open air.

If the smoking ship had been a nightmare, the jungle outside was something out of Yerin’s dreams. Profusions of violet flora threatened to smother the transport like the overgrown garden of some forgotten civilization; the air was humid and rich, redolent with the sickly sweetness of humus. Quickly taking off her boots again, Yerin could almost feel the pulse of the world beneath her feet. “This planet is so rich with life,” she said, answering Varman. “And to say that there are signs of water would be a great understatement. I would not be surprised if there are inhabitants—perhaps they can help us and we can help them.”

When she reached into the Force, she felt its rivers all around her, the vital energy of the universe flowing through every root and stem, its currents branching deep into the dark earth. Everything is so alive. Her heart, in the grip of an odd almost-euphoria, leapt in her chest; her mind began to race as she contemplated the possibilities of what could be learned on this planet. Jedi aren’t supposed to feel this way, Yerin. Control yourself; passion is a reckless path. “There is no emotion, there is only peace.” The Force flowed out through the trees in every direction, swirling through the tangled forest teeming with life. Yet she felt something beyond the currents to the east: a place where energy pooled into something more permanent. There the waters of the Force rushed and stirred into the veins of homes and houses.

“There’s settlements here, some ways to the east. In this terrain, I cannot calculate how long it might take us, but there are sentients—many people, a civilization—on this planet. Hope is not lost.”

As the five carved a path through the jungle, Yerin quietly collected samples of flowers and the dew that dripped off of leaves broader than the span of her hand. She often took point, stepping over the tangle of thick roots and fording through the mist with the learned confidence of someone who had traveled to far harsher wilds for research. Her steps were soft to keep from alerting any of the local fauna; she fended off clouds of insects with swift twirls of her lightsaber. Whenever something crawled over her bare toes, she paid it little mind; there were greater concerns ahead. Tangles of vines and tree-trunks yielded to their blades as the Jedi kept hewing through the forest. The same blood-red sap—a familiar sight after building coffins in the clearing of their own accidental creation—sprayed over her blade and onto the hilt of her lightsaber. Yerin kept an eye on the residue, scraping up the drippings and bottling them as soon as the Jedi took a moment’s pause.

Despite her attempts to keep a brisk pace and a cheerful attitude, Yerin’s arms had grown sore from hacking by the time the soft light of dusk began to filter through the leaves. Then two strangers emerged from the brush, heralded by a warning shot. Though she should have been frightened by their sudden arrival, Yerin felt a terrible flutter of hope in her chest. She dropped her lightsaber and followed Varman’s lead, gesturing to the injured Masters on their stretchers. “Our friends need your help,” she said, trying three other languages when Basic was of little use, but all to no avail—she received no answer that she could understand.

Following the others out of the wilderness, Yerin looked around curiously as the group strode down an earthen walkway between the pens where squirming alien eels were being herded into nets. She listened keenly to the locals’ language, watching them speak and studying their gestures as best she could without straying behind, for she was wary of being prodded onwards by the human woman’s bowcaster. Stepping into the city, her gaze trailed over the roofs, watching people carrying baskets of vegetables through the winding paths and hanging clothes to dry. A young Twi’lek girl in an embroidered blouse peered up to her, tugging on one of her own lekku. Yerin touched the striped tendril that tumbled over her shoulder and offered her a smile; when their eyes met, the girl scurried away, rushing around a corner and disappearing into the bustle of the city.

Between the locals’ Aurebesh tattoos and a language even she had never heard before, the city was alien to even someone as well-traveled as she, so Yerin was surprised to see two familiar faces in the darkened hut. “Doctor Lamenk’srey, Doctor Astulli,” she said breathlessly. “It’s an honor to meet you two.” As the Jedi exchanged names with the anthropologists, explaining what had brought them to Bunum, Yerin piped up with questions about the Doctors’ research, admitting that she had always admired their work from a distance. “Are you the first ones from the Republic to make contact with the Bunumi?” she asked, only to have her questions quickly answered when Dr. Astulli spoke of the sparstite mine. Listening intently as the two conversed with Elder Thuda, she spared no courtesy, mimicking the anthropologists’ manners to try and coax a smile from the Elder.

With the unconscious Masters recuperating under the Onethi’s care, she spent the trek up through the village asking both Doctors about the languages of Bunum. She told herself that her mental notes could be scribbled on a datapad later, after the important business was out of the way. My curiosity cannot delay our mission—and what an arduous mission it had been. The trek through the jungle had been nothing short of onerous, all darkness and humidity and soil slick beneath her feet, yet she forgot her pains when she peered down from their perch atop the canopy. Beneath the glowing expanse of the sky—radiant with the rosy light of dusk—sunlight coruscated through veils of silver mist to bathe the treetops below.

“I’m with Quillow—we need to decide on where we stand before taking further action. And I, too, would help Thuda in stopping the mining. It wouldn’t hurt to hear how the Republic would explain its presence here and find their side of the story, even if just to find a peaceful solution, but the mining activities are desecrating the Onethi’s holy land. There are other sparstite crystals in the Galaxy; there is only one Tower of Senlev.”

The Tempest Quelled

“There is no chaos, there is harmony.”

Delste is certain that is what her Master, Nikdoris, would be saying to her if only he would rouse himself from unconsciousness to say it. She could feel it within her, her connection to the Force, stirring like a storm flecked with discordant lightning as she struggles to make sense of what had happened: one moment, she was leaning against a doorway within the spaceship, watching Nikdoris and another Knight, Varman Hale, playing an intense game of dejarik. She recalls the flickering holographic forms upon the table and the way her Master’s lip curled as he was about to dominate the match against Varman entirely. She had seen it before, the curl to his lip and the strategy of false security, and so she had looked away, having found no reason to listen to the inevitable cheers of victory from the Twi’lek.

But the laughter never came. Instead, Delste had found within the Force a tempestuous swell; a surge of strength, shock, and water that had come crashing down upon her as the spaceship was overtaken and was then left upon the firmament, shattered and grounded. When she’d come to, she had been coughing as though rain and salt were what was choking her; but now she finds her breath too thin to allow her any focus. She moves carefully through the wreckage, each step upon her left leg sending a wave of pain coursing through her limbs. It can wait. I can wait, she tells herself.

A crash to her left causes a bolt of fear to run through her - one she stifles quickly - and she turns her head to find Varman standing over the form of her master. A flash of light calls her attention to the lightsaber in the Knight’s hand, but even if she did not find her breath too weak with pain to protest, she would not be fast enough to call out to him as he lashed the blade across the leg of Nikdoris. Involuntarily wincing at the sight as her master slips back into unconsciousness, she waits for Varman to leave before crawling over debris to see for herself what had been done. The blood pooling about the floor and the scent of charred flesh in the air are enough to make her put her hand to her mouth and nose, closing her eyes to the sight. Kneeling, she reaches out through the Force to sense her master’s state; the steady downpour that was Nikdoris has quelled into a gentle rain: cold, but steady - he will live, for now.

Her gaze moves, for a moment, from the sight of her incapacitated master to the hallway which the other Knight had walked down. Reaching out further than her concern for her master, she still feels the Force crashing around her like a storm, buffeting against her and threatening to knock her over in her fear. Control it. Control it. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no chaos, there is… Her lip curls. There is a time and a place we could have been gone from Ilum, on a different ship, to a different world. What am I going to do, now, Nikdoris?


Aside from the pain in her leg, the trek to the village is not wholly unbearable. Delste has taken it upon herself first to assist with seeing that Master Nikdoris is transported safely, and does not fall further prey to shock or general weakness from the trauma. When the Twi’lek stirs or murmurs something unintelligible, she is there, lingering just beside. Though her touch of a leather glove likely does little to truly soothe any of his sufferings, it stills the storm in her heart to feel the warmth of her master beneath her: teeming still with life, just like the planet through which the group traverses. Though, the first blaster shot in the distance briefly brought to mind the image of a wave cut short: foam crashing down on a rock that protrudes up into the rain and the wetness but stifles the ebb and flow of the water.

