The Fallen Star (Star Wars: The High Republic)

by Claudia Gray

It helped Bell, knowing that he wouldn’t have to take additional lives. What had to be done, had to be done—but the pain he felt over the tragedy of Loden Greatstorm remained sharp. It could’ve pushed him in dangerous directions. Instead he was satisfied with their capture, no more. You taught me well, Master, Bell thought to the memory of the man that he carried within his mind.

Stellan Gios was among those Jedi who perceived the Force as the entire firmament of stars in the sky. Points of brilliant heat and energy, seemingly distanced from one another by infinite absence and cold—but actually profoundly connected. Families, friends, tribes, organizations: Each formed a different constellation, carving shape and meaning from the sky. (Were not he, Avar Kriss, and Elzar Mann such a constellation? Stellan had always thought so, even in childhood.) The Force shone forth from them all, illuminating the vast dark; if Stellan but had the ability to perceive every living being, it would have the same effect as being able to see every star in the universe at once: total, pure, all-encompassing light.

“Right. It’s the perfect time for everybody. But it doesn’t hurt that this is when the chancellor happened to be free.” “Such is the state of politics,” Stellan said. In truth, it was good of Chancellor Soh to have made the time to attend, even holographically. The flickering images next to him on the dais saw her sitting comfortably in an informal chair, her enormous targons lying on either side of her, dozing in the contentment of beasts. Stellan’s eyes met Lina Soh’s, briefly—each sharply conscious of the memories of the Republic Fair. The image of Stellan lifting her unconscious body from the rubble had already become iconic: both of the evil of the Nihil, and of the resilience of the Republic. Thus the two of them were in a strange way bound together in the public eye; in the same way, Stellan had become the Jedi, the symbol of the Order. “If we’re a constellation,” Elzar Mann had said, before leaving for his retreat, “the Council has made you the polestar.” Stellan would’ve liked to disagree, but he couldn’t.

Being a Jedi was a sacred duty—but the light demanded more than obedience and sacrifice. Sometimes a Jedi had to be open to the simple, pure experience of joy.

I have begun drawing upon the dark side for my strength in the Force. Elzar had not turned; nor did he feel he was close to turning. This was not a way of life for him—he still believed all the good and true lessons he had learned from Yoda as a youngling, then as a Padawan from his wise Master Roland Quarry. But anger was unavoidable. Fear was unavoidable. Extreme circumstances created extreme emotions. Denying them served no purpose. Why not use them? Many weeks of meditation later, Elzar still felt those questions were valid. However, he’d also come to realize that every Sith Lord in history had probably asked the exact same questions until the darkness held them completely in its grip. Where do you draw the line? Elzar asked himself. You don’t know. You can’t know. And that’s why you can’t travel down that path at all.

Padawans often fooled around together on the sly; adolescence, a phase in virtually every sentient species, demanded its due. Instructors and Masters pretended not to notice as long as nobody went too far. When relationships formed, reprimands were rare. Instead a Master would promptly take her apprentice away on a long-term mission far from any Jedi temple. By the time a reunion could take place, both younger people had generally grown up, gained perspective, and moved on. Elzar and Avar hadn’t had to be torn apart. They’d been reasonable. Responsible. They’d known what they were doing and what the limitations had to be. So Elzar had believed. But even though he had grown up and gained perspective, it appeared he couldn’t move on. How much of my confusion and anger is rooted in my feelings for Avar? So he had asked himself as he meditated on his knees, sometimes for hours at a stretch. How much energy do I waste, trying to reconcile that which can never be reconciled? There, at least, the barriers stood strong. While Elzar felt—no, knew—that Avar still had feelings for him as well, he also knew that she would never break her vow. So why did this trouble him so? Finally, he realized: It wasn’t the lack of answers that weighed on him. It was the refusal to even ask the questions.

