"Zhal', zhal'!" the Exile cried to the mechanic as she dashed along, her hand in his. "I'm sorry! We must hurry, or else the last hope for the galaxy may be put out! Liquefied! Don't worry. I'll explain more if and when I find her." Tysy was running short of breath. She was sure the mechanic did not have a clue what she was talking about or to whom she was referring, but the Exile knew that it might well be too late already.
At the fuel depot, she saw several people resting on a bench near a great whirring tank, their echoes through the Force almost making her reel. So keen was their anguish, so complete their despair, that Tysyacha at first believed that they were being physically tortured by the dark currents of Malpenulte.
"Belaya!" Tysyacha called out. "Archivist Belaya? Are you here?"
"I am here," said a soft, deep female voice, shrinking in on itself. "I am waiting to be purified, here with all the others, but the Machine must prepare itself."
"Purified?" The Exile was confused. "If you wish that, why aren't you in line with all the others?" She turned her head back toward the winding queues.
"I have been deemed unworthy even for that," Belaya explained, her eyes full of the sacred detachment that the Jedi Order seemed to preach. "Blasphemy is the worst form of betrayal, and even you have not committed it. Deep in your heart, you still cling to the tenets of the Jedi Code. I do not, especially now that I know what it means to Mistress Shan, the Light of the Galaxy. For this, I must die, and die the death of the most ignoble criminal." She gestured to the tank. "I will become clean fuel, useful at last, for the Light's cause."