“You owe me for this,” she whispers to the still unconscious form of her master as she hands her saberpike over to the strangers; no answer comes from Nikdoris, be it chiding or a joke in turn, and relief floods her chest at the silence. Even if she felt a twinge of discomfort at parting from her weapon, she finds it easier to do so when following the leads of Varman and Yerin. They have not led us astray yet, and it is not as though we have any other choice. Perhaps there will be some way we can treat our wounded if we do as they say.

When walking through the village, keeping herself close to the side of Nikdoris as Quillow aids in the carrying of Master Yen, Delste feels her eyes being drawn to the inked markings upon those who could carry them on their skin: just as eyecatching to her are those who wear the same on their clothes, be it in navy blue, or yellow, or even red. She feels bare without them, knowing that her company sticks out: perhaps her more so than the others. Even in her leather armor, her clothes were fine, and she had made the effort to tie her hair up again as they had entered the village. Now she wishes she had left it down, to hide her face and neck in their plainness from the eyes of the locals who watch, and the discomfort does not leave until they are ushered inside the tallest of the buildings.

Delste falls silent with the darkness that falls over her in the large hut; though the names of the anthropologists are familiar to her (she recalls having read of them briefly during her time on Ilum), she keeps her mouth closed to allow Yerin and Varman, whom she has found herself looking towards to lead, the right to speak and to explain their circumstances first. Her gaze falls to Nikdoris and his state alongside Master Yen, and much of the words concerning the sparstite mine falls upon her deaf ears; though, once the Elder Thuda is presented to them, she listens. His attire, the adorned sarong and the beads that glitter where they lie upon his respirator, force her attention. As Thuda’s plea is translated for their ears, Delste finds herself hanging on to every word.

To part with Nikdoris and leave him in the care of the locals is something that the Padawan finds to be the most arduous task asked of her; even with her saberpike in her grasp once more, it is not the same after having been reunited with her master after so long apart. Yet she cannot deny the way that the storm clouds within her seem to part as she walks with the other Jedi, leaving Nikdoris behind. Delste relies on listening to Yerin question the anthropologists as they walk through the village once more; she feels the urge to pose her own questions to the women or the Elder himself. Though she burns with curiosity at the Aurebesh markings that the locals bear, and the larger cultural relevance of the different colors that they wear, she stifles the words. I should not ask. It may look like vanity, and that is unbecoming. At… at the least, I can question the doctors on my own, away from prying ears. When they stop, high above the treetops and peering down at the jungle expanse below, glittering with sunlight and the pinkness of dusk, Delste rests her hands at her waist, bumping the leather case of her saberpike aside to do so. Now that the question has been presented by Varman to them all, she speaks.

“I see no reason why we should not help, even if that help is simply reaching out to the Republic and hearing what they have to say: if they even know of the significance of the Tower of Senlev. These people have helped to bury our dead and they nurse our injured. Let us see if we can find a resolution with the Republic. We can decide our next course of action from there.”

The End of the Beginning

Fractions of a second. That was all that mastery over the Force afforded to Master Yen in her final moments aboard their transport ship. Her forehead, usually creased with smiles and laughter, sat smooth. Her eyebrows, normally raised in suspicion of her young apprentice, lay relaxed. Her eyes, glistening with grit and determination, shifted purposely across the room. A calming stillness gripped her, as she allowed the Force to dictate her next move. Around her the world was being torn asunder. Sirens blared as metal sheared but there the Master Jedi sat, like the eye of a storm.

Sunao, on the other hand, hated space. To him it was a black sea of nothingness that separated world from world. “It’s 99.99% empty, you know.” He would tell others, a deep shudder escaping him. “It’s all just so… isolating, right?” Even in the largest of the Republic's ships the Padawan felt it, and now here they were, their glorified rust bucket shattering in a hail of asteroids. His heart could be seen visibly pounding through his robes, threatening to break from its cage. His eyes, wide with panic, darted furiously around the room as he fumbled around with his seatbelt. Fear enveloped him.

Usually concerned with the faffing about of her young apprentice, the Force drew Master Yen’s attention elsewhere. She watched, eagle eyed, as several jagged shards ripped from the wall in front of them, followed by an oversized piece of panel. In one sweeping motion, the woman gracefully lifted her arm, shooing away the fragments as they flew towards Sunao. Contrastingly, the Padawan focus was divided. The Force spewed forth a tornado of colours, all swirling around and oversaturating the young man's vision. By the time he spotted the hefty chunk of metal, it was too late. His arm had barely enough time to leave his side before it connected with the head of Master Yen. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen as they entered the atmosphere or perhaps it was the agony of the scene unfolding in front of Sunao. Either way in that moment he lost consciousness. A final picture of Master Yennifer Reyes' warm smile would be forever etched into the young Jedi’s mind.

---

A bright crimson encompassed the room as Sunao woke with a jolt. The sirens had cut but the surrounding room still basked in the red hue of the emergency lighting. Flopped next to him, Yen was in a bad way. Blood flowed from a sizable gash on the side of her head as the rest of her sat lifeless. Frantically, the Padawan clawed at the seat belt release, calling out in vain to his Master. Freeing himself, he dropped to a knee beside the woman, removing her restraints and laying her out on the floor. Her skin was cold, clammy and quickly greying. His ill-fitted sleeves, already shredded in the crash, were torn clean from his person as Sunao did his best to dress the wound. Sweat dripped from his brow as he wound the fabric around Master Yen’s head while his chest tightened. Tying it off, Sunao raised a hand over her body, reaching out into the Force. With bated breath he hoped to call forth the sunshine yellow that normally derived from the very centre of her being. Instead, the world around him greyed.

The Padawan shook his head, slamming his eyes shut and straining as he tried to reach further into the Force. Nothing pierced through the blackness of the back of his eyelids, he couldn’t even conjure a single shade in his mind’s eye. Opening back up, he was met with a greying world once more. Knots twisted his stomach as his heart sank like an anchor being dropped at sea. As the man fell back onto his behind, his mind went into overdrive.

What is happening? Could Master Yen be dead? Or has something worse happened?

Suddenly a lightbulb sparked in his brain. Fumbling forward, the young apprentice reached out and took his Master by the wrist. A pulse weakly tapped his fingers, she was alive but barely. The Jedi collapsed, falling back once more in a heap of exhaustion. Behind him, the door whooshed open and a long shadow of a man loomed up and over Sunao. A gust of fresh air washed over the cabin, cooling him as it hit the beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Nary a word was exchanged between the two, save for a sharp gasp from the stranger. It was possible the scene spoke for itself, or maybe the Force had told the shadow what they needed to know. Either way it wasn’t long before Sunao felt the rush of the door as it closed shut. There, in the dimming light, a single tear broke the dam, giving way to a river as they flowed down his cheeks.

---

The Padawan emerged from the crashed ship sometime later, long after the rest of the surviving crew had gone in to remove his Master from their room. His hair was in disarray, loose strands were strewn from side to side while specks of dirt- kicked up from the digging of graves- clung to the wetness of his cheeks. Trudging past the others without so much as a word, Sunao perched himself atop a midsized rock. Crossing his legs, the Mirialan hoped to avoid any small talk by appearing to be in deep meditation. Chatter from the others filled the air as Sunao attempted to push out into the Force once more. Exhaling weakly, the Padawan peered out deep into nature, reaching out for that familiar feeling. The jungle, alive with the most vivid of colours, began to drain. Magenta’s, violets and bone whites of his surroundings slowly wasted away to a lead-like grey.

Suddenly light headed, the young man’s frame started to wobble. His breath shortened to quick bursts, just as the tick of his heart began to increase momentum at a serious rate. Were it not for the mention of a nearby village by the Togruta, Sunao may have keeled over.