If a full Jedi Knight had been asking questions like this, Bell might’ve been too intimidated to speak openly. Grief wasn’t an emotion the Jedi were meant to dwell upon. But Burryaga was a fellow apprentice. Sure, he was significantly older, but still, in Wookiee terms, just past adolescence. They were peers. It was possible to admit things to a peer that could never be comfortably said to a Master. “From the moment I became Loden Greatstorm’s Padawan, he was more than just my teacher.” Bell paced slowly along the observation deck walkway, staring at the stars and the half circle of Eiram’s surface below. “He was the ultimate ideal of a Jedi. At least, he was to me.” Burryaga agreed. Loden Greatstorm had been among the noblest, most outstanding Jedi Masters of his generation. (Burryaga, aging as a Wookiee did, could assess several human generations with ease.) His death was a loss to the entire Order—but, he gently added, to Bell most of all. “I thought he was dead, but he wasn’t. Master Loden was alive, in Nihil captivity, suffering—so terribly—” Bell’s voice caught. He swallowed hard. “And it wasn’t like I didn’t sense him! But I told myself it was grief. They told me it was just grief, or a sense of him through his new communion with the Force. Instead it was him calling for help that never came. I could have saved him. I didn’t.” Burryaga stopped him there with a low growl. There was no way to know what Bell might or might not have been able to do, or even what the Ord...

Reach out. Elzar’s awareness through the Force emanated beyond this one small ship, expanding like a bubble throughout the system, until it seemed to him that he could sense the life within each Nihil ship like a pinprick of heat within the vast, cold emptiness of space. His breathing slowed along with his perception of time. Elzar traced the path of each Nihil vessel until he could almost see them moving in his mind, their courses like red trails—stretching into both past and future.

A Jedi shouldn’t feel too much grief, for too long. Master Loden had become one with the Force. To grieve too long was to deny that transcendent truth. But to not grieve at all—that was impossible. Bell didn’t think Loden Greatstorm would have asked that of him. He would’ve understood. I’m not letting him down by missing him, Bell thought, and then the tears were even closer than before.

So thinks every Master with their first Padawan, Master Yoda had told her, back when she’d initially announced her intention to teach. Certainty, we have not. An individual, each apprentice is. Learn, you must, how to train each one in turn. No two will ever be alike.

But Indeera was no stranger to the ways of the Force. She knew what it was like to sense danger coming ahead. This was different. This was…slow, creeping dread, coming from a direction Indeera could not identify, somehow outside of the Force itself… There is no such place, she told herself. The Force is everywhere. Yet at the moment, Indeera did not entirely believe it.

Darkness will ever be a part of me, he reminded himself. It will ever be a part of every Jedi, of every living thing. To acknowledge the darkness is to know the darkness. To know the darkness is to begin to control it.

“I’m not threatened. And we’re meant to follow the path the Order and the Force show us.” Orla shook her head. “That’s where we differ. You still think the Jedi Order and the Force are the same thing.” She rose to her feet and put one hand on his. “I wouldn’t say any of this if I didn’t think the world of you, Stellan. As opposite as we are—I respect you and everything you’ve done, more than you can know. But I think you’re in danger of disappearing into that spotlight. Someday, when this present crisis has ended—maybe take a little time for yourself.” “No, we don’t see things the same way.” Stellan managed to smile back at her, but stiffly. “I hope you know that I respect you, too.” “Of course you do,” Orla said airily as she sauntered out of the room. “How could you not?”

Master Indeera continued, “Our first duty, however, is not to protect ourselves. It is to protect those who have sought help and refuge aboard this station.” “Of course, Master.” Bell couldn’t resist adding, “But if we don’t take care of ourselves—then who will take care of them?” Inwardly he winced, waiting for a reprimand.

“To put it simply, Bell, you must always be willing to lose me, if it is necessary to do what we ought. I must be willing to lose you. We must be willing to sacrifice ourselves, and each other, for the greater good.” “Yes, Master.” Then, to his astonishment, she winked. “Just don’t sacrifice me before it’s strictly necessary, okay?” Bell smiled back at her. “I promise.”

