Chapter Text
The Halls of Healing were unexpectedly bright and homely, compared to everything Chester had experienced of this galaxy so far. She found herself letting out a breath of relief, even though Tarkin was right there.
The thing that did startle her was the number of droids. There were a lot of them undertaking patient care. She watched one, wary, but none of the rest of the party seemed particularly concerned by it, so she smoothed her initial reaction away behind the calm but unamused mask and followed Master Plo deeper into the room.
Unfortunately, Tarkin had seen her initial unease. “You can give up this farce at any time, Tulin,” he said softly. “There’s no need to embarrass yourself.”
Bite me, Chester wanted to say, and didn't.
They were met by a tall woman in layered Jedi robes. She had a very humanoid face, with two long fleshy appendages falling from her head instead of hair, and vivid blue skin. She frowned deeply at Chester, but without the sense of hostility Krell and Tarkin had exuded. Her eyes, blue as her skin, settled on Chester’s bruised forehead, and narrowed.
“Welcome to the Halls of Healing, Commander Chester,” she said. “The physical resemblance to Knight Tulin is uncanny, but your sense in the Force is entirely different. I am Master Healer Vokara Che.”
Chester blinked, glanced at Master Plo. She hadn’t thought any of them had messaged ahead—but how else would Master Che have learned her name?
Then Master Che turned to Tarkin, and her eyes filled with open dislike. “Admiral, you may wait with the Councilors in the visiting rooms. I hear that Master Krell saw fit to utilize shock restraints and I will need to ensure that our guest has not sustained damage from her extended captivity.”
Tarkin opened his mouth to object. The three Councilors surrounded him, and the largest—the green-skinned amphibian, Master Fisto—stepped between Chester and the Admiral. “Best to do as the Master Healer says, in her domain,” he said brightly, and turned his head just enough to wink at Chester over his shoulder. “This way, Admiral. Might we offer you some tea while you wait?”
With Tarkin gone, Master Che’s severe expression softened. She ushered Chester in the exact opposite direction, deeper into the hall.
“I can sense your distress,” she said, “and given how you were brought to us I can’t say it’s unwarranted. The shock collars aren’t usually harmful to near-human physiologies, but it is worth a look and it makes for a handy excuse to get that walking talking battleship out of the room. How old are those bruises?”
Chester let her shoulders slump out of her rigid posture. “I’m not sure—since I was kidnapped, though my escape attempt might have added to them. I woke up with the shock collar on, and I haven’t slept more than a nap since.” She gave Master Che a crooked smile. “It was more or less what I expected.”
“Hmm,” said the Healer, increasingly displeased. “So, three and a half days at all speed from Entralla, according to this preliminary report I’m seeing, plus however long it took on the minor routes from where you were taken—most likely another three or more. I’m going to wring Master Krell’s wretched neck.” She huffed. “Were you given food and water, at the very least?”
“Sufficient, yes,” Chester said, daring to hope again, though at this point it was a tired sort of hope. She glanced around at the equipment around her, a little nervous. None of it was recognizable. “My priority is getting back home. What do you need me to do?”
Master Che beckoned her into a small private room. The walls were painted calm sea-green, the furniture an even mix of some sort of wood and sterile metal. A pair of orchid-like plants flowered vigorously on top of a filing cabinet. Natural daylight streamed in through a skylight in the ceiling, or perhaps a convincing artificial approximation given how large this Temple seemed to be. The Healer waved a hand, and a chair moved by itself—wooden, with an attached cushion. Chester flinched, remembering the invisible fist that Krell had clamped around her torso.
“Can you all do that?” she asked, and winced at the apprehension in her own voice. “When I attempted to escape, Krell…”
She let it trail off, because the memory still disturbed her. She’d been so fucking helpless .
Master Che gave her a searching look, her frown deepening. “Yes—telekinetic abilities are a basic application of the Force, though some of us are better at it than others. Did Master Krell restrain you that way?”
Chester nodded, disturbed.
“I see—and I apologize; telekinesis is second nature to many of us, but I’ll refrain from using it here.” Master Che opened a drawer set into a desk at the end of the room, and dug through its contents manually, coming out with what appeared to be a single-serve packet of some sort of juice. “Please have a seat, if you feel comfortable doing so. Are you sensitive to sugars or any sort of fruit?”
