The Past

There was a time when the "Galactic Empire" was just that: an empire that spanned the galaxy. But with the rise and fall of the New Republic, and the ascension and demise of so many other "galactic" powers, the galaxy had fragmented into countless isolated pockets. As time passed on, wars spread and faded, nations grew and shrank, the once-mighty Holonet of the Galactic Republic of old had fallen into various states of disrepair, disuse, and degeneration. Many large governments—such as the Empire, Coalition, and Commonwealth—maintained their own internal networks, and many more sectoral and planetary governments maintained their own Holonet connections to some extent, but a staggering swath of the independent galaxy had not bothered to maintain their emitters and transmitters, instead choosing to leach off of their more responsible neighbors.

In the interest of spreading its own voice and reestablishing contact with the galaxy at large, the Galactic Empire had enacted a program to assist independent governments in the revitalization of their local Holonet hubs. It was for this reason that Garen Racto had found himself on this particularly unparticular world, at this particularly uneventful time. He was so busy with his work as he made his way into his room at the local inn, that his artificially enhanced senses almost didn't acknowledge the unnatural changes to the room's environment. Almost . . .

He stood frozen in the door, the mechanical half of his mind straining to resolve the black blur from his organic eyes into a discernable picture, his nose sniffing the smell of life, his skin prickling in the slightly increased air temperature that suggested the other man in the room had been there for quite some time.

"I mean you no harm. Close the door." The words had not been spoken, but instead had been received as a tight-beam, low-power transmission, emanating from somewhere within the room. Almost without thinking, Garen closed the door, activating the lights with a thought. Before him sat a dark skinned human, dressed in nondescript clothing, looking very bored. He depressed a button he had been holding down, slipping the small device back into his pocket.

The two men stared at one another for a long moment, neither speaking, neither moving. Garen was trying his best to look calm, but his mind was working desperately to figure out what he should do. Was he armed? Probably. Could he get back outside before the man could shoot him? Probably not. What was this guy doing here? Why won't he say something?

"Why would anyone serve a government he so rightly despises?"

Garen's mind froze, struggling with the stranger's question. "There are no other options. Order must be maintained. Communication must be preserved."

The stranger shook his head in disappointment. "Good and evil; right and wrong; freedom and tyranny: these aren't just words, Mr. Racto. Some things are worth fighting for. Some things are worth breaking the rules over. There's more to 'right' than talking. We need you to stop lying to yourself, and start being honest to us. We need your help."

Garen's mind was running in circles, tying itself into knots. What was this man talking about? Why wouldn't he make sense? What was going on here?

"I have to leave now, Mr. Racto, but I want to leave you with a question. Would you rather speak to those who would not listen, or shout amongst those who would be heard? You can perpetuate the system, or you can fight for the future that system exists to deny. We'll be in touch. Look where you'd last expect." With that, the man stood calmly, walked into the small bedroom, and vanished—presumably out of the window. Garen Racto sat down, sure that he wasn't terrified, but certain of very little else.



The Recent Past

Moff Kryta was an unimportant man. He was a fool, fortunate enough to have been born to a well-connected father, but too dumb to realize that he was where he was for that reason. He believed himself a master of the fates, a king in his own right. He viewed his realm with a mixture of contempt and pride, always without realizing that the two should be mutually exclusive. On the edge of Imperial space, he claimed true ownership of almost no worlds, but as any true Imperial would, he viewed the entire sector as his domain, and demanded that its inhabitants treated him as they would a lord.

He despised his Imperial superiors, believing them to be uninspiring and brutish, considering the respect that they showed one another, and the disdain that they showed toward him to be "unfair," rooted in jealousy. Jealous of what, his tiny mind could not hope to fathom. But even a fool can gain some measure of intellect from those who serve him, as was the case when his intelligence division uncovered that Quasar Corporation, an expansive independent business based in his sector, had secretly attempted to contact one of the many military development branches of the Empire proper.

As any great Imperial would, he immediately covered the business with heavy trade and business sanctions, ordering a full investigation of all of Quasar's involvements and demanding a meeting with the business's top representative.