Indeera pivoted on her heel and ran back the way she’d come, intent on tracking Regald down. What was happening to him? She was suddenly, sharply afraid for him, more afraid than she’d ever been even for her own life. Her boots pounded against the floor as she turned this way, then that, seeking the path she’d seen Regald take earlier. This seemed to be the right direction… Her steps slowed. Indeera swayed as she went, until finally she stumbled and had to catch herself against the nearest wall. She couldn’t see Regald, though she knew he could only be a few meters ahead of her. Why was it so dark here? The lights were on, but it was as though—as though she couldn’t take in the light— Indeera’s eyes opened wider as the floor began to melt. As the walls shifted color and shape. She knew she was hallucinating, but knowing did no good; reality was nowhere to be found. This phantasmagoria surrounded her, entrapped her, took away everything that was true and good. The floor slapped her across her cheek, kicked her shoulder, shoved her hip. Indeera pawed feebly at her side for her lightsaber, but she couldn’t close her hand around it, and what good would it do besides? There was no enemy to fight. There was no place to stand. There was no Force to guide her. It was gone, gone, gone forever, and she had not known it was possible to feel so frightened, so alone. Tears welled in Indeera’s eyes, blurring everything around her until she could see no more.

In Elzar’s mind, a memory flashed: Regald laughing over breakfast that very morning, making light of the tasks ahead of them, refusing to give way to the darkness shadowing them all. Only hours later, the darkness had swallowed Regald whole.

The Pau’an team leader nodded. “None of them have noticed that what we’re wearing is any different from what they usually see.” Nan couldn’t resist a small smile as she thought of the high-and-mighty Jedi being brought down by something as simple as this: the revelation that they didn’t look very carefully at those who did menial tasks for them.

He imagined Orla Jareni raising an eyebrow. Indeed, he knew exactly what she’d say if she were here: Why are you comparing yourself with a fiction constructed by the media of the Republic? You’re doing the best you can at this time. No one can ask more. So loosen up already. If she’d actually been present to speak the words, he might even have been able to believe her. Stellan had the sudden, irrational thought, I am being punished for my pride. For thinking I knew better than Avar Kriss, that I alone knew the right course of action to take against the Nihil, for Starlight— But was it his pride that had created this falseness? Or had the Republic and the Jedi fashioned it, then draped the mantle over his shoulders? It didn’t matter, Stellan realized. The point was recognizing it for what it was. Not comparing himself with something he’d never been and could never be. But without that—who was he?

During their time on Ledalau, Orla had told Elzar that guarding against darkness was about more than simply avoiding an excess of fear or anger. Negative emotions might be overwhelming at times, but it was easy to name them for what they were. The real danger, she had said, lies in those emotions that seem positive at first, but take too great a hold over our minds and hearts. Give way to those feelings, embrace them, and before you know it, they’ve been twisted into something else far more damaging.

Above the stack were grayish-white puffs of breath—far too large to represent the breath of anything humanoid. This was something else. Doesn’t mean it’s the cause of the trouble, she told herself. It could just be a lost Trandoshan, something like that. Still, terror spiked through her, threatening to hold her fast. Orla forced herself to begin walking forward, but each step became more difficult than the last—as though she were trying to walk through frigid water that came up to her calves, then her thighs, then her chest. Instead of the weightlessness that came with being in water, though, she felt infinitely heavier. Like the waves she’d commanded Elzar to face on Ledalau—but worse, darker, higher, stronger, threatening to toss her aside and crush her on the nearest rocks— It knows I’m coming, she thought. And then—without knowing where the knowledge came from—It’s hungry. Not for her flesh, Orla knew. For something much worse. She tried to reach out with her feelings, but it was impossible. She couldn’t remember how, couldn’t regain her focus, couldn’t think at all. Her eyes remained fixed on the far end of the corridor, and she saw motion—but without shape. Or, rather, with a thousand shapes all at once, writhing and vanishing and reappearing and roiling ever closer, and she couldn’t even run. It’s melting, she thought as the shapes poured downward all around her, falling and falling and falling without end. The station is melting. Or the galaxy. Or—or— Nothing made ...

“Doesn’t seem so inexplicable to me,” said Leox Gyasi as he led Stellan inside the Vessel. “You’re Republic. You’re Jedi. Where you guys come from, if you’re told something doesn’t work? Yeah, it probably doesn’t work. Out here on the margins, we don’t trust anything we haven’t personally verified. We ask more questions. And when you ask more questions, you get more answers.” “That makes sense.” Which it did, on one level. But Stellan couldn’t absolve himself so easily. His blindness had cost the station valuable time—and could make the difference between salvation and destruction for all aboard.