---

Whatever was left of the Apprentice’s elegant garments were quickly being torn away by the relentless flora of the jungle. An alarm from his datapad had been quickly dismissed. Were he anywhere else in the galaxy then the reminder to exfoliate his T-Zone would’ve been followed to the letter. Instead, he trudged along behind the crew as they carved a path forward with his master in tow. He hadn’t shared one word with the others and couldn’t even recall their names at this point. Sunao was so far gone, he barely registered the laser blast, only truly coming to his senses when he bumped into the back of one of his compatriots. The two humanoids, one Twi’lek and the other an actual human stood, barrels front, covered from head to toe in a series of tattoos. Oddly enough, despite their tribal-like appearance, the two sported visible cybernetic implants, suggesting there was possibly something more nefarious afoot in their intentions. Speaking a language no-one seemed to recognise, they gestured to the crew to hand over their weapons.

“Yen would’ve known their language.” Sunao thought, easily departing with his lightsaber. “Or at least she would’ve known how to temper the situation.” He continued, noting the concerned look of his fellow Jedi as they were led out of the dense jungle and into a clearing.

Sunao was tempted to reach out into the Force upon entering a substantially sized village. It was late afternoon and the members of the town were beginning to engage in their evening rituals. From smells to sounds, the air was filled with all sorts of delights to celebrate the end of the day. Full of life, the Padawans' curiosity urged him to take in the evocative colours of the world around as it flowed with such excitement. “No.” He reasoned, glancing behind to the ailing body of his Master. “I have to get something right.”

Finally, stopping by a roaring bonfire near the centre of town, the group was introduced to a well-dressed and untattooed duo. The older, shaggier looking Jedi of their cohort took the lead, skipping out pleasantries to plainly ask for help. The Twi’lek woman clicked a finger for attention and pointed towards the two wounded Masters. Several villagers came out from the woodwork and whisked the stretchers away while Sunao followed closely behind, leaving the others to converse with the two foreign women.

---

Paying the Mirialan no mind as he stood in the corner, the healers got to work, fawning over the two Jedi in front of them. Orders were barked as helpers scurried in and out of the hut, bringing in a range of herbs, salves and soups. The rest of the survivors entered the hut just as the wounds were being freshly wrapped once more. The two anthropologists, as Sunao came to learn, gestured for them all to leave their compatriots to heal and follow them up to a lookout spot atop a towering tree. Mention of the Republic being camped not too far away filled the Padawan with excitement for the first time since they had hit the planet's surface. His mind ran wild with the thought of proper treatment, rescue and salvation, practically ignoring whatever else was said.

Relinquishing command, the unshorn Jedi posed the question to the group of what next. One by one the others spoke up with talk of getting involved in some sort of conflict that had arisen. Sunao, on the other hand, had a different idea.

“I’m heading over to Republic’s camp regardless. No doubt they’ll be better equipped to deal with Master Yen’s injuries and they may also have a way off world for us.” The Padawan paused, feeling what appeared to be an aura of awkwardness at his statement. “As a back-up plan of course.”

The Burned-out Clearing

After consulting with each other for a few minutes more, the Jedi survivors made their way to the Republic encampment, the air still sticky with humidity despite the sun’s fading light. Before they left, Thuda had bid the Twi’lek who had first led them to the Onethi village to be their guide and after a short negotiation he agreed, introducing himself as Firanesh as he grabbed his lever-action blaster rifle and turned to guide his charges towards their destination. Dr. Lamenk’srey joined them as their translator, treading behind them and explaining Firanesh’s actions as they went.

The cuts the Jedi had made as they came to the village, though as precise as they could hope to make them, seemed wild and frantic by comparison to Firanesh’s movements as he cleared the way; instead of slicing through each and every plant in his path, he warded away what vines he could with the barrel of his blaster rifle and hacked only at that which he could not peacefully traverse with a vibro-machete he wore slung under one arm. Once he shot a massive insect with a thousand teeth that came too near—the Bunumi leechfly, Dr. Lamenk’srey said—but otherwise he moved with a practiced elegance achieved only through a lifetime of familiarity with the jungle, preferring to leap or to roll rather than to cut or to shoot, though always taking care to not stain his blue sarong.

Back at the village, Dr. Astulli had disparaged previous scholars who had claimed upon discovering the Bunumi that the peoples of the planet were uniquely one with nature in a fashion that more-developed peoples had forgotten; to the contrary, she pointed out that they were masters of exploiting what abundance there was in the jungle through selective breeding and planting so that a place considered to be harsh and inhospitable by Republic-led expeditions proved sustainable and full of life, a fact bolstered by Firanesh’s treatment of the jungle as they passed under its canopy. Once on their trek, Firanesh sliced open a stranglervine (Dr. Lamenk’srey’s calque of the native word jimavol) to reveal an interior bursting with the same sweetwater that had filled cups by the fireside; when he shot the Bunumi leechfly, he plucked its bioluminescent eggs, thrusting them into a sack and tying the sack to the barrel of his blaster rifle. Where the canopy grew dark, Firanesh raised high the glowing eggs, their bright light piercing through the blackness of the jungle even in lieu of a lightsaber. He was proud to show the Jedi his prowess in shooting and in bushcraft, grinning at them each time he showed them something new.

Eventually the careful cutting and cultivation of Onethi efforts gave way to burned-out trees and scorchmarks as moonlight returned, the trees began to thin, and the path grew easy to tread. Firanesh needed cut no more when he and the Jedi stood at the edge of a vast and empty clearing in the jungle, trees replaced by black soils and the sharp-sour smell of noxious but effective industrial pesticides. He only pointed the way forward before falling behind the Jedi and shrinking back, his Aurebesh-tattooed skin sticking out in this place just as the bare skin of the Jedi had in his own village.

The communications tower rose high as they passed by it into the encampment proper. Within it, there were a number of tents and hastily-erected buildings, the area large enough to provide a medbay, a large Republic base of operations, an area for the tents of dozens of various personnel, and a shiny octagonal building that stood three stories high for the local garrison of mercenaries whose name was blazoned beneath the logo of a gamecock’s bladed foot: ʙʟᴀᴄᴋꜱᴘᴜʀ ꜱᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛʏ. The camp was full of people at this hour who gawked at the strange company who came, miners and archaeologists peeking out of their tents and turning their heads from the fire as they regarded them, more-disciplined mercenaries who spared them cautious glances, and Republic personnel rushing between the buildings in crisp green uniforms. On the other side of the camp stood a legion of shiny transports, marked alternatively with the rondel of the Galactic Republic or Blackspur's talons.

“I hope he listens to you better than he listens to me,” Dr. Lamenk’srey said, “but if you’re wanting to talk to the man in charge, you’re headed to that square officials’ building over there—Good luck. He’ll give you access to the medbay at least, and that might help. I for one am going to check on the archaeology situation at the moment, but either way, give Blackspur a wide berth. I trust them as far as I can throw them—and as my wife will tell you, that isn’t too far at all.”

Despite its utilitarian exterior, the interior of the Republic base of operations was a richly-decorated building consisting of a vast central chamber surrounded by numerous doorways on the first and second story. Its durasteel walls were lined with vibrant ceramics, whole segments of stone walls decorated with bas-relief, and excavated artefacts of jade and silver and gold—and beside each of these treasures stood Blackspur mercenaries in suits of sleek durasteel with blaster rifles at the ready. It smelled sterile like a medbay, and the air was air-conditioned to provide comfort despite the uniforms mandated for Blackspur and Republic personnel alike—the building was more akin to spacecraft than anything else.

As the Jedi entered the building, a cadre of Blackspur snipers drew beads on each Jedi’s chest from a promontory high above them until the secretary, his eyes flitting between the lightsabers each Jedi wore, called the guards to stand down. His fingers began flying across a datapad as he told the wayward Jedi to “Hold just a minute!”

It took but a moment for him to indicate a Blackspur escort to lead the Jedi party up the stairs into the office of the encampment’s leader. This late in the evening, most of the officials were asleep, but they passed through a smattering of people of differing species who spoke in a variety of different languages but all wore the same sharp double-breasted uniforms in dark green that marked allegiance to the Governor of Merano’s branch of the Republic Defense Coalition. Each paid the Jedi looks when they thought the three of them were not looking, but said little as the strangers passed. When at last the Jedi arrived at the office at the back of the building, their escort pulled aside as the doors slid open.