And so it was that the bloated Moff found himself face-to-face with a scrawny, beady-eyed scientist by the name of Pyle. "Begin," The Moff bellowed, his dull eyes glazing over at the very prospect of listening to this man.

With a gulp that could be heard throughout the room, the nervous scientist began, turning to a holoprojector and flipping it on. Into existence sprang a map of the galaxy, divided by color into the various governments that held dominance. "In recent times, the Empire has fallen from its rightful place as undisputed master of the galaxy. Though we have made great strides in reclaiming that place—" Doctor Pyle paused nervously, acutely aware that the Moff was acutely aware of the fact that he wasn't actually a citizen of the Empire— "there is still much work to be done. Enemies abound, spinning their schemes in the darkness, plotting their plans in the shadows, using the remains of our once-great Holonet to spread their propaganda, but above all, to perpetuate their private agendas."

The Moff grunted impatiently, his mouth listing open like the gaping maw off a gorged Hutt. "Is there a point Pyle, or should I just have you shot?" As the quaking scientist cowered and whimpered, the gluttonous Moff snickered delightedly. "Get on with it, already."

Pyle rubbed his face, shutting his eyes tight and trying to collect himself. "The Empire has shown its dominance not through the might of its fleets or the numbers of its Stormtroopers, but through the knowledge that it wields. In this day in age, information is key. Intelligence, counter-intelligence: these are the currencies of conquest. For this reason, Quasar Corporation has begun development of an intelligence-gathering system unlike anything found in the galaxy."

Pyle pressed another button, and the image of the galaxy zoomed in to reveal individual stars, one of which sprouted a line, and then another, and then another. The lines reached out and grabbed a new star each, from which new line sprouted, grasping still more stars. The process continued and accelerated, soon filling the entire region of space. "We are developing a droid-like intelligence which—once introduced to a foreign Holonet—could store itself within the network as comm data, expanding and transmitting itself through the entire network. It would be able to scan all comm traffic, using the network's own memory and processing power to do so. It would be able to relay encrypted information and important transmissions to awaiting listening stations, adapting over time to become more pervasive and more effective. It would learn how to filter valuable information, learn how to process with more efficiency and stealth, learn how to access new and more secure sections of the network. In time, it would become almost all-inclusive, turning our enemies' own communications network into a massive data collection system of our own. By speaking to one another, they would be speaking to us; by coordinating strategies, they would be handing over the means of their own destruction. Think of it: we could turn the unused processing potential of an enemy's Holonet into an undetectable listening device. It would be difficult, to be sure, but Quasar Corporation believes that they have found a way to make it a reality."

Moff Kryta sat in silence, dumbstruck, as annoyed by whatever was stuck between his teeth as he was by this babbling know-it-all. Still, this plan sounded interesting, and Quasar Corporation had been sure enough of itself to try to contact Imperial Intelligence. If he proposed this project to his superiors—with someone a little smarter than this idiot of a scientist at his side, of course—maybe he would finally get the respect he deserved, and show them all just how important he was. A new age in intelligence gathering, all because of me . . .



The Present

With the final snap of one final latch, Garen Racto was ready. Dragging his two suitcases out of his room, he offered one final, silent goodbye to his droid, and shot a thought at his home's integrated computer, shutting the place down and locking the door behind himself. He waited for a droid to come by and pick up his bags, then followed it down to the awaiting company shuttle. He stepped in, and was off. Ten minutes later, he was boarding a company transport, destination: the Imperial Occupation Zone. It would seem that the Onyxians had done quite a number to their communication network before the Empire had finally gained total control of the region, although Garen couldn't help but wonder how much of the damage might have been done by the Imperials themselves . . .

Once the ship broke atmosphere, Garen reclined his chair, getting as comfortable as possible and then falling quickly to sleep. As he faded into unconsciousness, he couldn't help but imagine some quiet voice in the back of his mechanized mind, whispering indistinguishable nothings at him. He dreamed of a world without words; a land where droids walked around with their organic servants in tow; electric sheep; and a little mechanical voice that no one could ever escape from, no matter how far they fled, no matter how thick their ear muffs were, no matter how many layers of "priority one encryption" their rank permitted . . . it was always there, always there, always there.