Her voice trailed off, no doubt because she was having the same realization Stellan had just reached: “The Nihil attacks weren’t scattered,” he said, sitting up straighter. “They weren’t random. Chespea and Banchii were targeted because it takes several hyperspace jumps to get from here to either planet. This wasn’t a few stragglers lashing out in any direction—it was a coordinated attack.” Leox Gyasi, standing nearby, drew himself upright, registering the terrible news, too. His expression matched Rosason’s tone as she answered, “They didn’t detonate the device aboard Starlight until they knew both the Jedi and the Republic had scattered their forces.” “So much for Lourna Dee being the Eye of the Nihil.” Had Stellan learned this a few days earlier, it would’ve felt like a point scored against Avar Kriss. The power play between them seemed so petty now, so small. Why had he let their disagreement become personal, on any level? It mattered so little compared with the real danger that had descended upon them both. “The Nihil’s true leader is still out there, somewhere.”

“This is what hope is. It isn’t pretending that nothing will go wrong if only we try hard enough. It’s looking squarely at all the obstacles in the way—knowing the limits of our own power, and the possibility of failure—and moving ahead anyway. That is how we must proceed. With hope.”

“Never thought I’d wish for anyone of the Nihil to make some mistakes,” Nan answered, “but here we are.” On one level, she was almost ashamed of that feeling. This was a great triumph for the Nihil—perhaps their greatest ever—and proof beyond any doubt of Marchion Ro’s brilliance and power. Yet the Nihil encouraged ruthlessness in the pursuit of one’s goals, and what goal could be more vital than staying alive? Nan wasn’t betraying her former self—the part of her that still, within, remained Nihil—by looking out for her own skin.

She still wants to believe in Marchion Ro so fiercely, Chancey thought as the two of them continued the search for escape pods. She may have even convinced herself that she does believe. But a doubter could also see the doubt in others, even when they couldn’t see it for themselves. Chancey had used the Nihil for her own purposes, the same way she was using the Grafs, but she hadn’t needed to believe in some charismatic leader or any higher, greater purpose in a very long time. It was a much more efficient way to live, and a lot less disappointing.

If you ignored news broadcasts and weren’t monitoring the skies for any particular reason, Starlight had appeared as no more than one bright spot among thousands in the firmament. However, by this point, the only thing you had to do to realize there was trouble was to live on the southeastern continent and to look up. It was late at night there, but those few who were awake had begun to rouse others. They pointed up at a sky thick with stars—two of which were growing larger and brighter by the moment. One of them had begun to glow a terrible shade of red. It’s burning, said some. It can’t, said others. It’s the symbol of the Republic. It’s the best technology the whole galaxy has to offer. It can’t have been taken down so easily. But they said it less often as the sky brightened with the approaching dawn, and they could better see the blaze that was beginning to streak across the sky.

“Elzar,” Stellan said. His voice cracked with the effort of speaking. “It came after me.” “…what came after you?” “Whatever it is. It’s hungry. It’s so hungry. And it’s not done with us—not even close—” “The Drengir?” Which made no sense—if the Drengir had returned, they’d know—but the species’ rampant appetite for sentient flesh couldn’t help but come to mind. “No. Worse. So—so much worse.” Tears welled in Stellan’s eyes. “And I keep hearing it—shrii ka rai, ka rai—over and over—” The station was on the brink of apocalypse and Stellan’s mind was clouded with nursery rhymes? What had happened to him? What could’ve done this to a Jedi as strong and proud as Stellan Gios? Swiftly, Elzar ushered him into the quartermaster’s office, both to rest and to avoid his being seen by any of the stranded pilots. If they saw the head of Starlight Beacon at the point of collapse, the result would surely be panic. The people out there thought their biggest problem was the impending crash of the station. Even moments before, Elzar would have agreed with them. Now, however, he suspected the crash wasn’t nearly as dangerous as whatever else stalked the corridors of this station.