“No, none,” says Chester. The headache she’d been ignoring started a steady throb as soon as she relaxed, and she reached up to rub her shoulders. Bruises, stress, muscle tension, probably dehydration, plain and simple sleep deprivation. She’d done worse before, but always with the necessity of protecting her crew driving her onward; it very rarely was herself and herself alone she needed to worry about. She’d been captured before, she’d had missions on strange planets go bad before. But always there was the knowledge that her ship was up there—the Bedivere , the Billings— and with it her crew and colleagues, working to save her, to wrestle a solution out of the mess. Now, she was stranded far from home, and stranded alone .
She accepted the juice, and she drank it, for lack of anything more productive to do, and felt the anxiety ease at least a little. “Thank you,” she said, her voice rough. She realized her hands were trembling a little if she held them out for too long; the joys of exhaustion. God, she just wanted to sleep .
Master Che looked down at her, openly sympathetic. “Let’s take a look at those bruises first. I don’t need you to take off any clothes to examine them, but I suspect they could do with a little bacta. Are you familiar with bacta?”
Chester decided against shaking her head. “No,” she said, trying to ignore the headache thumping behind her eyes. “Does it have anything to do with bacteria?”
The Healer smiled. “It is a type of bacterial culture, yes. We use it as a healing aid and analgesic.” She reached out, fingers hovering a few inches from Chester’s face. “There is a very minor fracture behind that bruise–you must have had a concussion, yes? I sense no swelling or continued bleeding in your brain, which is very fortunate given the complete lack of medical attention you’ve had. May I touch your forehead?”
She waited until Chester gave her permission, which was a pleasant surprise. Her fingertips were cool, and the moment they made contact Chester felt the headache ease.
“No other fractures,” Master Che reported. Some kind of empathic and healing powers here, then; there were a few Federation species capable of similar feats, but Chester was fairly sure that none of them healed so casually . “Deep tissue bruising in the upper left shoulder, left hip, and upper right arm, plus a number of stressed joints. Bacta will help with all of these, as will a hot shower and some proper sleep. If you like, I will pull medical privilege and have you admitted here overnight, which will give us an excuse to chase Tarkin out even if he prefers to argue over DNA.”
“Please do,” Chester said. There seemed to be a respect for medical facilities as a sanctuary from law enforcement here; she’d sleep better knowing that even Tarkin might hesitate to bring a bunch of jackbooted thugs in to drag her back out. “A hot shower and sleep sound very good right now. But I assume we’ll need to give Tarkin the DNA scan to give us at least a brief respite while he figures out how to ignore it.”
“Indeed.” Master Che produced a medical scanner and held it to the back of Chester’s hand for a few moments. “There,” she said, drawing it away, “that will suffice for DNA—and oh , would you look at that, you are not a genetic match for Knight Tulin. You’re not even close enough for distant cousins, at that.”
Chester found herself letting out a breath of relief. “Well that’s good,” she said. “This would be the absolute worst time to find out I had a—clone I hadn’t known about.” She had almost said ‘transporter clone’, but they didn’t seem to have the requisite technology for that, and she really didn’t want to risk questions right now. This was not a society the Federation would be thrilled to share technology with; she remembered the fuss over what to send to Bajor, and the Bajorans were recovering from an occupation and far less inclined to the societal nastiness she’d already seen here.
She was just… not going to mention it. Or the war. Even at the best of times, an entity this big with this level of technological capability could roll the entire Alpha Quadrant up like a rug, and probably start on the Dominion for afters.
And someone like Tarkin would do it, too.
A cold lump settled in her gut as she realized that if Tarkin did get his hands on her, it would be a much better idea to confess to being Tulin after all. She could just see the cold predatory gleam in his eyes if he decided she was telling the truth, and that the comparatively small Federation had desirable technology. A government that made clones to fight its wars wasn’t going to stop him, either. Worse, a government with all those clones would probably be looking for something to aim them at after this war ended.