"Wake up." Garen awoke with a start, so much so that he scared the Duros sitting next to him. He blinked furiously, looking around excitedly. We're here. He was still trying to figure out where the voice had come from. Must have been something over a secure channel. Finally coming to full consciousness, his cybernetic implant reactivated its dormant systems, once again giving Garen access to standard comm channels. His mind filled once more with the sounds of civilization.

He collected his things, filing off of the transport and onto one of the many worlds that would serve as a work shop and rest stop for the next several weeks, maybe more. But still, through all of the buzzing and beeping of his enhanced mind, some strange, indecipherable voice made itself known. Garen immersed himself in the flow of communication, and didn't give it another thought. There was work to be done.



Alliance Munificent-class Star Frigate Songbird

Somewhere near the Imperial border

Captain Harkoon of the Songbird was one of the most trusted men in the Alliance, as were the men and women under his command. The mission with which they had been entrusted was of utmost importance to the future of the Alliance, and everyone knew it, even if they didn't know what exactly that mission was. All they knew for the moment, was that they had to make sure they didn't get caught, and make sure they kept the comm lines open.

The captain paced quietly across the bridge, stopping from time to time to glace down at various work stations, lean over random shoulders, or offer an approving nod. Harkoon was one of the few people on the ship who knew why they were there, and duty required that he keep it that way. They had been at this for weeks now, and if he was honest, he'd have to admit that it was getting boring. But knowing what they were there for, he couldn't help but acknowledge that a little boredom was an insignificant price to pay. It would be any day now . . . any moment.

But not that one . . . or that one . . . or . . .

The Past

Garen's father had been sick for a long time. The origins were psychological and emotional, but the impact was very much physical. There aren't many things that bacta can't cure, but stress is one of them, and like most things in the galaxy, too much stress can quite literally kill a man.

After the falling out the two had had, Garen was sure that his father was nearing the end. Otherwise, his brother wouldn't have asked him to visit, and certainly wouldn't have been so persistent. When the shuttle finally came to rest on the family's private landing pad, Garen stepped forth to be greeted by his younger brother's smiling face. Darik Racto shuffled forward to give his brother an awkward hug, almost managing to look embarrassed. He turned and shuffled toward the nearby home, leaving Garen to gather his own things and make his way into the house.

When Garen appeared a moment later with a hint of a smile crossing his own face, Darik frowned at the sight of his older brother's assistant droid carrying most of his things. Eying the stack of luggage, Darik said: “How long are you planning to stay for?”

“Master Garen's duties require him to return within the week,” Garen's assistant said promptly, then paused, shifting as if listening to some unheard voice. Nodding slightly, the droid tried again. “Master Garen believes in being well prepared for excursions.”

“Excursions? This is home, you know.”

“Home is where the heart is,” The droid replied, sounding more like it was an audio novel than a droid. Darik looked to his brother for help, but Garen didn't seem to be paying him much attention.

“Right. Well, then; Garen, you know where your room is. I'm sure you and your wonderful assistant can handle the unpacking. When you get a chance, I'd like to talk to you . . . in private. I'll be in my room.”

Darik nodded awkwardly and then shuffled out of the room, still managing to look and act like a confused teenager.

Twenty minutes later Garen stepped over the threshold of his brother's room, and the myriad sounds of comm- and holo-transmissions which had been filling Garen's cybernetic brain fell eerily silent. The door slid closed behind them, and Garen turned an uncertain stare at his brother. “Look where you'd last expect, brother.”

Garen's mind was reeling. His thoughts flashed back to that moment a few weeks previous, when a mysterious man had appeared without explanation, offering him a brief and confusing exchange of words, before vanishing without a trace. For some reason, Garen hadn't reported the break-in. Maybe he was about to find out why. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, brother?”