Compared to the rest of the facility, the room was sparse and cold, being a small office with only a desk and adjacent terminal atop a dais, a door to one side, and a large window facing the cool purples of the Bunumi landscape beyond. A lanky man wearing a crisp-pressed Merano uniform and a carefully-maintained moustache rose from his seat at the desk as soon as he heard the sharp hiss of the door opening.

“It’s not very often that we have the distinct pleasure of welcoming Jedi!” he exclaimed in a genteel Coruscanti accent as the Jedi came in, offering a bright and picture-perfect smile to each of the visitors and extending his hand in greeting. “I, dear Masters, am Viceroy Edburn Gaff, the aide to the rightful governor of this territory, Selaré Prem, as well as the official representative of the Merano system on Bunum. If I may be of any use to the Jedi Order, please, but give the word. Now tell me: what may I do for you?”

Sunao slicked back his hair, catching a few of the off-shoots that had been re-ruffled when he had passed an air-conditioning unit. Despite his initial hope, the trip down the corridors of the Republic base had only made him feel worse. He had become acutely aware of his appearance upon their entrance, feeling a tinge of rose colour his cheeks as those around the trio looked on. Quickly removing his tattered robe, the young Padawan had folded it over his arm, furiously tucking in any bits of tunic that’d come loose. Subtly dipping his head towards his armpit, he decided that there wasn’t much he could do about the smell but he at least could fix his hair. Running his fingers through, he had swept it back, giving it some semblance of what it normally looked like.

“Get close.” The words of Master Yen forced their way to the front of Sunao’s mind as he took a step forward. “If you stand too far away, then the person won’t know you mean to shake their hand.” On any other day, the Padawan would’ve followed the unspoken etiquette of the Republic’s political circle robotically. But today was not his day. Stepping again, he fell 3 feet short of the man in front.

“But not too close, it makes you look creepy.”

Falling back half a pace, Sunao meekly took Edburn’s hand. “We… er… crashed and uh…” The Padawan paused, surprised by the croak in his voice. Were these the first words he had spoken since the collision?

“Sorry,” he continued, clearing his throat, “I- my name is Sunao Zimtara, Padawan to Master Yennifer Reyes. We have crash landed on this planet and are in need of aid.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Gaff replied, casting a sympathetic gaze upon Varman, Monty, and him. He offered his hand to the other two Jedi in turn before returning to his seat.

“Ask, dear friends, and it will be made available to you. Need you treatment for the wounded? Food and shelter? Passage offworld? We have fine accommodations here in our camp, and I would not regret a single credit spent on ensuring the comfort and security of you dear Jedi in such a savage land as this.”

“You are a most generous host,” Varman cut in with a soft voice, glancing to his companions as he spoke. He spoke haggardly, unsure of the best way to broach the situation and all too aware of his unkempt appearance. “But there was another matter too, sir. We come on the behalf of Onethi village to discuss the mining situation.”

“The mining situation, was it?” the viceroy said, his brows furrowed as he recalled past discussions regarding the topic. “Well. I am sorry for these natives’ concerns, but it is not my fault that they agreed before the eyes of the law to incorporate their society into the Galactic Republic. Whatever they may desire of their own planet, they are beholden to a higher purpose. As our Supreme Chancellor is so fond of saying: We are all the Republic. We aid each other however we may, even when that aid may come at great cost; it is our great honor and our great burden. Surely Jedi understand the necessity of such sacrifice more than most.”

“Of course sacrifice is understood,” Delste said with a practiced tongue, though her brows furrowed and creased in a way that makes the effort of sincere politeness palpable. “And you will excuse me for speaking out of turn, but should sacrifice come at the price of something so culturally important to the native people here? Was this operation aware of exactly the magnitude of disrespect being shown when they began mining? Have you spoken with them at length about this at all?” The more she spoke, the more the Padawan’s temper was brought into the light, despite her refined posture and appearance.

“Have you?” Gaff interjected with a critical eye. “It seems terribly presumptuous of you, young Master, to make such assumptions about such things as disrespect when you yourself have been here for… How long? A day at the very best? The situation, I can assure you, is far more complex than we have time to elucidate today. You are both a newcomer and an outsider to this place; what gives you the right to speak on the behalf of these peoples’ needs and desires?

“Furthermore, we are in the business of saving lives here. Not a month ago did a huntsman die a long death from a wound that would have been healed in an instant on Coruscant. Boundless respect and care may be the lofty goals of a Jedi Knight, but endless pussyfooting shall neither preserve the life of a woman dying from birthing complications, nor heal the child made victim of a pirate’s stray blaster bolt, nor restore the crushed arm of a man caught in the sudden tremor of an earthquake. Bacta, on the other hand, will—once production goes into full swing, of course.

“Whatever their subsequent regrets may be, the introduction of Bunum into the Galactic Republic at large will be a net boon for these people as it has been for everyone else. They will find security, peace, and powers of medicine far beyond the primitive capabilities of a planet such as this. Please, I understand these sympathies of yours, but do not let them cloud your judgement; we will all come out of this situation having benefited from the beauty and knowledge of every corner of the galaxy, Bunum not least of all.”

Delste raised her chin and, with a haughty set of her jaw, stormed up to next to Sunao--going so far as to even take that half-step closer to the Republic official. In a single motion she straightened out her skirt and tunic, then tucked a single stray hair behind her ear, all to turn a pointed finger at the man. "Our ship is burning, sir; we dragged out our dead and injured with no help from the Republic and no help from anyone until the natives of Bunum found us in the jungle and took us in! My Master is sitting in their camp right now; tell me, will the Bacta you have here bring back the leg he lost in that crash? Or should I have to wait for you to finish mining out this whole camp?"

There is no chaos, there is harmony, she could almost hear Master Nikdoris say to her in the ghost of a whisper; in a crashing wave of refusal, she flooded him out of her thoughts.

"These people are not nearly as primitive as you seem to enjoy painting them as; you'll find us least of all to be swayed by your pretty words and lofty vocabulary, all the while obscuring the fact that you're not telling us anything of importance! You're mining on a place of cultural and spiritual importance for these people; that should be enough to give you pause and to communicate with the elders there! Have you done even that? And I would beseech you not to dance around my question!"

“Of course we have spoken with them,” Gaff coolly answered, turning to face the large window to the planet beyond. “We have communicated with the local tribes and sealed their approval with contracts legally-binding in the eyes of the Galactic Republic. We spoke, they answered, and now the deal is done. That contract is as easy to break as it is to renege upon your vows to the Jedi Order and live a life doing nothing in the face of others’ hardship.

“I am saying nothing of their customs; I say only that their technology is primitive which it patently is. Their rifles and cybernetics are thousands of years out of date, they have not even the outmoded advancement of juvan. I speak not out of contempt but out of concern. How many more of the Bunumi must die needlessly in our era of the greatest technological innovation the galaxy has ever seen?”

Sunao reeled in his jaw, taken aback by the vitriol of his companion. He had never seen Jedi with such an instant contempt for the Republic. Not that he fully approved of what the aide had said, nor his tone, but they had at least followed the correct steps. Perhaps there was something else at play or, much like himself, the crash had impacted the others more than just physically. The Padawan’s brows furrowed as his lips pursed. Since the tragedy he had only thought of himself and his master, he couldn’t even recall what the others' names were.

Suddenly, a tinge of bright crimson began to emanate from his human companion, followed by a waft of amber orange. The Padawan stifled a gasp as a wave of relief began to wash over him. “Anger?” He spoke softly, the words hidden under his breath.

“Or compassion?” His eyes shifted to the side as his hand reached for his chin. “Followed by bravado? Or confidence?”[ The colours dissipated as quickly as they had appeared. A cloud of doubt blanketed the young man’s mind.

“Remember, the best-negotiated agreement lets both sides win.”

Words from his master sallied forth once more, prodding Sunao into action. “Of course, Mr. Gaff,” he replied, conviction skirting the edge of his voice, “No one should needlessly die in this day and age. My compatriots and I have just had a horrendous day as you might’ve guessed. Like you said, you and yours have followed the law to the letter and really any further inquiry should be taken up with those who signed said contracts.”

