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“All can be bent to one’s will, if one’s will is strong enough,” said Vestara Khai, looking up from a game of dejarik. Luke’s son, Ben, had dug up the program and was instructing her in its finer points.

“That some kind of Lost Tribe Sithy saying?” Ben retorted, but he was grinning and the words had no sting. Vestara smiled back at him.

“Nope,” she said. “I just made it up. Do you like it?”

“No,” Luke said sharply, even though the question was meant for Ben. He was in no mood to patiently indulge teenage flirting, which the conversation was perilously beginning to resemble. “Vestara, you could do a great deal of good if you’d simply tell us where your homeworld is instead of inventing platitudes.”

Vestara’s eyes, warm with mirth as they regarded Ben, turned cold for a moment.

“Good?” she repeated. “Master Skywalker, I’m Sith. I don’t ‘do good,’ remember? Or at least, that’s what you keep insisting.”

“She’s got you there, Dad,” Ben said. He examined the board, frowning a little as Vestara moved her molator two squares, where it proceeded to attack Ben’s houjix.

“Yeah,” Jaina agreed. “She does.” While Luke’s niece was only present in holographic form, she had apparently been following the conversation. Luke fought the urge to scowl.

“You would have me believe that you have turned your back on such things,” Luke said. “That you are working with us now, not the Sith, nor Abeloth. As such, I think you’d be more willing to help us.”

Vestara’s eyes flashed briefly, but she did not rise to the bait. “I have helped as best I could without becoming something I despise,” she said quietly, wrapping a surprising amount of dignity around her like a cloak. “I may not agree with what this strike force is doing. But that doesn’t mean I want to turn them over for Jedi-approved genocide.”

“Hey, wait just a minute, Ves—” Ben began. Luke lifted a hand for silence, and for a change, Ben obeyed the unspoken command.

“Jedi,” Luke said, his voice just as soft as Vestara’s and just as intense, “do not condone or participate in genocide. We’ve been on the receiving end of it. Or didn’t you know about that?”

“Oh, I know,” Vestara replied. “And I know from what Ship told us that Order 66 was issued by a Sith, and carried out by a Sith who was your own father. If anyone has reason to hate my—” She caught herself and corrected. “—the Sith, it’s Jedi—and you. You are making my argument for me. Why in the universe would I willingly lead you to my world when I know you will feel obligated to kill everyone?”

No one missed the slip. But that in and of itself didn’t necessarily ring warning bells for Luke. Even if Vestara had truly had a change of heart—which he didn’t for a moment believe—old habits died hard. They were her people, and had been all her life. It would be a long time before she thought of them in any other way.

“Look,” Ben said, glancing from his father to Vestara, the dejarik game completely forgotten, “we’re getting off-track here. The Sith we’re all agreed we want to find are the members of the former strike team. I know you want that, too, Ves. We also need to find Abeloth.”

She nodded. Anger still radiated off her in the Force, although anyone with eyes could see it easily in her body language. Luke supposed he’d feel the same.

“I’d tell you if I knew anything that would help you find Abeloth or the strike team,” she said. “I think you know that. But I was never included in their grander plans, and it’s been far too long since they even trusted me with minor information. I’ve told you all I know.”

And she had. Luke could sense her honesty—in this, at least.

“I believe you have told me what you know,” he said, equally as honest. “But now it’s time for you to tell me what you think. Give us your best guess. You know these people, in a way we don’t. If you have any theory, any idea about where they might go or what their next step might be, I would ask you to tell us. Any starting point would be welcome.