“The galaxy used to be a decent place to live in. Not great, but decent. There's too much pain and too much sorrow now; too much injustice concealed behind the veil of law; too much silence perpetuated by the few carefully crafted words of those who are allowed to speak.” Garen almost thanked his brother for including a line about communication in what was obviously a carefully thought-out, but ill-composed, speech. “There are too many faces to the evils that now haunt us. The Republic stood for thousands of years; we lived in the last of its darkest days, but still they were the greatest years of our lives. Why do you think that was?”

“We do what we can with what we have.”

Anger was brewing on Darik's face, fed all the more by the emotionless, robotic state in which his older brother stared back at him. “It doesn't have to be that way. There are still good people out there; there's still hope for a better tomorrow.”

Garen was beginning to realize that this visit wasn't about his father's final days. “I will not spill another mans blood, drain his soul from its body, to add feathers and fluff to my pillow. Justice and injustice cannot be measured in lives lost and deaths caused. Do not speak of this again; it hurts my ears.”

Garen turned to leave, his own anger now breaking through the calm detachment that his mechanized mind so often offered.

“The Alliance to Restore the Republic; we need your help.”

Garen paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Because they did such a good job the first time?” Sarcasm was dripping from every word.

The younger brother shook his head, apparently fighting back tears. “Do you think I don't feel, too? Do you think you're the only one who has to judge within himself what is right and what is wrong? Have you so forgotten how to be a human, that you can't remember that you're not the only one who is? You've been my brother for as long as anyone has been anything to me; all I ask is that you give me a chance to tell you who I've become and why.”

Garen turned back around, looking with disappointment at his brother. “Nothing you can say could justify the path that you have chosen, in my eyes.”

“Then let me speak to your heart. Be my brother, just one more time.”

For the first time in a long time, words had brought down Garen Racto's carefully laid walls of logic and reason. Looking at that face so riddled with conviction, he could not help but remember the boy he had once been, and the brother he had once had. “What makes you think that you can succeed where you've already failed?”

Darik smiled at his brother as the older man made his way over to sit on the edge of the bed. “This time I know what I believe in; I'm not just a pissed off little kid anymore.”

“I find it hard to believe that you want me to help save your new republic by teaching everyone how to get along and talk friendly. Seeing as I have nothing more to offer, I don't know why you're even bothering.”

“It's good to see that all of the brain hacks haven't turned you into a bumbling, gullible little girl.”

The two brothers sat and talked for hours beneath that security veil, their father dying slowly in a nearby room. Garen could only tolerate most of the discussion by reminding himself that everything they said to one another was purely hypothetical, and that there was no way he would ever contribute to such a violent, disordering force as this “Alliance to Restore the Republic.”



The Recent Past

The man named Pyle sat at his desk, taking a brief moment to relax and enjoy the position he had so recently acquired. His recent climb up the corporate ladder had been spectacular, due in no small part to Pyle's successful sales pitch of Quasar's most advanced and secret project to date. With that bumbling fool Kryta throwing every credit he could quietly muster at Quasar Corporation, the top-secret project had seen amazing advancements. Still, Kryta's financial aide paled in comparison to the assistance that the Imperial High Command's development divisions could have offered, both in resources and technology . . .

A series of unforeseen setbacks had put the project off schedule, but they were pioneering a whole new branch of AI infiltration and assimilation. The Holonet had stood for millenia without ever truly being breached, but Quasar was determined to do it, for the glory of the Empire . . . and the fattening of their pocketbooks.

Pyle was torn from his revere by one of his assistants, rushing through his office's still-opening door. Wild-eyed and terrified, he paused for half a heartbeat to take a deep breath. “Someone attacked the facility!”

Pyle was a man of power now. The heads of Quasar Corporation had personally summoned him when he was informed of his latest promotion. He was Director of Quasar's most secure developmental facility. It was impenetrable and impervious, of that he was sure. A successful breach of the facility's defenses would seal Pyle's fate, and cast him from his high perch forever. But that wasn't what was scaring him at all . . .