The Padawan paused, nodding to the Jedi before continuing. “In the meantime, we will take any medical supplies and rations you can spare. As soon as the injured are ready for transport, we will bring them to the facilities here.”

As the other Padawan spoke, Delste cooled her tongue and stepped back behind him once more. While Sunao smoothed things over with Gaff, she found herself with her arms crossed over her chest and a firm glare sent in the direction of the Republic official--whether or not he deserved it didn’t cross her mind. Temperance, such a lack of temperance, she swore she could hear Nikdoris chide. Delste shook her head at the scene and turned away to let the others speak, glancing only briefly at Varman as she did so; I’m not looking to be scolded by anyone else.

“Yes,” Varman added, daring now to speak only after the other Jedi had made their opinions plain. He had lingered in the silence of inaction, unsure of how to broach the fragility of diplomacy without shattering it beneath his martial nature. “We would be tremendously grateful for your aid and I can assure you that the Jedi Order shall not soon forget such an act of great kindness.”

Gaff spun about once more, casting an appraising look towards the gathered Jedi. “Of course we shall share with you what supplies we can, my friends. But the Republic will unfortunately be short-handed due to this sudden influx of injured people, and our supplies are also rather low from a recent cave-in that injured nearly forty miners—it will be taxing, of course, but such is, as I said, our great honor and our great burden as fellows of the Republic.

“But now that I think about it, if you help us end this operation sooner… perhaps we may be able to spare parts for your ship or a ship of our own for yourselves. The people of Bunum keep their record of their contract with the Republic in the Tower of Senlev. Retrieve this document for us and Bunumi fears will be quelled, our operation will run smoother, and all parties shall return to the safety of our homes all the sooner. With the assurance of our operation’s success, I would be more than willing to spare more medical attention for your wounded Jedi friends. Well? What say you?”

Varman opened his mouth to speak, but he was unsure of if it was to protest or to agree; he ultimately remained silent, waiting to see what the others might say before he himself would add anything else.

Sunao raised a brow at the request. Strange that they did not have a copy of such an important document but nevertheless it appeared, to the Padawan, to be a reasonable ask. “I’ll be happy to enquire about such things, when we return.” He replied, widening a friendly smile as best he could.

“Then farewell,” Gaff said with a pleased smile as he waved the Jedi out from his office door, “and may the Force be with you.”

Countless miners watched Yerin, Quillow, and Firanesh as they passed, used enough to the sight of an academic like Dr. Lamenk’srey but openly gawking at the rare sight of Jedi and the oddity of a local in their camp. There were hundreds of tents gathered together, the majority of them marked with a stylized logo of the fish that gave Coppergrin Mining its name, but a few of the tents stuck out with their fraying ropes and faded designs, standing at the edge of camp where Dr. Lamenk’srey was heading.

“We’re headed right there; you’ll know it when you see it. Just like archaeologists to not be given fancy tents,” Dr. Lamenk’srey remarked with a wry grin.

As the four passed by, many of the miners leaned out of their tents to steal glances at them, dressed in their plainclothes or with stained Coppergrin jumpsuits rolled down to their waists. Some were cooking at this hour, mixing up their rations with what game they could catch and dark blue buns made from the local rice; other miners lay injured in their tents, minding their own wounds with bandages and juvan salves. On the archaeologists’ side of camp, massive fans meant to ward off the heat did little to cool the muggy air, instead only blowing scents that made evident the Republic’s imposition upon the jungle: woodsmoke, veg-meat, and burnt coffee, along with the reek of powerful pesticides.

Their voices enveloped in the powerful thrum of whirling fan blades, a band of archaeologists from a number of Nabooan universities in cooperation with the Antiquities Institute sat drinking around an open fire, passing around an open bottle of Corellian brandy with a number of emptied bottles cast off around them. Looking to a short dark-haired man shouting some joke about careless graduate students, Dr. Lamenk’srey called out: “Dr. Stempara! We have some… special visitors here if you’re not too preoccupied. With luck, they might help with the dig site situation.”

“Special visitors?” Swiveling his head at the sound of a familiar voice, the man—Dr. Stempara—rose to his feet, brushing his hands off on his trousers with a huff. “How nice to see you, Dr. Lamenk’srey.”

With a sharp smile and a gleam in his eye, he approached the group, looking them up and down. “Some friends you’ve found there,” he said to the Twi’lek. “It’s not every day one sees Jedi at a dig site. Now, to whom do I have the pleasure of acquaintance today?”

“Yerin Kha.” Thankfully, Yerin had made a point to put her boots back on before visiting the camp so as to not meet them like a barefoot beggar. Donning a polite smile, the Togruta offered the archaeologist her hand to shake, taking care to match the firmness of his grip when his hand met hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Stempara. And this is my friend….” As her voice trailed off, she nodded to Quillow, leaving the Ithorian space to introduce himself as Dr. Stempara offered him his hand.

“I am called Quillow; this one is pleased to greet the Dr. Stempara—” the Ithorian replied in his strange melodic accent that was now tinged metallic as he spoke through the heavy lump of a translator strapped to his neck-hump, its thin silver implements stretching over both of his mouths on either side of his neck. The Jedi's green hood gracefully—and telekinetically—lowered as Quillow's four lanky fingers and thumb wrapped around the man's wrist and forearm like glossy vines. A squinch of his eyes and a nod of his head completed the friendly introduction, though his mouths and throats burned from the acrid taste of the defoliants. His gaze slowly drifted to Yerin, then to Dr. Lamenk'srey.

“My companion and I were accompanying the wonderful doctor that we might observe the development here. If there are issues, we would hear them,” he continued, turning once more to his Jedi colleague and nodding at her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” said Dr. Stempara.

“Quillow speaks rightly. Dr. Lamenk’srey mentioned an archaeological dig at the ruins of the Tower of Senlev, so we went to investigate. But before we arrived here, we met with the Onethi, who told us that the Tower is sacred to all the Bunumi,” Yerin said, tilting her head curiously. “Are you not concerned with how the locals may receive your effort to excavate the ruins of the Tower?” The faintest note of worry wavered in her voice, but she did what she could to smooth it flat.

Gently extricating his forearm from the slender fingers that twisted around it, Dr. Stempara nodded to both of the Jedi.

“Both of you may rest assured; I have already been familiarized with the situation, though I believe you may be… misled by the locals’ account, for which I do not blame them,” he said, his voice softened with sympathy. “It is simply a consequence of their lack of history. My team and I see no continuity between the people of Senlev and the Onethi—or any of the other Bunumi tribes, for that matter. The notion that the Bunumi are the heirs of Senlev is a mere legal fiction,” he added, punctuating his words with emphatic gestures. “Misconceptions aside, there is a problem with which you two might be able to help me. Have you any other Jedi friends?”

Quillow raised a finger and tapped at the right side of his neck. “And often are the consequences of anger more grievous than what caused it.”

The Ithorian left it at that, clearing his burning throats, the sound of which was alike to that of a sickly choir. He idly fiddled with the trinkets on his belt as he remembered what the elder had told them earlier— ‘Perhaps it is better for them to forget, then, if Stempara is truthful,’ he pondered. The archaeologist’s question hung in the air a moment as Quillow's thoughts briefly passed over Welck's datapad.

“Yes; three more of our compatriots are now there.” The Ithorian slowly twisted his torso and pointed at the square official's building. “There were more of us, but... we are committed to help where it is required.”

Wincing sympathetically at the sound of Quillow’s cough, Yerin opened her mouth to speak, but Dr. Stempara beat her to it. “Well, your help would be much appreciated!” he said.

“Now, all I need is for you two and your friends to just keep this between us, at least for a while.” As he leaned in toward them, Stempara’s gaze flicked upward to compensate for the disparity between his stature and his guests’, particularly Quillow’s. “You see, Edburn Gaff—Governor Prem’s aide—has… interests that are misaligned with the needs of the Republic and this planet’s locals both.”