“Commander?” Master Che’s voice was gentle. Given her previous comments, she probably had some degree of empathic ability. Chester closed her eyes and drew in a breath, pushing speculation to the back of her mind and with it, her most recent certainty she was going to end up horribly dead.
If the Dominion had captured me, I’d already be horribly dead , she reminded herself. All of this is a bonus.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” she asked, wincing internally at the false note in her voice. “It’s the sleep deprivation.”
It was not the sleep deprivation, and by her expression Master Che wasn’t at all fooled. She didn’t argue the point, though.
“Entirely understandable, Commander. I only asked if you would prefer to shower now, and sleep with the bacta, or to have the bacta now and wait an hour or so before you wash it off. I’d recommend the first option, personally, but bacta can be slightly pungent if you’re not used to it.” She gave Chester a wry smile. “Sometimes our knights complain about bacta in the hair. I of course wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Chester returned the smile. “I’m sure bacta will be a massive improvement on the way I smell now. I’ll follow your recommendation.”
The showers—freshers, Master Che called them—were a well-lit functional single-occupant room containing a roomy stall, a separate empty bathtub set into the floor, and a fully-stocked towel rack. “Heated,” said Master Che, “and the towels are natural fibres. A cotton blend, I believe.” Several plants nestled into niches in the walls, glossy-leaved things like bromeliads and a number of ferns.
Chester breathed out, immediately feeling more at ease. “Thank you,” she said, acutely aware of her general griminess, the sticky itch of old sweat on her skin, and an undertone of stale human. It was all she could do to politely wait until Master Che was out of the room before stripping and scrubbing herself more thoroughly than she had since she’d jumped into a predatory plant after one of the ensigns.
It was water, too, not a sonic—absolute bliss.
She felt much more herself when she reemerged, dressing in the clean clothes provided, taking care to keep her commbadge with her. Stepping out, she found Master Che.
“Surely I can’t be your most important patient today,” she said, with a grin.
“It’s been a quiet day,” said Master Che. “Now, let’s get that bacta applied. I also had another idea that might help convince Intelligence of your innocence. Let’s talk about that afterward.”
They applied the bacta—it did stink—and returned to the exam room. There, Master Che busied herself at one of the counters.
“About this idea... Mace mentioned you didn’t know of the Force?”
Chester shook her head.
“We test Force-sensitivity by measuring midichlorians, which are a form of microscopic life found in—well, just about everything, but especially organic cells. Song Tulin has a midichlorian count of eight thousand three hundred—we measure in increments of twenty because midichlorian counts can and do fluctuate a little. Approximately zero point zero eight percent of the human population has a midi-count over five thousand, and zero point one percent of those exceed nine thousand.”
“And Force-sensitivity scales with midichlorian concentration?” Despite herself, she was curious. “Well, that should be a strong distinction between us; Starfleet tests its officers for psi-sensitivity, which I suspect has some overlap with Force-sensitivity, and I’m dead average for my species—that is, rather the low end, in our region of the galaxy.”
Master Che looked thoughtful. “I would say that what scales is the ease of connecting to the Force, past a certain level. Those with lower midi-counts can be just as capable of using the Force as those with higher counts; it’s just that we tend to have to practice a little or a lot more to reach the same point. Think of someone born with a talent, versus someone who simply works very hard to achieve the same level of mastery. My own count is on the lower end of middling, at least within the Order—seven thousand six forty—but here I am, Master Healer for the entire Order.” She twiddled her fingers, smiling her satisfaction at Chester. “Now, a midi-count isn’t a standard form of identification, but it can be used as supporting evidence. And I can tell now that you are Force-sensitive to some degree—the depth of your presence is fairly indicative.”
“Fascinating,” said Chester. “And, I suppose encouraging.” She kept her face politely still at the mention of her own Force-sensitivity. Having seen what a properly disciplined Vulcan was capable of, the idea of manifesting similar talents herself was laughable. She’d picked up much of her own mental discipline from T’Volis, out of respect for a partner who found untrammeled human emotionality acutely painful.
It was better, perhaps, that that relationship had run its course. “What does this test entail?”