Bell didn’t need any special empathy through the Force to understand the anguish Burryaga felt. He’d been there himself when Loden Greatstorm was lost. Burryaga remained bent over the ashes that were the sole remains of Master Nib. His yowls of grief had quieted but not ended; he showed no signs of wanting to get up again. Regald Coll. Orla Jareni. Now Nib Assek. Three Jedi, each one more powerful than a couple of apprentices. If this thing finds us, how long can we possibly hope to hold out against it? At least Master Indeera had survived. If she recovered, she might be able to tell them what they were up against. But that wasn’t the only reason Bell wanted to return to the medical tower. At this time more than ever before, he felt the need to protect her. He wanted the comfort of Ember’s presence. He wanted to be back in a place with other people, where the problems he faced were known and tangible.

It was as though sentients had learned, at some point in their technological development, that droids had to be kept in their place or the consequences would be dire. Droid pilots and crew were usually only used by criminals. By smugglers. By the very lowest of the low. How could Marchion Ro stoop to this? “How do you like my new crew?” he said. At times it was as though he could read her thoughts. Ghirra knew better than to answer. “I’ve never seen droids like these before. Where—where did you get them?” “There are certain merchants who deal in forbidden cargo, as I’m sure you’re aware.” “Your crew—why did you—” “No more backstabbing,” Marchion said. “No more plots and intrigues in the back corridors. No more ambitious Tempest Runners bribing and coaxing my underlings for information, leading them into sedition. From this day, the Gaze Electric is wholly, completely, unalterably under my control alone.”

Elzar sank into a seat, staring at the nightmare vision before him. Starlight Beacon was burning. The top half of the station arced through Eiram’s atmosphere like a meteor, leaving behind a long trail of glowing, incinerating debris. By this point the structure was shaking so violently it could be seen even from this great distance, and there was no way it could hold together much longer. Already parts of it were ablaze. Elzar could feel those people’s pain almost as though it were his own—and those who were Jedi were even more vivid to him than the rest, stabbing into his awareness like red-hot knives. The temple spire. The Hub. The beacon itself. They were all immolating. Avar, please, please don’t be there, he thought. They’d already had readings suggesting the Ataraxia had made its escape, but Elzar couldn’t help worrying. It was wrong to wish for one person’s survival more than any other’s—a sign of “attachment”—but at the moment Elzar didn’t give a damn. Somewhere in the heart of all that pain, he sensed an incredible power of will—someone exerting the kind of effort through the Force that could very nearly drain one’s own life. Elzar didn’t know who it was, but he knew that this act of heroism was saving lives every second it could be sustained. And then it snapped. Starlight Beacon’s upper half fell apart entirely in a burst of flame. The spire twisted violently as it turned into a plume of sparks and ash. Then Elzar spotted the glowing egglike shape that had to h...

Elzar took a deep breath. “They tried using the Force to hold the station together, to slow its descent. But it didn’t work.” “Then they need our assistance—” “No,” Elzar said. “Not that we have any assistance to give. But they’re past that now. I’m sorry, Stellan—the top half of Starlight Beacon has been destroyed, along with all aboard.” Estala Maru. Every Republic staffer. Every civilian aboard. So many other Jedi—every single one of them, gone, and the Republic humbled—no, humiliated by the Nihil. It was a failure so complete, so appalling, that Stellan could scarcely comprehend it. The symbol of the Jedi. Their public pride and joy. Under my watch, Starlight was destroyed. Elzar cocked his head. “Stellan? Can you hear me?” Of course Stellan could, but he couldn’t react to it. Couldn’t act at all. Whatever evil lurked aboard this station had stolen more than the Force. It had stolen his pride, his will, his tongue. If only it could steal his pain.

Avar Kriss stood on Eiram’s surface, soot and grit marring her clothes, blinking against the bright sunlight. The dark streaks that marked the incineration of the last fragments of the station—of Maru, and of so many others—were already dissipating into the atmosphere. As gruesome as they were to witness, Avar could hardly bear the fact that they were vanishing. Soon there would be no trace left of those people, that station, the hopes of the entire Republic.

