But Soh’s voice was heard, booming over the speakers and transmitted to every planet in the Republic and beyond. “Nothing gives me greater pleasure,” she exalted, throwing her arms wide, “than to declare the Valo Republic Fair open. This is our Republic, my friends, our family. The spirit of progress. The spirit of democracy. The spirit of unity.”

With perfect timing, the combined starfighters streaked overhead as Soh completed her speech, and the pilots flicked a switch in their cockpits. Colored smoke trailed from hidden canisters, painting the sky gold and white as a specially composed anthem blared from speakers across the square. The music swelled, and the chancellor’s platform started to rise steadily into the sky, finally allowing access to the gates that now were embellished with holographic letters, the chancellor’s final words—and the motto for the fair as a whole—writ large for all to see: THE SPIRIT OF UNITY.

Stellan looked over to the rostrum and saw Lina Soh watching the people … her people … streaming into the park with tears in her eyes. Despite everything, despite the dark days following the Great Disaster, despite being told that the Republic Fair would never happen, she had proved everyone wrong. At that moment, Stellan believed that the chancellor could do anything. Centuries from now, the people of the galaxy would look back and see this day as a turning point, one that set the Republic’s course for all time, and he for one was glad that the Jedi were at the heart of it, where they belonged.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The laboratory

Loden Greatstorm dreamed he was in the past. For a moment he was on Elphrona, riding a steelee across the rust plains, Bell behind him on his own mount. The young Padawan was laughing, his braids bouncing up and down, Ember running at the steelee’s feet.

Loden breathed in the hot Elphrona air, imagining the smell of Porter Engle’s famous Nine-Egg Stew already bubbling in the kitchen, and felt a jab in his neck.

He woke to find himself in torment.

This, of course, was nothing new. In fact, it had quickly become the norm, the life he had endured ever since he had been captured by Marchion Ro. His broken leg had healed, but pain remained, making it impossible for him to focus, to escape. To call on Bell.

I am here, my apprentice. I am still alive.

That in itself was debatable. Was he alive? Really? Some days he doubted it. Some days he thought himself insane. He had every right to be. The doctor—that sniveling, crawling, sadistic Chadra-Fan—had killed the other prisoners one by one, some still in their cells, some in front of Loden so he could see the light fade from their eyes, so he could smell their blood on the air. He’d watched them die, and there was nothing he could do.