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| - Spectre stretched his muscles and began a series of light calisthenics and exercises designed to limber his body and ready it for a long demanding day of strenuous physical activity. He had spent two long, agonizingly boring weeks in the med center being patched up and he was eager to get back to the field. If he couldn’t be on Coruscant helping mop up the last droids on the urban planet, he could at the very least get back to work. Another purpose for his exercises was to locate and determine any new stiff muscles or tender areas that hadn’t fully recovered. Working through the motions, he found that his left hamstring muscle was still a bit stiff and that he had a nice new collection of scar tissue on one deltoid. Stretching, he winced as his muscles protested the activity after two weeks of lying inert. Finishing up, he quickly showered and ate a bland but energizing meal of field rations. Satisfied with his personal performance, he donned his freshly patched armor and reported to his superior, a clone commander whose number was CC-3433 but who went more commonly by Trip among his fellow officers. “Alpha-28 reporting for duty, sir.” “Good to have you back, Captain, and good work on taking out that column.” “Thank you sir.” “Are you recovered?” “Yessir. 110 percent.” “All right. I’ve got a new assignment waiting that could use your special loving ARC touch.” Spectre chuckled at Trip’s statement. ARCs weren’t standard line infantry any more than a Hutt was a biped. “In an effort to try and free up some more troops for the front line, we’ve been recruiting locals to aid us. Trouble is, most of them have no experience to speak of, and their idea of combat is pointing a blaster and pulling a trigger. I know it’s dull, but they could use a few good weeks of training. I’m assigning you to be the head drillmaster for the locals.” “Yes, sir. How many are there, sir?” “Not too many—about two hundred give or take. All the instructions have been delivered to your datapad.” “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” Spectre saluted and, dismissed, went to seek his recruits. He found them at a small cleared-off field, garbed in basic armor typical of security forces or militia and wielding an eclectic mix of Republic-issued weapons and less common blaster variants. Most were human, grizzled, and obviously civilians. There was little order to their ranks, but a few clones were having ten at a time practice at shooting targets fifty or so meters off. After a quick conference with the other clone troopers, Spectre spoke up. “All right, listen up. I’m Alpha-28. I’ll be leading your drills from now on, effective immediately. The first thing we’re going to do is take ourselves back to the armory.” At the confused looks given to him by many of the recruits, Spectre thought about telling them of the purpose behind his order, but decided against it quickly. It was better for the recruits to follow his commands and learn to respect his wishes at this stage in their training. The clones organized them into reasonably respectable marching ranks—although no comparison to the geometric precision of clone trooper ranks—and they filed back to the garrison. Leading them into the armory, Spectre began instructing the group of recruits on the proper care of their weapons. The most advanced blaster was a liability if sand got into its inner workings and ruined it. Spectre impassively watched as each recruit clumsily broke down his weapon and cleaned it. Clone troopers were trained to disassemble virtually any weapon with amazing speed. A skilled ARC or clone commando could completely disassemble his own weapon in less than thirty seconds. These recruits took much longer. The ARC shook his head. He had a lot of work to do. The next few days were absolute hell on the recruits. The clone trooper instructors they had previously been under were no slouches, but Spectre took “intense exercise” to a whole new level. Morning runs, physical training, obstacle courses, firing ranges, intelligence briefings, unarmed combat, and a thousand other miscellaneous things that a soldier might find himself needing in combat were hammered into an intense eighteen hour day. The recruits gasped for breath, sweat rolling freely off their backs and arms. Spectre, oblivious to their suffering, urged them on yet once more. The numbers dropped as some of them, overwhelmed by the strain or broken down, quit in shame and humiliation. The first day there were two hundred and five. The second there were one hundred and sixty-seven. On the third day, only one-hundred twenty-two remained. Those that did persevere often shot angry glances at their leaders and grumbled when they thought Spectre wasn’t looking. Such was the way with most armies. Except the GAR. Challenges were an excitement for clones. Sometimes, Spectre thought, I really miss working with my brothers. These clods aren’t bad, but they lack the precision and proficiency of the GAR. If the whole blasted army was like this, the Seps would already have won. But we’re in the way. Smiling at the thought in the privacy of his helmet, he led the