Chapter 43: Rising Malevolence
The Jedi Temple refectory was one of the few places Ahsoka could actually hear herself think, provided Anakin wasn’t nearby recounting his latest “reckless but effective” maneuver. Today, however, the silence was being occupied by the unsettling sight of Maris Brood’s sleeves.
Maris was sitting across the table, picking at a bowl of nutrient-rich mush with an expression of profound boredom, but her robes were twitching. Not a subtle, Force-sensitive ripple, but a distinct, muscular lurching near her left elbow.
“Maris, your arm is moving,” Ahsoka said, setting her spoon down and narrowing her eyes at the pale Zabarak. “And unless you’ve developed a very localized muscle spasm, something is living in your clothes.”
“Don’t be dramatic, ‘Soka. It’s just nature,” Maris replied, her voice dripping with that signature dry apathy. She didn’t even look up as a small, slimy green head poked out from her cuff, followed by a pair of bulbous eyes that blinked slowly at the midday sun streaming through the windows.
“Is that a swamp frog?” Ahsoka recoiled slightly, her montrals twitching in shared disgust. “Why do you have a swamp frog in the refectory? Actually, why do you have a swamp frog on your person at all?!”
“I was testing a theory,” Maris said, finally looking up as the frog fully committed to its escape, hopping onto the table with a wet thwack and immediately making a move for Ahsoka’s water glass.
Good for it. She’s suddenly lost her appetite, anyways.
“I read that some ancient masters used the Force to get animals to sing in chorus.” Maris explained. “I wanted to see if I could get a quartet going. But then I realized it’s much more satisfying to just watch Master Yoda lose his mind. He’s been stalking the gardens for three days looking for these guys. He thinks he’s going senile—or that the Temple is being haunted by hungry spirits.”
“That is literally gaslighting a Grandmaster,” Ahsoka hissed, though she couldn’t quite suppress the mental image of Yoda waving his cane at an empty lily pad. “You’re going to get us all assigned to scrub the fuel vents for a month. And besides, isn’t he known for... eating those?”
“Exactly,” Maris smirked, leaning back and crossing her arms as the frog successfully vaulted into a neighboring tray of fruit. “Think of it as a Jedi-mandated diet. I’m helping him reach enlightenment through fasting. No judgment, though. We’re all carnivores here. Well, except for the ones who pretend that moss-paste tastes like bantha steak.”
“It does.” Ahsoka insisted, for the millionth time.
“It does not.” Maris denied, for the one-millionth and one time.
The sliding doors of the refectory hissed open, stopping the argument before it could begin, as a very disheveled Ben Kryze stumbled in. He looked like he’d been dragged through a spice mine and then left to dry in a trash compactor.
His hair was a mess, his tunic was stained with something neon pink, and he carried a faint, unmistakable scent of damp earth and sulfur.
“Toydaria?” Ahsoka asked, waving a hand in front of her nose as he collapsed into the seat next to her. “You smell like a bog, Ben.”
“Toydaria,” Ben groaned, burying his face in his hands for a second before looking up with bleary eyes. “Negotiations, explosions, and a Grandmaster who spent the entire return trip asking me if I knew where the ‘green snacks’ went. I think he’s onto you, Maris. He looked at my boots like he expected a ribbiting sound to come from them.”
“He’s just paranoid,” Maris said, reaching out to reclaim her frog before it could colonize the next table. “How was the mission? Did you save the day with a well-timed pun, or did you actually have to use that over designed letter opener on your belt?”
“Little of both,” Ben muttered, grabbing a roll from Ahsoka’s tray and taking a massive bite. Jerk.
She won’t be warning him about the frog being there.
“Ventress showed up.” Ben said, between bites. “She’s getting faster. And she’s definitely suspicious. She made some comment about my ‘shadow’—I’m pretty sure she’s figured out you and I are a set, Maris. We’re going to have to be more careful with the... you know... other stuff.”