“I see,” Taking a breath only to grimace at the stinging in her throat, Yerin tightened the edges of her smile in the hope that it would make her appear more neutral than she felt. Strong sentiments are unbecoming of a Jedi, she reminded herself, for they betray attachment. Yerin’s eyes began to water from the chemicals afloat in the air; she blinked in a vain attempt to see clearly again. Dr. Stempara is lucky to stand with his back to the wind. “How can you know that for certain, Doctor? If their interests are a high priority for you, have you spoken with the Bunumi about what they want?”

“I don’t have to!” With a wave of both his hands, the archaeologist continued, “Well, I don’t know so much of the language, but that’s beside the point. If they’re unsatisfied with the dig now, they’ll be even angrier to hear what Gaff has in store. All that greedy bastard wants here are the artifacts, and artifacts alone. For all I know, he and the Governor might try to sell them to some museum on Coruscant.” He wrinkled his nose, his lip curling with as much disgust as professionalism allowed.

“And that wouldn’t please anyone except Gaff and his superiors,” Yerin mused. “So you would like us to do something about the Governor’s aide? Should we speak with him too?”

“Just don’t let him get away with it. There’s so much more to this planet than just a few shiny artifacts. Indeed, Bunum has the promise to be the beginning of a rich relationship between the Republic and its subjects. The Bunumi in particular have much to offer the rest of the Republic, from what I’ve seen—we’ve got a lot to learn from their lifestyles so in sync with nature. And their primitive towns shall in turn benefit from the technology of the Republic and our scientific advancements. It’s a win-win.”

Quillow fought back the urge to roll his eyes skyward. Primitive. The Republic is nothing more than a common collective of tribes—they may understand technology better and live behind metal walls, but it is very much a tribal affinity that greases its machinations, like one great herdship, he thought, though he held his tongue. Dr. Stempara was correct about one thing, at least—learning from living in sync with nature. Perhaps if he applied the effort even he could realize that we're all already “subjects” under the Force. An understanding the Bunumi are much closer to; the healthiest tree does not eat its own roots. The Ithorian's thoughts trailed off to his home above Ithor. The philosophical sentiment was one of the first that young pupa are taught once their metamorphosis allowed them to understand speech. Of course, the clerics don't use the term ‘Force,’ but Quillow knew now what they truly meant.

The Ithorian glanced at Yerin and tented his fingers. “We will assuredly relay the issue to our other companions when next we meet.”

“Lifestyles … in sync with nature.” Dr. Stempara’s words brought to mind fields of tall red grass that waved in the hot summer wind and summer days beneath the shadows of mountain crags that had not yet been turned into enormous mines, the air clear and clean and sweet with the redolence of fruit. As a little girl on Shili, Yerin had felt the earth’s pulse nearly thrumming beneath her feet. Once, her father and her aunt had brought home an akul they had slain; she had watched them take care to use each part of the beast—teeth for jewelry, hides for shields and sandals, meat to keep for the winter, beads and broth from the bones. When the Republic had come to her village and asked them the price of a slain akul, they had laughed. The labor had begun and ended to sustain their village; the akuls were both slain in small numbers and preserved in greater ones so that the Togruta would continue to thrive in both the present and the future. How could one put a price on the indefinite sustenance of life itself? Transactions have a definite beginning and an end, she noted, but the life of a community is far longer; its needs stretch and grow and change indefinitely and in every direction. The Force runs in everything, too; if one puts a price on the fruits of the land, does one not put a price on the Force?

A hint of unease twisted in Yerin’s stomach as she contemplated Dr. Stempara’s words. The town of the Onethi hardly resembled Coruscant, but the Bunumi were no animals crawling around undisturbed jungle. They, like the Togrutas of Shili, had still shaped the worlds around them: aquaculture fields and houses with durasteel roofs were not born whole out of the wilderness. Shili is part of the Republic, too, but what lessons has the Republic learned from their way of life? What costs might the Bunumi pay that the Togrutas did not?

“Yes, and I am quite certain that the distinctly superior minds of educated and self-aware Republic academics will be more adept at discerning the way the Bunumi function in relation to nature than, ah, I don’t know, the people themselves,” Dr. Lamenk’srey replied dryly. She told a joke to Firanesh in his native tongue that made the Twi’lek laugh, but she gave little explanation to the Basic-speakers gathered there.

“Regardless,” she added with a scrutinizing eye, “I hope that your dig team is still in agreement with my wife and I that there is indeed continuity between the modern Bunumi and those dead peoples buried in their stupas beneath the Tower, despite Coppergrin Mining’s copious funding towards the Antiquities Institute.”

Dr. Lamenk’srey’s joke drew Yerin out of her ruminations. Though she didn’t recognize more than half of the Twi’leki words, she smiled. Yet the twitch of Dr. Stempara’s eye betrayed that he, however, was far less pleased. “We’ll see about that. Though I hate to disappoint you, Dr. Lamenk’srey, my dig team has found nothing that suggests such a continuity.” He looked past her to the Jedi. “Is there anything else you two need?”

Quillow pointedly steered the conversation away from what was causing disagreement, adopting a softer tone of voice: “I certainly would not want to assume, and perhaps you are the wrong person to ask, but might we speak to the miners here, should we wish?”

“I’m afraid I’m not the one in charge of all that,” Dr. Stempara answered, brushing dust off his hands. “But I’m glad to help you. Yara Bolmett is the Coppergrin miners’ foreman and their supervisor here on site; she’d be the one to ask.”

Quillow slowly lurched forward into a slight bow, “I thank you. There is nothing else I would know from you—” the Ithorian turned to his Togruta companion.

“Thank you, Dr. Stempara!” Yerin chimed, inclining her head politely. “Your insights were most helpful.”

Waving the two Jedi off, Dr. Stempara called, “Good luck with the Foreman! She can be a little surly. And don’t forget what I told you two.”


Yara Bolmett was a short walk away, sitting beside a miner whose leg had been crushed by the collapse of a mining tunnel and now lay moaning in pain. The foreman was a broad-shouldered woman with steely eyes, and though she dressed alike to the rest of the miners for Coppergrin, her arm was marked by a patch that denoted her position over the others.

“Can I help you?” she asked as soon as the Jedi came near, watching them without the usual awe and respect that followed Jedi as they moved through the galaxy. “If you’re just here on a tour, then I’m afraid this ain’t the most interesting part of camp.”

Quillow spoke first, after giving a quick bow: “This one greets she whom he believes is the foreman Yara Bolmett—I am called Quillow—a Jedi here observing the dealings of the Republic and the Bunumi. I would know if my companions and I may speak to other of your people—” Quillow caught himself almost using the word ‘herd.’ “—that is, the other miners here, about what they’ve seen or experienced, and perhaps offer any aid if need be.” His eyestalks shifted from the foreman to the injured miner.

Shadowing her eyes from the stinging air, Yerin offered the foreman a smile. “We wish to do what we can for you and yours,” she said, her gaze drifting over to the injured miner. She was no medic, but to her the leg looked unsalvageable.

“That ain’t much,” Bolmett replied. “Honest work is hard work in this part of the galaxy. These kinds of wounds are part of the job description.”

She rolled back her left pant-leg to show a gleaming cybernetic foot, the model nearly a century out of date from the looks of it, but functional and well-maintained as were many things in the farthest reaches of the known galaxy.

“Yeah, the work’s tough—but we’re built tougher. This is a good gig for the miners here, and I’m thankful—we’re all thankful—to have well-paying honest work on the right side of the law. The Republic’s cut ain’t much of a price to pay compared to that you’ll pay smuggling arms or dealing smashbulbs on the street—too many folks take on work like that only to get mercilessly gunned down by some Hutt lapdog or a Corellian beat cop. This kind of work lets us get by on our own without bowing down to some gangster overlord. So we’ve been doing good for ourselves. Some folks you talk to might complain, but between you and me, I think they just ain’t cut out for this kind of thing. Go on ahead and ask what other folks think, but… I think some folks wouldn’t know a good deal if it blasted them in the face.”

Yerin answered Bolmett with a single polite nod. A pensive hum escaped her lips as she contemplated the foreman’s words. Though the temple of Senlev is sacred to the Bunumi, it may be that the miners here rely on the Republic’s presence on Bunum for work that keeps them out of violence and destitution. Of course, the question of whether the deal was really as good as Bolmett had said remained; the Togruta knew that it could easily be in the foreman’s interest to overlook the dangers faced by the miners doing grunt work for Coppergrin.