already weary recruits through an intense obstacle course he and the other clones had come up with on the previous day. Red marks meant that one had to go under the obstacle. Blue meant going over and green meant going around. Weaving through a series of taut strings strung between tall poles at varying heights, he ducked under a pair of red cords, and then rose and vaulted over a blue cord hanging a meter off the ground. Reaching a large boulder, he followed the blue marks and began climbing it. Clambering to the top, he grabbed the carbon rope he’d left there on purpose and rappelled down the face of the five-meter rock in a couple hops. As he hit the ground in a small cloud of dust, he turned back to see the first of the trainees clamber on top of the boulder, his head and upper torso clearly visible from the ground. Spectre pulled out his DC-17 sidearm and squeezed off a pair of blasts near the recruit’s head, who, startled, nearly fell off the rock. “Keep your head down, or it’ll get blown off,” Spectre ordered gruffly. And then he was off again, pushing through the obstacle course. Having finished first, he began walking back through the course, observing the raw troops struggle to get through it. Of course, they didn’t have the benefit of third-generation armor or years of training or the genetic template of the most skilled bounty hunter ever to grace the galaxy. At one obstacle, where recruits, dangling from a large metal rod by their arms, had to cross over a large pit, Spectre stopped to observe. One trooper walked up, took a look at the obstacle, and reluctantly began pulling himself along. Halfway through, he looked down at the bottom of the pit a half-dozen meters below him and stopped. “What are you doing, soldier?” growled Spectre. It was not really a question. “I . . . I can’t go on. I can’t do it,” came the half-whimpered reply. The ARC gave an exasperated sigh. “State your name and rank.” “Private Riggins, sir.” “Look here, Riggins. You pull yourself together and get across that beam and never let me hear you complain like that again, or I’ll drum you out of the army myself and ship you to the Seps faster than you can soak your field trousers. Do I make myself explicitly clear?” Nodding, the nervous soldier slowly began pulling his way along, scared into action. Spectre watched him like a hawk-bat until he reached the other side and began stumbling through the rest of the obstacle course. Being tough was just part of the job of training new recruits, and if they didn’t fear him and do whatever he said whenever he said it, they’d be useless in combat. Thankfully, most of the other recruits weren’t nearly as bad as Riggins. By the end of the day, the ARC was just as tired as the rest of the recruits. He had done the same training as they had—leading by example was always a good motivator, in addition to his other duties. Returning to his barracks, he ate a late meal alone and quickly found his way to his sleep pallet and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Kamino and his other brothers in their regimented, shortened childhood. Coruscant Selusda Kraen woke up to the sight of the ceiling of the Jedi Temple. Dazed, he looked around, but couldn’t move his legs. He was in one of the healing wards of the temple, that much was certain. Then his memory finally clicked, and he remembered his foolhardy stunt with the droid starfighters, and falling onto the ground. He remembered being rescued by a clone trooper and some civilians. He remembered the shattered feeling in his legs and looking down, found that they were heavily bandaged to the point of immobilization. Bursting with questions, Selu was glad to see a Jedi healer approach to check on his condition. “Good to see you awake, Master Kraen,” said the healer. “Thanks. Uh—what happened?” The healer looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘what happened’?” “The battle—I mean, how did it end?” “Oh yes. The Separatists had us pinned hard and had captured the Supreme Chancellor, but then the Open Circle Fleet arrived with Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi. They tore into the Separatist fleet, while the two Jedi boarded Grievous’s flagship and rescued the Chancellor. Then Anakin killed Count Dooku and the Separatists fled. They’re still mopping up some of the droids.” Selu suppressed the wave of displeasure that threatened to swell up within him. Anakin and Obi-Wan Kenobi had been the fearless Jedi duo of the HoloNet and the chief standard bearers of the Jedi Order. Selu held nothing but the highest respect for the two Jedi and their amazing accomplishments, but still, there was some part of him that was just the slightest bit jealous of the attention they commanded and prowess they displayed in accomplishing near-impossible missions. However, there was no denying that Skywalker and Kenobi deserved all the recognition and credit for their role in salvaging the battle over Coruscant. “I see. Thanks. Can I ask you another question?” Checking on another patient, the healer replied without looking up. “You just did, but go ahead and ask another.” “How did I get here?” “Republic gunship brought you in. A couple