“It’s a blood test.” Master Che produced a device that looked almost like a large white paperclip. “We take a tiny bit of blood from the fingertip—it will feel like just a pinprick—and analyse it for midichlorians. Any finger will do, I suppose, though if you intend on doing a lot of typing afterward I would suggest the small one.”
Chester took the warning at face value, inserting the smallest finger on her left hand into the device. Master Che’s ‘pinprick’ felt anything but. She curled her finger in against her palm, trying to hide her surprised hurt. Needles! They were using needles!
Getting interrogated here was going to suck.
But if she let on that it was a shock she might end up tortured for information about Federation medical technology, instead of her fictitious crime.
Master Che must have caught a little of her panic. “I’m sorry for the needles,” she offered, sympathetic. “This is one of about three remaining medical procedures for which we haven’t come up with a viable alternative yet. It’s coming, I think, but maybe in ten years or so. I always feel bad testing children.”
Chester gave her a perfectly blank look, opened her mouth out of sheer surprise, then closed it. “I see,” she said. We had hyposprays over a hundred years ago! How the hell do you not have an equivalent? The Klingons have hyposprays for fuck’s sake and they slice their palms open all the time for fun!
Master Che took the device to the side of the room, docking it by the part that looked like handles into a datapoint of some sort. “And now we wait a few minutes or so for the count. Technically all you need is a single cell, but midichlorians are notoriously difficult to get an accurate count on, so the reading is based on the average of many different cells.” She tipped her head to the side, the appendages attached to her crown slipping over one shoulder and curling at the ends. Chester wondered if they were prehensile.
“My apologies if this seems rude,” she said, “but all of the species here are unfamiliar to me. Would it be possible for me to access some kind of guide, or reference, so I can make a start on familiarizing myself—and hopefully avoid offending anyone?”
“Ah–of course. I don’t have anything to hand, but the Archives will be able to put something together.” Master Che tapped out a quick message, then turned back to Chester.
“Humans are the most widespread species in this galaxy, particularly within the Core—many different cultures, many different homeworlds. The historical reason for it is slave trading, a very long time ago. I am Twi’lek; we are also very numerous, particularly in the mid and outer Rim, for the same reason. As far as the Jedi Order goes, we are a culture in our own right, distinct from species or homeworld. Each Jedi has the opportunity to engage with their ancestral culture growing up, but not all of us do. We have our own religious and spiritual beliefs, our own value system, our own cultural practices.”
The datapad chirped in her hands. She scanned the reply, and a wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “The Archivists will send up a primer in five minutes or so. I’ve asked them to include information on the major human cultures as well, but it will be very brief out of necessity. Madame Nu—the Master Archivist—asks that you make a note of any questions you have, so that she can build a more comprehensive information packet. I suspect she is looking forward to further contact with your Federation.”
“I would love to talk with her,” said Chester, and meant it. “History and historical research are passions of mine.” Ones she’d had little ability to pursue during the war. “It was one of my fields of study in the Academy.”
“I will be sure to let her know,” said Master Che. She raised her eyebrows at Chester, mock-stern. “ After you’ve rested.”
Chester grinned back. “I take it Jedi have the same problems with letting work get in the way of rest as Starfleet officers do.”
“Very much so.” Master Che glanced back at the datapoint. “And there are the results. Curious—your midichlorian count does differ from Tulin’s, as in, it is significantly higher. A little over ten thousand.”
Chester’s eyebrows went up. “Interesting,” she said, “and unexpected.”
Master Che’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement. “You did say you’ve never displayed any overt Force usage before. That isn’t a surprise—it’s the same for most Force-sensitives who don’t receive basic training in childhood. Less overt signs might be consistent good luck in chance-based games, or a strikingly accurate sense of impending danger?”
“Nothing like that,” said Chester. “I’ve been told I can be persuasive when I put my mind to it, but that’s about all. Actually, more of a predilection for getting into interesting trouble—but that would describe most of Starfleet.”
“That, too, is a Jedi trait,” said Master Che, still clearly amused. “Now that we have more than enough evidence to demonstrate you are not Song Tulin, you should rest. With some luck, we’ll have you on your way home soon.”
Chester thought about Tarkin and didn’t feel too sure about that, but it was miles better than where she’d been this morning. She returned the smile. At the very least, she’d be able to get some sleep.