“Without the Force,” Stellan said, still gazing into a vague distance. “This is where you’ve been. Where I am now.” “You’re not fully cut off from the Force.” Elzar didn’t know exactly what was plaguing the Jedi on Starlight Beacon, but he refused to believe they could be severed from the Force entirely. The Force was too vast for that; its power was eternal and universal, and would always be. “It’s just more difficult for you to call upon right now.” “And this is what you chose for yourself, in order to turn away from darkness.” Stellan’s face creased in a small, sad smile. “I wouldn’t have had the courage.” Elzar couldn’t have heard that correctly. “What?” “I’ve never asked myself who I would be without my control of the Force. Without the Jedi Order to structure and define my life.” “Because you’re a great Jedi, one of the greatest of us all,” Elzar said. “Stellan, surely you don’t doubt that?” Stellan shrugged, his gaze still looked far past Elzar, past this room. “Greatness can mean a lot of different things. I’ve always believed it meant—duty, honor, selflessness. But how can you be selfless if you’ve never defined yourself? Because I never have, Elzar. I’ve lived as the Jedi exemplar—poured myself into a mold shaped by others. Take away my ability to use the Force, and I find myself left as…as a man I hardly know.” Elzar put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Stellan. You’re hurting. This isn’t the time to question your entire existence—” “It’s exactly the time.”...

“Skip it.” Elzar took a deep breath. “Every strength has a corresponding weakness. For us, our strength in the Force gives us confidence in our decisions…but then we grow too accustomed to leaning on it.”

The idea of that stung Nan even worse than her fear of death. Her life was her own; she would not owe it to the Jedi. To be indebted to them would be a kind of living death, one Nan did not intend to endure. Better to perish in flame, gloriously free to the end. Then it hit her—the reality of dying by fire, the agonizing pain of it—

Burryaga, still struggling within the rathtar’s grip, had at least managed to get his neck free. He roared to Elzar not to worry about him; the people in the cargo bay needed to escape. “Stop being noble!” Elzar had little patience with this kind of thing. “I need you to help me with the cargo bay doors!” But Burryaga growled that Elzar could do it. He was strong enough. He was inventive enough. If any Jedi on this station could do it alone, it would be Elzar Mann. He also wanted Elzar to tell Bell goodbye. “Burryaga, no!” But Elzar could see that the two rathtars, now working together, were slithering farther and farther overhead, beyond Elzar’s reach. If he exerted through the Force with everything he had left, maybe he could catch them… …and afterward, Elzar would have no remaining strength to open the doors. Elzar swore under his breath. Tears stung his eyes, but he refused to break down. He could only honor the Wookiee’s sacrifice. Their job was to save the people in this bay, and that meant letting Burryaga go.

But the same shielding that was so necessary for this moment was antithetical to the Jedi ideal of openness, awareness, connectedness. Wearing the suit caused a mental block only, but Elzar knew such blocks could be as impenetrable as any physical barrier. It’s not just the suit, Elzar thought. It’s believing that I deserve to fully connect to the Force again, after allowing myself to use its dark side. He’d begun reopening himself to that power in order to help Stellan, but this would require more. Orla Jareni’s voice spoke in his head again: Trust yourself, stupid. Elzar took a deep breath, strapped on his safety harness, and closed his eyes. In his mind, he once again stood on the surface of Ledalau, looking out at the broad expanse of the ocean. In his ears, he heard the tide. You always imagined the Force as the ocean, Orla had said. But the ocean isn’t a power we get to control. It’s a power we can partner with. First you have to decide: Are you going to keep fighting something too infinitely vast to be fought? Or are you going to study its currents and set sail?

Elzar realized that he was drawing some of his power from these people, something a Jedi would normally never do. In this moment, however, he knew the rightness of it. Each one of these individuals would have given every shred of strength, would have fought with ultimate will, if it meant the chance between life and death. Their strength and their will flowed into Elzar, and— —he felt the doors, but not their heaviness, they were mere objects, and their size mattered not— —Open, he thought. OPEN. A slash of light split the bay in two. Powerful suction clutched him, yanking him forward until the straps of Elzar’s harness seemed as though they would cut through his chest. His feet left the floor. He barely noticed. More important were the ships in the bay, all of which were struggling against the suction’s power at full engine strength. Elzar’s eyes widened as he saw the doors slowly, slowly sliding apart to reveal Eiram below. The planet was bathed in sunlight that streamed in, filling the bay. Just a little more, just a little more— He glimpsed dark shapes overhead, being sucked through the gap at such speed they were unidentifiable. Were they smaller ships? Rathtars? The thought that one might be Burryaga pierced Elzar’s heart, but he remained focused. Finally, when the gap was wide enough, the first ships began to dart through. One by one by one, they took off, bursting into outer space and to safety. I did this for you, Orla, he thought. And for you, Burryaga, Nib, Rega...