senators were with them.” “Do you remember their names?” “No, sorry. Why?” “I want to find them and thank them for saving me.” “Hmph,” the healer snorted. “You’re not going anywhere until I say you can, and that’s final.” “How long will that be?” “Could be a few days. Could be a few weeks. It depends on how fast you heal.” Disheartened, Selu laid back on the pillow, using a Jedi meditation exercise in an attempt to be patient and accept the facts. It didn’t entirely work. “As a matter of fact,” continued the healer, “You need to sleep as much as possible if you want to recover quickly.” Upon hearing that, Selu allowed himself to begin drifting back to sleep, though what he really wanted to do was find his rescuers and see what kind of damage the battle had done, both to Coruscant and the Jedi Order. For the moment, though, all he could do was rest. The sooner he healed, the sooner he could be up and about. Lying there in the healing wards, his mind journeyed to memories of Aubrie Wyn. Were she here, she'd probably be teasing him and finding some way to lift his spirits, or maybe even using her own Force healing skills to speed his recovery. A pang of grief swept over him as he visualized his lost friend. His eyes closed as he reflected on her memory, but Selu chose not to remember Aubrie only through her death. While Jedi did not fear death, it was not something he enjoyed dwelling on. Her funeral had been painful for him, so he did not linger on that either. Instead, he focused on her life, the years he had known her, the good times they had shared, and the trials they had endured together. He remembered her teasing smile, her curly auburn hair which she was convinced her name came from, and that thought brought him solace. Finally falling into a state of Jedi calm, Selu closed his eyes and dozed off. Two days later, Selu was finally released from the healing wards. Meeting up with Serra and Skip, he heard their accounts of the battle. Serra had defended the Temple while Skip had helped defend against an attack on a shield generator. He shared his own account in return and a great sense of relief had washed over him upon seeing his friends alive and well. “Where’s Bairdon?” he asked. “Bairdon has been assigned to go to Cato Neimoidia with Plo Koon. The Council would probably have sent you, but you were still recovering,” replied Serra. “I see.” Selu tried to hide his disappointment at not being able to go on the mission. The days he had spent convalescent had been maddeningly dull, and he was eager to get back into his daily routine of exercises, studies, and meditation or be given a mission. Selu hadn’t been idle while recovering, but he was restless and eager to take action. The action would also help distract him from the tang of suffering, pain, and loss that still hung over Coruscant from the war. The stench of the dark side hung over the planet like a thick miasma to Selu whenever he meditated. Still not fully up to strength yet, he reported to the Jedi Council for assignment, figuring he would be fully recovered in a day or so—by which time he should have reached his destination. Entering the Council Chambers, he gave a respectful bow in the direction of Master Windu and Master Yoda, or rather the transparent bluish hologram representing the diminutive green Jedi Master. “Greetings, Selusda. What brings you before us?” asked Mace Windu. As he looked up, Selu couldn’t help but notice that few of the masters were actually present—even Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda were absent. “I await your orders, Masters.” Selu heard an almost invisible uneasy shifting of someone in his chair, and, out of the corner of his eye, spied the source of the disturbance. To his surprise, it was Anakin Skywalker. That was definitely news to Selu, as the last time he had been before the council, Anakin had not been a member. For him to still be uneasy indicated that there was disharmony among the council members. “At your recovery, our happiness you have,” said Yoda from distant Kashyyyk, and the other masters nodded their agreement. “You fought valiantly to defend Coruscant, well befitting the actions of a true Jedi Knight,” said Plo Koon’s hologram. Selu nodded his thanks at the compliment. “Are you fully recovered?” In the absence of Yoda, Mace Windu was the senior master on the council, and therefore the lead speaker. He was typically blunt in his speech and mannerisms, preferring to skip past the pleasantries. “Not entirely, Master, but I will be within a few days.” “Very well,” replied the Korun Jedi. “You are dismissed for now. The council will have an assignment for you shortly.” “Yes, Master,” Selu dutifully answered. Selu exited, and while the council deliberated, sat in an alcove in a waiting area designed for such a purpose. Opening himself to the Force, he closed his eyes and slowly began meditating. Tucking his legs underneath him, he levitated himself into the air as his concentration increased. For now, he was content to simply drift in the currents of the Force, honing his connection to the Living Force. Not long after, he felt a small mental summons beckoning him back into the council