House Organa Private Estate, Alderaan | 19 BBY
The grass beneath my boots felt wrong.
Not the texture or the way it compressed under my weight. Those were fine. Normal. What felt wrong was the fact that grass existed at all in a galaxy where the Jedi Temple had burned six days ago. That somewhere, life continued with such aggressive normalcy that plants still grew and morning dew still collected on leaves and the binary suns of some distant system still rose on schedule.
I stood in the gardens behind Organa's estate, lightsaber in hand, moving through the opening sequences of Form IV. My body remembered the movements with the kind of muscle memory that transcended conscious thought. Step, pivot, slash. Flow into the next form. Let momentum carry you forward. Become the blade.
Master Drallig's voice echoed in my head with every movement. Ataru is about commitment, Zett. Once you begin the sequence, you finish it. Hesitation gets you killed.
The system had been quiet since the meditation. Not gone, just dormant, like some predator waiting for the right moment to make itself known. I'd tested its boundaries over the past several days, discovered that thinking specific commands would bring up different displays. Stats. Skills. Something called an inventory that currently contained my lightsaber, my ruined Padawan robes, and a commlink that no longer had anyone to call.
The skills list had been particularly enlightening.
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ACTIVE SKILLS
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Lightsaber Combat: Level 14
Form IV (Ataru): Level 16
Form I (Shii-Cho): Level 11
Form III (Soresu): Level 8
Force Sense: Level 9
Force Push: Level 7
Force Barrier: Level 4
Meditation: Level 10
Persuasion: Level 6
Tactics: Level 5
Piloting: Level 7
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Numbers attached to abilities I'd spent years developing. Quantified measurements of skills that had always felt more intuitive than mathematical. The system reduced a decade of training to levels and statistics, stripped away the philosophy and left only cold assessment.
I hated how accurate it felt.
My Ataru was indeed stronger than my Soresu. Master Drallig had focused our training on aggressive forms, believing that a good offense created its own defense. My Force abilities were competent but not exceptional. And my persuasion skills were mediocre at best, which explained why I'd failed to convince Ahsoka to stay with the Order.
The thought of her brought the sequence to a halt. My blade hummed in the morning air, steady and patient. Somewhere out there, assuming she'd survived, Ahsoka was navigating the same hostile galaxy I was. Did she know what had happened? Had she felt the disturbance in the Force when thousands of Jedi died simultaneously?
Did she blame herself for leaving?
"You're favoring your shoulder."
I spun, lightsaber raised, and found Bail Organa standing at the garden entrance. He raised his hands in a placating gesture, though his eyes tracked my weapon with the kind of wariness that suggested he understood exactly how dangerous it was.
"Sorry," I said, lowering the blade. "Old habits."
"Don't apologize for survival instincts." He walked closer, hands clasped behind his back in that formal politician's posture he wore like armor. "How's the injury healing?"
I rolled my shoulder experimentally. The wound had closed cleanly over the past week, bacta and rest doing their work. Only a dull ache remained, persistent but manageable. "Well enough. Another few days and it'll be back to full strength."
"Good. Because we need to talk about your next move."
There it was. The conversation I'd been avoiding since we'd arrived on Alderaan. Organa had been patient, given me space to process and train and pretend that hiding in his gardens was a sustainable long-term strategy. But patience had limits, and the Empire's reach was growing longer every day.
I deactivated my lightsaber and clipped it to my belt. "I can't stay here. We both know that."
"No, you can't." He said it matter-of-factly, without apology. "Imperial Intelligence has already begun sweeping Core Worlds for Jedi survivors. It's only a matter of time before they start investigating known Republic sympathizers. If they find you here..."
"It would give them exactly the excuse they need to move against you." I'd run the scenarios a hundred times in my head. Organa was too valuable as a senator, too connected, too popular to eliminate without cause. But harboring a fugitive Jedi? That would justify anything.
"I've made contact with others," Organa said carefully. "People who believe the Empire's rise is... problematic. We're not organized yet. Not even close. But the foundations of something are forming."
"A rebellion."
"Eventually, perhaps. Right now it's just concerned citizens sharing information." He met my eyes. "I can get you offworld. Provide credits, identification documents, contacts in the Outer Rim. Places where Imperial authority is still establishing itself."
The Outer Rim. The ass-end of civilized space where law was a suggestion and survival depended more on credits and firepower than justice. I'd served there during the Clone Wars, seen the kind of desperation that festered in forgotten systems. It was exactly the kind of place where a fugitive Jedi could disappear.
It was also exactly the kind of place where a fugitive Jedi could become something other than what he'd been trained to be.
"What about other survivors?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "Have you heard anything? Confirmed anything?"
Organa's expression went carefully neutral. "Rumors. Unconfirmed reports. The Empire is making examples of any Jedi they capture, broadcasting their executions on the HoloNet as warnings." He paused. "But absence of confirmation isn't confirmation of death. Some may have gone to ground like you did."
Some. Maybe. Possibly. The words of someone trying to offer hope without making promises he couldn't keep.
The system pulsed gently in my peripheral vision.
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NEW QUEST AVAILABLE
Quest: Forge a New Path
Difficulty: Moderate
Description: Leave Alderaan and establish independent operations in the Outer Rim. Begin building resources for long-term survival.
