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“I guess I’ll have to. So you’re saying that this—this—what do they call themselves again?”

“They don’t. Humans and other species usually refer to them as Cephalons, which just means ‘head’ in Oldspeak Basic. They see no need for names, as their consciousness apparently exists in and perceives four dimensions.”

“That sounds like a cosmic non sequitur to me,” Den said. “But setting that aside …”

The droid anticipated his next question. “They ‘see’ time the way we see space.”

“Uhh …”

I-Five projected the near-infinite patience of a parent trying to explain a difficult concept to a child. “The theory is that they’re not limited to a linear one-way perception of time as most sentients are. They perceive temporal events the same way you’re cognizant of items in spatial relation to where you are. See that landspeeder parked behind you?”

Den looked behind him. “Yes.”

“Call it the past.”

The Sullustan frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s behind you. See that trash bin ahead of you? That’s the future.”

“For you, maybe. I try to be more optimistic.”

“How fortunate for me my chassis is made of sealed metal. Otherwise I might split my sides from laughter.” I-Five took Den by the shoulders and turned him around. “Work with me on this.” He pointed at the landspeeder. “Now that’s the future, and the trash bin is the past. See? They conceptualize space and time as a four-dimensional hypermanifold. Simple, really.”

“Why do you hate me?”

The Sullustan had tried to wrap his head around it, he really had, but it was just too bizarre. The Cephalon was easily the most alien of alien beings he had ever encountered, and for someone who had spent as much time as he had in a front-line Rimsoo, seeing in a week more xenomorphs, both inside and out, than most people did in a year, that was saying something.

But there did seem to be one small plot of common ground, and that was the Cephalon’s willingness to aid other beings in escaping repression. Which meant that, every now and then, it had to be dealt with.

But that didn’t mean Den had to like it.

Such a pathetic state of affairs, Haninum Tyk Rhinann told himself. How sad that he had come to this lowly state. It was undignified enough to be dependent on a human benefactor such as Jax Pavan, but it was much, much worse to actually be envious of him. His bauth—an Elomin concept largely untranslatable in Basic, indicating a combination of unshakable poise, brazen effrontery, and a touch of aloof amusement—which had once encased his soul in impenetrable armor, now hung in tatters. He had no individual future, no course, no star by which to steer. He had been cast down.

No, it was worse than that: he had cast himself down.

It hadn’t always been thus. Once, not long ago, Rhinann had been puissant indeed. His word had been powerful enough to open doors and to close them as well, locking away behind them the enemies of his master. Perhaps it was true enough what his critics had said: that he had held no real power of his own, but instead had been merely a pale reflection of his master’s glory, like a planet throwing back the light of its star. Perhaps. But there were worlds that reflected the dim ruddiness of red dwarves, and there were worlds that reflected the blinding azure of giant blue-white stellar furnaces. And save for Palpatine himself, no star burned more brightly in the firmament of the Empire than that of Lord Darth Vader.

It had been a heady draft of power, at first. Rhinann had been Vader’s aide-de-camp, his personal adjutant and factotum, and as such the flail the Elomin had swung had been heavy. Given such a position one could ask, with perfect justification, why he had sought exile voluntarily.

On the surface of it he had had a most excellent motivation: survival. His master had at last run the rogue Jedi Pavan to ground, it was true. Unfortunately, that location had also been ground zero for an imminent overload, initiated by Pavan in an underground reactor in the Factory Works, that grim antipodean no-being’s-land populated solely