chamber. “Yes, my Masters?” “We have reached a decision on your assignment,” said Mace Windu. “You will be assigned to lead a group of reinforcements to Mygeeto to aid Master Mundi in clearing out the Separatists there. You depart tomorrow morning.” Selu looked out the windows, and judging by the position of Coruscant’s sun, it was almost midday. “As you wish, Masters.” Selu bowed again, and left. Setting a course for the Jedi library, he engrossed himself in records and data about Mygeeto. Leaving the library only for a bit of lightsaber practice with Serra and a quick meal afterwards, Selu absorbed as much as he could about the frigid industrial planet. In his experience, such details were often important to the turnout of the mission. Yawning, Selu looked at the sizable stack of data he’d accumulated throughout the day or saved to his datapad. It included geological surveys, planetary records, military briefings and intelligence reports. Selu knew he would remember all of it—an eidetic memory was a definite advantage when it came to remembering boring information or obscure details. On a whim, he switched the data terminal over to records of the Grand Army of the Republic and searched for trooper Alpha-28. The last Selu had read, Spectre had been assigned to the remote Outer Rim world of Tellanroaeg. There was a new file attached to Spectre’s folder, an after-action report. Selu pulled it up and began reading, learning that Spectre had been wounded in action while helping destroy a sizable Separatist convoy. It sounded exactly like something the ARC would do. From what Selu had read, the man had displayed a penchant for finding new and extraordinary ways to put his neck on the line, ever since his first battle on Kamino. Selu composed a short message to Spectre, hoping for a speedy convalescence, and placed it in the outgoing message queue. With any luck, it would reach the ARC before he was reassigned off of Tellanroaeg. Glancing at his chrono, Selu realized that it was later than he had thought- night was already falling on Coruscant. Selu’s stomach rumbled—his studies had kept him too busy to think about food. First though, there was something he needed to do. Tapping into the Jedi archives one more time, he accessed the government personnel records and retrieved the information he sought. Walking briskly back to his quarters, he downloaded the stored contents of his datapad into a small holocron that had been discarded by the Jedi archivists. Selu had been using the device for storing data from the Jedi archives for several years now, and he added the data on Mygeeto to its memory banks. Activating the holorecorder on the datapad, he began recording a quick message to the senators who had saved him in the battle. Their identities had taken some research, but his efforts had been rewarded. “To Senators Mon Mothma of Chandrila, Bail Organa of Alderaan, and Padmé Amidala of Naboo, greetings. My name is Selusda Kraen, and I served on Coruscant during the recent Separatist attack as a Jedi Knight. In that battle, you and your clone trooper guards saved my life. I extend my most humble thanks to you for your efforts. Because of your actions, I am able to continue serving the Republic in this time of crisis. I wish you the best in your labors for the Republic, and assure you that the Jedi Order is taking all possible measures to end this war. Sincerely, Selusda Kraen.” After he was finished, Selu re-listened to his message again, and after deeming it appropriately respectful and grateful, he closed the holorecorder down and connected his datapad to his comlink. Keying his comlink to the frequencies had found earlier, he transmitted the message to the various messaging services for each of the senators. Selu felt a bit regretful that he didn’t know the operating numbers of the clone troopers that had accompanied the senators, but had no idea on how to contact them before he left for Mygeeto. Stretching out on his sleeping pallet, it was not long before exhaustion swept over Selu. Elsewhere on Coruscant, night fell and the darkness approached. A master slew and an old order was lost. A knight fell and the darkness arrived. A master was slain and a new order was born. Selusda bolted awake with a start, sweating heavily. Stretching out with his mental and physical senses, he quickly discovered the source of his anxiety. The Force was roiling, disturbances rolling through it like a stormy sea. The foul mental tang of the dark side was everywhere. Compelled by a strange sense of urgency, Selu buckled on his utility belt and, slipping his datapad into its resting place on the sturdy leather belt, he hooked his shoto onto its resting place on his right hip opposite his lightsaber. Seeing the DC-15s that Spectre had given him at the bottom of his trunk, he slid that holster onto his belt also. Finally, donning his cloak, he set out for the main Temple atrium near the entrance. Had the Separatists attacked again? Selu didn’t know, but he quickened his pace. Arriving at the entrance, the realization of what was causing the disturbances in the Force hit him like a proton torpedo and he flattened himself against a massive