Ahsoka watched them, feeling that familiar, slight tug of exclusion. Ben and Maris had a shorthand that felt miles deep, a shared history of “other stuff” that they navigated with the precision of veteran spies. She opened her mouth to ask what Ventress had specifically said, but the words died in her throat.
The air in the refectory suddenly turned frigid.
It wasn’t the climate control; it was a sudden, violent tear in the Force that made Ahsoka’s vision swim with static. She gripped the edge of the table, her breath catching as a wave of cold, hollow silence washed over her.
It felt like a thousand voices had just been extinguished at once, leaving behind a jagged, bleeding hole in the galaxy. And… more than that. There was someone else. A presence. He was in danger.
“Ahsoka?” Ben was on his feet instantly, his hand hovering near his belt, his fatigue replaced by a sharp, lethal focus. “What is it?”
“Something... something terrible,” Ahsoka whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at nothing. “I think… I think Master Plo is in danger... I need to go. I need to tell someone!”
The frog hopped off the table and vanished into the shadows, but nobody noticed. The playful bickering of the afternoon had vanished, replaced by a suffocating dread that Ahsoka knew all too well.
The war hadn’t just escalated; it had just taken something precious, and the Force was screaming for them to move. And Ahsoka’s never been one to turn a deaf ear to the Force.
…
The corridors of the Jedi Temple were usually a place of meditative quiet, but Ahsoka was currently sprinting through them with enough urgency to knock a hovering training remote out of the air. The cold spike in the Force hadn’t faded; it had settled into a dull, throbbing ache at the back of her skull. Master Plo was alive—she could feel his presence, faint and flickering like a candle in a gale—but he was drowning in shadows.
She reached Anakin’s quarters and didn’t bother with the chime, palming the door override with a frantic sweep of her hand. The doors hissed open, and Ahsoka skidded into the room, her montrals twitching with anxiety.
“Master! We have to go, Master Plo is in trouble, he’s—”
Ahsoka stopped dead. Anakin was sitting on the edge of his cot, leaning over a flickering blue holoprojector. He didn’t look like a hero of the Republic; he looked like a lovestruck initiate who’d been caught with a forbidden stash of candy. The miniature figure of Padmé Amidala was shimmering in the air, her voice a soft, melodic murmur that Ahsoka definitely wasn’t supposed to be hearing.
“No, you hang up first,” Anakin whispered, a goofy, lopsided grin plastered on his face.
“Anakin, be serious,” Padmé’s holo replied, though she sounded just as hopelessly smitten. “I have a Senate hearing in twenty minutes.”
“Just one more minute,” Anakin pleaded, his thumb stroking the edge of the projector. “I miss you, Senator. It’s hard to stay focused on droid movements when I’m thinking about—”
“Master!” Ahsoka shouted, finally snapping out of her stunned silence.
Anakin practically levitated off the bed, fumbling with the holoprojector and nearly dropping it on the floor before the image vanished with a sharp zip. He spun around, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled a Sith’s lightsaber, and started smoothing out his robes with exaggerated care.
“Ahsoka! Snips! What... what are you doing here? Did no one ever teach you about the concept of a door chime?” Anakin asked, his voice an octave higher than usual as he tried to regain some semblance of Jedi dignity.
“I’ve been yelling for two minutes!” Ahsoka threw her hands up, her frustration boiling over. “Master Plo’s fleet has been attacked. I can feel him, Anakin. He’s in danger, and he’s losing time. We have to take the Resolute and go looking for him now.”
Anakin let out a long, heavy sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Ahsoka, Master Plo is a member of the High Council. If his fleet was in trouble, we’d have a priority alert from the Temple. You’re just... you’re experiencing pre-mission jitters. We’re deploying to that sector in a few days anyway. We’ll look into it then.”
“A few days?” Ahsoka felt like she was talking to a wall. “He’ll be dead in a few days! I felt the disturbance. It was huge, Master. Something tore through those ships.”
