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Nen Yim felt infected by his joy, but she drew her tentacles into a mild admonishment. “Here, in these chambers of the master, such things may be spoken in security,” she cautioned. “But outside of this room, have a care.”

“Yes, of course. I know what happens to heretics as well as you. But what am I to do? Command me, Adept Nen Yim. Make me a part of this!”

He was very like Yakun, Nen Yim reflected. How had she not seen it immediately, the passion in his eyes? It was almost as if her lover had been reborn.

Keep to the task at hand, she counseled herself. “The modified memory cells are weak,” she told Tsun. “Most are rejected within a matter of hours and have to be reimplanted. My task is to understand why; it is not a biochemical matter, as I see it—difficult to explain, and perhaps connected to her Jeedai powers. Your task, Initiate Tsun, is to grow new memories for her. We are in the process of transferring a complete set of false memories developed in the Qah protocol to a human-cell equivalent. We can then bud them as many times as we wish. When I have found a way to condition her to accept implanted memories permanently, we will then have a complete set to transfer. Meanwhile, we modify the cells, try them out, and see how long they last. We might stumble on a biological solution in the process, or at the very least learn more about how her memory works.”

“I hear and obey,” Tsun said eagerly. “But since there is no protocol to follow …”

“I will demonstrate. The trials were rigorous and required much testing—”

“Testing,” Tsun breathed. “A word I never thought to hear spoken aloud in this context.”

“Are you listening, Initiate, or will you comment on my every word?” Nen Yim remonstrated, trying to keep her voice stern.

“Apologies, Adept,” he said. “I am all attention.”

“Good. I was saying, Initiate, that developing the process was difficult, but the resulting protocol is simple, and as easy to follow as any of the god-given ones. If you come here, I will describe it to you.”

He genuflected and followed her eagerly, but did not interrupt her again except with necessary questions.

Riina watched the two Yuuzhan Vong go about their work in confusion. Who were they? Why was she here?

Discontinuity. She came to, trembling, her thoughts drifting in angry swarms, unwilling to associate with one another. She remembered the female asking her name, and answering “Riina.” That hadn’t hurt.

But somehow it was wrong.

There were things she could see from the corner of her eye she could never see looking straight on. Her real name was like that, lurking just out of sight. When she tried to stare straight at it, it bit her with hot needle teeth.

That was true of a lot of things. The face that kept appearing in the dark of her mind, the voice that sometimes rang in her head, the memory that kept trying to surface of how she had gotten here—all were shifting trails in the sand, all led to agony.

But she couldn’t give up. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Or was she? Brief flashes of color and sound came, now, of a world turned inside out, with no sky but only land that curved up to meet itself. A crèche-mother with a sloped forehead and nearly noseless face. The prickly sweet scent of fuming omipal during the ritual of appellation. The spicy, slightly rotten taste of von’u, a rare treat given her by her naming-father.

Riina they called her. Riina Kwaad.

She felt as if she were drifting down a stream of soothing water, surrounded by comforting voices. She rubbed her forehead and felt the marks of her domain, and even the raw pain of them felt good, in its own way.

Tahiri!

The voice again. Memories of her past splintered like crystal and cut into her brain. Other images flashed, names. One name.

Anakin.

The stream became a river, raging, sucking her under, and Anakin was in it with her. She held to the image, though paroxysms shook her body.

This was real. This happened! We were little, at the academy, we were following dreams that drew us together—

She screamed, leapt, and slammed into the barrier that