Young Writers Society

He growled. He was almost as curious as Tarkin to discover these secrets, but Tarkin's orders were nearing unreasonable. "You aren't telling me everything, do you expect me to play your guessing games until I reach the right answer?"

That was fair, Tarkin reasoned to himself. He studied the Zabrak; it was clear his interest was peaked, but could he be trusted to keep quiet about this as long as Tarkin needed? He couldn't stick with the lie, not now that he needed Sirejj's actual input. He couldn't have the Zabrak looking for living Atoans when what he really needed was information on his son and the dead one lying beneath him.

He'd hesitated too long.

"Insurgents killed my son on the very ground we stand," he replied. "So I have been told. The story was..." He thinned his lips. "In the years that followed I have found it increasingly difficult to suspend my disbelief around some of the events that were relayed to me by the parties that were present at the scene."

Ahh, that made more sense. A personal matter. That explained the Governor's unusual interest.

"Insurgents." He muttered. He slowly turned to walk a little closer to the center of the ruined cathedral. The ground was tumultuous. There had been much bloodshed. The ground beneath him remembered the chaos, the pain, the fear. But there was something else. A very specific agony, that of love and of loss. He turned to Tarkin and frowned. He doubted it came from him, his feelings were concealed well for the most part.

Tarkin quirked an eyebrow. The Zabrak had noticed something. "What is it?" he asked expectantly, glancing around as if he too might be able to see or feel whatever it was.

Sirejj glared at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Tarkin seemed unusually vulnerable. There were now cracks in his icy demeanor. Whatever happened here with his son was clearly a festering wound that time had not healed.

The stones spoke something similar. There was an injustice done here. Tarkin's presence made it difficult to concentrate, for his inner conflict was louder than the whispers of the dead.

"I am not sure." He said at length. "There are many threads to be untangled here." Perhaps that pain of loss was Tarkin after all. But he still felt as if he was missing a chunk of the story.

"Naturally." Tarkin forced his muscles to relax. Be patient, he reminded himself. Nothing would get done if he was too hasty. "I received news from a lead that there may still be Atoans living here or on the actual planet. Perhaps you might pry something from them, if they still live?"

He'd seen it done enough times to know it was a mess process. The detainees interrogated by Vader and the Grand Inquisitor were rarely left in a useful state. But then, their knowledge was all that was needed. Tarkin had no qualms about loosing this Zabrak on the remaining Atoans.

"That may be helpful. Or it may only add to the confusion. More lies, more strands to untwist..." He stopped around a particularly large crater left by one of the pillars falling. He felt chilled for a moment, circling the crater and then the large pieces of stone that had once been part of the structure.

"Were any of the sacred ones killed here?" He looked up at Tarkin from where he stood

"How do you mean?" Tarkin began to ask, then paused. He meant priests and priestesses, of course. The woman.
"I believe there was one," he said. "A priestess." Her face again, serene even in death but with an expression old beyond her appearance. He'd heard the Atoans' lifespans extended long past those of humans; perhaps that was the case with this one. Not that it mattered anymore, he supposed. She was long dead.

"Hmm...she may know." He whispered. He felt like he could almost picture her, but the scene was still so full of shadows it was hard to discern anything.

"You will have to tell me more about the battle here. Why? Who fought? What was at stake?"

Tarkin began to pace, tapping the staff on the ground every now and again to punctuate his steps. "My son went missing for some months when he was deployed to the Ghost Nebula. I sent a trusted friend of Garoche's along with a high-ranking member of the military to find him and bring him home. The result was a bloodbath--the friend was killed in an explosion caused by Atoan insurgents." He glanced around at the caved in cathedral. "As for the battle here, not much is known. The one who told me this claims that Garoche was attacked by one of the priestesses. When she was confronted, she brought the entirety of the cathedral down in an attempt to kill everyone inside. She succeeded only in killing herself, my son, and--I presume--her unborn child." Tarkin crossed his arms. "The individual to which I refer is not always reliable in his retellings of events. I wished to clarify some matters for myself."

"This priestess. I think we must learn more about her." He looked up at the sky, and then back to the ruins. For a priestess to destroy her own home, a sacred building, was an abomination. There was certainly more to this story, Tarkin was right about that much.

"Hm." Tarkin was of the same opinion. He had planned to ask any Atoans he saw about her. "Do you believe any survivors might be forthcoming about her involvement with this matter?"

"Not to you." He answered quickly. "If any of the sacred ones remain, they may speak to me, a fellow Listener." He had come here to learn, and as a fellow fugitive of a scorched world, he could find plenty in common with the remaining Atoans

Tarkin's jaw tightened slightly. The Zabrak made a good point again. He'd gave to hang back if he wanted information; the Atoans would perceive him as a threat immediately.

"And how do you suggest we lure them out?" he asked.

"I can take care of that. I am merely a student searching for knowledge. I am not a threat to them. In fact..." He chuckled. "I can play at your game. If any insurgents remain, wouldn't they jump the chance to win over a skilled hunter with a hatred of the empire?"