“The Force can be tricky, Snips,” Anakin said, his tone softening but remaining infuriatingly dismissive. “Sometimes we sense what we fear, not what’s happening. Go back to your friends, get some rest. That’s an order.”
Ahsoka stared at him, her chest tight with a mix of disbelief and pure, unadulterated rage. He was actually going back to his desk, probably to call Padmé back the second she left. She turned on her heel and stormed out, the doors hissing shut behind her with a sound that perfectly matched her mood.
She found Ben and Maris waiting in the hallway near the hangar access. Maris was leaning against a support pillar, tossing her frog casually from one hand to the other, while Ben looked like he was vibrating with a different kind of energy—a dark, focused intensity that he usually kept hidden behind his “confused Padawan” mask.
“He won’t go,” Ahsoka growled, pacing in a tight circle. “He thinks I’m imagining things. He’s too busy playing ‘no, you hang up’ with his girlfriend to realize a Jedi Master is currently drifting in a pod waiting to be executed!”
Maris caught the frog and tucked it back into her sleeve. “Typical. Men are either trying to kill you or ignoring you because they’re obsessed with someone who wears too much hairspray. Tell me again why we’re the ones in trouble for stealing frogs?”
Ben didn’t laugh. He was staring at the floor, his brow furrowed. “Abregado. That’s where they were. It’s the Malevolence, Ahsoka. A heavy cruiser with an ion cannon. It doesn’t just damage ships; it shuts them down and leaves the crews to die in the dark. If we wait for the Council to authorize a search-and-rescue mission, they’ll spend twelve hours debating the budget before they even warm up a shuttle.”
Ahsoka stopped pacing, her eyes widening. “Wait, how do you know about an ion cannon? And why that specific ship?”
“I... I have my sources,” Ben said, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative tone that Ahsoka had heard a few times before—usually right before things exploded. “The point is, Master Plo doesn’t have twelve hours. He probably doesn’t even have three. If we’re going to save him, we have to do it ourselves.”
“You want to steal a ship?” Ahsoka asked, a slow, reckless grin starting to spread across her face. “Again?”
“I’d prefer the term ‘civilian requisition’,” Ben said, looking toward the hangar where the long-range scout ships were docked. “Maris, we need you to handle the paperwork. Obi-Wan’s got you doing filing anyway, right? Just... make us disappear from the logs for a few hours.”
“Oh, great,” Maris sighed, though her eyes were sparking with a dark humor. “You two get to go play hero in a debris field, and I get to stay here and organize Obi-Wan’s collection of ‘Mandalorian Cultural Nuances’. I hate you both. But fine. I’ll make sure the hangar droids ‘forget’ you ever walked in here.”
Ben looked at Ahsoka, his expression turning grim. “If we do this, we’re going to find a warship that can shut down our entire ship with one pulse. We find Plo, we get out. No heroics, no facing it head-on. Understood?”
“Understood,” Ahsoka said, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Let’s go not be heroes.”
…
Stealing a ship from the Jedi Temple is surprisingly easy if you’ve already spent half your life leading a double life as a Sith Lord. It’s all about confidence and knowing exactly which sensors Maris has already turned into expensive paperweights.
We moved through the hangar with the practiced casualness of people who definitely weren’t about to commit several counts of grand theft starship. Beside me, C-3PO was doing that frantic, jerky shuffle-walk that indicated his internal processors were currently screaming in Binary.
“Master Ben, I feel it is my duty as a protocol droid to remind you that unauthorized ‘borrowing’ of a consular-class vessel is a direct violation of—”
“Threepio, if you say ‘bylaw’ one more time, I’m going to let Maris take you apart and turn you into a very shiny coffee percolator,” I muttered, not slowing my pace. “No offense.”
“Oh! Well, in that case, I shall focus my efforts on calculating the probability of our immediate court-martial,” Threepio squeaked, his golden head swiveling nervously.
Ahead of us, the sleek, silver-and-red scout ship sat on its landing pad, looking far too pristine for the beating I knew we were about to give it. Two clone guards stood at the base of the ramp, their armor gleaming under the hangar lights. They weren’t Rook, fortunately, but they were alert.