“Thank you, Foreman Bolmett,” she said, scanning the nearby fires for any lone figures whose miens might suggest a willingness to talk. “I am glad to hear that the Republic provides such security here on Bunum to those who would otherwise resort to dangerous and illicit work to survive.”

Quillow blinked flatly. Life on a herdship was peaceful and structured—growing pupae were usually quickly assigned an area of work they showed an aptitude for; a calling, if you will. Coupled with a propensity to wholly exile those who wished not to participate in their society, Ithorians were afforded a peaceful culture, wherein citizens were provided for as much as they aided in providing. Quillow often forgot that other peoples and societies couldn't enforce such drastic measures—his time in training on Coruscant, where the possibility of banishment loomed in many an aspiring Padawan’s mind, only hampered his rapport in this regard further. Bolmett's statements left the Ithorian feeling humbled, and cemented in Quillow's mind the situation here on Bunum would only continue to spiderweb; but Welck was not here to help him parse his thoughts and feelings. A sorrowful chill and ethereal pull of his spirit tugged at him, an empty feeling that he wasn't sure he'd be able to fill. And should he try to fill it? Would the memories be lost, then, consumed by a desire for comfort? Welck and Quillow together sought to shoulder the burden of memory of those perhaps too weak or lacking—was he even fit anymore?

Quillow shook the thoughts away as Yerin answered, reattuning himself to the conversation in front of him, desperate to get his mind on something else. He glanced around at the numerous tents, and once more at the officials' building in the distance. He had a sense their other companions were close to finishing their meeting, had they not already.

“I would thank the Bolmett for being most forthwith, and for her good graces,” he croaked, tenting his fingers and bowing once again.

He glanced at Yerin, and back to the official's building, “Perhaps we might rejoin the others first, as they may wish to speak with some of the miners, as well.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Bolmett said as she turned her attention back to her wounded compatriots, tacitly signalling that she had no more to say to the Jedi.

Some forty meters behind Bolmett, a Duros miner waved a red cloth in the air as though to call the Jedi toward her. In her tent, few beside the two outsiders could see her—it seemed that she was calling for their attention specifically.

The ribbon of red caught the attention of the Ithorian, who tapped Yerin gently on the shoulder and pointed the signal out. Without another word, Quillow lumbered forth, leathery fingers pulling back the flaps of the tent as he entered, though his height and general awkward anatomy left little in the way of comfort or grace; these tents clearly weren't made for someone of his size. He resigned to growing comfortable with a stoop.

“This one greets you and would know what you wish?”

“My name is Gunni Simris and I need your help. Can you and your friends meet me later behind the fans?” the Duros whispered, her red eyes furtively glancing to and fro. “There are too many prying eyes here—but we desperately need any aid you can provide.”

Quillow joined her in taking suspicious glances at her mention, seeing she was suddenly cautious. Nothing caught his eyes, but he admitted he didn’t know what he was looking for in the first place. If this was to be clandestine, they’d better make this meeting quick.

“We could certainly meet you,” Quillow replied with a brisk nod, one foot already out of the door.

“Thank you,” Simris said, swallowing nervously as she considered her next words, settling upon them in a flash of recollection. Though no Jedi herself, she spoke them almost like a prayer: “May the Force be with you.”

When the Jedi rendezvoused with each other, they shared the knowledge that their separate exchanges with the camp's people had wrought: both Gaff’s elucidation upon his perspective of the Bunum-Republic conflict and his offer of medical aid in return for their cooperation on one side, Stempara’s clarification on the archaeological situation and Simris’ call for aid on the other. Heralded as esteemed guests of Viceroy Gaff, the Jedi and their two companions were provided an air-conditioned chamber within the sleek government building for their use as well as access to a private washroom, the first they had seen since their shuttle had crashed onto the planet’s surface. The room had been cleared out in a hurry and then hastily supplied with a number of fresh beds (initially one less than was needed until Dr. Lamenk’srey rectified the situation by making it abundantly clear that Firanesh was in fact staying with them) and metal floors scuffed by the edges of shelves and crates since-expelled in favor of their accommodations. The bedsheets were of a synthsilk richer by far than the material the party accompanying Dr. Lamenk’srey had seen upon the miners’ cots, its surface cool and sleek like that provided in higher-level Coruscanti hotels.

The heat of day had dissipated as night further enveloped the camp in darkness, the Jedi’s inner robes still tacky with sweat as they waited to meet yet more strangers in search of aid. Varman shirked from the rich synthsilks and air conditioning the Jedi had been provided, shunning these material comforts and desiring to head back as soon as possible, but both Dr. Lamenk’srey and Firanesh quickly urged him to reconsider. Night was no time for strangers to be going out, Firanesh had pointed out; the skillful feet of native Bunumi might lead them to safety, but one wrong step could easily spell anyone's doom—he regaled them with a story of how one of the earliest explorers post-contact had considered himself to be an expert on the planet’s fauna only to confuse a snarlworm for its tamer cousins and find himself digested in an excruciating bath of acid. When his companions found him, Firanesh said with a wry laugh, his companions could only recognize his body due to the armorweave underwear he had always worn for luck, its material being the only part of his garb or his body that had resisted the harsh acids of the snarlworm’s digestive tract. It was a lesson that Gaff’s people did not soon forget after their arrival either, remarked the Blackspur guard that the Republic's people had positioned outside their room. Three of the mercenaries had went out too far from the edge of the camp on their first night stationed in the jungle; when they were found three days later, their corpses could only be identified by the corroded husks of their armor.

So together the Jedi waited, lingering in the company of their guide and their translator as they considered their options as to how they might proceed once their friends and masters were buried. It was not long before the appointed hour came, the time when Quillow and Yerin led the way out of the building and the Jedi one-by-one abandoned the building under the pretense of becoming more familiar with the wildlife—what wildlife existed after the pesticidal bombardment of the camp, at least. The guard watched the Jedi as they left but did not follow them out, only speaking something into a comlink behind them as the esteemed guests of the viceroy made their way into the cool air of the Bunumi night.

The powerful thrum of vast fan blades swallowed any sound of the Jedi’s passage as they circumambulated the perimeter of the Republic camp until at last, aided by the alacrity that the Force provided, they slipped away from the sight of prying eyes. Simris stood alone at the camp’s edge, her back to the massive fans and a stout Ugnaught at her side who, though not consumed by the dark side of the Force, bore the tell-tale darkness of one who has killed before—not unlike the Blackspur mercenaries that guarded the Republic facilities. Both miners wore the same red cloth tucked into their belts. They were watchful for the passage of guards, clearly wary for a moment when the hot beam of a searchlight passed them by. The archaeologists that Quillow and Yerin had talked to had since gone to sleep with the rest of the camp, so now the Jedi stood alone, obscured behind the cacophony of the fans. From the distant marching of Blackspur feet they had heard around the camp’s perimeter and the bright glow of the rotating searchlight, it was clear that there were few sentient creatures other than the Jedi who could have the power to defy the will of the Republic within that ruined stretch of jungle.

Signalling wordlessly to the Jedi as they approached, Simris and her companion suddenly bolted across the field toward a vast rock away from the sight of the camp, dashing away until they were all well out of sight, disappearing further into the treeline until there was no possibility of their discovery.

As the two miners finally came to a stop, Simris called out to the Jedi: “Gunni Simris, if your friends didn’t tell you. The Ugnaught goes by Caix. I heard that you could help with our little situation?”

“And what would that situation be?” Yerin asked, canting her horned head. “I’m afraid that I don’t have all the details, but… I would be glad to help.” Perhaps it was rash, but to her there seemed to be no better course of action.

“You saw what was going on with your own two eyes, didn’t you?” Simris said, a fire in her belly as she begins to elucidate the situation. “The foreman’s right about two things: we get better pay than farmhands in the Hetzal system and we’re safer than smashbulb runners on Coruscant. This gig’s putting my little son through school back home too. But you see how the Governor’s people treat us, don’t you?