stone column. Marching over the slain body of a Jedi was a dark cloaked figure, his very presence a burning avatar of the dark side, seething with rage and malice. Behind him marched thousands of clone troopers, grim and expressionless, pouring blazing blue fire out of a thousand blaster muzzles. The dark cloaked one, his right hand holding a brilliant blue blade, stained the ground with Jedi blood, covered the floor with Jedi bodies as fought. The troops behind him, outclassed though they would be in a one on one fight with a Jedi, overwhelmed the defenders with the sheer volume and intensity of their fire. Blaster bolts flew like raindrops, some leaving their marks on the Temple and some ending in a lethal splash of massive burns and trauma. A dozen Jedi died every minute, and Selu, hidden behind the pillar, was unsure of what to do. The clone troops fanned out, some heading for the archives, some for the dormitories, and some for the hangars. Selu realized that his horrifying vision from Boz Pity had become reality. Finally galvanized into action, Selu drew his presence into itself in the Force, making himself small, and formed a bubble of Force camouflage around him, concealing him, he hoped, from both searching eyes and from Force senses. Sprinting back to his dormitory ahead of the clones, he called out warnings to all the Jedi present. “The temple is under attack from clones! Arm yourselves!” Like a disturbed nest of communal insects, the Jedi responded. Grouping together, they met the charge of clones, sabers swinging. Selu spied Skip coming out his dorm, blue blade ready, and worked his way toward him. The charge was met and clones fell by the score, armored body parts left behind as they retreated. Skip and Selu fought side by side, Skip’s blue blade whirling as both of Selu’s blades hissed and sparked as they batted away blaster bolts or cleaved through armor, flesh, and bone. Both of them Ataru practitioners, they leapt and spun with graceful ease, never in one place for long. Then the tide turned. Fresh clones arrived, and with them was their dark leader. Bursting upon the clustered two dozen or so Jedi, he fell upon them with a fury, sweeping their defenses away with powerful strokes. As he fought, his hood fell off and Selu saw the identity of their assailant: Anakin Skywalker. Selu stopped in mid-swing in shock and only Skip’s well-placed block saved him from a brilliant blue blaster bolt aimed at his heart. Time stopped as Selu watched one of the most powerful and talented Knights of the Order, rumored to be the Chosen One of the prophecy, slice through his former comrades, betraying every oath and allegiance he had held since childhood. Then Selu returned to the grip of reality, burning with anger, pain and betrayal. The Force throbbed as he lifted two fingers from their grip on his shoto and flicked them at a group of clones. The troops went flying back into their comrades as a wall of telekinetic energy threw them backwards. Gesturing again, he threw a heavily armored trooper into Anakin’s way, preventing the fallen Jedi from cleaving through another Jedi. However, even as Selu visited temporary havoc on the ranks of the troopers, the rational part of his mind knew that he had no chance of defeating Anakin, and that all the Jedi here would soon be killed if he didn’t do anything. “Fighting retreat!” he ordered. The Jedi slowly fell back, pursued relentlessly by clones and Anakin. Spying a belt of charges on a clone trooper, Selu telekinetically armed all the charges and, ripping them off the munitions belt, scattered them among the troopers. The resulting explosion bought him and roughly half a dozen Jedi enough time to gain a brief respite from the onslaught. “There are too many of them!” said Skip. “They got most of us in the first volley—they weren’t even fighting.” Nodding grimly, Selu bound a blaster burn on a Twi’lek Jedi with a strip from his cloak. “They’re even killing the younglings,” said another. Selu looked around at the survivors. Of them, he only really knew Skip and what he was capable of. The rest were mostly younger Padawans in their midteens, if their braids and demeanors were any indication. “Try and flee the Temple,” Selu ordered. “Escape Coruscant if you can. I’m not sure what caused this, but they’re trying to destroy the entire Jedi Order. Our best hope is to scatter and hide. Now, get out of here.” Shocked at both the harsh tone of his voice and his words, the other Padawans began retreating, mouths agape. Skip rose off of his haunches. “So what are we going to do?” the Tynnan asked. “There’s a youngling dormitory on the far side of the Temple. We should try and get them out of there before the clones get to them.” Selu said, his eyes dark and his teeth clenched from anger and outrage. Skip nodded, and the two sped off. Along the way, they encountered advance parties of clones. Sometimes they avoided the larger ones, but the smaller ones the two Jedi cleaved through, leaving behind a floor full of cauterized body parts, the tang of ozone, and blank eyes staring through expressionless visors. Bursting into the youngling dormitory wing, Selu and Skip watched in horror as