“Leave this to me,” Ahsoka whispered, her eyes dancing with a mischievous light that made me realize Anakin’s ‘influence’ was a two-edged sword. “Watch and learn, Ben.”
We didn’t just walk up; we glided. As we reached the guards, Ahsoka and I shared a look. I reached out, not with the crushing grip of Darth Sol, but with the gentle, persuasive nudge I’d practiced during the more tedious Temple meditations.
“You know,” Ahsoka said, her voice smooth and melodic, “it’s really impressive how sharp your armor looks today. You’ve clearly put a lot of work into that finish.”
I caught the eye of the guard on the right, waving my hand in a subtle, rhythmic arc. “In fact, you should tell your brother exactly what you admire about his dedication to duty. It’s important to foster a positive work environment.”
The guard on the left blinked, his helmet tilting slightly as the Force suggestion took root. “You’re right. CT-4421, I’ve always appreciated the way you calibrate your blaster sights. It shows real professionalism.”
“And I,” the other guard replied, his voice sounding dazed but genuinely touched, “have always admired your ability to stand perfectly still for four hours. It’s... it’s inspiring, really.”
As they began a heartfelt exchange of professional compliments, we slipped past them and up the ramp. I could hear them in the background discussing the aesthetic merits of their respective boot-polishing techniques. It was wholesome, effective, and infinitely better than hitting them with a stick.
“I can’t believe that worked,” I said as we entered the cockpit.
“The Jedi way isn’t all just lifting rocks, Ben,” Ahsoka teased, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat.
Maris’s voice crackled over my private comm-link, sounding like she was currently chewing on a particularly sour piece of candy. “I’m in the system. Your flight plan is logged as a ‘routine sensor calibration’ over the industrial sector. You have ten minutes before the automated checks realize that specific scout ship shouldn’t be calibrating anything. And just so you know, I’m currently filing a three-hundred-page report on the socio-political implications of Mandalorian hairbraiding. If you die out there, I’m coming to the Netherworld to haunt you for leaving me with this.”
“Love you too, Maris,” I said, flipping the engine ignition switches. The ship hummed to life, a low vibration that traveled up through my boots. “Navigation, give me the Abregado system.”
“The Force is guiding you there?” Ahsoka asked, watching me punch in the coordinates with a speed that definitely didn’t suggest I had the entire star chart of the Malevolence’s path memorized.
“Something like that,” I said, leaning back as the hangar doors began to cycle open. “Call it a very specific, very loud hunch. Threepio, strap in. We’re going to see a man about a pod.”
“Oh dear,” Threepio moaned, his metallic joints clanking as he lowered himself into a jump seat. “I have a terrible feeling that ‘sensor calibration’ is a gross understatement of our intended itinerary.”
I didn’t argue. I just shoved the throttles forward and felt the kick of the engines as we cleared the Temple spire and shot toward the upper atmosphere. Behind us, Coruscant was a glowing jewel of civilization; ahead of us was a graveyard waiting to happen. I just hoped my butterfly effect hadn’t made the Malevolence even bigger than I remembered. That would be just my luck.
…
Hyperspace was usually the only time I felt like I could actually breathe, but even the swirling blue tunnel of the lightspeed dimension felt like it was closing in on me today. I sat across from Ahsoka in the Twilight’s cramped hold, the flickering light of a Sabacc pot sitting between us on a makeshift crate.
It was supposed to be a distraction, a way to pass the hours until we hit Abregado, but my mind was a million light-years ahead of the cards in my hand.
I was playing a high-stakes game where the deck was stacked, the dealer was a genocidal Sith Lord, and I was the only one who knew the rules were being rewritten in real-time. Every choice I made—saving the clones early, stealing the Darksaber, helping Toydaria—was a stone thrown into a pond.
The ripples were becoming waves. And now, I was rushing toward the Malevolence, a ship that shouldn’t even be a threat for another year in the original timeline. The butterfly effect wasn’t just a theory; it was a hungry beast, and I was running out of bait.