The air in the Council chamber at midnight was sluggish and listless. Plo blinked slowly behind his goggles, his eyelids heavy, and his own fatigue mingled with the exhaustion radiating from every other Councillor physically present, saturating the room.
Corralling and then politely removing Tarkin from the premises had been an all-too-brief interlude. He, Kit, and Eeth had snagged a fresh lot of double-strength caf from the refectory as they returned, anticipating a long night.
The (hopefully) last item on the agenda was the Master Healer’s report on their surprise guest.
“I’m going to want a word with Krell,” said Vokara by way of introduction. Her tone made it clear that the word would not be may the Force be with you.
Mace blinked dully, his shoulders an exhausted slump. “How is our guest recovering from her ordeal?”
“Remarkably well,” said Vokara. “And she is being far more patient with all of us than I think we deserve.” She swept a stern gaze over the assembled Councillors. “Master Krell did not make a first impression of the quality we ought to expect of our knights.”
“Disagree, we do not.” Yoda’s ears dipped, the deep-carved lines in his ancient face sharp. “An investigation into his methods, we have begun. Refuse to suspend a frontline General, the GAR high command will, so in-house our investigation must be.”
Vokara sighed, crossing her arms loosely at her obi. “Then I will request a standard medical checkup for his command structure at least, for documentation purposes.”
“That seems a prudent idea.” Mace laced his fingers together in his lap. “As for Commander Diane Chester?”
“Unsurprisingly, to anyone here paying attention, she’s not Song Tulin. They are both human, and that’s where any similarity ends.” Vokara’s frown turned pensive. “She has none of the healed injuries or scarring noted in Knight Tulin’s records—and a number of healed injuries Tulin did not have. Some of those are far too old to have been acquired in the few months Knight Tulin has been missing, and many do not match any weapon I’ve ever seen. I suspect some are more recent, but if so, the medical technology used to treat them is also unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The scarring is more present in the Force than physically. The most notable example is what I believe were radiation burns on her hands and arms. The signature of repair goes all the way down to the bone—she would have been looking at double prosthetics, if such an injury had occurred here.”
“You’re sure about that?” Kit asked, his black eyes narrowing. “That is a significant jump in capability over anything we have, isn't it?”
Vokara’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Indeed—let’s say I’m ninety percent certain, and fairly confident otherwise. Severe injuries leave a trace in the Force—it’s why some traditions believe that the loss of a limb is a partial loss of Force-sensitivity. The trace in Chester’s old wounds is very subtle because they are so well-healed, but there is a trace. Further, given the sheer number of recent injuries of all severity levels, she’s freshly out of a war zone. I see a lot of what were probably blaster wounds of some sort, quite a few broken bones, fractures in the skull that were probably concussions, but despite that her brain is in remarkable health.”
“She did seem quite regretful that her service’s duties included—how did she phrase it, mutual defense?” remarked Obi-Wan. “That would correlate with the injuries.”
“And she had a strong negative reaction to the blood sample for the midi-count,” said Vokara, and then let that one hang there. There were winces all around the room; interrogation droids often used needles. It didn’t take too much imagination to connect that with the war zone and Chester’s apparent assumption that she would be interrogated, and come up with some fairly unpleasant conclusions.
“We are getting her back to her home,” said Vokara, once the silence had stewed long enough. “Are we not?”
“Republic Intelligence has been… reluctant,” said Mace. He didn’t actually make a face about it, but they could all feel him refraining. “We’re going to need evidence to throw at them, recordings, testimony from Tulin’s friends or crechemates. You ran a midichlorian count?”
“Yes—partly out of curiosity, partly a hope that it would be further evidence to keep her out of Tarkin’s grubby hands. Hers is ten thousand two hundred, incidentally, significantly higher than Tulin’s.”
“Then we would have found her if she had been born in this galaxy. The Core, at least.” Plo heard a certain wistfulness in his own voice. It wasn’t as sure a prospect as he liked to think—the Jedi were stretched profoundly thinly these days, but things had been heading that way for decades.
Mace tilted him an evaluating look. “As we address the political aspects of the situation, we’ll need someone to keep an eye on the good Commander.”