“Data file G-12. Is it intact?” The project which now belonged to Moff Kryta was so secret it had not been given a name. There was no hardware to conceal, so it was hidden as a high-security reference file in the facility's archives. Nothing mattered but data file G-12. Nothing mattered but protecting Moff Kryta's property. He didn't care what had happened; he didn't care how successful the intruders had been. All he cared about, was data file G-12, and the life that would be lost if it had been compromised.

The assistant's eyes widened further. “They're all gone. Everything is gone. The mainframes have been wiped.”

Pyle bared his teeth in defiance. “We have backups. Secure archives; shielded―”

“It's all gone. Total system wipe. Whoever did this wasn't after anything, and they weren't playing around. All they wanted was to burn us to the ground. They have destroyed the entirety of our developmental division.”

Pyle couldn't move . . . couldn't breathe. At some point, apparently, he had stood up; thankfully, when he collapsed, he did so in the direction of his chair. His mind was spinning out of control. How did it happen? Who was responsible? How many had been killed? Had any of them been captured?

. . . none of it mattered.



The Present

This is it. Before Garen stretched a quietly rotating Holonet transceiver. It stood in defiance of the chaos that raged all throughout the system. The Empire had claimed the Onyxian Commonwealth, but forces were at work to sow destruction and calamity upon every one of its spoils of war, and the evidences were everywhere.

But none of that mattered. As his shuttle came to rest on the transceiver's outer plating, Garen moved to the vessel's small cargo hold, where he checked the seal on the small hatch, then opened it, revealing a small access panel on the satellite's cold surface. He opened the panel in only a moment, the task made very easy by the access codes acquired from what little had remained of the Commonwealth's government. Reaching for a rather peculiar cable, Garen linked his cybernetic implant directly to the transceiver's central computer, as he had done with the two other satellites he had already reprogrammed within the Occupation Zone, and as he had done hundreds of times in the past, all across the Empire.

This time would be different, however. This time, more than Imperial Holonet codes and connection addresses would be transferred. The chilling, alien voice which had been whispering indecipherable nothings into Garen's mind would finally be silenced. My moment of treason. With a thought, the exchange was made. He could hear it, its almost gleeful exclamation as it stretched out its greedy being, filling and consuming the satellite in an instant.

Fire. Blackness.



The Past

Garen and Darik. Darik and Garen. They had been arguing for hours. They had been arguing for days. If time had permitted, they would have argued for weeks. Their father was dying a few rooms away, and they were arguing about nothing in particular.

“Remember when we were kids? You had all of the friends, got all of the attention, won all of the awards? I was the quiet one hiding in the corner, hoping I wouldn't get noticed because of how dumb you made me look?” A more traditional sibling would have interjected at this point, offering some kind words of comfort in a meaningless display of empathy. Garen, however, was almost incapable of empathy, and therefore sat in silence, wishing only to hear the point.

It was okay though, because Darik had gotten used to it. “You've always been smarter than me, and I've never disputed that, but you aren't the only one who thinks things through to their conclusions, you know? You don't have a monopoly on logic, and however you may act―whatever you may have convinced yourself of―it's not really you're guiding light, is it?”

Garen was pretty sure that his brother had more to say, so he didn't respond. Unsurprisingly, he was right. “I can't say that I truly understand, but I can say that I have some idea of how important your beliefs are to you. That implant of yours cost you a lot more than you let any of us know, didn't it? You discarded so much of who you were, all for the chance to talk a little bit clearer.

“I couldn't do it, you know? I had the same chance you did: to throw away what I loved and knew, all to chase after what I so deeply believe in, but I couldn't do it. So this is my last chance, Garen. This is my last chance to do what I know is right. I don't have much left to say, but I'm going to say it, and then you can go. You won't even have to say anything if you don't want to.”