“You’re doing it again,” Ahsoka said, snapping a card down onto the crate. “That thing where your eyes go dark and you look like you’re calculating the end of the galaxy. You’re supposed to be a Padawan, Ben. You act like you’ve lived through three wars already.”
“Just thinking about the odds, Snips,” I said, forcing a grin that felt a little too tight. “And how much trouble we’re in if Master Plo isn’t where I... the Force... thinks he is.”
“The odds of our survival are currently dropping by three percent every minute we remain in this illicitly acquired vessel!” C-3PO wailed from the corner, his golden hands wringing together. “If the Jedi Council doesn’t deactivate us, I am certain the Republic military will! I was not manufactured for a life of high-seas piracy!”
A sudden, sharp series of binary chirps and whistles erupted from the shadows behind a stack of power cells. It was loud, indignant, and ended with a raspberry sound that could only be described as “aggressively disrespectful.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin, my hand instinctively twitching toward the lightsaber at my hip. Ahsoka let out a startled yelp, her hand flying to her own hilt as a small, white-and-blue astromech trundled out into the light.
“Artoo?!” Ahsoka gasped, her montrals twitching in shock. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, goodness me!” Threepio cried, looking equally stunned. “R2-D2! You were supposed to be in the hangar bay for pre-flight diagnostics!”
Artoo let out a long, rambling whistle that sounded suspiciously like a lecture. Threepio puffed out his metallic chest, sounding offended. “I shall certainly not translate that! Such language is entirely unbecoming of a droid of your station! To suggest that we are ‘unorganized amateurs who couldn’t find our own exhaust ports’ is quite uncalled for!”
I stared at the little droid, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. We hadn’t just ‘borrowed’ a random scout ship. This was the Twilight. Anakin’s personal junker. And R2-D2 was the most stubborn, observant, and occasionally homicidal witness in the entire Grand Army of the Republic.
“Great,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “He’s a witness. I’m going to have to erase his memory, just like I did with Threepio’s way back when.”
Threepio froze, his glowing yellow eyes flickering. “I beg your pardon? Erase my memory? Master Ben, whatever do you mean? I have no record of my memory being wiped!”
I mean. Why would you? That would defeat the point.
Probably shouldn’t say that, though…
“What?” I said, widening my eyes and adopting my best ‘innocent initiate’ expression. “I didn’t say anything. You must be glitching, Threepio. Probably all the hyperspace static.”
Artoo didn’t buy it for a second.
His dome spun around three hundred and sixty degrees, and before I could even finish my sentence, a small manipulator arm snapped out. A stun prod hissed with blue electricity, sparking dangerously close to my kneecap. He let out a defiant, screeching whistle that translated perfectly as Try it, kid, and see what happens.
“Artoo, stop!” Ahsoka scrambled off her seat, putting herself between me and the very angry trash can. “He’s joking! Ben, tell him you’re joking!”
“Totally joking!” I said, holding my hands up. “I love memories! Memories are great! Artoo, pal, listen. We’re on a mission. Master Plo Koon is in trouble. We didn’t have time for the Council to debate it. We need you to keep this quiet. If Anakin finds out, we’re toast, but Master Plo will be dead. You want to save a Jedi Master, don’t you?”
Artoo retracted the stun prod, letting out a series of low, contemplative boops. He looked at Ahsoka, then back at me, then at the Sabacc pot. Finally, he gave a short, sharp whistle of agreement, followed by a long, drawn-out raspberry directed at Threepio.
“He says he will cooperate,” Threepio sniffed, “but only because he finds your ‘reckless incompetence’ entertaining to watch. And he also suggests that your Sabacc strategy is ‘laughable for a sentient being’.”
“Thanks, Artoo. Real pal,” I sighed, leaning back against the cold metal bulkhead.