clone troopers were finishing up the slaughter of younglings. Blood spatters and blaster chars pockmarked the walls, floor and furniture. Three younglings in a corner, none of them older than twelve standard years of age but armed with lightsabers, were picking off blaster fire until more clones focused their attention and blasters on them. Selu and Skip arrived just in time to watch the last two, wounded, collapse. A clone commando lunged forward and punched twice with a vibroknuckler. A short spray of arterial blood later, and two more lives were lost. Both Jedi were filled with a sudden nausea and horror. With an inhuman cry, Selu lit both his blades and dove into the fray, visiting destruction on the murderers. A red haze clouded his vision as he plunged into a dark rage, but his sabers, guided by the Force, left clones dead or grievously wounded on the floor next to their victims. Summoning the Force to him, he threw his shoto through one clone. His left hand suddenly free, he unleashed his rage with a powerful and controversial Force technique Plo Koon had taught him. Green lightning burst from his palm, and suddenly the screams of the younglings were strangely mirrored by the screams of agonized clones as their flesh and organs were seared. Their armor was little protection against the Electric Judgment that Selu inflicted on them, and soon their bodies lay on the floor, twitching and smoking. Off to one side, Skip cartwheeled through another group of clones, his short paws landing deft kicks as he flew through the air, his blade taking off a clone’s arm, then stabbing through a visor. However, Selu’s Force attack on the group of clones had left his flank exposed, and more clones were mounting a counterattack. Calling his shoto back to his hand, Selu batted blaster bolts away. However, the remaining clones regrouped and their fire was accurate and deadly as always, zeroed in on the two Jedi. Selu’s shoto was blasted out of his grip, and it melted as a blaster bolt found it. Skip took a hit and fell to the floor. Selu felt the blossom of pain in his friend as if it was his own chest that had been hit, and scythed his blade through Skip’s attacker. His blade moving even faster, he sliced through the remaining clones, oblivious to the scorches and grazes charring his body. Then he slammed both the doors to the dormitory closed, sealing them off with quick slashes of his lightsaber. Extinguishing his blade, he knelt besides Skip, who had collapsed on the ground, wracked by spasms of pain. “Skip!” “Selu, my friend. I will not be with you much longer.” “No! You’ll be okay.” Skip’s eyes glanced down toward his chest wound, and Selu realized that his friend was right—he was going to die. Grabbing a medkit from a dead clone, Selu withdrew an ampoule of painkillers and administered them to Skip. “I’ll make them pay, Skip. I’ll make them pay.” Selu promised. “No.” The Tynnan’s eyes, rheumy and dark, brightened for a minute. “Vengeance is not the Jedi way, Selu Kraen. Stay true to the Jedi way, no matter what.” “But they betrayed you. Betrayed us all! Don’t you want them destroyed?” “No, Selu. I want justice done, but we all have to die sometime,” wheezed Skip, “I don’t mind dying as a servant of the Order, as a servant of democracy.” “Skip, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you, didn’t cover your back. You fought well, my friend,” Selu assured Skip, his own voice cracking. “It’s not . . . your fault.” Skip’s voice was fading, and Selu saw through the Force that the Tynnan would soon be gone. “It’s you I’m worried about. What are you going to do? Whatever it is, don’t give in to your anger, Selu,” Skip told him. “What do you want me do, Skip?” Selu asked frantically. “Do what you have sworn to do. Preserve the Order,” said Skip. “And Selu . . .” “Yes, Skip?” “Stay in the light . . . always.” “I will. I promise you, Skip.” swore Selu, but it was too late. Skip’s eyes glazed over and his spirit joined with the Force. Slowly, almost reverently, Selu closed his friend’s eyes and took Skip’s lightsaber with him, tucking it into his belt. The sounds of clones arming breaching charges on the door pulled Selu out of his grief-stricken tribute to his friend. Covering Skip’s body with a cloak, he once again camouflaged himself. There was no time to do anything else for his friend. Carving a hole through a wall, he ducked into a service corridor that ran along the dormitory as the door blew open behind him and clones poured into the dormitory room. Leaving an armed land mine at the hole to discourage pursuit, he ran as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him. The aches and pains inflicted on him during combat were beginning to haunt him now, and he called on the Force to suppress the pain. Selu followed the corridor at length, crossing toward the northwest side of the Temple. Thankfully, he avoided encounters with any more clones—they apparently hadn’t breached the corridors yet. Finally, he pressed his ear against one of the walls, listening for the sounds of clone troopers moving and augmenting his senses with the Force. Sensing no clones, he carved a tall hole through the stone wall and