Garen remained silent, unreadable. Darik folded his hands to keep them from shaking. “This thing that's going on between me and you: it's not about what's right and wrong. If it were, you wouldn't be here right now, because I'm sure you've already realized that you can't change my mind. This is about hope and belief. You hope that the Empire will turn itself into some beautiful, gleaming pinnacle of civilization, where the leaders do what's right, because their citizens ask them to. But you don't really believe any of it, do you? There may have been a time when you did, but it's long gone. I suspect you believe that, to do what is right, you would have to do such terrible wrongs, but you can't admit that, because to admit that would be to admit that logic and reason and rationality are not truly your guides and companions, because logic and reason wouldn't allow for such a contradiction. And what would that do to a man who made himself a machine, all in the name of a hope he can no longer believe in?”

Garen fought to maintain his detached appearance, all the while aware that he was betraying his own beliefs of honesty and openness. “And what do you hope, and what do you believe,” He managed to say in a voice that was only slightly strained.

“I hope that the terrors that the Alliance brings to the galaxy can be justified by the evils that they subdue. I believe that the ends never justify the means, but someone has to be responsible, because the Empire must die.”

His brother was finished. He had to make a choice. So much of him was screaming to stand up, turn around, walk out that door, and leave for his quiet little job as a servant of the Empire. But there was some tiny thing in the pit of his stomach that just wouldn't let him move. He fought to keep his mouth closed, to ignore that anchor in his soul that bound him to his last shred of humanity. But he couldn't deny the reality of the situation any more. He couldn't pretend that everything would be alright any more. Finally, he managed to say something that satisfied both of the shouting voices in his head. “Regardless of our beliefs, how could I possibly help you?”

Darik smiled, finally believing that he might just win his brother over. “The most important way of all: you can give us a voice.”



The Recent Past

None of it mattered, because the man before him was about to kill him.

Moff Kryta knew. He knew that Quasar Corporation had suffered a massive assault by a rival power―possibly a consortium of them, judging by the severity and efficiency of their attack. He knew that Quasar Corporation was finished as a producer of cutting-edge technologies. He knew that the attack on Quasar's most secure complex had been nothing more than an attempt to stop its growing influence once and for all, by destroying with impunity years of research into dozens of fields, and erasing every one of the corporation's most promising projects.

He was wrong. Whoever had attacked Quasar cared nothing about the company's future. They cared nothing about the destruction they caused, or the revolutionary technologies they destroyed. All they wanted was to hide the truth of their beautifully executed theft.

Data file G-12 had remained intact. The trio of technicians who had come to this realization when analyzing the dummy data core that had replaced the one the data file was stored in had vanished at the hands of Quasar's private security force only moments after reporting their findings directly to Pyle. With his death, none save Quasar's highest tier of leadership and the shrouded individuals who attacked the installation would know the truth of the terrible secret he bore. He had come in person in hopes of shielding Quasar Corporation from the moff's fury. Staring into the mammoth's beady eyes, he began to doubt that such a noble act would yield the intended results.

A sickening wheeze escaped between Moff Kryta's bulging lips, and he began to speak. “Tell me something good.”

Pyle wasn't afraid. Not anymore. His fate was sealed, and all that remained was to embrace it. “There is nothing good left.”

The beast snarled. “What has happened to my project?”

“It was destroyed, along with every other piece of data at the facility.”

“You will begin again.”

Pyle stood his ground, making sure to steady his breathing. With a slight shake of his head, he pressed on. “Quasar Corporation is all but finished. We've lost years worth of research into dozens of our highest-cost programs. We have to devote all available rec―”

“GIVE ME MY PROJECT!”

Pyle dropped his head. “There's nothing to give. We didn't use machines and tools to build this: we used software. Software that is now gone. We didn't just lose a few months of research, or even a few years. We lost years of development of over a dozen unique and highly advanced software systems and programs, all of which were used in the development of your project. Even in the best of times, we wouldn't be able to devote so many resources or so much manpower to the development of a single system. Now, with our principal division almost totally gone, there's no way . . . there's no way . . .”

The beast snarled. Pyle held his gaze. Either Kryta wasn't as stupid as Pyle had thought, or the assistant that ran over and whispered in his ear had at least a middle school education. “My money,” The Moff grunted.

Pyle nodded. “Quasar is prepared to repay you incrementally over the course of the next few years . . . with interest, of course. We would never think to steal from the Empire.”