“Are you concerned she’ll try something rash?” asked Obi-Wan, his eyebrows rising. “She must be aware how foolhardy that is.”
“Master Krell’s report would indicate otherwise,” said Mace. “She attempted an escape, he restrained her—upon which she bit him and attempted a second escape.”
“Good for her,” said Vokara, serene. Plo did not bother to hide his own amusement.
“Perhaps I ought to be that watchful eye,” he said. “The quartermasters appear to have assigned her a room quite close to mine, and I must admit to a certain curiosity about her and her galaxy.”
“Do we have any objections?” asked Ki-Adi-Mundi. None were forthcoming. Adi smiled knowingly at Plo, and Vokara gave a grudging nod—she at least trusted him not to indulge himself in overwork, which was more than could be said for a solid half his fellow Councilors.
“Very well,” said Mace. “Thank you, Master Che.”
Vokara left, and discussion turned inevitably back toward the topic of Master Krell.
Saesee shifted in his seat, and spoke for the first time in hours. “There is something of significance at work in this event. Master Krell is not quite at the center of movement, but he is very much involved.”
Mace nodded in grim agreement. “There’s a shatterpoint hanging over his head. It wasn’t there before this assignment.”
Ki-Adi-Mundi’s long head drooped a little. “Regrettably, shatterpoints are not considered an admissible form of evidence by the GAR courts. Where is Master Krell’s battalion to be deployed to next?”
“Felucia—the 501st needs backup. I am on my way with the 212th, but we aren’t going to be enough.” Obi-Wan’s holo somehow remained straight-backed and alert in his chair. Of course, he had missed the first half of the day in hyperspace, and he wasn’t physically present to sense everyone else’s fatigue beating down on their shoulders like rain. Plo let the flash of jealousy pass through his mind and into the Force. Obi-Wan would understand.
“You and Skywalker will be able to keep an eye out for his troopers, in case of further incidents.” Mace’s frown lessened just a little. “I also think you should share our suspicions with your commanders at least. I do not like what I saw hanging over Master Krell tonight, but there’s nothing we can do without solid evidence of abuse. Unfortunately, that evidence is also most likely to come from people who have a very good reason not to trust us.”
“I worry that that would cause a loss of faith in leadership—ours, certainly, but it isn’t as if the men have a great deal of love for the Republic Command either.” Ki-Adi-Mundi steepled his fingers and laid his hands in his lap, considering. “Hope is a valuable thing these days. At the same time, if we are able to remove Krell from his command, the lives we might save by doing so are considerable. His casualty rates have been far too high of late, and that alone speaks to a lack of care among their command structure.”
“Lack of care, or lack of competence.” Oppo Rancisis dropped his datapad into his lap with a judgemental grunt. “I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing their last few battle plans. Perhaps he is just arrogant. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to grapple with that realization in the last few years.”
“It’s worth it, I think,” said Adi. “I will speak to my senior commanders as well. Our troopers are not unobservant, and they feel a strong sense of community among themselves. Even if they do not have firm evidence for us to use, they are best placed to determine where our investigations might look.”
“Trust them, we must, or how should they trust us in return?” Yoda tapped his gimer stick against the tiled floor. “A united front we must be.”
“I may have already mentioned it to Commander Wolffe,” Plo admitted. Nobody actually rolled their eyes at him, but fond exasperation momentarily outweighed the fatigue in the room. “I will follow up on that conversation.”
Mace gave him a speculative look. “What exactly did you say to him?”
“I had missed a few reports, and the jump in casualty numbers out of the 257th was striking. Wolffe wondered if we might be sent to shore up their lines in the Mytaranor Sector, but then the Separatists retreated.”
“That remains very much an option with Felucia,” Obi-Wan said dryly. “If it comes down to setting guard massifs on Krell, the 104th is much more mobile than any of our other battalions.”
“We’ll keep the idea in reserve,” said Mace, and lifted his hands to his temples. “Please tell me we have no more urgent items on the agenda.”
“We do not,” said Kit, laughing with relief.
Mace really did make a face that time. “Then let us all seek our long overdue rest.”