knocked it in with telekinesis. Still half-cloaked, he stepped into a holocron storage vault. Grabbing several of the priceless artifacts from their shelves, he folded them away into a cloak pouch. Slipping through another service corridor, Selu continued his flight for some time, his sight obscured by the thick smoke pouring through the corridor from a burning power conduit. When his smarting eyes and burning lungs could take it no more, he opened an access door and stepped into a training room where he had once damaged several training droids with telekinesis prior to being knighted. The room was in much different condition now. Scattered clone trooper bodies were evident, and a pair of massive pillars had been knocked down onto the ground, along with much of an overhanging balcony. Selu quickly walked through the room, his mind still working on how to escape from the Temple. Walking past one of the pillars, he heard a soft, weak voice call his name as his Force senses registered the faint presence of another Jedi. “Selu . . .” Selu turned and looked down to the source of the voice. Her body and legs crushed beneath the pillar, Serra Keto looked up at him, sitting up slightly. At that instant, another dagger of pain thrust into Selu’s heart, Jedi detachment never having been a strength of his. “Serra.” Selu knelt down by her, and she smiled wanly at him. “Let me get this pillar off of you,” Selu said quickly as he prepared to telekinetically lift the pillar—a daunting task. “No, don’t move it. It’s too late anyway,” Serra said, coughing. “The Force is the only thing keeping me alive right now, and I can feel it ebbing away. I don’t want you to see the damage underneath this pillar. ” Selu’s mental senses probed Serra’s body, evaluating the injury, and he nearly went into shock himself at the massive internal damage within. Even without being able to tell for certain, the pool of blood around the pillar gave proof to the scope of the trauma. Selu frowned uncertainly. He was no healer, but he placed his hands on the sides of Serra’s head, trying to draw off some of the pain. “Ahh . . . thank you, Selu. That’s better,” Serra said weakly. “What happened to you? Who did this?” Selu asked. “It was Anakin. He called himself Darth Vader. Master Drallig and I tried to fight him, but he was . . . too strong. Too powerful.” Anger once more welled up inside Selu, and at that moment, had Darth Vader presented himself, he would have charged without hesitation, his promise to Skip aside. “No, no, don’t be angry, Selu. It’s not worth the effort. I don’t want to die surrounded by anger,” said Serra. Selu knelt down and gently stroked her face, brushing the sweat-soaked locks of her black hair away from her cheek. Dissipating his anger, he replied. “All right, Serra. I won’t be angry. I just can’t bear . . . can’t bear the loss. How can you be so at peace now?” “I can’t do anything to change the outcome, so why be mad about it? It’s okay, Selu,” Serra said with a wan smile. “I’m sorry, Serra. About everything.” “Don’t be sorry. Selu, I don’t have much longer, but I’ve wanted to tell you something for a good while now.” “What is it?” “I love you,” she whispered. Her words rang in Selu’s ears, the words he had often thought about saying to her, but had never managed to do so. His commitment to the Jedi Order’s precepts had kept him from ever vocalizing how he felt to Serra, but now, at the end, he learned that she felt the same way about him. She loved him. In an alternate universe, things between them might have been different, but now Selu could gaze into her eyes longingly, knocked speechless by her words. Amazing how such a simple phrase could evoke such a reaction. A moment passed in time and he could feel his hands shaking as his traumatized mind sought to comprehend and respond to her words. “I love you too,” Selu hoarsely whispered in return. Bending down, he kissed her, first gently, then more passionately, pulling her towards him. For just a minute, the carnage and slaughter around faded away into brief bliss. Then Selu tasted the blood in her mouth, felt her fluttering pulse as her heart weakly beat within her rib cage. Placing his arm around her back and softly caressing her hair, Selu kissed her one more time before pulling back, his lips still tingling from the sensation. “I’m glad I got to see you one more time before . . . before I die,” Serra said. Her breath was becoming more and more ragged now. “Here . . . take my lightsaber. You’ll need it since you’re not carrying your shoto. Use it for the light,” she told him. Selu took the weapon from her grasp. “I’ll cherish this always, Serra.” “I’m growing so cold, Selu, so cold. You’ve been a good Jedi and a loyal friend. I . . . love . . . you.” With a final, gasping effort, Serra breathed out the last few words, and fell back, her pulse ended and her breathing ceased. For the next few minutes, the only sounds heard in the room were Selu’s sobs as he let the tears fall freely. Cradling Serra’s body, he traced his finger along her face, closed her unseeing eyes and then covered her face with her cloak. Then he left.
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