The ship shuddered, the low hum of the hyperdrive shifting into a high-pitched whine as the navigation computer began the reversion sequence. The blue tunnel outside the viewport started to fracture, the stars stretching back into points of light.
“Here we go,” Ahsoka whispered, her playfulness vanishing instantly. She moved to the cockpit, her hand hovering over the sublight throttles.
We dropped into real-space, and for a heartbeat, the silence was absolute. Then, the sensors started screaming.
The Abregado system wasn’t empty. It was a graveyard. Fragments of Republic cruisers drifted through the void, their hulls torn open like tinned fish. Escaping atmosphere was freezing into ice crystals that glittered in the light of the distant sun, and the Force felt like a bruised, aching void.
But looming over the wreckage, dwarfing the debris, was a shadow that felt cold enough to stop my heart. The Malevolence. It was a jagged, predatory cathedral of a ship, its massive ion cannons glowing with a faint, malevolent purple energy.
“That’s not a cruiser,” Ahsoka whispered, her face pale in the light of the console. “That’s a nightmare.”
I stared at the readout, my stomach dropping into my boots. It was bigger. The butterfly effect had indeed fed the beast. I had meta-knowledge, a Jedi Master to save, and a stolen ship with a sassy astromech, but as I looked at the sheer scale of the Separatist weapon, I couldn’t help but feel that I’d finally gambled more than I could afford to lose.
“Artoo,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Check the short-range scanners. Look for life pods. We need to find Master Plo before that thing decides we’re part of the debris.”
The little droid didn’t even whistle this time. He just got to work, the frantic clicking of his processors the only sound in the cockpit as we drifted into the heart of the slaughter. We were definitely out of our depth.
…
The Twilight didn’t just feel like a junker; it handled like one, vibrating with a teeth-rattling intensity as I wove us through a field of jagged hull plating and frozen coolant. It was like flying through a blender filled with the remains of a fleet.
Every sensor on the console was flashing amber, struggling to distinguish between “space rock” and “dead cruiser,” but the massive shape of the Malevolence stayed looming in the distance like a predator watching its food settle.
“Scanners are picking up movement,” Ahsoka said, her voice tight as she leaned into the viewport. “Small signatures. Vulture droids. They’re circling the debris, Ben. But they’re not just patrolling.”
I watched a trio of the spindly droids dive toward a glinting metallic sphere near a shattered engine block. I knew exactly what they were doing. Grevious didn’t like survivors; survivors talked about ion cannons and secret weapons.
“Hey, ‘Soka, what are the odds those guys are going after the escape pods?” I asked, banking the ship hard to port to avoid a drifting Venator wing.
“You told me to never tell you the odds,” Ahsoka replied, echoing my own lecture back at me with a nervous twitch of her montrals.
“No, I told Threepio to never tell me the odds. You totally can. I’m actually asking,” I said, my hands tightening on the yolk.
“Umm... they probably are, then,” Ahsoka muttered, her face going grim as she gripped the turret controls. “I sense life. It’s faint, but it’s there. Master Plo is in one of those pods.”
“Right. At least it makes finding them easier. Follow the vultures, find the Jedi,” I said, shoving the throttles forward.
The Twilight screamed in protest as I pushed the engines into the red. We burst through a cloud of superfine shrapnel, coming up right on the tail of the Vulture droids. They scattered like startled insects, their mechanical chirping filling our comms before they flipped around to engage.
I wasn’t just Ben the Padawan right now. I was the pilot who had spent months running blockade simulations in the Katana fleet. I’m not exactly a Skywalker-skilled pilot, but those guys were overhyped, anyways. They crash more often than they land.
I threw the ship into a violent barrel roll, the stars and the debris spinning in a dizzying blur. Red blaster fire laced the vacuum around us, but I felt the Force flowing through my fingertips, turning the clumsy freighter into an extension of my own body.
“I can’t get a lock!” Ahsoka yelled as the ship jerked under a near-miss. “They’re too fast!”
“I’ve got them. Just keep the shields up,” I said, my teeth bared.