“We’re Republic citizens the same as you or them, and yet they treat us barely better than droids; they’d rather let us heal up the ‘natural’ way than cut into any of their oh-so-precious bacta supply. You saw how many of us are still wounded from that cave-in—just a little bit of the governor’s cash would go a long way. We’re the ones doing the work, after all, while good-for-nothing Gaff sits on his lazy ass waiting for the rest of us to finish up. If they helped us a little more on the injury front, or hell, if they paid us a little more… we could sleep a little easier at night knowing nobody’s gonna waste away when the sun comes up again. That’s what I want: a good night’s rest. And I know Gaff sure as hell ain’t going to give that to us without a little convincing.”

The Duros’s red eyes darted between the gathered Jedi, searching for any sign that she had stirred the Jedi’s hearts to action.

Quillow thought a moment, taking in a few slow lungfuls of crisp natural air. Even the short distance away from the camp was enough to help him think more clearly. The Ithorian's eyes narrowed as he gazed around at the black spears of a ruined jungle. Each had begun as a sprout and a sapling; looming vigils destroyed. Though better than inside the camp proper, Quillow was still very aware the tonic of wilderness here was sullied.

Quillow had never worked a day in his life if one were to use the societal definition of the notion—Ithorians simply did what nature permit and called them to do, and their leaders merely offered guidance and translation. Quillow felt as called to the Jedi purpose now as he ever had—the idea of 'work' was very foreign to him, as it was many Ithorians, and while being exposed to beings throughout the galaxy during his time as a Jedi served to help his understanding, he never fully empathized with people such as the miners. To do something purely for one's own ultimate survival, or for a beloved child or family—there is nature in that, but the Republic should be a safeguard against the tribalistic conclusion that can lead to. A smart beast doesn't abandon its cubs knowing they can grow strong—as the astute archaeologist had said, there's a lot one can learn from nature.

Quillow's eyes flicked to the Duros as he looked at him the same way he looked at the blackened trees abound.

“I too am displeased with this... governor. I would help you and yours, assuming we find a way past the mythical red tape of the Republic. Might you have had something specific in mind as to what we may do?”

Simris shook her head. “The most pressing thing right now is that they’ve been paying us in scrip as of this month. Bunum Bonds is the ridiculous name they have for it. The situation’s temporary, Gaff says, but it means we can’t send remittances home at the moment and that we gotta buy supplies at Coppergrin markup plus pay for medical treatment at a higher cost—it’s hurting a whole lot of us. I don’t think the company is nearly so low as to not pay us in Republic credits, but that’s the way of things at the moment. I just want to….

“Now, I don’t want to hurt nobody. But you all got the laser swords, if you catch my meaning. I’m sure Gaff could make a persuasive argument to Coppergrin bigshots if he had a little help. Or hell, empty his pockets and give us the credits himself.”

Calm, Delste heard Nikdoris’s words in her ear as she shuffled her weight from foot to foot; her fingers twitched for action. You must be calm. You must be harmonious. You are too quick to let your emotions stir your actions. You will never become a Jedi if you do not master this. Nonetheless, the words of warning appear to go unheeded as she scowled out towards the horizon. “I don’t see what it would hurt to press on Gaff just a little bit more. He hardly seems like he knows what these people are actually going through out here.”

“We cannot threaten a man so needlessly! We would become no more moral than the Hutts then, and as equally unaccountable in our abuse of power,” Varman firmly replied. “The Council would not condone it; neither would it be in accordance with the light side of the Force. I agree that we must seek to help the galaxy in whatever way we can, but… it cannot be in the manner in which you and your friend insinuate we should act.”

“Then why else do you peacekeepers of the galaxy carry around laser swords anyways?” Simris huffed.

“A Jedi’s weapon is for defense—” Varman began.

“Yeah, yeah. If you’d rather spitshine Gaff’s boots till they’re shinier than a chromium speeder, be my guest. I just thought your lot would help people—real people.”

“We serve the Force, Gunni, which means we are just as much under your employ as we are his—or any others’, for that matter,” Quillow retorted. “I agree that Gaff seems an incapable leader, and that threatening him would only serve to create painful memories.” The Ithorian took a few labored breaths in thought.

“But there must be a way to nonviolently achieve what you wish that could curtail any malice or intimidation—I share the Padawan’s sympathies that an otherwise ‘conventional’ means would involve not only too much paperwork, but time that would only foment your strife…” Quillow thumbed at the trinkets on his belt. Perhaps it is best we do as Gaff says for the time being, until an opportunity presents itself, he thought.

“Would there be a way to peacefully...or, well,” Yerin began, quickly correcting herself, “nonviolently incentivize Gaff to pay you all properly? If he’s paying you in credit, is there any money coming out of this enterprise at all? And I suppose one should ask where it is all going.”

“There’s money in it,” Caix cut in, his voice a low growl. “Or there will be at least—they bring all the sparstite we mine up into the Republic headquarters over there, keeping it till they can ship it off for processing. Coppergrin has deep pockets and Merano ones nearly as deep. It’s all greed if you ask me.”

Yerin couldn’t help her mind from wandering. Will the workers ever be paid at all?

“So we follow the money.” Sunao murmured from the back of the pack. Earlier in the conversation apprehension had gotten the best of the young Padawan. Talk of violence against the Republic had rendered him seemingly mute. But the suggestion from Yerin sparked an idea too bright to hide from. “Given how keen Gaff is to impose on the natives and what the miners say, then there’s a lot of money going somewhere. If we follow the trail, then surely we can bring some sort of evidence to the Republic. Any foul play will enable us to easily rectify the situation and if it’s simply Gaff chasing a promotion, then a case can be made regarding the cost of doing so.”

“Do you really think that the Republic can help?” Simris asked. Doubt colored her voice, but her manner spoke of an optimistic streak long-since buried. “Best news we’ve heard all day if that’s true.”

“If Coppergrin doesn’t have its friends in the Senate meddle with things,” Caix retorted, his eyes flitting across the horizon at the sign of distant movement. “They’ve made many folks rich across many planets. But… I’ll admit that we’ve never had Jedi on our side.”

“It may be rather hopeful to assume that the Republic can help, but… if anyone has the resources to avert any clandestine business—if there is any—it would be the Republic,” Yerin mused. “I think Sunao is on to something. We can look at what evidence there is of where the money is going and see where that leads us. Between yourselves and us Jedi, we may not know much, but we could figure out what’s going on if we keep open minds.”

Delste stretched out her shoulders, quick to drop her harmonious facade as an impatient jittering overtook her, from shifting feet to a wayward glance to the other Padawans. An eager gleam sat in her eyes. “I like this idea,” she hummed, though ever mindful to not let her voice waver with the thought of seeing Gaff taken down a step or two. “I think it has promise. We should start with the sparstite,” she insisted. “Or, at least, I will, if anyone would want to come with me.”

“As long as we do not stir up too much conflict between us,” Varman interjected, his gaze flitting appraisingly to Delste. “It is a good idea, but one that rests on our care not to disturb the gentle peace here.”

Sunao’s brows furrowed as he drew a figure of eight in the dirt with his foot. They were both right, the trail was right there in front of them just waiting to be followed. But, on the other hand, this place was a powder keg, moments away from blowing. The group would have to tread lightly.

“Perhaps we play ball with Gaff then?” he put forth, “Or at least appear to. Then having us around won’t raise too much suspicion while we look for the truth.” The Padawan combed back his hair with a hand, hoping to relieve some of his anxiety. “I’d like to get the full story from the natives on these contracts regardless, it was strange to me that there weren’t existing copies in the Republic outpost. Everything about this feels… wrong.”

Delste’s upper lip twitched at the thought, but she ceased her pacing to give mind to Sunao’s words. “It feels wrong to me as well,” she agreed, letting her feet settle at last. “I would rather we speak with the natives, first,” The Padawan insisted. “It is not urgent to me that we speak with Gaff again. I think that he has made his stance clear.”

“Then let’s head back in the morning,” Varman said after a long moment of deliberation. “And we’ll get to the center of this then.”