"To save the world," Doriana murmured the old cynic's saying, "we had to destroy it.'"

"That's about it." Laytron shook his head tiredly. "Come on. Let's go find Commander Roshton."

Lord Binalie said very little as the three of them walked across the littered floor, their boots crunching through the remains of what had once been Spaarti Creations. Corf, walking at his father's side, was even quieter.

"I don't know what to say," Tories said softly as they came to a halt beside a mixed group of Cranscoc and human bodies. "Except that I'm very sorry."

"Of course you are," Binalie said, his voice under rigid control. "You're sorry, Commander Roshton is sorry, Master Doriana is sorry. I'm sure the entire Jedi Council would be sorry, too, if they would pause long enough in their search for someone to blame for their part in this."

He turned dead eyes on Tories. "What good is any of it?"

Tories shook his head. "None," he conceded. "I don't suppose there's any chance...?"

"That we can rebuild? With nearly all the twillers dead?" Binalie shook his head. "No. Not for another generation at least. And then only if we can get the Cranscoc to trust us again."

He turned away. "I certainly wouldn't if I were them. Trusting the word of a human is a stupid thing to do."

Tories winced. "I'm sorry," was all he could think of to say.

"I'm sure we'll see you later, Master Tories," Binalie said, not turning back around.

It was a dismissal. "Yes, of course," Tories said. "Good-bye, Lord Binalie. Good-bye, Corf."

Neither of them replied. With a sigh, Tories turned and trudged toward the broken wall where he and the others had come through into the ruined plant, his heart feeling like a lump of blackened and twisted hull metal within him. So, that was that. Despite all his efforts - despite even the efforts of the Republic and Separatist forces, for that matter-Spaarti Creations was gone. Destroyed by carelessness, stupidity, and arrogance.