“I can’t put him through. I’m afraid—I’m sorry, Bell. We have lost Burryaga.” Bell stared down at the comlink, as though that could somehow change the words he’d heard. “You mean…Burryaga’s dead?” “Believed dead,” Stellan replied. “Apparently he gave his life protecting Elzar Mann from the rathtars, so that the ships from the cargo bay could escape in time.” Believed dead. That meant they didn’t have a body. After what had happened to Loden Greatstorm, Bell would never give up on anyone who was missing again.

More ships continued to arrive, spacecraft from all over. Nobody was cataloging them, not even droids. Which was why one particular ship could dart into the system unheralded and unnoticed, but still get close enough for a wonderful view of Starlight’s end. The Gaze Electric. All the rest would spread the tale among the Nihil until it was another of Ro’s legends—the greatest yet. But not the greatest ever, he thought. That is yet to come.

Seen from outside, what remained of Starlight Beacon looked even more broken and doomed than Bell would’ve expected—and he’d expected it to be bad. But his eyes widened as he took in the full horror: the bent, broken metal beams jabbing upward from the ugly break, the few standing walls from the break level that revealed where rooms—and people—had been, the forbidding darkness of a station largely illuminated only by emergency lights, so that it glowed sickly orange in the dark. Worst of all, the curve of Eiram’s surface had come to cover almost the entire horizon, and Bell could feel the subtle resistance of the first traces of planetary atmosphere. They had so little time.

Was there no end to the evil they created? Were they completely without pity, mercy, common decency? A thousand images flashed in Elzar’s mind in an instant: the chaos created by the Hyperspace Disaster. Valo. The terrible fate of Loden Greatstorm. Stellan’s pale, haggard face. The wounded ships drifting through space, dark and dead as the beings that had been within them. The lightning bolt. Their pride, their arrogance, their greed— He could bear it no more. He would bear it no more. No more. Elzar leapt into the room, igniting his lightsaber mid-flip, until he landed directly in front of the woman who stood deep in the workings of the positional thrusters. Her large eyes widened, and already she was going for a weapon, ready and willing to kill him if that was the only way she got to kill others— Before she could reach it, Elzar swung his lightsaber, the blade splitting her in two. Instantly she fell, dead.

Nan clung to the nearest metal strut, staring at the sight of Chancey Yarrow dead on the floor—both halves of her—and the murderous Jedi Knight who stood over the corpse. Surely Nan would be the next to fall, and she intended to give the Jedi some hell before she went. But the Jedi just kept staring down at Chancey like an idiot. Like he hadn’t meant to do what he had unquestionably just done. “Why?” Nan said. “You’re Nihil,” replied the dark-haired Jedi. His voice sounded hollow. Did he even believe his own words? “You did this to Starlight.” “Us? We’d left the Nihil months before you even captured us.” “Then how—how could—” “The Nihil sent a saboteur team, three completely different people—who, by the way, we took out of commission.” Nan gestured at Werrera’s body lying on the floor. “We were prisoners here, remember? We didn’t find out about this in advance any more than you did!” This was all true, more or less. Nan hoped the Jedi wouldn’t hear all the things she’d carefully left out. He couldn’t stop staring at Chancey as he said, “You—you killed the Nihil who bombed this station? Why?” “Because we were trying to save the station and our skins with it! Not to mention yours!” The Jedi turned toward the controls that Chancey had been working on only moments before. “Right. The positional thrusters—it looks like she—like she’d already managed to repair the—” A red light began flashing as a metallic, synthesized voice intoned, “Station below thruster operating level. Repe...