One Vulture droid broke off, diving straight for a battered escape pod that was spinning helplessly in the void. It opened its claw-like wings, the red glow of its cannons priming for a point-blank execution. I couldn’t reach it with the Twilight’s guns in time—not without hitting the pod.
I reached out, not with my hands, but with that cold, precise core of my will that I usually kept buried under layers of Jedi “restraint.” I didn’t just push. I visualized the droid’s central thruster assembly. I pictured the fuel lines, the delicate cooling veins, and I squeezed.
In the silent vacuum, the Vulture droid’s rear engine didn’t explode; it simply crumpled inward, the metal groaning and snapping like a crushed soda can. The droid spun out of control, its sensors flickering to black as it slammed into a piece of floating durasteel and vanished in a silent fireball.
To Ahsoka, it probably looked like a freak engine failure or a lucky shot from the debris. To me, it felt like the dark, satisfying click of a lock falling into place.
“Did you see that? It just... stopped!” Ahsoka breathed, already maneuvering the tractor beam.
I… probably shouldn’t admit that was me. No need to advocate the Dark Side to the Lightest Girl that ever there was.
“Lucky us. Target the pod, ‘Soka! Get them in here before the big guy notices we’re more than just space junk,” I shouted, bringing the Twilight to a shuddering halt alongside the sphere.
The docking seal hissed, a heavy, mechanical thud echoing through the floorboards as the pod locked into our airlock. I didn’t wait for the cycle to finish before I was out of the pilot’s seat and heading for the hold. Artoo was already there, beeping frantically, while Threepio stood as far back as possible, convinced we were about to be boarded by space pirates.
The inner hatch slid open with a puff of recycled air. Master Plo Koon stepped out first, his tall, imposing frame draped in the tattered remains of his Jedi robes. His antioxidation mask hissed rhythmically, and his dark, hidden eyes immediately swept the room.
Behind him, two clones—Wolffe and Sinker—stumbled out, their armor scorched and their breathing heavy. Wolffe had his DC-17s drawn, his gaze darting around the Twilight’s messy interior with professional paranoia.
“Master Plo!” Ahsoka cried, rushing forward.
“Little Soka,” Plo Koon said, his voice deep and calm despite the fact that he’d just been minutes away from becoming stardust. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, but his gaze shifted almost immediately to me.
He stood there, silent for a long moment, the Force around him feeling like a calm, observant ocean. He looked at the ship, then at Artoo, and then back at me. There was a weight to his stare that made me wonder if he’d sensed that “lucky” engine failure out in the debris.
“A timely arrival, Padawan Kryze,” Plo said, his voice carrying that unnerving Kel Dor resonance. “And a very... unconventional choice of transport. I was under the impression that Skywalker was quite protective of this vessel.”
“He is, sir. Extremely,” I said, trying to look like a humble savior rather than a thief who’d just committed a war crime against his own master. “But we felt you were in danger. The Council... well, we didn’t want to wait for the paperwork.”
Wolffe lowered his pistols, though he still looked like he wanted to check my ID. “You flew through that debris field in this? Sir, with all due respect, you’re either the best pilot in the Outer Rim or you’re completely insane.”
“I get that a lot,” I muttered, looking toward the cockpit as the Malevolence began to turn its massive prow toward us. “But we can talk about my mental health later. Right now, we really need to leave before that giant ion-cannon-on-wheels decides we’re the next thing on the menu.”
Plo Koon nodded, his hand tightening on his lightsaber hilt. “Agreed. But make no mistake, young one. We have much to discuss once we are safe. The Force moves strangely around you today.”
“It’s been a long week, Master,” I said, already turning back to the cockpit. I could feel his suspicion like a cold draft on the back of my neck. Saving a Council member was great, but keeping my secrets from one was going to be a lot harder.
…
The Twilight groaned as I punched the sublight engines, dragging our stolen prize and its high-ranking cargo away from the Malevolence’s sensor range. My hands were still shaking slightly on the flight yoke. It wasn’t just the dogfight; it was the lingering cold of the Force-crush I’d used on that Vulture droid. It felt like a stain I couldn’t quite rub off my skin while Master Plo Koon was sitting five feet behind me.