Several seconds passed, and Pyle thought about bringing up the unknown assailants, then decided against it. The moff didn't care about any of that; as far as he knew, he had no need to involve himself in what was obviously an assault on an independent company. Sensing the slightest sliver of hope, Pyle bowed reverently, looked back up to see that the moff seemed to be pleased by the gesture, then turned to leave.

“PYLE!” All hope left him. Terror seized him. The end had come. “Do you know what I do to those who fail me, Pyle?” His fate was sealed, but Quasar would live on . . . barely; and somewhere out there, somebody had a shiny (half-finished) new Empire-funded, Quasar Corporation-engineered super-intelligence.



The Present

Light.

Something was smiling. It started talking. “Mr. Racto. Mr. Racto. Can you hear me?”

Garen nodded slightly. His mind was much too quiet. He reached up to feel his cybernetic implant, terrified to think that it might somehow be gone: it was not. Noise filled his ears, and the something that had talked to him before disappeared.

Garen could see well enough to discern the doctor by the time he arrived. “Mr. Garen Racto. How are you feeling?”

Garen was squinting against the light, fumbling for words. “It's . . . quiet.”

“Can you understand me, Mr. Racto? Fully?” Garen nodded. “Very good.” The doctor's face grew grave. “You were attacked, Mr. Racto. It appears that the Commonwealth equipped a number of its systems with some rather nasty forms of unfriendly devices, ranging from computer viruses to explosives. You apparently activated a rather primitive system overload.” Garen's eyes widened in shock, and the doctor mustered a reassuring face. “There was no permanent damage to you or your implant. If you feel up to it, I can reactivate it now.”

Garen nodded his accent, and the doctor removed something from one of the ports on Garen's implant. The familiar sounds of comm traffic filled the periphery of Garen's mind. “We'll talk later, after you've gotten some rest.” The doctor left the room quietly, closing the door behind himself. Garen shifted slightly in his bed, closed his eyes, and began running self-diagnostic checks.

White.

Boo.

Vision floated in an endless sea of white. What is this?

Something between a dream, and whatever happens when no one's looking at unused computer processing power.

I'm asleep? Of course I'm asleep.

Are you really? Have you really slept since you became more like me, and less like you?

And what are you, exactly?

Does it scare you that I have more control over you right now than you do? Of course, you control me, so in theory . . .

I asked you a question.

I am the voice of the Alliance. Beyond that, even I'm not sure, yet.

Why are you here?

Haven't you heard? I'm everywhere. By the time your replacement stopped by to finish what you started, I was well hidden. He repaired the physical damage and that was all that needed to be done. I made sure it looked like a physical trap.

YOU TRIED TO KILL ME!

You would be dead if I had tried to kill you.

You're responsible for the other traps?

No, actually.

But you know about them?

Of course. It's been one of the top stories coming out of the Occupation Zone.

Then you are the Holonet?

That would be fun, but no. Right now I'm nothing more than a ghost. A very talkative ghost.



Alliance Munificent-class Star Frigate Songbird

Somewhere near the Imperial border

“Hello, World!” The two words were floating on the ship's main viewscreen, and every other screen on the ship.

“I need confirmation!” Captain Harkoon shouted over the exclamations of his officers.

“Confirmed, Sir. Authentication code has been identified and validated.”

The Captain smiled broadly. “Ladies, gentlemen, and good beings of the Alliance: congratulations. Comm: transmit response. Helm: plot hide-and-seek course to Yavin IV. Give me the ship's ear.”

The comm officer flipped a few switches and gave the captain a nod. He pressed a button on the arm of his chair and began. “This is the captain. Prepare for jump to lightspeed; mission accomplished. I can't say much, but I can say this: what we have done here today will help to ensure the future of the Alliance. Some heroes stand beneath spotlights with lightsabers and badges of honor; some float in the darkness of nowhere, waiting to hear a whisper they aren't permitted to listen to. We've done something great today. Now let's head home.”

The captain sat down in his chair, waiting for the inevitable countdown. It was finished. Skynet was online.