Seconds before, Elzar Mann had been a Jedi, a hero, a man on a mission to save lives. Now he stood there a murderer. He looked down at the bisected corpse lying near his feet and thought he might be sick. “Evacuate immediately,” the computer voice repeated, over and over. “Warning. Collision imminent.” Elzar knew he had to move. The others needed his help. Still, even glancing away from the dead body of the woman he had just murdered felt like a desecration. All the work he’d done with Orla Jareni on Ledalau. All his good intentions. All the progress he’d arrogantly believed he’d made. Every bit of it had vanished in one spark of rage. That was all it had taken to tear down Elzar Mann. Then, as sharply as though she were still alive, Orla’s voice sounded in his head: What if you took a break from your self-pity and did something productive for a change? “Forgive me,” Elzar said to the dead woman on the floor. Then he steeled himself to do everything he still could.

He was fighting with his strength now, with his will. He was fighting without the Force—not as a Jedi, but as a man. And yet Stellan felt if he had done this before—if he had asked himself what that would mean, for him—it would’ve made a better Jedi of him. This is the first time I have acted with no thought for the Order, he realized. This is the first thing I have ever done only as myself, only because I knew it to be right.

Chancellor Lina Soh watched not the holo itself—she had already seen more of Starlight’s demise than she could bear—but the people observing it, the way they clung to one another and wept. They felt this loss as keenly as she did. Truly, she thought, we are all the Republic—and never more so than in this moment of shared tragedy. Sorrows could bind people even more closely together. The natural bloodlust for revenge that would follow: That could be shaped, tamed, turned into common purpose. That would be Chancellor Soh’s task in the days to come. For the moment, however, she, the most influential being in the galaxy, remained utterly powerless.

He brightened as he saw a familiar droid rolling up to them. “Forfive!” Elzar called. “About time. Where’s Stellan?” JJ-5145, for once, sounded solemn. “Master Stellan remained at the thruster controls to ensure that the station did not hit the coastal city of Barraza.” Elzar’s mind went numb. It was Avar who said, “No. Please, no.” “He ordered me to take the final escape pod from Starlight,” JJ-5145 reported. “He said that I was his gift to you, Master Elzar. And he wished for me to bring you this.” A panel on JJ-5145’s chest slid open, revealing Stellan’s lightsaber. “He knew,” Elzar whispered as he took the lightsaber in hand, holding it reverently. “Stellan would never have given up his lightsaber if he hadn’t known—” “He’s gone,” Avar said, with the searching look that told Elzar she’d been searching the song of the Force for Stellan’s note, and that she hadn’t found it. She never would again. “Stellan Gios is dead.”

“I wanted to say…I’m sorry about Burryaga. You two were friends, weren’t you?” “We still are.” When Elzar gave him a questioning look, Bell continued, “I assumed—we all assumed that Master Loden was lost when really he was being held captive by the Nihil. If I’d kept the faith—if I’d insisted on looking for him—we’d have spared him a great deal of suffering, and we’d probably have saved his life. So I’m not giving up on anyone else like that, ever again. That starts with Burryaga.”

The light blinked brightly, and Ro began. “Our entire galaxy has watched Starlight Beacon splinter, crash, and burn. By now most understand that the Nihil are responsible. Until this hour, however, very few have understood who is responsible for the Nihil. In other words—it’s high time I introduced myself. I am Marchion Ro. I am the Eye of the Storm. I am the Eye of the Nihil.” He paused. Those watching in groups might well be exclaiming, talking among themselves, awestruck and horrified. Ro did not intend for their dismay to drown out his words. “Much was made of the idea that Starlight Beacon was a symbol of hope,” he continued. “But there is no hope in this part of the galaxy. There is only despair. There is only the Nihil. It was the Nihil who created the Great Hyperspace Disaster—and we can do so again. It was the Nihil who attacked the Republic Fair at Valo and left your high and mighty chancellor bleeding at our feet. And today it is the Nihil who have burned Starlight from the sky. The Republic can’t protect you. The Jedi can’t protect you. We have proved they can’t even protect themselves. We go where we want. We strike where we want. Our will is the only authority in this part of the galaxy, and the only one there ever will be.”