Objectives:
1) Depart Alderaan safely
2) Establish base of operations
3) Secure initial funding
Reward: +300 XP, New skill unlocks, Increased operational autonomy
Accept? Y/N
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I stared at the text for a moment, considering. The system was learning, adapting to my circumstances. This wasn't a simple optional quest like meditation. This was a framework, a structure for the choices I was already planning to make.
Yes, I thought.
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QUEST ACCEPTED: Forge a New Path
Objective 1 activated: Depart Alderaan safely
Note: Imperial surveillance of major spaceports increasing. Stealth recommended.
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"I'll need a ship," I said aloud. "Something that won't attract attention. No diplomatic credentials, no Republic military markings."
Organa nodded slowly. "I can arrange that. A civilian transport, registered to a dummy corporation. Nothing that traces back to Alderaan or the Senate." He studied my face. "Where will you go?"
That was the question, wasn't it? The galaxy was infinite and I had no map, no destination, no plan beyond survival. The logical choice was to find other Jedi survivors, try to rebuild some semblance of the Order. But logic assumed those survivors wanted to be found. Assumed they hadn't decided that the Jedi's time had passed and the best way to honor the fallen was to disappear completely.
"Nar Shaddaa," I said, the decision crystallizing as I spoke. "Smuggler's Moon. Far enough from Imperial authority that they'll have bigger problems than hunting Jedi. Populated enough that one more transient won't stand out."
"Nar Shaddaa is dangerous even by Outer Rim standards."
"Good. Dangerous means people are too busy watching their own backs to watch mine."
Organa was quiet for a moment, weighing something I couldn't quite read in his expression. Finally he said, "There's someone there. A Twi'lek information broker named Sabetha Drel. She does work for people like me, people who need to know things the Empire would prefer to keep quiet. I'll send word that you're coming."
An information broker. Someone who traded in secrets and leverage, who survived by knowing more than everyone else. Exactly the kind of contact that could either save my life or sell me to the highest bidder.
"Can you trust her?"
"As much as anyone can be trusted when money is involved." He pulled a data chit from his pocket and held it out. "This contains her contact information, the ship registration, and enough credits to get you started. After that, you're on your own."
I took the chit, felt its weight in my palm. Such a small thing to represent the difference between survival and death. "Thank you. For all of this. You didn't have to help me."
"Yes, I did." His voice carried an edge of something fierce. "What the Emperor has done is an abomination. The Jedi were far from perfect, but they didn't deserve extermination. And the galaxy needs witnesses to remember what was lost."
Witnesses. The word settled into my chest like a stone. That's what I was now. Not a Padawan training to become a Knight. Not a student preparing to serve the Order. Just a witness to its destruction, carrying the memory of what had been into an uncertain future.
"When can I leave?" I asked.
"Tomorrow night. There's a cargo transport departing for the Corellian Trade Spine. I've arranged for you to be listed as crew. From there you can catch a connecting flight to Hutt Space."
Tomorrow. Less than a day to leave behind the last remnant of safety, the last connection to the world that had existed before Order 66. Part of me wanted to argue for more time, for just another few days to train and prepare and pretend that I was ready for what came next.
But time was a luxury I didn't have.
"I'll be ready," I said.
Organa nodded and turned to leave, then paused. "Zett, one more thing. The Empire is broadcasting propaganda about the Jedi. Claiming you all fell to darkness, that you tried to overthrow the Republic. They're rewriting history."
"I know."
"Don't let them rewrite yours. Remember who you are. Remember what you were trained to be." His eyes held mine. "The galaxy needs Jedi, even if it doesn't know it yet."
He left before I could respond. I stood alone in the garden, surrounded by flowers that had no business existing in a broken galaxy, and thought about his words.
Remember who you are.
The problem was, I wasn't entirely sure anymore. Six days ago I'd been Padawan Zett Jukassa, student of Cin Drallig, training to become a Jedi Knight. Now I was just Zett, fugitive and survivor, standing in a borrowed garden with an impossible system quantifying my existence.
The system itself offered no comfort. It tracked stats and skills but didn't answer the questions that actually mattered. Who was I supposed to be now? What did it mean to be a Jedi when the Order was gone? How was I supposed to honor Master Drallig's teachings while hiding in the underworld and doing whatever it took to survive?
I pulled up the stats display again, stared at the numbers.
Level: 13
Class: Jedi Padawan
Thirteen levels in a system I didn't understand. Still classified as a Padawan even though there was no Order left to promote me. The designation felt like mockery.
You can change class designations upon meeting certain requirements, text appeared, responding to my thoughts. Current requirements for class evolution: unavailable. Minimum level 15 required for basic class change options.
Class evolution. The system had more depth than I'd realized, layers of functionality I hadn't begun to explore. If I survived to level fifteen, apparently new options would open up. Different paths. Different possibilities.
Different versions of who I could become.
I closed the display and looked up at Alderaan's sun, felt its warmth on my face. Tomorrow I would leave this place. Would step onto a ship bound for the Outer Rim and whatever waited there. The smart play was to disappear completely, to abandon the Force and the Jedi teachings and everything that made me a target.
But Master Drallig hadn't trained a coward.
I ignited my lightsaber again and returned to the forms. The blade sang through the air, tracing patterns of light against the morning. Each movement was a promise. To my fallen Master. To the Order that had raised me. To myself.