“Scanners are clear,” Ahsoka said, her voice sounding small in the sudden quiet of the cockpit. “The big ship... it’s moving off. I don’t think they even realized we were there. They probably thought the debris just took out the pods.”
“Or they didn’t think one tiny, falling-apart freighter was worth the battery power,” I muttered.
I looked out the viewport, and for a second, I thought I was hallucinating. The stars didn’t just stay as points of light; they began to ripple. Three massive, beautiful, terrifyingly familiar shapes tore through the veil of hyperspace, their triangular hulls gleaming with the red livery of the Republic. The Resolute was in the lead, flanked by two other Venators.
“Oh, thank the Maker!” C-3PO chirped, his optical sensors glowing bright. “It’s the fleet! We’re saved! And subsequently, we are also doomed!”
“Shut it, Threepio,” I said, though I couldn’t help the sink in my stomach as the comms console began to scream with a priority override.
I hit the button, and two life-sized holos flickered to life on the bridge. On the left, Anakin Skywalker looked like he was about to personally fly through the transmission and strangle me. On the right, my father—Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi—looked far worse. He looked calm. That terrifying, polite, disappointed calm that usually preceded a lecture that lasted three days.
“Padawan Kryze,” Obi-Wan said, his voice as smooth and sharp as a vibroblade. “I see you’ve found a new hobby. Grand theft, interstellar trespassing, and—if my sensors are correct—kidnapping a member of the High Council?”
“Technically, it was a rescue, Master,” I said, trying to stand a little taller despite the fact that I was currently covered in droid oil and regret. “Master Plo is safe. He’s right here.”
Plo Koon stepped into the holo’s range, his presence immediately cooling the room. “Indeed, Obi-Wan. Had it not been for the initiative of these two, I would be one with the Force. Young Ben’s piloting was... exemplary.”
Anakin’s eyes narrowed, his gaze darting around the Twilight’s cockpit. “Exemplary or not, that’s my ship, Snips! And my droid! Artoo, what have I told you about running away with strangers?”
Artoo let out a series of defiant, high-pitched whistles that basically told Anakin he was being a drama queen.
“He says he was protecting the asset, Master,” Ahsoka lied through her teeth, her face a mask of Jedi innocence. “He knew we needed the most reliable ship in the fleet.”
Anakin huffed, his anger losing its edge as his ego was successfully stroked. “Well. He’s not wrong about that. But you’re still in trouble. Both of you.”
“A discussion for when you are back on the Resolute,” Obi-Wan intercepted, his eyes lingering on me with a weight that made me wonder if he was seeing the Satine in my jawline or the Kenobi in my stubbornness. “Prepare for docking. And Ben? Do try not to break anything else on your way in. My heart can only take so much ‘initiative’ for one week.”
The holos vanished. I slumped back into the pilot’s seat, letting out a breath I’d been holding since Coruscant. Behind me, I heard the clones, Wolffe and Sinker, sharing a quiet laugh.
“You’re a piece of work, kid,” Wolffe said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Most Jedi wait until they’re at least Knights before they start giving the Council heart attacks.”
“I like to get a head start,” I said, watching the Resolute’s hangar bay doors grow larger in the viewport.
We’d saved the Master. We’d survived the weapon. But as we drifted toward the docking bay, I could feel the timeline tightening around me. The Malevolence was out there, the war was getting louder, and I was running out of places to hide.
“Hey, Ben?” Ahsoka said softly, looking at the massive fleet surrounding us. “We did good, right?”
“Yeah, Snips,” I said, leaning my head against the cold glass. “We did great. Just don’t ask me to do it again tomorrow.”
I knew I was lying. Tomorrow was probably going to be even worse. But for now, the hum of the ship was enough. Even if it was a ship I was definitely going to have to pay for in paperwork.